Murder at the Ostrich Farm
Copyright © 2019 by London Lovett
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Murder on the Angels Flight Trolley
About the Author
Chapter One
Saturday, June 16, 1923
Dear Mrs. Dewberry,
I know you've told me to call you Ginny, but I still haven't gotten used to writing it. And I always feel that letters require a bit more formality, even if it's just a hastily scrawled missive between friends. Since that's what we are now, friends. I think our kitchen window tea parties qualify us as such, don't you?
Well, I can tell you last week's jewel thief case ended with a bizarre twist that I should have seen coming, but I confess, it took me completely by surprise. It turns out the Everetts, the people who hired us to find their stolen diamond necklace, had staged the whole thing to commit insurance fraud. It seemed they had retained our services to give credence to their woeful tale of being robbed of a family heirloom. Apparently, they also thought we were too inexperienced to actually uncover their scheme. They were an unhappy couple, to say the least. I suppose, when it comes to being able to size up my clients, I still have a lot to learn in this private investigator business. Uncle Sherman always said the first duty of a good P.I. is to determine the true motive of your client. Of course, it's not always easy to detect dishonesty, and it didn't help that my partner was preoccupied. Jasper is utterly consumed and obsessed with Houdini's death-defying stunt in New York. He talked of nothing else all week. When it was time to discuss the case, he managed somehow to bird walk it right back into Harry's harrowing feat. Not to diminish what Mr. Houdini accomplished. Being locked into one of those monstrous straightjackets is a nightmare all on its own, let alone being swaddled in one hanging upside down, forty feet in the air. The man is certainly extraordinary and worthy of Jasper's awe and admiration. I just wish Mr. Houdini could have waited until this week to perform the trick. We have nothing on the calendar yet. After the disappointing end to last week's case and the few middling, mediocre cases since the stuntman's murder, I'm feeling a little disheartened. Perhaps there'll be a murder soon. My gosh, what am I saying? I sound like such a ghoul! Still, it seems the papers are long overdue for a good, scandalous headline. Or at least a headline that doesn't have to do with Harry Houdini. Oh, but I did see an article farther back in the paper, between the advertisement for Ostermoor Mattresses and Lowney's Cocoa (can you imagine they spent money to advertise cocoa to California in June?). It seems President Harding is planning to travel to the wilderness of Alaska in July. I'll bet that's an adventure. Daddy says the ground there is permanently frozen, and in summer, the sun stays up until midnight. I hope the president has a wonderful trip. I'm sure it'll be nice to get out of that stodgy, stately old White House for a bit. I just hope he remembers to dress warmly. We certainly don't need our president to come down with a flu or cold.
I'm so happy to have a free Saturday. Well, not free but one that doesn't involve investigating and ferreting out dishonest clients. I may or may not have mentioned it, (sometimes I'm in such a dither, I forget what I've written or said at our tea chats) but I'm spending the day with Daddy and Jasper. I've got two of my favorite guys all to myself, and with any luck, the focus will be on ostriches and not Houdini. I'm sure you've heard of the famous Dawson Ostrich Farm in Pasadena. If you haven't, that's all right. I'll bring you some leaflets with pictures. Mr. Dawson has the most impressive collection of those giant birds just strutting around his lovely ranch near the Arroyo Seco. And while ostrich feather adornments aren't quite the rage they were at the turn of the century, the shop on the farm is said to be positively exploding with luxurious feather boas, fans and hats. I've saved up a little extra this week to buy a souvenir at the shop. Jasper and Daddy are looking forward to placing small bets on the ostrich races. Whereas, I'm looking forward to a warm summer day and a picnic with Daddy's special deviled ham sandwiches. He always adds in some of those sweet pickle chips. The farm is so popular, the Red Line stops right across the street. Which is perfect because there is no way our scruffy little Runabout could make it all the way to Pasadena, especially with Daddy and I squeezed together in the passenger seat.
I noticed the sun was having an extremely hard fight with the cloud cover this morning, but I'm certain the gloomy haze will burn off long before we reach the farm. I'm taking along my wide brimmed straw hat to keep the burn off my nose and cheeks. (Otherwise, I will never hear the end of it from Daddy.) I was tempted to wear a sweet, little confection Birdie whipped up for me, a gray crepe de chine with a hand embroidered batiste collar, but I decided it was too nice for a day on a dust filled farm. (My friend's talents know no limits, and I'm the winner at the end of the day. What will I do when she becomes too famous to create special designs for her best friend of modest means?) I pulled one of my summer favorites, a checked gingham frock that always reminds me of the lavender checked gingham dress my mother wore for Easter Sunday. I'm not certain why the dress triggers that memory, considering the only similarity is the gingham fabric, but every time I pull it out of the closet I get a bittersweet tinge of nostalgia thinking about my mom at Easter cutting daisies for the brunch table. Is there anything in your closet that conjures up warm memories?
My first real question about you! I sure am shamefully good at talking about myself. How are you feeling? I know you had a touch of headache last week that you thought came from the blooms on the Crape Myrtle trees in the bungalow yard. I must say, I do love those trees. I think the deep pink one outside your front door is by far the finest of the four. I guess it's harder to enjoy the blooms if they give you a headache. Still, I hope the explosion of pink helps brighten your day. It certainly doesn't brighten up Mr. Wolfe's day. I can't even write the words I heard him muttering as he swept the fallen blooms off his front stoop. That man can find so many things to complain about, it's a wonder he can even get out of bed in the morning. I'm sure he even has rotten things to say about his bedroom slippers and his morning cup of coffee. Two things that bring us normal folk joy, just like the Myrtle blossoms and the visiting birds. Which reminds me, I'll get more seeds to fill our birdhouses. Let Mr. Wolfe complain about the mess. I refuse to let our feathered friends down.
How were the red grapes your nephew brought you yesterday? I saw him with his box of goodies, and the plump grapes sat right on top just asking to be popped into waiting lips. If you put them in the ice box, they are really a summer treat. But you probably alre
ady know that.
I hope you're feeling up to some tea soon, but for now, I've got to get ready. I'm going to hop on the Red Car and head over to Daddy's house for our excursion to the ostrich farm. I just adore those big birds with their silly small heads and huge bodies. They look a little prehistoric, and at the same time, they look like characters out of a comic strip. I feel badly for them having to watch all the other birds fly and swoop through the blue skies while they are stuck firmly on the ground. I can't wait to tell you all about my trip.
Have a wonderful Saturday,
Your friend, Poppy
* * *
Antony, my chubby silver tabby, released a low meow, his gentle reminder that he needed to be fed. He had grown used to my morning routine of letter writing. He knew that when I stuck the pen in the ink well and folded the paper it was time for his breakfast. Cleopatra, his feline mate, was a little more reserved and opted for a silent spin around my ankles, tail curling gently around my calf with the occasional nose nudge for good measure.
I hurried to the kitchen on my tan kidskin pumps, the most logical choice for a warm day on a farm, and grabbed the jar of cat kibble. "I've got a can of tuna in the fridge for tonight as long as you both behave. And by behave I mean no new scratch marks on the curtains. Pretty soon there will just be shredded fabric hanging over the windows."
I finished with the cats and grabbed my hat. It was made of blue braided straw and adorned with a small wreath of flowers. I picked up the letter and hurried out the door. Jasper would probably be pacing Daddy's front room, complaining about how long it took me to get ready and going through his usual rant about waiting for me to tie on bonnets and straighten stockings every morning while he wasted precious minutes of his very important life.
Mrs. Dewberry was in her kitchen window watching the birds shuffle around in the seeds in the birdhouse Daddy built. She spotted me and smiled. I waved the letter in the air and rushed to her front door to push it through the mail slot. Jasper often griped about me spending much of the morning writing letters to my reclusive neighbor when I should be getting ready for work so he and Charlie, our car, didn't have to wait. Especially now, since I had the occasional chat with Mrs. Dewberry through the kitchen window. Virginia 'Ginny' Dewberry had taken to her house after several monumental tragedies, the death of her only son in the war and the loss of her husband a short time later. I was thrilled that my letters had opened a small channel of dialogue with my neighbor, but our tea chats, with the window screen between us, lasted only a few minutes. It was the most Mrs. Dewberry would allow. It was hardly enough to keep her abreast of everything going on in the outside world. Besides, I'd grown rather fond of writing the letters. So Jasper and Charlie would have to wait because I intended to keep the ink flowing.
June in California was the gateway to the hot summer months. Traditionally, the first half of June started with cool, cloudy mornings, moisture from the coast, which eventually burned off to lovely, warm days. Today, the morning gloom was particularly heavy, but I wasn't going to let it color my mood gray. It was going to be an eventful day. I could feel it in the way my heels clacked the sidewalk beneath me.
I left our quaint courtyard and turned toward the main street where I could catch the Red Line to Daddy's house. It was a fifteen minute trip in the car but closer to thirty in the trolley because of all the stops along the way. I was going to be late for certain, and Jasper would be in a lather. But after days of listening to trivial details about the life and exploits of Harry Houdini, I considered my tardiness a bit of payback.
I pulled the brim of my hat lower to avoid the glare reflecting off the sidewalk, cars and houses. June clouds were different than the usual winter clusters. There was no mistaking that the bright summer sun was hiding behind them waiting for its moment in the spotlight. I didn't notice the shiny, lacquer red convertible until it pulled up to the curbside next to me. The soft top had been rolled back. The front and backseat were filled with sunglasses and stylish beach clothes.
"Poppy, where are you off to?" I recognized Wyatt's voice before I spotted him sitting deep in the backseat next to a woman with curly red hair and shiny red lips on his left and a slick looking young man, the kind of guy Jasper would refer to as a darb, a real neat guy, sitting on his right.
Wyatt pulled off his hat. His thick wavy hair pillowed on top of his head. He grabbed the seat in front to hoist himself out from between his bookends. "Come on, doll, get your swimsuit. Gary, here, just got this beauty. (I decided he was talking about the car, a new Cadillac, and not the buxom blonde sitting shotgun in the front seat). We're taking a trip down to Santa Monica, over to Ocean Park for a dip in the good ole Pacific. Get your swimsuit and join us." Wyatt's pearl white teeth were especially dazzling with his suntanned skin. We'd been dating off and on for nearly a year, but as his career in directing took off, I saw less and less of him. With the bevy of beauties surrounding him at the movie studio, I wondered why he bothered with me at all. And since I rarely thought of him, except at times like this when he was sitting in front of me with all his Hollywood good looks and surrounded by stylish friends, I wondered why I bothered with him. I supposed it was because I didn't really want to saddle myself with a steady boyfriend, and Wyatt was anything except steady.
"Thanks for the invite, but I'm heading over to my dad's house. We're taking the Red Line to Pasadena."
Wyatt laughed and the red head next to him crinkled her nose as if I'd said something distasteful. "What ya going out there for, angel?" Wyatt said lightly, "All they've got out there are orange trees and slow driving old ladies."
"I'd say that's a rather loose fitting description of Pasadena," I mused. I was no longer in the mood to tell him about my plans, but all his friends were staring up at me through shiny dark sunglasses, waiting for me to explain why I'd be sitting on a hot, shambling trolley for a trip to Pasadena.
I confidently adjusted the brim of my hat. "We're on our way to the Dawson Ostrich Farm." My explanation resulted in a few snickers from Wyatt's friends. Wyatt, however, saved the moment by looking genuinely disappointed that I wasn't going to tag along for a trip to the beach. That might have been why I bothered with him. Thus far, he hadn't let his budding career and glamorous future go to his head. He was still, for the most part, a gentleman.
He put his hat back on, but it puffed up on his mound of dark gold hair. "I'm sorry to hear you can't go, Poppy. I guess I should have asked you sooner, but we only just came up with the idea."
"Thanks again for the invite, Wyatt. Maybe next time. Have fun at the beach." I waved and walked on, happy to end the curbside conversation.
I picked up my pace to make up for lost time. Either way, I was going to get an earful from Jasper.
Chapter Two
My teeth clattered together as the Red Car went over a particularly bumpy section of track. We were pushed back against the seat as the trolley headed up a slight incline. The San Gabriel Mountains had lost the lush green landscapes of spring and most of the yellow mustard plants had died off leaving behind the drier, less showy chaparral shrubs. Higher up, the peaks were crowned with evergreens. Not one tiny splotch of winter snow had been left behind.
"This should be quite the festive day with the two of you avoiding so much as breathing the same air," Daddy commented from behind his newspaper. He gave it a hearty shake and turned the page.
"Jasper started it by nearly taking my head off the second I stepped into the house."
Jasper snorted. "Yeah, I'd like to nearly take your head off. Then it wouldn't take you thirty minutes to pick a hat. And if you would—"
"Jasper"—Daddy pulled the paper down so he could shoot both of us a disapproving scowl—"if you start harping on her tardiness again, I'm going to—"
Jasper couldn't hold back a grin. "You're going to what? Turn this trolley around?" he asked as he adjusted his cap and sat back against the seat.
I couldn't stop the laugh.
Jasper elbowed me lig
htly. "Hey, remember that time when he was driving us to the movie theater and we started in on each other and he kept threatening to turn the car around." A laugh shot from his mouth before he could finish the story.
I took over from there. "And when he finally followed through and turned the car around, he did it right in front of a police officer." We both fell back with laughter.
"Yes, that was hilarious." Daddy adjusted his reading glasses. "That ticket cost me five dollars. But at least you two have found common ground to call a truce on the silence. Even if it is at my expense." He shook his head and lifted the paper.
"Hey, look at that. That must be the Colorado Street Bridge. I've seen pictures." Jasper pointed out the window. A long bridge with graceful arches stretched across a deep ravine that was lush with heavy foliage. Violet blue pops of color, the last blooms of meadow sage, dotted the overgrown landscape. "They built that whole thing out of concrete, the tallest one of its kind," he continued.
I turned to him with a smile. "You've been reading up on Pasadena." I always felt better when the two of us were back to being good friends. Jasper was too much fun and far too interesting to stay mad at for long. Even if he got grumpy once in a while.
Jasper settled back with a satisfied grin. "Yeah, well you know I like to be informed. Speaking of that—" he sat forward with enthusiasm. "You know they say that Houdini keeps an escape key hidden in his hair. Sometimes he hollows out the heel of his shoe and stashes the key there. That's how he gets out of locks."
Murder at the Ostrich Farm Page 1
