Death and Sensibility

by Elizabeth Blake

  “I’m afraid our time is up,” Erin said, looking at the wall clock. “I’d like to thank you all for coming, and thanks to all of our panel members.”

  “Saved by the bell,” Jonathan remarked as he and Erin left the room. “That was pretty daft.”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “At bookseller conventions, believe it or not.”

  “Booksellers have quite a reputation, actually.”

  “They do?”

  “Their drunken orgies are legendary.”

  “We’re a wild lot, all right.”

  “Uncontrollable.”

  “Unfettered.”

  “Unchained.”

  “Massively free-spirited.”

  They stood in the hall for a moment as people swarmed past. Erin felt comfortable around Jonathan, unlike Detective Hemming, around whom she often felt flustered.

  Jonathan gave her one of his signature grins. “This calls for a drink. You game?”

  “All right,” she said, wondering if they would run into Farnsworth and Grant at the bar.

  “This panel was actually my idea,” he said as they crossed the carpeted corridor toward the lobby.

  “I remember—I’m pretty sure I voted for it in committee,” she replied as they passed the waiter Sam, walking rapidly, head down. Erin smiled at him, but he didn’t seem to notice them—he was obviously in a great hurry.

  “That’s right—you were on the panel committee, weren’t you?”

  “I remember thinking yours was one of the better ideas.”

  “Being on panels is a bit of a busman’s holiday for me,” Jonathan remarked. “As a teacher, I spend all day chattering away.”

  “At least at a conference, you have other people to do some of the talking.”

  “Even if they’re as bonkers as that lot was,” Jonathan said, brushing a loose curl from his face. Erin’s breath caught at the sight. “What was with Indiana Jones? What’s his story?”

  “Classic eccentric,” Erin said as they entered the 1906 Bar. The room was nearly empty. The afternoon panels went until five, and it was just past four. “I see his type in bookstores all the time. People like him keep me in business.’”

  “He seemed to be dressed for a safari,” Jonathan said as they took seats by the window. “The only thing he was missing was a necklace of lion’s teeth.”

  “He’s harmless enough.”

  “Until he isn’t.”

  Erin looked at Jonathan, surprised. “I’m a bad influence on you. Not everyone is a potential killer.”

  “You’re the expert. Given the right circumstances, isn’t anyone capable of murder?”

  Gazing out at the rapidly gathering storm, Erin had to admit Jonathan was probably right. If so, her list of suspects in Barry Wolf’s death had just multiplied geometrically.

  Chapter Nine

  Maybe it was the storm raging outside, or the relaxed atmosphere of the quiet bar, but Erin had a little more to drink than was good for her. Or maybe it was very good for her, she thought as she stared out the window at the swirling snowflakes. Outlined by the glare of the lights on the outside of the hotel, they leapt and danced like drunken ghosts, caught in the gusts and updrafts of the fickle wind.

  Inside, LED Christmas lights strung over the mahogany bar lent a soft glow to the room, with its tasteful wall sconces and oriental carpets. Erin sank deeper into the red leather armchair with a sigh of contentment as she watched Jonathan fetch their second round. She had chosen the drink called Cthulhu, after the H. P. Lovecraft character. She liked the literary references sprinkled throughout the drink menu. Though not a Lovecraft fan, she liked the rum-based drink, even if it was a little fussy in that trendy mixology way.

  Jonathan really was too gorgeous to ignore, she thought as he made his way back to her, his black curls bouncing. Erin noted that his corduroy jacket was just the right shade of mustard, a little worn at the cuffs and elbows, befitting someone who enjoyed reading. That kind of unstudied, rumpled charm was impossible to fake, unlike Barry Wolf’s self-conscious slickness. Jonathan seemed unaware of his charisma, whereas Barry Wolf was obviously desperate to make a good impression. She didn’t mind people dressing smartly and wanting to look their best, but Wolf had tried too hard—and unsuccessfully—to hide his age. The strain gave off an unpleasant aroma, like flop sweat.

  Hetty was also devoted to hiding her age, of course, but somehow managed to pull it off. She could be ridiculous but unlike Wolf who just seemed sad and overeager, Hetty’s attempt was oddly admirable.

  “Desperation is rarely attractive,” she murmured as Jonathan approached. “But it is not usually a cause of murder.”

  “What’s that about murder?” he asked, handing her the drink.

  “Nothing.”

  “You really think Barry Wolf was murdered?”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  “Why?”

  “The timing just seems suspicious. He has so many acquaintances here—and from what I observed, a lot of them couldn’t stand him.”

  “So you’ll ferret out the truth.”

  “Meanwhile, each sip of this cocktail is bringing me closer to some sort of cosmic truth.”

  “How do you pronounce that again?” he asked.

  “H. P. Lovecraft originally said it was pronounced Khlûí-hloo. But he kept changing his mind, so who knows?”

  “It was a monster, right?”

  “Yes, a malevolent alien creature imprisoned underground, worshipped by some, but feared by most.”

  “Here’s Lovecraft’s description of it on Wikipedia,” Jonathan said, studying his phone. “‘A monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an octopus-like head whose face was a mass of feelers, a scaly, rubbery-looking body, prodigious claws on hind and fore feet, and long, narrow wings behind.’”

  “Here’s to creatures from our nightmares,” said Erin, raising her glass.

  “Cheers,” said Jonathan.

  “Supposedly, the creature would return to engineer the fall of civilization.”

  “Speaking of the fall of civilization, here comes our buffet thief.”

  Erin looked up to see Winnifred Hogsworthy amble into the bar, her enormous bag tucked under her arm. She scanned the room, as if looking for someone. Apparently, unable to locate the object of her search, she turned and wandered out.

  “Bit of a lost soul, isn’t she?” said Jonathan.

  “I wonder who she was looking for.”

  “Perhaps searching for another buffet to plunder.”

  “What did you think of her comment about Jane Austen being poisoned by a rival?”

  Jonathan smiled, deepening the dimple on his chin. “Mustn’t believe everything you hear.”

  “It would make a good story, though, wouldn’t it?”

  “A sort of Regency murder mystery, you mean?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But you’d have to have someone actually die to have a proper mystery.”

  “And a sleuth to solve it.”

  “Like you?”

  “I’m not a proper sleuth.”

  “You solved Sylvia’s murder.”

  “I got lucky.”

  “You nearly got killed.”

  “So did you.”

  Jonathan shivered. “Let’s change the subject.”

  “But it was just getting interesting,” said a voice behind them.

  Erin turned to see Hetty and Prudence, inseparable as always. Pru wore a forest-green sweater that would probably look good on anyone else, while Hetty was decked out like a Christmas tree, with more beads and baubles than Erin had ever seen her—or anyone—wear.

  “Don’t you look festive,” said Jonathan.

  “Well, it’s nearly Christmas season,” Hetty replied.

  “More like Halloween, if you ask me,” Pru muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Please, join us,” said Erin.

  �
�Very kind of you,” Hetty replied. Casting a baleful glance at Prudence, she moved toward one of the empty chairs, staggering a bit beneath the weight of her excessive couture. Her necklace alone appeared to weigh half a stone.

  “Would you ladies like something to drink?” asked Jonathan.

  “Oh, don’t call us ladies,” said Hetty. “It makes us seem so dreadfully old.”

  Pru pursed her thin lips. “If the shoe fits …”

  “What shall I call you, then?” asked Jonathan.

  Hetty twisted her gold necklace between her fingers. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Dames? Women? Females?”

  “How about damsels?” suggested Erin.

  “How medieval,” said Pru.

  “Like this city,” said Jonathan.

  “I rather like that,” Hetty said. “Damsels. It’s quaint.”

  “Well, then,” said Jonathan. “What have you damsels been up to?”

  Hetty batted her false eyelashes. “Searching for our knights in shining armor.”

  “Do they really exist?” asked Erin.

  “Only in Hetty’s imagination,” said Pru. “Real knights are hard to come by, and armor soon loses its sheen.”

  “Have you ever tried on a suit of armor?” Hetty asked Jonathan.

  “I have. It weighs a ton and it’s extremely uncomfortable. Can’t imagine trying to ride a horse wearing it.”

  “I imagine it rusts when it gets wet,” said Erin.

  Jonathan raised his glass. “Here’s to rusty armor and errant knights.”

  Pru gave a wan smile. “As Jane Austen wrote to her niece Fanny Knight, ‘Pictures of perfection, as you know, make me sick and wicked.’”

  “Where’s Farnsworth?” Hetty asked, looking around.

  Erin exchanged a glance with Jonathan. “She went to tea with—”

  She was cut off by a loud commotion at the bar.

  “No, I will not calm down, mate! I want another drink!”

  Stephen Mahoney was leaning forward on the bar, elbows resting on the edge, his long-jawed face red, eyes blurry. The bartender was leaning back, arms crossed, his face stony.

  “I said I want a drink!”

  The barkeep lifted one eyebrow. In a barely perceptible gesture, he twisted his head slightly to the left. A burly security guard appeared, all bulging muscles and shoulders in his tight blue uniform, his goatee so neatly groomed it appeared to have been done with a laser.

  “Come with me, sir,” he said, taking Stephen’s arm. “Let’s not have any trouble now.”

  Mahoney pulled away, but the guard tightened his grip. “Now then, sir. I’m sure you don’t want to cause a fuss.”

  “Unhand me!” Stephen sputtered, but the guard drew his face closer, so the two men were nearly touching noses.

  “Let’s not escalate this to a matter for the police, sir. You don’t look like a man who would care to have a criminal record.”

  Mahoney shuddered, as if a bucket of cold water had just been poured over him. He straightened up, opened his mouth as if to say something, then slumped into a submissive posture. “I’ll leave,” he said. “You can let go of me.”

  “Sorry, sir, but protocol demands I escort you out.”

  For a moment Mahoney looked as if he might protest, but then sighed deeply, his shoulders sagged, and he submitted meekly as the guard led him from the room.

  “Well,” said Hetty after they had gone. “That was interesting.”

  Pru rolled her eyes, but Erin noted she had watched the display with the same wide-eyed curiosity as the rest of them.

  Jonathan leaned in toward Erin. She could smell his aftershave—a bit floral, but mixed with the scent of fresh lime. “You can add a personal assistant with anger issues to your suspect list.”

  “Ooh, are you keeping a list of suspects?” asked Hetty.

  “Not as such,” Erin replied, but the truth was she was already compiling a mental list.

  “What about motives?” asked Pru.

  “I do hope he wasn’t killed over money,” said Hetty. “That would be unbearably tedious.”

  “What would be a good motive?” Jonathan asked.

  “Why, love, of course! Something romantically tragic—a jilted lover, a jealous husband, a heartbroken suitor.”

  “It doesn’t have to be either-or, you know,” Erin pointed out. “Sometimes the motive is love and money.”

  She wondered if this was the case with Barry Wolf. Gazing out at the swirling snow, she didn’t know whether it would make finding his killer easier—or more difficult.

  Chapter Ten

  “This has been lovely,” Hetty said, finishing her drink. “But it’s time to dress for dinner.”

  Erin wondered how much more dressing Hetty intended to do—she already looked as though she had raided a costume jewelry store.

  “And I’ve got papers to grade,” said Jonathan.

  “Isn’t school term over?” asked Prudence.

  “There are some final exams awaiting my attention. A teacher’s lot is not a happy one.”

  “Lucky students,” Hetty murmured, licking her lips. Her bright red lipstick had faded to a somewhat more natural color, softening her face. The bright hues she was attracted to tended to sharpen the lines on her face, making her look older. But she seemed to get so much pleasure from her outlandish sartorial style that Erin was loath to give unsolicited comments. And who was she to advise another woman on fashion? Blessed with naturally clear skin, Erin wore little makeup. Her blue eyes were rather pale, and looked better with a touch of eyeliner and mascara, though she didn’t always bother with it.

  “Shall we reconvene later?” said Prudence.

  “I’m going to the spa first,” said Hetty. “So maybe eight o’clock?”

  “I’m on an eight o’clock panel,” said Pru.

  “Just as well if I skip dinner,” Hetty said. “I ate a big lunch.”

  “If you consider a salad and a few green beans a big lunch,” Pru remarked, wrinkling her nose, making her appear rather mole-like.

  As the little group wandered out of the restaurant, Erin wondered where Farnsworth was. The last she saw her, Farnsworth was headed off to tea with Grant Apthorp. The next thing Erin knew, Jonathan Alder was walking alongside her as she headed for the lift.

  “What floor are you on?” she asked as they passed the second floor.

  “Top floor. I like attic rooms.”

  “So do I.”

  “Kindred spirits,” he mused, giving her one of his trademark smiles, all dimples and sparkling teeth.

  “Here we are,” she said as the lift bell dinged. “Fifth floor. Lingerie, women’s wear, dry goods.”

  “Dry goods?” he said, laughing. “On the same floor with lingerie?”

  “It’s a small store.”

  She stepped off the lift, and he followed.

  “Well,” he said after they had gone a few steps, “this is my room.”

  They stood for a moment in the hallway. Then, before she could stop herself, her lips connected with his. He tasted spicy, with an edge of sweetness, like mulled plum wine. She felt she should pull away, but did not. She liked the feeling of his tongue against hers. She knew she was under the influence of alcohol, but only a little tipsy. Hungrily, she leaned in for more. Time slowed, then hung still, like tea time with Lewis Carroll’s Mad Hatter, where it was always six o’clock.

  “Well,” she said finally, pulling away to catch her breath.

  “Well,” he echoed. “That was unexpected.”

  Was it really? Hadn’t they been working toward this, in a way, for a long time?

  “Nothing like a hotel for bringing out naughty impulses,” he said.

  Erin’s heart fell. He made it sound like a school prank, and nothing more. This is a little wordy and awkward. How many times had he done this and at how many hotels? She turned and started down the hall toward her room. To her relief, he did not follow. She needed to be alone, to process what had just
happened.

  “See you at dinner?” he called after her. It sounded like more of a question than a statement.

  “Yes,” she said. “See you then.” She continued toward her room at the end of the hall, and did not turn around when she heard the door to his room click open before quietly shutting again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Erin lay on her bed, watching the snowflakes gather in volume, until she succumbed to the welcome embrace of Morpheus. She slept lightly at first, aware of nearby sounds and smells—soft footfalls on the carpeted hallway outside her room, the soft murmur of voices as people came and went, the low hum of machinery within the walls of the hotel, the occasional banging from the radiator, the pipes swelling to accommodate the flow of hot air from the boiler. The sound brought her back to her childhood home in Oxford, lying on her stomach on the living room rug on a wintery evening, puzzled by the same loud clanking emanating from deep within the ancient plumbing.

  Her mother’s explanation never quite satisfied her. How could pipes make such a noise unless someone was whacking at them with a hammer? Years of hearing the same sound in so many different buildings had finally convinced her that what seemed like a violent assault on the plumbing system was in fact simply the result of contraction and expansion. She found the sound oddly comforting, resonating with childhood memories of the flat at Cowley Place, just a short walk from the Botanic Garden.

  She awoke from her nap with the delicious sensation that her body, so in need of rest, was completely still and comfortable. But as consciousness crept nearer, she experienced the disappointment of realizing this fleeting moment would probably be the most pleasurable of the entire day.

  Dragging herself from her comfortable slumber, she flicked the switch on the electric kettle and perched in front of her laptop on the desk by the window. By the time Farnsworth knocked on her door, she was deeply engrossed in an internet search.

  “Time for dinner,” Farnsworth announced when Erin opened the door. She looked elegant, hair upswept in a tidy chignon, another colorful shawl thrown over her shiny, electric blue dress. Diamond earrings sparkled on her small, delicate earlobes.

  “Don’t you look smashing,” Erin remarked.