The Bachelor Girl's Guide to Murder

by Rachel McMillan

  “Did you just say wooing?”

  “It can’t be fast. You want to taste it. It has to be slow. Methodical. Like poetry.”

  Jem’s mind went to the terrible poetry in his journal. It put a smile on her face that Ray failed to decipher. “Like poetry?” she repeated.

  “First,” he said, his hands moving languidly, “I would compliment the woman.” He took his hat off and bent his head slightly. “The wooing experience should be for her, first and foremost.”

  The moon shadows spilling through the tree above their bench made his hair seem almost purple. Jem wasn’t sure if she could trust her voice to speak again. So she let him continue.

  “I would use a term of endearment,” he explained. “I would call you cara mia or perhaps bella, noting that you are beautiful.” He said it clinically, dispassionately, Jem noticed, and wondered how he could keep his voice so even when her heart was beating so loudly she was sure he would make out its loud thrum.

  Ray nudged his hat toward her. “Nothing too general, though. The sentence should begin and end with your name. To speak of a witching hour is a fool’s gambit. It is plain. It could apply to anyone, anywhere. If it were me wooing you, Jem, I would want you to know that I was lost only in you, and thinking only of you. I would remark on what you were wearing or your hair or your eyes or your voice, or better, something shared just between the two of us.”

  Jem couldn’t tell if he had moved closer or if she was just more aware of him. She had taken off her wrap and settled it in her lap, and it gave her fingers a nice object to grasp, since they shook softly every time he spoke.

  “I bet every man who has tried to make love to you has said something about your name and matched it with a jewel,” he said. “Or a pretty gem.”

  Jem couldn’t disagree.

  “Ah, but it’s too easy,” he said. “Too predictable. I bet they would say something about your hair. So rich… like a castagno… the trees.”

  “I’ve heard that before, yes.” From a suitor her parents had picked out, Jem remembered. But she wasn’t about to tell him that, before Gavin Crawley’s crude behavior at the hotel, she hadn’t heard anything of the sort for a very, very long time.

  “Your eyes. La stele sono gelose di voi.”

  Jem gave a short breath as her feet dropped to the ground, taking her heart with them. “Say that again.”

  He obliged, then he translated: “The stars are jealous of you.”

  “That’s a good line.” She breathed.

  “No!” He wagged his finger at her nose. “Don’t fall for such a common line, Jemima. Those are the words of a man who will kiss you and not marry you.”

  His words were so lovely, his face so handsome, his eyes so black, and his hands so close. “Because he compared my eyes to starlight?”

  “Exactly. A man should not use on you what he would use on any other girl. He needs to say something so that you know that he knows you are special. And the gems and the stars—anyone can talk about them.”

  Champagne had nothing on the closeness of this man and his beautiful voice. Why, it made her thoughts spin and her heart gallop. She was just beginning to coax a sentence from her mouth when he spoke again.

  “Io ti preferisco in pantaloni,” he said. She didn’t know what it meant, but it was opera to her. “That is my line for you,” Ray whispered. “Just for us. But I should frame it better, no?” He stood before her and gave a little bow, then got down on one knee and swept his bowler hat over his chest. “Io ti preferisco in pantaloni! ”

  Jem wasn’t sure she had even a sliver of heart left. Had she given it all to him? And here he was repeating his line. For all she knew, he could be talking about chocolate or squirrels or knitwear, and yet it was the most perfect thing she had ever heard.

  His eyes stayed with her a long, long time. Then wordlessly he rose, put his hat back on his head, and strode away.

  “You never translated!” she called after him.

  “You’ll just have to learn Italian,” he said without looking back.

  Still under the spell of the King Edward, Jasper and Merinda had maneuvered close to Chief Tipton and Tertius Montague. They straightened their backs against the wall, pretending to observe the couples.

  “Ah, Officer Forth,” Tipton said, approaching with a glass of champagne.

  Jasper stood at attention. “Sir.”

  Tipton pointed an accusing finger at his breast. “Lucky you’re a corker of a cop.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come, Mr. Mayor. Meet young Forth, one of our finest investigators.”

  Mayor Montague approached and shook Jasper’s hand. “Ah, yes. I recognize your face, young man.” Tipton noticed Merinda. “Now, Forth, do introduce us to your young lady.”

  Jasper coughed. The name Merinda Herringford had so often been trumpeted across the front page of the Hog that it would not be well received here.

  “Harrison. Annie Harrison,” said Merinda. She held out her hand and used a name from a Doyle story.

  Montague raised it to his lips. “Charmed, Miss Harrison.”

  As soon as propriety allowed, Jasper and Merinda disengaged themselves and returned to the dance floor. Jasper smiled, watching her. “You’re really quite a wonderful dancer.”

  Merinda brightened at the compliment. “Do you think so?”

  Jasper nodded. As the dance ended, they spotted Jem and motioned her over.

  “Where is Gavin?” Jasper asked.

  “My escort is a cad,” Jem said.

  “But you’re smiling.” Jasper was perplexed.

  Jem blushed. “Am I?”

  Merinda leaned across Jasper. “You’re very much smiling, Jem.”

  Jem tried to straighten her mouth. To no avail.

  “What say we head home?” Merinda asked.

  Jasper and Jem nodded in unison.

  A moment later, they were down the stairs and at the street. They were hailing a cab when Jem stumbled into a face she knew well.

  “Tippy? What are you doing here? It’s midnight!”

  Tippy’s eyes were red and her arms hugged her chest. “Did you have a nice evening with your escort, Jemima?”

  “Not really. He’s not with me, as you can see. I am going home with my friends.”

  Jasper and Merinda gathered themselves into the taxi, but Jem held back with Tippy.

  “What’s bothering you, Tippy?”

  “You could have any man you want, Jemima Watts.” Tippy’s bottom lip trembled. “That fellow from the Hog. Anyone, really.”

  “Tippy, have you been drinking? Jasper! Hold up a minute. Come, Tippy. Let me take you home. Come on, we’ll take you.”

  Tippy shook her head.

  Jem placed a hand on her shoulder. “Tippy, please. You can come back to our flat if you need to.”

  “Let go of me!” Tippy squirmed away and ran down the street.

  Jem watched her go, then ducked into the cab.

  “What was that?” Jasper wondered as the cab rambled along. Jem peeked out the window, but Tippy’s figure grew smaller until she was nothing but a shadowy speck against the streetlights.

  * The jewels, of course, were costume pieces from their old trunk on King Street.

  ** The astute reader will observe that Jem had long since stopped standing on ceremony and addressed Ray by his given name.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  An investigator will quickly learn that the most stalwart allies can be found in the most unlikely places

  Guide to the Criminal and Commonplace, M.C. Wheaton

  The days started to yawn longer as the city readied itself for a spring that would come eventually, despite the pervading chill and continual snow. Ray was peering out at the dim sun and could hear Skip packing up his camera equipment for the night.

  Ray heard the door creak open and peeked around the slat bordering his cubby to see Jasper Forth, hat tucked under his arm, cordial smile wide.

  “I’m looking for Mr. DeL
uca.” His voice was as jovial as his face.

  Skip pointed toward Ray’s office area, and Jasper ducked to miss a low extending beam.

  “And here I thought you were on probation.” Ray stood and extended a hand blackened with ink. He noticed Jasper taking in his surroundings. “Quite a place, yes? This is what happens when you turn an abandoned distillery into a newspaper, Detective Constable Forth.”

  “Just ‘Constable’ now.”

  Ray ignored him. “Detective Constable, you’re the only investigator who would have pursued the Corktown case. And now it’s wide open. Have a seat.” Ray used the toe of his scuffed shoe to kick a crate across the floor, and Jasper sat on it. “You really think you were kicked back to the traffic beat because you brought Merinda Herringford to a crime scene?”

  “I couldn’t be sure. It was the explanation they gave.”

  “No. Chief Tipton saw Montague’s name in connection with the crime and became petrified. You might have named him a suspect, so you had to be removed.”

  “You think Montague is the killer?”

  Ray shrugged. “All I can see is that a lot of people are”—he pulled a phrase from the air—“covering their tracks.”

  Jasper ran his hand through his hair. “And St. Joseph’s Home for Working Men? You’ve been writing about it quite a bit lately. What’s the connection?”

  Ray was impressed and smiled. “You read my paper!” He spread his palms on his knees. “It’s a Montague-run establishment. Investigating it is keeping me employed. McCormick wants more pieces like that Don Jail exposé. Apparently, trailing Merinda Herringford around Toronto is not news enough.”

  Jasper studied Ray’s face. “That’s not all you know about St. Joseph’s, is it?”

  Ray cocked his head. “Can I trust you?”

  “I hope so.”

  Ray looked around the office, as if spies might be lurking in the shadows. “St. Joseph’s is full of vulnerable prey: men who are easily coaxed into doing the Morality Squad’s buffoonish work and laundering money at the tracks. They take their chances and do the work in order to keep Montague’s hands clean.”

  “All of them?”

  “No. Not all. It’s a legitimate establishment in ways. Some men living there are just trying to get by.” Ray smiled. “Did you come here to talk about Montague, truly?”

  “No.” Jasper seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “I came to talk about your exclusive Herringford and Watts connection.”

  Ray leaned on the back legs of his chair and rocked. “You’re Merinda’s keeper?”

  He shook his head. “A concerned friend.”

  “Concerned?”

  “You encourage them. With your articles. She is over the moon to be officially represented in the Hog. You validate the whole experience.”

  Ray shrugged. “They interest me.”

  “They are girls in bowler hats and men’s trousers.” Jasper seemed exasperated.

  “I thought you were helping them. Merinda told me that you’d been allowing them to trail your cases.”

  “She nearly trips over my shoes following me.”

  Ray leaned forward until his chair rested on all four legs again. “I suppose I was wrong about your relationship.”

  “I’m not… she’s not… ” Jasper coughed and rearranged the brim of his hat. “Our association is strictly professional. I respect Merinda.”

  “As you should.”

  “I know things about Montague’s Morality Squad.”

  Ray kept his expression unchanged. “As do I. I room with half of them. But I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “Merinda needs watching, and she drags Jem along with her. In this case, you and I both know they are in over their heads. Merinda would take a bullet for Jem, but I don’t want her to have to.” Jasper exhaled.

  “Agreed. But I don’t think, as you do, that they play at detective as at some children’s game.”

  “You seem to say as much in your articles,” Jasper said.

  “I try to keep my tone light. I want to feature them so that people know they are available to help without posing them as an actual threat to Mayor Montague’s anti-female brigade.”

  “Jem has the right idea. She’s pursuing a sane, useful, safe profession at Spenser’s.”

  “Yes,” Ray said, “right up until the moment she darts off and follows her friend. Tell me, Detective Constable Forth, would you pursue Merinda’s friendship so ardently if she only knit socks and aided the church bazaar?”

  Jasper mulled over the question a moment, his eyes drifting over scrap paper sporting tomorrow’s headlines. “She was going to be a doctor. She’s a great scientist.”

  “And Ms. Watts?”

  “Conditioned to be a wife. Raised in appropriate circles. She’s beautiful, gentle, and committed to appropriate accomplishments. At least she was until Merinda got her claws into her.”

  “I should write all this down,” said Ray, crossing his hands behind his head. “Publish it in the Hog. The origin of our bachelor girl detectives.”

  “But you won’t,” Jasper said.

  Ray smiled. “No, I won’t, because I’d very much like you on my side. I don’t have many friends, and definitely not very many among the police. You must think my work on this rag is the lowest of the sort. Scraping the mire.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong. You have the audacity to seek out what no one else will. And you’re pursuing the Corktown case, as I wish I could.” Jasper sighed. “I can’t expect you to stop Merinda. Truthfully, if you stopped running articles about their adventures, she would find somewhere else to get word out about them.”

  “So what are you asking?”

  “I suppose I’m asking you to watch out for them.”

  “Detective Constable Forth, I already am.”

  After Jasper had exited, Ray went back to his desk. He’d barely settled in when Skip appeared, his face grave. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

  “This was in the post.” Skip silently held a slip of paper out to Ray. “No envelope or anything.”

  Ray spread it out on his desk. Clippings of words in several different fonts, obviously pulled from different newspapers, had been pasted together. Some bold and in full caps as if from a headline, others small.

  Stop covering the Corktown Murders! was spelled in the largest letters. Other text followed in smaller print.

  Ray whistled. “Well, nice threat!”

  “Take it seriously, Mr. DeLuca.” Skip snapped in front of Ray’s face. “Do what it says: Stop covering the Corktown Murders! I don’t want this fellow to come after you. Or me. Especially not me.”

  “Ah, yes.” Ray read over the rest of the letter and lingered on the last sentence. “I am also ordered to stop reporting the detecting adventures of the Misses Herringford and Watts.” Ray bit his lip and took a look around the office.

  Skip watched him warily. “What are you thinking?”

  By way of answer, Ray grabbed his coat and set out into the snow.

  “Where are you going?” Skip called after him.

  “To buy every paper I can get my hands on until I find out where this is from and who sent it.”

  Five cold minutes later, Ray stumbled upon a newsboy who was crying the evening headlines on the corner of Queen Street. When he approached, he realized the newsboy was, in fact, a newsgirl. Ray recognized her as one of the pair that did Merinda Herringford’s bidding. “You almost finished here?” he asked her.

  She widened her dark eyes in an attempt to look more innocent even than her smudged cheeks and quivering lip were doing. “Buy a paper?” She put on a good show. No doubt she made a good living at it.

  Ray reached into his coat pocket. “Go get your friend and buy all the papers.” He retrieved a few coins and placed them in her hand.

  “My friend?”

  “Your partner. The other girl. Look, I’m a friend of Miss Herringford’s. I know who you are and what you do for
her. Buy them all, a copy of every paper, and take them to Miss Herringford’s.”

  Not much later, Ray and Merinda were sitting at the dining room table at King Street, hunched over the bounty of Kat and Mouse’s endeavor. Merinda walked to the bureau and retrieved one of the threatening letters Tippy had received. Sure enough, they were the same style.

  “Do you see how the slight, uneven frays at the side of each cut letter are left, not right?” Merinda asked Ray. “It stands to reason that a left-handed person would hold a knife or scissors in his left hand. Especially for a purpose like this one.”

  “Left handed?”

  Merinda’s eyes went to the blackboard.

  Ray’s gaze followed. He noticed his name first on the list of Corktown Murder suspects. He cocked his head with a smile at her. “I was your primary suspect for the murders?”

  “What?” Merinda was defensive. “We struck you out.”

  “I thank you.”

  “So which of our suspects is left handed? Could it be one of them?”

  “Who knows about all of them?” Ray said. “I do know that Tony is right handed.”

  “And Forbes was toasting people with his right hand at the bar that night. We usually toast with our dominant hand.”

  Ray studied the other names on the board. “I couldn’t tell you about Montague, though.”

  “And it doesn’t rule out Tony or Forbes being responsible for the murders. It just means that neither of them are responsible for this letter,” said Merinda.

  “Gavin Crawley?”

  “Left. That is, he holds his teacup in his left hand.” Merinda squinted, then shook her head. “Busy tonight, DeLuca?”

  Ray laughed. “You’re about to propose something, aren’t you.”

  “We’re breaking into the Globe. I want to scout out Gavin’s office.”

  Ray raised an eyebrow. “You know what hours we reporters keep. How do you know the intrepid Mr. Crawley won’t be in his office?”

  “Because Jem will be entertaining him.”

  Ray’s eyebrow rose even higher.

  “Oh, posh. You know I didn’t mean anything salacious. I meant dinner. She’s going to ask him to have dinner with her.”