Tracy Kiely: Murder at Longbourn

“The dark years? Whatever are you two talking about?” Jackie asked, with a small birdlike tilt of her head.

Daniel’s voice dropped an octave. “I don’t usually tell people about that part of my life, but that’s what I call the time when I was sent away.” He discreetly winked at me. “It was a horrible place. Cold. Impersonal. Terrible food. Filled with other lads just like me.”

“Prison?” Jackie gasped eagerly.

Daniel shook his head. “Boarding school.”

After a brief pause, Jackie burst out laughing. “Terrible man! Go on, laugh at an old woman. At my age I can’t drink or smoke. Gossiping is the only vice I have left!”

As we continued talking, the knot in my stomach slowly unfurled. This might be a good weekend after all. Aunt Winnie could be maddening at times and she definitely was an interfering matchmaker, but she had struck gold. Daniel was wonderful—good-looking, smart, and funny. From the way he kept directing bits of conversation my way, it seemed that he was interested as well. All was right with my world. Then I heard the voice. His voice. “Aunt Winnie, have you seen the inventory list for tomorrow night?” My effervescent feeling evaporated so quickly it felt like someone had sucked all the air out of my lungs. I turned and there he stood, the nemesis of my youth—Peter Emmett McGowan.

He looked pretty much the same, which was damned unfair. I believe that intrinsically evil people should manifest those traits physically. But he seemed untouched. He was still tall, his brown hair was still thick and curly, and his eyes were still that unusual shade of amber. I consoled myself by thinking that he must have a portrait of himself—one that showed him covered in boils and lesions—hidden away somewhere. The past fifteen years dropped away. I was once again a gawky, overweight girl with buckteeth and glasses. So real was the feeling that I gave myself a quick mental shake and took a generous sip of wine, mainly to reassure myself that it wasn’t a glass of Ovaltine that I held in my hands. Then he saw me. It was clear that it didn’t register who I was at first, but soon recognition dawned in his eyes. “Oh, my God!” he said. “Cocoa Puff! Is that really you?”

Cocoa Puff! That stupid, hateful nickname! I couldn’t believe he had just called me that! And in front of Daniel, no less! The blood rushed to my face and I saw red.

“Worm face!” I heard myself retort. No! Inner poise! Inner poise, I mentally screamed at myself too late. Peter burst out laughing. “Worm face? God, I haven’t heard that one in years. You might look different, but you’re the same old Elizabeth. How have you been?”

“Fine,” I muttered, my dignity in tatters. Oh, yes, I thought. I’m just fine. I just called a grown man “worm face” in front of people I barely knew. Inner poise, my ass!

An hour later I was with Aunt Winnie in the kitchen. The cocktail party had broken up shortly after my outburst. Daniel was eating at the Ramseys’ house; Joan and Henry had reservations at a local restaurant; and Peter had wandered off with his inventory in hand, apparently oblivious to the churning emotions he’d stirred up in me. But as black as my mood had been, it was hard to maintain it in the kitchen’s almost relentlessly cheerful atmosphere. Aunt Winnie had compensated for the coldness of the necessarily industrial stainless-steel appliances with a seemingly endless amount of red toile. It was the fabric for the curtains. It was the tablecloth. It was the seat cushions. It was even papered on the back wall. The wide pine planks of the floor were still bare, but I suspected the future held … something.

Aunt Winnie sat at the long farmhouse-style table while I cooked us both omelets—the only hot meal I could make with any real success. “You’re not going to stay mad at Peter for the whole weekend, are you?” she asked.

“I am in no humor to give consequence to the young man who delighted in tormenting me as a child,” I groused.

She laughed. “Don’t you think you might be misjudging him?”

I threw some mushrooms and onions into the pan. “I think he’s arrogant, immature, and self-centered, and I have no opinion of him.”

Aunt Winnie rolled her eyes upward. “Fine. Have it your way. New subject. What did you think of Daniel?”

“ Him I like.” I shook the pan and flipped the omelet over. “But why does everyone think there’s something odd about his being here?”

“You’d have to know the Ramseys to understand.” I slid the fluffy yellow omelet onto her plate. “Thank you, sweetie,” she said before continuing. “Gerald is a singularly unpleasant man. It makes it hard to believe that Lauren fell in love with him and not his money. But I suppose whenever a wealthy older man marries a beautiful and much younger woman, tongues are bound to wag.”

I sat down across from her. “But to suggest that she’d bring her lover to town under her husband’s nose is pretty outrageous.”

Aunt Winnie nodded. “Well, that’s Jackie for you. She is a horrible gossip, but there’s something endearing about her all the same. I met her down at the gym—we both take that senior fitness program, and she’s in amazing shape.” Aunt Winnie paused. “Somehow I get the impression that she hasn’t had a particularly happy life. Although truth be told, I really don’t know her all that well. They only moved here last month.”

“They?” I said through a mouthful.

“She and Linnet Westin. Apparently she’s an old school friend of Jackie’s. Jackie lives with her as a sort of companion.”

“What’s she like?”

“I’ve never met her, actually. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow night,” Aunt Winnie said. “Oh! I forgot to show you the invitations for the party.” She reached into a toile-lined basket on the countertop behind her, pulled out the invitation, and handed it to me. Printed on heavy white card stock, the invitation read:

HELP US RING IN THE NEW YEAR

WITH A NIGHT OF DINNER, DANCING, AND DEATH!

BE PREPARED FOR INTRIGUE,

SCREAMS IN THE DARK,

AND RED HERRINGS.

AND REMEMBER, MANY WILL COME,

BUT ONE WON’T BE GOING HOME!

“So, what do you think? Don’t you just love it?”

“It’s very nice,” I agreed before adding pointedly, “I got a Post-it.”

Aunt Winnie leaned forward and took back the invitation. “Yes, I know, dear. Remember, I’m the one who sent it. Now don’t pout. I ran out of the printed ones, except this one, of course. I wanted one for the memory books. So,” she continued as she leaned back in the wooden chair, “you haven’t told me what you think of the place.” She paused dramatically. “How do you like the house, Lizzy?”

I grinned. “I like it very much. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a house so happily situated.”

Aunt Winnie laughed. “God, you’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting to ask you that.”

“Glad to oblige. Seriously, though, it’s wonderful. I’m still amazed that you bought it.”

Aunt Winnie’s lips curled up in a self-satisfied smile. “Yes. And I suspect there are a few others who feel that way as well.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning this place was in the middle of a nasty bidding war when I first saw it. Actually, one of the bidders was Gerald Ramsey. Oh, he was fit to be tied when the owner sold it to me and not him. I heard he turned eight shades of purple when he found out. He’s been a real pain in the ass ever since.”

“How so?”

“Well, he is something of a bigwig around here, and as such he does wield a lot of influence. Unfortunately, one of his cronies—Ted Marshall—is on the zoning board. Lately Mr. Marshall has pushed through several new B and B requirements that seem designed solely to make my life miserable.”