Tracy Kiely: Murder Most Persuasive

I am not normally a hot tub person, but tonight it sounded like a good idea. I quickly changed into my bathing suit and stepped outside into the crisp evening air. As befitting a tub of this caliber, Paul had given it its own special area of the backyard. The tub was situated under a picturesque grouping of dogwood trees. The fall foliage provided a purplish-red canopy over it while elaborate stone flooring provided its base. It was all lit by a custom spotlight. As I climbed in the hot water, Paul fiddled with a few buttons and soon the lights and jets were both pulsing away. Hidden speakers were activated and Bruce Springsteen began to croon about a long-lost love and a car. Or it might have been about a long-lost love that was a car. I closed my eyes and leaned back, enjoying the quiet and letting the bubbling water ease away the tension in my shoulders.

“Hey, Elizabeth?”

I reluctantly pried my eyes back open and looked at Paul.

“I just want you to know that I really appreciate how helpful you’ve been these past few weeks.”

I smiled. “I think I should be the one thanking you. You guys helped me out of a bind. I really appreciate the use of … your guest room,” I said, thankful that I had stopped myself in time from saying “jungle land.”

“Well, I’m not sure that we didn’t get the better end of that deal,” said Paul with a rueful look. “I know that Kit can be difficult at times.” He paused and laughed. “Well actually, I don’t think I need to tell you that. But this pregnancy has thrown her, somehow. She complains about everything . You’ve noticed, haven’t you?”

I shifted uncomfortably in the tub. This wasn’t the relaxing time I’d had in mind when I’d accepted Paul’s offer. “Hmmm,” I said noncommittally.

“Well, I was wondering … do you think you could talk to her?”

Although I had a vague suspicion of what he was referring to, I refused to believe it. “Talk to her about what?”

“About her constant complaining.”

I opened my eyes wide in disbelief. “Are you serious? You want me to talk to her? About that?”

Paul sighed. “All right. Maybe it’s a bad idea.”

“Yeah, you think?”

“It’s just that maybe if she heard it from you…”

“Oh, and she so loves my opinion as it is! I think you’ve spent too much time in this tub. It’s melting your brain.”

Paul opened his mouth to say something when Kit called out. “Elizabeth! Phone!”

“We will not continue this conversation later,” I said with a laugh as I hopped out of the tub. Grabbing a thick terry-cloth towel off a patio chair, I rubbed myself dry before stepping back inside the house. Kit was waiting by the door. I could tell from her face that she was annoyed.

“Who is it?” I whispered.

“Ann,” she answered, thrusting the phone at me.

Well, that explains the annoyance, I thought, taking the phone. Ann had asked for me and not her. Junior high all over again.

“Hello?” I said as Kit walked away pretending not to listen.

“Oh, Elizabeth, thank God I got you! Your cell phone keeps going to voice mail. I think it’s dead.” I was surprised when I heard her voice. Ann was agitated, an unusual state for her.

“What’s going on?”

“They found a body!”

“What?! Who found a body?” Across the room, Kit spun around and stared at me.

“The new owners of the house in St. Michaels,” said Ann. “Apparently they dug up the pool and found a body!”

“Holy shit, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Wait. It gets worse. The body. It’s Michael. It’s Michael Barrow.”

“Michael Barrow!” I gasped. “But that’s … that’s impossible!” At the sound of Michael’s name, Kit’s eyes grew wide and her hand flew up to her mouth. Our eyes met in mutual horror. She made no pretense about not listening to the rest of the conversation.

“I know, I know,” said Ann. “But nevertheless, it’s true.”

“But that means … Oh, my God, that means…”

“I know. I know. I can’t even get my head around it,” said Ann.

“Wait a minute. They found a body under the pool. How can they be so sure it’s Michael?”

“They found his wallet. The police are going to do some … tests, I don’t know. But they seem pretty confident. Oh, God, this is like some sick nightmare.”

Michael Barrow. It had been a long time since I’d thought about him. Movie star looks, intelligence, charm, and the morals of a sewer rat. My stomach turned in disgust now that I was forced to revisit the memory. A new thought occurred. “Reggie! Does Reggie know?” I asked.

“No. I haven’t told her yet and I don’t know how I’m going to tell her. I don’t know how I’m going to tell any of them.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

“Could you? I don’t know what I’m going to do. I need someone here. If you can, maybe you could spend the night? Bonnie is absolutely no help.” Lowering her voice, Ann added, “She still plans on going on that stupid spa retreat of hers. Can you believe it? She even packed the flag.”

“Oddly enough, I can. I’ll be over as soon as I can. Just let me grab some things.”

“Okay. Thanks, Elizabeth.”

I hung up the phone and stared at Kit, dumbfounded. “They found Michael Barrow’s body under the pool at the St. Michaels house,” I said.

“Dear God. Do they think he was murdered?” she asked.

“I didn’t ask, but I can’t imagine any other scenario. He had to have been murdered.” It was testament to the severe shock that this news had produced that Kit didn’t launch into some mocking speech about how I saw intrigue and mystery where there was none. But really, Michael didn’t bury himself under the pool.

Kit sat down heavily. “But I thought that Michael stole all that money from Uncle Marty and then ran off,” she said slowly.

“Yeah, well, it looks like he didn’t run very far,” I said. “I’ll call you when I know more. Ann wants me to come over.”

“Well, I should come!” Kit said. “After all I’m her cousin, too!”

I paused, unsure if Ann would want Kit to come. Kit didn’t know the whole story of Michael Barrow and Ann, and I wasn’t sure if Ann wanted to make that story public. If you have a secret, Kit is the last person you should tell it to.

“Kit,” I said calmly, “that’s very sweet of you, but you should stay here tonight. You’re tired, you need your sleep. And besides, what about Pauly? He needs you here. I’ll go to Ann’s and then I’ll call you.”

Kit stood up. “No,” she said, in a firm voice that I knew from experience brooked no argument. “I’m going. I’ve just as much right as you to go. After all, it’s my family, too.” Turning on her heel, she marched over to the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. Yanking the door back, she stuck her head out and yelled, “Paul! I’ve got to go out for a while with Elizabeth. Ann’s called and there’s a family emergency. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Turning back to me, she said, “Come on, get changed. I’m driving.”

I opened my mouth to protest but then thought better. I couldn’t change her mind even if I wanted to—and trust me, I wanted to. With a sigh, I went and changed, thinking that like Anne Elliot I had never submitted more reluctantly to the jealous and ill-judging claims of a sister; but so it must be.

I bet Jane Austen had a Kit in her family, too.

While Ann normally lived alone in a quaint two-bedroom house in Bethesda, she had been staying at Uncle Marty’s house in Georgetown. Ann had been required to make this temporary move because even though the family had hired a nurse for Uncle Marty (the infamous Mata Hari aka Rona Bjornstad), there were still gaps, gaps that Bonnie on her best day couldn’t fill. On her best day, Bonnie couldn’t keep a plastic houseplant alive. Now that Uncle Marty had died, Ann was still needed at the house. The task of organizing and distributing the many items Uncle Marty had willed to various friends and family had been left to Ann. Ann, of course, did all this with her usual grace and continued to stay at the house and commute to her job. Several years ago she received her doctorate in English literature from Cambridge and now worked at the Folger Shakespeare Theatre in D.C.