Arsenic with Austen (32 page)

When Luke had gone, she showered and dressed in her brown tweed suit, putting her hair in a flat braided bun instead of her usual poufy style. Then she went to the garage and wheeled the Vespa out onto the drive. She mounted the brown leather seat, settled the helmet over her hair, and patted the perky green dashboard. “Here we go, girl. Time for our maiden voyage.”

She was a little wobbly at first and wished she'd ridden some the day before, just to keep in practice. But by the time she hit the highway, she was riding as if she'd been using this form of transportation all her life.

She rode the mile into town, then turned left on Third Street and up the hill to St. Bede's. The church was dark, but Father Stephen emerged from the parsonage next door as she parked the Vespa.

“Mrs. Cavanaugh! My, but you startled me. I heard that engine and expected to see Beatrice outside my door.”

“Sorry, Father. I had a bit of an accident in my car, so I'm using this for the time being. Would it be all right for me to go into the church for a little while? Just to be alone.”

“Certainly. I'll get the keys.” He unlocked a side door for her. “If you should need me for anything, I'll be right next door.”

“Thanks. Oh, by the way, I've decided on an epitaph for Beatrice. Could you take care of that for me?”

“Certainly.” She handed him a slip of paper, and he read it aloud. “‘Strength and honor are her clothing; / She shall rejoice in time to come.' Proverbs 31, isn't it? Very appropriate. I'll call the engravers today.”

Emily entered the cool, dim space and took a grateful breath of flower-scented air. She truly longed for her own church, the tiny Russian Orthodox church of St. Sergius of Radonezh, not far from Reed and home. Her other home, that is. Windy Corner felt at least as much like home now as did the house she'd shared with Philip for more than twenty years. But Windy Corner had not yet come to feel to her like a place of prayer.

At St. Sergius, the air would be scented with incense instead of flowers. The nave would be dimmer and cooler, the only sun coming through panes at the base of the dome high above and glinting off the gold-leaf halos on the icons that covered every wall. Here, what light there was on this cloudy day entered the nave through stained-glass windows along both sides and behind the apse. Instead of an iconostasis, across the front of the altar area stood a carved wooden rood screen. Aunt Beatrice had seen to it that this church stayed as “high” and traditionally Anglican as possible.

The atmosphere of sanctity was fainter here, but it would have to do. Emily knelt on the cushioned altar rail and attempted to compose her mind and heart to prayer. She was out of practice, she was ashamed to admit. The past few weeks had been some of the most turbulent of her recent life, and prayer should have been her first recourse; but she had been leaning on Luke's strength, plus an unexpected reserve of her own, instead of God's. Luke's strength, as well as her own, could go only so far. She suspected their end was coming soon.

One by one she lifted all her fears and concerns to the cross behind the altar until she felt peace flow through her. The sense that her greatest trial lay ahead deepened, but she found a verse from the Prophets—one she didn't know she knew—washing over her mind and heart: “But let justice run down like water, and righteousness like a mighty stream.” Justice would be done, and she would come safely through the storm.

When she heard Luke's car pull up outside, she was ready.

*   *   *

Seaside lay about fifty minutes to the north along Highway 101, which at times passed inland through dense forest, at times skirted various little bays and estuaries, and for a few breathtaking miles ran along the side of a cliff that sheered straight down to the breakers hundreds of feet below. Emily enjoyed the scenery and the companionable silence she and Luke shared. That was one good test, surely, of a viable relationship—the ability to be silent together without awkwardness.

They left the highway at the south end of town and headed inland to the small neighborhood surrounding the hospital. Sensible place to put a nursing home, Emily thought, hoping this would be one of the nicer homes where the stench of urine and dead dreams would not be too overpowering.

It looked nice from the outside, at least—typical coastal architecture of weathered cedar shingles and steep gables; it might have been a set of condominiums rather than a nursing home. Inside, a cheerful nurse greeted Luke like an old friend and told him to go on up. “Mrs. Richards will be very happy to see you.”

They took the elevator to the third floor and walked down a bright yellow corridor lit by skylights. Luke paused outside an open door. “Granny?” he called. “It's me, Luke.”

“Come in, dear,” came a high, quavery voice. They entered a spacious room that looked—and smelled—more like a studio apartment than a hospital room. In one corner stood a bed neatly spread with a brightly colored quilt; a tiny kitchenette occupied the opposite corner. Family photographs covered the walls. One large portrait of a serious young Luke in army uniform nearly stopped Emily's heart.

In the center of the room, a frail, impossibly wrinkled woman sat in a recliner in front of a soundless television, crocheting. Her hands were shrunken, darkly veined, and so knobby from arthritis, Emily wondered how she could hold the hook; but her eyes when she looked up at them were bright with intelligence.

Luke leaned over to kiss his grandmother's cheek, but her eyes were fixed on Emily.

“Brought somebody to meet you, Granny.” He pulled Emily forward. “This is Emily, the love of my life.”

Emily felt herself redden at this introduction. Mrs. Richards reached for her hand to pull her closer. “Emily? You mean
the
Emily? The one who didn't answer your letters?” Her eyes narrowed and her clawlike hand tightened painfully on Emily's wrist.

“We worked all that out, Granny. She never got my letters 'cause she moved, and I never got her letters 'cause Mom didn't send them on. It wasn't Emily's fault.”

The claw's grip relaxed slightly. “So is my Lukey the love of your life too, young lady?” the old woman asked, her tone implying the answer had better be yes.

“Yes, ma'am,” Emily said, slipping her free arm around Luke's waist. “Absolutely.”

Mrs. Richards released her wrist and gave it a friendly pat. “That's all right, then. Sit yourselves down and tell me all about it. But maybe you'd like a cup of coffee first?”

“I'll get it.” Luke reached the kitchenette in two strides and pulled open a cupboard; a half-f pot of coffee stood ready on the warmer.

“So how did you come back into my Lukey's life, dear?” Mrs. Richards resumed her crocheting without looking at it. The pink yarn and simple shell-stitch pattern suggested a baby blanket.

“My aunt Beatrice died, and I came to Stony Beach to settle her estate. I saw Luke at the funeral, and since then…” She glanced at Luke to see how much she ought to reveal. He nodded vigorously. “We've been trying to find out who killed her.”

“Killed her! My, my! I heard about poor Beatrice dying, of course. Such a sad thing, and her still with so much life ahead of her. But I never dreamed she'd been killed.” A note of salacious interest belied the sorrow in the old woman's words.

Luke brought over three cups of coffee, handed them around, and sat on the other side of his grandmother. “Took us a while to figure it out.” He recounted the events of the last weeks in a few sentences. “As a matter of fact, there's something we hope you can help us out with.”

Mrs. Richards sat forward in her chair, her fists closing around her hook and yarn. “Anything I can do, dear. You know I'm only too happy to help.”

“I remember you told me years ago there was some kind of quarrel between Beatrice and old Mrs. Sweet.”

“Oh my, yes. Beulah Landau she was then. Prettiest girl in Stony Beach, if you can believe it—hair just the color of yours, dear.” Mrs. Richards fingered a tendril that had escaped from Emily's bun. “Sassy little thing, too. Bold as brass. And she had her heart—or at least her ambition—set on Horace Runcible. He wasn't bad-looking himself back then, and already starting to build up a fortune. Couldn't go to war, being flat-footed, but he made a bundle out of it here at home. Shrewd man, was Horace. Knew a thing or two about most everything. Including women.” She chuckled.

“So Beatrice took Horace away from her?” Emily put in. Luke shook his head almost imperceptibly.

Mrs. Richards frowned, her wrinkled cheeks nearly meeting her overhanging brows so her still-bright eyes only just peered through. “Just you let me tell my story in my own way and my own time, young lady. Beulah thought she had Horace right where she wanted him. They went around together for months, driving up to Seaside for a party, over to Portland to the opera—she was a showy piece, and he showed her off good. She was picking out her trousseau, just waiting for him to pop the question, when Beatrice came to town.”

The old woman smiled into the distance as if watching a movie play in her head. “Beatrice was visiting a college friend, I think, somebody long gone now. At any rate, she got invited to all the same parties Horace and Beulah did. She was a handsome woman, not showy like Beulah, but tall and dignified, with a skin like pure porcelain. And a tongue on her that would slice you in half. She didn't run after Horace—he got introduced to her at a dance, had one fox-trot with her, and he was down for the count.”

She rubbed her crabbed hands together. “It was her wit that got him, I think. Beulah may've been a looker, but she didn't have two thoughts to wave at each other in her whole pretty head that didn't have to do with money. Plus she had no sense of decency. Way I figure it, Horace was moving up in the world, and he knew he was going to need a wife that would do him proud. Beatrice was pure class.”

Emily smiled to herself at this glimpse of her aunt as a young woman. She could just see Beatrice flattening poor Beulah with a single epigram.

Mrs. Richards had fallen silent, so Emily ventured a remark. “So Beatrice married Horace, and Beulah settled for Mr. Sweet?”

The old woman went on as if Emily hadn't spoken. “Beulah came to the wedding. Grandest affair Stony Beach ever saw. Eight bridesmaids, every one in yards of lilac silk and tulle—this was right after rationing was finally over. Beatrice's train stretched clear down the aisle of Saint Bede's, and her veil was imported lace. Beulah sat right at the back, fuming through the whole ceremony, and when they walked out as husband and wife, she spat on that train—a good old hack, like a man's. Beatrice didn't notice, but I did. I sneaked up during the reception and cleaned it off. Didn't want them to have bad luck right from the start.”

“Where did Mr. Sweet come in?”

“Oh, he was a local boy, always had a crush on Beulah, just like half the boys in town. But he had his business going, doing pretty well, so she chose him over a couple of others who didn't have a nickel. Poor man, I reckon he regretted it before the honeymoon was over. She gave him hell right up to the day he died.” Mrs. Richards shook her head. “She did make that candy shop pay, though. Rumor has it, she's got quite a packet squirreled away, though what use she'll ever have for it I surely couldn't say.”

Mrs. Richards fell silent again, and this time she returned to her crocheting. Luke spoke up for the first time since she began her story. “Did you say Beulah's maiden name was Landau?”

“That's right. Her father was old Henry Landau, who built the Driftwood Inn. The Landaus were a force to reckon with back then—had half the town in their back pocket. But when Henry Junior inherited, he let it all go to seed. Beulah like to had an apoplexy when he sold the Driftwood to Beatrice.”

“So what relation is Vicki Landau? The real estate agent?”

“Why, she's Henry Junior's granddaughter. Beulah's great-niece. Pretty girl, as I recall. Too bad she didn't get Beulah's red hair. But her mother died when she was just a little thing. Her father, Henry the third, he just went to pot after that. Beulah pretty much brought Vicki up. I'm afraid the child may have picked up a bit of Beulah's sour temper.”

“And I have a sneaking suspicion she inherited Beulah's grudge.” Luke shot a look at Emily. “I think we've found our blonde.”

Emily sat up with a jolt. “But—Vicki and Brock? I thought she was having an affair with the mayor.”

“Playing both sides for the main chance, is my guess. I think it's time I had a word with Ms. Landau, don't you?”

*   *   *

They took their leave, promising to return soon for a good long chat.

“Anything you want to know about Stony Beach, you just come and ask me, hear?” Mrs. Richards gave Emily's hand a parting pat. “I've lived in these parts for ninety-five years. Not much goes on I don't hear about, even up here.”

Emily was tempted to come back on her own—she was sure Luke's grandmother must have quite a trove of stories about Luke, about all the years of his life Emily'd had no part in. She wanted to hear every one.

She and Luke drove back to town, speculating on the possibility of Vicki's involvement. “I know she's in cahoots with the mayor,” Emily said. “Remember that model of the planned development? And that argument we witnessed at the Crab Pot—they could've been fighting over Brock. Maybe she wanted to pull him in, and the mayor said no.”

“Or maybe he was already in, business-wise, and Trimble suspected Vicki was getting too personal. My gut feeling is all three of them are guilty as hell—though maybe not of actual murder.”

“But how are we going to get any evidence?”

“I'm putting my bets on the candy store. I might be able to lay my hands on something there, if I can get to it before they know we suspect anything.”