The House at Hull

By Karl Tutt

THE HOUSE AT HULL is another great mystery read from the pen of Karl Tutt, author of the GHOSTCATCHER collection and the DIABLA series. This is his eleventh book on SMASHWORDS. It weaves a tale of murder and intrigue that shocks and satisfies the palate of the reader who feasts on mayhem. New characters and a new setting give it some different twists, but the emphasis is still on the exciting and unpredictable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karl Tutt
• Release date: Nov 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311478528

Karl Tutt

Karl Tutt is a retired English teacher from a dropout prevention program in Florida. He is a veteran cruiser who has published several sailing articles in national publications. His two new offerings, The Children of the Wolf and The House at Hull, continue the mastery of murder and mayhem demonstrated in the Ghostcatcher series with T.K Fleming, and his female sleuth, Dee Rabow, in the Diabla series. Quick, engaging, and satisfying . . . those words describe the approach that has lured thousands of readers to the pages of his murder mysteries.

Book preview

The

House

at

Hull

By

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2015

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn, my patient reader, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.

Prologue

I am a clairvoyant, a psychic . . . though some who know me might say psycho. I know what you’re thinking . . . but sometimes I just get things. I don’t really plan it. It just comes. Voices . . . visions . . . the usual crap you see in lousy TV shows and movies, but in my case, it’s real --- or at least I think it is. I’ve pieced together a decent living playing the market, consulting with the Boston police on matters only I could uncover . . . and occasionally predicting a long sea voyage or an unexpected inheritance from a long-lost relative.

I don’t charge the suckers much and I consider that part of the business, an attempt to spark some hope for the hopeless. A convenient rationalization and sometimes I even get it right. If things do get tight, I have a part-time gig as a captain on one of the water taxis that ferries passengers to and from some of the downtown wharves and Logan Airport. I work cheap, but it sometimes helps pay the rent on my humble digs.

Don’t judge me. I’m telling you . . . I’m the genuine article. I didn’t know it until Afghanistan. The Marines discovered that more than a few of my crazy hunches were on target. They didn’t understand it, but they liked it. I saved some very expensive stuff from being blown to Kingdom Come, not to mention some kids who thought they were gonna be heroes until they saw blood in the sand . . . sometimes their own. In the meantime I got promoted and the intense training taught me some useful things about killing. Some of them did become heroes . . . and some of them simply didn’t come back. I’d like to tell you I’m a Jack Reacher or a Doc Ford, tall, smart, fearless, and handsome. But the truth is I’m just a skinny nerd . . . albeit a dangerous one at times. I never really know when that thing coming . . . the second sight. It overtakes me, mostly when there’s an impending death, or an already lifeless body that’s been defiled or discarded.

The cops don’t like me much. I make ‘em look bad sometimes. But Billy Frye, Homicide Detective Second Grade, puts up with me because I let him take the credit . . . when there is any. The rest of them call me the Spook behind my back and often to my face. None of them know about the military stuff. It’s better that way, keeps from having to use it very often. My name is Elmo C. Dombroski. The C stands for Cathay. It doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue.

For the record, I don’t really believe in ghosts, but there are things out there that just don’t fit into the neat packages that most people cling to. You can’t blame them. They’re just trying to maintain a shred of sanity. It’s getting tougher all the time. Call those things what you will. I am their connection . . . their interpreter . . . sometimes the only one. I’m not saying I always understand, but I smart enough to know that, too. Sometimes it’s a little scary, but it is what it is.

I eat hot dogs for breakfast, only Hebrew National on a buttered, toasted bun with mustard and slaw. I slog too much cheap wine . . . whatever jug of red is on sale at the corner Seven Eleven. I skip lunch every day, and have frozen pizza for dinner every night. I prefer DiGiorno’s or Freshetta. In a pinch I’ll even do a Tortino’s, but I gotta be really hungry.

I guess you would say I live in a basement, but I’ve got my own private entrance just off the sidewalk on Hanover Street, in the north end, the heart of the Italian neighborhood. It’s kind of dark down there and a little damp in the winter, but I call it cozy. I’ve got my CD’s and a damned good speaker system. A little desk in the corner when I need to make some notes or send a heartfelt plea to the bill collectors. Luckily I haven’t had to do much of that lately. Let me just say, it’s home . . . and the rent is cheap.

Chapter 1

There is one person who genuinely likes me despite what she kindly calls my eccentricities. Her name is Eleisha Mountcastle. She’s a bit of a Goth. Coal black hair to the waist, which, by the way, is tiny. Fortunately, her boobs and her ass are ample compensation for whatever else is missing and believe me . . . there isn’t much. Thick black eyeliner and gray eye shadow framing subtle jade eyes. A long aquiline nose with just a little crook in it, and flaming red lipstick that looks like it was applied with paint brush. Her crimson nails could have come off a grizzly bear. You almost expected them to drip blood. It’s sort of Morticia Addams with a hint of Raquel Welch lurking beneath the surface. Actually, I like the combo quite a lot.

Eleisha reads Tarot and palms. She’s pretty damned good at it. Her business card reads Sha. A Gateway to Your Destiny. I know it’s kind of camp and creepy at the same time, but it works. She has a steady clientele -- mostly well-heeled -- that keep the bucks coming. You ought to see her in her gypsy get-up. Scary and sexy in the same breath. She’s got her own place down the block, but she has appropriated about half of my small hanging closet, and her girly stuff takes up most of the space around my bathroom sink. Small price to pay. The lady is dark dynamite.

Suddenly, my ears were assaulted by the thudding of Chopin’s Funeral March on my cell. Yeah, a cliché for a psychic, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Hello, Spook.

I wish you’d stop calling me that. Couldn’t it be Elmo, or even Mo for short . . . just one time.

My, my. A bit touchy this morning, are we, Mr. Dombroski?

Okay, enough of the sarcasm. What’s up?

This one is complicated. Too much to explain on the phone. Can you come by my office this afternoon?

Only if there’s money involved.

Trust me. There is . . . and lots of it. You solve this one, you’ll need a laundry bag to carry it all.

Ah . . . my esteemed public servant. You have my undivided attention.

Billy and I agreed to meet at the precinct at two o’clock.

And bring the other half of the Legion of Doom, he said before hanging up.

He meant Eleisha. I was never sure