Arsenic with Austen (17 page)

“What do you think it is?”

“Can't read the label, but I'd lay odds it's rat poison.”

Emily's hopes deflated slightly. “I guess it makes sense to keep rat poison in an attic.”

“Yeah, but not hidden in a cradle. There's something fishy about this, for sure.” Her hopes puffed up again.

“That it?” He smiled at her. “No more revelations?”

“No more revelations. Can you carry the cradle downstairs for me now that the evidence is taken care of?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You gonna use it for a cat bed, or what? Personally, I don't think Bustopher Jones deserves that kind of pampering.”

Then she remembered—she hadn't told him about Lizzie.

She put on a casual air. “Oh, didn't I mention? My new housekeeper has a baby.”

He gaped at her for a moment, then broke into a laugh. “I should've known. You fell for a sob story, didn't you?”

Emily felt her cheeks grow hot. “Sort of, I guess, but Katie really does seem like she can handle the job. I think it's going to be fine.”

“Whatever.” He hefted the cradle and made for the door. “Then let's go eat. If we don't get there quick, they'll give our reservation away.”

*   *   *

Gifts from the Sea outdid any of the restaurants Emily frequented in Portland, both in ambiance and in menu. She sat on an ebony chair in the sparely decorated, Japanese-themed dining room and looked over a bewildering variety of dishes with ingredients she'd never heard of, like agridulce, za'atar, and pomegranate molasses. At last she settled on an innocent-looking seafood fettucini.

Luke ordered lobster. “I don't know how you can,” she said to him after the waiter had gone. “That's what Aunt Beatrice ate the night before she died.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but lots of other people ate lobster here that night, and she's the only one who got sick. It wasn't the lobster that killed her. Maybe her reaction to it, if we've been wrong all along, but not the lobster itself.”

“I guess. It's just the associations. I couldn't do it.”

When the young waiter brought their salads, he looked at Luke more closely. “Hey, aren't you the sheriff who came around a week or so ago asking about Mrs. Runcible?”

“That's right. Was it you I talked to?”

“You talked to the manager, I think, but I was the one who served her party that night. I remember exactly what they all had: Mrs. Runcible had the lobster Béarnaise, Mayor Trimble had the filet mignon, and that other lady had the chicken cordon bleu. And they all had death by chocolate for dessert.” He grimaced. “We changed the name to triple chocolate decadence after that.”

“You have a good memory—what was your name again?”

The waiter smiled all over his fresh young face. “Jake.”

“Good memory, Jake. Maybe you remember something else about that night. Like how they all acted with one another. Were they friendly? Nervous? Hostile?”

Jake screwed up his eyes in concentration. “I didn't hear a lot of their conversation, 'cause people tend to shut up when the waiter comes by. But just from looking at them—the mayor was doing most of the talking. He seemed to be trying to impress Mrs. Runcible or talk her into something, but she wasn't going for it.”

“Did Mayor Trimble get angry at all?”

“He didn't raise his voice, if that's what you mean. But his face was pretty red by the time dessert rolled around.”

“Did you see any of them do anything that looked odd or suspicious to you?”

Jake's eyes widened. “Are you thinking maybe she was poisoned?”

“Let's just say we're not entirely satisfied her death was natural.”

The boy's color heightened. “Wow. Yeah. Now that you mention it, I did see something funny. When I served the coffee, Mrs. Runcible asked if we had any saccharine. We have just about every other sweetener you can think of, but not saccharine; hardly anybody wants it anymore. Then the mayor took a little packet out of his coat pocket and handed it to her. She took it without looking at it and stirred it into her coffee.”

Jake leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I picked up that packet when I cleared the table. It wasn't labeled ‘saccharine.' It was just plain white with no label at all. And the end looked like it could've been glued by hand.” He straightened with a triumphant smirk.

Luke drummed his fingers on the table. “That's very interesting, Jake. You didn't save the packet, by any chance?”

“Uh, no.” His triumph faded. “I didn't think too much of it at the time. It didn't occur to me till just now there might have been something else in that packet besides saccharine.” He lowered his eyes. “Are you gonna arrest me for obstructing justice?”

Luke frowned at the boy. “I guess not this time. But you better watch your step from now on. I'm going to have my eye on you.”

Jake slouched off, stricken.

Emily gave Luke's wrist a slap. “Shame on you! He was only trying to help.”

“Cheeky devil, he deserved it. Giving us a tip like that with no way to follow it up. God knows if it even happened. He'd'a made up anything just to feel like he was involved.” He grinned at her. “Anyway, that's enough about Beatrice's death. That trail's cold.” He lowered his voice as he closed his hand over hers. “I've got something much more interesting in mind.”

Emily felt her cheeks flame. She stared at the tablecloth. Then his hand withdrew and she looked up, puzzled.

“Eat first.”

After all that, she'd be lucky to get anything down for wondering what awaited her afterward and how she would get out of it. She picked at the salad; then Jake brought their entrées, and she picked at that. Luke cleaned his plate, then cocked an eyebrow at her half-full one.

“You don't seem to have much of an appetite. At least when I'm around.”

“I can't eat when I'm in suspense.”

He grinned. “All right, I'll put you out of your misery so you can enjoy your dinner.” He reached into his lower coat pocket and pulled out a small box wrapped in gold paper. “Happy birthday.”

“Oh, Luke! I didn't get anything for you.”

“I bought that a long time ago, so it doesn't really count as a birthday present. Open it.”

She fumbled the paper off and saw a square velvet-covered jeweler's box. Her breath drew in as a sharp gasp before she could control it. It couldn't be—a
ring
?

“Come on, open it. I promise it's not a bomb.”

Blood whooshed in her ears and her hands shook. At last she managed to pry open the box.

Nestled in white satin lay a gold heart-shaped locket engraved with the entwined initials
L E
. She pushed the catch, and it opened to reveal, on the right, a miniature photo of the two of them as teenagers and, on the left, a braided lock combining his chestnut and her copper hair.

Her eyes misted, but she couldn't tear them away from the locket. “Oh, Luke…”

“I had that made for you at the end of our summer. I wanted to give it to you before you left, but it wasn't ready in time. Then I was gonna mail it, but you never answered my letters. I couldn't hardly send it then, could I?”

She looked up at him at last. “You wrote?”

“Sure I wrote. I wrote to tell you I was leaving for the army. I wrote from boot camp to give you that address. And then I wrote again when I got posted. But I never got an answer.” He lowered his eyes, and his voice dropped to a mumble. “Not one.”

“But I never got your letters!” His head came up again, hope dawning in his eyes. “We moved, we didn't end up where I thought we were going. I wrote to tell you the new address.” No need to go into what else that letter contained. That part of the past, at least, could stay buried. “You never got my letter?”

He put his hand over his eyes. His voice croaked. “Ma never did approve of you. Of me and you, I mean.” His voice went high and singsong. “‘A boy from South Stony Beach has no business with a girl from Windy Corner. Don't get above yourself.'”

A snort escaped Emily's nostrils. “That's a laugh. If she could've seen the way we lived the rest of the year, she'd have said you had no business dating trailer trash.”

“Not trash. Never trash. Not my Emily.”

His voice went soft on the last words. Her heart melted at the sound and threatened to pour out her eyes.

He reached out and gripped her wrist, holding her eyes with his own. “If you had gotten my letters … would you've kept writing? Or was yours a
Dear John, sorry it was just a summer fling
?”

She hesitated. Apparently, the last thirty-five years had been one long lie. They needed truth from now on. At least, up to a point.

“I would've kept writing. And writing and writing. Till there was no need to write anymore.”

*   *   *

They had coffee and dessert—triple chocolate decadence—but Emily hardly tasted it. She felt as if all her memories of Luke had been restored to her, no longer polluted by her perception of his later betrayal. Those memories bore her high on a cloud of elation. She kept touching the locket at her throat as a talisman against crashing back to Earth.

They talked of their lives since they'd parted. He'd done his stint in the army, then come back to Stony Beach. “I did get up my nerve to go see Beatrice when I got back, ask for your address. But she told me you were already engaged.”

She'd waited five years in the hope of hearing from him. Agonizing to think she'd given up just a little too soon.

Army training got him a job with the sheriff's department, and he moved up fast. He married a girl who'd always had a crush on him, but it didn't work out; she knew she wasn't first in his heart. They had one son, who was now grown up and living in California. After that he knew better than to try marriage again. The first in his heart would always be Emily.

She told him about college at Reed, where she met Philip; they married between college and graduate school, then took a few short-term teaching posts before both achieving tenure back at Reed. He was never a hot-blooded man and was satisfied with the affection and companionship Emily always had to give in plenty to anyone she cared about. She would have liked children, but it didn't happen, so she contented herself with her career—until Philip's death two years before had made everything in her life feel so pointless.

They talked till the restaurant emptied and neither of them could hold another sip of coffee. Unwilling to part but, in Emily's case at least, unready to pursue the evening to what might seem its logical conclusion, they lingered by the car, looking at the stars. The clouds had burned off in the afternoon, and the sky was brilliantly clear.

“Look over there,” she said, pointing. “I don't know what constellation that is, but it makes me think of a hooded monk.” The word
monk
triggered another recollection. “You know, Brock told me he played the murderer in an episode of
Abbott
. I got the impression that was the highlight of his whole career to date.”

Luke turned to face her. “He played a murderer?”

“A pretty clever one, he said.”

“I think we better watch that episode. It might've given him ideas. Maybe it'll give us some too.”

“How? You have an all-night video rental place around here?”

His mouth quirked. “Yeah. It's called Netflix.”

She knew Netflix was something to do with movies and computers, but that was all she knew. “What's that?”

When he got over laughing, he said, “It's a membership website where you can either rent DVDs or watch movies streaming right on the computer or a digital TV. They have lots of old TV shows. I bet you another dinner they'll have
Abbott
.”

“I don't doubt you, but I'll take you up on it anyway. Just for the sake of having another dinner with you.”

He bent down and kissed her, quick and light, on the lips. “Let's go.”

Luke lived in one of the newer houses on the east side of town, nestled up against the hills. “Wanted to get as far from the office as I could,” he told her as he let her in. Inside, everything was clean and bright and new-looking, though as bare of ornament as bachelor pads are wont to be. A TV screen dominated the living room, covering most of one wall.

“Good heavens, Luke, this is a regular movie theater!”

“Home theater, that's what they call it. Have a seat, and I'll get set up. Want some wine?”

“Sure.” That might be unwise, but she was buzzing from all the coffee.

He disappeared into the kitchen, then returned holding two large glasses of red wine, a laptop tucked under his arm. He handed her a glass, took a swig from his own, then opened the computer and clicked around for a while. “You don't know the name of the episode, I guess?”

“No, but he said it aired in oh-five.”

“Okay, I'll just search by his name.” More clicks. “Here it is. ‘Mr. Abbott and the Absent Assassin.'” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “That's pretty interesting right there.”

He punched some buttons, and the TV screen came to life. Emily had never seen
Abbott
before, though she'd heard about it from colleagues. At first she was so taken with the eccentric detective himself, she forgot to pay attention to the plot. But when Brock appeared on-screen, she sat up and took notice.

“He looks a lot younger, doesn't he?”

“Well, this is eight years ago. Plus they can do an awful lot with makeup and lighting.”

She sat back. Luke pulled the age-old maneuver of stretching to get his arm around her shoulders. She laughed at him and snuggled in.

The plot unfolded. Brock played a famous and extremely arrogant politician. The victim had been the politician's lover and had pestered him to divorce his wife and marry her. The scene cut from them discussing this to her lying dead.