Buried by the Sea

Book 5: By the Sea Mystery

by Kathleen Bridge

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

At her family’s hotel on a Florida barrier island, sleuthing novelist Liz Holt is shocked by a hidden treasure—and a buried body . . .
 
A team of archaeologists is staying at Indialantic by the Sea to study the days of the Spanish explorers, and they’ve stumbled upon a stunning and valuable find at the dig site, but before they can unearth it one of the archeologists finds himself buried in the sand and pierced with diving spear tipped with poison.
 
The local sheriff’s department accuses the owner of the neighboring property, Liz’s elderly reclusive friend and naturalist, Birdman, of the crime. Liz is sure—well, pretty sure—he is innocent and sets her sights on the remaining four archeologists.
 
With the help of her PI boyfriend and an octogenarian hotel resident, and two mischievous pet parrots, Liz must dig into the mystery of who buried the scientist and absconded with the artifacts he’d promised would put him in Florida history books—before she becomes history herself . . .
 
Recipes included!
 
Praise for Kathleen Bridge
 
“Discerning cozy mystery fans who delight in well-developed characters, rich detail, and a smart plotline will find that Kathleen Bridge’s A Design to Die For is their cup of tea!”
—Ellery Adams, New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author
 
Ghostal Living is a marvelously entertaining tale of revenge, murder, quirky characters—and disappearing books! With a clever protagonist, wonderful details of life in the Hamptons, and plot twists on top of plot twists, Kathleen Bridge will have mystery readers clamoring for more.”
—Kate Carlisle, New York Times bestselling author

“The descriptions of furniture and other antiques, as well as juicy tidbits on the Hamptons, make for entertaining reading for those who enjoy both antiques and lifestyles of the rich and famous.”
—Booklist on Better Homes and Corpses
 

Release date: April 13, 2021

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 235

Sample

You take away the loose earth, and you scrape here and there with a knife until finally your object is there, all alone, ready to be drawn and photographed with no extraneous matter confusing it. That is what I have been seeking to do—clear away the extraneous matter so that we can see the truth—the naked shining truth.

—Agatha Christie

Chapter 1

Aunt Amelia tapped a long stick with a pointed rubber tip against the seventy-inch flat-screen TV. “Children, children, listen up.” Using the remote in her other hand, she pressed Play. “This is especially important, and something every actor needs to pay attention to. Even though the camera is centered on Jonathan Frid, can you catch the nuanced way in which I enter the room?” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Can you see how the focus shifts immediately from him to me? That’s what makes a good actor. So many clues are given in just this short scene. Like, what could possibly be in the glass I am carrying on the silver tray? Am I afraid of the person sitting in the wing chair? Everything can be answered by viewing my expression and the fluidity of my movements.”

She aimed the remote and paused on a close-up of herself, a young, twentysomething Amelia Eden Holt. “On a side note,” she said, grinning through fuchsia lips that glowed neon in the darkened space, “how fabulous did hair and makeup do in that shot? They made me look ten years older than I was. A lot different from when I played the sixteen-year-old cousin of Billie Jo, Bobbie Jo, and Betty Jo on Petticoat Junction. The hardest part of the episode was keeping track of which Jo was which.” Aunt Amelia giggled. The others in the room just looked confused. One of the girls yawned. If Aunt Amelia heard her, she pretended not to, then she played the next scene in s-l-o-w-w motion. “There!” Tap, tap with her stick. “When I placed the tray with the glass of claret on the table, did anyone catch the tremor in my hand? Is that a foreshadowing of what’s to come in the next frame? It just might be.” She froze the screen.

Liz twirled her left hand in the air, giving her eighty-year-old great-aunt the wrap-it-up sign from the back of the room. Aunt Amelia glanced her way, then continued with her presentation.

The scene in TV’s Dark Shadows was one Liz had watched numerous times in the Indialantic by the Sea Hotel’s screening room. It ran only two minutes, but with her great-aunt’s long commentary it seemed like twenty. It was a good thing the girls were ordered to leave their cell phones in the plastic bin by the studio door, giving them no choice but to pay attention. No one, not even her thespian great-aunt, could compete with that kind of distraction.

“Now,” Aunt Amelia continued, excitement catching in her voice, “even though my face is offscreen and I’m standing behind Jonathan as he reaches out his pale, bony hand, sporting the Collins family crest gold ring, you can still feel my presence. I am there. Waiting for the exact right moment to deliver my line. But first, I must wait until he tastes the claret. That’s a particularly important acting tip. Never rush a scene. And of course, don’t overshadow your fellow actors, especially when doing live television broadcasts. We were ahead of our time, I tell you. What a long day it made. But we saw the results in our paychecks and our huge fan base.” Aunt Amelia chuckled, then pointed her stick at the screen. All that could be seen peeking out from behind a wing chair was a headless figure wearing a black cotton dress and white French maid’s pinafore, a pair of shapely legs, and black-laced shoes. “Okay, get ready for it,” Aunt Amelia said, pressing the remote. “Jonathan is tasting the claret. There! He just put down the glass. Now, listen carefully to my line. Will there be anything else, Mr. Collins?” Aunt Amelia leaned the stick against the podium, placed the TV remote on top, then clapped her hands. Looking expectantly at her audience, which consisted of eight tween-aged females, she asked, “Did you catch it, ladies? The tremble in my voice?”

A ponytailed brunette wearing glasses and braces asked, “Miss Amelia, why are his teeth so pointy? And what is that gooey stuff that looks like Hershey’s chocolate syrup dribbling down his chin and onto his girly lace blouse? Is he sick?”

“Oh, he’s not ill, dear Melissa. Since this early episode was filmed in black and white, I think our director wanted to make our viewers imagine that the ruby-red claret might have been blood. Because that’s what—”

“He’s a vampire?” one of the girls in the front row asked excitedly.

“Oh yes! Barnabas Collins was a wonderful vampire. The part of a lifetime. Our show, Dark Shadows, set the bar for what a well-layered vampire should be. We had werewolves and witches too. Very avant-garde for our time.”

Sitting next to the brunette, a tall, skinny blonde with perfect posture said, “I think the guy’s creepy looking. Nothing like Edward from the Twilight movies. So-o-o old school. I think this prehistoric soap opera is what my old acting coach would call campy.” She got up dramatically and headed for the door. Looking down at the large, square-faced watch on her thin wrist, she addressed the girls, not Aunt Amelia. “Just got a text from my agency about another commercial. Catch ya later.” Obviously, the young prima donna hadn’t needed a cell phone to connect to cyberspace. She grabbed her cell from the bucket, and as she passed Liz, the girl pointed to the four-inch scar on Liz’s cheek. “Is that for a part? Needs to look more realistic if it is.”

Before Liz could answer that the scar was indeed the real thing, the girl breezed out the door. It seemed Aunt Amelia had met her match. Not that Liz was complaining. This might be one venture that would truly keep her great-aunt out of harm’s way, especially after the last disastrous event she’d spearheaded to keep the Holt family-run hotel and emporium financially solvent: a wedding gone wrong—dead wrong. The Amelia Eden Holt School of Acting seemed a safer bet. Another plus: between the acting school and her great-aunt’s time at the Melbourne Beach Theatre Company, she would be too busy to interfere with the guests staying at the hotel.

With her father and Charlotte off on their European wedding and honeymoon, and assistant hotel manager Susannah Shay away at a two-week family reunion, Liz had promised to take care of her great-aunt and help with the running of the Indialantic by the Sea Hotel and Emporium. Fortunately, Liz was between books. Her most recent book, An American in Cornwall, was scheduled to come out in the fall. She had a few weeks before she had to deliver a synopsis for her next book, which would be the third in the trilogy. The first novel took place during World War I, the second during World War II, and the yet-to-be-written novel, in modern day. The only link between the three was that they all took place at the same castle in Cornwall, England.

So far, things were easy, breezy with the guests. She hoped it would stay that way. The group of archeologists who’d been staying at the hotel for the past week had been low maintenance. Breakfast and dinner were served buffet-style in the hotel’s dining room. For lunch, the hotel’s resident chef made bagged meals worthy of a three-star Michelin restaurant for the group to take with them to their dig site, which was located at the adjoining property to the Indialantic.

The team had come to find further proof that Spanish explorer Juan Ponce de León had first landed in Melbourne Beach, Florida, not St. Augustine, as many had thought for decades. The junglelike Bennett property next door—the only unexplored six acres on the barrier island that wasn’t part of the National Park Service—had seemed the best place to start.

There had been one thing involving the group that had caused Liz a modicum of worry. This morning, she’d overheard a heated argument between Dr. Nigel Crawford and his wife Dr. Haven Smith-Crawford. Something about the Mrs. flirting with someone and an astronomical credit card bill. They’d been booked in the hotel’s best suite, the Oceana Suite, and Liz knew from helping the hotel’s housekeeper Greta clean the suite that the Crawfords didn’t share a bed. Dr. Nigel slept on the open pullout sofa in the sitting room and Dr. Haven in the bedroom. Their voices had been heated, each berating the other. A pair of excellent marksmen with their zingers, both going for the jugular. No one was the winner because they seemed evenly matched—like the couple in the movie The War of the Roses—only on steroids. Then, half an hour later when Liz passed them in the hallway, their frowns had turned upside down and they’d acted like a couple of lovebirds.

Based on all the past troubles, including a few murder investigations that the Holt family had gone through since Liz moved back from Manhattan, she couldn’t help but be overly cautious when it came to the Indialantic’s guests. But she was determined to mind her own business, and thanked her lucky stars that she and Ryan were in a deep, loving relationship. He was definitely the one. The relationship she’d had before Ryan had been a colossal mistake. At the thought of Travis, she instinctively traced the scar on her cheek. It had taken time, but she’d forgiven him for his part in the accident. Travis had been drunk and out of his mind. It was amazing the feeling of peace she had now. All thanks to a good therapist and twelve-step meetings aimed at helping people impacted by the alcohol and drug problems of others. She’d learned you can’t change anyone, only yourself. Who knew forgiving could bring such peace. Too bad Travis had never found any, she thought.

Aunt Amelia tapped her stick at the screen, which now showed a close-up of actress Barbara Eden, the star of the sixties sitcom I Dream of Jeannie. She was telling the girls about how it felt to be on set with the actor Larry Hagman, who played Major Anthony Nelson and later went on to star in Dallas. “Who shot J.R.?” Aunt Amelia said, adding a belly laugh.

A roomful of blank faces looked back at her. Maybe her great-aunt should have enrolled only baby boomers, instead of babies. But she didn’t give up. “Now, let’s move on to this scene of mine on the musical television show The Monkees. And no, girls, they aren’t the Beatles, but in my opinion, a close second.”

That was stretching it, Liz thought.

More yawns from the girls. Liz tried to think of a way to keep the kids’ parents from asking for their money back. She raised her hand and said, “Miss Amelia, didn’t they do a Dark Shadows movie starring Johnny Depp?”

That was the ticket. The conversation did a one-eighty back to vampires and other creatures of the night.

Liz exhaled in relief when Betty walked into the acting studio. Not only was she happy to see Betty because of the distraction, but she knew of all of them, Betty was best at wrangling midcentury television character actress Amelia Eden Holt into the twenty-first century.

Out of breath, Betty slid into the chair next to Liz and whispered, “How’s the first class going? And where are all the boys?”

“Girls only. I thought she’d lost them, but once the words ‘vampire’ and ‘werewolf’ were mentioned, they seemed to perk up.”

“I’m sure at the end of the session Amelia will be able to give out a trophy to the student who’s able to name every sixties television show she starred in.”

“Don’t forget all the commercials,” Liz added. “Thank God Barnacle Bob’s not here. He’d be singing all of Auntie’s midcentury jingles.”

“Where’s the bratty macaw?”

“Taking a time-out in the elevator. Apparently, he’s not getting along with Aunt Amelia’s flamboyant new rescue macaw, Carmen Miranda. Or I should say, she wants nothing to do with him.”

“Thought macaws mated for life,” Betty said.

“I have a feeling Carmen might have already mated for life. We know nothing of her past. She was just another macaw left at the doorstep of the Melbourne Avian Rescue Shelter. BB might be out of luck in the romance department. Not that he doesn’t keep trying.”

Betty unwound a turquoise silk scarf from around her neck, draped it on the chair next to her, then reached into her handbag and took out a bottle of water. After removing the cap, she chugged the whole thing. Beads of sweat bubbled near her hairline. Liz had never seen eighty-three-year-old Betty Lawson, teenage-mystery writer and year-round Indialantic Hotel resident, sweat. Then again, it was sunny and ninety-five outside. Not unusual island weather for the end of August. “You okay? I don’t think in all the years I’ve known you that I’ve seen you perspire.”

Betty laughed. “That’s because I’m usually smart enough to stay inside in the middle of the day, only going out in the early morning or evening. I was at the dig site. It’s getting quite exciting over there.”

Betty’s cheeks pinked, and Liz didn’t think it was from the heat. Glancing at Betty’s sleeveless white sheath dress, she said, “Well, I’ll be, Betty Lawson. You’re all dressed up. Is this to impress your old archeologist boyfriend?”

“Walter is not an old boyfriend. Well, he was. Kind of. But we only dated for a short time. After he introduced me to my future husband there was no going back. Best decision I ever made.”

“From what you’ve told me about your happy marriage, I’m sure it was. But maybe it’s time to rekindle things with Professor Talbot. After all, it was you who suggested that the group stay at the Indialantic.”

“As a favor to Amelia after he called me. No. That ship has sailed. Walter and I have barely kept in touch over the past fifty-some years.”

“Plus, you have our illustrious Captain Clyde B. Netherton at your beck and call,” Liz added. “I think he’s jealous of Professor Talbot; I saw him staring at the two of you at dinner last night.”

“It’ll be good for him,” Betty said with a twinkle in her alert gray eyes. “Plus, Clyde is the biggest flirt on the Atlantic coast.”

“Used to be. Until you finally reeled him in.”

“I did no such thing!”

Liz couldn’t read her. Betty had the best poker face on the planet. She’d known Betty most of her life, and Betty still refused to disclose which five Nancy Drew books she’d ghostwritten in the 1960s under the pseudonym of Carolyn Keene.

“Quiet in the back,” Aunt Amelia called out.

“Sorry. My bad,” Liz said. She wasn’t that frightened of the woman at the front of the room even if she was carrying a big stick. Her great-aunt had been like a mother to her, taking the place of her own mother who’d passed away when Liz was five.

“Oh, Betty, is that you?” Aunt Amelia cooed, stepping toward them. “I’m so glad you stopped by. Please stand up. I’d love the girls to meet you. Ms. Lawson’s new Sherlock Holmes London Chimney Sweep Mysteries has been optioned to become a prime-channel television series, and Ms. Lawson deserves a round of applause.” Aunt Amelia clapped her hands and the seven girls joined in. “Bravo, Betty. Bravo!” Aunt Amelia cheered.

Before standing up, Betty whispered to Liz, “I live at the Indialantic. I didn’t stop by. I was more like ordered to make an appearance by Dame Holt.”

“Please, Betty,” Aunt Amelia cajoled, reaching out her bejeweled fingers, which sported long acrylic nails in her signature shade of dragon red and were adorned with an assortment of oversize rings. Instead of wearing her fiery orange hair on the top of her head in large soup-can curls, her great-aunt had tried for a stern schoolteacher’s bun. Which would have been fine if she’d toned down her pearlescent baby-blue eye shadow, black winged eyeliner, and oversize stenciled eyebrows. Aunt Amelia usually wore jewel-toned, diaphanous boho-style caftans, but today she had on a black leotard, a transparent black organza side-tie skirt, and black tap shoes. She looked ready to perform a dance scene from Bob Fosse’s All That Jazz. Who was Liz fooling; she was sure her great-aunt would break out in song and dance at some point. It was just a matter of time.

“Betty, I mean Ms. Lawson, I’d like you to meet my class.” Aunt Amelia grabbed Betty’s wrist and pulled her to the front of the studio. Putting her arm around Betty’s thin shoulders, she said, “Ms. Lawson, if these young ladies work real-ly, real-ly hard at their craft, maybe in the near future they might win a role on your series.” Aunt Amelia was no dummy, dangling the fame-and-fortune carrot in front of her teenage protégées. “As part of your tuition, girls, Ms. Lawson has kindly offered to give each of you a copy of The Insensible Equation, the first in her series.”

Betty fielded questions from the girls: like who was going to play the lead character in the series, and how wonderful it would be if the girl chimney-sweep character, who dressed like a boy and helped Sherlock Holmes solve small cases, could be an unknown like one of them.

“It’s not beyond the realm of possibility. Right, Ms. Lawson?” Aunt Amelia elbowed Betty.

Betty elbowed her back and said, “Just because my books have been optioned for the screen doesn’t mean they’ll make it past the pilot episode. And I don’t think I’ll have a say when it comes to casting. Plus, they’ll be filming in England.”

“Pshaw!” Aunt Amelia said, shaking her head. “You’re being too modest. I’m sure you’ll have full control. After all, it is your work. From your own very own imagination, right, girls? I think it’s very safe to say that if one of these young ladies plays their cards right, they might have a chance to be at least a street urchin with a few key lines. Don’t you think, Ms. Lawson?” Again, she elbowed Betty, only this time in the ribs.

“Oh, just think, Miss Amelia!” Melissa said, her eyes as big as her adoration. “Maybe I’ll be discovered, just like you were!”

“Yes. I was lucky, and you might be too.” Aunt Amelia winked at Betty, and a section of her false eyelashes on her right eye came unglued and took flight, then landed. In a deft motion, Aunt Amelia peeled it off her cheek and stuck it back in place. No one but Liz was the wiser. Then, not missing a beat, Aunt Amelia took a few steps away from Betty and threw her arms out theatrically. “There are so many stories about famous actors who started out as nobodies. John Wayne was one. Did you know his real name was Marion Morrison? Why, he—”

Betty interrupted Aunt Amelia, no doubt reading the girls’ clueless faces. “And Stefani Germanotta is Lady Gaga’s real name.” Leave it to Betty to keep up with the times. Maybe it had something to do with her expertise in cybersleuthing and knowledge of anything of an IT nature. Aunt Amelia was still learning how to text.

Liz decided now would be the perfect time to sneak out and check on things at the hotel. If everything was status quo, she planned to investigate how the archeologists were doing at the dig site. She grabbed her handbag and headed to the door, swiped her cell from the bucket, and stepped into the emporium’s hallway.

She was afraid to look back, knowing Betty would probably be shooting her the evil eye for abandoning her.

Every woman for herself.

Especially when it came to her great-aunt.

Chapter 2

Everything was quiet at the hotel. Liz breathed a sigh of relief, grabbed her hat, and hurried out the lobby’s revolving door, wanting to see if there were any new developments at the dig site. With the rich history attributed to their barrier island, anything was possible. The team had the potential to unearth something from sixteenth-century Spanish explorers like Ponce de León, or maybe they would find a shard of pottery or canoe from the Native American Ais tribe, like a member of the histori. . .