No Body in Blackberry Cove (Blackberry Cove Mysteries Book 1)

Book summary

In this heart-pounding thriller, private investigator Gregg Hunter is faced with a harrowing choice when his daughter is abducted. With no ransom demanded, Gregg must solve a perplexing murder or lose his daughter forever. As he conducts dual investigations, unraveling the murder and tracking down the kidnappers, Gregg finds himself in the enigmatic town of Blackberry Cove, surrounded by numerous suspects. The kidnappers, convinced of a brutal killing, grow increasingly impatient, sending him a gruesome warning. Time is running out as Gregg races against the clock, facing the darkness that threatens to consume them both in his desperate quest to save his daughter.

Excerpt from No Body in Blackberry Cove

OCTOBER 21ST, 11:04 AM

At first glance, she was no one.

Her face in the photograph was so disfigured, Gregg could imagine any woman's features in its place, even his daughter's. Found in the basement of a vacant house, she'd been tied up and fired at with a nail gun, repeatedly. Her clothes were pierced, her skin impaled, until finally one nail hit her windpipe and brought the torture to an abrupt end.

The depth of the wounds—quite shallow—meant the killer fired from at least a few feet away. They wouldn't have meant to hit her throat intentionally. Their aim would have been too remarkable.

Rachel Milgram slid another photograph across Gregg's desk. This time not of the dead woman, but of a rugged man. A bead of rainwater trickled from Rachel's loose and parted hair, dampening the picture. Boston's rain was frequent and heavy, and the faulty heating in Gregg's office ensured clients were always soaking his furniture and dripping on his floor.

"This man—Liam Watts—disappeared on the night she was murdered," Rachel said. "We believe he was murdered as well, but his body was never found."

Gregg studied the file. "The town's in Vermont?"

"Yes, Blackberry Cove."

Rachel adjusted her silk scarf and tucked the ends into her trench coat, which she then unbuttoned. Beneath, she sported a black sweater. She wasn't law enforcement. Another private citizen was hiring Gregg's services. The only strange thing was, his PI services usually involved cheating husbands or workers' comp scams, not murder investigations.

Gregg tapped the pictures of the dead woman. "Tell me about her."

"Mayor's wife—Clementine Stannard. Originally from New Jersey. Met the mayor when they studied in Montpelier. Got married shortly after. Loved by everyone, according to the reports."

"What exactly do you want from me?"

Rachel reached into her pocket and revealed a sheet of folded paper which she uncrumpled and placed on the desk. She slid it closer, but Gregg didn't have to read it. He'd recognize that article anywhere.

Next to the column of texts were two pictures. The first was of him dressed in his suit, standing next to his old partner, Jim. The second picture showed a smiling twelve-year-old girl named Emilie Jones.

The article reported the story of how young Emilie had been missing for nearly twenty-eight hours. She disappeared after her dad dropped her off at school. The teachers said she never showed up for class, and none of the other students remembered seeing her.

The BPD questioned Emilie's uncle, establishing he had been molesting the girl for years. They'd focused all their attention on him, believing he killed her after deciding she was old enough to talk about the abuse.

Gregg, however, as the article retold, explored a different theory. Thinking the uncle's wife knew more than she was letting on, he went back to interview her. He believed that not only did the aunt know about the abuse, but she also blamed Emilie for taking away her husband. He found the twelve-year-old girl in the trunk of the aunt's car, gagged and beaten. Barely breathing. A couple more hours, the paramedics said, and she'd have had no chance.

"So, what?" Gregg asked. "I got lucky nearly a decade ago, and now you think I'm Batman?"

"It must have been a great feeling," Rachel said, "to find that girl alive."

"After the birth of my daughter, it was the happiest moment of my life."

"You didn't find her by luck. You have a unique perspective on things, Mr. Hunter."

"Miss Milgram." Gregg glanced at his watch. "The job?"

"I want that unique perspective on the missing man in Blackberry Cove."

Gregg stood. "Sorry, Miss Milgram. I don't leave Boston. Send me copies of the case files if you want an assessment."

Rachel remained seated. "Since the woman was the mayor's wife, Blackberry Cove's police force has focused all their resources on finding her killer for three months with no luck. They're barely investigating the missing man."

"I can't."

"I'm willing to pay you—"

"It's not about money. Family priorities. I'm sorry." He shuffled around the corner of his desk and opened the door to his office.

Though his daughter probably wouldn't, Gregg liked to be nearby on the off chance she might call and ask to see him, perhaps for dinner or a movie. She was the only reason he still solved cases. Trying to prove to her—even without his badge and after the divorce—that he still could.

Rachel dragged herself to the door. "I thought you helped people, Mr. Hunter. This man needs help, and no one is doing anything about it. You didn't even ask anything about him. Don't you care?"

"If you've read that article, you know the answer to that," he replied.

Rachel expelled a short breath, then buttoned her coat. She forced a polite smile that was tinged with frustration and left the office. Gregg grabbed his umbrella and followed suit.

Noon was fast approaching, and Gregg's thoughts were focused on meeting his daughter for lunch. She'd be home alone since his ex-wife had spinning classes on Saturday mornings and her boyfriend worked weekends. Besides, his office was windowless, the size of a janitor's closet, and so bland he couldn't stand to be in there more than a couple of hours.

He made it to his old home in Watertown, but Boston's notorious traffic got him there too late, and his ex's car pulled up as he arrived. Sarah stood at the doorway, hands on hips. The silver-colored designer shoes on her feet reminded him of how much he lost in the divorce.

Gregg stepped out of the car. "I'm here to see my daughter."

"That isn't in our custody agreement." Sarah's favorite response. She was always ready with it.

"I drove all the way from the city to have lunch with her." He raised the bag from the local deli, containing Silvia's favorite meatball sandwich. "Since I'm here, why not?"

"You shouldn't have come in the first place. You get her every second weekend, Gregg; that's all. You can't stop by whenever you want."

"I thought she'd be eating alone."

"Well, I'm here now, so she won't be. You can go now, Gregg."

The door slammed shut.

"Dammit, Sarah!" He thrashed his umbrella against the pavement, regretting it immediately when the cheap metal bent under him.

He'd arrested fathers just like him when he was a cop—seedy guys who refused to follow a simple custody agreement and couldn't leave well enough alone. He used to shake his superior head, oblivious to the fact his perfect life was on its way to turning him into one of them.

He caught a glimpse of his daughter from her bedroom window with that all-too-familiar look of disappointment on her face—the one that said he had lost her.

A few months ago, he had stepped into her room for the first time since the divorce and it felt like a stranger's. Her trophies from netball and violin no longer took center stage but hid at the back of shelves. The collection of Sherlock Holmes books they used to read together was nowhere to be seen. Even the poster he had bought her of Acadia National Park, where they used to go camping, was ripped and faded.

He knew she was growing up and moving on, as he expected her to. After all, it had been six years since the divorce, and she was now a distant teenager. But it hurt to think that the memories he cherished so dearly may have disappeared from her mind, just like they had from her bedroom.