Murder of the Mysterious Maid Read online

  “Murder of the Mysterious Maid”

  Cozy Mystery

  A Rose Lunceford Mystery

  Volume One

  Megan Mollson

  © 2019

  Megan Mollson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Products or brand names mentioned are trademarks of their respective holders or companies. The cover uses licensed images and are shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are simply models.

  Edition v1.00 (2019.08.19)

  Special thanks to the following volunteer readers who helped with proofreading: Julie Pope, Christine S., M. McMath, Kari Wellborn, RB, JayBee and those who assisted but wished to be anonymous. Thank you so much for your support.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Free Kendall Scott Book “Marriage Can Be Murder”

  Chapter One

  Brinkman, Illinois - June 1900

  It was difficult to dress without a maid, but I’d become accustomed to sharing one between four girls at school and was able to fend for myself adequately. After I’d arrived at his house sans maid, Father had promised to send out inquiries. It seemed to me that a man whose eighteen-year-old daughter was coming to live with him for the first time would need a maid of her own and I was quietly resentful that Father hadn’t taken the time to consider this. I added it to the long list of things I resented him for and got on with settling in to my new home.

  Now I sat at the dressing table that had once been my mother’s in the bedroom that had been mine as a little girl. I pinned my hair up in a fashionable style that complimented my features. My grandparents had told me in no uncertain terms that I was welcome to return to their home now that my schooling had finished. They promised to introduce me to the eligible young men in their acquaintance and help me find a good match. As I fixed my hair, I grumbled to myself that, if I’d returned to my grandparents’ house, I would most definitely have a lady’s maid.

  Everyone assumed I’d go back to them. Everyone, that is to say, except me. Underneath it all, I wasn’t the dutiful girl they’d tried so hard to force me to be. Oh, I had impeccable manners and followed the rules, of course. I’d lived with them since Mother died when I was five and Grandmother had made certain that my severe handicap of having a father who was a policeman wouldn’t keep me from being accepted into the best social circles. I’d gone to McKinley’s Seminary for Young Ladies, the most exclusive finishing school in the Midwest, and could sing, pour tea, and embroider cushions with the best of them. But times were changing, and I wanted more from life than simply being a wife and mother.

  I made my way to the wardrobe and considered my options for tonight. Father was taking me to the house of Mr. and Mrs. Charles for supper. It wasn’t a formal event, but I wanted my introduction to society here in Brinkman to begin on the right foot. Without a maid, I couldn’t tighten my stays very well and so any of my dresses that were close-fitting through the bodice wouldn’t work. Surely my embroidered basque-waist and skirt would be pretty enough for tonight. The skirt had a nice train with flounces which made it acceptable for going out without being too dressy. The basque-waist had a lovely drape and would fit over my corset even if the untrained chamber maid, Bessie, couldn’t tighten it as far as it could go.

  I chose shoes and gloves, finished dressing, and examined the overall effect in the standing mirror. My dark auburn hair and pale skin were set off nicely by the green in my dress. I crinkled my nose and sighed when I considered my small size. Being a hair over five feet tall and slim made me look like a girl of thirteen. If only I could grow more womanly curves, I would finally look my age. No matter how well I dressed, I was constantly underestimated because I looked so young.

  “Rose, stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I chided. I nodded firmly at my reflection. Then, pulling on my gloves, I made my way downstairs to wait for Father.

  “All ready?” He boomed as he entered the parlor some ten minutes later.

  I resisted moodily replying that obviously I was ready to go since I was sitting here reading a book, waiting for him. “I am,” I chose to say instead.

  “The carriage is waiting.” Father turned on his heel and strode to the front door.

  I made a face at his back and followed him. Our relationship was a strange one. After Mother died, he sent me to live with her parents, claiming that he was too busy to raise a small child. I understood this reasoning, but I couldn’t understand why he rarely visited me in St. Louis or even wrote me letters. Grandmother insisted I write him each week, but my letters were largely unanswered.

  Perhaps all children find the shift from child to adult challenging. I only know that my father seemed to find me a deep mystery. I’d already been in his home for three days and he had yet to think of anything to say to me that wasn’t an inane command or redundant question.

  He was just as much a mystery to me as I was to him. Yet, I made every effort to ask questions about his work and the people in our community. My questions about the former topic were abruptly stopped due to the “unseemly nature” of police work. I found this insulting. My questions on the latter topic were abruptly stopped because it was a sin to gossip.

  So, we had spent the last three days largely in silence. My mental diatribe was scathing, but since Grandmother had taught me well, my face never betrayed my thoughts. Therefore, Father did not know that I read detective stories whenever I could get my hands on them. I knew the Sherlock Holmes stories inside and out and I simply adored Dorcas Dene.

  As to gossip being a sin, my grandmother had taught me the importance of understanding the subtle nuances of society. Good conversation required the knowing of certain facts such as what topics to avoid with certain people, who could be seated next to whom at a dinner party, and so on. I took Father’s gentle reprimand very bitterly. Grandmother’s assessment that he was not really a gentleman seemed proven beyond a reasonable doubt.

  As my disappointment grew, so did my frustration. My secret resentment of him was becoming more apparent and I’m sorry to admit that I did little to curb it.

  Just as Father was handing me into the
carriage, our butler, Harrison, stepped onto the front stoop. He said something to Father that I couldn’t hear. Father asked him a question which was answered in Harrison’s usual efficient, bland tone. Then Father spoke to the carriage driver and finally climbed in and took the seat next to me.

  “We need to make a stop at the Dennis’ house,” he explained.

  When no further explanation was offered, I was left to assume that this was in relation to some crime or another. Father’s entire life was wrapped up in being the chief of police for the bustling town of Brinkman, Illinois. He’d worked his way up from lowly constable to detective to chief. It had taken an enormous amount of work on his part and I believed that he must be glad to have had me out from under his care during those difficult years.

  He tugged at his tight collar and coughed slightly in the quiet. I felt his eyes dart my way a few times and took a small amount of pleasure in his discomfort. Well, if he wasn’t going to explain why we were making a stop before dinner, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting I was curious. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I felt that it was almost a game between the two of us on the ride to the Dennis’. Father was determined not to say anything to me and I was every bit as determined to say nothing back. It was a game of daring; we were both trying not to be the one to give in to the pressure of the awkward silence.

  Finally, the carriage pulled to a stop and Father said, “It might be a few minutes. I’ll have you come and wait inside with Mrs. Dennis and her daughter, Paula.”

  I took his hand imperiously and released it the moment my feet were on solid ground. He coughed uncomfortably again and led the way up the drive to the front of the house. It was a very large house, old but well cared for. I thought it was comparable to my grandparents’ house in St. Louis and instantly understood that the Dennis family was very wealthy. No wonder Father himself had been called to visit the scene of the crime.

  Lights burned in all the windows and police were swarming everywhere, it seemed. For the first time, I began to wonder what it was exactly that had transpired here. The policemen were grim faced and speaking seriously to each other. There was no laughing or smoking of cigarettes. Everyone behaved as though these sorts of things would be inappropriate. Exactly what had happened here?

  The constables we passed greeted my father with serious nods and gave me quick, curious appraisals. There was no doubt that they knew I was his daughter. Brinkman wasn’t so large that word of this hadn’t traveled to all citizens of note. My previous confidence that had followed me out of the carriage abandoned me and I touched my hair nervously and straightened my gloves as so many policemen appraised me.

  I was grateful when we stepped into the parlor and Father introduced me to Mrs. Dennis and Paula. We nodded at each other politely and Father quickly left the room.

  It was my turn to be the appraiser, a task I far preferred. One sweeping look of the room and the two ladies in front of me told me a great deal about this house and its occupants. The furniture wasn’t fashionable anymore, but it was elegant and tasteful. Surely a number of the pieces were valuable antiques. Paintings hung on the walls, thick rugs were under our feet, and the china bric-a-brac was very costly.

  Paula Dennis was plain but dressed so as to highlight her best features. The rose color of her gown brought out the pretty coloring of her cheeks. Her dark hair was in the fashionable pompadour style and drew attention away from her broad face by swooping down over one side of her forehead. She was unfortunately heavyset, though I could tell from her hands that this was due more to having large bones than to a tendency to over eat.

  Mrs. Dennis was every inch the high-born lady. Despite the disturbance in her home, she ruled over us all with an untouchable frostiness. Her stiff collar and even stiffer posture sneered at we lesser mortals. Mrs. Dennis made certain to keep her daughter in line. From the nervous glances Paula sent her way, I could tell that her mother’s approval was not easily given.

  Fortunately, my grandmother had drilled me in the ways of society women since I’d come to live with her at the age of five. My finishing school teachers had had no cause for complaint in my posture or manners, thanks to my grandmother who, I was quite sure, could manage to look down her nose at even Mrs. Dennis. Therefore, I was completely relaxed in the presence of this austere matriarch. In many ways, it was more familiar to me than the less formal company of my own father.

  “I’m so sorry for the uproar,” I offered. Not having any idea what had actually happened here, it was all I had.

  Paula checked for her mother’s answer with her eyes before smiling at me apologetically and saying, “It was good of your father to come. Having the chief of police here makes us all feel better, I’m sure.”

  “Feel better?” Mrs. Dennis snapped. “How could we feel better? A maid was murdered in our house tonight, Paula. I know I shan’t sleep well until the culprit is apprehended.”

  I gulped. A murder? This was far more serious than I’d imagined. “Oh, dear. I don’t blame you for that. How frightening. Had the girl been with you long?” There was no hope for it now. I was going to pry shamelessly, my curiosity demanding answers more loudly than my prim upbringing demanded politeness.

  “Only a week,” Paula chirped before quailing under her mother’s stern gaze.

  My mind searched for something to say that would reassure the ladies that I was on their side in the hopes that they would give me more details. “It’s so difficult to find a good maid. I don’t currently have one and it makes dressing such a chore.”

  Mrs. Dennis melted very slightly. “When I hired Flora, I’d thought her proper and efficient. Her recommendation was excellent and from a friend of mine. Now, I see what a terrible mistake I made.”

  “Was her work unsatisfactory?” I nosed.

  “Of course not,” Mrs. Dennis waved away my concern as though it was ridiculous that she could ever hire a substandard maid. “I wouldn’t have kept her a single day if her work had been lacking. No, I regret hiring a woman who was murdered in my house. Now it will be ever so difficult to find a replacement. The best housemaids will be reluctant to work in a house where a woman was killed.”

  I tried not to let her callousness at the death of a young woman bother me. It was a common attitude among society women. The balance between being mistress of the house while having other women clean and cook in it made things complicated. And adding in several often-attractive young ladies to a house where a woman was trying to raise sons and keep her husband in line only made things worse. A sneering superiority was all that some women had to establish themselves as the head of her own house.

  “How are your other maids holding up?” It was a guess, but not too much of a gamble, that there were a number of other maids. A house this large with two women in it would require a smattering of housemaids, kitchen maids, and at least one lady’s maid.

  “They’re terribly upset,” Paula broke in. “Gloria shared a room with Flora and she’s very shaken. There was blood everywhere in the laundry room.”

  “Paula, that’s quite enough,” her mother scolded. “There’s no need for hysterics.”

  I shot Paula a sympathetic look. “Were the other maids getting along with Flora?”

  “Are you suggesting that one of the maids stabbed her in my house?” Mrs. Dennis looked highly affronted.

  “Of course not,” I hurried to say. “I only worried that they might be distraught at the loss of a new friend.”

  Paula shook her head. “It’s funny, but the other three maids didn’t get along well with Flora. I don’t know why.”

  My father entered the room before I was able to ask another question. I rose to my feet and bade the Dennis ladies good night. Paula asked me to visit when things had settled down and I agreed readily. Being new in town, I was in the market for friends and this particular friend might have more answers that would assuage my curiosity.

  I followed Father outside. The constables were definitely
loitering now, the busy work of collecting the initial evidence being over. More than one cigarette was hastily put out at the sight of the chief of police striding down the walkway. Just as we were about to reach our carriage, a policeman in plain clothes rounded the corner.

  “Ah, Cal,” Father called. It was obvious that the two were on good terms from Father’s tone.

  The man named Cal stepped into the light spilling from a window and I felt my stomach lurch. He roundly ignored me and began to discuss the plan for beginning the investigation with my father. I was hardly put off by this since it afforded me time to analyze his handsome features.

  Cal was of average height and build. He had serious blue eyes under straight brows. His dark blond hair was thick and well groomed. Everything about him was attractive, from his strong chin to his slightly crooked nose. My time at girls’ school hadn’t given me many opportunities to be this close to a handsome man and the unfamiliar feeling of not knowing what to say was a bit unpleasant.

  “Cal, let me introduce you to my daughter, Rose,” Father finally remembered to say. “Rose, this is Calvin Lloyd. He’s one of the department’s top detectives. He’ll be leading the investigation here.”

  The detective nodded at me, appraising me as I’d done him. I wondered what he saw. Did he think me very young? My cheeks colored at the thought. For reasons I didn’t care to delve into, the idea of Cal Lloyd thinking I was a little girl made me quite uncomfortable.

  “How do you do,” I replied, determined to at least act my age. “I understand that the maid was stabbed in the laundry room.”

  Father guffawed in surprise. “Where did you hear that?”

  I raised an eyebrow haughtily at him. “You asked me to sit with the ladies of the house, Father. What else would we discuss but the murder that had taken place here?”

  “That’s hardly appropriate talk for ladies,” Calvin scolded me.