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  Murder at the Inn

  Penelope Sotheby

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2015 Penelope Sotheby

  First published in 2015 by Jonmac Limited.

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters and places, incidents are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblence to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirerly coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Other Books By The Author

  Murder in Bermuda (Book 1 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)

  Murder in the Bahamas (Book 2 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)

  Murder in Jamaica (Book 3 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)

  Murder in Barbados (Book 4 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)

  Murder in Aruba (Book 5 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)

  Contents

  Copyright

  Other Books By The Author

  Chapter 1 - Bed & Breakfast & Murder

  Chapter 2 - Inspector Wilson on the Case

  Chapter 3 - Initial Suspicions

  Chapter 4 - Ex Communication

  Chapter 5 - Secrets are Surfacing

  Chapter 6 - The Truth is Driven Out

  Murder in Bermuda - Chapter 1

  About The Author

  Fantastic Fiction

  Chapter 1 - Bed & Breakfast & Murder

  On a beautiful summer morning, at the far southwest corner of Graham Island, Mrs. Maureen Bennett tended her exquisitely maintained gardens and patios at The Last Chance Inn. The Tudor-style house cuddled against the flank of a rocky hill, and the grounds expanded for several acres of beautiful scenery, a golf course, and two private cottages behind the house. Maureen and her husband Daniel welcomed dozens of visitors every year. They enjoyed their retirement running the inn, and often said a quiet prayer of thanks to Maureen's Uncle George for leaving it to her when he passed ten years ago.

  * * *

  In the summer season, Maureen rose with the sun. That particular morning, after pruning the central topiary in the front garden, she knelt near the front door and transplanted some blooming pansies in festive colors on either side of the entrance. A shrill scream from the house startled her, and she dropped her trowel, threw off her gloves and ran into the house. For a woman in her 60's, Maureen kept herself in good shape, and she ran through the guest lounge, up the stairs, and around the corner to Agatha Thompson's room and hardly lost a breath.

  "Agatha!" Maureen rapped on the door's heavy wooden panels. "Agatha! Are you all right in there? Answer me." She knocked louder. "Agatha!"

  The door opened a crack, and Agatha peeked out, clutching her robe around her. "Maureen.

  Hi." She smiled.

  "Are you all right?" Maureen asked.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I almost had a heart attack when I heard you scream." Maureen's hand went to her throat, still concerned for her guest.

  "It wasn't me. I didn't hear anything, sorry,” Agatha, still smiling, said, "Thanks for your concern, though," she added and quietly closed her door.

  Maureen walked back downstairs muttering to herself. "Ten years in the business, and I still haven't seen it all." She chortled to herself. "I know my house, and I know she screamed. If she wants to keep it to herself, then that's her business."

  Outside, Maureen looked at her watch then looked down the long drive to the front gate. She shrugged and picked up her gloves and tools.

  * * *

  Daniel kicked gently against the back door. Maureen put down her dish scrubber and opened the door for him.

  "You bought out half the farmers market, didn't you?" She smiled and reached into the crate Daniel dropped onto the counter.

  "Only a quarter of it today, dear." He leaned over and gave his missus a peck on the cheek.

  "How was your morning?"

  "Well, aside from Agatha screaming, it was fine."

  "Agatha Thompson? In the Pine Room?" Daniel put a bag of onions in the pantry. "Was she okay?" "She says she didn't do it," Maureen said, and handed over a bunch of kale leaves.

  "Scared me to death. I ran all that way, and she says she didn't do it. Didn't even know what I was talking about." "Well, maybe we're getting to that age…"

  "Hush your mouth, Mr. Bennett!" Maureen elbowed her husband affectionately in the ribs.

  "I'm healthy as a horse—" she knocked on the wooden tabletop, “—and I plan to stay that way."

  Daniel put his arms around his wife. "I'm sorry she scared you. If you think there's a problem, I can ask her to leave."

  "No, it was probably just something private for her, and we need the business."

  Daniel held his wife closer. "When we make it through this season, and get the golf course finished, we can look into that Mexico trip."

  "From your mouth to God's ears," Maureen said, and they put away the rest of the day's groceries.

  * * *

  Even an idyllic town like South Bay has its fair share of rainy days, and the next morning cast a shadow over the town with a cool fog. Susan Heaney let herself into the house and peeled her thick, woolen coat from her ample and sturdy frame. She liked to arrive a little early and enjoy a cup of tea before setting about, cleaning the inn.

  Maureen and Daniel came down to the kitchen to prepare their world-class country breakfast for themselves and their guests.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Bennett, Mr. Bennett. How many rooms need attention this morning?"

  Susan stood at attention.

  "Good morning, Susan," Maureen said. She handed the housekeeper a clipboard with a list of current guests and places in the inn that needed a little extra attention. "We've only two guests today. One checked out yesterday, so that's three rooms. There's also a bit of dust and dirt near the front door. I'm afraid I tracked some in after working in the garden. I'm sorry to put it on you, but —" "—No problem at all, Mrs. Bennett. And if I may say, the grounds are absolutely lovely."

  "Thank you. Daniel? Will you bring the eggs from the cooler?"

  "Yes, dear."

  * * *

  Clipboard in hand, Susan checked off all the supplies she needed and put them in a bucket.

  "Paper towels are out again," Susan shook her head and muttered. "I'll have to let Mr.

  Bennett know. Poor man barely keeps anything stocked up anymore."

  She consulted the guest list. "I'll do the Pine Room first. The guest should be up by now."

  Like a drill sergeant mustering her troops, Susan marched up the stairs and rounded the corner. She raised a hand to knock on the door and saw that it was partially open.

  "Housekeeping," she said, and knocked. "I'm here to clean and see if you need anything." She pushed, and the door opened a little more. "Hello?" Satisfied that she had performed at least the minimum effort to make sure no one was sleeping, she pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

  A suitcase lay open on the luggage rack, the bed was in disarray, and personal items lay on the dresser. "Such a trusting soul to leave the door open with things laying about like that."

  Susan tugged at the blankets and sheets on the bed and gathered the
m up. She rounded the bed with the bucket in hand, ready to scour and clean the bathroom. Two steps around and her foot caught on something on the floor. She recognized immediately what it was, but for once her steel resolve wavered, and she stepped back and sat on the bed. She bent over and touched a cold hand.

  "Oh, dear God." She put her hand to her mouth and ran down the stairs.

  The vision of Agatha Thompson's body remained vivid in Susan's mind. She was quite sure that the woman was dead; Agatha's head lay in a puddle of blood, and her skin was repulsively cold.

  Susan shivered and shouted to the kitchen, "Mr. Bennett! Mrs. Bennett! Call the police! Mrs.

  Thompson is dead!"

  Chapter 2 - Inspector Wilson on the Case

  "Did you hear that?" Daniel paused, then put his knife down next to the diced potatoes. "It sounded like Susan."

  "I thought I heard something." Maureen put down her bowl of beaten eggs. Susan ran into the kitchen, huffing as if she'd just run a marathon.

  Maureen took her by the arm and set her in a chair. "Oh my dear, you are absolutely ashen!

  What's wrong? What's happened?"

  Susan gasped and choked on her words. "Call the police," she panted out. "Mrs. Thompson is dead! She’s on the floor, and there’s blood, and… Oh my goodness! She’s dead!"

  "What? Are you sure? Daniel, dear, please check on Agatha." Maureen put a dish towel under cold water and pressed it to Susan's forehead.

  Daniel headed to the door, and their other guest, Larry Craig ran in, bumping him into the wall. "Call the police!"

  Maureen picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  "Larry, you saw her? You saw Agatha? Are you sure she is dead?" Daniel rattled off question after question.

  "Are you listening Daniel? Look at your housekeeper. Look at me. Hell, go look at Agatha's body." Larry paced the kitchen with his hands on his head.

  "Yes," Maureen said into the phone, "the Last Chance Inn in South Bay. I'm afraid one of our guests has died."

  "With blood all over her head!" Larry shouted.

  Maureen's face paled, and she repeated what Larry said. “Yes, we will all be here; no one will leave."

  "What can I do to help? Please let me help. I knew Agatha. Well, just in passing; we worked in the same building in Vancouver, and went to coffee on a couple of occasions." Larry held on to Daniel's arm. "Hell, I'm an investigative reporter; I'm going to investigate."

  Larry stormed out of the kitchen, and Daniel followed after him.

  Maureen and Susan sat side-by-side, wringing their hands and saying silent prayers.

  * * *

  Daniel caught up with Larry at the bottom of the stairs and grabbed his arm. "Why would you want to interfere in a police matter? Isn't it better to leave this to the professionals?"

  Larry shook his arm from Daniel's grip. "Because I know why she was here. Because I know she was hiding from a vengeful husband. Because I know that even though they were divorced, he was stalking her. She told me herself. And because I also know that I am a damn good investigative journalist for one of the largest newspapers in Canada, and I am damned good at finding clues that others overlook."

  Daniel watched Larry climb the stairs two at a time and searched for something to say to stop him. He made impotent fists in the air and pressed his lips together tightly. With feelings of inadequacy and worry, he shoved his fists in his pockets and walked back into the kitchen to wait with Maureen and Susan for the police to arrive.

  * * *

  Inspector Jack Wilson arrived at the same time as a uniformed officer. The inspector placed the officer at the front entrance to the inn while he entered the house. He took a breath and crossed the threshold into a new investigation. Inspector Wilson grew up on Graham Island and knew the Bennetts well. As the Island’s resident detective, he was involved in every major crime on the Island, although they were few and far between. The inspector was technically an employee of the Vancouver Police Department and therefore spent a lot of his time in the city.

  "We're glad you're here, Jack. If something like this had to happen, it's nice to have a friend in charge." Daniel shook Jack's hand vigorously and pointed up the stairs. "She's in the Pine Room. Her name is Agatha Thompson, and she checked in yesterday."

  "It'll be all right, Daniel. How is Maureen?"

  "She’s rather shaken. Susan found the body, and she was very upset, too. Maureen just gave her a brandy to help calm her nerves."

  “Well, tell the women not to worry. If you like, after I clear the scene, I can ask Gwyneth to come and sit with them."

  Daniel's eyes misted over. "Thanks Jack. This sure is not where we thought we'd find ourselves back in high school, is it?"

  Jack pulled out his notepad and pen and looked at the stairs. "No, we've both gone down different paths since then." He opened the notebook and started up the steps. "Will you be in the kitchen? Try to keep everyone together. At least until after we get to interview them all."

  * * *

  Wilson reached the Pine Room and stopped at the door. His trained ear identified the sounds of someone rummaging in the room and a hushed voice talking to himself. Wilson entered and blocked the doorway. A man knelt beside Agatha's body, and turned quickly when he heard the Inspector ’s footsteps. He stood up and introduced himself.

  "Larry Craig," he held out his hand, "and I was a friend of the deceased."

  "I don't care if you're Tim Horton, the man himself. What are you doing upsetting my crime scene?” Wilson wrote the name in his notepad. "Do you have some identification, please?"

  Larry dug his wallet from his back pocket and handed the Inspector his license. "I also have this." He held out a press card. "I've assisted the police on the mainland in a few cases, investigating a couple of murders for a story. I'm happy to help here, too."

  After writing down Larry's information, he handed the man his license. "Get downstairs and wait for me or one of my officers to interview you. How's that for help? You get to be on the other side of the questions this time, Mr. Craig."

  Larry shrunk away and eased himself out the door. "Sorry, Inspector."

  "Just go." Wilson watched the man go around the corner then turned his full attention to the Pine Room. He knelt next to Agatha's body and, carefully avoiding the clotted and dried blood, checked her carotid artery, just to be sure and to be able to write it in his report. He shook his head, rose to his feet, and dialed his cell phone.

  "Hello, Will. I've confirmed that we have a homicide at The Last Chance Inn. Grab a kit and crew and come on over."

  Wilson wandered the room with a trained eye while he dialed again. "Sergeant Montgomery?

  Inspector Wilson. We've got a homicide at The Last Chance Inn, and I need you to do interviews. Just come on in through the front door and turn left. Everyone should be in the kitchen. I'm at the scene; it’s in one of the rooms. The M.E. is on his way, too. You don’t have to check in, just call me if anything comes up. Thanks."

  Wilson picked up a purse from the dresser and opened it. He pulled out the wallet and checked the I.D. "Agatha R. Thompson, Vancouver." He went through the wallet, counted thirty-two dollars and some change, and updated his notes.

  The pen scratched on the notepad as he wrote. Jewelry, handbag, and convenience store receipt on dresser. Money (34.81) and I.D. intact. (receipt for coffee, candy bar, lottery ticket).

  Wilson tipped the trashcan with the toe of his shoe and a paper coffee cup with a plastic lid rolled out. He looked across Agatha's body into the bathroom and saw her toiletries, a newspaper and a candy wrapper on the counter. He turned back to her suitcase and looked through it.

  "She packed heavy for just one night," he surmised. He wrote it all down. "No lottery ticket.

  Probably a dud." He made another note to check the other trash cans in the inn. "Leave no stone unturned, I always say."

  "I thought that was my line." David Moore, the Medical Examiner, stood at the door. "Well, aren't you going to invite me
in?"

  * * *

  Wilson stepped aside. "You won't even know I'm here," he said, and crossed the room, away from the body.

  "Ah, I can see why you called homicide." David snapped on a pair of latex gloves and knelt next to the dead woman. He opened his case and removed a long, pointed thermometer.

  Wilson looked away while Will recorded the victim's liver temperature. "I hate that part."

  "Oh, you are here," Will quipped. "For a homicide detective, you're rather sensitive to this, eh?" "It's one thing to see the aftermath; it's another to see it in action, even if the victim is already gone." David continued his external examination. "Rigor has already set in and is in a state of decline." He gently touched Agatha's hair and examined her head and scalp. "What's the word, Doc?" Wilson stood, pen at the ready.

  "Lividity is even, so she more than likely hasn't been moved. Liver temperature and state of rigor place her time of death probably between eight and ten hours ago, between 10 p.m. and 12 a.m. last night. The only visible wound is potentially, and probably the fatal one on the back of her head. I noticed a grid-like imprint on the skin, and a somewhat ovoid shape. The weapon may have been a golf club. Of course, none of this can be confirmed until I get the body back to the office and do a complete autopsy."

  Wilson scribbled furiously on his notepad. "Got it. She's all yours. As usual, just keep me informed." "It will be my pleasure to help catch the perpetrator. Murder is always such a needless waste of life."

  Will packed his bag, removed his gloves, and signaled his assistant to bring up the gurney.

  Wilson called his office while they respectfully picked up the body. "Yeah, Wilson here. Run a quick check on a name and see if you can get me some immediate family information.

  Homicide case. Agatha Rebecca Thompson, lived on Burrard Street in Vancouver. Sure, I'll wait."

  Jack respectfully bowed his head a bit as Will and his assistant rolled the gurney out the door.

  He covered the mouthpiece and said, "Thanks, Will. Talk to you later."

  "I'll call you," Will said, and then he was gone.