Story Idea:

Miner's Hollow Murder Club

I love me a cozy (or not so cozy) mystery. Agatha Christie and Georgette Heyer are my go to when I need something to snuggle down with on a gloomy day. As there are lots of gloomy days here in the PNW, I read my fair share of them.

So, why not try my hand my own? Here’s the opening ideas for a cozy murder plot involving a book club, a secret, and a sly old lady.

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The death of Mrs. Marjorie Jacobs came as a shock to all but her closest friends and her physician.  The man shook his head as he read the obituary in the local circular. Loved by all…generous…dearly missed… All true; Marjorie was a lovely woman. Stubborn, though.

Dr. Felps sighed as he folded the paper and set it aside to drain his coffee.

“Told her a thousand times,” he grumbled.

“Yes, dear?” Mrs. Felps asked vaguely from behind her own glossy periodical.

“Just a matter of time.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Could have extended her life six, eight months.”

“Yes, dear,” his other half agreed absently. “Should we repaint the house this summer? Turquoise is supposed to a favorite this year.”

Spring had already arrived, heralded by early perennials showing their colors in flowerbeds all around town. The daffodils adoring Marjorie’s casket were cheery and fresh, unlike the still, wrinkled face within. Though the undertaker was especially fond of the ‘old girl,’ no amount of dyed preservative or makeup could disguise the stiff look to her features. He patted her shoulder and straightened a loose gray curl.

“There you are, Mrs. Jacobs. I’ll let everyone in now.”

The ceremony was brief and heartfelt. As the newspaper had stated, Marjorie had been a lovely woman. The man at the podium reminded the assembled mourners of her qualities.  Though these last few years a widower and no children to her name, she always had a smile for her friends and acquaintances. While the eulogist spoke in a solemn voice about the blameless life of the deceased, heads leaned to each other in the pews.

“Brain tumor,” one mama of twins said in an undertone. Her stern hand clamped down on the wiggling leg of her child as he tried to reach a toy car dropped under the pew in front of them.  “Cancer, you know.”

“Terrible!” her companion hissed, delighted.

A thin woman seated in the back impatiently brushed a hat feather from her cheek.  The limp, shockingly pink adornment swayed with its mates in the breeze from the HVAC vent above.  “I told her not to live alone!” she murmured to her companion.  “A tumble down some stairs…” She trailed off meaningly and looked forward to seeing if any of the damage from said fall would be discernible in the open casket.

Elsewhere in the chapel, a man turned down the volume on his earpiece to correct his neighbors during a lull in the game.  “I heard she had plenty of money. Why else would she live in that great house way out of town? Why send for her nephew to read the will?” Play resumed and the man lost interest in the proceedings.  He had liked the woman well enough; standing vigil over corpses was gruesome.

They sang and one by one paid their last respects to their departed friend and neighbor. More flowers joined those already filling the fresh spring air with their scents.

“Poor Marjorie,” the mayor’s wife said, wiping her eyes.  “I will miss her.”

“But now we’ll have a chance to win at fair,” the rotund woman next in line commented, laughing a little.  Her handbag was excessively large, handmade, and the button on it declared: ‘I (heart) sewing.’ The mayor’s wife laughed as well and moved on.

Refreshments were provided by a group of Marjorie’s closest friends.  They were subdued but not upset, talking softly as they served scones and some of last summer’s jam.  The spring wind had given them a respite, so the bunting on the tables stayed where it had been tacked a few hours before. The temperature was even unseasonably warm.

Marjorie’s friends numbered five in total, a mix of ages from twenty-five to tiny Ms. Audrey Harper at seventy last December. Two were fashionable; the rest displayed the slightly rumpled and endearing appearance of motherhood. There was no obvious trait that linked them together socially other than their membership in the Miner’s Hollow Murder Club.

“Coffee?” Annie Smithson, Club Secretary, asked the doctor, holding out a plastic cup masquerading as ‘cut crystal.’

“Thanks.” He sipped and took a bite of his cookie, catching the crumbs with his finger.  “Lovely day for it, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Annie agreed. “Marjorie would be pleased.”

The doctor sighed.  “I told her,” he said, repeating the laments his wife had tired of yesterday.  “Should have come in sooner.  There’s treatment, could have extended her life.”

Annie smiled sympathetically.  “You know how she was, John.”

He laughed.  “Stubborn? Obstinate?”

“Pig headed?” Carol Hunter, another Member, added from the lemonade bowl just a few feet over. “Never told us - never said a word! - until a month ago.”

“I was so shocked,” Annie agreed, handing out more cups to hungry mourners.

“Came to the Club Meeting as usual.” Carol continued.  “Stood up in the middle of Unlucky 13 and announced she was dying! Nearly gave poor Audrey - Thomas, you put that down! - a heart attack.”

“No such thing.” Ms. Harper countered. She was very proper and German, a miniature martinet. Even her white hair held attention, refusing to budge under her hat as a playful gust of wind set attendees chasing their napkins. Her lined face relaxed in a slight smile, the equivalent of a laugh from so stern a visage.  “Perhaps a few palpitations.”

The doctor was depressed. “If only she’d listened!”

Ms. Harper gave his arm three precise pats. “Come, come, Doctor.  You cannot change what has happened. I see your wife is being bored by Mrs. Bradley.”

Dr. Felps nodded to Annie and Carol and went to rescue her.

“So, her nephew’s coming?” A sharp-faced woman was asking Adelle Martinez. Aside from being a Member and Vice President, Adelle was the only black woman in Miner’s Hollow. Her two young sons confused their teachers by speaking Spanish gleaned from their abuela. Their middle school friends were confused by the family’s lack of inner city or deep south ‘African’ culture. Their geography class hadn’t reached Latin America.

“Ah, si. Yes, Loraine.” Adelle passed over a slice of cake, the pale pink frosting bearing the ‘jo’ of Marjorie’s name. “Had business overseas and couldn’t be here until tonight.”

Loraine sniffed and speared her cake with a plastic fork. “Would have thought Heather would have been mentioned.”

Adelle fluttered her luxurious lashes in an uncomprehending way. “Whatever can you mean?” she asked in her sweetest voice.

Next in line was Mary Patterson, Club Treasurer, a large woman with a loud voice. She gave a great snort that irritated Loraine.

“Well,” she declared huffily, “They are cousins.”

Mary snorted again and handed one of Adelle’s boys, she was never sure which, an out of season strawberry large enough to distend his cheeks. Loraine gave a sniff of her own and moved away, wishing Marjorie had had the foresight to die in the middle of the week so the funeral could have been on Sunday instead of Thursday. Then her Chuck could have been present to agree with her strictures on the guests.

The fifth and final surviving Member of the Murder club sat in a corner. She was also distinguished among the small community of Miner’s Hollow by being the only blind person. Her aid dog lay content in the sun, ignoring everything but his mistress’ voice.

Robert Jacobs was the last to arrive at his aunt’s house. Though the upper story was dark, hidden amidst the budding trees, the lower house glowed warmly into the evening. Robert pulled next to a pair of battered minivans and turned off the engine with a sigh.

“Aunt Jo,” he murmured, shaking his head, a rueful smile on his face. It had been several years since he’d visited here.  But the porch swing had the same cushion from his childhood, the same collection of garden gnomes peered out at him from the profuse flowerbeds. A few with their brighter colors showed more recent acquisitions.

A large woman was smoking on the porch. She waved her hand at him as he crunched up the gravel walk and then turned to bark at those gathered inside. A chorus of replies answered and the front door swung open to receive him.

“Bobby!” an older woman called, coming out to meet him.

“Carol.” He grinned at the woman, returning her hug.

“Come inside and meet everyone.” There were more people than Robert expected, a few he didn’t recognize. They said their names, expressed how glad it was that he could come and how awful it was that he came on such an errand.

Robert replied suitably, though he was struck that no matter their words of regret, all but Doctor Felps and his aunt’s lawyer were laughing and talking. And Mrs. Harper, of course, but even she looked pleased in her reserved, patrician way.

“Are you hungry?” Carol asked, steering him toward the laden kitchen table. A half-eaten cake with his aunt’s name amid frosting roses took center stage. “There’s plenty left over.”

“Wasn’t the service this morning?” Robert asked, fending off plates of cookies and carrot sticks.

“Yes.” Carol answered, still smiling.

Robert glanced to the full living room, every seat taken and several children milling about.

“Oh, we’re all club members.” Carol said, as if that explained everything. “Of course, not the doctor and that lawyer person.”

Robert remembered. “The book club?”

“Yes, dear.”

Why his aunt’s book club would be at the will reading was a subject he didn’t have the gumption to broach. No doubt the explanation would be long winded. Though what Marjorie could leave to them, he wasn’t sure. He knew there was some money, which he already knew he would get most of, and the house. Maybe her books? But shouldn’t all the members of a bookclub own the same books?

“Mr. Robert Jacobs?” It was the lawyer, looking like he was tired and ready to go home.

“Yes. Sorry to be late.”

“No matter. I am Frank Johnson. If you would come with me?” Robert felt very dramatic as he walked through the living room with all those eyes on him. Papers were laid out on a table in an adjoining room Marjorie used – had used – for an office. The double pocket doors were open and when Robert sat at the table, he could see all the women’s faces peering at him expectantly. Except one, she was looking at the space between two of the windows, but turned to face him when he self-consciously cleared his throat.

“Here is the Will,” Johnson said, producing it with something of a flourish. Carol couldn’t help herself and bustled in with a paper plate loaded with food and plastic cup of ice water. Robert thanked her with a nod and told Johnson to have at it.

It was short and precise. Robert received some $25,000, the house, furniture, and various farm equipment stored in the shed. A charity got 5,000. The Murder Club (Robert rolled his eyes) another 5,000, to be shared equally and all her books. The rest went to pay off debts and to some other family members.

“And that’s that.” Johnson said, folding the document and placing it in his coat.

The woman began talking again and under the buzz Robert asked: “Was this all necessary?”

“Marjorie wished it,” Johnson replied with a shrug for a woman’s dramatics. “She did leave you this letter, which she wished you to read tonight.”

Robert, under Carol’s gimlet eye, took a bite of snicker doodle before he opened the envelope. He flipped open the plain paper, reaching for a drink to wash down the horribly dry cookie.

My dearest Bobby, Marjorie wrote. If you are reading this, then I have been murdered.

Robert choked, coughing as his gulp of water threatened to spray the next boldly written sentence.

I am sorry to spring the news on you like this. But there is no one else I can trust.

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