Murder at the Seaview Hotel - Glenda Young | Book Extract

Today I have an exciting extract to share from Glenda Young's latest ebook release in her new cosy crime series which sounds right up my street! The extract is from chapter two and I have this book on my TBR already! Murder at the Seaview Hotel - Glenda Young | Book Extract"Helen stood under the shower and let the water pound her head, neck and shoulders. She tried to focus, tried to make sense of what Mr Benson had told her, but it seemed too bizarre to take seriously. Plus, there was her hangover to contend with and the effects of another night without sleep. She couldn’t think straight; nothing made sense. But there it was, an offer to buy the Seaview. An offer that would leave her comfortably off. But was it an offer she would accept?

She’d had many thoughts about selling up and moving on since Tom had gone into the hospice, but now it felt as if she was being forced into making a decision. It was too soon to decide, too quick, she thought. She didn’t want to be coerced. If she ever sold the hotel, she wanted to do it after looking at an offer from every angle. But here she was being told she had less than eight and a half hours to make a decision. It was ludicrous and she felt angry with herself for being in no fit state to think, never mind make a decision that might change her life.

She moved her neck slowly from side to side, letting the hot water ease her aches after her night on the window seat watching the velvet night disappear into a new day. She wondered who was after the Seaview, and why. It could only be a developer, she reasoned, but why did they have the Seaview in their sights? Why not another hotel?

The place had its merits, of course. It was one of eight three- storey buildings on Windsor Terrace, which stood high on the clifftop above North Bay. The buildings had been built as private homes before being converted into hotels in the nineteenth century to cater for the tourists that Scarborough attracted as the country’s first seaside resort. Back then they had come to take the spa waters. Now they came for fish and chips, bright and breezy weekends, concerts at the open-air theatre and two glorious wide sandy beaches.

Along Windsor Terrace, each hotel was similar in size but painted a different colour. The Seaview was a muted green amongst the red, blue and whites of its colourful neighbours. Each hotel had a basement, which was where Helen’s apartment was, with doors opening onto a sunken courtyard. The first-floor public lounge had a wide bay window to make the most of the sea views. However, while the hotels on Windsor Terrace were similar in shape and size, there was something different about the Seaview. It stood at the end of the row, the last one before the terrace curved towards the ruins of Scarborough Castle. Across the road from it was the dilapidated Glendale Hotel, which had closed for business months ago. Now its windows were boarded up and weeds grew through cracks in the path. A FOR SALE sign had gone up after the elderly owners had moved away, and the place had stood empty and unwanted ever since.

Helen turned the shower off and grabbed a towel. She wondered if there was a connection between the broken shell of the Glendale and the offer she’d received. It must be a developer, she thought again. It had to be. Who else would offer such a ridiculous sum? And why the urgency?

She dried herself and pulled her dressing gown over her warm, damp skin, then automatically reached for her toothbrush – and stood stock still. It was Tom’s toothbrush she held, not her own; she’d picked it up by mistake. She’d bought him a new toothbrush when he’d moved into the hospice. She’d bought him new every- thing then. Shower gel, toothbrush, soap, pyjamas; everything was fresh and clean. Which meant that all his belongings were still here: in the bathroom, their bedroom, everywhere she looked. He was there in the slippers that sat by his side of the bed, in the wardrobe where his jackets brushed against her dresses, in the Elvis tracks on the jukebox. And now his toothbrush was in her hand.

She couldn’t let go; her hand felt paralysed, her fist like iron. She forced herself not to cry, not again. She’d done her crying, she had to move on. Tom wouldn’t want her to dwell. He’d want her to get on with her life, to embrace every minute and make the most of each day. Her chest shuddered as she struggled to hold back her tears. Slowly, carefully, she placed the toothbrush back in its holder. She’d have to make a start at some point on moving Tom’s things, packing his clothes away, but she knew she wasn’t ready yet." 

You can buy your copy of the ebook here for 99p! 



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