Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery by Robert Colton Read Free Book Online

conversation. He asked me that dreaded question I so hoped to avoid. “Mrs. Stayton, do pardon me for asking, but what happened to your husband?”
       It was obvious that the orchestra was just about to conclude the rather boisterous tune they were playing, so I hesitated until there was a moment of near silence before replying, “Spontaneous combustion!”
       The faces around me all contorted—save for Lucy’s, of course, who was used to my various explanations for my dear husband’s demise—and for good reason. Many people were fearful of spontaneous combustion; it was such a bizarre and seemingly mysterious occurrence. A colleague of my father’s, a fellow doctor at the Forest Park Men’s Hospital, had once, at a picnic, explained the happening to me in explicit detail.
      It seemed the horrible way of dying was misnamed. While in many cases, the cause cannot be verified, a nearby candle or lit cigarette is most likely the source. The typical case also involves an individual with a known habit of drinking alcohol. It was postulated that the poor inebriated person either brushed against a candle or fell asleep with a lit cigarette, and stymied by liquor, is unable to escape the flames.  This same doctor pointed out that he’d heard of fewer cases since the start of prohibition. He had more to say on the topic, but my complexion had turned rather pale, and he fell silent on the matter.
       After our little party recovered from the shock of my reply, I smiled sadly and batted my eyes. The orchestra was once again in full swing with another jazz tune. 
       Mathew mumbled the words, “I’m so sorry.”
       I responded by saying, “Tell me, Mr. Farquhar, where did you purchase your wife’s emerald bracelet? It is just lovely.” I was confident he wouldn’t attempt to redirect the conversation toward me again.
       Mathew’s reply took us to the bracelet’s country of origin, and then Maxie Beaumont shared a dull story of her own trip to this place.
       Politely bored with our company, my eyes fell on a lovely young lady who stood at the back of the ballroom. The woman had dark glossy black hair and skin that suggested a South American origin. She leaned against a pillar and watched the band with great intent. It appeared to me her eyes were focused on the handsome fellow playing the piano.
       It struck me that she seemed very much in love with the musician, and I was happy for her. Love is the richest feeling, to be cherished above all else.
       My attention was captured when Mrs. Beaumont asked the countess, “Are you vacationing in America?” This seemed a queer question as she had pointed out to Lucy and me the fact that the woman had just learned of a relative in the States.
       The countess and her husband exchanged quick glances before she said, “I have discovered that my sister survived the purge. Like I, she was hidden from the revolutionists. She’s in New York.”
       Mrs. Beaumont’s beady eyes were fixed on the countess as she replied with little enthusiasm, “How nice for you.”
       The countess nodded. “Yes, it is good; so few of us there are.”
       Mathew Farquhar’s face darkened, and it struck me that perhaps he thought otherwise. I knew the difficulties I had faced after marrying into a wealthy family, whose ways are so different from my own. Xavier had been such a joy and so very supportive. I wondered what life was like for Mathew: new to money, new to a lifestyle, and married to a creature who seemed demanding and cold. I did not envy the pair. 
       I think, perhaps, for the first time throughout the evening, Mr. Beaumont took notice of me. After a startled jolt, he leaned into his wife and spoke to her in French. She shot me an inquisitive glare and remarked, “Well, I’ll be, you are Mrs. X. ”
       The countess gave me a questionable glance as her husband said, “Ah, yes. You were in all of the papers. You solved that murder at Pearce