For fans of M.C. Beaton, Martha Grimes, and Alexander McCall Smith, the first in a charming new mystery series set in the English countryside, as a retired San Diego police detective embarks upon group walking tours in England’s most scenic counties…
After a long career as a detective in San Diego, Rick “Chase” Chasen has traded in his badge for a change of scenery in the coastal comforts of Devon, England, until a local murder takes him on a deadly detour . . .
Still grieving the death of his long-time partner, Chase reunites with his dear friend and fellow Anglophile Billie Mondreau for a seacoast holiday of historic sightseeing. Assigned a pair of guides from the tour company Wanderers, Chase and Billie join seven other like-minded Americans looking forward to an English getaway. All except for Ronald Gretz. The wealthy entrepreneur behind the international Golden Sunset nursing home chain doesn’t like anything about walking, touring, or England. Coarse and opinionated, Gretz’s complaints get on the nerves of his fellow Wanderers—and his long-suffering trophy wife.
But Gretz’s gripes are tied to his own nerves being frayed. He has been receiving threatening texts and emails signed “An Avenger.” Convinced someone means him harm, Gretz asks Chase to watch his back. Soon, Gretz falls afoul of several “accidents,” leading to more friction with the other walkers. Until one final “accident” results in Gretz dead at the bottom of a cliff.
Chase, whose investigative instincts remain sharp, knows Gretz’s death was no accident. While helping the police investigate, he discovers that members of the tour group not only disliked the victim but had legitimate motives for wanting him dead. Now, he just has to uncover who among them is willing to kill . . .
Release date:
March 26, 2024
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
304
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I leaped back onto the pavement as a red Vauxhall sedan raced past, missing me by inches.
A short woman with tightly curled, ginger-and-gray hair rushed over and gave me a quick, warm hug. “Haven’t changed, have you? Honestly, Chase. Why can’t you learn how they drive here in England? They even have ‘look right’ and ‘look left’ written on the street in front of you.”
“Billie!” I said, with a rush of relief as I returned the hug. “It’s good to see you, old friend.” My longtime companion from many walking trips was clad in one of her colorful self-knit sweaters. “How the hell are you?”
Flashing me a smile, she said, “Much better now that I know you won’t need to be scraped up off the street.” She led me across the road to the train station, both of us looking left and right as we pulled our cases behind us. When we reached the other side, I said, “I can’t believe I made it here. I was afraid I’d gotten totally lost.”
She shook her head. “I can never understand how the venerable Rick Chasen, a man with an uncanny talent for sniffing out deadly criminals, somehow has no sense of direction.”
I took another glance at her sweater, a purple-and-yellow creation with a pattern that looked like moose performing a ballet. It reminded me of when I first met her on a walk in Northumberland—what was it, six years before? Our shared love of England and literature made us fast friends. My late partner, Doug, had been fond of Billie too. He’d accompanied us on a walk in Sussex and, even though he wasn’t the jealous type, was pleased I’d found a friend who wasn’t a younger, good-looking man.
“When did you get in?” Billie asked.
I told her about my long journey the day before: the five-hour flight from San Diego to Atlanta, and the six-hour flight from Atlanta to London. “I spent the night right here in Barnstaple, at a refurbished vicarage. It was quite respectable. I did, however, sense hints of a scandalous past within its walls.”
She gave a small laugh. “Well, what else would you expect from a vicarage?”
We entered the station, its imposing stone façade and ornate brickwork a stark contrast to the bland commerciality of the massive Tesco superstore across the road.
“You arrived here in England a week ago, didn’t you?” I asked as we wheeled our suitcases through the ticket hall on our way to the lunchroom, a utilitarian space with five plastic tables. We parked our cases beside one.
“I sure did. I’m sorry you couldn’t have joined me in London, Chase. Museums, concerts, theater. A veritable cultural orgy! I’m so worn out that I don’t know if I can take another step.”
Despite her supposed fatigue, she briskly walked up to the counter and ordered a cucumber and cheese sandwich, while I requested an American coffee, black. I was beginning to feel calmer, though still shaken from my earlier misstep. I simply hadn’t been watching where I was going. Panic attacks had been common in the first weeks following Doug’s death, more than a year ago, but I thought I’d been doing better lately. What had triggered this one? I always had looked forward to a long walk in the English countryside. Maybe the prospect of putting on a brave face for strangers had pushed me over the edge.
We took our seats, and Billie gave me a once-over. “You look good, Chase. Your beard is fuller, and maybe a little grayer. It becomes you. You’ve lost weight, though.”
I’ve always been a big guy, owing to my hefty build as well as my love for a good meal, but she was correct. Since Doug’s death I’d dropped several pounds. “This trip should revive my appetite.”
Billie took a bite of her sandwich and made a face. “If all the food here is like this, that might not happen. But other than not eating, what else is new with you?”
“Same old, same old. I sit around and watch ball games on TV.”
“You know what I’m asking. The last time we spoke, you sounded so defeated. Even now, you still don’t have your old spark back.”
Was it that obvious? I took a sip of coffee. I could pretend to be fine but decided to come clean. “I admit it’s taking me longer than I’d thought to get over Doug. Yes, I know there’s no set timetable for grieving, but some days my mood seems to be getting worse rather than better.”
I could have launched into a real pity party, complaining about my reluctance to keep up with mutual friends or even my cousin, Emily, in Seattle, my only relation other than my sister, Allison, who refuses to speak to me. But I didn’t want to go down that road.
Billie formed a knowing smile. “You know what I think? I think you’ve lost your purpose. You retired right around the time Doug got sick, didn’t you? Looking after him and managing his medical treatment became your new job. With Doug gone, you have no goal. Am I right?”
“Um . . . is this supposed to make me feel better?”
“All I’m saying is that you need to find a new purpose, Chase. You can’t expect to go from a life of being an ace police detective to one of watching ball games on your sofa. Depression is bound to sneak in, especially after the death of someone you dearly loved.”
I ran my finger around the rim of my cup. “Everything you’re saying is true. But what can I do? The force won’t let me have my job back at my age, no matter how sharp I still may be. And I have no interest in taking any old job just to stay busy.”
She patted my hand. “You know what you do? Exactly what you’re doing now. Go places. Get outdoors. You’re only, what? Sixty-seven? That’s still young! Find something that delights you, something that will open up your mind to other possibilities. Doug would be telling you to do the same. He’d have been so proud that you made your way back here.”
I finished my coffee. “You’re right as ever, Billie. Just be patient with me, okay? It only takes a stray thought of Doug to turn me into a blubbering mess.”
She raised a finger. “I have a remedy for that too. I call it Flip it, Vanna.”
“Flip it what?”
“Flip it, Vanna. You know, that lady on Wheel of Fortune. Every time a negative thought comes to mind, just say, ‘Flip it, Vanna!’ The thought turns around and becomes a brighter one on the flip side.”
Where had she come up with this one? “It’s worth a try, I guess. But I’m also worried about you.”
Billie’s eyes widened. “What makes you say that?”
“Small things. Your steps were more hesitant than usual just now when we were crossing the road. You’re wearing different-colored socks on each foot. And most telling of all, your sweater pattern is completely wrong. Moose? In England, you always wear patterns of local animals—deer or foxes.”
She chuckled. “Still the detective, aren’t you? Well, you’re right. The moose sweater was for London, where I saw Come from Away. It’s a musical that takes place in Canada. I didn’t mean to wear it today, but it’s true, I’m preoccupied. Yesterday I got word that my younger sister, Janice, has breast cancer. They’ve conducted scans and found a tumor, so she needs surgery to see how far it may have spread. I wanted to rush home to be with her, but she wouldn’t have it. ‘You need to live, Billie,’ she said. But . . . oh, Chase.” Billie’s lip trembled. “She needs to live too.”
I reached over and held her hand.
She straightened her shoulders. “Still, whenever I get down, I just do a Flip it, Vanna! So what if Janice is having a health scare? The doctors can treat anything these days if they catch it soon enough.”
Her comment struck home. Doug might still be alive if he’d undergone a routine colonoscopy, as I’d repeatedly suggested and he’d repeatedly ignored. I fell into another spell of maudlin navel-gazing, broken by the stationmaster announcing the arrival of the 3:45 train from Exeter.
“Oh dear,” Billie said. “I thought we would be able to chat a bit more before the others arrived.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, getting to my feet. “We’re here for an entire week. There’ll be plenty of time for us to catch up.” As I turned toward the station’s main hall, though, my resolve began to falter. It had been a while since I’d felt comfortable in the company of groups. When I lost Doug, I also lost my facility for conversation and small talk, something my old pals in the department would have thought impossible.
Billie and I wheeled our bags to the ticket hall, where passengers were coming in from the platform. It wasn’t difficult to spot those signed up with the Wanderers. There were five of them, each eyeing their surroundings as an alien might regard its first encounter with Earth.
A bright voice rang out. “Wanderers!” A smiling, young, brown-haired woman carrying a clipboard strode briskly to the center of the room. “If you’re with the Wanderers, please gather round.”
Billie and I stepped forward and were joined by two couples: a paunchy man wearing a loose shirt and trousers standing beside a woman with graying, sandy hair sprouting from beneath a floppy hat. Next to them was a tall, slender young woman with long, russet-colored hair and a wide mouth with firehouse-red lips and a young, square-faced and broad-shouldered man, his jet-black hair combed straight back. A similarity in the shape of their brows and chins suggested they might be related. The young woman gazed around in wonder, while her companion maintained a bemused, tolerant expression. The final member of our group was a small, nearly bald, rotund man wearing a blank expression. He seemed so inconsequential as to be nearly opaque.
From the list mailed to me, I already knew they were, like myself, Americans—the Wanderers’ target market. From past walks, I also knew Wanderers clients were largely a genial bunch, diverse but like-minded in their appreciation of a slowly taken view of other lands and cultures. Beyond their names and hometowns, though, I knew nothing about them.
When we were all assembled, the brown-haired woman said, “Welcome, everyone! I am Sally Anders, your walk leader. I trust all your bags have identification tags? Be sure to place them over there, near the station entrance. Our walk manager, Howie, will collect them and take them to the van. From this point, you need not worry about anything. The Wanderers will take care of it all! Now bear with me as I check your names against my roster.” She began to circulate through the group and eventually came to Billie and me.
We told her our names, and she glanced at her board. “Oh, yes. Mr. Chasen. Miss Mondreau. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”
“Mostly good things, I hope,” I said.
“Very much so.” In an undertone, she added, “Actually, I’m new to the Wanderers organization—this is my first assignment—so the staff has filled me in as much as possible. I understand you two have walked with us many times before, which will make things a bit easier.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Billie said.
Sally maintained her smile. “This walk is a new one as well, you know. We’ve never offered it before.”
“That’s what appealed to me,” I said, and assumed a stentorian tone. “Exmoor, that fabled corner of England with its rugged seacoast and sweeping, mist-swept moors! Majestic and mysterious home to numerous tales and legends! And please . . . call me Chase.”
Sally laughed. “I’ll do that.”
I scanned the room. “I thought there would be more of us.”
“You’re correct,” Sally said, her eyes darting to her clipboard. “Mr. and Mrs. Gretz have yet to arrive. Apparently, they weren’t able to make the train and have hired a private car. If they don’t show up in the next few minutes, we’ll catch up with them later at the hotel.” She turned to the group. “Everyone! Please make your way out to our van. It’s the yellow one; you can’t miss it. We will be leaving in a few minutes.”
Everyone headed outside, a few steps behind Howie, the short, stocky walk manager, tweed cap atop his head, pushing a large cart laden with our bags.
At that moment, a black Bentley roared up and came to a stop that I would have termed “screeching” if Bentleys could screech. The doors swung open, and a stern-faced man in a blue polo shirt and brightly patterned slacks stepped out, followed by a platinum-haired woman whose bosom was prominently displayed in a low-cut, tight-fitting dress. She carried a small leopard-print handbag. The man was in his late sixties or so, the woman considerably younger.
“Those must be the Gretzes,” I said to Billie. “I don’t normally check people online, but when I saw his name on the list, it rang a bell. I’d seen it in the business pages. He’s some kind of a tycoon in health care, and that’s his latest wife—the third, if I remember correctly.”
Their driver loaded their cases onto a cart. From the quantity, it looked like they were embarking on a months-long ocean voyage. He began wheeling them toward the Wanderers van.
“You see, you moron?” the man barked to his wife as they followed their driver. “You and your worrying! We made it, just like I said we would. Now, shut your trap.”
Billie leaned close and murmured, “We’re going to have to put up with him all week? Now I understand the two ex-wives.”
Another train had pulled up, and more passengers soon spilled onto the platform. Billie and I were weaving our way through the throng when we were jostled by two young toughs, yelling and pushing. One of them—long-haired and wearing a blue hoodie—bumped roughly into Gretz. It appeared to be intentional.
“Hey!” the man said. The youth scurried off.
My interior “something’s not right” alarm signaled. I darted after the boy, but he was moving fast, so I broke into a run. When I neared him and reached out to seize his arm, he took off at an even faster pace. Well, that tears it, I thought. As fit as I may be, I was no match against a kid. Fortunately, he ran straight toward a small gaggle of nuns and one—a surprisingly agile lady with quick reflexes—picked up on what was happening and thrust out her leg. The boy tripped over it and fell to the ground.
I ran over, thanked the nun, yanked the boy to his feet, and pulled him over to Gretz, who was looking shell-shocked. I thrust the lad toward him. “Give this man back his wallet.”
The boy tried to wrest himself free, but I held fast. “Wot you talkin’ about?” he said. “I ain’t got no wallet.”
With my other hand, I reached into his hoodie and extracted Gretz’s billfold. “What do you call this, then?”
“Wot do you know!” the youth said. “How’d that get there?”
I took the lad over to a nearby security officer. “This boy just stole that gentleman’s wallet,” I said, nodding toward Gretz.
“I never did!” the boy protested.
The officer took hold of him and inspected his other pockets, producing two more billfolds. He thanked me and led the boy away. I handed Gretz his wallet.
“Th–thanks,” he said, taking it. His eyes were hollow, and his hand was trembling. This seemed an overreaction to what happened, and yet having your wallet taken was unnerving, certainly.
Gretz’s wife smiled at me. “We owe you a big thank-you, Mr. . . . ?”
“Rick Chasen. I’m on the same Wayfarers walk as you.”
“I’m Summer, and this is my husband, Ronnie. We’re in your debt, Mr. Chasen.”
“Please call me Chase. And it was nothing. Just doing my civic duty.”
Sally stepped up. “We really must get going. Please board the van so we can keep to our schedule.”
As the group followed her, Gretz remained frozen.
“Come on, sweetie,” his wife said as she took his arm. “We’ve got to go.”
His eyes were vacant. “Don’t you see? It’s happening.”
“What’s happening?” his wife asked.
He gave her a frightened glare. “Someone’s out to get me.”
“Out to get you?” Summer said. “Don’t act crazy, baby! It was a pickpocket, that’s all. And thanks to Mr. Chase here, you got your wallet back. Come on.”
Gretz hesitated before following his wife to the yellow Wanderers van. He eyed Howie hefting his bags and said, “Careful with that one, boy. If I find anything broken, I’ll know who to blame.”
Howie, hardly a boy, flashed him a glare. What sort of fragile items was Gretz carrying? I joined the others inside the van and found my capture of the pickpocket had become the main topic of conversation.
“It was like something out of a crime show,” the raven-haired young woman said. “You’re a real hero!”
“Chase used to be a police detective,” Billie said. “He’s got lots of stories. Ask him about the time he—”
“Billie’s exaggerating,” I interrupted, flashing her a warning. “I was just an everyday investigator. Nothing exciting.”
“Nevertheless, that took guts,” the woman in the floppy hat said. “My husband would never do anything so brave.”
The man beside her said, “Now, listen here, dear—”
“I’m Phaedra Meyers, by the way,” the woman said. “This is my husband, Justin.”
“You’re from upstate New York, isn’t that right?” I asked.
Phaedra recoiled slightly in surprise. “Why, yes.”
I’d read that in the list I was sent, but Doug had been an actor who specialized in vocal work, and over the years, I’d absorbed his knack for identifying accents. “I detect subtle glottal stops and raised vowels.”
“What about me?” asked the raven-haired woman. “Can you tell where I’m from?”
“Hey, don’t put him on the spot,” said the young man beside her.
The monophthongal Southern slide in her pronunciation of “I’m” was unmistakable. “I would say the South-east, perhaps South Carolina.”
Her mouth dropped. “That’s amazing! I’m Corky Nielsen, and my baby brother, Brett, here and I are from Charleston!” She spoke exclusively in exclamation points.
“Baby?” Brett snorted. “We’re practically the same age. Only ten months apart.”
“You’re still my younger brother, however many months it is.”
“Is this your first time on a Wanderers walk?” Billie asked.
“This is my first time in England! It’s like a dream come true. I mean, everywhere you look”—her eyes turned to the vista outside, at that point still the parking lot—“it’s so British!”
“Please forgive her,” said her brother. “She’s been like this ever since the plane landed. She’s a chronic Anglophile.”
Corky gave him a withering stare. “Honestly, Brett. You make it sound like a disease.”
Billie and I introduced ourselves, and turned inquiringly to the diminutive man with the dour face. “Lucien Barker,” he said in a barely audible squeak. “Denver, Colorado.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Billie said.
“And we’re the Gretzes from North Carolina,” said Summer. Her husband remained silent, still shaken.
Howie secured the van’s doors, hauled himself into the driver’s seat, and fired up the engine. “We’ll be at our hotel in a few minutes,” Sally announced as we exited the car park. “Just make yourself comfortable.”
I gazed out the window as the buildings of the town gave way to the green fields of the countryside. Once again, I was struck by the singular beauty of rural England, its springtime colors pulsating with the vibrancy of a high-resolution video. Soon we were passing country fields and lanes, dotted with Devon’s classic limewashed, thatch-roofed houses. This verdant landscape was a completely different world from the desiccated hills of northern San Diego, where I lived, and it was a welcome change.
I turned to see if my fellow walkers were similarly entranced. Only Corky and Billie seemed drawn to the view outside. The rest appeared unimpressed, as if they were on their way to a business meeting. Sally studied her papers. Phaedra looked straight ahead with an air of impatience. Justin and Brett were glued to their cell phones. Lucien dug for something in his knapsack. Summer checked her appearance in a pocket mirror.
It was Gretz I was concerned about; he still looked spooked, staring straight ahead. With a shaking hand, he extracted a fat cigar from his pocket, lit it up, took a drag, and let loose a toxic cloud of smoke.
“Mr. Gretz,” Sally said with strained patience. “There is no smoking in this van.”
He turned toward her. “What are you talking about? Winston Churchill loved his cigars. It’s a British thing, isn’t it?”
“It’s also an unhealthful thing,” Phaedra said.
“Mrs. Meyers is right,” Sally said. “I must insist that you put it out.”
“For what I’m paying? I’ll damn well smoke if I want to.”
“Not here, mister,” Phaedra said. “Keep that up and we’ll all have stage-three cancer within minutes.”
Gretz growled, lowered the window, and tossed his cigar outside. “You happy now, lady?”
“Don’t talk to my wife like that!” Justin said.
Gretz turned to him. “Then tell her to mind her own—”
“Look at that church steeple!” Corky said. “It’s like something out of Jane Austen!” Everyone peered out the window.
“It’s the poets we’re best known for,” Sally said, grateful, I suspected, for the diversion. “Wordsworth. Shelley. Coleridge. We’ll be walking on some of the trails that inspired them.”
As the van passed through a small cluster of trees, Billie said, “ ‘One impulse from a vernal wood may teach you more of man, of moral evil and of good, than all the sages can.’ ” Turning to the group, she said, “That’s from one of my favorite Wordsworth poems.”
“Evil is everywhere if you look for it,” Phaedra said. She asked Sally, “Speaking of which, isn’t there a Beast of Exmoor? I heard someone talking about it.”
Sally gave a small laugh. “You’ve caught up with some of our local folklore.”
Corky’s face tensed. “Don’t tell me there’s some kind of monster on the loose around here!”
“It’s what you would call an old wives’ tale,” Sally said. “The most popular theory is that a few pumas and leopards were released into the wild around here, back in the sixties, after a law was passed that made it illegal for them to be kept as pets in captivity outside of a zoo.”
“Oh, dear,” Corky said.
“Rest assured, no one has ever documented their existence, let alone been attacked by one,” our guide said.
The van abruptly swung to the left and back. “Sorry ’bout that,” Howie said. “I needed to avoid a stray lamb in the road.”
“I think you wrenched my back,” Ronald Gretz growled.
“I’ll give you one of my rubdowns,” his wife purred. “You like those.”
“Can’t you keep your trap shut?” he snapped. “Everyone doesn’t have to know about your damn rubdowns!”
Summer fell quiet. Billie leaned close to me and whispered, “I think the Beast of Exmoor is real after all.”
No further outbreaks marred the rest of the journey. I continued to be captivated by the roadside vistas: neatly trimmed hedges bordering pastures on which sheep and cattle grazed, green meadows unfurling beyond toward forested hills. Overhead, small cotton-ball clouds flo. . .
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