Read A Lesson in Love and Murder Online
Authors: Rachel McMillan
A Lesson in Love and Murder (2 page)
My lovely Maisie. Tante Rachel loves you.
Ken and Leah, for support from the faraway land of Abu Dhabi (and for the camel pics!).
Thanks also go to Allison Pittman, Annette and Steve Gilbert, Ruth Samsel, Hannah Matthews, Olivia Matthews, Miranda Matthews, Tim Jolly, Christina Jolly, Sonja Spaetzel, Jessica Davies, Kat Chin, Mike Ledermeuller, Karin Chun Taite, Team Shiloh, Stephan Roberts, Melanie Fishbane, Marion Abbott, Ruth Anderson, and Gina Dalfonzo.
Contents
Praise for The Bachelor Girl's Guide to Murder
Herringford and Watts Mysteries
If in their economics the Anarchists were hazy, their hatred of the ruling class was strong and vibrant⦠To the workers themselves it was not the faraway rich but their visible representatives, the landlord, the factory owner, the boss, the policeman, who were the Enemy.
Barbara W. Tuchman,
The Proud Tower
We regret to inform you that due to our company's policy regarding married women in the workforce, we are no longer in need of your services. We are grateful for your loyalty to Spenser's and hope you will accept this coupon for Maidwell's Laundry Soap as a token of our gratitude.
W
ell, I suppose crime will just have to start to pay!” Jemima DeLuca said, flinging down the letter and the soap coupon with it. The notice was hardly a surpriseâeveryone knew the rules, and her marriage wasn't exactly a secret. Still, the loss of her job in the Spenser's Department Store mailroom was a turn of events Jem had not fully anticipated.
Ray wouldn't be pleased when he found out. How would they pay their electric bill? It was time to stop solving mysteries gratis, Jem decided with a frown. The murder and mayhem she investigated with her best friend and former flatmate, Merinda Herringford, would need to result in cold, hard cash.
She stomped to the locker room to retrieve her coat and hat, her meager half-week salary note dangling in her shaking hand. A number of her colleagues were gathered there, just at the end of their shift.
“As I was saying,” the foreman bellowed at them, “Mr. Spenser has very strict rules about the conduct of his employees. If you want your employment to be terminated”âhere he paused dramatically, a hush rippling over the workersâ“you may very well go ahead and join the riffraff at Mrs. Goldman's rally.”
“You can't stop us from demonstrating views that have nothing to
do with our employment. Not in our free time,” a squeaky voice said from the back.
“Mrs. Goldman speaks against honest work. She would have all of you overthrow Mr. Spenser and the kind people, like myself, who are entrusted to manage you.” The foreman drove a dart of a glare in the direction of a few giggling girls in the corner and went on. “Avoid any path that radical woman crosses. Do not associate with her or the anarchists who follow her. And you can be assured that Mayor Montague's Morality Squad will be keeping the impressionable young ladies of Toronto safe from Mrs. Goldman's rallies.”
Keep them safe, all right
, thought Jem, slamming her locker shut for the last time.
Safe in St. Jerome's Reformatory!
“Ah!” The foreman had finished his address, and the murmurs from the gathered employees crescendoed into conversation. “Mrs. DeLuca. I see you are finally taking your leave.”
“It's a silly rule,” Jem said testily. “Just because I'm married⦠just because⦠”
“Your place is with your husband. You cannot tend to him and your family if you are spending eight hours on your feet in the mailroom.”
Jem wanted to wipe the smirk off his face. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and descended the employee stairwell.
She breathed a long sigh and looked up at the iron door as it clanged shut behind her. Her friend Tippy would keep her informed of the gossip and tales that had often filled their tea breaks. Jem couldn't help, though, feeling the slammed door clutch at her heart. A part of her life was gone forever. And a new chapter was beginning, and⦠she really, really needed a job!
Jem walked the half block to Yonge Street, blinking back a prick of tears as the circus of Toronto's busiest street thrummed into sight and sound. Trolley cars and automobiles and horse-drawn carts warred for space over roads sliced through with tracks and, on each side, gutted with construction. An officer directed traffic with a whistle, white-gloved hands, and a sign he turned to and fro. STOP. GO.
Jem was at the intersection, crossing in the direction of the
streetcar, when the officer waved it to a stop. Jolting forward, she nearly collided with an automobile while the driver screeched several heated words and the horse behind him neighed its frustration.
She mustn't have been paying attention. Thinking instead about home and Ray, who lately had been so busy at the office that she rarely saw him during the week at all. She looked forward to Saturday afternoons, when he would leave his notebook at home and they would explore Cabbagetown or see a nickelodeon or have dinner with Merinda and Jasper Forth, Merinda's friend from the Toronto Police. (Mrs. Malone, Merinda's housekeeper, would always send them home with plenty of leftover food for the week.) But lately, with the threat of the anarchists and Mrs. Goldman's impending arrival in the city, Ray's mind was in the office even when he was away from it.
Jem paid her fare and boarded the streetcar. It must be admitted that her head was no more in the present moment than her husband's, for it took her two stops to realize she was going the wrong way.
Silly emotional girl!
she reprimanded herself as the streetcar rumbled along not in the direction of her home but toward King Street and the townhouse she and Merinda had once shared. She rerouted and trundled down Yonge Street in the opposite direction, her mind as jumbled as the traffic parading outside the trolley window.
“I never thought I would say this,” she muttered under her breath, “but I really hope we're in the market for a good murder!”
And that was the last thing she said before teetering over and fainting on the lap of the elderly woman seated in front of her.
Merinda Herringford tripped into mysteries as quickly as she stumbled upon their solutions. This feat was made easier by the fact that she had long since given up on ice pick heels and day suits. Toronto's summer humidity was much more tolerableâand her long limbs much freerâin cotton trousers, brogan shoes, and bobbed hair.
Jasper Forth admired her striking profile as she leaned over to peer
into the test tube. Evidently pleased with what she observed, Merinda threw out her arms like a bird taking flight. “I'm a legend!” she cried.
“Easy there.” Jasper raised an amused eyebrow. He almost hoped she would fall so he could catch her and press her to him and smell the tendrils of her hair. “This isn't becoming of a woman of your breeding,” he said slyly.
*
“A legend, Jasper!” She spun on her heel and faced him, cat eyes sparkling in the bright lights. “This concentrated hemoglobin establishes beyond a doubt that Mr. Darryl was indeed the murderer!”
Jasper wondered briefly if Merinda knew that her smile made his heart complete. That she was the only person in the world. Merinda Herringford and her test tubes and her detection and the voice of her hero, Sherlock Holmes, pealing through her head.
“Elementary,” he said lightly, widening her smile. Jasper dabbed at the chemical stains on his fingers. “There we have it. Another win for Herringford and Forth.”
“Herringford and Forth.” Merinda played it over in her mind, closing her eyes and tasting it for a moment. “Yes. Herringford and Forth. I like that!” She smiled broadly, tipping up her chin. “Come, Jasper! Is there anything more we can possibly contribute to the fascinating world of forensic observation today?”
“Probably not.” He lit like a moonbeam when Merinda grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the broad oak door of the laboratory.
Jasper remembered the first time he saw her, the first time he heard her laugh. The first time he noticed the light outlining her angular profile. The first time he decided that his life would be nothing without her somehow a part of it, peppering it with her eccentricities, her buoyant personality, her trousers and bowler hats, her short hems. He wondered if this was the moment to say everything, to untie all the thoughts packed in a tight parcel in his mind.
He swallowed. This was it.
But the words didn't come.
â
Instead, he stuttered, “You should have been a doctor. You would have made an incredible doctor. You would have been top of your class, Merinda, you know that.”
She brushed at her trousers and tugged the rim of her hat over her bobbed blonde curls. “And miss the adventure?”
“You might want to actually make some money someday.”
“You sound like Jemima!” She played with a loose thread at the bottom of her vest, biting her lip. “But everything's changing, isn't it?”
“You mean Jem.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to say it. Merinda⦠” Jasper caught her hand, white and long-fingered. “Merinda, I won't change or go away.”
