A Grave Gala (Sugar Martin Vintage Cozy Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  A Grave Gala

  Sugar Martin Vintage Cozy Mysteries – Book Two

  Shéa MacLeod

  A Grave Gala

  Sugar Martin Vintage Cozy Mysteries – Book Two

  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

  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

  Chapter 14

  Note from the Author

  About Shéa MacLeod

  Other books by Shéa MacLeod

  Dedication

  To Deb,

  who loves a good story and a fabulous party.

  Chapter 1

  It was the pounding on the door that woke me from deep sleep. One minute I was being chased through the halls of Endmere by a giant squid with a blonde bob and the face of Winston Churchill, and the next I lay blinking at the old water stain on the ceiling that was shaped just like Italy, complete with Sicily off the tip of the boot.

  Mr. Woodward—my great-great-aunt’s solicitor and now my boss—had assured me the roof had been fixed ages ago before Aunt Euphegenia’s passing, and the ceiling simply needed a lick of paint. However he’d kept me so busy with undercover work lately, there hadn’t been time to clean my aunt’s things out of the old cottage in Meres Reach, Devon, England. Never mind paint anything. And believe me, the room needed painting. The currently wallpaper was an impossibly ugly mustard yellow sprinkled with tiny pink flowers. It clashed horribly with the lilac curtains.

  The pounding came again, and Tippy—my aunt’s Cardigan Welsh corgi—gave an annoyed doggy groan from somewhere near the foot of the bed. He was possibly the worst guard dog ever. I squinted at the glowing green dials on Aunt Euphegenia’s little brass clock. Nine. Based on the light sneaking in around the curtains, it was not nine at night. I’d overslept again. I’d meant to be up by seven, but my aunt had marvelous taste in detective fiction, and I’d found myself engrossed in the adventures of Josephine Tey’s Inspector Alan Grant until 3am.

  I felt very much like someone had stuffed cotton balls in my head, but I managed to stagger out of bed and grab my worn chenille robe—the one I’d brought with me from America. I’d a new silk one, but I saved that for my undercover work; I frequently posed as a rich heiress. Ha! Nothing could be further from reality.

  “Coming!” I shouted to whomever was pounding on my door, Tippy trotting at my heels.

  I yanked open the door to find Penny standing on the stoop, her ginger hair springing from her head like dandelion fuzz—she’d forgotten her hat again—and her freckled face sporting a broad grin. Her teal box coat swung open, showing off her gray and white uniform. “Morning, Miss Sugar. Cook sent down fresh muffins.” She strode into my house like she belonged there, pausing only to scratch Tippy behind the ears before striding into the kitchen, shouting back, “They’re still warm. Got butter?”

  Tippy and I both stared after her, blinking slowly like very confused owls. We exchanged glances of confusion, for once in complete agreement. Morning people were not to be trusted.

  Shutting the door, I trudged into the kitchen to put the kettle on and give Tippy his breakfast. I needn’t have bothered. Penny had already yanked open the back door so His Highness could commune with nature, lit the gas stove, put the kettle on, and was in the process of filling Tippy’s robin’s egg blue dish from with tinned dog food.

  “Sit down,” she said cheerfully. “Let me get Tippy his food, and then I’ll get you a muffin. You want tea or coffee?” She made a moue as she mentioned the latter. Clearly my American penchant for coffee was beyond her.

  “Penny, you don’t have to do this,” I said, plucking a reddish leaf from her hair before sitting as ordered. “You’re not my maid.”

  She was, in fact, a maid—just not my maid. She was a maid up at Endmere, the manor house overlooking the sea on the cliffs above the village of Meres Reach. We’d met during a house party there in which I’d sent her boss, Lord Chasterly, to prison. Although I’d have loved to hire her, I couldn’t afford her. Fortunately, arrangements had been made so the staff didn’t lose their jobs while the property was being sold to pay for Lord Chasterly’s legal expenses.

  “Oh, I don’t mind. It’s my day off, and I couldn’t wait to see Tippy.”

  “Ah.” I didn’t need further explanation. Penny was a Dog Person, and she and Tippy had hit it off instantly. Tippy and me, not so much. We more or less tolerated each other.

  You see, Tippy was the dog of my aforementioned late Great-Great Aunt Euphegenia, for whom I’d been named. And because of that fortuitous decision on the part of my parental figures, my aunt— whom I’d never met—had decided to leave me an inheritance. That inheritance being the care of her pooch. It was the dog who’d inherited everything else... the cottage, her money. I was simply the caretaker until he died of natural causes. Then I would get the lot, but only if Mr. Woodward decided I’d done my best to care for Tippy. Otherwise I’d have foisted him on someone like Penny who’d have been delighted, no doubt.

  As it was, I was the one who’d inherited the mutt. I am clearly not a Dog Person. I don’t dislike them. They’re alright. I’m simply not a pet person at all, having never grown up with them. I am, perhaps, a tad too independent. Maybe that’s why Tippy and I were beginning to get on rather well. He was independent. And possibly not a People Dog. Other than Penny, who he adored. It was hard not to adore Penny.

  On the other hand, Tippy’s arrival had led to a whole new life and career for me. BT—Before Tippy—I was living in a tiny apartment in my hometown of Portland, Oregon and had just been relieved of my latest secretary position. Apparently, punching one’s co-worker in the nose for groping one’s posterior is frowned upon, especially when that co-worker is of the male variety.

  Now I lived in a cute little cottage in a cute little village in England. I had the prettiest dresses from the top London fashion boutiques. No longer was I a humble—and truly awful—secretary, but an undercover detective for Mr. Woodward. Well, he didn’t term it quite as exotically, but that is essentially what I was. Whenever he needed information for a case he couldn’t get on his own, he’d send me in to suss things out. It was fun and exciting, except when there were dead bodies involved. Which, fortunately, wasn’t often.

  Even better, I now had friends. Real, genuine friends. Penny being one of them. Although, I think she liked Tippy better than me, but that was okay. You can’t win them all. And Tippy was cuter than me, no doubt about that.

  Finished with serving His Highness breakfast, and with the kettle whistling a merry tune, she got busy slathering the muffins with butter and filling the teapot. I guess I was having tea whether I liked it or not.

/>   I nibbled a slice of buttered muffin. It was nothing like American muffins, instead being round, flat, and sort of... yeasty. More like bread. But it was delicious. “How are things up at the manor?”

  “Oh, you know, same as ever,” she said, shrugging out of her coat and dropping into my only other kitchen chair. “Johnson is determined to keep up appearances until we have a new lord in residence or the Crown throws us out.”

  “Still no takers?”

  Endmere must be a pain in the patootie to maintain. One of Lord Chasterly’s excuses for being a thieving, murdering so-and-so was that he didn’t have the money to keep the place up and was worried about losing the place. It had been in his family for yonks—Toni’s word, not mine. Now that he was in prison and would likely hang, well... Let’s just say the property would not be staying in the family.

  “Lady Antonia’s been around to look at it. Twice,” Penny said cheerfully, glopping marmalade on her muffin.

  “Really? This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Although Toni and I got along famously and were often together, she was very close-mouthed about financial matters. Something English people in general seemed to have in common. Or at least those of a certain social ranking. “Is she going to buy it?”

  Penny shrugged. “Don’t know, but Johnson hopes not, which is why I hope she does!”

  I laughed. “Johnson is an old stick in the mud.”

  “You said it, Miss!”

  I rolled my eyes. “I told you to stop calling me miss. We’re friends. And I’m nobody special. I have to work for my bread and butter, same as you.”

  “I know, but it’s so odd, if you don’t mind me saying. I still see you as that fancy lady I met this spring.”

  It had been several months since the house party, summer had passed, and fall was in full swing. It was still occasionally warm enough I kept the windows open at night, risking an invasion of bugs. It seemed the British were either unacquainted with window screens, or they simply couldn’t be bothered with them. It was hard to tell as it could go either way.

  Today, however, was on the chilly side and as soon as Tippy came sniffing for his breakfast, I flung the door shut behind him. “What are you up to today, Penny?”

  “Oh, I thought I’d get the bus to Plymouth and catch a film,” she said. “My cousin, Lily, lives there. She says that Fort Apache is showing. John Wayne is so dreamy, don’t you think?”

  “Uh, sure.” I’d never really considered John Wayne dreamy. I was more a Cary Grant sort of girl.

  “How about you?” She hopped up and began clearing the table.

  I rose to help her. She tried shooing me away, but this was my house and she was my friend, not my maid. “No big plans. I suppose Tippy and I will take a walk along the promenade. Maybe pop in at the Post Office for a chat with Mrs. Johnson.” Mrs. Johnson was Johnson the butler’s sister-in-law and opposite him in all ways, being a marvelously cheerful person and generous with local news.

  “That doesn’t sound very exciting.” She gave me a sly look. “Maybe you ought to go up to London. Check in on Jack.”

  “Jack is supposed to be checking in on me. Or rather, Tippy,” I said dryly. Jack Chambers was Mr. Woodward’s nephew and employee. It was his job to ensure I was meeting the terms of my aunt’s will. He also helped out occasionally with my investigations and, while I found him increasingly... interesting, he did not appear to feel the same way about me. “Besides, he isn’t interested.”

  “Get on with you.” She gave me a look of disbelief. “’Course he is.”

  I laughed. “He hasn’t shown even the slightest interest in me other than as a colleague of sorts, and a reluctant one at that.”

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  I shook my head as I rinsed out the teapot. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Want to bet on it?” She gave me an arch look.

  I opened my mouth to tell her I wasn’t in the habit of betting when there was a pounding on the front door. “Good grief, I’m popular this morning.” I rushed to open it.

  On the stoop stood Antonia, Lady of Netherford, dressed to the nines in a cream trench over a red peplum dress with black t-straps, huffing and puffing as if she’d just run in the Olympics. She held her side with one gloved hand and clutched a black patent-leather handbag with the other. Her wool pancake hat was slightly askew, and her eyes were wide and beseeching.

  “Sugar, you simply must help me. It’s an emergency!”

  “Come in before the neighbors see you.” I grabbed Toni and practically dragged her into the house.

  “Are you ashamed of me?” she said, almost laughing.

  “Of course not, but they’re terribly nosey.” I slammed the door behind her. “Now what’s this about an emergency?”

  “Well— Oh, hullo, Penny.”

  “Morning, my lady.”

  I turned to see Penny leaning against the door frame, all aquiver. It was almost as if she could smell gossip in the air.

  “This involves you, too, Penny,” Toni said.

  “Now I really am curious,” I said, leading her into the kitchen. “Tea?”

  “No. No. I haven’t any time. You see, Netherfield Park has been let at last!”

  I gave her a blank look, completely confused. “Why are you quoting Jane Austen?” I distinctly remembered the quote from Pride and Prejudice. I should. I’d been obsessed with it in the seventh grade. Read it at least half a dozen times that year.

  She giggled. “Because it’s fun. And also true. Only in this case Netherfield is Endmere. And I’ve bought it. Lock, stock, and barrel as you Americans say.”

  Penny’s mouth rounded and so did mine. “You’re kidding me.”

  “I never kid, darling, not about matters of money. Penny, don’t worry, I plan to keep you and the others on. Anyone who wants to stay.”

  Which explained why Penny needed to know. Toni was her new boss.

  “Oh, thanks, my lady, that’s ever so kind,” Penny gushed. Then she frowned. “Only you know it’s my day off, don’t you? I’m off to the pictures.”

  “Go on with you,” Toni said happily. “Tomorrow is soon enough.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then, my lady.” Penny shrugged into her coat, gave Tippy an ear scratch, and waved us a cheerful goodbye, slamming the door behind her with a bang.

  “She’s such a delight,” Toni gushed.

  “Why did you buy Endmere?” I asked. It was surprising to me that she’d want to buy a place where there’d been a murder. Not to mention it had belonged to a friend of hers. Former friend, I guess.

  “The views, darling.” She sashayed into the kitchen. “I’ve always loved the views. In fact, I loved the whole house. So why not? Not to mention, we’ll practically be neighbors! We can visit each other whenever we like.”

  “Whenever Mr. Woodward isn’t sending me out on undercover missions, you mean,” I reminded her.

  “Well, yes, there’s that. What was the last one you went on? Something up in York?”

  “One of his clients was convinced her staff was stealing from her. I went undercover as a maid.”

  Her eyes widened, and then she burst out laughing, her bright red lips curved in mirth. “No offence, darling, but I’m certain you made a terrible maid.”

  “If I’d been a real one, I’d have been sacked,” I admitted. “Though I did discover, and quite quickly, that it wasn’t her staff that was stealing, but her good-for-nothing son. Now, I repeat, what’s this emergency?”

  “I’m throwing a gala.”

  “A gala? A gala is your emergency?”

  “Yes, to celebrate my purchasing Endmere. Well, and it’s autumn, which is a delightful time for a garden party, don’t you think?”

  Not really, seeing as how the weather was unpredictable, but she didn’t give me time to say so.

  “It will be a garden gala. Black tie. The works. And I need your help.”

  “Why?” I asked as I set a cup of tea in front of her and took
my place at the table.

  Despite having said she didn’t want any, she promptly took a sip and made an approving hum. “Honey. It’s so nice in tea, don’t you think? Now the gala, yes. Well, I thought you could help me arrange things. I’m really dreadful at organization, and you’re so good at it.”

  She was actually rather wonderful at organization. She simply sat around drinking cocktails while telling other people what to do. And almost as if by magic, things got done.

  “I wouldn’t know the first thing about planning a gala. You know my background,” I reminded her.

  Not only was I American and a working-class girl, but I’d been broke when I’d gotten the letter about Aunt Euphegenia’s will. Frankly, I was still broke—just with a slightly better wardrobe and a roof over my head. And an actual job. So I suppose I wasn’t totally broke. In any case, organizing fancy parties was so outside the realm of my experience, I wouldn’t have any idea where to start.

  “I simply haven’t the time,” she explained. “I only just got back from Paris—”

  “Again?”

  She gave a tinkling laugh. “Yes, again. You simply must go. It’s fabulous, darling.”

  “One of these days,” I muttered. England was the first place I’d ever been outside the state of Oregon. Wanting a trip to Paris might be pushing my luck. “Point is, I would mess it up, and you know it.”

  “Fine.” She pursed her lips in annoyance. “But you could at least help me. I really could use some input.”

  “That I can do.” I finished pouring tea, buttered the remaining muffins, and took my seat next to her. “What do you need?”

  “Well, I was thinking an outdoor garden party, but how shall I decorate? I’ll have to bring in some flowers, of course, since nothing is left in bloom except a few mums. Do you think those paper Japanese lanterns are too much?”

  “For that garden? I doubt it.” The gardens at Endmere were ornamental and gorgeous. Oh, there was a small English cottage style garden off to one side, as if somebody remembered they were in England and should give a nod to the local tastes, but mostly it was all neatly trimmed hedges and perfectly manicured lawns. A bit of whimsy would go a long way toward a party atmosphere. “What if the weather turns?”