Arsenic with Austen (7 page)

“Did anyone else have a grudge against Beatrice?”

“Oh, sure. You can't be as big as she was in a town like this without putting a few people's backs up. This place, for instance—she was convinced it was a health hazard, tried to get me to shut it down. But Harriet, the owner, she wouldn't hurt a fly. And Sunny—well, this place shutting down'd be a godsend to him.”

He looked past her shoulder. “Speak of the angel. Here comes Harriet now.”

A woman bustled up to the table, bearing two laden, steaming plates. She matched the gnome in stature, but her broad, beaming face was as unlined as a baby's under her cloud of white hair, and a spotless, brightly flowered pink apron enveloped her plump form. Emily would never have believed the two were siblings.

“Here you are, my darlings.” With a flourish, she placed a platter before each of them. “That crab is fresh off the boat. Only the best for our new leading citizen.” Her already broad smile stretched even wider as she stood back expectantly.

Luke took the cue. “Emily, meet Harriet Longman, best cook this side of the Cascades. Harriet, Emily Cavanaugh.”

Harriet took Emily's hand and squeezed it in both of her own. “We're honored to have you. I hope Sunny didn't scare you too bad.”

“If Luke hadn't been here to explain him, I confess I might've walked out. But Luke assures me he's harmless. And I can't wait to taste your cooking—it smells heavenly.”

Harriet's face lit up the room. “Now, if there's anything at all I can do for you, don't you hesitate a second. Enjoy your lunch, my darlings.” She bustled off.

“Salt of the earth, that one.” Luke forked off a huge bite of his crab melt.

Emily crossed herself hastily and dug in. The sweet and salty crab melted in her mouth, while the Tillamook cheddar set it off to perfection. If Harriet and Agnes Beech were to hold a charity cook-off, they could raise thousands. Not that Agnes would ever condescend.

“What do you think about Agnes?” she asked when she'd swallowed the first bite. “She's a deep one, and she did get a legacy. Was she really as devoted to Beatrice as it seems?”

“I'd say so. They were a funny pair, both as stubborn as Balaam's ass, but Agnes seemed genuinely cut up when Beatrice died.”

“That's what I thought. And she was the one who first mentioned the word
poison
. She wouldn't do that if she were responsible.”

“Not likely. In a mystery novel, now, that'd be my cue to say ‘unless she wanted us to think that,' but I really don't think so with Agnes. I doubt she has any idea what to do with her newfound wealth except save it for when she gets too old to work. Which, knowing her, will be the day she dies.”

Emily nodded. Suddenly it struck her how bizarre it was that she should be sitting in a diner with Luke discussing possible suspects for the possible murder of her aunt, when far more burning personal questions of thirty-five years' standing hung between them. Not to mention the question that had set up a running static at the back of her mind since she first saw him yesterday, making concentration on any other issue almost impossible: What might the future hold?

She folded her napkin and laid it beside her plate. Luke, forking up the last of his crab melt, raised an eyebrow at her half-finished meal. “Full already?”

“I guess I'm too keyed up to eat much. It's been a roller coaster the last few days.”

“You can say that again.” He looked into her eyes. “We need to talk.”

 

eight

“When you have finished Udolpho,… I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.… Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time.”

“Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?”

—Isabella Thorpe and Catherine Morland,
Northanger Abbey

Just then an elderly woman shuffled up to their table, breathless. “Oh, Sheriff—little Timmy—come quick. That tree—so high … I can hardly see him.” She stood, wringing her hands, her features contorted.

Luke made a face for Emily's benefit, then stood and patted the woman's shoulder. “Now don't you worry, Mrs. Trimble; little Timmy'll be just fine. Let me walk Mrs. Cavanaugh back to her car, and I'll be over there in two shakes.”

Mrs. Trimble looked at Emily for the first time. “Oh … Mrs. Cavanaugh … You're Beatrice's niece, aren't you? So sorry … Dear friend … Oh my.” She fluttered as if she'd made some dreadful faux pas.

“Thank you, Mrs. Trimble,” Emily said. “We'd better get going so Luke can get your grandson out of that tree.”

Mrs. Trimble's eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. “Grandson? Oh dear … Oh no…”

Luke slapped some bills onto the table. His mouth twitched as he shepherded both women out of the restaurant. In Emily's ear he said, “Little Timmy is her cat.”

Emily barely kept her countenance until Mrs. Trimble was out of earshot, hurrying down a side street. “So that's how a small-town lawman spends his time—rescuing cats from trees for the mayor's wife?”

“His mother. She's not safe out, ought to be in a home, but Mayor Trimble's so fond of her, he won't hear of it. And you don't know the half—by the time I get there, the cat'll be safe on the ground, wondering what all the fuss is about.” He halted. “You could just come with me.”

She hesitated. Part of her wanted never to leave Luke's side; the other part wanted to run from all the feelings his nearness stirred up in her. And she wasn't ready to have that talk he kept mentioning; one subject in particular she was determined must never come up. “I think I've had enough excitement for one day. And I need to talk to the doctor.”

His face fell. “Right. Catch up with you later, then.” He reached down and took her hand. “Em—we really do have to talk.”

“I know. But maybe we'd better wait till you're off duty.” She eased her hand from his grasp before his touch could make her change her mind. “You don't need to walk me back. I'll just go straight to the clinic from here.”

She headed north, then glanced back. Luke was still looking after her, his gray eyes as fathomless as the sea.

*   *   *

The clinic proved to be almost as well disguised as the sheriff's office, but the sign was a little more obvious. Emily entered an empty waiting room with an odd assortment of dilapidated chairs lining the two outside walls. No receptionist here, either. Tillamook County must be full of young women sitting at home doing their nails, dreaming of sitting in an office doing their nails, but unable to find anyone to employ them.

A door stood open at one end. Emily was reluctant to approach it; doctors' offices seemed more sacrosanct than accountants'. “Hello?” she called instead.

“Be with you in a minute,” an alto voice answered. Perhaps there was a receptionist or assistant after all.

In less than a minute a short, squarely built woman in her late thirties appeared in the doorway. Her mousy hair was cropped short above the collar of her white coat, which was draped with a stethoscope and covered a T-shirt and jeans. She looked Emily over with a puzzled expression. “Don't think I've seen you before. Early for tourists, isn't it?”

“I'm not exactly a tourist. I'm Emily Cavanaugh. Heir to most of Beatrice Runcible's estate.”

The woman's wide-set eyes flared for a fraction of a second, then her blunt features contracted to resemble a bulldog's. “That trust for a new clinic is absolutely sound. No lawyer's going to shake it.”

Emily took a step backward. The woman's eyes had betrayed her—her belligerence was a cover-up for fear. But what did she have to be afraid of?

“I assure you, the thought never crossed my mind. What Beatrice left me is more than I ever dreamed of; I'm not looking for more.” The woman's scowl faded, but her eyes remained wary. “Are you Doctor Griffiths?”

“Sam.” She strode forward and shook Emily's hand with a grip worthy of a man. “What can I do for you then? You look healthy enough.”

“I'm fine, thanks. I wanted to talk to you about my aunt's death.”

Sam dropped her eyes and brushed past Emily to the counter where a receptionist ought to be. “Busy now. Come back later.”

Emily cast a pointed glance around the waiting room. “I don't see any patients.”

“Paperwork. No help, as you see.”

“Surely you can spare five minutes to tell me why you were so sure my aunt died of natural causes.”

Sam fumbled with papers behind the counter, eyes down. “No reason to think otherwise.”

“That's not what Lieutenant Richards said. He said the symptoms were consistent with poisoning.”

Sam gave a scornful
puh
. “Oh, and a badge-wearing cat-rescuer knows more about symptoms than I do? He just wants a murder to solve. Got a hammer, every problem's a nail.”

Emily's hackles rose. She put on her best dealing-with-a-difficult-student voice. “That is not a fair thing to say about Lieutenant Richards. He's not the type to go looking for trouble if it isn't there.”

Sam looked up at her. “What do you know about it? You've been in town what, five minutes?”

“I used to be here a lot, years ago. Luke and I are old—friends.”

Sam glared at her, then her face cleared and she leaned her hands on the desk. “Look. Sorry if I offended you. But there was nothing wrong about Beatrice's death. She ate lobster, which always made her sick, and then she was too damn stubborn to call me in. Agnes finally called in spite of her. I did everything I could for her, but by the time I got there, it was too late.”

“You mean she died before you arrived?”

“No, but she was too weak to rally. Heart gave out. She was a strong woman, but she
was
eighty-seven years old.”

Emily frowned into Sam's gray eyes. The doctor's expression was impenetrable. Emily was convinced she was hiding something, but what?

As casually as she could, she asked, “So this clinic trust—that's your baby? Did you know about it before she died?”

Sam resumed her paper shuffling. “Not to say knew. Asked her to give the money outright. Town needs a real clinic, decent equipment. Have to send people to Tillamook for anything worse than a paper cut. But Beatrice kept stringing me along. Never consulted a doctor herself, couldn't believe other people really needed to. Hinted she might do something in her will—wouldn't tell me straight out.”

“I see.” Emily drummed her fingers on the counter, wondering what else she could ask that would throw any light on the situation. What would Miss Marple say? Or Lord Peter Wimsey? Either of them might disarm the doctor with innocent questions, but it was a bit late for that. This sleuthing business was harder than books made it seem.

“Well, thank you for your time.” Emily strode out. As she turned to close the door behind her, she caught another glimpse of naked fear in the doctor's eyes.

*   *   *

Her car and Luke's office were a few blocks away. He'd probably be back by now and lying in wait for her to have that talk. She wasn't ready for it. They'd established some sort of working rapport over lunch, and she didn't want to jeopardize it by opening old wounds. She'd pursue her original plan of scoping out the town.

Fifth Street met the highway at the south end of the business district. This first block was part of Brock's inheritance, not hers, but that was no reason she should ignore it. Besides, the first door she came to was a yarn shop called Sheep to Knits. Irresistible. Having just finished the sweater she was wearing, she'd brought no knitting with her, and her fingers were beginning to itch for needles and wool.

Just inside the door was a display of cashmere-blend yarn in all the rich fall colors Emily adored: gold, pumpkin, nutmeg, cinnamon, olive, russet. They looked good enough to eat. She picked up a ball of the russet, the cashmere yielding like a feather bed under her fingers. She glanced at the price and was about to return the ball reluctantly to the bin, when she remembered: She was rich now. She could buy all the cashmere she wanted.

“That's a great color for you,” came a voice from the back of the shop.

Emily smiled in the voice's direction and snaked her way toward it between tables piled with yarn. Next to the cash register, a young woman with spiky dead-black hair perched on a stool, knitting a long swath of indeterminate shape, the bulk of which seemed to be draped around her body in an endless spiral. Color swirled into color with exuberant disregard for harmony; stitch piled on stitch, shape shifted with bewildering randomness. Glimpses of black leggings and tank top peeked through the chaos on her legs and torso, while tattoos covered her arms.

The young woman gave Emily a disarming smile accented by a sparkling lip stud. “I like to try out every new yarn I get in so I can tell people about it. I'm working with some of that cashmere now.” She held out her work for Emily to see. The fine maple-leaf-red yarn formed an intricate lace pattern that mimicked leafy vines. The knitting was expertly done.

“It knits up beautifully. Do you sell that lace pattern?”

“Nah, I just made it up. There's some patterns and magazines and stuff over there if you want to look.” She waved a hand toward the south wall. “I'm Beanie, by the way.”

“Beanie—that's an unusual name. Is it short for something?”

She screwed up her pixie face into a comical grimace. “My real name—my actual birth certificate name—is Princess Diana Spenser. Can you believe it? My mom was obsessed with her. She has the soul of a paparazzi with no one to stalk. And the really silly thing is, when Diana got to be a princess, she wasn't even Spenser anymore. But lucky for me, my brother nicknamed me Beanie when I was little 'cause I had this beanie I wore
all
the time.”