Tracy Kiely: Murder Most Persuasive

“I never said I was Nancy Drew!” I shot back. “And for your information, I was involved in two murder investigations, not just one, and I helped solve them both!”

“Oh, please,” said Kit, with a lofty air of superiority. “Not this again.”

The thing that drove me crazy was that I had been involved in two murder investigations and I’d helped solve them both. Hell, in one case I’d been in a full-on fight with the murderer, resulting in a bash to the head (mine, of course) and a temporary imprisonment in a dark basement (again, that would be me). Yet Kit still treated the whole thing as a giant joke.

“Kit!” said Aunt Winnie, coming to my defense. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, but Elizabeth was invaluable in helping solve the murder that happened at my inn. If it weren’t for her help in finding the real killer, the police probably would have arrested me!”

“Yeah, well, that may be so,” Kit said in a tone that indicated she thought anything but that, “but I don’t think that Uncle Marty was murdered and neither do you.”

“Well, no…” began Aunt Winnie.

“And that’s my only point,” said Kit blandly. “But what was all that business with Scott about the property in St. Michaels?”

Aunt Winnie leaned forward. “Before Marty died, he arranged for the sale of the St. Michaels house. I’m not sure what Bonnie is talking about, but my understanding was that the proceeds were to be split three ways among the girls. They could do what they wanted with it. They were all happy with the arrangement. Well, that’s not completely true,” she amended. “I don’t think Reggie wanted to sell the house, but she was outvoted.”

“Sounds like Scott really wants his share of the money. I gather it’s a lot?” asked Kit.

“Probably,” said Aunt Winnie. “I imagine the house sold for quite a bit.”

“It was a beautiful place,” I said. “At least, from what I can remember.”

Kit sniffed indignantly. “I wouldn’t know. I never saw it.”

I held my tongue, sorry I’d mentioned that particular bone of contention. Although Kit is nearer in age to Ann, Ann and I had always been closer. As a result, I’d been invited to the house in St. Michaels a few times for summertime overnights. I was sorry to hear that they had sold it; it was a magnificent house with a spectacular view of Maryland’s Miles River.

A few minutes later, we pulled into the crowded passenger dropoff lane at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. As she got out, Aunt Winnie turned to me. “Now, are we still on for October? I need you and Peter to help me with the new place.”

Peter is my boyfriend. I’ve known him since I was little, but that’s not to say that it was love at first sight. Far from it, in fact. Back then I lumped him in the same category as clowns, flu shots, and other nightmares of youth. But a bizarre occurrence two years ago at Aunt Winnie’s inn had changed all that. A man had been murdered during Aunt Winnie’s New Year’s Eve party, and the police stupidly suspected her of the crime. While trying to clear her name and discover the real murderer, I also discovered that Peter had improved with age.

“Absolutely,” I replied, giving her a hug. Aunt Winnie, like me, is a die-hard Jane Austen fan. Her current inn is the Inn at Longbourn; however, she and Randy recently purchased a second property on Nantucket. They are in the process of converting it into another inn. Like Longbourn, this one too is going to have an Austen theme. Each of the six rooms is going to be named and decorated for one of Austen’s novels. Aunt Winnie had named the inn Aust-Inn-tatious. Peter and I were going to spend two weeks later in October helping her and Randy get the place ready. As Peter had recently joined his parents’ national hotel company, he was going to help with the business aspects while I was to help with the Austen touches.

“I’d love to come and help you with the inn, too, Aunt Winnie,” Kit said now, a faint note of melancholy in her voice. “I have a fabulous sense of design. All my friends say so.”

Aunt Winnie smiled at Kit. “And I’d love to have you, but I think you’ll be rather busy,” she said, with a meaningful look at Kit’s belly. Kit is eight months pregnant with her second child. When Kit was well and feeling fine, she could be fun, but to steal a phrase from Austen, any indisposition sunk her completely and it was easy for her to fancy herself neglected and ill-used. These days her pregnancy left her feeling exceedingly neglected and ill-used, and so she was pretty well completely sunk most of the time. If Mary Musgrove’s sore throats were worse than anybody’s, well, then the same could be said of Kit’s pregnancies.

Kit’s crabbiness had only further strained our relationship, which was rocky at best. Kit was the “responsible” one in our family—happily settled with a nice house and a nice family. I was the “irresponsible” one who still hadn’t decided on a career and only recently entered into a stable adult relationship. Kit’s sheets smelled of lavender; the only thing that smelled in my place was the kitchen sponge. As a result, she tried to advise me on how to run my life and I tried to refrain from openly scowling.

Kit glanced down at her rounded belly now, patting it fondly. “True,” she said. “I will be busy. But if Elizabeth is going to be there, she can help me, while I help you . I know she’ll be wonderful with the baby. She’s been just amazing with little Pauly these past few weeks; she’s much more patient than I am—but that’s probably because he’s not hers.”

To steal another line from Austen, Kit always thought a great deal of her own complaints, and was always in the habit of claiming me when anything was the matter.

Aunt Winnie grinned at me. “Yes, I could see how you would think that Elizabeth is the properest person to watch the baby.”

I nodded in mock agreement. “Quite. For I have not a mother’s feelings.”

Kit stamped her foot in annoyance while Aunt Winnie and I giggled. “I hate it when you two do that!” she said. “It’s like hanging out with people who insist on speaking in some juvenile code!”

It drives Kit crazy when I quote Jane Austen at her, mainly because she never gets the references. “Jane Austen is not juvenile!” I said with a laugh. “She’s a classic!”

“Sorry, I guess that makes you the juvenile,” Kit retorted.

“Kit, if you read the books, you’d get the references.”

“Sorry, but unlike some people, I don’t have the luxury to spend time reading. I have a house to run and a child to raise.”

I bit my tongue and said nothing. Restraint was a skill I’d been forced to perfect over the last few weeks ever since my apartment had been deemed “unfit” to live in due to a rampant mold issue. Armed with my landlord’s promise that the problem would be rectified in two weeks, I moved into Kit’s guest bedroom in her house in Silver Spring. I would have preferred to have stayed with Peter, but his place was in Annapolis, too far a commute to my newspaper job in D.C. Don’t get me wrong. I was extremely grateful to Kit for taking me in, it’s just that Kit has the ability to ruin even the most generous of gestures. What began as a chance for us to “bond” (her words) had quickly morphed into a chance for me to perfect my skills as a live-in nanny, maid, and sous chef (my words). Two days ago, she asked if I wouldn’t mind incorporating some fresh dinner recipes into my new nightly routine, as she felt that my staples of spaghetti, ham-and-cheese omelets, and grilled chicken were a bit “pedestrian.” “Paul and I really want to expand little Pauly’s taste buds,” she had told me.