The Victorian Mansion Murders

By John A. Miller, Jr.

Art Parker, an unemployed journalist, answers an ad for employment, but the ad has few details about what the job entails or where he’ll be working. He gets the job after an evening interview at a huge Victorian-style mansion miles from anywhere. The owner, an incredibly wealthy old man, hires Art as live-in writing coach for his teenage granddaughter.

That sounds like an easy, relaxing sort of job, at least until the next afternoon when Art and Mary Ann—she’s the granddaughter—find the housemaid dead on the girl’s bedroom floor. An out-of-control sheriff, a bizarrely named lawyer, a beautiful librarian, a marvelous cook, and a huge valet/gardener clutter the landscape and add a pile of confusion while Art and Mary Ann decide to do some detecting on their own. What do they turn up? Another body.

After enlisting the help of Mary Ann’s friend, Jennifer, the unlikely sleuths eventually solve both murders but not before nearly becoming victims themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John A. Miller, Jr.
• Release date: Nov 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466073456

John A. Miller, Jr.

John Miller, writing under his full name of John A. Miller, Jr., started writing novels back in late 1991 after working for many years in the mainframe computer and telecommunication fields. He had lived in southern Arizona so he knew the area well and set his first novel, Pima, in that area. Shortly after writing that novel he moved back to southern Arizona where he wrote five more novels in the Pima Series. He returned to his home area near Allentown, Pennsylvania in 1999 and continued to write, launching the Victorian Mansion Series with its nine novels.Since retiring from their day jobs John and his wife have enjoyed visiting Cape Cod and The Bayside Resort in West Yarmouth, Massachusetts at least once every year, so with their permission he partially set there a standalone novel, The Bayside Murders.Recently, after reading a number of cozy mysteries, John decided to launch a new series in that genre and named it Three-Zee for its main character, Zelanie Zephora Zook.

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The Victorian Mansion Murders

John A. Miller, Jr.

Copyright 2004 by John A. Miller, Jr.

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Art Parker, an unemployed journalist, answers an ad for employment, but the ad has few details about what the job entails or where he’ll be working. He gets the job after an evening interview at a huge Victorian mansion miles from anywhere. The owner, an incredibly wealthy old man, hires Art as live-in writing coach for his teenage granddaughter.

That sounds like an easy, relaxing sort of job, at least until the next afternoon when Art and Mary Ann—she’s the granddaughter—find the housemaid dead on the girl’s bedroom floor. An out-of-control sheriff, a bizarrely named lawyer, a beautiful librarian, a marvelous cook, and a huge valet/gardener clutter the landscape and add a pile of confusion while Art and Mary Ann decide to do some detecting on their own. What do they turn up? Another body.

After enlisting the help of Mary Ann’s friend, Jennifer, the unlikely sleuths eventually solve both murders but not before nearly becoming victims themselves.

** ** **

This is a work of fiction. Except for actual historical figures, any resemblance between any character in this story and any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

This book is not intended for children. It contains some inappropriate language and sexual situations.

Look for more books in the Victorian Mansion series and other books by John A. Miller, Jr., either available now or soon to be available at SmashWords.com.

(1) The Victorian Mansion Murders

(2) The Lakeside Murders

(3) The Beach House Murders

(4) The Pirates’ Hill Murders

Table of Contents

Day 1 Thursday

Day 2 Friday

Day 3 Saturday

Day 4 Sunday

Day 5 Monday

Day 6 Tuesday

Day 7 Wednesday

Day 10 Saturday

Day 12 Monday

Day 13 Tuesday

Days 14 & 15 Wednesday and Thursday

Day 17 Saturday

Days 18-23 Sunday through Friday

Day 24 Saturday

Day 26 Monday

Day 28 Wednesday

Day 31 Saturday

Day 32 Sunday

Day 33 Monday

Day 34 Tuesday

In the Good Ol’ Summertime

About the Author

Day 1

Thursday

It was a dark and stormy night…

Okay, so it’s a hackneyed cliché opening. However, if it’s good enough for Snoopy, it’s good enough for me. Come to think of it, hackneyed cliché is probably redundant, but then this isn’t an English grammar test.

Besides, it was a dark and stormy night, shades of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and I was driving along a lonely country road in a part of the state I had never visited before looking for a house that lay somewhere off the paved road on a private lane. All I knew for certain was I was to follow Highway 80 north for approximately twelve miles from the center of the little village of Bearford and turn right onto a narrow lane that would lead me to my destination. This probably would not have been difficult in daylight or on a clear night, but tonight…

It wasn’t raining hard—just enough to keep the windshield wipers busy. A thin mist rose from the wet pavement making my high beams mostly ineffective. I could see farther with the low beams because at least they didn’t reflect back from the fog into my eyes. An occasional flash of lightning followed by a hoarse grumble of thunder made things even less appetizing.

I was rather surprised by the lightning. It was early April, less than a week after Easter, and the normally cool weather at this time of year seldom provided enough energy for thunderstorms. And it was cool. The chill dampness outside the car made me thankful I had just had my heater blower repaired. If I had been at all superstitious, I would have been sure something out there was mightily displeased by my journey and was expressing that displeasure in a most dramatic way. As it was I was spooked enough by the extreme weather conditions that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the Bates Motel sitting placidly by the roadside beckoning me to spend a pleasant night after, of course, the mandatory pre-bedtime shower.

Crawling along at less than thirty-five miles per hour in an area posted for at least forty-five or fifty was irritating me to no end, but I didn’t want to race past my turnoff. Fortunately, there was nobody else on the road, so I wasn’t providing anyone a reason to cuss me out as a slowpoke, something I usually did when I was trapped behind a slow-moving vehicle. Passing on this winding country road would have been dangerous and, frankly, stupid, especially in this weather.

I glanced at my odometer—eleven miles from the village. However, I had been told approximately twelve miles, and that word can express an amazing range. It certainly was time to pay attention for any turnings to the right.

What the hell was I doing here in this godforsaken place anyway, putting up with this hideous weather and searching the darkness for a road to a lonely farmhouse? Believe it or not, I was answering an advertisement for a job. What kind of job? That’s a bit more difficult to explain. A person, unspecified as to male or female but self-described as a professional writer, was looking for a live-in secretary and assistant. Well, I’m a professional writer myself, or at least I try to think of myself as one, and I felt adequately qualified at least to apply. My telephone call to the number provided in the advertisement reached an agency. They set up the interview date and time and called me back with directions. Although I was rather surprised that the interview was scheduled for eight in the evening, I wrote it off either to eccentricity on the part of the interviewer or to merely the first opening on his or her schedule. Besides, the time hardly mattered to one of my unstructured habits.

A miniscule break in the solid wall of trees made me slam on my brakes. Could that be the lane? It was paved but extremely narrow. The odometer showed I had driven exactly twelve miles since leaving beautiful downtown Bearford.

Backing a few feet, I turned into the narrow roadway and followed its winding course through a thick stand of trees. Of course, there was always the possibility this wasn’t the correct lane. I preferred not to think about that alternative, especially if there should turn out to be no good place to turn around up ahead. Here the hemlocks pressed in on both sides as if they were trying to convert the road into a footpath. My only way out would be to back all the way to the main road; difficult in clear weather; nearly impossible now.

I hardly realized how tense I had become; when I spied a glimmer of light through the thickening fog I actually felt my entire body relax. My clenched hands had probably left permanent indentations in the vinyl covering of the steering wheel.

An enormous dark object suddenly loomed out of the darkness. In the limited band of light thrown by my headlights I could barely make out a huge house. I stopped the car, groped in my glove box for a flashlight, and aimed the beam at the structure. With the extra illumination I could make out ornate wood trim around the porch, so the house was probably Victorian in style. From my limited perspective the place seemed to be in good repair, a positive sign. I wouldn’t want to work for someone without the means to pay for my services.

The digital clock on the dashboard displayed five minutes before eight in large green numerals. I was on time, even with the inevitable delays imposed by the rotten weather. One should never be late for one’s first interview. It tends to leave a bad impression, however valid that impression might be. It would be nearly as bad as arriving drunk, unshaven, and smelling like a locker room.

The rain had stopped, but the fog was thickening and distorting the already poorly defined outline of the structure in front of me. Fortunately, the area where I parked seemed to be covered with some sort of fine gravel and didn’t appear to be muddy. A fancy carriage-house light on each side of the entry provided enough illumination for me to douse my headlights and climb the long flight of wet porch steps without actually slipping and killing myself in the darkness.

The double front doors, which appeared to be freshly varnished, contained inserts of clear, leaded glass, although some sort of sheer curtains backing them made it impossible for me to see inside. The other windows fronting on the porch were curtained as well. There didn’t seem to be any light behind the curtains, but that didn’t necessarily mean the inside of the house was in darkness. If the Victorian theme of the exterior was carried through into the interior furnishings, the heavy draperies favored during that era would have prevented any light from leaking to the outside.

Looking in vain for some sort of electric doorbell button or even a Victorian bell pull, I finally resorted to using one of the heavy knockers that graced each door. They certainly seemed loud enough to me on the porch, but whether their sound would carry into the house was questionable. While I waited for some sort of response, I studied the knockers more closely. They were probably bronze although in the dim light colors didn’t show. Wrought iron was also a possibility. What was most curious was they were human faces—shades of Jacob Marley I suppose. I hoped his ghost wasn’t living inside the house, its jaw tied shut and its body wreathed with massive, rattling chains.

The cold, damp air seemed to penetrate my trench coat and the tweed sports jacket I wore under it as if they didn’t exist. I hoped my potential employer, Mr. or Ms. Whatever—the agency had been totally unforthcoming about gender and name—wouldn’t keep me waiting too long. While my freezing to death would certainly eliminate any problems I might have, it wouldn’t help provide any sort of secretarial assistance to the resident of the house.

I had just reached for the knocker to repeat my request for entry when the door opened slightly and silently. Who’s there? queried a small, faint voice through the crack. Somehow I had expected the door to be flung open and to be facing some sort of butler or other door-greeting worthy—it would have been in keeping with the appearance of the house—so I hardly knew how to answer.

It’s Arthur Parker. I’m here about the secretarial job, I replied somewhat meekly.

Oh. Just a minute. The door closed as silently as it had opened. Chains rattled. Marley’s ghost, I thought. However, it was only a security chain being withdrawn. The door was pulled inward again, and I was face-to-face with… nobody. Looking downward, I realized my greeter was a child, a girl of no more than thirteen or fourteen and rather small for her age at that. She had big eyes, color indeterminate in the dim light cast by the porch lights, and long, dark hair. Her soft features and pert little nose above a slightly pointy chin made her what I would call very pretty or cute but not beautiful. Behind her was a smallish foyer and another pair of open doors revealing a dark hallway stretching into the distance. I was relieved to see a puddle of illumination seeping from under a closed door to the right.

Please follow me, Mr. Parker, the girl said, still in the same small voice with which she had initially addressed me. I entered the hall, noticing the floor was made of small black and white mosaic tiles arranged in an intricate, and for some reason disturbing, pattern. As I pulled the door shut behind me and turned to follow the girl, she gave the impression she was some sort of servant rather than a child of the house. Even her clothing, a crisp, dark dress that seemed too short and too small even for her tiny figure, and long, dark stockings or tights that enveloped her legs, appeared to be a uniform. I glanced at the top of her head rather expecting to see a white lace maid’s cap perched there.

It was very dark—so dark I could make out no details of my surroundings even though my eyes were pretty well accustomed to the dimness. Now that the doors to the porch were shut, the only illumination came from under the door to the right. My guide walked directly to that door, knocked twice making me even more certain she was an employee, and opened it.

I blinked several times, trying to shield my eyes from the sudden brilliance as I gazed into a room heavy with antique furnishings. Rich, brocaded fabrics in dark green and gold covered the massive chairs and sofas. The color scheme was repeated in the dark green wallpaper and thick, gold draperies. Heavy tables with dark, ornately carved legs and tops of streaked white marble were crowded with ornaments and knickknacks of gold or brass or some such metal. Several table and floor lamps with brass bases and dark, fringed shades, probably green and gold to match the rest of the decor, provided the light. I have never been much of a fan of antiques, especially of the Victorian era, and frankly this display was somewhat overwhelming. What appeared to be a real wood fire flickered in an open fireplace, a luxury in these days of expensive fuel. Most people used wood stoves or, at least, glass fire doors to prevent heat from being sucked up the chimney.

The servant—I could not help thinking of her as such—announced faintly, Mr. Parker, while I’m afraid I stared rather impolitely at the clutter in front of me. I thought I heard a snicker from the girl, but when I looked at her face it bore a deadly serious expression.

Thank you, my dear, a voice replied from my left, a decidedly masculine voice although nearly as soft as the girl’s. You may leave us now. I’ll call you when we need you. The girl turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

You will pardon me for not rising, Mr. Parker, but I am somewhat of an invalid. I turned to see a figure seated in a wheelchair. His head, topped with sparse white hair, was supported by a thick neck and broad shoulders, but his lap and legs were shrouded by a tartan blanket and did not seem proportioned to his upper torso. He was clad in some sort of jacket, probably a Victorian smoking jacket in keeping with the fashion of his surroundings. His facial features were rather nondescript except for a somewhat weak chin, and he had neither beard nor mustache.

Mary Ann will return later, the man continued.

Your maid? I couldn’t help asking.

Oh no, my granddaughter, the old man chuckled. It’s our little game that she dresses up sometimes like a servant. Somehow it seems to fit the environment. He made a sweeping gesture with his powerful-looking arm to indicate the room and chuckled again, the sound reminding me of the cackling of an old hen. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Charles Drummond.

How do you do, Mr. Drummond? As you know, I’m here about the position of secretary and assistant.

Yes, I know. Can you type, take shorthand, and correct grammatical and spelling mistakes?

I stood towering over him and feeling rather self-conscious, but he made no gesture toward a chair. Yes, of course. I worked as a journalist for several years, hence the knowledge of shorthand, and now I write magazine articles and short fiction for a living. I’m also working on my first novel.

Very good. You seem to be exactly what we had in mind.

We, Sir?

Mary Ann and me.

The child? Now I was thoroughly confused.

The hen cackled again. You were thinking I was the one who required the assistant. No, no, not me; Mary Ann; although occasionally I might have limited need of your services. He laughed heartily, or I suppose it was heartily. Anyway, he finally stopped when he began choking and coughing. I hurried forward thinking he was having some sort of seizure, but he motioned me away. It’s all right, Mr. Parker. I must be careful never to become too amused. It usually takes me this way. Now he seemed to be back to normal. Mary Ann’s full name is Mary Ann Markham. Her mother was my daughter who, along with her husband, Mary Ann’s father, was killed in an automobile accident several years ago. Drummond paused for a moment and I saw tears beginning to form in the corners of his eyes.

Assuming we find you suitable, when can you start? the old man continued. Oh yes, in case the agency forgot to mention it, you would be expected to live here and receive room and board as part of your wages.

They had told me, and it would suit me fine as I had no established home, and my few personal belongings, mostly clothing and my old portable typewriter, were in my car outside. I could start immediately, I replied. However, I’ve had no experience with children. What would I be expected to do? I’m certainly no tutor.

No, the child attends a public school. A school bus picks her up each morning at the bottom of the lane.

But then what would I do?

Oh, I forgot to mention—she’s a writer.

A writer? And I thought I was confused before.

She has one novel published and is planning a second. We had a woman help her with the first, but that woman somehow mysteriously disappeared last fall just before the book appeared in the stores. Mary Ann writes well—I suppose she’s what you’d call a child prodigy, something like Mozart—but she needs somebody to give her discipline. Unfortunately, I don’t have that skill. I suppose in some ways you’d be a sort of governess, but then you’re certainly the ugliest governess I’ve ever seen. The old man broke into another of his cackling fits while I stared at him in disbelief.

Now I don’t pretend to be handsome; far from it, in fact. I’m about five feet ten in height, somewhat overweight, and have curly red hair and a pale, freckled face. I’m not even particularly sensitive about my looks, but to be called an ugly governess didn’t seem to be very polite. I considered turning and walking out of the house forever, which as things turned out might have been a good move, but I decided the old man probably didn’t get out much and his age and handicap should garner him some tolerance from me. Admittedly, I’m not noted for my tolerance, either, but this whole situation was so intriguing that my curiosity was superseding any common sense I might have possessed. I decided on the spot, knowing nothing more about it, that I’d accept the job if they’d have me.

In a last-ditch effort to learn more, I asked, What kind of novels does Mary Ann write, and does she use her own name?

"They’re ghost stories of some sort. Don’t know much about them. Never read any. Her schoolteacher was the one who first said she could write. The teacher knew a publisher and even found the woman who helped Mary Ann with her first book.

Mary Ann doesn’t write under her own name—don’t want the damned public hounding our doorstep—and her schoolmates don’t know anything about it. If she likes you, she’ll tell you everything you need to know." While he was speaking the old man reached for a tasseled bellpull hanging beside his chair. He gave it a tug and I heard a bell jangle somewhere in the distance. Within seconds the door from the hall opened and Mary Ann entered. She still had that deadly serious look on her face although I thought for a moment or two a tiny smile was trying to force the corners of her mouth upward.

Sir? the child asked, addressing her grandfather.

I believe Mr. Parker will suit us just fine, my dear. Would you like to question him?

No, Sir. I trust your judgment.

Thank you. He turned to me. Mr. Parker, if you are interested the job is yours.

I appreciate that, Mr. Drummond. I’ll just go to my car and unload a few things I’ll need tonight.

Certainly, Mr. Parker. Mary Ann will show you to your room. Now, if you’ll excuse me… Taking his hint—after all, he was now my employer—I followed the girl from the room.

As we approached the front door I said, Your grandfather tells me you’re a published author. What’s the name of your book?

Somewhat evading my question she replied, I placed a copy on your nightstand, Sir, in case you should like to read it. This girl was strange. Not only did she speak like an English maid although without the accent, but also she acted as if she had been a full-time servant for a long time and not merely playacting as her grandfather had implied. In my limited experience with children their pretend worlds never remained static for long. Inevitably they break down and revert to their essential childishness. However, Mary Ann was maintaining her role perfectly and with no signs she was about to become the young girl she actually was.

As we stepped outside onto the porch I asked, How old are you, Mary Ann?

I’m fourteen, Sir. Fourteen years old. I would have guessed younger, but obviously the child was small for her age. May I help you carry anything, Sir?

No, I have everything together. I was planning to stay in a hotel or motel tonight, so I’m prepared. I can unload the remainder of my things tomorrow. Oh, and let’s knock off the ‘Sir’ crap. My name’s Art. I don’t even especially care for Mr. Parker—makes me feel old.

Yes, Sir, I mean, Art. This time the snicker was obvious. However, by the time I was able to look at her face a smile was just disappearing.

You wait here on the porch. I’ll be back in a second. I galloped down the steps, nearly slipping on the wet surface, and hurried to my car. As before, the dampness began to penetrate my clothing. I had noticed the inside of the house was comfortably warm, something for which I was thankful because I hate the cold. Also, Mary Ann’s skimpy attire would not have been at all adequate inside a chilly room. In fact, I was beginning to fear she would catch cold from her brief sojourn into the damp night air. Quickly I grabbed my suitcase and hurried back up the steps. I didn’t bother to lock the car—any thief crazy enough to be in a place like this on a night like this deserved anything he could steal.

Following the girl back inside, I mused on the change in my fortunes. While I had been truthful enough with her grandfather about the source of my income—writing short stories and magazine articles—that income was generally rather sparse. Still, I felt a bit uncomfortable at having been given this job so easily. Most of my job interviews in the past had been difficult, to say the least, and I usually felt the interviewer was doing his or her best to show superiority over me, the lowly applicant. This interview had been a piece of cake by comparison. Anyway, I was looking forward to a permanent roof over my head and a permanent source of meals.

Mary Ann pressed a button on the wall, and a crystal chandelier blazed into light, illuminating the previously dark recesses of the hall and exhibiting a wide staircase paralleling it on the left. She immediately began mounting the stairs, and I followed a few steps behind. At the top of the steps she hesitated, then said, This way, Sir, I mean, Art, and turned into a cross-hallway on our right. Christ, this place was as big as some hotels I’d stayed in. The two of them must be pretty lonely living in a monstrosity like this unless there were some other live-in servants—somehow I couldn’t help including myself in