Murder at Longbourn (30 page)

Aunt Winnie pursed her lips. “Crimes have been committed for much less. And, unfortunately, when there’s a lot of money at stake, as there is in this case, it can bring out the worst in people,” she said thoughtfully. “And let’s not forget Polly. Gerald kept her a virtual prisoner. He wouldn’t let her go away to school and she wouldn’t be able to touch her trust fund for years. I wonder what happens to it now? Maybe she gets it early.” She was silent a moment and then snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute! Wasn’t Gerald’s first wife, Tory, having an affair when she died? Did anyone ever find out who it was with? Randy, you lived here then, did you ever hear of anything?”

Lady Catherine jumped up on Randy’s lap. He gently removed her before answering. “No, I never heard who it was,” he said, adjusting his glasses.

Aunt Winnie tapped her finger against her chin. “That’s someone with a grudge, I bet.”

Randy said nothing.

Peter put his head in his hands. “Let’s face it,” he moaned, “everyone who knew Gerald Ramsey had a motive for killing him.”

As if on cue, Daniel walked into the room. He was wearing a blue blazer and jeans, both of which hugged him in all the right places. His hair was artfully tousled and his smile lopsided. But for once his good looks had no effect on me. I was feeling, to quote Pink Floyd, “comfortably numb,” and I planned on staying that way for a long time.

Seeing our grim expressions, Daniel’s ready smile faltered. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Why the long faces?”

Peter answered him. “Ms. Tanner is dead. Murdered. Elizabeth found her this morning.”

Daniel’s eyes flew to mine. Did I imagine a look of panic in their blue depths? “Bugger,” he muttered under his breath. “How awful. What happened?”

Everyone waited for me to answer, which annoyed me. I wanted to sit in my chair, drink my drink, and forget. I didn’t want to have to keep reliving the nightmare. I took another long gulp. With great effort, I said, “Someone bashed her face in.” My voice sounded funny, like I was speaking through a tunnel.

From out in the foyer, the front door slammed. The Andersons’ voices floated in. Daniel called out to them. “Mr. and Mrs. Anderson? I think you’d better come in here.”

All sound from the foyer ceased. A second later, Henry and Joan warily poked their heads around the corner. “What seems to be the trouble?” asked Henry. His tone was casual, but his stance was not. His body quivered like an arrow ready to be released from its bow.

“Ms. Tanner was murdered this morning,” Daniel said. Joan took a step back, her hand flying up to her mouth. She stared at Daniel in horror. Henry reached out to steady her.

“Do the police know who did it?” Henry’s voice was harsh.

Daniel turned to me. I shook my head. “Detective Stewart is on his way,” I said. “He wants to talk with us.” I stared down at my glass. How could it be empty? I got up and made myself another one, studiously ignoring both Aunt Winnie’s and Peter’s disapproving expressions.

Henry began to argue, with whom I don’t know. I was only half listening, anyway. I longed to retreat into myself again. I heard him yelling something along the lines of inconvenience, safety, and deranged killers. Peter tried to calm him down, but it didn’t do any good. Henry began shouting something about Mrs. Dubois and I was wondering how I could get him to shut up and sit down when Detective Stewart arrived and Henry did just that. Two uniformed police officers remained in the foyer. Idly, I wondered if the back of the inn was surrounded as well.

Detective Stewart entered the room. “Good, you’re all here. I gather you’ve been told about Ms. Tanner,” he said, seeing me.

“Yes,” said Joan in a small voice. “Was she really murdered?” Her face was pinched as if in pain. Why? I wondered. We were all upset about Jackie, but Joan looked as if she had received a stunning blow.

Detective Stewart answered her. “Yes. And quite brutally. Now I need to take your statements as to where each of you were this morning.” He pulled out his notebook and said, “Why don’t we start with you, Mrs. Anderson? Where were you today?”

Beside her, Henry opened his mouth as if to argue, but Joan put her small hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “It’s okay, Henry.”
Turning back to Detective Stewart, she said, “My husband and I drove into town and did some shopping at a few antiques stores. We spoke with Mrs. Dubois by phone regarding some recent purchases. Then we had lunch in town, went to the movies, and came back here.”

Detective Stewart wrote this down. “I’ll need to get Mrs. Dubois’s number to verify your story and the names of the places you went.”

“Of course,” said Joan. A strand of red hair had escaped from her bun. As she recited the details, she methodically twisted and untwisted the lock of hair around her long fingers. Detective Stewart scribbled away. When she was finished, Detective Stewart turned to Daniel. “And you, Mr. Simms?”

Daniel was sitting on the couch, one arm slung over the back. He gave every impression of chatting at a cocktail party rather than being interviewed for a murder investigation. “I was with Polly Ramsey all morning,” he said. “As you know, her father’s funeral is tomorrow and I was helping her prepare for it.” Behind Detective Stewart, I saw Joan’s eyes widen. Her mouth opened as if she was about to speak, but this time it was Henry who put a restraining hand on his wife’s arm.

Detective Stewart stared at Daniel for a long moment, using that trick that had reduced me to a babbling idiot. Daniel merely arched his eyebrow and calmly returned the detective’s gaze. “Miss Ramsey will confirm this?” said Detective Stewart.

Daniel smiled and bowed his head. “But of course, Detective.”

Turning to Peter, Detective Stewart said, “Mr. McGowan, you’re next.”

Peter twisted in his chair, clearly not as comfortable as Daniel at sparring with Detective Stewart. “I was here most of the morning,” he said. “Around ten o’clock, I went to the Internet café in town to
do some work. I was there maybe an hour. I don’t really know. Afterward, I came back here, and I’ve been here ever since.”

“What were you doing at the café?”

Peter hesitated before answering. “Just some work for my parents’ business. They’re working on some new properties.” I studied him over the rim of my glass. He was lying. I was sure of it. I had heard that tone too many times in my youth not to recognize it now. But why? I wondered. What was he up to?

“I see,” said Detective Stewart. “That won’t be too hard to verify. Great thing about the Internet; it leaves a record.” Peter squirmed but said nothing.

“And now, Ms. Reynolds,” Detective Stewart said, “perhaps you could tell me your movements this morning?” The smile he gave her reminded me of a portrait of Machiavelli I’d seen years ago. I needed more of my drink.

Aunt Winnie returned the smile with one of her own. Seeing it, I groaned. I knew that smile; trouble always followed.

“I’d be delighted to,” she said. “I was here all morning. After breakfast, I went to my room and showered. I spent the rest of the morning in my office, catching up on some paperwork.”

I knew what Detective Stewart was going to say next and I dreaded it. I put my glass up to my lips and drained it, desperate to crawl into my retreat again.

“Well, that is odd,” said Detective Stewart, tapping his notebook. “Because Elizabeth here”—he waved a beefy hand in my direction and everyone looked my way—“Elizabeth says that she knocked on your door several times this morning before she left for Ms. Tanner’s house. She says that she got no answer.” All heads swiveled in Aunt Winnie’s direction.

She ignored them and said, “Well, that would make sense, Detective.
As I said, I took a shower. I was probably in it when Elizabeth knocked. It seems rather obvious, actually.” She smiled that smile again. Bad, I thought. Very bad.

Detective Stewart said nothing for a long time. I looked sadly at my now empty glass. I wanted another drink, but that involved standing. And walking. Both seemed inordinately Herculean efforts. And if I was going to emulate any of the Greek gods today, it was going to be Bacchus. Good old Bacchus. Good old Greeks for coming up with him in the first place. Wait, Bacchus was the Roman name. What was the Greek name? I frowned. Dionysus!
That’s
my guy. I sat there full of fondness for both the Greeks and their god of wine. That’s when I realized I was drunk. I might be able to think of Dionysus’s name, but I sure as hell wouldn’t bet money on my being able to pronounce it.

Snapping his notebook shut, Detective Stewart stood up. He seemed very far away. He also looked very stern for a man named Aloysius. I stifled a giggle. No wonder he went by Al, I thought. Nicknames could come in handy at times. Really, there were so many. Winifred became Winnie, Linnet became Linney, Jacqueline became Jackie, and Victoria became Vicky. I stopped. Victoria. A memory swirled in my head. It tried to surface but was hampered by alcohol and the ongoing conversation.

“Ms. Reynolds,” Detective Stewart began. The thought was gone. So was I, for that matter. My eyelids lowered. I tried to yank them back open, but they were too heavy. Was it warm in here? Underneath me, the chair shifted and moved. I debated calling attention to the defective chair, but it seemed too much trouble. Detective Stewart kept talking. “I think I should tell you that …”

There was a terrific noise of something heavy hitting the floor. I think it was me. From above, I heard someone cry out, “Oh, my God!
Someone get help! She’s fainted!” In a wry tone, I heard another voice add, “She hasn’t fainted. She’s passed out. She’s drunk.” I think it was Peter.

Strong arms reached underneath me and pulled me up. “No, I’ve got her,” said Peter. He lifted me and carried me up the stairs to my room, where he unceremoniously deposited me onto my bed. He said something about my being a damned idiot, but inasmuch as I already knew that, I ignored him and rolled over, burying my head in the pillow.

I
T IS A truth universally acknowledged that hangovers and funerals do not mix. Unfortunately, on the morning of Gerald’s funeral, I awoke—contrary to any wish of my own—feeling as if a small mariachi band had used my head for practice. Even my teeth hurt. I felt like Gregor Samsa on the morning of his transformation, but without all the underlying symbolism.

Concentrating on keeping my head from rolling off my neck, I eased out of bed and observed myself in the mirror. The reflection staring back was reminiscent of a carnival fun-house mirror—puffy face, slits for eyes, and a slumped and twisted body. But that was nothing compared to my hair, which was at once depressing and mildly hysterical.

A hot shower and shampoo helped. Some. If nothing else, I’m sure I smelled better. As I gingerly made my way down the stairs, Lady Catherine pounced at my ankles, her claws drawn. I stumbled but managed to grab the banister before I fell headlong down the stairs. My temper flared and I pulled my leg back to deliver a well-deserved kick to Lady Catherine’s hindquarters when a movement in the foyer caught my attention. Sitting in the green brocade chair
usually favored by Lady Catherine was an armed police officer. He appeared more like a kid selling high school raffle tickets than a civil servant bent on protecting the peace. His boyish face looked as if it had only recently needed shaving, and his arms and legs had that gangly, not-quite-grown look. His eyes and Adam’s apple bulged alarmingly. But apparently he had been able to evict Lady Catherine from her favorite chair with no visible scars, so he clearly had some professional training in hand-to-hand combat.

Seeing me, he gravely nodded his head and said, “Good morning, Ms. Parker.” Unthinkingly, I nodded back at him. New waves of pain shot into the base of my skull, rendering me speechless. I was surprised that my face was known by the local police department—not exactly the fifteen minutes of fame I was shooting for in life.

“Were you about to kick that cat?” he asked.

Great. In addition to whatever else my reputation was at the station, low-life cat abuser would now be added. Shit. “I, um … well,” I stuttered. My mind was a blank. I was way too hungover to produce a convincing lie. I gave up. “Yes. Yes, I was. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize on my account,” he said, distastefully eyeing Lady Catherine. “Damn thing has already bitten me twice.” He glanced almost longingly at the gun in his holster. “Too bad someone didn’t put reflective tape on
her
.”

While I could sympathize with the sentiment, it didn’t seem in my best interest to outwardly agree. For all I knew, this could be one of those psychological tests used to evaluate suspects. I could almost hear the horrified gasp from the jury as the court testimony was read:
“Suspect was observed trying to kick a defenseless cat and later heard expressing a wish to shoot said animal.”

“Yeah, well, I think I’m going to see where my aunt is,” I said, moving back down the hall. I left him glaring at Lady Catherine,
his hand on his gun. Lady Catherine sat poised on the rug, unconcerned, her tail twitching rhythmically.