Murder at Longbourn (6 page)

“You smoke?” I asked stupidly.

He laughed. “You didn’t know already? Poor Jackie must be slipping. I’m sure I told her just yesterday that I was ducking out for a quick fag.”

I sputtered with laughter. “I think you’re forgetting that has an entirely different meaning on this side of the pond.”

Daniel paused, cocking his head at me. “Oh. Right. Well, that does explain Jackie’s rather startled reaction.” He shifted his gaze out to the roiling water. “This really is a lovely property. I can see
why Gerald was so upset to lose out on it.” He was quiet a moment. “So what
are
you doing out here alone?” he asked, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are you hiding from that Peter bloke, or is it the cat?”

“Neither. I just came out to get some air. I have an awful headache.”

“Sorry to hear that. You’re still coming tonight, though, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Here,” he said, moving closer. “I can’t stand to see a pretty girl in distress.” He slid his hand up my back and kneaded the muscles in my neck. It was an odd sensation, relaxing and trying to restrain myself from lewd behavior all at the same time. After a minute, I became aware that the mood had changed slightly. I don’t know if I leaned back into him or if he pulled me, but I suddenly found myself in his arms. “Hello,” he said softly and leaned down toward me.

“Elizabeth?!”

You have got to be kidding, I thought, as Aunt Winnie’s voice floated out across the yard. Daniel sat back, the mood broken. Aunt Winnie’s voice called out again, “Elizabeth? Are you out here?”

I stood up and waved. “Over here.”

“Oh, there you are. Can you help me for a moment?” She disappeared back into the house.

Hoping my face wasn’t awash with disappointment, I said, “Duty calls. Thanks for the neck rub.”

Daniel gave me a slow smile and I felt my insides liquefy in response. “Anytime,” he said. “Maybe we can continue our conversation later? It’s customary to start the New Year with a kiss in the States, too, isn’t it?”

I think I said something clever, like “Hmmmggffh!” before I stumbled toward the house.

Around four, a black van pulled into the driveway. Emblazoned on the side, in large red letters, were the words JOIN US FOR DINNER … AND A MURDER. Clearly the entertainment had arrived. A young man with sandy-colored hair and round glasses alighted first. He introduced himself as Eric, and he seemed to be the leader of the small troupe. There were five of them in all, three men and two women. Eric quickly made the introductions. There was Tom, a muscular man with a shaved head, who appeared to be in his midforties, and Steven, a tall, almost painfully thin young man in his early twenties. The women were as different as night and day. Karen was a matronly looking brunette with a somber, serious face. Susie was almost as blond as she was buxom, and I seriously doubted if either attribute was God-given. After Aunt Winnie and I showed them their rooms, Eric went over the plan for the evening.

“Basically, we’ll circulate among your real guests,” Eric said, in a thick Southern drawl. “But we’ll all be in character, so to speak. Tom and Karen are playing a married couple, as are Steven and Susie. I play an old school friend of Steven’s. The basic premise is that both Karen and Steven suspect that Tom and Susie are having an affair. I play the concerned friend. Without giving too much away, various characters will appear to drink too much, flirt, and fight with one another. Ultimately, this will lead to the apparent death of one of them. At this point, the real guests will be asked to band together in an attempt to solve the crime and identify the so-called murderer. We’ve done this bit several times, and from start to finish it usually takes about two to three hours, so depending on when you want to
start, we can be done in plenty of time for everyone to celebrate the New Year.”

“I’d like it to end around eleven thirty,” said Aunt Winnie. “That should give everyone time to enjoy themselves before ringing in the New Year. Our guests will probably start arriving around eight, so, let’s plan to start your show around eight thirty. Dinner will be served in the dining room at nine.”

“Sounds good,” said Eric. “I look forward to it.” Aunt Winnie smiled and excused herself.

“So”—I turned to Eric after Aunt Winnie had left—“do you guys perform these dinner theaters full-time or do you have other jobs?”

Eric laughed. “God, no. We’d all starve to death if this was our only income. No, this is just a part-time gig until we find real jobs or get discovered. Steve and I started the group about a year ago. We’re in film school together. Steve met Karen in one of his acting classes and Tom is a retired cop I met at the gym. He’s always wanted to be an actor.”

“And Susie?”

“Steve met Susie at some party. At the time we were looking for another woman to round out the troupe, and she seemed a perfect fit for some of the glitzier characters.”

“Does she attend film school with you, too?”

“Susie? No, she just wants to be in films. I don’t think she necessarily wants to direct them.”

Peter entered the room. “Hey, Cocoa Puff,” he began. I glared at him. “Sorry.” He smirked. “I mean
Elizabeth
. Can I get your help in the dining room?” Clenching my teeth into a semblance of a smile, I excused myself to Eric and exited the room in what I hoped was a dignified manner.

Once we were in the reception area, I swung around to face
Peter. My head was pounding, although it was hard to tell if it was from my headache or just sheer frustration. “Look,” I said, “is it too much to ask that you stop calling me that name? In case you haven’t noticed, I am no longer some sad little girl who is addicted to a stupid cereal.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “Don’t tell me I interrupted another one of your conquests. Poor Daniel will be crushed.”

As I had just met Eric, I took his comment as mockery. My jaw tightened in anger. “Seriously,” I said, through gritted teeth, “don’t you think we’re a bit old for this?”

Peter peered down at me suspiciously. “What’s the matter with your mouth?”

“I get lockjaw in cold weather,” I said sarcastically.

“Really?”

My valiant effort for a devastating comeback resulted in one word: “Yeah!” Pithy, but still lame.

No doubt I’d think of the perfect comeback hours from now, when it would do me no earthly good. What did they call that? It was the French for “staircase wit.” My mind drew yet another blank. Pathetic. I couldn’t even think of the damn word. Maybe Mr. Collins had the right idea after all in writing down his little bons mots in advance.

Aunt Winnie came into the room. “Oh, good, Peter. You found her. Come on, you two. I need help getting the dining room ready.”

Mentally composing acerbic comments for future use, I followed Aunt Winnie and Peter into the dining room. The man was simply impossible. None of this was doing much for my headache, and I forced myself to concentrate on what Aunt Winnie wanted me to do.

The long, narrow dining room ran front to back along the whole right side of the house. Aunt Winnie wanted to split the room into two sections, one for the tables and one for cocktails and dancing, so Peter and I moved the tables to one side. “I’d like there to be six at a table,” she said, “but we’re having seventeen guests total, so we’ll need to put five at one of the tables.”

I did a quick count in my head. “Um, Aunt Winnie? I think we only have sixteen guests.”

“No, dear. It’s seventeen. I have a little surprise for you tonight.”

I looked questioningly at Peter, but he seemed equally in the dark. My stomach lurched. Aunt Winnie’s surprises were famous—or perhaps infamous was the more appropriate word. I knew better than to try to cajole it out of her. She could keep a secret better than anyone else I knew. It was a trait I found quite vexing, actually.

Her announcement made, Aunt Winnie quickly changed the subject. “Elizabeth, you help me put on the tablecloths. Peter, would you mind making those wonderful napkins—you know, the ones that look like roses?” My face must have registered surprise because he blushed and mumbled, “It’s a trick my mom taught me years ago.”

Fascinated, I watched as he folded the heavily starched napkins into an intricate shape that did indeed resemble a rose. For the centerpieces, Aunt Winnie brought out a basket of white roses and some small silver bowls. “I saw this idea in Martha Stewart’s magazine,” she told me. Filling the bowls with water, we floated the flowers in them. “Now, all we have to do is sprinkle the tables with this silver confetti and we’re done,” she said.

“What do you want to do for the bar?” Peter asked.

“Let’s use the sideboard,” she said. “Elizabeth, help me move it to
the front of the room. I think that will work just fine. Peter, I’d like you to act as bartender, if that’s all right. Elizabeth, I’m leaving you in charge of the hors d’oeuvres tray.” After completing all the last-minute tasks necessary for any party, we went to our rooms to get ourselves ready.

As I walked up the stairs, my foot hit something. Looking down, I saw it was a watch. I was reaching down to pick it up when Henry appeared at the top of the stairs. When she saw me holding the watch, an expression of relief crossed his face.

“Oh, good,” he said, “you found it.”

“Just this second. It was on the stairs,” I said. As I neared him, I reached out my hand, the watch hanging facedown. On the back was an inscription. Without consciously meaning to, I read the looping words: “To Henry. All my love, V.”

Raising my eyes to his, I saw that his face was flushed. Quickly taking the watch from me, he mumbled, “It was a gift. From, um, from my first wife.”

“It’s very nice.”

A proud smile tugged at his lips. “Thank you. It
is
a handsome piece. Even Mrs. Dubois commented on it.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It is quite valuable to me,” he said, before hurrying down the hall. I was left to wonder if his sentiment for the watch lay in its origin or Mrs. Dubois’s praise.

After taking a shower and drying my hair, I unpacked my black sheath. It wasn’t very fancy—far from it, actually—but it was the only decent dress I owned. My dark brown shoulder-length hair tends to get frizzy, so I put it up in a chignon. I don’t generally wear much makeup, but inasmuch as it was New Year’s Eve—and I’d be seeing Daniel—I made an exception. I studied my reflection in the
mirror, wondering if I’d overdone it. I’d attempted to create a smoky effect with my eye shadow but was unsure if I’d merely produced a look that suggested malnutrition. After a few adjustments, I finally headed downstairs. Pausing on the landing, I looked out the window. Heavy, fat flakes of snow swirled and danced against a backdrop of white Christmas lights. The storm had finally arrived.

A
S I WALKED across the foyer toward the dining room, I could hear Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby singing “Well, Did You Evah?” It was one of Aunt Winnie’s favorite songs by Cole Porter. Pausing in the doorway, I saw that Peter was dancing Aunt Winnie around the room, and doing it quite gracefully, I had to admit. They made a pretty picture against the room’s backdrop of soft lights and ice-covered windows.

Aunt Winnie certainly hadn’t pulled out any stops in dressing for the evening, I thought, as I watched her twirl and dip in Peter’s arms. She was wearing a silver lamé top that was clearly intended to emphasize her ample cleavage. Her long black velvet skirt, which at first glance appeared demure, had an enormous slit up one side. I found myself thinking that Peter looked quite handsome, too, until I sternly reminded myself that all men look good in a tux. Especially expensive, well-tailored ones.

They hadn’t noticed me yet, which explained why I was able to overhear their conversation. “Elizabeth’s a lovely girl, Peter,” Aunt Winnie said. “You should ask her out.” Peter’s next words
floated across the room and smacked me squarely in the face. “I’m not in the mood to date a girl on the rebound, if it’s all the same to you.”

I must have made some sort of noise, because at that moment they both turned my way.

“Elizabeth!” said Aunt Winnie with a smile. “Look at you!” She crossed the room and hugged me. Studying her up close, I saw that she hadn’t gone all out just with her clothes. Her makeup was also quite extraordinary; deep red lipstick, bright rouge, and silver eye shadow were all liberally applied. Her eyes even seemed greener than usual, and I suspected colored contacts. Any concerns I might have had about overdoing my makeup evaporated upon seeing her. Next to Aunt Winnie, I could pass for a visitor from the Amish country.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart!” she said. She turned back to Peter and in a loud voice demanded, “Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Every inch of my face burned hot with embarrassment and anger. Sneaking a look at Peter, I saw that he seemed equally uncomfortable. In fact, he appeared to have been struck mute. Ignoring his lack of reply, Aunt Winnie grabbed me by the hand and dragged me across the floor.