The Bachelor Girl's Guide to Murder by Rachel McMillan

Merinda fastened a small magnifying glass to the front pocket of her shirtwaist as Jem noted the wonders Mrs. Malone had worked on her previously overlarge trousers. As Merinda donned a tweed jacket and grabbed a walking stick that doubled as a sort of crowbar, Jem decided that rubber-soled ankle boots were far preferable to the fashionable heels she had to wear at Spenser’s.
    There was no threat of rain that night, so they walked—two men, or so they seemed—in companionable silence to the opulent hotel.
    Merinda whistled as they neared Yonge on the west side of the hotel. The King Edward took up half a block. The grand establishment was a fixed point in the kaleidoscope of the city.
    â€œWe’ll sneak in the back,” Merinda told Jem as they arrived and stared up at the big blue banners, Union Jack flags, and awningsannouncing, in gold monogrammed glory, the regal respectability of the place. “Head straight to the basement and the laundry. And if anyone asks, we’re lost tourists.”
    The security guard at the back entrance was flirting with a scullery maid and didn’t see them creep by. A few bare light bulbs dangled from solitary cords. The smell of bleach was almost tangible. Perspiration pricked the backs of their bare necks, hair tucked safely into their bowlers. They heard the gentle hums, ticks, and clicks of the underwirings of the hotel.
    The laundry room was cramped and its smell almost unbearable. Frowning women strained over great vats, their backs hunched and their muscles straining. Merinda and Jem shuddered.
    The oldest woman stepped forward. “Who are you? How did you get down here?” The rest of the workers, at a stern glance from the forewoman, resumed stirring the large, misty pots, focusing with tired eyes.
    â€œYour security was otherwise engaged,” Merinda said.
    â€œYou can’t be down here.” She was a robust woman with coarse red skin. She planted her fists on her hips while narrowing her beady eyes.
    â€œMy name is Merinda Herringford, and this is my associate, Jemima Watts. We are here on behalf of a client.”
    The forewoman thrust her face toward them. “You’re women!” A wave of babble and laughter rippled among the other workers, but she ignored them. “What do you mean, a client?”
    Merinda extracted a card and held it up. “We’re consulting detectives.”
    The woman wiped her bulky hands on her apron and inspected it. “Can’t read.”
    â€œ ‘Merinda Herringford and Jemima Watts, detectives for consultation,’ ” Merinda recited.
    â€œAre you really detectives?” The question came from a woman in the corner, chestnut hair tumbling from her cap.
    â€œYes, indeed.”
    â€œWho is your client?” asked the forewoman.
    â€œI cannot divulge that information publicly,” said Merinda regally.
    â€œI think… ” the girl said, but then she shot a sheepish look at the growling forewoman. “Please? I think I know what this is about.”
    â€œOh, go ahead. Anything to get them out of my sight. You have five minutes.” She clapped her meaty hands. “Girls, back to work!”
    Jem and Merinda walked down the gray corridor in the company of the young woman.
    â€œYou’re Brigid,” said Jem. “Tippy’s sister. You’ve been receiving the letters.”
    â€œYes. Yes, I have. Tippy told you?”
    â€œWe work together,” Jem said.
    â€œJust like you worked with Grace Kennedy,” Merinda put in. “Did you know her well?”
    Brigid was silent.
    â€œIf you know anything about what happened to her… ”
    â€œI don’t,” said Brigid. “I swear I don’t know a thing. I barely knew her. Just to say hello.”
    â€œWhoever’s sending these letters seems to think otherwise,” said Merinda. “Do you know why she was at Mayor Montague’s fundraising party on the