by Tracy Kiely
“But—” Scott continued.
Again, Bonnie interrupted him. “But nothing!” she said, her voice becoming petulant. Over the years, I’ve seen only two sides to Bonnie’s personality—flaky and petulant. She was a spoiled child in a woman’s body. “We’ll deal with it when I get back,” she said. “But I have to say, I don’t think the proceeds on the house are the problem.”
“What do you mean?” asked Scott.
Bonnie placed both of her hands on the table and leaned forward. Lowering her voice, she glanced furtively at the flag before continuing. “What I mean is that I can’t shake this feeling that poor Martin’s death was … well, as God as my witness, it was wrong.”
“What do you mean, ‘wrong’?” Reggie asked, hastily setting down her empty martini glass.
“I mean murder,” came the breathless response. Pressing her hand to her chest, she moaned, “Oh, my poor, poor Marty!”
Bonnie’s oft-repeated sentiment of the day was again met with silence. But this time, we weren’t ignoring her. Based on the horrified expressions around me, I suspected that for the first time today, Bonnie held everyone’s complete attention.
Chapter 2
My sore-throats, you know, are always worse than anybody’s.
—Persuasion
“Murder!” Reggie shrieked. She sat upright in her chair as if someone had just dumped several ice cubes down the back of her dress and glared at Bonnie. “Just what the hell are you talking about?” Reggie’s temper was almost as legendary as her beauty. Even though her anger wasn’t directed at me, I still squirmed uncomfortably in my chair.
Bonnie’s pale hands fluttered before her face as she tried to explain. “Well, the suddenness of it, of course! I mean, didn’t anyone else think it was … well, strange?” Her large blue eyes stared questioninly at us.
“Strange in what way?” asked Ann, her voice struggling for composure.
“Well, that nurse, for one.” With a cautious glance around her, Bonnie lowered her voice an octave. “I think she was foreign.”
Bonnie was forever suspicious of “foreigners.” Last year, a series of prank phone calls in which the caller said nothing and hung up after a moment were also blamed on this demographic. When asked how she could possibly know the identity of the caller, as he or she did not speak, Bonnie calmly replied, “The breathing; it was foreign breathing.”
“For Christ’s sake, Bonnie,” Aunt Winnie snapped now, her patience gone. “There are so many levels of wrong with what you just said, it truly boggles the mind. But for starters, of course she was foreign! The girl’s name was Rona Bjornstad and she spoke with a heavy Dutch accent. You’re just figuring out now that she wasn’t born here?”
Someone snickered. However, Bonnie, unaffected by Aunt Winnie’s tirade, merely sniffed. “I read the papers,” came her enigmatic reply. “I know things.”
“My dear Bonnie, skimming the headlines on the gossip rags doesn’t count as papers,” Aunt Winnie shot back. “You make Sarah Palin look well-read.”
“Oh, I love her!” Bonnie gushed.
Aunt Winnie grimaced and muttered something. I leaned in to her. “Did you say what I think you just said?” I asked, aghast.
“Of course not,” she retorted primly. “That’s just your vulgar imagination.”
Across the table, Frances brushed an errant strand of brown hair off her face and leaned forward. “Bonnie,” she said, her tone full of exasperation, “Nurse Rona was wonderful with Dad.”
“That’s my point,” Bonnie countered with a tip of her blond head. “Maybe she was a little too wonderful.”
Frances’s brow furrowed. “Meaning?”
Bonnie pursed her lips. “Meaning, I think she liked him. You should have seen the way she was always hanging over him and trying to hold his hand.”
“She tried to hold his hand?” asked Ann.
Bonnie gave an emphatic nod that caused the lace on her black ensemble to shudder. “Of course, when I called her on it, she claimed that she was just trying to take his pulse, but I knew better. Oh, if I wasn’t a lady, what I wouldn’t tell that woman.”
There was an awkward pause as everyone around the table tried very hard not to laugh.
With monumental effort, Ann finally said, “Bonnie, I don’t think Rona had any designs on Dad and I don’t think he was … murdered.” She briefly closed her eyes, as if the sound of her voice calmly uttering this statement in the dining room of the Hotel Washington was too much to bear. “I think you’re very tired. We all are. Go on your spa retreat and get some rest. You’ll feel better when you get back, and all these thoughts about murder will be gone.”
Bonnie sniffed again. “All right. If you say so, Annabel.”
The muscles in Ann’s jaw bunched, and I made a private bet that while Bonnie’s thoughts about murder might disappear, others’ would only grow stronger.
* * *
“Good God, but Bonnie is a piece of work,” Aunt Winnie said to me after we left the restaurant. We were in my mother’s car on the way to the airport. Aunt Winnie had to catch a flight back to Cape Cod, where she and her boyfriend, Randy, own and manage a bed-and-breakfast. Randy had stayed behind to keep things running.
“Marty could be a cold son of a bitch at times,” Aunt Winnie continued, “and he certainly bamboozled Bonnie into marrying him all those years ago, but there are times when I think that her utter craziness helped somewhat to redress that balance. Life with her could not have been easy.”
“Where on earth do you think she got the idea that Uncle Marty was murdered? The man had been hanging on by a thread for years. I can’t believe she was surprised by his death,” my mother asked.
“Yes, well, that’s Bonnie for you. Never met a fact she couldn’t ignore,” Aunt Winnie replied, her mouth twisted into a small red smirk.
“So you don’t think there could be any truth to what she said?” I asked.
From the front seat, Kit let out a whoop of laughter and swung around to face me. “I knew it! I knew it!” she crowed. “As soon as Bonnie began all that nonsense about Uncle Marty being murdered, I knew you were going to get all weird. Just because you were around when a murder happened doesn’t make you Nancy Drew!”
“I never said I was Nancy Drew!” I shot back. “And for your information, I was involved in two murder investigations, not just one, and I helped solve them both!”
“Oh, please,” said Kit, with a lofty air of superiority. “Not this again.”
The thing that drove me crazy was that I had been involved in two murder investigations and I’d helped solve them both. Hell, in one case I’d been in a full-on fight with the murderer, resulting in a bash to the head (mine, of course) and a temporary imprisonment in a dark basement (again, that would be me). Yet Kit still treated the whole thing as a giant joke.
“Kit!” said Aunt Winnie, coming to my defense. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, but Elizabeth was invaluable in helping solve the murder that happened at my inn. If it weren’t for her help in finding the real killer, the police probably would have arrested me!”
“Yeah, well, that may be so,” Kit said in a tone that indicated she thought anything but that, “but I don’t think that Uncle Marty was murdered and neither do you.”
“Well, no…” began Aunt Winnie.
“And that’s my only point,” said Kit blandly. “But what was all that business with Scott about the property in St. Michaels?”
Aunt Winnie leaned forward. “Before Marty died, he arranged for the sale of the St. Michaels house. I’m not sure what Bonnie is talking about, but my understanding was that the proceeds were to be split three ways among the girls. They could do what they wanted with it. They were all happy with the arrangement. Well, that’s not completely true,” she amended. “I don’t think Reggie wanted to sell the house, but she was outvoted.”
“Sounds like Scott really wants his share of the money. I gather it’s a lot?” asked Kit.
“Probably,” said Aunt Winnie. “I imagine the house sold for quite a bit.”
“It was a beautiful place,” I said. “At least, from what I can remember.”
Kit sniffed indignantly. “I wouldn’t know. I never saw it.”
I held my tongue, sorry I’d mentioned that particular bone of contention. Although Kit is nearer in age to Ann, Ann and I had always been closer. As a result, I’d been invited to the house in St. Michaels a few times for summertime overnights. I was sorry to hear that they had sold it; it was a magnificent house with a spectacular view of Maryland’s Miles River.
A few minutes later, we pulled into the crowded passenger dropoff lane at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. As she got out, Aunt Winnie turned to me. “Now, are we still on for October? I need you and Peter to help me with the new place.”
Peter is my boyfriend. I’ve known him since I was little, but that’s not to say that it was love at first sight. Far from it, in fact. Back then I lumped him in the same category as clowns, flu shots, and other nightmares of youth. But a bizarre occurrence two years ago at Aunt Winnie’s inn had changed all that. A man had been murdered during Aunt Winnie’s New Year’s Eve party, and the police stupidly suspected her of the crime. While trying to clear her name and discover the real murderer, I also discovered that Peter had improved with age.
“Absolutely,” I replied, giving her a hug. Aunt Winnie, like me, is a die-hard Jane Austen fan. Her current inn is the Inn at Longbourn; however, she and Randy recently purchased a second property on Nantucket. They are in the process of converting it into another inn. Like Longbourn, this one too is going to have an Austen theme. Each of the six rooms is going to be named and decorated for one of Austen’s novels. Aunt Winnie had named the inn Aust-Inn-tatious. Peter and I were going to spend two weeks later in October helping her and Randy get the place ready. As Peter had recently joined his parents’ national hotel company, he was going to help with the business aspects while I was to help with the Austen touches.
“I’d love to come and help you with the inn, too, Aunt Winnie,” Kit said now, a faint note of melancholy in her voice. “I have a fabulous sense of design. All my friends say so.”
Aunt Winnie smiled at Kit. “And I’d love to have you, but I think you’ll be rather busy,” she said, with a meaningful look at Kit’s belly. Kit is eight months pregnant with her second child. When Kit was well and feeling fine, she could be fun, but to steal a phrase from Austen, any indisposition sunk her completely and it was easy for her to fancy herself neglected and ill-used. These days her pregnancy left her feeling exceedingly neglected and ill-used, and so she was pretty well completely sunk most of the time. If Mary Musgrove’s sore throats were worse than anybody’s, well, then the same could be said of Kit’s pregnancies.
Kit’s crabbiness had only further strained our relationship, which was rocky at best. Kit was the “responsible” one in our family—happily settled with a nice house and a nice family. I was the “irresponsible” one who still hadn’t decided on a career and only recently entered into a stable adult relationship. Kit’s sheets smelled of lavender; the only thing that smelled in my place was the kitchen sponge. As a result, she tried to advise me on how to run my life and I tried to refrain from openly scowling.
Kit glanced down at her rounded belly now, patting it fondly. “True,” she said. “I will be busy. But if Elizabeth is going to be there, she can help me, while I help you. I know she’ll be wonderful with the baby. She’s been just amazing with little Pauly these past few weeks; she’s much more patient than I am—but that’s probably because he’s not hers.”
To steal another line from Austen, Kit always thought a great deal of her own complaints, and was always in the habit of claiming me when anything was the matter.
Aunt Winnie grinned at me. “Yes, I could see how you would think that Elizabeth is the properest person to watch the baby.”
I nodded in mock agreement. “Quite. For I have not a mother’s feelings.”
Kit stamped her foot in annoyance while Aunt Winnie and I giggled. “I hate it when you two do that!” she said. “It’s like hanging out with people who insist on speaking in some juvenile code!”
It drives Kit crazy when I quote Jane Austen at her, mainly because she never gets the references. “Jane Austen is not juvenile!” I said with a laugh. “She’s a classic!”
“Sorry, I guess that makes you the juvenile,” Kit retorted.
“Kit, if you read the books, you’d get the references.”
“Sorry, but unlike some people, I don’t have the luxury to spend time reading. I have a house to run and a child to raise.”
I bit my tongue and said nothing. Restraint was a skill I’d been forced to perfect over the last few weeks ever since my apartment had been deemed “unfit” to live in due to a rampant mold issue. Armed with my landlord’s promise that the problem would be rectified in two weeks, I moved into Kit’s guest bedroom in her house in Silver Spring. I would have preferred to have stayed with Peter, but his place was in Annapolis, too far a commute to my newspaper job in D.C. Don’t get me wrong. I was extremely grateful to Kit for taking me in, it’s just that Kit has the ability to ruin even the most generous of gestures. What began as a chance for us to “bond” (her words) had quickly morphed into a chance for me to perfect my skills as a live-in nanny, maid, and sous chef (my words). Two days ago, she asked if I wouldn’t mind incorporating some fresh dinner recipes into my new nightly routine, as she felt that my staples of spaghetti, ham-and-cheese omelets, and grilled chicken were a bit “pedestrian.” “Paul and I really want to expand little Pauly’s taste buds,” she had told me.
To be fair, if my kid wolfed down Play-Doh with the enthusiasm Pauly did, I might think about expanding his taste buds, too. Nevertheless, when my landlord called to tell me that it looked as if repairs would be at least another week, I felt a sudden weight on my neck that threatened to pull me to the ground.
The weight actually turned out to be little Pauly; he likes to launch sneak attacks on me (and just for the record, “little” Pauly is a misnomer; I’m beginning to suspect that Play-Doh is high in calories). Anyway, the realization that Kit wanted me to reprise my role of Mary Poppins this fall—with Pauly and a newborn—made me want to sit down with my head between my knees.
Happily, Aunt Winnie came to my rescue. “Oh, Kit, I would love to have you and the baby to the new place, but I couldn’t in good conscience let you come before the repairs are completed. We’re going to be gutting a large portion of the house. It’ll be a dusty mess and God only knows what kind of toxic particles we might be unearthing. I wouldn’t feel comfortable having a baby around all that dirt and grime. As soon as it’s done, though, I want you to come.”
Kit’s lips pulled down into a pout, but she did not argue. “Well, I guess I’ll stay here alone while you all go off to Nantucket.”
My self-restraint gave way and I laughed, saying, “Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off, when you are all gone away to be happy at Bath!”
Aunt Winnie smothered a smile. I think my mother did, too. Kit, however, glared at me. “Oh yeah?” she snapped. “You want to trade pithy quotes? Well, how about this? ‘C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me!’ And I guess it’ll have to be because no one seems to want to help me!”
My mother attempted to appease Kit with an indulgent pat on the back. “Now, Kit,” she said soothingly, “that’s not true. I told you that I would be happy to stay with you and help.”
“And Kit, if you think gutting a house is fun, then you really do need a vacation!” added Aunt Winnie. “You come up once everything’s ready. That way I can give you a proper vacation, pamper you, and show off my latest great-niece or great-nephew. Wait, is that right?” Aunt Winnie paused thoughtfully. “Would it be my great-great-niece or great-great-nephew? Would that make me a great-great-aunt? I don’t know, it sounds weird.”
“How about we just call you Extraordina
ry Aunt?” I said, laughing.
“Done,” Aunt Winnie agreed. Turning back to Kit, she asked, “Do you have any idea what the sex of the baby is?”
“No,” Kit replied. “We want to be surprised, but I keep having dreams that it’s a girl.”
Aunt Winnie smiled. “Oh, a little girl! How fun that would be!”
Mollified, Kit chatted happily about possible names for the baby if it was a girl until Aunt Winnie finally left to catch her flight. Giving me a final hug, she whispered in my ear, “Patience is a virtue.”
“So’s vodka,” I whispered back.
With a laugh and a final wave good-bye, Aunt Winnie headed for her terminal. We watched her until she was swallowed up by the bustling crowd of fellow travelers before piling back into my mom’s car.
“So, I was thinking that maybe sometime next week we all could meet for dinner somewhere,” my mom said as she pulled out into the traffic, ignoring three separate cabbies’ horns of warning. “I know that George would love to see you.”
George is my mother’s boyfriend. When our father died five years ago, our mom took it pretty hard. She left the house only for classes at the college where she taught English literature. In fact, if it weren’t for her job, I don’t think she would have left the house at all. To help, Kit and I had chipped in and signed her up for some spin classes at a local gym, thinking that the interaction might help ease her out of her loneliness. As fate would have it, George was the instructor. At first we thought it was cute when he’d asked her out, and we’d good-naturedly teased her about being a cougar. That was four years ago and it was no longer cute or funny. It isn’t that George is a bad guy, mind you. He’s nice enough. He is good-looking and in good shape. He is just dumb as an ox. The last time we all went out to eat at one of his favorite restaurants, I asked him if the turkey burger was any good. He answered that he didn’t know because, and I’m quoting here, “I’m not one of those pansy vegetarians.” He then flexed his biceps, kissed it, and added, “My guns need protein.”