Read Every Clue Is Real free: the opening chapter

The Saltwater Widow

The rain felt less like water and more like a punishment. Each drop hammered against the roof of the taxi, blurring the already indistinct coastline of Port Blossom. November in Maine wasn't known for its gentle grace. It was a season of raw edges, of granite meeting grey sea, and today, it was furious.

I pulled my collar higher, the wool doing little against the damp chill that seemed to seep into my bones. Saltmarsh Bay. Even the name sounded ominous. I hadn’t been back in five years, not since I’d traded chasing fraudsters in Boston for a quieter life, or so I’d told myself. A life of restoring antique furniture, mostly. A life of avoiding memories.

The driver, a man whose face seemed permanently etched with the local weather, glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You here for the Crowe business?”

I offered a noncommittal hum. It wasn't a question, not really. Port Blossom wasn’t a town that got much excitement. A death, especially one as public as Eleanor Crowe’s, was the main topic of conversation for weeks.

“Rough night for it,” he said, navigating the winding road with practiced ease. “Old woman Crowe. Lived up on the cliffs. Found her down on the rocks this morning. Nasty fall, they say.”

“They always say that,” I muttered, more to myself than to him. Years of investigating had taught me that “accidents” rarely were.

We rounded a final bend, and the Crowe house came into view. It was a grand, gothic structure, perched precariously on the edge of the cliffs, overlooking the churning sea. Grey stone, shadowed windows, and a general air of decaying elegance. It looked like something out of a bad gothic novel. The kind my sister, Sarah, used to devour. A painful memory flared, quickly suppressed.

The driver pulled up to a makeshift barrier of police tape. Two uniformed officers stood guard, looking equally miserable in the downpour.

“This is it,” he announced, killing the engine. “Good luck.”

Good luck. As if luck had anything to do with it.

I paid him, grabbed my worn duffel bag, and stepped out into the storm. The wind nearly ripped the bag from my hand. The air smelled of salt and something else, something vaguely metallic.

---

Detective Harding, a man built like a linebacker and radiating impatience, barely glanced at me. “Maxwell. Glad you could make it.” His tone suggested otherwise.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, keeping my voice dry. Harding and I had history. We’d gone through the academy together. He’d stayed, climbed the ranks, embraced the small-town police force. I’d left, seeking something…else. Something I hadn’t found.

“Crowe’s body’s still down on the rocks. Tide’s coming in, makes things difficult. Forensics is trying to get everything documented before the sea claims it all.” He gestured towards the cliff path, now a muddy ribbon clinging to the edge. “You can take a look, but don’t expect a picnic.”

I ignored his lack of enthusiasm and started towards the path. The spray from the waves was already soaking my coat. The wind howled in my ears. It was a bleak, unforgiving landscape. Perfect for a tragedy.

The path narrowed as I descended, the drop to the rocks below becoming increasingly daunting. The sea crashed against the base of the cliffs, sending plumes of white foam into the air. I could hear the mournful cry of seagulls, lost in the wind.

Then I saw her.

Or what was left of her.

Eleanor Crowe lay sprawled among the jagged rocks, her body twisted at an unnatural angle. Her silver hair was tangled with seaweed, and her expensive silk dress was stained with blood and seawater. It wasn’t a clean break. Not an accidental tumble.

I knelt beside the body, carefully avoiding the blood-slicked stones. My eyes scanned the scene, cataloging details. The position of the body. The pattern of the blood spatter. The absence of any obvious defensive wounds.

It was too neat. Too…posed.

“Find anything interesting?” Harding’s voice boomed from above.

“It's not a simple fall, Harding,” I said, my voice barely audible above the storm. “Look at the bruising. And the way she landed. This wasn't just gravity.”

Harding grunted. “We’ll let the medical examiner sort that out.” He clearly wasn’t convinced. “Old woman had enemies. Lots of them, apparently. Business dealings, family squabbles. The usual.”

“Enemies who would push her off a cliff?”

“People argue. People threaten. Doesn’t mean they commit murder.” He was dismissive, but I sensed a flicker of annoyance beneath his gruff exterior. He didn’t like me questioning his authority.

I stood up, brushing the mud and seawater off my knees. “I’d like to see the house.”

“Forensics team is still processing it. You’ll have to wait.”

“I’m a consultant, Harding. I need to assess the scene.” I raised an eyebrow, letting my gaze meet his. “Unless you prefer to handle this entirely on your own?”

He sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Fine. But don’t interfere with my people. And stay out of their way.”

---

The inside of the Crowe house was as oppressive as the exterior. Dark wood paneling, heavy velvet drapes, and an abundance of antique furniture created a suffocating atmosphere. The air smelled of dust and old money. And something else. Something sweet and cloying.

A young woman in a white forensics suit was carefully dusting a mahogany table in the drawing room. She glanced up as I entered, her expression wary.

“Dr. Bellweather,” Harding said, introducing us. “This is Clara Bellweather. She’s a forensic psychologist. She’ll be assisting with the investigation.”

Clara Bellweather. The name sounded familiar. I vaguely remembered reading about her work, behavioral profiling, criminal psychology. She was young, probably early thirties, with a severe haircut and intense grey eyes. She didn’t meet my gaze.

“Dr. Bellweather specializes in understanding the minds of people who do things like this,” Harding explained. “She might be able to offer some insight.”

Clara nodded, her expression unreadable. “I analyze behavior. I look for patterns. I try to understand the motivations.”

“Interesting,” I said, my voice laced with skepticism. Understanding motivations rarely brought anyone closer to the truth. It was the evidence that mattered.

“What have you found?” I asked, turning my attention to the room.

Clara moved slowly, her eyes scanning the furniture, the walls, the floor. She seemed to be absorbing everything, processing it on a level I couldn’t comprehend.

“The house feels… staged,” she said finally, her voice quiet. “Like someone wanted to create a certain impression.”

“Staged?” Harding scoffed. “What are you talking about?”

“Everything is too perfect. Too neat. The furniture is arranged in a way that feels deliberate, not natural. It’s as if the owner was trying to project an image of wealth and sophistication.”

I had to admit, she had a point. The room felt less like a lived-in space and more like a museum exhibit.

“And the scent,” Clara added, wrinkling her nose. “That sweetness. It’s gardenia. But it’s overpowering. It’s masking something.”

I caught a whiff of it now, a sickly-sweet fragrance that clung to the air. It was definitely unusual.

“The housekeeper said Mrs. Crowe loved gardenias,” Harding said defensively. “She had them everywhere.”

“Perhaps. But this is…excessive.” Clara moved towards a large portrait hanging above the fireplace. It depicted a stern-faced woman in a Victorian dress. “Look at the eyes. They’re following you.”

I glanced at the portrait. The woman’s eyes did seem to bore into me, filled with a cold, judgmental gaze. It was unsettling.

“It’s just a painting,” Harding said dismissively.

“Paintings can tell stories,” Clara countered. “They can reveal hidden truths.”

I studied the portrait, trying to see what Clara saw. There was something about the woman’s expression that bothered me. A hint of sadness. Or was it something else?

Then I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. A small, almost imperceptible scratch on the canvas, just above the woman’s left eye. It looked like…a flourish. A delicate, looping line.

I knew that flourish.

I’d seen it before.

Five years ago.

On a document. A forged prescription.

A prescription for my sister, Sarah.

A cold dread washed over me. This wasn’t just a local tragedy. It wasn’t just a case of a wealthy woman falling off a cliff.

This was something far more complicated.

And it was connected to my past.

…A prescription for my sister, Sarah.

A cold dread washed over me. This wasn’t just a local tragedy. It wasn’t just a case of a wealthy woman falling off a cliff.

This was something far more complicated.

And it was connected to my past.

Harding, oblivious to the sudden turmoil within me, was still attempting to debunk Clara’s observations. “It’s an old house, Ms. Bellweather. Of course it feels…preserved. Mrs. Crowe was a meticulous woman.”

I held up a hand, silencing him. “The scratch on the portrait. Do you have photographs of the painting before today, Detective?”

Harding frowned. “I’ll have to check. Why?”

“Because that scratch wasn’t there before. I have a… particular reason to know.” I couldn’t reveal Sarah yet, not until I understood what I was walking into. “I want the forensic team to examine it closely. See if they can determine what made it, and when.”

He grumbled but nodded. I could feel his skepticism radiating towards me, but he was a professional, and a clear request was a clear request.

Clara, meanwhile, was circling a small writing desk tucked into a corner of the room. It was immaculate, not a speck of dust in sight. “No personal items,” she observed. “No letters, no photographs, no stray pens. It’s as if she never actually used this desk.”

I approached, running my hand over the polished surface. It felt cold, sterile. “People have different habits. Some prefer to keep their work areas tidy.”

“Perhaps. But this isn’t tidiness. It’s emptiness. It’s as if she was deliberately erasing herself.” She opened a drawer. Empty. Another. Empty.

“Check the locked one,” I suggested.

Harding produced a key and unlocked the drawer. Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, was a single object: a silver locket. It was tarnished with age, but intricately engraved with what looked like a crest.

“Well, well,” Harding said, a flicker of interest in his eyes. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Clara carefully lifted the locket, turning it over in her hands. “It’s beautiful. And old. This wasn’t a recent acquisition.”

I felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck. The crest… I recognized it. Vaguely. It felt like a half-remembered dream.

“Do you know this crest, Ms. Bellweather?” Harding asked, noticing my reaction.

I hesitated. “I… I think I’ve seen it before. Years ago. It belonged to a prominent family in… Boston, I believe.”

“The Ashworths,” Clara supplied, her voice barely a whisper. “The Ashworths were one of the oldest families in Massachusetts. They made their fortune in shipping.”

“That’s right,” I said, surprised. “The Ashworths.”

“And Eleanor Crowe, née Ashworth, was the last of her line,” Clara added. “She inherited the family fortune, but she was estranged from her relatives for decades.”

“Estranged?” Harding raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Rumors of scandal,” Clara said. “Financial impropriety. A contested will. It was never fully resolved.”

I had a feeling the scandal ran much deeper than rumors.

Suddenly, the wind howled outside, rattling the windows. Rain lashed against the glass, and the waves crashed against the cliffs below with a deafening roar. The storm was intensifying.

“It’s getting worse,” Harding said, glancing out the window. “We should get back to the station and start digging into the Ashworth family history.”

“I want to see the body first,” I said, my voice firm. “I want to see where she fell.”

Harding protested, citing the weather and the dangerous conditions, but I was adamant. I needed to see the scene for myself. I needed to feel it.

He finally relented, and we donned rain gear before venturing out into the storm. The wind nearly ripped the umbrellas from our hands as we made our way down a winding path towards the cliffs. The air was thick with the smell of salt and rain.

The scene was even more harrowing than I had imagined. The rocks below the cliff were jagged and treacherous, and the waves were pounding against them with relentless force. A small, huddled group of officers were already there, their flashlights cutting through the darkness.

And there, lying amongst the rocks, was Eleanor Crowe.

Her body was broken and twisted, her face pale and lifeless. It was a gruesome sight, but I forced myself to look. I scanned the area, my eyes searching for anything that seemed out of place.

The ground around the body was churned up, indicating a struggle. But there were no footprints besides those of the officers. And no obvious signs of forced entry.

I knelt beside the body, ignoring the spray of the waves. I examined her hands. Her nails were perfectly manicured, but beneath them, I saw traces of dirt. The kind of dirt you find in a garden.

“She didn’t just fall,” I said, my voice barely audible above the storm. “She was pushed.”

Harding scoffed. “That’s quite a leap, Ms. Bellweather. We haven’t even had the medical examiner’s report yet.”

“Look at the angle of the fall,” I said, pointing to the position of the body. “She wouldn’t have landed like this if she simply lost her footing. She was thrown.”

Clara, who had been silently observing the scene, nodded in agreement. “And the dirt under her nails. She fought back.”

Harding remained skeptical, but he couldn’t deny the evidence. He signaled to the officers to begin a more thorough search of the area.

As they did, I continued to scan the cliffs above. My gaze fell upon a small, secluded alcove, hidden from view by a thick tangle of ivy. And there, partially obscured by the foliage, I saw something that made my blood run cold.

A single, crimson gardenia.

It hadn’t been washed away by the rain. It had been deliberately placed there.

A signal. A message.

I turned to Harding, my face grim. “This isn’t a simple accident. This is a murder. And someone wanted us to know it.”

The town of Saltmarsh Bay felt…different. The locals, weathered and stoic, watched us with guarded eyes. They offered polite answers to our questions, but their expressions remained closed, their stories carefully curated.

It was an insular community, steeped in tradition and suspicion. Outsiders weren’t welcomed here. And I had the distinct impression that they weren’t telling us everything.

Old Man Hemlock, the harbor master, a man whose face resembled a roadmap of wrinkles, was particularly uncooperative. He claimed to have seen nothing, heard nothing.

“Mrs. Crowe kept to herself,” he said, his voice raspy. “She wasn’t one for socializing. A proud woman. A lonely woman.”

“Did she have any visitors?” I asked.

“Sometimes. A lawyer. A housekeeper. But not often.”

“Anyone else?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Just the occasional delivery man.”

I didn’t believe him. I could see the secrets lurking behind his eyes. But he wasn’t willing to share them.

That evening, back at the small inn where we were staying, Clara and I reviewed the evidence. The locket, the scratch on the portrait, the dirt under Eleanor Crowe’s nails, the gardenia on the cliff… It was all connected, but I couldn’t quite piece it together.

“The Ashworth family,” Clara said, tracing the crest on a photograph of the locket. “They’re the key. We need to find out who stood to gain from Eleanor Crowe’s death.”

“And who might have a reason to connect it to my sister,” I added, my voice tight with suppressed anger.

The storm raged on outside, mirroring the turmoil within me. Saltmarsh Bay held its secrets close, and I had a feeling that uncovering them would be far more dangerous than I anticipated.

The sample ends here.