Demon on a Distant Shore

Demon on a Distant Shore, a Whisperings Mystery, is dedicated to my family, friends and readers in England. They will recognize the cities, towns and villages, but Little Barrow is entirely a figment of my imagination. Some of the words and phrases used by older generation characters – my generation – may not be widely used by the younger generation nowadays. There is a small glossary in the back of the book for those who are utterly baffled, or you could check out my ancient website
British English: A Translation for the American
.

Chapter One

I tucked the cream, spaghetti-strap camisole into the navy-blue cotton slack’s waistband and stepped into navy-blue pumps. Looking in the mirror, my hand went to a silver pendant necklace Royal had given me, a tiny crucifix inside an endless knot. I smiled as I recalled the day he waltzed into the house with the necklace around his neck and asked if I liked it.

Okay, I felt ready to meet Patricia Lillian Norton. Patricia discovered a distant relative or some such and wanted us to track him down.

After trotting downstairs, I snatched my keys from the hall table and went in the kitchen.

“Who are you and what did you do with Tiff?” Jack said.

“Ha ha.”

“You look nice,” from Mel.

My dead roommates are accustomed to my casual style of dress. I had met clients when wearing my preferred jeans and a T-shirt, but Mrs. Norton was old-family Boston and I didn’t want to come across as a slob. Hoping I looked professional, I self-consciously smoothed the slacks over my hips. With Royal busy on a stakeout, I represented Banks and Mortensen and wanted to give a good impression.

Working from the office was still a novelty. Mel and Jack thought I should look the part of a private detective in a long trench coat and carry a briefcase. At six-four, with long silver-white hair, I already draw way too much attention in public. I don’t imagine the addition of a trench coat will help me blend in.

I eased the navy-blue jacket off the back of the kitchen chair and slipped it on.

“Will you be going away again if you take this case?” Mel asked from where she stood in front of the old stove.

“I don’t think so. I figure she wants to hire us because we’re familiar with this area. Why else would she come to Utah when there are plenty of agencies in Boston?”

Jack wandered to the kitchen window and looked out at the street. “Why didn’t she go find them herself?”

“I don’t know.” I checked the kitchen clock. “Must be on my way. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

I went outside and climbed into my new (used) red Jeep Cherokee, backed down the short driveway and reversed into the street. Mel waved from the window but I didn’t wave back in case a neighbor was watching.

Driving downtown to Twenty-Second took less than ten minutes. I parked in the residents’ lot across from Royal’s apartment, locked the Jeep and dashed over the road. Twenty-Second baked, all that concrete throwing the heat back into the already hot air. The lunch crowd bustled along the sidewalks, going to or coming from lunch, or fitting in a little shopping. Jazz music tootled merrily, and sunlight sheened bronze statuary and faux antique lampposts.

I trotted up the wrought iron staircase to the first door, opened up and went inside the office. The door to Royal’s living room stood open, so I close it before settling in a chair. Twiddling my fingers, I waited for the client.

She arrived at nine on the dot. I stood and went around the desk to shake her outstretched hand.

“Miss Banks?”

Patricia Norton looked in her fifties, but could be older. Hard to tell nowadays with the treatments you can get and Patricia could certainly afford them. She stank of money. I can’t recognize Prada or Gucci or any of those fancy labels, but I know quality when I see it. Her cream, gauzy big-shirt floated on a tall, slim figure, the pale-teal cropped pants were perfectly cut and I could imagine how comfortable those teal sandals felt despite the three-inch heels. The teal matched the color of her eyes - tinted contact lens no doubt - and her upswept silver-gray hair framed a triangular face with narrow silver brows, a thin wide mouth and short, square-tipped nose. She carried a fashionably large navy-blue purse and a tiny ball of fluff.

I inwardly cringed - one of those so-called designer dogs which are actually mutts of mixed parentage, sold for outrageous prices. I never thought to see the day when people proudly advertise maltipoos or schnorkies or whatever for hundreds of dollars, instead of offering them free to a good home. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think price is a consideration for a canine companion you want to bring in your home and love with all your heart, but I hold very strong opinions of people who purchase them because they are the current rage, and of breeders who take advantage of a fad by churning out puppies.

I smiled and swept a hand at the facing chair. “Please take a seat, Miz Norton.”

“Patty.” She settled on the chair and caressed the fluff-ball. She had a deep, slightly nasal accent. “Do you mind if I put Charleze down? She’s a very good girl.”

Images of what my Scottish terrier Mac would do if he knew another dog invaded his territory whipped through my mind. “I would rather you don’t. I bring my dog here sometimes and he’ll mark the place if he finds her scent.”

“Mark? Oh, you mean. . . .”

Apparently,
pee
is too indelicate a word for some people. I nodded.

“Miz . . . Patty, before we discuss how Banks and Mortensen can help you, would you mind telling me how you heard about the agency?”

She twirled her fingers in Charleze’s hair. “You were recommended by my good friend Gertrude Hackenbacher.”

“You know Gertrude?” Royal and I tracked down and rescued Gertrude’s catnapped kitty in Fresno, California.

“I have friends all over the country.”

What would it be like to have a host of friends? Someone once said you are a lucky person if you have three true friends in your lifetime. I’m getting there. I have one true friend, who is also my partner and lover.

“Mr. Mortensen is engaged elsewhere?”

I nodded. “He’s on a case. He said you’re looking for a distant relative. I presume they’re in Utah.”

She methodically stroked Charleze’s head. “My husband’s nephew, and no, he’s not in Utah.” Her eyes got a faraway look. “Scott had a brother, younger by two years. Jonathan moved to England in 1966. I don’t know what happened between them, but it must have been traumatic because Scott never spoke of Jonathan until six months ago. I knew nothing of him. Scott wanted to initiate reconciliation, so we tried to find Jonathan. We discovered he died in 1998.”

She paused, as if expecting me to comment, so I obliged. “I’m sorry.”

She smiled faintly and nodded. “Yes, a terrible shock. It devastated Scott. But Jonathan had a son.”

I pulled the pad of ruled paper to me and poised my pen. “This is the person you want us to find?”

She wriggled in her chair as if to adjust her buttocks on the hard surface. The pup squirmed. She used one hand to anchor the dog and with the other groped in her enormous purse, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She pushed it over the table to me.

I put down my pen, unfolded the paper and read a single typewritten sentence: Paul Norton, born January 22
^nd
1979, in Little Barrow, Wiltshire, England. Married May 3rd 2006 to Sylvia Rowlands, also of Little Barrow.

“Where did you come by your information?”

“Our attorneys were able to access the UK’s register of births, deaths and marriages. Now Scott’s health is failing and he wants to find this young man, I think as a conciliatory gesture.”

I waved the paper. “This is all you have?”

“Unfortunately, UK officials, or whatever they were, would not release Paul’s address, but as both he and his wife were born in Little Barrow, and married there six years ago, we hope they still live in the area. If not, someone in the village should know their location. I think a private investigator is the best option for us. I want you to find Paul and invite him to meet his uncle.”

England? Whoa!
I thought some more. “You don’t want to use a professional over there to find the Nortons?” Made sense to me. Probably cheaper too, rather than send someone from the States to Great Britain.

“I did consider it, but trying to locate and hire a detective in England . . . I wouldn’t know where to start.”

She did have a point.

“Have you tried to contact Paul? A letter, perhaps?”

“Letters can go astray, Miss Banks. This is far too important to Scott to entrust to a letter.”

“You could phone them - it would be more meaningful, personal, than a stranger turning up and telling them.”

“We are well aware of that, but we couldn’t find a telephone number for them.”

Her lips were tight, as were her shoulders. My questions and suggestions gave her the impression I was reluctant to take the job.

“We would go ourselves, but Scott is in no condition to travel and I cannot leave him.”

I smiled brightly. “In that case, I think you’re right. If you can’t go to England and track them down, a private investigator
is
the best option.”

Her shoulders relaxed.

Patty wanted us to go to England. And while I’d no inclination to travel overseas, it would look damned good on the agency’s resume.

We discussed Banks and Mortensen’s retainer. Rather, I named the fee and was surprised when she didn’t as much as blink. Then she shocked me by saying she would pay all expenses on top of that.

I was still speechless when she rose to her feet. “I’ll need to know by this evening.”

I summoned my voice. “I’ll speak to Royal. I’m sure we can come to a decision by then.”

I walked her to the door. “You’ll hear from us soon.”

Arms occupied with the purse and pup, she wiggled her fingers at me in lieu of a handshake.

After I let her out the door, I fell back against it with a huge smile spread across my face.

“England!” Jack screeched after I told him and Mel about the assignment.

I turned my head to find his frozen expression inches from my face. “Oh, calm down, Jack.”