Murder at Longbourn (4 page)

Beside me, Joan Anderson leaned forward, her glasses slipping down her nose. “What is she like, anyway? I’ve never seen her.”

The couple at the center of this speculation was Lauren Ramsey and Daniel Simms. She was the wife of wealthy local, Gerald Ramsey; he, the purported old family friend. Daniel’s unexpected visit had apparently provided hours of conjecture for the town’s avid gossips, the undisputed leader being the woman in the velvet hat, Miss Jacqueline Tanner, known as Jackie.

“Oh, she’s pretty, in a kind of obvious way, you know, blond, perpetually tan. She tends to keep to herself.” Jackie’s expression indicated a deep suspicion of people who enjoyed privacy.

“But why do you think he isn’t staying with them?” Joan asked.
Jackie’s only response to this was a slight raising of her eyebrow. It spoke volumes.

“But wouldn’t it make more sense to stay there if … I mean …” Joan broke off, blushing. Henry’s round face radiated discomfort, not only at the sordid direction the conversation was taking but at his wife’s participation in it. His long fingers played with the stem of his wineglass.

“Maybe they didn’t have enough room,” I offered.

Jackie scoffed. “Clearly you haven’t seen their house. Lack of room is not the reason. There’s another reason, or I’ll eat my hat.” Momentarily distracted by that bizarre image, I lost the thread of conversation. “If you ask me,” she continued, “there’s no fool like an old fool and Gerald is not a man who invites much sympathy. His first wife died, you know. From what I understand, she found death a refuge.”

Beside me, I heard Joan’s quick intake of breath at this callous remark. Jackie continued unawares. “No, the one I feel sorry for is the girl, Polly. She’s a bit of an odd duck, but who wouldn’t be, growing up in that house? Rumor has it Gerald practically keeps her a prisoner. Won’t let her live on her own, which is just absurd. I gather that she was accepted to Oxford for some art history program, but he won’t let her go. And until she inherits her trust fund—which won’t be until she’s twenty-five—she’s stuck.”

Any sympathy I might have felt for Polly markedly diminished at this. Call me insensitive, but the woes of trust-fund babies failed to stir any real sympathy in me. Jackie was still talking. “I wonder if Polly resents Lauren,” she mused, before adding, “not, of course, that it’s any of my business.” She said this last bit without a trace of irony and it was hard not to be impressed. Suddenly, her head swiveled, sending her droplet earrings swinging. Something behind me
held her attention; her eyes darkened with interest. “Well, speak of the devil,” she said softly.

I’ve heard of people described as “exuding sex appeal,” but I don’t think I ever understood what it meant until I saw Daniel Simms. It wasn’t merely that he was incredibly good-looking—think of a contemporary Greek god with slightly tousled, dark ash hair and keen blue eyes, and you get the picture. But as I said, it wasn’t just his looks. It was the way his tailored shirt hugged his shoulders, his wolfish grin, his slightly predatory way of moving that all added up to “it”—honest-to-God sex appeal. He paused for a moment in the narrow doorway and, seeing our little group, ambled toward us. From the smile on his face, I was sure that he not only knew we had just been talking about him, but that he found it amusing.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said.

Oh, my God, he was British! I let the sound of his vocal cords—all suggestive of crumpets and Burberry tweed—wash over me. I admit to a certain weakness for an English accent. Which is a polite way of saying that the man could read the phone book to me and I would lose all capacity for rational thought.

After politely greeting Aunt Winnie, he turned his attention to Jackie, saying, “Miss Tanner, it’s always a pleasure to see you.”

In spite of her unflattering gossip, Jackie was clearly not immune to his charm. A girlish blush stained the little bit of face that was visible underneath her hat. “We were just saying, Mr. Simms,” she said in a chirpy voice, “how much we’re all looking forward to tomorrow night. I only hope the weather holds. What’s it like now?”

“A bit rotten, actually.” He enunciated both
t
’s in
rotten
like an art lover discussing Giotto. Heaven.

Aunt Winnie introduced me to Daniel and quickly pulled the
others away under the flimsy pretext of showing them a flower arrangement. Subtlety is not her strong point. “I feel a bit at a disadvantage,” Daniel said to me, once they moved away. “I don’t know anything about you. But I suspect that you can’t say the same of me.” He finished with a nod at Jackie’s retreating back.

“She did provide a pretty thorough biography.” I matched his light tone. “Although, I must confess, the years between your tenth and thirteenth birthdays are somewhat murky.”

“Ah, yes. The dark years, as I like to call them.” Jackie returned now. An outmaneuvered Aunt Winnie joined us a split second later, her mouth twisted in an annoyed grimace.

“The dark years? Whatever are you two talking about?” Jackie asked, with a small birdlike tilt of her head.

Daniel’s voice dropped an octave. “I don’t usually tell people about that part of my life, but that’s what I call the time when I was sent away.” He discreetly winked at me. “It was a horrible place. Cold. Impersonal. Terrible food. Filled with other lads just like me.”

“Prison?” Jackie gasped eagerly.

Daniel shook his head. “Boarding school.”

After a brief pause, Jackie burst out laughing. “Terrible man! Go on, laugh at an old woman. At my age I can’t drink or smoke. Gossiping is the only vice I have left!”

As we continued talking, the knot in my stomach slowly unfurled. This might be a good weekend after all. Aunt Winnie could be maddening at times and she definitely was an interfering matchmaker, but she had struck gold. Daniel was wonderful—good-looking, smart, and funny. From the way he kept directing bits of conversation my way, it seemed that he was interested as well. All was right with my world. Then I heard the voice. His voice. “Aunt Winnie, have you seen the inventory list for tomorrow night?” My
effervescent feeling evaporated so quickly it felt like someone had sucked all the air out of my lungs. I turned and there he stood, the nemesis of my youth—Peter Emmett McGowan.

He looked pretty much the same, which was damned unfair. I believe that intrinsically evil people should manifest those traits physically. But he seemed untouched. He was still tall, his brown hair was still thick and curly, and his eyes were still that unusual shade of amber. I consoled myself by thinking that he must have a portrait of himself—one that showed him covered in boils and lesions—hidden away somewhere. The past fifteen years dropped away. I was once again a gawky, overweight girl with buckteeth and glasses. So real was the feeling that I gave myself a quick mental shake and took a generous sip of wine, mainly to reassure myself that it wasn’t a glass of Ovaltine that I held in my hands. Then he saw me. It was clear that it didn’t register who I was at first, but soon recognition dawned in his eyes. “Oh, my God!” he said. “Cocoa Puff! Is that really you?”

Cocoa Puff! That stupid, hateful nickname! I couldn’t believe he had just called me that! And in front of Daniel, no less! The blood rushed to my face and I saw red.

“Worm face!” I heard myself retort. No! Inner poise! Inner poise, I mentally screamed at myself too late. Peter burst out laughing. “Worm face? God, I haven’t heard that one in years. You might look different, but you’re the same old Elizabeth. How have you been?”

“Fine,” I muttered, my dignity in tatters. Oh, yes, I thought. I’m just fine. I just called a grown man “worm face” in front of people I barely knew. Inner poise, my ass!

An hour later I was with Aunt Winnie in the kitchen. The cocktail party had broken up shortly after my outburst. Daniel was eating at
the Ramseys’ house; Joan and Henry had reservations at a local restaurant; and Peter had wandered off with his inventory in hand, apparently oblivious to the churning emotions he’d stirred up in me. But as black as my mood had been, it was hard to maintain it in the kitchen’s almost relentlessly cheerful atmosphere. Aunt Winnie had compensated for the coldness of the necessarily industrial stainless-steel appliances with a seemingly endless amount of red toile. It was the fabric for the curtains. It was the tablecloth. It was the seat cushions. It was even papered on the back wall. The wide pine planks of the floor were still bare, but I suspected the future held … something.

Aunt Winnie sat at the long farmhouse-style table while I cooked us both omelets—the only hot meal I could make with any real success. “You’re not going to stay mad at Peter for the whole weekend, are you?” she asked.

“I am in no humor to give consequence to the young man who delighted in tormenting me as a child,” I groused.

She laughed. “Don’t you think you might be misjudging him?”

I threw some mushrooms and onions into the pan. “I think he’s arrogant, immature, and self-centered, and I have no opinion of him.”

Aunt Winnie rolled her eyes upward. “Fine. Have it your way. New subject. What did you think of Daniel?”

“
Him
I like.” I shook the pan and flipped the omelet over. “But why does everyone think there’s something odd about his being here?”

“You’d have to know the Ramseys to understand.” I slid the fluffy yellow omelet onto her plate. “Thank you, sweetie,” she said before continuing. “Gerald is a singularly unpleasant man. It makes it hard to believe that Lauren fell in love with him and not his money. But I suppose whenever a wealthy older man marries a beautiful and much younger woman, tongues are bound to wag.”

I sat down across from her. “But to suggest that she’d bring her lover to town under her husband’s nose is pretty outrageous.”

Aunt Winnie nodded. “Well, that’s Jackie for you. She is a horrible gossip, but there’s something endearing about her all the same. I met her down at the gym—we both take that senior fitness program, and she’s in amazing shape.” Aunt Winnie paused. “Somehow I get the impression that she hasn’t had a particularly happy life. Although truth be told, I really don’t know her all that well. They only moved here last month.”

“They?” I said through a mouthful.

“She and Linnet Westin. Apparently she’s an old school friend of Jackie’s. Jackie lives with her as a sort of companion.”

“What’s she like?”

“I’ve never met her, actually. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow night,” Aunt Winnie said. “Oh! I forgot to show you the invitations for the party.” She reached into a toile-lined basket on the countertop behind her, pulled out the invitation, and handed it to me. Printed on heavy white card stock, the invitation read:

“So, what do you think? Don’t you just love it?”

“It’s very nice,” I agreed before adding pointedly, “I got a Post-it.”

Aunt Winnie leaned forward and took back the invitation. “Yes,
I know, dear. Remember, I’m the one who sent it. Now don’t pout. I ran out of the printed ones, except this one, of course. I wanted one for the memory books. So,” she continued as she leaned back in the wooden chair, “you haven’t told me what you think of the place.” She paused dramatically. “How do you like the house, Lizzy?”

I grinned. “I like it very much. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a house so happily situated.”

Aunt Winnie laughed. “God, you’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting to ask you that.”

“Glad to oblige. Seriously, though, it’s wonderful. I’m still amazed that you bought it.”

Aunt Winnie’s lips curled up in a self-satisfied smile. “Yes. And I suspect there are a few others who feel that way as well.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning this place was in the middle of a nasty bidding war when I first saw it. Actually, one of the bidders was Gerald Ramsey. Oh, he was fit to be tied when the owner sold it to me and not him. I heard he turned eight shades of purple when he found out. He’s been a real pain in the ass ever since.”

“How so?”

“Well, he is something of a bigwig around here, and as such he does wield a lot of influence. Unfortunately, one of his cronies—Ted Marshall—is on the zoning board. Lately Mr. Marshall has pushed through several new B and B requirements that seem designed solely to make my life miserable.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, things like septic tank upgrades, proper fencing, adequate parking facilities, random Board of Health inspections, you name it. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him out front measuring the length of the grass come summer.”

“Can’t you do anything to fight back?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” she said with a smile. “I’ve dealt with the likes of Gerald Ramsey before. I know what to do with him. I have a friend who writes for the local paper. He’d be more than happy to do a piece on town council corruption. But it’ll probably never even get to that. I’m sure Gerald will eventually move on to some other obsession. Right now his pride is hurt because he lost this place—and he’s not used to losing.”

“How did you manage to get the house, then?”

“As luck would have it, the woman who was selling it was a fan of Jane Austen as well. When I told her my plan to turn it into a B and B and name it the Inn at Longbourn, the dear woman’s eyes practically misted over. We became good friends. I invited her to the party tomorrow but she’s visiting her grandchildren in California and can’t make it. Now, enough about me. How are you doing?”

“The truth?” I asked, pushing my empty plate away from me. She nodded. “Well, I hate my job, my boyfriend turned out to be a two-timing creep, Kit calls me weekly to inform me that my chances of ever getting married are rapidly deteriorating, and George seems well on his way to becoming a permanent fixture in Mom’s life.”

George is my mother’s boyfriend. They started dating a few years after my father died, apparently during a fit of loneliness on my mom’s part. My mother is an English professor who I thought would be attracted to men capable of multisyllabic speech. With George she opted for brawn over brains. And while George is a nice enough fellow, he needs to be watered once a week.