Please check out my new website and blog at https://www.vickyearle.com/ and https://www.vickyearle.com/blog
(You can access my new blog on my website - click 'blog' in header).
You'll find info on the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series, events, my new books, new stories and more!
By the way, my books are now available as both e-books and paperbacks from amazon.
Thank you!
Happy reading.
Vicky
Here is my story that has been published in the June 2021 Dark and Stormy Book Club Newsletter: (Check out DarkandStormybc).
Here's the link to the newsletter: DarkandStormyNewsletter
THE
MAN IN THE SUIT
By
Vicky
Earle
Waves unfurled their fury and crashed down onto the sand and pebbles, moving the body a little further
out of the angry sea and onto the beach. Rain and salty spray stung my face and strands of wet hair
caught in my mouth. I stooped over the man whose blue-tinged skin and distorted suit were decorated
with pieces of seaweed and grains of sand. He’d been dead for some time. The sea was cold and he
wouldn’t have floated for a couple of weeks.
While I waited for the
sirens to reach the pier, I checked things out. It didn’t need an expert to see
that his head had been bludgeoned. I took some quick photos and entered a few
hasty notes. The suit would suggest he’d either been on business or at a
function – perhaps held in the facilities on the pier. It’d be less likely that
he’d been on a ship or pushed off the sea wall, but I didn’t rule anything out
at this point.
But the police were quick
to draw conclusions. I’ll get to that later.
Meanwhile, I had to return
to my mother’s cottage. It had been out of a sense of duty that I’d made the
trip from my home in Canada to Devon, England. The way I felt then was that I
should’ve had my head tested and stayed where I was.
“What took you so long? I
thought you were just going to have a peek at the sea,” she asked as I unpeeled
my soaking-wet, un-waterproof jacket, and grabbed the nearest towel to rub my
dripping hair. Shivers set in, reminding me of how cold I’d often felt in this
damp county.
“I found a body on the
beach.”
“A dead fish. They often
get washed up these days.”
“No, a person.”
“Well, none of our
business. It wouldn’t be anyone from around here.”
“I’d like to know what
happened to him.”
“What on earth for?”
“Because.”
“Instead of wasting time
on that, you could make us a cup of coffee.”
“I thought that man from
the hearing aid place was coming this morning and you’d have coffee later.”
“He was supposed to come
at nine, but I thought he might not make it. Take your boots into the
conservatory. I don’t want those wet, sandy things in here.”
“I don’t think there’s
much wrong with your hearing.”
“How would you know?”
“I don’t have to shout.”
“But you’ve always had a
voice that carries.”
And so it went on until I
made lunch. My mother always had a nap after the meal, and I would go for a
walk or read. I went back to the beach. The rain had stopped, but the wind blew
on-shore, bringing debris with it, mostly plastic bottles. The police had left.
I’d expected to see yellow tape, or someone standing guard, or both. You
wouldn’t have guessed that a body had been found just a few hours earlier.
The thunderous waves reached
further up the beach, and any evidence of tracks or footprints had been
obliterated by churning, frothy seawater.
I don’t know what I’d
hoped to find, but pessimism soon set in.
“Have you lost your dog?”
An older, thick-set woman, perhaps about sixty, shouted at me as the wind made
her black plastic rainhat crackle and shudder.
“No, but thanks for
asking.”
“Are you one of the
detectives? I heard there was a body washed up this morning. This sort of thing
never happens here.”
“No, but I found the
body.”
“Ah, you want to do some
sleuthing.” A huge black lab, on a thick leather leash, sat at her side.
“It might be suspicious.”
“The police believe it
was an accident.”
“How do you know that?”
“I have connections. Long
story. Let’s walk along the beach. My name’s Kit, by the way, and this is Sergeant.”
She patted the large, square head of her wet dog.
She said we should be a
team, but I was reluctant. I wasn’t sure how much effort I wanted to put into
an amateur investigation in a place that had grown unfamiliar to me, and where
I was constrained by my mother’s demands.
“Do you think it
was an accident?” she asked, as we struggled over a particularly pebbly spot.
“It looked like he’d been
bludgeoned. The injury on the side of his head was severe.”
“The police said he fell off
the pier into the sea, and hit his head on a rock.”
“Are there many rocks
around the pier?”
“It’s built on rocks, and
there are plenty that could cause serious injury.”
“He died at least two
weeks ago.”
“Not according to the
police. They contend he was at the wedding on Saturday and climbed the rail at
the edge of the pier, and fell off, which is certainly possible, especially if
drunk.” She snorted, as if she’d told a joke.
“I’m not sure.” The more
I thought about what I’d seen, the less I believed it could have been an
accident. I hoped that they’d do a thorough post mortem exam.
My mother was furious by the time I returned.
“I made tea and it’s
cold,” she said. “I’m going to watch the local news. You can make a fresh pot.”
The noise of the kettle
almost drowned out my mother’s gasp. I trotted into the living room.
“That picture.” She held
her lacy handkerchief to her mouth, muffling her voice. “It’s him.”
“What picture?”
“Of the man found on the
beach. He came here three weeks ago and was to deliver my hearing aids this
morning. I told you about him.”
“What’s his name?”
“I wrote his information
down in my notebook. We had a long chat. I liked him, even though he was a
salesman.”
“And obviously a good
one, because there’s nothing wrong with your hearing.”
“That’s your opinion.”
She handed me her notebook. “Take the book. The name of the company’s there
too.”
“I met someone called Kit
on the beach this morning and she seems to think it was an accident.”
“That’s what they said on
the news, but I don’t believe it was.”
“I don’t think it was,
either.”
“Well then, you’d better
find out who killed him. And I’m going to help.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am. And that’s that. I
want to go to the beach where you found him.”
“Today?”
“Right now. We’ve at
least an hour before it gets dark.”
My mother was not an
active person and somewhat overweight, being inclined to stay in her house. But
I was in for a surprise. We walked up and down the beach, out on the pier, and
along the path by the thick stone seawall, and she showed no signs of tiring.
She was the one who found the small piece of fabric snagged by a rusty iron
ring at the top of the seawall. We both thought it looked like suit material. I
took several photographs and phoned Kit, as we’d agreed.
Kit showed up about five
minutes later. She yanked the material out of my hand and said she would take
it to the police immediately. She strode off with Sergeant in tow - it was as if
she was dragging him. He was probably disappointed: no run on the beach.
“You shouldn’t have let
her take it,” my mother said. She stopped and faced me with penetrating brown
eyes. “You took photos?”
“Yes, you saw me.”
“We need to go to the
police. She doesn’t intend to hand that material in.”
“What makes you say that?
And what about something to eat?”
“Never mind about food.
We have a murderer to catch.”
My mother was right. Kit
had not entered the police station.
We failed to garner much
interest in the photos. They provided insufficient evidence of foul play, and
it was obvious the police firmly believed it had been an accident.
We were both exhausted by
the time we got back to the cold, damp cottage. I put the electric fire on and
got no complaints. And, for once, I didn’t have to cook. We ate fish and chips
and resolved to check out the beach below the seawall the next day.
Nothing showed up as I searched for information on Kit
after a quick breakfast.
The hearing aid company’s
website was basic. It showed four staff, all males in suits, but Dan wasn’t there.
I suppose they’d deleted any reference to him as soon as they’d heard of his
fate. I told my mother I was going to the hearing aid place, but she insisted
that she should be the one to go. She had a reason. No hearing aids were delivered
as promised. She’d paid a pretty sum for them. She told me I should dig deeper
to find out something about Kit. All I could think of doing was to go back to
the beach where we’d met. Maybe she took Sergeant there for a walk every
morning.
The dog was there, but
Kit was nowhere to be seen. I spent nearly an hour walking up and down the
beach past the pier, and along the path by the seawall. Sergeant followed me
everywhere.
I gave up.
Finally, we negotiated
the steep stone steps down to the beach below the spot where my mother had
found the scrap of fabric. Despite the low tide, we were greeted by two feet of
water, albeit calm for once. There were no rocks, just coarse sand and a
scattering of pebbles. I took off my shoes and socks and rolled up my stretchy
jeans. I waded in the frigid water, trying not to stir up the sand and stones.
Sergeant swam circles around me, puffing and spluttering. He wouldn’t go back
to the steps. I was just about to admit defeat when I saw it: a piece of
fabric, larger than the first, partly buried, but moving a little with the
motion of the sea. After taking several photos, I stuffed the soggy piece of
evidence into my pocket as if it might disappear of its own accord - given half
a chance.
“Okay, Sergeant, we have
to go to the police station, give them this, and then find out where you live.”
He wagged his tail, but he had sad eyes.
As we left the police
station, having stirred them into action, Sergeant and I walked towards the
cottage. My brain conjured up pictures of the staff at the hearing aid place
that I’d scrolled through on my laptop. The President and CEO’s face jumped
into my mind’s eye and stuck there, glued to me just like Sergeant was. I
nearly missed the gate to the cottage because I was so obsessed with the images
in my head.
My mother had beaten me
back.
“What’s that dog doing
here?” Her tone of voice was not as cutting as I’d expected. I explained that
I’d found him on the beach and that Kit was nowhere to be seen.
“I have to check
something,” I said. “Could you give Sergeant some water and maybe a biscuit of
some kind?”
“I’ll give him a
sausage.” Sergeant must have known what that meant, because he followed her
into the kitchen.
Checking the hearing aid
company’s website again, I knew I was right.
“They wouldn’t talk to
me,” my mother shouted from the kitchen. “The door was open, but when I
mentioned Dan’s name they said they were closed. I thought the receptionist
looked flustered. Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Sergeant makes a mess
when he drinks. Don’t slip on the wet floor when you come in.”
“Okay”.
“There’s something else I
should tell you.”
I stood in the doorway to
the kitchen, and Sergeant flopped down onto the mat by the back door.
She told me that she’d
had a chat with Dan when he visited. She could tell he was stressed. He was
jittery and dropped his mobile. She gave him a cup of tea and he spilled the
beans about the scam that his boss ran - he preyed on older women who had some
level of dementia and lived alone and didn’t have someone looking after their
financial affairs. It’s not that hard to find these things out. He had his
representatives convince the women that they needed hearing aids and must pay
up front. It worked in more cases than you would imagine, Dan told her. But
there were no hearing aids delivered and the elderly, confused women were none
the wiser. His boss moved around a lot to avoid being caught.
My mother told Dan he
should resign and find something better to do with his life before it was too
late. She gave him a couple of names of people who might be able to help him
out. She paid for the hearing aids because she liked Dan and he told her he got
commission. (So, I was right, there was nothing wrong with her hearing).
“And then he washed up
dead,” my mother said. “Dan must have resigned and had been about to talk to
the police”. She blows her nose.
And she’d known there was
something odd about Kit when she met her, but couldn’t quite put her finger on
it. It had been a quick meeting since Kit grabbed the fabric and left, dragging
Sergeant behind her.
When I showed her the
photos on the website, she agreed with me that Kit was the male President and
CEO of the hearing aid place (in disguise) and he was the most likely suspect
in the murder of Dan.
She doesn’t feel responsible.
And I don’t think she should. At least we found Dan’s murderer, who’ll be put
away for a long time, or so we’re led to believe.
And my mother has a dog
as a companion, who loves to run on the beach. She’s lost weight, and is a ton
happier.
And I don’t mind
travelling across the Atlantic to see her and Sergeant: I’m going again next
week.
Vicky Earle Copyright 2021
THE DESERT
He liked to reminisce about his time in the war, and his propensity to live in the past had increased during recent years.
Gertie was
thoroughly fed up with hearing the same old stories over and over again. It
wasn’t as if there was anything interesting, exciting or thrilling about them.
Roger spent almost all of the war in the desert, and it sounded virtually serene
to Gertie. While she was hiding in the dark, dank bomb shelter, he taught art
to his mates, and perhaps went to see a movie in Cairo. While she heard the muffled
sounds of bombs exploding and pulverizing homes, he listened to ballads
sung by crooners in the hotel he visited several times.
Roger held their
first great-grandchild in his arms, and this gave him a captive audience, who’d
listen without comment on the story of his life. Gertie thought it was just as
well he had no horror stories, that he’d been spared from front-line action,
and had worked on designing camouflage for the desert environment.
Gertie didn’t like
to reminisce at all. If she started to think back to before her emigration to
Canada, the memories disturbed and agitated her. She’d trained herself to
switch her focus to pleasant thoughts, to more recent events, such as their
grandson’s wedding. Unfortunately, she couldn’t talk to Roger about that
because he couldn’t remember anything about it. He’d immersed himself in the
sands of the desert to such an extent - the camel rides, the horses, the tank
he nearly buried by driving it around in circles - that it had become his
current reality.
Gertie had
teetered on the edge and even packed a suitcase, but then changed her mind. If
you can’t beat them, then join them, her father used to say. So, she bought an
old army tent, and cut it up, hanging pieces of it on various walls. She
researched and collected World War II British Army memorabilia and converted
the house into a kind of museum. She never had liked Vera Lynn’s singing – she
was one of the few who wasn’t a fan – but his favourites were played repeatedly
during each afternoon. He was served his lunch in tin containers on a tray.
Not entirely true
to the time, he ate while sitting in his recliner with a cushion at his
back.
Gertie believed
that her acceptance of his short-term memory loss and her encouragement of him
to remember the past, had helped to slow his inevitable decline. Perhaps it
wouldn’t have worked for others whose memories were filled with traumatic
events.
Gertie had no
desire to live in the past. It was just as well that Roger’s early life had
been completely separate, and rarely conjured up bad recollections for her.
They had been in different parts of the world, and encountered different
challenges. Roger dealt with heat and sandstorms, Gertie dealt with cold and
hunger, and shrapnel falling around her. Roger had bedbugs for company at
night, Gertie had a dirty blanket to pull around her as she sat on the cold,
wet floor in the near-dark bomb shelter. Roger swept sand out of the huts.
Gertie threw buckets of water on roofs.
Roger couldn’t
remember where the baby had come from, who he was holding in his arms and
telling stories to. Gertie didn’t push it, but just mentioned he was Simon’s
son, knowing full well he wouldn’t remember who Simon was. He handed the baby
to Gertie, having lost interest, and picked up his pipe. He didn’t smoke any
more, but the feel of it in his hands gave him comfort.
He looked at
Gertie and she knew he couldn’t figure out who she was. His eyes lit up a
little, but Gertie could see that he didn’t really know.
The baby left, and
the sadness at the family leaving her, hit her deep and hard.
Back to her life
in the desert.
He took the cup
and saucer from her but didn’t seem to know what to do with them. After some
encouragement from Gertie, he took a couple of sips.
It happened like a
lightening strike, out of nowhere. But it was as if he’d planned it. In
a flash, he leant forward and pulled out a large kitchen knife. Gertie thought
he was adjusting the cushion.
He stabbed her in
the stomach and then stabbed himself.
He died before the
ambulance arrived, but Gertie eventually recovered after some time in hospital
and more time with her daughter. The house was sold.
The family blame
Gertie. They say, because she allowed him to believe he was still in the army,
he thought she was the enemy. But Gertie says he wouldn’t have killed himself,
and he’d never killed or attempted to kill anyone before.
But her son asked
how she knew that.
Anything could have happened in that desert.
Vicky Earle Copyright 2021
All three books in the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series are available at special discount prices during the month of December: each reduced by about $1. E-book retailers' prices can vary, so these are approximate:
What Happened to Frank?: 99c; Link to 1st book in series
Over Frank's Dead Body: $1.99; Link to 2nd book in series
Pointed Attacks: $2.99 Link to 3rd book in series
Each link takes you to the e-book retailer of your choice.
Soft-cover versions are available at Blue Heron Books located in Uxbridge. These are being offered at the special price of $17.99 each.
If you can't make it to Blue Heron, contact@vickyearle.com and I can arrange to get copies to you!
Boxed sets of all 3 books are available upon request. Books make great gifts!
And - yes - a fourth book in the series is on its way. I'm editing! I'm hoping for a book launch in late spring/early summer.
Happy Reading! and stay safe and healthy. I hope that 2021 is a better year for all of us.
Image by Rudy and Peter Skitterians from Pixabyay
This story was written for a Uxbridge Writers' Circle Meeting. The words in italics are the ones we were challenged to include in our writing. I hope you enjoy "The Cavern":
Carter had no desire to visit Benwick’s Cavern
near the Devon coast. It was bad enough that he’d allowed himself to be cajoled
into a trip to the southwest of England. He considered the area to be backward
– what it lacked in culture it made up for with noisy amusement arcades and
trashy souvenir shops.
Carter was a city
man who loved the world of finance and international business, with its busy
days and packed schedules. He even liked riding up the lift in the centre of
Toronto, to the 60th floor, and striding along the corridor to his
corner office to sit in his executive leather chair.
But he did allow
himself a seat in the theatre now and again, or a ticket to a Toronto Symphony
Orchestra concert.
He sat in the
Palace Hotel that morning, and appreciated the white linen tablecloths, the
silver cutlery and the real carnation. The buffet breakfast was pretty decent
too. This was better than he’d feared. His room was tolerable, with its large
ensuite bathroom and comfortable bed.
But all these
satisfactory things weren’t enough to persuade him it was worth his while to
dress down – to don jeans and a sweater to visit a dark, dank, dripping cavern.
He’d picked up a pamphlet on Benwick’s Cavern from the display in the hotel
lobby. But the poor quality pictures of stalactites and stalagmites, along with
the slimy, shiny walls, just served to make him even more disgruntled.
Carter folded his
linen napkin and placed it with precision, parallel to the table’s edge. He
finished his strong coffee and replaced the cup onto the saucer without a
sound, and prepared to leave. Maggie and John said they would pick him up at
ten. They were bound to be late but he needed to be on time.
He stood outside
the revolving door and the damp air seeped through his clothes in an instant.
He viewed this as an ominous omen for the day. He put his new rain jacket on
and told himself if Maggie and John didn’t show up within five minutes, he’d go
back to his room.
But they did show
up, laughing at some idiotic joke as they waved and came to an abrupt halt in
front of the hotel. Maggie had yet to master a manual gearbox, so the drive to
the cavern was far from smooth, and the space in the back of the car didn’t
come close to being enough for Carter’s comfort, being much more cramped than
he was used to. He tried to cross his legs and couldn’t. Maggie’s sparkly eyes
caught his, in the rear-view mirror, and he gave her a weak smile.
There was an
introduction to the guided tour, with great emphasis placed on how dangerous
it was to attempt to go under or over the railing. Children must be supervised
at all times. Carter tuned out and looked around him. The predictable gift shop
guarded the entrance and notices had been erected in numerous spots. The
lawyers would have made a buck or two out of these, Carter thought. His feet
were cold. His leather shoes were not a good choice. He noticed a lot of
colourful rubber boots.
At last, the guide
beckoned the group to follow, but Carter hung back. He planned to trail behind.
He’d let others be within earshot of the enthusiastic commentator. The gravel
pathway gave way to slimy stone and Carter grew concerned as his shoes failed
to grip. Their leather soles gave no pretense at providing any traction.
Traction was not something Carter needed. His driver would bring the car to the
door in the heated garage at work and the same at home.
Carter was glad he
was at the back of the group. He could hold onto the railing as they descended
down the slippery slopes which led further into the hillside. He thought of
turning back but hadn’t made note of which way they’d come, or if there were
several choices or not – he thought there were. He’d noticed that the lights
came on automatically as the group approached them. Would they light up for him
if he went back? What if they suddenly turned off? He wasn’t sure his mobile’s
flashlight would be enough.
A scream. And it
didn’t come from him. It was piercing and followed by sobs. But the guide
hadn’t heard it and, if anyone in the group had noticed, they didn’t let on.
The lights behind Carter went out, but there was still enough light for him to
make out a mother crouched down, holding a child who had an arm outreached
towards the railing.
Carter edged towards
them. They were in semi-darkness now.
“What’s the
matter?” asked Carter.
“My giraffe.
I dropped my giraffe.” The child burst into uncontrollable sobs as the mother,
crouched down beside him, held him firmly in her arms.
“It’s okay,” the
mother said to Carter. “He has other toys.”
“I want my
giraffe.” The child kicked out and hit his mother. Carter became concerned.
What if the child broke loose and got under the railing?
“I’ll get it,”
said Carter, before he had a chance to think rationally or develop a plan. He
took his mobile out of his pocket, got the flashlight working and shone it over
the railing.
“Please don’t even
try,” the mother said as she held onto the child’s writing body. “It’s not a
stuffed toy, it’s made of wood and it’s breakable. It’ll be in pieces,
falling on the rocks like that.”
“Ganpa gave it.
Ganpa made it.” The child kicked out again.
“I will get it,”
Carter said, as he placed a hand on the boy’s head. “But only if you stop
kicking and screaming.” His deep, authoritative voice seemed to do the trick.
The child turned his flushed face with its swollen eyes towards him and stopped
his tantrum.
Carter took off
his shoes. To give her credit, the mother didn’t make any comment – on this
lack of suitability for a visit to the cavern. He rolled off his socks and
folded each of them and placed them in his shoes. He could see the giraffe in
the gulley and asked the mother to hold his phone so the light would stay
focused on the toy.
They were right.
It was dangerous to venture past the railing and negotiate the downwards slope
of smooth, wet stone. He lost his balance and fell, but only his dignity was
damaged. The gulley was about 15 feet deep and he’d slipped about two feet from
the bottom.
The giraffe was
lodged into a crevice but Carter was able to remove it with just one minor
scratch. He crammed it into his pocket and scrambled back up the slope.
The child hugged
his legs so hard that Carter thought he might lose his balance, and the mother
gave him a peck on the cheek. What was this strange warm feeling tingling his
insides?
“We need to catch
up with the group somehow,” the mother said.
Carter said the
child could ride on his shoulders, but the mother would have to alert him when
they came to low parts. By the time they got back outside, Carter had a sore
head from being pummeled by a wooden giraffe and a stiff back, but he’d made a
lifetime friend in Annie.
He was so glad
he visited Benwick’s Cavern.
It changed his
life.
Vicky Earle Copyright 2020
This piece was written in a flash - ten minutes during a meeting of the Uxbridge Writers' Circle.
The prompt was "Children in a Tree" by the artist Alex Colville (sorry, the image above is obviously not that picture!).
Lewis has always contended that being left stranded in the large, leafy oak tree caused him permanent damage. It wasn't so much the broken leg that he suffered when he finally tumbled to the ground, but the sense of abandonment. He'd thought that his older brother, nine years old at the time, loved him, or at the very least cared about him. He believed they had fun playing together, laughing together, chasing the dog together. To find out, in such a hurtful way, that he was completely and utterly wrong, shattered him. His legs had trembled and the tears flowed, seemingly unstoppable, as he'd tried to climb down. Losing his grip, he'd landed on the acorn-covered ground and heard someone screaming - it had been him.
Several years later, he enrolled in the same university his brother was attending. He'd managed to keep his distance, somehow, all that time after the oak tree incident, but their father had decided that they were to share an apartment, and wouldn't hear of anything different. Neither boy, or young man now, wanted to live in close proximity to the other.
Lewis moved in first, followed the next day by Bret, who didn't say a word. But after a couple of beers, Bret told him that their father had caned him for leaving Lewis in the tree and he still had the scars.
They talked at last.
Vicky Earle copyright 2020
