For Whom the Dinner Bells Tolls

  A Seaside Bed & Breakfast Cozy Mystery

  by Tracey Quinn

  For Whom the Dinner Bell Tolls

  copyright 2024 by Tracey Quinn

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter One

  The sun was sparkling cheerfully off the aquamarine waters of Golden Happiness Isle, a trendy resort island in the Gulf of Mexico, but I was out of gold and out of happiness right now.

  My name is Teri McAfee and just a few months ago I had been teaching Home Economics in a high school in Arizona and planning to marry a handsome high school football coach named Walter. I am 32 years old, have blonde curly hair and blue eyes and I'm reasonably attractive, but after a couple of months Walter dropped me for the high school cheer leading coach who was more than reasonably attractive and had major assets that I didn't have, and I'm not talking about her finances.

  My Aunt Sam saved me from a fate worse than death, (moving back in with my parents) and invited me to spend a few weeks at her bed and breakfast on Admiral Archibald Falls Island, a smaller and significantly-less-trendy island not far from Golden Happiness Isle. A few weeks has turned into a few months, and I'm now working at the bed and breakfast, and happy to be spending the winter in the Caribbean instead of at my parents' house in snowed-in Ohio.

  When I first arrived on Admiral Archibald Falls Island, I owned a pair of white strappy sandals which I had splurged and paid $49.99 for. A few weeks ago I fell out of a fishing boat and my sandals are now somewhere at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. A long story. I'm very grateful that I'm not down there with the sandals since they were lost when I was helping to investigate a murder. A longer story.

  I looked for some sandals to replace them on Admiral Archibald Falls Island, but the only shoe store in town had a sign on the door that read: “Too Nice Out to be Indoors. Back Whenever.” The sign looked old and faded, and the edges of it were sort of curled up. The shoes displayed in the windows were covered with a thin coat of dust. I had the feeling “whenever” wasn't happening any time soon.

  Having given up on supporting local business, I called Nick Delaney, a fishing boat captain who Aunt Sam pays to ferry guests and employees to and from Golden Happiness Island, and he agreed to take me there free of charge, which was only fair since, in spite of his denials, it was absolutely, positively, definitely 100% his fault that I fell overboard in the first place.

  My trip to Golden Happiness Isle on Nick's fishing boat wasn't life-threatening this time and I managed to locate a shoe store that was actually open for business. Inside, I found an identical pair of sandals which they generously sold me for only three times the price of my original pair.

  So now here I sit on a bench at the dock, waiting for Captain Nick to come back for me. The first three times I called his phone I just got a message, but the fourth time he answered and said, “Be there in five.” With a normal human that would mean five minutes, but from my past experience with Nick, I knew it could mean anytime between now and menopause. Could this day possibly be more irritating?

  “How you doin'?”

  The thick Brooklyn accent jarred me from my pity party and I looked up to see a stocky man in a loud tropical print shirt swaggering up to me. He was carrying two large shopping bags that looked heavy.

  “Would you mind if I sit down, miss?” he said, plopping down heavily on the bench without waiting for a response. “Walkin' around carryin' this stuff is hot work.”

  The man was somewhere in his 20's, had black hair that was drowning in hair grease, and wore a collection of shiny gold chains around his neck. He looked like he had gotten lost on the way to a casting call for Jersey Shore. I sighed, hoping he wasn't the chatty type. He was.

  “I guess you're wonderin' who I am, so I might as well introduce myself,” the man said, lowering his reflective sunglasses. “The name is Pelandroni, Roscoe Pelandroni; but my friends call me Roscoe Jr. That's 'cause my pop is Roscoe Sr.”

  “Nice to meet you, Roscoe. I'm Teri.”

  “You probably heard of me, Teri,” Roscoe Jr. continued. “I own a restaurant around here. Now you might be thinkin' that I'm one of those absentee owners like Gordon Ramsey, but that ain't the case. I just got back from spendin' a couple a weeks in Brooklyn visitin' my grandma, takin' her around to her appointments and stuff like that. She ain't as young as she used to be and it ain't so easy for her to get around, y'know? My mom and pop don't have a lot to do these days, so I let them keep an eye on the restaurant while I was gone. You know sometimes when people get older they seem to have a lot of time on their hands and they get bored with life. Leads to all kinds of emotional stuff, like that postpartum depression the soldiers are always gettin'. I didn't want that to happen to my folks.”

  “That was nice of you,” I said, anxiously scanning the water for any sign of Nick's boat. Apparently today could get more irritating.

  “Well, I ain't doin' no braggin' or nothin' but when you get to know me better, you'll find that I'm a pretty thoughtful guy like that. Of course, spending some time up in Brooklyn wasn't no hardship on me. In between takin' Grandma to her bowling league and tap dancin' class, I had time to catch up with my old buddies from the neighborhood. It was just like old times; hanging out on the street corner wise-crackin' with each other and whistlin' at the hot chicks that went by. Chicks like it when you whistle at 'em, y'know. Makes them feel appreciated.”

  “I'm sure they were thrilled.”

  “You might not believe this,” Roscoe said, pulling his shirt up a little to scratch his hairy stomach, “but some of those girls got real mouths on them. They'll cuss you out like a sailor! Of course, I know they're just playin' hard to get, so I didn't take it personal or nothin'.”

  “Of course.”

  “So, I seen you eyeballin' my shoppin' bags and, like all women, I bet you're dyin' to know what's in 'em!”

  Actually, I could see that the two bags at his feet were filled to the top with ice chips. A few minutes ago, I would have thought that was unusual, but now I wasn't too surprised. Roscoe Jr. seemed like a very unusual kind of guy.

  “I ain't gonna keep you guessin',” Roscoe said, apparently mistaking my silence for breathless anticipation. “I got some real primo meat in here. Calabrese prosciutto, mortadella bologna and some Genoa salami. Real quality stuff. Had it shipped here special for the restaurant. Even had them throw in a couple of branzino for yours truly. Best tastin' little fish you'll find.”

  I had noticed that something smelled like ham and raw fish, but I had just assumed that Roscoe hadn't been too close to his deodorant stick this morning. The temperature was in the mid-eighties today and I was encouraged by the idea that Roscoe would have to get back to his restaurant before his perishables perished. The ice at the top of the bags was already melting.

  Roscoe continued, “Those guys at the meat market wanted to pack all this in those gel ice packs, which would have cost me another ten bucks. Can you believe that? Those guys are always trying to up-sell you on somethin'!” He shook his head. “I told 'em, no thanks, and headed over to the gas station, spent a buck for bag of ice, and I'm good to go! I been around the block a few times. Let me tell you, no one puts one over on Roscoe Jr.”

  He leaned over toward me. “Now I don't usually do this, but I'm gonna give you my phone number. It's my private line. No punch this button, punch that one --- it comes directly to me. Every time you dial this number you'll get Roscoe Junior in person on the line. Anytime you want a reservation or a date or whatever, just call me. Like I say, this is a private line so I'd appreciate it if you don't pass it around to all your girlfriends. I'll have a hard time running my restaurant if I got hot women calling every five minutes trying to hook up with me.”

  I was trying to think of a plausible way I could fake my death when I heard the sound of an approaching motor. I looked up to see Nick's boat pulling up to the dock. I had never been so glad to see someone I was mad at in my life.

  “Say, that sounds like my ride,” I said as I stood up. “I guess you have to get back to your restaurant. It was uh, nice meeting you.” I walked away briskly, silently congratulating myself on my daring daylight escape.

  “Hey,” Roscoe called after me, “you forgot my number!”

  “That's all right,” I called back over my shoulder. “I'm a teacher. I know all the numbers.”

  Nick was waiting as I reached the dock and he helped me onto the boat. Captain Nick Delaney is 34 years old, is about six feet two, has shaggy blond hair, blue eyes, and a seemingly permanent five o'clock shadow. Lifting hundreds of pounds of fish regularly has given him a physique that any gym rat would kill for. I would consider him to be smoking hot, if I
didn't feel like slapping him right now.

  “Do me a favor,” I said. “Next time you tell me you'll be here in five, please specify if you mean minutes or days.”

  “Hey, I got here as fast as I could,” Nick said. “I happened to be in the middle of a very serious rescue operation when you called.”

  “Rescuing yourself from starvation?” I said, gesturing to a box with the words RSVPizza on the Captain's seat.

  “What could I do? There was no one else around but me to help. Besides, you found what you were looking for over here, didn't you?”

  “Actually I got a lot more than I was looking for,” I said, nodding at Roscoe Jr. who was still lounging on the bench.

  To my horror, Nick called out, “Hey Roscoe, you need a ride? No charge, I'm heading back anyway.”

  “That's real solid of you, man!” Roscoe Jr. called, trotting toward the dock with a leaky shopping bag in each hand. “Swing by my restaurant some time and I'll treat ya right!”

  “What are you doing?” I hissed.

  “Giving Roscoe Jr. a ride back to Admiral Archibald Falls Island. He's got a restaurant there.”

  “I thought his restaurant was here!”

  “Look, his restaurant is good, but not Golden Happiness Isle good,” Nick said. “Hey, Roscoe, you need some help with those bags?”

  Today had officially hit rock bottom. Roscoe sat down on the end of the bench seat with his smelly bags beside him. Making the best of a bad situation, I took a seat on the other side of the boat as far away from him as I could get. Hopefully he would get the hint that I wasn't interested in hearing about the further adventures of Roscoe Pelandroni Jr., the most interesting man on Earth. But if he didn't, the noise of the boat's motor would drown him out, so it's a win-win situation.

  “Auk! Auk! Auk! Ahoy there, matey! Wait for us!”

  I looked back at the dock and saw four middle-aged men hurrying towards the boat. They were all wearing shorts, tee shirts with the picture of some large bird on them, and neon green bird-shaped helmets. A strong odor of alcohol preceded them.

  “Are you heading for Admiral Archie's Balls Island?” one of them asked. His companions laughed uproariously.

  “Guilty as charged,” Nick said. “Looking for a ride?”

  “You betcha!” said a man wearing purple plaid shorts with orange striped knee socks. “What's the damage for five of us? Is there any discount for The Royal Legion of the United Ancient Mystic Order of the Great Auk?”

  “Well, I usually charge ten bucks a head, but for the Auks I'll make it five for sixty.”

  “A bargain at twice the price! Do you take CashApp?”

  “CashApp, Venmo, Zelle, Letters to Santa Claus; as long as it puts money in my account, you're golden.”

  “You got it, buddy!” the man chortled. “Make way everybody, the Auks are coming home to roost!”

  Roscoe Jr. scooted over next to me as the Auks clambered aboard, sandwiching his shopping bags between us. Okay, apparently rock bottom has a basement.

  “Hey, are you guys ready for Archie Gras?” Roscoe asked.

  “Ready for Archie Gras?” a red faced man with a white mustache shouted. “Kiddo, we were born ready! We're gonna be in the parade!”

  “What exactly is Archie Gras?” I asked. “Everyone on the island seems to be pretty excited about it, but nobody has really explained it to me.”

  “You don't know what Archie Gras is? Well, little lady, it's just the best ever darned famous ---”

  “Auk! Auk! Auk! Hey, you guys ditched me! I thought I was gonna be stranded on the island, foraging for food at five star restaurants!” A round man also sporting a green Auk helmet and tee shirt was waddling down the dock with a tall paper cup in his hand.

  “C'mon, Mitch, ya old alcoholic,” the man in the plaid shorts said. “I already paid for your ride!”

  “I ain't no alcoholic, Lloyd! Alcoholics need a drink, but I already have one!”

  “Well, from what I hear, the doctor told your wife that she can't touch anything alcoholic so she's divorcin' you!”

  “Yeah, and when I found out it wasn't true I got depressed. In fact, I got so drunk last night that the hotel wasn't where I left it!”

  Roscoe Jr., apparently impressed by this latest comedic gem, threw his head back and let out a loud guffaw. In doing so, he lurched in my direction, squashing his bag of ice and rapidly decomposing animal products against my leg. I was suddenly aware of a wet sensation and looked down to see a puddle forming around my feet. The melting ice was seeping through the bag. Terrific.

  All the Auks were seated except Mitch, and one of the others yelled at him, “Hey, take a perch so we can get going already!”

  “I would if you tubs of lard weren't taking up all the real estate!” Mitch responded. “Somebody scoot over and make some room for me.”

  “Here, you can have my seat,” I said, quickly jumping to my feet. “I'll go and see how the captain is doing.” I headed towards the front of the boat.

  “So, couldn't stand to be away from me, could you?” Nick said as the motor roared to life. “You know, when I was a kid I never dreamed that one day I would be a sexy boat captain, but here I am killing it.”

  “And yet not an ounce of conceit in your entire body. I'm impressed.”

  “No need to be. When you're as awesome as I am, you don't need to make a big deal about it.”

  “Speaking of big deals, you just made out like a bandit with the Auks back there. I didn't know that it cost Aunt Sam $10 every time you take me to Golden Happiness Isle.”

  “It doesn't,” Nick replied. “My contract with her is $5 for regular riders.”

  “Why is it less for me?”

  “Because you aren't an obnoxious drunk who leaves barf, blood and drool on the life jackets for me to clean off.”

  “I was kind of hoping it was because you found me attractive.”

  “I do. I find your ability to keep your various bodily fluids inside your body and not on my boat to be highly attractive.”

  “I would hit you with something right now, but I'm afraid it would knock you unconscious and I would be stranded in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico with Roscoe Jr. and the Royal Armada of Dilapidated Auks.”

  “That's very considerate of you, but if you don't mind my saying, you don't seem to be in a very festive mood today. I hope you're not going to be a wet blanket for Archie Gras.”

  “That's another thing!” I said. “What the hell is Archie Gras anyway? The name seems to be a combination of Mardi Gras and Admiral Archibald Falls Island, which if you ask me, are the two most incompatible terms in the universe.”

  “If you're looking for information, you have come to the right place,” Nick said, clearing his throat dramatically. “Each year the Admiral Archibald Falls Municipality welcomes visitors from all around the world to its annual Archie Gras Festival celebrating the founding of our great Gulf Coast island community. People from the farthest parts of the globe join in supporting our local shop owners and entrepreneurs as they showcase their excellent crafts, famous food, local wine and craft beer. Archie Gras guarantees a fun, exciting, memorable week of uninterrupted festivity for all, with parades, picnics, live music, dancing, street performers and so much more. You are cordially invited to cut loose at this year's memorable event which will be louder, wilder and spicier than ever before.”

  “Why do I have the feeling this isn't the first time you've said that?”

  “I may have mentioned it a time or two... hundred. Lot of tourists this time of year. But wait, there's more! The pay-to-ride float for the Krewe of Fishmongers is looking for individuals or families that would like to ride on a float in this year's parade. Bring your own throws, libations and snacks for just $150 per person. As they say, 'Laissez le bon temps rouler' which is Italian for 'Let the good times roll'.”

  “I'm pretty sure that's French.” I said.

  “Hey, they're Fishmongers, not linguists, Teri. Besides, I get a $50 commission for everyone who buys a ride on their float, so I have no complaints.”

  “So is there a non-tourist explanation of Archie Gras?”

  “Oh, it all started a few years ago when Mayor Croaker and the City Council went to New Orleans for Mardi Gras at taxpayers' expense, supposedly to study urban planning. They returned to the island very hungover and with no discernible urban plans. They did, however, notice the wall-to-wall tourists, and that was enough to convince the mayor that Admiral Archibald Falls Island could attract at least as many tourists as New Orleans if it had an annual celebration of it's own.”