Merryll Manning: Trapped on Mystery Island

By John Howard Reid

EXCERPTS FROM NEWSPAPER REVIEWS: A weird group of characters is assembled on an island in the Florida Keys for a murder mystery weekend. They are office bearers of the Paradise Club. There's also an attorney, businessmen, representatives of the arts and a priest. The story is told by Merryll Manning, a police sergeant. He is a likeable, quirky character accompanied by his feisty girlfriend, Susan. All are competing for a $5,000 prize. Mystery reigns from the outset as several of the participants are actually paid actors. Who is who? Just as you are caught up in the characters' differing behaviors, the whole game turns sinister. A real murder is committed. The action moves on with surprising twists to the outcome. "Merryll Manning: Trapped on Mystery Island" is an enjoyable read and does keep you guessing till the end. The author's writing style is pacy and easy to read. His characters are intriguing, but the island setting could have been used more effectively... John Howard Reid has created excellence in "Merryll Manning: Trapped on Mystery Island". "Mystery Island" is the first in a very highly acclaimed series of mystery novels that came to fruition in 1985. Merryll Manning is the classic hero in this suspense series and John Howard Reid is dead-on with this perfect character. You have the police sergeant working in the perfect setting of Miami, Florida. A hub for shady characters, various criminal activities and bikini-clad hotties, Miami gives Merryll many headache-filled evenings. His petite super-cutie assistant, Susan Alexis Devoro Ford, is half his age and full of spunk. Wrapped around her pinkie-finger Merry really toes-the-line when it comes to his assistant. I always struggle when writing about fiction works. I really don't want to spoil anything for the future reader, as I have had books ruined with just one phrase from others who have read the book. Let me just say, you must read this book. I can't wait to get the next installment, namely "Merryll Manning: The Health Farm Murders." I love it when you close a good book and know there is more to follow. John Howard Reid is sure to have a great many followers eager to read each book in this wonderful series. From the eerie-cover to the final paragraph I was hooked on "Merryll Manning: Trapped on Mystery Island."... On vacation in the Florida Keys with his girlfriend, police sergeant Merryll Manning takes part in a Murder Mystery weekend, with the chance to win a cash prize of $5,000 on the line. When a real murder actually takes place, though, all fun and games come to an abrupt end as Merryll strives – almost in vain – to learn the identity of the true-life killer... "Merryll Manning: Trapped on Mystery Island" is the first in a series of highly acclaimed mystery suspense novels that began life overseas back in 1985. Manning is a police sergeant, which is certainly not an unusual occupation for the hero of a series of detective thrillers. Admittedly, he comes across as somewhat eccentric, but this again could be rated as a fairly conventional trait among the clue-hunting heroes of crime fiction. Furthermore, Manning works in Miami, Florida, a tried-and-true venue in numerous films and novels. What does set Manning slightly apart from the pack, however, is his young, super-attractive, pocket-sized girlfriend, Susan Alexis Devoro Ford. Despite her diminutive size, Miss Ford proves quite a handful for a hero who is, as he ruefully admits, more than twice her age. Again, this figures as standard Hollywood material, particularly for fans of aging heroes like John Wayne, Clark Gable and Gary Cooper. Unlike these macho super-stars, however, the far more cerebral Manning is really trapped by Miss Ford. She holds the whip hand. Miss Ford proves a most unusual assistant, although it's not until the sixth novel in the series, that she reveals her true character.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Howard Reid
• Release date: Apr 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458095121

John Howard Reid

Author of over 100 full-length books, of which around 60 are currently in print, John Howard Reid is the award-winning, bestselling author of the Merryll Manning series of mystery novels, anthologies of original poetry and short stories, translations from Spanish and Ancient Greek, and especially books of film criticism and movie history. Currently chief judge for three of America's leading literary contests, Reid has also written the textbook, "Write Ways To Win Writing Contests".

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Merryll Manning:

TRAPPED ON MYSTERY ISLAND

A novel of mystery and suspense

By John Howard Reid

Smashwords Edition Copyright 2011 by John Howard Reid.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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 Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All characters in this book are entirely fictitious.

Islanders

Brinton Blythe, actor

Father Kieran Connor, Catholic priest

Leslie Dedhem, attorney

Walter Edge, semi-retired businessman

Ian Finlay, actor

Susan Ford, secretary

Mrs Jackie Lawson, housekeeper

Grace Loman, housekeeper’s assistant

Leslie, clown

Merryll Manning, police sergeant

Ellis McLeod, welfare officer, Paradise Veterans

Cat Nubbins, treasurer, Paradise Veterans Club

Joyce Quovan, novelist

Austin Rogers, executive

Jim Saddler, artist

Rosalyn Tibbett, craftsperson

Charlie Usher, president, Paradise Veterans Club

Georgette Usher, Charlie’s wife

Clifford Yates, Mr Mystery

Part One

Saturday

1

"Honeymoon" Island

Our very own island, purred Susan happily.

And only two thousand dollars for the weekend,—what little there is of it, I answered. And shared with eleven others as well. Some honeymoon!

Susan pinched my arm. "I said it would be like a honeymoon."

I stared straight into her shifty little feline eyes. Believe me, just one thing would make it like a honeymoon! I hinted.

Susan Ford was unfazed. What’s more important? she flashed. Five thousand dollars or a quick also-ran at Paradise? Take your pick, Merry.

I grabbed hold of her shoulders. I’ll take Paradise any time.

She dug her thumb-nail into my wrist. Later, Tiger. Let’s win ourselves that five thousand dollars first, she minxed. Then we can do what you like. I promise you.

Susan’s promise did nothing to lessen my frustration. I knew only too well that her promises were written on water. For three years she’d been promising me a weekend in Paradise. And as for this $5,000 for ourselves bit, Susan hadn’t contributed one penny. I was the bunny who’d forked over the two thousand for our Mystery Weekend on Cross Keys Island. Now she was proposing to share the reward. If we won.

My only hope was her unpredictability. She was a spoilt child. The more I humored her whims, catered to her caprices, the more likely she’d suffer a sudden attack of guilt.

A remote possibility, but she had swung from downright disagreeable to ecstatically co-operative a few times in the past. Not often—but memorably enough to keep hope alive.

Since you’re so doggedly anxious to win that reward, what are we doing out here? I asked. Why so desperate to sit in the sun? Believe me, we should be back at the Mission-house, hanging on every word from your Mr Mystery.

I know everything he’s got to say, Tiger. You think I haven’t studied the rules? She made an elaborate show of consulting her outsized wristwatch (a recent birthday present from a boss with designs on more than her heart). Four o’clock now. Just two hours till he leaves the island. Two hours and two chances for us to name the cat’s first canary.

And that’s why we should be back in the Mission, I insisted. We’re not going to learn anything from the seagulls.

She ignored my taunt. I’ve got the guest list right here, Tiger. For starters, there’s two we can cross straight out. She drew a line right through our own names.

I clapped my hands. Well done, Miss Sherlock Holmes!

As maddeningly usual, Susan ignored this jibe as well. The first victim, Merry? she continued calmly. Male or female? You’re the copper.

I’m not a copper, I muttered. Policeman or police officer—I’m tired of telling you!

Play the game, Tiger! Susan snapped. Male or female?

Male, I answered.

Susan’s narrow gray eyes opened wide. A male victim? What makes you so sure?

The name of the game, I explained. "Reading the Will. And here we are—good old thirteen of us, naturally—marooned on this god-forsaken island in that creaky Mission-house for the next twenty-six hours. Lots of spooky atmosphere for our two thousand,—my two thousand. But I still prefer Paradise."

You still haven’t explained why the victim’s a male, Susan persisted.

I snatched the guest list from her kittenish hands. See for yourself. Nine males, four females. Thirteen. One lawyer, twelve heirs. And among the heirs, one cat. Who does the cat kill first? The lawyer, of course. Who needs him?

Isn’t the police mind just wonderful? her voice was bitingly sarcastic.

I pointed up the beach. Moored at the stone jetty, our ferry-boat roller-coasted the waves. That frantic see-sawing made my stomach flip, even at this distance and with my feet on solid sand. It’s a famous old play, I said. "When our Mr Mystery steps back into that boat and waves us bye-bye till tomorrow night, he leaves the rest of us here to re-enact The Cat and the Canary. Starring Bob Hope. I’ve seen the picture twenty times. Believe me, the lawyer’s the first to go. Traditionally, he’s male. And anyway, the odds are eight to three."

So the cat’s a man too?

According to the odds. But put the cat aside. It’s the first victim I’m worried about. And we’ve got to identify him before Mystery leaves the island. Believe me, we should be back at the Mission-house right now, not wasting time here on the beach.

But Susan made no move. If anything, she settled back further into the sand. How many victims? she asked.

"Work it out. First victim implies more than one. But more than two would be uneconomical. If there are four hired actors amongst our thirteen guests—a lawyer, a cat and two canaries—that gives Mystery only nine genuine contestants at a thousand bucks a throw. After shelling out the reward, that leaves him only four grand for actors and hefty expenses, including renting this island and laying on the champagne. One of the actors must double up. Best bet is the lawyer, and he can double up either as the cat or a victim. Only one problem—the lawyer-killer is far, far too cozy a cliché for a sophisticated mystery weekend."

So he has to be the victim?

Right.

Susan nestled her fluffy head on my shoulder. So who are we looking for?

An actor who looks like a lawyer. Believe me, right now we should be sizing up the cast. In the Mission. I tried to shake Susan off. I had no time anytime for her little girl act—least of all now.

Susan looked up at me. Whatever you say, Tiger, she whispered.

I couldn’t help myself. I leaned over and grabbed her moderately hard across the neck. Her little-girl manner disappeared in a flash. Seizing her by the hair, I wrestled her into the sand. She pulled at my ears and was about to knee me where it would hurt most...

Hey there, guys! Save some of that for me.

Susan and I scrambled apart. Towering over us was a tall, obese, pasty-faced man in early middle age. Doubtless handsome enough in his youth, he’d let himself go—his neglected, dissipated air re-inforced by the most incongruous clothes I’d ever seen in my life. Battered thongs and tattered khaki shorts contrasted against a snow-white dress shirt, complete with incredibly expansive aeroplane bow-tie (the polka dots themselves were at least an inch in diameter). Most startling of all was the weird apparatus on his head: a multi-colored skull cap topped with a fair-sized light bulb that kept flashing on and off. He looked like a half-dressed clown.

Shaking sand from her hair, Susan quickly regained her usual maddening composure. Hello, Leslie, she said.

I’m warning you guys about the party from the Mission, grinned Leslie. They’ll all be heading down this way any minute. Part of Mystery’s proof that the island’s deserted.

Except for the thirteen of us, Susan added. Who are you picking, Leslie—or is it a secret? For the first victim, I mean.

I was going to pick you.

Susan pouted. All right, so don’t tell me. I’d practically decided on Austin Rogers.

That was news to me. Why him? I snapped.

Susan put on her innocent air. Didn’t you just say to look for an actor? One that looks like a lawyer? I met him on the boat, coming across. He was talking to a little girl. An oldish man with silver-gray hair. He wasn’t exactly casually dressed like the rest of us. I mean he didn’t wear a suit, but all he needed was a jacket and tie—which he could easily carry in his bag.

For once, I had to admire Susan. Sometimes she proved actually more mature than she looked. A sharp little brain occasionally clicked over behind those squinty gray eyes and that shifty little face. Of course she could be dead wrong. But Austin Rogers was as good a guess as anyone.

Who are you picking, Merryll? asked Leslie.

I was surprised the clown knew my name—though I tried not to show it. Susan had obviously told him. I hadn’t paid her too much attention on the boat trip over. The island was ten miles from shore and I was feeling somewhat sea-sick before we’d ploughed even halfway. One thing for certain though,—the clown had been sporting no light bulb or outlandish bow-tie on the boat. Give a man a chance to look over the prospects, I answered sourly.

Go for Kieran Connor, advised the clown. How’s that for an actor’s name? Shiny, bald head, big hawk of a nose. A legal bird if ever I saw one.

That’s good, Leslie, said Susan, standing up and catching hold of his hand. That’s very good. But who are you picking?

Leslie had the decency to look embarrassed. Well, I...

You were going to pick Merryll! Isn’t that it? Let’s not worry about him. He can’t be it. He’s just after the money. Same as you and me. Let’s just you and me take a little stroll down the beach here, where he can’t hear us—or see us.

Leslie looked really embarrassed.

We’re no honeymooners, Susan answered. I’m not attached to Merry. Free and easy, that’s me! So saying, she pulled at his hand and tugged him away.

Sneaky little bitch! I watched them as they walked past the jetty and then disappeared from sight around the curve of the beach. Maybe they were headed back to the Mission. Maybe.

I could see I was in for another hellish weekend—and I’d only myself to blame. The things a grown man will do for an immature teen-brained tyrant. Admittedly, Susan was in her early twenties, but she looked no older than eighteen. Slim, petite, with fluffy blonde hair and misty gray eyes, and an impossibly tiny waist.

She seemed every man’s dream princess. Too good to be true. Unfortunately, that entrancingly vulnerable face fronted for a pea-sized brain, rarely stirred by any emotion but pure selfishness. The key word in Susan’s mouth was new. New clothes, new foods, new gifts, new changes of scene, new sensations.

Romance, love—these words had no meaning at all for Susan Ford, despite the lip-service she sometimes paid them.

Yes, it was easy for me to think of Susan dispassionately once I was away from her. But even in her presence, that superficial attractiveness didn’t blind me to a single one of her faults. She was dangerous. A supremely heartless, utterly selfish little bitch, she’d happily slit my throat and bathe in my blood if the price was high.

Three years ago, when I first laid eyes on Susan, she’d seemed a withdrawn, lonely, extremely nervous, shy little thing. A chance to play the protective fairy prince had attracted me at first—and made her so irresistible. With my ill-advised help and encouragement, she’d largely overcome her fears. Now the tables were turned. I’d unwittingly reformed a sparrow into a Frankenstein monster. Now she ruled me. She didn’t know it, but it was true. I was her total slave. She’d only to touch my hand with the tip of her fingernail and my body obeyed like a robot. If I stood close enough to smell the muskiness of her breath, or further away to scent the faintest perfume in her hair, my mind deserted me and Mr Stupid took control.

Yes, I was the unwilling love-slave of a monster. A monster largely of my own creating. Foolishly, I’d continued to spoil her, acceded to her every whim, allowed her every caprice full rein. Believe me, I was frightened of losing her. Everyone hates policemen. Especially young girls. And I was no beauty. And she was nearly twenty years my junior. Yes, I was old enough to be her father.

What a nice fix I was in. Many, many times when I lay beside her, I imagined my hands grasping her throat, strangling the life out of her. Then I’d be free.

I hated her. So did everyone who really knew her. Inside.

If ever a girl was created to be murdered, that girl was Susan Ford.

2

The Competition

I wasn’t about to chase after the little bitch. That’s what she expected. I knew her game. She was trying to make me jealous, put me in such a tizzy, she could twist me into pretzels around her little finger. I’d let her stew for a while,—let her know her little stratagem hadn’t worked. That I didn’t give a hang if she went gadding off with every clown in Christendom. But I wouldn’t just sulk around on the beach either, killing time. Instead I’d spend a good half-hour making a few right decisions.

First thing on my agenda was to review the competition. I’d been far too swimmingly sea-sick on the bob-bobbing boat that ferried across to the island to give a damn about any who’s who. But now I could start giving faces to at least some of the names on the guest list.

First off,