Murder Most Convenient: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery (6 page)

  Instead, Ruth told me and Lucy all that she knew about French art. She was fond of the safe subject. I wished I had my pencil and pad, but I could tell from Lucy’s occasional question that she was recording all of the information in her head.

   Once Ruth had tired of the subject of French art, Randolph, who had been on his best behavior, asked, “How was the luncheon with the vicar’s wife?”

  “Tedious,” responded Phyllis before I could. She then leaned forward so that Nicholas could light another cigarette for her.

   “She did enjoy entertaining us,” I added.

  “Did she tell you all about the many mystery books she has read?” Ruth inquired, sipping very slowly on a snifter of brandy.

   “Yes, and some of the local scandal as well,” I replied.

   I could not help but notice Phyllis and Nicholas’s eyes meet for just an instant.

  “She keeps spreading lies about a poor wretch who lost her child. I hope you know she can’t be believed,” Ruth said. She hadn’t noticed the look passed between her husband and her former secretary.

   Phyllis let out a puff of smoke from her dark-stained lips, and added, “Or trusted.”

   Nate stood from the floor at Ruth’s side; the dog walked around in a tight circle and then lay back down at his mistress’s feet. She reached down and stroked him before casting a queer gaze at Phyllis.

  Randolph, now inspecting his nails, asked me, “It is the end of day two, master sleuth, have you your clues, suspects, and a villain?”

   I looked quickly across the room at the faces that watched me and replied, “I do.”

   Phyllis, very dramatically, flicked her ash into a silver dish and said, “Now you just need a victim.”

   Ruth, her husband, and his brother made the polite laughter that was called for by such a sarcastically said statement, while the domestics observed our strangely tense moment in silence.

Chapter Six

Lucy and I ate breakfast alone. Both Nicholas and Randolph passed through the dining room and gave their greetings, but neither joined us. Once more, we were warned that their wives slept in, and we shouldn’t expect to see them until luncheon. This suited us just fine.

   Lucy and I set up in the library, and I dictated the outline of my whodunit. The story went as follows, Miss X, with her trusty sidekick, Miss W, were invited to a country estate for the weekend. Miss W’s uncle was hosting a celebration, as he planned to announce his engagement to the Lady A.

  Near tragedy strikes when a storm knocks down the power lines. Gathered in the drawing room, so that Uncle can share the good news, the guests find themselves in darkness and hear a terrible thud.

   The light comes back on, and poor Uncle has been struck on the back of the head by a candelabra. It is now up to Miss X, with the help of Miss W, to first deduce the motivation, and then the culprit.

   As with so many other novels of the genre, I needed to come up with a character who was a major or a colonel. I would have to study on the Great War to give him a credible background.

   I had my vicar’s wife, and knew the actual woman would be ever so flattered once she read my work. (This does remind me, I will be in need of at least two dozen advanced copies once this goes into publication. I shall leave these arrangements to you. Mr. Jack can see to having them parceled after I have made some personalized inscription in each.)

   The idea of the poor local woman, who either had an abortion or a miscarriage, at first, fit my role as the lady suffering from unrequited love. However, had my intended victim actually had a dalliance with the unfortunate female, then he would seem less sympathetic.

   The thought also passed my mind that my mother would be reading my novel, and I didn’t know what she or Mother Stayton would think of my inclusion of the topic.

   Over the next few days, Lucy and I toiled tirelessly. My hosts, realizing we no longer required much entertaining, left us to our work. A few neighbors and friends dropped in to visit from time to time, and we met them cordially. Ruth would give us their story before their arrival and suggest who might fit well into my mystery.

  Tea would be served, and they would speak to me politely until my novelty wore off and conversation would drift back to the local topics of interest.

   Otherwise, we met the family only for dinner, where they would question me on Miss X’s pursuits. I was childishly vague, assuring them that once the story was complete, I would, as it were, make a full confession.

   Phyllis was the only person permitted to look at the progress. She would carefully grasp a lit cigarette in her injured hand, clasped below her bosom, and flip through the typed pages with her good hand. 

   Of points of style, she gave no mention. As to the happenings of the story, she made insightful suggestions. Since I had the intention of dedicating the work to my dearest Xavier, I would need to give Phyllis endless praise, just after Lucy, in my author’s notes. (Lucy has commented that the comma key on this brand-new typewriter seems to be showing wear rather quickly. If this is but a hint on her part that my sentence structure should be altered, I leave this to the editor.)

   With our intended departure set for the coming Monday morning, we worked late into the night and rose early of the morning to finish the first draft by Friday afternoon.

   At dinner that evening, I wore my most elegant emerald green satin gown. Pearls clung to my neck, and I dabbed as much powder on my face as I dared. Lucy was dressed to the nines as well; she looked ever so smart. 

   In my honor, several of the well-placed locals whom we had met over the week were invited to supper. I was both delighted and ashamed that the dominating topic of conversation was my whodunit. 

   The guests were all charming and so inquisitive. I did not feel as much the out-of-place American as I did the fascinating author.

   By request, I described several of my characters. There was the spurned lover; she was a mysterious woman with fiery red hair, which matched her bad humor. Next, the devoted fiancée, quiet in voice, but ever so jealous. The uncle, good-natured at heart, and being driven mad by the secret he has kept from his fiancée. Lastly, was the estranged husband of the spurned lover, who wants her back, only to save face.

   The dinner guests all mumbled words of excitement and congratulations to me. However, Joan, Ruth, Nicholas, and Randolph all stared at me with cold eyes and clenched jaws.

   After the last course of the wonderful meal had been served, and I had been toasted by those gathered, it was suggested that the menfolk adjourn to the stately library, while the ladies made their way to the art deco drawing room.

     Several of the women made a fuss over the Afghan hound. Nate languished beside Ruth’s feet, unsure of the many guests.

   At this moment that I was not the center of attention, I remembered what I had packed away in my room.

   My auburn hair was done up so nice, my pearl earrings and choker necklace had received so much notice, I just wanted to add to my brief dalliance with sophistication. I slipped away while cocktails were still being served, intent to nab from my jewelry box the cigarette holder Xavier had given me.

   How fashionable I thought I would appear.
So worldly, this young lady from the continent was,
they might think.

   Bless the Almighty, my high heels and long gown kept me from bounding up the staircase, forgetting what little actual dignity I possessed.

  I came to my room and noticed the door was ajar. I froze, unsure if a servant was merely preparing my bed, or if someone who should not have been was in my room.

   A confrontation was undesirable. My ruby ring was on my finger, and Xavier’s snuffbox was inside the little purse I clasped. These were the two most important things in the world to me, and no cat burglar would care to make off with the many photos of my beloved, so I decided to quietly turn back and find Henderson. He could deal with the unknown intruder. 

  This was not to be; my back now to the doorway, I was startled to hear my name spoken. I turned back to see Nicholas, his complexion drained of color. He was the last person I had expected to be sneaking about my room. What does one say to their host at such an occasion? 

   “Cousin Nicky,” I said. This choice of words sounded very odd from me, as I had never been invited to call him Nicky. “What a startle you’ve given me. I was just coming up to get something and realized that it was in my clutch.” Concluding my lie, I flashed him my little black purse; doing so, I saw how plain it appeared, ill-fitting alongside my satin gown that had looked so sleek, so sharp on the mannequin at H and N.

  Nicholas appreciated the lie and replied in form. “I had to run up here for a moment, and I noticed your door was ajar. I stepped in to make sure Nate hadn’t nosed his way inside.”

   No longer surprised, I was now suspicious. There was no need to mention that the dog was in the drawing room with his wife, or that the helpless creature could not manage stairs and would have had to have been carried to the second floor. 

   We smiled at each other, and we both saw past the forced expressions. After a moment of awkward silence, Nicholas gestured toward the stairs.

  I recalled his reaction to my comment,
a domestic with a secret,
and
the way he had jerked away from Phyllis. Could he be capable of pushing a woman down a flight of stairs?

  I would not take the chance. I made a little pout and tapped my clutch again, “On second thought,” I said, “I’m not sure that I do have it.”

  I stepped past him and pushed the door wide open. He gave me a nervous smile and suggested that his guests would be missing him. I agreed and shut the door firmly after he took a single step back.

   There was no mistake about what had just happened. I flipped the lock, without waiting politely for him to be far enough away that the action would go unnoticed. Quite the contrary, I wanted Cousin Nicky to know that I was on to him.

   Looking about the room, nothing seemed disturbed. Stepping over to my writing desk, I inspected my manuscript. As anticipated, the domed glass paperweight had been moved. I had set the object directly over the working title of my story, in a way so that the
X
of
Miss X and the Case of Cupid’s Misdeed
created the optical illusion that the letter was three times its actual size. Nicholas had not noticed this detail, and the item was left squarely in the center of the first typed page.

   Completely forgetting about my cigarette holder, I returned downstairs to the drawing room. Lucy was at my side in an instant. Handing me a mixed drink, she remarked playfully, “I was about to send Holmes out to look for you.”

  I didn’t want to concern her. I forced a pleased smile and sipped at the rather strong concoction of liquor, named after a line in a jazz song.

   The women, all familiar with each other, had broken into three different groups and lounged about the modern room. They cast pleasant smiles on me, but my moment in the spotlight was over. Local gossip, the need for rain,
background dialogue,
this claimed the night from me.

   Ruth and Joan separately held court over several women each. Another lady gnawed away at Phyllis, until the gaunt figure gave the wordy woman a pat on the elbow and stalked off to where Lucy and I stood.

   She clinked her glass to Lucy’s and then mine and said, “You had them all rather captivated.”  

   I had little choice if I was to spare Lucy, at least for the moment, undue concern. I downed my drink and handed the ice-filled glass to my sweet friend. “That was divine. Would you be a dove and get me another?”

   Wide-eyed, Lucy inspected the piece of crystal as she took it from me and then went back to the maid stationed at the liquor cabinet.

  “Captivated is one word for it. Did you see the look on
their
faces? I caught Nicholas leaving my room just a moment ago; he had taken a look at my manuscript,” I told her quickly, as the heat of the drink made its way to my stomach, and the soul of the drink made its way to my head.

  “A racy story, all concocted under their roof. Child, they have every reason to wonder about just what you’ve written and how it will reflect on Pearce Manor,” Phyllis replied rather jovially, enjoying her own cocktail.

   “The characters have nothing to do with them,” I retorted.

  Her lips curled, but did not part; there was something sinister about her grin. A second passed, and as Lucy returned, handing me a glass twice the size of the one she’d taken from me, Phyllis suggested, “They are curious. I have a suggestion. Put their minds to ease; share the story with them.”

   Lucy, whose fear of Phyllis had abated, suggested, “Miss Masterson, you have such a lovely voice; you sound so smart. I think you should do a reading of the manuscript.”

   Those so very dark eyes of the ashen woman sparkled as she tipped her drink, with her good hand, in my direction and said, “I have a much better idea. Tomorrow evening, after dinner, highlights from
The Case of Cupid’s Misdeed
should be acted out.”

   We all stood in the foyer. After ushering the last guests out the door, Phyllis had put me on the spot and said I had a marvelous suggestion. I mumbled what had been, in fact, her suggestion to our hosts.  

“Act it out?” Ruth repeated my words, in a flat, concerned voice.

   Phyllis spoke before I could reply. “Well, we are all curious to hear what the dear child has composed this past week. Lucy can’t type several copies of it before they depart Monday morning. Assemble the maids and the gardener, whoever else is needed, after dinner tomorrow, and they can act it out for us to watch. They’ll just need a little time in the afternoon to learn their bits.”

   I was no longer sure if Phyllis was out to help me or ruin me. I just smiled and nodded.

  “I would enjoy it; wouldn’t everyone else?” Phyllis concluded as all others stared at her in disbelief.

   Nicholas rubbed his face with his hands and made a grunting noise that seemed to favor the performance. His older brother shrugged and looked to his wife, who stared into her half-empty glass. Back to Ruth, the question was answered, “How nice; we will have a little theatrics, then.”

   We scattered in different directions of the house while Henderson carried the dog upstairs.