A Jazzy Little Murder

by Beth Byers

  “We didn’t do that,” Henry said. “Not talking to the Yard is nothing more than protecting ourselves. Bobby was probably stabbed by some homeless beggar, and those fellows are too hard to track.”

  “Please,” Violet scoffed. “Bobby was stabbed by one of you. Perhaps you, Henry, because he was keeping drugs from you or because your debts are sky-high. So high, in fact, that you’ll be the homeless beggar soon.”

  Henry flushed. “That’s not true.”

  “It is now,” Violet countered. “Bobby’s little arrangement with the rich idiots who wanted to feel daring won’t work for you. He was charismatic. He made you feel like you were his best friend. He made Joshie—who was far too talented for these shenanigans—feel on the edge of breaking through the ruckus into something amazing.”

  Joshie flushed.

  “He made Heather believe that only he would ever love her and that her parents would never take her back. He made Sally believe that he was just fooling around with the other girls and that Martha—and all those before Martha—were just about money and connections.”

  Sally sniffed and a tear rolled down her face. Violet stared at her and then turned to Martha. “I think we can all agree that Martha is stupid.”

  Martha’s jaw snapped shut and her fists clenched, but she said nothing.

  “She enjoyed the way Bobby made her feel. She enjoyed the effect of Bobby on her family. He wasn’t so much a love as a beloved way to disturb Lila and Denny who—happily—have enough ready money to come buy over-priced cocktails and drag their unwitting but wealthy friends behind them.”

  “So?” Sally snapped. “She probably killed Bobby when she realized he was playing games with her.”

  “Maybe,” Violet said. “Except she didn’t. You and I know both know that.”

  “I don’t know nothing.”

  Violet certainly hoped that was true. She walked through the way that Heather had left Bobby, returning only because she wanted to help Joshie, who had helped Heather return to her parents. She broke down how Joshie didn’t have a motive. How Henry’s fate only became uncertain with Bobby’s death and it was in his best interest to keep Bobby alive, and then Violet turned back to Sally.

  “Hasn’t this been fun?”

  “You’re mad,” Sally declared.

  “What’s so much fun is that we all know you stabbed Bobby.”

  “You don’t know any such thing.”

  “You broke the light in the hall at the tango club,” Violet said. “When you realized Bobby really was going to marry Heather. Heather! She’d gone home; she’d left him like so many others had before, but suddenly he cared.”

  Sally’s jaw firmed and her cold eyes fixed on Violet. It was all a gamble.

  “It must have been terrifying to see him leave the back room after you stabbed him,” Violet told Sally. “How long did it take before you realized it was the drugs masking what you’d done?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “And you just kept going, didn’t you?”

  “Why are you picking on me?”

  “Heather didn’t kill him. She was leaving him. Joshie didn’t kill him. He doesn’t have a motive. Henry didn’t kill him. Henry needed Bobby alive. Martha didn’t do it. She’s too spoiled to think of anyone but herself. She’d have told herself a fairytale that his enterprise would fall apart without her, and she’d have flit off on some adventure.”

  “You’re mad, and you can’t prove anything.” Sally’s gaze met Violet’s, and the cold, hard woman’s lips twitched with a smile.

  “Of course, I can’t. That’s Scotland Yard’s job. Now that they know it was you, they’re just back tracking. They’ll find the weapon. Did you hide it in your room?” Violet asked. “They’re looking now.”

  “Sal,” Henry said, staring at her, “you were the one who said we should hold mum.”

  “Shut up, Henry.”

  “I mentioned it to Joshie, and he said it couldn’t hurt anything.”

  “Joshie, you fool,” his father groaned. “Bloody hell, boy.”

  Joshie flushed. “I took the idea to Heather. I thought it was her. I thought Heather was getting rid of him in her life.”

  “She didn’t need to kill him to do that,” Violet said. “Idiot,” she added. “Sally, however, Sally the loyal dog finally turned on her master when she realized he was leaving her behind. Did he tell you how he knew Heather was the only child of Mr. and Mrs. Flye? Did he expect a big inheritance?”

  “You don’t know anything.” Sally glared at her.

  Violet glanced at the detective, John Smith who nodded.

  “You stabbed him in the tango club. Once I knew that,” John Smith lied, “finding the weapon took me four minutes.”

  Sally’s gaze jerked to the private detective.

  “Really, my girl,” he said, “you aren’t as clever as you think.”

  “My god, Sal,” Henry said, “I thought you loved Bobby.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Violet didn’t think it was going to work, but Heather stepped in. “You thought he would love you? He told me how you followed him around like a lost puppy.” Heather’s mocking laugh was the final straw.

  Sally’s cold face broke with fury, and she dove at Heather. “You didn't love him. I loved him. He thought he could leave me for you? The spoiled little girl who wanted her mommy? No! Never!”

  Heather laughed even as she tried to fight off Sally. “I think you mean the girl who slaved for nothing. For scraps of attention from a man who would have never loved her. He only wanted what he couldn’t have. He could always have you, couldn’t he? Dog!”

  Violet stepped back as Jack pulled Sally off of Heather. Lila gasped at the claw marks on Heather’s face, but Violet hardly felt the idiot girl deserved to get off scot-free.

  Sally snarled and tried to lunge again, but it was useless against Jack’s strength.

  “And that,” Violet told Detective Clarkson, “is how gossip solves murders.”

  “Gossip and being a girl,” Rita added, hooking her arm through Violet’s. “They never see you coming.”

  “And they’re entirely unprepared for your lies,” Ham said. “The idiots came and participated instead of staying home and staying mum. All Sally had to do was keep her mouth shut.”

  “Now you know that the weapon is findable, however,” Violet said, lifting a brow at Detective Clarkson. “You probably should locate it.”

  He flushed and then followed Jack, still holding Sally, out of the parlor.

  “Will you get rid of these people?” Violet asked Lila. “I’m supposed to have tea with my stepmother tomorrow. All evidence that I’ve been involved in another case has to be removed.”

  Violet escaped during the ruckus and found her way to her boudoir. Maybe, she thought, I’ll be able to sleep tonight without any dreams. She picked up a sheet of paper and considered putting it into her typewriter when there was a knock at the door.

  Vi glanced up and found Rita.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  Violet stared, taking particular note of the dark circles under Rita’s eyes.

  “Falling in love is painful,” Violet told her.

  Rita’s mouth snapped shut.

  “You weren’t here to watch me and Jack, but it wasn’t easy.”

  Rita said nothing.

  “It might help you to know that distance was one of the reasons we realized we were in love.”

  “He doesn’t want to be the next detective who marries some rich girl for her money. He thinks he’s too old for me. He thinks I can do better.”

  “There isn’t better than Ham,” Violet said.

  Rita laughed bitterly. “Yes, I know.”

  “Men,” Violet huffed. “They think they’re so smart and they’re blinded by their pride.”

  “I don’t want to stay here heart-broken and longing.”

  “Don’t get kidnapped.”

  Rita rolled her eyes
.

  “I’ll take care of Ham,” Violet told her.

  Rita’s gaze darted to Violet and then she crossed to kiss Violet on the cheek. “I don’t know how you became family, but you did.”

  “We were always meant to be family,” Violet told her. “We fell in love with men who are brothers in their souls. He’s yours, Rita. He just needs to twist and churn in agony until his pride is worn down by his heart. I’ll make sure he suffers terribly.”

  “Would you?”

  Violet cupped Rita’s cheek and placed a kiss on her forehead. “It’s what sisters do.”

  The END

  Hullo, my friends, I have so much gratitude for you reading my books. Almost as wonderful as giving me a chance are reviews, and indie folks, like myself, need them desperately! If you wouldn’t mind, I would be so grateful for a review.

  The sequel to this book, Murder By Chocolate, is available for preorder now.

  July 1925

  Lady Violet is Mrs. Wakefield now, and she’s settled rather comfortably into her life. During a trip to her country house, she meets a chocolate artisan, she decides that nothing else will suit than an evening at home—with chocolate—as a married woman.

  When she invites her friends to her house, she little expects her home to be christened not by chocolate but by murder. Yet again, Vi, Jack, and friends are dragged into a murder investigation. Just who would commit the crime of poisoning chocolate? And why?

  Order Here.

  If you enjoy mysteries with a historical twist, scroll to the end for a sample of my new mystery series, The Poison Ink Mysteries. The first book, Death by The Book, is available now.

  Inspired by classic fiction and Miss Buncle's Book. Death by the Book questions what happens when you throw a murder into idyllic small town England.

  July 1936

  When Georgette Dorothy Marsh’s dividends fall along with the banks, she decides to write a book. Her only hope is to bring her account out of overdraft and possibly buy some hens. The problem is that she has so little imagination she uses her neighbors for inspiration.

  She little expects anyone to realize what she’s done. So when Chronicles of Harper’s Bend becomes a bestseller, her neighbors are questing to find out just who this “Joe Johns” is and punish him.

  Things escalate beyond what anyone would imagine when one of her prominent characters turns up dead. It seems that the fictional end Georgette had written for the character spurred a real-life murder. Now to find the killer before it is discovered who the author is and she becomes the next victim.

  Order Here.

  If you want book updates, notice of new releases, and random comments, you could follow me on Facebook. Coming soon, you’ll see a new co-written mystery series as well as 1920s paranormal series. Cover reveals, sneak peeks, and release dates are all available through Facebook updates.

  Also By Beth Byers

  The Violet Carlyle Cozy Historical Mysteries

  Murder & the Heir

  Murder at Kennington House

  Murder at the Folly

  A Merry Little Murder

  New Year’s Madness: A Short Story Anthology

  Valentine’s Madness: A Short Story Anthology

  Murder Among the Roses

  Murder in the Shallows

  Gin & Murder

  Obsidian Murder

  Murder at the Ladies Club

  Weddings Vows & Murder

  A Jazzy Little Murder

  Murder by Chocolate

  A Friendly Little Murder

  Murder by the Sea

  The Poison Ink Mysteries

  Death By the Book

  Death Witnessed

  Death by Blackmail (available for preorder)

  Death Misconstrued (available for preorder)

  Deathly Ever After

  The 2nd Chance Diner Mysteries*

  (This Series is Completed.)

  Spaghetti, Meatballs, & Murder

  Cookies & Catastrophe

  Poison & Pie

  Double Mocha Murder

  Cinnamon Rolls & Cyanide

  Tea & Temptation

  Donuts & Danger

  Scones & Scandal

  Lemonade & Loathing

  Wedding Cake & Woe

  Honeymoons & Honeydew

  The Pumpkin Problem

  Death by the Book Preview

  Chapter One

  GEORGETTE MARSH

  Georgette Dorothy Marsh stared at the statement from her bank with a dawning horror. The dividends had been falling, but this…this wasn’t livable. She bit down on the inside of her lip and swallowed frantically. What was she going to do? Tears were burning in the back of her eyes, and her heart was racing frantically.

  There wasn’t enough for—for—anything. Not for cream for her tea or resoling her shoes or firewood for the winter. Georgette glanced out the window, remembered it was spring, and realized that something must be done.

  Something, but what?

  “Miss?” Eunice said from the doorway, “the tea at Mrs. Wilkes is this afternoon. You asked me to remind you.”

  Georgette nodded, frantically trying to hide her tears from her maid, but the servant had known Georgette since the day of her birth, caring for her from her infancy to the current day.

  “What has happened?”

  “The…the dividends,” Georgette breathed. She didn’t have enough air to speak clearly. “The dividends. It’s not enough.”

  Eunice’s head cocked as she examined her mistress and then she said, “Something must be done.”

  “But what?” Georgette asked, biting down on her lip again. Hard.

  CHARLES AARON

  “Uncle?”

  Charles Aaron glanced up from the stack of papers on his desk at his nephew some weeks after Georgette Marsh had written her book in a fury of desperation. It was Robert Aaron who had discovered the book, and it was Charles Aaron who would give it life.

  Robert had been working at Aaron & Luther Publishing House for a year before Georgette’s book appeared in the mail, and he read the slush pile of books that were submitted by new authors before either of the partners stepped in. It was an excellent rewarding work when you found that one book that separated itself from the pile, and Robert got that thrill of excitement every time he found a book that had a touch of something. It was the very feeling that had Charles himself pursuing a career in publishing and eventually creating his own firm.

  It didn’t seem to matter that Charles had his long history of discovering authors and their books. Familiarity had most definitely not led to contempt. He was, he had to admit, in love with reading—fiction especially—and the creative mind. He had learned that some of the books he found would speak only to him.

  Often, however, some he loved would become best sellers. With the best sellers, Charles felt he was sharing a delightful secret with the world. There was magic in discovering a new writer. A contagious sort of magic that had infected Robert. There was nothing that Charles enjoyed more than hearing someone recommend a book he’d published to another.

  “You’ve found something?”

  Robert shrugged, but he also handed the manuscript over a smile right on the edge of his lips and shining eyes that flicked to the manuscript over and over again. “Yes, I think so.” He wasn’t confident enough yet to feel certain, but Charles had noticed for some time that Robert was getting closer and closer to no longer needing anyone to guide him.

  “I’ll look it over soon.”

  It was the end of the day and Charles had a headache building behind his eyes. He always did on the days when he had to deal with the bestseller Thomas Spencer. He was too successful for his own good and expected any publishing company to bend entirely to his will.

  Robert watched Charles load the manuscript into his satchel, bouncing just a little before he pulled back and cleared his throat. The boy—man, Charles supposed—smoothed his suit, flashed a grin, and left the office. Leaving for the day wasn’t
a bad plan. He took his satchel and—as usual—had dinner at his club before retiring to a corner of the room with an overstuffed armchair, an Old-Fashioned, and his pipe.

  Charles glanced around the club, noting the other regulars. Most of them were bachelors who found it easier to eat at the club than to employ a cook. Every once in a while there was a family man who’d escaped the house for an evening with the gents, but for the most part—it was bachelors like himself.

  When Charles opened the neat pages of ‘Joseph Jones’s The Chronicles of Harper’s Bend, he intended to read only a small portion of the book. To get a feel for what Robert had seen and perhaps determine whether it was worth a more thorough look. After a few pages, Charles decided upon just a few more. A few more pages after that, and he left his club to return home and finish the book by his own fire.

  It might have been early summer, but they were also in the middle of a ferocious storm. Charles preferred the crackle of fire wherever possible when he read, as well as a good cup of tea. There was no question that the book was well done. There was no question that Charles would be contacting the author and making an offer on the book. The Chronicles of Harper’s Bend was, in fact, so captivating in its honesty, he couldn’t quite decide whether this author loved the small towns of England or despised them. He rather felt it might be both.

  Either way, it was quietly sarcastic and so true to the little village that raised Charles Aaron that he felt he might turn the page and discover the old woman who’d lived next door to his parents or the vicar of the church he’d attended as a boy. Charles felt as though he knew the people stepping off the pages.