Megan Mollson [Mollson - Murder of the Mysterious Maid

Murder of the Mysterious Maid

Cozy Mystery

A Rose Lunceford Mystery

Volume One

Megan Mollson

2019

Megan Mollson

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This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Products or brand names mentioned are trademarks of their respective holders or companies. The cover uses licensed images and are shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are simply models.

Edition v1.00 (2019.08.19)

Special thanks to the following volunteer readers who helped with proofreading: Julie Pope, Christine S., M. McMath, Kari Wellborn, RB, JayBee and those who assisted but wished to be anonymous. Thank you so much for your support.

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Table of Contents

Brinkman, Illinois - June 1900

It was difficult to dress without a maid, but Id become accustomed to sharing one between four girls at school and was able to fend for myself adequately. After Id arrived at his house sans maid, Father had promised to send out inquiries. It seemed to me that a man whose eighteen-year-old daughter was coming to live with him for the first time would need a maid of her own and I was quietly resentful that Father hadnt taken the time to consider this. I added it to the long list of things I resented him for and got on with settling in to my new home.

Now I sat at the dressing table that had once been my mothers in the bedroom that had been mine as a little girl. I pinned my hair up in a fashionable style that complimented my features. My grandparents had told me in no uncertain terms that I was welcome to return to their home now that my schooling had finished. They promised to introduce me to the eligible young men in their acquaintance and help me find a good match. As I fixed my hair, I grumbled to myself that, if Id returned to my grandparents house, I would most definitely have a ladys maid.

Everyone assumed Id go back to them. Everyone, that is to say, except me. Underneath it all, I wasnt the dutiful girl theyd tried so hard to force me to be. Oh, I had impeccable manners and followed the rules, of course. Id lived with them since Mother died when I was five and Grandmother had made certain that my severe handicap of having a father who was a policeman wouldnt keep me from being accepted into the best social circles. Id gone to McKinleys Seminary for Young Ladies, the most exclusive finishing school in the Midwest, and could sing, pour tea, and embroider cushions with the best of them. But times were changing, and I wanted more from life than simply being a wife and mother.

I made my way to the wardrobe and considered my options for tonight. Father was taking me to the house of Mr. and Mrs. Charles for supper. It wasnt a formal event, but I wanted my introduction to society here in Brinkman to begin on the right foot. Without a maid, I couldnt tighten my stays very well and so any of my dresses that were close-fitting through the bodice wouldnt work. Surely my embroidered basque-waist and skirt would be pretty enough for tonight. The skirt had a nice train with flounces which made it acceptable for going out without being too dressy. The basque-waist had a lovely drape and would fit over my corset even if the untrained chamber maid, Bessie, couldnt tighten it as far as it could go.

I chose shoes and gloves, finished dressing, and examined the overall effect in the standing mirror. My dark auburn hair and pale skin were set off nicely by the green in my dress. I crinkled my nose and sighed when I considered my small size. Being a hair over five feet tall and slim made me look like a girl of thirteen. If only I could grow more womanly curves, I would finally look my age. No matter how well I dressed, I was constantly underestimated because I looked so young.

Rose, stop feeling sorry for yourself, I chided. I nodded firmly at my reflection. Then, pulling on my gloves, I made my way downstairs to wait for Father.

All ready? He boomed as he entered the parlor some ten minutes later.

I resisted moodily replying that obviously I was ready to go since I was sitting here reading a book, waiting for him. I am, I chose to say instead.

The carriage is waiting. Father turned on his heel and strode to the front door.

I made a face at his back and followed him. Our relationship was a strange one. After Mother died, he sent me to live with her parents, claiming that he was too busy to raise a small child. I understood this reasoning, but I couldnt understand why he rarely visited me in St. Louis or even wrote me letters. Grandmother insisted I write him each week, but my letters were largely unanswered.

Perhaps all children find the shift from child to adult challenging. I only know that my father seemed to find me a deep mystery. Id already been in his home for three days and he had yet to think of anything to say to me that wasnt an inane command or redundant question.

He was just as much a mystery to me as I was to him. Yet, I made every effort to ask questions about his work and the people in our community. My questions about the former topic were abruptly stopped due to the unseemly nature of police work. I found this insulting. My questions on the latter topic were abruptly stopped because it was a sin to gossip.

So, we had spent the last three days largely in silence. My mental diatribe was scathing, but since Grandmother had taught me well, my face never betrayed my thoughts. Therefore, Father did not know that I read detective stories whenever I could get my hands on them. I knew the Sherlock Holmes stories inside and out and I simply adored Dorcas Dene.

As to gossip being a sin, my grandmother had taught me the importance of understanding the subtle nuances of society. Good conversation required the knowing of certain facts such as what topics to avoid with certain people, who could be seated next to whom at a dinner party, and so on. I took Fathers gentle reprimand very bitterly. Grandmothers assessment that he was not really a gentleman seemed proven beyond a reasonable doubt.

As my disappointment grew, so did my frustration. My secret resentment of him was becoming more apparent and Im sorry to admit that I did little to curb it.

Just as Father was handing me into the carriage, our butler, Harrison, stepped onto the front stoop. He said something to Father that I couldnt hear. Father asked him a question which was answered in Harrisons usual efficient, bland tone. Then Father spoke to the carriage driver and finally climbed in and took the seat next to me.

We need to make a stop at the Dennis house, he explained.

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