Murder in Maris Cove

By Joseph E. Wright

A cluster of seashore houses, a few (sometimes) friendly neighbors, a sandy beach, warm days. Mix them all together and what do you get? Murder, naturally. Next time you go sunbathing, it might not be wise to bring this book with you or if you do, look behind you. For all you know, a killer might be lurking.

This is the second book in a series starring Pat and Phillis, amateur detectives. The fir

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph E. Wright
• Release date: Feb 17, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452397115

Joseph E. Wright

Joseph E. Wright was born and educated in New England. He grew up addicted to the British cozies of Christie and Sayres and the American counterparts of Queen and Stout. He was a fan of the films noir of Hammett and Chandler.His first published novel, MEMORANDUM OF A MURDER (Manor Books) confirmed his determination to become a writer. A short story of his appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.While trying to write, Joe earned his living as editor for a couple of monthly magazines. In one period of his life, he lived in a gloomy, rambling, nineteenth century rectory in downtown Philadelphia. The dark paneled walls, the wide staircase, the sounds in the night, the people who warndered in and out, inspired his TALES FROM THE WRECKTORY.Joe has published a trilogy of cozies recounting the amateur sleuthing of Pat Montgomary and Phillis Toner. The first book, THE BODIES OUT BACK, starts this pair off on their new career as detectives when they discover the body of Pat’s next-door neighbor. In their second, they rush off to the seashore when they get a call for help from one of Pat’s early school teachers, hoping to prevent a crime in MURDER IN MARIS COVE. When an elderly cleric tell them of the strange happenings in the middle of the night in an old rectory in downtown Philadelphia, they are faced with catching someone who commits murder in a church in AISLE OF THE DEAD.His most recent novel, GERALDINE HOUGH'S VERY FIRST MURDER, introduces a middle-aged female sleuth who readily admits she is a hopeless snoop and has finally gotten her p.i. license. Gerry is not above stretching the truth when the end she has in mind requires it.

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MURDER IN MARIS COVE

by

Joseph E. Wright

Copyright 2009 by Joseph E. Wright

All rights reserved

Cover Design by Joseph E. Wright

Smashwords Edition February 2009

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences

are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not the goal of the author.

CHAPTER I

You don’t commit murder just to keep someone from buying a house, Phillis protested. At that rate, there would soon be more houses on the market than people to buy them. Was the caller really serious?

I think he was. Pat Montgomary pushed aside his plate and looked across the breakfast table at her. Franklin told me the person who called him said there would be an accident, that one of the buyers would never live to enjoy that house. Sounds like a threat of murder to me.

What should we do about it? She studied his face, the deep tan, the crows feet, the very first hint of gray at the temples in his otherwise jet black hair, his deep brown, almost black, eyes.

Who said anything about us? Franklin called me this morning and asked for my help. He couldn’t resist the temptation to tease. So early in the day her smile lit up the dining room in his house in Philadelphia’s Society Hill. Her light brown, almost auburn, hair reflected the morning sunlight. Her eyes, which he swore were plum color, stared back at him.

If you think you’re going to keep me out of it, boy are you wrong. In little more than a whisper, as she sipped her coffee, her elbows resting on the table, she added, Just try leaving me home.

I know. Only it might not be a picnic. Franklin sounded both serious and a little bit frightened, and believe me, Franklin doesn’t frighten easily.

Go over once more what the caller said.

Franklin told me he was awakened very early this morning by a telephone call. As I told you, someone--husband and wife, I gather--want to buy one of the houses in Maris Cove. Well, the caller told Franklin that if they did, they’d never get to enjoy that house, that one of them would meet with an accident. Evidently, it was that simple and that brief.

And you told Franklin we’d help?

He nodded. Thought you’d approve. After the way you solved that last bit of... er… mischief?... this ought to be right up your alley, provided….

Provided?

Provided, Phil, you promise me you’ll be careful. Murder is not a game and people who make threats of murder sometimes carry them out.

She put her napkin to one side. From everything you’ve told me, Franklin is possibly the closest, dearest friend you have, right?

Pat nodded.

And he’s frightened, right?

Again he nodded.

He could use our help, right?

Yes, but--

There’s no but. She got up from the table and called to him over her shoulder as she left the room, Let’s go, brother dearest. This time we have a murder to prevent, instead of solve.

CHAPTER II

Within the hour, Pat Montgomary and Phillis Toner, his half sister, were on the Ben Franklin Bridge over the Delaware River, then skirted past the city of Camden on the New Jersey side. Pat picked up Route 70 and they headed east.

You promised to tell me what was so unusual about this place we’re going to, Phillis said.

Maris Cove? Apart from being very beautiful, right on the Jersey Coast, it also enjoys the most privacy of any place I know. It was once the estate of Thurston Cairens, who made his fortune in--are you ready for this?--asparagus. Owned thousands of acres of the stuff in South Jersey. The family since branched out into frozen foods. Maris Cove is a couple hundred acres, entirely walled in, with access through the main gate off a side road. The only other way in or out is from the ocean side.

Something of a private town?

"About the nearest thing to it. Sometime in the late eighteen hundreds, Thurston Cairens built a house on the highest point with a magnificent uninterrupted view of the Atlantic Ocean in three directions. Don’t know how many rooms that house has, but in the past dignitaries often stayed there. President Wilson spent more than one weekend there when he was governor of New Jersey and later when he was in the White House. Politicians, celebrities, and European royalty have been frequent visitors. Anyone who needs privacy would love the place. It has its own beach.

Anyway, there’s something else that’s different about the place. Thurston Cairens built six other houses on the property, all of them facing the ocean, but none of them on quite the grand scale of his own. He built them for his relatives, for a business partner and, as rumor has it, even for one of his mistresses. When he died, he left a will which stated that the owners of all seven houses would each own the whole estate in its entirety, with Cairens descendants always having use of his house, the largest one. The will stipulated that as owners died or wished to sell their shares, it would be necessary for all the others to approve the new owners.

Sort of a condominium arrangement, Phillis said.

More like a co-op. You see, no one legally owns his or her own house there. They own a share of the estate, with the use of a particular property and complete use of the rest of the place.

And someone wants to buy in, live in Maris Cove, according to Franklin. Phillis spoke as she stared out the window at the Jersey scrub pines flashing by.

That’s more or less it, Pat told her. Franklin told me a few weeks ago that one of the houses was vacant. He wanted me to buy it. I’m fond of Franklin, but not so sure I’d get along with the others there.

Too cliquish?

I suspect so. And busybodies, too, if you ask me. I like my freedom to come and go without living on a slide under someone’s microscope.

Franklin takes this threat seriously?

Very. His voice was shaking on the phone.

They left Route 70 and took a back road which connected with Route 9 and headed south. Five minutes later, he turned left onto a road with no name. Three quarters of a mile along this road, he veered off onto a dirt shoulder and stopped. He got out and walked over to one of the stone pillars supporting the massive double gate, and picked up a telephone set in the wall. He identified himself, and got back into the car as the two gates swung open.

I’m impressed already, Phillis said.

This is the poor part of town. Wait till you see what’s ahead.

They drove through a tunnel of oak trees. The air was cool, no sunlight let in through the leaves overhead. The road was barely wide enough to allow two cars to pass. They rode by a caretaker’s cottage and were stared at by a man who was leaning against the doorway of the stone house. He was tall, wearing only jeans, his bronzed torso gleaming in the sun. He tipped a weatherbeaten felt hat to Phillis, revealing a shock of blonde hair, and smiled. He stared at them as they drove out of sight.

Doesn’t exactly look like a painting of the faithful old family retainer, she said.

Name’s Quarrels. And well-named. Sort of a miserable lot, but for some reason he’s been all right with me. Don’t know why. No one else seems to get along with him.

Phillis’ eyes widened as she saw the gleaming white house with its yellow awnings spread out in front of her.

That’s the back of the Cairens’ house, Pat told her. Wait till you see the front. We’ll take a walk later so you can get a better look at it. He turned right along the now paved road and drove up a slight incline. This is Franklin’s backyard, he explained as he parked his car in the shade of a tree.

The back of the house was plain, white stucco with stained boards dividing the first and second stories, and trimming the windows. There was a small back porch with three steps leading down to the yard. The screen door opened and banged shut. Franklin came down the steps to greet them.

My dear boy, how absolutely delightful to see you, he exclaimed as he threw his arms around Pat. And this, I presume, is the long-lost and dearly-to-be-cherished sister, if I mistake not. He now did to Phillis what he had done to Pat.

You’re far prettier, my dear, than this scoundrel of a brother led me to believe. Franklin stepped back, holding her hands, and gazed at her. He was slightly taller than Pat’s six feet, a crop of white hair tousled atop his head. His face had taken on the softness of age with many wrinkles. His hands, bony and slightly twisted with arthritis, held Phillis’ with a surprisingly strong grip.

All I said was that she wasn’t much to look at, Pat said.

And for that, Master Montgomary, you should be horsewhipped. Come, my dear. Franklin tugged at one of her hands. You and I shall leave this worthless brother of yours to fend for himself while you and I get acquainted over a pitcher of vodka gimlets.

But, how did you-- She stopped in her tracks, then realized what had happened. He told you, I see.

Yes, he told me. Even that brother of yours must have at least one redeeming quality, right?

At least one, she agreed as they walked around the side of the house and up onto the front porch. Franklin held the front door open for her.

Inside, the house was dark and cool. The living room was two stories high with a cathedral ceiling. The furniture was heavy and masculine. A long library table was against the far right wall. Two small sofas with houndstooth upholstery faced one another and at right angles to the fireplace. A rug of indeterminate Oriental vintage, now mostly worn through to the backing, covered the center of the room. A Morris chair filled one corner with a stack of magazines in the crib attached to its side. The opposite corner held a desk with a brass student’s lamp atop.

O.K., old boy, what’s all this about some trouble about to happen? Pat asked after they were seated.

Franklin looked serious. I do not wish to alarm. He looked first at Pat, then Phillis. It’s a feeling I have in these antiquated bones of mine.

Why not start at the beginning, Pat suggested. We know it has to do with one of the houses changing hands

Ah, yes, dear boy. He sighed, then turned to address Phillis. In case your bother hasn’t explained, do let me. There are a total of seven houses here, with the main house built in the nineteenth century by Thurston Cairens. The one for sale is immediately on the other side of the Cairens’ place, on the north side of the cove, and somewhat resembles this house, with only a few minor differences. That one, like mine, is sort of a bastardized English, what I prefer to call American Tudor. Americans think that if you build low to the ground and have a few cross beams protruding from the outside plaster, you can call it Tudor. Be that as it may, both houses are quite comfortable.

Who’s trying to buy it? Pat asked.

A very yuppie couple from your blessed city of Philadelphia. Name of Reitman. They are paper dolls. And they’ve missed nothing on their way up the yuppie ladder, right down to the way they dress. I could not help myself, I broke out laughing the day I met them. He was wearing chino trousers, oxford button down shirt, loafers, and sweater with its arms tied around his neck. Right off the cover of a men’s magazine quite a few years back. She was wearing sensible shoes, cotton frock, hair cut short. Both had glasses. I was not at all surprised to see them drive up in their BMW. By the by, are they calling them yuppies this year? I can’t keep up with the latest in-word: yuppies, dinks, or hics.

Dinks, I know. Double Income; No Kids. But hics? Pat asked.Yes, dear boy, Homes In the City and Seashore.

Let me guess, Phillis spoke up. He’s a doctor; she’s a lawyer.

You almost hit it perfectly, Franklin chuckled. In fact, it’s the other way around.

That can’t be the reason you think there’ll be trouble? Pat asked. Yuppies aren’t outlawed--yet.

No, dear boy, not even here at Maris Cove. In fact, we pride ourselves on our liberal way of thinking. To Phillis he said, You’ll meet all the natives and you’ll see what I mean. No, it has nothing to do with the lifestyles of our prospective neighbors. If they want to squeeze themselves into some kind of outdated mold, that’s their business. Trouble is, one of our lot doesn’t feel that way, judging from that phone call I received this morning. That’s why I contacted you, Patrick, my boy.

From?

I wish I knew. It came about six-fifteen this morning. I was awakened from a sound sleep and a rather pleasant dream. The voice on the other end was difficult to make out. Not sure whether male or female. Hoarse. Raspy. Unnaturally deep, as though whoever it was didn’t want me to recognize the voice, which, of course, is perfectly understandable, given the content of the message.

Recall the exact conversation? Pat asked.

I attempted to teach you Latin, remember?

Please, don’t remind me.

"You’ll at least remember what I vainly attempted to drill into you young scamps. It was more than just Latin. Memorization. And my own memory is every bit as good as it was back then. I can give you the conversation better than if I had recorded it. Not at all difficult, considering the conversation was over almost before it began. For the sake of simplicity, I shall refer to my caller as He:

"He: ‘Mr. York?’

"I: ‘Speaking.’

"He: ‘Make sure the Reitmans don’t buy that house.’

"I: ‘Who is this?’

"He: ‘Never mind. Make sure they don’t buy that house or there could be trouble. Serious trouble. Someone might get hurt.’

I tried once more to ascertain the identity of my caller, but whoever it was ignored me and went on to say one last thing: ‘If the Reitmans are voted in, one of them won’t live long enough to enjoy the house. One of them will be dead within hours.’ That’s when my caller hung up on me. There was something strange about that voice.

Think you recognized it? Pat asked.

Not so much recognized. No, that would be the wrong word to use. After teaching for so many years, after having had hundreds--in fact, a few thousand--young men who thought they could outwit me, playing all kinds of scams, you get to sense when the voice isn’t true.

Like when someone is lying? Phillis suggested.

Yes, and when they are trying to change their voices, Franklin told her.

Changing the sex of the person speaking?

Dear me, it could have been all of the above. But there was something more, over and above trying to disguise sex, age, accent. It was something more intangible, something of a strain. Yes, that was it, there was a strain, a definite strain, in the voice. I daresay I can not be more helpful than that.

You’re convinced it was someone who lives here in Maris Cove? Pat asked.

That, or someone who knows all about the Reitmans trying to buy the cottage.

Reitman, Phillis said. Jewish?

Possibly, Franklin answered. In fact, most likely. But I’m sure it’s not a case of anti-Semitism. The Naimans--Rudolph and Estelle--live here. Have lived here for a number of years. You can’t accuse us of being prejudiced. The last to be voted into Maris Cove are Curtis and Willis, a gay couple. As I said, we really do have no hang-ups here.

And not a question of color, Pat sort of mumbled to himself.

Even color wouldn’t be a problem. You forget, dear boy, that Curtis is African-American. And those two were voted in by all the present residents.

When do you vote? Pat asked.

This evening. Franklin’s face was grave. And that, dear boy, is why I urged you to come today. I don’t mind telling you I am worried, sorely worried. Whoever it was who was on the telephone this morning sounded serious, sounded as though he--or she--meant what he--or she--said, meant to carry out the threat against the Reitmans.

Have you told anyone else about that phone call? Especially the Reitmans? Phillis asked.

Dear me, no. I wouldn’t dream of telling the Reitmans for fear they might think it was I who was threatening them, and he being a lawyer I might find myself in legal trouble. And I didn’t want to discuss it with anyone else until I first spoke to you two.

Pat leaned forward in his seat. Franklin, as I reminded you on the telephone this morning, we are not detectives. We accidentally got ourselves mixed up in a couple of murders in the past, but that’s about as close as we come to being sleuths.

I understand, my dear boy, but still I... well, I do have some degree of confidence in your judgment, and since your sister here has some of the Montgomary genes in her, she too must be in possession of uncommon common sense like your Aunt Molly. By the by, how is your dear aunt?

Aunty’s doing fine, Pat answered. She sends her love. But to get back to.... What do you intend doing?

I intend asking you what I should do, that’s what I intend. I want you to tell me what to do.

I’m not going to tell you what to do. Not now or ever. I will suggest, however, that you tell everyone else involved that someone has made a threat against the Reitmans. I think the other residents ought to know about it. And with someone making a death threat, it’s time you brought in the police.

I do suppose you are right.

Just how do you vote? Phillis asked. I mean, does everyone have a vote?

Each property has one vote.

Do you require unanimous approval?

Yes, everyone must approve the sale of the property, otherwise it can’t go through.

That doesn’t make much sense then, does it? she turned and asked her brother.

No sense at all, Pat agreed as he looked across at her.

I don’t understand, Franklin said.

Pat gestured for Phillis to explain.

Don’t you see, Franklin, if your caller was one of the other residents, all he or she would have to do would be to vote against the Reitmans and that would put an end to it all. There would be no need to make threats.

There’s more to it than that, Franklin said. Dear me, yes, I see I haven’t been very clear at all, have I? You see, each property has one and only one vote. In the case where there are two owners of the same property, as with Rudolph and Estelle Naiman, for example, there is still only one vote. If they can’t agree, then they are disqualified and lose their vote. My caller could have been someone whose partner wants to vote in favor of the Reitmans, and the caller doesn’t want the other to know he or she is opposed. Since that phone call, I’ve been unable to think of anything else, mulling all this over and over in my mind, as you probably can tell. My caller could also, for all we know, have been someone calling on behalf of someone else here.

How many of the houses are owned by more than one person? Pat asked.

Well, there are the Naimans, of course. And Willis Umstead and Curtis Love, our gay couple. And the Cairens: Max Cairens, grandson of the original Thurston Cairens; Max’s wife, Lorraine; and Hildegaarde, Max’s ninety-year-old mother, who doesn’t actually have a vote, but does have strong opinions about everything under the sun. She could have taken a dislike to the Reitmans for some reason or other and couldn’t get Max to agree to blackball them.

And single owners? Phillis asked.

There’s Gwynne Valentine, Jessie Fennshaw, and, naturally, myself. Three multiple owners and three single owners. Never thought of it like that before.

So, it sounds probable that our caller--or at least the one responsible for the call being made--if he is from Maris Cove, is half of a pair and doesn’t want his other half to know he objects to the Reitmans coming here, Pat said to Phillis. He looked at his watch. Almost noontime. We have, what, six? seven hours? before the fateful voting begins. Doesn’t leave us much time. Let’s start talking to everyone.

Patrick, my boy, if you will show Phillis to her room, the one on the right and you take the one across from it, I shall begin calling the other residents and see if we can get together.

Patrick led the way up the bare wooden staircase to the balcony which overlooked the living room. A hall ran at a