The Case of the Screaming Beauty (An Inspector David Graham Cozy Mystery Book 1) Read online

  THE CASE OF THE SCREAMING BEAUTY

  ALISON GOLDEN

  &

  Grace Dagnall

  ALSO BY ALISON GOLDEN

  The Case of the Hidden Flame

  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.

  Text copyright © 2015 Alison Golden

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, 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.

  Published by Mesa Verde Publishing

  P.O. Box 1002

  San Carlos, CA 94070

  Cover Illustration: Richard Eijkenbroek

  Edited by

  Marjorie Kramer

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  The events in this prequel take place a short while before The Case of the Hidden Flame, the first book in the Inspector David Graham series of cozy mysteries. It is set in the beautiful countryside of Southern England.

  The Case of the Screaming Beauty is a classic prequel to the other books in the series, all of which are complete mysteries. They can be read and enjoyed in any order. I’ve made sure not to include any spoilers for those of you who are new to the characters. Any existing fans of Inspector Graham’s investigations will still find plenty of fresh action and mystery, as well as a little background detail on some of the major players in the Inspector Graham universe. All in all, there is something for everyone.

  I had an absolute blast creating this book – I hope you have a blast reading it too.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  INSPECTOR DAVID GRAHAM WILL RETURN…

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE CASE OF THE SCREAMING BEAUTY

  An Inspector David Graham Cozy Mystery

  The prestigious Lavender Bed and Breakfast in Chiddlinghurst, England has a rich, Tudor atmosphere, an enviously manicured lawn… And a deadly problem.

  A young, beautiful woman, Norah Travis, has been found murdered in one of the rooms with no witnesses and seemingly no motive. Detective Inspector Graham, a man with a singular drive, a penchant for tea, and silent demons of his own, has been brought in to ferret out the perpetrator. Joining Sergeant Harris at the sprawling estate, the duo set their caps to solving a mystery that leaves them frustrated.

  It’s a “whodunit” of crafty design with suspects on all sides and nothing clear cut. The proprietors, Amelia and Cliff, have jokes to share and almost nothing to hide, while their long time guest, Tim, seems shiftier. There is an ex-husband, a housekeeper, an old man, and questions galore. But who could it be? It’s a conundrum.

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  CHAPTER 1

  AMELIA SWANSBOURNE STRAIGHTENED up, wincing slightly, and admired the freshly-weeded flower bed with an almost professional pride. It was, she mused, as though she were fighting a continuous, low-level war against insidious intruders whose intentions were not only to take root and flourish, but whose impact on the impeccably arranged beds and rockeries of her garden was as unwelcome as a hurricane. She was ruthless and precise, going about her work with a methodical focus which reminded her of those “gardening monks” she’d once seen in a documentary. Perhaps, she chuckled, moving onto the next flower bed, weeding would be her path to enlightenment.

  As she knelt on her cushioned, flower-patterned pad and began the familiar rhythm once more, she let her mind go where it wanted. How many other women in their early sixties, she wondered, were carrying out this basic, time-honored task at this very moment? She pictured those quiet English gardens being lovingly tended on this very temperate Sunday morning, silently wishing her fellow gardeners a peaceful and productive couple of hours. It must have been true, though, that she faced a larger and more demanding test than most.

  The gardens of The Lavender were spread over an impressive and endlessly challenging four and a half acres. Their guests loved walking in the gardens. They had become a major attraction for many of the city folk who retreated from London to this country idyll. Among them were those all-important ones who checked in under false names, and then, after their visit was over, went back to their computers to write online reviews, the power of which could make or break a bed and breakfast like The Lavender. The gardens appeared often in comments on those review websites, so Amelia knew the work was an investment, however time-consuming it could be. Keeping the gardens in check – not only weeded but watered, constantly improved, pruned, fed, and composted – would have been a full-time job for any experienced gardener, but Amelia handled virtually all of the guesthouse’s horticultural needs on her own. She preferred it this way, but it did take its toll. Not least on her ageing knees.

  The gardens had proved such a draw and the satisfaction of their splendid appearance was so great that Amelia had long ago judged her efforts to be very much worthwhile. Besides, it was a fitting, ongoing tribute to her late Uncle Terry, who had bequeathed Amelia and her husband this remarkable Tudor building and its gardens. The sudden inheritance had come as quite a shock. Cliff, in particular, was worried that he was entirely unready to be the co-host of a popular and high-end B&B. However, Terry had no children and had been as much a father to Amelia as had her own. It made her proud and happy to believe that the place was being run well and that the gardens had become the envy of the village of Chiddlinghurst, and, judging by those reviews, beyond.

  A bed of roses formed the easterly flank of the main quadrangle, within which Amelia had spent much of the morning. They were looking particularly lovely; three crimson and scarlet varieties found their natural partners in the lily-white species which bloomed opposite on the western side. By the house itself, an imposing Tudor mansion with all its old, dark, wood beams still intact, there were smaller beds and a rockery on either side of a spacious patio with white, cast-iron lawn furniture. Further over, against the western wing of the inn, was a bed of which Amelia was particularly proud: deep-green ferns and low-light flowering plants, their lush colors providing a quick dose of restful ease among the brighter hues around them. Amelia took a moment to let the greens sink into her mind, soothing and promising in equal measure. She indulged in a deep, nourishing breath and began truly to relax and enjoy her morning in the garden. Which was why the piercing scream that burst from the open window of the room just above the bed of ferns turned Amelia’s blood as cold as ice.

  Dropping her trowel and shedding her heavy work gloves, Amelia dashed across the immaculate lawn of the quadrangle and up the four stone steps that led to the patio. Peering through the conservatory doors, she could see nothing out of place. She was quickly through and into the dining room and then the lobby. She took the stairs as fast as her ailing knees would allow, and within seconds of hearing the scream, she was knocking at the door of the guest room.

  “Mrs. Travis? Can you hear me? Is everything alright?” she panted, her mind already racing ahead to the horrors that might accompany some kind of tragedy at this popular house.

  “Mrs. Travis?” she repeated, raising her hand to knoc
k once more.

  The door opened and Norah Travis was smiling placidly. “Hello, Amelia. Whatever is the matter?”

  “You’re alright!” Amelia observed with a great sigh of relief. “Good heavens above, I feared something awful had happened.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Norah assured her. “It’s been a pretty quiet Sunday morning, so far.”

  There was nothing about Norah which might raise any kind of alarm. As usual, there wasn’t a blonde hair out of place, and her bright blue eyes were gleaming. If anything, Amelia decided, she looked even younger than her twenty-seven years.

  “I could have sworn,” Amelia told her, gradually regaining her breath, “that I heard a loud scream from the window there,” she pointed, “while I was outside in the garden. Clear as day.”

  “Oh, I’ve nothing to scream about, Amelia,” Norah replied. “Could it have been someone else? I don’t think I heard anything.”

  Cliff won’t let me hear the end of this, Amelia forecast. He’ll say I’m losing my marbles, that I’ve finally gone loopy. And who’s to say he’s wrong? “It must have been, my dear. I’m so sorry to have disturbed you.”

  Amelia bid Norah a good morning and returned downstairs, distracted by the chilling memory of the sound, as well as its mysterious origin. She could have sworn on a stack of Bibles….

  Around eleven, Cliff returned along the gravel path of their front entrance in his battered but supremely reliable Land Rover Defender. A Sunday morning ritual as old as their tenure at the Lavender, Cliff’s forays to the farmer’s market in nearby Dorking were legend, both for his chipper, sunny banter with the stall-holders, and for the bewildering array of local produce with which he returned. Cliff was not, his wife had often observed, a planner. The dinner menu seemed to compose itself, in his head, during the course of an hour’s purposeful striding around the market, and he never failed to return to the inn with the ingredients for something both sumptuous and appealing. From the distinctive fragrance wafting from the back of the Landy, Amelia suspected fish.

  “Did you know,” he began, handing a brimming tote bag of supplies to his wife, “that salmon can fly?”

  Amelia gave him a quizzical look. Which of us, just remind me, is going bloody loopy? “You don’t say,” she replied noncommittally.

  “The bloke said this salmon had flown down from a Scottish loch first thing this morning. Freshest fish you’ve ever seen,” he promised. “I got a damn great forest of dill, too. We’ve still got those cedar planks, haven’t we, dear?”

  Amelia carted four large bags of groceries into the kitchen and set them down on their sturdy, traditional wooden table. “They’re in the pantry somewhere, I think,” she said. “Look, this is going to sound a bit silly, but…”

  “You?” Cliff mocked. “Silly? Never in a million years…”

  “Just hold your tongue for half a second, you impossible man,” she said, bringing him to a halt in the middle of the kitchen and giving him a hug. “Thanks for going shopping. The salmon is going to be wonderful.”

  “Certain as Christmas,” Cliff replied. “Now, what’s going to sound a bit silly?”

  Amelia shook off her reservations and put it plainly. “Have you ever, while I’ve been out…”

  “Never,” Cliff replied, his back straightening defiantly. “And you can’t prove that I have. I was nowhere near the scene of the event.” He paused. “Whatever the event was,” he added, less certainly. “Not guilty, I’m saying.”

  “Will you shut up and listen?” she demanded, punching him on the shoulder as she had done during moments of frustration over the past twenty years. “Have you ever heard Norah Travis, or any of our other guests, scream?”

  He raised an eyebrow. Classic Cliff, Amelia thought. He won’t take this seriously until I make him. “Scream, you say?”

  “I did.”

  “What kind of scream?”

  “Does it matter, you daft bugger? A scream, you know, a sudden explosion of sound caused by pain or anxiety or…” She stopped. Cliff would need no encouragement, she felt quite sure.

  “Or… Nookie?” he said, wiggling a raised eyebrow.

  “Calm your ardor, Romeo. It wasn’t that kind of scream,” Amelia told him.

  “Ah,” he replied, a little deflated. “Well, no, if I’m honest, I haven’t heard such an ejaculation.”

  “Cliff, for the love of God…”

  “Not once, seriously. Why?”

  “Well, I was out in the garden, and I could have sworn there was this sudden, piercing scream from Norah’s room. You know, over on the west corner.”

  “I know the one, darling. I work here too, if you remember. But why would she be screaming on a Sunday morning? Realized she’d woken up too late for church?”

  Amelia shrugged. “Hardly. And that’s just the thing. I ran to her room to make sure she was alright…”

  “Ran?” Cliff said. The eyebrow returned skyward. “You ran somewhere?”

  “I mean, yes,” Amelia replied, sensitive to these jabs about her age and her increasingly perfidious knees. “I’m no Olympic sprinter, or anything, but I got there in record time. And Norah denied having made or heard any such sound.”

  They sat around the kitchen table, the overflowing bags of produce temporarily forgotten. “Tricky,” Cliff observed. “Very mysterious.”

  “So what do you think?” she asked, stumped.

  “I think,” he said, taking her hand fondly across the table, “that it’s time we called the men in the white coats.”

  Amelia stood and lambasted him, just as he’d hoped. “Now listen here, you rotten little sod! I’m not the one losing it. I’ve never claimed, for instance, that salmon can fly! And what about that time you went into town to get the newspaper in your underpants?”

  Cliff defended himself. “It was half past five in the morning, there wasn’t a soul to be seen, and I was trying to save time,” he explained. “All about efficiency.”

  “Codswallop.”

  “Suit yourself,” Cliff remarked, standing to begin finding homes for the groceries, “but I’m not the one imagining screams out of thin air.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t imagine it, Cliff. It’s not like I was smelling toast because I was having a stroke. I’m of sound mind,” she said, wagging a finger at his sceptical smirk, “and I know what I heard.”

  “Darling,” Cliff began, “there are number of things a lady might do, by herself, in the privacy of her room, on a lazy Sunday morning, which might make her scream. And once confronted with the audible evidence,” he added, “what makes you so sure that Norah Travis would be comfortable sharing such intimacies with her landlady? She’s been here a grand total of two nights. It’s not as though you’re sisters.”

  “True,” Amelia had to concede. “But, like I say, it wasn’t that kind of scream.”

  “Everyone’s different. It’s the twenty-first century, my sweet. People get their jollies in all manner of ways. We mustn’t judge, especially paying guests, and we mustn’t harass people who are simply enjoying some alone time.”

  Amelia aggressively shoved a sack of potatoes under the bottom shelf of the pantry. “Impossible man,” she said again.

  The salmon was no disappointment. Grilled to perfection and carpeted with flavorful dill, it was preferred to their standard Sunday evening offering of Beef Burgundy. The vegetarian lasagna remained untouched in the fridge. Once Cliff and Amelia had cleared away the tables and loaded the dishwasher, they poured their traditional glass of dry white wine and sat around the kitchen table once more. These routines gave their lives a pleasing structure, but also provided a vital time to stop, talk, and exchange the news of the day. With so much hurrying around and their reservation book pleasingly full, this was a quiet oasis of time which both cherished.

  “Did you notice that Norah Travis entirely demolished her salmon?” Cliff said, sipping his wine. “Damn near ate the bones it came on.”

 
; “Well done, chef,” Amelia said, raising a glass in salute.

  “Didn’t hear her scream once, either,” Cliff noted.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I told you what I heard. And you can believe whatever you want.”

  He chuckled easily and reached over to the side table for their reservations book. “I believe, oh co-proprietor of mine, that the Lavender Inn is just about fully booked, Fall through the New Year. And,” he added, flicking forward a good number of pages, “in decent shape beyond then. I don’t know how we’ve managed it.”

  “Bloody hard work,” Amelia told him. “My knees have paid for that garden with their very lives. And you’re doing wonders with the kitchen and all the supplies. Not to mention keeping Doris on the straight and narrow.”

  Like a good matron for a hospital ward, a good housekeeper was critical to their success, and Doris Tisbury was second to none. “She needs no help from me,” Cliff demurred. “I’d trust her with everything from a double-booking to a Jihadist insurgency.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I’ve just got the garden looking splendid,” Amelia replied, deadpan.

  “You have indeed, my sweet,” he said, returning the salute with his wine glass. “What I’m saying is, you know, with business being so good, we might revisit the idea of, you know…”

  “’Sodding off to Mexico’?” she quoted. “That old plan again?”

  “It’s not old, but it’s certainly a plan. And a good one,” Cliff said, topping off both their glasses. “Think about it. White sandy beaches,” he said, his gestures becoming expansive, “hammocks slung between two palm trees… Tell me you don’t daydream about it. Because I most certainly do.”

  She couldn’t resist. “When you’re not daydreaming about what might make the delectable Norah Travis scream.”