Foul Play at the Seaview Hotel

Book 3: A Helen Dexter Cosy Crime Mystery

by Glenda Young

Genres: Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Helen Dexter is enjoying the new four-star status of the Seaview Hotel. But she begins to wonder if this accolade is cursed when a series of disasters strike. It starts when a crazy golf team arrive to play in a Scarborough tournament. Their odd behaviour heightens when the rival team captain turns up. Yet, there's worse to come when one of the guests is murdered playing crazy golf. Then the Seaview's prize-winning cook Jean quits, and so, as Helen's 50th birthday approaches, the last thing she's in the mood for is a celebration. However, mysterious invitations arrive to a party that Helen doesn't want. Can Helen unmask the crazy golf killer, save the reputation of the Seaview, win Jean back and solve the mystery of the party invitations? With her rescue greyhound Suki by her side, Helen Dexter is on the case.

Release date: May 11, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 336

Sample

The Seaview Hotel was Helen Dexter’s pride and joy. It was her home and her business, her life. The hotel had a lot going for it; it was an attractive building on the corner of King’s Parade, overlooking Scarborough’s North Bay on the beautiful Yorkshire coast. It had ten rooms, three storeys, and a rescue greyhound called Suki, who lived quietly and uncomplaining in the basement apartment with Helen.

Helen’s next-door neighbour, Miriam, thought herself and her hotel, the Vista del Mar, a cut above the Seaview. However, Helen had invested her savings, time and effort into the place, and her hard work had paid off. After a recent visit from the hotel inspector, it had been upgraded to four stars. Her heart had burst with pride when she’d gained her award, while Miriam had reacted to the news with one of her cutting comments. ‘They give four stars to anyone these days.’

However, the plaque that Helen had been sent displaying her four glittering stars wouldn’t hang straight on the wall.

‘This wall’s wonky,’ she moaned to Jean as she stood on the front step on a warm day in early June.

Jean was the Seaview’s cook, a no-nonsense Yorkshirewoman in her mid-sixties, responsible for the hotel’s award-winning breakfasts. She was short and stocky, with cropped blonde hair, and wore large glasses that slid down her nose. She was constantly pushing them back, an affectation that was beginning to irritate Helen after a frustrating hour trying to hang the plaque.

Helen held an electric drill in one hand, a spirit level in the other. She laid them both down and picked up the plaque, but once again, it dipped to one side. Exasperated, she left it hanging at an angle and sat down on the step. Jean looked on with her hands on her hips, tutting and shaking her head.

‘It’s not the wall that’s wonky. It’s the way you’ve drilled those holes.’

Helen gritted her teeth. In all the decades they’d worked together, she’d never fallen out with Jean. When she had bought the Seaview with her husband, Tom, they’d taken Jean on with the fixtures and fittings. She’d come to rely on her more than ever since Tom had passed away. Jean had been her rock, the person she turned to when times got tough, the person who gave her advice whether she wanted to hear it or not. But right then, what Helen wanted was for Jean to stop complaining and give her some support. She didn’t know what it was, she couldn’t say for sure, but something about the woman had begun to annoy her lately.

‘For heaven’s sake, the holes are perfectly straight,’ she said. Her words came out with more anger than she’d intended. She looked up at Jean. ‘Sorry. I’m frustrated with the stupid thing. I’ve worked so hard to earn our four stars, but I can’t even display them.’

Jean grabbed hold of the wall and eased herself down to sit beside Helen. When she was finally down, she pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose. ‘My knees aren’t what they were. I hope I can stand up again.’

The two women sat in silence. Ahead, gentle waves rolled in to the wide, curved bay. To the right were the ruins of Scarborough Castle, while to the left, the coast turned to Scalby Ness. Clifftops of yellow and green stretched into the distance as far as Saltburn and Staithes. Helen turned her face to the sun, which was beginning to poke through the clouds. She felt herself begin to relax, her shoulders dropped, and with a pang of guilt, she glanced at Jean. ‘I’m sorry for losing my temper.’

Jean grunted. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you’ve been losing it a lot lately. You haven’t been yourself for some time. You seem to have lost your sparkle.’

‘My sparkle?’ Helen laughed. ‘You really think I’ve got a sparkle?’

Jean shrugged. ‘You used to. And there are still days when you throw your head back to laugh, or sing along to the radio, and I think to myself, “There’s the old Helen, she’s back.” But you haven’t done either of those things in a while.’

Helen let Jean’s words sink in. ‘Feels like it’s going to be another nice day,’ she said at last, staying safe on the topic of weather. ‘I hope Sally’s having a good time. I wonder what she’s up to today?’

Jean gently nudged her in the ribs. ‘The girl’s on her honeymoon. What do you think she’ll be up to?’

Sally was the cleaner at the Seaview. She was currently in a caravan in Norfolk with her new husband, local entrepreneur Gav, and her five-year-old daughter, Gracie.

‘It was a lovely wedding, wasn’t it?’ Jean said. ‘You did Sally and Gav proud holding the party here.’

Helen put her hand on her forehead. ‘I’ve still got the hangover to prove it. You’re right, though, it was gorgeous. It’s the first time I’ve ever been a matron of honour. I was overjoyed when Sally asked me. And little Gracie looked gorgeous in her bridesmaid’s dress. Mind you, Sally’s mum wasn’t what I expected.’

Jean shot her a look. ‘In what way?’

Helen thought about Brenda, who’d never cracked a smile at the wedding. ‘She didn’t seem as happy as you’d expect the mother of the bride to be,’ she said. ‘I tried talking to her, but she didn’t open up much, seemed a bit private, you know. Anyway, fancy you catching the bride’s bouquet! Oh Jean, your face was a picture.’

Jean harrumphed with displeasure. ‘I’ve already told you, I didn’t mean to catch it, I only grabbed it before it hit me. I’ll never get married again. I’ve got used to being on my own since Archie died.’ She gave Helen a sidelong glance. ‘Speaking of fellas . . .’

Helen shifted uncomfortably. ‘Were we?’

‘. . . any news from your Jimmy?’

Helen looked out at the sea. Jimmy was the first man she’d had feelings for since Tom died. So far, all they’d shared was a couple of chaste kisses. She couldn’t bring herself to take it further, not with Tom on her mind every day. Besides, Jimmy kept leaving to work overseas in his job as an Elvis impersonator. She didn’t know where she stood with him. One minute he was in Scarborough, the next he was jetting off to work in a bar in Benidorm, or Madeira, or on a cruise ship with his singing troupe of twelve Elvis impersonators, Twelvis. He was a good-looking man, tall and muscular, with dark hair greying around his ears. He was the same age as Helen, who currently felt that she was heading too fast to middle age. Her fiftieth birthday loomed. Jean had been pestering her to throw a party at the Seaview, but Helen had put her off. Reaching fifty didn’t feel like celebrating a milestone, it felt like ushering in a mid-life crisis.

‘Well, have you heard from him or not?’ Jean asked.

‘First of all, Jean, he’s not my Jimmy. Second of all, as far as I know, he’s still working in the Elvis bar on the Costa del Sol.’ She stood, hoping to dismiss further questions, but she should have known better, because Jean rarely gave up. Jean reached for the wall and pulled herself to standing. She blew air from her mouth, then stood there with her arms crossed, glaring at Helen.

‘When’s he coming back?’

Helen waved her hand dismissively. ‘The truth is, it’s complicated, with Tom on my mind all the time. How can I even think about starting a new relationship with Jimmy when all I want is my beloved husband back?’

‘You could have got to know Jimmy better and taken your mind off Tom a little. But you haven’t even visited him in Spain, and he invited you out there all expenses paid,’ Jean said.

There was a beat of silence while Helen chose the right words to say. The truth was, she’d deliberately held back on visiting Jimmy while he worked overseas. Before he’d left, her relationship with him had been developing at pace, and it scared her that some days he was on her mind more than Tom. It left her conflicted and guilty.

‘I couldn’t leave the Seaview and jet off to Spain, Jean,’ she said.

Jean gave her a knowing look. ‘Couldn’t . . . or wouldn’t?’ she said.

Helen sighed. ‘Just like when you married Archie, I swore to love Tom for the rest of my life. Now he’s no longer here, there are still days when I feel lost without him.’

Jean laid her hand on Helen’s arm. ‘You’re a young woman, with your whole life ahead of you.’

‘Young? I turn fifty soon,’ Helen sighed.

‘And you should be celebrating it with a big party. The old Helen would have done so.’

‘Oh Jean, there won’t be a flaming party! Would you just drop it!’ Helen cried, too loud and too sudden.

Jean dropped her hand and took a step back. Her glasses slipped down her nose again, but she was so stunned by the outburst that she just left them there. She stared at Helen open-mouthed. ‘Well, someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do before our guests arrive.’

‘I’ve upset you again, haven’t I?’ Helen sighed again. ‘I’m sorry, Jean. I have lost my sparkle, you’re right. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep seeing problems instead of opportunities. It’s not like me at all.’

‘You’re at a funny age, love,’ Jean said gently. ‘Turning fifty can do that to a woman. That’s why you should celebrate it with a party and show the world you’re not fearful of the big five-oh.’

Helen bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from telling Jean to stop going on about a party she didn’t want. She forced her thoughts instead to the guests arriving that day.

‘One of the teams playing in the crazy-golf tournament is coming to stay with us. They’re due before lunch.’

‘Oh, don’t talk to me about them,’ Jean huffed. ‘A woman called Olga has already emailed a list of sandwiches they want served on arrival. There’s a lot of protein on their list – they say they need energy to play crazy golf. They’ve even asked for power breakfasts each day! What’s a power breakfast when it’s at home? I ask you! It’s not as if crazy golf’s a real sport, and yet they’re behaving as if they’re Olympians.’

As Jean was speaking, Helen’s attention turned to the Vista del Mar. She was sure she’d seen a curtain twitch at the window. She took another look, concerned that Miriam was snooping and might have overheard her bickering with Jean.

‘They’re not even athletes,’ Jean continued, unaware that Helen was no longer listening. ‘I mean, crazy golf, adventure golf, mini golf or whatever you call it, it’s just a game, isn’t it? What do they need these so-called power breakfasts for? They’ll have sausage and beans and be done with it. I can’t be catering for whims at my age.’

Helen caught Miriam’s eye through the window. Miriam nodded politely and made a show of arranging the curtains. However, Helen knew the other woman better than that, and knew she’d been prying.

‘I’ve put their meal requests in the blue file in the kitchen, in the usual place,’ Jean continued.

‘Sorry, what was that?’ Helen said as Miriam disappeared.

‘You never listen to me these days, do you?’ Jean tutted. ‘Oh, before I head to the kitchen, is there any news from the staffing agency about getting a cleaner in this week while Sally’s away?’

Helen pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and glanced at the screen. ‘Not yet.’

‘You know I would have covered for her and done the cleaning, don’t you? Getting an outsider in should have been a last resort.’

Helen tapped her fingers on the wall, remembering something Sally had told her. ‘Sally said her mum would help out while she was away. She gave me her number, but I’m not sure about ringing her. I mean, she wasn’t too friendly at the wedding. But I suppose we could do worse. Maybe I should give her the benefit of the doubt. At least we know we can trust her. Sally’s a hard-working girl, salt of the earth; she must have got her work ethic from someone. I’ll give Brenda a ring and ask her in for a chat over coffee and cake. Could you bake one of your lemon drizzles?’

‘Course I can, love. It’s been a while since we had one of those.’

Jean padded away inside the Seaview as Helen turned to look at the sea again. An ice-cream van, its engine spluttering, trundled along the road, leaving a whining, mournful rendition of ‘Greensleeves’ in its wake. Helen picked up the drill and spirit level, then walked into the hall and closed the Seaview’s front door. As it slammed shut, the wonky plaque fell off the wall.

Helen and Jean walked downstairs to Helen’s apartment. It was small, with one bedroom, and an open-plan kitchen and living room that opened on to a patio. Helen’s kitchen was where Jean prepared and cooked breakfast for the Seaview’s guests, sending plates up to the dining room in the ancient dumbwaiter. When Helen entered the living room, Suki was pacing the floor. She recognised the signs and patted her hand against her jeans-clad thigh. ‘Come on, girl, I’ll take you for your walk.’

The greyhound walked obediently to her side.

‘I’m taking the dog out, Jean. I’ll be half an hour tops, and back before our guests arrive.’

Jean took a clean apron from a drawer, pulled it over her head and tied the straps around her ample frame. ‘Right you are, love,’ she replied. ‘I’ll try making this flaming power lunch they’ve asked for.’ She scanned a sheet of paper on the bench, and as she read, her lip curled with distaste. ‘Chia seeds, goji berries, manuka honey. It’s like a foreign language. Alfalfa sprouts? Are they related to Brussels sprouts? I’ve never heard of half the stuff on this list. And if I’ve never heard of it, they’re not getting it. You did tell them we’ve won awards for our full English breakfasts, didn’t you? I mean, that’s what I do, it’s my thing. You’ve already pushed me out of my comfort zone adding kippers and porridge to the menu. But this is too much.’

‘Jean, we need to respect our guests’ requests for different types of food. It’s one of the requirements of keeping our four-star status.’

Jean pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose, then tapped the list. ‘Leafy greens I can cope with. Non-starchy vegetables I can cook. High-fibre, non-sugary cereals I can serve up at breakfast. But . . .’ she peered at the list, ‘matcha tea smoothies for breakfast? Oh dear me, no. I’ve never made anything with matcha tea, whatever it is, and I’m not about to start making it now.’

‘Jean, please . . .’ Helen began, but Suki was chattering her teeth, a greyhound trait that meant she was agitated. Jean sighed heavily, then pushed the piece of paper with the food requests away, dismissing it for now.

‘I’ve got to take the dog out,’ Helen said testily as she clipped Suki’s lead to her collar, and led her out of the Seaview’s back door.

Once outside, she took long, deep breaths of sea air. The June day was warm, there wasn’t a breath of wind, and the sky was eggshell blue. She led Suki around the corner of King’s Parade, then zigzagged her way down the hill to the beach. Walking the greyhound always helped calm her mind, and when she reached the sand, she let her off the lead. Suki trotted ahead. Helen was feeling troubled, angry at the world for reasons she couldn’t explain. It wasn’t the best frame of mind to be in at any time, never mind when new guests were due. And so, with each step she took, with each wave that frilled to the shore, she tried to process her thoughts, to get to the root of why she felt so upset.

Was it Jean, refusing to cook things she wasn’t used to? Was it Miriam, spying on her that morning when she’d lost her temper with Jean? Was it Jimmy, who, despite what she’d told Jean, had messaged her that morning to say he was on his way to Scarborough with surprise news, but annoyingly wouldn’t tell her what it was? Was it her best friend, Marie, who still hadn’t replied to her messages and calls and had been spending time with their old school friend Sandra DeVine instead?

Tears made their way to her eyes. She was feeling sorry for herself and she knew it. Oh, each one of those people – Jean, Miriam, Jimmy, Marie – was niggling at her in their own way. And turning fifty soon didn’t help. It brought unwelcome thoughts of growing old, alone, trying to run the Seaview when she was past it, washed up. But deep down she knew the real reason she was feeling so low. It was the anniversary of her first date with Tom. It wasn’t a wedding anniversary or a birthday, nothing she could mark with a card or a drink. It was a day only she knew, special just to her. She stopped walking, closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun.

‘I miss you, Tom,’ she whispered.

She felt a nudge against her leg and looked down, smiling when she saw Suki. She got down on her haunches and stroked the dog’s long, thin head, running her hands over her smooth caramel coat. ‘You miss him too, girl, I know,’ she said. Suki gently nuzzled into Helen’s hands. ‘We both miss him and always will.’

She looked around for a dry spot on the sand and found one near the sea wall. She sat for a while with her back to the hotel, watching the sea, remembering Tom: how he looked, how he smelled. How easily the memories came. Suki stood at her side and Helen wrapped her arm around the dog’s neck. She thought of their life together in Scarborough, the town they’d grown up in, the town they’d both loved, the town Helen would never leave. Scarborough would always be home. It was Tom and the Seaview, and it was Jean and . . .

Her heart dropped. She owed Jean an apology for being so terse, and decided to do it as soon as she returned. Once she’d done that, she planned to change out of her jeans and fleece, put on her favourite blouse, patterned with forget-me-not flowers, and get ready for her guests. Their rooms were prepared with fresh linen and towels, kettles and teacups, coffee sachets and milk pots. The lounge and dining room were spotless.

Helen smiled at the thought of crazy-golf teams coming to Scarborough. The tournament had been featured on the local news, and the organisers had invited a surprise celebrity to open it. The course they were using was Norman’s Nine, a nine-hole course by the harbour on the South Bay. It featured models of Scarborough landmarks, including a scale model of the castle, where players hit balls through the gate tower, avoiding the moat.

She ran through in her mind what she’d do once her guests arrived and she’d checked them in. She’d ring Brenda to ask her if she’d like some cleaning work while Sally was on honeymoon. She’d enjoy coffee and cake and a proper catch-up with Jean. She’d google chia seeds and manuka honey and gently encourage Jean to take such things in her stride. Feeling more determined and less unsettled, she whispered again to the wind, ‘Love you, Tom.’ Then she stood, turned and walked back towards the Seaview with Suki.

On the way, she began to feel more relaxed and assured, ready to apologise. It wouldn’t do to get on the wrong side of Jean. She depended on her for everything: cooking her award-winning breakfasts, cleaning the kitchen, being a shoulder to cry on, a rock to prop her up when she felt down, a source of news and gossip, a confidante. In short, without Jean, the Seaview wouldn’t be the success that it was, and it certainly wouldn’t have earned its four stars. She was a powerhouse of a woman, a sweetheart or a battleaxe depending on who she was dealing with and whether she needed to scare or seduce in order to get what she needed.

Helen hurried on, ready to throw her arms around her and tell her she was sorry for being so sharp. Then she changed her mind. Jean wouldn’t appreciate being hugged; she baulked at too much physical contact. She was a woman who kept her emotions in check. Helen decided that instead she’d put the kettle on. She’d let Jean have a rest, ply her with coffee and biscuits – was it too late to pop to the shop to buy custard creams, to butter her up with her favourites?

She was about to walk past the end of King’s Parade to head to the shop when she caught sight of two orange Gav’s Cabs outside the Seaview. ‘Oh no!’ she cried. She looked at her watch, then back at the cabs unloading their passengers. There was no time for custard creams, she realised. There was no time to shower and change out of her dog-walking clothes. There was no time to warn Jean that their guests had arrived. For there could be no mistaking that these were their guests, the crazy golfers, clambering out of the cabs with golf clubs and sports bags and walking up the steps to the Seaview’s front door.

Helen picked up her pace and Suki trotted to keep up. When she reached the Seaview, she dug into her pocket for her key, then plastered on her professional smile.

‘Good morning!’ she called, waving at the group on the hotel steps. She noticed they were standing in line, one after another, politely queuing.

‘I’m Mrs Dexter . . . Helen,’ she said, slightly breathless. ‘And this is my dog, Suki. She’s not allowed in the front of the hotel, so I’ll just leave her here for a few moments.’

She looked around, flustered, trying to find somewhere to tie Suki’s lead while she dealt with her guests. They were over two hours early and had caught her on the hop.

‘Sorry, everyone, I’m normally more organised than this,’ she said as she attached the lead to the gate. Suki stood there without fuss. Helen brushed her hands on her fleece jacket, then pushed her bobbed hair behind her ears. ‘And I’m normally better dressed when I greet my guests.’

She ran up the steps, and as she was about to slide her key in the lock, she noticed her new plaque lying on the ground. It was scuffed on one side from its fall. She scooped it up, then opened the door, tucking the plaque behind it, out of sight. Standing to one side, she allowed her guests to enter.

First in was a young woman with long red hair tied in plaits. Her eye make-up was dramatic, with green eyeshadow fading to pink. She wore blue jeans, and a denim shirt open to reveal a pink T-shirt. The end of each long plait was tied with pink ribbon. She bounded into the hall and thrust her hand at Helen.

‘I’m Alice Pickle. We spoke on the phone when I made the booking.’

Helen looked at Alice, at the colours, the pinks and the reds and the immaculate eyeshadow. Alice was vibrant, alive, buzzing with energy, hopping from foot to foot, looking around her, taking everything in, taking Helen in. Helen felt herself being appraised and thought Alice must find her quite dull. Her green fleece jacket needed a wash, her old jeans had a tear at the knee, her dog-walking boots had seen better days. Her brown hair hung in the same style she’d worn it for years, and her face was blotchy and bare of make-up. She straightened her spine. There was nothing she could do about all that now. Her guests had arrived much earlier than arranged; they’d have to take her as they found her.

Alice looked around the hall once more, then back at Helen. ‘We’re early because we want to make the most of training time on the golf course. I should perhaps have called, but I was too busy reading my crazy-golf manual, going over the rules. Anyway, we’re here now, and this . . .’ she turned and waved a hand at the line of people outside, ‘is our team. Come on in, everyone. Left, right, left, right.’

Helen’s jaw dropped in shock when the line began to move in time to Alice’s command. Left, right, left, right, they trooped into the hall. Left, right, left, right, arms swung and feet moved with precision.

‘Company! Halt!’ Alice cried once everyone was inside. ‘Baggage! Drop!’

Bags thudded to the floor. Helen looked down and wondered why they needed so many clubs. Surely in crazy golf you just used one? Alice spun around to face her and gave a salute.

‘Oh my word, that’s very organised,’ Helen said, trying to take it all in. In her years of running the Seaview, she’d never witnessed an entrance quite like it. She couldn’t make head nor tail of this group. They’d taken the wind from her sails. She pulled herself back into professional mode and indicated the door to the lounge.

‘Everyone, please come this way. I’ll check you all in and give you the keys to your rooms.’ She paused for a moment to steady herself before she continued. ‘It’s wonderful to have you in Scarborough playing in the crazy-golf tournament.’

‘Oh, we’re not here just to play, Mrs Dexter,’ Alice said. ‘Make no bones about it, we’re here to win.’ She narrowed her eyes before delivering a line that sent a shiver down Helen’s spine. ‘And we’ll win by fair means or foul.’

Helen gulped. ‘Oh, I see,’ she replied, feeling unnerved by the woman’s. . .