Murder at Longbourn: A Mystery

by Tracy Kiely

  “Not in the way you think,” I shot back.

  “Actually, I have no thoughts on the matter one way or another,” he said. “But, next time you might want to keep it down. This is a B and B, after all, not a frat house.”

  “I thought you had no thoughts on the matter,” I said tartly. There was no point in trying to explain that I had been attacked by a crazed cat. Not without coffee, anyway.

  Thankfully, Aunt Winnie entered the kitchen, putting a halt to our conversation. Other than a brief hello to Peter and a casual “Nice slippers, babe,” to me, nothing much more was said by any of us until I heard Peter humming “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.” I retaliated by humming “If I Only Had a Brain.” Finally, Aunt Winnie had enough of our dueling and began belting out the lyrics to Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train.”

  After that we all worked quickly, getting the simple breakfast of coffee, banana-nut muffins, and sliced melon and strawberries ready. At some point, Lady Catherine wandered in, no doubt lured by the smell of food. By tacit agreement, I ignored her and she me. Instead, she wound her furry little body sinuously around Aunt Winnie’s ankles and purred like a locomotive.

  Aunt Winnie loaded the first breakfast tray and, deftly pushing the door ajar with her foot, breezed through the open doorway with it. Minutes later, with slightly less flourish, I followed her out with my own tray. As I passed into the dining room, I heard Joan and Henry talking, their voices low.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. It’ll be fine,” Henry soothed.

  “But what if something goes wrong?”

  “It won’t.”

  “I hope so. I just can’t wait until it’s over,” she replied, her voice anxious. They stopped talking when they saw me and resumed eating. Henry made faint grunts of appreciation as he ate. I pretended that I hadn’t heard their conversation, much less Henry’s enthusiasm for his breakfast. I had made a ruckus the night before, and now I was padding around in tattered pink bunny slippers. I didn’t want to add “eavesdropper” to my list of bizarre behavior.

  The rest of the morning went relatively quickly. After clearing the breakfast dishes, we made up the guests’ beds and cleaned the bathrooms. I had time for a quick shower before helping Aunt Winnie with the dinner preparations. Due to my pitiful cooking skills, I was assigned the simple tasks of chopping the vegetables and herbs. Aunt Winnie handled the trickier items, like the Gorgonzola sauce for the filets, and the dessert—her specialty—chocolate ganache cake.

  The faint headache I had had earlier was now threatening to become a full-blown migraine. I didn’t need to look out the window to know that the weather must be bad; that’s the only time I get these kinds of headaches. Even so, I was still surprised at the bleak intensity of the sky when I finally stole a moment and went out into the back garden. Dark, heavy clouds hung low in the air, blocking out all but the smallest amount of light. A storm was definitely on the horizon, I thought, as I pulled my coat tightly around me and headed across the yard.

  The lawn stretched out ahead of me, a thin layer of ice covering the brown grass. To the right and left of me, enormous rosebushes, their tan branches now bare, formed a spiky border. In the distance, I could see the rough blue-green waters of Nantucket Sound churning and roiling underneath white hats of foam. Off to one side stood a majestic and immense maple tree, under which sat a tall bird feeder, a white metal table, a bench, and several tall-backed chairs. This arrangement may have made for a charming spot in the summer, but in the dead of winter, it was terribly forlorn. Walking closer, I saw Joan Anderson hunched in one of the chairs, staring out at the ocean with tears streaming down her face. Not wanting to intrude, I stepped back, snapping a branch. She raised her head at the sound and immediately wiped her face. “Are you okay?” I asked, before realizing the absurdity of my question. Of course she wasn’t. She was sitting in the cold, alone, and crying. “I’m sorry,” I continued. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I turned to leave.

  “No, please. Don’t go. I’m just being maudlin. Would you like to sit down?” She gestured to the bench.

  I sat down awkwardly, not knowing what to say. Luckily, Joan was more in need of someone to talk to rather than someone to console her. “I don’t know what came over me,” she said. “I didn’t intend to come out here and start sobbing like this. But after a few minutes, the tears just started.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I was just thinking that the atmosphere was a little gloomy myself.”

  “Maybe so,” she said with a half smile. “But being here again after so many years has brought back a lot of memories. I grew up near here, but everyone I knew has either died or moved away. That’s what I did—I moved to New York and started Miss Baxter’s Things of Yore. That’s how I met Henry, actually. He’d just inherited his business from his uncle. He was selling and I was buying.” She paused. “It’s funny. I never thought I’d marry. I was quite prepared to live out my life alone. I wasn’t some romantic waiting for my white knight, but Henry and I work well together.” She nodded to confirm this thought. A second later, her face clouded over again. “The truth is, this time of year is always hard for me. My sister died a few weeks before Christmas.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “We were so close. Our parents died when I was seventeen, you see, and … God, Vicky was so strong, even then. She was only a few years older than me, but she just stepped in and took over. I would have completely fallen apart if it hadn’t been for her. She made sure I went to college and had everything I needed. I adored her. And then one night coming home, she … she had an accident and …” She broke off. Throughout her painful narrative, Joan angrily clenched and unclenched her hands. They now lay limp in her lap. “Sometimes I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

  I knew I had no words that could possibly comfort her, so I reached over and took her hand. I don’t know how long we sat like that, but after a while Joan squeezed my hand and stood up. “Thank you for listening,” she said, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “I’d better go in now.” She slowly made her way across the lawn back to the house.

  I stayed outside, thinking about Joan’s story and envying the closeness she’d shared with her sister. Ironically, my sister, Kit, also had a take-charge attitude regarding my life. But unlike Joan’s situation, the trait did not foster closeness. In fact, it did just the opposite. I was wondering what this said about me when I was suddenly assailed by the acidic aroma of cigarette smoke. Turning in my seat, I poked my head around the large trunk to see who was there. Daniel was crossing the yard to where I sat.

  “Bloody hell!” he said, jumping back when he saw me. “You scared the piss out of me! What are you doing sitting out here alone? It’s beastly cold!”

  He came over and sat down on the bench, casually throwing his arm on the seat behind me. My heart pounded like an adolescent schoolgirl’s. Oh, God. Next my palms would probably begin to sweat.

  “You smoke?” I asked stupidly.

  He laughed. “You didn’t know already? Poor Jackie must be slipping. I’m sure I told her just yesterday that I was ducking out for a quick fag.”

  I sputtered with laughter. “I think you’re forgetting that has an entirely different meaning on this side of the pond.”

  Daniel paused, cocking his head at me. “Oh. Right. Well, that does explain Jackie’s rather startled reaction.” He shifted his gaze out to the roiling water. “This really is a lovely property. I can see why Gerald was so upset to lose out on it.” He was quiet a moment. “So what are you doing out here alone?” he asked, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are you hiding from that Peter bloke, or is it the cat?”

  “Neither. I just came out to get some air. I have an awful headache.”

  “Sorry to hear that. You’re still coming tonight, though, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Here,” he said, moving closer. “I can’t stand to see a pretty girl in distress.” He slid his hand up my back and knead
ed the muscles in my neck. It was an odd sensation, relaxing and trying to restrain myself from lewd behavior all at the same time. After a minute, I became aware that the mood had changed slightly. I don’t know if I leaned back into him or if he pulled me, but I suddenly found myself in his arms. “Hello,” he said softly and leaned down toward me.

  “Elizabeth?!”

  You have got to be kidding, I thought, as Aunt Winnie’s voice floated out across the yard. Daniel sat back, the mood broken. Aunt Winnie’s voice called out again, “Elizabeth? Are you out here?”

  I stood up and waved. “Over here.”

  “Oh, there you are. Can you help me for a moment?” She disappeared back into the house.

  Hoping my face wasn’t awash with disappointment, I said, “Duty calls. Thanks for the neck rub.”

  Daniel gave me a slow smile and I felt my insides liquefy in response. “Anytime,” he said. “Maybe we can continue our conversation later? It’s customary to start the New Year with a kiss in the States, too, isn’t it?”

  I think I said something clever, like “Hmmmggffh!” before I stumbled toward the house.

  Around four, a black van pulled into the driveway. Emblazoned on the side, in large red letters, were the words JOIN US FOR DINNER … AND A MURDER. Clearly the entertainment had arrived. A young man with sandy-colored hair and round glasses alighted first. He introduced himself as Eric, and he seemed to be the leader of the small troupe. There were five of them in all, three men and two women. Eric quickly made the introductions. There was Tom, a muscular man with a shaved head, who appeared to be in his midforties, and Steven, a tall, almost painfully thin young man in his early twenties. The women were as different as night and day. Karen was a matronly looking brunette with a somber, serious face. Susie was almost as blond as she was buxom, and I seriously doubted if either attribute was God-given. After Aunt Winnie and I showed them their rooms, Eric went over the plan for the evening.

  “Basically, we’ll circulate among your real guests,” Eric said, in a thick Southern drawl. “But we’ll all be in character, so to speak. Tom and Karen are playing a married couple, as are Steven and Susie. I play an old school friend of Steven’s. The basic premise is that both Karen and Steven suspect that Tom and Susie are having an affair. I play the concerned friend. Without giving too much away, various characters will appear to drink too much, flirt, and fight with one another. Ultimately, this will lead to the apparent death of one of them. At this point, the real guests will be asked to band together in an attempt to solve the crime and identify the so-called murderer. We’ve done this bit several times, and from start to finish it usually takes about two to three hours, so depending on when you want to start, we can be done in plenty of time for everyone to celebrate the New Year.”

  “I’d like it to end around eleven thirty,” said Aunt Winnie. “That should give everyone time to enjoy themselves before ringing in the New Year. Our guests will probably start arriving around eight, so, let’s plan to start your show around eight thirty. Dinner will be served in the dining room at nine.”

  “Sounds good,” said Eric. “I look forward to it.” Aunt Winnie smiled and excused herself.

  “So”—I turned to Eric after Aunt Winnie had left—“do you guys perform these dinner theaters full-time or do you have other jobs?”

  Eric laughed. “God, no. We’d all starve to death if this was our only income. No, this is just a part-time gig until we find real jobs or get discovered. Steve and I started the group about a year ago. We’re in film school together. Steve met Karen in one of his acting classes and Tom is a retired cop I met at the gym. He’s always wanted to be an actor.”

  “And Susie?”

  “Steve met Susie at some party. At the time we were looking for another woman to round out the troupe, and she seemed a perfect fit for some of the glitzier characters.”

  “Does she attend film school with you, too?”

  “Susie? No, she just wants to be in films. I don’t think she necessarily wants to direct them.”

  Peter entered the room. “Hey, Cocoa Puff,” he began. I glared at him. “Sorry.” He smirked. “I mean Elizabeth. Can I get your help in the dining room?” Clenching my teeth into a semblance of a smile, I excused myself to Eric and exited the room in what I hoped was a dignified manner.

  Once we were in the reception area, I swung around to face Peter. My head was pounding, although it was hard to tell if it was from my headache or just sheer frustration. “Look,” I said, “is it too much to ask that you stop calling me that name? In case you haven’t noticed, I am no longer some sad little girl who is addicted to a stupid cereal.”

  His eyebrows pulled together. “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “Don’t tell me I interrupted another one of your conquests. Poor Daniel will be crushed.”

  As I had just met Eric, I took his comment as mockery. My jaw tightened in anger. “Seriously,” I said, through gritted teeth, “don’t you think we’re a bit old for this?”

  Peter peered down at me suspiciously. “What’s the matter with your mouth?”

  “I get lockjaw in cold weather,” I said sarcastically.

  “Really?”

  My valiant effort for a devastating comeback resulted in one word: “Yeah!” Pithy, but still lame.

  No doubt I’d think of the perfect comeback hours from now, when it would do me no earthly good. What did they call that? It was the French for “staircase wit.” My mind drew yet another blank. Pathetic. I couldn’t even think of the damn word. Maybe Mr. Collins had the right idea after all in writing down his little bons mots in advance.

  Aunt Winnie came into the room. “Oh, good, Peter. You found her. Come on, you two. I need help getting the dining room ready.”

  Mentally composing acerbic comments for future use, I followed Aunt Winnie and Peter into the dining room. The man was simply impossible. None of this was doing much for my headache, and I forced myself to concentrate on what Aunt Winnie wanted me to do.

  The long, narrow dining room ran front to back along the whole right side of the house. Aunt Winnie wanted to split the room into two sections, one for the tables and one for cocktails and dancing, so Peter and I moved the tables to one side. “I’d like there to be six at a table,” she said, “but we’re having seventeen guests total, so we’ll need to put five at one of the tables.”

  I did a quick count in my head. “Um, Aunt Winnie? I think we only have sixteen guests.”

  “No, dear. It’s seventeen. I have a little surprise for you tonight.”

  I looked questioningly at Peter, but he seemed equally in the dark. My stomach lurched. Aunt Winnie’s surprises were famous—or perhaps infamous was the more appropriate word. I knew better than to try to cajole it out of her. She could keep a secret better than anyone else I knew. It was a trait I found quite vexing, actually.

  Her announcement made, Aunt Winnie quickly changed the subject. “Elizabeth, you help me put on the tablecloths. Peter, would you mind making those wonderful napkins—you know, the ones that look like roses?” My face must have registered surprise because he blushed and mumbled, “It’s a trick my mom taught me years ago.”

  Fascinated, I watched as he folded the heavily starched napkins into an intricate shape that did indeed resemble a rose. For the centerpieces, Aunt Winnie brought out a basket of white roses and some small silver bowls. “I saw this idea in Martha Stewart’s magazine,” she told me. Filling the bowls with water, we floated the flowers in them. “Now, all we have to do is sprinkle the tables with this silver confetti and we’re done,” she said.

  “What do you want to do for the bar?” Peter asked.

  “Let’s use the sideboard,” she said. “Elizabeth, help me move it to the front of the room. I think that will work just fine. Peter, I’d like you to act as bartender, if that’s all right. Elizabeth, I’m leaving you in charge of the hors d’oeuvres tray.” After completing all the last-minute tasks necessary for any party, we went to our rooms to g
et ourselves ready.

  As I walked up the stairs, my foot hit something. Looking down, I saw it was a watch. I was reaching down to pick it up when Henry appeared at the top of the stairs. When she saw me holding the watch, an expression of relief crossed his face.

  “Oh, good,” he said, “you found it.”

  “Just this second. It was on the stairs,” I said. As I neared him, I reached out my hand, the watch hanging facedown. On the back was an inscription. Without consciously meaning to, I read the looping words: “To Henry. All my love, V.”

  Raising my eyes to his, I saw that his face was flushed. Quickly taking the watch from me, he mumbled, “It was a gift. From, um, from my first wife.”

  “It’s very nice.”

  A proud smile tugged at his lips. “Thank you. It is a handsome piece. Even Mrs. Dubois commented on it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. It is quite valuable to me,” he said, before hurrying down the hall. I was left to wonder if his sentiment for the watch lay in its origin or Mrs. Dubois’s praise.

  After taking a shower and drying my hair, I unpacked my black sheath. It wasn’t very fancy—far from it, actually—but it was the only decent dress I owned. My dark brown shoulder-length hair tends to get frizzy, so I put it up in a chignon. I don’t generally wear much makeup, but inasmuch as it was New Year’s Eve—and I’d be seeing Daniel—I made an exception. I studied my reflection in the mirror, wondering if I’d overdone it. I’d attempted to create a smoky effect with my eye shadow but was unsure if I’d merely produced a look that suggested malnutrition. After a few adjustments, I finally headed downstairs. Pausing on the landing, I looked out the window. Heavy, fat flakes of snow swirled and danced against a backdrop of white Christmas lights. The storm had finally arrived.