A Killer Ending Read online

  A Killer Ending

  A Snug Harbor Mystery

  Karen MacInerney

  Copyright © 2020 by Karen MacInerney

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Lee Strauss, author extraordinaire, with gratitude.

  * * *

  Without that long September beach walk in Florida (and your intriguing and wise suggestions), Snug Harbor, Maine—and Max Sayers—would not exist.

  * * *

  Thank you from all three of us!

  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

  Recipes

  Max’s Favorite Coconut Cookies

  Brown Sugar Shortbread Cookies

  Raspberry Meltaways

  Chocolate Toffee Bars

  More Books by Karen MacInerney

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Two years ago, if you'd told me I'd be spending the day after my 42nd birthday driving north on I-95 with all of my worldly possessions hitched to my Honda CRV in a U-Haul trailer like some sort of oversize snail shell, I'd have told you you were crazy.

  But things change.

  Boy, do they change.

  It wasn't the best time to head out of Boston. It had been after two o'clock on Friday afternoon when I had gotten the last picture of my two darling girls packed up into a box and loaded into the back of the trailer. Since it was the first weekend of summer vacation in Massachusetts, I was now trapped on the highway with several thousand fellow motorists, many of them with kayaks or bicycles strapped to the backs of their SUVs. Like a lot of them, I was headed north to the Maine coast to enjoy a sunny, sparkling summer weekend. Unlike them, however, I didn't plan to come back on Sunday.

  Or at all.

  Just three months earlier, listening to a deep gut instinct for the first time in almost two decades, I'd signed a stack of paperwork, plunked down my life savings, and purchased my very own bookstore, Seaside Cottage Books in Snug Harbor, Maine. With the help of an assistant, I'd spent the last several weeks clearing out years of debris from the storage room, dusting the shelves, taking stock of the inventory, and using what little money I had left to add a carefully curated selection of new books. I'd also spent a good bit of time redecorating the place, rolling up my sleeves and repainting the walls a gorgeous blue, making new, nautical-print cushions for the window seats with my mother's old sewing machine, and scouring second-hand stores for the perfect cozy armchairs to tuck away in corners.

  The grand re-opening celebration was scheduled for tomorrow night, and I was as nervous as... well, as nervous as a middle-aged, recently divorced woman who's just spent everything she has on a risky venture in a small Maine town can be. I'd used my final pennies (and a small loan) to take out ads in the local paper and spread flyers all over town; I hoped my marketing efforts worked.

  From his crate behind me, Winston, my faithful Bichon-mystery-mix rescue, whined. I reached back to put my fingers through the grate and pat his wooly white head; he licked my fingers. "I know, buddy. But once we get there, you'll get to go for walks on the beach and sniff all kinds of things. I promise you'll love it." He let out a whimper, but settled down.

  Walks on the beach. Fresh sea air. A business that allowed me to be my own boss. A home to call my own. I repeated these sentences like a mantra, as if they could wipe the memory of the complicated and painful last year-and-a-half from my mind and my soul.

  Move forward, Max. Just move forward.

  I took a deep breath and let my foot off the brake unconsciously. The car rolled forward and I slammed on the brake again, just in time to avoid rear-ending the Highlander in front of me, which had four bikes strapped to the back. Two adult bikes, and two smaller pink and blue sparkly bikes, one of which had pink ribbons trailing from the handlebar grips. Two daughters. My eye was drawn to the heads in the car: a happy family, going to Maine for the summer. A dull pain sprouted in my chest, but once again, I banished it.

  Forward, Max.

  By the time I reached the exit for Snug Harbor, the sun was low in the sky and my stomach was growling. I glanced back at Winston, who was still giving me a reproachful look from his dark brown eyes.

  "We're almost there," I promised him.

  I turned at the exit. Within moments, we'd left the impersonal, clogged highway behind and were heading down a winding rural route, passing handmade signs offering firewood for sale, a sea glass souvenir shop, and a log-cabin-style restaurant advertising early-bird lobster dinners and senior specials. I hooked a left at a T-intersection marked by a large planter filled with dahlias and white salvia. And then, as if I had crossed the threshold into another world, I was in Snug Harbor.

  I glanced at Winston; he was perking up as I tooled down Main Street, which was already buzzing with summer visitors, and when I opened the windows and let the cool, fresh sea breeze in, he sat up and started sniffing. Quaint, homegrown shops faced the narrow, car-lined street, which was landscaped with trees and flower-filled planters. Business appeared to be booming; a line snaked out the door of Scoops Ice Cream, Judy's Fudge Emporium was hopping, and lots of relaxed-looking families strolled the streets with ice cream cones and dreamy smiles. Live guitar music drifted out of the Salty Dog Pub as we rolled by, and I caught a whiff of fried clams that made my mouth water. I'd have to splurge on dinner out soon, I told myself. I just hoped a lot of those vacationers were looking for good reads to relax with on their hotel and rental-house porches so I could support my deep-fried seafood habit.

  As I crested the gentle hill, passing the town green on my left, the street in front of me seemed to fall away, leaving a perfectly framed view of Snug Harbor.

  The water was a beautiful, deep blue, and beyond it nestled the pristine, tree-clad Snug Island; the tide was low, so the sandbar connecting Snug Harbor to the small island across the water was visible. As I rolled down the street, the whale-watching boat came into view; the big white vessel was just pulling out for its sunset tour. Beyond it, I could see the four masts of the Abigail Todd as it sailed out of the harbor toward the small, outlying islands.

  It took my breath away, just as it had the first time I'd seen it more than thirty years ago, when I'd spent summers here at my parents' camp on a nearby lake.

  I drove down to the end of main street and the pier, which was filled with a mix of working boats and pleasure boats (including a few large yachts), then turned left on Cottage Street.

  I passed three dockside restaurants featuring lobster boils and fisherman's dinners, catching yet more whiffs of fried clams (this was going to be an occupational hazard), the cobalt harbor peeking out between the buildings and snow-w
hite seagulls calling and whirling overhead in the evening light. There was a little blue-painted shop called Ivy's Seaglass and Crafts, which I knew housed an eclectic assortment of local jewelry and artwork, and then, on its own, a little way down the street, the walkway flanked by pink rosebushes... Seaside Cottage Books.

  My new home... in fact, my new life.

  I looked at the familiar Cape-style building with fresh eyes, admiring the gray-shingled sides of the little house, the white curtains in the upper windows, the pots of red geraniums looking fresh and sprightly in half-barrels on the newly painted porch. Two rockers with handmade cushions awaited readers. Behind it, I knew, a beach-rose-lined walkway led down to a rocky beach; a beach Winston and I would be able to walk every morning, greeting the sun. And the bookstore itself—it was a dream come true for me. A place where I could connect with other people who loved books, and introduce others to literary treasures that would open up their minds and their worlds.

  Pride surged in me at the sight of the book display that graced one of the sparkling front windows—a hand-selected variety of Maine-centric books and beloved reads, including several of Lea Wait's delightful Maine mysteries, two books by Sarah Orne Jewett, a whimsical book by two young women who had hiked the Appalachian Trail barefoot, and—a personal favorite for years—Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods. They were like old friends welcoming me home, even though I'd just left my home of twenty years for the last time this morning. I smiled, feeling a surge of hope for the first time that day. A sign with the words OPEN SOON was hooked on the door, and I found myself envisioning the community of readers who would gather here.

  Goose bumps rose on my arms as I pulled into the gravel drive beside the small building, carefully easing in the trailer behind me so as not to knock over the mailbox. I parked next to the rear of the house, so that it would be a short trip from the trailer to the back door of the shop. And the back door of my home, which was an apartment on the second floor with a cozy bedroom, a small kitchen and living area, a view of the harbor, and even a balcony on which I planned to put a rocking chair and enjoy my morning coffee, as soon as I could afford it.

  My store.

  My home.

  It was the first time in my whole life I'd had something that was completely and totally mine, and I told myself in that moment that I'd do anything to keep anyone else from taking it away from me.

  Of course, at the time, I had no idea someone would try quite so soon.

  Like tomorrow.

  "Hey, Max!"

  As I clambered out of the Honda, a bright-faced young woman opened the back door of the shop and stepped out to meet me.

  "What are you still doing here?" I asked.

  "Just finishing up a few last minute things for the big opening tomorrow," she said. "My mom lent us some platters for cookies, I borrowed two coffee percolators from Sea Beans, and I've got a line on a punch bowl, too."

  "You're amazing," I said, smiling. Bethany had been my right-hand woman in getting the bookstore up and running. She'd been crushed when the previous owner, Loretta Satterthwaite, became too ill to carry on with the store, and had banged on the front door two days after I bought the shop. I'd greeted her with cobwebs in my hair—I'd been dusting—and she talked me into an "internship."

  "Snug Harbor needs a bookstore," she'd said. "Plus, I plan to be a writer, so I need to keep up with happenings in the industry."

  "What about the library?"

  "Their budget for new books is meager. I've volunteered there for years," she told me, "but Snug Harbor without a Seaside Books... it's like having a body without a heart." Since I felt much the same way—I'd spent many summer days holed up in the shop as a girl—I felt an immediate kinship. She smiled, and I noticed the freckles dotting her nose and the bright optimism in her fresh-scrubbed, young face. She reminded me of my daughters, Audrey and Caroline, and my heart melted a little bit. "I'll start as an intern; once the store opens, we'll figure something out. I live with my parents and I'm only taking classes part-time. I've got both ample time and a scholarship."

  "I can't pay you much," I warned her. "I'm not opening for months and I spent almost everything on the building."

  "I'm sure we'll come to a suitable arrangement," she'd announced, peering past me at a jumble of books Loretta had left on a table. "I'll start by rescuing those poor books from their current condition," she'd informed me, and walked right into the store—and into my life.

  Thank heavens for angels like Bethany.

  Now, as I stood outside Seaside Cottage Books the day before the grand opening, the sight of a cheerful Bethany in jeans and a pink flannel shirt lifted my heart.

  "How's it going in there?" I asked.

  "Everything's ship-shape," she announced. "I've got the Maine section finished up—two local authors dropped their books by today—and I picked up more coffee and creamer, and some hot chocolate for the little ones."

  "Terrific," I said, feeling better already. "Give me the receipts, and I'll reimburse you!" I opened the back door of the SUV and picked up Winston's crate, setting it on the ground. "There is one thing, though," Bethany said.

  "Oh?"

  "A rather insistent woman has stopped by three times today," she informed me as I liberated Winston from his crate.

  "Who?" I asked as my fluffy little dog shook himself all over and trotted over to greet Bethany. He'd been my faithful companion since I'd retrieved him from the pound six years ago, covered in mange and painful-looking sores and looking a little like a scabby goat. With lots of TLC and medication, we'd taken care of the mange and sores, along with the worms and other maladies that had kept him curled up on the couch with me the first few months. Now, he was bouncy, curious, and suffering from a bit of a Napoleon complex, particularly (alas) with dogs that were more than ten times his size. He'd doubled in bulk since I adopted him, and was a terrible food scavenger. To my delight, since the first day at the pound when he climbed shaking into my lap, he'd been my biggest fan, my stout defender, and my reliable snuggle partner. Now, once Bethany scratched his head and got a few licks, he shook himself and waddled over to a tree stump to relieve himself.

  "The woman who came by today? I've never met her before, and she wouldn't leave a name. But she was practically apoplectic." I smiled; even though "practically apoplectic" didn't sound promising, I did love Bethany's vocabulary. "She told me she absolutely needed to talk to you."

  "Well, I'm here now," I said. "She can come find me."

  "Right," Bethany said, but a cloud had passed over her bright face.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "She said something about you stealing the store."

  "Stealing the store?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know what she meant. But I got the impression she's planning to instigate trouble."

  "Fabulous," I said. "Well, what's a good story without a few plot twists?" This was part of my new goal, which was to look on the bright side and count my blessings. Some days were easier than others. "Speaking of stories, how's your mystery going?" I asked.

  "I've gotten to the dead body," she said, "but now I'm kind of stuck. I put the book to the side until after the grand re-opening, though. I've got K. T. Anderson set up for a reading an hour after it starts, and I even talked the local paper into sending a reporter over tomorrow!"

  K. T. Anderson was a Maine-based bestselling mystery author who had set an entire series in a town not far from here; getting her to come to the grand opening was a coup. "You are amazing, Bethany," I said, meaning every word.

  "Happy to do it. Come see what I've done!"

  Leaving my U-Haul trailer behind and feeling rather brighter, I followed my young assistant into Seaside Cottage Books, Winston trotting along at my heels.

  The bright blue walls and white bookshelves were fresh and clean, the neatly stacked books like jewels just waiting to be plucked from the shelves. The window seat in the bay window at the front of the store was lined with my handmade pillow
s, an inviting nook to tuck into with a book, and the armchairs tucked into the corners here and there gave the whole place the sweet, cozy feel I remembered from when I'd spent summer afternoons in the shop as a girl, when Loretta was still in good health. I walked from room to room, the gleaming wood floors creaking under my feet, and resisted the urge to pinch myself. Where the store, when I first took possession, had been dark and close, the windows covered over with old blankets and the rooms smelling of dust and must, over the past few months, Bethany and I had transformed it into a bright, clean space that smelled of lemon and new books and, above all, possibility.

  "I set the table up here in the room with the local books, under the window," Bethany said, leading me to one of the front rooms. "I'm featuring K. T. Anderson's latest, of course. I didn't like it as much as the last one—it's a little heavy on the romance part—but it'll sell well. I ordered lots of stock for her to sign." Sure enough, a table with a light blue tablecloth sat along the wall, two coffee percolators and several platters waiting for the cookies I'd been stocking the freezer with for the last month. Prominently on shelves and tables around the store a stack of postcards was displayed that showed a picture of Seaside Books, including a 10% off coupon and the promo copy we'd come up with together—"Sink Your Teeth into a Good Book—Free Cookie with Every Purchase."

  "It looks terrific," I said. "I don't know how I'll ever thank you."