Murder & The Heir Page 16

  “They’ll be able to track down the cyanide now that they know where to look. The problem with so many attempts on her life that failed was that there were so many chances to catch you. It won’t take them long to find the proof.”

  Meredith gasped and jumped to her feet. Fate seemed to be mocking her and she shrieked in fury, lunging at Violet and shoving her. Violet had no warning. Trading polite accusations and then she was falling back. She tripped on the brick near the fireplace and hit the ground. Pain rushed her leg, and Violet screamed.

  Meredith darted out as Beatrice rushed in.

  “Miss Violet!” Beatrice shouted. “Help!”

  Beatrice beat at Violet’s dress, crying as she did. It took Violet too long to realize that she had been on fire. By jove, she had been on fire.

  Vi sat up and looked at her leg. The fire hadn’t extended beyond her dress. The pain had stopped. More pain from heat than from fire burning her legs. She was all right.

  “Thank you,” Violet whispered to Beatrice, remembering again that nothing was right for Aunt Agatha.

  Tears started to fall and Beatrice pulled Violet close, hugging her tightly. “There, there,” Beatrice said. “There, there.”

  “Oh,” Violet breathed. “Oh.” She pulled away and looked up at the kneeling Beatrice. “I…”

  A realization of what had happened seemed to occur to them both at the same time.

  “She…she…killed Mrs. Davies!”

  “Go tell Mr. Wakefield,” Violet said. “Quickly now. They have to catch her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Meredith didn’t make it farther than the long drive to Aunt Agatha’s house when the constables found her. They put Meredith in the back of their and drove her to the police station before the rumors of what she had done had flown through the house.

  Jack Wakefield followed while Victor raged over the sight of Violet’s burned dress. Lila and Gwennie bundled Violet into a bath and a nightgown. It took a stiff whiskey, two gin rickeys, and Beatrice holding Violet’s hand until she was able to calm down enough to sleep. Even then, she cried while she slept.

  The sun was high in the sky and the servants busy when Violet woke the next day. Beatrice was near at hand and disappeared the moment Violet sat up, returning with Giles’ famous and effective morning after remedy, two pills, and a tea tray.

  “Bless you,” Violet said. She moved slowly through her ablutions until Victor appeared.

  “Come on now, luv.” His voice was gentle. “You need more than toast, and Mr. Coates needs to speak with us.”

  Violet followed her brother down the stairs and into the yellow room. She didn’t really listen until a rather large number broke through her fog.

  “I don’t understand,” Violet said. “How much?”

  Mr. Coates repeated the amount and Violet choked. He gaze her a few minutes while she drank tea and stared at the wall. Finally her gaze turned to Victor who seemed as shocked as she was.

  “I didn’t realize the old girl had succeeded quite so well at her game,” he said.

  Neither had Violet. She hadn’t the faintest clue.

  “I…” She paused, closed her eyes, and said, “I need you to pay off Uncle Kingsley’s debts. Enough to keep him out of debtor’s prison. The same for Algernon. Pay off his debt and make sure he’s aware that we won’t do it again.”

  Mr. Coates’ expression said what he thought of those endeavors, but Violet just couldn’t allow her uncle to suffer when she’d been given so much. They signed papers while Victor paced in the background. He hadn’t been surprised by what Violet had requested for her uncle, and he wouldn’t be surprised when she escaped the yellow room before she heard more. She didn’t want the money, she wanted her aunt.

  “Victor,” Violet said, cutting into Mr. Coates commentary. “I want to go.”

  “Paris?”

  She nodded. He could have said anything, and she’d have said yes.

  “No,” he suggested, “It’s so grey in Paris during the holidays. Let’s skip Paris and go straight to Italy.”

  That was fine too. She didn’t care. She just needed to leave the place where her aunt, the only mother she clearly remembered, had been stolen from her. Violet made her way to her rooms and packed her bags. They could leave first thing in the morning.

  That evening, Jack Wakefield found her as she sat in Aunt Agatha’s library. She was alone though Victor and their friends had checked on her several times. She looked up expecting her twin and found Jack Wakefield.

  “I am leaving in the morning,” Jack said. “Father is well enough to leave his room and doesn't want to stay where his friend was stolen from him.”

  A feeling Violet understood all too well. “Victor and I are going as well.”

  “Paris?”

  “The Amalfi coast.”

  Jack nodded. He made no other comment on her destination but she hoped that light she saw in his gaze was approval. He slowly took her hand. “There is much to do for your aunt even now. I will see her through to justice.”

  Violet nodded. She didn’t know what to say. She stared down where his large hand engulfed hers. Once again, the feeling of being small next to his bulk struck her. Once again, she discovered that she enjoyed that feeling. He made her feel both safe and so very womanly.

  “You will be seeing me again, Lady Violet Carlyle.”

  Her gaze jerked up to his and she nodded almost helplessly.

  “Until then.” He squeezed her hand once and was gone before she recovered from his unexpected promise.

  * * * * *

  “Miss?”

  Violet turned from the view of the sea to Beatrice. The maid had a bit of a tan and a smile that brightened the greyest of days.

  “Mr. Victor has returned.”

  He’d gone to town to purchase something. Had it been a painting? She thought it might be. Something for his office when they returned home. The weeks since losing her aunt and gaining an inheritance had been long. There was something about the sun and the wind that had made them bearable.

  “He has a letter from home and would like you to join him.”

  Violet followed Beatrice down to the little table on the back patio that overlooked the sea. Victor sipped something while Lila and Gwennie leaned back, eyes closed under the warmth of the sun. It didn’t matter that it was January and wasn’t all that warm. It was just that it was so beautiful.

  “How are you, luv?”

  She smiled and perhaps for the first time since losing her aunt, Violet was able to answer honestly, “I am well.”

  “We’ve been called home.”

  Violet considered. No longer were they reliant on the income from their father. While they’d been here, Hargreaves had been packing the things Aunt Agatha had left them in the big house and moving it all to London for their return. They didn't have to go anywhere they didn’t wish. They could say no. Freedom had never been more free with so much money at their fingertips.

  “Isolde is getting married.”

  “Oh no,” Violet laughed shocked at her genuine humor. “Now no one will ever want to marry me. Once your younger sister is wed, all chances of love have been frittered away.”

  “That wasn’t true,” Lila laughed, “even before you started swimming in the green. Now, my luv, everyone knows what a catch you are.”

  “Drowning in the green,” Victor added, “our Violet. Drowning in money. A terrible fate.”

  “Smothered by it,” Gwennie added with a laugh, “If only we were all so encumbered.”

  “I wouldn’t mind returning to my poor working Denny,” Lila said. “Gwennie wouldn’t mind stumbling across Mr. John Davies. You wouldn’t mind running into your Mr. Wakefield.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” Victor said, “watching Lady Eleanor attempt to cozy up to us now that we’re cronies with Midas.”

  Violet smiled. The sea was beautiful this time of year, but it would be better in the summer.

  “I wouldn’t mind,
” Violet announced, “those things myself.”

  THE END

  Hullo! Hullo! Hullo! As Violet would say, you my darlings, are fabulous! Are there words enough for how much I love you for reading my books and giving me a chance? Especially this new series! I have wanted to write 1920s mysteries since before I opened my first writing doc. Writing to support my family is simply the bees knees! Almost as wonderful are reviews, and indie folks, like myself, need them desperately! If you wouldn’t mind, I would be so grateful for a review.

  The sequel to this book, Murder at Kennington House will be out soon! The preorder is up now!

  I also have a brand new cozy mystery coming this month in my Second Chance Diner series. If you haven’t tried those, the 10th book is out in a few days. You can buy the first by clicking here! Keep flipping for a free sample ahead!

  FYI, I write under my real name, Amanda A. Allen, as well. If you like books with a paranormal twist, you’ll find I’ve written plenty! Books and updates for both names are available through my newsletter If you’d like to sign up, click here.

  If you want book updates, you could follow me on Facebook by clicking here for Beth Byers. Or here for Amanda A. Allen.

  Also By Beth Byers

  The Violet Carlyle Cozy Historical Mysteries

  Murder & The Heir

  Murder at Kennington House (Coming September 2018)

  The 2nd Chance Diner Mysteries

  Spaghetti, Meatballs, & Murder

  Cookies & Catastrophe

  (also found in the Christmas boxset, The Three Carols of Cozy Christmas Murder)

  Poison & Pie

  Double Mocha Murder

  Cinnamon Rolls & Cyanide

  Tea & Temptation

  Donuts & Danger

  Scones & Scandal

  Lemonade & Loathing

  Wedding Cake & Woe

  Honeymoons & Honeydew (Coming in September 2018)

  The Brightwater Bay Mysteries

  (co-written with Carolyn L. Dean and Angela Blackmoore)

  A Little Taste of Murder

  (found in the Christmas boxset, The Three Carols of Cozy Christmas Murder)

  A Tiny Dash of Death

  A Sweet Spoonful of Cyanide

  Also By Amanda A. Allen

  The Mystic Cove Mommy Mysteries

  Bedtimes & Broomsticks

  Runes & Roller Skates

  Costumes and Cauldrons (found in the anthology Witch or Treat)

  Banshees and Babysitters

  Spellbooks and Sleepovers: A Mystic Cove Short Story

  Hobgoblins and Homework

  Gifts and Ghouls (found in the anthology Spells and Jinglebells)

  Christmas and Curses

  Potions & Passions (found in the anthology Hexes and Ohs)

  Valentines & Valkyries

  Infants & Incantations (Coming Soon)

  The Rue Hallow Mysteries

  Hallow Graves

  Hungry Graves

  Lonely Graves

  Sisters and Graves

  Yule Graves

  Fated Graves

  Ruby Graves

  The Inept Witches Mysteries (co-written with Auburn Seal)

  Inconvenient Murder

  Moonlight Murder

  Bewitched Murder

  Presidium Vignettes (with Rue Hallow)

  Prague Murder

  Paris Murder

  Murder By Degrees

  Curses of the Witch Queen

  Fairy Tales Re-Imagined

  Song of Sorrow: A Prelude to Rapunzel

  Snow White

  Kendawyn Paranormal Regency Romances

  Compelled by Love

  Bewildered by Love

  Persuaded to Love

  Other Novels

  These Lying Eyes

  Sneak Peek of Spaghetti, Meatballs, & Murder

  Chapter One

  It all started when we had a fire alarm and a plumbing issue the same week at work. Call center jobs are sedentary forms of a safari through hell. You’re miserable and your butt is getting ever wider. It doesn’t matter what company you work for—they’re all bad. First, the fire alarm went off. The doors closed to help control the fire. But then…management blocked every exit, preventing people from leaving, while they confirmed the fire. And as MAD as that made me, I stayed at my desk and answered calls with the alarm blaring so loudly I had customers offer to hang up, so I could get to safety. Sure, it was some idiot who’d combined popcorn and a microwave and done it poorly. But still…what if it hadn’t been?!

  Then, two days later the sewage backed up. The toilets and water fountains weren’t safe. What did they do? They brought in portable potties and bottled water, but they didn’t get a handicapped potty, and my friend was in a wheelchair. And I just…couldn’t. It was so far beyond enough I found myself confused about why I was still there. So I got up, told the weirdo who sat across from me goodbye and did the long, slow, sweet walk of freedom.

  There is something absolutely magical about dropping your bag over your shoulder and leaving a place you’d hated. I wouldn’t have done it…I was supposedly responsible…but I just…snapped. Maybe I wasn’t really responsible. Or only semi-responsible. I was responsible like people who get Bachelor’s degrees but in literature. Responsible like people who paid their bills but spent too much on makeup. Responsible like the only child of a middle-class mother. I had a savings account. I lived in a tiny, cheap, basement apartment. I’d be ok.

  Perhaps it wasn’t the sewage or the fire alarm. Maybe it was the way the moon was full, the wind had been in my hair that morning, and it had smelled like rain. Maybe it was the way I felt like ants were crawling my skin every minute I spent chained to that desk. Maybe it was the way that I was far too close to 40 to be where I was and my life was entirely unsatisfactory.

  Regardless, the moon was full, the wind had blown through my hair on the way to work, and it smelled like rain. The real prompter wasn’t, of course, the rain. I lived in the Pacific Northwest. It rained eight months straight every single year. If I had gotten a degree in Psychology instead of Lit, I would probably blame it on the death of my grandparents. I wanted their deaths to hit me harder than they had, but my mother had been estranged from them and I hadn’t known them well. I’d gone to their funeral and heard about their passions and their friendships. I learned about their work and spent the eulogy wondering how much of a disappointment I had been to them. That idea had bothered me even though I didn’t know them well. But then…then…I had written in my journal and realized that their disappointment wasn’t what bothered me.

  Mine was. I was disappointed in myself and that feeling had swirled up with the wind in my hair and the full moon and the scent of rain and made a mess of the inside of me. All it had taken was the spark of backed up sewage and a handicapped friend who needed to pee and couldn’t.

  And, I exploded.

  * * * * *

  “What’s your plan?” Mom asked without an expression, not even the flicker of a lash. Even though I’d abandoned my job. She’d actually laughed when I told her I walked out without a word. I was in this surreal land of madness where my incredibly responsible parent wasn’t concerned that I had become unemployed.

  “I don’t have a plan,” I admitted with that need to be rational fighting with my desire to shout hurray that I’d escaped.

  After I left my job, I let myself into the house to tell mom and gotten there before her. She probably had a meeting with a student or paused in the hallway outside her office to discuss Midsummer Night’s Dream with another professor. I’d shrugged off waiting with her luxurious cocoa and my journal. I snuggled into my favorite of her chairs, marveling at what I’d done. I’d realized as I flipped through my journal how each passing page elucidated the feelings of the last years. I’d been so unhappy, I’d forgotten what peaceful felt like. I’d been so used to the monotony, so used to the idea of responsibility, so focused on deliberately avoiding thinking too hard. Leaving was my j
ournals fault, I realized. My journal and the magic of writing. My grandparent’s death. The full moon. The sound of the rain, but mostly the way writing had made me face my feelings.

  My mom had come home as I started making pro and con lists for the future. The cons were far too heavy when I was facing what I wanted. But the singular pro was powerful: happiness.

  “Graduate school?” Mom asked. Her voice was a cool neutral showing me how much she didn’t want to sway my decision even though it had been her dream for me.

  I tapped my journal. It was just a spiral thing. I’d bought the one with a unicorn on it because it had made me smile. Mom didn’t know how in between writing about my misery, I’d been trying to discover what made me excited. And how it had been something utterly unexpected. A diner. Simple food. Recipes, feeding people, the smell of the ocean, a small town without corporations. I didn’t want to hear about shareholders ever again.

  “I don’t want to go to graduate school,” I said, softly. “It’s why I haven’t gone.”

  “What do you want?” Mom said it like it mattered, but we were adults. We both knew that what I actually wanted wasn’t something I could just switch on and off. We both knew that wanting something didn’t make it feasible.

  I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell her what I wanted. I never had. Not once. I’d learned to make meals for my dream diner and never told her why. I’d perfected a chocolate layer cake without explaining how I wanted a glass counter with a string of beautiful, funky dome-covered cake plates to run along the top of it. I had learned to make pie and ice cream and cinnamon rolls and biscuits and gravy. I’d perfected chicken fried steak and hash browns and french fries and drawn pictures of booths with fun chandeliers and pretty wood floors and never…not once…told my mom what I’d wanted.

  It wasn’t that we weren’t close. We were. It was just that she was a professor. I had assumed that she’d smile and then try to talk me into graduate school. Again. But, this time…I told her.