Murder Most Austen

by Tracy Kiely

  I let out a sigh of acceptance. Aunt Winnie heard it and smiled at me. “Good girl,” she said, putting a scoop of chicken salad on my plate. “I knew you’d do the right thing.”

  Plates in hand, we milled about the room looking for a suitable group to join. Aunt Winnie was right; most of the memorial attendees were from the festival and most likely had never met Richard Baines other than in passing. Seeing this, some of my guilt began to ebb, and I allowed myself to take a bite of the chicken salad.

  Spying Lindsay in deep conversation with Valerie, Aunt Winnie moved to where they stood. I reluctantly followed. Lindsay appeared much the same as she had earlier, under the weather/pregnant. She wore a dark gray wool skirt with a cream-colored sweater set and clutched a crumpled tissue in her hand. Her panicked expression as she noticed our approach led me to believe that she had not yet shared with Valerie the joyful news that little Zee was going to acquire a cousin.

  “Hello,” Lindsay said to us. “Valerie and I were just talking about Richard’s paper. We are both agreed that it must be delivered.”

  “Is there a reason it wouldn’t be?” Aunt Winnie asked innocently.

  “None at all,” Valerie replied archly. “However, the decision does not reside with us. It is up to Alex to decide.” Both Valerie and Lindsay glanced irritably at Alex, who was standing on the other side of the room. Still wearing the dazed expression of one who’s had a shock, she was listening with glassy eyes to John as he expressed his sympathies.

  Aunt Winnie allowed her eyes to open wide. Leaning in a bit, she lowered her voice to the pitch of a confidential murmur. “Don’t tell me you think that Alex might prevent the paper from being delivered? Why would she want to do that?”

  Valerie pursed her lips and gave a snort of dissatisfaction. “Well, that is the question, isn’t it? Going on with the presentation of that paper would be the best thing for…” Valerie stopped herself just in time from saying “us” and instead remembered to say “Richard’s memory.” Lindsay nodded in agreement. “However, Alex is the one who has been asked to make the decision,” Valerie added, throwing another dark look in Alex’s direction.

  “Yes, but why wouldn’t she want the paper to be delivered? Didn’t she agree with Richard’s theories?” Aunt Winnie asked.

  “I’d be surprised if Alex even bothered to read it,” answered Valerie. “She didn’t care about Austen or Richard’s theories. It’s too bad. It would have been wonderful for Richard if he had a wife who could actually help him advance his career, someone who understood his work. Someone who was a true soul mate.”

  Lindsay quickly ducked her head, but not before I saw the swift flush of crimson that stained her checks at hearing Valerie’s “hope.” I had a sudden vision of Valerie’s reaction to learning that Lindsay was not only carrying Richard’s child but also had been quite ready to step into the role of “true soul mate.” It was all but identical to the scene from Sense and Sensibility, when Lucy Steele confides to Fanny Dashwood of her engagement to Edward Ferrars and is roundly beaten about the head and shoulders for her effort. Afraid that my own face might be expressing more than I wished, I quickly busied myself with my chicken salad.

  Aunt Winnie pressed on. “Well, this is surprising,” she said, her voice still conspiratorial. “I really got the feeling that Alex supported Richard’s work. Do you think that there could be something wrong with the paper? Could that be why Alex is hesitating to present it?”

  Lindsay’s head shot back up. “There is nothing wrong with that paper. It is perfect.”

  “Then what could be her reason?” I asked.

  Valerie lifted her shoulder in a half shrug. “Well, it’s not actually definite that she’s not going to present the paper. She hasn’t told us one way or the other.”

  “Perhaps she’s been preoccupied with the fact that her husband was murdered,” Aunt Winnie offered sweetly, and I was again forced to examine my chicken salad. It was just as I’d left it—largely unremarkable. Which, I’ve noticed, is pretty standard for chicken salad.

  “Perhaps,” Valerie agreed with a tight-lipped smile. “Well, we’ll just have to wait and see.” Giving Aunt Winnie and me a dismissive nod, she turned her attention back to Lindsay and said, “Lindsay, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Without another glance in our direction, she pulled Lindsay away to another part of the room. As I watched them go, I wondered at the reason behind Valerie’s interest in Lindsay. Was it because of their mutual interest in seeing Richard’s paper shared with the uneducated masses, or was it something else?

  “Come on,” Aunt Winnie said. “Ian is talking with Gail. I think we should convey our sympathies.”

  “But we just did that!” I protested.

  Aunt Winnie shot me an exasperated look. “Are you going to get into the spirit of this or not? We are here to learn what we can, which means we need to talk to people.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. Lead the way.”

  Aunt Winnie briskly crossed the room to where Ian and Gail stood talking. Although Gail had changed out of her pink suit into a more somber navy blue one, there was no escaping the quiet sense of happiness that emanated from her. I didn’t think it was done deliberately; rather, it was akin to seeing someone who was clearly in excellent health. If your skin glows, well, it glows. And if you are content with your situation, then you are content. Gail was obviously content.

  Seeing our approach, Ian nudged his mother and nodded our way. Gail stopped whatever it was she was saying and aimed a polite smile in our direction.

  “Mother,” Ian said, “I don’t think you’ve met Winifred Reynolds and her niece, Elizabeth Parker.”

  “No, I don’t believe we’ve formally met,” agreed Gail as she extended her hand to Aunt Winnie. “I’ve seen you at the festival, of course.”

  “Yes, this is our first year here,” said Aunt Winnie. “I just wanted to say that I didn’t know Professor Baines very well, but I’m very sorry for your family’s loss.”

  Gail dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you. It’s all so confusing. None of us know what to think, really.” Then, suddenly seeming to place Aunt Winnie, Gail asked, “You’re friends with Cora, aren’t you?”

  Aunt Winnie nodded. “Yes. I used to work with Cora’s late husband. I haven’t seen her in years, actually. We bumped into each other quite by chance.”

  “Cora is a dear soul,” said Gail. “She’s been one of my magazine’s biggest supporters.”

  Despite the fact that she’d never laid eyes on an issue, Aunt Winnie glibly added, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to compliment you on that, by the way. It’s such a wonderful magazine, and so much more insightful than its counterparts.”

  Gail’s face lit up in a genuine smile. I suppose most people are predisposed to believe compliments about their work, and Gail proved no exception. I was happy that Aunt Winnie possessed the talent of flattering with delicacy, for Gail suddenly seemed much more receptive to our company.

  “Why, thank you,” she said. “I’m rather fond of it myself. In many ways, it’s my baby—after Ian, of course,” she added, gently patting Ian’s arm. Ian produced a strained smile.

  “Cora speaks very highly of it,” said Aunt Winnie. “And that is high praise indeed, as you know. Cora takes the subject of Jane Austen very seriously.”

  Gail nodded. Then, with a furtive glance to make sure our conversation wasn’t being overheard, Gail dropped her voice. “Speaking of Cora, I understand that there is some question about her involvement in Richard’s death. I don’t for a second believe that she had anything to do with it. Cora didn’t like Richard’s theories, nor did I, for that matter, but I know her well enough to know that she’d never resort to violence.”

  “I agree,” said Aunt Winnie, lowering her voice as well. “The whole situation is very sad. I just hope the police find the answer. Have they told you anything?”

  Gail shook her head. “No, they’ve told me nothing, really. I imagine that th
ey’ve been more forthcoming with the current Mrs. Baines,” she added with a dark look in Alex’s direction. Ian shifted uncomfortably.

  “At least you were both spared not to have been there,” Aunt Winnie continued with a glance at Ian, her voice one of an old confidante. “That would have been too horrible.”

  Ian nodded quickly in agreement. “Yes, that’s right. Neither one of us was at the Guildhall when it occurred. Mom wasn’t feeling well, so I’d escorted her back to her room and stayed with her there. I saw the lights from the police cars from her room. Remember?” Gail’s forehead crinkled, and she turned confused eyes to Ian. He ignored her and continued to address me, saying, “I’d just left her when I ran into you in the lobby.”

  “I remember,” I said. “Valerie was with us.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” he agreed with unnecessary firmness. Gail resumed her earlier placid expression, either having sorted out her confusion or having decided to address it later.

  “We were just talking to her,” I said. “She mentioned that there was some uncertainty regarding whether Professor Baines’s paper would still be delivered. Why is that?”

  At my mention of the paper, Gail’s lips pinched together in a small, tight ball, not terribly unlike a shriveled prune. But whether this reaction was involuntary or designed to prevent herself from speaking, I couldn’t tell. Ian produced a kind of strangled cough and said, “Well, yes, that is true. I think Alex has some reservations about the propriety of going forward with it as planned.”

  “Propriety, my ass,” Gail interjected. “She just wants to see how much she can get if she sells it.” While Ian sputtered ineffectively in an attempt to shush his mother, she continued on. “Everyone thinks Richard was killed because of what’s in that stupid paper. That paper is now gold. Alex figures that she can make a pretty penny selling it. I can just see the headlines: ‘Read the Paper That Was Worth Killing For.’ It’s disgusting. Had he just read it, it would no doubt have been dismissed as utter rubbish. But now…” She waved her hands in an expression of fatalistic frustration.

  “Mom!” hissed Ian.

  Gail sighed and shrugged her shoulders in acquiescence. “Sorry. Forget I said that.”

  “No, it’s all right,” said Aunt Winnie. “For what it’s worth, I quite agree with you. I’m horrified at Professor Baines’s death, but that doesn’t mean that I want to see his paper suddenly given more credence than it should.” Glancing at Ian, she added, “Sorry, Ian. No offense.”

  “None taken. I know that Dad’s theories weren’t for everyone,” Ian said in the weary tone of one who has said those words too many times before.

  A petite woman with waist-length jet-black hair that was pulled off her angular face with a gold beaded headband sidled up to us. “Gail?” she asked tentatively. “I’m Marsha Zucker. I don’t know if you remember me, but we met last year…”

  Gail smiled and extended her hand. “Marsha! Of course, I remember you. How nice to see you again. Have you met my son, Ian?”

  Aunt Winnie and I stepped back to allow Marsha her turn to offer her sympathies (or lack thereof) to Gail and Ian. Giving Ian a small wave good-bye, Aunt Winnie and I moved toward one of the room’s many tables. We had just taken a seat at the only unoccupied one when we were joined by Byron and Alex. Both looked exhausted.

  “Hello, Elizabeth,” said Byron as he slid into a seat opposite me. “Hello, Ms. Reynolds. It’s nice to see you again.”

  At the sound of our names, Alex’s head snapped up in apparent recognition of who we were. “Oh, hello,” she said, offering us a perplexed smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

  “I imagine we look a little different out of our Regency garb,” I offered.

  Alex nodded. “And I’m a little overwhelmed with everything,” she said, rubbing a hand over her eyes. After a quick glance over at the refreshments table, Alex said, “Byron, would you please get me a cup of coffee? I’d go, but Gail is over there with Valerie. I don’t have the energy to deal with their crap right now. Honestly, I don’t see why they wanted to do this in the first place. If you ask me, it’s in bad taste. I feel like we’ve made ourselves into another exhibit at the festival.”

  Byron, as well as Aunt Winnie and I, glanced over at the refreshment table. As Alex said, Gail was standing next to it, plate in hand, and deep in conversation with Valerie and Lindsay. I didn’t blame Alex for not wanting to venture over. No doubt they were all discussing the fate of Richard’s paper.

  “Sure,” said Byron, getting to his feet. Turning to us, he said, “Can I get either of you anything?”

  “No, thanks,” Aunt Winnie and I said in unison. Byron nodded and moved away.

  “I don’t think I ever properly expressed my condolences to you,” said Aunt Winnie to Alex after Byron left the table. “I obviously didn’t know your husband very well, but I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Alex bit her lip and gave a nod of her head, the small gesture sending a section of silky hair tumbling over her shoulder. With a quick movement, she raised a hand to tuck the errant strands back behind her ear. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Have the police made any progress?” I asked.

  Alex shook her head. She regarded us with a wary expression. “Not really. They’re still looking at your friend, Cora.”

  “I know you don’t know either of us from a hole in the wall,” offered Aunt Winnie, “but I can tell you that I’ve known Cora for a very long time. She’s not a violent person. I firmly believe that she did not do this.”

  Alex regarded us in silence, her expression unreadable. Byron returned with a cup filled with steaming caramel-colored liquid that I assumed was coffee. He placed it in front of Alex. She thanked him and took a grateful sip.

  “So I understand that the presentation of Richard’s paper is on hold. Is that right?” Aunt Winnie asked, her expression deceptively innocent.

  Alex’s face pulled into a dark frown. She sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “Good God. Is that really all you people care about? That damn paper? My husband is dead. Murdered. And yet the first thing out of any of your mouths is a question about the status of his paper. As hard as this might be for you to believe, I really haven’t given it much thought.”

  Byron stared awkwardly at his lap, while Aunt Winnie nodded with enthusiastic approval. “I have to say, I’m glad to hear you say that. I quite agree with you,” she said.

  Alex leaned forward, her arms on the table. “Excuse me? You agree with me? You’re the one who asked me about the paper in the first place!”

  “Yes, but only because I wanted to make sure that you weren’t going to present the paper,” Aunt Winnie replied. “I’m glad to know that you’re not. I think it’s the best way to find Richard’s killer. Because despite how it looks, Cora Beadle did not kill your husband. I want to find out who did.”

  Alex’s only response was to gawk at her in confusion. I couldn’t blame her. It was all I could do not to join in.

  Byron now leaned forward as well. “Wait, why do you think that delaying the publication of the paper will help find Richard’s killer?”

  “Because,” answered Aunt Winnie, “it might force him or her to try and destroy it. If Richard was killed because of that paper, then whoever did this will try and stop it from ever being presented.”

  “So you want to use the paper to set a trap?” asked Byron.

  Aunt Winnie nodded. I picked at my salad. She was driving this train; I had no idea where she was going or where it was scheduled to stop. I figured I might as well grab a bite while I could. “That’s exactly it,” Aunt Winnie said.

  Byron glanced questioningly at Alex. She raised her shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said slowly. “I tend to think it might make more sense to let the police handle it. Alex? What do you think?”

  Alex closed her eyes and gave a weary sigh. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”


  Just then, there was an amplified cough, and a voice said, “Um … excuse me? If I could have your attention, please.”

  We all looked up at the source and saw Ian standing awkwardly at a microphone. “I’d like to take a few minutes to thank you all for coming out tonight,” he said, after clearing his throat again. “As you know, my father loved Jane Austen’s work, and this festival was very dear to him. It means a lot to us that you came here tonight.” Ian paused, clearly not comfortable speaking in front of a crowd. “I would just like to say,” he continued, “that I hope this terrible occurrence does not negatively affect this festival or future ones. I know that my father would not have wanted that.” He paused again.

  Valerie swiftly approached Ian or, more accurately, she swiftly approached the microphone. With a less than gentle hip check, she pushed him out of the way and quickly took his place. With a serene smile, she gazed out at the room. Seeing her tiny, pale frame and weird smile, I had the sudden, and frankly uncomfortable, sensation that I was watching a scene from an updated version of Carrie, specifically, the one when Sissy Spacek smiles out at her classmates—right before her telekinesis goes haywire and she kills everyone. I instinctively glanced over to the room’s doors to assure myself that they were still standing open.

  “This is obviously very difficult for my husband—for all of us,” Valerie began, “but I want to add my sincere thanks that you all came out tonight to pay your respects, not only for Professor Baines the man but also to his amazing body of work.”

  From across the table, I heard Alex mutter, “Oh, God.” Byron shot her a quick look of annoyance but said nothing.

  “However, before I do that,” Valerie said, “I wanted to take a moment to sing a quick verse of one of Professor Baines’s favorite songs. Not only was it his favorite, but I think it captured his spirit quite well.”

  Valerie closed her eyes and delicately cleared her throat directly into the microphone. The amplified sound left the audience with the unfortunate impression of a tuberculosis patient’s final strangled cough. However, this was still preferable to what came next, as Valerie bleated out the lyrics to the first stanza of “My Way” in elevated octaves normally associated with amorous chipmunks. Aunt Winnie shot me a look of horrified amusement. I shot one right back at her.