It is 2001 and the police constable's girlfriend is murdered in a fit of
jealous rage. When the constable realizes what he has done, he manages an
elaborate cover-up. Only one person knows the truth. Flash forward to 2012.
Anne Brown is still running her late uncle, Bill Darby's, detective agency
after spending four or five years as his assistant. One day, the postman
delivers an eleven year-old letter. The letter is addressed to her uncle from a
woman named Carolyn Jollimore. She says she has evidence about a murder and
begs for help from Darby. But Bill Darby is dead. And when Anne looks up the
letter's author, she finds that Jollimare too is now dead. Troubled with the
evidence at hand, Anne must decide if she should investigate this eleven-year
old murder.

Excerpt

“All right, I’m
having an affair. So what? You don’t own me.”

Simone Villier
hooked her thumbs under her waistband and rotated her hips slowly back and
forth as she adjusted her skirt. She evoked an uncommon sensuality, and she was
aware of its effects - carnal glances from men, and the confused mix of
disapproval and guilty envy from women.

Constable Jamie
MacFarlane’s fingers gripped the web belt that held his service pistol,
handcuffs, night light, and radio, and listened in disbelief. Like many other
men around Charlottetown, Jamie MacFarlane had been drawn to her, but his advances
had had greater success, and they had engaged in a fiery and tumultuous romance
for eight months.

Now it was over. And
tonight her alluring moves, which once had thrilled him, felt hollow, taunting,
and cruel.

“Who is it?” he
asked.

“I’m not going to
tell you who it is. It’s none of your business.”

Simone looked away.
His jealousy pleased her. Then, to fill the silence, she straightened a few
items on her office desk and hoped that Jamie would stomp off into the night
and be done with it, but he didn’t. He remained. He said nothing. The silence
was uncomfortable. She ignored him and stared out the second-floor window of
her office into the darkness of the harbour and focused on the beads of light
that framed the skyline of the city of Charlottetown.

Then Jamie’s hand
slammed the top of the desk, and his voice snapped like a bullet.

“I want to know! Who
is it?”

“Screw you!” she
said

He grabbed her
shoulders and shook her. Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed with
anger, and she pulled away and circled behind her desk. Jamie didn’t follow.

“Then why! Tell me
that,” he demanded.

“What difference
does it make?” she asked, her tone quieter now. Tired, but not conciliatory.
“We’re over. Finished. It was a laugh for a while. A few great times even. Now
it’s done.”

“It’s not over ...
not 'til I say it is,” he said.

“You sound like a
spoiled kid. Grow up.” Simone grabbed her jacket and strode toward the door,
but Jamie blocked her way.

“You’re not leaving
until I get an answer. Why?”

“You want to know
why? Okay. Here the story. You were cute, but not cute enough. Is that reason
enough? You were charming, but it wore so thin I could see right through you.
Is that enough? No? How 'bout you work all the time! You’re not fun anymore ...
and haven’t been for a long time. Is that enough? Plenty enough for me,
anyway.”

“You’re just a
tramp!”

“And what are you?
You think that cop uniform makes you some big shot? You’re not. You’re nobody!
A big mouth with pocket change.”

“Slut!” he shouted

“Loser!” she said.
“Oh ... and here’s another reason! I’m pregnant ... and before that idea starts
rollin’ around your empty head, it’s not yours.”

The muscles in
MacFarlane’s jaw flexed.

“How long?”

“Three months or
so.”

“You’ve been bangin’
him ... and me ... for the last three months. Who is he?”

Simone laughed.

“Oh, it’s been a lot
longer than that. And you don’t need to know. It’s none of your business.”

“Who is he?” he
shouted. “Do I know him?” He grabbed Simone and shook her hard until her head
snapped back and forth like a broken toy and her face blanched. “Who is he? Who
is he?”

She struggled in his
grip like a frightened dog, squirmed and writhed. Her strength and tenacity
surprised him. His hands slipped as the point of her shoe caught him sharply on
the shin. Simone broke away. Her right hand swiped painfully across his eye. As
she took a step back, his one hand rose to his eye, and his other dropped onto
the top of the desk. It fell on a heavy metal three-hole punch. With an
emerging hatred, he swung the club-like machine above his head and struck, down
and diagonally, across her skull. The bone sounded with a sharp crack, and
Simone fell to the floor.

She remained
motionless but for her eyes, which were closing slowly, like those of a cat
drifting into sleep.

MacFarlane felt for
a pulse. There was none. He walked to the door and flicked off the light. He
started to leave, but the sudden darkness swept over him like a wave. It
smothered his panic and dampened his anger. It also woke him to the realization
that Simone was dead, that he had killed her, and that the murder weapon was
still frozen in his hand.

He lingered a few
more minutes in the dark until his heart slowed and his thinking cleared, and
the only sound that filled his ears was the clack clack clack of a cheap wall
clock beating away at the minutes.

By the time he
flicked the light switch back on, he knew what he had to do. He wiped his
fingerprints from the doorknobs and switches and desk. He cleaned his prints
from the three-hole punch and dropped it near her body. Simone’s purse lay on
the desk. He dumped the contents and took her wallet and cellphone. He yanked a
gold necklace from her neck and slipped a sapphire ring from her finger. He
stuffed all of it into a pocket of his uniform, crept into the stillness of the
hallway, and descended the fire stairs to a side street exit.

Someone will have to pay for Simone’s killing, he thought.

Guest Post by the
Author

Writers in Hiding

When writers experience a rush of inspiration and deeply wonder where
that insight might lead, they often withdraw from public view and ready
themselves for the creative struggle to follow. But where do they hide and how
do they prepare?

The answers to those questions are almost as numerous as the writers
themselves.

Crime writers are familiar with peculiar settings, mechanisms and elixirs
for creativity too. Look at Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler, and Dashiell Hammett. Ms. Christie was known to sketch out plots
while soaking in her bathtub and nibbling at apples. Chandler and Hammett
uncorked their creativity and wrote and drank until the wells ran dry. And Dan Brown claims that he finds his muse hanging upside down from some sort of
mechanical contraption.

Henry David Thoreau, the noted recluse, fled
to Walden Pond to think and write. For two years he did more thinking than
writing. He didn’t complete his final manuscript until eight years later.

I have my own Walden Pond-like refuge. It’s not as isolated as Thoreau’s.
It’s rural, but less bucolic. Four distinct seasons glimmer through my windows.
Wild animals forage the perimeters. The odd visitors rap upon my door just as
they did at Thoreau’s cabin near Concord. My refuge, though, is in the basement
of my home on the edge of a fishing village on Prince Edward Island.

It’s not that I’m locked away downstairs or something. I could just as
easily sit in one room or another upstairs and stare at woodlands or watch the
fishing boats pass the lighthouse on the Point. But I prefer not to.

It seems that I’m one of those creatures which are easily distracted - a
dog whose ears prick at the scuff of a shoe along the lane, or a cat which
flinches at branches scraping a shingle.

My work day begins in the morning. When younger, I worked best at night.
Now older, I probably would fall asleep too soon to accomplish anything
productive. So morning it is. After breakfast. After a coffee, perhaps two.
After a large glass of water and with a second to carry downstairs and rest
alongside my keyboard. If you close your eyes, you can imagine me doing exactly
that right now.

It’s probable that many writers enliven their work space with a radio
muttering nonsense from loquacious announcers, or a CD pulsing a favorite
artist, or a computer streaming tunes from the "cloud". I’ve tried
these remedies but they don’t work for me.

I’ve experimented with rock, blues, classical and opera. Rock sends my
mind skipping too happily down memory lane. Blues tempts me to grab my guitar
and work out the key or the chord progressions. Classical pieces and opera are
so full of strong emotions that I can’t concentrate on the plights of my
fictional characters. Once, I even took a chance with Gregorian chant. It was
soothing, and not distracting. However, it was too comforting. I drifted
hypnotically. I sensed myself slipping into a spiritual coma.

In the end, I discovered the sound of nothing at all. The rattle of one’s
own mind. The bumping together of memories and desires and fears. The silence
of a cloister, if you will. Or a monastery. And come to think of it, at one
time I had been quite familiar with just such a setting.

The Jesuit-taught high school I attended arranged a religious retreat for
students each year. The retreat house rose out of the beautiful Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. Each student had his own
room. Silence and reflection dominated much of the day.

Most of my 56 classmates found the retreat an unusual yet refreshing
experience, and a few may have found that it stirred the imagination as well as
the spirit. Such an awakening may have occurred to friend and classmate Tom McHale, who later became a NYT
best-selling author. Among his books was Farragan’s Retreat, a satiric novel which used that very same
retreat house as backdrop for his acclaimed book.

My new mystery, The Dead Letter, may become a best-seller too. Time will tell. Or maybe it will be the
next one, the novel I’m working on right now, the one still simmering with
not-yet-resolved intrigues and harrowing escapes. I’m working on it surrounded
by water and woodland, farms and fields. I’m working on it in the silence of my
basement with little noise or distraction, where solitude is welcome and where
quiet replenishes the soul just as it depletes my inkwell, where I can hear my
thoughts, and where I can just make out the conflicts and conversations between
my imaginary characters.

Shush! …shhhh! Could you read a little more quietly please?

Praise for the Book

"The Dead Letterwas intriguing,
captivating, and overall and enjoyable read. The story is well versed and there
are plot twists when the story was dying a little, which is the mark of a good
writer. I enjoyed reading this novel and found it a nice break from some of the
other books I have been picking up lately. I think it would be a great book to
get someone back into reading, or a great addition to any thriller library. If
you know someone who loves thriller/mysteries, or you are a mystery lover
yourself then I would pick this one up. An exciting read for those looking to
get into the mystery genre." ~ A Comfy chair in the Corner

About the Author

Finley Martin was born in Binghamton, New York, and grew up in Scranton,
Pennsylvania. He received a B.A. degree in English at the University of
Scranton, and during the 1960’s he served as an officer with the United States
Marine Corps at posts in America, the Caribbean, and Asia.

After he returned to civilian life, he worked as a free-lance writer, PR
consultant, and photographer and became public relations director at
International Correspondence Schools.

In the 70’s he received an M.A. from the University of Ottawa and a B.Ed.
from the University of Prince Edward Island. For many years he taught English
literature at high school and writing courses at university. He has also worked
as a truck driver, labourer, carpenter, boat builder, and deckhand aboard commercial
fishing vessels and passenger ferries.

During his writing career he published numerous magazine and newspaper
articles, poetry, and short stories in Canada and the U.S. He produced a
mini-series for CBC Radio and has given numerous poetry readings.

He authored three books: New Maritime Writing (Square Deal Pub., Charlottetown, PE), A View from the Bridge (Montague, PE), and The Reluctant Detective (The Acorn Press,
Charlottetown, PE).

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