Tracy Kiely: Murder at Longbourn

For my mother, Elizabeth

INASMUCH AS THIS may be my only opportunity to write an acknowledgment, I am taking full advantage of the space allotted me here. Besides, I owe many thanks to many people. First, I must pay homage to Jane Austen; without her wonderful works the world would be a little duller and I would have no hook. Barbara Kiely, Shirley Shevlin, Mary Doyle, Terry Mullen Sweeney, Mary Melanson, Robin Decker, Elizabeth Cush, Lisa Beagan, and Mary Ann Kingsly were all kind enough to read early versions of my book (after I cornered them and rudely foisted it upon them), and they provided invaluable input and suggestions in spite of my pushy behavior. I also need to thank the Bunco “Ladies” for their endless support (sorry, girls, they balked at the other term). I also owe a great deal to Judith O’Neill for her excellent teaching and editing. I thank my wonderful agent, Barbara Poelle, who stuck with me despite a rather silly idea involving a bullmastiff, and my editor, Toni Plummer, who suggested several excellent improvements. But the person I need to thank most is Bridget Kiely. Without her unflagging support and wonderful suggestions, this all would be nothing more than idle cocktail-party chatter. (So, if upon finishing this book you find that you hate it, please direct all complaints/correspondence to her.)

And last, but certainly not least, I thank my wonderful husband, Matt. While initially reluctant, he actually grew to enjoy my numerous viewings of Pride & Prejudice and put up with hours of bizarre conversations, which usually began, “So, if you were going to kill someone …” His patience, humor, and common sense were invaluable. He is simply ( ding how ).

“The whole of this unfortunate business,” said Dr. Lyster,

“has been the result ofPride and Prejudice.”

— FANNY BURNEY, CECILIA

When fate’s got it in for you there’s no limit

to what you may have to put up with.

— GEORGETTE HEYER

IT WOULD BE dramatic to say that as soon as I saw Aunt Winnie’s letter I had a premonition of danger—a shiver of apprehension, perhaps, or even a sudden feeling of dread. In reality, the only thing I felt was mild amusement, not so much at the message but at the mode of its delivery. I’m not so romantic as to expect correspondence from elderly spinsters to be limited to lavender-scented paper, but by this same token, I certainly didn’t expect a hastily scrawled note on a yellow Post-it, cheerfully inviting me to a murder.

Of course, it wasn’t an actual murder, only one of those How-to-Host-a-Murder parties. Aunt Winnie’s eccentricities, while trying at times, rarely lent themselves to actual felonies. From the scrawl on the Post-it, which resembled something an acrobatic spider might create if left alone with an ink pot, I deduced that the “murder” was to take place on New Year’s Eve at Aunt Winnie’s new Cape Cod bed-and-breakfast.

I set the Post-it on the hall table with the rest of the mail, while I shrugged out of my damp overcoat. The weather outside was beastly, much like my mood. It was December 29, so you’d think that any precipitation would mean light, fluffy snow. But this was northern Virginia, which meant it was cold, hard rain. Rubbing my arms for warmth, I kicked off my wet boots and headed for the kitchen. Yanking open the cupboard, I reached for the bag of Oreos, belatedly remembered that I was on a diet, and flung the package back untouched.

Some 56.3 hours before—but who was counting?—I had gotten a jump start on my New Year’s resolution to lead a healthier lifestyle by giving up fatty foods and a two-timing lobbyist. Unfortunately, the only thing my health kick had earned me was a grumbling stomach, the prospect of a lonely weekend yawning out in front of me, and a crabby mood. As a result, I’d spent the better part of the week slumped in front of the television, watching various adaptations of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol and heckling the poor Cratchit family, whose single-minded cheerfulness struck me as more than a little inane.

From upstairs, Bridget, my best friend and roommate, yelled down, “Elizabeth? Thank God you’re home. I need you.”

I trudged up the stairs to her room, pausing in the doorway. On her bed lay a suitcase haphazardly crammed with a mishmash of clothes; Bridget’s taste was eclectic or god-awful, depending on how you characterized bright green cowboy boots and purple sequined tops. Bridget stood with her back to me, sucking in her already flat stomach and frowning at her reflection in the floor-length mirror. She was wearing a turquoise leather miniskirt, a silky orange blouse, and purple suede boots. Bridget is only five three, even in the spiked heels she considers mandatory. She believes that bold outfits offset her diminutive stature.

She can say that’s why she dresses the way she does all she wants, but I’ve known Bridget since we were little. I saw how she dressed her Barbie dolls. I mention this because Barbie’s vital statistics are such that, were she a real woman, she’d be something like seven feet tall. Therefore, not in any sense diminutive. Yet her dolls were always clad like some bizarre cross between Joan Collins and Liberace.

Still eyeing herself critically, Bridget asked, “Tell me the truth. Does this outfit make me look fat?”

I rolled my eyes. “Fat? No. Color-blind, maybe. But not fat.”

At my response she swung around, almost losing her balance in the process. Four-inch heels can do that to a girl. Peering at me from underneath her spiky red bangs, she stared at me aghast. “Color-blind? Are you serious? These colors are hot this season.”

“That may be so, but I find it hard to believe that you’re supposed to wear them at the same time.”

“That’s because you have no fashion sense.” She glanced disparagingly at my tan corduroy skirt and blue cable-knit sweater. “You really should let me give you a makeover.”

“I thank you for the favor, but no. The last time you gave me a makeover, some guy kept trying to shove dollar bills down my skirt.”

“That’s not true!” Bridget said, laughing.

“Okay, maybe so,” I admitted with a grin, “but you’re still not giving me a makeover.”

“Why not? Come to New York with me and Colin. We can update your look and start the New Year off right.”

Colin is Bridget’s boyfriend. For New Year’s, the two of them are going to New York for the weekend. Bridget has been trying to convince me to go with them, especially now that I am, as she delicately put it, “without plans.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” she continued excitedly. “You know nobody does New Year’s better than Times Square! We could go shopping! We could try new restaurants! And more important, we can celebrate your freedom from a man who is, let’s face it, the soul-sucking spawn of Satan. And don’t even get me started about his obsession with argyle.”

I pushed aside the suitcase and flopped across her bed. The soul-sucking, argyle-wearing spawn of Satan is my ex-boyfriend Mark. To say that Bridget had never liked him was a gross understatement—over the past few months she’d developed a small facial tic at the sound of his name.

“Bridget, you know I love you and Colin, and you’re sweet to invite me, but for the thousandth time, no. I’d be a third wheel—and on New Year’s Eve of all nights!”

“You wouldn’t be a third wheel,” she countered. “You’d be with friends.”