Arsenic with Austen (8 page)

Beanie held up her knitting, considered it, then turned the long strip and starting picking up stitches down the side. “And my brother—you really won't believe this—my brother's name is Prince Charles. He goes by Chuck, but when I want to wind him up I call him ‘the brother formerly known as Prince.'”

Emily allowed her mouth to quirk. “The two of you together could almost be Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

Beanie scratched her nose with the point of a free needle. “You know, that's a thought. Next Pirate Day Ball, he can be Prince Charlie, and I'll be a bonnie lass.”

“Pirate Day? When's that?”

“Fourth of July weekend. We get a real mob here then. You gonna stick around?”

“I have no idea. I just came for my aunt's funeral, but things are getting a little more complicated than I planned for.”

“Oh right, you're old Beatrice's niece, aren't you? Mrs.… Cavanaugh, was it? I saw my mom's article about you in the paper.”

Spenser. The penny dropped. The soul of a paparazzi, indeed.

“And you knit. Wow, I hope you do stick around—you could keep me in business.” She cast a professional eye over Emily's cardigan. “That's an awesome sweater. Did you make it?”

“Just finished it a few days ago.” Emily was rather proud of this cardigan, with its intricate Aran cabling and the shaping she'd designed herself to echo that of her suit jacket: peplum, shawl collar, puffed sleeves. The yarn was a lightweight taffy-brown tweed.

“May I?” Beanie reached out a purple-nailed hand and fingered the edge of the peplum. “You do great work. Hey, wanna make some models for me? I'd give you the yarn at cost if you let me show a piece for a month or two. People want to see the yarn made into normal sweaters and scarves and stuff, and I just can't stand following patterns, y'know?”

Emily was reluctant to commit herself to anything that long-term, but before she could voice her objections, Beanie cut her off. “We can start with that cashmere. What were you thinking—shawl? Socks? Scarf and hat?”

Emily held up her free hand, palm out. “Whoa there, Nelly! I don't even know how long I'll be in town. And I can afford to pay full price for the yarn. What do you say I just buy it for now, and if I'm still here when I finish my piece, I'll let you have it for a while.”

“Fair enough. Have to admit I can use the money. That new guy, what's-his-name, he's threatening to raise the rent.”

“Brock?”

“Yeah. Is he like your cousin or something?”

“No real relation. Beatrice's late husband was his uncle.”

“Good. I don't want to diss a relative of yours, but even if I hadn't already been sorry to see Beatrice go—which I was—having him for a landlord is enough to make me want to dig her up and bring her back. She'd make a pretty wicked zombie, don't you think? Put him in his place, for sure.”

Beanie chuckled, then her eyes lit. She dropped her knitting, grabbed a notebook and pen from the counter and scribbled furiously, then closed the notebook and put it down with a contented sigh. “There. Got the plot for my next novel. Zombie Beatrice terrorizes Stony Beach. Course she'll only attack the bad guys. The development gang. Though that'll leave her hungry, 'cause they don't have any brains to eat.”

The amusement that had been building in Emily since Beanie first spoke finally exploded. She laughed until tears came to her eyes and she had to prop herself with one hand on the counter, the other pressed to her breast.

Beanie looked at her, bemused. “Okay, I guess it'll be a comedy. Black comedy.” She hopped off her stool, poured water from a liter bottle into a mug, and handed the mug to Emily.

Emily waved a hand, gasping. “Don't mind me. It's been a crazy couple of days. That picture just set me off. Zombie Beatrice.” She drank the water gratefully. “So you don't approve of development? Even though it would help your business?”

“No way. I like Stony Beach just the way it is. I need peace and quiet for my writing. Between the shop and my book sales, I make enough to get by.”

“Oh, you're published?”

“Self-published. I put out a new e-book every couple months in the off-season. Zombies, werewolves, demons, you name it. People eat that stuff up.”

Emily's mind reeled. She'd heard about the paranormal craze—she'd even seen a copy of
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies
in Powell's, her favorite bookstore, and nearly ran shrieking in horror—but the idea that people were churning out such books and making at least a partial living off them boggled her. She'd stick with her beloved classics.

And her classic knitting. She considered the ball of yarn in her hand. A shawl would be perfect for chilly evenings curled up by the library fire. “I left all my knitting supplies in Portland. I'm going to need some needles and whatnot.”

Beanie pointed her needles toward the south wall. “All over there by the patterns.”

Emily collected a lovely lace shawl pattern, a couple more balls of yarn, fine circular needles in three sizes in case her gauge was off, and a fabric bag with a cute little sheep appliquéd on it to keep her work in. She'd take a chance on finding basics like scissors and measuring tape at Windy Corner.

As Beanie rang up her purchases, Emily said, “I'll see if I can have a talk with Brock. Maybe I can get him to see reason about the rent.” She wasn't sure how she'd do that, but his behavior last night suggested she might have some influence with him.

Beanie smiled so wide, her lip stud clinked against her nose ring. “That would be awesome.
You
are awesome, Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

“Call me Emily. I think we're going to be friends.”

 

nine

Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to think that he must be in liquor;—the strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible.

—
Sense and Sensibility

Emily visited a few more shops and made it back to Windy Corner without encountering Luke again. It was five minutes to four when she pulled her Cruiser up in front of the garage door.

Agnes met her in the front hall. “Madam always had tea punctually at four o'clock,” she said with a hint of reproof.

“That sounds like a wonderful tradition. Tea in the library, please, Agnes.” She wouldn't insult the woman by asking for a little something to eat.
Tea
in this case undoubtedly meant the meal, not just the beverage.

She was not disappointed. No sooner had she hung up her purse and sweater in the vestibule and carried her knitting supplies into the library than Agnes appeared with a wooden tea trolley loaded with enough sandwiches, cakes, muffins, and scones to feed half of Stony Beach.

“Good heavens, Agnes! Surely my aunt didn't eat this much every day?”

Agnes drew herself up. “Not knowing your preferences, madam, I made a bit of everything.”

“So I see.” Fortunately, Emily's peregrinations had left her with an appetite. “I'll sample as much as I can and let you know. But all your cooking is so delicious, I suspect it'll be hard to choose.”

Agnes did not smile, but her features readjusted themselves to suggest gratification. “Will you have scallops or rack of lamb for supper?”

Both were favorites and rare treats, but Emily's stomach quailed at the thought of tackling lamb after this enormous tea. “I think scallops, thank you. Assuming the lamb can wait until tomorrow?”

Agnes inclined her regal head and left the room.

Emily nibbled at everything and savored it all. When Agnes came in to clear away, Emily said, “As I suspected, everything was delicious. I really can't choose. Did Aunt Beatrice have any particular favorites?”

Agnes's mouth quirked. “Like you, madam, she liked most everything I made. But her favorite thing in the world was something I never would make. Turkish delight.”

“Goodness, I can't stand the stuff. Way too sweet. But why wouldn't you make it?”

“She only liked the rosewater kind. I'm allergic to roses.”

“Really!” Now that she thought about it, Emily hadn't seen any roses near the house, which seemed odd in Oregon, where roses grew so well. “So did she buy it from somewhere or just do without?”

Agnes snorted. “She'd sneak it into the house when she thought I wasn't looking. Figured if I didn't see it, I wouldn't smell it. All it takes is the smell to set me off. One good whiff and I sneeze for a week.”

“Well, no worries with me. Like I say, I can't stand the stuff. Your strawberry shortcake is plenty sweet enough for me.”

Agnes cleared the tea things, and Emily settled down, happily replete, to begin knitting her shawl.

Knitting was an excellent aid to ordering her thoughts, or would be, once she got the project well underway. The preliminary steps of setting the gauge and learning the stitch pattern required all her concentration. She was just finishing her first gauge swatch when Agnes appeared in the doorway and announced, “Mr. Brock to see you, madam,” as if she were announcing the FBI, the IRS, and the KKK all embodied in one man.

Brock swept past her into the room and bent over Emily as if to kiss her hand. His musky cologne nearly overpowered her. Pure pheromones. Good thing she was postmenopausal and less vulnerable to such things.

She kept a firm grip on her needles. “Good evening, Brock. What can I do for you?”

He straightened, covering his foiled attempt by using his outstretched hand to smooth his already perfectly smooth hair. “Ask not what you can do for me, dear lady, but what I can do for you. I came to invite you to dinner at Gifts from the Sea. Their salmon is to die for.”

Agnes stood in the doorway, glowering at Brock's back with such loathing, Emily expected to see red laser-light stream from her eyes and incinerate him on the spot.

“Thanks so much, Brock, but I'm sure Agnes already has my dinner well in hand. Her cooking's to die for too—I couldn't let it go to waste.” Agnes gave a curt nod, her glare abating slightly.

Brock flashed his hundred-watt smile at Agnes. “Oh, well, in that case, we can talk over dinner here. Set another place, Agnes, there's a dear.”

Agnes's glare ought to have been registered as a lethal weapon. “There is only one serving of the scallops, madam. They don't keep.”

Emily wouldn't have crossed Agnes at that moment if her entire inheritance had depended on it. “Too bad, Brock. If you want to invite yourself to dinner, you'll have to do it earlier next time.”

His smile morphed into a petulant scowl so quickly, Emily was left breathless. “Oh, fine, then. Can a guy at least get a drink?” Without waiting for an answer, he strode to the side table in the bay, filled a brandy glass to the brim with Harveys Bristol Cream sherry—the only available option—and downed it in a gulp. Then he filled the glass again and plopped onto the window seat.

A spitting yowl of unearthly proportions rocketed him back to his feet. Bustopher Jones dug all twenty of his claws into Brock's backside, then launched himself off from there and stalked out of the room, tail high. Emily began to feel the cat might be a kindred spirit after all.

Not even from students had she heard the equal of the volley of curses Brock sent after the cat as he fingered the holes in the back of his suit.

“Windy Corner doesn't seem to be a very healthy place for you today, Brock. Perhaps you should go.”

He slammed his glass down on the table, yanked a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and swiped at the sherry sloshed on his tie. “Go? Yeah, right. I'll go when you pay my cleaning bill. Better make that the cost of a new suit—that devil's torn this one to shreds.”

Emily stood and drew herself up almost as tall as Agnes. “I refuse to take responsibility for the perfectly natural indignation of an animal that has been sat upon. Or for stains caused by the greediness of an oaf who would guzzle Harveys Bristol Cream. You will go
now
.”

Brock folded and replaced his handkerchief, ran a hand over his hair, and straightened his jacket, adjusting his face along with it. The petulant overgrown child vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and the suave man of the world materialized in its place. Emily watched the transformation, fascinated.

“My dear cousin—no, sorry, you don't want to be my cousin—dearest Emily, do forgive my outburst. I was so looking forward to dining with you, my disappointment got the better of me. If I promise to be good, will you let me stay and talk to you until Agnes is ready to serve your incomparable meal?”

The guilty-puppy expression took years off his slightly seedy good looks. Emily relented. After all, there was no real harm in him. “Very well. Pour me a glass of sherry—a normal-size one—and I'll forgive you. But don't let it happen again.”

He filled one of Beatrice's Waterford sherry glasses a proper two-thirds full and handed it to her with a flourish. She resumed her chair, and Brock, after checking for four-legged intruders, sank back onto the window seat.

“Now, what is so important that you have to talk to me about?”

He took a decorous sip before replying. “Nothing earthshaking. I just thought we ought to get on the same page about the property. We're sort of co-owners now—we should put up a united front, don't you think?”

Emily raised one eyebrow, her standard response to a student remark that was not properly thought through. “I don't see that we're co-owners any more than we're blood family. I own one part of Stony Beach; you own another. Or we will once probate goes through.”

He waved his free hand. “If you want to be technical. But that property's always been managed as a unit. Don't you think it'd be better for the community if it stayed that way?”

Emily had about as much faith in Brock's community spirit as she had in his self-control. “What exactly did you have in mind?”