Fair Winds and Foul Play by M. S. Spencer

Stranger Danger

“So who’s the mysterious stranger who just moved into Albion, Zoe?” Sissy bounced the tennis ball once and let it roll toward her Scottish terrier, Thor. The dog just sat there, his expression conveying utter disbelief that his mistress would expect him to fetch it. “Deirdre says he’s kinda cute.”

Her companion, who towered over the pixie-sized woman, picked up the ball and tossed it at Thor. This time, in what he obviously considered a grand gesture, he rolled it back. “What was Deirdre doing in Albion?”

“Not Albion the town; Albion Cottage, over on Revival Park. Mrs. Cross—you know, Kenny’s mum—finally decided to rent it out. This guy showed up Saturday night late. So far no one’s seen him leave the house.”

“How does Deirdre know he’s cute, then?”

When Sissy didn’t answer, Zoe recognized her faux pas. Small town gossip protocol dictated that one wasn’t supposed to delve too deeply into rumors, especially when they were made up out of whole cloth. She tried to redeem herself. “How late did he arrive?” Sissy—like most denizens of Amity Landing—went to bed at nine o’clock. Staying up past ten bordered on flagrant intemperance.

“Mebbe eleven, eleven thirty.”

“And Deirdre was up at that hour to see him?”

“She was out walking her cat.” Sissy scrunched up her nose. “That little beast must be eighteen years old now. Pees all the time.” She gave her dog a fond pat. Thor growled deep in his throat.

Zoe prompted, “So Deirdre saw him arrive?”

“Yeah. In a big black car.” She lowered her voice. “He was all in black, too. And he only had one small duffel bag. Black.”

“Oh my.” Zoe tried not to laugh at Sissy’s baleful countenance. “Well, he’s got to go to the grocery store sometime. It’s not like any restaurants deliver around here.”

Thor took that moment to explain in dog language to the postman that he wasn’t welcome, and Sissy was diverted to the cause of peace. “Thor! Wally is your friend! Stop that. Wally? Give him a treat. Now.”

Zoe left them to continue her walk down Puddleby Park Row toward the bay. She threaded through the last two houses and took the overgrown path to Revival Park, the next green over. It’s about time I said hi to Pop. She’d been home for a week after a long visit with her brother in Seattle and hadn’t yet swung by the spot where her father’s ashes were sprinkled. She took the sloping wooden stairway down to the bay’s shore. Boulders—deposited eons ago as the glaciers meandered through Maine—lay helter-skelter at the water line, making it difficult to cross except by jumping from stone to stone or bear-crawling over them. Zoe unbuttoned her boiled wool jacket and settled on a large flat rock by a tidal pool. Stirring the eddies with a piece of driftwood, she imagined that the bits of clam and mussel shells floating up were parts of the man she’d loved and missed every day. “Pop, can you hear me? I found a good home for that tuxedo cat we found wandering the beach. The Peaveys took her—little Myles promises to take good care of him.”

She stared into the depths, conjuring up the image of her father—his handlebar moustache still luxuriant at sixty, making up for the complete absence of hair on his head.

A branch cracked above her. “You there. This is private property. Would you mind vacating the premises?”

Startled, she looked up. High atop the cliff behind her, partially obscured by billowing alders and aspens, she made out a curly mop of tawny hair and two gray eyes. The latter were currently flashing with anger. “I beg your pardon?”

He pointed at the rickety steps behind her. “This is a private path to the beach.”

Indignation flared. “It most certainly is not. It’s a public right-of-way.”

The head withdrew. A second later, she heard the tread of heavy feet, accompanied by oaths whenever the man lost his grip on stairs slick with fallen leaves. He halted at the bottom, breathing heavily. The first thing Zoe noticed were his enormous shoes. They must be size fourteen! She looked him over. I guess they go with his height. Six four, if I’m any judge. This cheered her. It wasn’t often she met a man tall enough for her five eleven frame. His features weren’t bad either—a strong Gallic nose, creamy brown hair cut long enough to brush his collar, a smooth, rectangular chin. Thank God no dimple. She hated dimples. They always struck her as rather affected, like a painted-on beauty mark.

He sat down on the last riser and surveyed the terrain. Then he raised his arms and made a tentative vault off the stair, only to squat down cautiously on the next boulder. His fingers grasped it tightly. He isn’t used to clambering over rocks—a city boy? She raised her glance to his face, in which dusky eyes were still flashing.

“You still here? I thought I told you to clear off.”

“And I told you”—she kept her temper with some effort—“this is public space.”

His lips set in a thin line. “The rental agreement stated clearly that I wouldn’t be disturbed here. I took that to include my access to the water.”

This was fast becoming tedious. “Well, you misread it. Check the fine print next time.” She turned her back.

A scuffling noise came from behind her, and he landed on her rock. He gazed out across the bay, his eyes studiously centered on the island opposite them.

He must be the mysterious man in Albion cottage. She ventured, “You’re renting the cottage?” She pointed up the hill, where a gingerbread-encrusted, green-painted house balanced precariously on the ridge.

He didn’t answer for a minute. Finally he muttered, “Sort of. It was reserved for me.”

“What, are you a ward of the state?” She was enjoying her little joke but stopped when a spasm of terror crackled over his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Are you okay?”

Without replying, he got up quickly and headed toward the stairs. He slipped on a patch of seaweed and stretched out a hand to the railing to avoid falling. Something fell out of his pocket and clanged on the step. He bent down and palmed it, but not before she saw what it was.

A Glock pistol. Just like the one her cousin Eddie the cop carried. She froze.

Without looking back, he took the steps two at a time. Whoa. Who the hell is this guy? She leapt up and skipped across the rocks and up the stairs. By the time she reached the street level, he had disappeared. The screen door on the cottage’s porch slammed. She craned her neck, but couldn’t see inside. A face showed at the picture window momentarily before a blind came crashing down. In the stillness, she could hear the click of the lock on the front door.

***

Excerpt from Fair Winds and Foul Play by M. S. Spencer. Copyright 2026 by M. S. Spencer. Reproduced with permission from M. S. Spencer. All rights reserved.