Murder Most Convenient: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery

by Robert Colton

  I had remembered them differently. At the wedding, I never matched the right names to right faces. At the funeral, everyone was just a dash of black clothing and sad faces. Other than the thin woman, whom I did not recognize, they were all quite colorful and youthful despite the fact that each couple had sons nearly my age.

  They greeted me warmly, and then I introduced Lucy.

  “So good to have you here. I am Nicholas Stayton. This is my wife, Ruth.” Nicholas was tall, and in his youth, I imagine he had been gangly. His light brown hair was oiled and parted to the side; he had small hazel-colored eyes, and the best way to describe his features is to say he looked very British.

  Ruth, slightly tall, had sharp features; she reminded me of a bird of prey. All the same, she was very friendly as she reached for Lucy’s little gloved hand and gave it a firm shake.

  Next, Nicholas’s older brother stepped forward. Randolph couldn’t have been much past his mid-forties. He looked very much like his brother, with just a bit more weight on his frame.

  “Oh, yes, our dear girl’s friend Lucy; didn’t we meet you at the wedding?” he said, sounding all too familiar and very shifty.

  Lucy played it off well. She gave a little shrug and responded, “I don’t recall.”

  An attractive platinum blonde glided between Lucy and Randolph, and I had the distinct impression that she made a habit of separating her husband from young women.

  Taking Lucy’s hand, she said, “I am Joan. Don’t mind my husband; he recognizes every girl with a sweet face.” In a pitch that edged toward sarcasm, she concluded, “They remind him of me in my youth.”

  Ruth forced that unnatural laugh that had nothing to do with humor, then she introduced the gaunt woman at her side, “This is Phyllis Masterson; she’s like family to us.”

  As I have described Ruth as hawkish, how do I give detail to Phyllis? She had the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. The pupils could not be discerned from the iris. Her short hair was jet black, died this color that rarely occurs in nature. Attired in a long grey dress, she appeared to be a charcoal sketch in contrast to those in lively watercolors beside her.

  Nicholas seemed to recognize the timid smile I forced as Phyllis, in a begrudged fashion, took my hand with her limp, bony claw. “Right,” he said, “well then, come on into the house.”

  Six wide stone steps led to the door, where a young male servant held the red leash of an apricot-colored Afghan hound.

  Ruth stroked the dog’s narrow head as she passed. “Nate is terrible with stairs.”

  “Do they even have stairs in Kabul?” said Joan, and the little group echoed their shared fake laughter, this being some inside joke. (I would later learn that the dog actually came from Kabul, a gift of the well-known breeder, but this information doesn’t seem to fit into my story, nor does the jest seem any more amusing having explained it.)

  Halfway up the wide stairs, I turned back to look at Nicholas, who had just winced. He seemed to have a bit of difficulty with the steps himself. “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Oh, fine. A bit of struggle with stairs,” he said in a soothing manner.

  Ruth added, “He was in an automobile accident; a drunk rammed into him.”

  Nicholas doubled his speed up the last two steps in way of playing down his injury and said merrily, “We are just a bunch of cripples at the old country manor, aren’t we, Phyllis?”

  I then noticed that Phyllis held her left arm, bent at the elbow, very rigidly under her slight bosom. The thin hand was clasped tightly, making a street boxer’s fist.

  Nicholas’s comment brought about the first genuine smile I had seen on the pale woman’s face. As Ruth and Joan scolded him, Phyllis said, “Indeed, we are, Mr. Nicky.”

  After winking at Phyllis, Nicholas stopped just as we were about to pass through the threshold of the two open doors. “Right. Now, then, Viviane told us in her letter that you had your heart set on writing one of those whodunits. I had the staff all turned out for you along the drive; that’s how they do it in those books, isn’t it? All proper and done up nice. Thought you would like the effect. I am afraid that’s the best we can do. You’ll have to use your imagination for the rest. We live a quiet life here in the country. No scandal, I’m afraid.”

  Famous last words, I thought to myself, as I said, “I do thank you for your kind hospitality. I’m just after the setting; my muse will tell me the rest.”

  They all gave me jolly smiles, but just as Mother Stayton had warned, the glare in their eyes was distinctively cold.

  Ruth ushered me in, Phyllis at her side. I felt as if the grey lady was watching my face, expectant of something to happen.

  Well, I was thunderstruck; passing through the vestibule, I felt as if I were stumbling into a French art gallery.

  Ruth stretched her arms out and slowly spun a little half circle. “We just had it done; it is French modern art. I hear the term Art Deco is what it is being called...”

  “Damned expensive is what I call it,” Nicholas said with good humor.

  Sounding almost suggestive, Randolph remarked, “The place looks like a woman's boudoir.”

  No, a nightclub, I thought. Where dark-stained wooden paneled walls had been, teal and peach Formica shined under a garish chrome and white glass chandelier. Modern art, the sort with faces done in geometric shapes, perched on these slick walls. In place of what should have been a large oak table with a marble top at the center of the grand foyer, was a black lacquer and chrome piece of furniture. Exotic flowers, not grown in any English country garden, stood from a rectangular mirrored vase.

  The winding staircase, first leading to a landing on the second floor and then upward to a third floor, was completely covered in cream-colored carpet. The spindles of the banister were shiny black, and the hand rail was jade. All that was missing was the sound of a jazz band and the bustle of men in black tie and women in evening attire.

  All I could manage to say was, “Lucy, have you ever seen such a place?”

  She just shook her pretty little head; of course she hadn’t.

  Joan spoke, attempting to sound witty, “The French exhibition is limited to just these front rooms. There’s still a natty couch or two and some real wood furniture the deeper you go.”

  Ruth ran her hand down Phyllis’s good arm and said to me, “They all hate it, save Phyllis and I. We went to Paris last year, and I was quite taken with the style.”

  Without thought, words came out of my mouth, “It is lovely.”

  Phyllis’s voice was as harsh as her appearance. “No, it is garish, but that is the intention.”

  “It has succeeded,” Randolph quipped.

  I felt an uncomfortable tension. It seemed these five people lived among each other in the same manner as a harem of Siamese fighting fish, nipping at one another when crossed.

  Nicholas gestured to the porters carrying in our baggage and suggested, “I’m sure you would like to get to your rooms to freshen up.”

  Chapter Three

  Lucy slipped into my room with her notebook and said in a whisper, “All that is missing is the vicar.”

  Our rooms were lovely. Filled with old bric-a-brac, heavy curtains, dark wood, all very English manor in appearance.

  I was setting out my many photographs of Xavier on my vanity table. Lucy glanced at a photo and then to me, her smile a bit nervous. For here, I must say if I have not made it clear before, my dear husband had been a most handsome young man. These are not the words of a loyal and adoring wife, but a simple fact.

  Despite my mother’s opinion of me, I am no great beauty. Attractive enough, but my amber hair, kept at a fashionably short length, won’t take to a permanent wave. My skin tone is neither light nor dark, and my eyes are an unremarkable shade of medium brown.

  The unspoken question had always been, how did I manage to catch Xavier’s eye, especially in that crowded dining room at Union Station? Well, I don’t know the answer, but I thank the Good Lord every day that
I did.

  In reply to Lucy’s jest, I said, “Is the vicar the sweet one or the sour one?”

  Lucy was too kind to state that we seemed to have enough sour dispositions. She just scrunched up her little forehead and smiled.

  I stepped near the window and gazed outside. A brilliant green lawn swept away some distance to a row of grand old tall trees. The afternoon sun was dazzling, and the blue sky looked nothing like the dusty haze that floated over London.

  Lucy looked out, over my shoulder, and said, “It’s very pretty, isn’t it?”

  “Too pretty. Where's the fog, and why isn't it raining? I was hoping for atmosphere,” I lamented.

  “Well, it is the middle of May,” Lucy said apologetically.

  I gave a great sigh and then turned to the writing table that had been put in the room for me. The new typewriter that Mr. Jack had ordered for us was already sitting on the desk. “Well, what do we have so far?”

  Lucy opened her notepad and said, “A French domestic, unable to return to Paris because of some war crime.”

  I lost all reserve and retorted, “He could just go downstairs and find himself in Paris.”

  Lucy giggled and said, “The couple on the train, very sketchy, rushing off to rendezvous with Mr. Ralston.”

  “He didn’t have a lipstick smudge on his color, nor she a missing earring,” I remarked, implying they were boring.

  I think Lucy was becoming fearful that my interest in writing would play out as well as my interests in painting, golf, or knitting had. “Your master sleuth, have you given her a name yet?” she asked.

  I was still waiting for my muse to speak. “Not yet; for now, she is Miss X.”

  Lucy clapped her hands and said, “What a riot.”

  The significance was lost on me. “Why do you say that?”

  She put a petite hand to her chin and made a little frown that somehow appeared jovial. “I guess you wouldn’t know, would you? That’s what the staff back home calls you, well, not Miss, but rather Mrs. X, short for—”

  “Mrs. Xavier,” I said in a faraway voice. A queer feeling passed over me, like when an angel whispers in your ear to tread carefully, and the person in front of you steps in a puddle. “Yes, Miss X.”

  Lucy did not perceive the wave of emotion that overtook me as I realized I had been quite destined to write my novel. She asked me, almost giddy, “What about Miss X’s sidekick?”

  I knew it would please her, so I suggested, “For now, let’s call her Miss W.”

  Lucy’s beautiful porcelain skin went flush with pink. “W, X, oh, that is rich.”

  “And so forth, we will call the victim Y and the culprit Z.” I thought to myself, Now I’m cooking with gas!

  ***

  We were called down to tea just as multiple chimes called out four o’clock. (Now, do I explain to my American readers that “Tea”—as it is called—refers to not only the beverage, but a light meal? In St. Louis this was not the custom. Of course, at the Plaza Hotel in New York they did put on a proper tea; maybe it is only in the Midwest we lacked this oddly timed light repast?)

  Lucy and I had both changed our attire. Mother Stayton was counting on us to do her late husband’s branch of the Stayton family proud.

  It wasn’t until we met atop the staircase that we realized that we were both in a variant of the same outfit. I with a little light green hat and matching gloves, Lucy in mauve. We both protested to change so the other would not need to, and then decided it would be a funny subject of conversation if we remained nearly twins.

  Once seated side by side on a peach divan in the newly decorated drawing room, it was Joan who commented, “You two look like the cover of H and N’s spring catalog.”

  Thankfully, Lucy did not take this as the insult it was meant to be. Rather spitefully, I silently reminded myself that Joan, the elder of the two cousins’ wives had played witness to her husband fall on hard times. Her tongue had been sharpened by envy; I, the victim, had done nothing to incur her disdain.

  Ruth sucked in her breath, as if a blasphemy had been uttered under her roof. She then said, “You two look quite pretty. We are all rather tweedy out here in the country. Mind you, we do still dress for dinner.”

  Nicholas remarked, “Satin after seven, as they say.”

  Ruth snapped her fingers to call the lovely dog to her side as she said in an almost guttural pitch, “No one says that, Nicky.”

  Nicholas smiled at me as he shrugged and rolled his eyes. Yes, this was how they all spoke to each other, I thought, and knew that our little trip would be filled with veiled insults that we were unaccustomed to.

  Ruth poured the tea, and, as Lucy and I were guests, we were served first. Nervous servants stood at attention as we delicately picked at some of the little prim sandwiches on the tri-tiered silver stand.

  Randolph then grabbed at several sandwiches of smoked salmon as his wife poured their own drinks. “Don’t eat all of those; where are your manners?” Joan’s hiss went ignored, as I’m sure it often did.

  Nicholas, seemingly the most polite of the group, said, “Now tell us, dear, we’ve had so little chance to speak with you before, where about is Saint Louis? Is it closer to New York or Los Angeles?”

  I took a sip of my tea to wash down the dry cucumber sandwich and said, “Actually, it is in the middle of those two cities.”

  Eyebrows were raised. I knew they thought I was a rube, but I didn’t care. Nicholas asked, “So it is near Chicago, where all of the gangsters are?”

  Joan barked out her harsh laugh, the fake sound that translated into the words, You sound like an idiot. “Nicky, I think they have gangsters all over America.”

  “Prohibition, what a dreadful idea,” Randolph said, swirling his cup of tea as if it were a highball.

  Ruth nodded her chin in agreement. “What does your family think of Prohibition?”

  I gave a little shrug and replied, “Very little. My father has a man who keeps him stocked with whiskey.”

  Nicholas made a silly gasp, as if he was shocked. “Isn’t your father a doctor? Couldn’t he lose his medical license for such an offense?”

  “I doubt that. The chief of police would have to explain why he frequents our home so often and never suspected my father of illegal activity.”

  This produced the polite chuckles that I anticipated, which were quickly broken by the sound of Ruth’s voice, “Dear Phyllis, there you are. We started without you.”

  The grey lady pressed her lips together, making an imitation of a smile. She seemed to absorb a bit of the light from the festive art deco-inspired room.

  Ruth turned toward her friend and said, “We were just hearing all about Prohibition.” She waited for Phyllis to take what must have been her normal seat and went on to say, “What a shame we didn’t make it to that speakeasy Fredrick told us about in New York.”

  Nicholas chimed in, “I hear what they serve at those places will cause blindness.”

  Randolph snatched up another little smoked salmon sandwich and asked me if I had ever been to a speakeasy.

  “Oh, no, but my brothers have told me about a place they have been. It takes more than an hour to get there by motorcar, and it is in a cave,” I replied.

  Once more, they looked at me as if I had told them we kept cattle in the house back in Missouri.

  Joan pointed an orange scone at me and said, “A cave?”

  “It isn’t as it sounds. The place has tables with checkered linen and a jazz band. It’s like any nightclub, but in a cave rather than a building.”

  Nicholas came to my aid and said, “How innovative.”

  I sipped my tea and nodded politely. It was time to let someone else speak. I looked to Ruth and asked, “Were you recently in New York?”

  Ruth replied, “Just last autumn.” She gave a little pout and said, “I had no idea that the Waldorf Astoria was no longer the place to stay.”

  Attempting to relocate my social status from farmhand to worldly y
oung woman, I remarked, “Yes, it is rather shabby these days. The Plaza Hotel is the place to stay.”

  Ruth nodded agreeably as Joan shot me a sour glance and dropped her half-eaten scone on the little china plate in her hand.

  I made another attempt to move the role of speaker to someone else. Looking to Phyllis, who neither ate nor drank from the selection before us, I asked, “Did you enjoy your trip to New York?”

  The last word I had spoken wasn’t even off my tongue when I noticed that everyone's eyes, save Phyllis’s, turned all beady. It was as if they had just heard a piece of fine crystal being shattered in the next room.

  In an icy voice, Phyllis replied, “The trip was fine.”

  Thinking I hadn’t the wits to realize this was a sensitive topic, Ruth quickly said, “I took Phyllis to the states to see a specialist.” As she spoke, I couldn’t help but glance at Phyllis’s left arm, clenched to her tightly, the hand a small fist. “We did not hear the news that we had hoped.”

  Nicholas stood from his chair and stepped to the side of his fellow cripple, as he had put it. He patted the woman’s shoulder and said, “She’s doing much better than before the trip.”

  Phyllis stared at me; rather, she almost seemed to stare through me, as the others nervously said something very agreeable. Nicholas then redirected the conversation. “Right. Well now, tell us about this novel you are writing. Have you secured an agent yet?”

  “Not as of yet, although I do have one in mind. His name is Mr. Harland Orenstein.” (This is a little token for you, Mr. Orenstein. You see, it took Mr. Jack a full afternoon of placing telephone calls to a number of important people to find out who represented the leading authors of the genre. You should do better to circulate your name.)

  Nicholas nodded and said, “Never heard of the chap. How about your plot, I suppose some poor person is going to get bumped off, is that how they say it?”

  “Yes, there will have to be a person with a secret, and then someone with motive to do the dirty deed,” Lucy remarked with nervous glee.