Tracy Kiely: Murder Most Persuasive

Really, it’s the little things in life that give you the most joy.

I rolled over and languidly stretched in the queen-size bed. I was in Uncle Marty’s guest bedroom: a bright, airy room that faced the back of the house. I walked to the window and pulled back the white linen drape. It was another perfect autumnal day. Azure skies, crisp leaves, and cool air greeted me. All that was missing to make it perfect was Peter. And a cup of hot coffee.

I couldn’t have Peter, but at least I could have the coffee. Throwing on my robe and favorite (and only) well-worn bunny slippers, I headed down to the kitchen to start the coffee. Halfway down the stairs, I was greeted by the rich aroma of a pot already brewing. In the kitchen, I found Ann, up, showered, and busily bustling around. Scarlett was up as well and happily eating from her bowl. Actually, I should say she was happily eating from her Waterford bowl. I guess if my day started with breakfast out of a Waterford dish, I’d be happy, too.

“Morning!” Ann said. “Coffee’s ready. I know you’re not a morning person. Can I speak, or do I have to wait until you’ve had a cup?” She didn’t wait for an answer and broke into a stream of questions. “Can I get you something to eat? We’ve got bagels, English muffins, and toast. How’d you sleep? Would you prefer a fruit salad? What’s your pleasure? You take your coffee with cream and sugar right?”

“Uhh … good morning?” I said slowly. I knew something was up but, unfortunately, I did need my coffee before I could figure it out. “Don’t worry about me, I can get my breakfast,” I said, making my way to the breadbox. I picked out a poppy seed bagel and plopped it in the toaster. Ann hovered anxiously nearby. I wondered if she had mistakenly taken Bonnie’s medication.

“Did you by chance take Bonnie’s medication this morning?” I asked.

“No, why?”

“You’re very chatty. And busy. And chatty. Speaking of Bonnie, is she up?”

“No. She usually doesn’t arise before ten. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please. But Ann, honestly, I can get all of this. You don’t need to wait on me.”

Ann ignored me, pouring a large amount of steaming coffee into a blue-and-white polka-dotted ceramic mug. Handing it to me, she said, “Cream? Sugar?”

I took the cup. “Enough already! You keep spoiling me like this and I’ll never leave. I’ll be like Sheridan Whiteside in The Man Who Came to Dinner .”

“Somehow I can’t picture you as an annoying guest.”

“You haven’t had my spaghetti yet,” I reminded her, adding a liberal dose of both cream and sugar to my coffee, before taking a much-needed sip. The bagel popped up from the toaster and Ann rushed to get it.

“Ann! Please. I can get this! You don’t need to wait on me.” She put the bagel on a plate and handed it to me. It was then that I saw the worry in her face and belatedly remembered that, like me, Ann gets chatty when she’s nervous. Taking the plate, I said, “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Her shoulders slumped. “I got a call from the police this morning,” she said, wringing her hands. “Homicide. They want to send someone out here later today to get a statement or something. They want to talk with all of the family.”

“Oh. Well, that’s not too surprising. I mean, we knew that the police were going to treat this like a murder investigation. It’s only natural that they would want to interview the family.”

“I know. I’m just scared.”

“Don’t be. You’ve nothing to be afraid of. Everything will be just fine,” I said confidently. “Did you get a chance to call Miles yet?”

“Yes, he and Laura were horrified to hear about Michael. They said they’d come over later.”

“That’s good. You can talk to him about past employees then. In the meantime, call Scott and see if you can get those employment records.”

“Okay.” Ann fell silent, tracing some invisible line along the counter with the tip of her finger. After a moment, she said, “Elizabeth, do you think you could be here when the police come? I could use some moral support. If it makes it easier on you, you could stay tonight as well. In fact, you can stay as long as you like. That is, if you think Kit won’t mind.”

“Absolutely, I’ll be here and I’m sure Kit won’t mind. She’ll probably be happy to have a break from me and my ‘pedestrian spaghetti.’”

We joked a little more, pretending that everything was fine even though we both knew it wasn’t. Michael Barrow had been murdered and buried underneath the pool at the Reynoldses’ house in St. Michaels and he had “allegedly” embezzled almost $1 million from the family’s company before his death. Add to that a broken engagement with one sister and a drunken attack on another, and the picture became even grimmer.

Any hope I might have entertained about organizing my thoughts on Michael’s murder during the day flew out the window within seconds of sliding into my desk chair. Sam Wallace, another of our staff writers and probably my closest friend in the office, sidled up to my desk. More than one female head turned his way as he did. Sam is hands down the best-looking guy in the office. Of course, the competition isn’t too fierce; the guy in second place is balding with stubby fingers and a paunch. Still, with his broad shoulders and chiseled features, Sam’s not too shabby. Over the years, Sam’s friendship with me has prompted a few catty comments, but that’s all we’ve ever been—friends. He’s been happily dating a girl named Amanda for over a year. However, even though Sam has Amanda and I have Peter, that doesn’t stop the office gossips from making their assumptions.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Parker,” Sam said with a smirk. “Hannigan’s here. Apparently he’s got some brilliant new idea. Come, the conference room awaits us.”

Shit. Richard Hannigan—or Dickey as we subordinates call him when he is out of earshot—is the managing editor/owner of the paper. Once a month or so he appears unannounced armed with some new idea that he guarantees will revitalize the paper’s “chi” (his word) and boost circulation. The staff is then herded much like cattle into the conference room Dickey commandeers whenever he visits, where we listen in rapt silence to this new idea. These sessions last anywhere from two to four hours. Lunch is not served.

My eyes darted from Sam to the conference room to the elevators. Did I have time to sneak out unnoticed and then call in sick? Before I could bolt, Sam anticipated my move. “Don’t even try it, Parker. I will rat you out in a heartbeat. Sharon already knows I’m here. If I have to waste my day in there, then so do you.” To prove his point, he called out, “Sharon? Elizabeth is here. We can get started when you’re ready!”

“You bastard!” I said, laughing. I couldn’t be mad at him; I would have done the exact same thing if the situation were reversed. Sam and I depended on each other during those meetings, mainly to help one another stay awake, although sometimes a quick sanity check was in order.

Grabbing my notebook, I trudged into the room behind Sam and took a seat at the large oval table next to him. While the rest of the staff filed in, I studied the walls for any new additions.

As Dickey used the conference room as his office, he decorated it as if it was his as well. Therefore, there was the standard vanity wall—or in Dickey’s case, three vanity walls. For those unfamiliar with such walls, every inch is covered with framed pictures of celebrities from all fields—politics, entertainment, sports, you name it. Most of them have meaningless inscriptions scrawled across the bottom, such as “Dear Richard, You’re the best! Keep up the great work!” Although most of the pictures are standard publicity head shots, Dickey does feature in a few of the pictures himself, “caught” at some function yakking it up with some bigwig. These pictures are usually the same, a group of people standing around at some cocktail party all grinning foolishly at the camera. Dickey’s always easy to spot. First of all he’s completely bald, five foot five and a good deal north of two hundred pounds. He’s also usually on the edge of the crowd, looking like he just ran over in time for the shutter to snap, which, knowing Dickey, is probably the case.