Tracy Kiely: Murder Most Persuasive

Kit had to park a few blocks from the house, as parking in Georgetown is always a nightmare, and we walked in silence to the house. I was still annoyed at her for barging uninvited into Ann’s crisis and frustrated at myself for not stopping her. At least I didn’t tell her that I was spending the night, which was the only reason Kit hadn’t stashed a change of clothes and a toothbrush into her tote like I had.

The night was cool, and after a minute Kit said, “This weather has been really unbelievable this week. So warm, but I think that’s all about to end.” I should mention that Washingtonians are convinced that their weather is like no other and spend inordinate amounts of time discussing it. While the past week had been lovely and, as such, much discussed, it had also been the last bloom of summer. Signs of fall were inescapable. From the earlier sunsets to the leaves on the trees that were now tinged with gold and red, it was clear that the warmth of the summer was giving way to the dying time of year.

Within minutes we turned onto Uncle Marty’s street, which was lined with both ancient trees and elegant homes, most of the latter dating from the early 1800s. Each of the Georgian façades boasted perfectly proportioned dormers and brightly painted paneled doors, flanked by flattened columns and topped with filigree fanlights. The houses faced the street, with little to no front yard. However, the backyards were the real jewels of the neighborhood. Unexpectedly large gardens, pools, and well-tended lawns were nestled behind the high fences that kept both neighbors and pedestrians at bay.

Soon we were in front of Uncle Marty’s three-story house. We made our way up the curved brick staircase. I had scarcely touched the bell when Ann flung open the door. She was still wearing the black sheath she’d worn to the funeral, although she was in her bare feet. Her normally rosy complexion was pale and her auburn curls hung in disheveled lank tendrils around her face.

The greeting she had planned died on her lips at the sight of Kit standing on her front steps with me. Through some eye twitching, I tried to convey that Kit’s presence was not my idea. I’m not sure if I got that exact point across. She may have just thought I’d developed a nervous facial tic since lunch. After a startled blink, Ann recovered, merely saying, “Oh, Kit. You’ve come as well. Thank you.”

Hearing this, Kit, of course, shot me one of her standard I-told-you-so looks, before saying, “Well, of course I came, silly! Where else would I be? You’re family!”

I shot Ann an apologetic look while she stood aside and politely waved us into the house.

I love Uncle Marty’s house. It has an effortless kind of charm that I knew from my own decorating attempts was anything but effortless. Mahogany wood floors run through the main level of the house, although most of those are covered with thick Oriental rugs in various muted hues. To my left was the dining room, where an antique Waterford chandelier hung from the ornate tray ceiling. The gilded mirror atop the stone fireplace sent the glittering light from the delicate crystals dancing on the white paneled walls. To my right was the living room, where Ann now led us.

Like the dining room, it too had a tray ceiling and a stone fireplace, atop of which was another large gilded mirror. The innate sophistication of the room had been tempered with the simple blue-and-white décor, largely inspired by the Wedgwood plaques set in the fireplace’s mantel. Kit and I sat on the ivory brocade couch and looked expectantly at Ann.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, seemingly now reluctant to discuss the reason for our visit.

“ I’m fine,” said Kit, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Now tell me, what exactly happened? Elizabeth wasn’t very clear on the details.”

My blood pressure jumped a few notches and my stomach tightened. Leave it to Kit to make it sound like I hadn’t gotten the details accurately. I had. Annoyed that she had pushed herself unwanted into the situation, I simply had refused to give her anything other than the barest information. I was childish, perhaps, but not inaccurate.

With a brief glance in my direction, Ann sighed and sank into one of the matching blue club chairs opposite the couch, her posture one of weary resignation.

“Well,” Ann began, her voice low, “as you know, Father sold the house in St. Michaels a few weeks ago. The family that moved in decided that they wanted to expand the pool. They began construction this week and yesterday they found…” Ann paused. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “They found a body. It was decomposed, of course, but apparently there was ID on it. According to the police, the ID belongs to Michael Barrow. Obviously, they believe that the body is Michael. I guess they’re going to check dental records for confirmation, but for now that’s the assumption.”

“I see,” said Kit in a matter-of-fact tone. “And has his next of kin been notified?”

I stifled a groan. Kit was so excited to be a part of this tragedy that she was trying to appear more knowledgeable than she was, throwing around absurd pseudolegal terms like “next of kin.” Next she’d be spouting off about the “alleged murder.” Kit watches a lot of CSI.

Ann shook her head. “As far as I know, Michael had no family. His parents died years ago, before we ever met him. I believe he was an only child.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Kit said quickly. “I’d forgotten that. I remember now. So I gather that the police are treating this as an alleged murder investigation, correct?”

Told you.

“I … uh…” Ann’s face crumpled a bit at Kit’s question. I couldn’t blame her. If Michael had been “allegedly” murdered, as Kit put it, there were many people in the Reynolds family who would have to answer some very tough questions.

A noise on the stairs diverted our attention. It was Bonnie. For once, her entrance was a welcome distraction. Scarlett, her little Pomeranian dog, bounded excitedly into the room ahead of her. There used to be another dog, aptly named Rhett, but just as aptly, he ran away. Nobody blamed him.

“Oh, hello, my dears,” she said when she saw us. Unlike Ann, Bonnie had obviously had time to change out of her funereal garb. Although she was still wearing black, she no longer appeared as Vivien Leigh’s understudy from Gone with the Wind . Instead she was wearing a rather chic outfit consisting of lightweight wool trousers and a snug turtleneck. It not only hugged her curves but also emphasized her slimness. At sixty, Bonnie still had a great figure and wasn’t shy about showing that off.

Kit and I both stood and hugged her while Scarlett jumped on our calves. “I thought I heard the doorbell ring,” Bonnie continued. “Have you come to see me off?” Although I was used to Bonnie’s flakiness, it still took me by surprise how quickly she could switch gears. Just this morning she was inconsolable with grief over Uncle Marty’s death. Now she was all preoccupation over her impending trip.

Ann’s jaw clenched in annoyance. “They’re here because I called them, Bonnie. I told them about the discovery at the house. You remember? The body?”

“Oh, yes,” Bonnie replied, crinkling her nose in distaste. “Nasty business. Poor Michael. If it is Michael. Though I can’t imagine it isn’t . After all, they found his wallet. I mean, if it wasn’t Michael, I’d imagine that he’d have come looking for his wallet long before this.”

“Yes, well, thank you for clearing that up for us,” said Ann. I glanced at Ann in some surprise. Normally, she wasn’t so openly rude to Bonnie. However, seeing the lines of worry clustered around her hazel eyes, I couldn’t really blame her. After all, she’d had more than her fair share of stress today. This morning, she buried her father; this evening, she was dealing with a potential homicide investigation.