Arsenic with Austen (21 page)

“Sounds a bit boring.” Emily had a sudden vision of her life back at Reed. “But I should talk. I've been eating lunch in the same cafeteria for years. Dinner, too, since Philip died. And I usually sit in the same corner by the window, eating one of half a dozen meals.” She caught Luke's gaze and held it. “What happened to us, Luke? Remember how adventurous we used to be? How we wanted to travel the world, try everything there was to try? Where did that go?”

He shrugged. “I did end up seeing a bit of the world in the army—stationed in Germany, roamed around Europe on my leaves. But I didn't find anything to keep me there. I was happy to come home to Stony Beach.” He played with the tines of his fork. “Or would've been, if you'd been here.”

“But even if—you know…” She didn't want to talk about that terrible time when they were first apart. “Stony Beach was never home to me. I don't think I could have lived here all those years, even with you. Too much of a cultural backwater. At least it has a decent bookstore now, but no theater, no symphony, no ballet—I need those things, Luke. Like air.” She stopped, again confronted by a vision of her recent life. She'd seen student performances and visiting artists on campus, but she hadn't ventured away from Reed for any kind of cultural event since Philip died. “At least I did then.”

“You could always go to Portland for that stuff. Take a weekend now and then.” He gave a little grin. “I haven't instituted a town-wide lockdown yet.”

“That's true. You know, I still haven't gotten used to having money. My first thought when you said that was how expensive it would be—tickets, hotel, restaurants. But that's pocket change to me now.” Her interior horizons expanded. “I could have the best of both worlds—culture in Portland, peace and quiet in Stony Beach.”

“Any plan that keeps you here most of the time sounds like a good plan to me.”

*   *   *

After lunch, Luke had to go to his office. Emily decided to walk back to her car, strolling through town along the way to visit some of her tenants she hadn't yet met. It was a gorgeous day, sunny with only a refreshing breeze instead of the near-constant bluster, and the summer crowds had begun to gather; Emily dodged strollers, dogs, and oblivious running children as she navigated the sidewalk.

She checked out a couple of gift-cum-antique shops, neither as appealing as Lacey Luxuries nor as appalling as Cash and Carry. Then she came to Sweets by the Sea, which advertised “the best ice cream and saltwater taffy in Stony Beach.” That was too tempting to pass up.

She went in and browsed the side aisles, which were full of such factory-made goodies as gourmet jelly beans, fine chocolates, and Turkish delight. Then she strolled past the bins of taffy, picking up handfuls of cinnamon, caramel, and blueberry cheesecake, a few trial singles of pomegranate, maple bacon, and orange Creamsicle, and a full pound of licorice. Taffy bags in hand, she stood in line for a two-scoop waffle cone—peanut butter and chocolate, and coffee bean—justifying to herself that she would walk it off on the way to the church. And anyway, she deserved it—she'd been a good girl, having salad instead of fries with her crab melt.

The cash register was manned by a bent little woman crouched on a padded stool. She scrabbled for Emily's coins with arthritic fingers bent into birdlike claws. Heavy makeup, no doubt intended to make her look younger than her eighty-something years, only served to accentuate her wrinkled skin and rheumy eyes.

Emily pasted on a smile. “Are you the owner here?”

“That's right. Sixty-two years ago this month I married Jim Sweet. We ran this place together for forty-seven years, till he dropped dead and left me holding the bag. Just like a man.” She seemed to regard her husband's death as the last in a long line of selfish and irresponsible actions.

“If you're tired of it, why don't you retire and let your son take over?” Emily nodded toward the middle-aged man serving ice cream alongside a teenaged boy who shared his curly brown hair and receding chin.

“Him?” The old woman gave something between a cackle and a snort. “He's as bad as his father. Be bankrupt in a week if he took over.”

“But he's bound to take over eventually. Wouldn't it be better to let him learn while you're still around to help him over the rough spots?” Emily was voicing thoughts she'd been longing to express to Queen Elizabeth II for years.

The old woman peered at her, her claws gripping the countertop. “What's it to you, anyway? He put you up to say that? You his lawyer or something?”

Emily realized she hadn't introduced herself. “I beg your pardon. I must have seemed terribly intrusive. I'm Emily Cavanaugh, your new landlady. I'm naturally concerned with the health of all the businesses that rent from me.”

She stared in fascination as the old woman's face transfigured before her into a mask of loathing and spite. “So you're Beatrice's niece, are you? One of them Worthings.” She made the name sound the opposite of worthy. “Just as high-handed, just as grubbing, just as set on having everything anyone else wants as all the rest of them, I'll wager. I don't care if you are my landlady; I don't want you in my shop. You can buy your taffy somewhere else from now on.” She slammed the register drawer shut and spun her stool till she was looking at the wall.

Emily stood, gaping, unable to credit this display of venom. What could Beatrice possibly have done to deserve this woman's ferocity?

She blinked, shut her mouth, picked up her parcel, and turned to leave the shop. Just as she reached the sidewalk, she felt a presence close behind her.

“Ma'am?” said a young and cracking voice in her ear. She turned to see the boy who'd piled her cone so deliciously high.

He led her out of sight of the shop's windows. “I heard what Granny said to you. Don't mind her, please. She's a little…” He made a spinning motion with his finger next to his ear.

“I gathered that. But what could make her hate my family so much? What did Beatrice ever do to her?”

The boy shrugged. “No idea. All I know is it happened way before I was born. Before Dad was born, even. But see, what Granny doesn't know is, Mrs. Runcible was our best customer.”

Emily gaped. “But—”

The boy grinned, crinkling cheeks on which freckles vied with pimples for dominance. “She didn't come into the shop. We delivered the stuff to her, me and Dad. The same order every month. Told Granny it was for Agnes Beech.”

“An assortment? Or did she have a particular favorite flavor?”

“Some boxed stuff, but the taffy was all licorice.” He pointed to her bag. “Seems to run in the family.”

Emily extracted a piece of licorice from her bag, unwrapped it, and popped it into her mouth. It was delicious. “This is excellent taffy,” she said when her teeth came unstuck again. “Do you make it right here in the shop?”

“Sure do. Granny does it all herself. Well, she lets me help a little now she's got so weak, but she won't let Dad touch it.” A flicker of pain washed over his transparent features.

“Well, thank you.” She held out her right hand. “I didn't catch your name.”

“Matthew.” He wiped his hand on his apron and shook.

“Matthew. Perhaps you could continue Beatrice's standing order for me. I'd hate to miss out on this wonderful taffy because your grandmother can't let go of a grudge.”

“Sure thing.” He gave her a wide grin and vanished back into the shop.

Emily moved down the sidewalk and addressed herself to her cone, which had come perilously close to spilling its contents during all the maneuvers of the past few minutes and was now trickling chocolate down her left hand. She had just gotten all the melted bits under control when she heard Luke's voice from the curb.

“Emily? You better come with me. One of your rentals is on fire.”

 

twenty-one

He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honored with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.

—
Pride and Prejudice

“Tell me,” Emily said as Luke made a U-turn on the highway and headed back toward the south end of town.

“Sprang up out of nowhere around one o'clock. No renter in the house, thank God. Neighbor spotted smoke and called the fire department, who called me. I looked up the address, saw it was one of yours, and came looking for you. You know, you really ought to give me your cell phone number. Could've saved some time.”

Emily's arm holding the ice-cream cone jerked. She caught the top scoop just as it was about to plummet onto the floor of the patrol car. “I don't have a cell phone.”

He took his eyes off the road and stared at her. “No cell phone?”

“I know, I must be the last person on Earth. I just haven't felt the need for one. We don't get a lot of emergencies in Lit and Lang.”

“Starting to look like you might be more prone to emergencies in Stony Beach. You better get one. If I were you, I'd do it today.”

“Well, you're not me, and I don't want to.” Where had that tone come from? She'd never snapped like that at Luke—had she? “I hate the things. When I'm with someone, I want to be with that person, not on call for all the rest of the world. And when I'm alone, I want to be left alone to think a coherent thought without being interrupted.”

“You don't have to give your number to ‘all the rest of the world.' You could just give it to me.” His voice dropped till she could hardly hear it. “Unless I'm one of the people you don't want to be interrupted by.”

“Don't be silly.” She transferred her cone and laid her left hand on his arm as it gripped the wheel. “I always want to talk to you.”

“So get a phone. For my sake. Not just so I can find you—so you can reach me if…” He paused as he turned off the highway onto Cedar Street. “If anything happens.”

“Happens? Like what?”

“I don't know what. But I'm starting to worry about you, Em. Everything that's happening is all centered around you.”

Emily blanched. So it wasn't her imagination—Luke saw it too. She'd stepped into Beatrice's place, and the storm that had gathered around Beatrice threatened to engulf her as well.

She'd seen the plume of smoke as soon as they turned south. Now she could see the flames licking the sky beyond the roofs of the intervening houses. Luke pulled up across the street, behind the fire engines, and she saw what was left of a small one-story cottage. It looked like a box full of fire, flames leaking out the windows, door, and roof. Firefighters stood around the yard, watching it burn, as others directed hoses to the surrounding trees and the roofs of the houses on either side.

“They've given up, haven't they?”

Luke nodded. “Looks like it.”

He strode over to a man in a fire chief's uniform. Emily dropped her cone into a nearby garbage can and followed.

“What's it look like, Dan?”

The chief lifted his helmet, ran a hand over his hair, and settled his helmet back into place. “Whole place went up in no time flat. Looks like arson to me. We'll know more when it burns out and we can investigate.”

Arson
. The word settled in Emily's stomach like an overcooked dumpling. Unless it was the work of a random pyromaniac, such an act could only be directed toward her. Yet not designed to hurt her—only to cause trouble. To make her feel, perhaps, that being a landlord was more trouble than it was worth. To make her think about selling up and leaving town.

“Have you had many fires in town lately?” she asked the chief.

“First one this season.”

Even a pyromaniac had to start somewhere. But Emily's gut told her this was not a random act.

“I better get to work,” Luke said to her. “Question all the neighbors.”

“I'll come with you.”

He steered her out of the chief's earshot, wearing a look she'd seen on his face once before. No. Not this again.

“Em, I can't take you with me. In a case of arson on an insured, uninhabited structure, the first suspect is always the owner. Insurance fraud.”

She stared at him. “Why would I burn down my own cottage? It was in good shape—the accountant said they were all in good shape, with a high rate of occupancy. It would've sold in a minute if I'd wanted to unload it. It must have been worth a lot more to me alive than dead. As it were.”

“I know all that. I
know
you didn't do it—heck, you must have been with me when the fire started. But it's procedure. I just can't.”

She closed her eyes, willing herself not to explode at him as she had before. It wasn't his fault. He had a job to do. Still, she didn't quite manage to keep the frost out of her voice. “Is there anything I
can
do without trespassing on the province of the almighty law?”

“Tell you what. Go find Marguerite and ask her exactly what times she was with Brock, whether he left her at any point. See if we can rule him out.”

“Fine.” She gazed north and inland, where she could barely see the cross atop the steeple of St. Bede's winking in the sun. “It's kind of a long walk back to the church from here.”

“Oh, right. I'll run you back. Few minutes won't make much difference.”

They drove in silence through downtown, then up the hill to St. Bede's, where Emily's PT Cruiser sat alone in the parking lot. Luke put the patrol car in park and set the brake, then turned to her.

“Emily, if this investigation is going to come between you and me—I'd quit my job sooner than let that happen. I can't lose you again. Not when I've just found you after all this time.”

Emily couldn't speak right away. Someone had put a balloon in her chest where her heart should be and then blown it up until it threatened to burst through her ribs.