by Beth Byers
Death Misconstrued
A Poison Ink Mystery
Beth Byers
Contents
Summary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Author’s Note
Philanderers Gone Preview
Also By Beth Byers
Also By Amanda A. Allen
Summary
May 1937
Georgette Dorothy Marsh has been revealed as the author Joseph Jones and she decides happiness is being away from the town she fictionalized. She's joined her friends in Bath and is enjoying the bookstores, the beautiful walks, and the teashops.
When she gets pulled into one book lover’s crazy life, Georgette realizes that a murder has occurred. Now, it’s a race against the killer as she tries to keep the book lover alive and find the murderer before the killer strikes closer to home.
For Carissa.
Thanks for saving my bacon yet again.
Chapter 1
Georgette Dorothy Marsh
To say that the goddess Atë adored Georgette Dorothy Marsh was to say a mother adored her only child. To say the goddess of mischief adored Georgette more after her status as the author Joseph Jones was revealed was entirely insufficient. It was, in fact, the great joy of the age for Atë.
“Georgette Marsh?” the bookseller asked. “Isn’t that funny? Have you read that article about the person behind the Bard’s Crook stories? You share the same name.”
Georgette tucked a loose hair behind her ear as she glanced towards the ground and a slight blush crossed her too-white cheeks. Rapidly, she considered before she replied. “I did read that article. Funny, isn’t it?”
Atë’s impish gaze landed on Georgette once again as she filled her arms with books, and the most roguish idea occurred to the goddess. Her far-seeing gaze turned from the multi-faced Georgette and landed on the young, strong Harrison Parker. He was currently sitting with his Aunt Parker, telling her of his love for Georgette.
Atë’s expression shifted to a smirk as she looked Parker over. He was tall, handsome, talented even. Arrogant and a bit baffled that the plain Miss Marsh had turned down his proposal. They were—in his opinion—perfect for each other. Barring Georgette’s looks, of course.
From Harrison Parker, Atë turned her devilish expression to Charles Aaron working in his office. He was not, she thought, a man who would become accustomed to his good fortune. He’d bypassed many an opportunity to love. When he chose Georgette, it was not settling. It was what he’d always wanted encompassed in one package that was utterly enchanting to him—looks and all.
Despite all of that, Atë considered the layered favorite, Georgette, again. There was, perhaps, happiness on either path that Atë laid before Georgette and how very fun would it be to see which she chose?
Georgette finished making her selections, adding to the pile on the counter in front of the bookseller. She glanced towards the front of the store and was shocked to her soul to see a display with her books. How had she missed her books on her voyage through the shop? Her stories were arranged in an appealing fashion with her Bard’s Crook stories, the magazine that contained the article about who she was, and—in fact—a small chalkboard announcing the upcoming Bard’s Crook story and her new unrelated novel, Josephine. The chalkboard offered to place an advance order for either of the next of Jones’s books.
She crossed the bookstore and let her fingers trail over the spines. The blue linen covers, the silver embossed titles, the name she’d chosen for herself. It was all there. Georgette lifted a book and opened it, enjoying the crack of the spine being opened for the first time. Georgette sniffed deeply, taking in the fresh paper and ink smell of her book. As she let her fingers trail the words she wrote, she stared in a surreal shock.
It wasn’t as though she’d never seen or touched her books before—of course she had. But not in the wild, so to speak. It was somehow impossible that Georgette watched as a woman crossed the bookstore, looked at the pile of books, glanced at Georgette, and then lifted the second volume of Bard’s Crook for herself. Georgette stared with a wide gaze as the woman looked again at Georgette and back to the volume in her hands.
“You should buy it.” The woman was older. Her hair was white, pulled back at the base of her neck. Her dress was simple, worn, and grey, and her expression was one that Georgette had often seen in the mirror. There were worlds behind those brown eyes, but Georgette would wager the success of her next book that this woman was one who had been overlooked nearly as often as Georgette. A sister wallflower perhaps. One who, like Georgette, had been alone too often. So often, perhaps, that she ached for quietness too?
It was that very desire for aloneness that had Georgette leaving Mrs. Parker’s home and venturing into Bath alone. Georgette had not realized the utter luxury of having a cottage to herself until she’d been packed like a sardine into a too small house with the Parker family for her visit with her dear friend, Marian. The room that was to have been Georgette's had been taken by Harrison Parker. Georgette and Marian were sharing a room and between them and their dogs, they were tripping over simply everything.
Georgette looked down at the book in her hands and took in the words she’d written under the watchful gaze of the woman. The black ink was so stark against the page. Georgette had written this scene on a rainy evening when she’d been hungry, but the cupboards had been mostly bare. She’d become accustomed to being a little hungry. She realized as she read her words over, that her character was hungry in the book. How often had she written her own feelings into the pages? How many times had she been tired and someone she’d written had gone to bed? What an odd world, Georgette thought, looking at her book and up to the woman again.
“Do you think so?” Georgette referred buying her book. She wanted to hear why the woman thought Georgette should buy it. A sort of undercover searching of compliments about her writing. A true review from a usual woman and not a professional reviewer.
“It is not every day that you can walk into a bookstore and buy a book you wrote,” the woman told Georgette with the merest lift of an eyebrow.
“That I wrote?” Georgette looked behind her as if she’d find some fellow holding a sign that said this woman was the author, Joseph Jones.
The woman held out her hand. “Edna Williams. I overheard your conversation with Mr. Landry. I apologize for eavesdropping, but obviously, my dear, there are not that many Georgette Marshes. One who holds the book that woman wrote as though it were an unexpected prize? Elementary, my dear Miss Marsh.”
Georgette took the woman’s hand and admitted, “You’ve found me out so easily, Mrs. Williams.”
“It’s Miss,” the woman said. “I wonder if I could further impose? I should very much like a pot of tea from the little shop across the way and I would adore speaking with someone who loves books like I do.”
“Tea does sound lovely,” Georgette answered, thinking of the crowded Parker house. The chance to chat over books? Perfection. “I should enjoy that very much.”
“Mr. Landry,” Miss Williams said, “do be a dear and have Miss Marsh’s books delivered. I have captured her for tea.”
The man laughed as he nodded. “Of course, Miss Williams.”
Georgette was whisked out of the bookshop, having purchased her own books in the wild, and she followed the woman across the cobblestone street and into a little shop that seemed to have been attacked by crochet
ed lace doilies. The scent of the tea in the air lit Georgette’s eyes with fire, and she bypassed the little table to the pots of loose tea in all their varieties.
“Oh!” Georgette said as she lifted a lid and took a deep breath. “Oh—” Her voice trailed off on a happy sigh.
“Do you enjoy tea, Miss Marsh?”
“I believe tea is one of the things that makes life worth living, Miss Williams.”
“Try this one,” Miss Williams said, tapping the top of one of the jars. Georgette opened the jar, breathed deeply, and ahhed. It was blackberry black tea, the scent reflecting a nice blend of both flavors. “Do you like the unusual teas?”
Georgette nodded almost frantically and Miss William tapped another jar at the very end of the counter.
“This one seems to have a hint of caramel,” Georgette said. She had little doubt that her eyes were wide and excited, and she could feel she was flushed. She’d have been surprised to know, however, that Miss Williams was thinking that Miss Marsh was rather lovely, in a quiet sort of way.
“This is my favorite evening tea,” Miss Williams said, nudging another canister. “Tastes a bit like a fruity merlot.”
Georgette made a mental note to buy some of all of them and then joined Miss Williams at the table. To Georgette’s utter delight, they simply spoke about books. Georgette’s favorite, Jane Austen, was not quite as high for Miss Williams, who adored Anthony Trollope’s Barset books. Georgette unequivocally adored some more ridiculous books like Edgar Rice Burroughs and V.V. Twinnings while Miss Williams tended towards afternoons reading John Donne and Shakespeare.
“What made you write books?” Miss Williams asked as their teapot was refilled and Georgette added an excess of milk and sugar to her teacup.
“Money,” Georgette said simply. “Things were quite dire before Aaron & Luther purchased my book. Since then, they’ve been slowly looking up.”
“Oh how lovely,” Miss Williams said.
Georgette smiled as she asked, “What is it that you do with your time, Miss Williams?”
“I was a school teacher. I was able to retire recently when my cousin inherited a house here. She invited me to come stay with her and passed within six months, leaving me quite alone but not homeless.”
“I am so sorry,” Georgette told her.
“Thank you, dear,” Miss Williams said. She started to say something when a gentleman came into the shop.
“Aunt Edna,” the fellow said, “there you are! Is this the friend that is staying with you? Jane, isn’t it?”
Georgette glanced at Edna, who gave Georgette a pleading look.
“Georgette,” she answered, picking up on Edna’s distress. “Though sometimes my friends call me Jane.”
“That’s a funny nickname,” the man said, taking a chair from the table one over and helping himself to one of the small sandwiches on the plate in front of Georgette and Edna.
“There was an odd number of us at school,” Georgette lied. “Jane was a joke that stuck.”
“Funny,” the fellow said, not looking amused in the least. “So you went to Aunt Edna’s school and stayed in touch.”
“She was very inspiring for me,” Georgette told him without a trace of guilt and watched as Edna’s worries deflated. “Corresponding with your aunt is one of the great blessings of my life.”
The scoff that Edna’s nephew didn’t bother hiding irritated Georgette, but she’d long since discovered that being quiet and boring got rid of these fellows quicker than interacting with them. She smiled demurely, sipped her tea, and pondered on whether she wanted to start writing mysteries.
If she wrote detective stories, she could name this man who hadn’t introduced himself and then kill him off in her book. Or perhaps she’d write a new series called Bath that followed the exploits of the rude young man.
“This is my brother’s son, Kaspar,” Edna said, giving Georgette a relieved smile. “I told you about him. He sent me a wire saying he was coming down to visit and I had to apologize that my extra room had already been offered to you for the next month.”
“Oh,” Georgette said, her mind skipping ahead and wondering just how they would get out of this lie. “I’m so sorry to be in the way.”
Kaspar did not reply but Edna said, “Darling, if I had known my dear nephew was coming, I would have been able to arrange things for him. He understands, of course.”
Again Kaspar said nothing but he did feign a smile and take the last of their sandwiches.
“I’ll see you at dinner then,” Kaspar told them. “I look forward to getting to know you better, Jane.”
Georgette didn’t reply as Kaspar kissed his aunt’s cheek, gave Georgette an unreadable look, and exited the teashop.
“Oh dear.” Edna sipped her tea with a trembling hand. She looked to Georgette with wide eyes. “I am so very sorry, Miss Marsh. I had hoped he’d go back to London if I told him the room was taken.”
“You had better call me Georgette,” she replied, “or Jane if you prefer. Might I pry and ask what is going on?”
Chapter 2
Georgette Dorothy Marsh
Soon after her tea, Georgette returned to the little house that Mrs. Parker had taken. As she walked up the steps to the house, Marian exited with all four dogs on leashes and two envelopes in her free hand.
“Oh! I was hoping to find you,” she said. “My goodness, Harrison spent the last two hours whining to me about how you didn’t even tell him no when he proposed. That you just left him describing how great your life would be, the children you’d have, that he even agreed to let you keep the dogs—” Marian couldn’t hold back her laugh. “Your version and then his—it was…it was…oh, I felt blessed indeed. I wrote it all out while he was talking to me and will be sending it off to Joseph.”
“I told him no.” Georgette leaned down to pet her loves, Susan, Dorcas, and Beatrice. Dorcas wriggled so fiercely, Georgette was forced to pick the dog up and accept her frantic kisses. The other two dogs were so offended that Georgette knelt on the sidewalk and gave all three of them—along with Marian’s pup—loves until the chorus of whining died down. “Looking back, however, I am not convinced he proposed. I believe he just decided it would happen.”
“That does sound like him,” Marian said, clucking at the dogs until Georgette rose and took two of the leashes. “A bit cowardly really. Not even bothering to mention feelings or admit that he might not be the prize he thinks he is. Every woman deserves that question with a preface that begins with affection and ends with love.”
Georgette led the way towards the little path they’d become accustomed to wandering together. Mrs. Parker was having dinner with friends in Bath whom she hadn’t seen, and the rest of them had arranged to have dinner at one of the local restaurants, but there was still quite a bit of time before they needed to leave.
Marian handed Georgette a letter, and she realized she was blushing as she stared down at the precise writing of Charles Aaron. Unlike the previous letters, she realized, he had addressed this one himself. There was something so odd in feeling loved because Charles hadn’t used his secretary to speak to her.
My Dearest Georgette,
Shall I tell you how much I hate that you are there while I am here? Or that I have spent the last two days in meetings with authors who have half your talent and not even a quarter of your agreeability?
The letter continued with an account of his days and ended, “I find I cannot continue in London while you’re in Bath. The stack up of my meetings over the last torturous days have freed me. I’ll be on the train by the end of the week for a working visit to Bath while you’re there. It seems that I have become worried that you’ll succumb to the handsome Harrison or realize that you don’t need me after all.”
“Oh,” Georgette gasped, interrupting her reading. “Charles is coming!”
Marian grinned in a way that told her she’d already known.
“Is Joseph coming too?”
Marian nodde
d, a light blush on her cheeks. Her gaze flicked to the side, and her lips pressed together as if she had to hold in a reaction. “I’ve already sent Harrison over to secure rooms. I wrote it all out for the hotel as Joseph requested. Harrison doesn’t know that Charles is coming. Dear, I didn’t tell Harrison that you’ve promised yourself to Charles, but I do think you should reveal that little tidbit.”
Georgette nodded absently, her gaze turning back to her letter.
I had no notion that succumbing to loving another left one with an aching emptiness when the beloved was not near. I pray that you’ll be as happy to see me as I will be to see you. I await your reply and the news from Eunice on locating a place for us to live so this insufferable separation will come to an end all the sooner and you’ll be secured as my wife before Harrison succeeds in making you realize that he is young, talented, and handsome. I read his book as you requested, and you were right. After the changes you helped him see were necessary, it was quite good. There is a part of me that wishes to refer him to another publishing company, but I believe my partner would disown me if I did.
With my deepest affections, I look forward to your reply,
Charles
Georgette glanced up with a certain knowledge that Charles was coming. She had little doubt that her own cheeks had the same flush as Marian’s. The two friends grinned at each other as they hooked arms to continue upon their walk. They bypassed a pretty little rose garden and the gate to a small park that had a few nursery-aged children out with their mothers or nannies, and then stepped onto the main road where Georgette intended to buy an excess of tea from the shop she’d visited earlier that day.
