Triple Witch
Authors: Sarah Graves
Home Repair Is Homicide
mysteries of
Sarah Graves
“Just the right prescription for a post-repair rest.”
—
Orlando Sentinel
“Everything’s Jake—until she starts snooping.”
—
New York Daily News
“With an intricate plot, amusing characters and a wry sense of humor, Sarah Graves spins a fun, charming mystery that is sure to make you smile and keep you guessing right up until the end.”
—
Booknews
from The Poisoned Pen
“Charming.”
—
New Orleans Times-Picayune
“A winning addition … A sleuth as tough as the nails she drives into the walls of her 1823 Federal home enhances a clever plot
.… Many will relish the vividly described Down East setting, but for anyone who’s ever enjoyed making a home repair it’s the accurate details of the restoration of Jake’s old house that will appeal the most.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Graves gives us a lively look at small-town life in charming down-east Maine.
Her characters, as always, are captivating examples of Americana and their relationships with each other are inspired.”
—
The Old Book Barn Gazette
“Author Graves has
a tart wit and an eagle-eyed perspective
… producing a handy-dandy mystery with a handsome cast of local color.”
—
The State
(Columbia, S.C.)
“Atmospheric appeal … [Graves] captures the charming eccentricity and outdoorsy flavor of life in a town full of seagulls and bed-and-breakfasts … with
zingy dialogue and a brisk pace.”
—
The Santa Fe New Mexican
“The ride is fun and Sarah Graves seems to be
having a blast.”
—
Maine Sunday Telegram
“A reading pleasure.”
—
The Snooper
“Working around the house can definitely be murder. Sarah Graves’s
Home Repair Is Homicide
series is a much more pleasant way to kill time!”
—
Bangor Daily News
“What distinguishes the novel are its likable, no-nonsense protagonist-narrator, her references to home repair that the author cleverly fits tongue-and-groove into the story and, especially, the detailed descriptions of the town.”
—
Los Angeles Times
“Eloquently depicts the beauties and hardships of life on an island in Maine.… Filled with believable and engaging characters, exquisite scenery and extravagant action.”
—
News and Record
(Greensboro, N.C.)
“One cool caper.”
—
MLB 2001 Gift Guide
“The town of Eastport and its warmly wondrous citizens continue to enchant!”
—
Booknews
from The Poisoned Pen
“The prose is brisk and the jokes are funny.”
—
The Wall Street Journal
“Appealing.”
—
USA Today
“Ms. Graves has created
a bright and personable new detective who has been welcomed into the Eastport community with warmth and affection.”
—
Dallas Morning News
“Graves affectionately creates believable characters … who lend depth and warm humor to the story.…
The cozy details of small-town life and home repair make for an enjoyable read.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Jacobia has a witty and ironic voice, and
the book resonates with good humor, quirky characters, and a keen sense of place.”
—
Down East
magazine
“Sarah Graves’s novel is
a laudable whodunnit, but it’s also a love letter to Eastport
, celebrating the cultural contrasts between the town and some misguided souls from the Big Apple.… The funky, low-key fishing community wins every time.”
—
Kennebec Valley Tribune and Morning Sentinel
Triple Witch
The Dead Cat Bounce
Wicked Fix
Repair to Her Grave
Wreck the Halls
Unhinged
Mallets Aforethought
Tool & Die
Nail Biter
Trap Door
The Book of Old Houses
A Face at the Window
Crawlspace
TRIPLE WITCH
A Bantam Dell Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam mass market edition / June 1999
Bantam reissue / March 2004
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 1999 by Sarah Graves
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Bantam Books, New York, New York.
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-307-57079-6
v3.1
Thanks to all who have helped by word, deed, and example, including: Paul Pulk, Judy McGarvey, Steve Koenig, Sandi Shelton, Kay Kudlinski, Brenda Booker of Fountain Books in Eastport, Maine, David and Kathy Chicoine and
Bullet ’n’ Press
, Dan Rabes, Don Sutherland, Amanda Powers, Kate Miciak, Christine Brooks, Al Zuckerman, and as always and especially, John Squibb.
1
Kenny Mumford’s wide, sightless eyes gazed up out of his shroud of wet, green rockweed, on the beach at Prince’s Cove. The rockweed covered much of the rest of his face, but we knew right away that it was Kenny. His left hand, flung out loosely behind him as if he were doing the backstroke, had the peculiar, purplish round scar in its palm that anyone in Eastport would recognize.
Kenny always told people he’d gotten the scar when a biker chick, high on methamphetamines, hammered his hand to the shiny metal rim of a barstool after a night of drinking. Others said the drinking part was right but that the nail came from a nail gun, one time when Kenny had had a job.
Now Kenny’s eyes were bleached to a pale, milky blue, the result of being soaked in cold salt water. A day earlier, Kenny’s boat had been towed in minus Kenny by the Coast Guard, so it was no real surprise finding him there on the beach.
The hole in his forehead, though; that was a surprise.
“Not,” Ellie White said thoughtfully, “from a nail gun.”
“Right,” I agreed, looking at Kenny again. “No nail.”
Out on the water, two harbor seals’ heads glided smoothly through the waves toward the fish pens of the local aquaculture operation, where a barge was unloading bags of salmon food. Gulls swirled in drifts over the fish pens, waiting for a chance to swoop down and steal floating morsels, screaming impatience.
Ellie crouched, pulling more rockweed from Kenny’s face.
“Poor Kenny,” she said. “I went to school with him. Up until eighth grade.”
Lying in its nest of rockweed, his head looked disembodied. “Is that when Kenny got sent away to reform school?”
It was right around noon, and seventy degrees, which for downeast Maine in late June is practically a tropical heat wave. Ellie was wearing a green-and-white sleeveless gingham sundress with an apple embroidered on the bodice, thin white sandals, and some kind of sparkly purple gauzy stuff to tie back her red hair.
“No. It was when he stopped going to school altogether. He turned sixteen that year, so they had to let him quit. Kenny,” she explained, “failed a few grades.”
Rising, Ellie took off her sandals and strode into the icy water, gathering her skirt up, while I tried to reconcile Ken’s stillness with the rowdy fellow he had been. He was a terror around town, always into some dumb trouble, often drunk and disorderly. Saturday nights you could pretty well figure he’d be blotto, head back, howling at the moon, while the rest of the week he spent trying to parlay his talent for mischief into something besides another stretch of jail time.
Mostly he failed, and it surprised me to realize how much I would miss him. In Eastport, Kenny was as
much a fixture as the boats in the harbor, or the cannon on the library lawn.
I called my little black Labrador retriever, Monday, and snapped her onto her lead, not wanting her to nose around the body. By then Ellie was on her way back up the beach, too, and I could see that she had been crying.