Arsenic with Austen (12 page)

“I saw somebody sneaking around. Would you have a look, please?”

Billy bowed. “Your wish is my command. I shall secure the premises forthwith.”

Emily went back to her chair and said, “From now on, Agnes, don't let Brock in without my express permission. I found him wandering around upstairs on his own this afternoon. He has no business being here, and I'm tired of it.”

Agnes nodded. “Just as you say, madam. He's no loss to me, I assure you.”

Before she finished speaking, the telephone rang. For a crazy instant Emily thought Agnes had turned into Gerald McBoing-Boing, who spoke in noises instead of words. Then Agnes closed her mouth and went into the house.

She came out a moment later. “Telephone for you, madam.”

“I'll take it in the library.” Ooh, she felt just like a character in a British Golden Age mystery saying that.

Luke's voice greeted her. Hearing his disembodied voice gave her almost as much of a jolt as had seeing him again for the first time at the funeral.

“Oh, Luke, I'm glad you called. Brock's been behaving very strangely.” She detailed to him the events of the last twenty-four hours.

“What a weirdo. Want me to get you a restraining order against him?”

“Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary. I'm sure he's harmless. You might want to keep an eye on the mayor, though.”

“Why's that?”

“I hear he bought a book on the Borgias a few days before Beatrice died.”

“Huh. That's a strange one. What kind of book—a how-to on poisoning, or just history?”

“I don't know for sure. Ben Johnson in the bookstore mentioned it, but I didn't want to seem too curious.”

Luke laughed shortly. “Yeah, that's my job. I'll see what I can find out. But fascinating as all this is, it's not why I called. I wanted to ask you to have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

Her first impulse was to jump at the offer, but a second, stronger impulse held her back. She cast about for an excuse. “Tomorrow? I'm afraid I can't. I have to go back to Portland for a couple of days. Things to take care of—I hadn't planned to stay this long.”

“Oh.”

He sounded crestfallen, and she regretted her second thoughts. She never could bear to disappoint him. “How about tonight?”

“Can't. I'm on duty.”

“I'll take a rain check, then. For after I get back? I'm only going to stay overnight.”

“Fair enough.” His voice brightened. “Hey, we can celebrate our birthday together. I'll take you to Gifts from the Sea.”

One of the eerie coincidences they'd fastened onto when they were first falling in love—as proof they were destined for each other—was the fact that they shared a birthday: June first. Saturday. “I'd like that.”

As soon as she hung up, Emily regretted giving in. Wasn't it only that morning she'd concluded that the past could never return? But she was committed now.

 

thirteen

Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house, and thinness of the walls, brought every thing so close to her, that, added to the fatigue of her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew how to bear it.

—
Mansfield Park

Emily had always loved her snug mock-Tudor brick house on Woodstock Boulevard, just a few blocks uphill from Reed. Its steep front-facing gable swooped down to shelter the heavy oak front door, while the cute little eyebrow dormer of the second-floor bathroom blinked above the living room bay. The rooms were cozy and few, but just right for the needs of a couple with no children and two cats.

But now, when she pushed open the door with her empty suitcase, and her sleek gray cats, Levin and Kitty, came running to meet her, the living room struck her as cramped and dingy with its fraying upholstery, faded drapes, and threadbare rugs over hardwood floors badly in need of refinishing. The air was stale from unopened windows and unchanged litter, plus a whiff of milk left too long in the fridge. Emily felt as though she'd traveled the world and been gone for months, instead of driving a couple of hours and being gone three days.

How quickly she'd grown accustomed to the trappings of wealth.

First things first. She put down her suitcase and scratched the heads of both cats at once, filled their water dish, then opened a can of Tasty Treats and split it between their two bowls. They yowled insistently throughout the process, volume and urgency intensifying the closer the food got to its destination. But the cats were overdramatizing; remnants of the food she'd left out for them still clung to the sides of the bowls.

That done, she threw open all the windows and changed the litter, then made a pass through the fridge for dead food and took out the garbage. Now at least she could breathe freely.

She flipped through the mail on the mat: bills, catalogs, ads. Nothing urgent, but she went ahead and paid the bills just because she could. Nothing here on the scale of the charges Brock had incurred in her name. Her temper sizzled again at the thought of it.

Business taken care of, she stared around at the home that had become so suddenly and unaccountably unfamiliar. She felt restless, like a guest left on her own and afraid to touch her hosts' things in their absence. Her unquiet feet led her upstairs. Surely her own bedroom would welcome her? But no; the bed, which she'd left unmade, the open drawers and closet doors from which she'd hastily extracted random articles of clothing, all stared at her resentfully, as if to say they'd been getting along quite nicely without her, thank you very much, and if she couldn't even take the trouble to care for them properly, why should they care for her?

She had to get out of here. She fled back down the stairs and called Marguerite. “Margot, you've got to save me! For God's sake, take me to lunch.”

Marguerite was free, and they met at the Beanery, a favorite student hangout that was blessedly quiet during the summer months. The sight of petite, chic, brunette Marguerite cheered Emily beyond measure and regrounded her in her Reed-centered life.

“Where have you been,
chérie
? I have been trying to call you for ze past three days.” Marguerite could speak perfect, unaccented English when she wanted to, but she felt the slight French lilt made her more exotic.

“Would you believe Stony Beach?” Emily told her about the inheritance.

“You are an heiress?
Mais, chérie, c'est magnifique!
Now we can travel the world together, yes? I can show you Paris. The Louvre, the Bois de Boulogne in the rain, my favorite café. You will eat a real croissant. You will buy the clothes that fit. You will meet a handsome Frenchman and stay in Paris forever!”

Emily laughed. “Well, there are a few snags in that plan.” She told Marguerite about Luke and their suspicions regarding Beatrice's death.

Marguerite ignored all hints of murder and zoomed in on the far more important hints of romance. “So you are living the French proverb,
On revient toujours a son premier amour
. You are feeling how?”

“Wonderful. Terrible. Confused. Honestly, I don't know which way is up.”

“And he? How does he feel?”

“I haven't a clue. Except he did seem to be glad to see me. He keeps trying to talk seriously to me, but something always gets in the way. And I'm not sure I want to talk. What's the point of dredging up the past?”

Marguerite gave Emily her trademark one-eyebrow-up glare, the one that inevitably daunted BS'ing students into admitting they didn't know what they were talking about. “What is the point of gaining for yourself some peace of mind? What is the point of fanning a spark of old passion into a flame that could warm your remaining years? What, after all, is the point of love?
Non,
it is too inconvenient, too risky, too ruffling to your oh-so-smooth feathers. Better to be miserable and alone and spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been.” She sat back and crossed her arms. QED.

Emily had to admit Marguerite had a point. When it came down to it, what was holding her back but fear?

“It feels kind of—disloyal to Philip. He's only been dead two years.”

“And what is two years? Perhaps a tenth of the time you have left to live! Surely he would not demand more than that? And, at any rate, Luke has the prior claim,
n'est-ce pas
?”

“He forfeited that when he broke my heart.”

“But perhaps he is sorry! Perhaps he has some explanation. Do you not owe him the chance to make it?”

Emily was running out of arguments. “Well, I did agree to go to dinner with him when I go back.”

“
Eh bien,
you see? You agree with me yourself. So stop arguing and talk to the man.”

Emily sighed. “All right. If it happens, I won't run away. But listen, I'm going back tomorrow. Will you take care of Levin and Kitty for me? And forward any important mail? I have no idea how long I'll be—could be days, could be weeks. I might end up spending the whole summer there.”

“I am happy to feed
les petits chats,
but if you will stay so long, why not take them with you?”

Emily grimaced. “I doubt they'd stand a chance against Bustopher Jones.” Levin and Kitty were naive indoor cats who'd never done more than playful kitten sparring with each other. A cat like Bustopher would reduce them to quivering masses of neurosis if he didn't kill them outright.

Marguerite regarded her with her shrewd black eyes, which could tease or flirt or command or cajole, but never under any circumstances missed a trick. “You have not been happy teaching since Philip died.”

“Of course I haven't been happy. I've been grieving for my husband. Whom I loved.”

Marguerite waved an elegant hand. “Grief is grief. I am talking about your career. You have lost the love, yes? You only go through the motions.”

Emily squirmed in her chair. Why did she have to choose a friend who saw through all her self-deceptions? And who had no qualms whatever about calling her to account?

“It's true. It all feels so—pointless, somehow. I mean, I still love literature, I still want other people to love it, but—I just wish they'd get on with it. Without me.”

Marguerite gave a crisp nod. “You need a break,
chérie
. Perhaps a sabbatical. Perhaps even to retire? You can afford it now.”

Retirement was a thought Emily had not yet permitted herself to entertain. Suddenly a future without teaching stretched before her—not bleak and empty, as she would once have expected, but tantalizing and full of possibilities. Almost the way it looked when she was sixteen.

Maybe it really was time to write that book. Or travel. Or spend an entire year doing nothing but walking on the beach.

She leaned over the table and kissed Marguerite on the cheek. “You are a genius, Margot. I might do just that.”

Energized by this prospect, Emily went back to the house and gave it a thorough cleaning, then packed a large suitcase with an assortment of clothing and toiletries that would get her through at least a month. She also threw in some basic knitting supplies and her prayer book and journal. That done, she made a hodgepodge dinner out of leftovers and produce that would otherwise go bad before she returned, then settled down to while away the evening with the copy of
Persuasion
she'd brought from Windy Corner.

But even her beloved Jane and the company of two overaffectionate cats could not keep restlessness at bay. Her thoughts kept drifting to Windy Corner—to her tower room, her clawfoot tub; to Agnes and Billy and even Bustopher Jones. She tried to picture Agnes going about her evening chores, but could see only vague indeterminate shapes, as if her imagination were a television with poor reception. A feeling nagged at her that all was not right there; her presence was needed. If it hadn't been dark already, she would have headed back that night.

It wasn't only her new wealth that had spoiled her. Windy Corner had recaptured her heart.

*   *   *

Emily left Portland early the next morning and drove as fast as she dared, propelled by that persistent feeling that something was wrong. As she crested the pass on Highway 6, the clouds began to gather. In Tillamook the wind picked up and a drizzle spotted her windshield. By the time she reached the southern outskirts of Stony Beach, a summer storm flung rain horizontally against the glass, nearly blinding her, as if determined to drive her back. But she pressed on, half expecting to see Windy Corner in ruins like Manderley or Thornhill, Agnes stranded on the rooftop, bravely going down with her ship.

But the house was intact, not even a tree down across the driveway. Emily stopped the Cruiser in the drive opposite the front door, pulled her jacket over her head, and ran for cover in the porch. She rang the bell, waited, knocked and waited again, but there was no response. She fumbled in her purse for the keys she had not yet had occasion to use and at last wrestled the door open, her hands shaking in trepidation. It was conceivable Agnes couldn't hear the bell or her knocking over the storm, but it seemed unlikely. Agnes had never failed to hear before.

“Agnes?” she called, stopping only to hang her sopping jacket in the vestibule before hurrying toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was dark and cold and eerily silent against the howling from outside. Agnes was not there.

“Agnes? Where are you?” Emily ran through the other rooms on the main floor, then sprinted up the stairs and checked the bedrooms. No Agnes. Up the attic stairs, into her own tower room and finally the storage rooms. Rain pounded the windows, wind shrieked through the chimneys, but Agnes was nowhere to be found.

Slowly now, dread and exhaustion dragging at her feet, Emily descended and knocked at the one door she'd missed, Agnes's bedroom off the kitchen. No response. Could Agnes be sick in bed? She cracked open the door and peeked inside, but the bed was empty and neatly made.