Murder at the Seaview Hotel

Book 1: A Helen Dexter Cosy Crime Mystery

by Glenda Young

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

The first in a new cosy crime series from Glenda Young, this whodunnit is perfect for fans of Julia Chapman's Dales Detective Agency, Richard Osman's The Thursday Murder Club, Betty Rowlands and Helen Cox.

In the charming Yorkshire seaside town of Scarborough, a murder is nothing to sing about...

After the death of her husband Tom, Helen Dexter is contemplating her future as the now-sole proprietor of the Seaview Hotel.

There's an offer from a hotel chain developer to consider, but also a booking from a group of twelve Elvis impersonators, a singing troupe called Twelvis. Tom loved Elvis and for Helen this is a sign that she should stay.

But the series of mysterious events which follow, suggests that the developer is not going to give up easily. Then, shortly after Twelvis arrive, one of the group disappears. His body is found floating in a lake, with his blue suede shoes missing. Could the two be connected?

With the reputation of the Seaview on the line, Helen isn't going to wait for the murderer to strike again. With her trusty greyhound Suki by her side, she decides to find out more about her guests and who wanted to make sure this Elvis never sang again.

Helen and Suki return in Set for Murder at the Seaview Hotel - coming soon!

Love Glenda Young's cosy crime? Don't miss her acclaimed Ryhope-set sagas, Belle of the Back Streets, The Tuppenny Child, Pearl of Pit Lane, The Girl with the Scarlet Ribbon, The Paper Mill Girl and The Miner's Lass.

(P) 2021 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: August 5, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 336

Sample

Helen Dexter was sitting on the window seat at the Seaview Hotel, looking out over the sea. The Seaview was her home, a three-storey, ten-room hotel on Scarborough’s North Bay. She’d been sitting there all night, gazing out of the window, a bottle of whisky by her side.

It wasn’t something she made a habit of, sitting up all night drinking. But then it wasn’t every day that she held a memorial service for her late husband, who’d been the love of her life. Helen and Tom had known each other for over thirty years: attended the same schools, gone to the same youth clubs, hung around with the same friends. But it wasn’t until their late teens that they finally started dating and became inseparable. Everyone said they were made for each other. They married on a warm July day when she was twenty-one and Tom twenty-three. On their wedding day, Helen pledged her love for Tom in front of their families and friends, vowing to love him and cherish him ‘till death us do part’.

How the years had flown by since. Helen was forty-eight now and Tom would have been celebrating his fiftieth birthday in April, a milestone that would now go unmarked.

After Tom’s memorial, Helen had invited close friends and family to the Seaview for a bite to eat as a way to say a final farewell to the man they’d all adored. Around her now lay the detritus of half-eaten sausage rolls and glasses stained by wine and beer. Her best friend, Marie, had offered to clean up before she left, but Helen wouldn’t hear of it. As the afternoon had dissolved into evening, she had tried hard to disguise how relieved she was when everyone started to leave. She wanted to be on her own, for she had a lot on her mind.

She slid her legs along the window seat and noticed a ladder in her stockings above her right knee. Her calves shone in sheer black nylon seven-denier, smooth as silk and now ruined. She pushed her bobbed hair behind her ears and caught a reflection of herself in the window. Her big brown eyes stared back at her; she was surprised that she didn’t look as tired as she felt. Her black jacket hung on a chair and her black shoes lay at the end of the window seat. She’d kicked them off after everyone had left, but when Suki had padded into the lounge, she’d had to lift them from the floor. Suki had a thing about shoes; she liked to chew them and Helen had to be careful about what she left lying around. Suki was sprawled on the floor like a pool of liquid caramel. She was a retired racing greyhound, all long limbs and soulful eyes.

Helen turned back to look out of the window. The sun was beginning to rise now, turning the sky milky blue.

Tom had been ill for months, cancer eating away at him at a cruel, relentless pace. When Helen could no longer manage his pain and care, he’d been moved to St Paul’s Hospice. She’d visited daily, sometimes taking Suki so that Tom could see the dog through the floor-to-ceiling window by his bed. Suki would stand outside, cocking her head, staring in at him. As he’d neared the end of his life, Helen had promised him she’d carry on running the Seaview, but he’d been too ill to notice her cross her fingers when the words slipped from her lips.

The small, family-only funeral at St Mary’s Church that had marked the end of Tom’s life had done him proud. Afterwards, at the crematorium, his favourite hymn had been sung, hugs given and tears wiped away. When his coffin had disappeared behind the curtains, the first soulful notes of his favourite Elvis ballad had played, his only request. He had been an Elvis fan all his life. On the wall of the lounge in the Seaview was a jukebox filled entirely with Elvis songs, but it hadn’t been touched since the day Tom was moved to the hospice. Now, more than three months after the funeral, Helen still couldn’t bring herself to play it for fear of the emotions that would overwhelm her if she did.

She took a sip of whisky. After the funeral, she had felt unable to cope with her grief. So when Tom’s sister Tina had invited her to stay with her and her family on their farm in a remote part of Scotland, she had jumped at the chance. The farm was in the middle of nowhere, far from Scarborough, far from the sea, far from everything that reminded her of Tom. She’d locked up the hotel, bundled Suki into her car, packed a suitcase, put her foot to the accelerator and driven like a woman possessed. She couldn’t get away quickly enough.

She’d told Tina she’d only stay a few days, but those days became weeks and ended up turning into three months. Tina had insisted she stay for Christmas, and Helen gratefully accepted her invitation; she couldn’t face returning home to spend Christmas on her own. Being on the farm proved restorative for her. She’d helped feed the chickens, and walked the dogs through fields and along streams each morning. Being around Tina’s teenage sons, with their energy and vitality, had helped bring her out of herself.

When she’d finally felt strong enough to return to Scarborough, she’d decided to hold a memorial service for her beloved husband, a chance to fully celebrate his life now that she was about to face her future alone. However, something at the back of her mind was troubling her now as she remembered the guests arriving at the Seaview for drinks. It took her a few moments to remember what it was. Two of her best friends, Sue and Bev, had seemed distant with each other and she couldn’t figure out why. Had she imagined it, or did Sue make a deliberate show of walking out of the lounge each time Bev walked in? She shook her head to dismiss the thought. She had more pressing things on her mind.

She set her glass on the table and ran her hands over her face. She still had her make-up on, her mask from the day before. But there was no one here to see how crumpled she knew she must look, no matter what her reflection in the window said. In front of a mirror in the harsh light of day, she knew her soft, round face would be pale, and the skin under her eyes dark from lack of sleep. Her plan was to take Suki for a walk, then head to bed to sleep. The Seaview had no guests booked in. Once Tom had taken ill, Helen hadn’t the heart or the energy to run the place; it became too difficult even with the help of her staff. She had cancelled all the bookings, emailing the news that due to a family situation the Seaview was taking a break.

Now it was early March, the Easter holidays were around the corner and the holiday season was about to begin, but for the first time in decades, the Seaview was quiet. When asked by disappointed guests, whose holidays she’d had to cancel, if she could recommend somewhere else for them to stay, she gave them the number of the hotel next door. This was the four-star Vista del Mar, run by Miriam Jones, a woman who thought herself and her hotel a cut above Helen and Tom’s three-star Seaview. But it wasn’t Helen and Tom’s now; it was just Helen’s, and that scared her more than she dared admit. Because despite the promise she’d given Tom on his deathbed, she wasn’t sure she wanted to keep it. What kind of life waited for her on her own in a hotel that catered for families and fun?

She glanced out of the window again. The tide was rolling in, frothy waves breaking. Early-morning surfers, clad head to toe in black to keep out the worst of the North Sea’s icy chill, were making their way to the beach.

Helen often felt as if her heart would never recover from losing Tom. He’d been her husband, lover, soulmate and best friend. He had been her life, her everything, for decades. In the early days of their marriage, she’d fallen pregnant twice, but hadn’t been able to carry her babies, first a daughter and then a son, to full term. The raw pain never left her, and she and Tom agreed they wouldn’t put themselves through more agony by trying again. That was when they’d bought the Seaview. Now, with Tom gone, could she carry on running it alone? Did she even want to?

Her thoughts wouldn’t stop; they churned in her mind and kept her awake at night. Her head was all over the place, but she needed to focus because people were depending on her. There was Jean, the cook Tom and Helen had inherited when they took over the hotel. There was single mum Sally, who did the housekeeping and in the past had relied solely on the Seaview for every penny she earned. And could she really defy the deathbed promise she’d given Tom and walk away from everything they’d built up? Everyone had told her not to make major decisions while lost in her grief. But each day she struggled with her instinct to run.

She sighed deeply, glanced back at the sea and lost herself in the comfort of watching the waves, as regular as a heartbeat. And that was when her phone rang.

‘Good morning. Is that Mrs Dexter?’ a deep male voice said.

Helen glanced at the clock above the bar. It was 8.30. She wondered what sort of person called so early in the day. Was it one of their suppliers? Perhaps it was a guest wanting to book, unaware that the Seaview was temporarily closed despite the notice she’d added to the website.

‘Who is this?’ she asked.

‘Frederick Benson.’

The name meant nothing to her.

‘From Benson’s estate agents in town,’ he continued.

Helen’s head felt heavy from the whisky, her eyes were drooping after another night of lost sleep; her whole body felt as if it had done ten rounds in a boxing ring.

‘Let me see if she’s in,’ she said, giving herself a moment to prepare for a conversation she didn’t want to have. She leaned back against the window frame, looking out at the surfers. Scarborough was coming to life, with traffic on Marine Drive and early-morning out-of-season tourists out for a stroll. She held her phone at arm’s length for a few seconds, trying to focus her mind, before putting it back to her ear.

‘Helen Dexter here,’ she said as brightly as she could manage.

‘Ah, Mrs Dexter, how are you this fine morning? And what a beautiful morning it looks set to be. Not bad for the time of year.’

Frederick Benson spoke with forced cheer. Helen didn’t know the man, yet he was talking as if she was an old friend. It could only mean one thing, and her heart sank. Scarborough was a town with many hotels, a place where business properties changed hands often. Estate agents in the town called every now and then asking whether she’d consider using them if she decided to sell. She felt her hackles rise. The last thing she wanted to do was play along with a sales call at any time, never mind at 8.30 in the morning when she was in such a state.

‘Mr Benson, I’m a busy woman,’ she said, reaching for her whisky glass. ‘If you could get to the point, I’d appreciate it.’

Frederick Benson cleared his throat. ‘Ah yes, of course. Well, here’s the thing. We’ve been given a rather unusual instruction relating to the hotel owned by yourself and Mr Dexter.’

Helen kept quiet. There was nothing to be gained by pointing out to someone she didn’t know that there was no Mr Dexter any more.

‘What instruction?’ she said, confused.

‘Mrs Dexter, before I continue, could I ask you, in confidence, of course, whether you and your husband might consider selling the Seaview Hotel?’

‘Selling?’ she said cagily. ‘What is this? Are you touting for business?’

‘Not in the way you might imagine.’

Helen thought she heard a note of caution in his voice, but put it down to the fact that she needed to sleep. It had been a very long night.

‘Mrs Dexter, we’ve received an offer to buy your property.’

‘It’s not for sale,’ she said. The words came out of her more aggressively than she’d expected.

‘Our client has asked if you might be prepared to sell.’

Helen sat up straight. ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid I can’t reveal that information; it’s confidential,’ Mr Benson said. ‘But they have offered a substantial sum. It’s far above the market value for a property such as yours.’

Helen had to grip the side of the window seat when Mr Benson revealed the offer. It was enough money for her to start again. She could buy an apartment on Scarborough’s South Bay, one of the really posh ones with a balcony looking out over the sea and a garden for Suki. She could afford regular holidays, even a new car. She could have everything she’d ever dreamed of. But it would be an empty life. Nothing she could buy would ever bring Tom back. She pressed her eyes closed and swallowed a lump in her throat.

‘There is one thing, Mrs Dexter,’ Mr Benson continued. ‘The buyer has stipulated that they receive a response by close of business today or their offer will be withdrawn. That’s why I called you the moment I arrived at my desk, so that you have the whole day to reach your decision. We close at five thirty.’

There was a beat of silence before Helen spoke again. ‘Why does your buyer want the Seaview so badly?’ she said. ‘There are hotels for sale all over town. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘It’s not the business they are interested in, Mrs Dexter.’

‘They want the building, is that it? But they could have any building in Scarborough. Some of them are cheaper than the Seaview, even if it was up for sale. Which it’s not,’ she added defensively. ‘And why do they need to know by five thirty? What’s their hurry? Surely if they want the building so badly, they’d give me ample time to consider their offer?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to comment any further,’ Mr Benson said. ‘But the clock is ticking, Mrs Dexter, and the decision is in your hands.’

Helen stood under the shower and let the water pound her head, neck and shoulders. She tried to focus, tried to make sense of what Mr Benson had told her, but it seemed too bizarre to take seriously. Plus, there was her hangover to contend with and the effects of another night without sleep. She couldn’t think straight; nothing made sense. But there it was, an offer to buy the Seaview. An offer that would leave her comfortably off. But was it an offer she would accept?

She’d had many thoughts about selling up and moving on since Tom had gone into the hospice, but now it felt as if she was being forced into making a decision. It was too soon to decide, too quick, she thought. She didn’t want to be coerced. If she ever sold the hotel, she wanted to do it after looking at an offer from every angle. But here she was being told she had less than eight and a half hours to make a decision. It was ludicrous and she felt angry with herself for being in no fit state to think, never mind make a decision that might change her life.

She moved her neck slowly from side to side, letting the hot water ease her aches after her night on the window seat watching the velvet night disappear into a new day. She wondered who was after the Seaview, and why. It could only be a developer, she reasoned, but why did they have the Seaview in their sights? Why not another hotel?

The place had its merits, of course. It was one of eight three-storey buildings on Windsor Terrace, which stood high on the clifftop above North Bay. The buildings had been built as private homes before being converted into hotels in the nineteenth century to cater for the tourists that Scarborough attracted as the country’s first seaside resort. Back then they had come to take the spa waters. Now they came for fish and chips, bright and breezy weekends, concerts at the open-air theatre and two glorious wide sandy beaches.

Along Windsor Terrace, each hotel was similar in size but painted a different colour. The Seaview was a muted green amongst the red, blue and whites of its colourful neighbours. Each hotel had a basement, which was where Helen’s apartment was, with doors opening onto a sunken courtyard. The first-floor public lounge had a wide bay window to make the most of the sea views. However, while the hotels on Windsor Terrace were similar in shape and size, there was something different about the Seaview. It stood at the end of the row, the last one before the terrace curved towards the ruins of Scarborough Castle. Across the road from it was the dilapidated Glendale Hotel, which had closed for business months ago. Now its windows were boarded up and weeds grew through cracks in the path. A FOR SALE sign had gone up after the elderly owners had moved away, and the place had stood empty and unwanted ever since.

Helen turned the shower off and grabbed a towel. She wondered if there was a connection between the broken shell of the Glendale and the offer she’d received. It must be a developer, she thought again. It had to be. Who else would offer such a ridiculous sum? And why the urgency?

She dried herself and pulled her dressing gown over her warm, damp skin, then automatically reached for her toothbrush – and stood stock still. It was Tom’s toothbrush she held, not her own; she’d picked it up by mistake. She’d bought him a new toothbrush when he’d moved into the hospice. She’d bought him new everything then. Shower gel, toothbrush, soap, pyjamas; everything was fresh and clean. Which meant that all his belongings were still here: in the bathroom, their bedroom, everywhere she looked. He was there in the slippers that sat by his side of the bed, in the wardrobe where his jackets brushed against her dresses, in the Elvis tracks on the jukebox. And now his toothbrush was in her hand.

She couldn’t let go; her hand felt paralysed, her fist like iron. She forced herself not to cry, not again. She’d done her crying, she had to move on. Tom wouldn’t want her to dwell. He’d want her to get on with her life, to embrace every minute and make the most of each day. Her chest shuddered as she struggled to hold back her tears. Slowly, carefully, she placed the toothbrush back in its holder. She’d have to make a start at some point on moving Tom’s things, packing his clothes away, but she knew she wasn’t ready yet.

Half an hour later, dressed in jeans, walking boots and fleece jacket, Helen clipped Suki’s lead to her collar and headed out into the mild March day. The dog trotted obediently at her side as they walked to the beach. When they had first taken Suki from the rehoming centre, she wasn’t allowed off the lead, her instinct to chase too strong. If there was another dog in the distance, she’d be off like a shot, with Helen and Tom in pursuit, red-faced and out of breath, trying to get her back. There were plenty of other dog walkers on the beach, their pets walking at their owners’ side, chasing stones, bounding through the waves or digging holes with their front paws, spraying sand in the air.

Helen took greedy gulps of sea air as she strode along.

‘Where shall we go for breakfast, Suki?’ she asked the dog.

Suki turned her head at the mention of her name.

‘What’s that, Suki? You reckon we should try the Harbour Bar? Good girl, I was hoping that was what you’d say.’

Helen glanced at her watch. As Mr Benson had warned her, the clock was ticking. If she wanted to accept the offer on the hotel, she’d have to make up her mind pretty sharp. The problem was, she still wasn’t sure what to do. She slowed Suki to a stop and the dog sat obediently on the sand. Helen turned her face to the weak sun trying to poke through the clouds. She closed her eyes and the sound of the ocean roared in her head.

‘What shall I do, Tom?’ she whispered. Her words were taken by the breeze. ‘You know I can’t go on at the Seaview without you. But neither can I leave it behind. I need a sign. If you can hear me, if you know what I’m going through, help me, Tom, please.’

She waited, willing herself to feel a touch of his hand on her arm, his face next to hers, his breath in her ear. But there was just the roar of the ocean and the whisper of the wind as it danced across the sand.

‘Come on, let’s go and eat breakfast.’

Helen walked along Foreshore Road towards a brightly painted yellow and red café. The Harbour Bar was a favourite haunt of tourists, who called in to eat award-winning ice creams, knickerbocker glories, chocolate sundaes piled high with cream, or warm waffles oozing with syrup.

‘Bacon sandwich and a large coffee, please,’ she said to the elderly waitress dressed in a sunshine-yellow uniform. ‘I’ll sit outside with the dog. Any chance of a couple of sausages for her, too?’

The waitress winked at her. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Helen tied Suki’s lead around a table leg and settled into a chair. Foreshore Road was busy with walkers out for a stroll. It was a Thursday morning in early March, but it seemed to her that there were a lot more tourists than usual for the time of year. The fair weather forecast for the weekend might have something to do with it, she thought. On the table in front of her was a folded copy of the Scarborough Times. She picked it up and scanned the headline that warned of a strike by the town’s bin men.

Within a few minutes, a mug of steaming coffee arrived along with Helen’s sandwich. The waitress placed a metal plate on the ground beside Suki with sausages cut into chunks.

‘Thanks very much,’ Helen said.

‘No problem,’ the waitress replied, not moving. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking out over the busy harbour. ‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

‘Gorgeous,’ Helen agreed.

‘I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. I love Scarborough. It’s busy this morning, mind you. Probably the convention that’s on at the Spa this weekend that’s pulling the tourists in.’

‘What convention?’ Helen asked. She was normally aware of events going on in the town. But being away in Scotland for so long, she’d fallen out of the loop of what was going on.

The waitress laughed. ‘What convention? Only the biggest event Scarborough’s ever had.’

Helen gave a puzzled look and shrugged.

‘Have you been living on Mars, or what? I’ve had my ticket for the big gig on Saturday night for months.’

‘Who’s playing?’ Helen asked.

‘The King himself,’ the waitress said with a note of reverence.

Helen’s heart plummeted. Now she remembered. With everything that’d happened in the past few months, she’d pushed it to the back of her mind. Tom had talked excitedly about it when it was first announced, before he became ill.

‘Elvis impersonators from all over the world are coming,’ the waitress continued. ‘It’s going to be great. You should get along there and enjoy yourself, love. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you could do with cheering up.’

The songs of Elvis Presley had provided a soundtrack to Helen and Tom’s lives. They’d spent happy nights dancing to his music in the hotel lounge. Each summer the Seaview hosted Elvis nights, Elvis parties and Elvis fancy dress competitions. Tom would dress up in his white suit, leg shaking, lip quivering, being a terrible Elvis who’d never win a prize no matter how hard he tried. And oh boy, did he try. He couldn’t hold a tune, that was Tom’s downfall, but that didn’t stop him singing along to the jukebox. He knew every word, every note, when to pause, when to raise the roof as an anthem soared, when to bring it back slowly with a catch in his voice. Helen would watch her husband in his element, enjoying every second of those summer nights. She humoured him, encouraged him, and danced in his arms as the King’s music played in the lounge.

‘Your dad would have loved the Elvis convention, wouldn’t he?’ she said to Suki now between sips of coffee. Suki was too busy eating the sausage to reply.

Just as Helen was about to tuck into her bacon sandwich, her phone rang with a number she didn’t recognise. She swiped it into life.

‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Dexter?’ a woman asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Greenlands Crematorium here. I’m calling to say that Mr Thomas Dexter’s ashes are available to collect. We’ve been trying to contact you for some time, ever since the funeral.’

‘They are? You have? Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve been away and haven’t been answering my phone.’

‘Well, they’re here for you to collect, Mrs Dexter, whenever you’d like to call for them. Just ask at the office and bring some ID.’

Helen hung up. ‘What do you reckon, Suki?’

This time Suki looked up and cocked her head to one side. Helen drained her coffee, paid the waitress and decided to walk to Greenlands with Suki and make the most of the warm day.

She was just about to set off when her phone beeped with a text message. It was from Benson’s estate agents, and her face clouded as she read. Mr Benson was urging her to call him to accept the offer on the Seaview Hotel before it was too late. His words sent a chill through her. What did he mean, too late? Five thirty was the deadline he’d given her, wasn’t it? His message was curt, which wasn’t unusual in a text, she knew that, but there was an edge to his words that made her feel uncomfortable. She threw her phone into her handbag, and started walking.

When she reached the crematorium, she checked her phone again, surprised to see another message from Benson’s. This time it was a voicemail, even more hostile than the text message, with Mr Benson pushing hard for her reply. She wondered what he was playing at and who was pulling his strings. Did someone really want the Seaview so badly that they were forcing the estate agent to text and call her regularly and aggressively? What on earth was going on? She shook her head to try to dismiss Mr Benson for now. She had something more important to do.

There was something comforting about the crematorium, Helen thought. The peace and quiet of the gro. . .