A Lonely Little Death: A 1930s Murder Mystery (Poison Ink Mysteries Book 10) Read online

  A Lonely Little Death

  A Poison Ink Mystery

  Beth Byers

  Contents

  Summary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Sneak peek of Mystery at the Edge of Madness

  Also By Beth Byers

  Summary

  NOVEMBER 1938

  Georgette Dorothy Aaron is a busy woman. She’s gone from being a lonely old maid to the matriarch of a growing family. Her writing career has expanded and for some reason the women in her life turn to her for advice. She’s not sure she’s qualified to help, but she does what she can.

  Only a series of letters reveal that she’s become important to someone else. Someone she doesn’t know. And they’re asking for help--before it’s too late.

  Now, she’s racing to piece together clues and find her pen pal before it’s too late.

  Chapter One

  It was, perhaps, time to let go, the goddess Atë thought. Her far-reaching gaze landed on Georgette walking her son back and forth, back and forth. Just the quick glance of it was too much to be borne. Was there anything more ineffably boring than an infant? Eating, fussing, excreting, with very little actual sleeping. Atë’s favorite, Georgette, looked as though she’d been dragged behind a horse—and watching that would be far more entertaining than watching her walk that spoiled human.

  The worst part of it was that all those who were on hand to help Georgette were useless. Who knew that the once-distant, once-alone, once-quietly sarcastic and observant Georgette would become nothing more than a slave to an infant’s whims? Atë considered wiping the boy out with one fell swoop of her cruel hand, but—she was the goddess of strife, of rash and ruinous actions, of mischief and folly. The creature was none of those things and outside of her purview.

  With a scowl, Atë turned her gaze from Georgette Dorothy Aaron and the creature she held to discover the most interesting of entities. Hello, there…the goddess’s laughter was cold, cruel, and far too excited about the path that was laid out before the poor soul who had caught Atë’s attention.

  GEORGETTE DOROTHY AARON

  Georgette frowned deeply at Wentworth. She loved her son. Of course she did. She only wished that when she said those things in her mind, she could say them with feeling. There was this part of her that thought if she had to listen to one more round of squalling from her baby, she would run from the house and never come back.

  Georgette had story ideas piling up in her mind, but they were second to the allure of her bed. If only…if only…she could just curl up between those covers and close her eyes, pulling the blankets up to her ear. She’d wrap her arm around the pillow and tuck it between her breasts. She’d pull another pillow and ball it up between her shoulder and her ear. She’d close her eyes tightly, and then she’d stay that way until her eyes opened on their own. Not because Wentworth was hungry or because Charles was slipping from the room for work, failing to escape without waking her. Not because Janey was at the door wanting to do something ineffably questionable or because Lucy had stopped by to tell Georgette about the troubles with Eunice.

  Georgette paced and eyed the small cot in the nursery. She eyed it with the look of a ravenous tiger seeing a wounded lamb. If she could curl up on that cot, she would be asleep before Wentworth’s next wail. She wouldn’t stay that way, of course, but at least she would have that tiny, breath of sleep. If there were enough of those breaths strung together, perhaps her bones wouldn’t hurt and she wouldn’t be quite so near to tears.

  “Do you want me to take him, ma’am?” the nanny asked over the sound of Wentworth’s wail.

  Georgette shot the woman a dark look, filled with fury. Nanny Archer was swiftly on her way to a new nursery far, far from Georgette’s son. That look of semi-disgust on the nanny’s face was enough to make Georgette shriek, though she wasn’t sure she’d ever shrieked before.

  Slowly, Georgette left the nursery, bringing Wentworth down to the kitchens where Eunice was working.

  “Help?”

  Wentworth’s cry rose to the next level of pathetic and Eunice took the baby from Georgette’s arms, crossing to the icebox and pulling out a cloth they’d put in to freeze when it was wet. Wentworth chewed frantically at the cloth and calmed down slightly.

  “You were a squaller while teething as well.”

  Georgette shook her head and hissed, “No! This is Charles’s fault.”

  “It’s yours, Georgie,” Eunice said without even an edge of sympathy. If anything, Eunice seemed to be enjoying Georgette’s state as though it were a long awaited retribution. “It’s all yours. This is the universe allowing me my moment of…satisfaction.”

  Georgette slowly rose and then said, “I’m going to sleep.”

  Eunice’s gaze moved over Georgette, lingered on her bloodshot eyes, and nodded. Eunice slowly dipped her finger into a glass of brandy and then rubbed it over Wentworth’s gums. Georgette wasn’t sure it was the right choice, but the thought of her bed and pillows was nearly the most magical one of her life.

  When Georgette left the kitchens, Wentworth let out an unholy wail that chased Georgette up the stairs and into her bedroom. She tried not to hear it, but she couldn’t help it. Georgette took a deep breath and stuffed cotton into her ears with careful precision.

  The distance from Wentworth and the cotton were good choices. When the sound of crying stopped, she found that her hands were shaking. She found that her heart was racing. There was this aching pain in her back that demanded attention and now that she was aware of it, her hip joints were desperately begging that she do something, anything to alleviate their pain as well.

  Georgette dug through her bathroom until she found aspirin and then swallowed them whole and dry. She started the bath first, thinking that if she could get her pain under control, she might actually be able to sleep.

  While she was in the bath, she brought the pile of letters she’d received in the last weeks—since Wentworth had gone from perfect to devil—and stared at them. She could read those letters, she thought. She could fall asleep thinking about how to answer them. She could wake and answer them, cotton still in her ears, and then she could even start writing the next chapter of her book.

  She had come to realize that every chapter she’d written involved her main character slipping into a nap or a bath or even just falling over on her desk, asleep. Every passing day, every passing moment in the last weeks she’d thought of nothing more than sleep. She hadn’t even realized that being so tired could be so painful.

  Georgette set the letters on the chair next to her, but couldn’t find the strength to open them. Instead, she waited in the hot water until her legs stopped hurting and then dared to reach forward towards her toes, letting the pain in her hips spike and then dissipate. She didn’t think there was any hope for her back, so she rose from the water, wrapped the towel around her body, and slumped onto her bed sideways. She was too tired even to create the nest she’d been dreaming about and quickly slipped into sleep.

  GEORGETTE DOROTHY AARON

  It wasn’t the sound of Charles opening the door and moving across the floor that woke her. It was the feel of a blanket being laid over her body. Her eyes cracked open and she saw him carefully setting his tie to the side. She quickly closed them again and snuggled into that blanket.

  In her mind, she simply let her eyes flutter closed, but when Charles took hold of her ankle and lightly squeezed, she gasped. She rolled onto her back, lost both the blanket and the towel, and then stared at him in horror. “Who? What?”

  Charles smiled at Georgette with a look of love and whispered something, but she didn’t hear him.

  “What now?” she croaked, coughed, and then pulled the blanket over her body, curling back towards her pillow again.

  His smile widened, and he reached out and took the cotton out of her ears. She gasped again and then shivered. “What time is it?”

  “8:00 p.m.”

  Georgette frowned and then glanced down, realizing her breasts were leaking milk. “Wentworth? He must be starving.”

  “He’s spent the day eating teething biscuits, toast, and smashed peaches. He’s fine.”

  “Charles—” Georgette shoved her hair back and then shuddered. “Charles—what?”

  “Darling Georgette.” Charles laughed lightly and then leaned in to press a kiss against her forehead. “I believe you may have napped yourself into some confusion.”

  She rubbed her hand against her forehead, frowning deeply as she leaned closer to him. There was a tray next to the bed, still covered. Charles’s chair had been moved, and Georgette had no memory of it, nor any sounds of it being moved. The chair, a small table, a tray of food, and tea. None of it had woken her. Not even the tea. She held her hand out for a cup, mouth watering.

  Georgette frowned at him and then at the world around her. She’d have thought that a long nap would make her feel better, but if anything, she felt worse. S
he stared at Charles, startled by her foul mood. It was worse than before. “I’m sorry.” She wasn’t. But she was somewhat afraid of what might come out of her mouth next.

  Charles shook his head. “Why are you apologizing?”

  “I fell asleep, I—”

  “Georgette,” Charles said, carefully. His beloved eyes searched her face and she frowned back at him. He cleared his throat and then continued in that tenuous tone, “Georgette—”

  “What?” she snapped.

  “Georgette,” he tried again.

  She started to snap at him again and then found she wasn’t able to. Instead she started to laugh, but it quickly turned to tears. Finally, she found herself wrapped up in a blanket on Charles’s lap, and she quietly confessed, “He just cries so much.”

  Charles nodded against her forehead. “I know. He does.”

  “I don’t like him very much.”

  Charles laughed again. Her confession had been heartfelt but saying it made her sick. Georgette slowly turned to face him and said, “I don’t.”

  “You don’t?”

  She shook her head, frowning deeply. “I don’t like him.”

  “Georgette.” Charles’s tone was very, very careful. “Who could? He cries all the time. He’s too small to share his personality. He’s exhausting, and he clings to you specifically, never giving you a chance to rest.”

  Georgette pressed her lips together. Her instinct was to defend Wentworth, but she just—Georgette bit her bottom lip and said, “I feel like the world’s worst mother.”

  Charles brushed her hair back. “I doubt Wentworth would refuse all others for you if you were a bad mother. You aren’t a bad mother, you’re just tired. You—of all people—need space. You spent your life alone and now you have this little, screeching creature who demands you at all times, without fail.”

  “He’s very young,” Georgette said, pulling away from Charles, “and his reasoning is likely flawed. Plus, I have the milk.”

  “May I suggest something?”

  Georgette nodded and then waited.

  It took Charles a long moment to say, “Why don’t we try something different?”

  Georgette lifted her brows and waited for him to explain.

  “That we accept we’re weak creatures.”

  “You aren’t,” Georgette muttered.

  Charles laughed and said, “You haven’t heard my thoughts when he starts crying at 2:00 a.m.”

  Her eyes narrowed on Charles. “Are you being mean to my baby?”

  “I’m being an honest father.”

  Georgette turned and faced Charles. “Other women don’t have a nanny, Eunice, and Janey. Or, Marian, Evelyn, and Lucy when they come by during the day.”

  “I know,” Charles said, agreeing without also agreeing that the nanny was useless.

  “Yet, I can’t carry on in this way. I’m weak, Charles. I’m a bad mother. I’m sorry.” The tear that slowly rolled down her cheek after that was gently wiped away by Charles, even though he also laughed again. She was forced to elbow him.

  “I escape daily, Georgette, and you don’t use any of the others who are so willing to help you.”

  Georgette’s gaze narrowed on him.

  “That stops now, my love. He’ll be fine in the care of Eunice and the nanny. Just like he was today.”

  “I don’t like Nanny Archer.”

  “Then we’ll find a new one.” Charles sat up and said, “But you probably should feed the boy.”

  Georgette laughed and then rose to dress, stretching out her back. After she dressed, she returned to find Charles holding Wentworth. It only took her son a moment to notice her presence and then he let out an unholy wail. Georgette winced and then ignored him long enough to shove the cotton back into her ears. It only dulled the sound of her son’s cries, but somehow she could look down at him, laugh with real humor and feed him.

  While she did, Charles handed her a sandwich, alternating her free hand with tea and the sandwich while she held Wentworth with the other. As they both fed, she leaned back with a sigh. There was something in just having the sounds dulled that let her realize she really did love the little fellow. She might well wear cotton in her ears until she could reason him out of tears.

  “He is beautiful,” she told Charles. If he replied, she didn’t hear it, but given that Wentworth was guzzling as though he’d never eaten before, she pulled out the cotton.

  “He’s not crying,” Charles said with a grin, “so yes, he’s a handsome little fellow.”

  Georgette laughed, finished her sandwich, and then noticed the stack of mail Charles must have moved. “Read it to me?”

  Chapter Two

  GEORGETTE DOROTHY AARON

  Wentworth finished eating and then fussed himself to sleep. They were both afraid to move him, so they’d taken to the floor with their backs against the wall as they sat side-by-side. Georgette laid her head on Charles’s shoulder, curling into the warmth of his body.

  The nap had helped her and there was a clarity to her thoughts that hadn’t been there before it. Her mood might be foul, but she was possibly at a functional level. Georgette wasn’t sure why fate had given her a baby that had to get one tooth right after another, leaving her in a seemingly endless nightmare of no sleep.

  “Anything I need to reply to right away?”

  Charles looked through the letters and shook his head. “For the most part, they’ll keep.”

  He kept reading, and she kept wondering if—perhaps—she was the worst of mothers. Had her mother half-hated Georgette for being a squalling baby who fussed endlessly while getting teeth? Or, had her mother had the sort of angelic patience that seemed to personify the mothers Georgette knew?

  Georgette listened to Charles murmur about the contents of the letters without really considering what he was saying until, interest peaked in his voice.

  “Here’s an interesting one,” Charles said.

  “What does it say?” Georgette asked, grateful for the sheer chance to stop wondering if she wasn’t cut out to be a mother.

  “It says the writer knows who you are.” Charles grunted. “It’s ironic really.”

  Georgette lifted her head and turned to face him. “Ironic?”

  “She describes herself as lonely. As a single woman who found solace in your books. She says she has no one but you.”

  Georgette frowned. “That’s sad, not ironic.”

  “It’s ironic because she uses that term you use. From the evil article,” Charles added.

  “Extraneous?”

  He groaned and nodded.

  The woman's life had been her life, and she shuddered at the memory. In those days, she’d been alone except for Eunice, who should have—by any rights—left Georgette and looked after herself. Her one friend and the one carryover of the old village that had never seen Georgette or appreciated her.

  Charles had been the first. The first person to look past Georgette’s too-thin face, her pinched lips, the old clothes made over time and again, and see something worthwhile. It had been Charles, but somehow—once Charles appreciated her—there had been others.

  His nephews, her friend Marian, many of the villagers in their new town. Fans who read her books and found her worthy of their time and attention. The people behind those letters. She was grateful those old days were long gone.

  As she thought about that, Wentworth lifted his head and whined low and long, and for a moment the memory of her quiet house, her little garden, the shelves of books and the quiet to read them in were like a mirage in the desert.

  “I’m a little jealous,” Georgette added when Wentworth let loose with his unholy wail. “Of the quiet her house must hold.”

  “Sooner or later, he’ll have teeth, and we’ll have our sweet child back,” Charles tried, failing to comfort Georgette.