Mystery at the Regal Rose Hotel

by C Jane Reid

  The Mystery at the Regal Rose Hotel

  The Lola Rose Mysteries

  Book One

  C. Jane Reid

  THE MYSTERY AT THE REGAL ROSE HOTEL

  Copyright © 2019 C. JANE REID

  www.cjanereid.com

  Formatting and design by Spinning Tales Press

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  All rights reserved. Except for the use in reviews, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means now known or hereafter invented is forbidden without the written permission of the author. Thank you for respecting my copyright.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  FIRST EDITION

  The Mystery at the Regal Rose Hotel

  The week after Lola Rose checked into the Regal Rose Hotel, three events caught her quite unprepared: her widowed mother's surprise engagement to a famous London barrister, her desire to form a friendship with the cantankerous elderly woman living in the hotel's penthouse, and a dead body at the foot of the elegant sweeping staircase on the hotel's first floor.

  When a new acquaintance is charged with murder, Lola calls upon her trio of friends to help clear his name. It will mean setting aside cocktail parties, nightclubs, and late lie-ins, but Lola is willing to sacrifice much more to save an innocent man. Calling on her sophisticated upbringing as an Englishwoman's daughter and the Get It Done attitude taught by her Texan father, Lola will charm self-righteous hotel clerks, square off with cranky detective inspectors, and even tolerate a pompous German ex-officer to do what she knows is right.

  ~*~

  Welcome to the Regal Rose Hotel, the new posh and elegant hotel catering to the rich, famous, and eccentric in Jazz Age London. Try the hotel's signature drink, The Rose, at the Portage Club nightclub, dance the night away to the music of Dot and the Four Grooves, and sit with Lola Rose and her companions as they indulge in jazz, cocktails, rumors, and mysteries. They might even solve a murder.

  Would you like to read the completely introduction to Lola Rose and the Regal Rose Hotel?

  Purchase a copy of New Year’s Madness, which contains the first Lola Rose Mysteries story, "Lola Rose and the Secret at the Regal Rose Hotel." See how it all began.

  Dedication

  This book wouldn’t exist if not for Amanda A. Allen (also known as Beth Byers) and her insistence that the world needs more 1920s cozy mysteries. Lola happens to agree. I hope you do, too.

  Chapter One

  Friday, January 5th, 1923

  The Portage Club of the Regal Rose Hotel

  Twisting her fingers into her long strand of amethyst beads, Lola Rose scanned the shadowy nightclub for the third time, searching for a friendly, or at least dashing, face. She tapped her toe to the jazzy tune by the quartet on stage. The irony of the song was not lost on her. It was as though the band had designed their evening entertainment with her in mind.

  Everyone knows that I’m just Secondhand Rose—

  Lola laughed. Never would she have considered herself a secondhand rose until she came to the Regal Rose Hotel, but the illustrious hotel put even her red curls, porcelain blue eyes, full dark red lips, and rouge round cheeks to shame. Maybe if she’d worn the rose-colored dress? Though her lavender dress was becoming, with its empire waist and purple fringe.

  A gentleman with his hair plastered against his overly oval skull appeared to think so as well as he gave her an appraising look. She stopped twirling the amethyst beads to stare the man down. He hadn’t taken two steps before she made a shooing motion with her hand. Disheartened, he turned away.

  Lola scanned the nightclub again. It had been only a week since the New Year’s Eve celebration that marked the hotel’s Grand Opening. Surely this would be the night when the new friends she’d made would make an appearance. Or perhaps Arthur Blythe would.

  She managed, if only just, not to sigh. Arthur Blythe, that tall, golden-haired, son of Sir Caldwell’s cousin, who gave her such a chaste and friendly kiss on New Year’s Eve. She’d have encouraged a little more daring on his part, but he hadn’t struck her as the overly daring sort. Playful, yes, but daring? No.

  Playful enough to come to a nightclub on a Friday night? She thought not.

  A man walked into the club, and for a moment, Lola’s breath caught. But no, this pale-haired gentleman was too old and carried himself too militarily to be Arthur. His chin was too pointed and his eyes too close together, not to mention the older fashion of his suit. Besides, he seemed to be already accompanied by . . .

  Vera?

  Lola’s new friend was laughing with abandon at the gentleman as she held onto his arm. Lola chuckled. She’d last seen Vera on New Year’s Eve when her friend was hanging off the arm of another older gentleman in much the same fashion. It was obvious from the start of their acquaintance that Vera enjoyed both attention and excitement, and seemed to prefer adding an older gentleman’s company into the mix.

  Vera caught sight of her from the doorway. She spoke with animation to her gentleman escort then scurried across the club, black dress swinging like she was wearing circles of fringe, which she was, though her black bobbed hair hardly moved, fixed in place as it was with a black, beaded turban.

  Vera clutched both of Lola’s hands when she reached her and gave her a kiss on each cheek, careful not to leave dark red lipstick behind. It wouldn’t have matched Lola’s lavender silk dress at all.

  “Lola, I am so happy you’re staying in London. You cannot imagine how happy.”

  The fact that Vera was squeezing her hands and fairly jumping on the toes of her pretty, black, double-strapped shoes gave Lola a good idea.

  “It wasn’t my choice, you understand,” Lola began, and Vera frowned, “but I am ecstatic that it’s happening, though it means I’m gaining a stepfather.”

  “Is he so awful?”

  “No, not at all. I’m fond of Sir Caldwell. It’s only—” Lola bit her lip then admitted, “the news was unexpected.”

  “You had no idea he was courting your mum?”

  “None at all.”

  “Well, he is a rather famous barrister. He would know how to keep quiet on matters that he felt should be kept quiet.” Vera grinned. “Is your mum like that?”

  “My mother was a British-born lady living in West Texas. Compared to the Texans, she was an exotic woman of sophistication and mystery.”

  They both laughed.

  “Come meet Eckhardt,” Vera insisted. “He’s German.”

  Lola hesitated, and Vera tugged on her arm. “Don’t be so drab, Lola. He didn’t start the war, after all. And we’re all friends again now.” There was a gleam in Vera’s eyes.

  Lola wasn’t certain that Germany was a friend to England, or the rest of Europe for that matter, but she did berate herself for hesitating simply because the man was German. She let Vera guide her across the nightclub.

  The older, fair-haired man had a dark gaze that swept over Lola as she approached. She knew at once that he was judging her, but she couldn’t tell if he approved or not. Not that it mattered a fig to her. She’d most likely never see him again. The visitors to the hotel, and also the Portage Club, came and went with the tides.

  “Eckhardt Prinz, this is my dear friend, Lola Rose,” Vera introduced her to the tall, broad man. “Eckhardt’s German,” Vera repeated to Lola, “but he’s not so bad.”

  The German Eckhardt Prinz scoffed. “And I find you are not
so bad for an Englishwoman.”

  Lola hadn’t been around Germans before, but she thought his accent was a little on the thin side. She understood him without any trouble at all when there were Londoners at the hotel whose speech she couldn’t translate without help.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lola,” he said, but it wasn’t with sincerity. He studied her again. “Are you of any relation to this grand hotel?”

  “Oh, no, it’s simply a coincidence.”

  “Lola’s from Texas,” Vera supplied. “It’s in the colonies.” She winked at Lola.

  “Ah.” He looked unimpressed.

  He had to be close to Sir Caldwell’s age, and certainly had formal manners, but he unsettled Lola. She didn’t care for his presumption of using her first name, though she’d never been one to stand on formalities. Nor did she care for the way his gaze continued to sweep the length of her, finding her lacking.

  Lola suppressed a shudder.

  “Mr. Prinz,” she returned primly. “Or is it Herr Prinz?”

  “The latter is the more appropriate.”

  “I met Eckhardt in the lobby,” Vera said. “He thought I was coming to dine at one of the restaurants.” She giggled as though it was a ridiculous thought.

  “I was not aware of the nightclub,” Herr Prinz explained as though he could hardly be blamed for the lapse of the hotel staff to inform him of everything.

  His gaze swept over the place, and Lola knew he was judging it, too. Though his pleasant expression never slipped, she was fairly certain he was as unimpressed by the club’s offerings as he was of hers. She doubted anyone in the Portage Club would care. She certainly didn’t.

  “He’s been getting cold-shouldered,” Vera said. “I heard him ask that Frenchman, the concierge—”

  “Gaspard,” Lola supplied.

  “Right, the one with barely any voice, about a recommendation and the man acted like he hadn’t heard him.”

  “I do not hold it against him,” Herr Prinz said as though pardoning a prisoner. “My country and his were enemies not so long ago. Many on both sides still hold grudges.”

  “I know all that,” Vera told him, gesturing the idea away, “but that’s old news now. We need to put it behind us.”

  “It is not always as simple, fräulein.”

  Vera’s smile turned smug. “How do you know I’m not a frau?”

  Herr Prinz lifted her hand and placed a cold kiss on her bare ring finger.

  “Well, aren’t you a clever one.” Vera laughed.

  “Have you been out and about this evening already, Vera?” Lola asked. She’d only spent one evening with her new friend, but Vera had proved herself quite a fiend with her cocktails, and Lola didn’t want to believe that Vera could be so blind as to the German’s character without the help of drink. Though, of course, Lola considered herself an excellent judge of character, and perhaps Vera was unaware.

  “Oh, here and there. On the town, you know.” Vera gestured again. “Is that Willa?”

  Lola followed her gaze to find her other new friend dancing at the edge of the dance floor with a dapper gentleman.

  Vera gasped. “And with Brandon?”

  “Ah,” the German interrupted. “I have seen you to your friend and have witnessed this little scene of pleasure.” His gaze swept the room again. “But I find now I must retire.”

  “If you must.” Vera offered him her hand.

  He made a short bow over it. “Gute nacht, mein fräulein.”

  They bid him good night. Lola didn’t miss that more than a few people gave him hard and angry looks as he left. Herr Prinz even forced a man coming into the club to step aside and had the nerve to eye the woman with him as though assessing her suitability.

  “What happened to Patrick?” Lola asked, looking away from the distasteful Herr Prinz.

  “Patrick? Oh, from New Year’s. He was a dear, wasn’t he? It was upsetting that he was only in town for the holiday. He’s gone home to Brighton.” Vera looked dishearten.

  “And so Eckhardt Prinz?” Lola pressed.

  “Him? No, no, not at all. I mean, he is German.” Vera wrinkled her nose. “I was only doing my bit to smooth international relations.”

  Lola didn’t bother hiding her relief. “Too pompous for you?”

  Vera sagged dramatically. “So pompous. I simply had to introduce myself just to see what he would do after the looks he gave me.”

  “You mean the one where he’s deciding whether you’ll do for the evening?”

  “That’s the one.”

  They both laughed.

  “You put on quite the show,” Lola said. “I nearly fell for it.”

  “Darling,” Vera said, looping her arm through Lola’s, “you hardly know me. Simply consider it your first lesson in Verality.”

  Lola blinked in confusion.

  “Vera’s Reality.” Vera laughed again. “And in Vera’s reality, now is the time when she needs another cocktail.”

  Lola let Vera lead her to the bar. Mickey, the Irish bartender, came over and flashed his cocky smile.

  “There be the two loveliest ladies in the room.”

  “Really, Mickey,” Lola answered, “you’ve said that to every woman here, I’m sure.”

  “Yer all the loveliest when yer standing in front of me,” he said with a gleam in his eye.

  Vera rolled hers. “If you think you can stop swooning over us, I’ll take a Sidecar.”

  “‘Twill be hard, but I’ll put me best effort to it.” Mickey gave them a wink and began pulling out bottles to mix Vera’s drink. “And you, me darlin’ rose?” he asked Lola. “The Rose for the rose?”

  Lola gave him a dry laugh. “I think I’ll go for a Mary Pickford this time.”

  “Ah,” Mickey looked as though he’d made a discovery. “I’ve got ya figured now, Miss Rose.”

  “Do you?”

  He finished creating Vera’s drink with a flourish and handed it to her.

  “It’s a sweet tooth yer having.”

  “I do confess it,” Lola said.

  Mickey smiled, pleased with himself, no doubt, and mixed her drink.

  “There’s Willa and Brandon,” Vera said, gesturing with her cocktail glass to where they were leaving the dance floor. She’d already drank enough that the liquor didn’t swish over the side. “I simply must mingle with them. Catch us up?”

  “In a minute or two.”

  Vera pecked her on the cheek and wended her way toward the twosome.

  Lola accepted her drink from Mickey as a thin man with dark, wavy hair and wearing a brown suit came up next to her.

  “Gin Rickey,” the man ordered. And it did sound like an order. Mickey didn’t seem upset by it, moving to get the man’s drink.

  “He’s not a servant,” Lola said protectively. She was fond of Mickey.

  The man looked at her, startled. And then she was startled. He had the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. And pockmarks on the right side of his face that looked as though someone had dug little holes with a pen knife.

  The man’s mouth thinned into a line. “He is a bartender. Bartenders serve.” The man’s accent was very much British, and his tone was hard.

  “Drinks,” Lola added.

  “You were speaking with the German,” he accused. She recognized him then as the man Herr Prinz forced aside. She took offense that he assumed she had anything to do with the pompous man.

  “I’ve spoken to several nationalities tonight,” she told him flippantly. “British, Irish, German. I might have a go at seeking out a Russian or a Scot. Now I get to add speaking to an ass. Funny, though, I thought they only brayed.”

  The man’s eyes widened, and behind the bar, Mickey was clenching his teeth to keep from laughing. Lola smiled sweetly to the man.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best hunt up some Arabs.”

  She turned on her heel and strode away, fully intending on finding her friends. She’d taken ten steps when she realized she’d left her
drink behind.

  Lovely. So much for the last word and an exit. She sighed.

  “Miss.”

  The green-eyed man was standing behind her. He held out her drink. He looked very different without the hard edge, his expression contrite. It made him look younger than she’d first taken him for, only a few years older than she.

  “I apologize,” he said.

  “And did you apologize to Mickey?”

  “I did. And tipped him well.”

  Lola smiled. “Good man.”

  He half-shrugged. It was then that Lola noticed the empty sleeve pinned to his coat. His eyes met hers, and she saw it clearly. Wounded soldier.

  “Well,” Lola said, accepting her drink, “we’d best fetch yours now, hadn’t we?”

  “It’s fine, miss,” he said.

  “Yes, I’m sure it is. Mickey does an excellent job.”

  “No, I meant I can see to it.”

  “I’m sure you can.” She held out her hand. “Lola Rose.”

  He glanced at it. She’d held out her left hand to shake as he was missing his right.

  He accepted it in a gentle grasp. “Gordie Canfield.”

  “Such a pleasure. Now, at least,” she added with a smirk.

  He chuckled. He did have a nice voice.

  Together they returned to the bar so Gordie could claim the drink Mickey handed to him.

  “For you, me good man,” Mickey said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you here with friends?” Lola asked Gordie, glancing for the brown-haired woman he’d escorted inside.

  “I was.” His tone was clipped. He didn’t seem to wish to discuss it. She let it pass. “I saw you were here with friends,” he told her, and his lip curled at the last.

  “Yes. Vera. But,” she added, “not the German. I try not to have anything against Germans, mind, though I don’t know any personally, but that one I don’t think I care to know.”