Tracy Kiely: Murder at Longbourn

“Peter’s a grown man now, Elizabeth. Besides, his parents are two of my dearest friends. You shouldn’t judge him for a few boyish pranks that happened more than fifteen years ago.”

“Don’t try to paint him as some Gilbert Blythe innocent. He locked me in a basement for two hours!”

“And you put a dead fish in his bed.”

I squelched my old familiar cry of “He started it!” and forced myself to act mature. When I saw Peter I would be polite and self-assured. I would have inner poise.

Right after I threw up.

To distract my mind from my roiling stomach, I took a restorative breath of the cold, salty air and turned my attention to the house. It really was quite perfect. Gray cedar shingles blanketed the large façade, including the veranda and bay windows, giving the impression of friendly bulges rather than separate features. Wide stone steps led to a deep porch that ran across the front. A few Adirondack chairs, painted cherry red, sat in cozy groupings. It made a charming and pretty picture. It was also totally useless in calming my nerves.

We walked onto the porch and inside to a simple reception area. In one corner, a Christmas tree covered in thousands of tiny white lights loomed. In the other corner, two very disapproving blue eyes stared out at me from the comfort of a green brocade chair.

Startled, I blurted out a blasphemy that had little to do with my reverence for the season. Aunt Winnie also noticed the room’s other inhabitant. “Elizabeth,” she said formally, “I’d like to introduce you to Lady Catherine.”

It was a cat, a regal-looking Persian with preposterously fluffy white fur. Under her breath, Aunt Winnie added, “I briefly considered calling her Mrs. Danvers, but she’s clearly above domestic service.”

The cat’s pale blue eyes surveyed me with what could only be described as an expression of distaste, and I whispered back, “But she may not be above the crazed behavior.”

I thought I detected a faint hiss. Good God, was the cat actually scowling? Great. Apparently, I inspired a visceral loathing in cats. This did not bode well should Kit’s dire prediction for my future prove true. I had a sudden vision of myself as a sad, lonely woman trapped in a tiny apartment, surrounded by hissing cats. A noise from the back office interrupted this bleak picture and I steeled myself for the inevitable meeting with Peter. Instead, a petite woman in her mid- to late fifties emerged. She was trim and conservatively dressed in an A-line tweed skirt and black turtleneck. The only jarring note in her otherwise demure appearance was her hair. It was thick and curly and bright red—naturally red, not like Aunt Winnie’s hue. She had pulled it back into a tight bun, but it still gave the impression that it was fighting to break free. Her gray eyes widened in surprise at seeing us. “Oh, Ms. Reynolds,” she said quickly. “I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t get a signal on my cell, so I used your phone. Just a local call, though.” She peered anxiously at us from behind thin wire-framed glasses.

Aunt Winnie waved away her apologies and made the introductions. “Elizabeth, this is Joan Anderson. She and her husband, Henry, are also guests at the inn for New Year’s. Joan, this is my grandniece, Elizabeth.”

Joan chatted pleasantly with us for a few moments, telling us how much she and her husband liked the inn and how they were looking forward to tomorrow night’s show. Almost on cue, a tall, heavyset man with receding brown hair walked down the stairs. There was a formal air to his demeanor that was at odds with Joan’s easiness. Seeing us, he made his way over. Joan quickly introduced me.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Henry said. He enveloped my hand with both of his, in a firm, albeit clammy, grip. “Joan and I are quite impressed with your aunt’s inn, especially the decor.” Turning to Aunt Winnie, he said, “You have some very nice pieces here, Ms. Reynolds. Really, it’s quite above your average B and B.” With a glance in my direction, he added, “I don’t know if Joan told you, but we own an antiques business in New York called Old Things—perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“I don’t think I have …”

“Well, surely you’ve heard of Mrs. Kristell Dubois,” he said, his voice deepening almost reverently. “The widow of Marshall Dubois? She is New York’s most generous patron of the arts. I was able to find her a rare first edition of Fordyce’s Sermons and she was most grateful. As a result we were lucky enough to secure her as a client—she is very particular. Although she has become much more than just a client. She’s almost a benefactress. Her generosity is endless. We have been invited—twice—to her estate on Martha’s Vineyard, and her improvements to our humble store have been most invaluable.”

Henry paused, turning to Joan so that she could add her own praise. She haltingly added, “She has been a very conscientious client.” Henry waited impressively for my response, and I was forced once again to admit my ignorance. The glowing light in his eyes was quickly replaced by faint disapproval.

“I doubt if Mrs. Dubois’s reputation extends beyond New York, Henry,” Joan said timidly.

“Yes, well, perhaps,” Henry admitted reluctantly. Then brightening, he added, “Mrs. Dubois introduced Joan and me to bridge recently and I must say we’re hooked. We’re hoping to get a foursome together this weekend—do you play? If not, I’d be happy to teach you and further acquaint you with Mrs. Dubois’s excellent work.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, “but I’m afraid I’m not very good at cards. I was actually hoping to catch up on some reading this weekend. But I appreciate the offer.”

Henry received my excuse with obvious incredulity, finally murmuring, “I see. Well, in any case, we shouldn’t keep you. I’m sure you have much to prepare for.” Turning to his wife, he added, “Joan, have you seen my watch? I can’t find it anywhere.”

“Really, Henry. You’ve got to get that clasp fixed. That’s the third time this week you’ve lost it. It’s probably in the room somewhere. Come on, I’ll help you find it.”

“You prefer reading to cards?” Aunt Winnie whispered with mock disdain once they moved out of earshot. “That is rather singular.”

I smirked. “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure. I just suspect that tales of Mrs. Kristell Dubois are one of those delights of which a little goes a long way. Which brings me to my next point—who is she, anyway?”

“Weren’t you listening, silly? She’s one of New York’s most generous patrons. And I may have this all wrong, but I think Mrs. Dubois frequents his shop.”

I giggled. “Well, she could not have bestowed this honor on a more grateful recipient.”

Aunt Winnie grimaced. “You have no idea how grateful. But by tomorrow I suspect you will. In fact, by tomorrow I suspect we’ll all wish that it’s Mrs. Kristell Dubois who gets knocked off during the show.”

“Speaking of the show, what exactly is the plan?”

“Grab your bag and I’ll tell you as I show you your room.” She preceded me up a steep, curving staircase. “Cocktails start at eight and dinner is at nine. The actors will pose as guests and mingle with everyone else. Sometime during the evening, the ‘murder’ takes place. Our guests then try to solve it with the help of the actors. Once we have a solution, we’ll have some dancing and then ring in the New Year.”

“Sounds fun.” I puffed as I lugged my increasingly heavy suitcase up the maple-stained stairs. I mentally added “working out more” to my ever-growing list of resolutions, even though the “more” part was technically a lie. I also added, “stop lying to self.” We finally reached the top landing. Gleaming white bead board ran along the lower half of the hallway walls. The upper half was painted a misty blue. Aunt Winnie flung open a white paneled door to the left of the stairs.