Arsenic with Austen (11 page)

A voice came from behind her: “You look like you belong here. I should hire you for a live diorama.”

Emily turned to see a woman of about her own age, dressed similarly in a long flared skirt and high-necked blouse. Her thinning gray hair, however, was cut short in a modern style.

“Veronica Lacey,” the woman said, extending her hand. “And you are Emily Cavanaugh. I saw you at the funeral.”

To Emily's relief, Veronica's handshake was firm and dry. “I could easily live in this shop. You have some marvelous things, and your displays are lovely.”

“That's quite a compliment, coming from the owner of Windy Corner. Your own house is full of treasures. I must admit, I'm a bit disappointed you're an antique lover—I had some hopes of picking up a few bargains at an estate sale. Your cousin hinted at the possibility.”

“Brock isn't actually my cousin. He's on Horace's side; I'm on Beatrice's. You mean he thought he might get the house?”

“It sounded that way. But on balance, I'm glad it went to you. Brock might have sold it to some outsider who'd tear it down and build condos. That would be a terrible loss.”

“So you don't favor development? Even though it would help your business?”

Veronica hesitated. “Well, I wouldn't mind if the town grew some. Things are a bit hand-to-mouth here. But Mayor Trimble and his followers want to take it too far. We need to preserve what we have and build on it, not raze it and start from scratch.”

Emily had to admit that was a sensible attitude. “Are there others here who think as you do?”

“A few. But most of the town council is polarized—the Troubles with Trimble versus Beatrice's Bootlickers. They've been at a stalemate for months. Of course Beatrice wouldn't budge an inch, and not much can be done without some of her property being made available for building. Your property, I should say.”

Emily, who had nearly doubled over at the epithets Veronica applied to the warring factions, recovered herself and said, “Thanks for being straight with me. I'll give this some serious thought.”

Veronica twinkled at her. “Not too serious, I hope. In Stony Beach you have to either laugh or go mad.”

Veronica's attitude reminded Emily of Marguerite, her closest friend in Portland. She was overcome by a sudden desire to share with Marguerite all the events of the past few days and get her unique, always forthright perspective. Maybe it was time for a brief trip home.

Emily turned back to the painting. “This is Windy Corner, isn't it?”

“Certainly is. It was done by the architect who built the house. His great-grandson sold it to me. I thought Beatrice would want it, but she died before I could show it to her.”

“It definitely needs to come home. How much?”

Veronica named a price. It was high, but Emily thought the painting was worth it for the sake of its history. She could afford to indulge a whim here and there—and it was her duty to support the local businesses.

It was only after Veronica had wrapped the painting and helped her load it into the back of her car that Emily thought to wonder where in Windy Corner—whose walls were already optimally full of beautiful art—she'd find to put it. Oh well. It was a big house. She'd find a space somewhere.

 

twelve

“In repassing through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold.… At last, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will open.”

—Henry Tilney to Catherine Morland,
Northanger Abbey

By this time it was past noon, and Emily treated herself to lunch at the Crab Pot, half hoping to run into Luke. But he wasn't there. Across from the table where she'd sat with him before—which she already thought of as “their” table—sat Mayor Trimble and Vicki Landau.

Emily almost walked out. Then she thought again and approached them.

The mayor saw her first. He scrambled to his feet, catching his napkin as it slid off his lap, and swiped at his greasy mouth. “Well, well, if it isn't our local heiress! Come to talk business finally? Have a seat, take a load off.” He motioned to the empty chair next to Vicki, who bared lipstick-smeared teeth at her in a rather frightening imitation of a smile.

Emily smiled sweetly. “Thanks, I won't intrude. I just wanted to say how pleased I was to hear from Agnes that Beatrice shared her last dinner with you. So good to know she was among friends right up to the end.”

The mayor swayed on his feet, while Vicki choked on the mouthful of coffee she'd just drunk. Trimble steadied himself on the chair and put on a smile. “That's right, among friends. We had a real good discussion that night. Beatrice was starting to come around to our way of thinking, wasn't she, Vic?”

Vicki nodded through her coughing fit.

“Oh, was she? Of course, she had no idea that meal would be her last. And neither did you, I'm sure.”

The mayor waved his hands, blustering. “Course not, how could we? Beatrice shouldn't've eaten that lobster, is all. She knew it wouldn't agree with her, get it? She even said so, didn't she, Vic?”

Vicki recovered enough to say, “She certainly did. ‘I'm an old woman and I'll eat what I like. No point in being careful at my age,' that's what she said. Almost as if she did know.”

“But neither of you ate lobster, right?”

“Don't care for it. Never have. I'm a meat-and-potatoes man.” Emily cast a skeptical eye at the half-eaten crab melt on his plate. “And Vicki here, she always goes for chicken. No matter how fancy a restaurant we go to, it's chickie-Vicki every time.”

Vicki silenced him with a glare. “For pity's sake, Everett, keep your voice down.”

“Don't be silly, Vic, everybody knows you and me got lots of business together. We're the movers and shakers in this town, get it? Just trying to shake up everybody else and get them moving too.” He gave Emily a wink.

“Speaking of moving, I'll be moving along to my own table now. But thanks for this chat. It's been very—illuminating.”

She resisted the temptation to look behind her as she moved to the opposite side of the restaurant. But after she sat, she glanced back over the top of her menu to catch Vicki's venomous glare just sliding away from her. What had she done to merit that?

*   *   *

Back at Windy Corner, Emily asked Billy Beech to bring the painting in and leave it in the front hall while she found it a home. She walked through the downstairs rooms but found nothing she wanted to move or replace to make space. Besides, the painting's colors didn't blend in well here; they were more pastel. Perhaps it would fit better upstairs.

Reluctant to trespass on the sanctity of Beatrice's room, Emily turned to the formal guest rooms. Both had lovely proportions but were made gloomy by high-Victorian flocked wallpaper and burgundy velvet hangings. The painting would clash horribly here. She turned to Beatrice's room.

This room had been forbidden to her and Geoff as children (though, of course, they'd violated the prohibition once or twice), and even now Beatrice's spirit seemed to hover over it, threatening trespassers with her grave displeasure. Yet Emily doubted her aunt had cherished any skeletons in the room's ample closets; she simply wanted one room in the house where she could be sure of being alone.
Do the dead care about privacy?
she asked Philip. She took his silence for a no.

At this hour, the room was flooded with light from the west-facing semicircular bay, which echoed that of the library beneath. No dark hangings or wallpaper here: the walls were painted a pale yellow, and only the finest of lace curtains hung at the windows. Beatrice had placed her writing desk in the bay facing the ocean, a chaise longue to one side of it. Her large canopied bed stood against the south wall; a fireplace occupied the opposite corner. Several small ornaments stood on the mantel, but the space above it was bare. The painting would just fit.

None of the ornaments greatly appealed to Emily. She cleared them from the mantel and piled them on the dresser, intending to take them to the attic. But a wooden bird sculpture slipped from her arms and fell in front of the fireplace.

When she bent to retrieve it, she noticed something peeking out from the ashes in the grate. Agnes must have cleaned this room thoroughly—it bore no signs of Beatrice's death agony—but she might not have expected Beatrice to have used the fireplace in May and therefore had not swept it. Emily leaned in to grasp a fragment of brown paper such as one might use to wrap a package. Adhering to it was a bit of clear tape.

As she pulled it out, she heard a noise behind her and turned, hastily shoving the paper into her pocket. In the doorway stood Brock, eyeing her with drawn-in brows.

She stood and faced him, struggling not to look furtive. After all, this was her house—he was the intruder. “Brock! What are you doing here?”

His expression mutated into one of boyish innocence. “Me? Oh, I just came by to pick up something I left in my room. Last time I was here.”

“And when was that, exactly?”

“Gosh, I don't know, a while ago. Let me see … I think I left on the seventeenth. I'd been here about a week.”

Emily did some quick calculating. Beatrice had died on the twenty-second, so she must have gotten sick the evening of the twenty-first. Brock's story matched Agnes's, which put him in the clear—provided he'd really left the area as well as the house.

“I'd prefer you not wander around the house by yourself. If you need anything else, ask me or Agnes to get it for you.”

Brock put up his hands, palms forward. “Whoa there, Nelly. Nothing to get excited about. Just retrieving my own personal property.”

“And did you find it?”

“Yup, got it right here.” He patted a bulge in his coat pocket. Emily eyed the bulge. About the right shape for the pint of vodka she'd found in the headboard.

“Then I presume you'll be going.”

He pouted. “You're not going to invite me to tea?”

“Not today. I have things to do.” She wasn't sure just what, but she'd find something.

“All right then, I'll go.” He stepped back from the door as if to let her go out first, but she stood her ground. At last he slouched off toward the stairs.

Emily watched him out of sight beyond the landing, then set her hand on the knob of the room he claimed to have visited. It did seem slightly warm.

She went in and looked around. Nothing looked different from the last time she'd visited the room.

She went over to the bed and examined the headboard. A sliver of deeper darkness rimmed the leading edge of the center panel. Someone had opened it recently, and it hadn't been properly closed.

She pulled on the apple, and the panel swung open. Both the bottle and the book were gone.

*   *   *

The morning's cloud cover had burned off to leave the day clear and warm. Emily asked Agnes to serve her tea on the terrace, which opened off the library and overlooked the sea. She had a good appetite this afternoon and made quick work of the cucumber sandwiches and strawberry shortcake Agnes had prepared. Only then did she turn her attention to the mail Agnes had brought out to her on a little silver tray.

Two white window envelopes. One from the funeral home and one from the caterer. Bills.

Both were made out in her name, and both amounts took her breath away. Brock had clearly had no compunction about spending her money. He might not be a murderer, but at best he was no better than a cheap con man. Anger sent her pulse racing, but she talked herself down. If some comparatively small portion of Beatrice's money went to honor her memory, that was only fitting—never mind that it could have been done well for half the price. She set the bills aside to pass on to Jamie. They would have to be paid out of the escrow account.

When Agnes came to clear away, Emily detained her.

“Agnes, would you tell me exactly what happened the day Beatrice got sick?”

“Like I told you, she went out to dinner with those people, the mayor and that Landau woman. She came home about nine and went straight to her room. By ten thirty she was sick as a dog. She wouldn't let me call a doctor, and I thought she'd be better in the morning. I wasn't feeling so good myself, sneezing my head off all night, couldn't figure out why. But by morning she was worse. She got weaker all day till finally I up and called Dr. Griffiths on my own. She got here around five o'clock, but it was too late to do anything. Miss Beatrice was dead by six.”

“But what about earlier the day before? What did she do? What did she eat and drink? Did anyone come to see her?”

“She was here all day, puttering around, working in her office, telling Billy what to do in the garden. She had her regular breakfast, lunch, and tea, nothing unusual. Bustopher Jones and I ate the same, no harm done. Before she went off to dinner, she had a sherry out of that same decanter you've been drinking from. No visitors until the mayor came to pick her up for dinner.”

At that moment Emily caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head and saw what looked like a man disappearing behind the toolshed. “Wait a second, Agnes. I just saw someone.”

Agnes turned to look, but by now there was nothing to see. “Billy, no doubt. Putting his tools away.”

“No, this person had dark hair. And he wasn't big like Billy. Could've been Brock.”

“What would Mr. Brock be doing sneaking around the garden? He could just come up and talk to you.”

“I know. That's what makes it so strange.” Emily stole across the grass to a point where she could see beyond the shed, but she saw only Billy crouched over a flower bed.

“Billy, did you see someone go by here just now?”

“No indeed, madam, but my attention was on the sweet woodruff.”