Moored in Murder

  Moored in Murder

  Carolyn Q. Hunter

  Summer Prescott Books Publishing

  Copyright 2019 Summer Prescott Books

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying, or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.

  **This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.

  Contents

  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

  Also by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  Author’s Note

  Contact Summer Prescott Books Publishing

  1

  Snow lay across the bay that morning, sprinkling the water like a salty garnish atop a fancy cocktail. The small fishermen’s huts along the waterfront and upon the docks chugged out smoke from their small metal chimneys, a sign that the men who lived in those shacks were at home—awaiting a full day of ocean fishing on frosted water.

  Benny Winters, a man who had never indulged in the privilege of getting a driver’s license, had decided to walk down to the waterfront that day from the boarding house he resided in just off Central Street in downtown White Bay, Maine.

  In a community as small as White Bay, a car often seemed like a waste. A waste of money, of gas, and a complete waste of good exercise. Nothing felt better than getting out on your own two feet and walking the streets of the place you lived, even in the bitter cold and snow.

  With the grocery store, post office, library, pub, café, and so much more within only a five-mile radius of his home, it was easy to get the many tasks of day-to-day life done without adding car exhaust and toxins to the fresh and exhilarating seaside air.

  He never saw the point of those gas guzzlers. Bad for the environment and kept people from getting some much-needed exercise. Of course, Ben would never admit to anyone that he was mostly just afraid of driving. Not to mention, keeping and maintaining a car was a lot of work and money.

  He preferred putting his resources elsewhere, such as one of his many business endeavors or creative projects. His friends in town knew him as the idea man. He had great ambitions and deep-rooted passions.

  People who he wouldn’t call friends said things about him that weren’t nearly as nice—things like, he was a quitter, a nobody, and couldn’t ever stick to one thing.

  In his opinion, those sorts of comments were far more chilling than anything mother nature could cook up. When it came down to it, most humans were awful to one another.

  It was one of the reasons he’d stuck around in town his whole life. Why go somewhere where there were even more people and more reason to be rude to one another?

  Nope, he loved the simplicity of his life just the way it was.

  When Ben had woken from his slumber that morning, he’d looked at the clock to see that it was only six-thirty in the morning. Most people in his situation would have rolled over and gone back to bed. Not Ben. The sun would be up soon, and the nearly silent downtown streets would begin to bustle with the activity of residents and tourists alike.

  While White Bay wasn’t nearly as active in February as it might be in, say, July or August, the local Valentine’s festivities often drew in a crowd of couples and families to celebrate the season of companionship and love. That coming Thursday, the streets would fill with the bustle of patrons waiting to watch the parade of pinks and reds go by.

  Additionally, there would be activities, booths, and performances to entertain anyone who came their way.

  For Ben, however, he much preferred the solace and silence that came with the quiet streets at dawn. No one was out and only the beat of the ocean spoke back.

  He loved snowy mornings, right after a fresh untouched layer of crystalline white had been spread across the landscape. He enjoyed being the first to break in the powder, listening to it crunch slowly under each boot step as he carefully weaved his way down to the waterfront.

  The slow whoosh of the cold waves against the docks had a calming sensation, helping Ben to forget his many troubles—his lack of cash flow, his declining bank account balance, his unemployment. All of it seemed to melt temporarily for him, vanishing into the white foam of the ocean.

  His most recent business endeavor, trying to make and sell tiny paintings of the Maine coastline on two by three-inch canvases with a tiny easel for display, had been a flop. None of the tourist shops in town were interested in carrying them. That alone was enough to kill the idea. Without the support of shops, he had literally no way to sell them except at the occasional art fair or bazaar.

  There were only so many of those. The last one had been at Christmas and there wouldn’t be another until spring.

  Pushing the thoughts down, he stepped out onto the boardwalk—a spot that was just as much a part of the tourist culture as downtown was. The fisherman shacks were quaint little homes, but often doubled as a place to sell food, fish, and wares out of during busy seasons.

  The rest of the year, the solitary men and women who owned or lived in the shacks simply used them to sleep in, going out fishing occasionally.

  A few of them had real homes in town, but most liked the simple life.

  Movement near one of the shacks drew Ben’s attention. He spotted an elderly man near the door of the shack, arranging boxes of stuff in the chilly morning air.

  “Hello, Hank,” Ben called, waving as he made his way toward the familiar face.

  “Hiya, Benny,” he said gruffly, dumping another wooden box full of junk on the stack. An old beater of a truck, with rust spots so big you could see through to the interior frame, was backed up to the door with the hatch open.

  Hank vanished into the shack for a second and then came back out with his arms full.

  “Need help with anything?” Ben asked, seeing the elderly man struggle with yet another box.

  The old man managed a smile that looked like it pained his dry and lined face. “If ya’ don’t mind. I’d appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem,” he responded, bending down to pick up one of the boxes and loading it into the rear of the truck. He pushed it up toward the cab as far as it would go. Placing a hand on each hip, he turned to the older fellow. “Hey, you goin’ on a trip or something?”

  Hank scoffed. “Sure thing, kid. A loooong trip,” he said, waving his arm in the air as if he were an old shaman telling some grand tale. In reality, it was a mocking gesture.

  “Wait, you’re leaving? Like moving away?” Ben gasped.

  “You got it, kid,” he snorted, lifting another box into the truck.

  Ben instinctively put his hand on it, stopping Hank so he’d look him in the eye. “Why are you moving? You’ve lived out here on the boardwalk for years. At least as long as I’ve been alive.”

  “Long enough, I suppose,” he snapped, jerking away from Ben.

  “But why? You still haven’t told me why?”

  “Dagnabit, kid. Why do I have to tell you why? Who said it was any of your business?” he spat, bending down and picking up another box, his back making an unsettling cracking noise as he did.

  “It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Does it have to?” he threw up his arms. “Now, are you going to help me move these danged boxes or do I have to do it by myself? You did off
er to help.” He pointed at Ben.

  The younger man swallowed hard. “Of course, sorry.” Bending down, he got another box of random assorted items, and pushed it onto the truck bed.

  Hank leaned on the end of the truck and sighed. “Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to snap at ya’. I’ve just had about enough.”

  “Enough of what? What’s happening to make you move away so suddenly like this? Do you even have a place to go?”

  “Don’t you worry your little full head of hair about it,” he said, rubbing his own bald spot in a methodical manner.

  Ben chewed his lower lip. “It’s gotta be pretty bad to push you out.”

  “Well, if you’re so gosh dang interested, go on and ask that fool Leland Drouse about it.” The elderly man froze in place, his cheeks losing any color they’d had. He clearly had said something he hadn’t meant to.

  Ben paused, cocking one eyebrow up suspiciously. “Leland Drouse? What does he have to do with anything?”

  “Nothin’, kid. Absolutely nothin’.”

  “Leland Drouse is that new guy in town, right? The one who keeps buying up land so he can build his resort?”

  In an unexpected flash, Hank darted over toward Ben, grabbing him by the scruff of his shirt in a hold that was surprisingly strong for a man of his age. “Forget I said anything. Don’t go asking questions. Don’t go poking your nose into things.”

  Ben put up his hands. “W-Why would I do that?”

  “Because I know you, boy. You love havin’ your fingers in other people’s business. You like to know what’s going on, be involved. Well, this time I’m tellin’ ya’ to just up and forget I said anything.”

  “Jeez, okay, okay,” Ben said in a pleading manner.

  “Good,” Hank noted, removing his grip. His bare knuckles, sticking out of his tattered fingerless gloves, staying white for a second.

  “I promise I won’t ask anything specific,” Ben noted, putting up a scout’s salute, “but are you in some sort of trouble?”

  “Never you mind, kid. Just help me load up this darned truck and I’m outta here.” He turned, waving a finger at Ben. “And don’t you come looking for me later either. You got that?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I think I get the picture, Hank. You don’t want anyone to know you’re leaving, and you don’t want anyone to follow.” Ben said, putting up his hands to show he was compliant.

  “Good, then. No more questions,” he insisted, bending over to pick up another box.

  Glancing toward the shack and seeing the boat bobbing on the water just on the other side, a schooner that was in better repair and more lovingly kept up than the shack or the truck combined. “What are you going to do about your boat?” he wondered, a new business idea suddenly flying into his head.

  “Old Betsy?” the man wondered, standing up straight and looking with longing eyes at his longtime seafaring friend. For a brief second, it almost looked like the fellow might cry. “I guess I don’t have any choice. I’m leaving it behind.”

  “Well, why don’t you let me buy it off you?” Ben expelled, a little too quickly and eagerly.

  Hank raised one bushy eyebrow at the younger man. “You . . . want to buy her?”

  “Sure? Why not?”

  “Why, you ain’t got any money, kid. No offense, but everyone in town knows that.”

  “Well no, I can’t pay a whole lot, but think of it this way. I can take good care of her while you’re gone. If you ever decide to head on back here, you can always buy it back from me. That way, she won’t become worn down and abandoned.”

  Hank hesitated a moment and then smiled. “Well, what the heck. I hate to think of her not getting the love and affection she deserves.”

  “How much do you want for her?”

  Hank scratched his bristly chin. “Well, how much ya’ got?”

  “On me? Well, I’ve only got about seventy-five bucks in my wallet, but I do have more in the bank. About a thousand in savings.”

  Hank glanced around nervously. “Well, I ain’t got no time to wait around for you to go to the bank.”

  “I’ll go as soon as they open and be real fast about it.”

  Hank shook his head and put up a hand for Ben to stop talking. “No, no. I’ll just take the seventy-five in good faith, knowing you’ll take proper care of her.” The old fisherman held out a hand, waiting.

  “It’s a deal,” Ben exclaimed, shaking on it.

  2

  “I’ve purchased a boat,” Ben declared, waltzing into the kitchen of the boarding house where he lived with his arms outstretched as if it were the announcement of the century. He froze instantly—his hands going ice cold and his heart speeding up to a freight trains pace—upon seeing his landlady, Cheryl Black, sitting at the table with the infamous Grey Masterson.

  The two had steaming mugs in their hands, sitting together on one side of the small round table against the snowy picture window. The way they were leaned into one another, their chairs scooted together, made it look like they’d just been having a very intimate conversation before being so suddenly and rudely interrupted.

  Or, perhaps something more than conversation?

  Ben swallowed hard, daring not to think such a thought.

  “Are we supposed to applaud now, Winters?” Grey shot back sarcastically, cocking one eyebrow in a mocking gesture. It even looked like he leaned in further toward Cheryl just to spite him. He wouldn’t dare do that, would he?

  Of course, he would, Ben complained internally.

  He realized his arms were still wide open and he awkwardly put them down. “What are you even doing here, Grey?” he spat, unhappy to see his old nemesis once again calling on their household.

  The blue-uniformed police chief looked at Cheryl with a disgustingly warm smile. “Why, I’m just having a friendly cup of cocoa with our dear sweet Cheryl, here,” he responded.

  Looked a whole lot more than friendly, Ben thought. He wanted to gag at the sight.

  “There is no law against that, is there?” he asked

  Ben opened his mouth to answer when the chief cut him off, answering his own question.

  “Of course, not. I would know. I’m the police chief here.” He cupped both hands around the mug and leaned forward, looking out the tops of his dark eyes. “You would know that too, but I can’t seem to remember how much of police training you made it through.”

  Ben clenched his jaw. “Two months.” He refrained from admitting that the reason he left the police academy was because of Grey’s constant bullying and manipulation. So many people thought that this kind of behavior stopped after high school.

  Boy were they wrong. Some people never grew out of the bully phase.

  The officer nodded. “Oh, yes. That’s right,” he noted as if he didn’t already know. “You dropped out early. Quit. Just like everything else you’ve ever tried.”

  Ben stiffened like a board, his hands clenching up unconsciously into fists at his sides. “Is there a different reason for you to be here besides to torment me?”

  Grey stuck out his lower lip. “Oh, I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just teasing. You know that, right?”

  Ben knew darn well that it wasn’t just teasing. Grey Masterson got his kicks off torturing Ben every chance he got. At that year’s town Christmas party, he had embarrassed him in front of the entire population by beating him at every question during the trivia game.

  So, what if he didn’t know what the capital of New York was?

  Unfortunately, even then Grey had played it off like they were old friends just bantering back and forth. What was worse, everyone believed him. They really seemed to think that Grey and Ben had some buddy-buddy relationship that went years back.

  That simply wasn’t the case.

  Ever since high school, Grey had made it his mission to make Ben’s life miserable. Putting dead rats into his locker. Stealing his clothes while in gym class. Worst of all, stealing Ben’s date to the prom after she’d already
said yes.

  “I just changed my mind, is all,” had been her excuse.

  Ben tried to avoid him, but it was seemingly impossible in such a tiny coastal town where everyone knew everyone. He ran into the jerk practically everywhere. Unfortunately, besides having never lived outside of the same town his entire life, there were a few things holding him back.

  There was, of course, the basic level of fear of going anywhere unfamiliar. How could he make a life where he knew no one? Not to mention, cities just rubbed him the wrong way. Constant noise, thousands of strangers passing you by on the street every day. It just wasn’t his cup of tea.