by Tracy Kiely
MURDER AT
LONGBOURN
MURDER AT
LONGBOURN
A Mystery
TRACY KIELY
MINOTAUR BOOKS
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
MURDER AT LONGBOURN. Copyright © 2009 by Tracy Kiely. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
[http://www.thomasdunnebooks.com] www.thomasdunnebooks.com
[http://cwww.minotaurbooks.com] www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kiely, Tracy.
Murder at Longbourn / Tracy Kiely.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Thomas Dunne book for Minotaur Books”—T.p. verso.
ISBN 978-0-312-53756-2
1. Bed and breakfast accommodations—Fiction. 2. Cape Cod (Mass.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.I4453M87 2009
813’.6—dc22
2009012724
First Edition: September 2009
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my mother, Elizabeth
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I NASMUCH AS THIS may be my only opportunity to write an acknowledgment, I am taking full advantage of the space allotted me here. Besides, I owe many thanks to many people. First, I must pay homage to Jane Austen; without her wonderful works the world would be a little duller and I would have no hook. Barbara Kiely, Shirley Shevlin, Mary Doyle, Terry Mullen Sweeney, Mary Melanson, Robin Decker, Elizabeth Cush, Lisa Beagan, and Mary Ann Kingsly were all kind enough to read early versions of my book (after I cornered them and rudely foisted it upon them), and they provided invaluable input and suggestions in spite of my pushy behavior. I also need to thank the Bunco “Ladies” for their endless support (sorry, girls, they balked at the other term). I also owe a great deal to Judith O’Neill for her excellent teaching and editing. I thank my wonderful agent, Barbara Poelle, who stuck with me despite a rather silly idea involving a bullmastiff, and my editor, Toni Plummer, who suggested several excellent improvements. But the person I need to thank most is Bridget Kiely. Without her unflagging support and wonderful suggestions, this all would be nothing more than idle cocktail-party chatter. (So, if upon finishing this book you find that you hate it, please direct all complaints/correspondence to her.)
And last, but certainly not least, I thank my wonderful husband, Matt. While initially reluctant, he actually grew to enjoy my numerous viewings of Pride & Prejudice and put up with hours of bizarre conversations, which usually began, “So, if you were going to kill someone …” His patience, humor, and common sense were invaluable. He is simply (ding how).
“The whole of this unfortunate business,” said Dr. Lyster,
“has been the result of Pride and Prejudice.”
—FANNY BURNEY, CECILIA
MURDER AT
LONGBOURN
CHAPTER 1
When fate’s got it in for you there’s no limit
to what you may have to put up with.
—GEORGETTE HEYER
I T WOULD BE dramatic to say that as soon as I saw Aunt Winnie’s letter I had a premonition of danger—a shiver of apprehension, perhaps, or even a sudden feeling of dread. In reality, the only thing I felt was mild amusement, not so much at the message but at the mode of its delivery. I’m not so romantic as to expect correspondence from elderly spinsters to be limited to lavender-scented paper, but by this same token, I certainly didn’t expect a hastily scrawled note on a yellow Post-it, cheerfully inviting me to a murder.
Of course, it wasn’t an actual murder, only one of those How-to-Host-a-Murder parties. Aunt Winnie’s eccentricities, while trying at times, rarely lent themselves to actual felonies. From the scrawl on the Post-it, which resembled something an acrobatic spider might create if left alone with an ink pot, I deduced that the “murder” was to take place on New Year’s Eve at Aunt Winnie’s new Cape Cod bed-and-breakfast.
I set the Post-it on the hall table with the rest of the mail, while I shrugged out of my damp overcoat. The weather outside was beastly, much like my mood. It was December 29, so you’d think that any precipitation would mean light, fluffy snow. But this was northern Virginia, which meant it was cold, hard rain. Rubbing my arms for warmth, I kicked off my wet boots and headed for the kitchen. Yanking open the cupboard, I reached for the bag of Oreos, belatedly remembered that I was on a diet, and flung the package back untouched.
Some 56.3 hours before—but who was counting?—I had gotten a jump start on my New Year’s resolution to lead a healthier lifestyle by giving up fatty foods and a two-timing lobbyist. Unfortunately, the only thing my health kick had earned me was a grumbling stomach, the prospect of a lonely weekend yawning out in front of me, and a crabby mood. As a result, I’d spent the better part of the week slumped in front of the television, watching various adaptations of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol and heckling the poor Cratchit family, whose single-minded cheerfulness struck me as more than a little inane.
From upstairs, Bridget, my best friend and roommate, yelled down, “Elizabeth? Thank God you’re home. I need you.”
I trudged up the stairs to her room, pausing in the doorway. On her bed lay a suitcase haphazardly crammed with a mishmash of clothes; Bridget’s taste was eclectic or god-awful, depending on how you characterized bright green cowboy boots and purple sequined tops. Bridget stood with her back to me, sucking in her already flat stomach and frowning at her reflection in the floor-length mirror. She was wearing a turquoise leather miniskirt, a silky orange blouse, and purple suede boots. Bridget is only five three, even in the spiked heels she considers mandatory. She believes that bold outfits offset her diminutive stature.
She can say that’s why she dresses the way she does all she wants, but I’ve known Bridget since we were little. I saw how she dressed her Barbie dolls. I mention this because Barbie’s vital statistics are such that, were she a real woman, she’d be something like seven feet tall. Therefore, not in any sense diminutive. Yet her dolls were always clad like some bizarre cross between Joan Collins and Liberace.
Still eyeing herself critically, Bridget asked, “Tell me the truth. Does this outfit make me look fat?”
I rolled my eyes. “Fat? No. Color-blind, maybe. But not fat.”
At my response she swung around, almost losing her balance in the process. Four-inch heels can do that to a girl. Peering at me from underneath her spiky red bangs, she stared at me aghast. “Color-blind? Are you serious? These colors are hot this season.”
“That may be so, but I find it hard to believe that you’re supposed to wear them at the same time.”
“That’s because you have no fashion sense.” She glanced disparagingly at my tan corduroy skirt and blue cable-knit sweater. “You really should let me give you a makeover.”
“I thank you for the favor, but no. The last time you gave me a makeover, some guy kept trying to shove dollar bills down my skirt.”
“That’s not true!” Bridget said, laughing.
“Okay, maybe so,” I admitted with a grin, “but you’re still not giving me a makeover.”
“Why not? Come to New York with me and Colin. We can update your look and start the New Year off right.”
Colin is Bridget’s boyfriend. For New Year’s, the two of them are going to New York for the weekend. Bridget has been trying to convince me to go with them,
especially now that I am, as she delicately put it, “without plans.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun!” she continued excitedly. “You know nobody does New Year’s better than Times Square! We could go shopping! We could try new restaurants! And more important, we can celebrate your freedom from a man who is, let’s face it, the soul-sucking spawn of Satan. And don’t even get me started about his obsession with argyle.”
I pushed aside the suitcase and flopped across her bed. The soul-sucking, argyle-wearing spawn of Satan is my ex-boyfriend Mark. To say that Bridget had never liked him was a gross understatement—over the past few months she’d developed a small facial tic at the sound of his name.
“Bridget, you know I love you and Colin, and you’re sweet to invite me, but for the thousandth time, no. I’d be a third wheel—and on New Year’s Eve of all nights!”
“You wouldn’t be a third wheel,” she countered. “You’d be with friends.”
“Friends who are a couple. Which would make me the third wheel. No offense, but I’d rather stick glass in my eyes.”
“Offense? Don’t be silly. Who could take offense at that? You simply prefer self-mutilation to a weekend with friends.”
“Only figuratively. The truth is, it’s been a long week and all I want to do is relax and catch up on some reading.” While that was true, I was also refusing for more altruistic reasons. I knew something she didn’t: Colin was planning to propose at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s.
“Reading?”
“Yes, reading,” I replied with a lofty wave of my hand. “I have decided to devote myself to the improvement of my mind by extensive reading.”
Bridget narrowed her eyes. “That’s from Pride and Prejudice, isn’t it? Damn it, Elizabeth, whenever you start quoting from P&P I know you’re in a mood. I swear, that book is your security blanket when you’re upset.”
Luckily the chime of the doorbell saved me from a response. “Oh, God!” cried Bridget. “It’s Colin. Can you let him in? Tell him I’ll just be a minute.”
I rolled off the bed and went downstairs to let Colin in. Colin is six two, with curly brown hair and large brown eyes. To me, he’s always resembled an enormous teddy bear come to life. That pretty much sums up his personality, too. He’s like the big brother every girl wishes she had. He was still stamping his wet feet on the doormat when Bridget poked her head out of her room and hollered down, “Colin, I’ll be ready in two seconds. Try to convince Elizabeth to come with us. She needs cheering up.”
Colin glanced quizzically at me. “Is that true?”
“No. She will most certainly not be ready in two seconds.”
“I meant about your needing cheering up.”
“I’m fine. She’s referring to Mark.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Colin, rearranging his face into a somber expression. “I was sorry to hear you two broke up.”
“Liar.”
He grinned and dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Okay, you’re right. The news made my day. The guy was a jackass.” Pulling me into a quick hug, he added, “You deserve nothing but the best, Elizabeth. Don’t forget that.”
See why I love Colin?
Eventually Bridget emerged from her room, dragging a bulging suitcase. Ignoring her pleas that I join them, I resolutely settled down on our couch with a copy of Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury, finally convincing her that all I wanted to do was stay home and read. With Colin looking grateful and Bridget looking concerned, they left me to tackle the novel.
However, with their exit, the apartment seemed unnaturally quiet, and I had trouble concentrating on the text. Our landlord didn’t allow animals, so I didn’t even have the warmth of a furry friend to comfort me. Our only pets, if you could even call them that, were two goldfish purchased during a rare fit of domesticity. Unfortunately, our local pet store didn’t stock a particularly hardy variety, resulting in bimonthly replacement visits. As a result, I’d named each new pair Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. It didn’t change their fate, but it added a little drama when I had to announce it.
Forty-five minutes later, after having read the first twelve pages of Benjy’s narrative a total of eight times, I flung the book down, now feeling hungry, lonely, and stupid. Deciding that I could alleviate at least one of those problems, I grabbed the bag of Oreos just as the phone rang. Seeing the caller ID, my mood went from bad to worse.
It was my sister Kit. I knew what was coming. One of her goals in life is to see me married—and while I’m in no way opposed to the idea, it’s not my driving force in life. As I expected, no sooner did she hear my voice than she launched into rapid-fire speech. She had heard the news of my breakup from our mother and was clearly dumbfounded. How could I let a “catch” like Mark “slip away”? Didn’t I understand that with each passing year my chances of getting married diminished? (I’m all of twenty-six.) Didn’t I know that I had to “reel them in” while I was still young? (The way Kit tossed around the fishing jargon you’d think she was a seasoned angler. But the closest she ever got to fish was in her grocer’s freezer section.)
I didn’t want to tell her the real reason for the breakup—that Mark had been seeing at least two other women behind my back. So I did what any reasonable person in my position would do. I lied.
Unfortunately, it’s not a skill that I’m adept at and the reason I gave her—that he smoked—sounded silly even to me. I know Kit found it funny, because she laughed for a good thirty seconds. Loudly. Then she launched into a lecture, the point of which was that unless I stopped being so picky, I was going to end up alone.
She said this last bit in the whispery kind of voice some people reserve for revealing a stint in prison or a terminal illness. As she continued to scoff at my “pickiness,” something inside me snapped. Candidly I volunteered, “He cheated on me, Kit, okay?”
Silence answered.
“Kit, are you there?”
Finally, all in one breath I got, “Oh, you poor, poor thing. What a terrible thing to have to go through. No wonder you didn’t want to tell me! How awful! Not that I have any personal experience, of course. Well, don’t worry about it, I won’t mention it again. Except to say that I always thought there was something untrustworthy about him. His eyes are too close together for one. And he really could be a pompous jackass at times. But there’s no point in going into all of that now. Are you alone? You shouldn’t be alone. Where’s Bridget? Oh, that’s right, Colin’s proposing this weekend, isn’t he? Well, don’t let that get you down. I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re thinking that you’re going to end up some lonely old woman who lives with cats, but that’s not true!”
“Actually, Kit, I wasn’t thinking that …”
“Good, that’s the spirit! Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll come down. No, that won’t work. Tom and I are having a huge party this weekend for some clients. It’s been unbelievably stressful. You’ll just have to come here.”
My brother-in-law sells hot tubs. It wasn’t hard to imagine where the night would end with a party composed of fellow enthusiasts in a house with the deluxe model.
She continued on. “You come here and we’ll forget all about Mark. We won’t even mention him. Do you know who he was seeing? Is she pretty? You poor, poor thing.”
The thing about my sister is that she does mean well. However, her idea of well and my idea of well are on opposite ends of the spectrum. I knew she wouldn’t stop about the party until I either agreed to come or produced a reasonable excuse. Panic set in as my brain frantically struggled to generate the latter. Happily, my eyes landed on Aunt Winnie’s Post-it. With a heroic effort to keep any trace of relief out of my voice, I told her that, sadly, I couldn’t possibly go to her party as I was already going to Aunt Winnie’s.
There was a brief pause as Kit absorbed this information. “Aunt Winnie’s having a party?” she asked, a note of hurt in her voice.
“Um, well, it’s more of a work weekend, really,” I fibbed. “
I think she just needs my help getting the inn ready.”
“Oh, I see—that makes sense. Well, as long as she doesn’t let you cook, everything should be fine,” she said, breaking out into the overly hearty laugh she employed whenever she insulted me. It was meant to imply “we’re all just one big, happy, teasing family and if you don’t get that, then you’re way too sensitive.” All it did was set my teeth on edge.
Thanking her for the invitation and promising that I would call if I needed to talk, I hung up on another, “Oh, you poor, poor thing.”
I looked at the Oreos. After my third one, I realized I needed something stronger. I needed a large glass of chardonnay and a larger dose of Cary Grant. Pulling my woolly cardigan around me, I went to ransack Bridget’s DVD collection. Passing the hall table, I reread Aunt Winnie’s invitation. I realized that I really did want to go, and not just so that I wouldn’t end up in a hot tub with my brother-in-law’s single clients. No, I thought with a smile, a visit with Aunt Winnie was just what I needed. Right after North by Northwest.
My goal to get an early start was thwarted. I am not an early riser and Kit called me six more times to try to convince me to come to her party instead. Just as I was leaving, call number seven came in. I let the answering machine deal with it. Pushing my black suitcase out the door, I heard her say that if I was worried about not having a nice dress, she had an old one I could borrow. I slammed the door with more force than was strictly necessary and headed for my car.
By late afternoon, I was on the Cape. Directions in hand, I drove along the narrow, winding roads past scruffy pine trees and low walls of smooth gray stone, occasionally catching sight of the icy blue waters of Nantucket Sound. Above me, gnarled tree branches intermingled with power lines, both having been there so long it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended. My spirits rose at the sights, and some of my melancholy over Mark’s betrayal faded. After all, what are men to trees and rocks? Finally, I pulled into a curved tree-lined drive. At the end was a rambling two-story house. Hanging over the door was a freshly painted white sign. In large green letters it proclaimed: THE INN AT LONGBOURN. I smiled. Aunt Winnie was a dedicated, some might say an obsessed, fan of Pride and Prejudice.