Ginger Gold Mystery Box Set 1

by Lee Strauss

  For more info on books by Lee Strauss and her social media links, visit leestraussbooks.com. To make sure you don’t miss the next new release, be sure to sign up for her readers’ list!

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks go to my editors, Angelika Offenwanger and Robbi Brandt, and to my early readers, especially Caroline Andrews for helping me get young Scout’s slang and accent right, and Heather Belleguelle for helping me nab those errant typo gremlins, and stay true to the era and British culture.

  A big shout-out to my review crew for keeping the reviews coming, and to my Facebook readers’ group for reading my books and hanging out with me online.

  I don’t know how I did it before Shadi Bleiken came onboard as my assistant—hugs and kisses to you!

  As always, love to my family, especially my husband, Norm Strauss, for his unwavering faith in me, and to my “regulars”: Lori, Donna, Shawn, and Norine.

  Murder on the SS Rosa

  © 2017 Lee Strauss

  Cover by Steven Novak

  Illustrations by Tasia Strauss

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  La Plume Press

  3205-415 Commonwealth Road

  Kelowna, BC, Canada

  V4V 2M4

  www.laplumepress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-988677-01-9

  Praise for Ginger Gold

  “Clever and entertaining, you’ll love this charming Golden Age mystery series. And the fashion is to die for!” - Molly C. Quinn, actress, Castle

  “I rank Lee Strauss as the best living cozy mystery writer. Her characters are believable but interesting, her stories are fun to follow and her use of language is superb. She makes the 1920s come alive in my imagination. I constantly read cozies and Lee’s Lady Gold Mysteries are the very best.” - LoriLynn, Amazon reviewer

  “Another deftly crafted mystery by the master of the genre…” Midwest Book Review

  Summary

  Please note: British spelling is used in this book.

  There’s a skeleton in the attic!

  After a week long passage over the Atlantic from Boston to Liverpool, Ginger Gold arrives at her childhood London home—Hartigan House—to find decade-old remains from some poor woman on the floor in the attic. Ginger’s Boston terrier, Boss, noses out a missing phalange from under the bed.

  It’s a mystery that once again puts Ginger alongside the handsome Chief Chief Inspector Basil Reed. Who is the victim? And how did she end up in Ginger’s home?

  Clues lead Ginger and her good friend Haley Higgins to a soirée hosted in 1913 by Ginger’s late father, George Hartigan. A shadow of suspicion is cast on her father’s legacy, and Ginger isn’t so sure she wants to know the truth about the man she dearly loved.

  Ginger decides to host another soirée, inviting the guest list from ten years previous. Before the night is over, another person is dead.

  * * *

  I hope you enjoy Murder at Hartigan House. This book has been edited and proofed, but typos are like little gremlins that like to sneak in when we’re not looking. If you spot a typo, please report it to: admin@laplumepress.com

  Chapter One

  Ginger Gold hesitated at the front door of Hartigan House. She hadn’t expected to feel anything, but instead she shouldered a heavy shawl of melancholy. This grand, three-story structure built of limestone, situated in the picturesque Kensington Street of Mallowan Court, had grown tired over the war years, the stones greyer, the garden wilder. The house had been her home for the first eight years of her life. The last time she’d visited had been a decade earlier, on her honeymoon.

  Her mostly happy childhood was long gone as was her lovely husband.

  Haley Higgins, Ginger’s good friend and travelling companion, noticed her disquietude. “Is everything all right?”

  “Hartigan House holds a lot of memories.” Ginger was torn in her allegiances: London, the place of her birth, or Boston, the place where she came of age. She’d lived in the brownstone on Beacon Hill for over twenty-two years, yet England was etched deeply in her soul.

  And now, to finally return—it was with this disconcerting welcome. A telegram received while onboard the SS Rosa: GHASTLY DISCOVERY IN ATTIC OF HARTIGAN HOUSE.

  Ginger, rousing her inner strength, stepped to the front door and engaged the wrought-iron knocker.

  “This is your house, isn’t it?” Haley said. A lock of long, curly brown hair escaped its faux bob, and she pushed it behind her ear. “Surely you don’t have to knock?”

  “I’m not in possession of a key, and I’m quite certain the door is locked.”

  Haley tested the knob and found Ginger’s prediction to be true.

  Ginger adjusted her yellow cloche hat, trimmed with blue ribbon to match her fine linen suit purchased on Fifth Avenue in New York, and patted her red bob with gloved hands. Her Boston terrier, Boss, waited obediently by her feet.

  Their arrival was expected. Ginger had telegrammed the details of her journey before leaving Boston, and the door soon opened. Standing before them was Mr. Pippins, the butler. The years seemed to have caught up with him. His shoulders slumped slightly, and his hair had all but disappeared. But his eyes remained their bright cornflower blue, and they twinkled as he stared back at her.

  “My dear Lady Gold.” He spoke her name with a slight quiver, giving away the emotion he experienced at seeing her. A dramatic image flashed through Ginger’s mind: a scrawny red-headed girl held firmly by her father’s strong hands as she wept, her eyes locking with her beloved butler as her father took her away.

  A tear escaped from the corner of her eye, and she threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Pips.”

  Clive Pippins, stiffening at first to this unorthodox greeting, returned the embrace. Ginger released her hold, stepped back, and clasped her hands in front of her. She sensed Pippins’s embarrassment and shared in it. There were proper ways to do things, especially in England, and showing overt affection to a member of one’s staff was not proper. She cleared her throat and smiled. “It’s so good to see you again, Pips.”

  Pippins stood tall, hands relaxed behind his back. “My sympathies, once again, on the loss of your father. Mr. Hartigan was a good man.”

  “Thank you.” Ginger desperately missed her father, but seeing Pippins and knowing his devotion to her helped to ease some of the pain.

  Ginger glanced at Haley, who stood expectantly in her brown tweed suit and sturdy Oxford heels. “Oh, my manners. Pippins, this is my good friend, Miss Higgins.”

  Pippins bowed. “Madam.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Pippins,” Haley said with her noticeable Boston accent. She reached out her hand, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled. “I’m a commoner.”

  Pippins’s lips twitched in amusement. He accepted her hand with a sturdy shake.

  “Miss Higgins was Father’s nurse for the last three years,” Ginger said. “She’s come to London to study at the London School of Medicine for Women.” Ginger linked her arm to Haley’s. “She’s going to be a doctor!”

  Pippins nodded agreeably. “How wonderful.”

  Ginger swooped up her Boston terrier and patted his black head affectionately. “And this is Boss. Short for Boston.”

  “A fine-looking specimen, madam. How was your journey?”

  “Quite lovely,” Ginger said. “Apart from a short but fierce storm, the weather was pleasant.” She omitted the news about the murder onboard the SS Rosa and the part she and Haley played in solving it.

  Ginger finally had a chance to take in the foyer. Black-and-white-tiled floor, a large chandelier that hung from the height of the second level, windows on either side of the double-panelled front doors that added natural light. The formid
able areca palm plants in large ceramic pots hailing from India, once lined up along the base of the stairwell, were missing—much to be expected when a house has been shut up for so many years.

  “We don’t have a footman, madam,” Pippins said, “but I’d be happy to bring your things in.”

  Pippins, a confirmed bachelor, had to be in his seventies now, and Ginger didn’t intend to burden him with such a laborious task. “That’s quite all right, Pips. I’ve arranged for our things to be transported here by motorvan. The driver will be able to manage.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Ginger eyed him wistfully. “I don’t suppose you could call me ‘Little Miss’?” Little Miss had been Pippins’s pet name for her when she was a child. He was the only staff member to take time to entertain her. Subtle games like I Spy, and Noughts and Crosses (what Haley would call X’s and O’s)—never when her father was around, or in the presence of other staff, as that would be unseemly for a member of the staff. Her heart squeezed with the nostalgia.

  “‘Little Miss,’ madam?” His eyes flickered with the memory, and he smiled. “I think not, madam.”

  Ginger let out a playful sigh. The pet name didn’t suit a thirty-year-old woman, anyway.

  “Can I bring you some tea, madam?” Pippins asked. “After the train ride from Liverpool, you must be worn out.”

  “Tea sounds marvellous, Pips, but first we must know what your urgent, mysterious message is all about,” she said, referring to the telegram. Her curiosity was greater than her desire to put her feet up. Besides, she’d had a good sleep at the inn they’d stayed at overnight in Liverpool, and she currently didn’t feel all that tired. “I take it you’ve found something distasteful?”

  “I believe he used the word ‘ghastly’,” Haley said. “Such a strong word. I’m dying to know what it is.”

  Pippins’s expression turned grave. “It is rather ghastly, so do prepare yourself. Please follow me.” A wide staircase circled up to the second floor which horseshoed around the foyer, giving the entrance its grand high ceiling. At the end of the passage was a door used by the servants to access the second floor. It opened to a small landing with steep steps that went down to the kitchen and up to the attic where the staff sleeping quarters were found. Rooms for women were in the west wing, and the men’s rooms to the east.

  “I do apologise for bringing you into the servants’ quarters, madam.”

  “It’s quite all right, Pips.”

  Ginger’s hope was that the problem in the attic was something trivial, like dry rot or black mould. She wondered why Pippins hadn’t taken it upon himself to ring for repairs. Perhaps, since he was newly back to Hartigan House and answered now to her instead of her father, he no longer felt he had the authority to make such calls on his own.

  “I’m filled with curiosity, Pippins,” Ginger said. “Do give us a clue.”

  Pippins hesitated, then said. “I’m really at a loss how to describe it.”

  “Can we pause for a breather?” Haley said, stopping midway up the step. “I am out of shape.”

  “I’m no better,” Ginger said. “Pippins is bringing us to shame.”

  Pippins puffed out his chest with pride. “Years of going up and down daily, madam.”

  Ginger laughed. “Perhaps we should take rooms up here, Haley.”

  Pippins instantly turned dour. “Absolutely not, madam.”

  Before Ginger could explain that she wasn’t serious, Pippins marched down the passage in the men’s quarters to the very last room at the end. He removed a key from his pocket. “A skeleton key, madam,” he explained. “Opens all the attic doors.”

  The lock clicked, and the door swung open.

  As Ginger reached the threshold, she couldn’t keep a gasp of horror from escaping her lips.

  Oh, mercy!

  In the middle of the room, lying on the floor, was a decomposed body.

  Chapter Two

  Ginger had seen her fair share of gruesome remains during the war, but still the sight of the bones on the floor in her house was shocking. “Who is it?”

  “I wish I knew, madam,” Pippins said.

  The small room was sparsely decorated with only a narrow bed up against the short wall and a wooden chest of drawers, coated in dust, against the taller wall. Haley approached the skeletal remains and gave them a cursory examination.

  “The corpse is in dry decay. Pelvic bones indicate the victim is female, however we could surmise that by the dress. It appears the left hand is missing its distal phalanx.”

  “The fingertip?” Ginger said. “What could’ve happened to it?”

  “It’s hard to say.” She wrinkled her nose in contemplation. “I can’t be 100 percent sure, but I’d say these remains are at least ten years old.”

  “Hartigan House was shut up ten years ago,” Ginger said, “which means the body was here when that happened.” She turned to Pippins who waited quietly by the door. “Pippins, how is it possible that this woman wasn’t discovered at that time?”

  Pippins regarded her with a look of discomfort. “I’m afraid, madam, the door had been locked. We had a telegram from Mr. Hartigan, not to go inside.”

  Mr. Hartigan? Ginger’s eyelashes fluttered at the implication. “My father?”

  Pippins nodded. “You can understand why I haven’t gone to the police. I’m eager to keep rumours out of the tabloids. In fact, no one else in this house, besides the three of us, knows.”

  “I appreciate your discretion,” Ginger said. The last thing she wanted was for her father’s good name to be dragged through the mud. The idea that he had somehow been involved in the demise of this woman sat like a boulder on her chest. She swallowed to push down the dread. “You did the right thing, Pippins.”

  “Perhaps her clothes might be a clue to her identity,” Haley said.

  The flattened red evening gown that was draped over the bones had been savagely attacked by moths, leaving damaging holes in their wake. Ginger squatted next to Haley and stroked the fabric carefully. “It’s a Lucile,” she said.

  “A what?” Haley asked.

  “The dress is a Lucile, an haute couture design by Lady Duff-Gordon.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Lady Duff-Gordon has shops in New York. I recognise the lines. Creamy satin draping to the floor and a second shorter layer angling over the top from one hip. The contrasting black empire waist bodice, with matching silk bow pinned on the right side. You’re right about the timeline. This dress is about ten years old. I used to own a similar one myself.”

  “Do you think the victim is from New York?” Haley asked.

  “Not necessarily. The House of Lucile originated in London.”

  “An evening gown would suggest she was at Hartigan House as a guest, would it not?” Haley said. “She must have been reported missing.”

  Ginger conceded. “Yes, I suspect the police will be quick to identify her.”

  Boss crawled under the bed and returned, fur covered in dust.

  “Boss!” Ginger said. “Look how filthy you are now.”

  “He has something in his mouth,” Haley said. She knelt and held out a palm. “Whatcha got there, ol’ boy?”

  Boss released his findings and sat, his stub of a tail shimmering against the dusty wooden floor.

  “What is it?” Ginger asked.

  “It looks like the missing phalanx.”

  “How did it get under the bed?”

  “Rats?”

  Ginger’s stomach clenched. A body lying in Hartigan House for over a decade? This was bad, very bad indeed.

  “I’d like to know how she ended up in the men’s quarters.” Ginger said. She faced the butler. “Pippins, who last slept in this room?”

  “These quarters were last occupied by Mr. Andrew Bailey.”

  “Father’s valet?” Ginger groaned inwardly. She wished she could go to her father and demand an explanation, but alas, she could not. She would have to unearth this mystery,
and her father’s alleged involvement, on her own. “Let’s not breathe a word of this for now.”

  “Ginger,” Haley said. “You can’t lock the door and pretend this death didn’t happen. She has family somewhere wondering about her. This has to be reported.”

  “Oh, Haley, I know you’re right, but can we wait a day?” Ginger said. She needed time to think this through.

  Haley sighed. “She’s been here for ten years. I suppose one more day won’t hurt.”

  The chime from the front door sounded a peal that was loud enough to be heard on the third floor. “That will be our luggage,” Ginger said to Pippins. “Would you mind showing the driver in, and directing him to leave mine in my room and Haley’s in hers. The bags are clearly marked.”

  Pippins disappeared and Ginger allowed the horror she felt to show. “Oh my goodness, Haley. My father knew about this!” Heat exploded on her cheeks as the severity of the situation blossomed.

  Haley placed a steady hand of comfort on her shoulder. “Now, don’t jump to conclusions. We don’t know why he instructed the door to this room to be locked. It could be for innocent reasons and someone else with the knowledge took advantage.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right,” Ginger said, exhaling.

  “All we know about the deceased is that she was a young female, and was about five feet, seven inches tall,” Haley said.

  “And likely died on the thirty-first of December 1913,” Ginger added, “wearing a Lucile evening gown.”

  Ginger tried to imagine the events that led to this poor woman’s death. And in Ginger’s very own home—it was too much to take in! Her knees quivered but she was loath to sit on the dusty camp bed. She paced a small circle instead.

  “What do you want to do now?” Haley asked.