Read Online Murder Most Convenient: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery by Robert Colton - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Colton
Ads: Link
direction. Lucy and I waved at each other, and I dare say we shared the same pinched smile.
We abandoned the Amilcar in a car park, and with wobbly legs, I followed Joan just down the street to the public house.
She pushed open the door and said, “Here we are.”
From the bright light of day, we crossed over to a shadowy den. Smoke hung in the air, clinging to the smell of spilled beer.
A dumpy man leaned against a counter, preaching to a few parishioners. He eyed us suspiciously and then bellowed out, “Mrs. Joan, is that you?”
She called out that it was her, and then asked me what I wanted to drink.
“A glass of sherry would be nice.”
She called back to the tavern keeper an order of two pale ales, and then, to me, she said, “You don’t have to be all prim and proper with me.”
The two beers were delivered to our table, and the proprietor remarked, “We certainly miss seeing you around here.”
She cast me an awkward glance and said, “As they say, it has been a dry spring.”
The man gave a little laugh and teetered back to those sitting belly to the bar. Joan looked the three men and two women over.
“Not much of interest about them.” She leaned very close to my ear. “The little shrew with a scab for a face, she had an abortion.”
I almost spit out my mouthful of tangy beer.
Joan’s speech was quite slurred before she ran out of gossip about the uninteresting company, who had long ago realized that she was discussing them.
When I suggested we depart, she demanded another drink. I paid the bill with the delivery of what would be her final one more.
As she drained the last of the swill, Joan looked into my eyes and said, “I envy you.”
This I knew; she was greedy, and I was well provided for. She was also at that age when beautiful women become fearful of their good looks, and I was just blossoming, no longer a girl but a young woman.
What response might I make? All I could do was arch my brow and stare back at her.
“I wish my Randolph had died in the war, and then it would be me who was the pitied widow.”
This was not the mean-spirited comment that I had anticipated. I rather wished to reach out and slap her. I would have traded all of the Stayton family fortune, and every moment of my youth, to have Xavier alive and well.
Finally taking charge, I stood and barked out in imitation of Joan’s voice, “It is well past time that we leave.”
It was a rough start, but I got the French motorcar off and moving. As the thing jerked and hiccupped, Joan laughed wildly.
Once on the country road leading back to Pearce Manor, the intoxicated woman belched before telling me, “You should get your own automobile.”
I ignored her, as she deserved to be ignored. The fact was, I had my own car, or rather, I still had Xavier’s. It was a handsome German roadster. From time to time, Mr. Jack would take it from the garage and drive me about in it.
Not sure which of the three gears was the correct one to use as I slowed the automobile down, we coasted along the flat driveway to the car park before the carriage house.
The chauffeur was washing the sedan and appeared surprised to see me behind the wheel.
Joan stumbled out of the car as the chauffeur responded to my plea that he deal with the smaller vehicle, which I abandoned, still idling.
Completely oblivious to my anger, Joan remarked, “You did a jolly good job getting us back.”
Making no effort to be polite, I snapped at her, “I’m just happy I didn’t run someone down.”
Joan took a misstep and attempted to focus her red eyes upon me. Nearly stuttering, she responded, “Yes, quite so.”
Lucy tapped at my closed bedroom door and called my name. I told her to come in, before placing a clove on my tongue and taking a quick look at Xavier’s photos.
“My
We abandoned the Amilcar in a car park, and with wobbly legs, I followed Joan just down the street to the public house.
She pushed open the door and said, “Here we are.”
From the bright light of day, we crossed over to a shadowy den. Smoke hung in the air, clinging to the smell of spilled beer.
A dumpy man leaned against a counter, preaching to a few parishioners. He eyed us suspiciously and then bellowed out, “Mrs. Joan, is that you?”
She called out that it was her, and then asked me what I wanted to drink.
“A glass of sherry would be nice.”
She called back to the tavern keeper an order of two pale ales, and then, to me, she said, “You don’t have to be all prim and proper with me.”
The two beers were delivered to our table, and the proprietor remarked, “We certainly miss seeing you around here.”
She cast me an awkward glance and said, “As they say, it has been a dry spring.”
The man gave a little laugh and teetered back to those sitting belly to the bar. Joan looked the three men and two women over.
“Not much of interest about them.” She leaned very close to my ear. “The little shrew with a scab for a face, she had an abortion.”
I almost spit out my mouthful of tangy beer.
Joan’s speech was quite slurred before she ran out of gossip about the uninteresting company, who had long ago realized that she was discussing them.
When I suggested we depart, she demanded another drink. I paid the bill with the delivery of what would be her final one more.
As she drained the last of the swill, Joan looked into my eyes and said, “I envy you.”
This I knew; she was greedy, and I was well provided for. She was also at that age when beautiful women become fearful of their good looks, and I was just blossoming, no longer a girl but a young woman.
What response might I make? All I could do was arch my brow and stare back at her.
“I wish my Randolph had died in the war, and then it would be me who was the pitied widow.”
This was not the mean-spirited comment that I had anticipated. I rather wished to reach out and slap her. I would have traded all of the Stayton family fortune, and every moment of my youth, to have Xavier alive and well.
Finally taking charge, I stood and barked out in imitation of Joan’s voice, “It is well past time that we leave.”
It was a rough start, but I got the French motorcar off and moving. As the thing jerked and hiccupped, Joan laughed wildly.
Once on the country road leading back to Pearce Manor, the intoxicated woman belched before telling me, “You should get your own automobile.”
I ignored her, as she deserved to be ignored. The fact was, I had my own car, or rather, I still had Xavier’s. It was a handsome German roadster. From time to time, Mr. Jack would take it from the garage and drive me about in it.
Not sure which of the three gears was the correct one to use as I slowed the automobile down, we coasted along the flat driveway to the car park before the carriage house.
The chauffeur was washing the sedan and appeared surprised to see me behind the wheel.
Joan stumbled out of the car as the chauffeur responded to my plea that he deal with the smaller vehicle, which I abandoned, still idling.
Completely oblivious to my anger, Joan remarked, “You did a jolly good job getting us back.”
Making no effort to be polite, I snapped at her, “I’m just happy I didn’t run someone down.”
Joan took a misstep and attempted to focus her red eyes upon me. Nearly stuttering, she responded, “Yes, quite so.”
Lucy tapped at my closed bedroom door and called my name. I told her to come in, before placing a clove on my tongue and taking a quick look at Xavier’s photos.
“My
Similar Books
