An Otterly Laughable Lie: Cornellis Island Paranormal Cozy Mysteries

By L.A. Boruff, Lacey Carter and Lia Davis

 

Brandi Best went on an adventure to discover the truth, and boy, did she discover more than she ever intended to...

Apparently, she's a mermaid. You heard me right. Not just a mother, a woman in her midlife, and a brand-new waitress at a bar, but a bonified mermaid with a tail. As much fun as it might sound to spend her days swimming around her small town, something dark is lurking under the surface of Cornellis Island.

And that something is coming for her.

With new friends by her side, humorous neighbors, and a few troublemaking animals, Brandi has her hands full. Discovering the secrets that cloud her past, no matter how dangerous, is her priority. And with friends like hers, they can't get into that much trouble.

Can they?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Phantom Pen
• Release date: Oct 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215825280

L.A. Boruff

L.A. Boruff lives in East Tennessee with her husband, three children, and an ever growing number of cats. She loves reading, watching TV, and procrastinating by browsing Facebook. L.A.’s passions include vampires, food, and listening to heavy metal music. She once won a Harry Potter trivia contest based on the books, and lost one based on the movies. She has two bands on her bucket list that she still hasn’t seen: AC/DC and Alice Cooper. Feel free to send tickets.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

You don’t have to be drunk to enjoy yourself at an Irish pub. Especially one tucked into a cozy nook of an Irish isle, patronized by the quaint folk that makes such a blustery, inclement corner of the world warm. I stood behind the bar, pulling a fresh Guinness, and I had a moment—to my ears, each voice became an instrument, every sound a note, such that the inharmonious din of the bar grew into a melody and its song enveloped me. The colors, the pink of their cheeks, the dark ruby red in their mugs, the light reflecting off of spilled stout, morphed into strokes of a master painter, each one purposeful, without mistakes. Even the potpourri of smells, the beer and cider, must and sea, had been designed by some olfactory craftsman for this one-night production of No Tales Pub, an immersive theatrical experience.

A smile drew itself across my face while I breathed it in.

What’s that? asked Summer, wearing a grin of her own. With her right hand, she balanced a tray of four drafts while the pointer of her left pushed into my cheek.

A smile, I said, a touch bashful.

Oh, it’s more than that, dearie, she teased, before dipping under the bar, maneuvering expertly with her full tray. Then she disappeared into the crowd, all but her arm, which rose overhead like the mast of a sinking ship, the tray of beers its crow’s nest.

I’m inclined to agree with Summer there, spoke a husky old voice from the bar, you’ve got a glow about ye.

My gaze lowered to a man hunched over the bar, both hands cradling a nearly empty pint. His hair was gray and shaggy, his face ruddy and made brighter by the drink. You’re one to talk about glows, Chester, I said, replacing his glass with a full one.

He chuckled and waved his hand at me. A touch of rouge I put on for Saturday night. This led to more boisterous laughter, truncated by the first swig of his fresh pint.

Chester giving you trouble? Raven asked teasingly, floating over from the other end of the bar.

As always, I said.

Chester lowered his now half-drunk glass to the bar, suppressed a burp, then curled his wet lips into a broad smile. Should’ve seen me in my heyday, ladies. A real troublemaker. Have a gander, he said, leaning closer while pointing to his left eye.

Raven and I shared a bemused look. What exactly are we gandering at, Chester? she asked.

The twinkle, he exclaimed. Body gets old, starts saggin’ and such, but the mark of an incorrigible rascal never fades. It’s the twinkle in their eye, what allows them to get up to so much trouble.

Inspecting the old man’s eye, I did indeed find a glinting sparkle, like a star embedded deep within his gaze. Well, I’ll be, I said, humoring Chester. There it is, sure enough. I’ll bet no small number of girls fell prey to it back in the day.

Still do, he insisted, winking that twinkling eye of his. He raised his pint for another long swallow.

How’re things on your end of the bar? I asked Raven.

Steady, she said, but manageable. Typical Saturday night. Not so busy I haven’t had the opportunity to catch up with some patrons. Her eyes cut at Henry, Cornellis Island’s most gregarious fisherman, seated between two of his fellow mariners, engaged in a lively discussion. All three looked cheery, beers in hand, laughter sprinkled among the chatter. Despite Henry’s convivial personality, I never forgot the day he came in looking like he’d seen the devil. As far as he’d been concerned, he basically had, in the monstrous form of a siren. Ever since, I’d maintained a little distance, letting Summer, Raven, or Nina take his orders instead. Call it paranoia, but I feared setting off his mermaid radar—mer-dar, if you will. My secret remained kept by a close circle of trusted friends, and I wasn’t yet prepared to expand it.

Since my magical discovery, I had the creeping sense there were other supernatural goings-on here in Cornellis, as well. As though awakening to my dual identity heightened my sensitivity to the hidden alter egos of my island neighbors. Summer, for one, revealed her visions, as she called them. Though she wasn’t exactly forthcoming about their nature, the more time I spent with her, the more hints I received. Certain events that should've come as surprises seemed foreseen, which led me to believe in the clairvoyant nature of her periodic seizures. Raven confirmed as much, though remained mum on the details.

Not one for secrets between friends, I decided one night to confront Summer. To my shock, when asked point-blank, she told me everything. That her father was descended from witches, which made her half-magical, bestowing upon her preternatural soothsaying abilities. Which I can’t control, she added, frustratedly, on account of my human half.

Since she’d been so open and honest about it, I came clean about my mermanism. Summer, I’m a—

Mermaid, she finished.

Flabbergasted, I gawked at her. How'd you—

Visions, she said simply.

Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Had she known even before I did?

Didn’t want to put you on the spot, love. Figured you’d come around in your own time.

It was a relief to have it out in the open with Summer, and also to know I wasn’t alone. Even if she wasn’t a magical sea creature, she was still magical, and through that, our friendship strengthened.

How many of this bar’s customers shared that trait? Were there other mermaids, witches, and the like? What other types of magical being could a person be? My mind reeled with possibilities.

Raven filled a cup with soda water, squeezed a lemon wedge over it, then sipped. Asked Henry if there were any more local legends he hadn’t yet told me about, she said. He brought up the—

Salmon of Knowledge?

Raven nodded and laughed.

We’d been asking all the island’s inhabitants about local folklore ever since we learned of the siren’s jewel—the magical stone that supposedly allowed the sirens to walk on land when in possession of it. Our hope was that we might stumble upon a helpful tidbit about the jewel that could lead to its whereabouts. Only after weeks of listening to story after story, our investigations turned up diddly squat.

A great many of our leads came from Henry, but his favorite bit of folklore was unquestionably the Salmon of Knowledge. The old tale involved a common Irish lead, Fionn mac Cumhaill, a renowned hunter, a figure not unlike Paul Bunyan in the States. He served a poet by the name of Finegas, who spent seven years searching for the mythical salmon. It was said the fish had consumed nine walnuts that had fallen into the Well of Wisdom. By doing so, it became infused with all worldly knowledge.

When Finegas finally captured the fish, he gave it to his servant, our hero Fionn, to prepare. Only, while cooking the epic salmon, Fionn singed his thumb, reflexively sucking the burn. What he didn’t know was that a minute amount of salmon fat had transferred to his thumb and when he brought it to his lips, the worldly knowledge took root.

Upon delivering the fish to his master, Finegas saw in his servant a transformation. When asked if he'd eaten the fish, Fionn explained the circumstances by which he tasted it. Apparently, this ruined Finegas’s plans, and in his petulance he surrendered the rest of the fish to Fionn. I imagine he clicked his tongue and said something like, Ugh, well then finish it. Fionn did, and in so doing, obtained a complete knowledge of the world. With it, he became the mythic folk hero of Irish legend.

Henry was of the opinion the salmon actually existed. It was a pet obsession for him. At every opportunity, he would launch into the story, each telling more grandiose than the previous, always concluding with a whisper, It’s true, you know. That fish be around these waters, lurkin’ near the craggy shores. Someday it’ll be mine to cook.

As delightful as it was to be his audience, the tale of the Salmon of Knowledge got old. Furthermore, it offered nothing to our hunt for the siren’s jewel.

Other bits of Cornellis lore provided Raven and me with more to follow up on. For example, O’Connell’s haunted swamp. In the lowlands of the island, in its northeast corner, there lay an infamous bog. It was said a man by the name of Jack O’Connell escaped prison with the help of his lover, Fionna Byrne, the enchantress. They had planned to run away together, but when Jack saw her collection of magic crystals, his larcenous ways overcame him. He swiped the lot of them while she slept and made off into the night. When she awoke to discover what he’d done, she cursed him. It was this curse that doubled the weight of her stolen crystals and pulled Jack O’Connell down into the swamp’s mire, to his final resting place.

While visiting the swamp, so it is said, Jack’s final gasps gurgle up from the mud, and his scorned lover, Fionna, cackles in the mist. When Raven and I spent an afternoon and night wading through the waters of the bog, dressed in uncomfortable rubber suits, we only heard our own boots squelching beneath us. It was another in a long line of fruitless searches around the island.

About a dozen, in fact, each taxing in its own way on my forty-five-year-old joints. It'd been a very long time since basic training, and the upkeep of certain muscles went by the wayside. Like, for instance, about every one used for rock climbing, which had been our most recent misadventure. As I gathered empties from the bar, I could still feel the soreness in my back, legs, arms—really, about everywhere. Perhaps I would've recovered quicker had it not been after so many other failed treasure hunts that dragged me to all corners of the island. I should've known, peering up the jagged face of the mountain.

It’s only a hill, Raven had contested, intuiting my thoughts.

A hill doesn’t take an entire day to reach the summit. That said, I had to admit, once we’d reached the top, what a spectacular view it offered. A full panorama of the island awaited us, its undulating, grassy expanse, its cozy little villages, its year-round blanket of fog, graciously thin that day to provide the fullest experience.

What that hill-mountain didn't provide, however, was the stashed treasure of one Walter Sullivan, pirate extraordinaire. I’d first heard of his exploits from Sean Murphy, my dashing treasure-hunter-friend. Apparently, sometime before commandeering the HMS Athena, Sullivan had stolen from a British naval cache and stored his booty at the peak of the rocky formation on the island’s north end. Said to be among the items taken were peculiar treasures from the deep. The timeline didn’t quite match for it to be the jewel my mother took from her siren sisters, but the very nature of folklore is a muddled one. Though the story of the stolen cache was attributed to Sullivan, a pirate that predated my parents by about a hundred seventy plus years, that didn’t necessarily mean it was his. Folk tales often begin with a kernel of truth, have layers of fiction molded on top, then continue borrowing from each other. It’s a game of telephone played over the course of centuries. As such, we refused to let any stone go unturned.

Including the several thousand that comprised the hill.

Mountain. It was a mountain.

Nina came round, appearing out of the boisterous crowd. She placed her tray on the bar and said, Three more pints, if you please. She requested these with a beaming smile.

No matter how busy it got at No Tales, Nina never flagged. Her youth no doubt played a part, a spry twenty-something with the boundless energy that comes with the territory of early adulthood. However, she was quite active, an avid runner and yoga enthusiast. She radiated health and wellness. On more than one occasion, I suggested she begin a YouTube channel in the niche, but she always insisted her workouts were a personal activity. Despite how pleasant and friendly she was, Nina generally kept to herself. Because of this, I chose not to involve her in my mermaid shenanigans. Not out of distrust, only out of respect.

I pulled the drinks from the tap and arranged them on her server tray. How is it out there? Raven asked.

Steady, she said, but manageable.

Raven and I glanced at each other and laughed.

What? Nina asked.

That’s exactly what Raven said when I asked her how her end of the bar was.

Nina giggled.

We spend too much time together, said Raven.

No, the right amount, Nina corrected with a smile before spinning around and diving into the crowd.

She’s right, of course, I said. I don’t think I could spend too much time with my No Tales family.

Raven’s eyes misted. Aw, we’re so lucky to have you.

Raven, thanks for being so supportive. You know, with all the, I leaned in close to whisper, "mermaid stuff."

You know it’s no chore for me. I enjoy it all more than you do. That was no lie. Raven’s mermaid obsession found the jackpot in our friendship. I wish this mysterious jewel wasn’t so hard to uncover. At this point, we’ve searched this entire island with a fine-tooth comb. How is it we haven’t found the thing yet?

I shook my head, my eyes falling into the middle distance. I don’t know. We were certain it remained on the island, after studying the accounts of my birth parents’ attempt to flee Ireland. In Alise’s journal, she mentioned stashing the jewel away with plans to send word of its location only once she and Jesse arrived in the west. Of course, she never got the opportunity, having drowned with her lover during a siren attack on their vessel. Unaware their shifting jewel had been hidden away, the sirens watched as their own kin sank to the depths, along with the rest of the humans aboard. All save one, Sean Murphy’s relative.

My