by Tracy Kiely
“There goes the ferry to Nantucket,” said Peter.
“Cool,” I said. Cool? What was I, twelve? Why did I turn into such an idiot when I was around him?
“Do you remember that time we went with Aunt Winnie?” he asked.
How could I forget? He had terrorized me during the entire journey with horrible tales of children being swept up by sudden gusts of wind and tossed overboard. I think he may even have swiped my chocolate doughnut, too.
“I remember,” I muttered. “It was two years before I could get on a boat again without clinging to the rails.”
“Now that you mention it, I do remember you looking a bit green around the gills. A green Cocoa Puff,” he said and laughed. As he chuckled gleefully in fond memory of my nautical misery, all the pent-up embarrassment and frustration I’d suffered at his hands as an insecure, overweight kid boiled over.
“Look,” I hissed at him. “Do you think you could drop that stupid nickname? In case it has escaped your notice, I’m not some dopey kid anymore. I’ve changed. I’m a grown woman. However, you appear to be the same misogynist who delighted in making me feel like a moron, so you can take me back to Longbourn right now. I don’t need you to make me feel like a moron. My skills at that outrank yours any day.”
Peter’s face was a caricature of surprise. “I don’t think you’re an idiot, Elizabeth,” he said finally. “I know I teased you a lot when we were kids, but I always liked you. If I hadn’t, I would have ignored you. To be honest, I always thought you were a pretty good sport.”
I couldn’t believe this. “You liked me? You called me names and locked me in the basement! Who does that to someone he likes?”
He shrugged. “Most fourteen-year-old boys, I think. And while we’re on the subject, I recall certain names being flung my way and, on one occasion, finding something wet and slimy moving around in my bed.” I stared at him dumbfounded. That’s how he remembered things, with me as a willing adversary rather than a hapless victim? In my memories, I had cast myself in the role of a young Jane Eyre—plain and unhappy. Rather than her counterpart, the moody Mr. Rochester, I had pegged Peter as a more sinister version of Simon from Lord of the Flies. Had I been wrong?
He reached across the table and gently took my hand. Giving it a squeeze, he said quietly, “Elizabeth? I’m sorry if I was horrible. For what it’s worth, I was pretty miserable that summer, too. My parents were off in Europe and I had to stay behind. Aunt Winnie was great, but she wasn’t family. If I remember correctly, you were this smart-alecky kid who walked around with her nose in a book most of the time. You thought I was a creep.”
“That’s because you were a creep.”
“Yeah, well, when you’re fourteen you’re insecure enough. You don’t need someone else pointing out your failings.”
I was speechless. Luckily, the waitress arrived to take our order or I would have continued to gape at him like one of the fish offered on the daily specials.
After ordering the obligatory cup of clam chowder, I opted for fried clams. Peter ordered a steak sandwich. I idly played with the blue-and-white sugar packets in their little stand and struggled to reconcile the memory of the unrelenting nemesis of my youth with this new version of Peter as just a goofy, although utterly obnoxious, kid.
He raised his water glass. “Friends?” he asked, by way of a toast. I hesitated a long moment but finally gave in. Raising my glass to his, and meeting his warm brown eyes, I reminded myself that with a murderer on the loose I needed all the friends I could get.
The awkwardness slowly faded and we started to chat like old friends. He told me that he was following in his parents’ footsteps and getting involved in their hotel business. He was in the process of getting his MBA and after that he was going to take over one of his parents’ hotels. I told him about my goal of becoming a writer and of my frustration at being limited to just fact-checking other people’s stories. Before I knew it, two hours slipped by; the sun was sinking onto the horizon, sending red bands of light across the water, and our waitress was hovering impatiently with the check.
Peter relieved the woman of the bill. “This is on me.”
“Oh, but you don’t have to do that,” I said.
“No, I insist. Consider it restitution for the bad behavior of my youth.”
I laughed. “Oh, no. If this is an attempt at restitution, it’s just a drop in the bucket.”
“I was afraid of that,” he said with mock seriousness. “Well then, by your calculations, how many lunches will it take to clear my name?”
I pretended to consider the question before answering, “At least eight thousand six hundred and forty-two.”
“Seems a fair trade,” he said with a smile. Peter could be very charming when he wanted to be. I tried to ignore the cynical part of me that questioned why he was suddenly being charming to me.
CHAPTER 14
You are too sensible a girl … to fall in love merely
because you are warned against it.
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
BY THE TIME Peter and I got back to the inn, the sun had set. All around us, houses blazed with Christmas lights. The inn was conspicuously dark. I knew the gesture was meant to convey respect for Gerald and his family, but in the midst of so many other cheerful displays, the absence of lights created a different kind of tribute, one of darkness and gloom.
Inside, Daniel was sitting in the reading room. He immediately stood up and came over.
“Here, let me get these for you,” he said, taking the grocery bags from my arms. Looking them over, he added, “I hope all this food doesn’t mean that you already have plans for dinner?”
“Why, I, um …” I began, unsure how to answer.
“Because I was hoping I could convince you to join me,” he continued. “I know a place that makes great clam chowder.”
I stifled a laugh and glanced at Peter, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at Daniel with a bland expression. It was a look I had seen often that summer years ago, usually right before an attack was launched on my person. The hairs on my neck stood up in a long-forgotten salute. The feeling only increased when Peter asked in a disinterested voice, “You’re not dining with Mrs. Ramsey this evening?”
“No,” Daniel said simply.
“Oh,” said Peter. “I see.”
Daniel must have caught the faint disapproval that these words carried because he hesitated and added, “People have visited and interviewed Lauren and Polly nonstop for the past two days. What they want now is a little privacy. They should absorb this without an audience.”
Peter said nothing. Perhaps driven by his silence, Daniel continued, “Sometimes monstrous things happen to monstrous people,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care. “But when that monstrous thing is a murder, well, it may force one to hide true feelings. Just because you dislike someone doesn’t mean you murdered him. But let’s not be naïve, it does give you a motive. And that’s what the police are looking for. Motive.”
“I think I know what you mean,” said Peter. “When you know you’re being scrutinized, you act accordingly. You play a role.”
“Exactly,” said Daniel.
I thought of what I had seen of Lauren’s behavior yesterday. If that had been a toned-down version of her true emotions, then she must be dancing a jig in private. “No offense,” I said gingerly to Daniel. “I know Lauren is your friend, but if she’s trying to downplay her true feelings, she’s not doing a very convincing job of it.”
Daniel turned to me with a shake of his head. “I didn’t say I was talking about Lauren.”
His words took me by surprise. Although Polly had professed that she hadn’t cared much for her father, she nevertheless seemed genuinely upset. If not because he died, at least at how he died. Had that been an act?
“Well, all the same,” said Peter, “I expect that Lauren appreciates your role in this.”
Daniel eyed Peter with a puzzled expression.
“My role?”
“Of a good friend,” Peter explained. “It must mean a lot to her knowing she has you on her side.”
Daniel’s eyes narrowed slightly. He seemed to sense that Peter’s words held another meaning. Of course they did, but that meaning was meant for me.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to discuss dinner,” said Peter. His attack completed, he took his bags to the kitchen.
“Did I miss something?” Daniel asked. Traces of a faint scowl lined his face, as he watched Peter’s retreating form.
“Oh, who knows,” I answered. “Just ignore him.” Changing the subject, I asked, “You mentioned dinner?”
Forcing his face into a more pleasant expression, Daniel turned to me. “Yes.” He smiled. “Dinner. How’s eight o’clock sound?”
“Perfect. Just let me check first that Aunt Winnie doesn’t need me.”
“Of course,” said Daniel, following me into the kitchen.
Daniel helped Peter and me put away the groceries. Thankfully, nothing more was said about acting or roles. In fact, not much of anything was said, as Peter had apparently gone mute. Once the groceries were put away, I went to Aunt Winnie’s room.
“Come in,” she called out in answer to my knock.
I found her at her desk, scribbling away in a tattered notebook.
“What are you doing?”
She held up her hand, signaling me to wait while she finished.
I plopped down on the bed next to Lady Catherine, who displayed her displeasure at my proximity by flicking her tail at me in a suspiciously vulgar gesture. Ignoring her, I sank back into the bed’s thick pillows and studied the room. Years ago, I read that a person’s bedroom is the best indicator of his or her personality. I had laughed because at the time I was sleeping in a depressing space with colorless walls, battered furniture, and mismatched sheets, though in hindsight that was an accurate reflection of my life then. Looking around me, I realized that this room did mirror Aunt Winnie’s personality, which was probably why I liked it so much. The walls were painted a tangy shade of sage green. The curtains were a jumbled mix of soft tangerine, crisp rose, and lime green. The furniture was simple, except for the headboard, which was an enormous wrought-iron structure that looped and intertwined halfway up the wall. Piles of books, some stacked, others just strewn about, covered every available surface. The whole effect was just like Aunt Winnie—colorful, energetic, and unconventional.
After a few minutes, she put down her pen with a satisfied air. “There,” she said, stretching her arms out in front of her. “Done.”
“What are you doing?”
“I decided to write down everything we know about the murder and the suspects,” she said. “I know it sounds silly, but if I can just get everything organized on paper, something important might jump out at me.”
“It doesn’t sound silly,” I said. “I think it’s a good idea. What do you have so far?”
She handed me the notebook. In her familiar sprawling handwriting, I read:
GERALD RAMSEY: early 60s. Wealthy. First wife died. Has one daughter, Polly, from that marriage. Married to Lauren for a few years. Disliked by most who knew him. Wanted to buy Longbourn—was that his reason for coming to New Year’s party? Reflective tape found on body suggests that his death was no random act of violence.
LAUREN RAMSEY: mid-40s. Married to Gerald. Has one child, Jamie, from previous marriage. Jamie lives in South Carolina—has special needs. Rumored to be unhappy in marriage and possibly seeking divorce. Could have been worried about prenuptial agreement. Overheard on phone New Year’s Eve with someone—lover? Is close with friend Daniel Simms—but how close?
Motive: Freedom? Money?
POLLY RAMSEY: early 20s. Single. Lives at home with Gerald and Lauren. Does not seem happy. Does not seem particularly close to Lauren. Resented her father’s control over her life but did not leave. Why? Was she too fond of the money? Applied for passport even though Gerald purportedly refused to let her attend Oxford.
Motive: Freedom? Money?
DANIEL SIMMS: late 30s. Single. Visiting Lauren Ramsey—they are old friends (?).Motive: Help Lauren out of unhappy marriage? Wants to marry Lauren himself?
JACKIE TANNER: mid-70s. Single. Recently moved to Cape with old friend Linnet Westin. Lives with her as a kind of companion. No known connection between her and Gerald. Terrible gossip—seems to know a lot about the purported relationship between Daniel and Lauren. What led to her dire straits?
Motive: none known
LINNET WESTIN: mid-70s. Widowed. Wealthy. Recently moved to Cape. Lives with old friend Jackie. Not very likable but no known connection to Gerald. Check into her husband’s past (Martin Westin)—maybe he had a connection.
Motive: none known
JOAN ANDERSON: mid-50s. Married to Henry Anderson. Visiting from New York. Claims not to know anyone here. Out with Polly in the snow on night of murder—why? Found in dining room after the murder. Claims to have been outside smoking to hide habit from Henry.
Motive: none known
HENRY ANDERSON: late 50s. Married to Joan. Second marriage. First wife died. Visiting from New York.
Motive: none known.
I handed the list back to her. “Very good,” I said with a nod. “I learned a few more things today that might be of significance.” I quickly told her that Gerald had been married not twice but three times, that his first wife had been having an affair when she died, and that Polly usually went out of town with friends for the New Year but this year she had canceled at the last minute.
“That is interesting,” Aunt Winnie said, as she added those facts to the list. “Did Lily and Pansy say anything specific about Gerald’s second wife?”
“Not really. After his first wife, Tory, died, Gerald acted oddly—he abruptly got rid of all her belongings. He married his second wife, Pamela, shortly after in the hopes of using a woman’s influence to rein in Polly.” I told Aunt Winnie the story about the bicycle and Polly’s determination to have it.
“From what Lily and Pansy said,” I continued, “Pamela wasn’t very nice, and Gerald got rid of her pretty quickly.”
“Slow down,” said Aunt Winnie as she frantically scribbled on the list. “Okay, so there could be an ex–Mrs. Ramsey out there with a bit of a grudge?”
“It’s something to consider,” I said. “So, what did you learn today? Did you get a chance to talk to Joan?”
“I did, but I didn’t learn anything new. She told me the same story she had told you, but I see what you mean. She is holding something back. I just can’t tell what.”
Aunt Winnie chewed on the end of the pen as she reread her list. A slight nagging started at the back of my head. I was missing something. “Let me see that list again.” I reached out my hand. Aunt Winnie handed it to me and I reread the information on Joan. A memory swirled and settled. “The phone call!”
“What phone call?”
“The first night I got here, Joan was just coming out of your office. Do you remember?” Aunt Winnie nodded uncomprehendingly. “She said that her cell phone was dead or something and that she had used the phone in your office to make a local call.”
“So?”
I tapped the list. “According to Joan’s statement to the police, she doesn’t know anyone here. So who was she calling?”
Aunt Winnie leaned forward and eagerly took the list from me. Over her purple-framed glasses she scanned it again. “You’re right. And she couldn’t have made a long-distance call on that phone. I have it set up for local calls only.” She pursed her lips. “Looks like this requires another chat with Mrs. Anderson.” She pushed the list away with a frown.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “We’ve found something else.”
“I’ll admit it’s a start.” She sighed. “But we have so little to go on. We need more. Jackie and Linnet have invited us to lunch tomorrow. I can’t see what they have to do with this, but if nothing else, Jackie might know something. She seems to kno
w a lot about everything else.”
“Sounds good.” Adopting a casual tone, I added, “I may be in a position to find out a bit more tonight. Daniel has invited me out to dinner.”
She gazed at me over the rims of her glasses. “I see” was all she said.
“What?” I said, still trying to act casual. It might have been more believable if I’d been able to make eye contact.
“Just be careful, dear. Daniel may really like you. That kiss he planted on you yesterday would certainly indicate that he does.” I felt my cheeks burn hot. I didn’t realize she had seen that. “But we don’t know a lot about him,” she continued. “And he does have a motive for killing Gerald.” She tapped her list. “Even if he’s not romantically involved with Lauren, he may have tried to help her out of a horrible marriage.”
I was quiet. A small part of my brain understood what she was saying, but the larger part was hurt. It was as if Aunt Winnie and Peter still saw me as an unattractive and gauche ten-year-old.
“Elizabeth?” said Aunt Winnie gently.
“I just don’t understand why everyone’s first assumption is that Daniel is using me.”
“I never said it was my first assumption, Elizabeth,” Aunt Winnie said sternly. “But a man was murdered in this house not two nights ago by someone who is still on the loose. That means everyone is a suspect and should be treated as such. Daniel may very well like you. But he might also be using you. I know that’s hard to hear, but I’d be horribly remiss if I didn’t make sure that you understood that. Do you understand?”
“I do.” Even as I said it, I knew it was only partly true. On some childish level I was angry and wanted to prove her—and Peter—wrong.
Aunt Winnie gave me a searching look before changing the subject. “Very well, then,” she said. “Go out with Daniel tonight—see if you can find anything out. And tomorrow we’ll go to Linnet’s and Jackie’s. I’ve no doubt Jackie will have much to tell us,” she added wearily.