Murder at Lowry House (Hazel Martin Mysteries Book 1)

by Leighann Dobbs

  “Oh, Hazel, this my granddaughter, Fran. Edward’s daughter.” Myrtle gestured between Hazel and Fran. “Hazel is a dear friend of the family.”

  Fran looked at her and squinted. “Yes, I remember. The novelist, right?”

  Hazel nodded. She readied herself to fend off a potential fan, as happened all too often, but instead, Fran pressed her lips together then crossed to a chair on the opposite side of the room and sank into its lush, velvet-tufted cushions.

  Hazel sensed tension in the air. No wonder Myrtle thought someone was up to no good. The family didn’t seem overly friendly toward each other.

  She shifted the cat carrier to her other hand. “Well, you certainly have a houseful, Myrtle.”

  “Yes, indeed. Everyone is staying for my birthday celebration. Oh, you simply must stay, too!” Myrtle clapped her hands together and turned wide eyes to Hazel, as if she’d just thought of Hazel staying.

  “Well, I don’t know…” Hazel looked around uncertainly so as to add credence to Myrtle’s act.

  “Oh, but you must,” Myrtle insisted. “We have a whole weekend of activities planned. It will be great fun. And how many times do I get to turn eighty?”

  “That sounds lovely,” Hazel said. “I do have my bags from vacation in the car, but I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble…”

  “It will be no trouble at all,” Gloria cut in. “I’ll go see if Mrs. Naughton can make you up a room, and I’ll have your driver bring your bags up.”

  Edward scowled. “Mother, I hardly see how Hazel would want to be included in our little family celebration. I’m sure she has better places to be.”

  “Nonsense. Hazel is an old friend. I’m sure she’d love to spend the weekend with us.” Myrtle turned and winked at Hazel. “We have a nice tea planned and outdoor games. Walks in the garden and even a formal party with a small band and champagne tomorrow night.”

  “Not tomorrow, dear,” Vera said. “The party is Saturday. Tomorrow is Friday.”

  A look of confusion contorted Myrtle’s face, then it cleared. “Why, of course it is. That’s exactly what I meant. Saturday.”

  “Well, if Hazel wants to stay, then she is certainly welcome.” Edward picked up a Staffordshire statue off the mantel and turned it over in his hands, looked at the bottom, then shook his head and replaced it. “Exquisite work always amazes me.”

  “If you recall, Edward is an antiques dealer. Always picking things up and looking underneath. Rather annoying, if you ask me,” Myrtle whispered.

  “I heard that,” Edward said.

  “Daddy just has good taste, even if he is a bit materialistic,” Fran said softly, her fingers fiddling with a deeply carved cameo at her throat which bore a resemblance to the ring on Myrtle’s finger. Hazel was just about to ask about it when a servant appeared at the door.

  “Mrs. Martin’s room is ready.”

  “Wonderful. That was very fast, Mrs. Naughton.” Myrtle turned to Hazel. “I’m sure you want to freshen up. Mrs. Naughton will show you the way.”

  Hazel nodded to the others in the room and followed Mrs. Naughton toward the wide, sweeping staircase, pausing just below the first stair to chance a look back into the drawing room.

  Clearly the family was at odds, but that wasn’t entirely unusual. Most families had some sort of tension from time to time. But if Myrtle was right about this family, there was more than just tension in the air…there was also murder.

  Chapter Three

  It was with much relief that Hazel set the cat carrier on the wide pine floor and shook the circulation back into her fingers as she surveyed the lavishly appointed room.

  Done in tones of lavender and gray, the room boasted lush velvet drapes, a sumptuous silk Oriental rug in tones of light purple, green, and gold, matching silk bedding, a dainty plum-colored velvet settee with rose-carved walnut frame, and most importantly, a large, ornately carved desk under a window overlooking the garden. A small marble fireplace adorned one wall. In front of it were two overstuffed armchairs in plum velvet.

  “Oh, this is just lovely,” Hazel said out loud even though she was alone.

  “Merooooo!” Dickens yelled, reminding her he was still trapped in the carrier.

  Hazel bent down and opened the front door of the carrier. Dickens shot out in an angry blur of cream-colored fur, stopping a good eight feet from the carrier to shake his paws and look disdainfully back at the carrier over his shoulder before peering up at Hazel reproachfully.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you cooped up in there.” Hazel set about unpacking her leather suitcases, including all of Dickens’s paraphernalia, which she set up first so he would have all the comforts of home.

  “Merow.” Dickens’s tone was less accusatory this time. He gave an approving sniff of his royal-blue silk cat bed, which Hazel had placed in front of the fireplace, and then skulked around the perimeter of the room, exploring every corner as Hazel finished putting her clothes in the gilt-and-maple veneer armoire then changed into a more formal burgundy-colored dress with just a hint of beading on the bodice for dinner.

  Hazel hadn’t yet been quite brave enough to adopt the thin sheath dresses that younger women favored even though, at the age of thirty-nine, she still had the figure for them. She still liked to keep with the times, but favored a bit of a more sophisticated look.

  As a married woman, she’d never worried much about fashion. Her thoughts were all about her books and her characters. Maybe now she should reconsider her wardrobe. Though the younger fashions might look silly on her with the strands of gray that were starting to sneak into her hair. Maybe she should find out where Myrtle and Vera got their henna.

  As was her routine, she saved the best of her unpacking chores for last. She lifted a finely tooled leather case out of her suitcase and opened it carefully. Inside was her collection of fountain pens. A dubonnet-red Esterbrook, a jade radite Sheaffer, her old standby celluloid green Parker duofold pen, and the Waterman sterling silver filigree pen given to her by Charles upon publication of her first novel twelve years ago.

  She lifted the Waterman out of its slot and traced her fingers over the chased filigree design, allowing herself to indulge in a feeling of sadness and loss. But only for a moment, as Hazel didn’t like to dwell on the past. Even without Charles, she had a bright future and a good life. She quickly released the pen, placing it on the desk, and then took the other pens out and lined them up in a row.

  The center of the desk had thoughtfully been fitted with a stack of notepaper, the same lavender paper that had been used to write the note Hazel had received from Myrtle, summoning her to Lowry House. She wondered if Myrtle had stacks of it in every guest room as well as on her own personal writing desk. She set the paper aside, taking out her notebook and laying it open on the center of the desk. She had a few hours before dinner and was hoping to get a few words written for her current book.

  She picked up the Waterman, uncapped it, and gazed out the window. “I do suppose I could use hemlock and put it in a carrot jelly. That way I could still keep the breakfast scenario.”

  “Mew.” Dickens hopped up onto the edge of her desk, looking at her with intelligent opalescent-blue eyes. He sat, curling his mink-colored tail around his front paws gracefully.

  “I’m glad you agree. Though I’ll have to ask Alice how, exactly, one would make a carrot jelly that would be sweet enough for breakfast. Too bad I’ve sent Duffy home with the car already. I could have instructed him to ask her and return with a recipe.” For the next twenty minutes, Hazel scribbled in the notebook, and the page became filled with dark-blue words and unsightly blobs of ink where she paused the pen in thought. Her fingers became dotted with new ink stains, but she didn’t notice, as she was too caught up in the story and crafting the words to convey the murderous breakfast scenario.

  Apparently realizing he was being ignored, Dickens jumped down from the desk and embarked on another, more detailed exploration of the room. He darted under the bed a
nd peered out from the bed skirt. Then he batted at the gold piping on the edge of the skirt, causing it to sway back and forth while he tried to play catch with it. Finally, he rolled out from under the bed, leapt sideways, and scurried under one of the chairs.

  Hazel turned away from his antics and was vaguely aware of him leaping up onto a bookcase, running across the top of the mantel, and then situating himself in the fireplace, where he sniffed profusely before trotting over to the bureau and shimmying underneath.

  “Merooow!” Dickens howled from the bureau as if he’d discovered something immensely important, and seconds later, the pink pads of his paw appeared from underneath the edge as he batted a small yellow object across the room.

  The object skittered across the pine flooring barely an inch from the edge of the rug and stopped next to Hazel’s chair.

  “What’s this?” She bent down and picked it up. It was a sprig of buttercups twined together as if to make a bouquet. “I wonder where these came from.”

  “Mewp.” Dickens shimmied out from under the bureau and shook himself off, looking at her with a bored expression as if to say, “That’s for you to discover. I did the hard part of finding it.”

  “Hmmm.” Hazel glanced around the room, her eyes stopping at a small vase on the table beside the bed. It was filled with lilacs. Hazel wondered where they’d gotten them, as it was past season. Maybe there was a florist that supplied them from some exotic place? The upstairs maid had probably set fresh flowers out when she’d set up the room. She twirled the yellow flowers in her hand. These were brown. Perhaps they had been in a vase for a previous guest.

  She looked around for a trash bin. Finding a lovely white-and-shell-colored receptacle, she tossed them in. The colors of the trash bin reminded her of something else—the cameo that Myrtle’s granddaughter, Fran, had been wearing.

  Hazel hadn’t had a chance to ask, but she was almost certain it matched Myrtle’s ring, and she was also almost certain Fran had some sort of issue or problem with the cameo. It was the possessive manner in which Fran had been touching it.

  If the cameos had been passed down from generations, did Fran have some sort of grudge over them?

  Was that grudge strong enough for her to consider murder?

  Hazel didn’t have time to think about it because just then a knock sounded at her door, and Mrs. Naughton called out, “Dinner!”

  Hazel capped her pen, flipped her notebook closed, and stood. Then she smoothed the silk skirts of her dress and followed Mrs. Naughton down to dinner.

  Chapter Four

  The dining room at Lowry House was steeped in elegance. The table was set with fine china and sterling silver flatware. Sparkling Waterford crystal goblets reflected prisms of light from the two chandeliers above the table. The room was filled with family antiques. A massive hunt board complete with high-relief carvings of foxes and antlered stags in dark mahogany dominated one end of the room. The table itself could seat more than twenty people, though only seven places had been set.

  Though the room was dominated by Myrtle’s ancestors’ antiques, including some of the ancestors themselves, who peered down from gilt-framed oil paintings, it also included some modern touches. In the middle of the hunt board, a green onyx geometric-shaped clock ticked away the minutes. Spaced along the perimeter of the walls, shell-shaped alabaster sconces nestled within pierced brass brackets cast beams of light toward the ceiling, and a cathedral-topped radio sat silent on one of the side tables.

  Myrtle sat at the head of the table, with Edward on her right. She indicated for Hazel to sit on her left. Myrtle, Vera, and Gloria had changed into more formal wear, and now their dresses were more heavily beaded and their jewelry more abundant. Only Fran remained in her dowdy outfit from earlier that afternoon.

  The dinner of lamb, potatoes, and asparagus was divine. Probably one of the tastiest Hazel had had in a long time, and would’ve rivaled any fancy restaurant. Hazel would have to take care not to compliment the cooking too much, though, when she got home. Alice always asked about the meals and was very sensitive about her cooking.

  “Did you find your room sufficient?” Myrtle asked Hazel.

  “Yes. It’s beautiful. The little touches are so thoughtful. Especially the lilac writing paper. Do you provide paper for all your guests?”

  Myrtle smiled. “Yes, providing the notepaper is something my mother started a long time ago. She always said people liked to write letters in the rooms. She had special papers made for each room because each room has a theme. Yours is the lilac room. I use a gardenia pattern myself … or is it Lily of the Valley?”

  Gloria rested her hand on Myrtle’s arm. “It’s gardenia.”

  Myrtle nodded. “Right. Of course. The lilac was always a favorite. I didn’t realize we had much of that left. I’m glad you thought to put it in the room, Gloria.”

  Gloria blinked. “What?”

  “Hazel’s room. Didn’t you set it up with Mrs. Naughton?”

  Gloria glanced around the table then lowered her voice. “No, Auntie. I haven’t even been in that wing in ages.”

  Hazel couldn’t miss the look of concern on Gloria’s face. Was Myrtle’s assertion that Gloria had made up the room a worrisome sign of a faulty memory or just a normal assumption?

  “Oh, I could have sworn.” Myrtle shrugged. “Well, anyway, my mother always said a woman’s notepaper was like a calling card, which is why I always use the same style. Of course, I don’t write much anymore.” Myrtle held up her hand, showing knuckles slightly bent. “I have a touch of arthritis.”

  Hazel remembered the spidery writing on the note she’d received and realized her handwriting was one of the few things that gave away her age. But the handwriting wasn’t the only thing: it seemed as if Myrtle’s memory might not be what it used to be, either. Apparently, no matter how much you tried to stave off aging, it had its ways of catching up. Still, it was clear that Myrtle had many more years left.

  Except that, according to Myrtle, someone—possibly someone seated at this very table—wanted to cut those years short.

  Her narrowed eyes scanned the table. Hard to believe she might be dining with a murderer. Attempted murderer, she reminded herself. And Hazel was determined to do everything in her power to make sure the next attempts, if there were any, did not become successful.

  Across the table, Wes chased a piece of meat with his fork. Three misses until he finally skewered it and brought it to his lips. He was already on his fourth glass of wine. His eyes were glassy, and the few words he’d spoken slightly slurred. Vera had shot her share of nasty looks in his direction.

  “The place settings here are lovely. Were they your mother’s?” Hazel had almost been afraid to touch the plates with their wide gold fleur-de-lis-patterned rims. She’d gingerly cut the meat, not wanting to use too much force for fear her knife would scratch the beautiful hand-painted scenes that decorated the face of the plate.

  “Yes, they were,” Myrtle said. “They’re quite valuable.”

  “Practically priceless,” Edward cut in. “I don’t know why you’re using them when you had me purchase the Staffordshire settings. These plates should be in a china cabinet and not subjected to the coarse handling of foods and metal utensils.”

  “Or in a museum,” Fran muttered, her eyes trained on her plate.

  Myrtle looked down at the plates then up at Edward. “Oh, yes. Staffordshire. Well, since it is my eightieth birthday, I felt we should do something special and use these and not those”—Myrtle waved her hands dismissively toward the kitchen—“everyday plates.”

  “That’s right.” Gloria pinned Edward with a glare. “She wasn’t going to use these, but I insisted.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I was going to use the Staffordshire,” Myrtle said. “The blue-and-white dishes.”

  “Brown and white,” Edward corrected.

  “Brown and white, like I said,” Myrtle said.

  Across the table, Vera hissed, and Hazel looke
d over to see a red stain spreading on the crisp white linen tablecloth in front of Wes. Apparently, he’d spilled his wine.

  He narrowed his eyes at Vera. “You try eating with a broken hand. I’m right handed, you know. Sch’not easy,” Wes slurred.

  “I imagine that must be rather difficult.” Hazel thought the reason for the spill had more to do with the many glasses of wine he’d had than not being able to use his right hand, but she felt it better to try to smooth the awkward situation. “How did you damage it?”

  “He fell down drunk,” Vera said.

  “Vera!” Myrtle exclaimed. “Poor Wes has had a hard time since his mother died.”

  That shut everyone up, and they all focused on their plates, seemingly in a hurry to finish the meal. That was just fine with Hazel. The sooner the meal was over, the sooner she could maneuver Myrtle into a room alone and find out the details of the suspicious attempts on her life.

  Chapter Five

  After dinner, Hazel managed to pull Myrtle into the library. Libraries were among Hazel’s most favorite rooms, and this one was a doozy. Steeped in soft leather and the vanilla-spiced smell of old books, the room was two stories tall and lined with books, from floor to ceiling. The upper level was ringed with a balcony accessible by a spiral staircase.

  Though it was July, the air cooled down after nightfall, and a pleasant breeze billowed in through the sheer drapes covering the open French doors. Hazel hesitated at the sight of so many beautiful books. Resisting the urge to rush to the bookshelves and run her fingertips along the leathery spines then carefully pull out a book and absorb herself in its pages, she settled into a buttery-soft leather armchair across from Myrtle.

  Myrtle handed her a brandy, and Hazel’s throat burned as she took a small sip. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but she knew Myrtle was too polite to drink without her, and figured a brandy would soothe the other woman’s nerves… especially given the topic they were about to discuss.