by Beth Byers
“Was that really necessary? I told you I talked to Poppington.”
Violet could have answered so many ways. That Dorothy had tried her same tricks at Lady Eleanor’s party. Or that no one had addressed the fact that Violet and Jack were owed an apology and restitution. Vi doubted her father would be quite so lackadaisical about the matter if he realized his household was among the targets.
Or, Violet could have told him that his genuine ineffectiveness in every part of her life left her with a barely functioning trust in regard to herself or her twin.
Or, Violet could tell him that any father worth his salt would have—at the very least—told his child that he had discovered just who was bothering them and would take care of it.
Or, he could have apologized to her for not understanding how much she had been bothered by what had occurred. He could have apologized and told her he loved her.
“Yes,” Violet told him simply. “I think so.”
The hurt on his face struck her right to her center. The divide between them, the one that had felt like it had been closing, opened wider than ever.
“Goodnight, Father,” Violet said and left before she started to cry.
The walk from the house to the auto was tense in the careful silence. Thankfully, however, it was dark so the clever gazes of those closest to her had to judge the riot inside of Violet by the silence alone.
“He’s not a very good father most of the time,” Victor told Violet, taking her hand, “but he thought he’d done enough. He tried.”
Violet didn’t really have an answer, but Jack did, taking her other hand in the darkness.
“Vi deserves more than a weak attempt at enough.”
“I know,” Victor answered as Jack pressed a kiss to the center of her palm, hidden in the darkness.
“You both do,” Kate asserted.
“We have it,” Violet replied. “Just not from him. Not right now. It’s all right, Kate. I can endlessly go back to being grateful that Father essentially gave us to Aunt Agatha, knowing she would do better. He loves us as best as he can.”
“And,” Victor laughed, “he would have stopped us. He was judging Poppington by what he would do. I suppose expecting from your friend what you would do is reasonable enough.”
“He couldn’t have known,” Violet added, “that Dorothy Poppington was essentially Satan’s handmaiden. I’ll send him some of Mariposa’s chocolates or something and pretend that everything is all right. We’ll be back to normal in no time.” She wasn’t certain that would happen, but she said it anyway.
Then Vi laughed. “Did you see Dorothy’s expression when the hot peppers hit her mouth?”
“It was an act of pure evil genius that you placed Lady Eleanor across from her and gave the girl a flute of vodka.” The pride in Victor’s voice had Violet snorting and then she lifted a wicked eyebrow despite no one being able to see. Violet relished the freedom of her mocking expression without the gaze of the too-sharp Ginny.
Violet grinned at the memory of Lady Eleanor’s expression when she realized what Vi had set up. It had been Vi’s own act of revenge for the unnamed favor Lady Eleanor had forced upon her. Vi would keep her bargain, but Lady Eleanor would keep the memory of being sprayed with chocolate, spit, and vodka.
“We’re all dressed up,” Jack said, knowing exactly what Vi wanted to hear. “Let’s go dancing.”
GUTTERSNIPE VS. SPOILT BEAST
By E. A. Allen
With the rise of flappers, no one expects anything more than the death of the old-fashioned girl. Sweetness. Modesty. Morals. Relics from the past. Prepare yourself, reader. This is a tale of more than just a girl who drinks and dances until all hours. It’s the tale of a child who was rescued from the streets. A child who started with nothing and when given a helping hand, dared to try for something more. Something better. Dared to be hard-working in her new world of spoiled princesses. One would hope that this would be the start of Cinderella’s rising, but no. It’s a dichotomous tale of the girl from the streets and the girl with the silver spoon. Read on and see for yourself. Judge for yourself—
Violet closed the paper and handed it to Ginny. “Jack and Victor are driving you to that school, my sweet criminal. Jack isn’t going to miss anything that seems awry. And Victor is going to trap you in promises of hard work and examine all the ways you could slip out of classes.”
“You would have slipped out of classes,” Ginny said carefully. Her gaze widened on the article in the Piccadilly Press. Her mouth dropped open as she realized that once again, she was in the papers and this time Dorothy Poppington hadn’t been referred to in vague asides.
Violet placed a gentle hand on the paper and leaned in. “I didn’t want to be a doctor. You’ve crafted bigger dreams than I.”
Ginny understood and she nodded.
“If you’re going to rise up,” Violet told her, “you rise up every day. It isn’t a choice we make one time.”
“I will,” Ginny said. “You can trust me.”
“I know,” Violet agreed, standing to put a kiss on the girl’s head.
“I’ll be better than you would have been,” Ginny said with a mocking laugh as Violet went to leave the breakfast room
“Easily done,” Violet said with a laugh of her own. “Victor and I set something of a low bar. Try to rise a little higher than we did.”
Ginny lifted a daring brow and winked. With a merry grin, she returned to the paper and missed seeing Violet’s wince. Really, Violet thought, they’d set so many low bars.
The End
Hullo friends! Once again, it’s my chance to tell you how much I appreciate you reading my books and giving me a chance. If you wouldn’t mind, I would be so grateful for a review.
The sequel to this book is available for preorder now.
November 1925
Violet and Jack are called to London by the most unexpected of people--Lady Eleanor. She's in trouble and when the chips are down, she turns for the help to the stepdaughter she'd alienated and the son-in-law that she's despised.
Will they find it within themselves to help her? And if so, what will they do with what they find?
Order your copy here.
The newest Poison Ink Mystery is also available for preorder.
September 1937
Georgette Dorothy Aaron is expecting a bundle of joy, focusing on updating her house, writing books, and enjoying her family. What she's not doing is meddling. She's not sticking her nose in other people's business. She's not writing books about her neighbors. She's determined to turn over a new leaf and slide right back into the safety of being a wallflower.
Georgette, however, gets stuck on her book, sick of the smell of drying paint, and decides to take a ramble. When she stops to check herself in the mirror, she doesn't expect to see someone else in the reflection. Nor does she expect what happens next.
Order your copy here.
A new paranormal 1920s series is coming soon.
April 1922
When the Klu Klux Klan appears at the door of the Wode sisters, they decide it’s time to visit the ancestral home in England.
With squabbling between the sisters, it takes them too long to realize that their new friend is being haunted. Now they’ll have to set aside their fight, discover just why their friend is being haunted, and what they’re going to do about it. Will they rid their friend of the ghost and out themselves as witches? Or will they look away?
Join the Wode as they rise up and embrace just who and what they are in this newest historical mystery adventure.
Order your copy here.
There is also a new 1920s series about two best friends, written by one of my best friends and I. If you’d like to check it out, keep on flipping for the first chapter.
July 1922
If there's one thing to draw you together, it's shared misery.
Hettie and Ro married manipulative, lying, money-grubbing pigs. Therefore, they were instant friends. When those p
hilandering dirtbags died, they found themselves the subjects of a murder investigation. Did they kill their husbands? No. Did they joke about it? Maybe. Do they need to find the killer before the crime is pinned on them? They do!
Join Hettie and Ro and their growing friendship as they delve into their own lives to find a killer, a best friend, and perhaps a brighter new outlook.
Order your copy here.
Also By Beth Byers
The Violet Carlyle Cozy Historical Mysteries
Murder & the Heir
Murder at Kennington House
Murder at the Folly
A Merry Little Murder
New Year’s Madness: A Short Story Anthology
Valentine’s Madness: A Short Story Anthology
Murder Among the Roses
Murder in the Shallows
Gin & Murder
Obsidian Murder
Murder at the Ladies Club
Weddings Vows & Murder
A Jazzy Little Murder
Murder by Chocolate
Candlelit Madness: A Short Story Anthology
A Friendly Little Murder
Murder by the Sea
Murder On All Hallows
Murder in the Shadows (coming soon)
A Jolly Little Murder (coming soon)
The Hettie and Ro Adventures
co-written with Bettie Jane
Candlelit Madness (prequel short story)
Philanderers Gone
Adventurer Gone (available for preorder)
Holiday Gone (coming soon)
Aeronaut Gone (coming soon)
Prankster Gone (coming soon)
The Poison Ink Mysteries
Death by the Book
Death Witnessed
Death by Blackmail
Death Misconstrued
Deathly Ever After
Death in the Mirror
A Merry Little Death
The 2nd Chance Diner Mysteries
Spaghetti, Meatballs, & Murder
Cookies & Catastrophe
Poison & Pie
Double Mocha Murder
Cinnamon Rolls & Cyanide
Tea & Temptation
Donuts & Danger
Scones & Scandal
Lemonade & Loathing
Wedding Cake & Woe
Honeymoons & Honeydew
The Pumpkin Problem
Preview of Philanderer Gone
Chapter One
The house was one of those ancient stone artisan-crafted monstrosities that silently, if garishly, announced out and out buckets of bullion, ready money, the green, call it what you would, these folks were simply rolling in the good life. The windows were stained glass with roses and stars. The floor was wide-planked dark wood that was probably some Egyptian wood carried by camel and horse through deserts to the house.
Hettie hid a smirk when a very tall, beautiful, uniformed man slid through the crowd and leaned down, holding a tray of champagne and cocktails in front of her with a lascivious gaze. She wasn’t quite sure if he appreciated the irony of his status as human art for the party, or if he embraced it and the opportunity it gave him to romance bored wives.
She was, very much, a bored wife. Or, maybe disillusioned was the better word. She took yet another flute of champagne and curled into the chair, pulling up her legs, leaving her shoes behind.
The sight of her husband laughing uproariously with a drink in each hand made her want to skip over to him and toss her champagne into his face. He had been drinking and partying so heavily, he’d become yellowed. The dark circles under his eyes emphasized his utter depravity. Or, then again, perhaps that was the disillusionment once again. Which came first? The depravity or the dark circles?
“Fiendish brute,” Hettie muttered, lifting her glass to her own, personal animal. Her husband, Harvey, wrapped his arm around another bloke, laughing into his face so raucously the poor man must have felt as though he’d stepped into a summer rainstorm.
“Indeed,” a woman said and Hettie flinched, biting back a gasp to twist in the chair and see who had overheard her.
What a shocker! If Hettie had realized that anyone was around instead of a part of that drunken sea of flesh, she’d have insulted him non-verbally. It was quite satisfying to speak her feelings out loud. Heaven knew he deserved every ounce of criticism. She had nothing against dancing, jazz, cocktails, or adventure. She did, however, have quite a lot against Harvey.
He had discovered her in Quebec City. Or rather he’d discovered she was an heiress and then pretended to discover her. He’d written her love letters and poems, praising her green eyes, her red hair, and her pale skin as though being nearly dead-girl white were something to be envied. He’d made her feel beautiful even though she tended towards the plump, and he’d seemed oblivious to the spots she’d been dealing with on her chin and jawline through all of those months.
A fraud in more ways than Hettie could count, he’d spent the subsequent months prostrating himself at her feet, romancing her, wearing down her defenses until she’d strapped on the old white dress and discovered she’d gotten a drunken, spoiled, rude, lying ball and chain.
“Do you hate him too?” Hettie asked, wondering if she were commiserating with one of her husband’s lovers. She would hardly be surprised.
“Oh so much so,” the woman said. Her gaze met Hettie’s and then she snorted. “Such a wart. Makes everything a misery. It’s a wonder that no one has clocked him over the back of the head yet.”
Hettie shocked herself with a laugh, totally unprepared to instantly adore one of her husband’s mistresses, but they seemed to share more than one thing in common. “If only!”
She lifted her glass in toast to the woman, who grinned and lifted her own back. “Cheers, darling.”
“So, are you one of his lovers?” the woman asked after they had drunk.
“Wife,” Hettie said and the woman’s gaze widened.
“Wife? I hardly think so.”
“Believe me,” Hettie replied. “I wish it wasn’t so.”
“As his wife,” the woman said with a frown, “I fear I must dispute your claim.”
Hettie’s gaze narrowed and she glanced back at Harvey. His blonde hair had been pomaded back, but some hijinks had caused the seal on the pomade to shift and it was flopping about in greasy lanks. He had a drink in front of him and the man he’d been molesting earlier had one as well. The two clanked their glasses together and guzzled the cocktails. Harvey leaned into the man and they both laughed raucously.
“Idiot,” the woman said. “Look at him gulping down a drink that anyone with taste would have sipped. The blonde one, he must be yours?”
Hettie nodded with disgust and grimaced. “Unfortunately, yes, the blond wart with the pomade gone wrong is my unfortunate ball and chain. So the other fool is yours?”
The woman laughed. “I suppose I sounded almost jealous. I wasn’t, you know. I’d have been happy if Leonard was yours.”
“Alas, my fate has been saddled with yon blonde horse, Harvey.”
They grinned at each other and then the other woman held out her hand. “Ro Lavender, so pleased to meet someone with my same ill-fate. Makes me feel less alone.”
Hettie looked at that fiend of hers, then held out her own hand. “Hettie Hughes. I thought Leonard’s last name was Ripley.”
“Oh, it is,” Ro said. “I try not to tie myself to his wagon unless it benefits me. At the bank, for instance.”
Ro was a breath of fresh air. Hettie decided nothing else would do except to keep her close. “Shall we be bosom friends?” Hettie asked.
“I just read that book,” Ro said. “Do you love it as well?”
“I’m Canadian,” Hettie replied, standing to twine her arm through Ro’s. “Of course I’ve read it. Anne, Green Gables, Diana, Gilbert, Marilla, and Prince Edward Island were fed to me with milk as a babe. Only those of us with a fiendish brute for a husband can truly understand the agony of another. How did you get
caught?”
“Family pressure. We were raised together. Quite close friends over the holidays, but I never knew the real him until after.”
Hettie winced. “Love letters for me,” she said disgustedly. “You’d think modern women such as ourselves wouldn’t have been quite so…”
“Stupid,” Ro replied, tucking her bobbed hair behind her ear.
The laughter from the crowd around the table became too much to hear anything and Hettie raised her voice to ask, “Why are we here? Shall we escape into the nighttime?”
“Let’s go to Prince Edward Island,” Ro joked. “Is it magical there? I’ve always wanted to go.”
“I’ve never been,” Hettie admitted, “but I have a sudden desperate need. Let’s flee. You know they won’t miss us until their fathers insist they arrive with their respectable wives on their arms.”
“Or,” Ro joked, “I could murder yours and you could murder mine, and we could create our freedom. If our families want respectable, I would definitely respect a woman that could rid herself of these monsters.”
“That sounds lovely. Until we can plan our permanent freedom, I suppose our best option is simply to disappear into the night.”
