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  Murder on Lot B

  Starfire Cozy Mystery #1

  London Lovett

  Murder on Lot B

  Copyright © 2019 by London Lovett

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Murder at the Ostrich Farm

  Get your copy

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Wednesday, March 21, 1923

  Dear Mrs. Dewberry,

  Good morning and happy first day of spring from 314 Belle Court. And what a beautiful California day it is! It's me, Poppy Starfire, your new neighbor. Although, to be more accurate, my house is diagonal to yours in our wonderful little four bungalow courtyard. I hope you don't mind me slipping this letter through the mail slot. Our mutual neighbor, charming Mr. Crandell, mentioned that you preferred not to leave your house, so I thought I'd drop you a line or two or quite possibly more because once I pick up a pen, I tend to find too many words and before I know it, I'm at the bottom of the page. Believe it or not, I completely understand your hesitation at stepping outside your front door. I just thought you might be wondering what's going on in our big, bustling and occasionally silly world.

  Speaking of silly, yesterday there was quite an uproar at Duffy's Soda Fountain. (I'm lucky enough to be in the office right next door.) The twelve o'clock Yellow Car chortled past Duffy's, and a passenger was certain she spotted Gary Cooper walking inside to get a soda. Well, the hullaballoo that followed was nothing short of comical. For the rest of the afternoon, people were lined up all along the sidewalk waiting for a stool at the counter, hoping that they might sip an egg cream next to Gary Cooper. Duffy was beside himself. He had so many customers, he ran out of chocolate and cherry syrup. He never actually confirmed or denied that Mr. Cooper had stopped in for a treat. Like I said, it's a silly world.

  On the considerably less side of silly, the first roses of spring are already in full, fragrant bloom. Emily Beekman, the nice woman who lives at the corner of the block, has the most beautiful pink and yellow blossoms. She's such a sweet person. Last week, I stopped to smell the flowers running along her fence. She scurried out with a piece of gingerbread and raisin cake wrapped in brown parchment. It was a marvelously sticky, sweet confection that I'm embarrassed to admit I ate in rather unladylike haste.

  Let's see . . . what else. Oh yes . . . the traffic. It seems each day there are more and more cars replacing the electric streetcars. Daddy jokes that soon Model Ts will outnumber people. Of course, that makes little sense because there wouldn't be people to drive them, but Daddy tends to exaggerate. You'd like him, Mrs. Dewberry. He lives just fifteen minutes from here in a rustic little bungalow where he spends an exorbitant amount of time tending to his cactus garden. Yes, you read that right. The man is absolutely obsessed with those prickly, stodgy old cacti. (Isn't that a strange looking word for more than one cactus?) There's much more to him than gardening, of course, but there's too much to cover in one letter.

  Here I am bubbling on about cacti and Model Ts when I haven't told you anything about myself. I was born in the year 1900. Daddy likes to call me his 'turn of the century jewel'. Yes, he's that wonderful. I'm your typical girl with all kinds of dreams, far too many shoes and a thoroughly endless imagination. This might sound bananas but I'm a private investigator for the Starfire Detective Agency. I didn't start the agency. That honor belongs to my Uncle Sherman Starfire, only he no longer works there. Arthritis, an unspecified chest condition and several other ailments that Uncle Shermy takes great pride in cataloguing when asked have driven the famous P.I. Sherman Starfire into retirement in Palm Springs. (That's where Daddy first fell head over heels for a cactus plant. He also fell into it, which is a story for another letter). You'd like Uncle Sherman too, as long as you don't mind hearing about his tired knees or aching back. Anyhow, now I'm in charge of the agency. Unfortunately, things haven't been going too well. Our motto is 'no crime too big or too small', but I'm starting to regret the latter half of the motto. So far my list of investigations has included finding a woman's lost cat and discovering the culprit who had been leaving lumps of dirt in people's mailboxes. (Turned out to be a tree house club initiation stunt.) Then, of course, there was the infamous missing garden gnome caper. You probably didn't hear about it because, well, it hardly meets the criteria for newspaper headline. Suffice it to say, the gnomes are back in their proper garden and all involved parties have reached a friendly truce. What I really want is a good solid crime to investigate, something to give the agency a boost.

  Enough about that. You probably couldn't help but notice, considering how loudly my brother Jasper moaned and groaned while he carried in my furniture, that I moved in just two weeks ago. I am happy to announce that my boxes are finally unpacked, and everything is in its proper place. I can now call this perfectly marvelous cottage my home.

  By the way, while you gaze out your kitchen window, you might notice two cats sitting in my front window. They are my closest companions, or, at least, my closest companions with tails. The slinky, shiny black cat is Cleopatra. She is slightly aloof and vain. (She's constantly primping and preening). She always lets me know when she's hungry or in need of attention. Antony, the big fat silver tabby, is far more down to earth. He can't really be bothered with all the licking and grooming. You may have noticed that the top point of his right ear is missing. I wish I could boast that he lost it in a fight with a big tom cat defending Cleo's honor, but the real story is altogether less gallant. In truth, the poor boy got his ear stuck on a fence while chasing after a wily sparrow. But he's still lovable, even with the mismatched ears.

  I'll have to end my missive here. I can hear the rumbles and sputters of Jasper's car out front. Aside from being my adopted brother, he's my assistant and driver. There is such an outlandish story to go with his arrival into the Starfire family, I think Mr. DeMille should make it into a motion picture. I'll tell you about it one day when I have time. I do apologize for the terrible noises, but the car is ten years old and probably should have been sent to the Model T graveyard long ago. It used to be Daddy's Runabout, but he generously gave it to Jasper.

  Nearly forgot, before I go, Turnbill's Market has freshly picked oranges, the last of the season for two pennies a pound. They are absolutely the best tasting oranges I've ever had in my two decades plus life. Apparently, Mr. Turnbills' neighbor, Vernon, had too many oranges left on his trees. The poor man was being overrun by ground squirrels. He gave them all to Mr. Turnbill. (The oranges, not the ground squirrels.) Mr. Crandell told me your nephew brings you groceries once a week. You should men
tion the oranges to him. They really are a bite of sunshine.

  Your neighbor,

  Poppy Starfire

  P.S. If you consider this letter an impertinence or a nuisance, please feel free to dispose of it. I'd be mortified to think I caused any offense. I really just want to keep you posted on things out here in the wild world.

  I folded the letter, pushed it into the envelope and was just writing Mrs. Dewberry on the front when Jasper's knock rattled the door. The sudden noise sent Antony scurrying into the bedroom. Cleo had an altogether more dignified reaction as she stretched out on the couch to continue licking her paws. I hopped up from the chair and hurried to the door. I swung it open, hardly giving Jasper a glance, before swinging back around. The pungent scent of Brilliantine, the grease Jasper smeared in his hair every morning, followed my nose.

  "I've just got to get my hat."

  "Hurry it up, will ya? I left Charlie running. Took me a dozen cranks to get him started this morning." While most people referred to their trusty Fords as Tin Lizzie, Jasper had named his car Charlie after his favorite actor, Charlie Chaplin. He considered it a way to honor the man, but I wasn't convinced Mr. Chaplin would see it that way.

  My kitten heels click-clacked down the hallway to the bedroom. I took a quick glance in the mirror on my vanity, a smooth cherry wood framed beauty that had belonged to my mother. I twirled around once. The peacock blue crepe de chine dress fluttered just enough to catch and hold the trickle of sunlight streaming through the curtains. My best friend, Birdie, insisted the color would pair nicely with my dark copper hair and honey complexion. It seemed she was right again. It was a slightly too glamorous garment to wear for a day at the office, but I had plans to meet Birdie for lunch and she would expect to see her latest creation. Birdie was a budding fashion designer, and even though she was still just a coffee girl and thread sweeper at the costume studio, the designers let her have all the fabric scraps and embellishments she wanted. And I was, according to my dear friend, a much more shapely model than the headless dress dummies at the studio.

  Jasper had moved into the hallway to fill me in on his morning thoughts as I put on my favorite ivory knit Tam O shanter. A simple, jaunty tilt allowed a nice display of the two pin curls on my left cheek.

  "I guess Doc has finally accepted that his little jewel has moved out. He decided to turn your bedroom into a hobby room," Jasper called down the hallway. "Says he's going to start building birdhouses." Daddy, once a renowned physician, had volunteered to provide medical care for orphanages while he was stationed in Europe for the war. That was where he first met an undersized, underfed boy named Jasper whose boundless spirit and huge personality always made him the biggest person in the room. Even though the adoption papers had long since been signed, Jasper never stopped calling Daddy 'Doc'.

  I leaned down to the mirror to check my makeup. The spray of freckles, not too many but just enough to occasionally annoy me, seemed to stand out more than usual today. And my lips, which were also just full enough to irritate me, were having trouble holding onto the lipstick this morning. I dragged my pinkie along my bottom lip to smooth the line. I grabbed my silk shawl and my silver beaded bag and headed out of the bedroom.

  Jasper was standing in the hallway staring up at the family pictures I'd hung. Even in his smoky gray work suit and green bow tie, he looked far younger than his eighteen years. It wasn't just his diminutive size, a result of poor nutrition during childhood, that made him look young. Jasper's enthusiasm and energy for life made him seem less jaded than other boys his age.

  "Birdhouses? What on earth made him decide to build birdhouses?" I asked as I circled the shawl around my arms.

  Jasper popped his tweed newsboy cap on his head and adjusted the brim down low to shade his eyes. "Mrs. Stevens, from down the street, stopped by to say hello, and you know how once she gets started she doesn't stop. I swear to you she started the conversation complaining about the price of bread and she covered every other current event that's taken place in the last ten years before she ended up telling Doc that she wanted to lure more birds to her yard and did he think a nice cactus might do the trick. So, Doc told her he'd build her a birdhouse that she could fill with bird seeds and that would surely attract them. And there you have it. One long, drawn-out conversation that meandered through topics like a long stream through the trees ended with Doc deciding to build birdhouses."

  "Speaking of long, meandering answers to a simple question," I quipped as I hurried over to the small desk I'd tucked into a wall niche in the front room. I picked up the letter.

  Jasper motioned to the envelope in my hand. "Are you writing to one of your sweethearts? I tell you there isn't even a choice. Wyatt Blaze might have arms the size of cannons and access to all the movie stars, but Samuel Langston has so much dough, his pockets nearly hang to his knees. A real butter and egg man, that one." Jasper stopped. His brown eyes, eyes that took up nearly half of his small face, glassed over. "What I wouldn't give to take that Rolls Royce Silver Ghost of his out for a spin. I'll bet it feels like you're flowing down a river of melted butter in that beauty."

  I waved the letter in front of his face to pull him from his fantasy. "Come on, we're late."

  I reached for the door.

  "Yeah? Late for what? Watering the plants? Stapling blank papers? Watching the second hand on the clock spin around? We haven't had a client walk through the door for two weeks."

  I beamed proudly as I plucked my house keys up off the hook on the wall. I was finally living on my own, an independent woman, and I was still having a hard time believing it. Now if only business would pick up at the agency. I dreaded the idea of packing up and slinking back home in utter failure of my first adult venture in the world. Not that Daddy would mind having me back, especially after the million and one reasons he concocted for me to stay. Although, maybe with his new excursion into the art of birdhouse building, he'd be less keen to have me back.

  "Spirits up, Jasper, I think things are going to change soon. I can feel it in my bones." I opened the front door.

  "Is that like the way Doc can feel the weather in his knees?" We stepped out into the bright sunshine. There was still a lingering winter chill in the air. "You know he's wrong most of the time," Jasper continued as he dragged the brim of his cap down lower to shield his face from the sunlight. "Boy, if I had a nickel for every time he crowed that rain was coming because his knees were aching only to wake to the brightest blue sky. I keep reminding him we're in California and the odds are pretty darn good that his knees just hurt because he spends hours crouched down in his garden and not because rain is looming."

  My house was one of four on the same lot. The blue door on the house across from mine opened. Mr. Crandell, the nice man who ran a produce market in the center of town, stepped out with a small cardboard box filled with bright red strawberries. So far, Mr. Crandell was the only of my three neighbors to introduce himself and welcome me to our tiny neighborhood. He had perpetually round, pink cheeks and a gracious smile. There was much more hair on his bushy eyebrows than on the top of his head. Like Daddy, he was a widower. Both of his adult children lived on the east coast, one a lawyer and one an accountant, and he was rightly proud of both. When I asked if he'd ever considered moving east to be with them, he laughed saying that the California winters had spoiled him too much.

  "Morning, Mr. Crandell." I waved.

  "Please, call me Tommy. Glad I bumped into you before you left for work." Mr. Crandell and I met on the cement path that ran between the houses.

  "I hope I'm not being too bold." I gazed longingly at the box in his hand. "But I sure hope those berries are for me. I could smell their sweetness before you even left your front stoop."

  His grin grew wider, making his cheeks look like pink apples. "First of the season."

  Mr. Crandell handed me the box. Jasper wasted no time with a quick hello before shooting his hand into the box for a berry. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the curtain
s in Mrs. Dewberry's kitchen window flutter. Her face peered through a small slit between the panels.

  "I left a box on her front stoop earlier this morning," Mr. Crandell answered, anticipating my next question. We both smiled in the direction of her window. She snapped the curtains shut.

  "Na rery neighborly," Jasper mumbled over his bite of berry.

  "The poor dear has been through a lot," Mr. Crandell said in a low voice, though I doubted Mrs. Dewberry could hear us through the window pane.

  "You mentioned her only son died in the war," I said.

  Mr. Crandell pushed his brown wool derby farther down on his head as he nodded. "And her husband just months later. A bad heart or some such thing."

  The letter I'd written to Mrs. Dewberry was tucked under my arm. "I wrote her a little note to introduce myself and let her know what's happening on the other side of her front door. I hope she doesn't consider it too pushy or impolite."

  "Nonsense. I think it's a nice gesture." Mr. Crandell tapped the crown of his hat. "Well, I've got berries to unpack. Enjoy the fruit." He scooted past Jasper and me and headed toward the sidewalk.

  "Yes, thank you. We will." The sickly rattle of our car rolled toward us from the street. "I guess we should get going too. Otherwise, Charlie is going to run out of energy before we even make it to the office. I've just got to deliver this letter."