Arsenic with Austen (3 page)

He stayed by her side at the grave as Father Stephen read the final prayers and the coffin was lowered. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” She scooped up a handful of dirt to spread over the coffin, wondering who had chosen it and why people thought it worthwhile to spend so much on a mere box that would never be seen again and that would shortly become the site of one of nature's most revolting spectacles, a decaying body.

“It's a handsome casket, isn't it?” Brock whispered in her ear. “I hope you approve of my choice.”

That answered that question. Somehow she wasn't surprised.

Only when the prayers were ended and the sexton began shoveling the rest of the dirt into the grave did Emily look up and take in the faces that surrounded her. The whole permanent population of the town must be here—but no one she could recognize after all her years away.

Then she caught sight of one weather-beaten face toward the back of the crowd, towering over most of the others. Cropped graying hair above it, a crisp khaki uniform collar beneath. Between those, an unmistakable pair of deep gray eyes that could shift in a heartbeat from laughter to longing. And those eyes were fastened on hers.

 

three

Eight years, almost eight years, had passed since all had been given up. How absurd to be resuming the agitation which such an interval had banished into distance and indistinctness!… Alas! with all her reasonings, she found, that to retentive feelings eight years may be little more than nothing.

—
Persuasion

Luke. Incredibly, astonishingly, devastatingly here after all these years. And he'd recognized her. She'd have no chance of escape.

She heard a voice in her ear, but it carried no more meaning than the distant roar of the waves. She turned to see Brock looking quizzically at her. “Emily? Did you hear me?”

“No, sorry, I was miles away.”

“I was saying, I've taken the liberty of arranging a little reception back at the house. People expect it, and you weren't around, so…”

“Oh, of course. That's fine. Thank you.”

“Do you want to be the one to announce it? Since you're technically the hostess and all.”

“Oh. Everybody? Right.” She faced the crowd and cleared her throat. “Hello, everyone. I'm Beatrice's niece, Emily Cavanaugh. Thank you for coming today to honor my aunt. I hope you'll join us for some refreshments at Beatrice's home.” In an undertone to Brock, “I guess everyone knows where that is?”

He smirked. “It's kind of obvious.” Beatrice's home was at least twice as large and half again as tall as any other house in town. Not to mention being the only one with a name.

Emily avoided Brock's arm this time and smiled her way through the crowd to her car. She had to be alone, if only for the space of a five-minute drive. She had to prepare herself for the inevitable: a conversation with Luke.

As she drove down the hill and turned right toward the north end of town, she debated how to receive him. Not with reproaches—that would be undignified. Certainly not with any display of the turbulent emotions one glimpse of his face had aroused in her: shock at how he'd aged, fury at all his broken promises, a jolt of desire such as she hadn't felt for years, and, most treacherously, an undercurrent of leaping joy that made it difficult to keep her foot on the pedals and her hands on the wheel. What she wanted was to run and dance and sing.

But no, surely a calm, friendly, but distant greeting would be best. Let him take the lead. He was the one with all the explaining to do. But he surely wouldn't do it in a crowd of a hundred people.

Emily drove past the last stragglers of the beachfront rentals that lined the highway on this end of town, then on another mile to the stout stone pillars that marked the entrance to Windy Corner. Beyond the open gate, tall poplars stood sentry around the sloping lawn and lined the curving driveway. Emily followed the curve, then took the fork that led to the garage, which would surely be occupied by Beatrice's own car. Thirty-five years ago it had been a venerable black Mercedes sedan; now it was probably a slightly newer black Mercedes sedan.

She was surprised to see another vehicle parked at the end of the drive—a white commercial van with
GIFTS FROM THE SEA
emblazoned on its door. So this “little reception” was being catered. And the whole town invited. Emily wondered what Brock would consider “big.”

She parked the Cruiser, walked back to the main drive, and took the fork that circled before the front door. The house rose above her, its brick-red paint as fresh and perfect as she remembered. Cream, sage, and gold picked out the doors and windows and the gingerbread that lined the numerous gables and dormers. She dropped back a few paces to get a good view of the octagonal tower, soaring three stories into the bright-blue sky. The aerie at the top of the tower had always been her favorite spot to curl up in a window seat and read. Now she'd be able to take refuge there anytime she wished.

Anytime except now. Other cars were already following her up the drive.

She stepped up to the front door and tried the knob. Locked. Automatically, she rang the bell, then remembered the keys Jamie had given her. She was fumbling in her purse for them when the door opened and a tall, cadaverous old woman in a starched, white-collared black shirtdress glared down at her.

Emily quailed, feeling like a third grader who hadn't done her homework. “Hello,” she managed. “I'm Emily Cavanaugh. Beatrice's niece.”

The glare did not soften but gave partial space to a flicker of deference. “Agnes Beech. Housekeeper. Until you make other arrangements.”

Emily put out her hand. The other woman eyed it as if it were something dragged in by the obese black-and-white cat that now slunk out from behind her. But at last she condescended to touch Emily's fingers in a parody of a handshake.

“Thank you so much for staying on and keeping things running. It seems we're having a reception. I hope the caterers have managed all right?”

Agnes Beech drew in a long and eloquent sniff. “Caterers!” she spat. “As if I couldn't have done it all myself with one hand behind my back, and made it worthy of the mistress's memory. But Mr. Brock would have his way.” She turned on her heel and stalked off down the hall toward what Emily remembered as the kitchen.

Emily peeked into the spacious dining room and saw several white-suited young people bustling about. “Hello,” she said, then repeated it louder when no one turned. “I'm Emily Cavanaugh.” Blank faces. “I've just arrived, but I'm the new owner.”

One woman, a little older than the rest, detached herself and came to shake Emily's hand. “We were hired by a Mr. Runcible. He doesn't live here?”

“No. He's the other legatee—I'm the one who got the house. But I couldn't get down here before today.” She craned her neck around the woman to see the table, which was laden with platters and cake stands, a huge arrangement of lilies towering over all. “Is everything nearly ready? People are starting to arrive.”

“Oh yes, just the finishing touches.” She turned to the other workers and clapped her hands. “Finish up now, it's showtime!”

Right on cue the doorbell rang. Emily turned to answer it, but Agnes Beech was already striding down the hall. Emily hoped she'd be a trifle more welcoming to the guests than she'd been to her new employer.

The townspeople seemed to move in schools, like fish, because after the first ring they streamed in so steadily, Agnes never had an opportunity to shut the door. Within minutes all the reception rooms were packed with black-garbed guests, white-coated waiters with high-held trays slipping between them like flashes of sunlight on a cloudy day.

Too late, Emily realized she should have been standing at the door to receive the guests' introductions and condolences. Heading toward the parlor, she could glimpse Brock's tall form moving from cluster to cluster, his face as preternaturally solemn as an undertaker's, playing the host and grieving heir. She didn't know whether to be amused, grateful for being spared the role, or indignant at his presumption.

She settled on grateful. Being in this crowd was bad enough without being its focal point.

But her reprieve didn't last long. Brock spotted her and made his way to her side, then took her elbow again—what was this fascination he had with her elbow?—and guided her into the parlor. There he stationed himself beside her, and by some incomprehensible magnetism people began to flow toward the two of them, one or two at a time.

The first was a paunchy, balding man of around sixty who pumped her arm so hard, she expected to start spouting water. “Everett Trimble. Mayor of Stony Beach. Too bad about the old girl, but this town's moving forward, get it? Great to get some new blood in.” He ran a handkerchief up over his shiny brow and down his scalp. “Give me a ring when you get settled. You and me gotta cooperate, get it? Get this town on the move.” He shoved a business card into Emily's hand, clapped Brock on the shoulder, and headed toward the food.

Right behind him was a tall, svelte blonde in red lipstick and a red suit that burst out like a splash of blood against the black-and-white crowd. At first glance Emily thought the woman was in her early thirties, but after a glance at her neck, where a string of perfect pearls gleamed against a not-so-dewy throat, she revised the estimate up ten years. “Vicki Landau,” the red lips said in a crisp, commanding alto voice. “Realtor. I'm sure you'll want to be selling some of your properties. Windy Corner, for starters.” She surveyed the room with a greedy spark in her midnight-blue eyes. “Much too big for one person, don't you think? Just give me a call. I've got buyers lined up from here to Portland.”

Her smile made Emily feel like a freshman in a class of graduate students. She took the business card Vicki offered and shoved it into her pocket along with the mayor's, intending never to look at either again.

More faces, more handshakes, more names she hadn't a prayer of remembering. In most cases a thin veil of solemnity overlaid avid curiosity about herself, Brock, the house, her plans; but she turned aside all questions with a smile. Jamie MacDougal's freckled and grinning countenance made a welcome break from all the strange ones, but he only shook hands and moved on. His grin faded when he came to Brock, who seemed determined never to budge from her side.

She wished Brock would drop the barnacle act. Why did he persist in clinging to her? It couldn't be for the pleasure of her company; she'd said as few and as neutral words as possible, and she'd long since abandoned hope of keeping a man at her side by virtue of her feminine charms alone. She must have five or ten years on Brock, and each of those years had left her a memento of its passing in the form of gray hairs, wrinkles, and extra pounds. Amazing, really, that Luke had recognized her.

Think of the devil. There he was before her, tipping his uniform cap with his old teasing grin. “Sheriff's Lieutenant Luke Richards at your service, ma'am.”

She was tongue-tied. All she could do was look at him. In fact, she couldn't stop looking at him. She willed Brock not to notice.

Luke's eyes cut to Brock for a second, then he inserted himself between them. “Don't you think it's time for a breath of fresh air?” he said to Emily, then to Brock, “You'll hold the fort here, won't you?”

Brock gaped but could hardly refuse.

Smooth, Luke.
Smooth as rich dark chocolate sliding down her throat. Smooth as his kisses on her lips, her neck, her ear …
No. Don't go there. Don't ever go there again.

Luke took her elbow. The same touch on the same body part, but oh, how different his touch felt from Brock's. How was it possible that thirty-five years could make no dent in the power of that touch?

But before they could move, an immense woman draped in a chartreuse-and-violet muumuu blocked their path. “Rita Spenser,” she boomed in Emily's face. Her halitosis combined with her pungent body odor nearly made Emily gag, while her fuchsia-dyed hair styled à la Phyllis Diller made Emily wonder if someone had dropped acid in her drink.

“You're from Portland, aren't you?” the whale woman thundered. “What do you do there? Are you married? How long do you plan to stay in Stony Beach?”

Between Luke's touch on her elbow, so familiar and so utterly strange, and the whale woman's assault on her other senses, Emily was so discombobulated, she couldn't resist the barrage of questions. She answered most of them, truthfully but as briefly as possible, sensing Luke's growing impatience at her side. Before the whale woman released her, she heard a ring from the direction of his pocket. He answered the call, listened briefly, then swore under his breath.

He interrupted the whale woman without apology. “Emily, I gotta go. Fender bender south of town. But we have to talk. Soon.”

She turned to him and saw all the turmoil he'd stirred up inside her mirrored in his eyes. She nodded, her mouth dry. And then he was gone.

 

four

She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste.… At that moment she felt, that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!

—
Pride and Prejudice

Brock had melted into the thinning crowd. Emily sped the departing guests on their way with gracious smiles and thanks-for-comings. At last, thinking herself alone but for the caterers cleaning up in the dining room, she fell onto a couch in the parlor, kicked off her pumps, and put her feet up on a cushion—only to hear Brock's voice, once again, at her elbow.

“Glad that's over. What a mob!”

She peered at him from beneath the arm flung over her eyes. “Yes. I'll be glad to be alone.” Surely that hint was broad enough.

But no. He threw himself into a chair across from her and stretched out his legs as if he owned the place. His black dress shoes had looked smart and polished from above, but a crack spread across one sole and the opposite heel was worn to the wood.