Murder Most Austen (17 page)

“That’s wonderful,” Valerie replied. “I hate to sound crass, but it really couldn’t have come at a better time. I don’t know what we would have done if the magazine folded. Little Zee just started nursery school last month. It’s one of the best in the city.” She paused and then, apropos of nothing, added, “Private, of course.”

“Have you spoken to Ian about this?” asked Gail, her brow creasing in the first suggestion of concern I’d seen so far. “Is he on board with it all?”

Valerie waved away Gail’s worry with an indifferent wave of her bony hand. “I talked with him briefly. He’s focused on arranging for the funeral right now.”

“Good. I’ll talk to him as well, just to be sure,” Gail said with a sigh. “Oh, Valerie, I can’t pretend not to be excited about what this all means! Now we can sink some real money into the magazine and work on expanding our reader base. We can finally put some of our plans into action. Not all, of course, but some.”

Valerie’s thin, colorless lips pulled into a frown, and she said, “What do you mean, ‘real money’? Ian and I have our own finances to deal with, too, you know. It can’t all go to the magazine.”

“What do you mean?” Gail asked, lowering her voice.

“What do you mean, what do I mean? Do you know how much private school costs? Little Zee deserves the best, and I’m not going to send him to some public school and have him sit next to God knows what.”

Gail’s expression cooled to a few degrees south of glacial as she stared at Valerie. Valerie, for once, seemed to notice someone else’s feelings besides her own and said, “This is silly. There’s no reason for us to argue. Especially as I think there might be more money available than we realize.”

“What do you mean?” Gail asked, lowering her voice.

A self-satisfied smile formed on Valerie’s face, and she leaned her head close to Gail’s. “Well, it might not be perhaps entirely legal, but I…”

The woman to my left suddenly let out a loud “Shush!” and shot both Valerie and Gail a look of extreme annoyance. Valerie twisted in her seat, turning a baleful eye of her own toward the woman. It was a glare that would have stopped me in my tracks, but the woman to my left, a petite grandmotherly type with crimped coal-black hair and cold, sharklike eyes, was clearly made of stronger stuff.

“Do you mind?” she whispered with icy politeness. “Some of us are
trying
to listen to the lecture. If it is urgent that you have your conversation right now, perhaps you should take it
outside
where you can hold it in private.” Her companion, a plump woman with an equally intense expression of irritation in her deep-set eyes, nodded her small gray head in vigorous agreement. I heard someone else nearby mutter, “Hear, hear!”

You don’t mess with Janeites. Especially when Darcy is involved.

From the manner in which Valerie’s small eyes rapidly narrowed further with contempt, it was evident that she did not care one iota about the women’s complaints or her own rudeness. In fact, she gave every indication that she was about to escalate the situation by returning a verbal lob of her own. However, no sooner had she opened her mouth than she caught sight of me and Aunt Winnie. An odd expression crossed her peevish face, and she abruptly closed her mouth and turned around stiffly in her chair. From that point on, neither she nor Gail spoke.

While most of the attendees around us settled happily in their seats, eager to hear the rest of the lecture without further interruption, I was most exceedingly put out. For now I was left wondering just how much money was at stake and what Valerie had meant about there being more money than previously thought. What “not entirely legal” action was Valerie thinking of taking to gain more money, and perhaps even more important, did it have anything to do with Richard’s death?

I snuck a glance at Aunt Winnie to see if she’d been following the conversation. From the exaggerated arch of her eyebrow as she met my eye, I gathered she had.

*   *   *

WHEN THE LECTURE ENDED,
Valerie and Gail practically ran from the room, both studiously avoiding eye contact with me and Aunt Winnie.

“Did you catch all of that?” I asked as we snaked our way through the crowd and out into the hallway.

“Most of it, I think. Although I have to admit I did miss some parts. My hearing isn’t what it used to be. I gather, though, that neither of them is exactly crying into her hankie over Richard’s death.”

“You could say that. In fact, you could say that Gail is doing better than ever. She actually looked alert and chipper today. I wonder if her need to self-medicate died with Richard.”

“It would appear that many problems died with Richard Baines,” Aunt Winnie replied. “The man certainly doesn’t seem to be missed by his daughter-in-law or ex-wife. Although I suppose you can’t fault Gail for not donning the widow’s weeds. After all, he did leave her for another woman.”

“Speaking of which, I wonder how Alex is dealing with all of this. I don’t suppose that either Ian or Valerie are going out of their way to check on her.”

As the crowd around us thinned out as the attendees made their way to the next session, I was surprised to see Byron ambling toward us. Based on his rumpled blazer, uncombed hair, and unshaven face, I gathered that he was still reeling from the shock of Richard’s murder.

“Hello, Elizabeth. Hello, Mrs. Reynolds. How are you?” he asked in a dull voice.

“I think we should be asking that of you,” Aunt Winnie answered. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look terrible. Have you eaten?”

Byron shook his head. “No. I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat. Come and have a bite with us,” said Aunt Winnie.

“No, really,” he said with a polite smile, “I’m fine.”

“The hell you are. You look like hell. Come with us. I insist.” Her firm tone left no room for argument.

Byron managed a grateful smile. “Well, since you put it that way, I will. Thank you.”

The morning’s dark rain clouds had finally cleared, revealing patches of soft blue sky, and so we decided to walk to a nearby café, the Cork. There we were quickly shown to a table on the restaurant’s spacious al fresco terrace. Decorated with oak sleepers, white Italian planters, and lavender plant beds, the area was an oasis in the midst of Bath. Which, come to think of it, was a kind of oasis in itself, so I guess it was an oasis within an oasis.

Byron settled heavily into his chair and ordered a cup of coffee and a minute steak sandwich. From his almost robotic tone, I wondered if he was even aware of his actions.

“Is there any news?” I asked after I’d ordered a Diet Coke and a BLT.

Byron shook his head. “No. The police are still conducting their investigation. I gather that they are still very interested in your friend Cora. For what it’s worth, I did tell that inspector that I really couldn’t see her killing Richard.”

Aunt Winnie smiled. “Thank you, Byron. That was kind of you. Do you have any idea, though, who might have wanted him dead?”

Byron ran a large hand through his already rumpled hair. “I don’t know. I mean, I only worked for the guy. I don’t really know what his personal relationships were like.”

“Well, you said he seemed happy with Alex, right?” I asked.

“True. He did. But other than that…” He shrugged.

“Speaking of Alex,” said Aunt Winnie, “how is she? Does she need anything?”

Byron raised stricken eyes to us. “Oh, God. I don’t know. I didn’t think to call her today,” he said haltingly. “I guess I assumed that Ian and Valerie would be with her.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “But now that I really think about it, I doubt either one of them would call her. They weren’t on the best of terms.”

“Were you able to get in touch with Alex’s sister?” I asked, after taking a sip of my soda.

“I left her a message. I don’t know if she’s called Alex back yet,” Byron replied. “I should check on her. I just don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know her very well; most of my time was spent with Richard.”

Our food arrived just then, and for a moment conversation was halted while we ate. Then Aunt Winnie asked, “So what do you do now, Byron? Are you going to stay for the rest of the festival?”

Byron finished chewing before he answered. “I don’t know. I received a call from the group that invited Richard to present his paper. They still want to hear it. They asked if Alex would be interested in presenting it.”

“Really?” I asked in surprise. “I would have thought the festival organizers would have held off on that.”

“Oh, the festival didn’t ask Richard to come,” Byron clarified. “It was some literary society that focuses on hidden meanings in the classics. No, the festival organizers weren’t huge fans of some of Richard’s theories. I can’t imagine any of them encouraging him to give a talk that basically turns the image of their beloved idol upside down.”

“Oh. That makes more sense,” I said. “So is she going to do it? Is she going to present the paper?”

“I haven’t asked her yet. But I don’t know what she’ll want to do. She’s not as well versed on Austen as Richard was. And given what’s happened, I’m not sure if she should present it, but then again, I’m not thinking straight about any of this,” he replied. “I’m not sure what the right thing to do is. From an academic standpoint, it might make sense, but from a personal one … I just don’t know.”

Aunt Winnie thoughtfully dipped an onion ring into the dish of garlic mayo. “Have you spoken to Lindsay?” she asked before popping the morsel into her mouth. “What does she think should happen?”

“Oh, God,” Byron said suddenly, dropping his sandwich onto the plate. “Lindsay! I completely forgot about her. I haven’t seen her since last night. I don’t even know if she knows what’s happened.”

“Well, I think someone should tell her,” I said. “I got the impression that she was close to him.”

Byron gave a rueful laugh. “Yes. So did I.” He stared thoughtfully at his plate. “I wouldn’t even know what to say to her.”

“How about the basic facts?” offered Aunt Winnie, not unkindly. Seeing Byron’s dazed face, however, she changed her tone. “Why don’t Elizabeth and I come with you, Byron. Perhaps we can help.”

Byron raised grateful eyes to Aunt Winnie. “Would you? I’d appreciate that. Lindsay is a nice girl, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that she’s a bit…”

“Devoted?” I suggested.

Byron caught my meaning. “Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly what she is. She isn’t going to take this well at all.”

CHAPTER 17

All the privilege I claim for my own sex … is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.

—PERSUASION

A
FTER WE FINISHED LUNCH,
we headed to Lindsay’s hotel. Byron called her room from the lobby and asked permission to come up. I noticed, however, that he didn’t mention that we were with him.

Lindsay answered his knock almost immediately. Her eyes and nose were both red, her face was pale, and her hair stuck out in at least four different directions. She was wearing black sweatpants and a blue-and-white baseball jersey emblazoned with the Austen quote
YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT I SUFFER.

I had a feeling that the sentiment was truer than she realized.

Seeing Aunt Winnie and me standing behind Byron, her expression changed from mild curiosity to outright alarm. “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice scratchy.

“I’m afraid I have some news,” Byron began. “May we come in?”

Lindsay hesitated a moment and then reluctantly nodded and stepped aside. “I’m not feeling very well,” she said as we shuffled awkwardly into her room. “I think I’ve got some kind of stomach bug.”

The room was small but, as they say, well-appointed. In one corner, there was a small maple writing desk and a coordinating delicate needlepoint chair; opposite that sat two twin beds, one of which was unused, its dark blue chenille bedspread still straight and flat. The desk held the remnants of a half-eaten meal: a few crackers, a bowl of soup, and a soda. The chair was piled high with papers. Lindsay pushed the pile onto the floor and offered it to Aunt Winnie. I perched on the unused bed, placing my purse on the floor in front of me. Byron sat next to me, while Lindsay sat on the bed opposite us.

“So what’s the news?” she asked. “Is there something wrong with the paper?”

“No, the paper’s fine. The reason I’m here is because of Richard. Professor Baines,” said Byron.

There was no mistaking the panic in Lindsay’s eyes, and I remembered their not-so-private fight last night. “What about Richard? What does he want? What did he say?” she asked, her voice a squeak.

Byron sighed and lowered his voice. “So you haven’t heard, then?”

“Heard what?” she demanded. “What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything, Lindsay. I’m afraid that, well, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he’s dead. Someone killed him last night at the ball.”

Her eyes wide with apparent shock, Lindsay leaned back as if to distance herself from the news. “He’s … he’s dead? No! That can’t be!”

Byron nodded. “I’m afraid it is.”

Lindsay’s breath came out in short quick pants. “Oh, my God! I can’t believe it! Oh, my God—no! What am I … oh, my God!” With a strangled gasp, she wrapped her arms around her waist and closed her eyes against a rush of tears.

No one spoke. Frankly, I didn’t know what to say. That she was genuinely upset was clear. But I don’t believe Miss Manners ever addressed the issue of consoling a student who so clearly adored her professor.

Her married professor.

Her dead, married professor.

Aunt Winnie stood and walked the short distance to where Lindsay sat. Putting her hand on Lindsay’s shoulder, she said, “I know, dear. It’s an awful thing to have happen.”

Lindsay gave a muted sniff and then nodded her head.

“Let me get you a glass of water,” I said, standing up and heading to the bathroom. As I grabbed a glass from the bathroom shelf, I noticed the small bottle. A quick glance confirmed my suspicion. After filling the glass with water, I emerged from the bathroom. Handing the glass to Lindsay, I said, “Drink a little.”