James’ life was falling apart. How did he allow a sixteen-year-old girl to infiltrate his world? She wanted commitment. It wasn’t going to happen.
It was Sunday night. He got home in time to grab a beer before the eleven o’clock news. A young girl, yet to be identified, was found lying face down by the edge of the Scenic Highway … a presumed hit-and-run. He didn’t need a name. He’d left no clues that would lead back to him. It was quick and clean … the way he’d planned it.
The name-plate on her desk read, Casey Quinby. She was the head investigative reporter for the Cape Cod Tribune. She worked hand-in-hand with police departments from one end of the Cape to the other. Casey was their ‘Kelly Girl’ detective. Her boss gave her free rein to work with the cops, fully knowing she’d get the exclusive. She got to play with the POs, and then got paid to write about it.
Last Sunday night, there was a hit-and-run on the Bourne Scenic Highway. For some reason, Casey wasn’t given clearance to mingle with the cops at the scene. Even her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Sam, suggested she step back from this one. Said he’d get in touch with her in a couple of days. Sam was the chief detective in the Bourne Police Department.
Imagine telling a reporter, a nosey one at that, to close her eyes and disappear for a few days. Not going to happen. She knew she had to use her Sherlock Holmes’ nose to sniff out well hidden clues – mix them together – and end up with a perfectly assembled table puzzle.
The body of a young woman with nothing but a child-worn teddy bear clinched in her arms—a boyfriend without an alibi—a rich, conniving widow—strangers and lovers caught in the triangle of an unknown identity.
The baked-on salt spray that covered the side window wasn’t enough to hide the silhouette of feet lodged between the bed and wall of the one bedroom, closed-for-the-season, ocean front cottage. With no identification, the medical examiner labeled her—Jane Doe: cottage number three.
It started with a day trip to Provincetown for Casey Quinby and her side-kicks, Annie, right-hand to the District Attorney, and Marnie, a recent law school graduate also working out of the DA’s office. Their unexpected discovery at Seaside Cottages set off an investigation which took Casey, from her comfort zone on Cape Cod, over the Sagamore Bridge, up Route 3 into unfamiliar territory in Boston.
Casey, a former cold case investigator, is the head investigative reporter for the Cape Cod Tribune. By virtue of her job, she’s developed a relationship with most of the Cape PDs and is fondly known as “Sherlock”. The understaffed Provincetown Police Department turns to her to provide an extra pair of eyes and set of legs to help uncover anything that would aid in the identification of Jane Doe.
After a near-death experience last July, when she was the key player in the apprehension of a hit-and-run driver, Casey promised her boyfriend, Sam—the lead detective in the Bourne PD—she’d stay clear of dangers reserved for seasoned police officers. But, her accidental encounter with the dead Jane Doe draws her back into a world of suspense, mystery and intrigue.
The road from Provincetown to Boston is paved with twists, turns, unexpected dangers and hidden secrets waiting to be uncovered.
Casey Quinby, head investigative reporter for the Cape Cod Tribune, had worked with the Barnstable Police Department on their cold case backlog in the past, generating a high success rate in uncovering new details allowing them to reopen several cases. When she expressed an interest in working another cold case, the Chief jumped at the chance for her to examine the Mary Kaye Griffin murder file.
Against the Chief’s approval, but because of department police, it had been classified a cold case five years ago due to lack of evidence. Mary Kaye was a personal friend of Chief Lowe’s and the inability of his department to solve her murder haunted him.
According to reports in the evidence box, the husband made the 911 call from their home to report the murder. When the police responded to the 42 Shady Brook Lane address, Brian Griffin was nowhere to be found—vanished into thin air. He immediately became the primary person of interest. The investigation that ensued didn’t produce any evidence implying anyone other than the husband.
A dead end case filed in the bowels of the police station was about to resurface.
Bones … boats … and bullets come together to create a strange trio.
The ‘accidental’ death of a local fishmonger is being questioned by his niece, Bella Deluca. Her Uncle Rocco was found draped over the side of one of his lobster tanks. A live electrical cord lay twisted beside him. Knowing that water and electricity don’t mix, it was determined by the Upper Cape Medical Examiner that Rocco Deluca and the two lobsters left in the tank had been electrocuted. With nothing out of place, no signs of a struggle and a brief investigation, the Falmouth Police Department classified the incident as an accident.
Bella is caught up in the cross-fire when she employs Casey Quinby to investigate. Bella’s brother, George, wants her to back off, but she is committed to uncovering the truth—whatever it may be.
The ‘fish-market-caper’ is Casey’s first case since leaving her position as head investigative reporter for the Cape Cod Tribune. Now a licensed private investigator working solo from an office in Barnstable Village, she finds herself following a trail of deceit, secrets and lies.
A classic who dun it—a disgruntle family member, a dissatisfied customer, a complete stranger just passing by—or could it have been a suicide triggered by the loss of his wife five years earlier? Rocco had made the decision to close the market. Without Rita by his side, his get-up-and-go, got up and left. His life had taken a turn. It was time to retire.
Bella was adamant. Retire yes, but suicide—not even a consideration.
A month passed before I returned to my office in Barnstable Village. My first case as a PI turned into a murder investigation with me right in the middle. My old boss, Chuck Young, assured me my position as head investigative reporter for the Tribune was still open if I wanted to come back to the newspaper. I banished the thought.
I walked over to my front window. People living on Cape Cod crave the sand and beach—for me, it’s the view of the District Court to the left, Superior Court to the right and the District Attorney’s Office straight across the street.
The sudden knock on the front door startled me straight off the floor. The sun streamed through the window so brightly, I couldn’t make out if the knocker was a man or a woman. I took a deep breath to calm my racing heart, walked over, unlocked and opened the door.
“Can I help You?”
He looked at me, then up at my shingle. “If you’re Casey Quinby, Private Investigator, you can.”
A Raggedy Ann doll with the initials CMD embroidered on her food, wrapped up in a bright pink towel and put inside a Macy’s shopping bag was left on the stoop of Patrick and Mary O’Malley’s house in South Boston.
The doll belonged to their month-old granddaughter, Carleen Mary Davis, who, along with her parents, Charlie and Megan, perished in a fire that happened in Sandwich, Massachusetts, twenty-five years ago.
The O’Malleys never believed Carleen died in the fire and now they had proof—the doll.
A missing person case stemming from a fire on Cape Cod, brings Casey to Boston to investigate.