Betting on Death

  “Betting on Death”

  Cozy Mystery

  A Rose Lunceford Mystery

  Volume Two

  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 & are shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are simply models.

  Edition v1.00 (2019.11.23)

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

  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

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  Brinkman, Illinois - September 1900

  I was glad I’d worn my walking shoes that Monday morning. If I’d worn my prettier calfskin boots, my feet would have been complaining long before we found Paula Dennis’ dog. Of course, I appreciated very much that my friend had thought to hire the L&E Investigation Agency to search for the missing pet, however it was hardly the glamorous sort of thing I had envisioned when my friend Will Edwards and I first dreamed of opening such an agency.

  “Miss Dennis, you don’t have to accompany us while we search,” Will said for the third time.

  I smirked from my place ahead of them on the trail. I had a suspicion that Paula had engineered this “mystery” so that she would have a chance to see Will again. She’d developed quite an attachment to him when we’d helped investigate the death of a maid in Paula’s family’s home earlier that year.

  The sound of whining just off the path caught my ears and I plunged into the undergrowth. Not thirty steps away, we came across a ramshackle shed. The scratching on the inside of the door coupled with the unmistakable sounds of a dog told us that we’d solved the case.

  “Princess!” Paula cried with delight when I opened the door and her pup dashed out. “Oh, how can I ever thank you?”

  She batted her eyes up at my partner who tugged at his collar and suggested we get back to the agency.

  Only momentarily deterred, Paula reminded us of the garden party she was throwing. Her eyes were on me, but from the flush of her cheeks, I knew the comment was directed at Will.

  I couldn’t understand what it was about Paula Dennis that so offended Will. She was more handsome than beautiful, with her wider frame and olive-toned complexion. Still, she was far from unappealing. I found her funny and kind and couldn’t imagine what more Will would want in a wife. In fact, she was an ideal mate for him since her family was quite wealthy and his had lost its fortune a generation or so back.

  Unfortunately for Paula, Will’s taste in women ran towards the perky, pretty shop girls who were all too eager to let him take them for a walk or a soda. These poor girls didn’t realize until it was too late that Will had no intention of sticking around for long.

  On my generous days, I’d look up at him, take in his untidy dark hair, big ears, and easy smile and chalk this behavior up to his being a young man. On days when he was teasing me mercilessly, I thought him a philanderer and wished he’d grow up.

  On the walk home, Will wasn’t his usual chipper self.

  “Rose, I think Miss Dennis shut him up there herself,” he accused hotly.

  I tried to hide my smile. “It doesn’t matter if she did. We needed the work. We didn’t have anything else that was more pressing. We got to get out and enjoy this lovely fall day. Did you notice the leaves changing color?”

  Will scowled at me. “Forget the leaves. I’m telling you, Paula Dennis has designs on me.”

  “Is that such a bad thing? Paula is very kind and her family is extremely wealthy. You could do worse. She clearly admires you.”

  Perhaps that was the very trouble. My partner might be one of those men who preferred to be the hunter and not the prey.

  I eyed him critically. He was too tall and thin for my liking, though his shoulders were broad enough. Between the smattering of freckles across his nose and his ears which stuck out, he looked like an overgrown schoolboy. Personally, I didn’t know what it was about him that so drew Paula. His family name was a good one, but there was no fortune anymore to back it up. Their house was the last thing of value that they owned and even that was nowhere near the showplace it had been in its heyday.

  In fact, we were walking now to our agency which was housed in the Edwards’ home. When Will had told his father that he wanted to stop working at the family business and start a detecting agency, his father had been adamantly opposed. A detecting agency was absolutely not a solid plan for making a living. Over time, Will had put his considerable charms to work and convinced his father to give him a chance.

  Personally, I felt that it was his disinterest in the family business and terrible work record that had convinced Mr. Edwards to let his son go off on his own, in the end. When I’d first met him, Will had put more work into avoiding his job than I’d ever seen him put into his father’s financial business. After some reflection, I was confident that Mr. Edwards had realized his son would never be much of an asset in the office.

  Once that was decided, Will and I began to wonder where to set up shop. Since their big, once-elegant family house was now mostly empty of both people and treasures, Mrs. Edwards offered to allow us the use of the old library for our agency. She asked no rent, which meant that we could afford it. Maple House, as the locals called it, was close to Main Street, so clients could reach it easily. Since the Edwards kept few servants and Mrs. Edwards usually didn’t receive visitors at home, it was quiet. After dusting off a pair of desks and moving in a few friendly plants, we decided that the library was ideal and had business cards printed with the address.

  After solving the rather disappointing case of Paula’s missing pooch, we made our way out of the newer fashionable homes where the Dennises lived and into where the older, stately homes were located. As we walked up the brick path to Maple House, I made a point to enjoy the trees which lent the house its name and were busy turning from gold to red. It made for quite a pleasant picture and I smiled to myself as we entered the house. Despite our lack of interesting cases, I found myself in that moment to be quite content.

  “Do you think Berta would acquiesce to make us a pot of tea?” Will asked in his teasing tone as we took our seats back in our office once again.

  “Are you sure we’re not being too much of an inconvenience to her? She already has so much to do around here.”

  “Now t
hat we’ve closed off both wings, she’s only cleaning the parlor, dining room, and two upstairs bedrooms,” he shrugged as though the diminishing stature of his family didn’t bother him at all, though I know it did.

  “And cook all your meals,” I pointed out.

  Will shrugged. “Making a pot of tea will hardly add a great weight to her day. Besides, while I’m gone, you can write up the case in our casebook.”

  “So that’s it,” I said, shaking my head. We’d decided to keep careful record of each of our investigations in a leather-bound journal. As it turned out, my partner despised writing and did everything in his power to avoid it, so the task generally fell to me. In truth, as I was the more particular of the pair of us, and it had been my idea in the first place, this generally worked out for the best.

  Will was loping out the door before I could call him back to pretend to chastise him. Every time I halfheartedly swore I would force him to complete the task the next time, and every time he managed to avoid it.

  “Check the mail while you’re out,” I called to his retreating figure.

  I moved to the desk and sat behind it, flipping through to the first empty page. We’d been operating since mid-July and had been hired to do a dozen or so cases. None of them had proved to be particularly challenging. We’d discovered that the Hamiltons’ butler was stealing cigars. A group of rowdy boys were no longer pretending to be ghosts and frightening a pair of old ladies, thanks to us. And we’d found a number of misplaced items that were believed stolen.

  A large part of me didn’t mind these sorts of tasks. It was wonderful to be able to prove helpful to the community. My father was the chief of police for Brinkman and I was learning that he was greatly esteemed here for all the good he’d done over the years. My mother had died when I was young and I’d been sent to live with my grandparents in St. Louis.

  My grandmother was a true product of the Victorian age. She believed firmly in the vital work of the corset, separation of the classes, and, above all else, manners. The women of her generation were pleased to spend their days changing gowns and making uncomfortable visits. Grandmother couldn’t understand why I would do anything so undignified and plebian as going into trade, as she put it.

  It also rankled her to no end that Will and I walked around town unchaperoned. No matter how often I tried to explain to her that well-born young ladies no longer required chaperones when we were out in public, she only lectured me endlessly on the terrible fate of society as a whole. Therefore, I had learned to keep my letters to her short on details about the agency.

  If I’d had any doubt that I’d made the right choice in returning to Brinkman, my newfound freedom brushed them away. After I’d completed school, I’d decided to live with my somewhat estranged father for a time in the hopes that we’d rekindle a relationship.

  I felt that we were making some progress on that account. His approval of my running the agency went a long way to smoothing over the years of neglect I’d felt hung between us. Father was often eager to hear about my cases and never acted as though each one solved was anything less than a triumph.

  I wish I could say the same of his protege, Calvin Lloyd. Cal was a too-handsome rising detective in whom Father took a personal interest. The young man took supper with us several times a week and he and Father discussed his cases. Any mention of my work and Cal would adopt a tolerant look that made my hackles rise. He never said anything outright that derided my work, but I read it in every look he sent my way.

  After I’d been involved in solving the murder of Flora Dobson, Cal had actually had the nerve to tell me that I should have stayed out of things and let the police handle the matter. I will admit, grudgingly, that the ending of that particular adventure had been rather dangerous. However, the rest of it had been a calm, uneventful string of logical detection. For the most part, that is.

  Just thinking about Cal made me irritated and I forced my mind back to summarizing the adventure of Paula’s missing pet in my neatest script.

  Will came into the room with a tea tray just as I was finishing. He placed the tray on the shaky table between the chairs and straightened, holding an envelope in his hands.

  “We received a letter,” he said, excitement coloring his words.

  I rose quickly and made my way to him. “Who sent it?” He handed it to me and I turned it over. “Mrs. Bertram Finney of number three Victoria Lane. Do you know her?”

  It was a silly question since Will knew everyone, having grown up in Brinkman. “She’s an older woman, I believe. A widow. She lives in an enormous house near the lake.” He sat and began to pour the tea, putting lemon and sugar into my cup and cream into his own. We’d now taken afternoon tea together so often that we knew each other’s preferences as well as we knew our own.

  I lifted the flap and pulled out a sheet of very fine stationery. The handwriting on it was shaky and I knew immediately that Mrs. Finney was, indeed, elderly. I scanned the letter quickly and summed it up for Will. “She has had several valuable items go missing and would like us to come and investigate at our earliest convenience.”

  “That sounds promising,” he handed me my cup. “Of course, she might be misplacing things.”

  “We’ll ask the maids. They would know whether or not things have been moved or are actually missing.” I grinned at him. “You’re wonderful with maids, aren’t you?”

  Will waggled his eyebrows at me and we sipped at our cups. I wondered if it would be possible for me to call ahead and warn those poor girls.

  ***

  The Edwards didn’t have a telephone. It was an expense they refused. Therefore, Will and I set out to walk to Mrs. Finney’s house once we’d finished our tea. It was a little late for making a call, but we were eager to appear prompt and responsible. Victoria Lane wasn’t more than two miles from Maple House. Knowing that winter was on its way helped us to enjoy the walk all the more.

  When we arrived at the house, we walked up to the front door without a second thought. Will and I had both been born into society and would no more have imagined calling at the side door than forget how to make an introduction. Upon reflection, I’d considered that we might be a bit brash to be ignoring the tradesman’s entrance, but part of the service we offered women of this caliber was that we were equals. Therefore, I lifted my chin, adjusted my kid gloves and rang the bell confidently.

  We were shown into the day room where were invited to wait for Mrs. Finney by a middle-aged butler who seemed determined to never let his posture be found wanting. Will lounged in a wingback chair while I walked around the room, letting myself take in all the details.

  I noted that the furniture was all out-of-date. They were excellent pieces, but cut for a time when hoop skirts required broad sitting surfaces. The dark wood, heavy cut-velvet drapes, and ornamental objects on every surface made me sigh. Modern sensibilities demanded simplified furniture and brighter colors. While this traditional style of decorating was familiar to me, it also made me wonder how the lady of the house would even notice if anything went missing. There were valuable antique figures, clocks, and prints on every available surface.

  The woman in question was helped downstairs with the aid of a walking stick and a maid who settled her into a chair before bobbing a curtsy, blushing under Will’s gaze, and leaving us alone. The butler had already delivered our card to Mrs. Finney on a silver tray, so she knew who we were and why we were calling.

  “We apologize for calling so late,” I began once I’d taken a seat near our hostess. “Mr. Edwards and I received your letter and we wished to visit you with all haste. Could you tell us more about what has gone missing from your home?”

  Mrs. Finney nodded solemnly. Her face bore the creases of age and her gray hair at least attempted a fashionable style. Despite the fussy cut of her blouse and many flounces of her skirt, I could tell that she was very small, which made her appear a bit fragile. She peered at us through her spectacles and said, “The silver has begun to go missi
ng.”

  Will attempted to look professional and asked, “How many pieces have you lost?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” she hemmed, her gaze become less intense.

  “Is the silver an old set?” I asked gently. It appeared that our newest client might be confused. Knowing how many pieces of the silverware were missing was a simple thing indeed. My hope for an interesting case faltered briefly before righting itself.

  “Oh, yes,” she nodded. “It’s been in the family for generations. It was old and valuable when my grandfather bought it almost a hundred years ago.”

  “But, you don’t know how many pieces are missing,” Will repeated. I could tell from his raised eyebrow that he didn’t believe that Mrs. Finney had any idea what year it was now, let alone how many pieces of silver she was missing.

  “You said that other things have gone missing as well,” I moved on before Will’s expressive face proved insulting.

  She raised an age-spotted hand and pointed to a table filled with knickknacks. “There was a jade cat that sat on that table.” She then pointed to the mantlepiece which currently bore three clocks and a family of porcelain foxes. “The carriage clock from Amsterdam is missing.” Her hand then swung to a bare spot on the wall. “The Rembrandt etching is no longer here.”

  Will got up and loped to the place. He peered closely at the spot and then turned to me and nodded. “Clearly, there was something hanging there for some time. The paper around it is more faded.”

  I turned back to Mrs. Finney. “You do understand that we cannot guarantee a favorable outcome, don’t you?”

  “Oh, child, I just want to know where my things have gone. I don’t want thieves working in my home.” Her voice quavered.

  I looked to Will to make certain that he agreed with what I was about to say. Wordlessly, he raised an eyebrow and sighed, then nodded. Smiling, I turned back to the old woman. “Mrs. Finney, we accept your case. Mr. Edwards and I will return tomorrow to begin our investigation.