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The Dressing Table Murder: Bethancourt & Gibbons Mysteries, #1
The Dressing Table Murder: Bethancourt & Gibbons Mysteries, #1
The Dressing Table Murder: Bethancourt & Gibbons Mysteries, #1
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The Dressing Table Murder: Bethancourt & Gibbons Mysteries, #1

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Bethancourt & Gibbons mysteries are a series of traditional British cozies in a modern setting. Phillip Bethancourt is a wealthy man-about town and amateur sleuth. His best friend is Detective Sergeant Jack Gibbons, a rising star at Scotland Yard. Together they can suss out even the most complex cases.

The Dressing Table Murder is the first short story in the series, originally published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. There are also four novels published by St. Martin's Minotaur.

"Literate and charming mysteries." —Booklist
"An enjoyable outing into Dorothy Sayers territory." —Publishers Weekly
"The author tells a tale that is part crime story, part family drama, part buddy flick, and part love story---a combination that makes for enjoyable reading."
—School Library Journal

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJul 11, 2016
ISBN9781311557452
The Dressing Table Murder: Bethancourt & Gibbons Mysteries, #1
Author

Cassandra Chan

Cassandra was born in Manhattan and brought up in Westport, CT. This was back when Westport had woods and meadows instead of McMansions. She had an idyllic childhood and emerged from her toddler years as a rather odd girl who loved stories. She finished her first novel at age 8. It was entitled "Polly" and was an epic 36 pages in large, childish handwriting, including--wait for it--color illustrations! She was in her pastel period at the time. Time passed. Adolescence arrived. Difficult times were had. Growing up (in the purely physical sense) was accomplished. She grew into a rather odd young woman who loved stories. Cassandra attended Bard College, and received a literary agent as a graduation present. Unfortunately, the book did not sell. Cassandra moved to New York and started writing fantasy novels which also did not sell. Strangely, during this time her reading consisted almost entirely of mystery novels. While devoting herself to the goal of acquiring a misspent youth, she began to discover sf novels other than The Lord of the Rings and books by Samuel Delany. While waiting for her favorite mystery authors to come out with their next one, she began voraciously reading fantasy. Strangely, during this time she began to write mysteries. 1988 arrived. Kathleen Jordan (may she rest in peace and bliss) at Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine accepted the first Bethancourt short story for publication. Cassandra immediately wrote another. And another. (See the complete list at the Short Stories link.) Meanwhile, Cassandra began writing a novel based on the short stories. It was eventually published as The Young Widow. Much jubilation ensued at the Chan household. She settled down and began to write the series. Since then, she has gotten older and written a lot. Through sheer bad luck, she is now living in Florida while hankering after New York. She remains a rather odd person who loves stories.

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    Book preview

    The Dressing Table Murder - Cassandra Chan

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    Table of Contents

    Preface

    The Dressing Table Murder

    Preface

    I know a lot of you have been impatiently waiting for more Bethancourt and Gibbons; most of you have probably given up by now. I want to apologize for not having a new novel for you. Real life has caught up with me in a myriad of ways and my time for writing has become extremely limited. But I am working on the fifth book and someday I will self-publish it.

    Meanwhile, I thought I'd put out some of the short stories, which were written before the novels, and which some of you have also asked for. This is the first one. It was published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, edited at that time by Cathleen Jordan, whom I remember with great fondness. She was a lovely person, and not just because she published my stories.

    As you will see, the story is now rather dated. There are no cell phones, or Google searches, or any number of other technologies I now can’t believe I lived without. The writing also adheres more closely to an older, British style if you care about that sort of thing. But it’s still great fun, or at least I think so. I hope you do, too.

    The Dressing Table Murder

    Come to lunch, Jack, said Phillip Bethancourt.

    Detective Sergeant Jack Gibbons cradled the phone against his shoulder and cast a cautious glance at the clock on the nightstand. The hands pointed to eleven-thirty and he lay back on his pillows with a sigh.

    When? he asked suspiciously.

    A note of amusement crept into Bethancourt's voice. Why, Jack, he said, did you tie one on last night? You sound a bit foggy.

    I am a bit foggy, admitted Gibbons. In fact, you woke me up.

    Well, rise and shine. It's a beautiful, sunny Sunday—probably the last we'll have, and it's no good wasting it in bed. Marla and I have planned lunch in Kew Gardens. She's got one of her model friends coming along and we want to make it a foursome. We'll pick you up in half an hour.

    Gibbons thought that the sun, while undoubtedly bright, would hardly be warming enough for lunch in the Gardens and said so.

    Nonsense, replied Bethancourt. I tell you, we're having a heat wave. We'll be round at twelve.

    Gibbons started to protest and found himself doing so to a dial tone. Cursing, he peeled back the covers and made for the bathroom.

    In half an hour, he had showered, shaved, and drunk two cups of coffee. He was not yet dressed, but that hardly mattered. Phillip Bethancourt was never on time for anything and when accompanied by his girlfriend, Marla Tate, he was always twice as late as usual. Marla, one of the top fashion models in England, was punctual at work, but that seemed to put such a strain on her that she found it impossible to be punctual for anything else. What Gibbons, who was never late himself, couldn't understand was why they were always later when together.

    Thus, he was not really surprised to hear the phone ring at twelve-fifteen, heralding, he supposed, an announcement of a delayed arrival.

    This, however, was not the case. The voice at the other end was not the voice of Bethancourt, but the voice of Scotland Yard, reminding him that he was on call.

    Mrs. Delia MacGruder had been found dead. Under suspicious circumstances. Would Sergeant Gibbons please go over to her townhouse immediately.

    Gibbons sighed and said he would.

    In ten more minutes, the doorbell rang and Gibbons opened the door to admit a young man unremarkable in appearance. He was a little over average height, fair and slender, with good if somewhat delicate features and mischievously bright eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses. He was accompanied and utterly eclipsed by a tall, slender woman with an abundance of copper-coloured hair,

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