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ROSEMARY MADE A BEELINE for her friends, her mouth set in a grim line. “That was a complete waste of time. All I discovered was that Marjorie has some ill feelings towards Grace. She seems to feel the same way about me, though what I’ve done to irritate her I couldn’t say.”
Vera closed her eyes for a moment. Sighing, she shook her head from side to side. “Rosie, dear, you can’t be serious. For someone with your deductive skills to turn into such a dumb Dora is annoying beyond the telling of it at times.”
“So nice to see what you really think of me.” Rosemary was miffed.
Enunciating clearly and drawing the words out slowly, Vera explained. “She doesn’t like you because Teddy does.” Vera had every confidence that her friend would ferret out who killed Ernest Cuthburt, but she worried that when it came to her own personal life, Rosemary would turn a blind eye to the most obvious of clues.
Clamping her mouth shut, Rosemary flushed and refused to comment. Vera tended to view things from her own perspective. In her presence, most men turned to drooling dolts, and so she thought the tendency a common trait of the species instead of a normal reaction to her own magnetism.
Rosemary—in her personal opinion—never had and would never inspire enough interest in a man to spark jealousy among the female population. Ergo, Marjorie had another reason for her attitude, and Vera was deluded. That was the only explanation that made sense.
She was considering the possible reasons when her mother appeared at her side. “Lorraine has offered the ladies a tour of the gallery. Would you like to come along?”
Vera and Rosemary exchanged wry looks. The gallery, as she called it, was a room full of paintings for which Lorraine had posed. She took great delight in shocking her guests as some of the paintings were nudes.
“Thank you, but no. I’ve seen the gallery many times before.”
In the end, only Mrs. Barton, Marjorie, and Evelyn took the tour, leaving the men and Grace behind.
Directly after the chattering group had left the room, Rosemary and Vera busied themselves, mixing up a complicated cocktail. Teddy and Grace, the latter’s face still slightly pink from Vera whispering the truth of the gallery in her ear, joined the pair near the drinks trolley to offer opinions as to whether gin or vodka made the best martinis. Rosemary split her attention between them and the rest of the people left in the room, straining to overhear the conversation between her father and Mr. Barton.
When he noticed Rosemary’s uncharacteristic silence, Frederick said, “What’s the matter, Rosie? Have you gone into a trance, or are you merely cogitating the results of a bout of sleuthing?”
“Hush now, Freddie. Were you aware your voice goes up in direct proportion to the number of drinks you’ve had?”
“Edgar, Arthur,” Cecil Woolridge said, taking a seat near the pair. “I think I’ve finally decided that perhaps membership of the club might suit me after all,” he said, following the plan he and Rosemary had discussed before the start of the party.
Mr. Barton, having already become so inebriated that Rosemary could smell his breath from right across the room, boomed with laughter. “I knew we’d convince you eventually, Cecil. You must buy a set of clubs, of course. I can get you a deal there, old cove.” Mr. Barton appeared far more excited about the idea than it deserved him to be, and Mr. Abbot simply nodded in agreement with whatever his colleague said. Rosemary imagined, given Mr. Barton’s personality, things worked that way most of the time.
“Does this mean you’re considering our offer?” he asked Mr. Woolridge.
Rosemary’s father nodded. “I am considering it, Edgar. Of course, I’ll need to consult Frederick first. The young guard, don’t you know. Must bring them along in the ways of the business world.”
“I think it would be wise to advise waiting to make any changes to our business structure until after this murder investigation has been closed,” Mr. Abbot cut in, his eyes serious.
Edgar Barton shrugged off his concerns. “We’re on the up-and-up, Arthur. Ernest made sure of that before he died. He combed through all the records with a fine tooth, and there’s no reason in the world why we shouldn’t move forward as planned. This deal will make us all a lot of money, and then we can retire to the golf course full-time.”
Mr. Woolridge appeared skeptical and ignored the comment about retiring entirely. “Why would Ernest have needed to comb through the records?”
“Oh, poor Ernest had convinced himself one of our deals wasn’t strictly on the level. I believe he had become quite paranoid about protecting his reputation. Fortunately, he never did find anything, and it all added up.”
Herbert Lock, who had made his way closer to the group, snorted. “I wouldn’t necessarily go that far, Edgar. After all, the man is dead. Perhaps things weren’t as cut and dried as all that.”
Mr. Abbot looked at Herbert with surprise in his eyes. “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, boy. It’s not proper.”
“Neither is murder, old chap. And neither are cooked books,” Herbert retorted. Mr. Abbot didn’t reply immediately, but it appeared he might have had a response at the ready. As he opened his mouth, a commotion outside the door caught everyone’s attention.
When it opened, they could hear the shrill voice of Mrs. Barton, who was screaming at the top of her lungs. “You’re a no-good floozy, and if you think you'll worm your way into this family, you had better think again! Stay away from my son, and stay away from my husband, or I'll make you sorry you were ever born!”
“That’s rich, coming from someone who would allow her daughter to marry a cad like Herbert Lock. Not so worried about marring your good family name now, are you?” Marjorie answered, holding herself with far more composure than Mrs. Barton was.
Herbert’s expression was one of shock and anger. “How dare you drag me into whatever this is, Marjorie? What have I ever done to you to deserve this kind of attack?”
Marjorie whirled around to shoot daggers at Herbert with a single glance. “You know exactly what you’ve done, Herbert. I’m sure Grace will attest to the fact you’ve tried to strong-arm her, just like you tried to strong-arm Rosemary earlier tonight.”
“He did what?” Frederick piped up, and by this time, the entire room was in an uproar. “Did he put his hands on you, Rosemary?” her brother demanded.
“Calm down, Freddie, he didn’t touch me.” Rosemary debated whether honesty was the best policy in this situation, not wanting to start another world war right there in Lorraine Blackburn’s parlor, but ultimately decided on the truth. “Though, I have to give Marjorie credit for interrupting our conversation. I can’t say for sure whether he would have resorted to physical violence, but it wouldn’t have surprised me in the least.”
Frederick turned his fury and his fist in Herbert Lock’s direction. “It’s time for you to leave, or I will see to it you exit with fewer limbs than you arrived with.”
Being half sozzled on Lorraine Blackburn’s best booze, Frederick’s aim went wide, and the blow merely glanced off Herbert’s jaw. Herbert returned fire with a short-armed jab that swelled Frederick’s eye.
Oddly, the one-eyed gaze improved Frederick’s aim because with the next punch, Herbert’s nose gave a satisfying crunch, and just as Teddy made to step in and defend his sister’s honor, the fight was over.
Blood welling between the fingers clutching his nose, Herbert looked from Frederick to Theodore and decided he was outclassed in the fight. “Fine,” Herbert said, “I’ll go. But this isn’t over.”
“I think it’s time to wrap this party up,” Mrs. Blackburn said.
“I agree.” Marjorie stalked out of the parlor without so much as a goodbye, and the slamming of the front door echoed behind her.
For once, Edgar Barton was too stunned to bluster, and with his wife leading the way, he and Arthur Abbot followed her out.
“I’m devastated, Lorraine. You must accept my sincerest apologies for my son’s behavior. Fighting like a hooligan in your beautiful home.” Red-faced and profuse, Evelyn threw herself on Lorraine’s mercy while the woman in question merely grinned delightedly.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Woolridge,” Vera assured. “Mother absolutely thrives on drama. She’ll mark this down as her most successful soiree to date.” Without seeming to be rude, she ushered the Woolridges towards the door.
“Come along, Frederick.” By his tone, it appeared Vera’s assurance had not mollified Cecil Woolridge.
“I think I’ll walk home. I need some air,” Frederick said. “You will come straight back to the house with Wadsworth.” It wasn’t a question, but Rosemary nodded in agreement, anyway.
Perhaps it had been a bad idea to get everyone back in the same room.
“That was quite a spectacle,” Rosemary said as she slumped into a chair and kicked off her shoes. She took a long swig from her cocktail, which by now was room temperature, and sighed.
Vera settled onto one of the other settees and mimicked her friend. “You have to admit, the expression on Mrs. Barton’s face was priceless when she burst through the doors screaming at Marjorie. I realize Mr. Barton is loaded and all, but it’s obvious Marjorie has her heart set on Teddy. Something tells me she’s put the final nail in that coffin, though.”
Rosemary raised an eyebrow at Vera. “Mentioning coffins probably isn’t very tasteful.”
“I think tasteful has gone out of the window after tonight,” Vera replied wryly. “Though I do feel sorry for poor Mr. Cuthburt. It seems the world would be a better place if it had been Mr. Barton who had died, after all.”
“It wasn’t as though Ernest Cuthburt was a pillar of virtue, Vera. He probably deserved what he got,” Mrs. Blackburn retorted, matter-of-fact.
Rosemary’s ears perked, and her eyes widened slightly. “Mother!” Vera exclaimed. “It would do you well not to say such things, considering Inspector Whittington already thinks you might have had a vendetta against the dead man. What could you possibly be thinking, saying something like that?”
“Vera, dear, you worry far more than a carefree young girl such as yourself ought,” Mrs. Blackburn chided. “Do you see Inspector Whittington around? Is he skulking outside the window, listening in on our conversation? I think not. Besides, I would say the same thing to him if he asked. I have absolutely nothing to hide.”
Groaning under her breath, Rosemary attempted to pry information from Vera’s mother, a task none too difficult, what with Lorraine’s loose lips and the exorbitant number of cocktails the woman had consumed.
“Was the play he stole from you really worth him dying over?” Rosemary asked. The idea that Mrs. Blackburn could be that vindictive didn’t line up with Rosemary’s opinion of her.
“The play?” Lorraine asked, surprised. “Of course not. Don’t misunderstand, it made me want to rip him to shreds—verbally, mind you, not literally.”
“Well, what then, Mother?” Vera implored.
Mrs. Blackburn looked between the two as though they were daft. “Why, Ernest Cuthburt was a war profiteer. He managed to make a killing from the blood of our sons. Didn’t you know that?”
