Recipe for a Crime
Recipe for a Crime
A Novella
Beth Ford
Peony Books
Copyright © 2024 by Beth Ford
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Printing, 2024
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
One
“It’s a great story for the women’s column,” Mr. Ellerbee informed Cassie. “Thousands of copies have been sold.” He tapped his pen against the red book cover to emphasize his point.
Cassie had glanced through the book they were discussing, and it was mostly a collection of recipes and advice taken straight from Mrs. Beecham’s and other sources. The thousands of copies sold probably resulted from men buying the book for their wives because they lacked imagination, not because women actually wanted to read it.
But she knew her editor was not interested in women’s reality, so she smiled and acquiesced. “Thank you, Mr. Ellerbee. I’ll talk to the author right away.” She picked up the book and left his office.
Back at her own small desk—tucked into a corner so she wouldn’t get in the way of the “important” work—she sighed and opened the volume to find the publisher. The address wasn’t far, so she decided to walk there rather than sending a note. She had to escape from these smug men and their refusal to give her any reporting work of substance.
***
Half an hour later she found herself in front of the address a clerk at the publisher’s office had given her for the author, Mrs. Horace Walker. The building was a plain brownstone, with the Walkers’ apartment occupying the top floor. Drab curtains hung in all the windows. Nothing about their residence indicated raging success from Mrs. Walker’s book.
At the street door, she rang the bell for the Walkers’ apartment but received no response. Before she could ring again, a young man with large mustachios stepped out of the building.
He paused on the step, holding the front door ajar. “Who do you want, miss?” he asked.
“I’m calling on the Horace Walkers.”
“You a friend of the missus?”
“No, I’m a reporter, actually. For the New York News Desk.”
He looked her up and down. “A lady reporter? Well, at least somebody’s finally interested in the case.” He pushed the door open wider. “Top floor.”
“Thank you.” She threw him a sweet smile as she entered.
Once the door closed behind her, she paused. She couldn’t make head nor tails of the man’s comment. What case? It was an odd way to refer to a book launch. She shook her head and started up the three flights of stairs.
***
The door to the Walkers’ apartment stood open, and male voices drifted onto the landing. Just as Cassie reached the top step, a man rushed past her, his face red with an emotion she barely had time to register—rage, most likely. As she approached the door, she saw the backs of two men, one standing by the fireplace, the other seated. She knocked gingerly. Both men swiveled to face her. The seated man jumped up and approached.
“Who are you?” he asked harshly enough that Cassie had to stiffen to avoid reacting to his startling tone.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Horace Walker.” She started to pull the book out of her bag, but when the man cast a suspicious eye at her hand, she stopped.
“That doesn’t tell me who you are.”
“I’m a reporter for the New York News Desk.” Shifting tactics, she pulled out her card and handed it over.
He inspected it briefly. “The New York News Desk? That rag is the best we can get?” He glanced at his companion, who nodded his approval. The man’s tone softened. “I suppose it will have to do for a start.” He waved Cassie to a chair. “I’m Daniel Greene, the Walkers’ lawyer. This is Mr. Horace Walker.” He indicated the man by the fireplace, who simply inclined his head in greeting.
Mr. Greene sat across from her. He wore a green silk waistcoat. His nails, too, were neatly manicured. She surreptitiously glanced around the room. It was a perfectly respectable, middle-class apartment, and at first glance Mr. Walker looked like a perfectly respectable, middle-class man. Except as he checked his watch, she noticed its fine quality, solid gold. And she admired the perfectly tailored cut of his suit and the supple leather of his shoes. The contrast between his attire and the worn fabric of the sofa pushed against one wall was odd. As was the way he stayed at the fireplace, arm resting across the mantel, as if he were holding court. Possibly his wife’s book sales had funded a new wardrobe but not yet a move. Perhaps he wanted to show his disdain for a lowly female journalist.
That, at least, was an attitude she had experienced before and could deal with.
