for doing away with Gerald. He’d get the girl and the money. I realized Aunt Winnie was watching me carefully. “Are you okay?” she asked gently. “I know you like him.”
I blushed. As I said, my mother always warned me to never play poker. “I’m fine.” I resolutely popped the muffins out of the tray and onto a blue ceramic platter. “Although I must admit, it threw me when Detective Stewart asked me not to leave town.” Attempting to make light of the situation, I added, “And as he didn’t try to tempt me by promising a ride in the barouche box, I don’t think it was a compliment.”
Aunt Winnie only responded with a grim smile.
“My only concern,” I continued, “is that the police find out the truth. But no matter who it turns out to be, it won’t be pleasant.”
“I agree,” said Aunt Winnie. “And this must be cleared up as soon as possible. Gerald Ramsey was a disagreeable—maybe even horrible—man, but he did not deserve to be shot down like a dog. I’m not going to lie and say I’m going to miss the man. In fact, I suspect that several lives will be all the happier because of his passing. But the sooner his murderer is discovered, the sooner the rest of us can get on with our lives.”
Realization dawned. “Is that why the sudden urge to cook for Lauren and Polly?” I asked. “Are you hoping to learn something from them when you drop off all this food?”
Aunt Winnie shrugged but did not deny the charge. “I do want to help them out. I’m not that coldhearted. I’m truly fond of them both. If they had nothing to do with this, then they must be in hell this morning. But if they did have something to do with it … well, let’s just say I’m more than a little curious to see how they are coping. I don’t think either of them had a particularly happy life with Gerald.”
“Aunt Winnie! What are you saying? Do you honestly believe that by taking up all this food you’re going to hear one of them slip and admit that she shot Gerald? That’s crazy!”
“Don’t be absurd! I’m not expecting a confession. I just want to see for myself how they’re doing.”
I had seen that dogged expression on her face before, and I knew that it was no use trying to convince her otherwise. “Fine,” I said reluctantly, “but I’m going with you. I’m not letting you play detective by yourself. It’s too dangerous. You could get hurt.”
“Someone already did get hurt. And in my dining room!” she said, as if the killer owed her a separate apology for that. She took out her frustration on the stew, stirring it vigorously with her wooden spoon. “I only want to talk to them. It’s probably a long shot, but I’ll do anything that might speed up the investigation. Because, let’s face it, we don’t know if this murder is an isolated event or the work of a deranged killer. Everyone assumes that it must be solely directed at Gerald because he was so odious. But until they catch whoever did this, we just don’t know.”
Her words had a chilling effect. The same thoughts had been lurking in my head, but to hear them spoken out loud gave them a frightening reality.
“And besides,” she added, trying to lighten the mood, “until the killer is found, people may drive by and gawk at Longbourn, but no one will want to stay here. I’ve worked too hard on this place to let it slip away now. I wasn’t going to let Gerald Ramsey take Longbourn from me when he was alive. I’m sure as hell not going to lose it now that he’s dead.”
I was glad Detective Stewart wasn’t here to see the combination of Aunt Winnie’s words and the steely determination in her eyes. He might get terrible ideas.
Leaving Aunt Winnie to finish up in the kitchen, I headed for the reading room to set up the breakfast items. Even if the police hadn’t sealed off the dining room, I doubted if anyone would want to eat breakfast, or any other meal, there anytime soon.
The room was as I had left it last night—the chairs and tables still set up for an interrogation. Maybe because of the stressful exchange I had had there with Detective Stewart, the whole ambience of the room seemed to have changed. It was no longer the cheerful retreat it had been two days ago. Instead it struck me as a cold and uneasy place. A chill seemed to permeate the room, although whether this was due to the temperature outside or the events of last night I didn’t know. Nevertheless, I lit a fire in the fireplace. A few minutes later, pale orange and yellow flames leaped and crackled in the hearth. I quickly pushed the furniture back into its original position and set up the breakfast dishes. But as I surveyed the results of my work, I realized that it wasn’t just the position of the chairs that had altered the mood of the room. It was as Aunt Winnie had said. A murder had taken place at Longbourn. And until the murderer was caught, it was going to change the way people felt about the inn.
Stepping out into the foyer, I saw that Lady Catherine had taken up her usual position on the green brocade chair, her blue eyes languidly surveying the room. In them, the pulsating lights from the Christmas tree were reflected. That effect, combined with her already peevish expression, made the ambience of the reading room seem downright cozy.
Lady Catherine heard the footfalls on the stairs before I did. Following her laserlike stare, I saw Peter coming down. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt and faded jeans. His thick brown hair was slightly damp where it curled around his neck. In short, he looked well rested and showered—two adjectives that most certainly did not describe me. Staring at me with some surprise, he asked, “What are you doing up so early?” He pointed to my feet and added, “No bunny slippers this morning?”
“I got up early to help Aunt Winnie with the breakfast,” I replied curtly, putting extra emphasis on the word
Peter coughed. “If you are insinuating that I am a lazy ingrate because I did not help with the breakfast, may I direct your attention to the driveway. The
As directed, I looked out the window to see a freshly shoveled driveway. And now that I noticed it, it was ridiculously long. Feeling petty and foolish, I turned back to apologize but Peter held up his hand to stop me. “And may I just add,” he continued, “that the reason I was surprised to see you up so early is that I know that you were up late with that detective. Aunt Winnie and I were hoping that you’d sleep in a bit. She mentioned that when you don’t get enough sleep, you have a tendency to get … cranky.” He paused to cock his eyebrow at me. “Seriously, though, how did your interview with the detective go?”
“Not very well,” I mumbled, remembering my various outbursts.
“I had a feeling,” Peter replied dryly. Turning to him for an explanation, he went on. “He was here this morning. He asked me a few questions about you. He said you were a spitfire.” Peter paused and folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t think he meant it as a compliment.”
“I can assure you he didn’t.” I was embarrassed that my temper had once again gotten the better of me. “He asked me not to leave town.”
“Well, don’t let that get you down,” said Peter. “He asked the same of me.”
The rest of what Detective Stewart said came back to me as well, especially his suspicions about Aunt Winnie. “Peter,” I said impulsively, “I think that the police suspect Aunt Winnie.”
His dark brows knitted together in concern. “Really? Why?”
“Because of some things Detective Stewart said to me last night. Apparently, someone told him that Gerald still wanted to buy the inn and that he was harassing her through the zoning board. And now Detective Stewart has it in his head that Gerald actually threatened Aunt Winnie. It looks bad for her—after all, she was the one who turned off the lights. And what if they find out about that time with her friend’s husband? If you didn’t know the whole story …” I began.
“… it could look pretty bad,” Peter finished. He thought for a moment. “So you think the police suspect Aunt Winnie of killing Gerald just so she can keep the inn?”
“Something like that. Do you think I should tell her?”
Confusion registered in Peter’s brown eyes. “I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you tell her?”
Last night, I could have listed at least eight reasons why I shouldn’t tell her the police’s suspicions. In the light of day, after a cup of hot coffee, I couldn’t think of a single one.
“You’re right,” I finally said. “I’ll tell her. There’s no reason not to.”
“She’s a smart woman, Elizabeth. I’m sure she can handle the likes of Detective Stewart.”
“I know. I guess I wasn’t thinking clearly.” I smiled at him. “Thanks, Peter. I’ve got to run and take a shower. See you later.”
“Right,” said Peter. “I’ll go see if Winnie needs any help.”
As I walked up the staircase, I was sure that Peter was right. There was nothing to worry about. Aunt Winnie
