Tracy Kiely - Murder at Longbourn

“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.

What a swell party, a swell party,

a swellagant elegant party this is!

—COLE PORTER

AS 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.

“I know!” she said in chirpy voice. “You two dance! I think we have enough time before the guests start arriving.”

For once Peter and I were in total agreement, and we both stumbled over ourselves in our excuses.

“Aunt Winnie, really, I think I should check on the hors d’oeuvres …”

“I probably should open the wine …”

“Nonsense!” she said firmly, pushing me into Peter’s arms. “I can do all those things. Now, dance!”

Peter shrugged. “I think she wants us to dance.”

“She might,” I replied. “She’s very hard to read sometimes.”

We moved around the room, neither of us saying much. For the first time I was grateful that dance lessons at Mrs. Martin’s School for Girls had been mandatory, because although my movements were mechanical, they were at least in step with Peter’s. The silence between us was unbearable and I frantically struggled for something to say. He already thought that I was a girl passed over by other men; I didn’t want him to think I was a lousy conversationalist as well. The trouble was, I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. Desperate, I was just about to ask him whether he’d read any good books lately, when he spoke.

“So, have you read any good books lately?”

I laughed.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

“But?”

“I couldn’t decide between that or, ‘What’s your sign?’ ”

He grimaced. “All right, fine. New question. What have you been up to for the past fifteen years?”

“Well, let’s see,” I said. “I finished school with a degree in English, which qualified me for either a low-paying secretarial job or an even lower-paying secretarial job.”

“Is that what you do, then?”

I shook my head. “Not anymore. I work as a fact-checker for a local paper.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It’s not. What about you? What are you doing these days?”

“Mainly I’ve been working for my parents, helping them open hotels.”

“Oh.” My mind seemed to be working in slow motion. I could think of nothing besides my hurt pride. Around me Cole Porter’s “Let’s Do It, Let’s Fall in Love” played. Suddenly Peter said, “I was surprised when Aunt Winnie told me that you were coming. I would have assumed that you’d have big plans for New Year’s. But she said something about you and your boyfriend breaking up.”

I glanced sharply at him. Was he deliberately trying to rub it in? His face was unreadable. “Yes,” I said finally. “That’s right. I did just end a relationship. Things were starting to get a bit too serious.” Thankfully, my nose did not start growing with this last bit, but I couldn’t stand the thought of him believing that I was some pathetic loser who’d come running to Aunt Winnie’s for lack of a better offer. “And you?” I asked sweetly. “No one special in your life right now either, I take it?”

His expression grew cool and I regretted my nastiness. This was no way to start the weekend. But before I could apologize, he said, “Actually, there is someone—Maggie. But she couldn’t make it this weekend. She’s visiting family.”