The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4 David Carter (autobiographies to read txt) 📖

his shoulder, and peered knowingly down, as men do whenever engines and drains and motors and grease and muck and gears are discussed, and on show, and they mumbled their knowledge and understanding and agreement that they knew precisely what to do, and the kid convinced himself they were model punters, perfect boaters, just the kind of mixed crews they preferred.

Stag parties could often be a total nightmare, and he slipped the keys into Walter’s big paw, because he was in charge, that was obvious to anyone, and he bade them well and actually said, ‘Bon voyage,’ and skipped off and dashed back to the car park, and jumped in his car and drove away before they could think of some tricky questions he didn’t know the answers to.

Walter passed the keys to Geoff who was something of a seasoned boater, as they loaded their gear and provisions on to the barge.

Carrie yelled through the boat, ‘Walter and I will take the back bedroom, Geoff and Jill, the front,’ and that was that, and no one argued, and in the next minute Carrie and Walter were in the bedroom together, unpacking their clothes, and slipping them on the quality wooden coat hangers.

‘It’s a double bed,’ he said, gently.

‘It is. You got a problem with that?’

‘No. You?’

‘Not at all,’ she said, grinning, adding, ‘the nights are getting colder, and you can’t beat cuddling up to someone,’ and she glanced at his face, and Walter kind of bobbed his head and did a little smirk that she really really liked, and that was cool too, and they heard Geoff yelling, ‘Come on landlubbers! Time to cast off. Get on the ropes!’ and Walter sniffed a laugh, and Carrie giggled and ran through and yelled, ‘Yes, Cap’n,’ as she set about undoing the aft ropes, slipping them off the cute little metal bollards, Jill on the front ones, and the boat was free and floating and ready to go. The girls leapt aboard, joined the men on the small open deck on the stern, as Geoff started the engine, grabbed the tiller, eased the accelerator, maybe a tad too quickly, but everyone did that to begin with.

The Volvo diesel engine caught and bit and spurted, and water splashed away from the propeller, surprising a gaggle of mallard ducks, and the Queen Mary was launched and away from the quay, and Geoff shouted to no one in particular, ‘God bless her and all who sail in her.’

Carrie disappeared for a moment and came back with a big bottle of bubbly, and four tall glasses, burst off the cork, grinned and shrieked, poured four drinks, and handed them round, and toasted: ‘To a fab holiday!’ and they all smiled and winked and chinked glasses, and swigged Prosecco, grinned at one another, as Carrie looked deep into Walter’s dark eyes and saw the amazing smile coming back.

It was going to be an exciting holiday.

They all thought that.

The best holiday Walter had enjoyed in ten years.

He’d even forget all about work, almost.

Eighty-Nine

The start of Christmas week, and Jennifer Napoleon had hired in outside decorators to set up the large tree and decorations. It looked the part, but it should have done for it was costing enough. The chunky Norwegian spruce, grown in nearby Delamere forest, filled the house with the natural aroma of pine. Kit suggested it helped him sleep, though in truth the ample supply of Christmas hock he was taking onboard might have had something to do with that. 

He woke up and scratched his neatly trimmed grey beard. He’d slept well again despite the fact he had another big day ahead. He sloped from the bed and went to the bathroom. Glanced in the mirror. Pulled out his tongue. Didn’t care for what he saw, and put it away. Ran his bear-like hands through his overlong grey hair. He didn’t mind the grey look, he’d long since grown used to it, ever since the occasional grey hair had appeared while he was still at grammar school, and that was almost thirty years ago.

He began brushing his teeth, all the while rehearsing the brief but witty speech he knew he would be expected to deliver. Casson & Cates, publishers, paid him well, but they needed to, for they sure as heck took a big enough slice of his earnings.

Kit thought ahead to the celebratory luncheon at the Grosvenor Hotel in the centre of Chester. It had been laid on to publicise his new book SMASH! Sell More And Sleep Happy! Glossy hardback, big page count, big ticket price. It would be his ninth book, and advance orders had already ensured it would enter the book charts in the top five. C & C, as everyone knew them, were still hopeful it could blockbust its way straight in at the top of the pile, and it wouldn’t be the first of Kit’s books to do precisely that. It would be so nice to have a Christmas Number One. It had happened before. It could happen again. Good things had a habit of happening to Kit Napoleon.

He smirked at himself in the glass. Winked even. Life was truly sweet, and what made it all the better was that things hadn’t always been that way. He’d tried umpteen avenues as a young man to find fame and fortune and glory, but it was only when he began writing self-help books, under his nom de plume of Kit Napoleon, that things really began to change for the better.

Jennifer shouted up the stairs: ‘There’s a letter for you, Kit. Special Delivery – looks awfully important.’

‘It’ll be the overseas rights,’ he yelled back, suddenly excited. ‘Be down in a tick.’

A couple of minutes later and he sat at the kitchen table, as Jennifer set fresh decaf coffee before him, and a plate of berries that he looked at with a mixture of dread and contempt. Whatever happened to good old sausage bacon and eggs in the morning? Who wanted