Short Stories

In addition to her crime-mystery novels, Brenda has published several stories in crime story anthologies, earning writing awards and nominations in the U.S. and Canada. We’ve included opening passages from three of her short stories to give you a taste of Brenda’s dynamic storytelling style and engaging narration.

I holed up at my Aunt Marge’s place because I couldn’t imagine how the assassin would find me there. But less than thirty-six hours after I hotfooted it out of Portland, a gun-metal gray Tesla bumped across the gravel parking area next to the Cape Jewell public wharf. At 5:45 a.m. in late September, its license plate might as well have read CONSPICUOUS.

I stopped prepping bait and ducked into the wheelhouse of Marge’s boat. The sun was just breaking the horizon, making it too early for anyone but locals to be at the pier. From my invisible perch, I watched a man with a lithe build and a receding hairline step into the pre-dawn dusk, stretch his back, and stroll over to the shed where my cousin Vick, Marge’s oldest daughter, carried out her duties as harbormaster. I’d warned her that someone might come nosing around with my name on his lips. She thanked me for the heads-up and told me not to worry.

Not sixty seconds later Tesla man exited the tiny building, feigning nonchalance. He lounged against the hood of his Musk-mobile and tried to pretend he wasn’t studying everything and everybody in sight, including my aunt, who was standing on the dock next to her forty-eight-foot lobster boat. Marge gave no outward sign that she noticed the stranger, but I’m well familiar with her restrained body language. She was on high alert all right.

As gulls shrieked overhead, she hopped over the gunwale of My Four Daughters like she was sixteen rather than sixty-two and stepped into the wheelhouse where I crouched on a low bench. She didn’t say a word but put a reassuring hand on my shoulder while she checked the gauges and flipped on the radar. Marge went back out on deck as the engine idled, checked the level of bait in two blue plastic barrels, and cast off the line. Then she eased away from the dock and weaved past a clutch of boats still at their moorings.

She throttled down once we were clear of the harbor.

“Safe now,” she said in her gravelly voice. “Guess you were right to fret about someone being on your tail.”

I rose from my hiding place, the brim of my ballcap pulled low.

“Same ridiculous car,” I said. “Same menacing guy.”

 “Too many big ears around for me to call Vick on the radio,” Marge said. “We’ll hear what he had to say this afternoon.”

Grateful for Marge’s unruffled response, I went out on deck, grabbed a bait needle, and dipped a gloved hand into a barrel of stinky herring. The least I could do to repay Marge for her kindness was to be the best damn sternwoman I could be until we returned to the harbor that afternoon, when I’d have to confront the trouble that had followed me from Portland to Cape Jewell.

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My sister failed to mention a few things about the cottage.

The heating “system” was a woodstove.

A family of territorial mice occupied it during the off-season.

And the locks consisted of hooks and eyes on the outside of the doors only, helpful to keep them from blowing open when the wind was howling, not so much for keeping unwanted people out.

Those inconvenient facts were for me to discover when I showed up late in the afternoon on an overcast day at the end of March, toting my laptop, a suitcase packed with my warmest clothes, and a bottle of sixteen-year-old Lagavulin.

Though I’m referring to Noreen as my sister, I should be clear—we’re not blood kin. She’s the daughter of my mother’s third husband, an artist of no renown. Our folks were married for less than five years, and until their funerals, the only time Noreen and I were in each other’s presence was at their wedding. We’re both only children. Other than that, we have nothing in common.

I’ve been a Manhattanite all my life. She was born and raised in the same tiny town way the hell up the coast in Maine where she still lives. I’m a writer. Noreen gets by on short-term gigs and unemployment benefits. I’m the responsible type and Noreen’s a ditz. Because we’re steps—not sisters—I try to ignore her quirks.

We were forced into each other’s orbit when our parents were killed in a car crash. Now that their estates are settled, our sole link is the cottage at Umbrage Point. My mom bought it as a gift for her husband, but they held title jointly, and Noreen and I inherited it the same way. “Even-Steven,” in the words of the lawyer who handled their affairs.

I’d never been to Umbrage Point and had no interest in being part owner of a vacation home in Maine, but Noreen wept when I suggested we sell it. She vowed she’d buy me out as soon as she could scrape some money together. Given her checkered work history, I wasn’t holding my breath.

Maine’s legendary beauty wasn’t on display as I drove up the coast. The day was gray and rainy, and winter’s depredations weren’t yet hidden by summer’s flora. I would have waited until May, but my editor had extended my deadline once already and Noreen said the cottage would be the perfect writing retreat. “It’s only three miles from Hickton Village, but feels far from civilization,” she said. Because I was desperate for time and space to finish my damn book I elbowed my natural wariness aside and headed northeast, forgetting my therapist’s advice about listening to my instincts.

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I thought Joe Gale was kidding when he suggested we grab a beer after the second day of testimony in Jocelyn Green’s manslaughter trial. The prosecution’s star witness, Valerie Watkinson, had just kicked the legs out from under my client’s claim of innocence. As the longtime court reporter for the Portland Daily Chronicle, Joe’s covered a lot of trials. He had to realize I’d be holed up at my office deep into the night, trying to conjure a cross-examination plan. Besides, Portland’s a damn small town.

“The last thing I need is to be seen enjoying happy hour in the middle of a front-page trial, with a journalist no less.”

“Then let’s go someplace private,” Joe said. “But we need to talk.” 

The urgency in his voice got my attention.

“Give me few minutes with my client,” I said. “I’ll meet you at The Pastor at 5:00, but we need to be quick about it.”

The tony downtown bar owned by my best friend Karen Pastorelli has a private snug where we’d be safe from scrutiny. It also boasts an excellent bar menu, small plates substantial enough to serve as an early dinner. My lunch had been a cup of yogurt and a package of cheese crackers snarfed in the lawyer’s lounge. I was famished.

“The beer’s on me,” I said. “Unless that violates your ethical code.”

He laughed. “I’m a reporter for Chrissakes. If there were rules about who buys the beer I’d have no sources.”

Joe and I are friendly, but not quite friends. More like colleagues, if a lawyer whose criminal clients often make headlines and a newspaper reporter who covers their trials could be called that. Joe is smart and fair-minded, the best of the Portland media bunch. Still, I’m not in the habit of granting interviews over drinks, especially not the middle of a felony trial.

In the dry statutory words recited by Justice Patricia Brock, my 30-year-old client was charged with recklessly causing the death of another human being, to wit: Matteo Wolf, a star outfielder on Portland’s Double A baseball team. Until the day he died, Matteo was best known for his ability to launch fastballs over the wall at Hadlock Field, Portland’s little gem of a professional ballpark. Jocelyn was his fiancée. She also was a locally famous mime, a fact that complicated everything.