Murder at Lowry House (Hazel Martin Mysteries Book 1)

by Leighann Dobbs

  She paced back over to the desk and flopped in the chair. This was as frustrating as her book. She opened the notebook and flipped to the spot where she’d left off. Chapter twenty-seven, where the detective was just trying to add up all the clues and narrow down the list of suspects to the real killer. Just like in the case here at Lowry House, the detective in her book was stuck.

  A dull fear worked its way into her heart. What if her earlier triumph of being able to write the book without Charles’s input had been a premature victory? No. She’d come this far on her own. She was almost done, and she could do this on her own.

  Too bad the suspects and the clues simply weren’t adding up. Usually that meant she’d overlooked at least one key clue. She flipped back through her notebook, trying to find it. All the while, the little voice in the back of her head was wondering if she was also overlooking a key clue here in the mystery of the killer at Lowry House.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hazel was deep into unraveling the plot of her book, looking for that one key clue, when a soft tap sounded at her door. She stood and attempted to pat down her hair, which stuck out in various directions from her running her fingers through it while trying to work her way through the maze of suspects and clues.

  “Hazel, are you in there?” Gloria whispered from the other side of the door.

  Hazel opened it and ushered Gloria in. She looked nervous.

  “The police have been here talking to Wes, and now they want to know where everyone was last night at the time Vera was killed,” Gloria said.

  “What time was she killed?” Hazel asked.

  “They say it was between midnight and one a.m.”

  “Well, we knew that. We could narrow down the time even closer than that, as a matter of fact. But we were all here at the party… surely the police are aware of that.”

  “They are. They want to know if any of us can corroborate where the others were exactly.”

  Hazel made a face. It sounded like Constable Lowell was grasping at straws. “You and I ran into each other quite a bit, and I saw you with Vera, Fran, and Myrtle, but that was earlier in the evening. I don’t really see how any of this is going to help. There was a house full of people.”

  “Yes, and I doubt anyone was looking at their watch. They were busy drinking champagne,” Gloria said.

  “At least this does confirm one of my suspicions. Vera was shot when the champagne corks were popping. That’s why no one heard the gunshot.”

  “Yes, I tried to tell Constable Lowell that. He’s asking specifically if any of us saw Wes at that time, and I know he’s looking at him as the prime suspect. I hate to say it, but…”

  “You think Wes has been behind all of these attempts on Myrtle?” Hazel asked.

  “I hate to think it,” Gloria said. “Someone has been doing this, and Wes had a lot to gain. Plus, he’s been unstable since his mother died.”

  “But what about his hand? Would it have been possible for him to shoot the arrow or fire the gun?” Hazel asked.

  “I don’t think his hand is that bad. When we were kids, he always made his injuries seem more severe. He wanted the attention. And besides, he babies his hands because he’s a pianist.” Gloria sighed. “Have you ever tried to do something you’re really good at when you had an injury? You can still do it, but not as well. He could’ve shot the arrow, and the reason he missed is that his aim was off due to his hand. You did find the bow on the way to his cottage, right?” Gloria’s eyes misted over. She was close to tears. The poor girl really must have affection for Wes. Hazel felt a flash of sympathy for Gloria. This whole thing must be terribly hard on her. Here she was, trying to save Myrtle, but in doing so, she had to condemn one of her other relatives.

  But still, Hazel was not one hundred percent convinced of Wes’s guilt, and if she couldn’t write the ending of a novel unless she was one hundred percent convinced of her character’s guilt, then she certainly couldn’t do it in real life.

  “I know this must be hard, Gloria, but we have to find the right person. And I’m not convinced it’s Wes.”

  Gloria’s eyes widened. “You don’t think it could be Fran or Edward, do you? I can’t place Edward at any of the other attempts, and Fran has nothing to gain. There’s no one else.”

  “You said Wes was a little unstable. Is that something that runs in the family?”

  “It does. You mean Fran, right? Yes, she is a little odd. And unstable.” Gloria frowned. “You mean she might’ve been trying to kill Auntie even though she inherits nothing… because she’s unstable?”

  Hazel shrugged. “Perhaps. I just know that things may not be as we think they are.”

  “But all the clues seem to point straight to Wes. In fact, I think I saw Fran talking to some young man in the corner all night.”

  “Even when the corks were popping?” Hazel asked.

  Gloria chewed her bottom lip. “I think so.”

  “You were pretty busy looking for Myrtle. Remember neither of us could find her?”

  Gloria nodded. “That’s right.”

  “So I don’t think you could have had your eye on Fran, could you?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore. I was hoping to figure out who was doing this before anyone got killed. That way we could help Wes…or whomever…before they committed a drastic crime. But now it’s too late. And if it is Cousin Wes, I doubt he would survive in prison. This is all so terrible.” Gloria walked to the door. Her right hand on the knob, she turned back to Hazel. “I hope your doubts about Wes turn out to be true, but I’m not as optimistic. And if I’m right, he’s going to need my support more than ever. I was just on my way to his room to see if I can get anything from the cottage for him. If you figure anything out or hear anything from the police, will you let me know?”

  “Of course.”

  Gloria left. Hazel sat at the writing desk, chewing lightly on the cap of the Sheaffer pen. Just like in her novel, here at Lowry House, something didn’t add up.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Hazel wrote fast and furiously, using the Waterman pen Charles had given to her. Reality faded away as she drifted into the world of her characters. Figuring out who killed Vera was important, but finishing her book was important, too, and besides, the police were on the case now, so capturing the killer wasn’t on her shoulders. She forgot all about Myrtle, Wes, and even Dickens, who lay on the chair in front of the fireplace. Her discussion with Gibson outside had made her realize that her detective had made a lot of assumptions. Because of those assumptions, he had not followed up properly and logically. It stung for her to admit it, but Gibson was right: she’d made big mistakes. But now she thought she knew how to correct them. Maybe she could get this book written without Charles after all.

  After a while, Dickens must’ve become bored, because she heard him meowing and was vaguely aware of him butting up against her leg for attention. But she couldn’t stop. She was on a roll, and as any novelist knew, one had to continue writing when they were in the fever of plot discovery. With any luck, she’d be able to finish her first draft by the time she left Lowry House, so she could start the second draft on her Remington when she got home.

  Now, where was she? Oh yes, her detective was just about to follow up on some of the clues he’d neglected to follow up on because of the assumptions he’d made.

  “Meoooow.”

  Dickens’s cry pulled her from her thoughts. But wait, hadn’t she made the same mistake as her fictional detective? She had neglected to follow through on some clues because she’d assumed they were unimportant.

  She’d neglected to follow up on her suspicions that Fran had lied about being in town the night Myrtle’s pills were switched. And not only Fran; it was possible Edward had lied about seeing Gloria in Bergamot Square. Now why would he have done that? Was it possible either Fran or Edward was trying to set someone up? Maybe they were even working together to get rid of Myrtle.

  Dickens rubbed against Haz
el’s ankle and purred loudly.

  “Yes, I do think some extra checking is in order. The whereabouts of every family member must be checked. And the cameo I saw in the estate jewelers….”

  Something niggled in the back of Hazel’s mind. When she’d been in the cottage with the police, she’d notice some odd things about Vera’s jewelry box, and now she realized one of those was that she’d seen a cameo in there. It had matched the Pembroke family cameos. If Vera had sold hers at the estate jeweler, then how could it be in her jewelry box?

  Unfortunately, Hazel didn’t have the clout to force the estate jeweler to reveal his client or to follow up on the whereabouts of the other family members. But, luckily, she knew someone who did.

  She scribbled a note on the lavender notepaper and set out to find Detective Chief Inspector Gibson. With any luck, he would still be in the house, questioning people. She found him exiting the parlor, where he had been interviewing Wes, a minute later.

  “I was looking for you,” Hazel said.

  “Oh, really? That’s funny, because the way you wandered off earlier made me think you didn’t give my company a second thought. I’m glad you’ve decided otherwise.”

  Hazel blushed. “No, it’s not that. It’s this.” She shoved the note into his hand and lowered her voice, leaning close to him. The pine scent of his cologne distracted her, and the twinkle in his eyes caused her tongue to tie up for a few seconds before she could say, “I need you to check out these alibis. What you said before was true. I had made some assumptions. And now I realize I didn’t check things thoroughly, but I don’t have the authority. But people have to answer questions asked by the police, so maybe you can send one of the constables to check these out.”

  Gibson unfolded the note, a smile playing across his lips as he read it.

  “Can you look into these, Gibson … err… I mean, Michael?” Hazel asked.

  “Yes, I can. Hazel. In fact, I already have my best man on it.”

  Hazel’s brows tugged together. “You do? But how could you—”

  “Hazel. Psst…” Myrtle hovered in the doorway of the sitting room, gesturing for Hazel to join her.

  “Oh, Myrtle… I was just—”

  “Oh, no problem. Mrs. Martin and I were done.” Gibson smiled down at Hazel as he stuffed the paper into his top pocket then patted it with his fingertips. “And I have to continue on with my investigation now.”

  Myrtle pulled Hazel into the sitting room and closed the pocket door. She lowered her voice. “What’s going on? Have they figured out who killed Vera?”

  “Not yet. They’re working on it.” Hazel’s eyes fell on the writing desk over by the window where gardenia-design notepaper was scattered across the desk. Two writing pens sat next to it. Not elegant, expensive pens as she’d imagined Myrtle would use. These were newer, cheap models. “Are you writing letters?”

  Myrtle glanced over, her face twisting. “I must apologize to my guests for last night. I mean, how will I show my face in public? Can you imagine going to a party and ending up at a murder?”

  “It certainly did put a damper on things.” Hazel crossed to the desk, fingering the vase of colorful yellow buttercups.

  “Those are from Gloria to cheer me up. That dear girl thinks of everything. Buttercups are her favorite flowers because they’re so cheery. Don’t you agree?”

  Hazel nodded, remembering how Gloria had worn a bouquet of them in her cloche hat. The yellow flowers certainly were cheery. “She does seem to take good care of you.”

  Myrtle sat down and awkwardly picked up the pen. Hazel noticed that her knuckles were swollen. Arthritis. Though Myrtle had very few signs of aging, she’d mentioned she hadn’t been spared from that.

  “I just don’t see how it could’ve been Wes,” Myrtle said. “I mean, I know someone has been doing things around here, but Wes? He was always such a good boy. You don’t think it could’ve been someone at the party, do you?”

  “I doubt it. Things were happening even before the party. But Wes was worried if it might be someone from Vera’s past.”

  Myrtle’s face clouded over. “We certainly wouldn’t have had anyone like that here. Well, unless you count the Rothingtons. It certainly wouldn’t have been them. They are very prominent. Old money. One certainly couldn’t blame them for not liking Vera, though…”

  “You mentioned them before but didn’t give specifics. Why didn’t they like her?”

  “Oh, it all had to do with the crowd she hung with back before she and Wes were married. She’s out of that now. Straightened herself up for Wes. But that awful crowd… well, I think I told you before they were bad news. Mrs. Rothington’s diamond necklace was stolen at a party, right from her bedroom! It was quite valuable, with three large stones in the center and baguettes radiating out from each stone like sunbeams. Well, one thing led to another, and they blamed Vera because she associated with one of those awful boys who were at that party. But that was all cleared up years ago. No one could blame those poor girls for being manipulated like they were by those nasty thugs. The thieves were incarcerated for that job in the end, and all was well.”

  Hazel remembered Myrtle talking about the bad crowd Gloria had hung with. Gloria and Vera had been friends even before then, so it made sense that Vera might have hung with that crowd too. No wonder the Rothingtons didn’t like Vera. They probably weren’t too keen on Gloria either, which explained the look the girls had exchanged at breakfast the other day when it had been mentioned that the Rothingtons were invited to the party. Of course the Rothingtons wouldn’t have killed Vera. That was preposterous. And they certainly wouldn’t have been making the attempts on Myrtle because of a robbery that happened years ago. But still, Hazel tucked that tidbit in the back of her mind. It wouldn’t do to make assumptions and not follow every lead.

  “I just wish this whole nasty business was cleared up.” Myrtle sighed and then turned to the letters. The writing looked painful, and Hazel felt a pang of sympathy for her.

  “Perhaps a nicer pen would make things easier for you?” Hazel suggested. “I have a lovely Waterman dip pen that Charles gave me. It might make the writing easier, as it has a wide nib.”

  “Oh, thank you, dear, but I can’t use the wide-nib pens, and a dip pen simply won’t do. You see the way my fingers are all cramped up? I have to hold the pen like this, and the wide nibs skip across the page, and the dip pens flick dots of ink everywhere. So I’m afraid I’m stuck with using these new, cheaper things.” Myrtle shrugged. “But if that’s the worst thing I have to complain about at my age, I guess that’s not so bad.”

  “I guess not.” Hazel watched her for a few more seconds then said, “May I help you write these?”

  Myrtle waved her hand. “Oh, don’t be silly, dear. I know you have lots to do. Your time is best used investigating and finding out what your policeman friend is up to. I just wanted to pick your brain and see if you had any inside information on the investigation. I’ll be fine here… just close the door on your way out.”

  Hazel left and headed toward her room. At least one question had been answered. Now she knew why the Rothingtons did not like Vera. Too bad that was a dead end. She’d come in a circle again, just like the detective in her novel. She headed to her room, anxious for Gibson to come back with the information she’d sent him off to acquire. But she’d have to wait on that. In the meantime, if she couldn’t make any progress in finding the killer at Lowry House, maybe her fictional detective would have better luck.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hazel retired to her room, her anxiety escalating as she waited for Gibson to come back with his results. The killer was on the loose, and the sooner they were caught, the better. At least Myrtle would be relatively safe. Hazel doubted the killer would try something with the police roaming about the premises.

  She opened her notebook, this time picking the Parker pen. She almost had it figured out. The clues which she’d thought had been red herrings had really been ac
tual clues. Her detective had even been fooled by them. But now she needed to figure out how the detective was going to prove his deductions. Would it be by scientific means? Or would he go with a gut feeling? Physical evidence? Shooting holes in alibis? Maybe a deeply hidden secret motive that was only hinted at in the beginning of the book? Either way, she knew she needed to tie the final result together by making sure all the pieces of the puzzle were laid out for the reader to be able to come to the same conclusion as the detective.

  “Meow.”

  “Not now, Dickens, I’m on a roll.” Hazel’s pen moved quickly across the page, leaving small blobs of ink along with the neatly scrawled words.

  “Meow!” This time louder.

  “In a minute, Dickens.” Hazel’s detective was about to make the big reveal. Should she choose the dining room or the conservatory?

  Thud!

  “Merowww!”

  Smash!

  Hazel jerked her attention from the notebook in time to see the small side table next to the bed crashing over. The vase of lilacs smashed on the floor, water going everywhere, flowers lying in a heap of glass. But that wasn’t the most astounding thing: Dickens had somehow gotten his harness. But in an attempt to wrangle himself into it, he’d got it on backwards. The straps meant to go around his chest were binding his back legs, and he was flailing around like a goldfish out of his tank.

  Hazel leapt up from her chair. “Dickens!” She ran to the cat, stopped him from flopping around, and gently removed the harness. “You pick now to try to use this thing? Did you want to go out for a walk? You have the darn thing on backwards.”

  “Meoooo!”

  Something niggled at Hazel. She frowned down at the harness.

  Backwards.

  What if the attempts on Myrtle weren’t what they seemed? And what if the motive wasn’t about inheriting Myrtle’s money at all?

  Hazel glanced at the vase of lilacs beside her bed then at the lilac notepaper, remembering the note that had brought her here in the first place.