A Country Gift Shop Collection: Three cosy crime novels that will keep you guessing!. Vivian Conroy

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       Dead to Begin With

      Vivian Conroy

Acknowledgments

      Thanks to all editors, agents and authors who share insights into the writing and publishing process.

      A special thanks to my fantastic editor Victoria Oundjian and her team for embracing fictional Glen Cove with all its human and canine inhabitants, and to the design team for the evocative cover with the coastal feel.

Chapter One

      Vicky Simmons tiptoed to the archway leading into the living room area and listened to her mother’s voice coming from the den. “You don’t say. When did you see that?”

      Vicky grinned to herself. As the call had ended the big welcome-home breakfast prematurely, she had already suspected it came from one of her mother’s informers.

      ‘Informer’ was the right word as Glen Cove’s jungle drum was more reliable than any other network could ever be. But Claire Simmons would never admit to the insatiable curiosity of her circle of friends. Her favorite defense was: “I’m not nosy; I just like to know things.”

      What Claire wanted to know most right now was what her daughter would be doing with her time now that she was back in town and had to make a living outside of her established foreign correspondent career. The welcome-home breakfast had been set up solely to quiz Vicky about this topic, but knowing every peep she said would travel far and wide, Vicky had dodged all her mother’s questions.

      She did want to share her big plans with her mother of course, but only after she had made sure it would work out. She had to see the property she had cast her eye on in person. The real estate agent had sung its praises over the phone, but then that was his job. When viewed in real life, the property might turn out to be too big for a gift shop, or in need of substantial changes to make it suitable for the classic feel Vicky had in mind. She did have some savings left from all those years in London, but she didn’t intend to spend them right away on repairs and adjustments.

      Grabbing a pen from the basket on the sink, she scribbled on a scrap: Gone to get some groceries. V. She stuck the note to her mother’s fridge with a Welcome to Glen Cove magnet. Of course the magnet had waves and gulls and a lighthouse. Everything in Glen Cove was sea-orientated: seafood restaurants, boat rentals, souvenir shops brimming with shell-decorated photo frames and postcards of the harbor with all the fishing boats. Vicky’s gift shop wouldn’t sell any of that. It would focus on bringing a British touch to life, be it through exclusive home decoration articles, china, clothing, books or tea. It would fill a niche.

      At least that was what Vicky had told herself when she had thought up the idea in the comfort of her London pad. She had made sketches of what her store would look like, inside and out, had written long lists of the products she might sell, had visited websites of potential suppliers. She had even already ordered a set of china with rosebud décor, because she had been so certain she could sell it either way.

      Every step had fed the fire inside, even the little setbacks of estimating costs and hearing from suppliers they were reluctant to deliver to someone whose name was not established. That only made it a challenge, and challenges were fun. She had missed them as she had settled into the routine of writing her successful travel columns. Ten years had about exhausted every wedding venue and secret hideaway anyway.

      And life began at forty, right?

      Just as her hand was on the back door handle, a voice behind her back said, “Wait, I’ll come with you. I want to show you some changes in town.”

      Vicky froze, surprised that Claire had resurfaced so soon. “I thought it was Pam on the line.”

      “Had to go baby-sit her granddaughter. She only called to say Roberts put his place up for sale. The next to leave. This town is drying up.” The sadness in Claire’s voice could not be missed.

      Vicky swallowed. In summer when the tourists flooded in, the town flourished, presenting that postcard idyll holidaymakers longed for. It was like the incoming tide, bringing unsuspected riches to the shore. But in fall the tide became outgoing as the ocean that had lured the tourists now drove them away, cold gusts of wind whipping the sharp sand across the deserted beach and even into the windowsills of cottages that were no longer let.

      Winter months were dark and depressing when the bell over your store door didn’t ring once in a whole day.

      It was possible to stay afloat as a store owner if you had a second source of income, from fishing for instance. If you had to live off the store alone, it was harder. Especially if the store concept you wanted was something quite new for the town. It could become a major hit or a terrible disaster. That latter possibility stared Vicky in the face. As she had given up on her life in London, her career, her friends, there was no way back either.

      Claire came up to her. “Come on, Coco.”

      Nails scratched on the floorboards, and a cuddly white bichon frise ran past Claire up to Vicky, whining for a pat. Vicky smiled as she leaned down to scratch the doggy behind the ears. Her shoe-box apartment hadn’t allowed her to have pets. Here she intended to take full advantage of the nearness of her mother’s beloved lapdogs. “Where’s Mr. Pug?”

      “On his walk.”

      “His begging tour, you mean.” Mr. Pug always took a morning stroll on his own, just down the road and back, around the time when people went to their mailboxes or left for shopping. СКАЧАТЬ