Murder Most Persuasive

“Why in the name of God shouldn’t I have a drink? Hell, if there was ever a time when one was warranted, I think it would be when your ex-fiancé turns up dead and buried under the family pool.”

“I have to say, I think that’s a fair point,” I said.

“Exactly,” Reggie said, nodding in my direction. Without a word, Ann turned in the direction of the kitchen, presumably to get Reggie her wine.

“Lord,” said Reggie, “whatever are the police going to think? You know they’re going to think one of us did it.”

“Not necessarily,” I said, more out of politeness than any real conviction.

“Well, if they don’t, then they have no imagination.” She turned on her heel and glided into the living room. With almost feline grace, she made herself comfortable on the couch.

A confident knock sounded on the door, and it opened. It was Frances and Scott. Frances was wearing one of her standard A-line tweed skirts with a red blouse. Scott was casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Unlike Reggie, neither presented a calm façade. “Dear God,” said Frances when she saw me, her voice shrill, “this is just like a nightmare! Who would have ever believed that all these years Michael was actually dead!” Next to her, Scott did not speak. He stood awkwardly with his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, his body tense. “Is Reggie here?” Frances asked.

I nodded and gestured to the living room.

“Reggie, I just can’t believe this,” said Frances, rushing over to her sister. “How are you? Are you all right?”

Reggie sighed with annoyance. “Of course, I’m all right, Frances. Please don’t be melodramatic. We already have enough drama as it is. Besides, you seem to forget, I broke it off with him. It’s not as if he left behind some lovesick pale copy of the girl he loved. Besides, that was eight years and three marriages ago.”

“Yes, but he’s dead!” Frances said. “You can’t be happy that he’s dead!”

Reggie rolled her eyes in disgust. “Frances, I didn’t say I was happy that he was dead. I’m just not crying into my hankie. There’s a difference.”

Frances looked unconvinced but said no more. There was a loud, officious knock on the door, immediately followed by a collective intake of breath around me. The police, it would seem, were here. Frances and Reggie looked at me, while Scott stared at the floor. Apparently I had just been appointed official greeter.

I am by no means someone my friends would describe as being calm under pressure, but I was still taken aback at the surge of adrenaline that swiftly raced through my veins. With shaking hands, I grabbed the cut-glass doorknob and swung open the door.

Before me stood one woman and one man. The former was in a crisp, blue uniform, her light blond hair tucked underneath her hat. I couldn’t tell you much else about her other than the fact that she had blue eyes and a trim figure, because my real focus was on the second person.

He hadn’t changed much. No gray marred his thick, dark hair. From the way his Burberry overcoat clung to his broad shoulders, he appeared to be as lean and fit as ever. Seeing me, a flash of recognition appeared in his blue- green eyes, but no welcoming smile accompanied it.

Before I could speak, I heard Ann approaching from behind. Turning, I saw her just as she saw him. The color drained from her face and her grip on the glass of wine tightened, turning her knuckles white.

With a strained whisper, she got out his name. “Joe!” 

Chapter 7

Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.

—Emma

Joe’s response to hearing Ann utter his name was a brief tightening of the muscles in his jaw. With an overly polite nod in her direction, he said, “Actually, it’s Detective Muldoon now.”

Ouch. It was clear that even after all these years, Joe hadn’t forgiven Ann. I glanced at her to see how she was taking all this. From the stricken look on her face, I deduced not very well. Ann blinked and pressed her lips together tightly, her face etched in silent misery.

I stuck out my hand, “Hello, Joe … er … Detective Muldoon. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m —”

“Elizabeth Parker,” Joe said, briefly taking my hand in his and giving it a formal shake. “Of course, I remember you.” Turning to the officer next to him, he said, “This is Sergeant Erica Beal.”

I nodded at the sergeant. Scarlett gave a happy bark and jumped up and began to paw at Joe’s leg. He looked down at her in confusion. “Scarlett, go away,” I said, nudging the dog away. Scarlett ignored me and began to lick Joe’s pant leg. I bent over and scooped up the dog while she squirmed in protest. “Scarlett, you are no lady,” I said before looking back to Joe. “Well, the family is all here.” I gestured toward the living room. “I’ll show you in.” Leading them into the room, I wondered what Reggie’s and Frances’s reactions to seeing Joe again after all these years would be.

“Everyone,” I said, “this is Sergeant Beal and Detective Muldoon.”

Reggie glanced up, her expression calm. However, seeing Joe, her eyes quickly darted to where Ann still stood in the foyer. When she returned her attention to Joe, there was a wary expression in her eyes. With the briefest nod of her head, she said, “Detective Muldoon. Sergeant Beal.”

Frances was less composed. “Joe? Is that really you? Why, you’ve hardly changed a bit! You’re a detective now?”

“As you see,” he said.

Scott moved toward him, his hand outstretched. “Joe, it’s good to see you again.”

Joe shook the proffered hand. Beside him, Sergeant Beal’s face was unreadable. She didn’t seem particularly surprised to find that her detective was on such familiar terms with the family. I wondered just how much Joe had told her.

“I’m sorry to have to disturb you,” he said now, “especially so soon after your father’s funeral.” He paused. “I was sorry to hear of his passing. You have my condolences.”

I have to admit, hearing Joe say that aroused my darkest forebodings. Joe hated Uncle Marty. And to be fair, it wasn’t without reason. Uncle Marty did everything he could to make Joe feel unwelcome and unworthy to be a member of the Reynolds family. But all those years ago Joe had an open face that was easy to read. However, the way Joe offered his condolences just now, you would have thought that he really had liked Uncle Marty. It didn’t bode well, in my humble opinion.

Seeing Ann still standing in the foyer helplessly clutching Reggie’s glass of wine, I said, “Let me go get some coffee for everyone.” I hurried out, still clutching Scarlett in one hand, and firmly grabbed Ann by the elbow with the other and steered her to the kitchen.

“It’s Joe!” she said numbly. “Jesus, I can’t believe this. After all these years, he’s here. In this house. Oh, my God.” Frantically running her hands through her hair, she tried to see her reflection in the chrome toaster. “I look like shit!” she wailed.

“Would you put the toaster down? You do not look like shit,” I said, as I deposited Scarlett on the floor and then yanked open cupboards in search of the coffee. As I said this, though, I realized that to a certain extent Ann’s looks had suffered somewhat since her breakup with Joe. For lack of a better phrase, she’d lost her glow. When Joe left, a part of Ann had faded away. As no other man had ever come close to Joe in her estimation, the glow had never returned. However, this obviously wasn’t the time to address that. “Pull yourself together. Where the hell is the coffee?” I asked.

“Top shelf, left,” she said automatically. “Did you see the way he looked at me? Like he was looking through me or something.”

“He was just trying to be professional, that’s all,” I said, quickly pulling down the package of whole beans,