Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
He hated funerals almost more than he hated the five-day old clam chowder being sold in the bed and breakfast down the way. Both were abominations. As he flicked his cigarette to disperse the ashes, the orange embers glowed like a lantern.
He tapped it again, and let the remnants drop to the ground as he watched the proceedings with a keen eye. The ashes fluttered in the air like insignificant gray ghosts, a few of them touching ground, their feet disappearing into liquid nothing… blending in with the stream of water pouring down the cobblestone street from a merchant cleaning his sidewalk with a hose.
Before closing and locking the window he took one more draw of his cigarette, then tossed it in a tin can by the parlor door. He looked about his shop for a minute to ensure everything was where it should be—postcard rack, handmade jewelry, statues of lighthouses and such—then moved towards his blacksmithing workstation, which was in the far back. He pushed the sliding dark door aside and took a peek inside. He had sheets of iron and metal lying about, ready for special orders he’d soon create and mail all over the country. Sometimes to Canada, England and France, too.
He turned away, deciding to pour himself another coffee before customers began showing up. The tourist season was winding down so traffic was a bit slower, but he was fine with that. It gave him a chance to breathe, to not have to smile as much and put on a show. Tourists weren’t so bad though. He shrugged as he filled his navy-blue mug to the brim. Ignorance wasn’t always an ugly thing. It depended on what type of unfamiliarity it was.
It was just the occasional ones who stood there in their wrinkled T-shirts, ball caps and arrogance, looking him up and down as he stood in his at times dirty smock. Making assumptions about him, his profession, his life. Neither his father nor he and his two brothers were lobster fishermen. That was honest work, but Jesus, not everyone in New England was a seaman. His mother was allergic to shellfish, actually—go figure. Yes, blacksmithing was still ‘a thing.’ In fact, the resurgence of one-of-a-kind ironwork sparked a whole new line of blacksmithing professionals. He paused, savoring his coffee as his Alexa playlist went to a new song. Lana Del Rey’s, ‘A&W.’ He slipped his cellphone from his jeans pocket, sipped his coffee, and checked the news headlines.
Serious crash in Windham…
Pigeon Hill Preserve fundraising event…
New land development at North Yarmouth…
Investigation of Old Orchard Beach murders leads to more questions than answers…
He read that fourth headline again. His chest warmed, and it wasn’t from the coffee.
The store doorbell chimed, and two women walked in, greeting him in bubbly voices. One was wearing a red slicker, and the other an oversized black and white checkered shawl. Their faces were reddened about the cheeks, and their eyes full of exuberance as they gripped fancy disposable coffee cups and chattered excitedly while making a beeline toward his jewelry displays. He slid his phone back into his pocket, and made his way to them.
“Good mornin’, ladies. Looking for anything in particular? Twenty percent off all earrings today. I made them myself…”
Porsche closed her laptop, as well as her eyes. Her office still smelled like Chanel No.5 Eau De Parfum Spray from her last client that left in tears. It was their fifth meeting, the hardest one of all. She glanced at her framed plaque on the wall, needing to remind herself of who she was, and why she was there.
It read: Porsche Lee, Private Investigator and Owner of
Lee Investigative Services.
She was a former police officer and lead homicide detective from Boston, Massachusetts. The city she’d been born and raised in. After her resignation and processing the aftermath of her shambolic divorce, she decided to set up fresh roots. Any excuse to begin anew, but not be too far away from close friends and family. She had no issue with her past, didn’t want to forget it—she simply needed some space from it. Was that too much to ask? So she’d retired from the force with a stellar reputation and relocated to Portland, Maine. Her father scoffed at that. Maine of all places? Her mother had a different take on it: Maine was serene. Go find peace, Mama had encouraged.
“Hello?”
She yelled upon hearing a knock on her closed office door, which jolted her out of her deliberations. Her receptionist, an older lady who seemed to forget calling her office phone would suffice versus showing up at the door in person, tapped again on the door.
“Yes? I said hello, Katherine. What is it?”
“Oh, I didn’t hear you respond. Um, Ms. Lee, Ava Johnson has returned. Said she forgot to give you something.” The old woman laughed nervously, knowing full well that the last person she wanted to speak with again was Ava Johnson.