Arsenic with Austen (18 page)

Brock's character produced the ultimate unbreakable alibi: at the time of the woman's death, he'd been in China. He had all sorts of testimony and film footage to prove it. Abbott, with his amazing powers of observation and deduction, eventually figured out that the politician had drugged the woman, then rigged up an ingenious Rube Goldberg-type device that would kill her many hours later, after he was out of the country. The device was triggered by a large package being left on her doorstep—a package Abbott managed to trace back to the politician.

“Well, that didn't have anything to do with poison,” Emily said.

“No, but it did show it's possible to commit a murder without being on the scene. Or anywhere near it.”

“You think he might have mailed her something?”

“Possible. You'd think Agnes would've mentioned it, though.”

“It's conceivable she didn't know. Or didn't think it was important.” Emily's mind went back to the afternoon on the terrace when she'd caught Brock eavesdropping. “He could've killed her before she got around to figuring out it was important enough to tell me.”

“Which makes it pretty damn near impossible to prove.”

“What about the post office? Or UPS or whatever?”

“If he was smart, he'd've used parcel post so it wouldn't be trackable. We'd be relying on somebody's memory that's already ten days old. You'd be surprised how much people don't remember after a day or two.”

“And even if we proved the existence of a package, we couldn't prove who sent it or what was in it.”

“That's exactly right.”

“So we're back where we started.”

“Just about.”

Emily frowned at the credits, chewing at her newly manicured nails. Then she sprang up. “Take me home. Now.”

Luke looked up at her in consternation. “What the heck? I didn't even get fresh with you. Yet.”

She shook her head. “It's not that. I've just remembered something. It might be important.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” He collected his coat and keys.

Emily leaned forward throughout the five-minute ride as if by so doing she could get them there faster. The minute he pulled up to the door, she jumped out and ran into the house and up both flights of stairs to her room. She fumbled in her closet till she found her brown linen skirt, then shoved her hand into the right-hand pocket and pulled out the fragment of brown wrapping paper she'd found in Beatrice's fireplace.

Luke stood in the doorway. “I don't enter a lady's bedroom without an invitation.”

Emily felt a deep flush spread up her neck to her face. She wasn't ready to issue an invitation that might prove difficult to retract.

She went up to him and held out the paper. “I found that in Beatrice's bedroom fireplace.”

He whistled. “That's a beauty, that is.” He fumbled in his pocket and found a tissue, which he held out for her to drop the paper into.

“Oh. I guess I shouldn't have touched it.”

“Woulda been better, but we can always eliminate your fingerprints. Chances of the sender's being on this particular fragment—and being clear and liftable—aren't that great anyhow. But we'll give it a shot.”

He grinned at her as he stuck the improvised parcel in his pocket. “You're shaping up into a pretty fair detective, Emily Worthing.”

“Why, thank you, Lieutenant Richards.”

He took her hands. “I notice you didn't invite me into your bedroom.”

She bit her lip. “I'm not ready for that, Luke. Not yet. Not while everything is so—unsettled.”

“I understand.” He tipped her chin up and kissed her, a real kiss but not too deep. “I'll take a rain check on the rest.”

He turned and skipped like a kid down the attic stairs. She stood, her hand on the doorjamb, watching him, feeling his kiss on her lips and feeling the years and the heartache ravel away—up to that one hard-felted knot that could never come undone.

 

eighteen

“Will not your mind misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber—too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size—its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?”

—Henry Tilney to Catherine Morland,
Northanger Abbey

On Sunday, Emily wanted nothing more than to relax with a good book and forget about murder. She brought
Persuasion
downstairs with her, intending to have breakfast and then hole up in the library for the entire day.

Breakfast, however, was not ready. Katie had just started the coffeemaker when Emily poked her head into the kitchen.

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Lizzie had a bad night, and I just got her settled down. I'll have your breakfast ready in a jiffy.”

As Katie set the frying pan on the stove, Emily heard a doleful wail from the bedroom next door.

“Oh no…” Katie took a step toward the bedroom, then turned back to the stove. She broke an egg into the pan, then, “Oh shit, that was for the bacon!” She turned to Emily, a hand to her mouth. “Sorry … I just can't think when she's crying.”

“Is she hungry?”

“I just fed her.”

“I'll see to her. Just relax and take your time.”

Emily tiptoed into the bedroom and up to the cradle. Little Lizzie's perfect face was red and contorted; her tiny fists beat the air. Emily leaned down and picked her up, one hand behind her head, as Helen at church had taught her to do with her baby, Emilia, who was Emily's goddaughter. Emily held the baby against her shoulder, rubbing her back and swaying as if to inaudible music. The wail subsided to a whimper.

Emily walked a slow circuit of dining room, foyer, parlor, library. By the third round, Lizzie's featherweight was beginning to feel like lead, and Emily vowed the first chance she got to scour the attic for a rocking chair. She ducked her head and saw that Lizzie's eyes were closed, her mouth making sucking motions as she slept. Maybe Emily could risk sitting down.

She stopped in the dining room and gingerly lowered herself into one of the hard chairs. Lizzie slept on. Emily felt a peace and contentment steal over her such as she hadn't known in years, along with a rush of deep affection for the tiny bundle of humanity in her arms.

She kissed the baby's downy red head, then leaned her own head against it and closed her eyes. In an instant she startled to see Katie laying a plate of bacon and eggs in front of her. A steaming mug of coffee followed the plate.

“Wow, I can't believe she went to sleep for you!” Katie said softly. “I'll take her now so you can eat.”

They made the transfer as delicately as if the baby were a ticking bomb. She stirred but did not go off.

“Thanks so much.”

“It was a pleasure. Truly.”

Emily ate her breakfast, then, out of old habit, took her dishes into the kitchen. Bustopher Jones sat in his corner, glaring with deep hatred at the world that had deprived him of his Agnes.

“He hasn't eaten?” she asked Katie.

“Not a bite. I've tried tempting him with all sorts of goodies, but he'll have none of it.”

Emily stooped and put out a cautious hand to the cat. He sniffed at it, then turned his head away. She gave his head a tentative scratch; he suffered her touch but did not respond.

She would have to do something about him soon—but what? Her knowledge of abnormal cat psychology was nil; her own two had always been remarkably well adjusted.

Marguerite was an expert on cats. She'd know what to do. Emily went to the phone in the library and called her.

“
Chérie,
do you know the time? Only for you do I answer so early on a Sunday. Do not tell me you have discovered another body?”

“Believe it or not, yes. My housekeeper. But I was actually calling you about her cat.” Emily described Bustopher's normal personality and his current behavior.

“Ah,
c'est difficile, le
grief
d'un chat
. There was no one else he cared for besides this—how do you call her—Agnes?”

“Maybe Aunt Beatrice, but she's gone too. He wouldn't have anything to do with me.”

“Sometimes a shock, you know, a big change in the life, such as perhaps another animal in the house. You could bring in Levin and Kitty—he is too low to attack them,
n'est-ce pas
? And perhaps they might bring him around.”

“That sounds drastic. I hate to uproot them and then throw them in with Bustopher on top of that.”

“They are pining for you,
chérie
. When I went to feed them yesterday, they were heartbroken that I was not you. If you are not careful, you will have three
chats désolés
on your hands.”

Emily's heart sank at the prospect of another trip to Portland—and then a trip back with two caged animals crazy with fear. Levin and Kitty hated traveling.

“I don't think I'm up for coming to get them right now. Maybe in a few days.”

Marguerite put on her wheedling voice. “Perhaps I could be persuaded to bring them to you. If, you know, I were invited to stay a few days in your oh-so-
riche maison sur la plage
.”

“Oh, Margot, of course! What a terrible friend I am. I've been so preoccupied, I hadn't even thought of that. But by all means, come down with the cats—if you can stand to drive with them—and stay as long as you like.”

“
Bon
. I will arouse myself and be there this afternoon, and you will see what a little feline company will do for your Bustopher Jones.”

*   *   *

Emily went in search of Katie. She didn't want to use the intercom for fear of waking Lizzie, and anyway, Katie didn't seem the intercom type.

Katie was washing up in the kitchen. She turned at Emily's approach. “Lizzie's asleep in the cradle. She loves that thing. I'm so glad you found it.”

“So am I. Next I'm going to look for a rocking chair. But meanwhile, I've just invited a friend from Portland to stay for a few days. She's bringing my two cats with her. We'll need to fix her up a room.”

Katie laid the last pan in the drainer and dried her hands. “Sure. Which room did you have in mind?”

“That's a bit of a problem. Why don't you come up with me and help me decide?”

They stood in the upstairs hall and looked around. “Of course Beatrice's room is the nicest.” Emily pointed toward its closed door. “But I don't feel right putting anyone in there just yet. Not till…” What Emily meant was,
not till I've solved her murder,
but she didn't want to involve Katie in her suspicions. “Not till I've gone through her things.”

Katie turned to the right and glanced into what had been Brock's room and the nursery at the end of the hall—the one sterile, the other shabby. “These two aren't very appealing.”

She turned back to the front of the house and opened the doors of the two imposing guest rooms. “Boy, these rooms could be in a museum,” Katie said. “Hey, you know what they make me think of? The red-room where little Jane Eyre is shut up and then faints.”

“Oh, you've read
Jane Eyre
?” Emily was pleasantly surprised—a lot of young women were reading Austen these days, but it was less common to find one who knew the Brontës.

“Oh yeah. Loved it. Especially that part where Jane hears Rochester's voice from clear across the country. Gives me the chills.”

“That's my favorite bit too.” The two exchanged the smile of kindred spirits. “These rooms always reminded me of the red-room too. I was terrified of them as a child.” Emily went into the right-hand room and turned in place, taking in the dark mahogany wardrobe, tallboy, and desk, the burgundy velvet window drapes and bed-curtains. The only thing in the room that wasn't dark was the pink-and-blue Aubusson rug.

She strode to the windows and pulled open the drapes, flooding the room with sunlight. “Marguerite might not mind too much. She's French—she kind of likes all that old-world magnificence.”

Katie moved to the bay, whose western angle allowed a glimpse of the sea. “At least she could see the ocean from here. And I could bring in some flowers, cheer it up a bit. Any chance the bed-curtains could come down?”

“Absolutely. And I'll bet I could rustle up a prettier coverlet for the bed.”

“The first thing to do is air it out. Nobody can be cheerful without fresh air.” Katie opened the windows, then pulled a stool up to the bed and began removing the drapes from their hooks.

Emily went to the linen closet in the hall for fresh sheets and found a cream crochet-lace coverlet with matching pillow shams buried on a high shelf. She passed these to Katie, then climbed to the attic and poked around in a garret she hadn't yet visited. She found a couple of brightly embroidered throw pillows, as well as a rocking chair in reasonable condition that she felt unequal to negotiating down the stairs on her own.

When Emily reentered the guest room, Katie had finished remaking the bed and had placed a couple of vases of fresh flowers on the mantel and desk. She appeared to have a gift for flower arranging. Emily added the pillows, which picked up the colors of the rug, and the room was transformed.

“Hey, we make a good team,” Katie said. “You know, we could really fix this place up nice with some new wallpaper and stuff. It'd make a great B and B.” She darted a look at Emily. “I mean, if you wanted to. But you'd probably rather have your privacy.”

Emily was surprised to find a corner of her mind—or perhaps her heart—warming to this idea. “I am a pretty private person, and I certainly don't need the income. But it does seem almost a crime to waste all these rooms.” She imagined a young honeymoon couple lounging in the lace-covered four-poster and gazing out on the lawns and the sea as they sipped Katie's coffee—the girl did know how to make coffee—and nibbled at a flaky
pain au chocolat
. “I'll give it some thought.”