Murder Afoot: Lottie Lindberg Historical Cozy Mystery Series, #3

By Ruby Riverton

A mysterious break-in.

An unexpected proposal.

A deadly turn on the dancefloor.

Will Lottie and Esme be able to shoftshoe their way out of trouble this time?

 

Far from home, with no means or funds to return, Lottie and Esme enter a local dance contest hoping to win the prize money, to purchase themselves passages back home to England. All goes well, until it doesn't. Again. And I'm not just talking about Inspector Stone's two left feet.

 

After a troubling discovery, then another, Lottie's sleuthing instincts shift into high gear ... much to Esme's chagrin. Lottie had promised not to look for murder this trip, but it seems murder has found her.

 

Will the girls be able to dance their way out of this one?

 

Murder Afoot is Book 3 in The Lottie Lindberg Mystery Series a clean, lighthearted historical cozy mystery, with no graphic sex, gratuitous violence or strong language on the page. It is a globe-trotting, British detective mystery, featuring amateur sleuths Lottie Lindberg and Esme Loring and their white West Highland Terrier dog companion Little Dickens.

 

READER CAUTION: This series should be read in order.

 

Other Books In The Lottie Lindberg Historical Cozy Mystery Series:

 

Murder Afloat ~ Book #1

Murder Aboard ~ Book # 2

Murder Afoot ~ Book # 3

Murder Aloft ~ Book # 4

Murder Abroad ~ Book # 5 ~ Pre-Order Available

Murder Abounds ~ Book # 6~ Pre-Order Available

And more mysteries coming soon!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookMarked
• Release date: Aug 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393191025

Book preview

Chapter One

O h my goodness, Lottie. Are you all right? Esme comes running, Orson in tow, the two of them galloping toward me across the park. My goodness, you must have slipped in the⁠—  

Goose poop? I say, watching as she slips on a splotch, momentarily losing her balance herself.

Good heavens, it seems to be everywhere. Esme lifts a heel and stares at the bottom of her boot, disgusted.

Tell me about it. I rock to one side, revealing my soiled bottom.

Oh no, she gasps, bringing her hands to her face.  

Oh yes, I say.

Here, let me. The dashing young, blue-eyed replacement for her dead fiancé, the charming Montgomery son number two, reaches out a gloved hand.  

I arch a brow and stare at it. I don’t care if this blue-eyed man with the wavy blond hair does look like an angel in the low shimmering light of this park. I sense the devil still lurks somewhere within him.

It’s all right. I refuse his hospitality flatly. I assure you, I’m quite capable of rising on my own, thank you. I smile snidely, then attempt to stand again and slip—slamming my hand down into a fresh splotch of goose poop.

Esme suppresses a giggle.

At the very least, let me offer you this. Orson leans over, brandishing a clean hankie from his vest pocket. I reluctantly accept it and wipe off my hand as Esme smiles adoringly back at Orson, which is enough to make my skin crawl.

I anchor my hands and attempt to stand again, and my boots slip on more poo. I’m sent sliding down the embankment, out of control, toward the goose pond below.  

Whoopsie! Orson reaches out, rescuing me just in time—only to get a handful of goose excrement for his troubles. Oh I’m so sorry! I say, dying of embarrassment after I see what I’ve left on his hand.

It’s all right. I’ve a second hankie. He smiles, drawing it out and smearing the dung all over its lovely monogrammed front. I cringe.

Come now, we must get you home and cleaned up straight away, Esme fusses, staring at my rear. After all, we can’t have anyone seeing you looking this way. She spins me around by the shoulders and shoves me forward. Wait. Where’s Sterling? She stops, glancing around the park. He was just here a moment ago, wasn’t he? Her perfectly manicured brows collide.

He’s gone, I say, tilting my head toward her, hoping to keep the conversation just between us.

Gone? Gone where? she shouts, looking back at me, bewildered.

I don’t know exactly, I whisper. He just left, okay? I loop my arm through hers and launch us forward again. Let’s just get out of here, shall we?  

But I don’t understand. She pulls back, blinking at me, puzzled. Whyever would he do that?  

I had hoped she wouldn’t push the issue further. But alas, it is Esme.

All right, okay. If you must know… I look down at my hands, picking at my cuticles, and admit sheepishly, I believe it may have been over something I said.

"Ooooh…" Esme’s gaze widens. As does her mouth. Her head rolls back on her shoulders. Her russet-stained lips form a perfect little ‘O’.

For a long moment, no one says anything further.

Until…Well, no bother. Orson steps up, his voice bold. I’m sure he’ll come around. How can he not with a pretty thing like you waiting? He tosses me a charming grin.

That’s assuming a lot, isn’t it? I arch a brow.  

In the meantime, we should see you ladies off to your accommodations. He tosses around another charismatic smile.

Though he appears to be acting like the perfect gentleman, oozing generous amounts of both kindness and manners, there’s something about this man I still don’t trust.

I just can’t seem to put my goose-poop-smeared finger on it yet.

How very incredibly nice of you, I start, trying my best to sound cheery. "But I’m afraid, the fact is, we have no accommodations in which to retreat. I swing a bright smile between the two of them. As we have not yet been told the address where we’re to be lodging while we stay here. Thus, I fear it is impossible for you to deliver us there," I finish, grinning hard at Orson—hoping this will be the end of our association.

Au contraire, Orson says, waggling a stern finger. You see, I took it upon myself to find out the proper address before we all went strolling⁠—

He what? My face falls.

—in the hope that Miss Loring here would do me the honor of allowing me to escort her there. He turns his ever-increasing smile her way.

Esme titters and touches her hair, and my stomach flip-flops.

Well, in that case… She smiles and gladly accepts the arm Orson had previously offered to me. We would be grateful to have you drop us there.

We would?

Wouldn’t we, Lottie? She turns, tossing me a Don’t you dare disagree! look. And the sooner, the better, I should think. She turns back, winking at Orson, and they share a private giggle.

Oh…blech.

A small bubble of enmity wells up inside me. I don’t care if I am covered from head to toe in goose poop; Orson Montgomery is the last man I’d like us to accept a favor from at this point in our journey.

It’s settled then, Orson announces. I shall deliver you both forthwith to 12 Wellesley Road, in the new top-down roadster I’ve rented. He points a gallant finger. It’s that little black one there, parked beneath the apple tree in the car park, at the end of the cobblestone pathway, he whispers in Esme’s ear.

I blink at it, astonished. I can’t believe my eyes. His brother dies a terrible drowning death in the sinking of Titanic, and he rents a posh new automobile to motor around in while attending his funeral. What kind of person does that?

After you. He extends a hand for me to take the lead. It takes all my decorum not to comment adversely, but I march my goose-poop-slathered bottom out to the car park instead.

Oh, allow me. Orson scoots out in front of me once we arrive, dropping a blanket down over the back seat. At least that way, the blanket can be laundered, along with your skirt, he comments, offering me up into the vehicle. In fact, I’ll even see to that myself, on your behalf. He nods.

How very gracious of you.

I refuse his hand and take my seat with a huff in back of the lovebirds, who ride in front, noting their fingertips keep brushing over the armrest as we motor along out of the park, away from the cemetery, off toward the small growing city of Halifax…when a great gust of wind steals the hat from my hair. 

Oh rotter! I whirl around, watching as it bounces off down the middle of the country road.

That was the last of my creations.

Chapter Two

We arrive in town, my hair a swizzle of fizzle all over my head. I reach up, doing my best to try and tame it as we trundle through the lovely clay and cobblestone streets. I’m not sure why, but I expected the veterinarian practitioner’s office to be located far out in the country, not smack dab in the middle of a bustling city. But so it is.

It should just be around this corner here! Orson shouts out from the driver’s seat, above the wind.

Halifax, by day, is something of a smorgasbord to the eye. Wherever one looks, one sees something even more tantalizing and intriguing than the last. From beautifully adorned, brightly lit shop windows to smooth, freshly attended-to roads. Pastel-painted, brand spanking new clapboard style homes line its streets, sporting meticulously well-manicured yards. It’s a fisherman’s town, to be sure, yet far more sophisticated than most found along Britain’s shores. There’s even a taste of England found in the old Victorians that have cropped up amid the clapboards. Which I assume belong to the wealthiest sort, by the looks of those sprawling iron picket fences and abundant gingerbread trim.

In fact, there’s nothing that speaks of sea shanty around here. No, Halifax is a proper city, with all its amenities.

Are those really electric streetlights? I stare up into one as we trundle beneath it, its giant hanging glass bulb glinting in the sunshine. Why, they even have a theatre. My head spins around as we pass it, my eyes glued to its marquee. The headliner flashes inside a bank of bright white light bulbs. It appears they are entertaining a spoof at the moment, featuring a group of men dressed in drag. What a hoot. Esme and I should try to get tickets while we’re here. Depending on how long our stay is.

I chew at my lip, thinking about that. I hadn’t quite considered where we’d be going next. Never mind the question of when we’d be leaving.

But for now, this surely is a lovely place to have landed. Tragedy aside, of course.

I fold my hands and drop them in my lap, feeling rather content about our visit ahead despite my recent falling out with Sterling. Which I must admit is sitting like a rock in the bottom of my stomach, no matter how hard I try to ignore it.

I should have known it wouldn’t last. How could it, with me in my situation?

It would be completely inappropriate for me to strike up a relationship this soon after having lost my dear Manning. What would the social circles think?

Then again, it has been almost four months, I muse. Which is not at all long enough according to proper mourning protocol, I remind myself—no matter how progressive a woman I think myself to be.

I chew again on my bottom lip.

Not that I’ve chosen to follow the traditional rules of mourning thus far. But still, it simply isn’t done.

And the poor man needed an answer that I just couldn’t give.

Though a part of me wished I could have.

I reach for the locket I wear around my neck, rubbing its silver surface between my fingertips—a nervous habit of mine whenever I’m feeling insecure. It sounds silly, I know, but just holding the gift Manning gave me on our wedding night makes me feel close to him again. Despite his premature passing just after we were wed—leaving me to face this big world all alone.

I’ve worn it ever since.

Orson turns sharply around the corner, and I nearly yank the chain from my neck as I’m tossed off to one side of the motorcar. Bracing my fall with my other hand, I catch my balance on the sidewall, striking the car’s swanky brown leather interior with the goose-pooped hankie Orson had given me before. I lift my palm, and my eyes widen at the sight of the mark on the sidewall. Oh my…  I gasp, scrubbing at the stain, which only manages to grind it in further as we bounce up the drive, the car’s tires gobbling up the fresh gravel, as we make our way toward a stoic-looking dwelling at the end of the laneway. Looming between two heart-shaped maples sits a quaint little square-shaped veterinarian practitioner’s office, with a second story dwelling on top of it in the shape of a castle’s turret—the home of our would-be host.

A hand-painted sign out front reads,

Doctor Malcolm MacEwen, Veterinary Practitioner.

All welcome!

Well, sounds like we're off to a good start.

Orson pulls the car to a stop in front of the veterinarian office, and the door to the stairwell attached to the side turret springs open. Out toddle two plump adults: a man and a woman with smiles so big they take up half their faces. They meander up to the side of our slowing vehicle, looking giddy to greet us.

Well hello there! Orson sings out in a giant, comical voice, beating them to the punch.  

Hello right back. The big smiling man, standing at the edge of the drive, waves. What a dandy motor you have there! He brings his hands down on the side of the car’s door frame with a thump when at last we stop in front of them. This yours? the man asks, and I detect a Scottish flavor to his accent, which rolls off his tongue with a very thick drawl.

Oh no, Orson says. I haven’t been so blessed. It’s a loaner. From the new motor place up there in the center of town. He runs a hand over the sleek wooden steering wheel. The salesman was gracious enough to offer it up to me for my stay here for a small rental fee. He leans out toward the man, as if sharing a secret behind his hand. I expect he thinks by loaning it to me, I’ll be convinced to buy it upon my return. He grins. Little does he know. I don’t even live in this country, Orson chuckles, and the big gentleman chuckles with him.

Ha. Ha. So funny. To outwit a poor tawdry salesman. I sit back and cross my arms. My dislike for marital option number two is growing by the second. Charismatic smile and all.

Well, at least it’s a fine thing to enjoy during your visit here. The large man dawns a warm smile then winks.

Certainly is, Orson says, stroking the steering wheel again.

Oh, I don’t know, I interject, commenting from in back. If this is the new face of travel, I think I much prefer the old one. I reach up to adjust my hat, then remember it’s gone, and fuss with my mussed-up hair. Between losing my very last hat and snacking on gnats the whole way, I could think of more luxurious ways to take in the countryside, I grimace.

I swear I’ll be picking bugs from my teeth for the next week. I run my tongue over the front ones then pry at them with a nail, much to the amusement of all parties.

Perhaps this will make it better, the old man adds, whose round stomach is still bouncing with laughter. He turns and whistles, and Dickens comes running, charging out the side door of the turret. He bounds over the grass, leaps up in the car, and into my arms.

Dickens! I squeal. He wriggles and grizzles and waggles his stub of a little white tail until it nearly falls off. Oh how I’ve missed you too! I snuggle him close. His little pink tongue darts in and out of his mouth, kissing my face voraciously. Oh come on now, that’s enough. I gently push him away. The others will be jealous.

A trill of laughter travels through the occupants of the car, as well as around the drive.

He sure is a lovely little thing, the old woman host says, reaching out to pat Dickens’s head. A sweet little creature. A pleasure to sit. You can leave him with us anytime during your stay here. The old woman grins. I’m Midge MacEwen, by the way. She offers me up the clean hand to shake. And this ’ere’s Malcolm. The woman turns her sparkling eyes on her husband, reaching over and patting his tummy. We’re just thrilled to ’ave you come stay with us, she adds. Thrilled to ’ave anybody, really. She lowers her chin, mumbling to herself. In fact, I was so excited for the company I baked a pie, didn’t I, Malcolm? She grins his way, giggling like a schoolgirl. A raspberry one. Berries fresh from the garden. She says the word raspberry like rasp-berry. Would you like to see it? The woman turns as if to spring to the house and fetch the pie.

No, no, no, it’s all right! I stand in the car, stopping her.

She’s right, Midge. Her husband nods and pats her hand. They’ll be plenty of time for pie eatin’ later, he says in his thick Scottish accent.

Oh no… Does that mean we already have a pre-arranged dinner date?

We don’t wanna inundate these ladies with our presence, Malcolm continues, laughing uneasily, arching a brow at his wife. Remember what the church bells say. He leans over, whispering to her, then looks up, wide-eyed, as though he’s being caught in a private conversation, and blushes.

We’ve been told we can be a bit of an acquired taste in certain circles, Midge explains.

Though we do try our best to be friendly, Malcolm adds in a sing-song-like voice.

It’s just, well…we don’t always get it right. Midge smiles, twisting her hands.

Oh my…

Not a whole lot of visitors for you then? Orson comments…rather rudely. No grown children coming back for a visit? Or to borrow money? He jests, grinning to himself.

No. I’m afraid we was never blessed. She reaches over, patting Malcolm on the tummy, who chuckles uncomfortably, and my heart sinks for them. When she looks back, there’s a hint of sadness in her eyes. But we’ve ’ad a full life, Malcolm and I, ’ere on our own. She glances sorrowfully up at the second-story window of their home, above the veterinarian's office. Besides, you know what they say. Midge’s smile slowly returns. The good Lord works in mysterious ways. And we know it’s true. Her eyes sparkle. ’Cause now he’s rewarded us by sending us you two. She smiles emphatically back at Esme and me.

Oh no… They don’t actually think they get to keep us, do they? Esme and I share a quick worried look.

I am sorry about your husband’s passing, my dear. Midge lowers her tone and looks longingly into the front seat at Esme. I was married once before. So was Malcolm, she says, her voice tipping upward, and smiles in her husband’s direction, but offers nothing more in the way of details.

So are we to assume they are two widows who got together later in life?

Or is someone a cheat and the other a man stealer?

Or woman stealer?

Or was this just her awkward way of connecting with Esme?

"Oh, well, thank you but he wasn’t exactly my husband yet. Esme chokes out the words. She glances warily over at Orson and quickly moves her hand away from his. Her cheeks flush pink. We should go, she says, looking alarmed, then reaches for the door handle, rattling it several times before successfully opening it, and scrambles out of the car to the drive. Thank you for the ride… Mr. Montgomery." She lowers her voice, sounding very formal all of a sudden.

What on earth? I squint.

Orson stares up at her, stunned.

Lottie, are you coming? She flashes me a look that says I’d better be, and I’d better hurry.

Oh yes. Yes, of course, I say, scrambling out the door she holds open for me. I have to crawl over the front seat to exit and make quite the spectacle of myself, lugging Dickens along under my arm.

"Thank you again, Mr. Montgomery," Esme sings, slamming shut the door of the car.

But wait. He launches up in his seat, calling after her. I thought perhaps we’d have dinner.

Oh, not tonight, dear, Midge interjects, jetting forward and wedging herself between Esme and the car. I’m afraid that won’t be possible. As they’ve already been spoken for. She shakes her head in the most jolly way. Remember the pie? She blinks at Orson, then smiles back at us.

Esme swallows uncomfortably.  

But— Orson’s heavy brows furrow.  

No buts about it, young man. We must insist. Malcolm steps forward, patting Orson’s arm. What kind of hosts would we be if we didn’t feed our guests? Midge has prepared a full pan of her famous homemade baked beans, and everything. He sprouts a prideful grin.

Oh, well…in that case...

I elevate my brows. At least she’s not famous for potatoes.

Along with a full pan of mash! Malcolm adds.

Oh…there it is. I’m already dreading their consistency in my mouth. I certainly hope there’s butter. Lots and lots of butter.

But—my mother! Orson calls out.  

Oh, don’t worry, son. If there're extras, I’ll be sure to save her some. Midge shuffles over, patting the back of his hand.

I don’t think that’s exactly what he meant.

Tootles for now! She waves him off.

Tootles, I say. It’s like we’re being held captive by the cheeriest but loneliest people on earth.

And don’t you worry that handsome little head of yours, she calls back. They’ll be plenty of time for you to get together with the ladies again, the day after tomorrah!

Day after tomorrow? My gaze pops. What does she mean? What happened to the day in between?

How long are we to stay on here? Worse than all that, how are we to get home again? I haven’t even thought that far ahead yet.

We have no money and no means by which to earn any. And we certainly cannot indulge in the charity of the Montgomerys anymore, with Esme falling prey to owing them something.

That is, if they’re not too tired from all their excursions, Midge prattles on.

From all our what? I snap back to reality.

Oh, haven’t you ’eard? Midge’s voice pitches upward. The whole town is throwing a party in your honor, she tells Esme and me with a smile.  

A what? Esme gulps.

Nothing fancy. Just a regular old shindig. Down on the beach.

Shindig? I repeat.

Yeah. On accounta you busting up that train robbin’ gang like you did. She rocks back on her heels. You two are a pair of regular ’eroes. Midge knocks our shoulders, one-after-the-other, causing each of us to teeter off our heels. Along with that gentlemanly friend of yours, of course. What was ’is name again? Midge squints.

Sterling…I mean, Inspector Stone, I answer.

Right. That was ’im. She knocks my shoulder again. What an ordeal it must have been, bein’ trapped on that train with a couple of crazy men.

There were three of them, actually, Esme says below her breath.

Why, I can’t even imagine! Midge cradles her belly and rocks back on her heels. But I guess we’ll all be readin’ about it in the papers soon enough.

What? I blink.

After your big press conference in the morning, Midge adds.  

What press conference? Esme says.

The one Chief of Police Stuart MacGregor has arranged. She stares at us, our mouths hanging agape. My goodness, you really ’aven’t been told anything, ’ave yous?

Does that mean the Inspector and I will be forced to see each other again? My heartbeat picks up speed.

But what if we don’t want to do it? Esme blurts. What if we refuse?

Nonsense, Malcolm chuckles. Why, it’s a matter of civic duty to inform the public whenever danger is afoot. He looks at us as if he’s personally offended by our resistance. Besides, they’ll be no gettin’ out of it now. Not with Chief MacGregor in charge. He grins, thumbing his suspenders. Why, I ’ear tell the good Chief has invited news outfits from all over the nation to come ’ear what you lot have to say about Canada’s first-ever train robbery attempt. It’s to be in papers all over the country, he says.

Oh my…

Why, when it’s all said and done, you’ll be right famous. He chuckles again.

Esme and I share a troubled look.

Not exactly the way we thought we’d take this continent by storm.

Still— Esme objects again, her voice sounding frank. I don’t think it’s very appropriate considering the reason we’ve come here.

Oh, don’t be silly. Midge fans her thought away. We’re all very aware of your current predicament. She leans tenderly toward Esme, reaching out and running a soothing hand down the side of her arm. That’s why we waited until tomorrow to schedule it, and not today, she whispers.

Oh how very thoughtful of all of them.

Now, let’s get you filed off to your accommodations so you can get settled in and change into something more comfortable. She turns me around, her pupils quickening at the sight of my goose poop-slathered rear, and I cower with embarrassment.

Wait! Orson calls, nearly leaping from the car. So this is it? This is goodbye then? He throws out his hands, blinking at Esme.

Well… she starts, staring back over one shoulder, looking distressed.

For now! Midge answers for her. But like I said, there’s always day after tomorrah! She winks and shuffles us off toward the cottage in back, much to Orson’s chagrin. Frustrated, he throws the motor into gear and roars away, tires chewing up the stone drive.

Don’t worry, darling; he’ll be back. Midge comforts Esme, patting her arm again. It’s best to keep them guessing. She winks.

Oh, how absolutely adorable. I find myself becoming more and more endeared to old Midge as we make our way down an overgrown garden path toward a little thatch-roofed cottage in the back of the yard.

We arrive at the door, painted a cheery red, with welcoming white lace curtains drawn over freshly scrubbed windowpanes. ’Ere we are! Midge announces, unlocking the door and pushing it open. It’s not much, but it’s homey. She hands over the key, which I graciously accept, and Esme and I proceed to enter. Oh, I nearly forgot. She touches my arm, and I whirl back around. This came for you. She digs in her apron pocket, retrieving a jam-stained letter from within it, and hands it to me. It’s from that Inspector gentlemen friend of yours. He stopped by earlier. Said it was mighty important I made sure you got it. What was his name again?

Chapter Three

Irush