Murder at Longbourn (26 page)

“It’s more than a possibility,” I countered, ready to argue the point more, but he held up his hand.

“I’m not done,” he said. “There’s also the matter of your aunt’s past.” His hazel eyes grew serious. “She assaulted a man with a gun, shooting him in the leg.” No smile played on his lips now; his expression was deadly serious.

“That was self-defense, and the courts cleared her of any crime,” I said. “A fact that you undoubtedly already know.”

“I’ve been with the force long enough to know that being cleared of a crime is not the same as being innocent of a crime. And I don’t particularly care for people who mete out vigilante justice.”

My stomach twisted, but I pressed on. “She wasn’t circumventing
the law. She was helping a friend get out of an abusive environment. While they were there, the man came home, drunk and volatile. He threatened them. She was protecting herself and her friend.”

“She could have killed him.”

“Not according to my aunt.” I heard myself blurt out the next words before my brain could stop them from tumbling out. “She told me that she was too good a shot to have killed him. She knew where to hit him so that he wouldn’t be able to chase them.”

This stupid indiscretion earned me not just one raised eyebrow, but two. His brows were practically parallel with his hairline.

“And that brings me to a point, unfortunately, you already know about,” he said soberly. “The reflective tape on Mr. Ramsey’s suit coat matched the roll we found in your aunt’s office. Add to that the fact that the murderer is not only used to handling a gun, but is proficient at it and—”

I stuck out my chin. “And what?”

“And,” he said, his hazel eyes sympathetic, “we have the makings of a very strong case against your aunt.”

He might as well have kicked my stomach with his heavy, lumbering boots. I gasped before I could answer. “This is nonsense. Any one of the guests that night could have put the tape in her office.” My tone sounded firm, but even to my own ears, I didn’t sound convincing.

“I am sorry, Elizabeth. I know that you believe in your aunt’s innocence and I promise you that I’ll check out what you’ve learned.” He tapped his notebook. “But I really think that your aunt should get a good lawyer.”

“This is ridiculous. I haven’t been in town five days and I’ve already met several people who had a reason to kill Gerald Ramsey. My aunt can’t be the only suspect!”

“I never said she was the
only
suspect, I just said that she is
one
.”

I frantically searched my mind for other options. Grabbing at one, I said, “What about Gerald’s first wife, Tory? Wasn’t there something about her death that implicated Gerald?”

A surprised expression crept into Detective Stewart’s eyes. An appreciative one quickly replaced it. “How did you … ?” He shook his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” With a sigh he continued. “Yes, as a matter of fact there were questions surrounding the death of the first Mrs. Ramsey. She was having an affair at the time and the police thought that her car accident might not have been all that it appeared. But Mr. Ramsey had an alibi, as did her lover. Nothing ever came of it.”

“Didn’t she have any family? Could there be someone out there who might have thought Gerald had something to do with her death and …”

“… waited twenty years to kill him?” he finished.

I was saved a response, which I suspected would have included a vulgar suggestion as to what he could do with his notebook, by the jangling of the shop’s door. It opened, admitting none other than Ms. Jackie Tanner.

Peering in our direction, she sang out, “Elizabeth! I thought that was you!” She was still wearing the yellow hat. All that was missing from her outfit were the field glasses I was sure she employed to stalk her victims. As she bore down on us, Detective Stewart squirmed in his chair.

Marching to our table with a determined stride, she yanked a nearby chair over and sat down. “What a coincidence this is,” she chirped happily. “What are you two doing here?”

Under the cover of the table, Detective Stewart pressed his foot
gently on mine. “I was just getting a cup of coffee when I happened to see Ms. Parker here.”

I followed his cue. “Yes. Aunt Winnie’s told me so much about the wonderful food here that I just had to sample it.”

Jackie looked pointedly at our food-free table. “I see,” she said. Turning on Detective Stewart, she continued. “Now, Detective, tell me, when are you going to arrest someone for this terrible murder? It just gives me palpitations to think that I stood in that room with a murderer!”

Detective Stewart raised his eyebrow at her use of the word
palpitations.
I wondered if he was thinking the same as I—that a more likely description of her feelings would be “rush of excitement.”

“We are working toward a solution,” he said, glancing at me.

Jackie did not miss the look. “Are you two working on this together? How exciting!”

Detective Stewart stumbled over himself to clarify his meaning, but Jackie went on. “You sly thing, Elizabeth! You never said a word earlier.”

“Ms. Tanner,” began Detective Stewart.

“Now, don’t you worry about a thing, Detective Stewart. I am the soul of discretion. Your secret is safe with me.” From beneath the folds of her hat, she winked at him and without hesitation peppered him with questions intermingled with various comments and observations.

Detective Stewart was no match for her. He blanched when she referred to me as an undercover field agent. He clenched his jaw when she wondered if the killer would ever be found. His face flared red when she suggested that maybe the local law enforcement manpower wasn’t up to this kind of investigation.

I leaned back in my chair and enjoyed the remarkably entertaining spectacle of a usually intimidating Detective Stewart being verbally trounced by Jackie. Finally, he could take no more. She wasn’t listening to his responses anyway. In a jumbled rush, he pushed his chair back and, muttering something about a previous appointment, bolted from the shop.

Watching him go, I chuckled. Apparently, I had unlocked the secret to unnerving Detective Aloysius Stewart—tea shops and Jackie Tanner. His namesake would have been sorely disappointed.

I
DIDN’T NEED to look out my window the next morning to know that another storm was brewing. The intense pounding in my head told me that. Trying to avoid all contact with light, I stumbled to the bathroom, where I blindly groped for either the aspirin or my sinus medicine. Finding a bottle, I gulped down several chalky tablets and sank back into the comforting warmth of my bed.

While I waited for the ferocious pressure in my skull to subside, I thought about Aunt Winnie. Although she had tried to hide it, she had taken our disappointing interview with Jackie pretty hard—we all had. On a certain level, we had assumed that given Jackie’s extraordinary ability to know everything about everyone, she would provide a vital piece for our puzzle. I had wanted to keep Detective Stewart’s increased suspicions from Aunt Winnie, but it seemed folly to do so in light of the fact that the reflective tape had been found in her office. It suggested to all three of us that someone was trying to frame her. After I’d gotten back from my meeting with Detective Stewart, Aunt Winnie, Peter, and I had sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and trying to think of who could be behind this. We found ourselves exactly where we had been in the beginning,
with a handful of suspects and no real evidence against any one of them.

It was well after midnight when we trudged off to bed, depressed and tired. Our best hope in deflecting the police’s attention away from Aunt Winnie had been the necklace. Unfortunately, this appeared inconsequential to the police in light of Aunt Winnie’s past. We had been left with two absolutes: that the police suspected Aunt Winnie of murdering Gerald, and that the real killer was still out there. It had made for an unsettling night.

When the light no longer made me wince in pain, I gingerly eased myself out of bed. Normally, I loved watching the cool early morning light play across the glossy wood floor, but not today. Today the light merely seemed intent on tormenting me. I dressed sluggishly and crept downstairs to start breakfast. On the stairs, my foot came into contact with something hard. It was Henry’s watch—again. I picked it up and continued down.

Pushing open the kitchen door, grown somehow heavier since last night, I staggered into the kitchen. Peter and Aunt Winnie were busily moving about. “Morning,” I said. At the sound of my voice, which even to my ears sounded like a wounded frog, both of them spun around.

“Jesus!” said Peter. I gathered I didn’t sparkle. He stared at me, mouth open. A forgotten wooden spoon in his hand dripped batter onto the floor.

“Honey?” said Aunt Winnie, coming toward me. “Are you okay? You look terrible.”

“Headache,” I mumbled.

“Oh, sweetie,” she said, rubbing her hand lightly up and down my arm. “I forgot how this kind of weather affects you. No wonder you feel rotten—they’re predicting quite a storm. Here, have a seat.”
She gently guided me to one of the toile-covered chairs. The cheerful pattern seemed suddenly garish and loud.

I glanced out the kitchen window. The sky was dark and heavy with low, fat clouds. Paring my speech down to the essentials, I asked, “When?” Aspirin helped some, but the only real relief would come when the storm started.

“Not until this afternoon, I’m afraid,” said Aunt Winnie with real sympathy.

Great. I had several more hours of this to look forward to. Aunt Winnie shoved a cup of coffee in my hand—a bright purple cup that blared in pink letters SASSY, SEXY, AND SEVENTY. I tossed Henry’s watch onto the table and took a grateful sip.

“Why don’t you go back to bed?” she asked. “Peter and I can handle this.”

I took another mouthful of the hot coffee and rubbed my hand across my face. “No,” I said. “I’ll be okay. I think the aspirin is starting to kick in. Besides, didn’t we agree last night that you were going to sleep in and Peter and I would handle breakfast?”

“Thank you,” Peter chimed in with a weary voice. Pointing the wooden spoon accusingly at Aunt Winnie, he said, “I’ve been trying to convince her of that all morning.” More batter dripped onto the wood floor.

Aunt Winnie shook her head. “I remember
you two
agreeing that I would sleep in. What I don’t remember is
my
agreeing to it.” She slammed the refrigerator door shut. Sticking her jaw out defiantly, she continued, “What’s the point of running an inn if you don’t run it? This is still my place, thank you very much, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to hide in my room every time something unpleasant happens. I can handle this.”

Her words were strong, but they were belied by her appearance.
As debilitating as my headache was, it hadn’t prevented me from noticing the dark circles under her eyes or her pale, pasty complexion.

“Aunt Winnie—” I began.

“No, Elizabeth,” she said, cutting me off. “I know you mean well—that you
both
mean well,” she amended, turning to Peter, “but I don’t treat you like children and order you back to your rooms.” She stopped and gave me a meaningful look before adding, “Even when you clearly need to be there.” She paused. “All I ask is that you afford me the same respect.”

Peter spoke first. “I’m sorry, Aunt Winnie. You’re right. We didn’t mean to be obnoxious,” he said, the spoon hanging forlornly by his side. Lady Catherine, never far from the food preparations, snaked around his ankles. Her small pink tongue darted out to lick the spilled batter.

“We’re just worried about you,” I added.

“I know,” she said. “But I’m going to be fine. We all will be. Now, Peter, give me that spoon before you make more of a mess of this kitchen and drip batter onto Lady Catherine’s fur.”

I really wanted to believe her, but it’s hard to be optimistic when your head feels like it’s being held together with defective tape.

After cleaning up the batter, the three of us prepped the breakfast. Aunt Winnie put together the cereals, Peter ground the coffee, and I took over the muffins. As I placed a tray of blueberry muffin batter into the oven, I said, “You know, before this weekend, I never really cooked. But I think I’m starting to get the hang of it.”

“Yes,” Peter said, leaning down to change the oven’s setting from broil to bake. “You’re becoming a regular pro.” He winked at me when he said this and gave my shoulder a friendly squeeze.

Joan and Henry were already in the reading room when I carried
in the breakfast tray. So was Daniel. What surprised me was Polly standing next to him. Her jet-black hair was still pulled back into a tortoiseshell headband, but she had traded in her usual shapeless ankle-length dress for jeans and a black turtleneck. Against so much black, her freshly scrubbed face appeared young and vulnerable. Unconsciously, my own eyes slid to the room’s mirror to seek out my reflection. The vision that stared back at me was anything but dewy fresh. In fact, I looked like something that sucked the life out of dewy fresh things.