The Bachelor Girl's Guide to Murder by Rachel McMillan

tidy. When addressed by others at the flophouse, he responded in gruff, one-word sentences. He kept cigarettes in his pocket and a flask by his bed. He’d use them to bribe a few friendships, especially if he felt someone could tell him about Montague and link him to the Corktown Murders. Yes, he was here for McCormick, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t keep his eyes open too.
    If Montague wanted to restore the city to the “Toronto the Good” of old, Ray decided one morning while splashing frigid water on his face, surely he could begin by stocking his flophouse with something better than this, where mattress ticks overran the lice and where there was a sewage system a century more primitive than what he had left behind in his boardinghouse just a few blocks away.
    The other occupants of the flophouse were an eclectic bunch. Lars, the Swede who kept the woodpile stocked, was silent but friendly. His height, girth, and broad shoulders assured no one crossed him. Then there was Forbes. He was more of a force than a man, making any room he entered immediately smaller.
    On Ray’s second night at St. Joe’s, Forbes stood in the doorway, bellowing for volunteers. “I need men,” he said with a slur.
    Ray propped himself up on his elbow on his bed. “For what?”
    â€œDoes it matter?” Forbes said, glowering at Ray.
    Ray cocked his head. “For pay?”
    â€œOf course for pay.”
    Ray declined, but Forbes rustled up a few other takers. Ray watched out of the corner of his eye as they left the room, wondering if Tony was ever one of Forbes’s volunteers.
    He waited a moment, then hopped up, stepped into his shoes, and cracked open the window. The men around him, sleeping or nursing their flasks or cigars or shuffling through day-old newspapers, cared little that he might decide to follow their eager bunkmates intothe cold night. Ray could just see Forbes and his volunteers passing under a streetlight. He grabbed his coat, tipped his hat to Lars, and set out after them.

    Merinda had mystery on the brain constantly these days. It intruded into conversation every night at dinner and replaced her appetite. Mrs. Malone had prepared roast chicken, potatoes, and peas, and Jem ate them with relish after a day at Spenser’s.
    â€œTippy’s still staying late and fluttering about like an agitated bunny.” Jem tore off a piece of roll. She enjoyed these moments, recounting to Merinda the moments of her day. “She’s either in love or completely mad.”
    â€œThere’s no difference,” Merinda said, taking a big bite of chicken. “You know,” she said, nodding at Mrs. Malone’s back, “if she wasn’t such a good cook, I’d get rid of her.”
    â€œMerinda! She might hear you.”
    â€œWhat?” Her mouth was full again. “We don’t need a chaperone, Jem. I want privacy. We could be latch-key girls.”
    â€œWhat’s a latch-key girl?”
    â€œNo chaperones. No maids or check-ins. No breakfast if we don’t want it. Free to leave our clothes wherever, come and go with whomever, without Mrs. Malone clucking her tongue in disapproval.”
    â€œWell,” Jem said, lifting her water goblet, “your father would never allow that.”
    â€œMy father’s not here to give his primitive advice, is he?” Merinda picked at her dinner a little longer, then shoved back from the table and went into the sitting room. There, she ruminated aloud on her plan for the evening. “If Tertius Montague pays men to act as his personal street-cleaners until he wins this blasted election, then he could certainly hire men to take care of his business with girls he once employed! Maybe he didn’t kill Fiona and Grace himself, but he could have orchestrated their murders.”
    â€œI’m still not sure what the motive would be,” Jem said from the table.
    â€œMaybe Fiona was the love of