Murder Aloft: Lottie Lindberg Historical Cozy Mystery Series, #4

By Ruby Riverton

A daring balloon ride. 
A deathly encounter. 
A mystery-packed adventure on the brink of Niagara Falls.

 

Lottie Lindberg takes harrowing ride aboard a hot air balloon, while attempting to return New York City. She, and her trusty dog Little Dickens lift off with Canadian adventurer & aeronaut Stanley Stannic bound for Niagara Falls. The Canadian side, that is.

 

After a few hiccups they finally arrive, where Lottie is offered temporary lodging with the Baldwins—a family she met aboard Titanic. All seems to be going well for our heroine, though it doesn't take her long to become entangled in yet another mystery. 

 

Detecting a strong whiff of corruption in the air, Lottie decides to investigate. There's been a rash of unexplained so-called accidents at the new Niagara Falls new Hydro Powered Electric Generating Station where Mr. Baldwin is employed. Seems workers have been literally falling to their deaths. Five in the last week.

 

Though Lottie does not doubt the work is dangerous, and could lead to peril, things seem a little too conveniently dangerous lately to Lottie. 

 

She follows a lead and finds an unnerving connection. 

 

Could it be these tragedies are not really be accidents at all, but carefully crafted and concealed ways for someone to get away with murder?

If only the dashing Inspector Sterling Stone were here to help her puzzle this one out. 

 

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: For best reader experience, 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

With more mysteries on the way!

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookMarked
• Release date: Sep 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201317669

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

H ow much longer? I inquire of Mr. Stanley Stannic, our resident aeronaut, hollering over the brisk wind. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the term aeronaut, it refers to the pilot of the balloon Esme and I have crazily agreed to take flight in.

It's a stupid question. Of course it's going to be a long time.

It’s going to be an awfully long journey.

But I was just wondering whether we are talking hours or days or possibly a week. Good Lord forbid. I really should have asked that before climbing aboard.

Stanley hasn’t said. In fact, he’s said very little. Just stoked the burner, lit the flame, and voila! We were suddenly up in the air. I can’t say my stomach is quite used to flying yet. But the view from up here is spectacular.

Oh, I do hope that Dickens will be all right. I turn back, biting a nail.

I’d waved to him as we took off. He was barking incessantly in Mr. MacEwen’s arms on the ground, trying so hard to get away from him, to race and join me as I sniffed and sniffed, feeling utterly guilty for leaving him behind. Though I know it was the best decision, it was so hard to make. I’ve never been apart from Dickens before.

You will take care of him! I called out as he and Mr. MacEwen slowly faded into the distance, becoming nothing but small dots on the grass.

With all our heart and soul! Mr. MacEwen called back, waving. Don’t you worry your sweet little head about him. He lifted Dickens in his arms. He’ll be fine with us. He lowered him again and scrubbed his head. And we’ll see to it he hitches a ride with the post as soon as possible. Why he may even arrive in Niagara before you. Pets travel free with the delivery men, you know! He chuckled then, his big hearty laugh, and squeezed Dickens tight to his barrel chest. It’s part of the Canadian Parcel Service goodwill program!

Oh goodness, poor Dickens, what an adventure he has in store for him.

I shuddered at the thought as we popped through a cloud, a fluffy white thing, and sailed off over the horizon to where we are now, the pair of them gone from my sight for good.

Mr. Stannic? I press again, hoping he’ll stop fiddling with the discombobulator above his head and answer me, sooner than later. For if it’s going to be days, I can't imagine how we're going to manage. Where will we sleep? And then there’s the matter of the W.C. …

Oh, why didn’t I have any of these thoughts before lifting off the ground?

Esme gives me a look like she’s just seen a ghost. I do believe she’s read my mind.

I’m afraid we're in for a long one, lasses, Mr. Stannic answers in his thick Irish brogue, still busily yanking on a rope.

Oh? I say, more of a croak than a word, wondering how long is long.

The balloon dips suddenly down, then swiftly back up, responding to his movements, and Esme and I buckle at the knees.

How long exactly is long? I put the question to him frankly, reaching out, grabbing the side of the basket, or the gondola as Stanley likes to call it, to steady myself. My stomach, however, continues to jump. Are we talking hours or days here? I shout above the hiss of fire releasing from the burner.

Days, Stanley answers nonchalantly, his back still to us. Five, maybe six, I’m suspecting.

Five, maybe six? I gulp.

Could be less, if we catch a good tail wind, he adds, grinning.

What on earth? Doesn’t he know for sure?

"And just how on earth—or above it—do we accomplish that?" I shout.

It’s all in the ropes, dear. Stanley tugs on a few ropes then reaches up and stokes the fire in the small burner that hovers directly below the balloon’s wide-open mouth.

With unbridled and slightly dangerous-looking exuberance, he jumps back from it when the fire flares, letting off a great hiss of yellow flame. Nothing like the power of a flare to get your blood flowing in the morning. Stanley beams, dusting the singed hair from his arms.

If intuition serves me correctly, there might be a reason why his strange aeronaut’s cap fits him so crookedly. I fear we’ve taken up with a madman.

Esme and I share a speedy frantic look.

So essentially, you have no idea when we’ll land? My voice tips up at the end.

None whatsoever, Stanley titters, fiddling with the ropes again. Though I suspect we’ll land when the good Mothership here gets us there, and not a moment sooner. He pauses to pat the hot skirt of the balloon’s envelope with a gloved hand. With a little assistance from Mother Nature, of course. Or a little hindrance. He giggles, gazing dreamily out the side of the basket at the vast landscape. One can never tell.

What is that supposed to mean? This man makes no sense at all.

But I thought you said you’ve taken a trip like this before.

I have. Many times. Just not as long as this one. He yanks on another lever, and the fire flares again, causing both Esme and me to jump. The balloon lunges upward, and I clap a hand over my stomach in a fruitless effort to hold everything down.

But we have engagements, commitments, places to be, and time schedules to keep, Esme argues, rolling her hands.

Which neither the wind, nor the sun, nor the moon give a fig about, last time I checked, Stanley quips and licks a finger, holding it up to test the wind direction.

What? Esme gasps, turning to me in a whip-like motion like there’s something I can do about this. Well, I never … Could never … We can’t. We mustn’t⁠—

I’m afraid we already are, I break through Esme’s chest-grasping rant.

She looks at me like I’m a bug that needs to be squashed.

But where are we to sleep? To eat—? she asks.

Worse than that is the matter of the W.C., I say.

"Uuuh! Esme gasps, whirling around, her normally kind big blue eyes flashing angry. Why did I ever let you talk me into this?" she snorts in the meanest tone I’ve ever heard her use.

Well, it’s not like we had much choice in the matter, I huff back. If you’ll recall, dear Esme, we didn’t exactly have any other means of getting back to New York. I nervously pat the bottom of my hair and smile at her sweetly.

"There is always another choice. It’s just that you never make it!" she shouts, jutting her neck out as if to bite me. Then, uncharacteristically, she swats me with her gloves.

With her gloves!

How dare she.

Now, now, lassies! Stanley slides across the gondola—as he likes to call the basket⁠—

and in between us, arms splayed. No need to worry yourselves silly. He chuckles, pressing us apart. Old Stanley here’s got everything in that department taken care of.

What?

He bounces on his heels over to the opposite side of the basket, thumbing his suspenders on the way, then reaches up and throws aside a cotton curtain, drawing it briskly over a bent tin rail suspended from several balloon cables.

Introducing the official aeronaut’s poe! he announces, words bursting proudly from his mouth as he reveals a wicker chair with a hole cut in the center of the seat, placed over a bucket that’s sat beneath it.

What on earth is that? Esme snaps.

The balloonist’s answer to the W.C.! Stanley beams, extending a hand toward it.

Esme buckles back from it, horrified. You mean— You think— That we— You want us to— she stammers, pointing.

Precisely, Stanley grins, to which she lets out a tortured high-pitched squawk.

I think I’m going to faint. She draws a hand over her forehead.

I’m not feeling particularly steady myself at the moment.

I admit, it’s nothing fancy, but it does do the trick, Stanley says. Watch here. He reaches for a small rope affixed to the side of the basket, next to the poe, gives it a yank, and a small trap door below the bucket flies open. A swift gust of air flies in, throwing back his hair. It’s as simple as that, you see! he shouts over it.

Now I am going to faint. Esme steadies herself on the side of the basket.

But what about our civility, our dignity…

"Our virtue?" Panic flashes across Esme’s normally calm face.

Oh, that’s why the curtain here. Stanley steps forward, dragging the swath of cloth curtain across the makeshift rail. There you see, all the privacy anyone needs. Unless a good wind picks up, and then, well…

"Ah!" Esme squeaks, collapsing over the side of the basket.

Oh, don’t worry, I assure both of you, I’m a perfect gentleman. I would never peek. Stanley stands up tall, saluting both of us.

It has become vehemently clear that dear Malcolm left out a few details about his generous cousin Stanley. Though he may be kind and funny, and his tendencies toward eccentricity may be completely harmless, his outright disregard for basic social norms is completely unnerving.

Why, I will never, could never, would never— Esme stammers, pointing.

Oh, you will, if’n you’ve got to go bad enough, Stanley says.

Esme lets out another high-pitched girlish peep.

I don’t blame her. I blink at him, mortified myself.

Honestly, it’s really not that bad except for the odd updraft.

Updraft? Esme and I cry out together.

But you don’t have to worry. Old Stanley’s thought of that, too. He bounces back across the basket and rummages in his pack. "That’s why I keep plenty of this on hand!" He produces a roll of that newfangled disposable W.C. paper, spinning it on his finger.

That’s it, I’m out of here. Esme flings herself at the side of the basket, pitching her leg up over the edge.

"Esme!" I lunge after her, reeling her backward by the skirts. What is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?

Yes! When I said I would come on this journey with you!

Which is code for, Oh Lottie, you’ve done it again, and I’m severely disappointed in you.

To be honest, I’m not that impressed with myself at the moment. I really should have asked about these things before eagerly agreeing to climb aboard this contraption. I guess I hadn’t put much stock in where we would sleep or wee until now, and I’m just as horrified by the outcome as Esme.

Well… we’re here now. I smooth down my skirts, straighten my back, and clear my throat. So I guess we’ll have to make the best of it, won’t we, Esme?

She glares at me.

It’s a long way down, need I remind you.

Esme grunts.

I have a question, I say.

You would, Esme hisses.

About the functionality of the— I point toward the official aeronaut’s poe. Won’t the, you know— I pause, indicating feces —fall through that hole in the bottom of the bucket and on down to the earth? I wince.

Exactly. That's the whole idea. We don’t really want to keep it with us up here in the balloon, do we? Stanley chuckles.

No… I suppose not. I rock back on my heels.

Oh, good heavens. Esme groans.

I just can’t help but think, what if someone were to be walking past down below at exactly the same time?

"Lottie, for goodness sakes!" Esme snorts.

What? It’s a fair question, I hiss back at her, then bite my lip. Don’t act like you’re not interested to know. I can tell that you are. I point a stern finger at her.

Okay, well, maybe just a little. Esme shrugs. Do tell. What does happen? She scowls and turns back to Stanley.

I suppose the lucky recipient just thinks they’ve been hit by an extra-large bird that day. Stanley laughs as our faces fall. We stare at each other, troubled.

I’m kidding, Stanley interjects, chuckling some more, then grows oddly, staunchly serious. Truth is, mostly it disintegrates in the air on the way down. So the likelihood of anyone actually getting hit by a clump is slim to none.

Esme and I exchange shattered glances.

Due to the sheer force of the fall and altitude at which it’s plummeting, Stanley further explains. So if someone were to get hit, it’d be like little more than getting clipped with a bit of sparrow’s dung.

We wince at one another in disgust.

’Sides, they say it’s good luck to be struck by aeronaut’s splat.

I wouldn’t call that good luck at all! I snort.

I think that's quite enough discussion about feces for one day. Esme steps forward, linking my arm.

Yes, I agree. I think it’s time we change the subject. I brush the rogue hair back from my eyes.

As you wish, Stanley concedes, though it appears he could talk about feces all day. He lets go of the small rope he’s still holding, attached to the latch on the hatch below the hole in the bucket. The flap on the bottom of it slams shut. The air stream immediately ceases.

He secures the small rope back into position and yanks the privacy curtain back around its rail. If the need arises, just let me know, and I’ll set you up. He smiles and returns to tending to the balloon.

I think I’ll be holding it until we make our final destination, Esme leans over, whispering.

I’d strongly advise against that, Ma’am. And I speak from experience. Stanley winks. Then he awkwardly removes his cap and squeezes the brim, and Esme and I wince uncomfortably.

It’s a strange-looking thing, the hat, but also the lump on his head. Sort of a mix between a motoring hat and a herringbone newsboy’s cap, topped with aeronaut goggles. The hat, that is. The lump is quite another thing: bald, pink, and oddly protruding up from the back left side of his skull like the lone peak of a mountain. I can’t help but wonder if it hurts, it’s stretching the skin so far. My mind fixates on it, because to think of anything else right now would be to risk my mind exploding. Thank you for that sound bit of advice, Stanley, I croak.

Esme digs her nails into my arm, as if to say, ‘Don’t encourage the man!’

Well, if that’s that, Stanley inclines his head. It’s back to the art of flying, and shaving days off this journey. He slaps the hat back on his head, a thick mane of greying curly red hair sticking out at the sides of his hat flaps.

I watch him working away on guiding the balloon, hoping the reason for his misshapen head—still visible under his cap—is not from some tragic accident as a child.

Though he does seem clever enough. I tap my chin.

My gaze moves to the covers of the strange-looking books he’s brought aboard. Something about a time traveler who makes his way across centuries in a hot air balloon. By the looks of the illustrations on the covers—Yes, I snooped. How could I not? I mentally shrug—one has to wonder if he isn’t living in a bit of a fantasy world of his own making.

A sudden wind whips up, seemingly out of nowhere, tugging at my skirts and making a quick mess of my hair. My goodness! I say, reaching up to trap my hat before it’s gone.

Esme does the same.

The wind continues, relentless, stealing hers! Oh, no! She slings herself over the side of the basket again, catching it by the tail of its ribbon. I assist her, reeling it frantically back in. What is this? What’s happening? I shout over my shoulder to Stanley.

See that thingamajig there? He points at a whirly-do spinning wildly above his head. The quicker that goes, the more trouble we’re in. The set of tiny brass cups on spokes whirls faster and faster.

What are you saying? I look from him to the thingamajig and back again.

I’m saying, I think we’re headed into a storm, ladies. A big one.

Esme shrieks.

The rain starts. The balloon tussles this way and that.

Before long the rain is teeming down, swamping our ankles in the basket.

What do we do? How do we help? I shout.

You don’t! Stanley answers. You girls better take cover. Hunker down there in the bottom of the basket. He points. And hold on tight. Use the privacy curtain from the poe to cover yourselves!

I race over and tear it down from its rod then shuffle back, engulfing both Esme and me in its protection. But there’s no escaping the rain. The wind is too strong. We are drenched instantly and shivering cold. A crack of lightning streaks the sky as Stanley fights hard to hold onto the ropes.

By the look of things, we may have to touch down.

What? But isn’t there a way to avoid it? Can’t we go up higher or something? I can’t imagine how we’ll get back up if we go down.

Only if you want to freeze to death, Stanley shouts.

A crack of lightning strikes particularly close, and Stanley loses his grip on a rope. The wind grabs us. We twist and turn in dizzying circles, the skies darkening around us, the clouds growing angrier.

I'm afraid if the rain keeps pelting on an angle like this, we’ll have no choice but to land.

A crack of thunder has us nearly jolting out of our boots. Seconds later, we are spinning out of control, and the basket is leaning at a harrowing angle. Esme and I are huddled together in the corner on the floor holding onto the ropes for dear