Silencing the pen, p.1
Silencing the Pen, page 1
Silencing the Pen
A Roger and Bess Mystery
M. Lee Prescott
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
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
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Prepped to Kill
Acknowledgments
Also by M. Lee Prescott
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Silencing the Pen
A Roger and Bess Mystery
by
M. Lee Prescott
* * *
Published by Mt. Hope Press
Copyright 2023, M. Lee Prescott
Cover Design: Ashley Lopez
Image credit: istock.adobe.com/469163954
ISBN: 978-0-9982184-3-4 (e-book)
* * *
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted (auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic) without the express written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations or excerpts used in critical reviews or articles. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at mleeprescott@gmail.com
AUTHOR WEBSITE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people (alive or deceased), locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
For my dear family, always!
Chapter 1
“All set?” he asked, watching Bess stuff legal pads into her canvas tote.
Dressed casually in gray slacks and a soft sage cashmere sweater, his wife wore a brightly colored scarf around her slender neck that picked up the color of her sky-blue eyes. Her light-brown hair was shoulder length and straight. Bess was five four with soft round curves, and Roger adored every inch of her.
Bess nodded, brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead. “Are you sure this is okay?”
Roger Demaris smiled, amazed every day that after decades of waiting, he now shared his life and his home, their beautiful home, with the love of his life. “I’ve lived on my own before, my love.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She paused, hands on hips, blue eyes studying his. “The writing, the books. Harry’s books.”
He reached out, taking her soft hands in his. “You are my darling wife, and I couldn’t say no even if I wanted to.”
“Oh, Roger, you do mind!”
“I’m kidding, sweetheart.” Surrounded by her sweet scent of citrus and jasmine, he smiled. A smile he reserved only for her. “I liked Harry, and you love the books, so why not carry on his legacy?”
“I’ll probably be terrible at it.”
He laughed, pulling her down on his lap. “No, you won’t.”
“I’m not a writer.”
“Neither is Hillary,” he said, referring to his second-in-command, Pete Dugan’s live-in girlfriend. Roger headed RHD, a regional homicide unit based about twenty minutes from the village, and Pete was one of his full-time detectives.
He smoothed strands of hair from her face, kissing her temple. “I thought this is what this retreat was all about? Teaching you two and your fellow participants about the writer’s craft?”
“Yes, for experienced writers!”
“That’s not what the brochure you showed me said. I believe the words were ‘beginners to experts.’ Besides, you’ve been playing around with the manuscript for months. The parts I read were really good.”
“Did they sound like Anne Greyson?” she asked, referring to the penname used by Harry Winthrop, her former fiancé, who had been murdered eighteen months ago.
Before his arrest for murder, Harry’s editor had suggested that Bess might want to keep Harry’s popular Anne Greyson books going. When Carrion Littlefield suggested it, she had laughed, but truth was she missed the mysteries featuring the intrepid Helen Brown and her faithful dog, Rosie. If she couldn’t read any new stories about Helen, perhaps she could write them. After many discussions with friends and Roger, she finally decided, why not?
Littlefield was now serving a life sentence for his crimes, and his successor at the publishing house, Barbara Rollins, knew nothing about Bess’s plans, but if the retreat went well, she intended to contact Barbara and set up a meeting.
“They’re better than Anne.”
She smiled, kissing him and running her fingers through his hair. Every month, a few more strands of gray appeared in the thick, dark mane. “Of course, you’d say that.”
“Because it’s true. If I’m not mistaken, your fellow author just pulled in the driveway.”
“Oh, no! I’m not ready.”
“I’ll go. You finish up.”
Bess stood as Roger opened the kitchen door and went down the steps to greet Hillary Dobbs. Except for her raven hair, his assistant’s girlfriend could have been Pete’s twin, with his same blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and freckles. He waved. “Hey, Hill. Come on up. She’s almost ready.”
Hillary took the stone steps two at a time, giving him a hug. “Morning, handsome.” Pete’s girlfriend had had a crush on his boss since the first time they’d met. She was a sucker for men with curly dark hair, and Roger’s, now flecked with gray, was glorious.
Demaris’s steel-blue eyes were arresting, whether they sparkled with warmth or blazed with anger. At five and a half inches, he was shorter than Hillary, with a barrel chest and broad shoulders. A few years earlier, he’d been stockier, but exercise and healthy eating habits since his heart attack had slimmed him down a bit. He was also well-educated and smart.
Hillary had discovered years earlier that Pete’s boss had developed a carefully cultivated, crude manner of speaking, which he used to disarm and fool people. She had seen right through him. Hers was an innocent crush, shared by many who knew Roger Demaris. While people might find him gruff and abrupt, few could deny that the head of RHD had a presence, a strength, a command, that were obvious the moment he stepped into a room.
“I’m so excited. Is Bess?”
“Beside herself. Tough for Pete to let you go?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “He’s glad to have me out of the house for a week. He gets to eat junk food, control the remote, and be a slob. Our monthly condo meeting is this morning, so he headed off before I did.” Pete and Hillary lived at the Glen, a complex at the edge of town next to the river. “Only objection Mr. Junk Food made is that I’m using our vacation time to go away for a week without him. What he doesn’t know is I’ve booked a ten-day island holiday for his birthday. Don’t tell, Roger, promise?”
“Hi, good morning!” Bess called. “I think I’ve got everything!”
“Your laptop?” he said.
“By the door.” Bess wheeled a suitcase, two bags slung over her shoulder.
“Here, I’ll get those. Have you got snacks for the road?”
Hillary guffawed as she grabbed one of the canvas bags. “It’s only a half hour to the ferry. I’m sure we’ll survive.”
All belongings stowed, Bess came round to give him a hug and kiss. “I love you,” she whispered.
“Hey, not in front of the kids!” Hillary called as she hopped into the car.
“Me too, you,” he said, gazing down at her.
“Miss you already,” she said, burying her face in his neck.
“It’s gonna be great. You’ll be back before you know it with a terrific new book in hand.”
“Optimistic, aren’t you?”
“Always. Take care of yourself, and have fun.”
As the women drove off in Hillary’s mini Cooper, his heart constricted. For her sake, he loved that Bess was going, but he would miss her with every fiber of his being. He’d waited so long to be with her that even a minute apart seemed like forever.
Chapter 2
Bess smiled over at Hillary. “You ready for this?”
“I am. Can’t wait! I was reading through the packet they sent, and we’ve got some huge names coming, don’t we? I love Marilyn Lively’s books.”
Bess nodded. “Me too. Marilyn, Nancy Pratt, and Kyle Robles should make terrific workshop leaders.”
“Do you like his books?”
“Honestly, not particularly,” Bess said, as the car clattered over the wooden bridge crossing the river and out of Old Harbor. “Too dark and violent. I’m a cozy reader.”
“And cozy writer!”
Bess laughed. “We’ll see about that. I hope Harry isn’t rolling over in his grave at my temerity.” As soon as the words were out, she cringed. Somehow, her levity felt like a betrayal and affront to the memory of the man for whom she had cared very deeply.<
“I’m sure he’s smiling like the Cheshire cat. He’d be so pleased that you’re carrying on with Anne Greyson.”
“I hope so,” she said, smiling. “Ferry turn-off a mile up on the right.”
After a short ride on the “puddle jumper ferry,” they landed at the docks of Gooseberry Island. As Hillary drove off the ferry, she sighed. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Through the open windows, the scent of honeysuckle mingled with the sea air. On either side of the road, hydrangea, hibiscus, rose of Sharon, beach roses, sea grasses, Queen Anne’s Lace and other colorful flowers bloomed, riotous and wild. There was a small general store near the dock and three small houses ringing the harbor, but otherwise the landscape was mostly undeveloped. Large tracts of the island were conservation land owned by SENCA, an organization which also owned much of its sister island, Winward, ten miles to the north.
“Yes, it’s lovely,” Bess said. “I haven’t been out here since I was a child.” She gazed up the hill spying the roof of the Gooseberry Inn. “And, then we only came for day trips.”
“Pete and I came out for a few hours last summer to beach comb,” Hillary said. “I’ve been begging him to come back and stay at the inn, but he says it’s too quiet.”
As they crested the hill, the inn came into full view. Punctuated by several towers and a half dozen chimneys, the enormous rambling Victorian stretched north and south along the hillside, its gray-shingled façade adorned with sea-glass-blue shutters. A wide wraparound porch furnished with white rockers circled the entire building, affording magnificent views on all sides. Blue hydrangeas in full bloom grew under the porch, interspersed with lavender and black-eyed Susans. The property included a number of outbuildings—two large barns, several sheds, and two cottages. As they pulled into the clamshell drive, they spied a row of cars parked neatly beside the barn.
“We’re not the first arrivals, I see,” Hillary said as she pulled up beside a bright orange Land Rover.
“Hallelujah!” a voice called from the porch as Jane Fellows, Bess’s dear friend and colleague at Old Harbor Friends School, jumped up from one of the rockers and came down to greet them. “Friends at last! I’ve been waiting for you!” Jane had arrived two nights earlier for “much needed R and R.”
“Oh, Jane,” Bess said, hugging her. “Are we crazy to be doing this?”
“Absolutely not! Although I will tell you that some people around here are taking themselves a little too seriously. Come on, let’s get you settled. The opening workshop with Leo Tallstory begins in an hour.”
“Tallstory?” Hillary said, pulling the bags from the back. “Are you kidding? Is that really his name?”
“Yup. He’s a last-minute addition to the program. Very full of himself. Changed his name to attract readers. Thought they’d confuse him with a certain Russian novelist.”
Bess laughed, eyeing her friend. “You’re making this up, right?”
“Nope.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Well, don’t tell him that. He’s a pretty popular writer of thrillers. He’s only presenting today because Kyle Robles is coming a day late.”
“But Kyle’ll still be running workshops, right?” Hillary said.
“Cool your jets, sweetcakes,” Jane said. “Mr. Gorgeous will be here for the whole rest of the week with his paramour, the lovely Fawn Davis.”
“Never heard of her either,” Bess said, following Jane into the inn.
“She’s not a writer per se,” Jane whispered, leading them to the reception desk and ringing the bell. “Fawn’s a yoga instructor. She came early and will be offering daily classes. She told us yesterday that she may dabble with some poetry writing this week. She’s also planning a nonfiction book at some point. In fact, here is the lady herself.”
The reception desk sat in one of the inn’s two parlors. As they waited, a tall, beautiful blonde in flowing caftan and black leggings strolled through the room. She was carrying a book and water bottle, her reading glasses pushed up, holding her waist-length hair back like a headband.
“Fawn, hi! Come meet my friends. I was just telling them about your fabulous yoga classes.”
Davis’s smile seemed forced. “Hello, welcome.” The swirling greens of her caftan reflected the deep green of her eyes. Empty eyes, devoid of light.
“Hello, so nice to meet you,” Bess said, extending her hand, which Fawn ignored, bowing instead.
In the awkwardness that followed the woman’s strange behavior, Hillary said. “I love yoga. When’s your next class?”
“Six a.m. in the studio, just across the lawn in the barn. I’ll leave you ladies to get checked in.” After another slight bow, she disappeared.
“What was that about?” Hillary whispered.
“She’s a bit affected, but she’s a great yoga instructor. Just the right mix of gentle stretches and strengthening postures.”
“Welcome to the Gooseberry Inn,” a voice said behind them. They turned to find a rosy-cheeked woman, brown curls framing her freckled face. She appeared to be in her midtwenties, dressed casually in jeans and a purple Gooseberry Inn T-shirt. “I’m Clara Vickers. My parents own the inn. Can I get you checked in?”
“Do you live here, then?” Bess asked as the efficient young woman completed their registration and presented them with keys.
“I live in the private rooms right now. My parents have a small house down the hill, but we all live here during the warm months. In the west wing,” she said, pointing to a closed door at the far end of the parlor. “You passed our house on the way. It’s right near the ferry.”
“What about the cottages out back?” Jane asked.
“They’re rentals. Some people from your group are in one and the other’s empty. My dad’s been painting it. We have a very fussy client who comes next month. Thinks it’s his exclusively, but it’s not.”
“It’s a beautiful spot,” Bess said, nodding as Clara handed her a key.
“For a week, but as a steady diet, maybe a little remote?” Hillary said, winking at the young woman.
Clara laughed. “Tell me about it. I’ve let Mom and Dad know that this is my last year. Here you go, Ms. Demaris, you’re in 210, and Ms. Dobbs, you’re in 214, just down the hall. I’m sure Ms. Fellows can show you the way. I’ll ask Matt or Henry to get your bags if you like?”
“Thanks, we can handle them.” Bess accepted the key and a folder of materials. “I’m assuming no elevator?”
“Au contraire,” Jane said.
Clara laughed. “Yup, we’ve entered the twenty-first century. Mom and Dad had it put in last year. It’s around the corner, just before the door to the dining room.”
Chapter 3
As they rode up in the elevator, Jane told them about the Vickerses’ updates to the old inn. “They redesigned it as a retreat center, so they cut up the larger rooms and suites. Rooms have either a shared bath between adjacent rooms or their own bath. Some even have two baths because of the way things were broken up. It’s very cool what they’ve done, even if they probably destroyed the historic integrity. From what they’ve told me, they’re booked solid from March through November. It’s one of the most sought-after retreat venues in the country.”
“How many rooms?” Hillary held the elevator door as the others rolled the bags out.
“I think Clara said fifteen. Then there are the cottages.”
“Who’s staying in the one that’s not under renovation?” Bess asked.
