Murder at the Galvez
by Kathleen Kaska
We are delighted to welcome back mystery author Kathleen Kaska to Omnimystery News.
Kathleen's third mystery to feature Sydney Lockhart is Murder at the Galvez (LL-Publications, December 2012 trade paperback and ebook formats), with the intrepid reporter checking in this time to the historic Galvez Hotel in Galveston, Texas. (All the books in this series feature a hotel in their title.)
Today we're pleased to provide an excerpt from the book. And Kathleen is offering our readers a chance to win a copy of Murder at the Gavlez; just leave a comment and let us know about your favorite historic hotel.
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IT TOOK ME JUST TWO MINUTES BEFORE I spotted Lattie at a table with a group of people. True to my word, I went back outside and wave to Dixon once again. He was leaning on my car, fedora titled, feet crossed at the ankles, looking too good to be true. I went back in and ordered tonic water with lime. Lattie's table was near the ladies' room. I took my drink and moseyed by pretending not to see her. I don't exactly blend in with my height and long red hair, and sure enough, I'd just passed her table when I heard, "Sydney, Sydney, what are you doing here, girl?"
I turned and feigned surprise. I placed my hand over my eyes to get a better look at who was calling me.
"Sydney, darling. It's me. Lattie Lavelle. What are you doing here?" she asked again.
"I'm with some friends." I pointed to the other side of nowhere.
"Well, I should hope so. This is no place for a single woman alone," then quickly added, "I'm here with friends, too. Set down and I'll introduce you."
"Oh, I don't want to intrude."
"Don't be silly. We're all one big family here on the island."
"Whose family?" I wanted to ask.
"What are you drinking?"
I held up my glass. "I just got a drink. I'm fine."
She reached up and pulled the sleeve of my jacket. I jerked back a bit. Still self-conscious about wearing the gun and holster, I needed to be careful. "Sorry, I said. "I almost tripped. It's packed in here."
"It's like this every Friday night. Nelson, get up and find the lady a chair. You've got the manners of a warthog."
Nelson quickly did as he was told, and I had a seat between Lattie and a guy who was comatose. He chin rested on his chest and a trickle of drool seeped from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were open.
"Sydney, this is Marge." Lattie pointed to a lady who must have been pushing eighty. The only thing that kept her face from falling into her lap was the pancake makeup that had cemented in place her wrinkles and sags. "And this is her husband, Beanie." Beanie had either taken better care of himself, or was about thirty years Marge's junior. He wore a signet ring with a diamond the size of a prune. More diamonds studded his wristwatch, which lost their luster when I noticed the dirt under his nails. If I had to guess, Marge was the financial backer of Beanie's jewelry. Even in her advancing age, the way she held herself spoke of old-world class.
"Nelson and I went to school together, didn't we Nelly." Lattie blew him a kiss.
"Class of 190—"
Lattie's elbow met with Nelly's solar plexus, momentarily knocking the breath out of him. "Oh, Sydney's not interested in old history," Lattie interrupted. "And this guy," she pointed to the drooler, "is Roger Hawthorne III. We just call him Thorny. He's from England and has a title."
I turned and gave Thorny another once-over, looking for the slightest sign of royalty. His suit was expensive, but had seen better days. He had a frayed red satin hanky peeking out of his jacket pocket. I stared at his chest for a moment. Not seeing it rise, I asked, "Is he okay?"
"As right as rain," Nelly said in a poor imitation of an English accent. Then, he slapped Thorny on the back.
"What? Huh? What, I say?" Thorny sputtered to life. "Had a bit of a wink wink, did I?" He looked around and wiped the drool from his chin. "Stand one on me." He raised his hand to the bartender and then noticed me. "And who might you be, madam?"
"This is the daughter of my close friend. Her name is Sydney."
"Looks like me own granddaughter back in Sudbury." Then he snorted once and his head feel back into position; eyes opened. I turned away before the drooling began.
Nelly shoved his way to the bar to pick up the round of drinks Thorny had ordered. Beanie attempted to get Marge out of her chair for a spin on the dance floor.
"How's your poor father," Lattie said. "The Galveston police are such nincompoops. Your father wouldn't hurt a fly."
Since The Lush brought up the subject, I dove right in. My lip quivered, my eyes squinted shut. I pulled out a tissue and pretended to bawl. "I … I can't believe this is hap … hap … happening. I don't know who to turn to."
"Dear, dear," Lattie scooted closer to me and threw her arm around my shoulder. The smell of bourbon was strong enough to pickle my eyes. "You can talk to Lattie, now."
"I'm being such a fool. I know things will work out. It's just that, Dad and I have always been able to talk, and now, he's like a different man. I'm so worried. I've been with him all day trying to get him to talk to me and finally I just gave up." I picked up my fake cocktail. "And this won't help."
"A little bird told me that things will clear up in a day or two."
I wondered if that little bird smoked Luckies and wore a fishing cap covered with lures.
"I sure hope so. After all, he can prove that he was with others at the time Roland was killed. But what worries me is why he confessed in the first place. He said he was protecting me, but I have an alibi, too. No," I drew in a deep breath and squared my shoulders, "there's something else. I just know it! But, I shouldn't be telling you all this."
Nelly sat everyone's drinks on the table and picked up my hand. "I can cut a pretty fine rug, young lady. Care to find out?"
"Oh, Good Lord, Nelly, can't you see the girl is upset. Now, run along and try your luck with one of those dames at the bar."
Nelly let go of my hand, grabbed Thorny under the arm, and pulled him to his feet.
"Wha? Wha?" He raised he hand. "Stand a round—"
"No, no, Hawthorne, you just did that. We're going to charm the ladies at bar." The accent was back. "Tally ho, and God save the Queen, and all that rot." The two old codgers stumbled away and Lattie said, "Now, we can talk, darling." She took a tall swig of her drink. "You're dad's been troubled lately."
"I know. This murder and the anniversary mess, and just last month I was in jail. Oh, I'm such a burden to him."
"You are not! He is so proud of you, Sydney Jean Lockhart. He can't speak your name without smiling ear to ear." She hiccupped and another wave of bourbon-scented breath stung my eyes. She swigged again, draining her glass. The next one was ready and waiting thanks to Thorny standing another round. "I happen to know," she put her finger to her temple, "the little bird again, that the trouble started a while back."
"Are you talking about Brewster Fallow?" If she was surprised at my knowing this she didn't show it. She plunged right ahead.
"Brewster Fallow, that snake. They should have kept him in jail."
"You knew him?"
"I've been around Galveston a long time, darling."
"You must remember when my grandfather was murdered."
"Tragedy, real tragedy. They never found who did it."
"I have a feeling Fallow knew, and that's why Dad was spending time with him."
"I shouldn't say this, but Brewster Fallow got what he deserved."
"You think he killed my grandfather?"
"I've said too much."
I covered my eyes and began blubbering.
"Oh, dear, dear, please don't do that. It's just best to let sleeping dogs lie."
"I can't. I just can't"
"Listen, honey, back a long time ago, Galveston was a rough place. The town was run by a gaggle of gangsters and anyone who crossed them seemed to disappear."
"My grandfather, he was one of those who disappeared?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Things don't seem much better today if you ask me. I've been here less than a week and two men have been killed. I know all of this is connected and I plan to find out how. I just don't know where to go to information."
The alcohol was taking its toll on Lattie. Her eyes seemed to move in opposite directions.
I decided it was time to leave when Lattie whispered, "the hotel."
"What?" I asked.
"The hotel."
"The Galvez?"
"Be careful."
She leaned forward and I plucked her glass out of the way, but wasn't quick enough to keep her face from falling onto the table. I placed her sweater under her head as a pillow and hurried out before the rest of the party returned.
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Photo provided courtesy of
Kathleen Kaska
Kathleen Kaska is a writer of fiction, nonfiction, travel articles, and stage plays. When she is not writing, she spends much of her time traveling the backroads and byways around the country with her husband, looking for new venues for her mysteries and bird watching along the Texas coast and beyond. It's tough having been born with the original sin of wanderlust. Nonetheless, her laptop is nicely stowed in her bag and a bird-reference book and binoculars are always on the front seat.
To learn more about Kathleen and her work visit her website at KathleenKaska.com or find her on Facebook.
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Murder at the Galvez
Kathleen Kaska
The Sydney Lockhart Mysteries
Eighteen years after discovering the murdered body of her grandfather in the foyer of the historic Galvez Hotel, Sydney Lockhart reluctantly returns to Galveston, Texas to cover the controversial Pelican Island Development Project conference. Soon after her arrival, the conference is cancelled; the keynote speaker is missing. When his body turns up in the trunk of Sydney's car, she's hauled down to the police station for questioning.
The good news is Sydney has an alibi this time; the bad news is she finds another body — her father's new friend — he's floating facedown in a fish tank with a bullet in his head. Her father's odd behavior and the threatening notes delivered to her hotel room leads Sydney to suspect that her grandfather's unsolved murder and the present murders are connected.
As if this wasn't bad enough, just a few blocks from the hotel at her parents' home, people are gathering, sparks are flying, another controversial event is in the planning, one that just might rival the Great Storm of 1900.
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