Arsenic with Austen (22 page)

She put up a hand to his cheek. “No. I can't let you do that. We'll get through this. I've been silly, but I'll pull myself together. You just get on with your job, and I'll do whatever I can without getting in your way.”

He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it, then leaned over and kissed her lips. “I love you, Emily Worthing.”

That balloon in her chest had reached her throat. She couldn't answer, though the words
I love you
were straining out her every pore. She told him with a kiss instead.

*   *   *

Emily drove down the hill to the highway and turned north, then on a whim parked in front of the bookstore. She noticed with a pang that the holidaymakers were avoiding the shop in droves.

A bell tinkled as she opened the door. “Be right with you,” came Ben's resonant voice from the back room.

Emily browsed, not sure what she was looking for, until Ben came in. “Mrs. Cavanaugh! Nice to see you again. Looking for anything in particular?”

“I'm not sure. Actually, I have a question for you. Has anyone bought a book on fire lately? Or”—she scoured her mind for what little knowledge it contained on the subject of methods of arson—“maybe chemistry? Or electrical wiring?”

Ben gave her a quizzical look. “What's this about?”

“One of my rentals is burning to the ground as we speak. It looks like arson.”

He gave a low whistle. “Nobody's bought anything like that. I did notice someone browsing in the home improvement section the other day, but I was up on the ladder and couldn't see who it was. A man, I know that much. He said he was just browsing, so I didn't bother coming down.”

“Home improvement.” She grimaced. “Hard to call that suspicious in and of itself. You didn't notice anything about him? Short, tall? Old, young? Bald or hairy?”

He screwed up his eyes. “Not bald, I think. About all I did see was the top of his head. Beyond that, I couldn't say.” His mouth quirked in a half smile. “I could tell you the titles of the books I was shelving, but I can't tell you what a customer looked like. Maybe that's why my store's empty most of the time.”

She patted his arm. “Don't worry about it. It was just a hunch. But while we're on the subject, do you have anything about fire? How fires start, that type of thing?”

“You know, I think I just might. Over here.” He led her to the back of the store to a bookcase marked
MISCELLANEOUS
. “Couldn't figure out where to put it, but I thought it was fascinating. It's a memoir of a fire investigator.” He put a trade paperback with a lurid cover into her hands. The title
Fires I Have Known
stood out in black against a background of leaping flames.

Emily turned it over and glanced at the back cover copy. “Could that customer have looked at this book as well?”

“Possible. I didn't see him over here, but I was directly opposite, with my back turned.”

“I'll take it. Maybe it'll give me some ideas.”

She paid for the book and drove home, hoping Marguerite would be there before her.

As she turned up the drive, an unfamiliar car swept away from the house and passed her on its way out. Marguerite was waiting for her on the doorstep.

“
Mon Dieu!
That Brock, he has more arms than an octopus! I had to get the hotel manager to drive me back.”

“You didn't go to his room? Margot, what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking, I would get more out of him in an atmosphere more
intime
than the restaurant. But he was thinking only what he could get out of me.” Her shudder was more like a shimmy.

Emily opened the door. “Come in and have a sherry and tell me all about it.”

When they were settled in the library, a cat on each lap, Marguerite began. “We went to Gifts from the Sea for lunch. You know it?”

Emily nodded.

“Not a bad place, for the—how you say?—boondocks. He slipped the garçon a twenty and got us a corner table with a view of the bay. We had a few cocktails—
c'est a dire,
I sipped one Kir Royale while he put back three neat whiskeys. Oh, I gave him the full treatment—the eyes, the lips, the finger on the glass.”

“I get the picture, Margot. You don't have to draw it for me.”

Marguerite shrugged an eyebrow as if to imply Emily was a poor audience. “I got him to talk about himself—not a great feat; it is his favorite subject. He told me all about his acting career, all the famous people he knows, all the films he has made. He must have been an extra in most of them—I see many films, and I never saw his face on-screen.”

“I think you're right about that. The great highlight of his career to date was playing a murderer in an episode of
Abbott
.”

“
Exactement.
With the meal, there was wine—one glass for me, the rest of the bottle for him. More flirting, but you do not wish to hear about that.
Enfin,
I contrived to help him forget I am your friend. He told me he does not plan to be an actor much longer. He plans to become
très riche
instead.”

“Brock? Rich? How?”

“He was not quite intoxicated enough to spell it out for me. But he dropped the broad hints that it will have something to do with Stony Beach.”

Emily was flabbergasted. The nerve of the man! “So he still thinks he can talk me into going along with the development scheme?”

Marguerite hesitated. “He did not mention you in that context. But he did say, ‘I'll be lord of the manor one day. Just you wait. These yokels are going to see some big changes in Stony Beach.'”

A shiver passed over Emily, from her scalp to her toes. “In other words, he plans to get me out of the way. One way or another.”

“
Oui, ma bonne amie.
So it would appear.”

Emily pulled the blanket from the back of her chair, put it around her shoulders, and hugged Levin so tight, he squirmed. Then she remembered. “I'm supposed to ask you about times. What time did you leave the hotel?”

“Two o'clock.”

“Precisely?”

“
Mon Dieu,
I did not measure to the second. I was escaping from a ravening wolf! Somewhere around two o'clock, that is all I can say.”

“Well, it doesn't matter. The fire was reported at one.”

“Fire? What fire?”

Emily told her about the probable arson. “Was Brock with you the whole time?”

“
Oui.
Except when I went to powder my nose, but that was at the restaurant. Far from here.”

“He didn't stop anywhere on the way back to the hotel?”

“
Au contraire,
he drove like one possessed. I am fortunate to be alive.”

Emily desperately wanted to pin this fire on Brock. For one thing, it would mean he hoped to get rid of her by means less drastic than murder. “Did you actually see him at the funeral? Before he came up to us at the end, I mean?”

“
Oui,
I noticed him when the service commenced. I always notice a handsome man.”

“And he stayed the whole time?”

“
Bien sûr.
I would have remarked it if he had left.”

The funeral had started at ten thirty. Far too early for him to have set a fire that wasn't noticed till one o'clock and that then devoured the house in record time. Or at least, so she assumed. Time to read up on
Fires I Have Known
.

 

twenty-two

Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious part of each was when the post was expected.… Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to be told, would be communicated, and every succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.

—
Pride and Prejudice

Luke came by a few minutes after four o'clock. Marguerite sniffed. “Just like a man, to show up in time for food.”

Luke spread his hands. “Hey, give me a break. I didn't know you had tea at four o'clock.” He eyed the cake stand with its fragrant muffins and scones. “Have to admit, I could use a cup, though. Interviewing is thirsty work.”

Marguerite took Emily's unspoken hint, helped herself, and retired to the parlor with a book. Emily helped Luke handsomely to tea and goodies. “So, what did you find out?”

He finished a bite of a blueberry muffin before answering. “Nobody saw anything suspicious. Pretty much what I expected. Mostly rentals around there, half unoccupied—season doesn't get going full swing till July, when the weather's a little more reliable. Transients don't pay attention to their neighbors like permanent residents would.”

“Did anyone see anything at all?”

“One older woman, spends her life on the porch, apparently, says she saw people pass by that house on the way to the beach, but nobody stopped or went in the yard.”

“Do the fire people know anything yet?”

“Not yet. Fire's out, but they have to wait for it to cool down before they can investigate.”

Emily set her cup down with a clatter. “How can you stand this job? Wait for this, wait for that. Wait for the DNA report, wait for the fire investigation, wait for the autopsy, wait for the background check. Seems like all you do is wait.” She saw the consternation on Luke's face and amended. “I don't mean that. I know you work hard. It's just—it all goes so much faster in books.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “If books reported a cop's day blow by blow, nobody'd read 'em. Yeah, it's slow, but we do manage to keep busy in the meantime. Don't worry, we'll get there in the end.”

He finished his muffin and reached for a currant scone. “Spy or no spy, that Katie can cook. What'd you find out about Brock?”

“His movements are accounted for, as you law enforcement types say, from ten thirty till two.”

“Hmm. That's a fair alibi. Fire must've started between noon and one.”

“But what if he set it up ahead of time—something that wouldn't go off till midday?” She showed Luke the book she'd been reading. “According to this, there are ways of setting up a fire hours beforehand.”

“That's true. Still, if nobody saw him, we'll have a heck of a time proving it. No DNA's going to survive a fire like that.”

“Did you ask about the whole morning, or just around the time it started?”

He gave her a look. “I'm not stupid, Em. Whole morning.”

“Sorry. I don't think you're stupid, Luke. Honestly. Just a teacher's habit of making sure students have done their research.” She stood and paced the length of the fiction bookshelves. A book by G. K. Chesterton caught her eye, and she stopped.

“I wonder…” She turned to Luke. “Could you go back and ask people—especially that one old woman on her porch—specifically if they saw anyone in some kind of uniform? Mailman, deliveryman, meter reader?”

He cocked his head at her. “Wouldn't they've mentioned that already?”

“Not necessarily.” She pulled out a volume of Father Brown stories. “There's one story in here—
The Invisible Man
—where the murderer turns out to be a postman. Nobody noticed him because he was supposed to be there. He just kind of blended in.”

Luke stood and stuffed the last of his scone into his mouth. “Why the hell didn't I think of that?” he mumbled around the crumbs. “Back in half an hour.”

*   *   *

When Katie had cleared the tea things and retired to her room to nurse Lizzie, Marguerite decided it was time to introduce Bustopher to Levin and Kitty. “It will be best if they meet on neutral ground,” she said to Emily. “The parlor, perhaps? That is not a room Bustopher favors,
n'est-ce pas
?”

Emily used treats to coax Levin and Kitty into the parlor while Marguerite went to the kitchen to fetch Bustopher. She returned, holding him nearly comatose in her arms; he'd finally “caught” his catnip mouse and bitten into it. As Marguerite explained, eating catnip had the opposite effect of smelling it. “He is as mellow as he will ever be right now. Let us see what happens if I put him down.”

She laid Bustopher on the floor. Levin and Kitty, ears back, immediately sprang onto the highest surfaces they could find—a windowsill for Kitty, a tall table for Levin. Bustopher blinked and yawned, then his whiskers began to quiver. He followed his nose around the room until he spotted the intruders. Kitty he dismissed almost instantly, but he homed in on Levin. He didn't move, but crouched, muscles taut and nostrils working frantically. The tip of his tail began to twitch.

Levin adopted a similar posture on his table. But Kitty leapt down from the windowsill and crept closer to Bustopher. Intent on Levin, he didn't notice her until she was beside him. She settled on her haunches and licked him behind the ear.

Emily gaped at Marguerite. “Will you look at that?”

“It is not uncommon. She is mothering him. She sensed his pain and wants to comfort him.”

Bustopher not only tolerated Kitty's ministrations but broke his stare hold on Levin and rolled onto his side, wrapping his paw around her neck as if they were old friends. Levin sat up and blinked at the two of them, clearly confused by this unexpected truce between his old friend and his new enemy. Was Kitty betraying him or paving the way for him?

At last he, too, jumped down from his perch and approached by cautious degrees to sit a few inches behind Kitty's back. Bustopher glanced at him dismissively, then returned to his blissed-out state. Eventually all three of them subsided into sleep, a cat sandwich with Kitty in the middle.

“So far so good,” said Marguerite. “But do not be fooled; it is not over. When Bustopher awakes from his catnip dream and encounters Levin in the library, we may yet see some fireworks.”

They went to sit in the library, keeping the parlor door open for the cats. Luke returned around five o'clock. “Bingo,” he said. “The porch lady saw a meter reader go toward the backyard early this morning. Couldn't describe him, though. Like you said, man in a uniform, practically invisible.”