Of all times to travel to upstate New York, Megan Cary told herself as she hurried into Grand Central Station, it was at the height of a blizzard.
It is January 1928. Megan Cary, a young and stylish librarian, is on her way to the state library conference. On the train, Meg meets Janet Faraday who confides that she killed her son’s father six years earlier—and got away with it.
With her marriage crumbling, Meg can no longer tolerate her husband Adam’s moodiness and philandering. She harbored thoughts of divorce but murder?
During a family visit, Adam mysteriously dies. Meg finds a suicide note and the police want to quickly close the case. So does Adam’s mother Helen, the stern matriarch of the family. Skeptical that Adam would kill himself, Meg hires a private detective whose investigation ultimately unravels family secrets as a series of surprising deaths occur over two cold and snowy weeks in Albany.
Janet falls under a trolley and is killed. Yet a witness claims she saw someone push Janet to her death. Then comes the abrupt death of Helen’s maid. Soon after, a neighborhood busybody, who was present at the time of Adam’s death, falls down her cellar stairs and dies. Meg wonders if these deaths could somehow be related.
THE LATE MR. CARY is a classic mystery set in the stately home of an upper crust family in the 1920s, bringing the 1920s to life—amidst a parade of death!
Targeted Age Group:: Adults
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I enjoy history and especially the era of the 1920s. I set my mystery in the 1920s as it is a fascinating period in American history.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
As a librarian and foreign language teacher, I know the intricacies of research and have painstakingly recreated the historical setting in which this mystery occurs, as well as spent countless hours developing the book’s tightly woven plot. I look forward to writing further novels in this series. Relevant critiques of this work include participating in the NYS Summer Writers Institute and the Bouchercon Mystery Festival. The main character of my novel is also a librarian and the story is told through her point of view. In keeping with the times, she is also a flapper!
Book Sample
Chapter 1
January 1928
Grand Central Station, New York City
Of all times to travel to upstate New York, Megan Cary told herself as she paid the taxi and hurried into the station, it had to be the height of a blizzard.
She thought she must be foolish to take this trip. Yesterday afternoon, as she finished work at the library and read the notices in the newspaper, the weather prognosis hadn’t seemed too bad. Accumulating snow, which already created havoc for the Midwest was slowly approaching the Northeast. By late afternoon, the winds were predicted up to forty miles an hour and winter storm watches were posted. The picture worsened by the hour, along with Meg’s mood.
She looked up at the departures board. Then she found the staircase to take her to the boarding platform for the four-forty train to Albany. She shivered at the chill wind, thinking how lonely train stations could feel. She heard an announcement that her train was pulling into the station after a ten-minute delay. Her husband Adam told her he would meet her at the station to say goodbye before she left. He was too busy at the pharmaceutical company and as he put it “just couldn’t take time off.” She looked at the crowd and could not see him. But then she finally spotted him. He came, after all, to see her off. She called his name, but he was swallowed up in a mad rush of people. She caught a glimpse of his back, retreating up the platform. At that moment, an announcement was made to board the train. Meg turned, walked down the platform, and turned once more hoping Adam might be there. She realized she was blocking other passengers from entering. Abruptly she turned and boarded quickly but then found she had to fight another crowd,
only this time in the train itself. She saw an empty window seat. She put her suitcase on the rack above her head and then stretched out in the seat, filled with the mixed emotions of leaving home and her husband.
Megan Cary was on her way to Albany to attend the state library conference. Meg was employed as a librarian at the New York Public Library in Manhattan. She planned to stay with her in-laws who lived in Albany and looked forward to seeing her sister-in-law with whom she attended graduate school at New York University. Both she and Iris, Adam’s sister, were librarians. They planned to attend the convention. Meg enjoyed hearing about the state library where Iris worked, and they often talked shop about their diverse library endeavors.
She looked out the window at the darkness of the underground station, seeing her own reflection. At twenty-five, Meg had been told she was attractive. Although she knew she was not pretty, her golden hair was neat, her white skin and delicate features a source of gratification. She was sensibly dressed in a long skirt and a heavy fur coat to keep warm. She wore a light lipstick, some earrings, and a string of pearls. Overall, as she finished brushing her hair and replaced the brush in her purse, she was pleased with her appearance.
As if in a trance, she continued looking out the train window. The feelings she had experienced prior to boarding suddenly came back, quite strongly. It wasn’t the idea of leaving her husband Adam. She thought more than once of leaving him and even considered not returning to New York City after the convention ended. She thought of staying in Albany, making a new life for herself. But she knew she would never be free of Adam. And with her mother-in-law in Albany, that would be foolish.
She tried to shrug it off. It’d be good to get away for awhile. She’d go shopping with Iris when she had spare time. Satisfied with her plans, she opened her pocketbook, not exactly sure what she was looking for. Lipstick, her wallet, aspirin, loose change, business cards. She looked through the cards, her hairdresser, a florist, Sloane Sheppard. She looked again at this last card. Her mind raced back several years. She had met Sloane at the New York Public Library when he was there for research. She had helped him find information from the 1920 census for somebody or other, she couldn’t remember. He was a private investigator and a librarian, too. Didn’t she read how some wives had their husbands investigated if they suspected infidelity?
She saw the New York Times stuffed in the magazine holder in the seat ahead of her. The article on the front page made her look twice and shake her head in disbelief.
Meg read about Ruth Snyder, a housewife from Queens who killed her husband and was put to death yesterday, January the twelfth, for her crime. She died in the electric chair in Sing- Sing Prison! She shivered as she looked at the photograph of Ruth Snyder strapped in the electric chair and the article underneath it. She wondered incredulously how a wife could kill her husband. Did that really happen? Apparently so, she mused and continued reading the Snyder article.
Her reverie was broken by a conductor walking down the aisle and loudly announcing a weather-related delay. Meg sighed impatiently at another delay when suddenly another conductor approached and stopped at her seat.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked Meg and didn’t wait for a response before he said, “Here’s a seat, ma’am!”
So much for polite conductors, Meg thought. She looked up to see a woman hastily making her way down the aisle.
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” the woman called. She smiled at the conductor, and then sat down rather eagerly next to Meg.
She was hoping no one would sit next to her and that she’d be alone for the entire trip. But with the way the train was filling up Meg realized that was highly unlikely.
She then smiled despite herself as she looked at the woman next to her. She seemed like an agreeable sort, middle age at the most. She had gray hair of a pretty tone and was sensibly dressed in a long skirt, blouse, and a heavy sweater. She had a winter coat on her lap and on the floor near her feet was a rather large traveling bag from which she extracted a ball of yarn. She immediately began to knit. The conductor hoisted her suitcase onto the rack above and then took his leave.
“These trains never leave on time,” the woman said, consulting her watch. “We were supposed to leave about fifteen minutes ago.”
“I heard someone say the weather up north is worse,” Meg commented.
“Oh, don’t worry, dear," the woman said pleasantly. “Where are you headed?”
“Albany.”
“Oh, how nice. Don’t worry about the snow. The trains run in any weather!”
“Where are you going?”
“To Plattsburgh. Northern New York is beautiful in January.”
“I’ve lived in New York City my whole life,” Meg said, “the seasons are lovely.” “New York isn’t usually this snowy,” the woman commented.
She paused and looked out the window, at the darkness of the underground of Grand Central Station.
“My name is Mrs. Irene Hanson," she said and smiled.
“Megan Cary,” Meg said. “You look as if you’ve traveled by train before.”
“Many times, dear,” Mrs. Hanson smiled. “I never learned how to drive.”
Meg smiled and hoped the conversation would end there. In the somewhat melancholy and reflective mood she was in, she did not feel like exchanging small talk with a stranger. But the woman seemed intent on continuing the conversation.
“Will you be visiting someone in Albany? Or do you live there?”
“Yes, I’m staying with my in-laws and it is for business,” Meg said. Before Mrs. Hanson could ask what type of business, Meg added, “I’m a librarian. I’m attending the state library convention.”
“How exciting,” Mrs. Hanson commented.
“I work at the New York Public Library,” Meg said, “I enjoy helping patrons.” She
thought that wasn’t saying much. It seemed to bring an end to the conversation, for Mrs. Hanson smiled, leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
The train now jerked forward, doors were slammed shut and after a delay that seemed to Meg an eternity the locomotive drifted slowly out of the station. She also must have dozed until Mrs. Hanson roused her with another question.
“Is there a cafe car? I should wait till the conductor has checked my ticket.” Meg told her she heard a ticket agent mention a cafe car several cars back.
“Do you have children?” Mrs. Hanson asked suddenly.
Meg looked at her curiously and was rather taken aback by her bluntness. Does she have children? What business was that of hers? Just what she needed; a busybody as a traveling companion, prying into things that were not her concern. But then Meg forced a short smile and knew Mrs. Hanson meant no harm by her question.
“My husband and I plan to have children eventually. He’s a chemist and is busy with his work.”
“I have just one son,” Mrs. Hanson commented somewhat sadly as if she either regretted it or regretted not having another.
“Well, Adam had never really wanted…”
Meg stopped suddenly. People passing in the aisle, the train at full speed, the conductors checking tickets; everything you’d expect to see and hear on a train was going on this moment and here she was telling her personal life to a complete stranger.
Really Meg, she thought, you don’t know this woman. Yet she seemed so kind with that benign face. Meg felt, somehow, that she could confide her innermost feelings to her, as if all her pent-up frustrations could be understood by the kindness of this total stranger.
“Is there something wrong, dear?” the woman asked sympathetically as though she could read her mind. Perhaps, Meg thought, she could. “Of course, it’s none of my business,” she continued.
Meg found herself nodding. “My husband Adam and I have had our share of problems. He gets moody at times.”
She looked out the window. In the glass she saw Adam going up the platform. Why hadn’t he tried to get nearer to her? Of course, the mad rush of people. Was that the cause of her apprehension? The fact that she didn’t kiss her husband good-bye. That deep down she felt she couldn’t trust him? That he may be seeing someone else, especially in her absence. Meg awoke from her reverie to hear Mrs. Hanson ask her another question.
“Did he bring you to the station?”
Meg nodded. “He met me there because he was extremely busy at work. I just missed him in the crowd. We’re successful in our own careers.” She spoke as if she was trying to convince herself that what she was saying was true.
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that, dear. I never had a career. Many years ago, a man caused me great pain. But I took care of it.”
Meg asked, “Are you divorced?”
“Oh no, dear.” Mrs. Hanson looked appalled at the thought. “He already had a wife, which I didn’t know at the time. And was involved with another woman, too. Besides, people in small towns rarely divorced, too scandalous. So, I did away with him.”
If Mrs. Hanson had been the type of woman who enjoyed causing an impact, perhaps one that an actress would give upon reading a dramatic line or an army general upon giving orders to attack, then she’d have been pleased at the expression on Meg’s face.
“Don’t look upset, dear,” Mrs. Hanson said pleasantly. She continued knitting placidly. “It was an accident. Well, at least it seemed like one.”
“When did it happen?” Meg asked in disbelief.
“Six years ago,” she answered and sighed.
Meg swallowed hard and went white. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ve never told it to anyone. Strange how I felt I could confide in you.”
Yes, it was strange, Meg thought, because she felt the same way about her.
“He was on trial for murder?” Meg asked.
“Yes, my son’s father was accused of killing his girlfriend’s husband. He and the other man struggled with a gun; the other man was shot and died instantly. He said the man pulled on gun on him first. I believed he had the gun and they argued, struggled, and the gun went off. He had a great attorney, too.”
“Wasn’t there proof of his guilt?”
“Hardly any,” Mrs. Hanson said rather scornfully. “With his acquittal, he was even more arrogant and wouldn’t think of changing his lifestyle. He was drunk, and that morning was nothing new. I fixed some coffee and crushed a few tablets in it to make him sleepy. When we were getting ready to go to the lawyer’s office, I told him to go to the garage to warm up the car. It was winter then and cold just like it is today. As we were about to take off, I told him I left my gloves in the kitchen. I waited a few minutes, then returned to close the garage door and went back inside the house.”
“You mean he…”
Mrs. Hanson’s needles clicked. “Yes, dear, carbon monoxide. It happens all the time in winter. People sit in their cars to get them all warmed up and then fall into a nice, deep sleep and never wake up again. When his attorney called, I pretended I just woke up and then went to the garage. When I went back to the phone, I cried and carried on for the lawyer.” She paused. “I regretted doing it at first but when I think of how I suffered because of him, I have no regrets.”
“And did the police suspect you of killing him?”
Mrs. Hanson shook her head and continued knitting. “No, dear, no breath of suspicion fell on me. It was deemed an accident and was soon forgotten.”
Meg was dumbfounded. With her mouth open, she looked at Mrs. Hanson. She didn’t know whether to believe the woman. How could she kill someone and get away with it? This sweet woman a killer? She fought a desire to laugh. Did she expect Meg to believe her?
“Please don’t tell anyone,” Mrs. Hanson whispered. “No one would believe it anyway.” She put her knitting in the magazine holder. “But you know, it really is quite easy to kill someone,” she added upon reflection. She looked around and then at Meg. “I’m dying for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. Care to join me?”
“No, thank you,” Meg said. She watched as Mrs. Hanson walked down the aisle and disappeared into the next car.
She looked out the window, saw the Hudson River covered in snow and wondered where they were. They could not be too far from Poughkeepsie. She would have to contend with this excitable woman for just two more hours. She settled more comfortably in her seat. She decided to put this woman with the overactive imagination out of her mind and she soon fell asleep.
Author Bio:
As a librarian and foreign language teacher, author Michael Campeta knows the intricacies of research and has painstakingly recreated the historical setting in which this mystery occurs, as well as spent countless hours developing the book’s tightly woven plot. He looks forward to writing further novels in this series. Relevant critiques of this work include participating in the NYS Summer Writers Institute and the Bouchercon Mystery Festival.
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