The American Pony (Mrs. Meade Mysteries, Book 5) by Elisabeth Grace Foley
About The American Pony:
It’s summer in Colorado, and Sir Edmund Marsland’s family are enjoying their visit to the West—though not everyone at the Wellman ranch is quite as happy with the company of the English family. The mood changes for the worse when an accident with a horse nearly claims the life of Sir Edmund’s young son. And with the discovery that someone deliberately caused the accident, suspicions and tensions divide the party. Was it meant for a practical joke—or was it for spite—or was there a motive for murder? Mrs. Meade may be the only guest at the ranch without title or fortune, but she may also be the only one who can get at the truth…
If you're a fan of Agatha Christie's Miss Marple and Anna Katharine Green's Miss Amelia Butterworth, you'll love this quick trip back to the mountain West of the Edwardian era, with a shrewd lady sleuth to apply her wits to its puzzles.
Excerpt:
He paused and glanced up and down the hall, and then took Mrs. Meade’s elbow and guided her a little away from the bedroom door. “What’s going on here, anyway? None of these people are acting naturally. Even for having had a shock, they—” He gave another shake of the head, this time not professional at all, and eyed Mrs. Meade. “What’s up?”
Mrs. Meade hesitated, glanced back at the closed bedroom door, and then beckoned Dr. Dunton to follow her. She led the way into the library and shut the door, and after going to one of the windows to inspect the veranda—knowing well the opportunity it afforded for overhearing—she turned and faced the doctor. “You know how the accident occurred, I suppose?” she said.
“I know he was thrown from a horse,” said Dr. Dunton.
“Well, when Mr. Wellman’s foreman came to unsaddle the horse afterward, he found someone had put a lot of burrs under the saddle-blanket.”
Dr. Dunton’s mouth pursed into a soundless whistle. He rubbed his round, clean-shaven face. “That would do it, all right. Who was responsible?”
“I’m afraid that is what is making everyone so uneasy,” said Mrs. Meade. “No one knows. Mr. Wellman has questioned all the hands, but they all unequivocally deny having tampered with the saddle. He believes them.”
Dr. Dunton threw himself into a chair, and put a foot up on his other knee. “So who do they think really did it? I’m sure you know if anyone does.”
“Really, Dr. Dunton,” said Mrs. Meade half reproachfully, sitting down as well, “I hope you’re only joking. For if that is the way people begin to view my presence when anything distressing occurs, I’m sure I regret ever having offered my opinions before.”
“Not at all,” said Dr. Dunton. “Folks are nearly as glad to see you as they are to see me (which isn’t altogether a bad thing), and much gladder than they are to see our friend Sheriff Royal, for instance. In situations of delicacy, that is.”
He leaned back comfortably in his chair and folded his hands. Dr. Dunton, with his squat figure, his ill-fitting suits, his small shrewd eyes and set of tight double chins, was a trusted and well-loved figure about Sour Springs, in spite of—or perhaps because of—his habit of plain speaking and his cheeky sense of humor. He and Mrs. Meade had known each other long and were well acquainted with each other’s ways of thinking.
“Well,” said Mrs. Meade with a bit of a sigh, “no one has made any open accusations yet, though a few insinuations have been thrown about. I sense that everyone is waiting to know just how badly Ronald is injured—until they know just how serious of a misdeed they are dealing with. For if, heaven forbid, he were to die, it would become a much—a very much more serious matter.”
She looked at the doctor. “Would it be murder?”
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About Elisabeth Grace Foley:
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