A Zen For Murder Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A Note From The Author

  About The Author

  Excerpt From Ghostly Paws

  This is a work of fiction.

  None of it is real. All names, places, and events are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real names, places, or events are purely coincidental, and should not be construed as being real.

  A Zen For Murder

  Copyright © 2014

  Leighann Dobbs

  http://www.leighanndobbs.com

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner, except as allowable under “fair use,” without the express written permission of the author.

  Cover art by: http://www.coversations.com

  Chapter One

  Claire Watkins tossed a dead rose stem from her spacious garden into the small wheelbarrow just as the sun made its appearance, splashing the blue Atlantic Ocean with a wash of pink.

  Sunrise was her favorite time of day. It was quiet. Peaceful. To her, the hours before her little town of Crab Cove on Mooseamuck Island, Maine, woke up and the hubbub of tourist and local activity started were the most precious hours of the day.

  Stretching, she winced at the slight pull in the muscles in her lower back and the popping sounds that crackled from her spine. Even so, Claire felt grateful that she enjoyed relatively good health for her seventy years, which she attributed to the strict natural health regimen she'd adopted in the past decade.

  She'd never tire of looking at the panoramic view from her stone cottage, perched three-quarters of the way up Israel Head Hill on the small island off the coast of Maine. She'd grown up in this house and returned in later years to tend to her ailing father. Now, she lived here alone. Which suited her just fine.

  Sucking in a deep breath of salty sea air, her gaze drifted from the ocean that stretched in front of her to the cove below, with its picturesque fishing boats on her left. Claire couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

  She closed her eyes, letting her breath out slowly as she enjoyed the early morning island sounds.

  The happy chirping of chickadees, wrens and nuthatches in her garden.

  The familiar cry of gulls in the distance.

  The soothing sound of the surf lapping at the shore.

  The angry yelling and cursing coming from the road below.

  Claire's eyes flew open.

  Angry yelling and cursing?

  That wasn't a normal, early morning sound on the island. She cocked her head, honing in on the direction of the noise. It sounded like it was coming from the scenic vista that overlooked the cove. She hurried to the patio in the corner of her yard that looked down on the vista.

  Claire's father had installed the patio years ago in order to make the most use of the yard and its views. The property fell away drastically at the edge of the patio, so they'd put up a heavy-duty railing for safety. Claire could just barely see the road from her vantage point. She leaned precariously over the railing, the cliff falling away below her. Her brows rose when she saw who was causing the ruckus.

  Norma Hopper, the island's resident artist, had setup her paint-splotched, wooden easel in her usual spot. For as long as Claire could remember, Norma had started the day at that very spot, where she painted the island sunrises that she was famous for and which sold to tourists like hotcakes in the summer.

  But today, her canvas was blank. Instead of painting, she was engaged in a heated argument with Zoila Rivers. The two women were squared off, facing each other, Norma with her hands on her hips, Zoila waving a piece of paper in Norma's face.

  Snatches of angry words drifted up and, although Claire couldn't make out exactly what the words were, she could tell something serious was going on.

  Norma stood rigid, the immense brim of her straw hat, which Claire had always suspected she wore more to keep people out of her space than to ward off the sun, stuck out like a quivering awning.

  Zoila, in contrast, was a whirl of energy, shuffling her feet and waving her arms. Claire didn't know Zoila very well. The psychic had come to the island just over a year ago and, while some people didn't believe in her abilities, Claire had thought she was well-liked.

  It wasn't unusual to see Norma acting angry. She was naturally abrasive, but everyone liked and respected her. Despite the artist's gruff demeanor, Claire had fond memories of Norma, who she'd known since she was a little girl growing up on the island. When Claire had returned a few years ago, she'd rekindled that friendship as an adult.

  Claire knew Norma's usual, angry facade, though, and this wasn't it. Not only that, but Claire's training as a criminal psychologist made her an expert in body language … and the body language of these two women told Claire this was no trifling matter.

  As far as she knew, though, Zoila Rivers and Norma Hopper were only passing acquaintances. She couldn't imagine what could possibly cause them to argue so vehemently.

  Claire pushed back from the railing and pulled her sweater tight around her to ward off the late spring chill that seemed to suddenly permeate the air. Then, she put her pruning shears away and rushed into the house. She'd better hurry and get ready for what the day may bring. Her intuition told her something unusual was afoot on Mooseamuck Island.

  ***

  Further up Israel Head Hill, Dominic Benedetti sat on the patio of his condo, his great, bushy eyebrows drawn together in a disapproving 'V' as he regarded the cannoli on the plate in front of him. It wasn't the confection, so much, that drew his objection but the uneven placement of the tiny, chocolate-chip garnishments. Five on one side and six on the other.

  Does no one take pride in their work anymore? he wondered as he picked it up and took a small bite.

  The creamy pastry coated his tongue and he nodded. Almost as good as his Nonna made.

  Almost, but not quite.

  Nothing was quite as good as it had been in his youth, especially not the home-made Italian food he'd enjoyed or the culture of his close Italian neighborhood in the north end of Boston.

  But then, one couldn't expect things to stay the same forever.

  He sighed, his heart twisting as he looked past the French doors into the living room where the picture of Sophia, his late wife, sat in its sterling silver frame. They'd shared forty-five years and two children together, and though cancer had taken her from him almost two years ago, the loss still felt fresh and raw—like a big hole had been cut right out of him.

  He wrenched his eyes from the picture and looked back down at the cannoli, his appetite fading as his memory rehashed those last few weeks with Sophia.

  She'd made him promise to live a good long life. He'd agreed because it seemed to give her peace. But the truth was he didn't want to live a good long life—not without her. In the end, though, he'd tried to honor that wish. Which was why he'd come to Crab Cove—a place where they'd spent many happy vacations with their children. The kids were grown now and Sophia was gone, but Dom still
loved the quaint New England island.

  Living on the island had taken some of the sting from his loss and he had to admit he had started to enjoy himself a little. He'd even indulged himself in a few things Sophia wouldn't have approved of—like eating dessert for breakfast.

  He sighed and bit into the cannoli again. When Sophia's death had dulled his zest for life, he'd retired from his investigative consulting practice to come up north and lick his wounds. Adjusting to his new life hadn't been easy and he had to admit, now that time had dulled some of the pain, he was getting a little bored.

  He listened to his parakeets, Romeo and Juliet, chirp away inside the condo while he finished off the pastry. He had been lonely at first, but the birds helped keep him company and the other residents of Crab Cove had made him feel right at home.

  Dom allowed himself a thin smile as he mused about his newfound celebrity status on the island. Apparently, they didn't get many folks who had 'made the papers' up here, and Dom had made them plenty as a consulting detective on high profile cases down in Massachusetts.

  But that was in his old life. Now, he had to amuse himself by finding runaway cats and lost sets of keys. Still, he did have a spectacular view from his condo, high atop the hill. One could have a much worse retirement.

  He carefully wiped the crumbs from his lips and glanced to the east, over the vast Atlantic, to where the sun kissed the very edge of the ocean.

  Time to start the day.

  Dom was just about to rise out of his chair when a movement further down the hill caught his eye.

  Claire Watkins.

  It wasn't unusual that she'd be out in her garden at this time of day, but what she was doing out there was unusual. Quite unusual, indeed.

  His eyes narrowed as he watched her lean over the railing. Clearly, she was straining to see something below. Dom wished her stone cottage was not blocking the view, because judging by the way she was positioning herself precariously over the railing, he could tell it must be something of the utmost interest.

  Dom's eyebrows started to tingle with electricity—a feeling he recognized well and one he hadn't felt in a long time. For most of his adult life, his bushy eyebrows had been overly sensitive. He knew from experience that this sort of tingle meant something big was about to happen. As an investigator, they'd been a valuable asset—and to think his daughter had wanted him to trim them when he retired!

  He watched with interest as Claire pushed off from the railing and hurried inside her cottage.

  Then he, too, hurried inside, a spring in his step.

  He carefully cleaned off his plate and dried it, putting it away on top of the stack of same-sized plates and patting the edges to make sure they were aligned perfectly. Romeo and Juliet twittered and peeped. He stopped in front of their cage on his way to the bedroom and the two birds became quiet.

  Romeo fluffed up his green and yellow feathers and sidestepped along the perch toward Dom. Juliet remained in the corner, preening her white and aqua tail.

  The birds’ normal chattering was mostly gibberish, but every so often, Romeo surprised Dom by uttering an almost perceptible word in his high-pitched parakeet voice. Romeo looked sideways at Dom with one of his bright, black eyes and squalked,“Zoorious.”

  “Indeed, my little friend,” Dom said as he clipped a millet spray to the side of the cage. “It certainly is very curious.”

  Chapter Two

  Chowders Diner was a Crab Cove mainstay and a favorite of the locals. Tucked away on a side-street, it was not often found by tourists, which was fine with the island residents. It had the best food in town and they preferred to keep it to themselves.

  The diner had been around since the 1930s. Originally run by prominent Mooseamuck Island resident Josiah Chase, it had been recently purchased by a newcomer—Sarah White. Claire had taken an immediate liking to Sarah, who she figured to be in her early thirties. Sarah was a pretty blonde, a bit too serious for her young age. Claire could tell that serious demeanor was caused by a dark secret.

  Claire didn’t know what the secret was, but she knew Sarah thought she was keeping it well-hidden. She was probably right, for the most part. If not for Claire’s training, she wouldn’t have suspected it, either. She’d tried to draw it out of Sarah on a few occasions, but it seemed Sarah wasn’t ready. That was okay, Claire wanted to help, but she knew from experience that a person had to be ready before they could be helped.

  Claire sat at the usual speckled Formica table by the window, where, on most mornings, her regular crowd gathered to start the day. These were the people she was most close to on the island—people she’d grown up with as a kid. They were more like family to her than mere neighbors … well, most of them were.

  The exception was Dominic Benedetti. Dom was a fairly new addition to their ‘group’ and Claire didn’t know if she was happy about this. She’d known him in her previous life as a criminal psychologist in Boston, where they’d often been called in to consult on the same cases. Back then, they'd had a working relationship she could only describe as grudgingly respectful.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t like Dom—he was a nice enough guy, on a personal level. But on a professional level, the two of them had gotten along like water and oil. Oh, sure, he was an excellent detective with uncanny skills of deduction, but their methods were so different that they often found themselves butting heads.

  Claire had spent most of her life studying human behavior, so when called in on a case, that was what she used to solve it—the behavior of the people involved. Dom, on the other hand, insisted on using only facts. It had caused a lot of professional arguments between them, yet they’d always seemed to get their man in the end.

  But that was a lifetime ago. They were both retired now, and Claire had vowed to forget about their professional disagreements and try to make friends with the man who now sat across the table from her.

  Claire watched a swirl of steam curl up from her cup of red rooibos tea as she listened to the others at the table chat about island gossip. Claire’s thoughts drifted to the argument she’d seen between Norma and Zoila just a few hours earlier and her chest tightened with anxiety.

  Her eyes slid to the doorway. Where was Norma?

  Usually, the ornery artist joined them here when she was done with her morning painting. Claire glanced at the clock over the counter—it was almost ten o’clock. Norma should be done painting by now, but if she wasn’t here—

  “What do you think, Claire?” Tom Landry’s question pulled Claire from her thoughts and she looked up to see Dom scrutinizing her, which only heightened her anxiety.

  She quickly looked away from Dom and addressed Tom. “Think of what?”

  “I was saying how egg production on my free-range chickens is way up this spring,” Tom said. “They say increased egg production is a prediction of good summer weather.”

  “Well, hopefully it doesn’t mean your chickens are going to be running around my garden again,” Mae Biddeford admonished him. “Last year, they nearly ruined my blueberry bushes and I need those berries for jam.”

  Tom tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at her. “My chickens provide good fertilizer for your berry bushes and you know it.”

  Mae huffed and Claire suppressed a smile. Tom Landry and Mae Biddeford were both past eighty. They’d grown up next door to each other and each now lived in the very family home they’d grown up in. Tom’s was a small working farm with goats, chickens and a few cows. Mae’s property boasted acres of fruit trees and bushes. The two of them had an ongoing feud, rumored to have started in kindergarten. They bickered constantly, but Claire suspected they secretly had the hots for each other. If only she could get them to realize it, too.

  “Besides, it looks like you have plenty of berries.” Tom pointed to a large bag sitting on the floor beside Mae’s seat. “I assume that’s filled with jam.”

  “Yes, I’m trading it to Florence Ryder for a permanent,” Mae huffed.

  Claire cri
nged and caught her best friend, Jane’s, eye. The islanders often traded goods or services instead of paying money. It was an old tradition started by their grandparents and, since most of the regulars were from families that had been on the island for generations, they continued the tradition. But Mae went a little overboard with her jams and most everyone had more jam than they could possibly use. Claire and Jane had a running joke about it and Jane winked back at Claire in acknowledgment.

  “I see Crabby Tours has opened up early this year,” Jane said, changing the subject from jam to more seasonal matters.

  “Probably trying to get a jump on Barnacle Bob’s fleet this year,” Alice James said, her knitting needles clacking together with a metallic beat as she stitched furiously. Alice was always knitting something … most of which she traded as eagerly as Mae traded her jams.

  “Seems like those two are opening earlier and earlier.” Tom referred to the rivalry between the boat lines, who both ran whale watches, lobstering cruises and pleasure cruises in the summer.

  They’d had a rivalry going on for decades and for the past several years, it seemed each had tried to get a jump on the other by opening for business first. Not that there was any shortage of customers for the cruises. Mooseamuck Island was a popular tourist destination, and soon the population of the island would quadruple. And a favorite tourist pastime was going on one or more of the cruises.

  Jane sighed. “I suppose so, but that means tourist season is just around the corner and my job is going to get a lot busier.”

  As postmaster of the Island, Jane had it relatively easy from September to June, when it was just the locals. But handling mail for all the summer residents and tourists could be a lot of work. Jane usually had to hire temporary help.

  “True. But it is good for the economy,” Alice pointed out.

  “Still, I just wish Crab Cove didn’t get so crowded,” Mae complained.

  Claire’s attention drifted over to the doorway as the others discussed the pros and cons of the upcoming wave of tourists. Still no sign of Norma.