by Emily Queen
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Murder Next Door
Emily Queen
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2019 Emily Queen
All Rights Reserved, worldwide.
No part of this book or any of its contents may be reproduced, copied, modified or adapted, without the prior written consent of the author, unless otherwise indicated for stand-alone materials.
Chapter One
Rosemary Lillywhite scowled and flung yet another dress into a rapidly growing discard pile, noting with frustration that her wardrobe was nearly as empty as her suitcase. In a weak moment, she had allowed her dearest friend, Vera, to clear out anything she considered too somber. Since then, she’d deftly avoided Vera’s rabid attempts to drag her into the dress shops. However, faced with the task of packing for a holiday in Cyprus, Rose’s sense of victory evaporated.
With a sigh, she flipped the lid of the case closed and paced the breadth of her bedroom. Since she would not be embarking on this trip alone, she knew she could rely upon Vera to rally to the occasion and bring along more than enough clothing for them both. With that settled, her thoughts wandered back in the direction they had been taking ever since her brother, Frederick, had announced his choice of traveling companion.
It wasn’t as though Frederick had intended to make Rosemary uncomfortable by inviting Desmond Cooper along; after all, young girls tended not to share their secrets with their older brothers, particularly when those secrets involved a case of heart-wrenching, unrequited puppy love. Of course, Rosemary was no longer an awkward twelve-year-old girl, and she hadn’t given her brother’s childhood pal a second thought since the moment she’d met Andrew Lillywhite—the man who would become her husband and the love of her life.
Except, Andrew had passed away almost a year before, and just the idea of spending time with someone about whom she once enjoyed romantic daydreams made her feel as though she were betraying his memory.
You’re not betraying anyone, and Andrew would want you to be happy. Rose could hear Vera’s voice in her head as clearly as if her friend had been whispering in her ear, and she sighed.
It didn’t matter anyway, because Rosemary had no intention of finding herself still attracted to Desmond Cooper. She hoped he’d grown some sort of hump or that he had begun to go prematurely bald—anything to put a nail in the coffin of her childhood crush. What Rose wanted was a healthy dose of sun, sand, and seawater—and a chance to forget her troubles, even if only for a couple of weeks.
The main attraction of the holiday rested in Rosemary’s desire to get away from the city of London—and not for a quick jaunt in the countryside, but somewhere even further where nobody knew her as a poor, lonely widow. It was more than just an indulgent whim; it was something she needed to do for the sake of her own sanity.
Aside from the fact that she’d lost her husband, Rosemary was haunted by other ghosts she’d prefer to leave at home. Just a few weeks prior, she’d been involved in a murder investigation after finding a dead body at a party she’d attended near her parents’ country house in the village of Pardington. Since then, she’d been in a sort of limbo state, wondering what to do with her life and whether her calling was, as she’d always believed—art—or if she was meant for something different, something entirely unprecedented for a woman.
While Rosemary’s mind wandered to and fro, she tuned out all the noise around her. Gertrude, the cook, prepared for supper by pounding a piece of veal into submission with all the tenderness of a workman swinging a sledgehammer. The housekeeper’s broom swished back and forth across the hallway floor, its swipes punctuated by the heavy thump of her footsteps. Rose’s maid, Anna, kept a running commentary with the butler, Wadsworth, as he did whatever it was that butlers did, discussing the details of the upcoming holiday. All these sounds of the household below her moving in its undulating rhythm turned to white noise too indistinct to pierce her thoughts.
All of this Rosemary missed, and she might have also missed the sound of angry voices if she hadn’t tripped over one of the hangers she’d haphazardly thrown aside and found herself nearly kissing the floor.
One wall of her bedroom butted up against the parlor of the adjacent townhouse, and the most Rose had ever heard were the muted notes of soft jazz that occasionally lulled her to sleep. Until recently, anyway, when other rumblings had become more frequent.
Pushing herself up from the floor, Rosemary leaned a little closer to the wall because, well, nobody was around to chide her for eavesdropping, and she was as curious as any other person in the world. It mattered little because all she heard was the sound of raised voices, both male and female, followed by the distant slamming of a door and then a short, muffled spate of crying.
Soft of heart, Rosemary wished for a way to offer comfort without intruding on her neighbor’s privacy, or worse, without seeming like a busybody. What does one say in those circumstances? Rosemary couldn’t think of the proper etiquette for knocking on the door of an acquaintance to pry into her affairs.
Still, being merely neighbors hadn’t stopped Abigail from bringing round a platter of cakes or a plate of supper every evening for a fortnight after Andrew passed away. Realizing now that she’d not taken the time to thank the woman for her kindness, Rose felt a debt was owed and that the time to repay it had come.
Knowing she ought to return to the task at hand but accepting that her curious mind wouldn’t be content if she didn’t at least attempt to find out what was going on next door, Rosemary sighed. With a wry expression on her heart-shaped face, she descended the stairs and made her way onto the front stoop.
Number 8 Park Road, where Rosemary lived above her late husband’s private investigative office, was situated one house down from the corner lot where Dr. and Mrs. Redberry resided. Their front stoop stood just beside Rosemary’s, but unlike Number 8, the neighboring townhouse bordered two streets and featured an entirely separate entrance to the ground-floor office where Dr. Redberry tended to his dental patients.
As fate would have it, Mrs. Redberry sat on the steps with her head in her hands, partially hidden by an enormous hydrangea bush. Steeling herself, Rose prepared to overstep the boundaries of neighborly decorum by poking her nose into business that was none of her concern.
How could she simply walk away from someone in obvious pain, though? Especially when the woman had been nothing but kind to her during the years they’d shared a wall.
“Abigail, are you quite well?” Rose asked, poking her head around the wrought iron handrail and casting a sympathetic look in the woman’s direction.
Startled, Abigail turned wide, red-rimmed eyes Rosemary’s way, and attempted to collect herself. “I’m fine, thank you.” She replied with a sniffle and a forced smile.
Like hell you are, Rosemary thought to herself, but said gently, “You don’t look fine to me. Sometimes it helps to talk to someone, and I have found that the most receptive audiences are often people
you wouldn’t have expected.”
Perhaps, in her preoccupation with her own troubles, she’d overlooked a possible friend. Abigail Redberry wasn’t much older than Rose herself, and judging by her simple sunflower-colored dress and makeup-free face, they might actually have a lot in common.
“I just … I don’t know … I’m at a loss, to be perfectly honest,” Abigail finally said with a sigh. Her face began to scrunch up again, and it took a visible effort for her to regain her composure. “Martin and I have never argued like this before. I thought we had the perfect marriage. I’ve known the man since we were children, but lately, I’m never certain where we stand. The smallest things set off his temper, and he has been—” Abigail paused as though catching herself before revealing too much, and then continued. “He is not the gentle man I once knew.”
Rosemary sat down on the step beside Abigail and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. “What seems to be the problem if you don’t mind my asking?”
Abigail shook her head. “I find myself somewhat embarrassed to say, but I bought a rather expensive dress for the theater tonight—at Martin’s request, mind you—but when the bill came, he was furious.” Her almond-shaped eyes widened again, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have told you that. He’d kill me if he knew I had discussed our finances with a virtual stranger.”
“I assure you, Abigail, I won’t breathe a word to anyone. And we’re not exactly strangers. We’re neighbors, and by all rights, we should have become friends long ago.” Furthermore, she felt a sense of conviction, as the words were leaving her lips, that they were true.
Face brightening, Abigail nodded once and put on a stiff upper lip. “It will all come right. I’m overreacting, of course. Martin is under a great deal of strain with his work. There’s a dentist over on the high street who has been trying to steal his patients right out from under him. I believe he’s worried about our livelihood, though I expect it’s just a minor storm and everything will come right in the end.” She repeated the statement as if saying it over and over might make it true.
Laying a gentle hand on Abigail’s arm, Rosemary said, “I’m sure it will, and you let me know if you need anything. I have a willing ear and a dry shoulder to cry on.” Just in time, she remembered to add, “Though I’m sorry to say, I’ll be on holiday for the next few weeks. When I get back, why don’t we have lunch?”
“Thank you, Rosemary. Really. It means a lot, and I feel better already. I should go prepare Martin’s tea tray. He’ll be ready for it soon.” Abigail bade her goodbye and retreated into her home with a bit more spring in her step than Rosemary imagined she’d walked outdoors with.
The conversation with Abigail reminded Rosemary of her own husband, and the memory brought both pain and gratitude. Andrew had rarely ever raised a voice to his wife, and he certainly wouldn’t have begrudged her the right to speak to her friends about any marital issue they might have had. She thought Dr. Redberry sounded like a cad, but wouldn’t have dared express her opinion aloud.
And that was part of why she feared she would never again find a man to love. Andrew had set the bar so high, it would be a miracle if anyone else could reach it. Rosemary let the thought slide right back out of her head. She had no intention of allowing anyone to try anytime soon, regardless, and ignored the voice in the back of her mind that kept whispering Desmond’s name in her ear.
Chapter Two
Rosemary walked back in the direction she’d come, sat down on her own front stoop, and leaned back on her palms while the sun shone down on her upturned face. Winter had been intolerably long that year, and her first holidays without Andrew had taken their toll. Now that summer’s heat had returned, Rosemary wanted to soak up as much of it as she could. It was almost as though she had awakened from a terrible nightmare, and even though she still mourned, the fear and the pain and the dread of it all had begun to dissipate.
“Excuse me, Miss.” Anna appeared in the doorway with a large tin cradled in one hand. “Cook has made up a batch of boiled sweets for the trip. She said to tell you she used a special recipe and added plenty of ginger as a remedy for seasickness. Shall I put them in the black valise or the brown one?”
Wrinkling her nose, Rosemary replied, “I’d greatly prefer you to wrap them in brown paper and drop them in the nearest bin. I absolutely cannot abide the flavor of ginger.” Looking over her shoulder, Rosemary took in Anna’s pinched expression and assessed her maid’s mood as fearful. Cook could be formidable when she got an idea in her head. “Though I suppose we could offer them to Vera. She has a passion for the warmer spices.”
“Yes, Miss,” Normally talkative, Anna seemed somewhat sober, and Rose wondered if there was something troubling her maid. Before she could ask, Anna hurried back inside.
As though thinking of her friend had summoned her, a town car pulled up to the curb and had barely come to a full stop before Vera veritably bounced from the rear door. “Rosie, dear!” she called, sashaying across the footway to kiss her friend on both cheeks. “You’re positively glowing. I told you a little sun would do you some good. I simply cannot wait to sink my toes into the sand. Have Frederick and his little friend arrived yet? Or am I the first and best prepared?”
Vera fired off questions without waiting for Rose to answer, a habit Rose had long since stopped chiding her for and simply accepted as an immutable facet of her personality.
“Of course not. You remember the way he and Desmond were as children, don’t you? Always chasing metaphorical butterflies—and oftentimes, real ones. I imagine they’ve found themselves embroiled in some outrageous pursuit yet again and won’t arrive until the final second. Or, they’re skulking behind the rose bushes, listening to our conversation.” Rose peered around her with a raised eyebrow to illustrate her point; she was only half kidding, and wouldn’t have been at all surprised if her joke was right on the money.
Vera laughed and instructed her driver to unload her luggage from the boot of the car just as Wadsworth opened the front door of the townhouse. “Miss Vera, it’s a pleasure to see you, as always.” Rosemary’s butler had a soft spot for her best friend, even though Vera enjoyed teasing him as often as possible. Had she been anyone else, Wadsworth would have given her his version of the evil eye, but even he could not resist Vera’s charms. As if many men had ever dared to try.
“And you as well,” Vera said, allowing him to take her hand and give it a gentle squeeze before handling the luggage. “If you’re not careful, Rose, I’ll steal this fine specimen away from you.” She winked at Rosemary behind Wadsworth’s back.
Rose grinned, “I’m not worried. Your flat is far smaller than my townhouse. The poor man would be bored inside of an afternoon.”
Tossing her head, Vera retorted in her loftiest tone, “My flat is fabulous, as you well know. What would I do with more space? I’m only one person, after all.” The color drained from her face as she realized she might have made an enormous gaffe. Rose hadn’t intended on living alone; she had expected to have started a family by now. “I’m sorry, Rose, I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“Don’t apologize, Vera, for goodness sake. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not made of glass. At least, not anymore.”
Vera said nothing but gave her friend a reassuring pat on the hand. “I know, Rosie, and I’m still sorry. My mouth often runs without the benefit of my brain being engaged.”
“You know my invitation to come live here with me still stands, don’t you?” Rose ignored the apology and instead zeroed in on the more pressing concern. Vera’s point was valid. Rosemary practically rattled around in the townhouse all alone, and she wouldn’t mind the intrusion. In fact, it might give her something else upon which to focus.
“I do,” Vera said slowly, “and I’m seriously considering the prospect. Why don’t we see how this holiday goes, and then decide? You might discover that my annoying habits have worsened rather than improved since our school days.”
&nb
sp; “Of that, I have no doubt.” Rosemary softened the criticism with a smile and added, “Just as I’m certain all your positive attributes far outshine the bad, and even if they didn’t, I wouldn’t care a jot.” She hoped there wasn’t another reason for Vera’s reluctance, but didn’t have time to dwell on the subject because just then, another car pulled to the curb.
Without even realizing she was doing it, Rose held her breath and smoothed her hair. Her actions did not, however, escape Vera’s notice. Whether she knew it or not—and Vera believed she did, deep down—Rosemary was excited to see Desmond after all these years, and Vera intended to thoroughly enjoy watching the show.
Frederick exited first and tossed a dazzling grin in Rosemary’s direction. A lock of golden hair the same shade as hers fell into his eyes, and he brushed it aside absently while making a beeline for his sister. He scooped her up into a hug and swung her around until she giggled.
“Put me down, Freddie! Right this instant!” But there was no sting to her words. For that, he was grateful, since the playful mood seemed more like her old self. Frederick hoped the time away from London would bring back even more of her vigor.
Rose might have known her brother to be full of mischievous intent, but she had been wrong in her assumption that Frederick hadn’t brought Desmond along in an attempt to unnerve her. She had believed Freddie clueless regarding her girlish infatuation with the man, but she’d underestimated the amount of attention brothers pay to their younger sisters. Now, Frederick had Rosemary right where he wanted her and, like Vera, couldn’t help but wonder what would happen when she came face-to-face with Desmond.
For both of them, it was a little bit of a letdown, because Rose had got quite used to hiding her emotions. On the inside, however, her heartbeat quickened while she held her breath and waited for Desmond to emerge from the backseat of the town car.
