The cozy 1930s Jack and Frances mysteries
A good girl with a penchant for the truth, a charming law-breaker with a moral code, and a retired Vaudevillian who has all kinds of tricks up his sleeve.
When it comes to solving crime, these three won’t be upstaged by anyone, anywhere, from the sun baked streets of Australia to ritzy parties on the Riviera and the excitement of London in the early 1930s.
If you love Golden Age detection with period charm, join Jack and Frances and Uncle Sal on their fun-filled mystery solving adventures in high and low society in this cozy whodunnit series.
Get ready to fall in love with your new favourite sleuths!
Title A Matter of Love and Death
Author Carmen Radtke
Genre Cozy historical mystery
Book Blurb
A plan for murder - over the telephone?
1931. Telephone operator Frances unwittingly overhears a chilling conspiracy. But discretion is the linchpin of her job, and revealing this dangerous secret isn't an option.
Ignoring it becomes impossible when she realizes she might be in the crosshairs too.
Enter Jack, the charismatic owner of a night club, a man unafraid to bend the rules.
With danger looming, they join forces to uncover the murderers before another life is lost. As they delve deeper into their investigation, Frances finds herself drawn not only into a deadly game but also into an unexpected romance.
A Matter of Love and Death is the first in an enthralling cozy 1930s mystery series that will capture your heart.
Excerpt
Frances entered the telephone exchange room as noiselessly as possible, signalling Clara that she was ready to take over.
Clara raised one finger, pulled out a plug and jerked the headphone off her frizzy hair. ‘You’re a life saver.’ Her shoulders heaved in a sigh. ‘I was afraid I’d have to pull a double shift when Mr Gibbons said Gussie no longer worked here, and Mum needs me.’
Frances arranged her own headphone. ‘Can you believe anyone’d be so daft?’
Clara leaned back in her chair, obviously ready for a bit of gossip while there was a lull. ‘She did it on purpose, if you ask me.’
‘Never!’
Clara lowered her voice. ‘From what I’ve heard, she thinks she can make more money somewhere else.’ Her sallow face blushed with excitement. ‘In a hotel on Hindley Street, that’s where you’ll find her in the evening, behind the bar.’
‘But that work’s illegal for a girl.’
‘Oh Fran, you’re such an innocent. As if anybody cares about laws like no drinking after six o’clock or no girls serving in hotels.’ Clara pushed herself off her chair. ‘I’ll better run and look after the baby while Mum goes on her cleaning tour. She’s got a new lady and she’s that hard to please, Mum says.’
‘Right-oh.’
‘Oh, and Fran, you make sure you stay on the line a bit longer, to make sure the connection works all right. I had one call cut off twice, and they were livid when they got through again.’
The first light began to flash. ‘Thanks, Clara,’ Frances mouthed as she listened to the operator at the other end who gave her a number.
With the thoughtless skill born out of practice, she plugged the jacks in, sent the ringing signal and waited for the other party to pick up.
Usually, she flipped the switch to cut off her headset straight away, but after Clara’s warning she’d decided to listen in for a few moments before she let people talk in privacy. It didn’t matter anyway, because all she did was let the words wash over her.
That’s why she’d already flipped the switch before the meaning of the words sank in. She sat there, heart racing. Her hands trembled hard enough to make it difficult to operate the switch again.
Crackling noises, and then again, the voice that had given her such a fright. ‘Next … after Easter,’ a man said. ‘When she’s with friends in the valley. Make it look like another stick-up.’
The line crackled louder. ‘Could be easier to take our cove lakeside,’ another man said, in a croaked, nasal voice. ‘Make him go for a swim.’
Frances clapped a hand to her mouth, setting Clara’s tin mug flying with her elbow. It hit the floor with a thud.
‘Hey,’ the nasal voice said, ‘did you hear that, boss? Think somebody's listening?’
She held her breath.
‘No,’ the first man said, just as she was starting to see spots dancing in front of her eyes. ‘Don't be a fool. And don't forget, you get paid to do your job. Leave the thinking to others.’
‘Good-oh. Sure, you didn't hear anything?’ A slight pause. ‘All right, boss. Where do you want me to do the job? The jeweller’s shop or home?’
‘Suit yourself.’ The man hung up.
Buy Links (including Goodreads and BookBub)
Author Biography
Carmen has spent most of her life with ink on her fingers and a dangerously high pile of books and newspapers by her side.
She has worked as a newspaper reporter on two continents and always dreamt of becoming a novelist and screenwriter.
When she found herself crouched under her dining table, typing away on a novel between two earthquakes in Christchurch, New Zealand, she realised she was hooked for life.
The shaken but stirring novel made it to the longlist of the Mslexia competition, and her next book and first mystery, The Case Of The Missing Bride, was a finalist in the Malice Domestic competition in a year without a winner. Since then she has penned several more cozy mysteries, including the Jack and Frances series set in the 1930s.
Carmen now lives in Italy with her human and her four-legged family.
Social Media Links
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/carmenradtkeauthor
Title Murder at the Races
Author Carmen Radtke
Genre Cozy historical mystery
Book Blurb
A murder threatens to destroy Frances’s family. Now the race is on for her and Jack to solve the case.
1931. A sinister secret lurks in the midst of the horse racing world.
When Frances Palmer's brother becomes the only suspect in a chilling murder at the races, she and her boyfriend Jack, a charismatic night club owner, plus the quick-witted ex-vaudevillian Uncle Sal, must navigate a treacherous path. Their only hope lies in infiltrating the very heart of the racecourse to expose the true culprit.
It's a daring con.
The odds are stacked against them, yet their knack for putting on a mesmerising performance, where every move is a clever illusion, becomes their greatest asset.
But in a race against a cunning murderer, nothing is a dead-cert.
Excerpt
Jack rang at the door two minutes after she’d come down, freshly powdered and with a slick of lipstick on her mouth. Her yellow jumper and emerald skirt had seen better days, but the colours suited her.
Uncle Sal took off his hat like he always did as she entered the room. ‘Shall we, Signorina Francesca?’
She slid her arm through his. ‘With the greatest pleasure, gentlemen.’
The crowd and the noise at Morphettville were much bigger than she’d expected. Nattily dressed men rubbed shoulders with veterans in ill-fitting suits, urchins running errands, housewives on the search for a thrill and heavily made-up girls who tried to keep the attention of their male friends over the attractions of the bookies.
Jack nodded left and right as he secured them a way to the seats on the covered stand. ‘You two stay here,’ he said after they’d sat down. ‘I’ll get a racing programme and refreshments. Lemonade for you, kiddo, and beer for us, Uncle Sal?’
Uncle Sal chuckled as he watched Frances open astonishment. ‘This isn’t busy, love, just a nice turn-out. Nothing wrong with it, if you keep your head and don’t get carried away. Now my Dad, he always swore he’d inherited his horse-sense from his grandfather, an Italian grandee. Blow me if he didn’t fall for every three-legged mare that ever set its hooves on the turf. He reckoned if they did come in, they’d come in big.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Never ever believe that a horse will make your luck, and you’ll be fine. Especially if it’s a dappled grey you’re betting on.’
Frances leant forward, watching the line-up of horses who got ready for the next race. ‘I like the black one,’ she said, ‘with the gold and green colours.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ Jack said, reappearing with a rolled-up paper under his arm and two pitchers. Cups were in his pockets. ‘I’ve put a guinea on that mare.’ He put the pitchers down in front of them.
‘I didn’t expect you so soon,’ said Uncle Sal as he took the paper and opened it. ‘You must have run into lots of mates, eh?’
‘Some,’ Jack said. ‘Anyway, whoever wants to talk to me knows where to find me. Most people asked about our show and Dolores.’
Frances fanned her face. The sun bleached the sky almost white. A shot rang out, and the crowd roared as the horses streaked out of their starting gates. Her heart pounded in her ears as the black mare inched her way from second to last to runner-up position. ‘Come on,’ she yelled in unison with Uncle Sal, gripped by a feverish desire to see the horse win.
The mare stretched her neck longer, as if she’d heard Frances, throwing up a cloud of dust with every step.
The jockey in the lead began to whip the neck of his horse in a frantic rhythm. The black mare strained so hard that white foam dripped from her mouth. Half a length separated her from the number one, a quarter length, now they were neck to neck …
‘Oh, yes,’ Frances said, her mouth dry with excitement. Less than a hand was between the leading horses as the mare made a final effort and crossed the finish.
Jack pressed a filled cup into her hand.
‘She deserved to win.’
‘She sure did, kiddo. That was a great race.’ He tapped the pocket with his ticket. ‘A win of six shillings for us. Who shall we put that money on?’
Two hours later, Jack and Frances had pocketed six pounds between them, and Uncle Sal’s fondness of greys had netted him a handsome tenner.
Frances sighed as they made their way to the exit. She’d have liked to stay longer, but Jack needed to get home. She shaded her eyes to get one last good look at the horses, as the winner of the last race, a nondescript brown horse, was led to the blacksmith because it had lost a shoe when it came off the track.
The blacksmith signalled a slight boy of about fourteen to hold the horse while he lifted the hoof. ‘Bloody hell!’ he said, his mouth gaping wide. He let go of the horse’s leg. ‘I know this gelding, and if he’s a novice racer, I’m the bloody queen of the fairies.’
‘Damn,’ Jack said, steering Frances and Uncle Sal towards the exit as fast as he could. A throng of men surrounded the blacksmith, who backed against the wall of the stable building, squaring his shoulders.
‘What’s going on?’ said Frances as soon as they’d reached the car. She heard shouts from outside, although she couldn’t make out the words.
‘Trouble,’ said Jack. ‘A hell of a lot of trouble.’
Buy Links (including Goodreads and BookBub)
Title Murder Makes Waves
Author Carmen Radtke
Genre Cozy historical mystery
Book Blurb
All aboard … for mayhem and murder!
The Empress of the Sea beckons Frances Palmer, her fiancé Jack Sullivan, and her uncle Sal for a dreamy voyage to England at Christmas time. Their mission? To entertain with magic and stunts aboard the opulent vessel.
Yet, under the glamour lies a brewing storm—jealousy and thievery threaten the ship's jovial air. As the waves grow tempestuous, Frances, Jack, and their eclectic allies, including the endearing corgi Tinkerbell, set sail into a sea of mystery.
After a passenger's demise following a costume ball and an ally is accused, the sleuthing trio dive into clandestine investigations. But navigating these deceptive waters requires more than mere sleight of hand—the cunning murderer remains elusive.
Will Frances, Jack, and their companions triumph against this treacherous tide of deception?
Excerpt
The ship horn’s blast pierced the early morning silence of Port Adelaide. Frances Palmer’s hand slipped into Uncle Sal’s as they turned a corner and caught their first sight of the SS Empress of the Sea. The gleaming white ship dwarfed the tugboats on the next pier. Tiny figures swarmed over the deck. The gangway was lowered, ready for the first passengers to come aboard.
Frances wondered how many people would travel with them. The ocean liner appeared big enough to house a small town.
Her head whirred as they moved closer. It seemed incredible that for the next six weeks or so this would be their home, and twenty-three-year old Frances Palmer, who’d never been further than Melbourne, would travel half-way around the world to London.
Uncle Sal, who in his glory days as Vaudeville artist Salvatore the Magnificent had played the stages in a dozen countries, eyed the ship with admiration. ‘That’s a sweet berth we’re sailing on,’ he said. ‘See the elegant lines, with the sheer curve of the hull and that rounded stern? And did you notice how the funnel is placed directly between the two masts?’
‘She is a beaut,’ Frances agreed, despite her lack of nautical knowledge.
‘She’s fast, too,’ a low voice behind her said.
‘Jack.’ Frances spun around to find herself enveloped in the arms of Jack Sullivan, owner of the Top Note, Adelaide’s finest night club. And, although she had to pinch herself to believe it, he was her fiancé and the reason they were here.
Jack’s mother in England had begged him to come to her aid for some unspecified reason, and he’d invited Frances and Uncle Sal to come along. They’d work off their passage as Salvatore the Magnificent and his plucky assistant, Signorina Francesca, although Frances had her suspicions that being part of the ship’s entertainment would not cover all their expenses. It would be churlish to probe.
This was Uncle Sal’s and her dream, to perform together. Uncle Sal’s proper career had ended with a car accident that left him with a gammy ankle, and Frances worked as a telephone exchange operator to support herself, her mother, and Uncle Sal. He was her godfather, not her real uncle, and apart from Jack the most sophisticated and lovable man she’d ever met. He never complained about the change in his circumstances, or the hardship the Great Depression meant for everyone.
For now, though, the lack of money in people’s pockets allowed Frances to leave her employment for six months. When they returned to Adelaide, her boss had promised she could come back to her switchboard. In her absence, instead of employing a new girl, the other operators would divide up her hours between them.
Jack pushed a lock out of Frances’s eyes. ‘Ready?’ His gaze flickered to her trunk. It was half-empty, despite holding all her presentable clothes. With only a few days’ notice, there had been no time to go shopping.
If Frances was honest, she also didn’t want to spend any of her hard-earned shillings on clothes that might seem fashionable in South Australia but be considered dowdy in London.
England! Her heart drummed against her ribs. She’d be in London for a winter Christmas and all the magic that entailed. She wished her mother were here, to see Frances step onto the gleaming gangway with its handrails shining so white they reflected the summer sun.
But then Frances would have felt obliged to stay home whereas now, she was free of any obligation. Her mother was happy up in Queensland, helping her son and daughter-in-law preparing for the birth of their second child.
An elegant young couple stepped out of one of the buildings where passengers could wait. The woman had a fur stole around her shoulders, despite the day already heating up. Her hair shone black like a magpie’s wing and her dress could have come straight out of a fashion magazine. Her dapper companion was dressed all in white. He took her arm as she stalked away on her high heels. Behind them followed an older woman with a fur coat slung around her shoulders. Her dark hair showed no traces of silver.
Frances suspected an expensive hairdresser deserved the credit for that.
Three porters struggled in their wake, lugging trunks and carpet bags.
Frances glanced at her own outfit of green skirt and yellow jumper. Maybe she should have dressed up, too. Uncle Sal’s suit had shiny patches, but his posture would always be dignified. As for Jack, he looked perfectly at ease in his flannels, shirt and lightweight blazer. ‘Is it going to be all elegant folks?’ she asked.
‘Not likely,’ Jack said. ‘You meet all kinds of people on these voyages. And don’t forget, being rich doesn’t make them any better than anyone else, only less likely to worry about their bills.’ He signalled a couple of porters to pick up their luggage. ‘Shall we?’ Frances slipped her arm through Jack and Uncle Sal’s. ‘I’m ready for anything.’
They strolled up the gangway at an easy pace. Frances would have loved to race aboard, but it would have been embarrassing to behave childishly in public view, and she didn’t want Uncle Sal to make a wrong step.
She broke into a huge smile she couldn’t stop. Neither did she want to. What did it matter if other people realised that she wasn’t used to adventures like this? Jack’s Top Note was a classy joint, but the Empress of the Sea oozed money and an old-world elegance, born of centuries of knowing the Empire’s place in the world. Australia couldn’t compete with that.
Clacking high heels and giggles behind them announced more arrivals. ‘Excuse me,’ a high-pitched soprano said behind Frances.
She obliged and let go of Jack’s arm as she stepped as close to the handrail as possible. Three young women in fashionable dresses rushed past, leaving behind a trail of too sweet perfume.
Buy Links (including Goodreads and BookBub)
Title Death under Palm Trees
Author Carmen Radtke
Genre Cozy historical mystery
Book Blurb
A toast to New Year’s Eve - murder included!
In 1931, the French Riviera sparkles with New Year's promises, yet Jack, Frances, and Uncle Sal find themselves entangled in a web of intrigue rather than revelling in the anticipated soirée. Summoned by their hostess to discreetly recover stolen government documents, their plans take a plunge into covert capers.
With Frances’s evening gown exchanged for maid's attire, Jack turning chauffeur and guardian of corgi Tinkerbell, and Uncle Sal donning the enigmatic mantle of a retired Vaudeville artist, the trio dances through a house party of potential suspects.
Amidst casino nights and whispered secrets, tracking their targets without arousing suspicion tests their cunning. But just when clues align and the theft appears solved, a chilling demise under the Riviera's palms raises the stakes.
With the clock ticking, Jack, Frances, and Uncle Sal must wield every ounce of their wit and resourcefulness to untangle this labyrinth of deceit before another life is claimed.
Excerpt
Frances inhaled the tangy air outside the French station. It had a balmier quality than on the other side of the English Channel, and the Golden Arrow that had taken them from London to Dover, changed its name to Fleche d’Or for the journey to Paris. She pinched herself to make sure this wasn’t a dream. She really had arrived in France.
All around them bustled dark-eyed men with berets, smoking cigarettes and yakking away at rapid-fire speed. Women carried baskets with shopping as they hurried along the street.
‘Ready to board?’ Jack slung his arm around her shoulder, and they entered the station building, where Uncle Sal guarded their belongings.
‘I can’t believe we’re in France,’ she said. ‘I mean, you’ve been here before but …’ She clapped her hand over her mouth. Of course, Jack had been in France before, fighting in the blood-soaked trenches. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t be. It’ll be good to see the country in peace time.’
‘It’s a painter’s paradise,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘Almost as good as Italy.’
Jack and Frances both grinned. Although Uncle Sal had left his native country as a small boy, his loyalty had never wavered.
The only country that could compete in his opinion was Australia, where he’d spent the last seventeen years after half a lifetime touring from country to country. He had left Europe with months to spare before the war broke out.
‘Do you speak French?’ Frances asked the men. Her foreign language skills consisted of a few words of Italian Uncle Sal had taught her and she fervently hoped she’d not have to deal with French people on her own.
‘Not fluently, although I can get by.’ Uncle Sal helped her onto the stepping board. ‘We’ll take care of you, won’t we, Jack?’
‘Too right we will.’
They settled in their compartment, which they shared with two silent nuns who whiled away the hours studying the bible.
Jack held Frances’s hand as she watched the unfamiliar landscape fly by with an unsettling speed. The train to Melbourne which Frances had travelled on twice before had nothing on the Fleche d’Or.
After her original unease about racing along the tracks, the rhythmic chugging of the wheels lulled her into a doze. She’d spent most of the night before lying awake in Katherine’s guest room, fretting over possible mistakes she might make in polite society.
When she woke up, they were just pulling into the Gare du Nord. From here a taxi would take them to the Gare de Lyons. Frances allowed herself to be bundled into the car. She rubbed her eyes, intent to shake off her drowsiness. After all, they’d drive through Paris, the most romantic city in the world. Gleaming, high buildings and wide avenues made her gawk. ‘It’s bonzer,’ she said, lost for a better expression.
‘We could stop here for a few days on our way back,’ Jack said with a wistful note in his voice. ‘What do you think, Uncle Sal?’
Her godfather rubbed his hands in glee. His dark eyes shone with enthusiasm. ‘Absolutely. I’ll take you around Montmartre, and the Left Bank. Then there’s the opera, and we mustn’t miss the Louvre. But first, two weeks at the Riviera.’
***
‘Mr Sullivan? Here’s a telegram for you.’ A middle-aged wagon-lit conductor in a crisp tunic handed Jack a sealed envelope. His lilting voice held only a trace of an accent.
A chill ran through Frances. A second ago, she’d revelled in the beauty of the station with its ornate iron-work and palm trees on the concourse, and the glory of the fabled Blue Train itself. Now, she silently prayed that the telegram did not contain devastating “news. For someone, anyone, to pay for an expensive telegram, the matter had to be urgent.
The metallic taste of blood crept into her mouth. She had bitten her lip without noticing it.
‘Thank you.’ Jack managed a grateful smile as he slipped the envelope into his pocket. The conductor led Frances to a second-class sleeping compartment with two berths and a nifty fold-away sink in a corner. Her suitcase went into a luggage rack above the upper berth.
‘Yours is the top one, Miss Palmer,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’ Jack and Uncle Sal shared the compartment next to hers. She splashed cold water over her wrists, to help her calm down before she knocked on their door.
Jack unfolded the telegram as she sat down next to Uncle Sal.
‘It’s from Aunt Mildred,’ he said.
A wave of relief swept over Frances. At least her family was safe. Annoyance followed. ‘Does she no longer want us to visit? Why not ring us before we set off?’
Uncle Sal shushed her.
Jack perused the message. His jaw set in a grim line. ‘She still wants our company, but she’s afraid circumstances have changed. Something has happened, something bad. She’s asking for our help, and she mentions our adventure at sea.’
‘Another murder? That’s fast becoming a bad habit, my boy.’
Frances agreed with Uncle Sal. Dead bodies and the solving of murder cases had become all too familiar during the course of this year. During their ocean crossing, Aunt Mildred and her nephew Tommy had joined their investigation into the death of a passenger with relish. But she knew from experience how different it felt if the case struck too close to home.
‘I don’t think so,’ Jack said. He rubbed his clean-shaven chin. ‘Whatever it is, Tommy is going to meet us in Nice and inform us in greater detail.”
Buy Links (including Goodreads and BookBub)
Title The Case of the Christmas Angel
Author Carmen Radtke
Genre Cozy historical mystery
Book Blurb
Lights, Camera, Crime!
1932. With his partners-in-crime Jack and Frances off on their honeymoon, retired Vaudeville artist Uncle Sal intends to relive his glory days in London. As a man of many talents, it doesn’t take long until his old friend Molly Sweet secures him a small part in one of the new talking picture studios in London.
With his inimitable flair, he soon finds himself at home in front of the cameras, and backstage as well. But there are villains at play whose roles weren’t in the script, and Molly and her daughter need Uncle Sal’s help.
A starring role as a sleuth is nothing new for him, but this time he has to go undercover in a boarding house without the help of Jack and Frances.
Can he solve the case of the Christmas angel before his friends’ lives are shattered, or will his adventure in the movie world turn into a tragedy?
Excerpt
‘You can’t escape me,’ Uncle Sal snarled as he threw his knives in quick succession. Mildred sank to her knees. ‘Help.’
‘Keep standing,’ Uncle Sal said after a glance at the script pages. ‘I’ve pinned your sleeve to the door.’ He emitted a villainous laugh and flung his cape around his shoulders in a manner he remembered from the silent movies. As much as he enjoyed the new talking pictures, he held a soft spot for the exaggerated dramatic acting that until so recently had enthralled the world.
‘Would you really be able to pin a man down like that with a blade? It couldn’t be too hard to tear yourself lose, unless it’s very dense fabric. And can you really only hit the sleeve?’ Corgi Tinkerbell nodded to his mistress’s words. He loved this new game, although he never received the permission to chase the knives.
‘I don’t think that matters very much, as long as it looks right,’ Uncle Sal said. His new role, named Villainous Knife Thrower, demanded little of him in addition to the scene they were rehearsing.
While this bit would be set in the backroom of a gambling den, there was another one, when he stalked his victim. It saw him take two steps and then hide in a doorway as Christmas shoppers passed by. In a third scene, he would test the blades of his knives in the background.
He had decided to go with a smirk to accompany that action.
Mildred draped herself against the wall. Uncle Sal snarled again, ‘You can’t escape me.’ The door opened, just as the knife flew past. Tommy ducked out of the way, closer to Tinkerbell, who put a welcoming paw on Tommy’s shin.
‘Hello, Tink. Tell my aunt, she should put up warning signs.’
‘We will,’ Mildred said. She removed the knife from the wall, and just like that, the blade was there in its full length.
Tommy stepped closer and ran his fingers over the wallpaper. ‘Not a single groove,’ he marvelled.
‘The best props money can buy,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘Jack had them sent all the way to Australia for our charity show, but they’re made in England.’
‘I assume you have the part?’ Tommy grinned like an excited schoolboy.
‘He has. I’m sure this will be the beginning of a distinguished career,’ Mildred said with an air of quiet assurance.
‘How splendid. May I ask what role you are playing? A policeman or detective, to make full use of your skills?’ Tommy pulled a face. The young man had enjoyed himself immensely during the two murder investigations they had shared, or rather, were thrown into.
‘I’m to be a second-rate villain, with about a minute of screen time, if I don’t end up on the cutting floor,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘That happens a lot, Molly says. But at least the only crooks in this lot are all pretend ones. No more playing sleuth for any of us.’
‘What a pity,’ Tommy said in unison with his aunt.
Buy Links (including Goodreads and BookBub)
Title Murder by the Letter
Author Carmen Radtke
Genre Cozy historical mystery
Book Blurb
Haunted by the past …
1932. Frances is settling into married life with Jack and enjoying their prolonged stay in London. Her peaceful times end when she and her mother-in-law stumble upon a blackmail scheme, targeting a war widow they meet at the ladies’ only Athena Club.
With the woman’s reputation at stake, they need to find the blackmailer and put an end to his machinations. But when the intrigue escalates to murder, Jack and Frances race to investigate among war veterans and club members and identify the cold-blooded criminal, before the past claims more victims …
Excerpt
A whine outside the bathroom door interrupted her memories. Leo, a ten-week-old puppy named after da Vinci, had been another wedding present.
If she was honest, she appreciated his presence not only because he was irresistible, but also because walking him and caring for him gave her something to do. To be even more honest, the freedom of obligations which she’d looked forward to for so long had begun to lose its appeal.
She wondered if Jack felt the same. Back home, he ran the “Top Note”, Adelaide’s and maybe Australia’s best night club. He took care of his staff who consisted mostly of soldiers who’d served under Captain Jack Sullivan, and he made sure his people would be fine, no matter how bad times were in the Great Depression that filled the streets everywhere with hungry and unemployed.
Here, he took Frances sightseeing, entertained her and his mother, and he learned everything he could about photography. He was a gifted painter, and his mother had lured him over to London so he could decide for himself if he wanted to spend his life with the “Top Note”. He’d opened the night club because it offered him a “chance to look after all the people he felt responsible for. Now he had well-trained staff to run it for him, Katherine had wanted him to have a chance to decide if he’d rather pursue his artistic dreams.
It had worked, she mused, as she reached for her bath sponge. As much as Jack loved painting - and in Frances’s eyes he was every bit as good as the painters she’d seen exhibited in the National Gallery - he’d decided to use it and photography as relaxation from his real work.
He’d been invited as a guest to a photographic society where he spent a few afternoons a week, intent on neglecting neither Frances nor his mother while they were in London.
As for herself - she heaved a tiny sigh. While Katherine seemed happy enough doing the shopping, supervising the daily help, volunteering in soup kitchens and organising charity raffles at her ladies’ club, Frances had hardly anything at all to occupy her days. She didn’t want to cling to Jack, or to Uncle Sal who had snagged a second small part in a talking picture.
Who’d have thought that being a lady of leisure could lose its lustre so fast?
The maid had been deeply hurt at first when Frances insisted on tidying her and Jack’s room herself, fearful her work wasn’t up to scratch, until Frances explained she wanted to learn how to do things properly. Since she’d been in charge of the family home before she was twenty, she considered this a forgivable little white lie.
Occasionally she and Uncle Sal did the cooking, and she accompanied Katherine to the soup kitchen. That was the extent of her activities. In Adelaide she’d return to her old job, or maybe take over office duties at the “Top Note”, but here she found herself with too many idle hours. She’d read all the delightful P.G. Wodehouse novels, devoured Agatha Christie’s bonzer crime stories and Katherine’s ladies’ magazines, and she spent hours writing letters home.
The thin air mail sheets were expensive, but Frances had taken to combining several missives with the request to her mother to send or pass them on. This scheme satisfied Frances’s frugal soul and allowed her to write as often as she had something of interest to tell, unless it had anything to do with solving crimes and chasing murderers. Those thrilling topics she chose not to touch upon, to spare her mum any unnecessary worry.
The water had cooled, and Frances hurried to towel off and wrap herself in her bathrobe. Layers of clothes and hot water bottles had become a major feature of her routine. She’d never complain about the Australian heat again, she decided.
By now, Leo was dry and cosy too. He’d curled up on a chair by the fireplace and snored gently. Katherine poured tea, and suddenly Frances felt ashamed about her restlessness. Everybody did their best to spoil her, and she should be grateful. She smiled at her handsome husband, who buttered his second crumpet. “Weren’t you going out, or did my rescue get in the way?”
“Nothing that can’t wait,” he said. “The sun’s out again. If you want to, we could go feed the squirrels.” As if on cue, Leo opened one eye.
Frances chuckled. Her fascination with the lively animals which were unknown in her native country, hadn’t escaped anyone. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “You go and figure out your overexposure or whatever it is.”
His mother patted his hand. “I’ll borrow Frances, if that’s allowed, and we’ll see you at dinner?”
“Borrow me?” Frances perked up. Her mother-in-law, who’d divorced Jack’s father before the war, thanks to generous Australian laws, and returned to England with her second husband, was always fun to be around.
“Unless you mind,” Katherine said. “I could do with your assistance on a project we’re working on at my club. Ladies only.”
Jack’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Just let me know if you’re getting into trouble and need my help.”
Katherine arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him. “I assure you, darling, there is never any trouble at the Athena Club.”
These words echoed in Frances’s head as she trailed her mother-in-law into the club’s large sitting room, only to see a pale young woman stuff something into her purse and crumple to the floor.
Buy Links (including Goodreads and BookBub)