Death of a Cozy Writer: A St. Just Mystery Read Free

sees in him?” Sarah asked.
    “Lillian? I should think that would be obvious. His Visa card, his Barclay’s account …”
    “No, I mean—what is her name, I suppose now I’ve got to make an effort to remember if she’s going to be my stepmother.” There was a pause while the ludicrousness of the situation penetrated even Sarah’s otherworldly brain.
    “Violet. Same answer. Visa, et cetera. You can be taken by them anywhere.” He paused as another thought struck him. “I suppose there’s just a chance …”
    Albert trailed off, calculating that since the marriage couldn’t possibly last, there might be wisdom in simply holding one’s tongue until Violet did simply take what she could carry and run with it. God knew there was enough money to go around. The old man’s last book, Miss Rampling Decides , was still high on the best seller lists a year from its launch, and the old horror—his father—had been cranking them out like that every year for decades. The British public seemingly couldn’t get enough of the wizened, serene old biddy who, by rights, should be well over 110 years old by now, living alone in the small village of Saint Edmund-Under-Stowe, its tiny population reduced to one by its mysteriously high crime rate.
    Perhaps Adrian would finally write a book in which Miss Rampling was herself shown to be the killer of everyone in her village over the years, thought Albert. Wouldn’t put it past the old bugger to play one last nasty trick on his reading public.
    Although Albert had years ago given up reading his father’s books, on principle, he had to admit his famous last name had helped him no end in his checkered theatrical career. Not without a painful self-knowledge, Albert recognized his career might have been even more checkered without the name to get and keep him in front of the footlights. The trouble was, he was fast reaching an age where even the rather wispy roles of pale yet interesting young supporting men suitable for Coward and Rattigan revivals were getting beyond his reach—or rather, he amended reluctantly, his age, despite nightly jaw-firming facial exercises. His brief flirtation with being a leading man had been just that—brief—for Albert, in spite of his looks, had always lacked the presence to command that sort of role. Becoming that dreaded thing—a character actor— was, he reminded himself firmly, at least five years in the future. But what to do in the meanwhile?
    His sister’s voice drew him back to the present.
    “—although I don’t think I want to go, I suppose there’s really no choice.”
    “To the, er, nuptials, you mean?”
    “What else? Not going isn’t an option, of course; it would hurt his feelings—”
    As if the old reprobate had feelings!
    “—and it might look as if I cared”—that, at least, sounded nearer the truth—“but I’m on deadline for my next book, for one thing. And it might be awkward all ’round, don’t you think? If George is there it will be unbearable.” George was their elder brother, second in line behind Ruthven. Another thought gave an edge of panic to her voice. “And who—who is going to tell Mother?” There was a tentative pleading as she said that last that suggested she was hoping Albert might volunteer.
    Not a chance, thought Albert. Let her favorite break it to her.
    “I should imagine Ruthven is on the telephone to her right now, never you worry,” said Albert.

    Ruthven was in fact on the telephone to his mother, but it was she who had called him. The instrument rang just as he was getting ready to pick up and dial. Any distraction at all was welcome from the grilling he’d been receiving from his wife for the past half hour.
    “Ruthven, is that you? It’s your mother, dear. I’ve just had the most amazing, er, communication.”
    “He didn’t.”
    “He did. Some cherub thing. The envelope looks like it was addressed by a twelve-year-old.”
    “That would be Violet. Not far off on the