On Deadly Tides Read online

  On Deadly Tides

  A PENNY BRANNIGAN MYSTERY

  Elizabeth J. Duncan

  For Dolly, Chris York, Bentley, and Charlotte, with love. Thank you for everything.

  Acknowledgments

  Every book starts with a germ of an idea. Gilbert Roberts, a former sailor, described the wind over tide phenomenon, and that got me thinking about what might happen to a body on a beach under those conditions. I first visited Penmon Point, on the easterly tip of the island of Anglesey, many years ago with him. This rocky promontory, at the north entrance to the Menai Strait, turned out to be the perfect setting for On Deadly Tides.

  Thank you to Sylvia and Peter Jones for a memorable day in early December 2019, as we walked along the pebbly beach, absorbing the sights and sounds of the beautiful Trwyn Du Lighthouse.

  For plot purposes, I took some liberty with local geography, making Penmon Point and the lighthouse seem closer to the town of Beaumaris than they actually are.

  Throughout the writing of the Penny Brannigan mystery series I have drawn inspiration from the town and people of Llanrwst. In this outing, Ffin y Park Gallery serves as the model for the Oriel Snowdonia; several enjoyable plotting sessions with Eirlys Owen took place here over lunch or coffee and cake.

  For their help with the manuscript, I’m grateful to Eve Dowd, Sheila Fletcher and Elaine Spicer. Retired Toronto Police detective Des Ryan provided details regarding police procedures. Any errors, however, are mine.

  What3words is a real app, and has saved lives. I hope you’ll download it today, because you never know.

  Thank you to my agent, Dominick Abel for his guidance and insight, and at Crooked Lane Books, I’m grateful to Chelsey Emmelhainz, Matt Martz, and Melissa Rechter for their professionalism and support.

  And finally, heartfelt thanks to my son Lucas Walker, for his love and companionship on our many trips to Wales, and especially during the time of Covid-19.

  Chapter One

  “That’s him,” said Penny Brannigan, with a subtle tip of her head across the crowded bar of the Beaumaris Arms Hotel. “Bill Ward. He’s just over there.”

  Alwynne Gwilt’s eyes followed the direction Penny indicated and came to rest on a short, stocky man, his belly curving out of a beige, fishing-type vest with rows of pockets, worn over a red plaid shirt. Green trousers completed his outdoorsy look.

  “He must be awfully hot in all that gear,” said Alwynne, fanning herself with a cocktail napkin. “Those look like the same clothes he was wearing when he spoke at our meeting back in early March, and this is the end of July.”

  “It’s like a uniform,” Penny responded. “He wears the same get-up in all his publicity shots, too.” She gestured at Alwynne’s wine glass and held up her own. “I’m ready for another. Do you want a refill?”

  Alwynne drained the last of her wine. “Thank you, but no, I don’t think I do. This room is so crowded and noisy I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable. I can barely hear you, and I hate having to shout to have a conversation. It’s been a long day, so I’m going upstairs to finish unpacking, and I should ring home and make sure Medwyn’s surviving without me. And then I’m going to get into bed and read for a bit.” She handed her empty glass to Penny. “I want to try to get a good night’s sleep. We’ve got an early start, and I’d like to be fresh for our early morning painting session.” She leaned closer and offered an ear so she could hear Penny’s reply.

  “Okay,” said Penny. “I’m just going to let Bill know that his artists from Llanelen have arrived. Sleep well, and I’ll see you at breakfast.” The two women turned away from each other. Alwynne headed for the relative quiet of the carpeted corridor that led to the main staircase, and Penny to the dense hubbub of the bar, where people waited two deep to be served.

  “Young Llifon not in tonight?” the customer in front of Penny asked the woman serving behind the bar. He pocketed his change, picked up his drink, and prepared to move away.

  “No, he’s not, the little blighter,” she replied. “Rang in sick at the last minute, leaving me to stand in for him, and on a busier than usual night, too. I’m not best pleased, I can tell you.” She cast a resigned eye over her waiting customers. “Right. Who’s next?”

  “Me, I think,” said Penny. “A white wine, please.” The barmaid appeared to be in her late forties, and though still attractive, she gave the impression that she wasn’t paying as much attention to her appearance as she had done a few years ago. Her brown hair, dull, dry, and greying at the roots, had been carelessly styled in a twisted half-up, half-down arrangement, loosely held in place on top of her head with a large plastic hair claw. The glossy red lipstick she’d applied at the start of her shift had faded, and deep, tiny lines etched around her lips gave her away as a long-time smoker.

  As she poured Penny’s wine, a strained-looking man in a tired suit joined her behind the bar. He appeared to be in his early fifties, with thinning hair and hazel eyes hiding behind glasses that had gone out of style.

  “What are you doing in tonight, Sarah?” he asked the woman as she finished pouring Penny’s wine and replaced the bottle in the chiller. “Isn’t this meant to be your night off?”

  “It is. I’m filling in for Llifon. He’s only called in sick. Again.” She slid the wine glass in Penny’s direction without looking at her and accepted Penny’s banknote.

  “Has he now? How many times is that this month?”

  “I’m not sure. Two or three, I think. I’d have to check the attendance records.”

  “Well, we’d better find out what’s going on with him and see if we can offer any support. And if you had plans for this evening and want to get away, just say the word and I’ll take over.”

  “No, it’s all right, Martin. I’m here now and I can use the extra hours.” The woman handed Penny her change.

  “I could take over here for a few minutes to give you a chance to collect the glasses and wipe down tables, if you like. I noticed on my way through that the tables are all full, and the glasses are starting to pile up.”

  “I know perfectly well how to run a bar service, thank you very much,” snapped the woman. “I’m managing just fine, and I’ll sort out the glasses the minute I get a chance.”

  The man seemed about to say something else, but then thought better of it. “Well, if you’re sure you don’t need my help, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  Holding her glass of wine in her left hand, Penny shifted along the bar in the direction of the man in the plaid shirt and fishing vest. A couple stepped back just as she reached him, so she was able to squeeze past a woman who had been monopolizing him for several minutes, and extend her hand. He set his drink on the bar, grasped Penny’s hand, and held it in a beefy grip. When he released it, she withdrew her fingers and placed her hand behind her back.

  A trim, attractive woman in her early fifties, Penny introduced herself and explained, “My friend and I are here from Llanelen for your painting weekend. We’re delighted to be joining you, and looking forward to learning lots.”

  Bill Ward glanced with bleary brown eyes at the name badge pinned to Penny’s jacket. Sallow skin hung in loose folds around his neck, underscoring a broad, jowly face. “Glad you could make it, Penny,” he said in a surprisingly warm baritone. “Some of your fellow painters are scattered about the room, so be sure to introduce yourself to other members of the group. There are about a dozen of you, all together, so hopefully we’ll have lots of lively discussion, and we can all learn from one another.”

  “It’s so crowded in here, I thought surely all these people can’t be part of our painting group,” said Penny.

  “Nah, the rest are just ordinary tourists booked into the hotel. The town’s always busy like
this during the high season. There’s a lot to see and do.”

  Besides an abundance of antique shops, boutiques, and bustling pubs and cafes, the seaside town of Beaumaris, on the Isle of Anglesey off the north coast of Wales, is home to a medieval castle built in 1295 by King Edward I.

  “There was a massive queue for the castle when we arrived this afternoon, and the promenade along the sea front was positively heaving,” said Penny. “But really, it’s like that all over North Wales every summer now, and getting worse. In Llanelen, where I live …” She broke off as his gaze drifted over her shoulder, and his wide-set eyes narrowed slightly. Sensing that her time with him was up, she finished, “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Just wanted to say hello and let you know we’re here.”

  “I’m glad you did. Enjoy your painting, and I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at the critique session, if not before.” As Ward turned his attention to a woman standing just behind Penny, she took a step back.

  “Whoa,” exclaimed a man’s voice behind her. He raised his beer glass above his head and stepped nimbly to one side just in time to prevent her bumping into him.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Penny said as she turned to face him. Her eyes rested on him for a moment and then flickered away. “It’s so crowded in here. I hope I didn’t cause you to spill your drink. If I did, please, let me get you another.”

  “No harm done.” His sandy-coloured hair was lightly flecked with grey and his blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at her. He gestured with his almost empty glass at the crowded bar. “I was going for a refill, but maybe I’ll give it a few minutes. It’s pretty crowded.”

  “Probably best if we step away from the bar, then,” said Penny. By unspoken agreement, they moved toward the opposite end of the room, and when three women seated near the doorway that led to the hotel lobby stood up to leave, they seized the opportunity and grabbed the table.

  While Penny pondered what to do about the three used wine glasses left behind by the previous occupants, the man pushed them to one side of the table, making room for their glasses. When they were seated, he peered at her name tag, as Ward had done a few minutes earlier.

  “Brannigan. That’s an Irish name. But your accent isn’t Irish. It’s … Canadian, right?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, hello, Penny. Oh, sorry. I should have introduced myself. I’m Colin Campbell.”

  “Campbell. That’s a Scottish name. But your accent isn’t Scottish. Would I be right in thinking it’s also …”

  Colin laughed. “Yes, it is. I’m from Toronto. But I don’t get back there very often because my work involves a lot of travel, mainly Europe and Africa, but sometimes Asia as well.”

  He withdrew a silver business card case from an expensive-looking black leather messenger bag, opened it, and handed her a card. She exclaimed over the photo of a red squirrel, its tiny front paws clutching a leafy twig while it looked at the camera with bright, inquisitive eyes.

  “Oh, I love this,” she said. “Look at his lovely white chest and the tufty ears.” She then read out, “Colin Campbell, wildlife photographer.” She gave him a wide smile before tucking it in her handbag and offering him her card, which featured one of her own watercolour paintings.

  “Did you paint this?” Colin asked.

  “I did. I’m a watercolour artist.”

  “So is that what brings you here?”

  “To North Wales?”

  He made a little affirming noise that sounded like “Mm-hm.”

  “No, I live here. Well, not here on Anglesey. I live in Llanelen, a market town on the mainland.” She gestured at her business card, which he still held. “That bridge on my card is the seventeenth-century bridge in our town. It’s very famous, actually, and we’re proud of it. I’m here in Beaumaris with an art group for a weekend of painting. We’re here until Monday lunchtime.”

  “I wondered what was going on. The bar is a lot more crowded than it was last night, and there are people, like you, with name badges.”

  Penny fingered her name tag. “Tonight’s the welcoming drinks party. The sketching and drawing starts in the morning.”

  “Have you got a place in mind you’d like to paint tomorrow?” Colin asked.

  “The lighthouse,” Penny replied without hesitation. She tasted her chilled white wine before continuing. “I know painting a lighthouse seems really obvious, but this one is especially picturesque, and I’ve wanted to paint it for a long time.” She set down her glass. “What about you? What brings you here?”

  “I’m here taking photographs to illustrate a feature on the island of Anglesey for a nature magazine.”

  “Oh, you’re here for the puffins, then,” said Penny.

  Campbell grinned. “That’s right. Tomorrow, in fact. There’s quite a colony of them, and with their colourful beaks, puffins photograph beautifully if you can get close enough to them. But there are lots of other interesting birds and wildlife, too. Red kites, cormorants, and choughs—and seals. And there might even be bottlenose dolphins if I’m lucky.”

  “The red squirrel on your business card is adorable. Do you do a lot of your work here in the U.K.?”

  “Quite a bit, although lately I’ve been spending a fair bit of time in Africa. But I do love photographing British wildlife, especially in Scotland and the islands. I’m freelance, so my assignments can take me anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, I’ve just finished a project documenting some of the wildlife that will probably be lost due to the climate crisis, and believe me, there’s a lot of it. We’re losing so many species at an alarming rate.”

  “Oh, that’s heartbreaking. I hate hearing that.”

  They sat in reflective silence, and then, to break the gloomy mood that threatened to overtake them, Colin looked toward the bar where Ward, his back to the room, was now engaged in conversation with the woman serving behind the bar. “That fellow at the bar. He looks familiar.”

  Penny turned to see whom he meant. “That’s Bill Ward. He’s leading the painting group. He’s fairly well known in this country, but more as an actor than a painter. He played a really despicable villain on a popular soap. Jubilee Terrace. Have you heard of it?”

  Her companion nodded. “Everybody’s heard of it.”

  “True. Anyway, that was a few years back. His character was so hated that women actually stopped him in the streets and whacked him with their handbags. The producers had to ask people to stop attacking him.”

  “Good publicity for the show, though.”

  “Yes, I suppose it was. But it was probably a relief to him when his character was killed off. After that, he didn’t do much acting, and he focused on his painting career. He’s done really well with it. His work is in all the big galleries in Manchester and Liverpool. Expensive, too. Well out of my price range.”

  “What kind of paintings does he do?”

  “Wildlife, like you, actually. I’ve seen them at various exhibits, and there’s one series he did of foxes that was absolutely beautiful.”

  “That may be how I heard about him, then—through his paintings. Someone I was on assignment with probably mentioned him. How did you hear about him?”

  “I belong to a sketching and painting group in Llanelen, and he came to us in March as a guest speaker. He mentioned this painting weekend he organizes, and my friend and I decided to sign up for it. We’d been talking for ages about a painting getaway, so coming here, with meals included and hotel accommodation all sorted, seemed like an easy way to do it. And besides, it’s not too far from home.”

  “So you’re here with a friend?”

  “Yes, my painting pal, Alwynne Gwilt. She looks after our local museum and is a keen amateur painter. But I think she’s really here to get away from her husband for a few days.”

  Colin raised an eyebrow and Penny laughed.

  “No, not like that. He can be a bit, well, dependent on her. She was dreading his retirement, when he’d be under her feet al
l day, but it hasn’t worked out too badly. He spends all day in his garden, and when it rains, he bakes. The whole town loves his Welsh cakes. And she spends much of her time at the museum, so all in all, it hasn’t been as bad as she thought it would be.”

  Colin laughed, and then gestured at the half-full glass Penny had been nursing.

  “Can I get you another one? I’m ready for a refill, and the bar’s so busy we don’t want to make any more trips than we have to.”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks. This’ll be my last one.”

  He returned a few minutes later, and just as he sat down, a young woman holding a glass of cloudy cider approached their table. She wore a blue-and-white-striped, long-sleeved top over jeans, and scuffed trainers that had seen many miles. She smoothed back shoulder-length blonde hair.

  “There seems to be a chair going spare at your table,” she said, gesturing at it with her glass, “and if you’re not expecting anyone else, since there’s no place else to sit, I wondered if I might join you. I’ve had a couple of long travel days, and I could do with a sit-down.”

  “Of course,” said Penny. “Oh, you’re one of us. You’re wearing one of our painting group name tags.” She tapped her own, then read the name on the young woman’s. “Hello, Jessica Graham.”

  “Oh, that,” said the woman, touching her badge with a sunburned hand that looked as if it spent a lot of time outdoors. “I’m not really a member of the group, at least not as a painter. I’m a journalist, but they gave me a name tag anyway.” She slipped the straps of a hefty black backpack off her shoulders, hoisted it away from her body, and leaned it against the wall, tucking its straps behind it. “So you might say it’s like press accreditation.” She pronounced the last two words with gilt-edged pride.

  “That’s interesting,” said Penny. “You’re doing a story on Bill Ward, I take it.”

  “That’s right. Jubilee Terrace is huge back home, and he’s made an unusual career change, from actor to artist, so it’ll make a good feature story.” She reached into a side pocket of her backpack, and the three exchanged business cards. “I couldn’t believe my luck when I found out he was here and he agreed to give me an interview.”