by V. M. Burns
Just as he turned to run from the room, Detective Inspector Covington jumped into the doorway and grabbed the gunman. James and Victor also leapt in and tried to wrestle the gun away. Sergeant O’Hara ran toward the fight.
Lady Elizabeth and Penelope helped to usher their guests out onto the terrace and away from danger.
Lord William hobbled forward with his cane, prepared to enter the fray. By the time he made it to the door, Sticky Fingers was disarmed and on the ground.
It was early morning before the police finished all of their questions and the guests were allowed to leave. Lord William and Lady Elizabeth were still dressed in their finery, although Lord William’s tie was askew and his leg was back on the ottoman. Victor and James had removed their ties and suit jackets. Daphne had kicked off her shoes and sat on the sofa with her legs curled underneath her. Curls escaped their clips and cascaded onto her forehead, making her look very young. Penelope sat on the window seat and rested her head on Victor’s shoulder.
Thompkins brought a fresh pot of tea and left without a word.
When Detective Inspector Covington entered the study, Lady Elizabeth started to rise.
He motioned for her to remain seated. “Please, don’t trouble yourself. I just wanted to thank you for everything you did to help us tonight and to apologize to Mr. Carlston.”
Victor rose and shook the detective’s hand. All was forgiven.
“Would you care for tea?” Lady Elizabeth asked.
“No thank you. I’ve got to get back to the Yard.”
Penelope sat up straight. “But you can’t go yet. You can’t go until you fill in the holes.”
“Certainly. What do you want to know?”
“I want to know why he did it,” Lady Elizabeth said.
“Apparently Charles Parker was siphoning money away from the mafia bosses back in the States.”
James smoked and glanced at Daphne. She appeared unbothered by any talk of Charles Parker. “We know Parker was a . . . Juice Lender.”
Daphne scowled at this term. “What’s a Juice Lender?”
Daphne hadn’t been present when this was discussed previously, so James explained.
Daphne shuddered but showed no other sign of concern.
Detective Inspector Covington continued with his story. “That’s true, but Parker was skimming money off the top. The bosses got onto him, and they ordered a hit.”
“Oh my,” Daphne said.
“Joseph Johnson, also known as Sticky Fingers, tracked him here. Apparently, Sticky Fingers is quite a good cellist and managed to get in with the orchestra.”
Lady Penelope frowned. “But how? I mean, I thought he was a police officer.”
“He claimed to be a police officer when we interviewed him after Charles Parker was murdered. Turns out he just said that to try and deflect suspicion away from himself. He had to know we’d question why an American was now playing in the orchestra when Charles Parker, another American, was murdered.” Detective Inspector Covington looked down and shook his head. “I hate to say it, but we missed the mark on that one. We should have verified with the American authorities, but it never occurred that anyone would be so bold as to claim to be a policeman.”
Lord William mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, “impudent blighter.”
Lady Penelope still looked puzzled. “Wasn’t it a bit of a coincidence that he plays the cello and there happened to be an opening for a cellist?”
“Yes. We thought so too.” Covington said. “After a little checking, we learned the previous cellist had an untimely accident. He was struck by a car. I suspect the car was driven by Johnson. Fortunately, he survived, but he won’t be playing the cello for quite some time.”
“So, this Sticky Fingers person came all this way to kill Charles Parker?” Daphne asked.
“It appears so.”
“But why did he stay? Why didn’t he leave after he’d killed him?”
“Apparently, he enjoyed playing with the orchestra.” Detective Inspector Covington grinned. “They’re booked to play for a royal dinner party during Ascot week. He seemed quite keen on performing for the king. He didn’t think anyone would suspect him and was safe to stay here another few months.”
“Bloody cheek if you ask me,” Lord William said.
“Thank goodness you caught him.” Lady Elizabeth patted her husband’s hand.
“We couldn’t have managed without all of you.” Inspector Covington bowed politely, made his apologies, and left.
Lady Elizabeth beamed at Penelope with Victor and Daphne with James. All was right with her world.
Lord William squeezed her hand and leaned close. “Well, dear, I think we shall have to start planning another gathering,” His tone was grave, but his eyes sparkled.
“What are you talking about?” Lady Elizabeth gasped.
“Well, my dear, I think we shall have to plan a wedding. Maybe two.”
“I think I shall enjoy planning another gathering,” Lady Elizabeth said.
Chapter 25
Good news traveled fast and bad news traveled even faster. Within a day, the entire town knew of George Parker’s arrest. Traffic at the bookstore increased. Maybe murder was good for business.
The Sleuthing Seniors met to discuss The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax.
“I liked that book you recommended, Sam,” Ruby Mae said. “I picked up two more.” She held up the next two books in the series.
“I was happy to see an older person doing more than sitting around knitting,” Nana Jo said. “Most of those cozy mysteries just depict elderly women gardening or knitting. I like a little more action. I think this Pollifax woman and I would get along quite nicely.”
I was pleased the group liked the book.
In the corner, Irma coughed. “I liked it too, but I wish there was a little sex.”
I laughed. “Typically, you won’t find explicit sex in cozy mysteries. However, I will tell you that Mrs. Pollifax gets a romantic relationship.”
“Hot d—”
“Irma!” everyone yelled.
Irma coughed. “Sorry. If there’s going to be romance, I might check out the next two books too.”
Dorothy leaned against me and whispered, “I hear we have an aspiring writer in our midst.”
Nana Jo swatted Dorothy. “Big mouth. I told you to keep quiet.”
“I think that’s wonderful,” Ruby Mae said.
“When are we going to get a chance to read it?” Dorothy asked.
“It’s just something I did for fun to kill time.” Their encouraging faces made me want to hide. I knew they meant well, but the thought of anyone reading my book still filled me with dread.
“Leave her alone.” Nana Jo stepped in. “She’ll show you when she’s ready.”
“When you get it done, I’d love to read it.” Dorothy got up and poured herself another cup of coffee.
“Me too,” they all said at once.
Dawson brought in a plate of cookies that distracted them. His timing was excellent. I considered giving him a raise.
I stuck out my tongue at Nana Jo. I’d forgive her later. I might even let her read the manuscript, since I’d finished the first draft. She’d made notes on the pages she’d read and pointed out a few inconsistencies and grammar problems and made some suggestions that were good. My book might never see the light of day, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want it to be as good as I could make it.
I watched as Dawson and the girls ate cookies and realized that even though there was a Leon-shaped hole in my heart, there were people in my life now to fill the gaps.
Nana Jo stood beside me. “I make a pretty good sidekick, huh?”
“You make an excellent sidekick.” I gave her a squeeze.
Nana Jo hugged me back and whispered, “You know, Ruby Mae has a second cousin whose daughter is a literary agent in New York.”
I smiled. “Of course she does.”
Please turn the page for an exc
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V. M. Burns’s
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READ HERRING HUNT
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Chapter 1
“Did you see the getup that little floozy had on?”
“Shhhh.” I glanced around to make sure the “little floozy” was out of earshot. Tact wasn’t Nana Jo’s strong suit.
“Don’t shush me. I’ve seen Sumo wrestlers wearing more fabric.”
Nana Jo exaggerated, but not by much. Melody Hardwick was a supermodel thin, heavily made-up college senior who had attached herself figuratively and literally to my assistant, Dawson Alexander.
“Surely that boy knows she’s nothing more than a little gold digger.” Nana Jo had taken an instant dislike to Melody.
“You don’t know she’s a gold digger. You just don’t like her.” I locked the door to the bookstore. “Besides, it’s not like Dawson has any money.”
“He may not have a pot to pee in now, but the boy has PEP.” Nana Jo wiped down the counters and bagged the trash.
“What’s pep?”
“Potential Earning Power. That boy is the best quarterback MISU’s had in at least a decade. They’re undefeated and if things keep going like last week, they have a shot at a bowl game and maybe a championship.”
My grandmother had always been a sports enthusiast, but ever since the Michigan Southwest University, or MISS YOU as the locals called it, quarterback started helping out in my bookstore, she became more of a fanatic.
“He was embarrassed. Did you see how she clung to him?”
“Dawson’s a big boy. He can make his own decisions.”
Based on the look she gave me, she wasn’t convinced. Frankly, I wasn’t convinced either. I was concerned about him too. School was a challenge for Dawson. At the end of his freshman year he was placed on academic probation. Thanks to a lot of hard work and tutoring from me and Nana Jo throughout the summer, he’d raised his grades, avoided academic suspension, and turned his life around. He didn’t have to work at the bookstore anymore. His football scholarship covered room and board. I never wanted to charge him for staying in the studio apartment I created in my garage, but student athletes had to pay the going rate for housing and get paid fair market wages for work.
“Girls like that ain’t nothing but trouble. You mark my words. Just like Delilah, she’ll come after him with a pair of scissors first chance she gets. That woman is nothing but trouble.”
Nana Jo’s words broke my reverie and brought back the worry I thought I’d eliminated. I tried to shake it off, but it lingered at the back of my mind.
We cleaned the store and then she hurried off for a date with her boyfriend, Freddie.
I took a quick tour around the store. I looked at the books neatly stacked on each shelf. It was still hard for me to believe I owned my own mystery bookstore. Market Street Mysteries had been a dream my late husband and I shared for years. After his death over a year ago, I was finally living our dream. I walked down each aisle and ran my hands across the solid wood bookshelves that still smelled woodsy and fresh and shined with the oil polish Andrew, my Amish craftsman, gave me. After six months, the store was doing well and I still got a thrill walking through and realizing it was mine. My four-legged companions on these strolls trailed along behind, toenails clicking on the wood floors. Toy poodles, Snickers and Oreo, may not share my love of mysteries, but they definitely approved of the baked goods that made their way under tables and counters.
The back of the bookstore was enclosed to provide a yard for privacy and an area for the poodles to chase squirrels and bask in the sunlight. As fall hit the Michigan coastline, the weather had turned cool. The leaves were starting to darken from bright shades of yellowy green to deeper, rich hues of amber, burgundy, and russet. Lake Michigan was also undergoing a change from the deep, blue calm of summer to the pale blue that blended into the horizon and was only discernible from the sky by the choppy white swells that danced across the surface and pounded the shore. Autumn was my favorite time of year, and I lingered outside and enjoyed the sunset until Snickers reminded me she hadn’t been fed by scratching my leg and ruining my tights. I needed to remember to make an appointment with the groomers first thing tomorrow or give up wearing skirts.
When my husband, Leon, and I dreamed of the bookstore, we planned to make the upper level into a rental unit to offset the cost. After his death, I sold the home we’d lived in and turned the upper level into a two-bedroom loft for me and the poodles. Nana Jo moved in after a dead body was found in the back courtyard, but she still had her villa at a retirement village. I never dreamed how much I’d enjoy living in the space.
Next week would be one year since Leon’s death. The pain was less crippling. The bookstore kept me busy during the day. But the nights were still difficult. I started writing to help occupy my time and my mind. Six months ago I’d finished the first draft of a British cozy mystery and spent the last few months editing. Nana Jo wanted me to send it out to an agent, but that would involve allowing someone besides me and my grandmother, who loved me, to read it. I wasn’t ready for that type of humiliation and rejection yet. Besides, in the unlikely event that a publisher was interested in my book, they’d want to know what else I had. What if one book was all I had in me? The only way to find out would be to try again. So after dinner I made a cup of tea and headed to my laptop.
Wickfield Lodge, English country home of
Lord William Marsh–November 1938
Thompkins entered the back salon where the Marsh family was having tea and coughed. “I’m sorry, but the Duke of Kingfordshire is on the telephone.”
Lady Daphne was in her favorite seat by the window. She started to rise but was stopped when Thompkins discretely coughed again.
“His Grace the duke asked to speak to your ladyship.” He turned toward Lady Elizabeth.
Lady Elizabeth Marsh glanced at her niece, Daphne, noting the blush that left her cheeks flushed. She placed her teacup down and hurried out of the room. In the library, she picked up the telephone. “Hello, James dear, is there—”
“Thank goodness you’re home. I’m sorry but I don’t have time for pleasantries. Time is of the essence.” Lord James Fitzandrew Browning, normally calm and composed, had a slight tremor in his voice, which reflected the urgency of his call even more than his words and lack of propriety. The duke took a deep breath and then rushed on. “This is going to sound strange, but I need you to trust me. You’re going to get a call from the Duchess of Windsor asking for permission to move her hunting party to Wickfield Lodge this weekend. It’s vital she be allowed to do so.”
Whatever Lady Elizabeth expected, it hadn’t been this. She stood frozen for a moment before recovering herself enough to respond. “Well of course, James. We . . . we have no plans this weekend.”
James released a huge sigh and she could almost see him wiping his brow.
“James, you know we’re happy to help any way we can, but you mentioned this was ‘vital.’ Vital to whom?”
James hesitated a moment before responding. “Vital to England. The Crown. Maybe the entire world.”
Chapter 2
Saturdays were busy days at the bookstore and I was thankful my nephews, Christopher and Zaq, were home from college for fall break and helping out. The twins were invaluable in getting the bookstore up and running over the summer. The boys were twenty and while they were identical, their personalities were so different it was very easy to tell them apart. Both were tall and slender. Christopher was business oriented and preppy, while Zaq was technology inclined and edgier. Neither was a mystery lover, but they each had their own gifts and I was thankful they were willing to spend time helping out their aunt and to earn extra pocket money.
Nana Jo was a mystery lover and was great at helping match customers with authors and mystery subgenres like hard-boiled detective stories, cozy mysteries, or police procedurals.
; Today was a home football weekend for MISU and a bye week for the twins’ school, Jesus and Mary University, or JAMU to the locals. When Dawson started working at the bookstore, I toyed with the idea of putting a television in the store so we could watch him play on Saturdays. However, a television in a bookstore seemed paradoxical. I compromised by foregoing the smooth jazz I normally piped in and tuned into the sports channel instead, at least for MISU and JAMU games. I expected complaints from people who liked to sit and read in peace and quiet. But so far the comments were all positive. I suspected the lack of protest was due to the customers’ desire to support a hometown boy combined with their affection for Dawson’s baked goods. They were willing to give up a little peace and quiet to support someone they knew.
Thankfully, Dawson and the MISU Tigers had today’s game well in hand with a healthy lead of three touchdowns. Home team wins made for happy customers, and happy customers spent more money. As locals discovered Dawson lived and worked here, I’d noticed an increase in traffic. Many were football fans who wanted to congratulate him, talk sports, and get autographs for wide-eyed kids. The others were infatuated young girls who glanced shyly at him when he was working and then hid behind books, giggling whenever he looked at them. Regardless of the reason, the extra traffic was good for business.
MISU won handily and I had a very good day in sales. The twins had dates and hurried out immediately at closing.
“You should go to the casino with me and the girls,” Nana Jo said.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stay home. I want to get some writing done.” We reshelved books and cleaned the store.
“Great. You started working on the next book in the series? You know, I’m really proud of you. But you still need to start sending your book out to agents. I hear getting published is a long process. I read somewhere Agatha Christie was rejected for five years before she got her first book deal.”
“I know. I—”
