Caveat Emptor and Other Stories

EARLY BIRD BOOKS

FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—

NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!

Caveat Emptor and Other Stories

Joan Hess

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

Contents

Death of a Romance Writer

Too Much to Bare

The Maggody Files: Death in Bloom

Caveat Emptor

A Little More Research

The Maggody Files: Time Will Tell

All's Well That Ends

 

About the Author

Death of a Romance Writer

The young woman hesitated at the top of the great curving staircase, grumbling rather rudely to herself as she gazed at the scene below. “Hell's bells!” she muttered under her breath. “Doesn't she like anything besides waltzes? A little New Wave rock, or at least jazz?”

In the grand ballroom ladies dressed in pastel gowns swept across the floor under the benevolent eyes of elegant gentlemen in black waistcoats and ruffled shirts. A stringed orchestra labored its way through the familiar melodies with grim concentration. Servants moved inconspicuously along the walls of the vast room, their expressions studiously blank. The same old thing, down to the canapes and sweet sherry.

Gathering up her skirt with pale, delicately tapered fingers, the woman forced herself to move down the stairs. Her heart-shaped mouth was curled slightly, and her deep jade eyes flittered across the crowd without curiosity. He would make an appearance in a few minutes, she reminded herself glumly, but perhaps she could have a bit of fun in the meantime. The fun would certainly end when he appeared—whoever he was.

“Lady Althea!” gushed a shrill, nasal voice from the shadows behind her. “I was so hoping to see you this evening. The ball is absolutely delightful.”

Lady Althea, the woman repeated to herself. A silly name, as usual, invoking images of moonlit gardens and scented breezes. Why not a simple “Kate” or “Jane”? Oh, no. It was always “Desiree” or “Bianca,” as if her bland personality must be disguised by alluring nomenclature.

The dowager tottered out of the shadows on tiny feet. In her seventies (hundreds, Althea sniffed to herself), the woman's face was a mesh of tiny lines, and her faded blue eyes glittered with malevolence. Her thin white hair was decorated with a handful of dusty plumes, one of which threatened to sweep across her hawkish nose with every twitch of the woman's head.

“Who're you?” Althea demanded bluntly.

The dowager raised a painted eyebrow. “I am your mother-in-law's dearest friend, Lady Althea. You had tea only yesterday at my summer home. Your first introduction to society, I believe. I'm amazed that it has slipped your mind.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Althea moved away from the woman's rancid breath and fluttery hands. Surely these people could be induced to brush their teeth, she thought testily. They didn't, of course. As far as she could tell, they had no bodily functions whatsoever. A few bouts of the vapors, a shoulder slashed by a duelling sword, a mysterious scar across the cheek. But nothing mundane to interrupt the flow of their lives.

Ignoring the woman's frown, Althea stood on her toes to peer around the room. He wasn't here yet. Good. Now, if she could only liven up the music and get these nameless people to loosen up a little bit, the evening might provide some amusement. A ball could be a ball, but it seldom was.

The dowager was not ready to allow Althea to escape. “Your dear mother-in-law has told me of your tragic history, and I must tell you how much I admire your courage,” she hissed. Little drops of spittle landed on Althea's cheek, like a fine mist of acid rain.

“Sure, thanks,” Althea said. “I'm a plucky sort, I understand. Personally, I'd rather watch television or read a confession magazine, but I never get the chance.”

“Television? What might that be, my dear girl?”

Althea shook her head. “Never mind. Hey, which one of these ladies” (dames, broads) “is my mother-in-law? The one with the chicken beak or that fat slug in the corner?”

“Lady Althea! I must tell you that I am somewhat shocked by your manner,” the dowager gasped. Her hand fluttered to her mouth. “I was led to believe you had been raised most properly in a convent; that you were of gentle birth and delicate nature.”

“Is that so? I guess I'd better behave,” Althea said dryly. She tucked a stray curl of her raven black hair into place, and checked the row of tiny seed pearl buttons on her elbow-length gloves. Now that, she told herself sternly, was the accepted and expected behavior. She glanced at the dowager.

“So which one is my mother-in-law?”

“Your mother-in-law is there,” the dowager said, gesturing with a molting fan toward a grim-visaged woman sitting on a straightbacked chair. “But where is your dear husband, Lady Althea? I had such hopes of speaking to him.”

“Beats me,” Althea said. So she was already married, she thought with a sigh. These rapid shifts were disconcerting. Dear husband, huh! Gawd, he was probably a bodice ripper like the rest of them. And she had decided to wear her new gown—genuine silk and just the right color for her eyes. Perhaps there was enough time to change into something more expendable.

Frowning, Althea glanced across the coiffed heads of the guests to study her mother-in-law. A real loser, with a profile that ought to be illegal. Translucent blue complexion, hooded eyes, mouth tighter than a miser's purse. But the woman did have a smidgen of charm—all found in the garish diamond broach on her chest. From across the room, Althea could see the brilliance of the stone, and even the dull glow of the gold setting. Now that was charming.

Leaving the dowager puffing resentfully at the bottom of the staircase, Althea began to thread her way between the dancers. Despite her intention of finding the punchbowl, she found herself curtsying in front of her mother-in-law. Damn.

“Althea, dear child,” the woman said frostily. She extended a limp white hand, as though she expected Althea to clasp it to her bosom—or kiss it, for God's sake!

Althea eyed it warily. At last she touched it timidly, then snatched her hand away and hid it behind her back. “Good evening,” she said, swallowing a sour taste in the back of her throat. The diamond broach. It would keep her in penthouses and champagne for the rest of her life, if only …

“Excrutia, this child is charming!” the dowager said, shoving Althea aside. “But where is your son? Dear Jared must be eager to present his charming bride to his friends …”

Jared, huh. Althea brushed a black curl off her eyebrow as she checked the crowd. She was destined to be stuck with an elegant moniker, and so was he. Once, she remembered with a faint sigh, she had particularly liked a chap named Sam—but of course he had become a Derek. Sam had had bulging biceps and a busted nose, but it hadn't kept him from stirring up a bit of inventiveness between the covers. Derek, on the other hand, had spent hours gazing into her eyes and murmuring (bleating) endearments that were supposed to sweep her off her feet. Sam's approach was brisker—and a hell of a lot more interesting.

The mother-in-law was snivelling down her nose. “Where is my son, Althea? Have you already managed to … distract him from his duties as host?”

Althea thought of several snappy remarks but again found herself in an awkward curtsy. “No, ma'am. I haven't seen him since—”

Since what? It was impossible to keep track of the convoluted framework. Since he rescued her? Married her? Raped her? Jared would never do such a thing, she amended sourly. No doubt he had kept her from being raped by one of the marauding highwaymen that accosted virgins. Considering Jared, it might have been more fun to be accosted …

“Well, Althea,” the mother-in-law snorted in a well-bred voice, “you must feel most fortunate to have snared my son. He is, after all, the owner of this charming manor and of all the land from here to the cliffs. And you, a penniless orphan, destined to become a scullery maid—had not heaven intervened on your behalf.”

Sam's mother was a cheery drunkard who was still producing babies on an annual basis. This one had probably produced Jared by virgin birth. Forget that; birth was messy. Jared had no doubt simply appeared one day, lisping French and nibbling cucumber sandwiches under his nanny's approving smile.

Althea swallowed an angry response. Fluttering her thick lashes, she murmured, “Yes, ma'am, I was most fortunate to have met your son. When my father died, leaving me a penniless orphan at the mercies of my unscrupulous uncle, I feared for my life.” Melodrama, pure and nauseating. Why couldn't she have been a barmaid? A bit of slap and giggle in the shadows behind the stables, a feather bed to keep warm for a guy like Sam. But instead she had to hang around with the aristocracy. Snivellers and snorters, bah!