Tracy Kiely
Murder
Acknowledgments
I need to thank several people for their support and help while I wrote this. Barbara Kiely, Mary Melanson, Ann Mahoney, Mary Doyle, Judith O’Neill, and Terry Mullen Sweeney were all kind enough to read early versions of this and listen to me yammer on about everything and nothing (it’s a particular skill set I have). The Bunco Ladies helped me stay positive and kept my mind sharp (“Hey, are we on threes?”). I still haven’t figured out what I did to deserve my agent, Barbara Poelle, who is a Force of Nature, but when I do, I will light the appropriate candles. My editor, Toni Plummer, was wonderful and her edits always make my writing stronger. I owe a great big thanks to Cynthia Merman and her excellent copyediting; she misses nothing! Bridget Kiely was, as always, simply amazing. Her wit (which I continually steal) and her willingness to reread slightly altered scenes over and over again (“Is this better? Are you sure? How about this?”) never cease to amaze me. As a fellow Janite, her input was invaluable. My husband, Matt, patiently suffered through numerous conversations involving murder and mayhem and was invaluable in spotting certain (ahem) plot holes. My children, Jack, Elizabeth, and Pat, were just lovely and helped me keep it all in perspective. Thank you all!
Chapter 1
It is bad luck to be superstitious.
“A death is coming,” Elsie remarked blandly, glancing upward.
I followed her gaze and saw three seagulls gliding on crisp September air. My left temple throbbed slightly at this news. Not, ironically, out of any fear that her prediction would come true, but rather at the explosive effect it might have on the people with me. Elsie is a sophisticated, educated woman, but she has a propensity for fortune- telling that would try the most patient of souls. The year I turned twelve, she told me that I would grow up to “marry a rocker and live a life of international travel.” I had a mad crush on Peter Gabriel at the time and immediately began practicing what I anticipated to be my married name, Elizabeth Gabriel. I even envisioned myself managing his world tours. Obviously, I wasn’t the most perceptive child. I’m now twenty-seven, have never been married, and work as a fact-checker for a local paper in Virginia. As for the international travel, I did once accidentally wander into the duty-free shop at the airport, if that counts.
Elsie’s declaration hung in the air, much like the seagulls. Next to me, I was relieved to see that Blythe’s only response was a simple roll of the eyes. Twenty-eight years as Elsie’s daughter-in-law has inured Blythe to Elsie’s fondness for predictions. It still irks her, but she has learned to hold her tongue. Bridget, however, Blythe’s daughter and Elsie’s granddaughter, has not yet learned such restraint.
“Elsie!” she burst out. (No one in the grandchild generation ever calls Elsie anything other than Elsie—the mere idea of calling her “Grandma” or “Nanny” is laughable). “For Christ’s sake! Don’t start this crap now. The wedding is tomorrow and my nerves are shot as it is!”
Elsie and Blythe, polar opposites in most everything, were united in their response. “Don’t swear, Bridget,” they said automatically. It was a refrain I had heard directed at Bridget many times over the years. It had never had any effect, of course, but that didn’t stop her family from trying.
Elsie tilted her black Jackie O. sunglasses down an inch and gazed at Bridget with tranquil blue eyes. “I am only stating what I see. And what I see are three seagulls flying overhead—in a
“You know what’s another well-known sign?” retorted Bridget with feigned politeness.
I grabbed Bridget’s hand before she could illustrate the gesture, hoping to prevent what would have been the twenty-sixth argument of the day, but Elsie only laughed.
I’ve known Bridget since the fourth grade, and I’ve known Elsie almost as long. In many ways, they are a lot alike. Both are ruled entirely by their emotions, emotions for which moderation has no place. Sadness was desolation, happiness was ecstasy, and irritation was fury. It made for some high drama at times, regardless of whether those times warranted even the
“Oh, look,” I said, hoping to distract them both. “We’re here.”
“Here” was Grey’s Bridal Shop, a white, two-story brick structure in the heart of downtown Richmond, Virginia, and a veritable tradition among Richmond’s older families. Happily, our arrival had the hoped-for effect and no more was said about signs and death.
Elsie entered the shop first, the small silver bell atop the door cheerfully announcing our arrival. René, the owner, beamed enthusiastically. He was a fussy little man with a thick mane of white hair that never moved. It was widely rumored that his real name was Jim and that he wore a wig, but no one cared because he had exquisite taste and stocked the most beautiful dresses in town.
“Ah, Mrs. Matthews,” he cooed, hurrying over to kiss Elsie’s hand. “It is always a pleasure to see you.”
“And you as well, René,” replied Elsie, taking advantage of René’s bent posture to covertly study the man’s hairline. “Are our dresses ready?”
“But of course,” said René with a flamboyant swoop of his pudgy hands. “If you ladies will please follow me.”
We dutifully followed René’s mincing footsteps, crossing the store’s thick cream carpeting to the large dressing rooms in the back where our gowns awaited us.
Bridget, as the bride-to-be, slipped into hers first. Unlike the others, it was not from the store but was Elsie’s mother’s gown from the 1930s. A sleek creation of creamy silk with an empire waist, it was perfectly suited to Bridget’s eclectic sense of style and her petite frame. Bridget had uniformly dismissed the more modern designs as making her look like an overdone meringue. She somberly gazed at herself in the large three-way mirror before turning to us. “Well?” she whispered nervously.
A gentle sigh escaped from Blythe as she surveyed her daughter from head to toe. “You look lovely, Bridgie,” she said, with a slight catch in her voice. Thankfully, she made no mention of Bridget’s short spiky hair—a constant source of irritation for the conservative Mrs. Matthews. Bridget herself had made some concessions in deference to the occasion, by toning down the color from near magenta to a more sedate red.
“You look beautiful, Bridge,” I agreed. “Colin is going to flip when he sees you.”
“He most certainly will,” agreed Elsie, with a firm nod that sent the elaborate upsweep of her silver hair teetering precariously to one side and then the other before coming to a halt only millimeters from where it had started. “As my father would say, you look monstrously pretty. Colin is a lucky man. And speaking of Colin, has your mother told you everything you need to know?”
