Murder Most Egyptological (A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Book 3) by Robert Colton Read Free Book Online

Mrs. Xavier Stayton.”
      Speaking with a lyrical English accent, the man replied, “How very nice to meet you at last.” I knew this statement was quite untrue.
      Alec Kinkaid was not quite fifty years old, but despite his salt-and-pepper hair and suntanned skin, he retained some element of youth about him. He kept a short beard, and close-cropped hair. Wearing tan trousers, white-and-brown wingtip shoes and an ivory jacket, he looked much more like a professional golfer than an Egyptologist.
       After a moment of supreme embarrassment, I replied, “Likewise.”
       Kinkaid gestured to a woman sitting on the opposite side of the settee he had risen from, “My wife, Martha.”
       Martha raised her cup of tea from the small plate she held in her other hand, as if toasting me. “Mrs. Stayton,” she said in a flat tone. Her accent was supremely posh.
       There was something unpleasant about Martha Kinkaid. Her black hair wasn’t the glistening shade of a raven’s feather, but rather the unreflective color of a well-used locomotive engine. The woman’s features were hard, and she wore heavy makeup that accentuated the sharp angles of her face. Wearing a black shirt with a high waist and black-and-white striped blouse with a man’s crimson tie, she reminded me of a German cabaret dancer. I was curious about her choice of attire. She seemed to be making a rather deliberate first impression.
       Professor Kinkaid turned to another fellow still standing and said, “This is Jacob Saunders; we call him my protégé, but I assure you, he’s every bit my equal.”
       Mr. Saunders was a tall, lean fellow of perhaps thirty years. Light brown hair, suntanned skin—he was a very handsome chap. As he reached out to take my hand, I noticed that the cuffs of his white shirt, under his threadbare brown suit, were worn and stained. So it seemed he was earning his keep. 
       “Mrs. Stayton, it is just such a pleasure to meet you. Yes, a true honor. You don’t know what your generosity has meant to us.” The man’s voice was without accent, and I guessed that he came from the Midwest, like myself.
       The next introduction was to Arthur Fox, the journalist. He was a small man with delicate features. His red hair was oiled and parted down the middle, and he wore thick-rimmed glasses that made his eyes appear misshapen and insect-like. Arthur’s voice surprised me. I had read many of his magazine articles, and found his choice of written words to be smooth and flowing. However, his speech was choppy; he had a harsh Boston accent, and nasally pitch that made him a chore to listen to.
      I grasped his palm firmly and Mr. Fox gave me an odd look, as I shook his hand in the style of a man rather to the woman’s gentle shake he was expecting.
       Xavier had taught me this. My dear husband had a commanding presence, and when he shook someone’s hand, they knew it had been shaken. He had encouraged me to follow his example, as he said, “Take ’em off guard, my sweet little cinnamon stick. Don’t let them just give your tiny fingers a soft embrace; grab their palm and squeeze until they grimace while you shake them about like a greyhound thrashing a rabbit.”
       With a bit more enthusiasm than he had the other two gentlemen, Kinkaid next introduced me to the last fellow of the party. “And this is my old friend, Dr. William Smith.”
       A large and very genuine smile appeared on the doctor’s round face. He wasn’t overweight, yet he looked very puffy. Tipping his fedora, I could see that he was balding, and the top of his head was sunburned.
       Dr. Smith spoke with a pleasant, rural, English accent. “Mrs. Stayton, my benefactor, so nice to meet you.” He turned toward a plump woman with a beaming face, who leapt up from her chair to take my hand. “This is my wife, Wilma Smith.”
       She too was English, and speaking rather loudly, she said, “Wilma Smith, always been a Smith, even before