Murder at Longbourn: A Mystery

by Tracy Kiely

  Any sympathy I might have felt for Polly markedly diminished at this. Call me insensitive, but the woes of trust-fund babies failed to stir any real sympathy in me. Jackie was still talking. “I wonder if Polly resents Lauren,” she mused, before adding, “not, of course, that it’s any of my business.” She said this last bit without a trace of irony and it was hard not to be impressed. Suddenly, her head swiveled, sending her droplet earrings swinging. Something behind me held her attention; her eyes darkened with interest. “Well, speak of the devil,” she said softly.

  I’ve heard of people described as “exuding sex appeal,” but I don’t think I ever understood what it meant until I saw Daniel Simms. It wasn’t merely that he was incredibly good-looking—think of a contemporary Greek god with slightly tousled, dark ash hair and keen blue eyes, and you get the picture. But as I said, it wasn’t just his looks. It was the way his tailored shirt hugged his shoulders, his wolfish grin, his slightly predatory way of moving that all added up to “it”—honest-to-God sex appeal. He paused for a moment in the narrow doorway and, seeing our little group, ambled toward us. From the smile on his face, I was sure that he not only knew we had just been talking about him, but that he found it amusing.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he said.

  Oh, my God, he was British! I let the sound of his vocal cords—all suggestive of crumpets and Burberry tweed—wash over me. I admit to a certain weakness for an English accent. Which is a polite way of saying that the man could read the phone book to me and I would lose all capacity for rational thought.

  After politely greeting Aunt Winnie, he turned his attention to Jackie, saying, “Miss Tanner, it’s always a pleasure to see you.”

  In spite of her unflattering gossip, Jackie was clearly not immune to his charm. A girlish blush stained the little bit of face that was visible underneath her hat. “We were just saying, Mr. Simms,” she said in a chirpy voice, “how much we’re all looking forward to tomorrow night. I only hope the weather holds. What’s it like now?”

  “A bit rotten, actually.” He enunciated both t’s in rotten like an art lover discussing Giotto. Heaven.

  Aunt Winnie introduced me to Daniel and quickly pulled the others away under the flimsy pretext of showing them a flower arrangement. Subtlety is not her strong point. “I feel a bit at a disadvantage,” Daniel said to me, once they moved away. “I don’t know anything about you. But I suspect that you can’t say the same of me.” He finished with a nod at Jackie’s retreating back.

  “She did provide a pretty thorough biography.” I matched his light tone. “Although, I must confess, the years between your tenth and thirteenth birthdays are somewhat murky.”

  “Ah, yes. The dark years, as I like to call them.” Jackie returned now. An outmaneuvered Aunt Winnie joined us a split second later, her mouth twisted in an annoyed grimace.

  “The dark years? Whatever are you two talking about?” Jackie asked, with a small birdlike tilt of her head.

  Daniel’s voice dropped an octave. “I don’t usually tell people about that part of my life, but that’s what I call the time when I was sent away.” He discreetly winked at me. “It was a horrible place. Cold. Impersonal. Terrible food. Filled with other lads just like me.”

  “Prison?” Jackie gasped eagerly.

  Daniel shook his head. “Boarding school.”

  After a brief pause, Jackie burst out laughing. “Terrible man! Go on, laugh at an old woman. At my age I can’t drink or smoke. Gossiping is the only vice I have left!”

  As we continued talking, the knot in my stomach slowly unfurled. This might be a good weekend after all. Aunt Winnie could be maddening at times and she definitely was an interfering matchmaker, but she had struck gold. Daniel was wonderful—good-looking, smart, and funny. From the way he kept directing bits of conversation my way, it seemed that he was interested as well. All was right with my world. Then I heard the voice. His voice. “Aunt Winnie, have you seen the inventory list for tomorrow night?” My effervescent feeling evaporated so quickly it felt like someone had sucked all the air out of my lungs. I turned and there he stood, the nemesis of my youth—Peter Emmett McGowan.

  He looked pretty much the same, which was damned unfair. I believe that intrinsically evil people should manifest those traits physically. But he seemed untouched. He was still tall, his brown hair was still thick and curly, and his eyes were still that unusual shade of amber. I consoled myself by thinking that he must have a portrait of himself—one that showed him covered in boils and lesions—hidden away somewhere. The past fifteen years dropped away. I was once again a gawky, overweight girl with buckteeth and glasses. So real was the feeling that I gave myself a quick mental shake and took a generous sip of wine, mainly to reassure myself that it wasn’t a glass of Ovaltine that I held in my hands. Then he saw me. It was clear that it didn’t register who I was at first, but soon recognition dawned in his eyes. “Oh, my God!” he said. “Cocoa Puff! Is that really you?”

  Cocoa Puff! That stupid, hateful nickname! I couldn’t believe he had just called me that! And in front of Daniel, no less! The blood rushed to my face and I saw red.

  “Worm face!” I heard myself retort. No! Inner poise! Inner poise, I mentally screamed at myself too late. Peter burst out laughing. “Worm face? God, I haven’t heard that one in years. You might look different, but you’re the same old Elizabeth. How have you been?”

  “Fine,” I muttered, my dignity in tatters. Oh, yes, I thought. I’m just fine. I just called a grown man “worm face” in front of people I barely knew. Inner poise, my ass!

  An hour later I was with Aunt Winnie in the kitchen. The cocktail party had broken up shortly after my outburst. Daniel was eating at the Ramseys’ house; Joan and Henry had reservations at a local restaurant; and Peter had wandered off with his inventory in hand, apparently oblivious to the churning emotions he’d stirred up in me. But as black as my mood had been, it was hard to maintain it in the kitchen’s almost relentlessly cheerful atmosphere. Aunt Winnie had compensated for the coldness of the necessarily industrial stainless-steel appliances with a seemingly endless amount of red toile. It was the fabric for the curtains. It was the tablecloth. It was the seat cushions. It was even papered on the back wall. The wide pine planks of the floor were still bare, but I suspected the future held … something.

  Aunt Winnie sat at the long farmhouse-style table while I cooked us both omelets—the only hot meal I could make with any real success. “You’re not going to stay mad at Peter for the whole weekend, are you?” she asked.

  “I am in no humor to give consequence to the young man who delighted in tormenting me as a child,” I groused.

  She laughed. “Don’t you think you might be misjudging him?”

  I threw some mushrooms and onions into the pan. “I think he’s arrogant, immature, and self-centered, and I have no opinion of him.”

  Aunt Winnie rolled her eyes upward. “Fine. Have it your way. New subject. What did you think of Daniel?”

  “Him I like.” I shook the pan and flipped the omelet over. “But why does everyone think there’s something odd about his being here?”

  “You’d have to know the Ramseys to understand.” I slid the fluffy yellow omelet onto her plate. “Thank you, sweetie,” she said before continuing. “Gerald is a singularly unpleasant man. It makes it hard to believe that Lauren fell in love with him and not his money. But I suppose whenever a wealthy older man marries a beautiful and much younger woman, tongues are bound to wag.”

  I sat down across from her. “But to suggest that she’d bring her lover to town under her husband’s nose is pretty outrageous.”

  Aunt Winnie nodded. “Well, that’s Jackie for you. She is a horrible gossip, but there’s something endearing about her all the same. I met her down at the gym—we both take that senior fitness program, and she’s in amazing shape.” Aunt Winnie paused. “Somehow I get the impression that she hasn’t had a particularly happy life. Although truth be told, I really don�
��t know her all that well. They only moved here last month.”

  “They?” I said through a mouthful.

  “She and Linnet Westin. Apparently she’s an old school friend of Jackie’s. Jackie lives with her as a sort of companion.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “I’ve never met her, actually. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow night,” Aunt Winnie said. “Oh! I forgot to show you the invitations for the party.” She reached into a toile-lined basket on the countertop behind her, pulled out the invitation, and handed it to me. Printed on heavy white card stock, the invitation read:

  HELP US RING IN THE NEW YEAR

  WITH A NIGHT OF DINNER, DANCING, AND DEATH!

  BE PREPARED FOR INTRIGUE,

  SCREAMS IN THE DARK,

  AND RED HERRINGS.

  AND REMEMBER, MANY WILL COME,

  BUT ONE WON’T BE GOING HOME!

  “So, what do you think? Don’t you just love it?”

  “It’s very nice,” I agreed before adding pointedly, “I got a Post-it.”

  Aunt Winnie leaned forward and took back the invitation. “Yes, I know, dear. Remember, I’m the one who sent it. Now don’t pout. I ran out of the printed ones, except this one, of course. I wanted one for the memory books. So,” she continued as she leaned back in the wooden chair, “you haven’t told me what you think of the place.” She paused dramatically. “How do you like the house, Lizzy?”

  I grinned. “I like it very much. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a house so happily situated.”

  Aunt Winnie laughed. “God, you’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting to ask you that.”

  “Glad to oblige. Seriously, though, it’s wonderful. I’m still amazed that you bought it.”

  Aunt Winnie’s lips curled up in a self-satisfied smile. “Yes. And I suspect there are a few others who feel that way as well.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning this place was in the middle of a nasty bidding war when I first saw it. Actually, one of the bidders was Gerald Ramsey. Oh, he was fit to be tied when the owner sold it to me and not him. I heard he turned eight shades of purple when he found out. He’s been a real pain in the ass ever since.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he is something of a bigwig around here, and as such he does wield a lot of influence. Unfortunately, one of his cronies—Ted Marshall—is on the zoning board. Lately Mr. Marshall has pushed through several new B and B requirements that seem designed solely to make my life miserable.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, things like septic tank upgrades, proper fencing, adequate parking facilities, random Board of Health inspections, you name it. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him out front measuring the length of the grass come summer.”

  “Can’t you do anything to fight back?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me,” she said with a smile. “I’ve dealt with the likes of Gerald Ramsey before. I know what to do with him. I have a friend who writes for the local paper. He’d be more than happy to do a piece on town council corruption. But it’ll probably never even get to that. I’m sure Gerald will eventually move on to some other obsession. Right now his pride is hurt because he lost this place—and he’s not used to losing.”

  “How did you manage to get the house, then?”

  “As luck would have it, the woman who was selling it was a fan of Jane Austen as well. When I told her my plan to turn it into a B and B and name it the Inn at Longbourn, the dear woman’s eyes practically misted over. We became good friends. I invited her to the party tomorrow but she’s visiting her grandchildren in California and can’t make it. Now, enough about me. How are you doing?”

  “The truth?” I asked, pushing my empty plate away from me. She nodded. “Well, I hate my job, my boyfriend turned out to be a two-timing creep, Kit calls me weekly to inform me that my chances of ever getting married are rapidly deteriorating, and George seems well on his way to becoming a permanent fixture in Mom’s life.”

  George is my mother’s boyfriend. They started dating a few years after my father died, apparently during a fit of loneliness on my mom’s part. My mother is an English professor who I thought would be attracted to men capable of multisyllabic speech. With George she opted for brawn over brains. And while George is a nice enough fellow, he needs to be watered once a week.

  “Well, then, this weekend is just what you need. And who knows? You just might find that Peter improves on closer acquaintance.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’d sooner call George a wit.”

  Aunt Winnie laughed. “Oh, cheer up. I can’t fix George’s ignorance, or your job, or even Kit, for that matter. But I can show you a good time tomorrow night.” She yawned. “And, speaking of tomorrow, I really should get a head start on the muffins for breakfast.”

  “You go to bed,” I said, clearing the dishes. “I can handle the muffins.” Aunt Winnie protested, but in the end I won out. After mixing the batter for the banana-nut muffins and setting out the blue-and-white breakfast dishes on the dining room sideboard, I was still wide awake. I shut off the lights in the dining room, made myself a mug of hot Earl Grey, and headed for the reading room. Just off the reception area, it was a cozy, comfortable room, decorated in varying shades of yellow and blue. There were several overstuffed club chairs, and the built-in bookshelves that ran along the far wall were filled to capacity. In the middle of the far wall was a large brick fireplace. I had just settled contentedly into one of the fireside chairs with a copy of Rebecca when I heard a noise. It seemed to be coming from the dining room.

  As I made my way there, I passed Aunt Winnie’s office. From behind its closed door I could hear movement. Peter, no doubt. The last thing I wanted to do was ask for his help, so I gamely continued on toward the dining room.

  Peering into that room’s inky darkness, I couldn’t make anything out, but the noise was definitely coming from the back corner. “Hello?” I called out softly. No one answered, but the noise continued and was now moving in my direction. Goose bumps danced down my arms as the uneasy sensation of being watched overcame me. Spooked, I fumbled for the light switch, finding it just as something heavy hit my shoulder, briefly dug in, and launched off of me. The accompanying hissing sound gave me little doubt as to the identity of my attacker. But the combination of the sudden, blinding light and Lady Catherine’s crazed behavior left me disoriented. I took an unsteady step backward. The form I came into contact with this time, however, was definitely not feline and I screamed as a pair of arms came up around me.

  “Whoa! I didn’t mean to frighten! Are you all right?” asked Daniel.

  My legs felt like jelly and I leaned against him for support. “Sorry,” I said with a weak smile. “That damned cat scared me.”

  I heard running footsteps on the staircase and a second later Peter stood in the doorway. When he saw me in Daniel’s arms, his dark brows lowered in an ominous line, transforming his original expression of concern into one of mild disgust. “Excuse me,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  I opened my mouth to explain, but Daniel spoke first. “Quite all right. Sorry to disturb.” Peter shot me an annoyed look before disappearing back into the foyer. Daniel turned back to me. “What’s his problem?”

  “Who knows,” I muttered, reluctantly detaching myself from his arms. “As you can see, Peter and I are not the best of friends.”

  “Ah, yes. That would explain the worm-face remark.”

  Averting my face to hide my blush, I saw the reason for Lady Catherine’s nocturnal visit to the dining room. My carefully laid out sideboard was trampled. The cereal canisters lay on their sides, their contents spread out every which way. A mass of pink flowers lay in a pool of water, their stems twisted and broken. I uttered a very unladylike oath. Daniel glanced at me in surprise. “Sorry,” I said, embarrassed. “By-product of four years at an all-girls boarding school.”

  “Please, don’t apologize,” he said with a grin. “There’s someth
ing a little sexy about a fresh-faced girl with a filthy mouth.”

  Unsure how to respond, I instead focused on cleaning up the mess. Daniel stayed and helped. Sometime during the process, Lady Catherine nonchalantly returned. With an incurious glance in our direction, she languidly settled herself in her bed. It was a large wicker basket filled with soft white pillows, embroidered with frolicking mice. Situated underneath the mahogany sideboard, it not only gave Lady Catherine an excellent vantage point of the room but also put her in close proximity to the food.

  After we reset everything, Daniel walked me to the door of my room, almost as if it were the end of a date. I thanked him again. “It was my pleasure,” he said with an exaggerated bow.

  Once inside my room, the sleep that had eluded me before now overtook me. I quickly changed into my pajamas and gratefully sank into the soft featherbed. As I leaned over to turn out the light, I saw that Aunt Winnie had hung a framed quote of Woody Allen’s over the nightstand: “The lion will lay down with the lamb, but the lamb won’t get much sleep.” Unbidden, Peter’s annoyed face swam before my eyes. The two of us were just not destined to get along, although for Aunt Winnie’s sake, I would try. Refusing to let my last thoughts before sleep center on Peter, I concentrated instead on Daniel. It certainly was nice of him to help me clean up the dining room, I thought sleepily. But just as I was drifting off, I realized Peter had come from upstairs when he heard me scream. So who had been in Aunt Winnie’s office? And why hadn’t whoever it was come, too?

  CHAPTER 3

  The trouble with trouble is that it always starts out like fun.

  —ANONYMOUS

  I DO NOT function properly until I’ve had at least two cups of coffee, so the next morning was a bit of a blur. I got up early to help Aunt Winnie with the breakfast, which was a yeoman’s task, given that my bed was warm, the room was chilly, and I had a faint headache. Somehow I forced myself out of the bed, threw on some clothes, and headed downstairs. Hearing movement in the kitchen, and assuming it was Aunt Winnie, I pushed the heavy door open with a greeting that, while not exactly cheerful, was as close as I was going to get at this hour of the morning. To my surprise, it was Peter who stood before me. Whatever his greeting might have been, it caught in his throat at the sight of my feet. I followed his gaze. Brilliant. I was wearing my bunny slippers. I stuck my chin out, silently daring him to say something. “Late night?” he finally choked out.