LITMIR.BIZ

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Amelia said. “You were right. I am not so fond of these Mac Hardcase novels. Our son is only six years old. And I think it is time we introduced him to some literature meant for six-year-olds.”

      That night, before tucking him in for an evening slumber, Amelia read Thaddeus the first few pages of Winnie-the-Pooh, which they both enjoyed immensely. That Winnie-the-Pooh was such a silly bear.

      * * * *

      The next morning, Amelia rang Vera Emerson. “Hello, Vera, I would like to apologize for Teddy’s behavior yesterday. He was most out of place.”

      “What do you mean?” Vera asked.

      “The crude story he read to Norbert after church.”

      “Amelia, are you quite all right? We weren’t at church yesterday. Norbert was ill with a terrible flu. I stayed home to nurse him.”

      “Oh, I am sorry. I must have been thinking of…well, it doesn’t matter. Never mind. Do tell Norbert I hope he recovers quickly.”

      “I will be sure to do so. And Amelia, we recently came into some money and are able to repay your loan. I’m sending a check by courier today. You and Angus have been so kind, waiting patiently. When Norbert is well, we would love to have you, Angus, and Thaddeus over for dinner.”

      Amelia hung up the phone befuddled but relieved. She could put the entire Mac Hardcase horror tale behind her.

      In the quiet peace of her parlor, she relaxed in her favorite chair with a cup of tea while listening to some Vivaldi. Mary arrived promptly at ten and went straight to the kitchen as usual. She appeared in the parlor doorway not long after. “Mrs.,” she said. “I have made a shopping list. We are low on flour and eggs. Do you need anything else while I am out?”

      “No, Mary, that will be fine. Thank you.”

      “I hope you don’t mind,” Mary added before leaving. “I found some more of those books Mr. Thaddeus likes. Two for a nickel. I left them on the kitchen table.”

      She was out the door before Amelia could catch her breath. Making her way into the kitchen, as if entering a war zone, Amelia spotted the books on the table just as Mary had said. She lifted one, and read the title. A Good Day for a Bad Murder, A Mac Hardcase Mystery. “Oh dear,” she muttered.

      Were the inside pages printed with a story already told, or were they blank? Amelia was about to look, when the doorbell stopped her. Book still in hand, she walked from the kitchen to the front hall.

      Somehow, sensing dangerous adventure in the air, Amelia turned the doorknob slowly and pulled. “Oh, double dear,” she said when the door was open fully.

      The caller, standing on her stoop, was no stranger.

      Amelia’s skin tingled as if touched by the lightest electric current.

      The caller was a dame.

      A dame with long blond hair and a roller-coaster body. “I’ve heard rumors that an honest Joe got into a crooked deal and died with a knife in his gut.” She handed Amelia a freshly sharpened pencil. “Would you like to help me find the killer?”

      Amelia paused for but a moment. If she could fan the flames of Teddy’s creative fire, certainly she could set her own imagination alight as well. She accepted the pencil, found some gravel in her voice, and channeled the great Mr. Mac Hardcase. “Babe, I may be batty, but with your looks and my brains, we could really turn this town upside down.”

      She laughed at her own wit, but Ziva did not appear amused.

      Realizing comedy was not her strong suit, Amelia cleared her throat and opened her door wider. “We shall certainly locate and bring to justice the brute of a murderer, as well. Please, do come in.”

      Karen Cantwell enjoys writing both short stories and novels. Her stories have appeared in several publications including three previous Chesapeake Crimes anthologies. On the novel front, Karen loves to make people laugh with her USA Today bestselling Barbara Marr Murder Mystery series. You can learn more about Karen and her works at www.KarenCantwell.com.

SECRETS TO THE GRAVE, by K.M. Rockwood

      Miss Grayling stared at the envelope on the kitchen table, a proper envelope, made of heavy bond ecru paper, addressed to her in a fine hand. It appeared to be an invitation or an announcement of some sort. Miss Grayling had not received a formal piece of correspondence in several years. More than years, several decades, perhaps.

      The envelope had arrived with the Monday morning mail. A notice from the electric company about a planned service outage. An advertising circular from an unfamiliar store. A notice from the city that the tedious work on the sewer system, which had the lawn and sidewalks torn up, would continue for several weeks beyond its original scheduled completion date. These she ignored.

      She turned the envelope over. As was customary in her youth, the return address was printed on the back flap: Mrs. Howard Bellingsworth, it read, two streets over. No zip code.

      Was that Julia Crumwell Bellingsworth, whose husband had passed away at least twenty years before? As girls in Middle Falls, they had never been friendly, Miss Grayling being somewhat older and of superior social standing. After Julia’s marriage to Howard Bellingsworth, however, they had traveled in the same social circles. Many were the teas, receptions, and card games which they had both attended.

      But that had been years ago. Few of those ladies were still around. Certainly Miss Grayling had not heard from any of them recently. Even the funerals, which she felt obliged to attend and were often followed by quite tolerable luncheons, seemed to have ceased.

      So why this missive?

      She would have to open it.

      Such elegant stationery demanded a proper letter opener, not the kitchen knife Miss Grayling used for most of her mail. She picked up the envelope and headed for her late father’s office. Surely there would be a letter opener in his rolltop desk.

      She had forgotten that the office was in need of repair. A gun rack and a mounted moose head lay on the floor. Holes gaped in the wall where they had once been fastened. Cracks ran down the walls. The curtains were drawn, but she could see dust motes floating in the air. She sneezed. Perhaps it was time to clean this room. Wash the curtains. Dust the furniture and the baseboards. Take down the teardrops on the crystal chandelier and dip them in a vinegar solution. But that would require climbing a stepladder, something Miss Grayling had done often in her life yet which now seemed unacceptably dangerous.

      But those were issues for another day. She opened the top drawer of the desk and extracted an ivory letter opener. Carefully, she ran it under the flap of the envelope and sliced it open.

      A folded correspondence card of the same heavy ecru paper was inside. She slipped it out. The front bore embossed initials: JCB. Undoubtedly Julia Crumwell Bellingsworth.

      Curious, she opened the card.

      As she suspected, it was an invitation. An invitation to tea. On Thursday at three o’clock in the afternoon.

      Should Miss Grayling go? What future social obligations would she incur if she accepted? Her first inclination was to send a gracious refusal.

      On the other hand, it had been so long—years—since she had been invited anywhere. The worst she could envision was an obligation to reciprocate with another tea. She had the accoutrements required—a silver tea service and spoons, fine china cups and saucers, Irish linen tea napkins embroidered with an elegant “G.” All that remained would be the necessity to make some scones, a few sandwiches, and tiny cakes.

      Or perhaps she could purchase them. Along with some excellent tea. Miss Grayling would have no problem doing that.

      Curiously, there was no R.S.V.P. on the invitation. A bit presumptuous, surely, for Mrs. Bellingsworth to assume she would come if invited. Still, if Miss Grayling were unable

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