Still Life with Murder (Nell Sweeney Mystery Series, #1) by P.B. Ryan

Author:P.B. Ryan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Nell Sweeney, Gilded Age, Boston mystery, governess, historical mystery, Historical mystery series, Boston governess, Opium smoking, Nell Sweeney series, Gilded Age mysteries, Boston Irish, Boston historical mystery
Publisher: Hawkley Books
Published: 2014-05-28T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

A knock came at Nell’s bedroom door that night as she sat at her drawing table in the sitting room alcove, putting the finishing touches on her sketch of the hop joint above Deng Bao’s grocery store. She glanced at the clock on the mantel; not quite eleven. It was late for Mrs. Hewitt to be stopping by, and Nell had already reported to her on the day’s events—quite an intense conversation this afternoon, during which she’d revealed Will’s opium addiction, and the fact that he made his living through gambling.

She stacked her sketches—this evening’s and those she’d drawn last night after Viola’s visit—and covered them with a blank sheet of paper before she rose to answer the door, mindful of all she had to lose should the wrong person find out what she was up to.

“I’m so glad you’re still up,” said Viola, seated in her rather rickety old third-floor wheelchair, when Nell opened the door and ushered her into the room. She had on one of her many kimonos, the lime green one; on her lap was the bulging needlework bag she used for toting things around the house. “I’m not disturbing you, am I? Oh, were you about to turn in?” she asked when she noticed that Nell was in her dressing gown.

“Not at all. I was just finishing up a sketch, but I’m so tired I’ll just ruin it if I keep going.” Was it Nell’s imagination, or was Viola a little tipsy? Her speech, normally so crisp and refined, sounded suspiciously thick, and there was something about her too-bright eyes and ruddy nose—although that could easily be from all the crying she’d done of late. Nell had never known her employer to have more than a glass of wine at dinner, two at the most.

That speculation was put to rest when Viola withdrew from her bag a bottle of amber-colored liquid, about three-quarters full. “Do you have a couple of glasses? I left my snifter downstairs. Anything will do.”

Nell fetched a small water glass and empty tea cup off her night stand and brought them to the drawing table, thinking this would be the first time strong spirits had touched her lips in over seven years. She exclaimed in protest as Viola filled both glass and cup nearly to the brim.

“I’m trying to finish it,” Viola explained.

Um... “Do you think that’s such a good idea, Mrs. Hewitt?”

“No, it’s a terrible idea. We’ll both have blinding headaches tomorrow.” Handing Nell the tea cup, she raised her own glass toward the half-open door to the darkened nursery, where Gracie was fast asleep. “To Grace Elizabeth Lindleigh Hewitt.”

“To Gracie.” Nell took a sip; the liqueur tasted sweet and nutty and a little musty, but pleasantly so...deliciously so. It went down like hot satin. “This is good.”

“It should be.”

Something in Viola’s tone gave Nell pause. She held the bottle in the light from the oil lamp on her drawing table to read the brittle old label through its fine, finger-smeared powdering of dust; it was a Hennessy cognac.

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