A Murder Most Newsworthy: A Murder Most Cozy Mystery

By Alice Adler

Lily Parks has found her dream job as personal assistant to one of America's premier mystery writers. Penelope Walters, whose delicate appearance hides a formidable personality, enjoys both fame and fortune with her books. Unfortunately for her, the closely guarded secret behind the success of her writing career is about to be revealed - and Pen

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Aug 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685121815

Alice Adler

Alice Adler is a retired high school English teacher whose dream was either to be a librarian or to live in a bookstore. She's long been fascinated with the early part of the twentieth century, especially with the writers of that time. Having discovered her first Agatha Christie book at a very early age, she now spends her days reading Golden Age mysteries and researching the Roaring Twenties for her own mystery books.

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Alice Adler

A MURDER MOST NEWSWORTHY

A Murder Most Cozy Mystery

First published by Level Best Books/Historia 2022

Copyright © 2022 by Alice Adler

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Alice Adler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Author Photo Credit: Greg Esquer

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-68512-181-5

Cover art by Level Best Designs

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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For JAE, one of the strongest women I know.

Chapter One

Hello, miss. Is your…is your…is Miss Walters in, please?

A rotund young man stood at the front door, a lock of very red hair falling over a pale forehead and a battered hat clutched in both hands, his face flushed as he stammered out his request. Perplexed, I studied him for a moment, noting the telltale roll of paper stuck in his jacket pocket and a spattering of ink down the front of his shirt. A reporter then, not an acquaintance, and most likely one lacking an appointment. Despite the fact that this was the enlightened 1920s, two women living alone did not invite unexpected men inside. I began to close the door without a word.

Wait a moment, miss. A large brown shoe, its laces tied in a loose bow and the toe quite scuffed, insinuated itself between the jamb and the door. I really need to speak with Miss Walters. If she’s available, he added hastily as he tried to peer over my shoulder into the house. "She is at home, isn’t she?"

From where we stood, the faint echo of typing could be heard. Yes, Miss Penelope Walters was home. And she was Busy Writing.

I told him as much, speaking in a short tone that intimated I was busy as well. Reporters, in my experience, were never bearers of good news and most of the time they spread whatever gossip on which they could lay their ink-stained fingers. If you’ll leave your card, I’ll see she gets it.

With a huge sigh, he crammed the hat back on his head and began patting his various pockets as if he couldn’t recall where he might have left said card. I let him fumble for a few moments before I pointed to his hat. Sticking out from a surprisingly jaunty red grosgrain ribbon that encircled the hat’s crown was one of the grubbiest cards I had ever seen. With a sheepish grin, he tugged it free and passed it over.

I held it gingerly between two fingers, not wanting to touch it. I highly doubted Miss Walters would bother with it either. Turning away, I made to put the card onto the small rococo table that stood by the door, but the young man’s wheedling voice stopped me in mid-motion.

Couldn’t you maybe take it to her? See if she’ll talk to me? He looked at me with pleading eyes, seeming more like an orphaned kitten than a grown man.

Good grief. Was an interview with Penny Walters that important to him?

Without another word, I shoved the thing into a side pocket of my gingham housedress and headed down the paneled hallway toward the room we grandly referred to as the study. This was where Miss Walters wrote, first in longhand and then on her beloved typewriter, those books known to the reading public as America’s answer to Agatha Christie. This truly was the Golden Age of mysteries, and Penelope Walters was doing her best to shine.

A steady clickity clack from the typewriter reverberated from the room and I hesitated, pausing near the study door with one hand lifted. Should I knock and possibly interrupt what my employer fondly described as a session with my muse? Or perhaps it would be more prudent to go back to the front door and tell the rather pallid visitor Miss Walters was too busy to see him.

Biting my lower lip with indecision, I had just turned back the way I’d come when a loud thump and a string of unrepeatable words slipped under the door. That settled it. I would chance it and knock. It would never do for anyone to hear this, especially someone from the press. Miss Penelope Walters, celebrated mystery writer and the darling of the local media, had a reputation to maintain and it was my job to see it upheld at all costs.

Drawing in a steadying breath, I spoke as loudly as I dared, my voice only decibels above a whisper. Miss Walters? It’s me, Lily. Of course it was. Sometimes, though, especially when she was deep into plots of murder and mayhem, she often lost track of both time and people. When I didn’t get a response, I added, hissing slightly, There’s a reporter at the door for you.

A fresh volley of blue language erupted from within the room, causing me to jump back. This was followed by the unmistakable noise of the typewriter’s hinged lid being slammed down and something being thrown against the wall, the sound of shattering glass clear, even in the hallway. Oh, dear. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t the beautiful Lalique vase she’d purchased during her latest trip abroad. Maybe I should’ve told the reporter to come back later.

The door, a thick oaken slab with a wreath of delicate flowers carved into its surface, was yanked open. My employer, a tiny slip of a woman with a headful of blonde baby doll curls and the largest china blue eyes I’d ever seen, stood in front of me, delicate nostrils flared in irritation and a spot of crimson on each cheek.

What in the name of damnation do you want, Lily? Haven’t I told you not to bother me when I’m in the middle of a deadline? She glared at me, both hands planted on hips as slim as a boy’s.

I nodded meekly, holding my lips in a tight line so my amusement wouldn’t escape. Penny, as her friends and foes alike referred to her, was a ball of fire when she was angry, but a very little ball. Next to her, I always felt large and hulking, as big as the cart horses used to pull the grocery and ice wagons.

Yes, ma’am. But there’s someone here from the local rag to see you. I motioned with my chin in the direction of the front door. His name is Ralph Simons. Here I plunged a hand into my pocket and produced the card, handing it to her by one shabby corner.

The change on her face was almost instantaneous. Her cheeks, still flushed from temper, now seemed dull compared to the new sparkle in her eyes. Patting her hair with one hand, she twirled in front of me as though posing for a photographer.

How do I look? Is my hair still all right? She gave her already red lips a gentle bite, coloring them even further. And could you make sure there’s ice for the lemonade? There’s a dear.

Tucking her blouse more securely into a braided leather belt, she reached up to adjust the square sailor collar that fell across slim shoulders. With a whirl of her skirts and bouncing curls, Penny headed for the front door to greet yet another young man who’d soon fall victim to her charm. Or perhaps her temper. I’d witnessed more than one male being marched out the front door, a blonde whirling dervish close on his heels.

I sighed deeply, but not with exasperation. Instead, I admired her more than anyone I had ever met. And if I had been told a year ago I’d soon be working for and living with the most popular crime writer in America, I’d have laughed out loud. And yet, here I was, busily chipping ice from a newly delivered block, preparing a cool drink for Miss Penny Walters and her current visitor.

Nineteen twenty-three had begun exactly as twenty-two, and twenty-two was no different from the years preceding it for as far back as I could recall. With both parents perishing when I was still an infant, I’d lived my entire life with my great-aunt Daisy and my grandmother Rose, two sisters whose bark was definitely as bad as their bite and as far from flowerlike as possible. Still, it had given me a chance to grow a very thick skin, and I’d taken that with me when I’d stomped out the front door after a particularly awful argument one cold January morning last year, heading for the nearest employment agency.

That so-called thick skin had quickly dissolved when I reached the agency, though. I was willing to do anything to escape from my home, and I had told the agency’s proprietress so through a torrent of tears, sobbing into my hands as I stood in front of her desk.

She’d listened without comment or comforting words, something that caused me no end of embarrassment, and the small card she’d pulled from her file seemed as dull as my future. When I’d dried my eyes and looked at it, though, I felt as though I’d died and gone to employment heaven.

At my age, which was smack dab in the middle of my twenties, I had very few prospects and even smaller finances. The idea of waiting for the two battleaxes to die before I was independent had seemed as long a shot as it had been to land my dream job as personal assistant for one Miss Penelope Walters and self-appointed guardian of her sterling character. Nineteen twenty-four was shaping up to be quite a year for one Lily Parks.

And now, in the very merry month of May, I’d finally gotten a handle on my job as her general go-fer and keeper of her good name. As long as Ralph Simons didn’t say anything offensive, which could be anything, the meeting in the parlor should go smoothly.

Judging by the soft laughter drifting from the parlor, it was time to deliver the refreshment. At least she was still on speaking terms with the reporter, unlike the last one she’d thrown out by his reddened ears only the week before.

I nudged the door open with one elbow, carrying an etched tin tray loaded with two glasses, a bowl of chipped ice, and a perilously full pitcher of lemonade, in which slices of the fruit floated as thickly as lily pads on a pond.

Ah, there you are, Lily. Penny motioned gracefully to a low mahogany table that sat between the two brocade love seats. She appeared to be in a good mood, as far as I could tell, although I noticed her visitor’s color had risen slightly. I sincerely hoped it was from amusement and not a growing irritation. Maybe a cool glass of lemonade was exactly what was needed.

I waited until both had helped themselves to plenty of ice and the tart drink before slipping out of the parlor, an unintentional sigh of relief escaping softly. While Miss Walters was occupied, I’d use the opportunity to clean up the mess in the study.

I’d almost made it to the kitchen for my cleaning supplies when I heard the first verbal volley.

"How dare you suggest such a thing? I’ve got a mind to call your employer and let him know exactly what type of nincompoop he has working for him. There was the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Do you even know how to string more than two cohesive thoughts together?"

I froze in place, trying to decide whether or not I should run interference for the reporter. He’d struck me as somewhat soft, maybe a bit disorganized, and I almost felt sorry for him. Getting caught in the crosshairs of Miss Walters’s wrath wasn’t a place I’d want to be.

Miss Walters’s voice had risen to the level I generally referred to as ear-splitting, punctuated by another thud and a very unmanly shriek. I groaned aloud as I hurried back toward clamor, ready to intervene in whatever mêlée I might encounter.

What I discovered, however, was our visitor fleeing for the door, a very large wet stain down the front of his trousers and a horrified expression on his now pale face. Sighing, I closed the door behind him and headed for the parlor, already formulating my commentary to Miss Walters as well as the damage control I’d need to execute posthaste.

Miss Walters was curled up on one of the love seats, a still-full glass of lemonade in one hand, a satisfied smirk on her face.

Throwing up my hands, I marched over to where she sat and stared at her in what I hoped was a firm fashion. And just what happened this time, miss? Did he insult your dress? Make a rude comment about your hair? Find a fly in his drink? I folded my arms across my chest, tapping one foot as I waited for her answer.

Not surprisingly, she burst into laughter, a musical sound that could soften even the sternest of frowns. It certainly weakened mine, and I smiled at her as I perched on the end of the love seat.

Oh, come now, Lily. You know better. If someone ever had the nerve to judge my looks, well, they’d have to be blind, wouldn’t they? She took a sip from the frosted glass, her blue eyes twinkling at me over the rim. As to flies, I’d just say they were there for the garnish.

I ignored that last comment, not wanting to get caught up in one of her silly discourses. Instead, I stared directly into those blue eyes.

Then what was it? If I’m any judge of reaction, I’d say the young man had had his hat handed to him in the most unfriendly manner. I glanced at the floor beneath where he had lately been seated and shook my head. His now-empty glass lay on its side, mute evidence of how his trousers had gotten wet. The bowl that had held the ice also lay there, thankfully unharmed. What made him spill his drink?

Again that merry laugh. Oh, that was me, I’m afraid. I threw my lemonade at him. And the ice. This, she added with a lift of the glass in her hand, was his. Taking another drink, she dropped one eyelid in a roguish wink.

I’d need to get on the phone immediately and call the owner of the paper. I’d probably tell him the usual: poor Miss Walters, with such a delicate sensibility, had been horrified at the rude suggestions put to her by his unmannered reporter. Never mind the thrown glass and the quick exit of poor Ralph Simons. Once I’d explained away Miss Walters’s latest incident, as I called them, hopefully I’d be able to keep intact her status as America’s most genteel writer. It would never do for her reading public to see behind the façade so carefully crafted by her publisher and safeguarded by me.

I was becoming a most-skilled wordsmith after nearly a year of damage control. My grandmother would probably call me a skilled liar.

Rising to my feet, I turned to look at my employer, curious what had set her off. I’d barely gotten the question out when her entire demeanor changed, her smooth forehead now corrugated with anger.

"That–that cretin had the absolute gall to suggest my books are simply copies of Christie and Sayers! Penny spoke indignantly, placing one hand on a softly rounded bosom. I happened to know this part of her anatomy was helped along with a series of ruffles strategically pinned to her undergarments. As if I need to copy anyone! This was followed by an injured sniff. My plots are completely original. If anyone is copying, it’s those two who are stealing from me!"

It wouldn’t matter one iota if I pointed out the obvious. Aside from see-through storylines and predictable characters, her books tended to appear after each Agatha Christie or Dorothy Sayers success. How Penny’s books managed to make the best seller lists in the first place was itself a minor miracle, in my opinion. And why no one had pointed out the similarities between her books and those of other writers was another wonder, although I had a suspicion it had more to do with her looks and less to do with her writing. Whatever the reason, however, it kept her living in comfort and me living in security. I’d fight to my last breath to keep it going.

Hopefully I wouldn’t need that last breath when I spoke to the newspaper’s owner. I would need to get it done quickly, though, and I left Penny sitting in the parlor, sipping her drink and pouting over the reporter’s words as I marched out to make the call.

A loud knock on the back door sent me hurrying to the kitchen. I’d completely forgotten about the grocery delivery I’d been expecting that day, thanks to the excitement of the vanishing reporter. Wrenching open the door, which tended to stick even in the best of weather, I looked up at the O’Leary and Sons deliveryman.

Well, if it isn’t our very own chip off the Blarney stone. I stepped back and made room for Mick O’Leary to step inside, his broad face crinkled with amusement at my teasing. Did you remember to bring the lilac bath soap I ordered for Miss Walters? And the baking powder?

With a mop of coal black curls and the surprise of green eyes in his tanned face, Mick was one of the handsomest men I’d ever met. He was also my best friend in our town of Havenwood, a small burg in the western portion of our state. Sometimes, and this was my secret, I ordered our weekly groceries in several different deliveries in order to spend a few more minutes with him and his wit.

The amusement on his face now turned to mock indignation. Don’t I always bring everything you ask for?

A saucy answer trembled on my lips, but I laughed instead. It wouldn’t do to let Mick think I was flirting with him. I liked him too much to ever let that nonsense happen.

I’ll be the judge of that, sir. I made a show of craning my neck to peer out the kitchen window. And just where did you tether that good-for-nothing horse of yours this time? It had better not be near the roadster.

A guilty expression crossed his face and he hurried out of the door, already yelling at Dandy to get away from that car, you brain-dead animal!

I grinned to myself. The last time Dandy had gotten near the gleaming yellow automobile, he’d managed to take a large bite out of the leather-upholstered car seat.

That had not, needless to say, made a favorable impression on Miss Walters. Her irate suggestion that the nag be turned into glue hadn’t been taken seriously by the senior Mr. O’Leary, thank goodness, but it had gotten Mick into more than a pint of trouble with his father.

I watched as he guided the