by V. M. Burns
“On behalf of the Shady Acres Retirement Village management and staff, I want to express our condolences to the friends and family of Maria Romanov and Magnus von Braun. We are, of course, extremely saddened when any of our Shady Acres family are taken from us. However, we must recall the good times we spent together. Please join me in raising a glass in salute to our departed friends.” She lifted her glass. “To Maria and Magnus. May their memories live on in the hearts of those who loved and cared for them.” She drank.
Everyone lifted their glasses and drank. I couldn’t help wondering what memories would live on after Maria and Magnus. I’d just learned Magnus was a cruel Nazi responsible for atrocities in building the V-2 missiles, which were responsible for death not only through the exploded bombs, but to the innocent people who were enslaved and forced to work in the mines. My research had given me a very grim picture of conditions for anyone not reflective of Aryan beliefs. Then there was Maria. She was a liar who apparently concocted stories about not only her own life but others to get what she wanted.
Later, I described my encounter with my Jewish friend to Nana Jo. She recognized him immediately. His name was Isaac Horwitz.
The rest of the memorial was uneventful. I stayed about twenty minutes after Miss Bennett’s toasts. Everyone mulled around for a bit and then disbursed. On the drive home, I reflected on the evening. Apart from Isaac Horwitz, nothing else memorable happened, at least not to me. I hoped the others would have more to report when we met tomorrow at the bookstore.
I tried not to think about how quickly the days were speeding by and how far away from a resolution I was. Tomorrow was Thursday and exactly one week before Thanksgiving. That meant I had less than one week to clear Nana Jo’s name or Detective Pitt would arrest her for Maria’s murder. The pressure of that knowledge made my heart race and my breathing was labored. Despite the cold temperatures, I rolled down the windows and let the cold air hit my face.
When I got home, Snickers and Oreo met me at the bottom of the stairs. I let them out before heading upstairs for the night. Dawson and Jillian were gone and the kitchen table was devoid of papers, crumbs, and all evidence of the earlier disarray. There was a plate of cookies on the counter and several dozen in containers for the store. I grabbed two cookies and a glass of milk and headed to my bedroom. I needed to think. Writing and cookies would help expedite the process.
The local police were called. A short, plump young man with a baby face and dark, curly hair arrived twenty minutes later. From an upstairs window, Lady Elizabeth watched as he cycled up the long, winding driveway and then fell trying to dismount his bicycle when his pant leg got caught in the chain. He looked around to see if he was observed and then wrested his pants from the chain and tossed his bike to the ground. He took a few seconds to straighten his uniform and adjust his cap before he rang the bell.
She heard the footsteps as the constable followed Thompkins upstairs. There was a discrete knock and Thompkins entered.
“Sergeant Turnbull,” Thompkins announced and stepped aside for the sergeant to enter the room.
The young man timidly entered the parlor. He started to speak and then appeared to remember his manners and promptly removed his hat and held out his hand. His face was flushed and he looked from Mrs. Churchill to Lady Elizabeth, unsure of which lady protocol dictated he should address first.
Lady Elizabeth stood, extended her hand, and walked toward the young man. “Sergeant Turnbull, I’m Lady Elizabeth Marsh and this is Mrs. Churchill.”
He bowed to Mrs. Churchill and dropped his hat.
Lady Elizabeth and Mrs. Churchill exchanged glances.
“I suppose you’ll want to see . . . the body . . . uh . . . Miss Carlisle,” Lady Elizabeth said.
The sergeant looked puzzled. “Excuse me, m’lady?”
“The young woman who was shot . . .” Lady Elizabeth walked toward the door.
“Yes. Of course.” He followed Lady Elizabeth out of the room and down the hall to a bedroom. The footman Lady Elizabeth met earlier and now knew as Albert had been placed on guard duty in front of the door.
“It’s just in here.” She smiled at Albert.
He smiled, relieved at seeing a familiar face. “Hullo, Duck, am I glad to see you.”
Sergeant Turnbull looked anything but glad to see Albert. He blushed and dropped his hat again. “Sergeant Turnbull,” he said firmly as he picked up the hat.
“Sorry Duc—ah . . . I mean Sergeant Turnbull.”
Lady Elizabeth hid a smile as she unlocked the door and stepped aside so the sergeant could precede her into the room.
Sergeant Turnbull took a few steps into the room and stopped abruptly. He looked at the bed where Jessica lay with a bullet through the center of her forehead. The sergeant turned very pale and then clapped a hand over his mouth and ran from the room, dropping his hat in his haste to leave.
Lady Elizabeth looked around the room while she waited for the constable to return. She noted the window. There was glass on the floor beneath the window James had broken to get inside. She carefully avoided stepping on the glass or disturbing any of the evidence. She glanced around the room. Jessica had clothes strewn all over. She was still wearing the dress she’d worn the night before, but the boa was on the floor, along with other items she had discarded from her suitcase. It appeared Jessica had tried on several outfits before landing on the one she’d chosen. At least, that was the impression Lady Elizabeth got from the disarray. She felt confident the young maid Ethel would have unpacked Jessica’s suitcase when she arrived, just as she, or someone, had unpacked hers.
James entered the room. “Thompkins said the police were here.” He looked around.
“I believe he was taken ill.” Lady Elizabeth turned to face James. “He’s young and I doubt if he’s ever investigated more than a brawl at the local pub.”
“Probably not much more than that happens in sleepy country villages like Westerham.” James frowned.
“Agreed, but when a prominent member of the British Parliament has a murder at his country estate, it could mean trouble.” She looked around to make sure they weren’t overheard.
“I see what you mean.”
“Add in a BBC producer and this could ruin Winston.”
“Where is Burgess, anyway? I’d expect him to be all over this.”
“I believe he and Anthony Blunt drank a lot more than they should. They’re still in bed, as far as I know.”
James looked at his watch. “It’s almost noon.”
“Let’s be thankful for small favors. We need this resolved quickly and efficiently. We need an expert.”
Recognition dawned on the duke’s face. “Detective Inspector Covington?”
Lady Elizabeth nodded. “See if you can reach him and I’ll check on Sergeant Turnbull.”
They left the room. Lady Elizabeth locked the door behind her. She looked at Albert. “Where’s . . . ?”
“He’s in the loo. Barely made it.” His lips twitched as he tried to hide a smile.
“When he’s done, can you please send him down to the parlor?”
Albert nodded.
Lady Elizabeth hurried downstairs. Just as she got to the door of the parlor, she saw Thompkins.
“Telephone, m’lady.” In response to the question in her eyes, he added, “Lady Penelope Carlston.”
Lady Elizabeth hurried to the telephone. “Penelope dear, are you and Victor at the station? I’d completely forgotten you were coming today. Do you need us to send a car?”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Elizabeth, but it doesn’t look as though we’ll be able to come after all. Victor’s great-aunt Prudence arrived unexpectedly.”
“Oh dear. I’m so sorry. We were . . . well, we were looking forward to seeing you both.”
“Is anything wrong?”
Lady Elizabeth hesitated a half second and then hurriedly responded. “What could possibly be wrong? I know Clemmie and Winston were looking forward to seeing you both. Tha
t’s all.”
“Are you sure? I can gladly pack Aunt Prudence off to one of her other relatives if you need me.”
“Don’t be silly, dear. Please send Prudence my love and don’t worry about a thing. All is well here.”
Lady Elizabeth hung up the telephone. She turned and nearly collided with Daphne.
Daphne looked at her aunt. “You better be careful. You know what happened in that book you read to us as children about the little boy who told falsehoods?” She smiled.
Lady Elizabeth patted her nose, took Daphne by the arm, and led her into the parlor. “Let’s hope not, dear. I may have to tell a good many more falsehoods before this day is over.”
Chapter 16
I loved hosting new mystery book clubs. It felt good to see people who were new to the genre discover a new book or author. Their enthusiasm and excitement were infectious and always reminded me why I did this. Jillian’s group was no exception.
Jillian and Emma were the first to arrive. Five other young ladies arrived shortly afterward. All were students at MISU.
I set them up in a quiet space in the back and set out a large plate of Dawson’s cookies. I didn’t want to interfere, so I made sure they knew where the bathroom was and made a speedy retreat to the main area of the store. Traffic was a bit slow, so I had plenty of time to get caught up on the endless paperwork. I sat on a stool behind the register and propped my laptop on the counter. I had an office in the back of the store but since I was working alone today, I needed to be visible in case customers needed help.
I’d just figured out where I left off when I looked up and saw Jillian standing at the counter. “Is everything okay?”
She fidgeted with the scarf around her neck. “I hate to bother you, but we seem to be . . . stuck. None of us really knows what to do or where to start. I was hoping maybe you could help us get started.”
“Certainly.” I would take any excuse to get away from paperwork, but, thankfully, this was something I enjoyed. Deep down I knew I should hire an accountant, but I thought it would be too expensive. However, the more I stared at income sheets and tax forms, the more stressed I became. I made a mental note to contact an accountant before the year ended.
I followed Jillian to the back room. The girls were munching on cookies but not saying much.
So, I said, “I have several book clubs that meet here regularly. Most read mysteries or suspense but a couple are just general book clubs. What kind of books do you like?”
A big-boned Amazon of a girl with purple hair raised her hand. “I’ve seen a few mysteries on television and I enjoyed them, but I don’t know a lot about what kinds of mysteries there are.”
I nodded. “Well, there are lots of books that fall in the mystery classification. Mysteries fall within a category of Crime Fiction. There are cozy mysteries, police procedurals, historic mysteries, suspense, thriller, and true crime. Within each classification, there are subgenres. So, you can have British historical cozy mysteries or contemporary cozies.”
“What’s a cozy?” the Amazon asked.
I got in teacher mode. “It’s hard to come up with a hard set of rules for any book these days, but cozy mysteries are typically set in a smaller, contained area (think country village or manor house) and they have an amateur sleuth who has to figure out whodunit. Rarely is there violence, gratuitous sex, or bad language.”
“Sounds boring,” a petite girl with red hair and a brown sweater chimed in.
“They don’t have to be boring. The focus of a cozy mystery is on the clues and figuring out whodunit. Agatha Christie was the queen of the cozy mystery. You read a story and the author drops clues in along the way. Does it mean something that the butler had mud on his shoes or the maid lied about being in the pool house earlier? It’s a puzzle and you, as the reader, need to put the pieces together to figure it out, hopefully at the same time as the detective.”
“I like books that make my heart race and keep me up all night.” The red-haired girl added, “I don’t mind blood and violence.”
“Not all mysteries are cozies. Traditional mysteries can be quite violent.”
One young lady dressed completely in black, with black fingernails, black lipstick, and a tattoo of Tigger from Winnie-the-Pooh on her neck raised her hand. “I like mysteries, but I also like vampires. Are there any vampire mysteries?”
A couple of girls rolled their eyes.
“There are all kinds of paranormal mysteries. To be completely honest, when you think about it, most books have some type of mystery elements. Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse books could be considered mysteries.”
The Goth vampire lover smiled. “Really? I love the True Blood series. I didn’t know it was a mystery.”
“Well, the classification is questionable, but if you think about the first book, Dead Until Dark, there’s a murder that has to be solved. I actually used it when I was teaching high school.”
A girl dressed in black leggings with a short plaid skirt and turtleneck, who looked like a beatnik with long hair pulled back into a ponytail, laughed. “There’s a lot of sex in those books. I’ll bet the students loved it, but I can’t imagine the parents were thrilled.”
“Actually, my principal was concerned too, so we required a permission slip from the parents. Most were just happy their kids were reading, and they signed.” I looked around the room.
Emma raised her hand. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I do not want to read about vampires.”
A few others nodded.
“There’s a couple of different directions you can go with this.” I walked around so I could see all of their faces at the same time. “You could all read the same book, which might be a bit challenging if your tastes vary. Or, you could all read different books and share your thoughts.”
They looked at each other and nodded.
“I have an idea.” I quickly went out to the bookstore and came back with several books and laid them on the table. “These are all books by Charlaine Harris.” I held up the Sookie Stackhouse book, which I handed to the Goth girl. I learned later her name was Taylor. I picked up another book. “She also writes an Aurora Teagarden true crime mystery series. This is a traditional cozy mystery about a group of people who study true crimes. It features an amateur sleuth, Aurora Teagarden, who is a librarian in a small town in Georgia.” I handed the book to Emma and picked up another one. “This is her Lily Bard series. It’s set in a town called Shakespeare, but it can be sort of dark.” I picked up another book. “This is the Cemetery Girl Trilogy, which is a graphic novel. This is the Harper Connelly series, which features a woman with a power that allows her to find dead people and share their final moments. The Midnight Texas Trilogy is similar to the Sookie Stackhouse series, but darker.”
The girls sorted through the books on the table.
“Is it common to have so many different types of books by the same author?” Jillian asked.
“Not really. Most authors tend to write one particular type of book. Few authors are as diverse and prolific as Charlaine Harris.”
The girls each found a book they wanted to read. I suggested they set a deadline for when they wanted to have the book finished, allowing time for schoolwork and time with family during the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday before they reconvened.
They agreed and stayed to finish off Dawson’s cookies. Most spent time browsing through the bookshelves. A few asked my opinion. Based on what they told me they liked to read, I steered them toward authors I knew wouldn’t disappoint. Almost all of them bought other books. Emma and Jillian were the last to leave.
Jillian kissed my cheek and gave me a hug. “Thank you so much. You were amazing. Have you ever thought of teaching at MISU? You’d be fantastic.”
“Thank you. I considered adjunct teaching, but between the bookstore and writing and . . . well, other things, I haven’t had much time.”
Emma gave me a hug too. “Zaq said you really knew your stuff. I was afraid
we’d all be stuck reading about vampires or gruesome serial killer books, but you saved me.”
I laughed. “Thankfully, there are so many different types of mysteries, I know there’s something to suit just about every taste.”
“You should charge for things like this. You spent a lot of time with us.” Jillian looked concerned.
“Thank you, but things were slow today, so it wasn’t a problem. Besides, I sold quite a few books, thanks to you.”
The rest of the day went quickly and before I knew it, Nana Jo and the girls arrived for our meeting. We agreed to meet at the bookstore today.
I waited until everyone arrived before I put the closed sign out and locked the door. I grabbed another plate of cookies from the back and brought them out. Nana Jo made a pot of coffee and everyone sat around the same table the younger crowd had vacated earlier.
Judge Miller picked up a copy of Secret Rage, one of the stand-alone books by Charlaine Harris that featured a former model in a small town in Tennessee who got caught up in a string of brutal crimes. “This looks interesting. I might have to read this.”
“Consider it a gift.”
He smiled. “Then I know I’ll be back. You’ve found my kryptonite.”
“Books?” I laughed.
“Not just any books,” he joked. “I love grisly mysteries. It’s what led me to become a lawyer and later a judge.”
Nana Jo pulled her iPad out of her purse. “If it’s okay, I’d like to go first.”
No one objected.
“First, Elliot researched Magnus and also looked into the photo with Hitler. Magnus was the youngest of three brothers. Sigismund was the oldest. Wernher and then Magnus. The two older boys were not really indoctrinated into the Nazi culture, but Magnus, who was eight years younger, apparently was. He was thirteen when Hitler became chancellor and was part of the Hitler Youth and other fascist organizations.” She frowned and pursed her lips as though she’d eaten a lemon. “Magnus was a chemical engineer and pilot in the Luftwaffe. In 1943, his brother Wernher arranged for him to join him in working on the V-2.”
