The Novel Art of Murder

by V. M. Burns

  “Your aunt’s right. You come from an excellent bloodline and have an impeccable pedigree. She could hardly do better.”

  Daphne laughed. “You make me sound like a race horse. I hope she doesn’t want to examine my teeth and medical history for potential breeding stock.”

  Daphne intercepted an odd look between Lady Elizabeth and Mrs. Churchill. “Oh, no, you’re joking right?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her. You know the monarchy still require new brides to submit to . . . tests,” Mrs. Churchill said.

  “You can’t be serious. That’s archaic.” Daphne stared from one to the other. Her outrage had stayed her hand from stroking Tango, who made his displeasure known by standing up, turning around, and kneading his claws into her lap. “Ouch. Okay. Okay.” Daphne resumed her stroking and Tango resumed his position and allowed himself to be stroked.

  “I agree the practice is outdated and completely unfair.” Lady Elizabeth was, to her husband’s dismay, a strong proponent of women’s rights and equality. “I’ve heard Lady Alistair is a bit . . . old-fashioned and—”

  “Pretentious,” Mrs. Churchill supplied.

  “Yes, but James is only a duke and rather far down on the list for ascension to the throne. I think we’re safe in assuming Lady Alistair wouldn’t demand anything of the kind,” Lady Elizabeth said.

  “I’ll refuse. That’s what,” Daphne declared.

  Lady Elizabeth knitted. “Of course, dear. You’d be well within your rights to do so.”

  The elder ladies sat quietly.

  “But if I refuse, they’ll say it’s because I have something to hide. They’ll say I’ve done something to be ashamed of.”

  Mrs. Churchill sipped her tea in silence.

  “Well, I won’t do it.” Daphne sulked. “It’s not fair.”

  “I agree, dear.” Lady Elizabeth knitted.

  “I do love him so.” Daphne bit her lower lip. “But modern women must take a stand. I won’t submit to any tests unless James is required to submit to the same humiliation.”

  Lady Elizabeth smiled and continued to knit. “Of course, dear. Whatever you think is best.”

  “When does her highness arrive?” Daphne asked.

  Clementine Churchill suppressed a smile. “Lady Alistair Browning’s train arrives later this afternoon.”

  “Who else are you expecting?” Lady Elizabeth asked.

  Clementine Churchill poured more tea and returned the pot to the tray. “Leopold Amery.”

  “Leo is one of the nicest men I know.” Lady Elizabeth smiled.

  Mrs. Churchill nodded. “I suppose he’s here to keep Winston in line.”

  Lady Elizabeth frowned.

  “Someone named Guy Burgess with the BBC arrived earlier. He’s trying to convince Winston to commit to a talk on the Mediterranean. I suppose Leo is arriving to convince Winston not to talk about it.” She took a sip of tea before continuing. “Lord William Forbes-Stemphill.”

  “Oh . . . my.” Lady Elizabeth stared at Mrs. Churchill.

  “Yes, I know, but he wrote and asked if he could come. He mentioned his mother and I couldn’t say no.”

  “Wasn’t there something about him in the news?” Daphne asked.

  Mrs. Churchill nodded. “Yes. He’s a traitor.”

  “A traitor?” Daphne gasped.

  “He leaked secrets to the Japanese back in the twenties.” Lady Elizabeth sipped her tea.

  “Why wasn’t he arrested? He should have been hung,” Daphne said.

  Lady Elizabeth and Mrs. Churchill exchanged glances.

  After a few seconds, Lady Elizabeth said, “He’s a British Peer. No one wanted a scandal that might reflect negatively on the royal family.”

  Lady Daphne digested this bit of information. “How did they catch him?”

  Mrs. Churchill sighed. “Supposedly, he had quite a few gambling debts to some unsavory characters. He needed more money and tried to blackmail his contact.”

  Daphne stared. “You mean the money he received for betraying his country wasn’t enough to pay off his gambling debts, so he tried to blackmail his cohort in crime? What unbelievable gall.”

  Lady Elizabeth shook her head. “Apparently, the cohort had a sliver of conscience and wanted out.”

  “He had to know if he gave into blackmail, he’d have to pay forever. So, in exchange for clemency, he gave Stemphill up to the authorities.”

  Daphne shook her head in disbelief.

  After a moment of silence, Mrs. Churchill continued, “Anthony Blunt.”

  “Anthony Blunt?” Lady Elizabeth stared at the fire. “Where do I know that name?”

  “He’s an art historian from Trinity College,” Clementine added.

  “Is he here to look at Winston’s paintings?” Lady Elizabeth asked.

  “I believe he’s here to value something or other.” She frowned. “And, I’m sorry to say, Randolph phoned to say he’s coming and bringing a young woman he wants us to meet.”

  Lady Elizabeth squeezed her friend’s hand. “I’m sure it’ll be alright. Maybe the young lady will be a calming influence on Randolph.”

  “I doubt it. Some girl he met at a party with John Amery. She’s bound to be unsuitable.” She sighed. “I just hope he doesn’t cause a scene. Winston’s been depressed about the way things are going in Parliament. The last thing he needs is Randolph stirring things up.”

  Lady Elizabeth patted her friend’s hand and continued knitting. “Is Diana coming? I’d love to see that adorable grandson of yours. He must be so big now.”

  Mrs. Churchill smiled. “Julian’s two and practically grown. Diana’s expecting her second child soon. So, they’re staying close to the hospital in London.”

  “What about Sarah and Mary?” Lady Elizabeth asked tentatively.

  Mrs. Churchill’s smile faded. “Sarah’s in America. The last I heard, she was working on a film with her husband. Mary’s in Limpsfield at Manor House School.”

  “Sounds like you’ll have a full house. Penelope and Victor should be down tomorrow.”

  “The more people, the harder it’ll be for Winston to brood. He does have a tendency to brood.” Mrs. Churchill turned to Lady Elizabeth. “I’m so thankful to have Thompkins. He’ll be a tremendous help. Inches would have tried to muddle through with a broken ankle, but he needs rest. He likes Thompkins and trusts him.”

  “You’re very welcome.” Lady Elizabeth smiled.

  “How did Inches manage to break his ankle?” Lady Daphne asked.

  Mrs. Churchill’s lips twitched. “Winston climbed atop the garden wall to get a better perspective for a painting. Inches and one of the gardeners was trying to help him down when he stumbled.”

  “Oh my,” Lady Elizabeth said. “Was Winston injured?”

  Mrs. Churchill shook her head. “Thankfully, no. I’m afraid Inches broke his fall.”

  Daphne cringed. “That had to be painful. Uncle Winnie is a considerable amount heavier than Inches.”

  Mrs. Churchill nodded. “I’m sure it was. Winston doesn’t show it, but I know he felt badly, even though he scolded Inches for not moving out of the way quickly enough.” She smiled. “Of course, he told the doctor to send us all of the bills.”

  Lady Elizabeth stared at her friend. Rarely would she consider love for one’s husband a fault, but Clementine Churchill’s love for her husband blinded her to almost all of his flaws. Winston was Elizabeth’s cousin and she was well acquainted with both his virtues and his flaws. He was intelligent, articulate, well-read, and witty, with a large capacity for kindness, when he chose. He was also egotistical, self-centered, self-absorbed, given to excess with food and drink, a gambler, and a poor manager of funds. Elizabeth looked around the drawing room. The large room was awash with light. It was comfortable and cozy, with a large fireplace and a boldly patterned Mahal carpet. This room was part of the addition he’d added to the house. Family gossip reported Winston spent a minor fortune purchasing and renovating it. Winston loved Cha
rtwell House and the vast grounds, and Clementine loved Winston. The house she merely tolerated.

  The peaceful setting was interrupted by the arrival of Winston, Lord William, and Rufus, the Churchills’ brown miniature poodle.

  Winston bound into the room huffing and puffing on a fat, smelly cigar. He left a trail of ashes in his wake. Rufus waited for his master to get settled into his chair and promptly jumped into his lap and laid down.

  Mrs. Churchill looked adoringly at her husband, shook her head, and poured him a cup of tea.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  Lord William followed and warmed himself near the fireplace. “You ladies should have joined us. Bracing walk across the property and down to the pond.”

  Lady Daphne laughed. “Thanks, but I’m perfectly content right here with a cat, a good book, and a warm fire.”

  Lord William walked over to his niece and looked at her choice of reading material. “Burke’s Peerage? Not exactly light reading.” Lord William frowned at the large tome, the definitive guide to the genealogy of the titled families of the British Isles.

  Lady Daphne blushed. “I thought I should brush up on James’s family history before I meet Lady Alistair.”

  Lord William smiled indulgently at his niece. “Good idea. Good idea. Never hurts to learn about the family skeletons.”

  Daphne’s blush deepened. “Maybe I’ll look up the other guests while I’m at it. It’ll give me something to talk about with them.”

  Lady Elizabeth knitted. She turned to her cousin. “How is the great opus coming along?”

  Winston sipped his tea. “Slowly.”

  “Whatever possessed you to write the history of the English-speaking people, Uncle Winnie? It sounds like a daunting task to me.”

  Winston stared out the window. “I was possessed by the need to complete the swimming pool and create an Orfe pond.”

  Lord William puffed on his pipe. “But to write the history of the English-speaking people . . . it’ll take a hundred men. The British Empire is . . . vast. Where does one even start writing?”

  “Where does one end?” Lady Daphne asked.

  Winston petted Rufus and puffed on his cigar. “I started at the beginning. I’ll end when I no longer have anything to say.”

  The door to the drawing room was opened by the Marsh family’s stiff and proper butler, Thompkins. “Lady Alistair Browning.”

  Lady Alistair Browning wasn’t expected until later in the afternoon so her sudden arrival more than three hours early caused a slight amount of confusion amongst the ladies. Surprise crossed the face of Mrs. Churchill, while Daphne turned a shade paler. Lady Elizabeth hurried to put away her knitting and dropped a ball of yarn. The yarn rolled across the floor, catching the attention of Tango, who had been reposed on Lady Daphne’s lap. Before Lady Elizabeth could retrieve the yarn, Lady Alistair Browning entered.

  Helen Browning was a tall, slender woman with piercing blue eyes and unnaturally blond hair, which she wore in a conglomeration of styles from the last two decades, including finger waves, pin curls, and coils. She wore a chocolate-brown suit with a fur collar, matching fur muff, and cloche hat. The hat was festooned with large ostrich feathers which fluttered whenever she moved her head. In her arms, she held a small Chihuahua.

  Lady Daphne lifted Tango from her lap, stood, and moved forward to greet Lady Alistair. As she moved forward, Tango got sight of the Chihuahua.

  Rufus growled. Tango arched his back, hissed, and lunged forward. The Chihuahua yapped. Daphne reached for Tango but tripped over the ball of yarn and fell onto the table, knocking the teapot and tray off the table. The teapot flew up into the air, spraying hot tea onto Lady Alistair.

  Despite his age and stiffness, Thompkins grabbed Tango out of the air, seconds before the cat landed onto the yapping dog.

  Clementine Churchill stood openmouthed and frozen.

  Lady Elizabeth and Lord William helped Daphne up from the ground. Thompkins retreated with the screeching cat, and Lady Alistair shrieked.

  Daphne was red-faced and on the verge of tears.

  Only Winston seemed at ease. He puffed his cigar, stood, and bowed curtly to Lady Alistair. “Now, that was a bloody fine entrance, madam.”

  Chapter 3

  Weekends were when I missed my nephews, Christopher and Zaq, and my assistant, Dawson, the most. The twins were juniors at Jesus and Mary University, or JAMU as the folks around River Bend called it. Even though neither of my nephews shared my love of mysteries, the bookstore provided the freedom to try out their natural talents and education in different ways. Christopher was a business major and enjoyed incorporating marketing and sales techniques from his classes in the bookstore. Zaq was my technology wizard and kept my POS and computers humming. They were going to keep the store running while I went to New York with Nana Jo during Thanksgiving break. I was both nervous and excited at the prospect. However, as Nana Jo said, “How much damage could they wreak in a week?”

  Dawson Alexander was my former student from North Harbor High School, who had gotten a football scholarship to Michigan Southwestern University. MISU was a small local school, and Dawson was a sophomore and the star quarterback. He’d come to live with me six months ago and discovered a talent for baking. Between the three of them, the store would be fine. Frank promised to check in too.

  MISU had an away game, so I had the radio tuned into the game. Hot apple cider and football-shaped sugar cookies decorated with MISU’s colors were the treats Dawson left for bookstore patrons, and they were vanishing quickly. We didn’t have our restaurant license yet, so we put the baked items out along with a jar for donations. His baking was gaining quite the reputation, especially after the local news interviewed him a few weeks ago. The interview was intended to show him as a local kid trying to rise above his poor beginnings and abusive father.... The extra publicity had been good for the bookstore too.

  A steady stream of customers kept me busy, and closing time arrived before I knew it. After work, Nana Jo and I were going to the retirement village to pick up the girls for a night on the town. I’d convinced Nana Jo to go into the auditorium later and talk to the Tony award winning producer, Horace Evans. If for no other reason, she still had the costume from last year and could return it. She’d gotten it dry-cleaned and never bothered to return it, since everyone assumed she’d be playing the role again this year.

  The drive from my building in downtown North Harbor to Nana Jo’s South Harbor retirement village went fairly quick. Nana Jo owned a villa in Shady Acres Retirement Village. It was a private, gated community for active seniors with a variety of housing options. There were detached single family homes the residents called villas, town houses, condos, and apartments.

  Each resident had a card that opened the gates and unlocked the main doors. I pulled up to the main entrance and parked. Dry-cleaning bag in hand, we entered the lobby. The security guard at the front desk looked up when we entered. He recognized Nana Jo, waved, and continued watching a football game.

  We passed a number of people we knew, but Nana Jo kept walking. The first floor of the building looked like any other apartment complex. There was a comfortable lounge area with sofas, flat screen televisions, and a massive fireplace. On one side was a workout facility. There was a pool and a large auditorium, which was where we headed.

  Nana Jo stood outside the auditorium door, took a deep breath, and then opened it and marched in. The room was a large open area that could be reconfigured for whatever activity the residents wanted. Today, there were folding chairs near the rear. In the front of the room, a group practiced leg kicks and choreography on a platform. A man played the main number on a piano. One woman stood at the microphone wearing a tight leotard, which showcased every bulge and ripple, of which there were many. She had the largest chest I’d ever seen and her hair looked orange. I hoped it was a result of the spotlights directed at her. She had a large bow atop her head and was belting out a nasally rendition of the main song.
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  I halted. “Oh my.”

  Nana Jo stopped and stared. “That is my replacement.”

  “Oh my.” I realized, after a few moments, my mouth was open, and I closed it.

  Saying Maria Romanov couldn’t sing was akin to saying Lake Michigan was a large body of water. It was obvious and didn’t begin to scratch the surface. Maria Romanov was a horrible singer. Not only couldn’t she hold a tune, she didn’t appear to have any rhythm. She was chunky and out of shape and moved as if she had two left feet.

  “Wow.” I looked at my grandmother.

  “She’s got a voice that would curdle milk.”

  The producer, Horace Evans, was seated in the first row. He hopped up and stopped the music. He sounded as though he was gritting his teeth. “Maria, I believe you’ve changed keys again.” He walked over to the piano. “Can you please give us the chord again, Freddie?”

  When Horace went to the piano, I saw the pianist was Nana Jo’s boyfriend, Freddie. They’d been dating for close to a year and seemed pretty committed.

  “I didn’t know Freddie played the piano.”

  Nana Jo nodded. “He rarely plays now, but our old pianist broke a hip skydiving, so Freddie agreed to help out.”

  Freddie obliged by playing the chord again.

  Maria turned red, flung the sheet music down on the floor, and stamped her feet. “How can you expect me to stay on key when I’m being blinded by that light?”

  I failed to see how the light affected her vocal chords, but with one throat-slashing motion, Horace gave a signal which killed the spotlight. “It is a dress rehearsal, so you will need to get accustomed to the lights before the performance.”

  When the spotlight was turned off, I realized the unnatural orange color of her hair was the result of hair dye and not the lights. I leaned over to Nana Jo. “Are my eyes playing tricks or is her hair tangerine orange?”

  Nana Jo nodded. “Looks like she’s got a pumpkin on her head, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m accustomed to performing on larger stages with the latest lighting,” Maria boasted with an accent that sounded like a cross between Russian, French, and the Bronx. “I have performed on the grandest stages in the world and with some of the greatest musicians and dancers. This”—she swept her arm to encompass the entire stage—“is beneath me.”