A Coastal Corpse

By Rebecca M. Douglass

A corpse among the dahlias is no way to start your day.

Retired science teacher Seffi Wardwell has moved to coastal Maine looking for peace, fresh air, and an accepting community. So far, she’s enjoying the sea air.

When a corpse turns up in Seffi’s flower garden, she can’t help asking questions about the victim and his death. Police officer Miah Cox doesn’t want her assistance, but Seffi’s curiosity is what made her a scientist.

The more she learns about the dead man’s background, the more she wants to know. Estranged from his wealthy family, and a village pariah for something that happened years before, the dead man had plenty of enemies. At least one wanted to make him disappear forever, and they’re all eager to see this case wrapped up and forget about him.

The way Seffi sees it, somebody has to care about him, and as a fellow outsider, she’s it. But all of her poking around is stirring up trouble in the village. It’s up to Seffi and Miah to figure out whodunit before they strike again, and before the locals decide the handiest scapegoat is Seffi herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca M. Douglass
• Release date: Aug 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215719367

Rebecca M. Douglass

After a lifetime of reading and a decade of slinging books at the library and herding cats with the PTA, Rebecca began to turn her experiences into books of her own, publishing her first (The Ninja Librarian) in 2012. That failed to quiet the voices in her head, but seemed to entertain a number of readers, so she wrote some more, which generated still more voices. Despite the unlimited distractions provided by raising sons to the point of leaving home, not to mention the mountains that keep calling (very hard to resist the urging of something the size of the Sierra Nevada), she has managed to produce many more books in the years since.For those who enjoy murder and mayhem with a sense of humor, Rebecca’s Pismawallops PTA mysteries provide insights into what PTA moms and island life are really like. If you prefer tall tales and even less of a grip on reality, visit Skunk Corners in The Ninja Librarian and its sequels. And for those who’ve always thought that fantasy was a bit too high-minded, a stumble through rescues and escapes with Halitor the Hero, possibly the most hapless hero to ever run in fear from any and all fair maidens, should set you straight.Through it all, she has continued to pen flash fiction, for a time sharing a new story on her blog nearly every week. Now those stories are getting new life in a series of novella-length ebooks, with an omnibus paperback coming soon.Why does Rebecca write so many different kinds of books (there’s even an alphabet picture book in the mix!)? It might be because she has a rich lifetime of experience that requires expression in many ways, but it’s probably just that she’s easily distracted.

Book preview

A Seffi Wardwell Mystery

by

Rebecca M. Douglass

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, events and places portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 Rebecca M. Douglass

Cover art and design by Maggie Samella

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 9798215719367

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

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 are 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.

This book is available in regular and large-type print at many online retailers or from the author at Rebecca-Douglass.com

Praise for REbecca M. Douglass and the Pismawallops PTA Mysteries

For Death By Donut:

Throw in the mouthwatering desserts, and Douglass provides a delightful page-turner perfect for cozy readers, filled with fun characters, enough suspects to keep up the suspense, and the atmospheric background of an island in the Pacific Northwest. ~Elena Taylor, author of All We Buried and the Eddie Shoes mysteries

For Death By Library:

[Douglass’] writing style is punchy, sleek and enticing and I adored the glorious helping of saucy romance she artfully weaves into the story… This was an enthralling, classic whodunit with great dollops of humour thrown in and a fabulous finale. It was my first novel by this superb author, and I know it won’t be my last. --Brianne's Book Reviews

The writing is both easy reading and smart, the plot has been cleverly worked out. Red herrings abound, but no leaps of faith are needed. --Author Jemima Pett

"Death By Library… is an amusing tale of a small town, a natural disaster, and murder . . . I like the mystery, characters, and setting." --Baroness' Book Trove

For Death By Adverb:

Douglass paints a wonderful picture of the small town of Pismawallops in the Pacific Northwest, bringing to life the joys and challenges of living in a remote tight-knit island community. --Ellen Jacobson

For Death By Trombone:

"Death by Trombone is an enjoyable weekend read, sure to please fans of small town cozy mysteries." --View from the Birdhouse

Douglass has a great series here. JJ’s a colorful and complex character, well-developed and likable. --Christa Reads and Writes

For Death By Ice Cream:

This was a fun cozy mystery with lots of surprising twists and turns that had me guessing who dunnit and why right up until the end. --Ellen Jacobson, author of the Mollie McGhee Mysteries

CONTENTS

Title Page

Reviews

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

More by Rebecca M. Douglass

Sneak peek at Death By Ice Cream

For Deirdre, Debby, Pam and Nanette. Thanks for keeping me going.

Chapter 1

Oh, no! Seffi Wardwell stopped halfway down the porch steps, wobbled, and gaped at the ruin of the glorious hydrangea plants that flanked her front gate. She grabbed for the railing and hung on with one hand while finishing the descent.

Leaning more heavily than usual on the wheeled wire shopping basket she’d dragged down the steps behind her, she hurried forward for a closer look.

The bushes had been almost shoulder high on her slight frame and covered with huge globes of flowers when she’d gone out to deadhead them the previous evening. Now the bushes were broken, stripped of their flowers. Here and there she caught glimpses of deep lavender with a suggestion of blue, in the form of a half-open cluster or a blossom well past its prime, but the big blossoms were gone.

One stem, the flower mostly intact, lay on the walkway. Without thinking, Seffi bent to pick it up, grey braid swinging over her shoulder, then had to grab at the shopping basket to steady herself as a wave of dizziness washed over her.

Tears flooded Seffi’s green-brown eyes. It was too much. The illness. The move across the country. The loneliness. And now this desecration of the beautiful garden that made the cottage perfect. The tears spilled over and she let them fall.

I don’t even know these people. How could anyone hate me here? The plants didn’t answer, nor did the Gulf of Maine, when she straightened and looked out to sea, away from the mangled bushes. Mainers weren’t known for appreciating outsiders moving in. They weren’t giving her a chance. She would not let them get to her. Seffi swiped a hand across her eyes, pulled out a tissue from her purse, and blew her nose.

After a while, the sight and sound of the water calmed her and she turned back to the plants. Careful not to bend over too much, she examined some of the cuts.

She squatted by the more mangled of the plants. At least her knees worked, even if her head was a mess. A knife, not clippers. What did that tell her?

Seffi reached again for the fallen blossom and studied it. Definitely cut with a knife. That was weird. People in Smelt Point gardened. Even the neighbors on the east with two little girls and jobs in town twenty-five miles up the peninsula had a nice patch of flowers.

She looked over at their yard. They, too, had lost the blooms off their hydrangea bush.

It wasn’t personal. Seffi stopped crying and started thinking.

Go on with her plans for the morning, or retreat into the house for another day?

If she didn’t get out there now, she never would, in which case she might as well go home to California.

California wasn’t home anymore. Too much smoke. Too many losses. Seffi was out to introduce herself to Smelt Point. It was past time she did so.

Leaving the wheeled basket, Seffi climbed back up onto the porch, went inside, and got a vase for the lone hydrangea blossom. It sat in the middle of the kitchen table, a reminder that she had work to do.

Work to do. She smiled, a little wryly. The vandalism hurt, but she now had something to do besides buy a few groceries and a cup of coffee.

Back outside, Seffi collected a few of the fallen petals. They might come in handy to identify her flowers if she saw them somewhere. No one else on the street, maybe in the whole village, had hydrangeas just that color. Interesting plant, the way the color varied depending on the soil. Sarah Coleman, the old woman who owned the house and had tended the garden until recently, had fed the plants something different.

The old woman. Everyone called her that. If Mrs. Coleman was old, Seffi wasn’t far behind.

Yes, she was. Seventy-two wasn’t old and no blasted virus was going to change that. Taking a firmer grip on her shopping basket, Seffi opened the gate and started up the street. Feeling hurt would do her no good. Anger might not, either, but she would enjoy giving someone a piece of her mind!

After a few steps she got herself in hand. No sense in charging up the rise to the village like Teddy Roosevelt at San Juan Hill. She’d collapse halfway up, and there was Fred Stevens out in his yard to witness it if she did.

Fred was studying his own garden with slumped shoulders. Seffi stopped by his gate, close enough to converse, far enough away for safety without putting on masks.

Looks like we’ve all been raided. Someone stripped my hydrangeas. Hacked them with a knife, in fact. It doesn’t look like they treated yours any better.

Fred bent and peered at his plants. He straightened with a hand on his lower back.

Hacked off with a knife, right?

No. The much younger man—Seffi took him to be not much beyond thirty, with a lot of dark brown hair untouched by grey, though the lower-back pain didn’t look good—frowned. Yours were cut with a knife? Mine are clipped, with a good sharp pair of secateurs. He glanced up and down the street. Did they get everyone?

As far as I can tell. The Simons, the Barkers, you, me. She pointed to each house as she named them.

And Pearline’s. Fred nodded to the next house up from his, which actually faced another so-called street and turned its back to his side yard. More mangled shrubs. Now that she was looking, she could see which were done with a knife and which with those good, sharp secateurs. More than one vandal, then.

Who on earth would do that? And why?

Oh, the why is easy. City florists pay four or five dollars a pop for hydrangea globes. For that matter, he added with a quick look around, as though for eavesdroppers, Bernice Holt pays three-fifty. I was going to take her some of mine to help pay for my coffee-and-pastry habit.

I had no idea they were so valuable. I would still like to know who did this, though the flowers must be long gone and catching the vandal won’t fix my poor plants. She eyed Fred’s bushes. They were less mangled than her own, but still wore the bedraggled and forlorn droop of survivors of a tempest.

I’m just going to even mine up a bit and let those last few buds blossom. Maybe I can still get a few pastries, though Layla would say I don’t need them. My wife is trying hard to keep me from giving in to middle age. I can help you with your bushes, he added, seeming as surprised by the offer as Seffi was.

I would appreciate that. Swallowing her pride along with some hurt, she added, I have a little trouble with bending and stooping.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Wardwell. Getting old is hell.

Like he knew anything about it. It’s not age. Her voice was crisper than she’d intended. Tough. It’s that damned Covid virus. Left me a mess, but I’m not helpless. Do you know where the flowers went? Don’t give him a chance to get all sympathetic about her illness. She’d had lots of sympathy and it hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Don’t scare him off, either. And for goodness sake, call me Seffi. I may be old enough to have been your junior high science teacher, but you aren’t twelve anymore.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His science teacher must have been fearsome, though something had worked, since he now taught the subject himself.

Uh, sure, Seffi. I guess I can guess where the flowers are, but I’m not sure if I should say.

He even sounded like he was twelve. Very well. She fixed him with the look that had made many a cheater come clean.

Oh?

Fred shifted a little, hesitated. I guess you could look for them in Bernice Holt’s shop.

Would the village florist actually steal flowers? And with no more regard than that for the bushes? Isn’t she a member of the garden club?

He could figure out what she meant. She is, and I don’t know if she’d steal them herself. But she’s not over-careful about her sources, if you know what I mean.

Then we should pay her a visit.

Fred paled. Not me. You can if you want, but you might be sorry.

Will she get violent? Not likely.

No, but she might get you blackballed from the garden club. Say, why haven’t you been to any of our meetings? I heard you’re a botanist, so—why haven’t you joined the Garden Club? he repeated.

Seffi wasn’t interested in distractions. Like I said, Covid. Where is Ms. Holt’s shop?

Are you really going to confront her?

I am.

It’s your neck. He explained where the florist lived and worked.

I’m not going to stand by and let a crime go unchallenged.

Fred nodded, but he wasn’t coming with her. Cowardice? Or did he know more than he was saying? Who cared? Seffi felt better than she had in months, outside on a sunny day, with a mission to accomplish.

Still pushing her shopping basket—a sneaky sort of extra support for those dizzy moments—Seffi continued up Monkshood Avenue until it became Main Street, a distinction without a difference. The pavement was a little better there, but the short stretch of sidewalk only spanned the Smelt Point Market and the pizza joint next door.

Seffi stuck to the street. There wasn’t enough traffic in the village to worry about being out in the lane. A right turn at the library took her onto Harbor Way. The first house on the right, set well back from the road, bore a sign lettered in a swoopy script that rendered it almost unreadable.

Bernice Britannia Holt, Florist.

Bernice Britannia indeed. Seffi paused on the porch to put on her mask. Innocent until proven guilty, she reminded herself. Scientists gather data, they don’t jump to conclusions. State a hypothesis and do the research to support it. She pushed open the door.

A bell on the door jangled, but no one responded. The room was empty of florists. Two big urns stood by the makeshift counter in what had been the front room of the old cottage.

Two big urns full of hydrangeas. She pulled out the handful of petals she’d salvaged and compared them with several blossoms in the left-hand urn. A perfect match.

Bernice Britannia Holt! If the woman wanted to use her full name, let her.

A chubby woman a hair taller than Seffi’s five foot two charged through the door from the main house. Her face was nearly as red as her artificially-colored hair. She knew who was there, all right, and was ready to do battle. Seffi stood a little straighter and waited for the other woman to make the first move.

Ms. Wardwell. The greeting was utterly correct and as icy as the Maine winters Seffi wasn’t yet sure she wanted to experience.

Ms. Holt. Two could play that game. I’ve come about some flowers. She pointed to the urns. Those flowers, to be exact. How did you get hydrangeas from my yard? I don’t recall selling any to you.

What makes you think they’re from your yard? Ms. Holt’s pale eyes shifted from Seffi to the flowers and back.

Seffi again compared the cut blossoms to the petals she had collected. You can see that's a match. There are no others that color around here. She pointed to several slightly bluer globes. Those, I believe, are from Fred Stevens’ yard.

I couldn’t say.

Seffi unleashed the gaze that had quelled the most rebellious student bored with chemistry class. Everyone on Monkshood Avenue woke up this morning to mangled hydrangea plants and missing flowers. Flowers I now find here in your shop. I think we deserve an explanation.

With an exaggerated look around to emphasize that there was no one else present, Ms. Holt said, It looks to me like you’re the only one who’s worried.

Correction. I’m the only one willing to face you.

No, you’re not. The bell on the door wasn’t loud enough to drown out Fred Stevens’ announcement. Answer her question, Bernice.

I bought them fair and square. Her face got redder.

Bought them from whom? Seffi asked. Did she remember how to do CPR? Bernice Holt looked like she might have a stroke any second.

Who, Bernice?

At Fred’s insistence, the florist answered. From Al Conlin, if you must know. Now, if you don’t mind? Mrs. Stanthorpe insists I get this arrangement to her before eleven.

Then Al Conlin stole them, and your ‘fair and square’ purchase wasn’t, was it? Seffi crossed her arms to keep her hands from shaking. This was taking a lot out of her. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, though she felt more alive than she had in months. That was worth a bit of fatigue.

You can’t prove it. The final refuge of the cornered scoundrel. Bernice Holt knew the plants were stolen, and knew that they knew.

Meaning, you’ve already cut off the ragged stems? Whoever you sent to steal these flowers used a knife, and didn’t do a very good job. If it was this Al Conlin, he isn’t competent to do any kind of gardening. He mangled my bushes so badly they may take a couple of years to recover.

Bernice Holt sucked in her breath. In Smelt Point, folks took their flowers seriously. Stealing them might be overlooked. Ruining the bushes would not.

They aren’t your bushes, Bernice said. You don’t even know what Sarah Coleman feeds them.

Nor do you, Seffi guessed. But I have the means to find out.

Time to get out of there, before she began to leak tears again, or collapsed in an exhausted heap.

Seffi let Fred give her an arm on the steps, then took hold of her wheeled cart. It was a bit uphill back to the main street. She pulled the mask off her face so she could breathe more easily.

Should I see you home? Fred asked. He could tell she was struggling, drat it.

No, I’m going to Sweet Dreams. I need a coffee and a pastry. I’ll buy you one, she offered. Thanks for coming and backing me up there.

I need to go home. I’ve a lot of work to do.

Fred left her at the bakery and strode off towards his house.

Seffi watched him go. Did he have a lot to do, or was he regretting his championship of the outsider?

Would anyone welcome her to the garden club after this?

Chapter 2

The bell jangled cheerfully as Seffi entered the bakery. She stopped to sniff the air.

Did you bake cinnamon rolls this morning, Heather?

The bakery owner had long since asked Seffi to use her first name—Mrs. Fields is rather too much for a baker, you must admit. Now Heather Fields smiled at Seffi behind her mask.

You’re looking bright today. I kept one cinnamon roll special for you. No frosting, just the way you like it. Coffee?

Seffi settled at a table with her snack and took her mask off. She ought to go outside, but there were no other customers at this hour on a Friday. Coming down off the excitement of confronting the florist, Seffi now struggled against the urge to put her head down on the table and take a nap. The few extra steps to the back deck were too much, at least until she’d eaten something.

After a bit, Heather came over to the table. Your coffee came in. She handed over a package of whole bean coffee, then offered a small loaf of brown bread. Do you need more bread? It’s been a few days.

Heather, you’re amazing Seffi beamed at her over her coffee mug. Yes, that’s perfect. I’ve had rather an upsetting morning, I’m afraid.

Heather nodded. The flowers. And you actually went and confronted Bernice Holt? Gossip in Smelt Point apparently moved faster than she did.

I did. And Fred came along.

Heather was gratifyingly astonished. He did? I wouldn’t have—I’m surprised, she stumbled her way to a finish.

He did, and backed me up all the way. For all the good it did us. She has our flowers, all right—did you lose yours, too?

Heather shook her head. I don’t have any. Anyway, I forgot to turn off the deck lights last night, so I doubt anyone would want to prowl in our yard, such as it is. The baker and her husband lived over the shop and were among the few villagers who didn’t garden, aside from a row of window boxes. What did Bernice say?

Claimed she bought the flowers ‘fair and square’ from someone named Al Conlin. I can’t see how she’d believe any one person could have so many, in so many shades. Willful refusal to acknowledge the facts, if you ask me. Should she mention the likelihood that there were two thieves? Maybe not yet. She didn’t know Bernice Holt was the second thief.

Al Conlin? Well, Heather sniffed, if she bought from him, she knew darned well he stole them, because Al Conlin never grew a hydrangea in his life.

Of course she knew. No one in town has flowers the color of those in my yard. Who is this Al Conlin, anyway? I don’t recall meeting anyone by that name.

Heather nodded. You wouldn’t have. He’s a troubled soul, Ms. Wardwell. A troubled soul, she repeated.

Before the baker could elaborate, if she intended to, another customer came in. Violet Marsh, another member of the local garden club and an incorrigible gossip. Seffi took a bite of her pastry. Should she stick around and try to get more information? Or keep her own counsel? Anything she said now would be all over the village in minutes.

A glance at her watch settled the question. She needed to go buy some groceries and get home before the day warmed up too much. For that matter, Marilyn Bates over at the market might know where she could find the accused man.

About to step up onto the sidewalk by the market, Seffi was nearly bowled over by a man who burst from the store, a small paper bag in one hand.

Watch out! Her exclamation carried more than a hint of admonition, and the man turned to look at her. Meeting his eyes, Seffi took an involuntary step back. It wasn’t anger or hostility that shocked her. It was the pure, raw pain in his eyes that made her feel as though she’d looked into a black hole.

Before she could recover and say anything more, he muttered a low Sorry and hurried away.

Looking after the ragged figure and putting together what she’d managed to learn so far, Seffi wondered if she’d just met the mysterious Al Conlin. If so, Heather’s troubled soul was a terrible understatement. Seffi wanted to know the man, to learn what had so wounded him that he would steal flowers to buy—had it been a bottle in the bag? Not a large one, at any rate.

She pulled on her mask and went into the store.

Good morning, Ms. Wardwell. Marilyn Bates, the store’s owner, greeted her with at least a hint of warmth. What can I do for you?

I wondered... the man who just left the store? He almost ran into me out there—you know who he is?

Marilyn nodded. Average height, scruffy beard, clothes so dirty and ragged you can’t tell where he leaves off and the dirt begins?

Seffi nodded.

That was Al Conlin, Marilyn confirmed.

The man from whom Bernice Holt claimed she’d bought the flowers. Who is he? Why haven’t I seen him before? No need to say anything about the pain she’d seen in him.

He’s our local bum. Marilyn’s tone carried something darker than a working stiff’s disapprobation of a bum. He has himself a squat somewhere out in the woods on Painter Head, she added, referencing the undeveloped land at the end of the Cats Claw, both named for the wild cats—panthers, or painters—that were long gone from the area. He doesn’t come around when there are people about.

How does he live? Odd jobs?

I guess. He must do something to make a little money, because he does buy a few groceries. Marilyn reddened. I sometimes give him some day-old stuff I can’t sell. I feel sorry for him, though you needn’t mention that.

You still aren’t telling me who he is, Seffi pointed out. Nor why Marilyn should care if people knew she felt compassion for the man. Charity was a virtue, wasn’t it?

He’s a down-and-out bum. It doesn’t matter who he is, or was.

And that was a lie. It might be a lie the people of Smelt Point had told so long and so often they believed it themselves, but it was a lie. If nothing else, Al Conlin’s story mattered to Al Conlin. It might be what he drank to forget. Marilyn had told more than she knew when she implied Al had once been someone else, and her sudden change from sympathy to callous dismissal meant something.

The trip home was downhill, much easier than the walk into the village, even with her loaded basket. Sea air was a lot easier to breathe than the constant smoke that had wreathed Skunk Springs, back where the California mountains shifted from Cascades to Sierra. She’d always liked the ocean and her lungs were better, they had to be.

By the time she’d put away the groceries, Seffi needed a rest. She climbed one step at a time to the upstairs room with its expansive view of the Gulf of Maine and stretched out on the daybed. Like all the furnishings, it had come with the house, and was oriented to allow resting and watching the water at the same time. Sarah Coleman must have loved lying there. She hoped the old lady had a view in her nursing home down in Portland.

Seffi enjoyed the parade of boats going by—shiny yachts to dirty working fishing boats to freighters farther out—as she drifted off to sleep.

Waking an hour later, Seffi descended the stairs more energetically than she’d climbed them. She’d have a bite of lunch, then go visit the library, maybe get a new book or three—and ask the librarian what she knew about Al Conlin. Librarians didn’t know everything, but they had the skills to find out. Anyway, she wanted to get to know Nikka Tyler better. Ms. Tyler stood out as the only African-American in town, but she would stand out regardless. Her personality made her hard to miss.

By now, most of her neighbors had gone to work—even Fred’s car was gone. With classes starting in two weeks he’d no doubt gone to the school to work on setting up his classroom. Wherever they all were, they were probably talking about her and how she’d gone to confront Bernice Holt.

Seffi smiled. Maybe that was what Miah—Officer Jeremiah Cox she ought to say now that she was in his jurisdiction and not in her classroom—had meant when he’d said Smelt Point needed her. They needed someone to shake them up, someone to talk about. And Miah was an ardent supporter of the new nature reserve being developed on Painter Head. Seffi was a science teacher with a love of botany. Ergo, he wanted her to persuade the locals the reserve would be a boon to their lives and livelihoods.

Well, she’d do her best. She had offered—though not in public—to house one of the students who would be doing the necessary surveys of plant and animal life. Fortunately, the whole crew would be living in a barn on the property, which they were even now trying to make livable.

She’d take them cookies as a welcome, if she could find someone to drive her out