The Novel Art of Murder

by V. M. Burns

  I smiled broadly. “Interesting. I’m rather surprised the board would want to flaunt the fact their chef was arrested for poisoning. Most places would try to hide something like that.”

  If looks could kill, I’d be dead where I stood with a frozen dagger through my eye socket. Miss Bennett’s face turned purple and she looked as though she might have a stroke. “How dare you.” She looked around to ensure no one important was nearby to hear and then leaned close and whispered, “If you breathe one word of those lies, I’ll sue you for libel.”

  “Considering I haven’t written anything, I think the word you want is slander. However, that will only work if what I’ve said is proven to be false.”

  Miss Bennett took a step forward. For a brief moment, it looked as though she would strangle me. Fortunately for me, the judges made their way to the Shady Acres table and she had to force a smile. Her eyes were cold whenever she looked in my direction, but she was forced to cut short any further threats until after the judging.

  Frank glanced in my direction and smiled big. He sidled up to me and put an arm around my waste and whispered, “You okay?”

  I nodded. “I’m fine.”

  He looked carefully and then tasted the offerings Gaston and Miss Bennett provided for his judging pleasure.

  I stole a glance at Miss Bennett and noticed, although she pretended she wasn’t noticing, she was definitely keeping a close eye on Frank and me. Maybe she thought I was whispering about Gaston’s past.

  Gaston was fully decked out in his chef whites. He had a white double-breasted jacket, hound’s-tooth-patterned black-and-white pants and tall toque blanche, the traditional chef’s hat. Around his neck were two medals. One was a combination star on top of a square. The other was a large gold circle. I didn’t know what they were, but they looked impressive.

  Gaston beamed. His face glowed. There was a twinkle in his eyes and a smile on his face. I would never consider saying or doing anything to destroy that look of pure joy on his face. I let Denise Bennett provoke me and I felt ashamed to think I’d been so petty. When Gaston provided Frank his sample, he noticed me and smiled big. It was obvious cooking gave him great joy. I prayed he wasn’t Maria or Magnus’s killer.

  Frank tasted the sample. His eyes rolled back in his head and a low primal groan followed.

  Once the judges had tasted the items provided, they moved on to the next table.

  More time alone with Denise Bennett would be bad for my mental, emotional, and possibly physical health, so I followed the judges to the next table. One backward glance told me she would hold me personally responsible if Shady Acres didn’t win.

  Fortunately, Gaston and Shady Acres won two medals. I was pretty confident Miss Bennett wouldn’t or couldn’t prevent me from coming on the grounds, although, I was less confident about the future of my tires. Tomorrow I needed to confirm my insurance included towing services, just as a precaution.

  The event was a success and Frank was happily in his element. He talked about the great food and wines the entire drive home. We sat in the car in the parking lot next to my building. “I’m sorry. I’ve been going on and on and ignoring you.” He turned in his seat and faced me.

  “It’s fine. I’m glad you’re excited and you had a great time.” I tried to sound reassuring.

  “So, what’s bothering you?”

  I thought for a minute. “Nothing—”

  He looked as though he was going to interrupt and I held up a hand. “Seriously, nothing’s wrong. I’ve just been thinking.” I told him about my altercation with Denise Bennett.

  He looked concerned. “Do you think she would have harmed you?”

  I pondered the question. “I don’t think so, but the incident reminded me we still don’t know much about her.” I told him how we couldn’t find any information about her in any of the police or legal databases.

  He frowned. “That’s odd.”

  I nodded and stared at him. “I was wondering if you could use your contacts to help us find out about her and another small thing.” I grinned.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Maria blackmailed Horace Evans to get the lead role in the Senior Follies. She blackmailed Gaston Renoir to get special food and, while we don’t know that she blackmailed Denise Bennett, it seems awfully suspicious that she jumped to the top of the wait list for a bigger apartment.”

  “You think she was blackmailing Denise Bennett?”

  I nodded. “So, I was hoping you could see if there was any link between Maria and Denise Bennett. I mean, how was Maria able to just come in and find out all this stuff?”

  He smiled. “Anything else, Sherlock?”

  I shook my head.

  He looked at me intensely. “I’ll see what I can find out, but . . . what’s in it for me?” He grinned.

  My face warmed, and I was grateful we were in the dark car. “Well, I could . . . get Dawson to bake you some cookies.”

  He shook his head. “I was thinking of something a little more personal.” He leaned closer and I smelled his aftershave.

  “Your next spy thriller is on the house?” I teased.

  He leaned closer and his breath brushed my cheek. “Closer, but still not what I was thinking of.”

  I smiled and turned my head and we kissed. It started off pretty light but quickly grew in intensity. After a few seconds, or days, he pulled away. “Okay, that’s enough of that.” He pulled back and unbuckled his seat belt.

  I felt cold and confused for a second.

  He opened his door. “Any more of that and you’ll have me divulging national secrets.”

  I smiled.

  He got out of the car and walked around to open my door and help me out. He was always such a gentleman.

  We walked hand in hand to the door.

  “You coming up for a coffee?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I better not.” He kissed me again. This time slowly and gently before he pulled away. “I need to keep my wits about me.”

  I smiled all the way upstairs. I smiled as I let the poodles out to do their business and I was still smiling when I got undressed and climbed into bed. My thoughts drifted in a direction that caused a lot more smiles and plenty of giggles. Thankfully, Snickers and Oreo ignored my schoolgirl antics. I tried to sleep, but that didn’t work. I tried to focus my breathing and my thoughts, but try as I might, my thoughts continued to drift in a different direction. I needed a diversion, so I got up, made a cup of tea, and pulled out my laptop.

  The kitchen at Chartwell House was a beehive of activity, not unlike kitchens in other stately British homes. Maids, footmen, housekeepers, and butlers rushed in and out lugging, carrying, and doing whatever it took to tend to the needs of the family and their guests. The cook ruled the roost, and Chartwell was no different. Mrs. Churchill often employed family friend Georgina Landemare to help cook for house parties, and this week was no exception.

  Georgina was a large, plain, good-natured woman, renowned for her culinary ability, despite the fact that as a coachman’s daughter, she had no formal training. Thompkins noted the other servants liked and respected her. She entered service as a scullery maid at the age of fourteen and the servants viewed her as one of them. She was highly sought after by the aristocracy and cooked at events like the races at Newmarket, debutante balls, and weekends at Cowes.

  Thompkins respected Georgina and the two worked well together. His many years working with Mrs. Anderson, the Marsh family cook, had taught him how to step softly in the minefield of the kitchen. He knew the other servants were younger and more easily intimidated by his stiff demeanor and rigid adherence to order. The group had worked well together, but he wasn’t sure if they would feel comfortable opening up to him. However, he had been given a task and he would accomplish it if it was the last thing he did.

  The butler hesitated a moment and then entered the kitchen. The other servants were sitting at the table enjoying a cup of tea. They started to rise, as a courtesy
to his rank in the age-old tradition of the British servant hierarchy, but Thompkins waved his hand, indicating they could forego the courtesy and remain seated.

  “It’s been a very busy day. A hot cup of tea would be wonderful right now,” he said.

  Mrs. Newton, the housekeeper, poured a cup of tea and passed it down to the butler.

  The conversation stalled after Thompkins joined the group. He sipped his tea silently.

  Albert, the young footman, looked flushed. He sat next to Sergeant Turnbull, who looked pale as he stared into his cup.

  “Are you okay?” Thompkins asked kindly.

  The sergeant looked up at the butler. “Yes, sir.” He paused. “It’s just I’ve never seen a dead body before.” He spoke quietly. “Not one like that, least ways. You know, just me gram and she didn’t ’ave no ’ole in ’er ’ead.” He looked around at the women. “Sorry.”

  “Is that what she ’ad?” the maid, Ethel, asked with a slight bit of excitement in her voice. “Was she shot?”

  The sergeant nodded and then rose. “I best be getting back to the station. I’ll need to file a report or something.”

  Thompkins rose to show the young man out, but he shook his head.

  “No need to show me out, sir. I’ll just nip out this back door.” He rushed from the room and out the back door.

  “He seems like a nice lad.” Thompkins took a sip of his tea. “I hope he’s up to dealing with something like this.”

  “He’s a local boy. Known him his whole life,” Mrs. Newton said as though that should be enough to vouch for his character.

  “He’s alright. His brother is one of my mates,” Albert added.

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect,” the butler added. “I’m sure he comes from a very fine family. It’s just that murder isn’t very common in quiet villages like this.”

  They accepted the butler’s explanation in silence.

  Eventually, Mrs. Newton nodded. “Well, you’re right about that. We’ve certainly never had any murders for at least a hundred years. None as far back as I can remember, least ways. Only one bad seed too.” She pursed her lips.

  “Bad seed?” Thompkins asked.

  “Lord Amery’s son used to get into quite a bit of trouble before he up and left.” She nodded. “And good riddance to bad rubbish.” She sipped her tea. “Apart from him, this is a right quiet place with hardworking, respectable people.”

  “Poachings and drunk and disorderly is mostly all we have in these parts,” Albert said. “Imagine someone around these parts getting murdered.”

  “I wonder who done ’er in?” Ethel said. “You think it was ’em?”

  Mrs. Newton looked crossed. “You bite your tongue, girl.” She glanced sideways at Thompkins. “You got no ’count to be accusing Mr. Randolph.” In front of strangers was left unsaid, but the words hung in her silence nonetheless.

  Ethel glanced at Thompkins. “I didn’t say as ’e done it, but everyone ’eard the two of ’em arguing.”

  “Did they argue?” Mrs. Landemare asked.

  Ethel glanced sideways at Mrs. Newton. “Almost the entire time she were ’ere. Nothing was right. She wanted more sunlight in ’er room or more ’ot water in ’er bath.”

  “Well, good Lord, what was she arguing with him about that for?” Mrs. Landemare asked.

  Ethel shrugged. “I guess she expected ’im to lift a finger to do something to fix it for ’er.” She laughed. “But she soon found out, Mr. Randolph don’t take kindly to orders from anyone, least of all the likes of’er.”

  “Hush,” Mrs. Newton ordered. “You can’t know that.” She looked at the cook and the butler.

  “Well, that’s what ’e told ’er.”

  A look of shock crossed Mrs. Newton’s face. “Even so, that don’t give you any right to accuse him of murder.” Having reprimanded the maid, she took a sip of her tea. “Besides, there were plenty others that didn’t get along with her.”

  “Oh my.” The cook leaned forward. “Don’t tell me she fought with other people too?”

  “Well, I don’t like to speak out of turn.” The housekeeper glanced at the butler. “I heard her arguing on the telephone with someone and it couldn’t have been Mr. Randolph because I had just passed him in the parlor.”

  “Really? I don’t suppose you ’eard what she was arguing about?” the cook asked.

  The housekeeper bristled. “I’m not one to listen to conversations that don’t concern me.”

  Thompkins coughed. “No one would ever accuse you of such a thing. However, sometimes it is almost impossible to avoid hearing things.” The butler sized up the housekeeper and gave a meaningful look. “Especially when dealing with people of a certain class and breeding are concerned.”

  Mrs. Newton nodded. “You’re so right, Mr. Thompkins, sir. That’s exactly what I says to me sister, Lillith. Common. That’s what she was.” Her eyes gleamed and her face flushed. She was the center of attention. “Well, Lillith, I says, I’ve never heard such foul language in my entire life as that little piece of baggage used. ‘I’ve got a chance to bag something a lot bigger than some stuffy old journalist, and I’ll not have you coming up here and pulling the rug out from under me.’”

  There were looks of surprise on everyone’s faces.

  “Then she swears and says, ‘Don’t you dare try and stop me. I’m going to get rid of Miss Goody Two-Shoes, and then I’ll be set for life right here in good ole England.’”

  Ethel gaped at the housekeeper. “What else did she say?”

  Mrs. Newton waited a moment. “She said, ‘You can go off to the Siberian arctic and freeze your . . . I won’t say what she said, but you know what I mean, ‘off if you want to, but I’m staying right here.’ Then she slammed the receiver down.”

  There was silence as everyone stared at the housekeeper.

  “Lawd,” Ethel said.

  “I wonder who she was talking to,” Mrs. Landemare said.

  Mrs. Newton shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Albert leaned forward. “I’ll bet that’s who I saw in the garden the other night.”

  Thompkins stared at the footman. “You saw someone in the garden?”

  “I went out to . . . get some air.” Albert flushed as he avoided eye contact with the butler.

  Thompkins knew the footman had left the house after dinner. He’d gone looking for the young man when he came down to ask the maid for water bottles for Lady Daphne. He’d guessed the young man had a girl in the village.

  “When I was outside, I thought I saw the light from a torch in the back garden, but I figured it was Mr. Randolph. I didn’t want anyone to see me, so I just hurried into the house.”

  “Couldn’t you see anyone?” Thompkins asked.

  “No, but it sounded like two people were having a row, but I couldn’t make out what they was saying.” He looked down and sighed. “But it was a man and a woman.”

  “Did you tell anyone about this?” the butler asked.

  Albert shook his head. “I forgot about it until Newton said what she heard.” He looked at the butler. “Do you think it’s important?”

  Thompkins thought for a few seconds. “I don’t know, but I think we should tell Lady Elizabeth and Mrs. Churchill.” He rose from the table. “It might prove vitally important.”

  Chapter 18

  Saturday at the bookstore was busy. I wasn’t sure if the increased foot traffic was because it was the last Saturday before the Thanksgiving holiday or because it was a MISU football weekend. It wasn’t just any football game. Today was MISU’s last game of the season. The team was undefeated and there was an electricity that had the locals abuzz with the possibility of a bowl game and maybe a championship. I wasn’t sure how the selection of a champion collegiate team worked anymore. It used to be the team with the best record was selected as national champions, but the collegiate football playoffs changed that. Now, the top four teams were selected to participate in a mini-playoff which would determine the champ
ion. I didn’t understand the selection process, but then I never understood the old system either.

  I’d become accustomed to crowds on game days. People enjoyed coming into the bookstore and listening to the game on the radio. I knew Frank would be busy too, and every television in his restaurant would be tuned into the game. I expected crowds, but today surpassed them all. Dawson sent a text at five in the morning reminding me to take the extra dough out of the freezer. I was thankful for the reminder. All I had to do was slice and bake the cookies. He’d thought of everything. I said a silent prayer as I carried another batch of cookies downstairs. I wasn’t sure if God intervened in the outcome of football games, but if so, I hoped He would favor MISU. In our MISU sweatshirts, Nana Jo and I consulted, advised, recommended, sold books, baked cookies, and restocked when needed; we also cheered whenever MISU scored.

  Jillian and Emma stopped by in the afternoon while I was explaining the difference between a thriller and a suspense to a nerdy young man. When he finally chose a book and was ready to checkout, Jillian was behind the counter, checking customers out.

  I mouthed, Where’s Nana Jo?

  She pointed to the back room.

  I thanked her and was immediately accosted to help a customer locate a Rex Stout novel. I sold new books. Many mystery readers fell in love with authors, like Stout, who were out of print. Finding an old Rex Stout or Patricia Wentworth could be a challenge. Leon and I used to bemoan the fact older books were so hard to find. So, I was ecstatic when I learned of the Espresso electronic book machine, basically a huge beast of a printer that allowed me to print books. When I first investigated the Espresso machine, the price was twice what we’d paid for our first house. As technology advanced, more books were available online and the price for the Espresso machines dropped. When a university’s bookstore in Chicago closed, I was able to buy their machine for a fraction of the original price. Not being the most technologically savvy person on the planet, I’d moved the machine to the back and allowed it to collect dust. Thankfully, my nephews were around to help me out. Zaq figured out how to get the machine working and printed instructions for me. Christopher, my marketing wizard nephew, created signs and advertisements, which drew in mystery readers from three states to see if they could get older, hard to find books. These one-off situations certainly didn’t make the machine cost effective. However, Christopher’s other ideas, like print-on-demand for indie authors, or offering writing workshops which could end with printed books, made the machine an attractive option.