Arsenic with Austen (2 page)

Emily forgot her manners and stared. This was the lawyer Aunt Beatrice had chosen to manage her affairs? There must be some mistake. He hardly looked old enough to be out of high school, let alone law school.

A flush crept up his neck. “My father was your aunt's lawyer for many years. He passed away a few months ago, and I took over. Please don't be concerned; I am fully qualified. Passed the bar and everything.”

His apologetic smile was so winsome that Emily relented. She had a soft spot for young redheads anyway—they always made her think of the children she and Philip might have had. “I'm sure you're doing a fine job, Mr. MacDougal.”

“Oh, please—call me Jamie. When people say Mr. MacDougal, I still look around for my dad.”

Emily dimpled at him and sat down. “Jamie, then.”

He opened his briefcase and fumbled inside. “Just give me a second to find the papers.… Here they are.” He closed the briefcase and sat behind the huge desk. With his suit coat hanging off his shoulders and his shirt collar loose on his skinny neck, he looked like a second grader playing teacher. “Would you like to read the will, or would you just like me to summarize it?”

“I suppose I'll have to read it eventually, but just a summary for now, please.”

“Okay.” He held up a thick document, on the back of which Emily could read
The Last Will and Testament of Beatrice Worthing Runcible
.

“Some of the storefront properties in Stony Beach go to Brock Runcible under the terms of Horace Runcible's will. Then there's ten thousand dollars to Agnes Beech, Mrs. Runcible's housekeeper, and a hundred thousand to a trust for the purpose of establishing a clinic in Stony Beach. One of the storefront properties is willed to that trust also. We have a few small bequests to various charities, and then—the rest is yours.”

Emily was sure she couldn't have heard correctly. Why would Aunt Beatrice have left all the rest to her? They'd had little contact beyond Christmas cards for the last thirty-five years.

“The—the rest? What is the rest, exactly?”

“Well, let's see. There's her house, Windy Corner, of course, and all her personal property. A number of beach rentals—I'll get you the list in a minute. Three blocks of storefronts she acquired after her husband's death. And, after taxes, I'd guess about”—he shuffled some papers—“six million dollars in cash and liquid investments.”

“Six—
million
?”

“That's right.” Jamie grinned, his eyes dancing. “You have just become a very wealthy woman.”

 

two

The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself agreeable.

—
Pride and Prejudice

Emily sat back in her chair, all the wind knocked out of her. “I can't believe it. I thought—hoped—she might have left me her library. But all this”—she waved a hand wide to encompass the immensity of her inheritance—“I can't take it in.”

“It appears you were her only living relative. So it's not all that surprising she'd leave most of it to you.”

“I guess that's true. I hadn't thought about it.” Her parents were long gone; her one brother, Geoff—named for Geoffrey Chaucer—had died a few years before, leaving no children. Beatrice had no offspring of her own, no other nieces or nephews. The Worthings were quickly dying out.

Emily shook her head briskly to orient herself to the here and now. “What are my duties as coexecutor?”

“To some extent, that's up to you. I'm the other executor and, if you prefer, you can leave most of it in my hands. All you'll have to do is sign checks and papers. And make decisions about what to keep, what to sell, et cetera. Of course, if you'd like to take a more active role, you certainly have that option.”

Emily pictured her aunt's house as she had last seen it: a four-thousand-square-foot Victorian crammed to the rafters with books, knickknacks, keepsakes, and heirlooms. “I think going through the house is going to keep me plenty busy. I'm happy to just sign things.”

“Great.” Jamie's smile suggested the extra work would not come amiss. What a feeling—to be able to delegate hours of work to a lawyer and not have to worry about how much it would cost. She could get used to this.

He bustled and rustled and in a few minutes handed her several paper-clipped stacks of documents. “Here's a copy of the will and a list of all the assets—except for the miscellaneous personal property. The more valuable things—the ones she insured specifically—are listed here.” He indicated one of the stacks. “You can look at these at your leisure, no rush.”

She stood to receive the papers. Belatedly, he looked around for something to put them in, then handed her a battered expanding file. “Sorry, this is all I've got.”

“No problem.” She wedged the papers into the file and extended her hand. “Thank you, Jamie. I suppose I'll see you at the funeral?”

“Absolutely.” He scooted past her and opened the door. In a moment she stood on the sidewalk, feeling like a completely new woman.

Emily Cavanaugh, heiress. She could be the heroine of one of her favorite novels—a Trollope, perhaps.
The Runcible Inheritance.
At least she was old enough that fortune-hunting suitors wouldn't be beating down her door.

She hoped.

*   *   *

With two hours to kill before the funeral, Emily treated herself to a leisurely brunch at the local pancake house, then made the twenty-minute drive along the marshy north shore of Tillamook Bay and up the coast to Stony Beach. Every mile brought back memories: the abandoned log cabin outside Garibaldi that she and Luke had jokingly dubbed their “dream house” and had woven whole histories about. The little tourist train that ran between Garibaldi and Stony Beach that they'd miraculously had to themselves one day. No, mustn't go there; that memory was far too strong.

On northward through the woods to the south end of Stony Beach, where Luke's family had lived. She couldn't see the house from the road—just as well. The one time he'd taken her there, his mother had turned the warm summer day to arctic winter with one glance. It had taken Emily the rest of the day and into the night to thaw Luke out after that.

Downtown Stony Beach, such as it was, had changed little. The shops and restaurants had different names, and she thought there were a few more of them. That one hotel surely hadn't been there in her day, looming on the beach side of the highway and blocking the view of the ocean from the shops. A couple of the cafés had
FREE WI-FI
signs, and the cars were more modern; but for that she could have believed herself back in the late seventies.

She turned east and drove up the hill a few blocks to St. Bede's, arriving at the modest, old-fashioned white-clapboard church with half an hour to spare before the funeral began. The day was fine and warm—unusual for May on the coast—so she wandered among the graves in the churchyard. Runcibles dominated the sunniest corner, where a newly dug grave gaped beneath an imposing stone carved with angels that read,
HORACE RUNCIBLE, 1919–1971. BELOVED HUSBAND, RESPECTED PATRON OF STONY BEACH
. And beside that,
BEATRICE WORTHING RUNCIBLE, 1927–
with room for an epitaph underneath.

How would that epitaph read? Beatrice had probably dictated it in her will. If not—well, then Emily supposed it would be up to her to decide. She'd known Beatrice less than most of the people in the town. It didn't seem right she should be the one to write the defining words about her life.

The sound of cars coming up the hill roused Emily to make her way inside. If she were already seated when the others came in, they'd be less likely to approach her. In the porch, out of the constant wind, she attempted to pin her wayward auburn curls back into their soft bun, but without a mirror it was hopeless. She smoothed her dark brown linen skirt (she owned no black), buttoned her peplum jacket over her cream lace blouse, squared her shoulders, and strode up the aisle, past the gleaming, flower-drenched cherrywood coffin to the front pew.

The rector, already robed, turned from lighting candles around the altar at her approach. He took in her appearance with a faint look of surprise and came to greet her. “Are you Mrs. Cavanaugh?”

“Yes.” Emily shook his hand.

“I'm Father Stephen. Welcome to Saint Bede's. I'm sorry it's such a melancholy occasion. Beatrice Runcible was the heart and soul of this town. She will be greatly missed.” He peered at Emily as if assessing the depth of her grief. “Were you—close?”

“I hadn't seen my aunt for thirty years. But we were close when I was a teenager. I owe her a great deal. It's hard to believe someone so full of life could be gone.”

The rector shook his head in agreement. “Of course she was quite elderly, but so vital, one didn't notice. It was a shock to us all.”

Emily darted her eyes toward the closed coffin. “Could we have the coffin open? I—haven't had a chance to say good-bye.”

He startled and waved his hands. “Certainly—it's just—the flowers—” Wreaths and sprays covered the coffin from head to foot.

“I'll help you move them.”

Together they lifted the largest spray from the head of the coffin and shifted a wreath or two, then Father Stephen raised the half-lid. The head on the pillow had a little less hair and a great many more wrinkles than Emily remembered, but it was unmistakably Aunt Beatrice: the high forehead and cheekbones, the beaky nose, the firmly set mouth. Only the commanding light in her eyes was missing—and the twinkle hidden behind it.

Emily crossed herself, then kissed her fingertips and laid them to the cold white hands folded across Beatrice's thin breast. “Good-bye, Aunt Beatrice,” she whispered. “And thank you.”

She turned to Father Stephen, who was fidgeting beside her as people began to enter the church. “All right, we can close it back up now. I just wanted to see her to convince myself it was real.”

He lowered the lid, and they lifted the huge spray of lilies back into place. Emily scooted into the left front pew without turning to look at the people coming in. She hoped no one would presume to share the pew traditionally reserved for family.

In this hope, however, she was to be disappointed. Only a minute passed before a tall, dark-haired man approached and deposited himself on the pew beside her, not quite close enough to be offensive but close enough to give onlookers the impression they were together. Emily would have scooted away, but she was sitting in the corner of the pew as it was.

The man unbuttoned his well-fitted black jacket, then turned toward her and laid his arm across the back of the pew. His musky cologne overpowered even the scent of the flowers. He flashed her a toothy smile. “Cousin Emily?”

Emily started. Such presumption she was quite unprepared for. Her tone in reply was worthy of Aunt Beatrice herself. “I am Emily Cavanaugh. But I have no cousins.”

He chuckled. “I admit I'm using the term loosely. I'm Horace's nephew, Brock. So that makes us sort of cousins-in-law, doesn't it?”

“I'm not aware that makes us any sort of relationship at all.”

He put up both palms. “Hey, just trying to be friendly. After all, we are sharing an inheritance.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Perhaps she'd been too hard on him. His toothy smile was rather charming in a Gilderoy Lockhart sort of way. And his tanned face was decidedly handsome, although lined enough to make her suspect his wavy hair might need some help to stay black. “I'm sorry. This is all such a shock to me. Both her death and the inheritance.”

He pulled a sad face. “I know. Such a tragedy the old girl's gone. She was something, wasn't she? But do you really mean to say you didn't know she was leaving everything to you?”

Emily shook her head. “No idea. Even when I got the lawyer's letter, I thought maybe some books. I never dreamed she'd leave me the lot.”

“Well, well, well.” He turned to lean back against the pew, arms crossed.

Emily wondered what that “well, well, well” meant, but the organ music was swelling to a crescendo. Apparently, the service was about to begin.

Her attention drifted as the traditional words from the old
Book of Common Prayer
washed over her. Then Father Stephen mounted the carved pulpit to give the eulogy.

“We are gathered here today to speed the passing into life of one of the Lord's most faithful servants. If not for the generosity of Beatrice Runcible, we would have no roof over our heads in this house of God. If not for her sound business acumen, many of you might lack jobs. And without her erudition and forthrightness, I know the general level of grammatical competency in our community would be much lower than it is.”

A titter spread through the congregation at this, and a smile teased Emily's lips as well. Good old Aunt Beatrice, self-appointed defender of the English language against all encroachments of imprecision, error, and modernity. That, Emily thought, was the greatest inheritance Beatrice had bequeathed to her.

The rector went on at some length, praising Beatrice's piety, generosity, shrewdness, vitality, and spunk. He carefully avoided any reference to the way her more imposing qualities tended to overshadow, even smother, those on whom she bestowed her beneficence; but clearly no one in the room was ignorant of that. Emily squirmed in her seat, wondering, when she got around to reading the will, what strings she might discover attached to her inheritance. It would be quite unlike Beatrice to leave none at all.

At last the eulogy ended, and it was time to follow the coffin to its final resting place. Brock, solemn-faced, took Emily's elbow as the two of them walked first behind the coffin. Emily felt no need of support but didn't want to be rude and shake him off.