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  A Death in Devon

  Sugar Martin Vintage Cozy Mystery – Book One

  Shéa MacLeod

  A Death in Devon

  Sugar Martin Vintage Cozy Mystery – Book One

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Shéa MacLeod

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Cover Art by Mariah Sinclair/mariahsinclair.com

  Editing by Alin Silverwood

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Note from the Author

  About Shéa MacLeod

  Other books by Shéa MacLeod

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks to Zack and Kyle of the Westgate Bourbon Bar and Taphouse who kept me in vintage cocktails. The sacrifices I make for research!

  A big shout out to fellow cozy author, vintage lover, and afternoon tea aficionado, C Morgan Kennedy, who let me bounce ideas off her and never got tired of talking about cozies.

  Dedication

  To Linda

  who loves a fabulous adventure.

  Chapter 1

  When that letter arrived, I should have known that whoever sent it was up to no good. It had the smell of devilry around it, above and beyond the fact it came from a solicitor’s office. But when an envelope arrives with a stamp from London, England, a person can hardly refuse it. Which is how I found myself in my current pickle, staring down the barrel of a dueling pistol.

  But I’m jumping ahead of myself. Let me back up a bit to the day I received the letter.

  It was a grim and gloomy day—as spring days often are in Portland—and I’d decided to wile it away in my pajamas, reading a detective novel (Erle Stanley Gardner’s The Case of the Lonely Heiress, if you must know.) when I should have been looking for a new job. When the postman rang the bell to have me sign for the letter, we’d both gotten a shock. Him, because it was two in the afternoon and I looked like I’d just crawled out of bed, and me... well, letters from solicitors are rarely welcomed.

  I stared at the missive in my hand, trying desperately to regather my wits. I’m not usually a witless person, but the missive had rendered me speechless.

  The paper was thick, creamy vellum and must have cost a pretty penny. The typing was neat and precise—not at all like my machine which had a faded ribbon and a chipped letter “A.” The signature at the bottom was written in swirling black ink. And don’t get me started on the red-waxed seal on the envelope. It was definitely not the sort of letter people in Portland, Oregon—population 15,000—got every day.

  I read it again, perhaps for the twenty-seventh time:

  Dr. Miss Martin,

  We are sorry to inform you that your aunt, Miss Euphegenia Graves, has recently passed.

  The surname was unfamiliar to me, nor was I aware I had an aunt. I mean, yes, I had aunts. Most people do. Six of them, in fact, but this particular aunt was one I’d never heard of.

  Miss Graves has left you an inheritance.

  Visions of dollar bills floated through my mind. I could really use a bit of money. My last secretarial job had paid poorly and ended abruptly (I may or may not have punched a fellow employee in the jaw. Don’t worry. He deserved it). I’d been unable to find work in the last four months. If I didn’t find something soon, my savings would be gone.

  Enclosed is an airline ticket in your name. You must claim your inheritance in person.

  There was a bunch of legal jargon, followed by the signature.

  Regards,

  James Woodward, Solicitor

  Woodward & Woodward Solicitors

  London, England

  I picked up the ticket again. Sure enough, it was a flight to London leaving on the following Monday. I sat back, stunned. Miss Euphegenia Graves had left me money. Money I was flying to England to collect. England! I’d never even been out of the state of Oregon before, never mind the country. And on a plane, too!

  The thought sent a shiver of excitement mixed with fear down my spine. Once upon a time, I’d dreamt of traveling the world. But then the war had come and, well, we all have to make sacrifices, don’t we?

  But who was Euphegenia Graves?

  There was only one person to ask. My mother. She loved keeping up on all the family gossip. Who’d married who. Who had how many children. Where those children went to college, and so on. Plus, all the scandals. Like the time her cousin, Barbara Jean, had an affair with the postman—or was it the milk man?—and nine months later had a little girl who didn’t look at all like her husband, Larry.

  Padding to my bedroom, I quickly changed into a simple blue dress with cap sleeves and an A-line skirt, and swept my dark hair into a an updo. Tucking the letter into my purse, I donned my blue trench coat (which was perhaps three or four years out of fashion), a matching Tam (a recent indulgence mere moments before losing my job), and gloves. It was a short walk from the cute little red brick apartment building where I lived to my parents Craftsman—which was fortunate, as I didn’t own a car. I was glad they hadn’t moved out to the suburbs yet, although my mother kept pushing. She loved the idea of one of those modern ranch homes they were building out near Milwaukie.

  It was early May 1948, with the slightest chill in the air. It was blustery and overcast, but I figured if it rained, I could dash between the drops. I set out at a brisk walk, low sensible heels making that lovely clacking sound on the pavement, signaling to the world I meant business.

  A zippy little tune spun in my mind. Dinah Shore singing “Buttons and Bows.” It was high on the charts, and I found it very uplifting. Overcome with energy, I made a little skip.

  A pudgy woman walking a pudgy dog sniffed at me. Women my age—closer to thirty than I’d like to admit—did not skip. Well, they did now. I smiled at the dog, gave the woman an arch look, and skipped again. She hustled across the street as if my good mood might be contagious.

  At last I arrived at my parents’ home and clattered up the steps. I didn’t bother to knock; I simply walked in calling out, “Mama, I’m here!”

  “In the kitchen, dear,” her voice floated back.

  I hung my coat on the coat rack next to the front door, removed my hat using the antique mirror that hung next to it, and placed it and my gloves and handbag on the console table just inside the living room.

  In the kitchen, Mama was hunched over the table, rolling out pie dough with the rolling pin that had come over with my family on the Oregon Trail. Or at least that’s what Mama claimed. She wore a frilly apron over her pale-yellow housedress, and her gray streaked hair was done up in an old-fashioned bun.

  “Hi, Mama. Where’s Dad?” I swiped a strawberry from the yellow mixing bowl on the table. Mama did love yellow.

  “In the garage.”

  My parents lived in a mock Tudor on the corner of 79th and Fremont. When it was built in 1920, they’d put up a long, skinny building alongside it, connected to the main house by a breezeway. The front of the
building nearest the street was a single car garage with creaking great doors that swung open only with a great deal of effort. The back half was a workshop with doors on either side, one leading out to the vegetable garden and the other leading into the walled-in backyard. My father spent most of his time out there in the workshop alternately tinkering with tools and making creative use of the English language when things didn’t go his way.

  I leaned down to kiss Mama’s cheek—I was only five foot four, but she was a good six inches shorter, though we had the same build, curvy rather than willowy—leaving a bright red smudge of lipstick behind. I swiped a bit of flour from her chin. She smelled of cinnamon, sugar, and vanilla, and perhaps a little coffee. Mama did love her coffee.

  “Hello, dear,” she said, “percolator’s on.”

  “Oh, good.” I helped myself to coffee, cream, and sugar. There was always plenty of each at my parents’. Dad always said America was fueled by the stuff.

  “Find anything yet?” She meant a job. Or possibly a man. She wasn’t particular.

  I sighed and sat down at the table. “Unfortunately, no. Linda tried to get me on at her company, but a man applied for the same position.”

  Mama made a non-committal sound. I knew what she was thinking. If only Sam hadn’t died.

  But Sam had died in the same war that took so many other young men. If he hadn’t died, we’d probably be married by now with half a dozen kids, and I wouldn’t be worrying about finding a job. But of course Mama would never say any of that despite desperately wanting those grandchildren, and frankly, I didn’t see the point in focusing on “what ifs.”

  As for grandchildren, she already had six of them between my two brothers. Six more was just plain greedy.

  “Have you ever heard of a Euphegenia Graves?” I asked over the rim of my coffee mug.

  A slight frown line marred her forehead as she focused on placing the crust just so in the pie pan. “I believe your grandmother had an aunt named Euphegenia. Her mother’s younger half-sister. Why?”

  “This came for me today.” I held up the letter.

  She dusted her hands free of flour and took the letter gingerly. Fishing a pair of round-rimmed glasses out of the pocket of her apron, she slid them on and read. “Well, my heavens.”

  I took back the letter. “So, she is related to us?”

  “Oh, yes, it has to be your great-great aunt. Euphegenia is a family name, as you well know.”

  I did, to my eternal sorrow. My maternal grandmother’s name had also been Euphegenia, and I’d been named for her. Except no one in the world, not even my mother, called me Euphegenia.

  Up until I was six, everyone had simply called me Eugie—which is nearly as bad. And then one day, it may have been my sixth birthday now I think on it, my father scooped me up in his burly arms and declared, “You are sweet as sugar!” And it stuck. From that day to this, everyone who doesn’t want a fist in their kisser has called me Sugar.

  Perhaps it seems odd that a woman of some twenty-eight years would prefer to be called Sugar, but wouldn’t you if you were saddled with a name like Euphegenia? I rest my case.

  “Are you going?” my mother asked, handing me back the letter and returning to her pie crust.

  “I don’t see why not. It should be an adventure.” The very idea set my blood singing. Things had been so dull for so long I was in dire need of a good adventure.

  “Be careful,” she pleaded.

  “Mama, it’s England, not Timbuktu,” I assured her, refilling my mug. “They’re quite civilized.”

  “I don’t want them taking advantage of you,” she insisted. “A young girl all alone in a foreign country. And they were very badly damaged by the war, or so I hear.”

  “I’m hardly a young girl, and I know how to take care of myself. I worked in the shipyards during the war, if you recall.”

  “Not at all a suitable job for a young woman,” she lamented.

  “No indeed,” I agreed, although I’d enjoyed the job thoroughly. I’d made an excellent welder. So excellent that my supervisor had told me on the sly that I was better than any man he’d ever worked with. Not that that stopped them from paying me half what they’d pay a man, then letting me go once the men came back from the war. I was less excellent at the whole secretary thing. “But I had my duty to country, didn’t I?”

  “And you performed it magnificently!” she said stoutly as she slid the pie into the oven. She paused thoughtfully. “You know, Sugar, they don’t drink coffee in England. They drink tea.” She said “tea” like it was a four-letter word instead of three. Mama was serious about her morning beverage. “What will you do?”

  “When in Rome, I suppose.”

  “But you won’t be in Rome.”

  I very nearly rolled my eyes. “Of course, not Mama.”

  “If you were in Rome, there’d be coffee.”

  “It’ll be a quick trip,” I assured her, rising to kiss her on the cheek before rinsing out my cup. “I’ll be there and back so fast you’ll hardly know I’m gone.”

  IT WAS DIFFICULT TO decide what to pack, but in the end, I figured I wouldn’t be gone terribly long. A week perhaps. Two at most.

  I suppose it was fortunate I didn’t have a particularly big wardrobe. I’d a nice green victory suit which I used for interviews. Neatly pressed with freshly ironed ruffle collar and a new hat, it would be perfect for travelling. A couple of dresses, a skirt, a pair of slacks—one never knew when those would come in handy—and a few blouses and cardigans, plus a spring trench coat was about all I’d need for such a short trip. Add the requisite number of hats, shoes, accessories, and toiletries, and my father was mumbling to himself about women’s baggage being the reason the Titanic sank.

  I ignored his mutterings as was expected, gave him a peck on the cheek and a thank you for driving me to the airport, and flagged down a sky hop to help with my luggage.

  I was feeling very glamorous and sophisticated as I strode through the airport with my handbag on one arm, and a new book by Agatha Christie, There is a Tide, in the other hand. I couldn’t wait to read it.

  My heart thumped wildly in my chest as I waited at the gate with the other passengers, all dressed to the nines. The men wore suits and ties, and the women their best Sunday dresses and brand-new hats. I myself had overindulged in an adorable little green pillbox to match my suit. I might have been broke, but that didn’t mean I had to look it.

  At last they let us climb the mobile stairway and board the great, shining metal bird. I was shown to a comfortable seat by a uniformed stewardess who offered me a selection of magazines to read. I politely refused, intending instead to spend my time reading my new book.

  I managed to get a few chapters in between gaping at the landscape rushing by beneath us, but after switching airplanes in New York, the exhaustion of too much excitement and not enough sleep finally overwhelmed me and I nodded off. I only woke when the stewardess nudged me.

  “We’re approaching London, Miss.”

  I thanked her and closed my eyes before turning my head toward the window. This was it. The moment all my dreams of international travel came true.

  I opened my eyed and gasped in delight. The whole of London spread out beneath me like something out of a movie, from the Thames snaking its way through the city, to the tall clock tower which housed Big Ben. As we drew ever nearer, I could make out the tiny little boats sailing back and forth under London Bridge. And was that? It must be! St. Paul’s Cathedral.

  My stomach quivered with excitement. For the first time in the whole of my life, I was about to step foot on foreign soil. I could hardly wait!

  If only I’d known what was to come.

  Chapter 2

  Included with my airline ticket had been directions to the hotel where the solicitor, Mr. Woodward, had arranged for me to stay the duration of my trip. He’d assured me that everything was “sorted,” which I took to mean things had been worked out, and that I didn’t have to pay a dime.
This was a relief, since I didn’t have much in the way of dimes currently. I assumed that would be remedied shortly, but golly, it was nice to know I didn’t have to find a place on my own.

  Another sky hop, this one with a charming English accent, helped me to the curb with my luggage and flagged down a black cab. Soon I was bundled into the back and swooping through the streets of London like any seasoned traveler. I was positively giddy!

  The city was an odd juxtaposition of gorgeous Victorian or Art Deco buildings perched next to piles of rubble or bombed out husks. Meanwhile, new construction was springing up where the ruins had been cleared away, and older structures which could be salvaged were swarming with scaffolding and workmen.

  The grounds of Hyde Park (I knew it was Hyde Park because the driver told me so.) had finally been returned to lawn after years of use as Victory Gardens to feed the populace during the war. Shop windows showed off the new fuller-skirted fashions now that the rationing of fabric had eased. Window boxes were filled with flowers instead of vegetables. It would take some time yet, but London was returning to its old self. The self I’d dreamed about since I’d borrowed a travel book from the library when I was seventeen.

  At last we pulled up in front of a white stone building with a charming little portico and pillars—also white—and a tiny porch tiled in black and white squares. The door was black with a glass insert and, as soon as the cabbie helped me out of the car, it swung open, and a uniformed bellhop appeared to assist with the luggage.

  “Hullo,” the freckle-faced boy said cheerfully, doffing his red cap to reveal short ginger hair. “I’m George.”

  “And I’m Sugar Martin.”

  His eyes widened. “From America?”

  “You bet!”

  “Do you know John Wayne?”

  I stifled a giggle. “Nope. I’ve never met him.” Seeing as how Hollywood wasn’t exactly next door to Oregon.