Magical Cool Cats Mysteries Boxed Set Vol 1 (Books 1, 2 & 3 & A Christmas Feral)

by Mary Matthews

  “No, I don’t take commands.”

  Jack didn’t flinch at death and Grace recognized someone who’d seen it more often than herself. She surmised that he’d seen it in the trenches of the Great War. She’d witnessed both parents, ill with the flu, take their last breath.

  The train physician came in and motioned for them to exit. Jack and Tatania walked Grace back to her suite.

  “What were you looking for?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been getting odd telegrams from my uncle. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on with him. I wanted to send one.”

  “Who would kill a telegraph operator?”

  “Probably someone who is already off the train.”

  “Dinner is served.” The train service went on regally, as if there wasn’t a dead body encased in one of its elegant compartments.

  In the Dining Car, a fashion show was taking place. Women with rouged knees, bejeweled dresses, and matching purses and shoes strolled through the aisles. Grace pondered why raising hemlines above the knees suddenly required knee makeup but not calf or ankle makeup.

  “Of course there could be another explanation for the red knees,” Jack said, raising one eyebrow.

  Chapter Four

  “Your ride is a plane?” Grace asked in the open field next to the train station.

  Jack and Tatania stood next to her.

  “Yes,” Jack said.

  “I mean I was expecting a Studebaker. Or at least a Packard.”

  “You’re going to love it.” Jack reassured her.

  “I was expecting a car.”

  “Trust me. This is better than a Pierce Arrow.”

  She stared at the fragile looking biplane. It didn’t look particularly secure.

  A train whistle blew. Grace liked the comfort of the rails. Lulling her to security, like a cradle forever imprinted on her memory.

  “And you can skip the trip from the station to Coronado. I’ll land it on the beach in front of the Hotel del Coronado.”

  “You park your plane in front of the hotel?”

  “No, I park it at the Naval Base at North Island.”

  “I thought John Spreckels bought North Island when he closed the deal on most of San Diego,” Grace said, stalling for time, not wanting to get in the plane.

  “He did. But then, when we entered the Great War, he sold it to the Navy. My parents took me to Coronado for the first time in 1907. And I return to it like an eagle to a love nest every year. This is going to be greatest ride of your life.” Jack confidently touched his plane.

  “You’re arrogant.”

  “When I was born, the doctor slapped my mother.” Jack nodded.

  “My Pullman porter is gone,” Grace said.

  “I got shot in the Great War. When I was recovering at the hospital in London, some of the nurses would ask me if I’d ever fly again. I’d stare at Leonardo da Vinci’s drawings of his flying machine for hours. It was liking asking me if I’d breathe again. I knew I would.”

  Grace put her hand in Jack’s and let him help her into the plane. Tatania leapt up and settled comfortably on Grace’s lap. Jack adjusted her goggles and ear muffs before putting on his own. Tatania remained blissfully deaf to the din.

  Jack kissed her on the cheek before he climbed in the plane.

  She closed her eyes and felt the plane taking off, vibrating with power, towards the sun. She allowed the sensation of flight to simply overtake her. She watched the orange groves of Southern California shrink below them. Mansions morphed to mere boxes.

  Grace looked at the ocean. It seemed as infinite as the hopes and dreams that welled within her.

  Soon she’d see Uncle Charles and all would be right in her world again. She wanted to savor the freedom of being sprung out of Finishing School and revel in the wealth her trust fund would bring her. It would be a splendid summer.

  Chapter Five

  Jack landed on Coronado like he owned it. Move over Spreckels. Jack Brewster’s back in town. Grace would be early for the Revolutionary Colonial Daughters luncheon at the hotel.

  Tatania jumped flawlessly from the plane.

  “Do you need help?” Jack asked Grace.

  “I’m fine.” Grace’s skirt caught on a handle, and flew up in the air. Jack gallantly pulled it down. After what seemed like a minute or two.

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Grace took off running. She raced past Coronado Tent City’s cottages, amusement rides, Dance Pavilion, stores, and the Pony plunge that made her shudder at the thought of a pony being pushed off of its deck. The glorious Hotel del Coronado, white with red turrets, a triumph of Victorian architecture, and her home for the splendid summer lay before her.

  She looked back up at the sky, and saw Jack’s plane. He was dipping a wing towards her.

  She walked in the nearest door.

  “Miss, that’s an exit.” An older male guest admonished her.

  “It’s an entrance now,” Grace said.

  Since Revolutionary Colonial Daughters supported French orphans from the Great War, they suggested that each member bring a bag filled with a quarter for each year of her age to the meeting. It would go towards their burgeoning French Orphan Fund. Walking to the Revolutionary Colonial Daughters meeting, Grace’s wrist bag broke, spilling twenty quarters, and whatever was left of her dignity on the floor.

  “Aunt Alice, I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, Dear.” Aunt Alice motioned for a waiter to come forward.

  “One mustn’t stoop to picking up money.” Aunt Alice commanded.

  “It’s lovely to see your beautiful niece again. I’ve seated you two close to the band.”

  Helen Randolph, a Revolutionary Colonial Daughter, and notorious gossip, exchanged air kisses with Aunt Alice.

  “There’s a dance tonight. I’ll be surprised if you don’t land a man this year, Grace,” Helen said, opening her art deco compact and applying blood red lipstick like war paint. She was ready for any battle. She admired her reflection only briefly and then shut the compact, gazing at her initials with satisfaction.

  “He’s engaged.” She then said quietly in Grace’s ear.

  “What?” Grace asked, looking at Helen, who gestured towards a man in the orchestra. A couple of beats later, Grace realized that Helen thought she was looking at a cute bass player.

  “Dear, don’t look so alarmed. It’s unseemly. And wrinkling your brow will make you look older.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Alice.”

  Aunt Alice patted her hand encouragingly. “Anything to help you, Dear.”

  Then, spotting another member, with her son in tow, Aunt Alice approached her and said, “This is my niece. She’s not married.”

  Grace considered crawling under the table. But the music kept playing, and if he was willing to accompany his Mom to a Revolutionary Colonial Daughters luncheon, he must be nice enough, so she extended her hand, and he kissed it.

  “Then we have in something common, Grace. I’m Lawrence.” He said with the assurance of one who had always been rich.

  Grace wondered why she didn’t feel the same electrifying sensation she felt when Jack touched her. Lawrence sat next to her.

  “I’ve prepared a list of eligible suitors for you.” Aunt Alice whispered loudly.

  Grace took the envelope Aunt Alice handed her. She stared politely at it, smiled, and shook her head when Lawrence asked, “Are you going to open it?”

  A resplendent woman in an ostrich feather hat began leading the group in the pledge of allegiance. Grace noticed a man standing in a Great War uniform, crutch on one side. He was missing a leg.

  “I’ll be right back,” Aunt Alice said. She had a habit of excusing herself for the opening minutes of the meeting and returning with uncanny timing when the first course of lunch was served.

  The banner above the table read, Revolutionary Colonial Daughters, Honoring God, Country, and Family. Coronado Island, a Beacon of Light Drawing the Best and
the Brightest from the East Coast of America.

  Grace’s membership in Revolutionary Colonial Daughters, a lineage society of descendants of American Colonialists who fervently fought for the American Revolution, began at eighteen, when Aunt Alice put membership papers before her to sign. It left her feeling like a pedigreed poodle at the time. Now, she was beginning to understand that if you ever falter in where you are going, you can draw strength in where you came from.

  Standing for the Pledge of Allegiance, and the Revolutionary Colonial Daughters’ oath to honor God, Country and Family, the words resonated with Grace because the blood of her ancestral patriots beat within her heart.

  “Daughters, thank you for your generous support of the French orphans ravaged by the Great War. We appreciate our members support of these beautiful children. And let me introduce our special guest of honor today, Lieutenant, Thomas Chisholm, a heroic aviator who lost his leg fighting this war—”

  “—I still have a leg to stand on, Miss,” he interrupted.

  The Society’s President smiled at him. The still handsome former aviator had wrapped her around his finger at “Miss”.

  Grace applauded. Someone at the table was passing around a flyer. Grace looked at the usual choices for a Revolutionary Colonial Daughters luncheon: Turtle Soup, Fillet of Sole, Lobster, Prime Rib, Edelweiss Cheese, Asparagus Hollandaise, Green Peas, Sweet Potato, and Assorted Petit Fours.

  Then the Hotel del Coronado’s manager approached their table and whispered in Aunt Alice’s ear.

  “I’m sure it can wait. I’m dining.” She replied loudly enough for the table to hear.

  “You must come with me. It concerns your husband. Please.” The manager insisted.

  Grace stood up quickly.

  “Is he here?” Grace asked.

  “Miss Grace, good to see you back again for the summer. Wait here. Your Aunt should accompany me to your Uncle’s tent. It’s best you remember him as he was.”

  Chapter Six

  A red Coronado Laundry truck rumbled by, stopping at Uncle Charles’ tent. The driver, muscles rippling beneath his white t-shirt, planned on dropping off Uncle Charles’ laundry. A glance into the tent cottage revealed he wouldn’t need a week of clean laundry. Blood pooled around his head. His right hand held a revolver. He had a pallor that belied the tan he sported in life.

  Grace’s hand went to her chest. She stood, riveted to the sight of Uncle Charles, unable to move. And Jack Brewster bent over him.

  “Why are you here?” Grace asked.

  “I’ll be in charge of the investigation. Maybe you should go back to the hotel,” Jack said.

  Grace ignored him. Two men put Uncle Charles on a stretcher. They threw a blanket over his body. Grace lunged forward and pulled the blanket back towards her.

  She saw that part of Uncle Charles’ face appeared crushed, as if the blood was weighing it down, and then she felt Jack enveloping her, his heart beating against her back.

  “I’m not going to faint,” Grace said, elbowing Jack, signaling him to move away. She reached for her Uncle, touching his rough tanned skin, speaking softly, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her, she wanted to speak to him.

  Jack still didn’t let go of her.

  “You can’t touch the body, Grace.”

  “I want to know what happened. Do you know the difference between me and a pit bull?”

  “You can slap,” he said taking a step backwards and holding his hands up in the air.

  “Yes. But the other difference is that a pit bull eventually lets go. I won’t until I know what happened to my Uncle.”

  “Have you had your veterinary shots?” Jack asked.

  The hearse sped away with Uncle Charles inside.

  “Mrs. Hall, I’m so sorry about your husband,” the Hotel del Coronado manager said. He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “I hate to bring this up now. Is there a male relative in charge? A brother-in-law perhaps?”

  “No. Why?”

  “It’s a delicate matter to discuss in front of your young niece.”

  “Go ahead.” Aunt Alice snapped.

  “Your recently departed husband apparently overlooked payment of the hotel bill. I’m afraid he didn’t secure the rooms for you and Miss Wentworth.”

  “Then I will simply go to the bank and obtain a check or draft for you.” Aunt Alice swept by him, as if he was another mere servant.

  “While we wait for the life insurance, you could sell your horse. He’s a thoroughbred. He’ll pay your bill instead of the other way around.” Aunt Alice suggested in Grace’s room.

  “I can’t sell my horse.”

  “We are having pecuniary problems. This is no time for sentimentality. You have your horse and his papers. Pedigrees. That’s all that sets us apart.”

  If Aunt Alice and Uncle Charles had children, Aunt Alice would probably consider selling them right now.

  “And you simply must marry.”

  “I have to earn money.”

  “And how did Finishing School prepare you to do that?’

  There had to be another way. Marriage seemed like death. She watched older classmates marry, begin having children and get a dull look in their eyes as their joy of living seemed to ebb away, spending nights waiting for philandering husbands to return.

  “It’s time, Dear. And the season has begun. You’re twenty. You’re not getting younger.”

  “Uncle Charles is dead. What the hell is wrong with you?” Grace got up and walked away. For the first time, she felt terrified, uncertainty gnawing within. She’d always taken Uncle Charles existence for granted. She’d been a mere child when her parents died but they had always seemed like ethereal beings. Uncle Charles seemed like he’d win a battle with death as easily as he’d win a legal case.

  Couples strolled along the pier. For them, the earth hadn’t just opened and swallowed their hearts whole. Coronado Tent City’s name was a misnomer. Not merely tents, in the utilitarian sense of the word, but actually thatched roof beach cottages faced the ocean, nestled amidst a Dance Pavillion, Fresh Saltwater Bathing Pools, shops, amusement rides, a Tea Room, and a Cafeteria filled with culinary temptations. Grace picked up a copy of the evening’s Coronado Tent City Band Program, and read about the bathing beauties contest again:

  The Director of Amusements announces a Bathing Beauties Contest:

  First Prize:$100

  Second Prize: $50

  Third Prize:$25

  Grace considered her finances. If she had to choose between a good dinner and a good haircut, she knew better than to eat.

  Chapter Seven

  On the ferry from Coronado to San Diego, Grace wondered if Alice killed him. She hadn’t manifested any sign of grief. But why would she kill the golden goose who kept laying the golden eggs? She enjoyed the status of being Mrs. Charles Hall.

  At the downtown San Diego pier, a Coronado Ferryman assisted Grace, and then Aunt Alice up the plank.

  “Young men appreciate beauty before age.” Aunt Alice reprimanded, making the worker blush red through his tanned brown skin.

  “Aunt Alice, stop it. You’re incorrigible.” Grace gave the Ferryman a reassuring smile.

  “Embarrassing youth is one of the few amusements of middle age,” Aunt Alice said.

  “As is the satisfaction of tipping well.” She added, handing him five dollars, and eliciting a relieved smile.

  They walked down Broadway street, carefully lifting up their long skirts, trying to protect themselves from the dust of a hodgepodge of new automobiles mixed with horse carriages. The U.S. Grant Hotel stood majestically apart from all the other buildings. She hated the separate women’s entrance. Why couldn’t she just walk in the same door as the men?

  The street car clanged loudly and then gave one final heave, as if exhausted from carrying people and packages on their journey. Grace yearned to see Uncle Charles again. Forgetting the disappearing funds, she only wanted one more visit with him.

  Aunt A
lice seemed more like a stranger every day. And drawn as she felt to Jack, how could she ever trust anyone? If she fell in love with anyone, he’d probably die on her. She’d be an island like her beloved Coronado. If only she could feel half as solid and stable.

  She knew the psychology was simple. Her childhood role models were successful, distant men. So she would always be drawn to successful, distant men.

  Aunt Alice put an arm through Grace’s as they strolled down the street. “It’s going to be alright. We will find out who did this. The insurance will pay out. And we will keep up appearances. We must keep going to Revolutionary Colonial Daughters and holding our heads up high, Dear. We must remain socially engaged and behave like the well bred women we are in this ghastly world.”

  “It anchors me. “

  “What does Dear?”

  “Revolutionary Colonial Daughters. It gives me a sense of identity and strength. Knowing I came from a courageous line.”

  “Of course it does, Dear,” Aunt Alice said, patting Grace’s arm. “Lineage provides a tremendous comfort. Provided it’s eminently well born of course.”

  The San Diego Union printed Charles Hall’s obituary at the top of the page.

  Prominent Local Lawyer Killed By Gunshot

  Charles Hall, prominent local lawyer, died by gunshot in Coronado. He is survived by his beloved wife, Alice, a member of Revolutionary Colonial Daughters and The Mayflower Society, and his unmarried niece, Grace. He was predeceased by his parents, sister, and brother-in-law.

  Grace threw the paper down. Leave it to Aunt Alice to feature herself in someone else’s obituary.

  “I want to find out what happened to Uncle Charles,” Grace said.

  “The Pinkerton Detective will do that for us. The one with the name like a nursery rhyme.” Aunt Alice replied.

  “Jack?”

  “Yes.” Aunt Alice looked remarkably unruffled for a new widow. It was as if Uncle Charles death was a mere inconvenience.

  Uncle Charles’ body, after photographs and prodding by the coroner, remained at a downtown San Diego undertaker’s office, strategically located between a gun shop and a speakeasy. Aunt Alice was saying that given current pecuniary circumstances, she thought it would be most prudent to have an economical coffin.