Murder-on-Sea

Book 2: Whitstable Pearl Mysteries

by Julie Wassmer

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

It's not the season of good will to all men... The festive month is kicking off in style and Pearl is rushed off her feet with her restaurant, The Whitstable Pearl. She's also busy planning her own family Christmas and providing mulled wine for a charity church fundraiser when Christmas cards begin arriving all over town - filled with spiteful messages from an anonymous writer. Pearl's curiosity is piqued but having pledged not to take on a case at her detective agency before Christmas, she reluctantly agrees that Canterbury's DCI Mike McGuire should take over; poisoned pen cards are after all a matter for the police. And with only the church fundraiser now between Pearl and Christmas, she invites McGuire along as her guest. The event appears to be a great success; St Alfred's church hall is packed and Pearl happily finds herself standing close to McGuire beneath some mistletoe . . . but then a guest suddenly collapses. Too much of Pearl's delicious mulled wine - or could it be something more sinister? The last thing Pearl expects for Christmas is murder but soon the bodies are piling up. Can Pearl possibly solve the mystery in time to make 25th December an unforgettable day - or will the murderer contrive to ensure her goose is well and truly cooked before then? Praise for Julie Wassmer's Whistable Pearl mysteries . . . 'Thoroughly enjoyable with a host of wonderful characters - I adore Dolly! - and evocative descriptions of Whitstable. Perfect for foodies too. Pearl is great and the ongoing will they/won't they love story with McGuire is compelling. Comforting, cosy and entertaining with excellent Agatha Christie-style reveals. I love these books!' Jane Wenham-Jones, author of Mum in the Middle 'A tried-and-tested crime recipe with Whitstable flavours that makes for a Michelin-starred read' Daily Mail 'My new favourite author in the genre' George Galloway 'While Oxford had Morse, Whitstable, famous for its oysters, has Pearl . . . True to the tradition of classic crime, [Julie Wassmer] weaves a strong story into a setting that has more to offer than murder and mayhem' Daily Mail

Release date: October 1, 2015

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 320

Sample

Tuesday 14 December, 4 p.m.

Any fisherman would have described the wind that day as ‘blowing a hooley’. The icy blast had whistled a direct north-easterly passage, straight off the Norwegian coast, arriving on Whitstable’s shores at the very moment Pearl Nolan was stepping into its path. Closing her front door, she pulled her scarlet coat tighter to her body, burying her chin into its black velvet collar as she turned her back on Seaspray Cottage and hurried along Island Wall.

Wearing a black Cossack-style fake fur hat and lace-up boots, Pearl looked much like a romantic Russian heroine, and certainly younger than her thirty-nine years with her dark hair falling across her shoulders and her light frame allowing the biting gusts to propel her along the street. Daylight had already faded as she ducked for cover in the lea of Kemp Alley, where a streetlamp reflected against the stage door of the old Playhouse which was plastered with posters advertising the coming attraction of Puss in Boots. The sound of Pearl’s own heels bounced off the alley walls as she headed for the lights of the High Street.

In her shoulder bag were the Christmas cards which she had forgotten to take with her to the restaurant that morning. Instead, they had been left behind on her kitchen table, even after she had sat up into the early hours making sure she had written every last one so as not to miss the final post before Christmas. Increasingly, it seemed that these short, bleak December days reflected a shortage of time itself.

During the summer months, the clientele of The Whitstable Pearl consisted largely of tourists – DFLs mainly (the town’s acronym for Down from Londoners), keen to sample the town’s famous oysters – but at this time of year Pearl’s customers were generally High Street locals looking for something more substantial. The menu today had featured a Stargazy pie, a hot chilli-salmon flan and a home-made lobster bisque, served with croutons and a rouille sauce fired with espelette pepper. The dishes had satisfied a host of Christmas shoppers, but having closed the door on her restaurant for the day, Pearl had trekked home, not to put her feet up, but to deal with her forgetfulness.

On the High Street, a sign helpfully directed Whitstable’s visitors to the harbour in one direction, and the station in the other, but Pearl ignored both and headed directly across the road to St Alfred’s where the old church clock suddenly chimed the quarter-hour. Pearl loved the sound of church bells and felt warmed, if only from the glow of festive lights.

Whitstable’s local council had abandoned responsibility for funding such non-essentials as seasonal decorations. Even the city of Canterbury, a twenty-minute drive away and the seat of Anglican Christianity, was now starved of Christmas lights to celebrate the Nativity. But Whitstable’s shopkeepers had characteristically risen to a challenge and used a final one-off municipal payment to provide a budget host of illuminated angels; the latter hovered above the main thoroughfare, heads bowed and hands clasped in prayer, seemingly the only figures in the busy High Street to be reflecting on the true meaning of Christmas.

Carollers’ voices grew louder as Pearl crossed the road, but none belonged to members of the church choir who would gather in a few days’ time around the dressed tree on St Alfred’s front lawn. Nor were they the voices of churchgoers who would assemble on Christmas Eve for Midnight Mass. Instead, Pearl noticed that a bunch of enterprising kids had parked themselves at the front of the Playhouse, a school beret on the pavement as they busked their own casual rendition of ‘Silent Night’.

The plaintive lyrics found their way straight to Pearl’s heart, reminding her of other Christmases from her childhood as well as memories she would always treasure of her own child’s wonder at a Christmas morning. It seemed impossible to believe that nearly two decades had passed since Charlie’s birth, but soon – in a few days’ time – he would be returning home from a working holiday in Berlin, part of his gap year from university. Pearl had yet to buy her son’s Christmas present, torn between splashing out on a much-needed winter jacket or a piece of technology. She suspected Charlie would sooner put up with the cold than be frozen out by the shame of not having access to the latest apps.

These last days before Christmas were always a fraught period before the part of the holiday season that Pearl enjoyed most – preparing and providing an unforgettable Christmas lunch. Once the home-made pudding and brandy butter was eaten, the table cleared and the usual tipsy game of charades played, a spell of wonderful idleness always followed, punctuated by welcome parties, bracing beach walks and evenings spent lounging before a roaring fire with a drink in one hand, a good book in the other and sufficient time to read it. At least, that was the plan.

The dream vanished as the rope fixed to the old union flag on the church tower whipped suddenly against its pole in the bitter wind, sounding much like the loose halyards which clanked interminably against the masts of sailboats on a blustery day down at the beach. The sound also marked the end of the carol – ‘sleep in heavenly peace’ – and Pearl took out the post from her bag and checked the envelopes to make sure that each was stamped and sealed.

Many contained business cheques payable to her suppliers. Others held charity donations and a number of calendars featuring striking photographs of The Whitstable Pearl taken in the height of summer when there had been queues of tourists at the seafood bar, sporting T-shirts, shorts and suntans. The summer now seemed an age ago and the envelopes in Pearl’s hand contained, for the most part, Christmas cards she had written to friends, family and valued customers. While it seemed that electronic greetings were becoming increasingly popular, to her mind the old-fashioned Christmas card remained a potent force. Bridging time and distance, its arrival offered welcome reassurance that established relationships remained in place, while signalling to more casual acquaintances that we still exist and might yet meet again.

Reflecting on this, Pearl checked the final envelope in her hand and dropped it into the postbox. It was stamped and clearly addressed to the man who had occupied her thoughts for the past four months – Detective Chief Inspector Mike McGuire of Canterbury CID.

Wednesday 15 December, 9.15 a.m.

‘Trust me, Pearl. At this time of year, just forget all about being a private detective and stick to being a restaurateur.’

The advice came from Pearl’s neighbour, Nathan, delivered in the soft mid-Atlantic accent he had acquired during the twenty years he had lived in Whitstable; however, there was a certain tension to his voice and Pearl knew the reason why. She looked down at the Christmas card in her hand, noting instantly that it was the kind of shoddy card that usually came in a cheap boxed set. Its front cover featured a cheeky robin perched on a garden shovel in a snowy landscape that was scattered with glitter. The message inside was short and sweet, consisting of four simple words cut out from newsprint. ‘ “You have . . . ” ’ she broke off for a moment ‘ “. . . no style?” ’ She frowned up at Nathan, puzzled.

‘There’s no question mark, sweetie. It’s a statement.’ His voice sounded slightly more Californian now, as it always did when he was trying to control his temper.

‘But hardly an accurate one.’ Pearl took a moment to study Nathan as he sat across the kitchen table from her. He was wearing a baby-blue cashmere sweater, slightly lighter in shade than his open-necked shirt collar. His linen trousers were not creased, but rather perfectly crumpled, and his brown leather boots remained pristine in spite of the weather. His designer stubble was peppered with grey but his thick, cropped hair remained a rich warm brown. For a man of forty-two, Nathan was fit and youthful-looking, his taut physique honed by regular visits to the gym. He was perfectly groomed – as ever.

‘You have buckets of style,’ she announced.

‘You bet I have,’ Nathan agreed. ‘So why on earth would somebody send me this?’

But before Pearl could reply, he quickly ordered, ‘Don’t answer that!’ He snatched the card from Pearl’s hand. ‘I shouldn’t even have shown this to you. I don’t want you trying to solve mysteries when you should be getting ready for Charlie coming home. I’m sorry I ever bothered you with it.’

Part of Pearl was wishing the same, but now she felt conflicted. In the past six months, since Nolan’s Detective Agency had been operating, she was proud of having solved a string of cases – including a murder. At this time of year, she may not have been in a hurry to burden herself with another case – even one whose successful outcome might help to assuage Nathan’s injured pride – but nonetheless, mysteries were for solving not ignoring.

‘It’s probably just someone’s idea of a joke,’ Nathan said, although Pearl could see that he was cut to the quick.

‘I suppose it could have been worse,’ she suggested.

Nathan looked up sharply. ‘How?’

‘A homophobic message?’

‘That I could cope with – but this?’ Nathan looked down at the card again, his brow beginning to furrow.

Feeling torn, Pearl glanced at the clock on her kitchen wall and downed the last of her coffee. ‘I’m really sorry, Nathan, but I have to get off to the restaurant.’

‘Of course you do,’ he said, coming out of his reverie. ‘And I have my article to write.’

‘Article?’

‘The one I should have handed in last week to that women’s online mag – about New Year’s resolutions?’

‘I thought you’d finished that.’

‘Haven’t even started, sweetie. I seem to have a mental block. Perhaps my own New Year’s resolution should be never to write about them.’

Pearl smiled. ‘So why did you take it on?’

‘Why else? Christmas comes but once a year but when it does, it costs a small fortune.’

‘Yes,’ Pearl sighed. ‘And I haven’t even dressed my tree.’

‘So I see.’ He gazed at the tall blue fir which stood only half-adorned by the window in the living room. ‘It looks a total mess,’ he said in all honesty. Nathan was a proponent of the unvarnished opinion, especially with Pearl whom he considered to be worthy of the truth. Having begun his working life as a talented advertising copywriter in Los Angeles, he had soon tired of using his best ideas for commercial hyperbole and instead he had taken up freelance journalism, contributing articles to magazines on varied subjects that included interior design, food and his greatest passion – film.

Pearl stared across at her Christmas tree. ‘I haven’t even been able to get the lights to work.’

‘Tried tightening the bulbs?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then you’ll have to buy some new ones.’

‘They are new.’

Nathan sympathised. ‘Christmas is sent to try us. Come over after you’ve finished at the restaurant and I’ll soothe you with Rioja.’

‘I wish I could,’ Pearl turned to him. ‘But I have to meet Diana to go through my accounts. I’ve been putting her off for weeks.’

‘I don’t blame you. The woman’s a dragon.’ Nathan fell suddenly silent. Then he picked up the card again and frowned. ‘Think she meant my home?’

‘Who?’

‘The woman who sent me this.’

‘And what makes you think it was a woman?’

‘No man would ever be so bitchy.’

Pearl offered a knowing look. ‘No?’

‘No,’ said Nathan firmly. ‘I certainly don’t know a single gay man who would ever choose something so tacky.’ He tossed the card onto the table and immediately wiped his hands with a paper napkin as though it was possible to catch bad taste simply by touching it.

Amused by this, Pearl ferried their empty cups to the sink, recognising that as Nathan spent so much of his time away, either working or visiting friends in Europe and the States, it was a real treat to have him home again in Whitstable – especially since she was missing her son, Charlie.

‘Forget about the card and come over on Friday,’ she said suddenly. ‘There’s a charity fundraiser at St Alfred’s. You can help me chop fruit for the mulled wine.’

Nathan raised an arched eyebrow. ‘Ah, but can I be trusted to do it with style?’ He gave in to Pearl’s warm smile and finally agreed. ‘OK. When d’you want me?’ Taking his navy-blue corduroy jacket from the back of his chair, he got to his feet.

‘I’ll let you know,’ Pearl said as she picked up his scarf. ‘I’ve promised to do some mince pies as well, so I’ll get them out of the way first.’

Nathan allowed her to coil the scarf carefully around his neck. ‘You take on too much, you know that, sweetie?’

‘I know when to say no.’

‘Good.’ He looked pointedly down at the Christmas card still lying on the kitchen table. ‘So, no more cases for you until after Christmas.’ He leaned in and planted a kiss on Pearl’s cheek. ‘See you Friday.’ He smiled and gave her a wink before disappearing out of the back door.

Pearl watched Nathan’s tall frame disappearing past her kitchen windows which looked straight out on to her garden and beyond that, to the sea, but it was an unwelcome view this morning with the slate-grey estuary waters blending seamlessly into a dull sky. She glanced back down at the kitchen table and picked up not the card, but the envelope lying beside it, which bore a strange stamp. Without her glasses, it looked much like a fleur-de-lis, but before she could give it more thought, her phone rang and she picked up the receiver, listening for just a moment before she interrupted the caller mid-flow.

‘Hold on. Can you say that again? And a little slower this time?’

As the caller continued, Pearl found herself looking down at the envelope in her hand. ‘You don’t say,’ she mused thoughtfully.

That afternoon, Pearl was in her restaurant, playing hostess to an office Christmas party which consisted of staff from a local estate agents. These days, almost every other High Street premises seemed to house a new estate agent, prospering from the high demand for characterful homes by the sea and within only an hour’s drive of south-east London. Increasingly, more DFLs were coming to settle on this part of the North Kent coast, and some of the estate agents’ profits were ending up in The Whitstable Pearl, where those present today had sunk considerably more in wine than they had eaten in food.

From the counter Pearl surveyed her little culinary empire: strings of cherry-red fairy lights draped around the paintings which lined the restaurant’s walls. Pearl was known to host the odd exhibition for a hungry if talented local artist, but mainly the restaurant was an informal gallery for the work of her son, Charlie, and her mother, Dolly. Charlie’s efforts were bold, striking and graphic while Dolly’s remained as always an eccentric collection of seascapes featuring various items of objets trouvés such as driftwood and dried seaweed.

Pearl usually turned to Charlie for design advice about the restaurant, though she always reserved the final right of approval. It was a sign of her own individualism not to match the sleek minimalist lines of other Harbour Street eateries but instead to provide an example of Whitstable’s own idiosyncratic nature – particularly with Dolly’s quirky work.

There were some grand restaurants down on the beach but The Whitstable Pearl remained a small but precious gem, full of charm and with a reputation for providing some of the best seafood in town. Fresh oysters, crab, shrimps and prawns were always available at the bar but Pearl also offered a selection of signature dishes in the restaurant, ranging in the summer from marinated sashimi of tuna, mackerel and wild salmon, to a year-round menu of squid encased in a light chilli tempura batter and sautéed scallop dotted with ginger and breadcrumb.

The Whitstable Pearl’s reputation was for simple dishes created with the finest ingredients, each course having been perfected over time – which meant that while Pearl’s presence wasn’t always needed at the restaurant, the quality of her food remained constant and guaranteed a steady if not growing trade. A small but trusted group of employees were treated like an extension of her family. Ruby, a once troubled teenager, had been taken under Pearl’s wing to settle down as a fine waitress. Ahmed, a young Moroccan student, provided trusted help in the kitchen while Dolly’s extrovert nature lent itself to most front-of-house roles, including giving restaurant recommendations to customers in spite of her innate dislike of oysters.

The business had supported Pearl while she had brought up her son as a single parent, but old ambitions had reawakened once Charlie had disappeared off to university in Canterbury, convincing her that it was high time for a new challenge. Starting up Nolan’s Detective Agency had offered a fresh opportunity to use the police training Pearl had chosen to abandon on discovering she was pregnant with Charlie, and to demonstrate the detective skills she always felt she possessed. To some extent, Dolly believed that Pearl had put her life on hold for her son, eschewing many opportunities, even for romance, but Pearl had never given up on the idea of finding the right partner – she had simply found nothing among the sparks of a few short-lived liaisons to match the white heat of her first love for Charlie’s father, Carl. That is, not until she had found herself pitted against a Canterbury police detective during a murder investigation last summer. For a time, Pearl had allowed herself to think that something might come of the relationship, but as summer had faded into autumn, the days had grown shorter and the memories had begun to fade of Detective Chief Inspector Mike McGuire. Almost, but not quite – as McGuire’s absence had only served to pique Pearl’s interest.

Now, a new season had begun, prompting Dolly to make her annual sortie to the local village green at Duncan Down, returning with ample supplies of twigs and foliage which she had fashioned into displays on each of Pearl’s marble restaurant tables. In place of a Christmas tree, a striking arrangement of dogwood – spray-painted white and adorned with Dolly’s favourite glass baubles collected over the years – took pride of place near the seafood counter. Dolly had a knack of making something beautiful out of nothing and had always been a natural recycler, long before it had become a ‘green’ responsibility. While Pearl appreciated her mother’s creative talent, she herself preferred to look deeper, beyond the surface of things and people, to what lay beneath. If Dolly acted as the eyes of the town, Pearl represented its X-ray specs.

‘Four cards, you say?’ asked Dolly, entering from the kitchen to resume a conversation with her daughter as she settled clean oyster plates on a shelf behind the counter.

Pearl nodded. ‘Yes. They all arrived today so they must have been sent in a batch.’

Dolly frowned. ‘Who else got one – apart from Nathan?’

‘Jimmy from the Leather Bottle and Charmaine from the salon.’

At this, Dolly seemed instantly curious and leaned closer. ‘And what did hers have to say?’

Pearl clammed up, recognising that her mother was showing far too much interest to deserve the full details. ‘That would be breaching client confi. . .