A Grave Gala (Sugar Martin Vintage Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

by Shéa MacLeod

  I had a novel in my handbag, but I somehow didn’t feel like reading. Instead, I stared out at the passing scenery while Tippy curled up for a nap. The trees blurred as the train picked up speed, its whistle mournful. Thoughts and ideas raced round and round in my mind like little red race cars. An arrow flying through the air. A tray of colorful cocktails. Penny shouting a chipper “hello.”

  “Sugar, wake up.”

  I startled awake to find Jack’s face inches from mine. We stared at each other for the longest moment. His breath was warm on my cheek, his gaze latched to mine, his eyes such a stunning blue. My breathing hitched.

  “Was I asleep?” I finally muttered lamely.

  Tippy let out a snort.

  Jack leaned back. “For most of the trip. Did you know you snore?”

  “I do not!” I sat up, patting my hair down and swiping my fingers under my eyes to remove any smudges.

  He grinned. “Very light snores. It’s... cute.”

  This time my snort joined Tippy’s. “Nonsense.” I popped open my handbag and fished around for my compact. “Are we there?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  The train had slowed quite a bit, and the scenery had changed from rolling green hills and thickets of trees to grim brick townhouses and the occasional pile of rubble left over from the bombings. London was still a city very much under reconstruction.

  I flipped open my compact and got a good look at myself. Sure enough, my hairdo had gone awry and I looked like a racoon, plus my lipstick was gone. I did a quick reapplication of Elizabeth Arden Radiant Peony, managed to swipe off the mascara which had taken up residence below my eyes, and fluffed out my hair so it didn’t look like such a rat’s nest.

  At last the train came to a shuddering halt. Jack, Tippy, and I disembarked. Waterloo Station was teeming with people running this way and that attempting to catch their trains, collect their luggage, or snag a taxicab. Tippy strolled along, ears perked, completely unfazed by it all, but I felt a little overwhelmed. London is such an enormous place.

  As if he read my mind, Jack placed his hand gently at my elbow and steered me through the crowds toward the nearest exit and into a waiting taxi. I gave him a smile of gratitude, but he was busy giving the driver directions. Tippy gave me a knowing look.

  “What do you know about it anyway?” I muttered.

  “What’s that?” Jack asked, leaning back.

  “Nothing. Is Covent Garden far?”

  “About ten minutes if traffic is good. Which it hardly ever is.” He tipped his hat lower on his forehead. “Just relax and enjoy the view.”

  We arrived twelve minutes later at an older brick building several stories high. It was undamaged from the war and had a little sign in one of the lower windows that read: Rooms for Rent - Inquire Within.

  There was no doorman nor any lock on the door. It simply swung open. It didn’t seem secure or safe to me. In Portland, nobody would have batted an eye at such an arrangement, but in a city as big as London? Surely it was asking for trouble.

  The door opened into a dim hall lined with doors, and each was marked with a brass number. A narrow set of stairs led up, and that’s where Jack went. Tippy and I exchanged glances and followed slowly, Tippy struggling a bit with the steps. I’d have picked him up and carried him if he’d let me, but even the suggestion of it had him baring his teeth. Fair enough. I didn’t like people hauling me around either. It was undignified.

  Juliette Devereaux lived on the second floor—or what we in America would have referred to as the third floor—all the way at the back of the building. I was betting she had a lovely view of the alley.

  Jack rapped on the door marked 2C and we waited. And waited. No one answered, so Jack tried the door. It was locked.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I guess we try her at her place of work.”

  “I thought she came from an upper-class family.”

  “She does,” he said. “Unfortunately for her, it’s not a wealthy family.”

  Which meant another trip down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk where Jack flagged down a cab. The trip took nearly fifteen minutes and wound past shops and theaters, through the heart of Chinatown, and between increasingly narrow roads before spilling out onto Oxford Street where we alighted.

  We found the shop where Juliette worked easily enough. It was just past the gorgeous edifice of that famous department store, Selfridges. A sign above the door read: M’me Virginie, Dressmaker. The mannequin in the window wore an elegant off-the-shoulder rose taffeta evening gown with a full, sweeping skirt and an embroidered bodice.

  I handed Jack Tippy’s leash.

  “What’s this?”

  “I can’t take him inside,” I said. “And I think I’ll get much more out of Juliette if I talk to her by myself.”

  He sighed heavily. “Fine. We’ll wait over on that bench.”

  I nodded before pushing my way inside. The shop was decorated in varying shades of white, from the thick cream carpet to the delicate eggshell white curtains. The faint smell of floral perfume and an expectant hush both hung in the air.

  A woman about the same age as me with honey blonde hair in an updo and perfectly painted red lips approached me with a business-like smile plastered on her face. “May I help you?” Her accent was ever so slightly French.

  “Are you Juliette Devereaux?”

  She glared at me suspiciously. “Who are you?”

  “Sugar Martin. I’m friends with Lady Antonia Netherford.”

  That perked her up. “Welcome, Miss Martin. How can I help you? Perhaps you need a new frock? A pair of Oxfords?”

  “Actually, I’m here because of Lord Peter Winstead.”

  She paused, her expression frozen. “What of him?”

  “I’m sorry to say he’s dead.”

  “Oh.” Her expression didn’t change, but her throat worked wildly as if she was trying to hold something back. Tears, perhaps?

  Was she that upset about a man she’d ditched? Or who’d ditched her? I was still vague on the details.

  “I’m so sorry to spring it on you like this, Miss Devereaux.”

  “I-I...” Her hand went to her throat and the neat string of pearls. “How did it happen?”

  Oh, dear. “Um, he was shot. With an arrow.”

  Her eyes widened and she clutched the pearls so hard I thought she might break them. “An arrow!”

  Several heads swiveled our way. She gave the other patrons a tight smile, grabbed my arm, and hauled me toward the back of the shop through a door marked Private.

  I found myself in an open storage room with racks of merchandise to be added to the shop, a desk in the corner overflowing with paperwork, and a tiny kitchenette where the employees could make tea or take their afternoon meal.

  Juliette whirled to face me. “What happened?” Her voice was tight, angry, demanding.

  Where to begin. “My friend Toni—Lady Netherford—invited a number of people to a gala. It was while Lord Winstead was dancing with Lady Netherford that he was shot. I’m afraid he died instantly. I’m so sorry.”

  She plopped into a chair, looking a bit shocked. “I can’t believe it.”

  I glanced at the kettle. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Cup of tea? You bloody English and your cups of tea! No, I do not want a cup of tea. I want a brandy.”

  “First, I’m not English,” I said. “And second...” I pulled a flask out of my handbag. It was a recent addition. I often found that a drink helped loosen lips. “Will whiskey do?”

  She nodded sharply. “It will do.”

  Juliette managed to nearly empty my flask before getting to the point. She was surprisingly less drunk than I would have thought she’d be. If it was me, I’d be under the table. Then again, I’m not much of a drinker. The odd cocktail up at Toni’s and that’s about it. Juliette was made of stronger stuff.

  “I was only with Jerry for his money,” she said at last, leani
ng back in her chair with a creak.

  “Oh?” I wasn’t sure what else to say. It wasn’t every day a woman admitted to being a gold digger.

  “My family was wealthy once,” she admitted. “But that was a very long time ago. Before the war. My grandpere made bad investments and lost most of it. Papa lost everything else.” Her lips twisted. “I think it is so stupid the men inherit everything. Men cannot be trusted to make good decisions. Do not you agree?” Her accent had become stronger as she talked.

  “Er, I certainly wouldn’t trust one with my money,” I told her. Which was easy to say. I didn’t have any. My aunt had left all her worldly goods to Tippy. I was only the caretaker.

  “Just so. Mama and me, we had to work then. My mama made lovely dresses for those who wanted couture but couldn’t afford it. I helped. We made a good enough living, but then the war came, and nobody could afford new dresses.”

  “And after the war?” I prodded.

  She shrugged delicately. “Many, many of our clients were dead or had moved elsewhere. It was hard, getting back on our feet. Papa was useless, and Mama, she was unwell. It seemed things would go very badly for us. And then I met Jerry.” She sighed and drained the last of her whiskey. “He was so handsome. So dashing. He promised me the moon and the stars.”

  “And so you agreed to marry him,” I guessed.

  She nodded. “Just so. Unfortunately, once we arrived in London, I realized he had exaggerated about the money. Not only that, but he was a cad.”

  “He cheated on you?”

  “Many times.”

  I found it shocking that a man would cheat on a woman as beautiful and exotic as Juliette. It seemed... stupid. And if she couldn’t keep a man faithful, what hope was there for the rest of us? “Is that when you left him?” It was a guess but an educated one.

  “Yes. I left him. Not so much because of the cheating. Men cheat, you know.”

  I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure she was completely correct about that, but I didn’t say anything.

  “I left because there was no money. How can I take care of Mama without money? Of course, he told everyone Peter stole me, but that was a lie.”

  “What really happened?” I asked.

  She gave me a sly smile. “Peter wasn’t as handsome, but he was rich. It wasn’t a lie, like Jerry. We met at one of Jerry’s races. When I left Jerry, I latched onto Peter quick. Didn’t want that big fish getting away.”

  “But he did,” I pointed out.

  “Oh, yes, but that wasn’t my fault, you see,” she leaned forward. “He was a bit funny, if you see what I mean.”

  I stared at her. “You’re sure? He, ah, batted for the other team?”

  She rolled her eyes. “But of course. I didn’t mind. Would have made a good cover for him, and I would have gotten what I wanted, too, but he was too noble. Didn’t want me wasting my time. Idiot.”

  She very clearly was less interested in a husband than a meal ticket. “Jerry could still have been jealous. Which would have been a good motive for murder.”

  She laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Jerry knows all about Peter.”

  “How?”

  She winked. “Let’s just say that Jerry might have murdered me out of revenge, but he’d have never killed Peter.”

  “Oh.” If she was saying what I thought she was saying, then Jerry and Peter had been an item at some point. Maybe still were, at least until Peter’s death. It was hard to say. Although if that were the case, Jerry had hidden it well. “So Peter and Jerry were, ah...close?”

  She nodded and gave me a knowing wink. “Very much so, oui.”

  I tried to hide my surprise. I knew such things happened, even though it was illegal, but she was so blasé about it.

  We chatted a few minutes more, but since Juliette either didn’t know anything else, or didn’t want to talk about it further, I bid her goodbye and made my way back through the shop. The one person who must have done it now had no motive. Which put me exactly nowhere.

  Chapter 8

  “She was sure about that?” Jack asked, looking a little uncomfortable.

  We were sitting in the back seat of the taxi, headed back to the train station. This time, I barely noticed the gorgeous architecture or fashionable pedestrians. My mind was completely focused on the mystery.

  “She seemed so,” I assured him.

  He rubbed his forehead. “That rather puts Jerry out of the frame, doesn’t it?”

  “If she’s right, then I’m afraid so. And if he’s not the killer, who else would have had a motive to kill Pete?”

  He rifled through his paperwork, frowning. He was cute when he frowned. And I was an idiot. Jack was my supervisor of sorts. I did not need to go all swoony over him.

  He looked up just then and caught me staring at him. We both flushed crimson and stared out opposite windows.

  You are a sap. Stop mooning over the man like he’s a scone fresh out of the oven.

  I cleared my throat. “Do you have any ideas?”

  “What?”

  “About people with motives to kill Pete?”

  “Oh, ah, well. Yes.” He shuffled more papers. “I mean no.”

  I gave him a look. “Which is it?”

  “As far as I can see, no one attending the gala had the sort of connection with Peter that might have given them motive.”

  Just then the taxi drew up to the station. We clambered out and made a dash for our train, just catching it before it lurched its way out of the station.

  Once we were in our seats with Tippy curled at my feet, I picked up where we left off. “All right, what connections did the gala guests have to Peter?”

  He flipped open his notebook. “Toni, of course, has known him a long time. Friends of the family, apparently. That’s why she invited him. Do you suppose she knows? About his, ah, relationship with Jerry?”

  “Probably. And she couldn’t have killed him because she was dancing with him.” Something about that statement, the image of Peter dipping her, niggled at my mind, but I shoved it aside. I had work to do. “What about Lil and Alex?” They were the only guests I knew, though not well.

  “They don’t run in the same circles. Alex spends most of his time abroad, and Lil is, as you know, skint. She doesn’t get out much. They probably know each other in passing, but they’ve no real connection. Vivien Moreton, on the other hand, was in a film recently which Peter financed.”

  “Peter financed movies?”

  “This was the first. According to my uncle, Peter wanted to diversify the family’s interests. He felt that films were the wave of the future.”

  “He’s not wrong there.” Even during the worst of financial times, the American film industry still made a killing. “Would his financing of the film affect her in any way?”

  “Only in that he insisted that a young man named Marius Earlen star opposite her. She threw a tantrum because she thought he wasn’t good enough. It was all over the papers. Nearly got kicked off the film, but the director went to the mat for her.”

  “And was he good enough? Marius Earlen, I mean.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve never seen the film, but from a money standpoint, it did alright.”

  “There could be a motive in there somewhere,” I pointed out. “It may not be monetary, but it could be revenge for threatening her livelihood.”

  “But can you see her shooting someone with a bow and arrow?”

  “No, not really,” I admitted. “How about the Olivanders?”

  “They’re friendly acquaintances with his parents.”

  Not to mention there was no way either of them would have the strength to pull a bow without toppling over and breaking a hip. “I feel fine leaving them out of it for now. Vivien though... she knows a lot of people. She could have hired someone.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  I sighed. “I’m not.”

  “And then there’s Sir Ruben. I couldn’t find anything about he and Peter being i
n each other’s company.”

  “Except that I think Sir Ruben might, uh, lean the same way as Peter. Maybe he knew.”

  “But how would that be motive to kill Peter?” Jack said.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe Peter threatened to tell someone?”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “And risk exposing himself?”

  “No. You’re right. It’s silly.” I sat bolt upright. “Wait!”

  “What?”

  “Exposed himself... that’s exactly what happened!”

  He blinked. “Afraid you’ll have to explain.”

  “When Peter and Toni were dancing, Peter dipped her.”

  “Yes?”

  “At precisely the moment he was shot.”

  Jack shrugged. “The killer probably lay in wait. Saw his opportunity.”

  “But what if he didn’t? What if that shot was never meant for Peter?”

  Jack’s eyes widened. “What if that dip saved Toni’s life?”

  “We need to get to Endmere. Fast!”

  I CLOSED MY EYES AS we rounded another bend. Old Tom’s rickety truck was getting far too close to the edge and a plummeting death to the ocean below. The ocean I couldn’t see, but I knew it was there.

  Jack, Tippy, and I had arrived back at Meres Reach just after dark. Lucky for us, Old Tom had just dropped someone off at the station, and we were able to hitch a ride up to Toni’s.

  The truck careened around another bend, and I wished desperately for something to hold onto. Instead I was squashed between Old Tom—who smelled ever so slightly of alcohol—and Jack. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be grabbing onto him.

  Now there was a thought.

  I told myself not to be ridiculous. Instead I closed my eyes and sent out a prayer to anyone who was listening. If we didn’t make it to Toni’s in one piece, she might not make it either.

  Tippy was in the truck bed, occasionally letting out a howl. It was clear he wasn’t any more impressed with Tom’s driving than I was.