Arsenic with Austen (16 page)

“Sounds good.”

Irrationally cheered by the conversation, Emily began clearing Agnes's closet and drawers. Agnes had remarkably few possessions—three dresses, all similarly drab, in the closet; a week's worth of serviceable, much-mended underwear in the dresser; a folded flannel nightgown under the pillow, dressing gown and slippers by the bed. A worn leather Bible on the nightstand next to a pair of reading glasses, watched over by a framed photograph of someone who looked like Billy's younger, shiftier twin. A few neatly filed papers in a desk drawer, a stout hairbrush and a jar of pins atop the dresser.

These few things were all that was left of Agnes Beech. And yet her personality had been large enough to fill all of Windy Corner. Emily's knees buckled, and she sat down hard on the bed. This seemed sadder even than finding Agnes's body. That had been horrible, but this was heartbreaking.

After a few minutes Emily pulled herself together, fetched a couple of vegetable crates from the back porch, and piled everything into them. She found some clean sheets in the closet and was beginning to pull the blankets off the bed when Katie came in with her last load.

“What are you doing, Mrs. Cavanaugh? That's my job!”

Emily stopped mid-pull. “Oh. I guess it is. I'm still not used to having a housekeeper, you know? I was thinking in terms of getting a room ready for a guest.”

Katie threw her arms around Emily. “You are the sweetest thing.” Emily cleared her throat, blinking. She could see it wouldn't take much for this girl to get under her skin.

“Well, I guess I'll leave you to it then. I'll go see what I can find in the attic.”

Emily had not yet ventured into any of the rooms on the third floor except her own. Frankly, she was a little afraid to. She was not at all fond of spiders, dust made her sneeze, and if she happened to see a rodent, she would probably faint. She took a deep breath and opened the first door off the hall.

She needn't have worried. Agnes's fanatical cleanliness had extended even to the attics. Not a speck of dust or a thread of cobweb could be seen. Neat metal shelving lined the walls, filled with taped and labeled boxes and a few larger items sitting on their own. Under the dormer window stood a few pieces of furniture—a straight chair with a broken leg, a floor lamp with a frayed cord, and an antique cradle.

Emily knelt before the cradle, tracing the carved teddy bear on the headboard. She gave it an experimental rock—no creaks. She pushed on the little mattress; the wood beneath it held firm. But the mattress itself was lumpy and hard in the middle.

She pulled it up off the cradle bed. There underneath the mattress sat an ancient, rusted can about three inches in diameter and an inch tall, with a pry-open lid. Unrusted dents in the lid and scratches in the rim of the can suggested it had been opened recently and clumsily, perhaps with a flat-end screwdriver. The label was so worn, she couldn't make it out.

Emily reached out to pick up the can, then pulled her hand back. This could be evidence, which meant she ought not to handle it. She'd better call Luke.

She hurried down the attic stairs and into Beatrice's bedroom to use the extension. But Luke wasn't in. The officer on duty said he'd driven over to Tillamook to pick up the exhumation order for Beatrice's body. Would Mrs. Cavanaugh care to leave a message? No, there was no point. She'd wait till he came to pick her up for dinner.

She went down to the kitchen, but Katie wasn't there. She found her nursing Lizzie in their bedroom. “I'll get your lunch in just a minute,” she said. “Lizzie woke up starved.”

“No problem. I can make a sandwich or something.”

“There you go, trying to do my job again! I'll be ready in a minute. Do you know what you'd like?”

“I don't really know what we have in the house. Just not eggs, please—I had those for dinner and breakfast.”

“I'm sure I can come up with something. Then maybe one of us should go shopping. How did you handle that with Agnes?”

“I personally didn't. I was only here with Agnes a few days. I know she never went out—I don't think she knew how to drive—and I certainly didn't buy any groceries myself. Most of the produce probably comes from the garden. I think she must have had other things delivered, or maybe Billy shopped. I'll take a look at the accounts and see if I can figure it out.”

At least she knew where the accounts were kept—in the little nook of an office off the front hall. An old clerk's desk with dozens of cubbyholes, augmented by a couple of tall filing cabinets, nearly filled the small space. Emily rifled through the cubbyholes until she found a receipt from the local fish market and another from a large chain grocery store in Tillamook. That store would never deliver; maybe Billy had gotten a list from Agnes and done the shopping there. If there wasn't enough food in the house to get by till Monday, she'd do some shopping herself.

A noise like a back-alley catfight sent her running to the kitchen. Katie cowered in the doorway, while Bustopher Jones, made twice his normal size by his fur standing on end, hissed and spat at her from the center of the floor.

Katie turned bewildered eyes to Emily. “He … doesn't seem to like me much. I didn't see him under there. All I did was set something on the table, and he … just exploded.”

Emily squeezed her shoulder. “It's not your fault. He was very attached to Agnes, and this room was Agnes's domain, much more than her bedroom. I'll see what I can do.”

She went into the library and grabbed the blanket off Bustopher's favorite chair, along with a catnip mouse she'd occasionally seen him bat around. “Here.” She handed the mouse to Katie. “Dangle this in front of him while I make him a bed, then see if you can lead him into it.”

Emily folded the blanket and placed it in the farthest corner, where it wouldn't be in Katie's way. Katie, dangling the mouse at arm's length, crept around the room, Bustopher following as if pulled against his will. Finally she dropped the mouse onto the blanket, and Bustopher pounced.

Katie leaned against the counter, shaking. “Whew. Usually I get along fine with cats, but that one…”

“We're going to have to give him some time. Hopefully, in a couple of days he'll come around.”

Katie pulled herself together and turned to the fridge. “I was going to make you a salad. Is that okay?”

“Sure. Oh, I found a cradle upstairs, but it'll have to wait a bit before we bring it down. I think”—she cast about for an excuse—“I think it's going to need a new mattress.”

“No prob. We've gotten along without one so far. Why don't you go relax somewhere? I'll have this done in a jiff.”

“I'll be in the library. I usually have a tray in there.”

After lunch, while Lizzie continued her nap, Emily showed Katie around the house. “I don't use most of the rooms much. Agnes liked to serve breakfast and dinner in the dining room, but I don't really care when I'm alone. I mostly use the library, the second-floor bathroom, and the tower bedroom. The other rooms you'll only need to dust once in a while.”

“Don't you want to do any entertaining? This house would be so perfect for it.”

“Maybe someday.” Maybe after the murders were solved—but she couldn't say that to Katie. It wasn't common knowledge there had even been a murder. “After you get into the groove of things. I don't want to make too much work for you up front—with the baby and all.”

“That's sweet of you, Mrs. Cavanaugh, but you've hired me to keep house, and I intend to do my job.” In the tower room Katie noticed Emily's pile of laundry. “Like the laundry, for instance. Where's the washer and dryer?”

Emily gulped. Luke didn't want the cellar disturbed, but again, she couldn't say why. “They're on the fritz right now. Billy'll take care of it on Monday. I can get by till then.”

*   *   *

Emily was knitting to relieve the stresses of the day when the doorbell rang. Katie answered it and ushered Dr. Sam Griffiths into the library. Sam was wearing an ill-fitting black skirt suit, and her cropped hair had been bullied into some semblance of an actual style.

Emily stood to greet her. “Doctor Griffiths! What brings you here?”

“Sam. Want to talk business with you. If you have time.”

The doctor's brusque manner brought out the full measure of Emily's Victorian courtesy. “Certainly. Would you like a cup of tea? I know I would.”

Sam produced an indeterminate rumble. Emily said to Katie, “Tea for two, please.”

Katie almost managed a solemn-servant face, but her eyes were dancing. “Yes, ma'am.”

Emily sat and indicated a chair for Sam. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“It's about the clinic.” Sam's heavy brows drew together. “Been pricing stuff. Beatrice's money won't be enough.”

“A hundred thousand dollars? Not enough?” Emily knew medical equipment was expensive, but she would have thought a basic small-town clinic could be quite adequately outfitted for that amount.

“Barely do for the equipment, but gotta hire a nurse. Gotta build up the practice before I can pay her out of what I take in.”

“Isn't it customary for doctors setting up practice to borrow what they need? Like any other business?”

“Sure, but then I'd have to charge what other doctors charge. People around here, fishermen and whatnot, don't all have insurance. Can't afford eighty-five bucks for an office visit. Want to be able to treat them for what they can pay.”

“I see.” That was a worthy goal, and Emily certainly wouldn't miss the money. But she still wasn't completely convinced Sam didn't want this clinic badly enough to kill for it.

She temporized. “How much more do you need?”

“Fifty thousand.”

Emily saw her way out. “I will give this serious thought, Sam. I'm all in favor of people getting local medical care they can afford. But I can't spend on that scale until Beatrice's will clears probate.”
Or until I know you didn't kill her.
“And of course you'll have to wait for that anyway, won't you? The clinic trust won't be funded till then.”

Sam slumped in her chair. Katie came in with the rose tea set on a silver tray and placed it on a low table in front of Emily.

“Milk or sugar?” Emily asked as she poured the first cup.

“Neither.” Sam fairly grabbed the saucer from Emily's fingers and tipped the scalding tea into her mouth. Then she put the cup down and stood. “Gotta go. Thanks for the tea. Let me know when you decide.” She turned and strode out without waiting for Emily's reply.

 

seventeen

“Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.”

—Captain Wentworth in a letter to Anne Elliot,
Persuasion

After Sam left, Emily drank her tea in a civilized fashion, then decided to take her time pampering herself before her dinner with Luke. She ran a hot bath, dumped in way too much bubble bath, buffed her feet, knees, and elbows, and soaked until the water turned tepid. Then she let the water out and washed and conditioned her hair under the shower.

She found some scented body lotion of Beatrice's and slathered it on until she smelled like a walking flower garden. Back in her room, she gave herself a manicure and massaged a firming night cream into her face and neck. She hadn't groomed this thoroughly since Philip died. And yet, she told herself firmly, the agenda for this evening was dinner and nothing more.

In anticipation of the evening, she'd brought her favorite dress from Portland—ivory linen in an Edwardian style with a slightly raised waist and A-line skirt, antique lace trimming the deep tucks on the bodice and edging the sleeves and hem. The color set off her fair complexion, while the cut disguised her menopausal belly and accentuated her still firm bust—the one benefit of never having babies. By the time she'd put up her hair in an elegant chignon and touched a bit of makeup to her face, she felt younger, prettier, and more feminine than she had in years.

Luke arrived promptly at six. Katie was busy with Lizzie, so Emily let him in.

This was the first time she'd seen him out of uniform. He wore a charcoal gray suit, a pale blue shirt, and a conservatively patterned tie—not an imaginative outfit, but one that showed off his muscular shoulders and brought out the flecks of blue in his gray eyes. Those eyes widened and warmed as he took in her appearance. A slow smile spread across his face.

“You look fabulous. Emily Worthing, you are one classy lady, and I am honored to be going out with you.”

She let the name slip pass—hardly noticed it, in fact. The last thirty-five years might never have happened.

“You look pretty sharp yourself.” She moved close to him and pulled a tiny fleck of lint from his lapel. He held her with his eyes as if he might kiss her there and then.

She pulled back. Too early for such shenanigans. Besides, they had a bit of business to attend to before they could leave.

“I tried to call you this afternoon, but you were out. There's something I need you to see. It's in the attic.”

She led the way up the two sets of stairs, burningly conscious of his eyes on her as they climbed. At last she stopped by the cradle and pulled the mattress back. “I found this right here. What do you think of that?”

He squatted beside the cradle. “You didn't touch it?”

“No, Lieutenant. I know better than to handle the evidence.”

“Dang, I wish I had my kit with me.” He took out his cell phone and snapped a picture of the can where it lay, and another of the position of the cradle in the attic. Then he pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and gingerly lifted the can by its edges, wrapped the handkerchief around it, and dropped it in his pocket. “I'll stow it properly when we get to the car.”