Lethally Ripe Read online

  AMBER BOFFIN

  LETHALLY RIPE

  Maggie Flanagan Cozy Mystery

  Number Two

  AVENOAK

  Text © 2018 Amber Boffin

  Cover Illustration by Steve Thomas

  www.stevethomasart.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN (print): 978-1-7751028-3-0

  (digital): 978-1-7751028-2-3

  Avenoak

  505 Hwy. 118 West

  Suite 420

  Bracebridge, ON P1L2G7

  Canada

  First Edition

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Maggie lay down in her canoe to get as close as she could to the water level and looked through her long lens. The little drops of water on the plumage of the loon family appeared like gemstones in the soft morning light. The father presented a large fish to one of its puzzled young.

  Maggie propped herself up onto her elbows to steady the camera, ignoring the approaching engine sound. Canoes had priority over motor-powered vessels, and no one would prevent her from getting the perfect shot.

  She whispered as she was about to press the trigger, “It’s too big…”

  Her boat rocked under the force, crushing it with an eerie sound. She was thrust out of it like a rag doll.

  “No!” Maggie cried as she fell into the water with a loud splash. Miraculously, she had managed to keep her arm up, barely holding her camera out of it. The water was warm enough to allow her to catch her breath with ease.

  She grabbed the rim of her canoe, slowly pulled herself up with one arm, and peered over the side. An aluminum fishing boat was lodged into the bow of her canoe, the engine still running. No one was on board. A fishing rod jiggled in its stand, its tip arched under the tension of the line. Removing her wet curls from her face, she heard a loud voice with a British accent.

  “Damn it. If I catch the bugger!”

  The sound came from an egg-shaped object that bobbed up and down like a buoy catching the sunlight. Unable to see what it was, she lifted herself above the side of the fishing boat with one kick of her legs.

  A wrinkled man’s face, his eyes magnified by his glasses, confronted Maggie. His skin turned red. A flap of hair meant to hide his bald patch was glued to his cheek, its tip in his mouth.

  Worried by the sight of this angry man seemingly on the verge of a heart attack, Maggie whispered, “Are you okay?”

  She dropped her camera into the fisherman’s boat and then swam to his side as fast as she could.

  “No, I’m not okay, can’t you be careful! And this—”

  The man tugged hard at the rod with both hands, rocking the boat dangerously in the process. Maggie barely managed to counterbalance his movements. She attempted to steady the boat while reaching out to him. He nearly poked her eye with the rod before he shoved it into her outstretched hand.

  In contrast to his earlier tone, he said, “Be a dear, hold it tight. Don’t let go of it, whatever happens.”

  Maggie looked at him in bewilderment as he floated around to the back of his boat, his lifejacket pushing his cheeks upward. The image of a turtle with its head tucked in flashed through her mind. He flopped into the fishing boat.

  She glanced at her canoe. The only visible part was its metal prow as it disappeared, leaving a large bubble on the surface. Her heart sank at the loss of her boat.

  She had automatically grabbed the rod. She let go a little and felt a heavy pull that dragged her down into the water. Her fear turned to anger as she resurfaced. “You could’ve got us killed! For what? Pfff…”

  A strange smell emanated from the direction of whatever was weighing down the line. Water dripped over her from above. She looked up just in time to see the old man reaching out for the rod. He yanked it out of her hand with surprising strength. “Got it, easy does it…”

  “Be careful. You fish like a—luna—” Not sure of the type of person she was dealing with, she finished with, “—loon.”

  She slapped the water surface with her hand in anger.

  The man looked down at her as if he only now realized what had happened. After having secured his precious rod into its holder, the line still taut, he smiled. “My dear, let me help you. So sorry. Give me your hand.”

  A stick-like arm stretched out to her. She wasn’t sure its muscles would be enough to pull her out of the water, yet his hand appeared strong, ready to grip her. It had been used often, judging by the calluses and coarse skin. In doubt and after one last glance at where her canoe had sunk, she replied, “I’m fine, I can swim to the ladder.”

  As soon as she climbed into the boat, the wind wrapped itself around her. A shiver ran down her back. Had she been in the water that long? The summer sun no longer shone on them, the boat having drifted into the shade. She faced the man in front of her and said, “Take off your clothes—”

  Before she could explain, the man beamed with a naughty twinkle in his eyes. “What? I’m not a spring chicken, but if you say so, right away.”

  Maggie ran her hands along her T-shirt, pulling it away from her body. Instinctively, she looked around for something to cover herself with. Her eyes fell on a woolen blanket that lay on the chair. Seizing it, she glanced at the old man, hunched forward as if he had shrunk with the cold.

  She rushed to his side. “Hypothermia. You’re all wet. You need to put something dry on quickly.”

  She unfastened his life jacket as fast as she could. His grin was still there, as if frozen in time. He appeared taller than a minute ago. She put the blanket around his shoulders and gently pushed him into his chair. He was like a chameleon. One minute he appeared strong, the next about to crumple. How old was he?

  She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she didn’t want him to get any funny ideas either. She looked away from his intense gaze. “You…” Not finding any other way to say it, she blurted out, “Get on with it. Take your shirt off; the blanket is dry.”

  She swiveled his chair around so that he no longer faced her. The image
of his bushy eyebrows arched up and his mischievous smile stuck to her mind. His suave voice reached her ears.

  “What about you? Take the blanket, I’m a gentleman.” His voice lowered, now barely audible to her. “That is, until I’m alone with a lady.” He chuckled and cleared his throat as he stood up, looking to where Maggie’s boat should have been. “Oh no. Your canoe. It must have sunk into the mud by now. It’s deep here. I’ll replace it. Please…”

  With a distraught face, he put the blanket around Maggie’s shoulders. Aware of the puddles of water around her feet, she swung the blanket back around his shoulders. Worried that they might sink, she inspected the hull for any holes.

  “Your boat seems okay, only minor damage.”

  The urge to break loose from the uncomfortable situation made her pull the rope to ignite the engine. A black cloud briefly blinded her.

  The man stumbled across, rocking the tin can, to the engine. “Let me…she can be stubborn.”

  After talking to it, he pulled the string with one hand. The engine came to life with a loud rattle.

  “My house is just over there.” He pointed to the island in the middle of the lake.

  She hesitated to insist on him dropping her off at her place. One look at the island was enough to change her mind. She had heard all kinds of rumors about an eccentric couple living there, and this would be the opportunity to check the gossip and prove the villagers wrong.

  Tall pine trees hid most of the wooden cottage. The entrance was visible at the end of a gravel path. A screened gazebo stood alongside the shore, leading to a large dock decorated with geraniums. A pair of red Bear chairs faced the lake.

  Maggie often canoed around the island. She had spotted a man on his dock with a paper in his hands as soon as the weather was nice and had wondered who he was. What was his life story? She suspected him of being one of the local gossips—if not a talking one, then an observing one. Nothing would escape him.

  One time, she had caught sight of an old silver Morgan sports car gleaming under the sunrays through an open shed door. She had never seen it again or seen the shed door open. She must have imagined it. Who would want a car on a tiny island?

  What a strange little man, thought Maggie. In some way he’s a gentleman. His accent sounds British, but I hear other intonations…not Canadian, though.

  As he twisted the throttle of the handgrip, the boat jerked forward, and the fishing rod flew up into the air like a whip. Maggie caught it just before it would have landed on his head.

  He stopped the engine. “Forgot about that.”

  “Just cut the line.” As she said those words, she thought of the poor fish that must be on its hook. “I’ll release it. Although by now it can’t have survived.”

  He shook his head. “Not a fish.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve no idea what it is.”

  Maggie’s curiosity was piqued. She moved to the back to look for herself. The stench once again filled her nostrils. Eager to distance herself from whatever was in the water, she turned her head to take a deep breath, her eyes falling on his face. “Your lips are blue. Now you’re really getting hypothermia. I’ll cut this line myself!”

  “No. No.” A chilly hand landed gently on her wrist. “I can handle the cold; it wakes me up.” Maggie raised her eyebrows. He continued, “I’m used to it. Besides, our accident has to be worth it. Hold on tight.”

  The engine roared. Maggie barely steadied herself, holding the rod with one hand and the side of the boat with the other. A thin flap of hair floated in the wind before it disappeared under his wet hat. With a straight back and a smile, he no longer looked like the frail old man, if he ever had been one… Who was he? In the commotion, she hadn’t even asked his name.

  Chapter Two

  Within a few minutes, they were docked alongside the geraniums. An elderly woman ran out, waving her hands franticly. Her demeanor looked angrier than worried as she marched toward them. It had to be hard to live with a husband’s obsession with fish, let alone the smell.

  “Arthur, Arthur! You’re late. I gave your bacon to the dog.” Her eyes softened as he apologized profusely. She sighed. “You know you worry me when you do that. But—”

  Arthur’s head dropped. With a pout, he stared at his shoes, water dripping from his hat down the tip of his nose to the ground. Stepping into the puddle created by him, she tenderly touched his shoulder.

  “You’re soaking wet!” Her nose seemed to twitch as she turned to Maggie. “Oh, you too, my love. Come in before you catch pneumonia.”

  Arthur signaled to Maggie with his head to follow his wife. With a limp, she guided Maggie along a narrow path lined with towering pines and orange ditch lilies to a little green cottage. She wiped her hands on her apron, creating a small cloud of flour. Her white hair was cut in a neat bob. She stopped short and swiveled in her sheep slippers.

  Maggie grabbed her shoulders with both hands. “Sorry.”

  She looked over Maggie’s shoulder toward the boat. Arthur was back in it, pulling the line of the fishing rod. She shook her head. Maggie put her hands to her ears as she called out, “Aaaaarthur.”

  Maggie would have never guessed that such a voice that echoed across the lake could have belonged to this little woman. It was effective. Arthur climbed out of the boat and dragged his feet toward them. He kept looking over his shoulder as if he expected something to happen.

  The woman gestured to Maggie to follow her inside. “Quick, quick. In you go. I’ll get you a warm dressing gown while you take off your clothes.” She pushed open the door of a tiny bathroom. “In here.”

  An old-fashioned bathtub, its metal soap holder sitting across its center, stood in front of a window. It was spotless. On the corner of the windowsill, a fresh bouquet of wildflowers gave off a sweet aroma. A neatly folded towel lay next to the sink, with the letters A and R embroidered in blue.

  Warmed up, Maggie stared at the mirror. A doll with pink cheeks, curly red hair, and in a frilly pink dressing gown stared back at her with round green eyes. She burst out laughing and thought, Definitely not my style.

  She heard voices from what must be the living room. She nearly tripped on a little dachshund that darted across the corridor with a sausage in its mouth. She walked toward the voices. Arthur and his wife were arguing next to a table decked with a mouth-watering breakfast.

  “No sausage for you either. This poor girl. What have you done to her? Not again.”

  “Nothing. We just had an accident. Not my fault. It’s this thing—” Arthur stopped short when Maggie entered the room.

  For a split second, Maggie scanned the couple for any signs of malevolence. Unable to sense anything other than warmth and confusion, she smiled. “It was an accident. Neither of us was looking at where we were going. No harm done—” she chuckled “—aside from my canoe.”

  The old lady turned to Arthur. “What happened? Out with it.” Without waiting for an answer, she stepped toward Maggie, her hand outstretched. “I’m sorry, so impolite of me. I’m Bettie. You’ve already met my husband, Arthur. Notorious for getting into trouble.”

  “Maggie.” She pointed a finger at the doorway. “I live on that side of the lake. I used to canoe around your island when I was little and still do. I never saw you back then.”

  Bettie laughed, and having told Maggie her clothes were drying, she invited them to sit around the table. She poured some tea from a pumpkin-shaped teapot and handed over a dish of homemade scones and jam. “That means you’re not a water-skier.”

  Discerning hostility in her voice, Maggie wondered what they possibly could have against a bunch of teenagers having fun on the lake. Bettie rose to her feet and picked up a red loudspeaker horn. She shook it. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard him?”

  Arthur seemed oblivious to their conversation. He was busy devouring scrambled eggs with toast.

  Maggie laughed. “Yes. I heard someone shout the other day but didn’t see anybody in danger
on the water. Just Bruno, the young local ski champion, being pulled around. I think I heard another shout yesterday, but my dogs were barking, so I’m not sure.”

  “Yes, this…young man water-skis around the island and makes a wave that destroys my geraniums. He does it on purpose. It drives Arthur mad.”

  Having finished his plate, Arthur pushed it aside and slipped a small piece of bread to the dog, now sitting up on its hind legs next to him. He tapped his lips with the napkin and slid his plate farther forward. “You make me think…this Bruno will be out now. The lake is calm.” He pushed back the antique chair with a squeak. “I’d better get the thing, whatever it is, out of the water quick. Sorry, ladies…”

  Maggie wanted to rush out after him, until she felt the lace of Bettie’s dressing gown.

  Bettie sighed. She patted the dog’s head and then tapped her thigh with one hand. The dog leapt onto her lap and settled down for a scratch.

  Maggie felt she was back in England in a country cottage. And yet little touches and objects signaled a mix of cultures. Colorful quilts depicting foreign landscapes and buildings hung on the walls. At the back of the room, books and little Olga dolls filled the shelves. A tray full of liquor sat atop a glass cabinet.

  Once Bettie had disappeared to the kitchen, Maggie turned around to take a better look at what was inside the cabinet. A collection of little cars, all old toys from the fifties or sixties—or maybe even older—were neatly lined up.

  Bettie returned with a fresh pot of tea. “You’ve spotted Arthur’s collection. Can you believe it, he wanted to turn the island into a museum of real old-timers.”

  Maggie imagined for a moment the community of Foxton and summer cottagers visiting the island with their canoes. It would certainly attract a crowd. The image of Arthur standing next to his cars brought her back to the boat and what was at the end of the line. She had to find out what it was before he hid it away.

  The sound of a door slamming shut was soon followed by footsteps. Arthur poked his head into the dining room. “I need your help, Maggie. Leave Tinker here. I don’t want him to get at it first.” He gently pushed the dog away.