Vera had denied having the rat poison in the shed. Why would she do that unless she was using it for something she shouldn’t be? But, then again, there was Wes. Maybe Vera never went in the shed and Wes put the poison there. Wes might have sold the cameo to get money for Vera. She did goad him about it that morning Hazel overheard them in the cottage. Hazel had a good memory for conversations, which came in handy for her writing. She scrunched up her eyes and thought back, remembering Wes’s exact words. “Don’t I provide for you when you need it?”
And hadn’t Gloria said that Wes would do anything for Vera?
“Meow!” Dickens batted a little piece of dried grass around the room, pushing it under the chair and then peeking underneath and shooting his paw out to bat it to the other side of the room.
“That’s right, I’m grasping at straws.” Hazel stood. “And you need something better to play with.”
She rummaged around in her luggage and pulled out a little felt mouse, which she skidded across the floor. Dickens pounced on it then skewered it with a sharp claw and threw it in the air.
When Dickens had his fill of playing, he hopped up on the bed and crawled on the pillow then curled up into a purring ball of fur.
“Good idea.” Hazel lay on the bed beside him. She was making no progression on her book and needed to rest up for the party. She was going to need all her energy to keep her eye on Myrtle and ensure someone didn’t plan to use the camouflage of a busy party to make another attempt.
Chapter Fifteen
Myrtle had arranged for the staff to deliver a light dinner to everyone’s rooms. No sense in having a formal dinner when they would be stuffing themselves on the many appetizers and finger foods that would circulate the party. Hazel picked at her meal, tried to write some more in her book, and then finally, when she could put it off no longer, she changed into the red dress. The silky material fell around her body perfectly, so as to show off her curves in a subtle manner. She pushed away the bittersweet thought that Charles would’ve liked it.
She made sure Dickens had enough food and toys to keep him occupied. She didn’t think the housemaid would be tending to her room during the party, but she didn’t want to take any chances on him wandering out. There was no telling what kind of harm could come to him with a house full of partygoers and trays of canapés.
She hadn’t bought any jewelry on her trip to town, but the dress looked good without it. Sophisticated. She clipped her mother’s pearl-and-diamond earrings to her ears, pulled on her gloves, and made her way downstairs.
When Hazel reached the landing, she could see Vera standing at the bottom of the stairs in a silver gown, dripping with crystal—or was it diamond—jewelry. Beside her, Wes looked handsome in a tuxedo. Hazel hesitated on the landing, sensing an intimate moment between them as Vera reached up to straighten his tie. Was it real affection, or was Vera more taken with his potential inheritance?
As Wes walked away, Fran, in a plain slate-gray dress unadorned with anything that might jazz it up, melted out of the shadows of the hallway and headed toward Vera. Closer now, Hazel could see she did in fact have some jewelry on—the ever-present cameo brooch and a matching bracelet.
“Don’t you look lovely,” Fran said sarcastically, eyeing Vera up and down.
“You don’t have to say it like that. Just because you don’t care to wear the latest fashions doesn’t mean that you should take offense with the rest of us.”
“You wouldn’t even have these fashions if you didn’t get them through sneaky means.”
“Whatever you do mean?”
“I know what you did with the cameos.”
Vera laughed. “Cameos? Those old things? She looked pointedly at Fran’s neck. “But I see you like to wear them.” She lifted the long, glittery strands of necklace that hung in layers on her chest, letting the beads drip through her fingers like crystal rain. “Just because I prefer to wear the modern styles is no reason to mock me. You see, the cameos just wouldn’t go with my outfit.”
Gloria sailed around the corner, looking sophisticated and charming in an emerald-green gown that set off her eyes. Unlike Vera’s extra-sparkly accessories, she wore a simple necklace dotted with green stones. Her gown was lovely but looked to be off-the-rack, not custom-made like Vera’s. She nodded at Fran and Vera then sailed off toward the kitchen.
Fran leaned toward Vera and hissed, barely loud enough for Hazel to overhear, “You’d better not sell off any more family valuables, or I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you do.” And then she turned and stormed off, leaving Vera standing there alone.
From Hazel’s vantage point, she could see Vera smirk, and even though she muttered the next words, Hazel could decipher them by watching her scarlet lips. “That’s what you think.” Then she turned on her heel and headed toward the front parlor, where the band was tuning up.
Myrtle appeared in the hallway, her heels clicking on the marble flooring as Hazel descended the rest of the stairs. She wore a gown in several shades of blue accented in silver, an intricate diamond-and-pearl necklace, and rhinestone-studded silver gloves. Her freshly hennaed hair was vibrant.
“Why, don’t you look lovely, my dear.” She waved her hand up and down Hazel’s body, her rhinestone gloves glittering rainbows in the light. “It’s so nice to see you dressed up. You used to always dress so nicely with Charles.”
Hazel paused momentarily at the pang of sadness that Charles’s name evoked. Then she plastered a smile on her face. “You look divine, Myrtle. No one will believe you are eighty years old. Where did you get those gloves?”
“These things? I got them on my last trip to London. Gloria and I were both quite taken with them… but, honestly, they’re very itchy.” She scratched her wrist. “But one must make sacrifices for fashion.” Myrtle hooked her arm through Hazel’s. “Now, come along into the parlor. The first guests will be arriving any minute.”
It wasn’t even a minute before the arrivals started, and once they did, it was as if someone had turned on a faucet. Hazel had all she could do to keep Myrtle in her sights, especially since there were many at the party who wanted to monopolize her attention. She’d forgotten how much she hated being thought of as a celebrity. But she accepted the compliments and praise for her novels as graciously as she could while trying to juggle tiny plates of hors d’oeuvres and keep one eye on Myrtle.
After a few dizzying hours, Hazel and Gloria worked out a system where they would give each other eye signals from across the room, signifying which one would keep their eye on Myrtle. That way each of them could at least enjoy part of the party.
Myrtle glided through the crowd, joking and sipping wine as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She hadn’t exhibited any of her forgetfulness or stomach upset since that first day, and Hazel wondered if the killer was holding off on the poison. Perhaps they had a more sinister plan now. Hazel, on the other hand, was wilting under the challenge of keeping track of the energetic Myrtle. She could barely keep up with the conversations she was having and wondered if people thought she had some sort of medical problem with the way her eyes were constantly darting around looking for Myrtle. At least it kept her from missing the presence of Charles at her side.
Everyone else seemed to be having a heck of a time. Fran was unusually social, and Hazel even saw her laugh once. Wes might have tipped the bottle a few too many times, but Vera was living it up—lively and animated and flirting with numerous handsome gentlemen. The three women seemed to have put their differences aside at one point, because Hazel saw Gloria snagging drinks off a tray and handing them to Vera and Fran as the three of them stood in a circle with Myrtle. Hazel wondered if the smiles on their faces were genuine, or they were just pretending for Myrtle’s benefit.
By the time midnight rolled around, Hazel was exhausted.
“Everyone! Everyone!” Myrtle’s voice rang through the house. It was Gloria’s turn to keep an eye on her, but Hazel guessed from the sound that she was in the foyer
near the stairs, and Hazel turned in that direction. “It’s almost time for the midnight champagne toast! Get your glasses ready.”
Myrtle held her glass high in the air. The golden liquid in the glass sloshed around, a few drops spilling over onto her cameo ring. Myrtle wasn’t very tall, so Hazel could barely see her hand wrapped around the stem of her glass as Myrtle made her way through the foyer and toward the dining room, where there were even more partygoers filling their plates from the perpetual array of food set out on the buffets.
The crowd buzzed. The band played softly. Some people danced, but most preferred to mingle. The staff readied bottles of champagne and circulated trays with crystal champagne flutes.
Hazel felt a momentary panic. Where had Myrtle gone? Was it her turn to keep an eye on her? She scanned the crowd. Gloria was nowhere to be seen. Fran was chatting with a gentleman in the corner. Vera was draped over Wes as if she’d had too much to drink. Wes was leading her off toward the back hallway. At least if Vera were indisposed, Hazel wouldn’t have to worry about her making an attempt on Myrtle. If she was, indeed, the one who had been making them.
Hazel thought she heard Myrtle’s voice coming from the south end of the house and pushed her way through the crowd toward it, running into Gloria halfway.
“Have you seen Myrtle?” Hazel asked.
Gloria nodded, to Hazel’s relief. “Yes. She’s in the sitting room.”
She turned to try to figure out the quickest way to the sitting room. When had the crowd gotten so thick?
“I’ll head that way.” Gloria nodded toward the door at one end of the room. “And you go the other way.” She nodded at the hallway exit. “We’ll see which one of us can elbow our way to her first.”
The crowd had a happy, upbeat vibe, but trepidation bloomed in Hazel’s chest as she made her way through it. The popping of corks filled the house, startling Hazel. They sounded just like gunshots.
She spilled into the hallway. Was Myrtle still speaking? She couldn’t hear her anymore. She jostled a woman in a peacock-blue gown, who spilled some champagne on Hazel’s dress. Hazel couldn’t worry about that now. She rushed toward the sitting room, pushing in through the doorway.
Where was Myrtle?
She stood on tiptoe, scanning the crowd for Myrtle’s sparkly gloves or Gloria’s emerald gown. She didn’t see either.
Pushing her way back out, she hurried toward the front parlor as more corks popped and partygoers cheered. Hadn’t she just heard Myrtle’s voice coming from that direction?
She couldn’t hear anything anymore. There was a clamor of people drinking and clinking glasses. The band had gotten louder. Had Myrtle already made a toast? She’d been so focused on navigating the crowd, she hadn’t even noticed.
She pushed into the front parlor. No Myrtle. Hazel’s anxiety went into overdrive. Surely no one would try to kill her during a party with dozens of witnesses. Hazel was just being paranoid. She needed to relax. Gloria had probably found Myrtle anyway and was watching over her right now. It was unlikely anything would happen at the party.
And then a shrill scream pierced the air.
Chapter Sixteen
Hazel’s heart lurched. The scream had come from her left. She whirled in that direction. The entire house had become silent for a split second and then erupted in chattering chaos while Hazel took off at a gallop.
The screaming had stopped, but Hazel had already homed in on its direction. The library. She rocketed down the main hall then turned toward the back hall, where the library was located. She skidded to a stop in front of the doorway. An older gray-haired woman in a blue taffeta gown was standing inside the room, facing the door. Her mouth was wide, her eyes huge as she stared at a chair whose back was facing Hazel.
Hazel’s eyes dropped to the chair. The very one she’d sat in the day she’d talked to Myrtle about the incidents that had been happening at Lowry House. But now someone else was in the chair. She could just see a wisp of henna-red hair peeking out from the side. One glittery rhinestone glove was draped on the table beside the chair. And the worst thing? A small black hole in the back of the chair. A bullet hole.
Myrtle? How could that be? She was supposed to be giving a toast. How had she ended up in a chair in the library?
Edward was coming up the hallway behind her. “Hazel, what is it?”
“Get the police,” Hazel said to Edward, but her eyes remained glued to the chair. Her feet felt like lead. The gray-haired woman stared at her with large eyes. Edward hurried off at her request. Apparently, no one else had figured out that this was where the scream had come from, since the hallway outside the room was empty.
Hazel’s heart was heavy as she rounded the chair. She’d failed Myrtle.
She screwed her eyes shut, steeling herself for what she might see. She knew from Charles’s cases that exit wounds could get pretty messy. She didn’t want to see Myrtle in that condition, especially since it had been her job to protect her.
Hazel wasn’t prepared for what she saw when she opened her eyes. Her breath caught in her throat, her lungs feeling as if they were devoid of air.
The victim wasn’t Myrtle.
It was Vera.
A wave of partygoers appeared in the doorway, looks of concern on their faces. They tried to push into the room, but Hazel held up her palms to stop them. “Don’t come any closer… please stay out of the room.”
The woman glanced from the partygoers to Hazel and back to Vera. “Is she…”
“I’m afraid so.” Hazel put her arm around the woman and led her to a chair, pushing her down into it. The woman was in shock.
Gloria appeared in the doorway, her eyes widening when she noticed the chair. Hazel imagined she was thinking the same exact thing that Hazel had thought. From that position in the doorway, the face of the chair’s occupant could not be seen. All that was visible was the red hair and the gloves. She would assume it was Myrtle. So when Gloria’s questioning eyes flicked to Hazel’s, Hazel shook her head.
“What’s going on here?” Fran stood in the doorway, her eyes flicking from Hazel to the hole in the chair.
“Everyone will have to get back into the hallway.” Hazel left the woman in the chair, in search of some scotch or whiskey. “I’m afraid this room is a murder scene.”
A hush fell over the crowd, but Gloria ignored her plea to go back into the hall and ran to the front of the chair, her eyes widening. “Vera?”
She looked from Hazel back to the chair and then to Myrtle, who pushed her way through the people who still crowded the threshold. “What is going on?”
Gloria rushed over to Myrtle, putting a protective arm around her and ushering her out. “Auntie, something terrible has happened… Let’s go sit down.”
The crowd made their way back to the other part of the house after Hazel once again instructed them to move along. She also instructed them not to leave until the police arrived. Then she turned her attention to the poor woman who had discovered Vera’s body, and plied her with scotch. It seemed to revive her somewhat, but when she glanced back at the chair, she dissolved into tears.
Once the woman, Sadie Thompson, was sufficiently calm—or drunk—Hazel wasn’t sure which, but judging by the way she’d sucked down the scotch, her bet was on the latter—she took the opportunity to go over the murder scene.
The gunshot had been to the back of the chair. The shooter must have mistaken Vera for Myrtle. They had the same exact hair color, and Hazel had seen that henna hair peeking out from the side of the chair and thought it was Myrtle herself. Had the killer seen that, too, along with the rhinestone glove on the table, and assumed it was Myrtle? And what was Vera doing with Myrtle’s gloves?
Hazel hadn’t been far off in thinking the corks were gunshots. The killer had used that as cover.
“No! I don’t believe it!” Wes’s voice rang from the hallway. “Let me go! I must see her!”
He stumbled into the room, clearly drunk. His eyes were red, his face
slack with shock. He looked like a wounded animal, darting his gaze from the chair to Hazel. “It’s not Vera. It can’t be.”
But even as he came around to the front of the chair, Hazel could see it was sinking in. When he saw that it really was Vera, he sank down to his knees, weeping.
Hazel managed to get him onto a sofa and ply him with some of the scotch. At this rate, she’d owe Myrtle another bottle. It was an expensive brand, too. “I’m so sorry, Wes.”
“She didn’t even have that much to drink. But she wasn’t feeling well. She wanted to rest a bit.” He sniffed, rubbed his eyes, and looked at Hazel. “Who would have done this? Why would anyone want to kill Vera?”
Chapter Seventeen
By the time the police got there, Hazel was more than happy to get out of the room. Wes had been inconsolable. Luckily, a doctor was at the party and had given him something to calm his nerves. Myrtle, on the other hand, was as cool as a cucumber and had taken Wes to one of the bedrooms, tending to him like a mother hen. Perhaps mothering him kept her preoccupied and her thoughts away from the murder.
One police officer was stationed at the door, getting the names and vital information of the partygoers whom they were letting go home. The family members were probably their biggest suspects, as was common. At least that was how it always worked in Hazel’s books. Hazel sat in a small, cozy sewing room just off the dining room with Gloria, watching the steam spiral out of their dainty chintz teacups.
“Should we tell them about the attempts on Auntie?” Gloria asked.
Murder at Lowry House (Hazel Martin Mysteries Book 1) Page 9
