by Rae Davies
Lucy and the Valentine Verdict
A Dusty Deals Mystery Novella – 4.5 in the series
Rae Davies
Published by
Copyright Rae Davies & Lori Devoti, 2014
Smashwords Edition
Updated April, 2016
This book is set in the real city of Helena, Montana. However, this is a work of fiction and all people, places of business, and events are fictional. Any similarity to anyone, thing or place is purely coincidence.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or a portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.
If you notice any typos or formatting issues with this book, the author would appreciate being notified.
Email her at [email protected]
Cast of Characters
Maid Ann: Maid of Lady York and Sir Cannon for two years with questionable taste in skirt length and other possible moral issues. (Played by reporter turned antiques store owner turned amateur sleuth and the heroine of our little tale, Lucy Mathews.)
Kiska: Captain Egg’s therapy dog. Seen stealing snacks in a most blatant manner. (Played by Lucy’s Alaskan malamute, Kiska.)
Captain Egg: Retired military man with monocle, service dog and wandering hands that seem to find themselves on Maid Ann. (Played by Lucy’s detective boyfriend, Peter Blake.)
Lady York: Our hostess, a woman married to a man a number of years her senior with possible side interests.
Sir Arthur Cannon: Retired man of means who enjoys hunting big game, specifically on the Dark Continent, home of the highly venomous boomslang viper.
Vera Claythorne: A botanist by trade who recently retired from a major pharmaceutical company.
Butler Mandrake Raven: Butler employed by Lady York and Sir Cannon for unknown length of time. An obvious suspect, being the butler after all.
Mrs. Peabody: Rich philanthropist widow with a newly syndicated advice column.
Mr. Blore: A retired banker who seems to have a bit of a wandering eye. (Played by Harold, a rancher and husband of Mrs. Peabody.)
Dr. Armstrong: Attractive, ambitious doctor.
Emily Brent: A religious woman with a dislike of alcohol and a husband who just so happened to have died under suspicious circumstances. Of course, she isn’t telling anyone about that.
Dusty Deals Mystery Series
Loose Screw
Cut Loose
Loosey Goosey
Let Loose
Lucy and the Valentine Verdict (a Dusty Deals Novella)
Loose Lips
Chapter 1
Love may conquer all eventually, but in my experience it needed a good kick in the pants to get itself going.
And that was exactly what I hoped my Valentine’s weekend at a not-too-far-away resort was going to be for the love in my life.
Except things never worked out the way I planned. Never.
“What do you mean a boiler exploded?” I asked Betty, my part-time employee at my antiques shop, Dusty Deals.
I’d driven to the store this morning to drop off my Alaskan malamute, Kiska, with my best friend, Rhonda, who ran the book store next door and to meet my cowboy detective boyfriend, Peter Blake.
We’d been planning this Valentine’s weekend getaway for weeks.
“Just what I said... a boiler... it exploded.” She enunciated each word.
“What kind of boiler?”
She cocked a brow. “The kind that heats the building? Here...” She held out that morning’s copy of the Helena Daily News and stabbed at it with one ruby red fingernail. “No one was hurt, but the hotel is going to be closed for at least a week. They should have called you.”
The reservations weren’t in my name, so if they had called, I wouldn’t have known it, but that really wasn’t the issue here.
“Do boilers even still exist?” I asked. “I thought they went out with steam locomotives.”
Betty lowered the paper to her lap and stared at me with strained patience.
I got the message. Denial of the facts would not change said facts.
I huffed out a breath. What to do now?
“There is this...” Betty pulled an envelope out from under the phone. “Ethel stopped by last night after you left. She got these tickets, but due to some... commitments... can’t use them.”
Ethel was a local octogenarian who until recently was only known for her charitable works. A few weeks earlier, however, I’d discovered a few other aspects of her personality and habits. Based on the expression on Betty’s face, I guessed that Ethel’s commitments had more to do with the latter.
Still, who was I to judge, or turn down something that might save my weekend? I took the envelope.
Inside were two tickets and a flyer. All three were bright pink and emblazoned with the words Valentine’s Mystery Weekend. Love hurts, but can it kill?
I grimaced. I certainly hoped not. At least not in the next few days.
“I don’t know...” The bell over the front door dinged and Peter walked in. He was looking all masculine and rugged in his favorite Stetson and Justin ropers. His gaze settled on my face and star detective that he was, he said, “You heard.”
I grimaced again. I’d still been hoping that Betty and the Daily News were wrong.
“They called you,” I said.
“Yes.” His gaze moved to the fluorescent slips of paper in my hand. “What do you have there?”
I glanced down, a bit startled to find I was still holding the items.
Betty jumped in for me. “Tickets to a mystery weekend in Seeley Lake.”
Peter cocked a brow. “One of those Clue things?”
I assumed he meant the game, which was accurate enough. I read from the flyer, “Calling suspects, murderers and victims! Play your role and play detective. You may just be the one to figure out ‘who dunnit.’”
Peter held his hand out to Kiska, who wandered over for a rub behind the ears. “We could go.”
My eyes widened. “Really?”
He lifted one shoulder. “Sure, although it doesn’t really seem fair.”
Suspicion settled in quickly. “What do you mean?”
He laughed. “Well, I am a detective.”
I snorted.
His hand stilled. “What?”
“Nothing.” I glanced at Betty, who suddenly seemed busy rearranging a collection of Occupied Japan figures.
I looked back at my boyfriend. “And I’ve helped solve four murder cases.”
His lips turned up at the side. “You have.”
His intonation was flat, no mockery that I could detect, but still...
“This is a murder mystery weekend, just like you said, like Clue, and I’ve read a lot more mystery novels than you have.” Not to mention all the TV shows I watched. Peter might be an expert at reading lab reports, but this was an entirely different thing.
“So, you think you can solve the case before I can?”
I stood up straight. “Of course.”
His eyes glinted. Maybe he was laughing a little. I studied him, trying to decide, but his mask slipped back into place.
“Well, then, I guess we’re headed to Seeley.”
I guessed we were.
I picked up Kiska’s leash and snapped it onto his collar. “I’ll just take Kiska next door to Rhonda.”
“About that...” Betty stepped out from behind the counter. “Rhonda called.”
I dropped my chin to my chest. This weekend was doomed. I just had to hope it wasn’t a portent for Peter’s and my relationship.
“She has the flu.”
The fl
u? Rhonda never got sick. She prided herself on not getting sick. “Really?” I asked.
“Really,” Betty replied.
I looked at Kiska. Thinking my attention signaled some kind of upcoming reward, he plopped his butt onto the floor and grinned at me.
I felt lower than Kiska’s behind.
Peter held out his hand. I glanced at him, unsure what he was doing. He nodded at the flyer and pulled out his phone.
His cowboy charm worked. Ten minutes later, he, Kiska and I were loaded in his truck and heading out on the two-hour drive to Seeley Lake.
o0o
The mystery mansion turned out to be an older two-story log home with small one- or two-room mini cabins sprinkled around it. The entire compound backed to Seeley Lake, which was a bit choppy and chilly looking, but still blue and beautiful.
When we pulled in, there were three other vehicles visible. Two were parked under a carport, leading me to believe that they belonged to the owners. The other, a Jeep, newer and fancier than the one parked in my garage at home, was off to the right, leaving plenty of room for us.
Peter parked the truck next to the Jeep and helped Kiska out. I hopped down on my own. By the time I’d made it to the ground, Peter was already waiting at the front bumper with a bag tucked under each arm.
He carried our bags to the house’s wide wooden front porch while Kiska wandered around the truck, sniffing at the snow. I walked to where I could get an even better view of the lake and pulled pine-scented air into my lungs.
I lived in the National Forest, so the pine smell wasn’t all that unique, but the lake... there was nothing as relaxing as being next to a big body of water like this.
Peter glanced at me and I gave him my biggest, warmest smile. He walked toward me and pulled me into a hug. We stood there, staring out over the lake and feeling each other’s warmth.
This weekend was going to be great.
Chapter 2
Ten minutes later, the front door to the house opened and a couple stepped out. Both were dressed in retro garb that Betty, my jazz-obsessed employee, would have loved. The male half was wearing a gray pin-striped suit with black piping on the vest and a bow tie that I could tell was not of the clip-on variety. He was also sporting a handle-bar mustache that would have put Hercule Poirot to shame.
A little western for the theme, but then this was Montana.
The female half also looked as if she had stepped out of the pages of an Agatha Christie novel, but if that had been her inspiration, Miss Marple had not been. She wasn’t old, nor unassuming. In fact, the beaded ivory dress she wore screamed money and sophistication, and she looked to be no more than late thirties, a good twenty years younger than the man.
The pair walked to the end of the porch and waved for us to join them.
I reluctantly separated myself from Peter and picked up Kiska’s leash, which he’d been dragging behind him in the snow.
“Friends of Betty’s?” Peter asked as we walked.
Honestly, I was impressed that he’d noticed the couple’s clothing; he was a detective, and the clothing was in my opinion obviously not of this century, but Peter didn’t tend to comment on such things too often.
“I wish I’d known,” I replied. “We could have borrowed something.”
“That is a shame,” he said, raising his eyebrows in an expression that completely belied his words.
“Well, I could have borrowed something,” I said as we reached the porch. I adjusted my hat, which coincidentally hid my recently dyed blue hair. I wasn’t ashamed of my style choice, but in the face of the top-class ivory bead ensemble, I wasn’t ready to show it off just yet.
The woman stepped forward. She was also, I noticed, wearing a Victorian era gold watch that hung from a chain around her neck. Not completely period appropriate if she was going for the Jazz era, but with a gorgeous relief carving of a stag’s head and rose gold flowers surrounding it, who would quibble over time period? Unless, of course, mentioning that the item predated the rest of her outfit might convince her to let a certain Helena antiques dealer take it off of her hands.
“Clothing you mean?” she asked. “No worries. We have clothing and props for all the roles.” Her gaze shifted to Peter. “Although tall as you are, you might just have to settle for a prop.” She tilted her head and tittered, slightly enough that I couldn’t quite justify feeling annoyed at the attention she was giving him. Well, not overly annoyed.
“I’m Lady York, and this is Sir Arthur Cannon. We’re your hosts.” She gestured to the man who placed a hand in his vest pocket and gave us a genteel nod.
I could feel Peter looking at me. I studiously did not look back. He’d agreed to come; he’d have to put up with a little play acting.
“And this must be Kiska,” the woman said, running her fingers under my dog’s chin. “If we’d known he was coming earlier we would have planned something more Hound of the Baskervilles.”
Kiska was not a hound, but I did appreciate the idea of including him. I immediately forgave her earlier tittering over Peter’s height.
We followed them inside, making the usual small talk about weather and how long the two had owned the property, or how long Sir Arthur had. The couple had been married for less than a year and had met only a few months before that.
Once past the threshold, I took in my surroundings. The home’s decor was a rather disturbing mix of Montana rustic and English manor. A silver tea set waited for us on a Black Forest inspired table.
I discretely walked around eyeing hall chairs with bears carved into their wooden backs and a china cabinet filled with Staffordshire dog figures. There was also a bookcase with an impressive display of mystery novels, all hardback and some, I guessed, first editions.
“Just sign here.” Sir Arthur held out an antique fountain pen to Peter. My boyfriend took it without fluttering a lash and signed us in.
Suddenly nervous, I glanced around. “Is anyone else here yet?” I asked.
Lady York smoothed her dress. “One couple. They arrived this morning and decided to use the extra time to do a little exploring around the lake.” She cleared her throat. “She seemed to need a bit of air.”
Her husband gave her a pointed look and then glanced back at us. “You young have fewer boundaries. We aren’t used to that.”
Since his wife was far from what I would call old, I thought it best to just nod and look non-committal. I did, however, wonder what boundaries this “young” couple might have crossed and how much air the female half could need to make exploring the lake in the dead of winter a tempting idea.
I glanced out the front window. Besides the walks and parking area, which someone had cleared, the snow had to be two feet deep, with drifts that would probably cover my head if I chose to do something so idiotic as step into one.
I immediately made the assumption that the air-needing female was a close relative of Admiral Byrd.
“Most of the guests will be staying in the main house,” Lady York explained. “But with your dog, well, we thought it best if you stayed in a cabin. You understand.”
I didn’t. Not really. Kiska was cleaner and less obtrusive than most people.
My impression of her sank again.
She smiled in a too sweet way.
Patronizing. I hated patronizing. I opened my mouth.
Peter placed a hand on my shoulder. “A cabin will be perfect,” he said, and then murmured in my ear. “Privacy.”
Begrudgingly, I closed my mouth. Of course, I wanted privacy. I just wanted it because I asked for it, not because someone saw my dog as a second class guest.
I followed Peter back out the front door in search of our temporary digs.
Standing on the porch, I counted the distance to the cabin in snow drifts: four. A few feet in, I revised my number to five. One I had mistaken for a hill.
Peter pulled me out while Kiska grinned.
I grumbled to both of them. Neither seemed to care.
While Pe
ter unpacked, actually putting his clothing in drawers for our big two-night stay, I stood on the screened-in porch and watched as a couple emerged from the woods.
Admiral Byrd’s relations, I assumed.
In keeping with the thought, they were appropriately prepared for the weather, both wearing some kind of high-tech snow shoes and outerwear designed for maximum warmth with minimal bulk.
The woman stopped a few feet from the house and stared toward it as if lost in thought. The man walked up behind her and put his arms around her in a comforting or reassuring manner.
“Snooping?”
Peter’s voice made me jump.
I flicked some hair out of my eyes. “No. I was just standing here, looking at the scenery. I can’t help it if people walk into my line of sight.”
“Right.”
I twisted my neck to stare up at him. He just chuckled and wrapped his arms around me from behind, then nuzzled my ear. “We have another hour until dinner...”
Yes, we did...
o0o
Or we should have had an hour. Unfortunately, after only thirty minutes had passed, there was a knock on the door.
Peter groaned and arched an eyebrow at me.
“Maybe Kiska will get it,” I suggested. We’d left my malamute in the front room of the two-room cabin. While we... ahem... relaxed on the bed.
There was another knock, louder this time. “I have your costumes,” Lady York called out, way too cheerfully.
I did, however, want my costume. I widened my eyes at my boyfriend.
He sighed, rolled off the mattress and pulled his pants and shirt back on.
I sat up and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I gasped. Hair, gelled and snowed on, should not be pressed against a pillow. There was also the whole blue thing. I had no way of disguising that, but I could at least try to tame the rooster comb look I’d managed to obtain.
By the time Peter walked into the room carrying a zippered hanger bag, I’d jumped to my feet and was busy pressing my hands against my unruly hair.
He stared at me in a “seriously?” kind of way. Then he sighed again and fell back onto the bed.
