Murder at Longbourn: A Mystery

by Tracy Kiely

  I was ice cold. My mind screamed at me to say something, to keep her talking until I could figure a way out of this, but I couldn’t move, let alone talk. Fear ate at me, leaving nothing but a quivering shell. Finally, I managed to get out, “You loved Martin.”

  She looked up at me again with that birdlike tilt of her head. “He was my world,” she said simply. “And then Linnet saw him.” She spit out Linnet’s name as if it were an insult. “She wanted him like a child wants a piece of candy. Martin loved me, but … but when Linnet came around, I disappeared, the way the moon eclipses the sun. Once Linnet set her sights on Martin, he didn’t have a chance. She never loved him; she just loved his money. All this,” she said, with a wide sweep of the gun, “came from Martin’s money. And Martin belonged to me. The way I look at it, this is how it should always have been—me living in this house with the things that his money bought. I’ve only righted the wrong Linnet created.”

  “So you killed her and assumed her identity,” I said carefully, trying to keep my voice neutral, as I thought one should when dealing with crazy people. I warily contemplated her and the gun. I looked around for something to use as a weapon but could see nothing. I was certainly bigger and could probably tackle her, had she not had the gun. A tiny part of my brain registered that it was, in reality, a small gun, but a gun is a gun, and when you’re staring down the barrel of one, size doesn’t matter. To my shattered nerves, she might as well have been holding an AK-47. My only hope was to keep her talking while I tried to maneuver my way toward the door to the hallway. I remembered what Detective Stewart had told me: Derringers have only one shot, two at the most. If I could take her by surprise, I might be able to make a run for it.

  “It was easy, really.” Jackie became eerily conversational. I began to feel an unreal sensation creep over me. This couldn’t be happening. “When I read of Martin’s death, I wrote Linnet a letter of condolence and, amazingly, she invited me to visit. Seeing her preen around her grand house, touching her grand things, all the while spitting on poor Martin’s memory made me hate her as I never had before. That’s when I first thought of killing her. But how could I do it without getting caught? While I contemplated a murder plan, Linnet decided to sell her house and move to the Cape, and she asked me to come live with her. Of course I agreed. Neither of us had any living relatives or knew anyone on the Cape. How easy would it be for me to become her? After all, we were cousins and we resembled each other. I was always good at imitating people. Linnet wore a lot of makeup and a wig and—”

  “And you always wore big floppy hats to hide your face. You wanted everyone to think they were meant to cover thinning hair, but it was Linnet who had the thinning hair, Linnet who wanted to hide it. That’s why she wore a wig.”

  She smiled at me like a proud parent. I remembered Linnet’s battered body lying in the snow that day and how I’d seen the sparse hair and assumed it was Jackie. And Linnet’s sudden need for her tinted glasses—hadn’t she insinuated that Jackie was to blame for the loss of her contacts? At the time, I’d thought Linnet was being unfair, but no doubt Jackie had hidden the contacts, forcing Linnet to use her glasses. It was just a prearranged prop for Jackie to obfuscate differences between her and Linnet. As I slowly edged toward the door, I asked, “So you killed Gerald for nothing? Just to divert attention from your real crime.”

  “Exactly. I couldn’t have asked for a better target. Why, I hadn’t been here three days before I realized that everyone in this town hated Gerald Ramsey. And really, it’s not as if anyone minded his dying. In fact, I think I did several people a service. With so many suspects, the police were far too busy checking motives to worry about anything else.”

  “And then you showed up pretending to know something about his death.”

  “Yes.” She laughed. Her laugh had a strange edge to it. Unstable was one way to describe it. Scary as hell was another. “You should have seen your face,” she went on. “It took all of my self-control not to burst out laughing. From there on it was simple. I just became Linnet. I’d studied her closely.” She shifted her posture slightly, rearranged her facial expression, and suddenly she was the proud and haughty Linnet Westin. Then her face crumpled and the illusion was gone. Her mouth twisted. “Killing Linnet gave me a great deal of satisfaction, but later, when it was over … well, she was the only one who remembered the past. She may have sneered at Martin, but at least she remembered the sound of his voice. Now no one does, only me.” She trailed off, staring at something unseen in front of her. Cautiously, I took a few steps toward the door again. “But what’s done is done,” she said, snapping back to the present. I stopped my slow inching. “It’s for the best,” she added firmly. “Linnet deserved to die. She stole Martin from me. It would have been different had she really loved him. She made his life a living nightmare and she drove him to drink. He barely touched alcohol when I knew him. Linnet killed him just as she killed my dreams.”

  “I can see that,” I said. I was still at least twenty feet from the hallway.

  “So tell me, dear.” She smiled her friendly, Jackie smile. “What tipped you off?”

  “When you tried to frame Lauren. It was clever of you to text a message to Linnet’s phone and leave it in her car. You asked Peter to have someone drive the car back to the house, hoping that person would find the cell phone and read the message. But it made me wonder. Why a text? A voice message made more sense, but you couldn’t be sure of anyone hearing it. After all, you probably didn’t even know Linnet’s access code and chances were no one else would figure it out, either. I imagine it was easy to plant the foxglove at Lauren’s house during the funeral reception. But I couldn’t believe that Lauren was the killer. And then I remembered that Lauren is left-handed. The glove you used when you shot Gerald was right-handed. So I asked myself, who hated Lauren enough to frame her? And I thought of you the day of the luncheon. You sat at the table, twisting your earring and telling us of your dislike of Lauren.”

  “So?”

  “So you have pierced ears. Linnet didn’t. She wore clip-ons, expensive ones. The kind that Jackie would never own.” I held up the diamond clip-on earrings I had taken from Linnet’s jewelry case. “The body I found outside did not have pierced ears. I saw it. It was a smooth ear. There was no hole in it. That’s when I realized the body I found must have been Linnet’s. Was Lauren like Linnet? Is that why you hated her? Because she also married for money and not for love?”

  She sneered. “Aren’t you clever today? Yes. I sent the text to Linnet’s cell. Lauren is no better than Linnet and she deserves to rot. And it all worked, too. Aside from you, everyone thinks that Lauren is the murderer and Linnet Westin is nothing more than a beastly snob. I’ll sell this place and move away. And no one will ever be the wiser.”

  “I’m afraid that isn’t true,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I already called the police. Detective Stewart and his men should be here any minute.”

  She laughed; it had a high-pitched resonance that made my skin crawl. “Oh, come now. You can’t possibly think I believe that.” I knew what she was going to say next. “Your face gives you away every time, my dear.

  “Now what am I going to do with you?” she asked pleasantly, as she casually surveyed the room. “I can’t do anything here—I don’t want to risk leaving a trail. I’ll have to move your car and then when it’s dark, I’ll …” I slowly slid my foot toward the door again. She pointed the gun squarely at my chest. With deadly determination, she cocked the hammer. “I don’t think so, my dear. As much as I like you, I didn’t come this far just to get tripped up by a silly girl. Move this way. Downstairs, please. Slowly. And don’t be an idiot.”

  Her eyes gleamed like blue steel and the hand that held the gun neither shook nor quivered. My feet backed away from both her and the gun on their own accord, reversing my earlier progress to the door. My mind was in a panic but not so much that I didn’t know my fate was sealed unless I did something, and fast. Jackie hadn�
�t told me all of this to let me go. She was going to kill me, just like she had killed Gerald and Linnet. Do something, I thought. Don’t just stand there! Move! The only problem was, I didn’t know what to do. All I knew was that I did not want to die. A vision of Gerald’s dead, staring eyes swam before me, increasing my terror. As I saw it, I had two choices: A, I could let myself be shot, or B, I could not. I opted for option B.

  Lowering my head, I put my hand on my stomach and sagged against Linnet’s dressing table. “What are you doing?” Jackie asked suspiciously.

  “I … I think I’m going to be sick.” I placed my hand on the table for support.

  “Well, don’t,” she snapped.

  “That’s what I’m working on.” I pawed at the table as though to keep myself upright. My hand snaked toward Linnet’s heavy metal jewelry box. I leaned my body forward, taking deep breaths. With a quick prayer, I grabbed the box and flung it at Jackie’s head.

  She saw it coming and jerked backward, but not before the box grazed her. The impact sent a shower of diamond and pearl baubles through the air. “You bitch!” she screamed as she stumbled, clutching her cheek. Taking advantage of her imbalance, I shoved past her and scrambled for the stairs. She lost little time in taking up the chase, and I could hear her close behind me. At the base of the stairs she caught up with me, grabbed my ponytail, and yanked me backward. Her strength surprised me and I inwardly cursed the local senior fitness program. I spun around to strike her, only to have her claw at my eyes and face. Tears blurred my vision and I yelped in pain as I felt one of my earrings ripped out. I balled my hand into a fist and swung at her head, but she was faster, and had the advantage of sight. A blinding flash of light burst behind my eyes as she slammed the gun into my left temple. The floor swam up to me and I knew no more.

  When I awoke, my legs and arms were bound with some sort of clothesline and a rag was jammed into my mouth. The left side of my head was on fire and my right leg ached. Frantically, I struggled against the ropes, but to no avail. The gag in my mouth cut my air intake to a mere trickle and my throat spasmodically retched, trying to force it out. Waves of panic overtook me. Then I did what I always do in stressful situations. I started counting.

  By the time I hit 325, my breathing had calmed down and my pounding heart no longer sounded like a jackhammer in my ears. I was lying on a smooth cement floor, apparently in the basement. From the way my body felt, Jackie must have sent me tumbling head over ass down the stairs. At first, it seemed pitch-black around me, but slowly my eyes adjusted. A quick inventory wasn’t encouraging. In one corner of the basement there appeared to be a few discarded painting supplies. In the other, white cardboard boxes were precariously stacked on an old kitchen table. Luggage and a dirty mop took up the third corner. The fourth corner was bare except for a few cobwebs and dead flies. Across from me stood a hatchway to the outside, a large metal padlock hanging from the latch.

  I decided to start with the boxes—they might contain something sharp that I could use to saw at the ropes. I rolled myself over toward the table, whimpering in pain as my leg dragged with each turn. Finally, I was able to pull myself up to my knees. I was upright, but my head was spinning and my leg was throbbing. The room swayed and I feared I might pass out again, but thankfully everything came back into focus. Straining my eyes, I peered at the boxes on the table. They were sealed and, according to the neat lettering printed on each one, held nothing more than old sheets and towels.

  Time for Plan B, I thought, as I dragged myself like a wounded crab in the direction of the painting supplies. Here, my efforts were more rewarding. On one of the paint trays lay a painting razor blade, one side covered with a protective plastic coating. With my hands tied behind my back, I backed into the supplies and blindly groped for the razor. Once I had it, I jabbed at the thick ropes. I was glad that at least my left hand was tied over my right, so I could hold the blade. My movements were clumsy and weak, and the razor fell from my uncooperative fingers twice, but it finally sliced through my bonds and the ropes loosened and slid from around my wrists. Yanking the rag out of my mouth, I greedily sucked in the damp air before I started sawing at the clothesline around my ankles.

  When that fell to the floor, I collapsed back onto the ground. My arms felt like rubber and my legs felt even worse. Any attempt to put weight on my right leg made me see stars. Other than the door at the top of the stairs, the only way out of the basement was through the padlocked hatchway. My only hope was going up the stairs and trying the door, but in my current condition those stairs might as well have been Mount Everest. Nevertheless, I rolled over and crawled to the bottom. My progress, one step at a time, was slow and painful, but finally I was on the top step. I grabbed the knob. It was locked. I pulled myself up and switched on the light. A bulb at the bottom of the stairs blazed forth and I blinked several times at the sudden brightness.

  I saw a large metal flashlight hanging from a hook on the wall by the door. I grabbed it and sank onto the top step before I eased back down the stairs. At the bottom, I reached up and twisted the bulb out of its socket. The inky darkness was claustrophobic, but at least when Jackie returned, she wouldn’t have light to guide her. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Clicking on the flashlight, I searched every inch of the basement. I found nothing, and my efforts to smash the lock on the hatchway were futile. A razor and a flashlight were all I could muster to defend myself against a gun. I would just have to make do and ambush her as best I could. I lay back down on the floor where Jackie had left me and waited.

  After what seemed a dark eternity, I thought I could hear her moving around upstairs. I don’t know how long I had lain there—it seemed like hours. The pains in my leg and my head were draining my energy. Eventually, the house fell silent. I struggled to remain awake, but my eyes grew heavy. The next thing I knew there was a hand on my shoulder. Disoriented, I jerked awake, my heart pounding. This was my only chance. I rolled over and slammed the flashlight as hard as I could into Jackie’s head. She fell back with a thud.

  My flashlight did the job, all right, but I stared in horror at the crumpled form that lay beside me. It was Peter.

  CHAPTER 28

  Is not general incivility the very essence of love?

  —JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

  P ETER!” I YELPED. “Oh, God, Peter! Speak to me!” I scrambled to his side and clicked on the flashlight. Blood poured from a nasty gash on his right temple and his face was a terrible shade of gray. The thought that I had actually killed him produced a sharp and sickening tightening in my chest, the intensity of which took me by surprise. The memory of my jest to Bridget that the minute Peter fell gravely ill, I would forgive him rushed over me and I felt sick. I cared for Peter, I really cared for Peter! I had let my anger from events fifteen years ago spoil everything. It figures, I thought bitterly. I finally meet the perfect guy and then I go and blow it by smashing his head in. He might have forgiven me for the dead fish in his bed, but this was different. Blood was involved. Cupping his face, I said, “Peter! It’s me, Elizabeth! Can you hear me?”

  He moved his head and moaned peevishly. “What the hell did you do that for? I risk my neck to save you and this is the thanks I get?”

  I sagged back with a rush of relief; he was alive. “I thought you were Jackie,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Where is she?”

  “Jackie? Jackie’s dead,” said Peter, groaning. “And I was the one who got hit in the head?” Gingerly he raised his hand to his head and tried to sit up. He made it only halfway.

  “Jackie’s not dead. She killed Linnet and is pretending to be Linnet. Where is she? Is she still upstairs?”

  “Are you okay? Did she hurt you? What happened?”

  “I’m fine. Well, I think I did something to my leg, but other than that, I’m okay. Is Jackie still upstairs?”

  He took a long time answering. “Peter!” I repeated, shaking him. “Is she here?”

  “Please stop that,”
he said, wincing. “She left.”

  “Peter, listen to me. She’s going to kill us. She has a gun. We have to get out of here, but I hurt my leg and I can’t walk. You’ve got to call the police.”

  “Police,” he repeated, but his voice sounded faint. I shook him again. Hard. He tried to slap my hand away, but he was so weak it felt like the brush of a feather. He sank back onto the floor. I had to keep him talking. I had to keep him awake. “Peter, listen to me. How did you know I was here?” I heard the panic in my voice.

  He was such a long time in answering that I thought he had passed out, but finally he opened his eyes. They were unfocused, but his voice sounded stronger. “I didn’t,” he said. “When you didn’t come back to the inn, I got worried. Aunt Winnie said you’d come here, so I came looking for you. But Linnet said you left hours ago. I saw your earring on the floor. Something seemed wrong, so I left and then doubled back. When she went out, I broke in.” The effort of this short speech drained him. He closed his eyes. The right side of his head was now covered in blood.

  I reached down and cupped his face. He leaned his head into the palm of my hand. “Elizabeth,” he muttered, “don’t be mad. I was only trying to help.”

  “I’m not mad at you, Peter, but we have to get out of here! She could be back at any minute.” As I said this, the basement door creaked open. I shrank back and clicked off the flashlight. Jackie’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. “What the hell?” she said, reaching for the light switch. She flipped it several times. “What’s the matter with the lights?”

  I did not answer.

  She slowly came down the stairs toward me, the gun out and aimed in my direction. Halfway down, she stopped in surprise at the sight of Peter. I grabbed his limp hand. Jackie’s eyes went from Peter’s recumbent form to the flashlight now clutched in my hand. Her mouth twisted into a cruel smile. “Well, well, well,” she said. “What do we have here? Did the gallant hero try to save the damsel in distress only to get bashed in the head?”