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I drew inspiration for this story from the Norman Rockwell-like seaside village I grew up in, MANCHESTER BY THE SEA. The story is told in first person.


The protagonist is a newspaper journalist who is trying to find his missing fiancé. The body of a dead woman has been found at the bottom of Rafes Chasm between Gloucester and Manchester. As a reporter, filled terror and dread, he races to the scene hoping and praying it is not his girl. To his great relief, it's not her, but the lead detective wants to know why he thought it might be his girlfriend. Chaos and problems ensue for the protagonist as he attempts to sidestep the suspicions and find his fiancé and who killed this poor woman by the ocean. This mystery/thriller is filled with schemes, suspects, and  suspicions, and underlying wit and humor by the protagonist. 



     “Good afternoon, Mr. Baines. Ms. Rawson will be with you momentarily. Please follow me.”

     I followed him into the cavernous opening, an immense two-story foyer with white marble columns and tiles, and gold leaf trim everywhere. It had diverse greenery including a few tall tees and bright natural light which filtered down from the large multi-pane windows above the entrance door and the one up on the staircase landing between the first and the second floor. The staircase, covered in plush red and black fabric, was wide enough to drive a Humvee on. The chandelier above my head sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight, probably cost more than I’ll make in my lifetime. I was thinking this must be Heaven’s throne room, but then I saw some of the rest of the house. It was a close 2nd.

I stayed close on 'Saint Peter’s' heels—it would take a week to find my way out if I got lost.

Not that that would be a bad thing.

     He led me down a long hallway with numerous doors that led off into God knows what rooms, perhaps a billiard room, a ballroom behind another, maybe a conservatory. At the end of the hallway, he pushed open a set of double doors on the right and ushered me in with a wave of his hand.

    I looked into the cavernous room. It was the library. Colonel Mustard was sitting in a brown, high-back leather chair, brandishing a smoking revolver in one hand and a Martini in the other. Miss Scarlet was crumpled on the floor in front of—”

     “Mr. Baines. Please wait here. Ms. Rawson will be with you shortly.”

     I stepped into the room drooling and catching flies and turned to comment, “Mine’s bigger,” but he’d already closed the doors and disappeared.

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