by V. M. Burns
One of the things I loved about the building I’d purchased in North Harbor was my commute. I walked upstairs to the converted loft that was now my new home. When Leon and I dreamed of owning this building, we knew there was a loft upstairs. We talked about renting out the space to help pay the mortgage and alleviate the pressure of having to pay the mortgage and make the bookstore successful. However, when Leon was dying, he knew that I was a creature of routine and needed a change. He suggested I sell the house where we’d lived together and move into the bookstore’s loft. He was right. The house was filled with memories—too many memories. Leon knew I would have spent too much time in my past to move into my future. The new space was a large, open loft with beautiful oak hardwood floors, brick walls, seventeen-foot ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling windows. I worked with a designer and renovated the 2000-square-foot space, which now contained a nice kitchen area, two bedrooms, and two bathrooms.
At the top of the stairs, I was greeted by my two toy poodles, Snickers and Oreo. In the past, the dogs would have heard me coming upstairs and met me at the bottom. However, they were both getting older and enjoyed their daytime naps. Snickers was fourteen and the older of the two dogs. She stretched, yawned, and then did a full-body extension stretch that involved balancing on two legs and pointing her paws. Apparently, napping all day was exhausting.
At twelve, Oreo had also taken to enjoying long naps during the day, but he was still a playful puppy at heart.
We walked downstairs, and I opened the door to let them out into the enclosed courtyard. The building was on a corner. The previous owner had built a garage at the back of the property, and a fence connected the detached garage to the house and created a courtyard that was perfect for the dogs.
Even in the most basic of areas, the poodles were true to their personalities. Snickers stepped over the threshold, squatted, and quickly answered the call of nature. Within seconds, she was done, wiped her feet, and then came inside and stood beside me while we waited for Oreo. He bounded outside with a joy and exuberance that brought a smile to my face. A leaf blew across the yard, and Oreo spent a few minutes pouncing, barking, and tossing the leaf into the air. Snickers gave me a look that said, Really? Eventually, Oreo remembered why he was there. He walked to the edge of the garage and hiked his leg.
When he took an interest in a stick, I interrupted his second round of play. “Oreo, come.”
He picked up his stick and trotted to the door. I didn’t mind indulging his play, but I drew the line at bringing nature inside. I relieved him of his stick and tossed it as far away as I could and closed the door.
Back upstairs, I still had nearly an hour before I needed to go to Shady Acres. I fed the poodles and then fired up my laptop.
My e-mails consisted largely of spam proclaiming I was already a winner and that a prince of a small African nation wanted to give me millions of dollars to help get money out of his country. Despite my spam filters, my daily routine involved deleting fifteen to twenty e-mails. The three to five e-mails that were left were a lot less interesting. However, today my inbox included one from my agent. My heart raced whenever I saw e-mails from Pamela Porter of Big Apple Literary Agency.
I opened the e-mail. I read it multiple times and then read it again.
Nana Jo stuck her head in the room. “Squinting at the screen doesn’t help.”
“I’m trying to understand what ‘building my brand’ means.”
“That’s easy. It means you need to market yourself. You’ve got to get on social media. Tweet, blog, Instagram, and a host of other sites. Interact with readers and help them get to know you.”
I stared at my grandmother. “What’s my brand?”
“Your brand is you. It’s what you write. It’s like Coke or Pepsi. Samantha Washington, or you could use your initials like J. K. Rowling or D. H. Lawrence.”
“What if I don’t have a brand?”
“You have one. You just don’t know what it is yet. Maybe you should hire a publicist to help you figure out what your brand is and how to market that.”
I stared at the e-mail. “I need an author photo and a bio and . . . do all authors do this? Whatever happened to just writing a book?”
“An author photo shoot will be great. I’ll bet Dorothy or her sister who runs the art gallery could hook you up with a good photographer.”
“Hook me up? I don’t need to be hooked up with a photographer. I can just have Christopher or Zaq take a picture.”
“Samantha Marie Washington, this is your author photo. It will be on the backs of all your books, the books you’ve dreamed of writing most of your life. Don’t you want to look your best?”
Since she put it like that, how could I disagree? Oh, no. I want to look my worst? “But Christopher and Zaq take great pictures.” Even to my ears, I sounded whiny.
Nana Jo narrowed her eyes and stared. “I’ll make a note to talk to Dorothy tonight.” She made a few notes on her phone and then continued to analyze me. “You should go back to Jenna’s stylist and let her do your hair and makeup before you get your picture taken.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Nothing. It’s just that she did an excellent job cutting your hair before, and I just loved the highlights.” She stared at me. “Besides, didn’t you tell me earlier today that you needed to get your hair cut?”
“Yes,” I said even whinier than before. I hated getting trapped.
“What’s the matter with you? Isn’t this what you wanted? To get your books published?”
“I know. I guess . . . now that it’s happening, it’s all a bit overwhelming. I mean, what if no one likes my books? What if no one buys my books? What if I’m a royal failure? I don’t have the slightest clue what I’m doing, and I don’t know anything about social media and brands and marketing.” I put my head down on my desk.
Nana Jo patted my back. “That’s just nerves. Your books will sell. The publisher wouldn’t offer you a contract if they didn’t think so. You just need to find the people who like British historic cozy mysteries. That’s what discovering and marketing your brand will do.”
“I honestly don’t know the first thing about social media. Zaq created the website for the bookstore, and between him and Christopher, the site pretty much runs itself.”
“Well, it’s about time you learned. The twins are twenty-one and about to graduate from college. They’ll be off to graduate school soon.”
I put my head back down on the table.
“You can pay someone to run your website until you can get yourself up to speed.”
I looked at my grandmother. “How am I going to learn all of this stuff?”
“You’re in luck. When I was reading that ghastly article earlier, I happened across a continuing education course on social media.” She pulled out her cell phone and swiped. “MISU is running the class, and they’re giving discounts to senior citizens.”
“I’m not a senior citizen . . . yet.”
“I know you’re not, but I am.”
“You already know more about social media than I do.”
“True, but there’s always new stuff coming out. I don’t think I do enough with Instagram, and I want to do more videos and get on TikTok.”
“What’s Tik—Oh, never mind. Where do I sign up?”
Chapter 2
North Harbor was an economically depressed town on the shores of Lake Michigan in the southwestern corner of the state. The area had once been a manufacturing hub for parts that contributed to the Detroit automotive industry. However, when many of the manufacturing jobs moved to the South and overseas North Harbor’s economy collapsed, and it never recovered. North Harbor’s twin city of South Harbor, which shared the same Lake Michigan coastline, was a thriving tourist town with cobbled streets, lighthouses, and multimillion-dollar beach homes.
The drive from my bookstore in downtown North Harbor to Shady Acres Retirement Village was a straight shot on the road that ran parallel to
the lake. At seven thirty, the sun was starting to set on the water. When I caught glimpses of the lake between the houses, I allowed its serenity and beauty to soak into my soul. Winters on the lake could be brutal, but the rest of the year made it worthwhile.
Shady Acres was a gated retirement community that provided apartments and single-family homes called villas. After my grandfather died Nana Jo had purchased a villa and got an excellent deal. Now her lakefront villa was worth five times what she’d paid for it. The great thing about Shady Acres was that they catered to an active community and offered activities on everything from surfing to belly dancing to martial arts. In fact, Nana Jo and her friend Dorothy were now black belts in Aikido and were working on jujitsu.
Nana Jo’s friends piled into my Ford Escape and we headed off. They were an interesting and rather eclectic group of women. Dorothy Clark was about six feet tall, like Nana Jo, and just shy of three hundred pounds. She was a shameless flirt who sang like an angel. In contrast, Irma Starczewski was about five feet tall and one hundred pounds sopping wet. Her hair, which she wore in a beehive, was dyed jet black. About sixty years ago, Irma had been a beauty pageant queen who enjoyed wearing tight, short clothes and six-inch hooker heels. Dorothy liked to flirt, but Irma took flirting to an entirely different level. Ruby Mae Stevenson was my grandmother’s youngest friend and my favorite. An African-American woman from Alabama, she spoke with a soft southern drawl and wore her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a bun. Nana Jo said Ruby Mae’s hair was so long she could sit on it, but I’d never seen it down. She had nine children and a massive extended family. Everywhere we went, she met a great-nephew, a great-great-grandson, or a third cousin once removed.
The talk was nonstop from the moment the girls entered the car until I pulled up outside of the Four Feathers Casino. We had a routine that involved a drop-off at the front. They went to the restaurant while I parked the car. Regardless of the day or time, Ruby Mae’s extended family always managed to rustle us a seat. When I walked into the restaurant, I realized today was no different. Despite a long line, Nana Jo and the girls were seated at a large table near the seafood buffet. There was a big man with a wide grin and a white chef’s outfit and hat standing near Ruby Mae.
When I sat down, Ruby Mae beamed. “Sam, I want you to meet my grandson, Paul. He just started as the head pastry chef.”
Paul and I shook hands and mumbled an appropriate greeting.
The server came over, and I recognized her as another of Ruby Mae’s extended family. She brought beverages, including a Diet Coke for me, that Nana Jo must have ordered. I was definitely a creature of habit. Before we left to pile our plates, Paul promised us something special and told us to leave plenty of room for dessert.
However, no one short of a professional eater could have found room for the number of desserts that were brought out to us. Four-layer coconut cake, chocolate mousse, strawberry tarts with the flakiest crust I’d ever eaten, and shot glasses filled with custard. It was not only visually stunning but also delicious. We were stuffed but happy.
Trips to the Four Feathers had become a weekly event for us, although we usually made the trek on Tuesday nights, which was ladies’ night, but occasionally we changed plans and came on other days. Our trips to the casino always started with dinner at the buffet. Even though the buffet didn’t allow doggie bags, Ruby Mae’s relatives always made sure we had food for later. I worked off the indulgent meals by hauling the doggie bags to the car. After dinner, we split up and went our separate ways, following our own vices. Irma didn’t waste much time gambling. Her evening would be spent picking up men in one of the bars. Dorothy enjoyed playing blackjack in the high-stakes room, while Nana Jo played poker. Ruby Mae gambled less than Irma and usually spent the bulk of her time sitting near the massive fireplace at the entrance, knitting and talking to her relatives. I had never been to the casino before my husband died and I started hanging out with my grandmother. I typically spent my time playing penny slots, and then I would find a quiet corner where I could write.
I enjoyed the walk to the car with the bags and was grateful that I hadn’t found a closer parking space, which added a few extra steps toward working off all the desserts I’d eaten. When I finished my errand, I still felt like my pants had shrunk, but I wasn’t miserable.
Fifty dollars was my gambling limit, which can go a long way when you’re playing penny slots. I took my money and found a seat at a machine I’d played before that would stop and play songs by the Beatles periodically. Unfortunately, tonight wasn’t my night, and after losing half of my gambling allowance I cut bait and ran.
Rather than finding another machine, I decided writing might be more productive than gambling. The Four Feathers not only was a casino but also included a hotel and conference facility. From experience, I knew the hotel side would be quieter with less smoke. Not far from the front desk was an area I’d used before, and thankfully, it was empty.
Parked in my comfy chair, I pulled my notepad out of my bag and escaped into the British countryside.
Wickfield Lodge, English Country Home of Lord William Marsh Late August 1939
“Clara, please, you’ve just got to come to dinner tonight. If you don’t come, it’ll ruin absolutely everything.”
Lady Clara Trewellan-Harper stared at her overly dramatic American friend, Kathleen Kennedy, Kick to her friends. In appearance, the two women looked very similar. Both were slender with dark hair and dark eyes. Clara wasn’t vain, but she knew she was prettier than her friend. Kick wasn’t stunningly beautiful, but she was bright, with a sharp mind. She had a fun, vivacious personality that drew people to her and had led to her being declared “the debutante of 1938.” Clara couldn’t put her finger on what it was, but Kick had a fun, fresh, engaging personality that made people notice her.
“Honestly, Kick, I can’t understand what possible difference it could make if I’m there or not. Your father’s the ambassador, and he’ll have all of his political friends there. I’m sure he won’t miss me at all. Besides, if Billy Cavendish is coming, which I heard he will, you’ll be occupied the entire time.”
Kick blushed. “That’s just it. If you and your handsome policeman don’t come, then the duke won’t let Billy come either because we’ll be the only younger people there.”
“What possible difference could it make to Lord Cavendish if I attend?”
Kick pouted. “He’s on to us. He knows that Billy and I are serious, and he’s opposed.” Kick folded her arms and paced across the study. “He doesn’t want his son marrying an American, especially not a Catholic. And every time my mother thinks about me marrying outside of the Catholic faith, she bursts into tears.” She turned and faced her friend. “Can you believe it? This is the twentieth century, but to listen to our parents you’d think we were still back in medieval times.” She flopped down in an armchair.
“It is rather silly, but I still don’t see why my coming to dinner will make any difference one way or another.”
Kick sat up. “If there are other young people, then it’s not like Billy and I are alone together. My family is perfectly okay with me hanging out with a group of friends.”
Realization dawned on Lady Clara. “Oh, I see. All of your other friends have bailed, and if Peter and I don’t come, then . . .”
Kick nodded. “Exactly. Oh, Clara, it’s not that I don’t want to see you. I do, but I love Billy, and our families are making things impossible.”
Lady Clara sighed. “Kick, I want to help, I really do, but I’ve got a friend coming tonight. Marguerite and I were classmates at CLC.”
“What’s CLC?”
“Sometimes I forget you’re American and weren’t born here.” She smiled. “Cheltenham Ladies’ College. Margie was my closest pal. She’s studying to be a barrister, and she’s got a break and is coming down to spend a few days here. I can’t abandon her.”
“Bring her along. The more the merrier. Perhaps your policeman has a friend. Or I can as
k Billy if his brother Andrew or one of his other friends can come.” Kick poked out her lip, clasped her hands together, and dropped to her knees. “Please?”
Lady Clara held up her hands in surrender. “All right, I’ll come, but you’ll owe me one. I can’t imagine a more boring evening.”
Kick hopped to her feet and grabbed Lady Clara in a bear hug. “I promise tonight will be a night you’ll never forget.”
Chapter 3
The alarm I set on my phone vibrated and brought me back to the present. Unless prearranged, our routine included settling up and leaving around midnight. So, I put away my notepad and headed toward the main entrance. Time flies when you’re having fun.
I headed around the corner toward the hallway that led away from the hotel toward the casino. My head was probably still seventy years in the past, because I wasn’t paying careful attention and nearly ran into a couple who were engaged in a very intimate and passionate moment.
“Excuse me.”
“Watch where you’re going,” a tall man with dark hair and eyes and chiseled features said, practically spitting the words at me.
Recognition caused me to hesitate. However, I collected myself. “Sorry,” I mumbled, and hurried away. I forced myself not to turn and look back.
I made it to the entrance, where I met up with the others. Another part of our casino routine involved settling up. This was something Nana Jo and the girls decided on before I started accompanying them. At the end of the night, everyone split their winnings. They said this made it more fun. Unfortunately, I only had the twenty-five dollars left from my gambling allowance, so it meant five dollars for each of us. Most of the others hadn’t fared much better; however, Irma surprised us when she reached inside her bra and pulled out a wad of bills.
“I don’t think I want to know what you had to do to get that money,” Nana Jo said.
“I won it fair and square. I met this really nice guy in the bar. His name was Harry. Well, Harry wanted to play craps, so we went to the table. I gave him my money. He bet it for me, and I won.” Irma laughed and waved her money.