Murder at Longbourn

impression that it was fighting to break free. Her gray eyes widened in surprise at seeing us. “Oh, Ms. Reynolds,” she said quickly. “I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t get a signal on my cell, so I used your phone. Just a local call, though.” She peered anxiously at us from behind thin wire-framed glasses.

Aunt Winnie waved away her apologies and made the introductions. “Elizabeth, this is Joan Anderson. She and her husband, Henry, are also guests at the inn for New Year’s. Joan, this is my grandniece, Elizabeth.”

Joan chatted pleasantly with us for a few moments, telling us how much she and her husband liked the inn and how they were looking forward to tomorrow night’s show. Almost on cue, a tall, heavyset man with receding brown hair walked down the stairs. There was a formal air to his demeanor that was at odds with Joan’s easiness. Seeing us, he made his way over. Joan quickly introduced me.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Henry said. He enveloped my hand with both of his, in a firm, albeit clammy, grip. “Joan and I are quite impressed with your aunt’s inn, especially the decor.” Turning to Aunt Winnie, he said, “You have some very nice pieces here, Ms. Reynolds. Really, it’s quite above your average B and B.” With a glance in my direction, he added, “I don’t know if Joan told you, but we own an antiques business in New York called Old Things—perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“I don’t think I have …”

“Well, surely you’ve heard of Mrs. Kristell Dubois,” he said, his voice deepening almost reverently. “The widow of Marshall Dubois? She is New York’s most generous patron of the arts. I was able to find her a rare first edition of Fordyce’s Sermons and she was most grateful. As a result we were lucky enough to secure her as a client—she is very particular. Although she has become much more than just a client. She’s almost a benefactress. Her generosity is endless. We have been invited—twice—to her estate on Martha’s Vineyard, and her improvements to our humble store have been most invaluable.”

Henry paused, turning to Joan so that she could add her own praise. She haltingly added, “She has been a very conscientious client.” Henry waited impressively for my response, and I was forced once again to admit my ignorance. The glowing light in his eyes was quickly replaced by faint disapproval.

“I doubt if Mrs. Dubois’s reputation extends beyond New York, Henry,” Joan said timidly.

“Yes, well, perhaps,” Henry admitted reluctantly. Then brightening, he added, “Mrs. Dubois introduced Joan and me to bridge recently and I must say we’re hooked. We’re hoping to get a foursome together this weekend—do you play? If not, I’d be happy to teach you and further acquaint you with Mrs. Dubois’s excellent work.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, “but I’m afraid I’m not very good at cards. I was actually hoping to catch up on some reading this weekend. But I appreciate the offer.”

Henry received my excuse with obvious incredulity, finally murmuring, “I see. Well, in any case, we shouldn’t keep you. I’m sure you have much to prepare for.” Turning to his wife, he added, “Joan, have you seen my watch? I can’t find it anywhere.”

“Really, Henry. You’ve got to get that clasp fixed. That’s the third time this week you’ve lost it. It’s probably in the room somewhere. Come on, I’ll help you find it.”

“You prefer reading to cards?” Aunt Winnie whispered with mock disdain once they moved out of earshot. “That is rather singular.”

I smirked. “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure. I just suspect that tales of Mrs. Kristell Dubois are one of those delights of which a little goes a long way. Which brings me to my next point—who is she, anyway?”

“Weren’t you listening, silly? She’s one of New York’s most generous patrons. And I may have this all wrong, but I think Mrs. Dubois frequents his shop.”

I giggled. “Well, she could not have bestowed this honor on a more grateful recipient.”

Aunt Winnie grimaced. “You have no idea how grateful. But by tomorrow I suspect you will. In fact, by tomorrow I suspect we’ll all wish that it’s Mrs. Kristell Dubois who gets knocked off during the show.”

“Speaking of the show, what exactly is the plan?”

“Grab your bag and I’ll tell you as I show you your room.” She preceded me up a steep, curving staircase. “Cocktails start at eight and dinner is at nine. The actors will pose as guests and mingle with everyone else. Sometime during the evening, the ‘murder’ takes place. Our guests then try to solve it with the help of the actors. Once we have a solution, we’ll have some dancing and then ring in the New Year.”

“Sounds fun.” I puffed as I lugged my increasingly heavy suitcase up the maple-stained stairs. I mentally added “working out more” to my ever-growing list of resolutions, even though the “more” part was technically a lie. I also added, “stop lying to self.” We finally reached the top landing. Gleaming white bead board ran along the lower half of the hallway walls. The upper half was painted a misty blue. Aunt Winnie flung open a white paneled door to the left of the stairs.

“This is you,” she said, as she gave the room a final once-over. “There are ten bedrooms. They are all pretty much the same, although I think this is the nicest.” I had to smile my thanks. I was sadly out of breath. The room’s furnishings were simple but inviting—a large gray-and-white braided rug, a tall wooden bureau, a wingback chair upholstered in a pattern of faded pink and green cabbage roses, a standing floor mirror, and an antique nightstand. The only luxurious item was the large mahogany four-poster bed, its white down comforter floating like a soft layer of meringue.

“What a lovely room!” I cried. “It’s perfect!” As Aunt Winnie peered at her reflection in the mirror, patting an errant curl into place, I opened the closet to hang up my coat. Teasingly, I stood back and said, “What? No shelves in the closet? I’m all astonishment!” Laughing, Aunt Winnie turned away from the mirror. “Don’t be a smart-ass. But I am glad you like it. And thanks again for coming, sweetheart.” She gave me a quick hug. “I really appreciate it. Now, why don’t you freshen up and meet me in the dining room in about half an hour? On Friday nights, some of the locals come in for a drink. It’s our version of happy hour. You can meet everyone … and see Peter again.” Giving me a wink, she moved out into the hall, shutting the heavy door behind her.

I sank into the wingback chair and frowned at the cabbage roses. What had I gotten myself into? I loved Aunt Winnie and wanted to help her with the weekend, but I wondered if I’d made a mistake in coming. The last thing my battered ego needed was Peter McGowan. Repeatedly telling myself that I was a mature woman now, not some insecure kid, seemed to be of little avail.

I added new resolutions for the weekend and repeated them over and over as a mantra:

• I will have inner poise.

• I will not let Peter McGowan get under my skin.

• I will not allow myself to be locked in a dark basement.

• I will have a calm and relaxing New Year’s.

I couldn’t have been more off the mark if I had tried.

CHAPTER 2

For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors,

and laugh at them in our turn?

—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

WHAT I WANT to know is, who is he exactly? Lauren says he’s an old friend of the family, but then why is he staying here and not with them? No, there’s something fishy going on there. I may be old-fashioned, but you just can’t discount appearances.” This from an elderly woman wearing an enormous maroon velvet hat liberally festooned with silk flowers. A large yellow mum near the top quivered in delighted disapproval.

Beside me, Joan Anderson leaned forward, her glasses slipping down her nose. “What is she like, anyway? I’ve never seen her.”

The couple at the center of this speculation was Lauren Ramsey and Daniel Simms. She was the wife of wealthy local, Gerald Ramsey; he, the purported old family friend. Daniel’s unexpected visit had apparently provided hours of conjecture for the town’s avid gossips, the undisputed leader being the woman in the velvet hat, Miss Jacqueline Tanner, known as Jackie.

“Oh, she’s pretty, in a kind of obvious way, you know, blond, perpetually tan. She tends to keep to herself.”