for practice. Even my teeth hurt. I felt like Gregor Samsa on the morning of his transformation, but without all the underlying symbolism.
Concentrating on keeping my head from rolling off my neck, I eased out of bed and observed myself in the mirror. The reflection staring back was reminiscent of a carnival fun-house mirror—puffy face, slits for eyes, and a slumped and twisted body. But that was nothing compared to my hair, which was at once depressing and mildly hysterical.
A hot shower and shampoo helped. Some. If nothing else, I’m sure I smelled better. As I gingerly made my way down the stairs, Lady Catherine pounced at my ankles, her claws drawn. I stumbled but managed to grab the banister before I fell headlong down the stairs. My temper flared and I pulled my leg back to deliver a well-deserved kick to Lady Catherine’s hindquarters when a movement in the foyer caught my attention. Sitting in the green brocade chair usually favored by Lady Catherine was an armed police officer. He appeared more like a kid selling high school raffle tickets than a civil servant bent on protecting the peace. His boyish face looked as if it had only recently needed shaving, and his arms and legs had that gangly, not-quite-grown look. His eyes and Adam’s apple bulged alarmingly. But apparently he had been able to evict Lady Catherine from her favorite chair with no visible scars, so he clearly had some professional training in hand-to-hand combat.
Seeing me, he gravely nodded his head and said, “Good morning, Ms. Parker.” Unthinkingly, I nodded back at him. New waves of pain shot into the base of my skull, rendering me speechless. I was surprised that my face was known by the local police department—not exactly the fifteen minutes of fame I was shooting for in life.
“Were you about to kick that cat?” he asked.
Great. In addition to whatever else my reputation was at the station, low-life cat abuser would now be added. Shit. “I, um … well,” I stuttered. My mind was a blank. I was way too hungover to produce a convincing lie. I gave up. “Yes. Yes, I was. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize on my account,” he said, distastefully eyeing Lady Catherine. “Damn thing has already bitten me twice.” He glanced almost longingly at the gun in his holster. “Too bad someone didn’t put reflective tape on
While I could sympathize with the sentiment, it didn’t seem in my best interest to outwardly agree. For all I knew, this could be one of those psychological tests used to evaluate suspects. I could almost hear the horrified gasp from the jury as the court testimony was read:
“Yeah, well, I think I’m going to see where my aunt is,” I said, moving back down the hall. I left him glaring at Lady Catherine, his hand on his gun. Lady Catherine sat poised on the rug, unconcerned, her tail twitching rhythmically.
Pausing at the kitchen door, I could hear Aunt Winnie and Peter on the other side. My cheeks burned hot at the memory of my behavior last night, but I couldn’t put off the inevitable. I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The smell of fresh banana muffins was almost my undoing, but I pressed on. Peter clasped his hands together as if in prayer and sang out, “It’s a miracle! Lazarus! Back from the dead!”
“Shut up, Peter,” I mumbled, although, truth be told, it was nothing less than I would have done had the situation been reversed. I might not have yelled it quite so loudly, though. Hoping to change the subject, I said, “Why is there an armed guard in the foyer?”
“Detective Stewart has decided that from now on we are to have twenty-four-hour police protection. Although surveillance might be a more accurate term,” said Aunt Winnie. Holding out a mug of coffee for me, she asked, “Can I get you anything else?” My stomach lurched, but I took the mug. It was black. In simple white letters it read, THERE’S GOT TO BE A MORNING AFTER.
“Yes,” said Peter. “Want some breakfast? I could make you up a big plate of runny eggs if you’d like.”
For a brief moment, the contents of my stomach hung in the balance. I swallowed hard and carefully shook my head. Peter chuckled. Aunt Winnie elbowed him and said, “Enough, Peter. How are you feeling, honey?”
“About how I deserve. I’m really sorry about last night, Aunt Winnie. I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Elizabeth. Given the day you had, it’s no wonder that you—”
“Got blind stinking drunk and fell out of a chair,” Peter finished helpfully.
“That’s enough, Peter,” said Aunt Winnie.
“No, it’s okay,” I said. “Besides, he’s right. If nothing else, I’ve learned my lesson. Is there anything I can help with this morning?”
“No,” said Aunt Winnie. “Peter and I have it under control. Why don’t you go upstairs and get ready for the funeral? We should leave here soon. Randy is going with us.”
An image of Randy, his kindly bespectacled face, swam before me. I cringed inwardly. Had I really let myself suspect him of killing Gerald and Jackie last night? I felt a fool. I nodded in slow motion to Aunt Winnie and left. I felt awful for not helping, but I knew that if I didn’t get away from the smell of those muffins, very bad things involving my stomach were bound to occur.
I got ready as quickly as my pounding head would allow—which is to say, not very fast. Well, I thought with a sigh, maybe this was one time when pasty skin and bloodshot eyes were suitable; I certainly looked funereal. As I checked my reflection in the mirror one last time, I realized I was wearing the same outfit I’d worn the night Gerald had been murdered. My last thought as I left the room was that I hoped it wasn’t an omen. How ironic that thought turned out to be.
The church was a large, graceful structure located in the heart of downtown. We silently walked up the wide marble steps. I was surprised to see that the long wooden pews were filled to capacity. Randy went in first, to little notice. It was when Aunt Winnie stepped into the vestibule that several heads turned our way. Seconds later the church vibrated with the soft buzz of voices passing along the news of our arrival. More heads turned. Aunt Winnie smiled and nodded politely to those who turned to gawk at us, but her jaw was clenched. Finally, Peter spotted space for the four of us in one of the pews near the back and herded us in. Once we were settled, I leaned over to Aunt Winnie and said, “I’m surprised to see so many people here. I didn’t think that Gerald was this popular.”
“He wasn’t,” said Aunt Winnie, as she read the service program. “I suspect most are here just to make sure he’s really dead.”
She had a point. In my short time in town, I had not heard one person say anything nice about the man. He seemed to be universally hated or feared. In the front pew sat Polly, Lauren, and Daniel. Several rows behind them were Lily and Pansy. Farther back still sat Joan, Henry, and Linnet. Why had they come?
As the priest droned on, struggling to say something respectful about Gerald’s life, I felt as if I were in the midst of a play. Everyone’s dress and movements, while perfectly appropriate, were nothing more than costume and stagecraft. The thought brought a melancholy pang. How sad to go through life with no one loving you. Had that really been the case for Gerald? Had he really been so miserable that his own family felt no sorrow at his death? Then I remembered Lily’s—or was it Pansy’s?—words: If you were going to murder someone in this town, it would be Gerald. Kneeling in my pew, I said a sincere prayer, not so much for Gerald but for his family.
After the service and burial, there was a reception at Lauren’s. Like the service, it was well attended, and again for the same reason, I thought: rabid curiosity. People milled about, eating the food, drinking the wine, and making quiet observations about who had killed their absent host. Lily and Pansy chatted in rapid succession with several other ladies, their excited whispers leaving little room for doubt as to the topic of their conversation. Henry and Joan circled with a professional eye, and Henry commented several times on the similarity of this room to one of Mrs. Dubois’s smaller guesthouses.
I also spotted Brooke, the salesclerk, standing with Polly and several of their friends. They stood awkwardly, shifting their drinks and plates of food, all the while eyeing Polly sympathetically. Polly noticed me. She gave a little wave and maneuvered her way through the crowd.
“Hello,” she said. Gone was the demure and modestly dressed girl whose comings and goings Gerald Ramsey had dictated. In her place stood a confident and self-assured young woman. Her black velvet dress still covered every inch of her body, but in a way that accentuated those inches. I had never noticed before—I doubt anyone had under all those shapeless dresses—that Polly had a stunning figure. She was alternately small and large in all the right places. The headband was gone, too. Her black hair was pulled into a tight bun, further accentuating her exotically shaped eyes. She couldn’t have made it any clearer that she wasn’t living by Gerald’s rules anymore. Polly was now her own woman.
She smiled politely at Peter and Randy before turning to Aunt Winnie. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I heard about Ms. Tanner. I’m sorry that she’s dead. She seemed a nice woman.” Her unblinking slanted green eyes
