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  Praise for DEATH AT A COUNTRY MANSION

  “Sharper than a pair of scissors, more fun than a manicure, Daisy Thorne is no ordinary hairdresser and when her best friend’s mother is murdered, she combs through clues looking for the killer. Death at a Country Mansion has more twists than a French braid.”—Sherry Harris, author of the Sarah Winston Garage Sale mysteries and the Chloe Jackson Sea Glass Saloon mysteries

  “Death at a Country Mansion is a fun romp through the British countryside, with Daisy Thorne, hairdresser, leading a colorful cast of characters to solve the murder of her dear friend Floria’s famous mother. Daisy is smart, savvy, and full of spirit. This book has a delightful puzzle with a satisfying ending. Everyone who loves a manor house mystery will love this one.”—Nancy Coco, author of the Candy-Coated mystery series

  “Multiple suspects, myriad motives, and a missing Modigliani add up to murder at the manor. Louise Rose Innes is constantly twisting the story just as we, the reader, believe we’ve figured out the murderer. If you enjoy British manor houses, a touch of budding romance, and a good mystery (like I do), I highly recommend Death at a Country Mansion. ”—Vikki Walton, bestselling author of the Backyard Farming mystery series and the Taylor Texas mystery series

  “Death at a Country Mansion is a wonderfully twisty murder mystery that will keep the reader guessing while also bringing delight. I loved the characters, especially the employees of our sleuth’s hair salon, and the cooperation between sleuth and police is a refreshing change to the typical cozy tension there. Throw in a little romance, a little art history, and a gorgeous mansion, and you have a page-turner that is fun and intriguing.”—ACF Bookens, author of the St. Marin’s Cozy mystery series

  “Death at a Country Mansion is a wonderful debut by Louise R. Innes. The book opens at a stately mansion, Brompton Court, in a charming town in Surrey, where a famous singer is found dead at the bottom of the grand staircase. Our inquisitive sleuth and hair salon owner, Daisy Thorne, helps a handsome detective solve the murder. With an endearing cast of characters, including Daisy’s good friend, Floria, this tightly plotted mystery will keep you guessing until the very end!”—Tina Kashian, author of the Kebab Kitchen mystery series

  Also by Louise R. Innes

  Romantic Suspense

  Going Rogue

  Rogue Justice

  Loveable Rogue

  Wild Rogue

  Rogue Agent

  A Passion So Wild

  Personal Assistance

  Romantic Thriller

  Undercurrent

  Contemporary Romance

  Perfect Friends

  Holiday Fling

  2nd Time Around

  Forever Yours

  Falling For The Greek Billionaire

  Antarctic Affair

  The Italian Inheritance

  Romantic Novellas

  The New Year Resolution

  The Love Formula

  Death at a Country Mansion

  —A Daisy Thorne Mystery —

  LOUISE R. INNES

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise for DEATH AT A COUNTRY MANSION

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Teaser chapter

  About the Author

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Louise R. Innes

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2980-4

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2981-1 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2981-1 (eBook)

  For Karen

  Chapter One

  The ice in her glass tinkled provocatively as the scotch hit it. Another marriage in tatters. Her fourth, in fact. Serena shook her head and took a big gulp, feeling the whiskey encase her in a golden glow as it went down. Bastard. How could Collin do this to her? With an air hostess, of all people. What the hell was he thinking?

  She’d arrived home earlier that afternoon to find her husband packing. The lunch meeting with her solicitor had finished earlier than expected; otherwise she’d never have caught him.

  “I’m leaving you, Serena.” He tossed shorts and T-shirts into his suitcase, then fumbled in his dresser for the sunscreen. “I wanted to avoid a confrontation, but you’re here, so you may as well hear it from me. You’re a drunk. You’ve made my life intolerable. I’ve had it with your bitching and sniping, not to mention your blatant attempts to seduce every red-blooded man who walks through the door. Christ, you’re an embarrassment.”

  She’d been so stunned; she hadn’t known how to respond. Yes, her drinking had gotten out of hand lately, and she had tried to chat up that handsome, young musician at the summer party, but that was Collin’s fault for ignoring her. What did he expect her to do? He certainly didn’t touch her anymore.

  He continued, “I’ve met someone, someone who appreciates me. We’re going to the house in the Bahamas. My solicitor will be in touch.” Collin hauled the heavy suitcase onto the landing. It was the beige one, the same one he’d had on their honeymoon.

  Feeling a surge of rage, she’d stumbled after him. “What do you mean you’ve met someone? Who?”

  “None of your business.”

  “What do you mean it’s none of my business? You’re my husband, for Christ’s sake. Who is she?” She was screeching now, a horrid, high-pitched sound tinged with desperation.

  “If you must know, her name is Bernadette, and she’s an air hostess. We met on my last trip to Paris.”

  Serena stared at him. This couldn’t be happening. “How dare you walk out on me! And that’s my house in the Bahamas. I bought it and I forbid you to use it as a sordid shag pad.” Her voice rose hysterically, as it often did when she’d been drinking, and she’d had a bottle of sauvignon blanc
with lunch.

  He turned to face her, his voice unusually calm. Normally, they’d both be screaming at each other by now. “That’s rich, coming from you. And for your information, we put the Nassau house in my name, remember? For tax purposes. It’s mine now.” He smirked and picked up the suitcase to carry it downstairs.

  The grand staircase was Serena’s favorite feature in the stately old mansion, and the main reason she’d bought it almost three decades before. It seemed like a lifetime. She adored the glorious mahogany balustrade with spiral spindles that Violeta, the housekeeper, kept polished to a high shine, and the soft lilac carpeting with gold strips. It reminded her of elegant Venetian palaces and old-fashioned grandeur. She’d once performed for a select group of guests, standing at the top of the grand staircase. The rapture on their faces as she sung Puccini’s “O Mio Babbino Caro” had made her heart soar.

  Serena floundered after him, coming to an unsteady halt on the landing. “Please, Collin, don’t do this. Let’s talk about it.”

  He’d glanced up, but instead of looking at her, his gaze rose to the portrait of the woman she’d once been, which hung above her head. That’s when she knew it was truly over. He couldn’t even look at her anymore. She turned up her face to the painting, grasping the balustrade so as not to lose her balance. It had been commissioned at the height of her fame, and the beautiful, serene expression on her face made her heart twist every time she saw it. She’d been so happy then. Life had been magical. Her records were selling, her concerts were sold out, everyone wanted a piece of her. How had it all gone so wrong?

  “I didn’t want it to end like this, you know.” Collin’s face softened momentarily. “But you left me no choice. Living with you has become . . . impossible.”

  At that point, she’d fallen to her knees, tears streaming down her face.

  “I hope you find some peace, Serena.”

  And he walked out of the house, pulling his suitcase behind him.

  Serena hung her head and sobbed, great rasping sounds that resonated from the depths of her soul. The hand holding the tumbler drooped, spilling the drink on the Persian rug. She didn’t care. How had her life come to this?

  Age was a bitch. Once she’d hit fifty, her voice had gone downhill, no doubt helped along by the booze and the screaming matches with her husband. But without her singing, she was nothing, just an empty shell, and no matter how much she drank or how many lovers she took, she couldn’t fill the void. Her laser-sharp soprano voice, which had once captivated the masses and enthralled royalty, was no more. She’d lost that iridescent quality that allowed her to scale the fearsome heights of the most physically demanding music. She poured another drink, then another. Eventually, the sought-after haze descended and her head lolled back onto the headrest of the chaise longue.

  Serena woke with a start in the middle of the night and looked around in a panic. Where was she? Oh, yeah. She was still on the chaise longue, fully clothed.

  What was that noise that had woken her? Was it the front door? She listened, holding her breath. The room swam in front of her eyes and her tongue was parched. A wave of nausea hit her and she bent over, fearing she might be sick. God, she’d polished off most of the scotch. That was heavy, even for her. There was a loud creak on the staircase. She recognized it. The loose board before the landing.

  Someone was in the house.

  She glanced around for a weapon, but all she could find was the empty whiskey bottle on the side table. Grabbing it by the neck, she stumbled toward the door. Her heart pounded as she peered onto the landing.

  Relief flooded her body. “Oh, thank God, it’s you. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  She dropped her arm carrying the bottle, just as the intruder raised his.

  Serena screamed as she realized what was happening. Then came the hammer blow. Her head exploded in pain and she fell to her knees. The room spun, she was so dizzy.

  “Why?” She reached out, trying to grab something, anything to stabilize herself. Her hand folded around the balustrade.

  The intruder lifted her to her feet, and for a moment she thought it might be okay, but then he bent her over the railing. Her hand tightened its grip as she flopped forward.

  “No, please . . . ”

  The intruder pried her fingers loose. It wasn’t hard; she had no strength left. Then she felt herself falling. It was a strange sensation, and for a fleeting moment she felt weightless and free. Then the air was knocked out of her and darkness descended.

  Chapter Two

  Daisy was on her hands and knees weeding the garden when her mobile phone rang. It was the beginning of summer, and before she could plant the multitude of colorful potted geraniums she’d bought from the garden center, she first had to purge the beds of weeds. The pesky invaders seemed to have taken root in the spring, thanks to the unseasonably warm weather, and had multiplied at a speed to rival that of a time-lapse camera. The upbeat ringtone interrupted the audio lecture she was listening to on her iPad on the emotions of violent offenses, part of the forensic psychology degree she was studying via correspondence. She pulled off a well-used gardening glove to answer it.

  “Hi, Flo.”

  “Daisy?” There was a loud sniff. “Oh, Daisy . . . ” Her best friend’s voice wobbled, and Daisy could hear she’d been crying. It wasn’t like Floria to get upset. She was normally such a positive, bubbly person. Something awful must have happened to reduce her to tears.

  “Floria, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Mother. She–she’s dead.” The voice cracked.

  “What?” Daisy thought she’d misheard. The audio recording was saying: In violent crime, feelings such as humiliation, righteousness, arrogance, ridicule, cynicism, defilement and vengeance give the offender the feeling that he or she has a moral right to attack. Daisy reached for her iPad and pressed Stop.

  Floria’s voice was hollow. “Mother’s dead. She had an accident. Oh, Daisy, please, will you come to the house?”

  “Of course. I’ll meet you there.”

  Daisy didn’t need an explanation as to which house. Floria’s mother, Dame Serena Levanté, the famous opera singer—who had graced the pages of almost all of the tabloids at some point over the last twenty years—lived at Brompton Court, a stately home that lay halfway between Daisy’s small village of Edgemead and the slightly larger town of Esher in Surrey.

  Heart pounding, she dashed inside and changed out of her dirty gardening clothes into fresh jeans and a blouse, only pausing to wash her hands and run a comb through her blond hair, which currently looked like it could rival the bird’s nest in the elm tree outside. What on earth had happened?

  Serena dead? Floria had mentioned an accident. Had she had a car crash? Perhaps she’d been driving under the influence. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Daisy’s mind was racing as she jumped into her trusty Honda and reversed quickly out of the gravel driveway, nearly backing into Mr. Henderson’s flower delivery van, trundling up the road. He swerved onto the grassy verge to avoid her, then put his hand on the horn.

  “Sorry, Frank!” she yelled out of the window as she sped off in the direction of Brompton Court.

  * * *

  Floria Levanté was a socialite and reformed wild child, as well as being one of Daisy’s closest friends. She still remembered how they’d first met. It was a funny story, and one they took great pleasure in reminiscing over, especially after a few drinks at the Fox and Hound, the local pub. It had been Ladies Day at the prestigious Ascot horse races about five years before. Floria had bounced into the salon to have her hair done and Daisy had tended to her. The moment they’d got chatting, Daisy had known Floria was a kindred spirit. She’d brought out the prosecco, and by the time Floria’s hair was done in a stylish updo and her Piers Atkinson attention-grabbing headpiece fixed stoutly into place, they were firm friends. She recalled giggling over the horses’ names on the race sheet Floria was studying.

  “He was renamed Bun
ny Killer because he trampled over a bunny in his first race,” Floria explained, trying to keep a straight face. “I swear, it’s true. I know the trainer.”

  “Look at this one,” said Daisy. “He’s called Badly. Can you imagine the commentator? ‘Here we have John Smith riding Badly.’” They went off into peals of laughter.

  “Broomstick, now that’s a good name,” said Daisy. “Perhaps you should go for that one.”

  “Sounds like the perfect horse for my mother,” remarked Floria, setting Daisy off again. Dame Serena was known to be a veritable witch at times, but that fact was carefully kept out of the papers, thanks to the Herculean efforts of her long-suffering publicity agent.

  Floria convinced Daisy to join her and her friends at the races. At first she’d refused, not wanting to intrude, but thanks to the prosecco and Floria’s persuasive charm, she relented. So, after a manic dash home so Daisy could change, they’d caught a cab to Ascot. What Daisy hadn’t known at the time was that Floria ran with a very posh set of friends. All ex-public school girls who came from wealthy, Surrey middle-class families and worked part-time in Mayfair at art galleries, shopped in New Bond Street, and had memberships to private clubs. The men were university educated, with burgeoning careers in finance or banking in the City. Not the kind of crowd Daisy was used to hanging out with. However, once she got to know them, Daisy fitted right in. Her natural exuberance and easy sense of humor endeared her to all Floria’s friends. The Pimms flowed, the betting commenced, and by the end of a very long, boozy day, Daisy knew she’d made a friend for life.