Murder at Longbourn: A Mystery

by Tracy Kiely

  I had little information about Joan and Henry or Jackie and Linnet. I had even less about the acting troupe, unless augmentation was a crime. As for Peter, I could have told the detective stories that would have set his hair on end and no doubt resulted in Peter’s immediate incarceration, but as they had nothing to do with the night’s events, I restrained myself. However, Detective Stewart did seem oddly interested in the fact that Peter’s parents were in the hotel business.

  After an eternity of pregnant pauses, raised eyebrows, and seemingly random scribbling into his ever-present notebook, Detective Stewart stood up. “Well, thank you very much for your cooperation, Ms. Parker. I think I have everything I need for tonight. You can go now. But if you think of anything, please call me.” He pushed a small white card at me. I took it and stared at the name on it. “Your first name is Aloysius?” I blurted out impolitically.

  He reddened a bit. “Yes.”

  I was about to ask if he’d really been named for Sebastian’s bear in Brideshead Revisited, but the question died on my lips under his withering expression. It was clear that the subject was off-limits.

  I stood up awkwardly, my legs stiff, while I struggled to comprehend that the burly, gruff man standing before me could have been named for an effeminate man’s bear companion. As Alice had said when she fell through the rabbit hole, “Things are getting curiouser and curiouser.”

  As I turned to leave the room, I caught sight of myself in the heavy gilded mirror by the door. My eyes were bloodshot, my skin was blotchy, and my chignon had long ago come undone, leaving my hair hanging in a bedraggled mess around my face. The last time I had looked this bad at the end of an evening, I’d had a hell of a better time to show for it.

  I was at the door when Detective Stewart spoke. “Oh, and one more thing, Ms. Parker.”

  I sighed. The man clearly had watched too many episodes of Columbo at an impressionable age. I wearily turned back.

  His lips stretched and twisted into an unnatural position, and it took me a minute to realize that he was actually trying to smile. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t leave town for the next couple of days.”

  I didn’t bother asking why. I was pretty sure it wasn’t because he wanted to ask me out to dinner.

  CHAPTER 8

  The average, healthy, well-adjusted adult gets up

  at seven-thirty in the morning feeling just plain terrible.

  —JEAN KERR

  I N MY DREAM, I was standing on the driveway outside the inn. In front of me, a large Mack truck was slowly and purposefully backing down on me. I tried to move out of its path, but I was frozen to the spot. The mechanical beeping of the truck grew louder and louder and I frantically screamed at the driver to stop. Finally, he stuck his head out the window. It was none other than Detective Stewart. Instead of stopping, he merely grinned at me and increased his speed. I awoke just as the truck touched me, then looked dazedly around my room and slammed my hand down on the beeping alarm clock.

  My brain was fuzzy with sleep and it took me a minute or two to remember the previous night’s events and the reason I had set my alarm for such an absurdly early hour. But then I recalled Gerald Ramsey’s dead, staring eyes and everything came rushing back. Throwing on jeans and a sweatshirt, I hurried down to the kitchen. I had hoped to get a head start on the breakfast for Aunt Winnie, but she was already busily puttering about the kitchen when I arrived.

  “What are you doing up so early?” she asked. “Coffee’s over there if you want any.” She gestured to the counter.

  “I wanted to get the breakfast ready for you,” I said, pouring myself a cup of the aromatic brew. Adding a generous splash of cream and two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, I took a restorative sip. Leaning against the counter, I focused on the soothing warmth of the kitchen. One would be hard-pressed to maintain a bleak outlook in this room; the brightly patterned red toile alone could banish the darkest of fears.

  Aunt Winnie was stirring something in a large red pot. I glanced curiously around the kitchen. There were quite a few pans out and, now that I noticed it, several competing smells. I could identify at least one.

  “Why are you making lasagna for breakfast?” I asked.

  Aunt Winnie shot me a bemused look before replying patiently, “Drink your coffee, dear. We’re having cranberry muffins for breakfast. I’m making the lasagna, a stew, and some other odds and ends to take to Lauren and Polly. They’re in for a rough time of it. I doubt they’ll be up for cooking much. I thought I’d take everything over later this morning.”

  “That’s nice of you,” I replied, stifling a yawn. Lady Catherine perched on one of the chairs at the table, eyeing me with an expression that could only be described as disdainful. I was about to shove her off the chair when I decided to try a different tack. Maybe it was because of the murder or the New Year, but I suddenly felt an urge to befriend Lady Catherine. I was a nice person. Why shouldn’t she like me? I slowly stretched out my hand to her and clucked my tongue lightly. She did not move. I reached up and gently rubbed behind her left ear. She still did not move. A sense of accomplishment overcame me. All she really needed was some kindness and I had shown her that. I had won her over with my … with a sudden movement she dug her claws deep into my wrist. Letting out a howl of pain, I jumped back, spilling my coffee in the process. Lady Catherine shot me a smug glance of satisfaction and bounded away. As I grabbed a napkin to blot the blood, I remembered again why I hate cats.

  I cleaned up my mess and poured myself another cup. After donning an apron—made of red toile, naturally—I helped Aunt Winnie prepare the food. I wondered if she was aware of Detective Stewart’s suspicions. I didn’t want to upset her, but at the same time I didn’t think it fair to keep her in the dark. I surreptitiously studied her, trying to gauge how badly the murder had affected her. Other than a drastic wardrobe change, prompted no doubt by the previous night’s tragedy—she was wearing an ultraconservative black cashmere sweater and gray flannel trousers—she looked pretty much as she always did. Her bright red curls were firmly in place, and her face showed no obvious ill effects from last night’s ordeal. But a closer inspection revealed her to be quite pale underneath her blush, with worried eyes and …

  “Elizabeth!” she barked suddenly. I jumped and spilled my coffee. Again.

  “What?” I said, flustered. Grabbing a dish towel, I mopped my sweatshirt.

  “Stop staring at me like that! It’s incredibly unnerving and, frankly, my nerves have had just about all they can take!”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Winnie,” I said ruefully. “I’m just worried about you. Last night was awful. I know this must be terribly stressful for you.”

  “Not as stressful as your staring,” she muttered, adding, “I’m sorry, dear. I know you mean well. And I am fine. Really.”

  I made no reply. I tried to raise one eyebrow the way Detective Stewart did when he heard something that didn’t ring quite true. From Aunt Winnie’s perplexed expression, I had a feeling it wasn’t a talent I possessed. But my continued silence prompted her to amend her previous statement.

  Letting out a sigh, she added, “Well, I’m as fine as I can be after a man has been murdered in my house.” She gripped the edge of the sink and her shoulders hunched. “The whole thing is too unbelievable! Although I suppose if you’d asked me to name the one guest most likely to be murdered, I would have picked Gerald. He wasn’t very likable, as I’m sure you saw. But as odious as the man was, he didn’t deserve to die in that manner.”

  The oven timer rang, and I walked over to turn it off. “So who do you think might have done it?” I asked, as I pulled the tray of twenty-four neat cranberry muffins out of the oven.

  “I’ve been trying to puzzle that one out myself,” she said, as she added tiny carrots and onions to the stew. “I think we can rule out the actors, unless it turns out that one of them is Gerald’s illegitimate child who has secretly been planning to avenge his mother’s ill treatment at Gerald’s hands.”
>
  “Sounds like something out of a bad novel.”

  “Oh, I agree. It’s quite fantastic. But I do think we can safely rule out the actors. Although when you really think about it, most of the people here last night were apparent strangers to Gerald. Joan and Henry live in New York and Jackie and Linnet just moved here. Logically, the murderer has to be someone who was close to Gerald. And, unfortunately, that means it’s probably Lauren, Polly, or Daniel.”

  Daniel! I had forgotten about him. If the rumors about him and Lauren were true, he had an excellent motive for doing away with Gerald. He’d get the girl and the money. I realized Aunt Winnie was watching me carefully. “Are you okay?” she asked gently. “I know you like him.”

  I blushed. As I said, my mother always warned me to never play poker. “I’m fine.” I resolutely popped the muffins out of the tray and onto a blue ceramic platter. “Although I must admit, it threw me when Detective Stewart asked me not to leave town.” Attempting to make light of the situation, I added, “And as he didn’t try to tempt me by promising a ride in the barouche box, I don’t think it was a compliment.”

  Aunt Winnie only responded with a grim smile.

  “My only concern,” I continued, “is that the police find out the truth. But no matter who it turns out to be, it won’t be pleasant.”

  “I agree,” said Aunt Winnie. “And this must be cleared up as soon as possible. Gerald Ramsey was a disagreeable—maybe even horrible—man, but he did not deserve to be shot down like a dog. I’m not going to lie and say I’m going to miss the man. In fact, I suspect that several lives will be all the happier because of his passing. But the sooner his murderer is discovered, the sooner the rest of us can get on with our lives.”

  Realization dawned. “Is that why the sudden urge to cook for Lauren and Polly?” I asked. “Are you hoping to learn something from them when you drop off all this food?”

  Aunt Winnie shrugged but did not deny the charge. “I do want to help them out. I’m not that coldhearted. I’m truly fond of them both. If they had nothing to do with this, then they must be in hell this morning. But if they did have something to do with it … well, let’s just say I’m more than a little curious to see how they are coping. I don’t think either of them had a particularly happy life with Gerald.”

  “Aunt Winnie! What are you saying? Do you honestly believe that by taking up all this food you’re going to hear one of them slip and admit that she shot Gerald? That’s crazy!”

  “Don’t be absurd! I’m not expecting a confession. I just want to see for myself how they’re doing.”

  I had seen that dogged expression on her face before, and I knew that it was no use trying to convince her otherwise. “Fine,” I said reluctantly, “but I’m going with you. I’m not letting you play detective by yourself. It’s too dangerous. You could get hurt.”

  “Someone already did get hurt. And in my dining room!” she said, as if the killer owed her a separate apology for that. She took out her frustration on the stew, stirring it vigorously with her wooden spoon. “I only want to talk to them. It’s probably a long shot, but I’ll do anything that might speed up the investigation. Because, let’s face it, we don’t know if this murder is an isolated event or the work of a deranged killer. Everyone assumes that it must be solely directed at Gerald because he was so odious. But until they catch whoever did this, we just don’t know.”

  Her words had a chilling effect. The same thoughts had been lurking in my head, but to hear them spoken out loud gave them a frightening reality.

  “And besides,” she added, trying to lighten the mood, “until the killer is found, people may drive by and gawk at Longbourn, but no one will want to stay here. I’ve worked too hard on this place to let it slip away now. I wasn’t going to let Gerald Ramsey take Longbourn from me when he was alive. I’m sure as hell not going to lose it now that he’s dead.”

  I was glad Detective Stewart wasn’t here to see the combination of Aunt Winnie’s words and the steely determination in her eyes. He might get terrible ideas.

  Leaving Aunt Winnie to finish up in the kitchen, I headed for the reading room to set up the breakfast items. Even if the police hadn’t sealed off the dining room, I doubted if anyone would want to eat breakfast, or any other meal, there anytime soon.

  The room was as I had left it last night—the chairs and tables still set up for an interrogation. Maybe because of the stressful exchange I had had there with Detective Stewart, the whole ambience of the room seemed to have changed. It was no longer the cheerful retreat it had been two days ago. Instead it struck me as a cold and uneasy place. A chill seemed to permeate the room, although whether this was due to the temperature outside or the events of last night I didn’t know. Nevertheless, I lit a fire in the fireplace. A few minutes later, pale orange and yellow flames leaped and crackled in the hearth. I quickly pushed the furniture back into its original position and set up the breakfast dishes. But as I surveyed the results of my work, I realized that it wasn’t just the position of the chairs that had altered the mood of the room. It was as Aunt Winnie had said. A murder had taken place at Longbourn. And until the murderer was caught, it was going to change the way people felt about the inn.

  Stepping out into the foyer, I saw that Lady Catherine had taken up her usual position on the green brocade chair, her blue eyes languidly surveying the room. In them, the pulsating lights from the Christmas tree were reflected. That effect, combined with her already peevish expression, made the ambience of the reading room seem downright cozy.

  Lady Catherine heard the footfalls on the stairs before I did. Following her laserlike stare, I saw Peter coming down. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt and faded jeans. His thick brown hair was slightly damp where it curled around his neck. In short, he looked well rested and showered—two adjectives that most certainly did not describe me. Staring at me with some surprise, he asked, “What are you doing up so early?” He pointed to my feet and added, “No bunny slippers this morning?”

  “I got up early to help Aunt Winnie with the breakfast,” I replied curtly, putting extra emphasis on the word help and ignoring his second question altogether.

  Peter coughed. “If you are insinuating that I am a lazy ingrate because I did not help with the breakfast, may I direct your attention to the driveway. The freshly shoveled driveway. Actually, a better description might be the freshly shoveled, ridiculously long, heart-attack-inducing driveway.”

  As directed, I looked out the window to see a freshly shoveled driveway. And now that I noticed it, it was ridiculously long. Feeling petty and foolish, I turned back to apologize but Peter held up his hand to stop me. “And may I just add,” he continued, “that the reason I was surprised to see you up so early is that I know that you were up late with that detective. Aunt Winnie and I were hoping that you’d sleep in a bit. She mentioned that when you don’t get enough sleep, you have a tendency to get … cranky.” He paused to cock his eyebrow at me. “Seriously, though, how did your interview with the detective go?”

  “Not very well,” I mumbled, remembering my various outbursts.

  “I had a feeling,” Peter replied dryly. Turning to him for an explanation, he went on. “He was here this morning. He asked me a few questions about you. He said you were a spitfire.” Peter paused and folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t think he meant it as a compliment.”

  “I can assure you he didn’t.” I was embarrassed that my temper had once again gotten the better of me. “He asked me not to leave town.”

  “Well, don’t let that get you down,” said Peter. “He asked the same of me.”

  The rest of what Detective Stewart said came back to me as well, especially his suspicions about Aunt Winnie. “Peter,” I said impulsively, “I think that the police suspect Aunt Winnie.”

  His dark brows knitted together in concern. “Really? Why?”

  “Because of some things Detective Stewart said to me last night. Apparently, someone told him th
at Gerald still wanted to buy the inn and that he was harassing her through the zoning board. And now Detective Stewart has it in his head that Gerald actually threatened Aunt Winnie. It looks bad for her—after all, she was the one who turned off the lights. And what if they find out about that time with her friend’s husband? If you didn’t know the whole story …” I began.

  “… it could look pretty bad,” Peter finished. He thought for a moment. “So you think the police suspect Aunt Winnie of killing Gerald just so she can keep the inn?”

  “Something like that. Do you think I should tell her?”

  Confusion registered in Peter’s brown eyes. “I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you tell her?”

  Last night, I could have listed at least eight reasons why I shouldn’t tell her the police’s suspicions. In the light of day, after a cup of hot coffee, I couldn’t think of a single one.

  “You’re right,” I finally said. “I’ll tell her. There’s no reason not to.”

  “She’s a smart woman, Elizabeth. I’m sure she can handle the likes of Detective Stewart.”

  “I know. I guess I wasn’t thinking clearly.” I smiled at him. “Thanks, Peter. I’ve got to run and take a shower. See you later.”

  “Right,” said Peter. “I’ll go see if Winnie needs any help.”

  As I walked up the staircase, I was sure that Peter was right. There was nothing to worry about. Aunt Winnie was a smart, strong woman. More important, I assured myself, she was innocent. I turned back to Peter. He was staring out into space, his shoulders hunched and his expression a mass of worry. My good feeling went right out the window.

  CHAPTER 9

  We’re all in this alone.

  —LILY TOMLIN

  I WAS SURPRISED to see all the guests file dutifully into the reading room for breakfast, until I realized that no one wanted to be left alone in a bedroom. With a murderer on the loose, there was something to be said for that old adage about safety in numbers.