Murder on the Bride’s Side

“Elizabeth? What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

Looking up at his concerned face, my self-control broke. “What’s wrong?” I repeated. I let loose a small laugh that didn’t sound normal even to my overwrought ears. “Where would you like me to start? With finding Roni’s body? With finding her necklace planted in my room? With knowing Detective Grant thinks I may have had something to do with all of this?” I felt hysteria rising. “Or should we skip all that and just focus on the fact that you seem to have gone completely gaga over some... some anorexic, Prada-wearing catering Nazi?”

Peter’s face flushed. “Elizabeth, I can explain about Chloe. I’ve wanted to tell you, but I just didn’t know how. You see... ”

His words buzzed in my head. I can explain about Chloe. Had he really just said that? Explain what? I couldn’t do this now, I simply couldn’t. Hearing Peter confess anything about Chloe would push me over the edge—from where I now teetered on one toe. I shoved him away from me—hard. “Get out,” I hissed. “Get out now. I’d like to have my nervous breakdown without an audience, if you don’t mind.”

Peter’s lips parted in protest, but I gave him a final shove that caught him off guard and he stumbled backward. Taking advantage of his inadvertent retreat, I shut the door in his face, locking it for good measure. He knocked several times and jiggled the handle, but I ignored him. After a few minutes, he gave up and went away and I got angry with him all over again.

I sank into the leather chair behind the desk, happy for once not to be on the other side of it and facing Detective Grant. His unsmiling face as he all but accused me of covering up aspects of Roni’s murder swam up before me. I buried my head in my hands to try and block out the memory, but to no avail. I had to get a grip on myself. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I needed to talk to someone. Unfortunately, the two people I usually turned to when in crisis were in the next room. I couldn’t very well tell Bridget that I thought her family had used me to clear Harry, and I wasn’t speaking to Peter at the moment.

Thinking of my mother, I reached for the receiver of the old-fashioned black phone on the desk. I glanced at my wristwatch and saw that it was six o’clock. My mother was in Dublin attending a symposium on James Joyce; it was after midnight there. Dropping my hand from the receiver, I idly played with the coiled black cord while I considered my options. I knew my older sister, Kit, would be at home, but I doubted talking to her would be the best thing for my psyche. Kit is married to a nice man named Tom and is the mother of my nephew, Tommy. In Kit’s adept hands, these normal facts have become “achievements,” and achievements that only certain special individuals, like herself, can attain. As such, one of Katherine’s favorite topics is What Is Wrong With Elizabeth and How If She Only Listened to Me, She Would Be Okay. I think she may even be attempting to get her doctorate using me as her thesis. Over the years, I’ve learned not to willingly hand her additional material for her research. Telling her that I’d once again stumbled upon a dead body would be bad enough, but admitting that I was on the verge of losing yet another boyfriend would no doubt be the equivalent of handing her the degree.

I stared dumbly at the phone for another minute until the obvious solution hit me. Aunt Winnie! I needed to talk to Aunt Winnie.

Aunt Winnie is technically my great-aunt. She is seventy-three years old and like no other woman I know. As a young woman, she inherited a substantial amount of money from her parents, and after years of wise investments she tripled that inheritance until she was an extremely wealthy woman. She has never married, always repeating the old line that marriage is an institution and she doesn’t want to be in an institution. Besides, she says she prefers the freedom of affairs. Two years ago, while on a visit to Cape Cod, she impulsively bought a house and turned it into a bed-and-breakfast, despite the fact that she had no experience running such a venture. She promptly named the place the Inn at Longbourn, a testament to her admiration (read: obsession) with all things Jane Austen. That obsession is just one of the many reasons we get along so well.

I quickly dialed her number, offering a prayer that she would be at home. For the first time this weekend, the Fates smiled on me, and her familiar voice answered the phone.

“Elizabeth!” she cried, when she heard my voice. “Thank God! I’ve been worried sick about you! What the hell is going on down there?”

I pressed the receiver close to my ear at her words and shut my eyes. I hadn’t realized just how much I missed her until now. I wished I could squeeze myself through the phone and into her house. “Oh, you know— betrayal, murder,” I said, keeping my tone light to prevent myself from crying. “Just your typical Greek tragedy, really.”

She saw through me, of course. She’s been doing that since I was six years old. “Betrayal?” she said. “Peter told me about the murder, but he didn’t say anything about a betrayal.” She paused. “Or is the reason he didn’t say anything because he’s the one who did the betraying?”

“You know, you can be downright spooky sometimes,” I mumbled, choking back tears.

“Elizabeth, for goodness’ sake! Stop trying not to cry. I can’t understand a word you say when you do that. Let it out and tell me what’s going on!”

As she no doubt expected, as soon as she told me to cry, my body did the exact opposite. Sitting straighter in my chair, I took a deep breath and launched into my tale, bringing her up to date on the goings-on of the last seventy-two hours. It wasn’t the most coherent recital of my life, but I managed to get the more salient points across.

“What an unholy mess,” Aunt Winnie said when I finally finished.

“I know.”

“Do you want me to come down? I could be there by tomorrow morning.”

I was seriously tempted by her offer. Knowing I had someone on-site firmly in my corner would be nice, but it didn’t seem fair to drag her hundreds of miles just to boost my self-esteem.

“No, I’ll be okay,” I said. “I’m sure this will all be straightened out soon enough. And then I’ll be up... ” My voice quavered. I was going to visit Aunt Winnie. The question was, was Peter still going to come with me?

“Elizabeth,” Aunt Winnie said firmly, “you are wrong about Peter. He cares for you. I know he does. I don’t know who this Chloe person is, but Peter is not the sort of man to be swayed by a pretty face.” My spirits buoyed somewhat at this, until I wondered what that comment meant about my face. Before I could ask, Aunt Winnie went on. “You’ve always been insecure, Elizabeth. I don’t know why, but you have. And I think you’re letting your insecurities cloud your judgment on this. Why don’t you simply ask Peter what’s going on rather than make yourself sick imagining the worst?”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Well, that’s because it is simple, dear! This is Peter we’re talking about—not one of your scummy ex- boyfriends.” With a slight laugh, she added, “Besides, what did you expect me to say? That he is not the only man worth having? That with your pretty face, you will never want admirers?”

That wrung a smile out of me. She was right, of course. She usually is. “Okay, Aunt Winnie, I’ll talk to Peter.” With a hollow laugh, I added, “Right after I clear my name of murder.”

“No, talk to Peter first.”

“Why?”

“Because I suspect it will be the harder of the two tasks.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Seriously, Elizabeth. Do you want me to come down? I could catch an early flight.”

“No, thanks, Aunt Winnie. I’ll be okay.”

“Would it help if I called Detective Stewart and had him get in touch with the police down there? Maybe it would help if he vouched for your character.”

Detective Stewart had led the investigation of the murder at Aunt Winnie’s inn last New Year’s. In the end, I’d helped him solve the case. In the beginning, however, we did nothing but butt heads and I think he was well on his way to developing a facial tic at the sound of my name—similar to how Inspector Dreyfus reacts at the mention of Clouseau. I dreaded to think how he would react if he learned that I’d not only landed in the middle of yet another murder investigation, but was also suspected of tampering with the evidence.

“No,” I said again, this time more firmly. “I don’t think you need to call him. I’ll be fine. I’ll straighten this out and be up by the end of the week. I promise.”

“Okay,” said Aunt Winnie, “if you’re sure. But if you change your mind, let me know.”

“I will.”