by V. M. Burns
Ruby Mae Stevenson, another of Nana Jo’s friends, shook her head and moved her knitting out of the way of the spills. “I told you she wouldn’t take it well.”
“I’ve had the lead role in the Shady Acres Senior Follies for the past ten years. That role was created specifically for me. I don’t just play the part of Eudora Hooper, retired schoolmarm dreaming about becoming a famous showgirl. I am Eudora Hooper.” Nana Jo wiped up the spilled coffee.
“I know, and you’ve played the role splendidly.” Dorothy’s face reflected her sincerity.
Amazingly, Dorothy didn’t seem to be humoring my grandmother. Nana Jo’s performance was inspired, and each year she got better and better.
Nana Jo looked at her three closest friends. “Who got the part?”
Ruby Mae put her head down and refused to make eye contact.
Irma Starczewski reached for her mug, but it was empty, so she pulled a flask out of her purse and took a swig.
Nana Jo put her hands on her hips, narrowed her eyes, and stared at Dorothy.
For a large woman, almost six feet tall, Dorothy shrank as she stared at Nana Jo. “Maria Romanov.”
I thought Nana Jo’s face was flushed before, but the beet-red coloring from earlier was nothing compared to the purple red that crept up her neck.
“Maria Romanov? That two-bit hack’s only acting talent is in her ability to convince people she’s a decent human being.” Nana Jo pounded the table again, rattling the mugs.
Just as quickly as the anger flared up, it vanished. Nana Jo flopped down in a chair. Nearly as tall as Dorothy, Nana Jo went through a transformation. Instead of the vibrant, active, five-foot-ten, sharp-shooting, Aikido-tossing woman I knew and loved, there was a seventy-something old woman in her place.
She took a few deep breaths. “If that’s what Horace wants, then I guess I wasn’t as good as I thought I was.”
“Bull—”
“Irma!” we shouted.
Irma coughed and clamped her hand over her mouth. Years of heavy smoking, drinking, and hanging out with truckers, if Nana Jo was to be believed, had left Irma with a deep cough, a salacious sexual appetite, and a colorful vocabulary.
I leaned over and gave Nana Jo a hug. “Your performance was amazing, and I’m not just saying that because you’re my grandmother.”
She absentmindedly patted my arm. “Thank you, Sam, but Horace Evans is a top-notch director. He once directed Ethel Merman.”
“He even won a Tony Award. I’ve seen it. He keeps it in his bedroom.” Irma smiled and then broke out in a fit of coughing.
The fact that Nana Jo didn’t acknowledge Irma’s quip about the location of the award was an indication of her state of mind. “We’ve been fortunate to have someone with his experience and credentials at Shady Acres.”
“Really? I didn’t know he had a Tony Award. They always run something about the Senior Follies in the newspaper, but they’ve never mentioned it.”
“He likes to keep it low key.” Dorothy nodded. “He worked on Broadway for more than twenty years.”
“How in the world did he end up in Michigan?” I asked.
“He wanted to be close to his family.” Ruby Mae looked up from her knitting. “I think his son was an engineer for one of the car companies.”
North Harbor used to have a lot of manufacturing plants that supplied parts for the Detroit automobile industry, but when the economy went south in the seventies, so too did most of the manufacturing jobs.
“I appreciate the kind words, but Horace is an expert. If he thinks Maria Romanov will make a better Eudora Hooper than me, I’ll just have to accept his decision.”
We tried to cheer Nana Jo up, but nothing we said had any effect. She smiled and continued to shrink. Only once did she perk up and demonstrate the flash of fire that normally characterized her personality.
The door chimed, and a customer entered the bookstore.
Nana Jo rose from her seat. “It’s time to face the music. On opening night, I hope you all break a leg.” She pushed her chair in and headed to the front of the store. “And I hope Maria Romanov breaks her neck.”
Chapter 2
Market Street Mysteries was a small bookstore that, as the name implied, specialized in mysteries. It didn’t get a ton of business, not like the big-box bookstores. However, neither North Harbor nor its sister city, South Harbor, had a big-box bookstore. Southwestern Michigan book lovers either traveled forty-five minutes to get their book fix or ordered online. In the six months since I’d retired from teaching English at the local high school, I had built up a nice clientele that was enough to keep my dream afloat.
Weekdays weren’t especially busy, so Nana Jo was well able to handle things while I took a break. When I left, the girls were still trying to convince her to continue with the Senior Follies, even if she took a lesser role, but I knew my grandmother well enough to know they were fighting a losing battle. Losing the lead role had wounded her pride. I needed time to think how I could help her. My stomach growled, so I decided to grab lunch.
November in North Harbor, Michigan, can be schizophrenic to the uninitiated. One minute, it’s warm and sunny. The next minute, a biting wind had rolled off Lake Michigan that rattled your teeth and made your skin quiver. Today was, thankfully, sunny and bright. The wind was crisp, so I walked more quickly and lingered less often as I made my way to North Harbor Café.
Even after the noon rush, the restaurant was crowded. I looked for a seat, and my eye caught the gaze of the proprietor, Frank Patterson, behind the bar. He smiled, and my stomach fluttered.
I hopped on an empty seat at the bar.
Frank finished mixing drinks and handed them to a waitress. Then he grabbed a pitcher of water from a small fridge, along with a few sliced lemons, which he placed in the pitcher. He grabbed a glass and placed them in front of me.
He leaned close. “I’m glad you came. I missed you.”
The warmth of his breath brushed my face, and I inhaled his scent. He smelled of a strong herbal Irish soap, red wine, coffee, and bacon. He was surprised that a non-wine drinker like me could tell the difference between red and white wines. My late husband used to say I had a nose like a bloodhound, but I called it a gift. Coffee and bacon were two of my favorite things, and my pulse raced.
“You smell good.”
Frank grinned. “Let me guess, coffee and bacon?”
I nodded.
He joked he drank so much coffee the aroma seeped through his skin. The bacon was either a figment of my imagination or grease from the kitchen attached to his shoes. Whatever the reason, it was extremely sexy.
Frank Patterson was in his forties. He cut his salt-and-pepper hair in a way that betrayed his military background. He had soft brown eyes and a lovely smile. “As much as I’d like to believe my manly charm brought you in today, I suspect it’s my BLT.”
I laughed. “What can I say? A man who can make a good BLT is irresistible.”
“Whatever it takes to keep you coming back.”
Heat rose up my neck. I took a sip of my lemon water to try to hide it.
“One BLT minus the T and a cup of clam chowder?”
I nodded. I loved how he remembered things like that.
“I’ll be right back.”
I tried to suppress a grin, but it wouldn’t be suppressed, and I dribbled water down the front of my shirt. Our conversation was lame, but it’d been a long time since I’d flirted. Leon and I had been married for over twenty years when he died. It’d been a year, but I’d just now opened myself to romance.
Frank returned carrying a tray with a steaming-hot bowl of clam chowder, a BLT (no T) that was piled high with bacon, and a rose. He placed the food in front of me, got a tall beer glass from behind the bar and filled it with water, and placed the rose in it.
“Thank you.�
��
“That looks delicious.” A large man next to me glanced at my plate and then picked up his menu. “Is that clam chowder? I didn’t see it on the menu?”
Head down, I crumbled crackers into my chowder.
“It isn’t on the menu. It’s something I keep in the back for my...special friends.” He winked at me.
My neighbor took a whiff. “It looks and smells wonderful.” He looked at me. “You’re a lucky lady.”
I smiled and shoved a spoonful of soup into my mouth.
Frank pretended not to notice the heat that came up my neck, but I could tell by the look in his eyes he had seen the redness. “There may be enough for one more bowl. Would you like to try it?”
He nodded eagerly. “If you have enough, that would be great. I love clam chowder.”
Frank headed off to get another bowl of soup.
I didn’t have time to practice flirting. The restaurant was busy, and I felt guilty taking up a seat. So I finished eating, waved good-bye, and left.
The rest of the afternoon at the bookstore was uneventful. Nana Jo got rid of the girls, and we worked in relative silence until closing. I’d hoped we could talk, but she stayed busy and unapproachable until I locked the front door. When we were done cleaning, she announced she had a date and hurried upstairs to change.
My assistant and tenant, Dawson Alexander, was out of town for an away football game. When Nana Jo left, I was alone in my upstairs loft, except for my two poodles, Snickers and Oreo. It was peaceful. Although I was alone, I didn’t feel lonely. At some point, Frank had left a large container of chili in my refrigerator, which I heated up for dinner. There was also a platter with lemon cream cheese bars on my kitchen counter. Besides being a great quarterback for the MISU Tigers, Dawson was an amazing baker. His small studio apartment over my garage didn’t have a large stove, so he often baked in my kitchen. I placed two of the lemon bars on a plate and poured a cup of Earl Grey tea. The two men in my life, Frank and Dawson, kept me well fed.
Frank cooked when he wanted to relax, and Dawson baked. I wrote. Opening a mystery bookstore was a dream my husband, Leon, and I had shared. We both loved mysteries, and a bookstore specializing in mysteries seemed ideal. However, my dreams extended beyond selling mysteries to writing them. I kept that dream hidden, out of fear and insecurity, from all but Leon, my sister, Jenna, and my grandmother. After Leon died, I filled the lonely nights by writing a British historic cozy mystery. When Nana Jo sent my manuscript to a literary agent in New York, the dream moved from a hazy wisp of smoke and fairy dust into a solid reality in the form of a contract for representation. I was both thrilled and terrified at the same time. Even though the thought of people I didn’t know reading my book sent a cold chill down my spine. I sat down at my laptop with my lemon bars and tea and realized the thrill was greater than the terror. I started writing.
* * * *
Drawing room, Chartwell House, country estate of Winston Churchill –November 1938
Lady Elizabeth Marsh sat on the sofa in the comfortable, sunlit drawing room. Despite the sunshine streaming through the windows, there was a nip in the air. She was grateful for the warmth from the large fireplace and extended her legs to enjoy more of its heat.
“Elizabeth, dear, would you care for a cardigan?” Clementine Churchill rose from her seat.
“No. I’m fine, really. I’ve thawed out now.”
Mrs. Churchill sat back down. “I don’t know what Winston was thinking, dragging you out in the cold to show you his brick wall.” She tsked.
“He was very proud of his masonry skills.” Lady Daphne stroked the large yellow tabby, which jumped onto her lap the moment she sat down.
“You’ll have cat hair all over your skirt. Tango, get down,” Mrs. Churchill ordered.
Tango looked up at the sound of his name but apparently decided the order was an empty threat and ignored it.
“Stubborn cat. Let me take him.” Mrs. Churchill rose.
“It’s okay, Aunt Clemmie. I rather like him.” Daphne smiled. “A little cat hair won’t matter. Besides, he gives me courage.”
Clementine Churchill was only a distant cousin to the Marshes but had always been “Aunt Clemmie” to Daphne and Penelope Marsh. She settled back onto her seat and looked fondly at her adopted niece. “You don’t need courage. I’m sure Lady Alistair will love you as much as we do.”
Lady Elizabeth pulled a ball of yarn from her knitting bag. “What’s not to love? You’re intelligent and beautiful, and you come from an excellent family.”
“I wish I could feel sure. James seems so nervous about me meeting her that’s it’s got me frazzled.”
“Your aunt’s right. You come from an excellent bloodline and have an impeccable pedigree. She could hardly do better.”
Daphne laughed. “You make me sound like a race horse. I hope she doesn’t want to examine my teeth and medical history as potential breeding stock.”
Daphne intercepted an odd look between Lady Elizabeth and Mrs. Churchill. “Oh, no, you’re joking right?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her. You know the monarchy still require new brides to submit to...tests,” Mrs. Churchill said.
“You can’t be serious. That’s archaic.” Daphne stared from one to the other. Her outrage had stayed her hand from stroking Tango, who made his displeasure known by standing up, turning around, and kneading his claws into her lap. “Ouch. Okay. Okay.” Daphne resumed her stroking, and Tango resumed his position and allowed himself to be stroked.
“I agree the practice is outdated and completely unfair.” Lady Elizabeth was, to her husband’s dismay, a strong proponent of women’s rights and equality. “I’ve heard Lady Alistair is a bit...old-fashioned and—”
“Pretentious,” Mrs. Churchill supplied.
“Yes, but James is only a duke and rather far down on the list for ascension to the throne. I think we’re safe in assuming Lady Alistair wouldn’t demand anything of the kind,” Lady Elizabeth said.
“I’ll refuse. That’s what,” Daphne declared.
Lady Elizabeth knitted. “Of course, dear. You’d be well within your rights to do so.”
The elder ladies sat quietly.
“But if I refuse, they’ll say it’s because I have something to hide. They’ll say I’ve done something to be ashamed of.”
Mrs. Churchill sipped her tea in silence.
“Well, I won’t do it.” Daphne sulked. “It’s not fair.”
“I agree, dear.” Lady Elizabeth knitted.
“I do love him so.” Daphne bit her lower lip. “But modern women must take a stand. I won’t submit to any tests unless James is required to submit to the same humiliation.”
Lady Elizabeth smiled and continued to knit. “Of course, dear. Whatever you think is best.”
“When does her highness arrive?” Daphne asked.
Clementine Churchill suppressed a smile. “Lady Alistair Browning’s train arrives later this afternoon.”
“Who else are you expecting?” Lady Elizabeth asked.
Clementine Churchill poured more tea and returned the pot to the tray. “Leopold Amery.”
“Leo is one of the nicest men I know.” Lady Elizabeth smiled.
Mrs. Churchill nodded. “I suppose he’s here to keep Winston in line.”
Lady Elizabeth frowned.
“Someone named Guy Burgess with the BBC arrived earlier. He’s trying to convince Winston to commit to a talk on the Mediterranean. I suppose Leo is arriving to convince Winston not to talk about it.” She took a sip of tea before continuing. “Lord William Forbes-Stemphill.”
“Oh...my.” Lady Elizabeth stared at Mrs. Churchill.
“Yes, I know, but he wrote and asked if he could come. He mentioned his mother, and I couldn’t say no.”
“Wasn’t there something about him in the news
?” Daphne asked.
Mrs. Churchill nodded. “Yes. He’s a traitor.”
“A traitor?” Daphne gasped.
“He leaked secrets to the Japanese back in the twenties.” Lady Elizabeth sipped her tea.
“Why wasn’t he arrested? He should have been hung,” Daphne said.
Lady Elizabeth and Mrs. Churchill exchanged glances.
After a few seconds, Lady Elizabeth said, “He’s a British peer. No one wanted a scandal that might reflect negatively on the royal family.”
Lady Daphne digested this bit of information. “How did they catch him?”
Mrs. Churchill sighed. “Supposedly, he had quite a few gambling debts to some unsavory characters. He needed more money and tried to blackmail his contact.”
Daphne stared. “You mean the money he received for betraying his country wasn’t enough to pay off his gambling debts, so he tried to blackmail his cohort in crime? What unbelievable gall.”
Lady Elizabeth shook her head. “Apparently, the cohort had a sliver of conscience and wanted out.”
“He had to know if he gave in to blackmail, he’d have to pay forever. So, in exchange for clemency, he gave Stemphill up to the authorities.”
Daphne shook her head in disbelief.
After a moment of silence, Mrs. Churchill continued, “Anthony Blunt.”
“Anthony Blunt?” Lady Elizabeth stared at the fire. “Why do I know that name?”
“He’s an art historian from Trinity College,” Clementine added.
“Is he here to look at Winston’s paintings?” Lady Elizabeth asked.
“I believe he’s here to value something or other.” She frowned. “And, I’m sorry to say, Randolph phoned to say he’s coming and bringing a young woman he wants us to meet.”
Lady Elizabeth squeezed her friend’s hand. “I’m sure it’ll be alright. Maybe the young lady will be a calming influence on Randolph.”
