Arsenic with Austen (27 page)

Marguerite put in, “No one has asked my opinion, but may I point out that you will be stranded here, a mile from town, your car laid up in the garage. I agree with Luke.”

Emily frowned at her. Marguerite had a valid point, but Emily couldn't help thinking she was really motivated by a desire to see Luke and Emily sleeping in the same house. Preferably in the same bed.

“See there?” said Luke. “Now you have to come. I won't have you stuck out here by yourself.”

Emily ticked off on her fingers. “A: I won't be alone; Marguerite's here, Katie's always here, and Billy's here three days a week. Including now. B: I still have feet. A mile isn't all that far to walk.”

“It is if something happens in the middle of the night. You can't make a quick getaway on foot.”

“I can use Marguerite's car.”

“You forget,
chérie,
I return to Portland tomorrow. I am sorry to abandon you, but I have a summer class to prepare for. I do not fear for you when you have so strong a protector as your good sheriff here.” She batted her eyes at Luke.

Some friend! Emily was stumped but refused to give in. She didn't trust herself alone in a house with Luke, and she still felt far from ready to end up in his bed. Besides, to accept Luke's offer would be like admitting to the killer that he had beaten her. She would never be ready to do that.

“Let's table this discussion for now. Shouldn't you be concentrating on finding out who tampered with my car?”

Luke glowered but didn't push it further. “Fair point. You didn't see or hear anything out of the ordinary last night?”

Emily and Marguerite both shook their heads.

Luke called Katie in and repeated the question to her. “Not a thing,” she said. “Lizzie slept through the night last night, and I conked out. It would've taken a train wreck to wake me.”

“Is Billy around?”

“Sure, I'll get him.” Katie went out the French doors and came back with Billy so quickly, Emily wondered if he'd been listening outside the window while weeding the flower beds, like Samwise Gamgee. He did bear a certain resemblance to a hobbit, now that she thought about it.

Billy stood straight, his hands clasped in front of his spherical belly like Tweedledum about to recite a poem. But where was Tweedledee?

“You weren't around yesterday or last night, Billy, is that right?”

“That is correct, Lieutenant. I was sleeping the sleep of the just in my own modest cottage on the south end of town, all in innocence of any mischievous shenanigans taking place on the mistress's property.”

“What time did you get here this morning?”

“Punctually on the dot of eight, sir, as is my wont.”

“Notice anything out of order? Any signs of a strange car? Anything funny around Mrs. Cavanaugh's car?”

“Now that you mention it, sir, I did remark some tire tracks on the side of the road outside the gates. There was a bit of a shower last night, as I am sure you are aware, and the ground was wet.”

“Excellent. I'll go check that out in a minute. Anything else?”

“Not that I can remember, sir.”

“How about you come outside with me and take a look at where Mrs. Cavanaugh parks.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Emily followed them out to the end of the driveway in front of the garage, which she had not yet gotten around to exploring.

Luke squatted in the gravel next to the indentations left by the Cruiser's wheels, behind Marguerite's red Peugeot. “See that damp patch?” He pointed to a darker spot in the gravel that Emily never would have noticed. “Was that there before?”

“I cannot say with certainty, sir, but I doubt it.”

Luke took a plastic bag from his pocket and used it to pick up a piece of gravel from the dark patch. “I'd bet my badge this is brake fluid.” He turned to Emily. “You ever park in the garage?”

“Not yet. I assume Aunt Beatrice's car is still in there.”

“Indeed it is, madam,” Billy said. “Unfortunately, the Mercedes is no longer functional; Mrs. Runcible kept it for sentimental reasons. The Vespa runs perfectly, however.”

“The what?” Emily said as Luke shot Billy a look Emily suspected would usually be accompanied by handcuffs.

“The Vespa, madam. A species of motor scooter. Mrs. Runcible used it exclusively since the Mercedes passed on to its eternal rest.”

Emily smiled smugly at Luke. “There, you see? I won't be stranded.”

Luke gritted his teeth, and his nostrils flared. “You ever ride a scooter before?”

“No, but how hard can it be? I know how to ride a bicycle.”

“It's not the same thing.”

“If Aunt Beatrice could do it, I can do it. Billy, would you please open the garage?”

Billy took out a ring of keys worthy of a Victorian butler, selected one, and opened the padlock that held the two swinging doors of the garage together. He swung open the left-hand one, went in, and turned on the light.

There before Emily stood the sweetest little scooter imaginable, its light green surface a little dusty but otherwise immaculate. Instead of a standard motorcycle frame with pedals, it had a broad footrest with a shield in front of it so a lady could ride in a skirt quite modestly and safely. Emily loved it on sight.

Billy pulled a chamois out of his back pocket and whisked away the dust. “Allow me to roll her out onto the drive for you, madam.” He grabbed a key ring and a helmet off the wall, rolled the Vespa across the gravel, and parked it on the asphalt of the main drive.

Emily boarded the scooter, leaving the kickstand engaged, and settled the matching light green helmet over her bun. If she hadn't put herself in the position of needing to assert her vehicular independence, she'd never have dreamed of riding something like this. But at least with the kickstand in place, the scooter felt quite stable and manageable beneath her. She reminded herself of her own claim: If Aunt Beatrice could do it, she could do it.

“How do you make it go?”

Billy reached in front of her, inserted the key into the ignition, which was tucked away on the shaft below the dashboard, and turned it. “The transmission is automatic, madam. Speed is controlled by turning the right hand grip, so, and these levers are for the brakes.” He pointed out the various switches on the dashboard. “Here we have the lights and the turn signals. And this switch locks the speed, rather like the cruise control on an automobile.”

Emily turned her right hand and revved the engine slightly. “I feel just like Audrey Hepburn in
Roman Holiday
.”

“I hope you drive better than her,” said Luke, “or we won't have to worry about anybody murdering you—you'll get yourself killed all on your own.”

“Don't worry. I'll take it slow to begin with. Want to hop on and help me?”

He shook his head, neither his frown nor his arms-folded posture relaxing at the suggestion. “One of us better stay alive to catch this killer.”

“‘My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me,'” she quoted. She released the kickstand, gave the right handle a tiny twist, and the Vespa puttered down the drive.
No sweat,
she thought, and gave it a bit more speed. Coming to the bend where the drive circled in front of the house, she braked a little, then leaned into the turn. Picking up speed as she gained confidence, she drove all the way to the highway and back. She was a natural at this, like Harry Potter the first time he rode a broom. The breeze on her face through the open visor, the vibration of the scooter underneath her, the feeling of power over a machine that outweighed her were exhilarating; she felt like a teenager again.

“Nothing to it,” she said, removing her helmet.

“Well, I have to admit you did better than Audrey Hepburn,” Luke said. “Just one little problem. You need a motorcycle license, or at least a learner's permit, to drive this thing on a public road.”

She sidled up to him. “And who's going to give me a ticket if I drive without one?”

He looked down at her, his jaw working. She gave him her most coquettish smile.

At last he broke into a grin and threw an arm around her shoulders. “All right, you win. But only for emergencies. Anything else, you call me and I'll give you a ride.”

She took off her helmet, reached up, and kissed him on the cheek. “I'll get a permit as soon as I can.”

Luke looked around at their audience—Marguerite, Katie, and Billy were all watching with indulgent smiles. “All right, folks, show's over. See you inside.”

They took their dismissal—Billy and Katie submissively, Marguerite with a charming little pout. When they were all out of earshot, Luke said low to Emily, “Look, Em, you do realize we can't rule out either Katie or Billy on this brake job? You could be sleeping with the enemy here. So to speak.”

“But what about the tire tracks? They suggest an outsider, don't they?”

“Yeah, but who's to say they weren't put there deliberately just for that purpose? Billy was awful quick to mention them. Most people wouldn't even notice a thing like that unless they were looking for it.”

“But you can trace them to a specific vehicle, can't you?”

“Should be able to, yeah. Fact, I better go take a look right now.”

Emily walked with him down to the end of the drive. There were the tire tracks, just as Billy had said, on the dirt by the side of the road just beyond the head of the drive. Luke pulled out his phone and measuring tape, and squatted beside them. He took several pictures from various angles and distances, then measured the width of each track and the dimensions of the tread pattern.

“See that?” Luke pointed to a flat spot near the top of the right-hand track. “That's where the tire's been repaired. Narrows these tracks down to one particular car. We find this car, we've got our man. Let's go compare these to Billy's truck.”

Billy's tires were a quarter-inch wider than the tracks; the tread pattern was different and much more worn. “See?” said Emily. “It wasn't Billy. And Katie doesn't even have a car.”

Luke straightened and put his tape measure away. “Point taken. But do one thing for me?” He put his hands on her shoulders and held her gaze. “Make a will. Today. I don't care who you leave your money to as long as you don't leave a penny to Brock. And make sure he knows it.”

Emily folded her arms. “Oh, so you do take my Mr. Elliot theory seriously after all?”

“Never said I didn't. Just said it wouldn't prove anything.” He slid one arm across her shoulders and walked her toward the house. “Better get your lawyer to come here. Or I could drive you into town. I think you've had enough driving for one day, don't you?”

“Definitely. It's about closing time anyway. I'll see if Jamie can come here.”

 

twenty-seven

The old gentleman died; his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure.

—
Sense and Sensibility

Lured by the promise of a home-cooked dinner, Jamie readily agreed to come to Windy Corner to help Emily with her will. “I should've insisted you do this right away,” he said when she'd told him about her afternoon's adventure. “I hold myself responsible for what happened to you today.”

“Don't be silly. I'm a grown woman; I should have taken the initiative myself. It's just that this inheritance is so new to me, I've hardly had a chance to think about what I want to do with it myself, let alone how I want to pass it on.”

But she had thought about that while waiting for Jamie to arrive, and she was ready to make her dispositions: Windy Corner plus a hundred thousand dollars to Katie, so that she would have a home for herself and Lizzie and enough money to get the place off the ground as a B&B if she so desired. Another hundred thousand to Marguerite, so she could take her trip around the world and even buy a suitable wardrobe for it. The extra fifty thousand Dr. Griffiths had requested for the clinic trust. A nice fat cash bequest to Reed, earmarked for scholarships, and the rest of the money plus all the Stony Beach real estate to Luke. Jamie drew up a draft then and there on his laptop and e-mailed a copy to his office for safekeeping. Beatrice had no printer, so Emily agreed to come into Jamie's office the next day to sign the printout.

“Will it be valid before I sign it?” she asked, concerned about the delay.

“I'm afraid not. It has to be signed in the presence of two witnesses, preferably people who don't inherit. In fact, in your case, I'd say that's essential, since there's someone standing by who'd be all too eager to dispute the will. We don't want to give him any ground to stand on.”

“Or any time to stand on it.” Then she remembered. “I think Katie has a printer. And Billy can be one witness. But we still need another one.”

Emily went to the kitchen and asked Katie if she could spare a minute from making dinner.

“Sure, it's all in the oven.” Emily ushered Jamie into Katie's room.

Jamie took one look at Katie and turned so red, Emily feared his face would explode.

“Do you two know each other?” Emily asked, wondering if Jamie could even be Lizzie's father—what else could account for such embarrassment? And it would explain Lizzie's red hair.

But Jamie shook his head. Katie said with a friendly smile, “I don't believe we've met.”

Emily made the introductions, observing Jamie's face. His eyes told her the truth. It wasn't embarrassment that crimsoned the poor boy's cheeks; it was instant, overpowering love.

Katie turned a little pink but kept her head. She was such a lovely girl, this couldn't be the first time a young man had fallen for her on sight. She unplugged the printer cord from her own laptop and handed it to Jamie.

He fumbled at the connection, his fingers shaking, so Katie gently took the plug back and inserted it herself. In the process, their hands touched, and Jamie jumped as if hit by an electric shock. Katie took over and printed the will.