Murder Most Convenient: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery

MURDER MOST CONVENIENT

A MRS. XAVIER STAYTON MYSTERY

Robert Colton

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events in this story are fictional or used fictitiously.

MURDER MOST CONVENIENT

Copyright © 2014 Robert Colton

All rights reserved.

ISBN:

ISBN-13:

Published by Seventh Zone Press,

Saint Louis, Missouri 

Printed in the USA

Cover photo by

Cover design by Robert Colton

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 

First Printing September 5
th
2014

For more information:

www.robertcolton.com

In memory of

Ruby Brightwell

“We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible.”

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Also By Robert Colton

Rome to Alexandria:

A Collection of Short Stories

Pompeii:

A Tale of Murder in Ancient Rome 

Pompeii:

A Conspiracy Among Friends

Pompeii:

Hazard at Bay

Pompeii:

Pluto’s Maze

                                                                   
June 18, 1927 

Dear Mr. Harland Orenstein,                                           

    Greetings to you on this day. As I am not sure the proper form, I shall come straightaway to the point of this letter. I understand that you are the agent for that famous novelist who writes the mystery books. After her recent mental breakdown, it has occurred to me that her writing career may be at a standstill. Furthermore, this would leave you with one less client. I am pleased to offer you my work.

   I set myself upon the task of writing a splendid whodunit. Traveling to the country estate owned by my late husband's family, I was ready to soak in the atmosphere and listen to my muse tell me a story of deceit and murder. Instead, a crime actually happened, right before my eyes. I just wasn't able to see it. 

   I have written the story as it occurred, omitting few details. I understand that publishers trim the fat, so I shall leave that to the trained eye. At places within the text, I have left notes to you and your publishers that will need to be edited as well. I have also left unimportant characters unnamed as of yet.

   My business manager would not approve of my frankness, but I must add that I am a wealthy young woman; my writing endeavor is not for the purpose of profit or to gain fame. My goal is that, with publishing my work, I might dedicate it to my dear husband's name.

   You will find the manuscript enclosed. I do so hope that it meets with your enthusiastic approval. 

Most Sincerely,

Mrs. Xavier Stayton  

Chapter One

Lucy had her nose tucked into her book so deep she didn't even notice me step into the sitting room.

   “What are you reading so intently?” I inquired.

    My bright-eyed friend mumbled, “A mystery.” 

   Mimicking her wonderful English accent that I so envied, I repeated her. “A mystery.”

   My terrible attempt to sound like a local caused Lucy to laugh. I coveted the sound of her chuckle as well. It was so very “British.” When I laughed, I sounded as if I hailed from the American Midwest, which, of course, I did.   

  Lucy and I had been friends for these past three years, after we met at my husband's wake. My poor dear Xavier and I had only been married for eleven months, two weeks, three days, and two hours before a most terrible accident placed him in Heaven.

   At the wake, I had recognized no more than a dozen attendees dressed in black, who were condoling me, the young widowed bride. I noticed that a fellow who worked for the funeral director seemed to be harassing a little woman my age, who looked quite fearful.

   She was a pretty, petite thing, with dark hair and porcelain skin. If I lacked self-confidence, she would be the type of girl I’d avoid. My own appearance is decidedly
un-unique
. When inspecting my amber hair, medium brown eyes, and little pink lips, my father’s friends would nod, smile, and tell me that I looked “sweet.”

    I made my way to where the mortuary staff member spoke in a hushed tone to the fretful young lady, and he explained that she did not know the family at all; she had merely attended the wake so that she might make a dinner out of the finger food being served by the wait staff. He had seen her doing the same at three other wakes over the past few weeks. 

    “Is this true?” I asked, aghast. 

    “It is. I do you peg your pardon,” Lucy responded in her lyrical voice.

   “But why?” I inquired, although I already knew the reason and regretted blurting out the words. Her black shoes where scuffed, and one heel had been poorly repaired. She wore no jewelry, and one of her white gloves had been mended at the joint of the thumb and forefinger.

    “I haven't the money to buy—”

   I raised a finger to my lips and said, “I understand.” Mimicking my privileged mother-in-law, I first shooed away the mortuary employee and then beckoned one of the maids. “Take my friend to my room; she's quite tired. See that a hardy plate of dinner is sent to her right away.”

   This was how our friendship began. For whatever divine purpose, Xavier had been taken away from me, and Lucy had been sent as my companion. 

    Mother Stayton thought nothing of Lucy staying on with us. At the funeral, she assumed that Lucy was a friend of mine whom she had yet to meet; she had no idea that Lucy was, in fact, a friend that I hadn’t yet met myself. 

    I enjoyed a good book, but this tome in Lucy's hands had me perplexed. She had been reading it all morning with great interest. “Who is the novel by?”

    Lucy whispered the author’s name, as if responding to me might interrupt the events cast in ink upon the pages before her.

   “The woman who staged that publicity stunt?” 

    “It wasn't a stunt; her husband left her for his...” dear Lucy whispered the next word, “mistress.”

   “Poppycock,”— oh how foolish I sounded speaking the local slang—she set out to make herself famous, and she succeeded.”

   Defending the author, Lucy replied. “She was already well known.”

   “Was she? Had you heard of her before she went missing for a week, her husband suspected of foul play?”

   “Of course I had,” Lucy retorted, but a second later her little face scrunched up rather prune-like as she realized she might have accidentally lied. “Well, I think her name was familiar to me.”

   I just nodded; my point had been proven. The individual might be an excellent writer, but she was also rather clever with publicity.

    According to the papers, the author’s husband had left her for another woman. Seemingly, she then vanished, her car found abandoned. This created quite the sensation.

   Over a full week passed before she was spotted at one of those hydropathic hotels, checked in under an assumed name. The papers said she had amnesia; she suffered some sort of breakdown. (I do realize that this digression may need to be edited, and I am open to the suggestion of different wording. As you do still represent this person, you may prefer to omit any reference.)   

    I asked Lucy, “Tell me, why is this French detective of hers so unique?”

   Delighted to explain, Lucy stuck her thumb in the book and partially closed it. After correcting me on his nationality, she said, “He notices everything—every detail; he is quite charming, too.”

    I sat on the edge of the chair beside my friend. Rolling my eyes, I remarked, “Tall, handsome, suave...”

   Lucy described the man, who was not what I expected, and I threw my head back and smiled. “He’s no Roman Novarro.”

   “Dear me, no,” Lucy replied. 

  We both laughed, true mirth between friends, not those awful polite chuckles that people force when they have no response to someone’s statement.  

   “Well, I don't understand the appeal,” I told her.  

   Lucy grew quite serious and said, “No, you wouldn't; you read all of those American books.”

   “What American books?”

   “You know the sort, about the Old West and Indians,” she replied earnestly.

    “I have read no such thing, thank you.”

    Lucy's brow rose, and her lips pinched; clearly she didn't believe me, and why should she? There was a stack of those books in my room, still on the dresser where my dear Xavier had left them—unread.

    There was a brief silence; Lucy had read the expression on my face. She had realized the novels belonged to the handsome young man whose many photos crowded my mantel.

     I reached across the side table and opened a little ceramic box. Plucking out a clove, I placed it gently on my tongue and savored the flavor.

     The little spell of melancholy passed, and I asked her to read from the book aloud. I wanted to hear this master sleuth at work.

     Lucy read one chapter to me, in her lovely voice. The little detective was ever so ingenious. Or should I say, his creator was a master of her trade. Planting all those misleading clues, with the actual important information just being mentioned on the surface. Yes, quite clever.

   I took the novel from Lucy’s hands and thumbed through the object. A book, one of the most marvelous things ever created. The thought occurred to me,
What if I wrote a book?
I turned back to the dedication page and imagined the words
To My Beloved Xavier Stayton
,
and I was decided.

    My mother had not been pleased with my decision to keep London as my home. She wanted me to move back to St. Louis and find another husband. On my last visit she had lost her ability to hold her tongue.

   “I don't know why you continue to live with
that
woman!” Mother had snapped.

   “She's my mother-in-law.”

   “She
was
your mother-in-law,” came the ugly correction.

   I gave Mother a raised brow that told her,
You've crossed a line,
and said, “You have two sons, each with wives and children. I am all she has.”

   I would never tell my insistent parent that Mother Stayton was dependent on me. Xavier's father had left her very little in his will; he planned on his son living a long life, and so had bequeathed his estate to my husband. Mother Stayton and I never spoke of this. While the house and other property were mine, we called it all hers, as it had formerly been. This just seemed the right thing to do.

   To my mother’s distress, the pursuit of another husband never crossed my mind. I still had a husband; he just was no longer on this mortal plane. However, he was in my heart, and always in my thoughts.

   “Look at you—your beautiful amber hair, those sparkling copper eyes of yours, and somehow you’ve managed to keep your little figure despite all those European chocolates.  Do you plan on remaining a widow your entire life?” Mother asked, fearful of my reply.  

   “Xavier has only been gone for two years; how could I do that to him?”

   My Great Aunt Dotty, sharing our company, voiced what I could not. She was rather senile and spoke without compunction. “Lucky man that husband of yours. You'll love him for the rest of your life. More men would be better off dying young, before their wives get to know them well enough not to miss them.”

    “Dotty, be silent. You loved Uncle Winston,” my mother blustered.  

    Dotty cocked her shriveled head and replied, “For the first few years; then he became a bore. He was just a lot of hair in the wrong places and the constant smell of whiskey. I had to prick my earlobe just to put a tear on my face the day we buried him.”

    “Now, Dotty, that just isn't true; next, you'll be telling us that you pushed him down those stairs!" exclaimed Mother. 

    Dotty was either so far gone that she didn’t mind admitting to murder, or her wits had kicked in and she was having a bit of fun. The old gal winked at me and said, “I never said that I didn't.”

    Of course, she was right. Xavier and I were just so smitten with each other before his death. He was still boyish, not quite a rough-and-tumble man yet. After he played cricket, in full dress, there was never the odor of sweat upon him, but rather a sweet musk that I shall never smell again. His eyes twinkled with excitement as he shared with me his adventurous daydreams, and his exuberant laugh was as innocent as a child's.

   This was all I had to remember of him, his soft, gentle touch, as afraid of intimacy as I had been on our wedding night, his straightforward way of speech, his supreme love of life. We had no quarrels, never a rift between us, nothing to deter my loyalty toward him. My single complaint was that fretful secret of his, the secret that killed him.

   When I departed from my parents’ home, starting my journey back to Holland Park, Mother had whispered in my ear, “He was a fantastic young man, the perfect husband to you, and he’d want you to be happy.”

   I kissed Mother on the cheek and told her, “You are right.” This gave her some hope that I would one day pursue another suitor. I felt a bit of guilt for giving her this false hope, but it was what she wanted. In fact, I was quite happy. Though brief as our time together was, Xavier had awakened me; he’d lit the candle that was my soul. 

   Here, I must state that Mother Stayton was particularly gracious to me. Xavier had set out to explore the entire world, only to return home two months later because he had found his true love in America. She would have been indebted to an ape if it had been the reason to end his conquest.

    She had loved her son dearly; she had made him her entire life. Like me, she spoke of him as if he were still with us, just out of sight down the hall, but listening as best he could.

   We got on fine in this way, and Lucy’s presence aided us; she was that audience who was a member of the household but not family. We would hold back any unpleasant remarks; always agree with one another, as not to cause embarrassment.

   With the new goal of writing a novel, I knew at once the prefect location to visit. I would need the aid of Mother Stayton to arrange for an invitation. I so hoped that she would see the merit in my request. (Now here is a good place for an experienced editor to help me. I am about to finish my digression on my relationship with my mother-in-law and lead back into the story just shortly after I left off.)

   While Lucy and I had discussed my new goal of writing a novel, we had chosen to ignore the ruckus we heard brewing in the sunroom toward the back of the house.

   As we approached, a familiar scene was playing out before us. The French doors to Mother Stayton’s preferred location were closed.

   Pawing at these doors was the family dog. This moody Airedale Terrier was referred to as
B.

   Xavier had explained to me that the dog had some lengthy breeder’s name that his father could never manage to remember, and he had taken to calling the dog
Bugger
after becoming tongue-tied. He’d chuckled at this and told me the rest of the household simply called the dog
B
afterward.     

   Not knowing what this meant, I spent several days calling out, “Bugger! Come to me, Bugger.” Finally, the little scrubby maid shushed me as I was summonsing the terrier, and she took me out to the gardener so that he could tell me the meaning of the word I’d been calling throughout the house.

    Lucy and I stood next to
B
,
and we watched the little pantomime through the glass doors. The butler and Clarice, the (careless) maid, appeared to be doing a strange modern dance, while Mother Stayton waved her embroidered handkerchief in the air.