Murder at Longbourn

“No, but I’m glad you’re here. It’s all been so awful and I had no Bridget to comfort me.”

“Back to the P&P references, I see.”

“Well, let’s be honest, I’m never actually that far away from them.”

“Elizabeth, you know I love you and I’d do just about anything for you, but I have to say, I think you’re too susceptible to fictional images. You forget they’re just that—fiction.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, first you were set on finding Jake Ryan. Then it was Lloyd Dobler. Now you’re looking for Mr. Darcy. Nothing good can come of it.”

“I’m not sure you can compare movie heroes with literary ones. They’re different somehow. Actors are …” I paused, searching for the right phrase. Finding it, I continued, “Actors are all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air.”

“That’s not my point and you know it. And stop quoting Shakespeare at me. Who does that, anyway? You know, that actually may be part of your problem. You attract a certain type when you do that.”

I laughed. “A certain type? What type would that be? Well-read?”

“No, pretentious assholes. Which, now that I think about it, is a perfect description of your last three boyfriends. In any case, my point is that Mr. Darcy is an unattainable ideal, and in the meantime you’re missing out on decent guys. Let me explain it in terms you’ll understand. Remember Marianne in Sense and Sensibility? She almost missed Colonel Brandon because of Willoughby.”

“If I’m not mistaken, Colonel Brandon is also fictional.”

“You know what I mean!”

“This is about Peter, isn’t it?”

“I just don’t see why you’re so set against him.”

“You would if you knew him. Peter is not Colonel Brandon. Peter is more like Tom from Mansfield Park—self-indulgent and thoughtless.”

“True, but Tom becomes ill in the end and redeems himself.”

“Okay, how about this? The minute Peter falls gravely ill, I’ll forgive him.”

“You can’t mean that!” Bridget turned to me, scandalized.

“No, of course not. I’d just rather not talk about this right now. And anyway, we’re here.”

We pulled up in front of Lauren’s house. Linnet’s Jaguar was the only car in the driveway so I assumed no one was at home. I got out and made my way to the car. As Linnet had said, there was a spare key in the car’s glove box. I climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. “Follow me,” I called out to Bridget. “It’s just down the road.”

As I drove, I heard a faint beeping noise. It seemed to be coming from under the driver’s seat. Once in Linnet’s driveway, I parked the car and leaned down to peer underneath the seat. A cell phone—no doubt the one Linnet had lost—lay there. I pulled it out and flipped it open. The readout indicated a new message. My heart skipped a beat when I saw that it was from Jackie. With shaking hands, I opened the text message, not caring that I was reading someone else’s mail. The message ran: “Linney, I’m going to see Dt. Stewart. I figured it out. It was Lauren!”

The words swam before my eyes and I was only dimly aware of Bridget calling my name. I looked up, dazed, my head spinning.

“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No, just a message from one.”

“Huh?”

I handed her the phone. Her eyes grew wide as she read. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, that about sums it up. I guess I should call Detective Stewart. Somehow I doubt he’s going to be happy to hear from me.”

“Who cares? He’ll just be happy that the case is solved.”

“I guess.” I pulled out my phone and called Detective Stewart. As predicted, he did not sound happy to hear from me. However, his tone changed considerably when I told him of my discovery.

Two hours later, I was back at Longbourn, sitting in the reading room. Based on my discovery, Lauren had been summarily brought down to the station. A search of her house had turned up a vial of ground foxglove. It didn’t seem likely that she’d be leaving for Bermuda anytime soon. Around me the mood was celebratory. Aunt Winnie had been cleared and the inn was safe. I still wasn’t happy with Peter, but at least he would no longer be buying the inn.

While I was glad for Aunt Winnie, my mind couldn’t wrap itself around the fact that Lauren was the killer. Granted, I had initially wondered about her because she had married Gerald for his money and was no doubt relieved to be rid of him, but a murderer? The more I thought about it, the less it made sense. I kept my thoughts to myself, however. Lately I had had such lousy judgment where people were concerned that it was probably an indication of Lauren’s guilt that I didn’t think she was guilty.

I slept badly that night. My mind kept probing at the question of Lauren and at my own dissatisfaction with it. Was I nothing more than a modern-day Don Quixote, titling at nonexistent windmills? By morning, my brain was a foggy jumble. After two cups of hot coffee, I was no better. I needed fresh air and exercise. I went upstairs, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and threw on my jeans and a sweatshirt. After glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I added the new earrings I’d gotten on my shopping spree. I don’t know why, but the soft jangling noise they made and their bright colors cheered me. Should I run into any of Aunt Winnie’s friends, I could at least hold my head up with the knowledge that while my outfit was sloppy, at least my accessories were nice.

Downstairs, Peter was waiting for me in the foyer.

“What do you want?” I said, as I yanked my coat out of the closet.

“I want to talk to you,” he said. “I didn’t take advantage of Aunt Winnie. I was trying to help her!”

“If that was the case, then why all the secrecy? Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning?”

“Because Aunt Winnie asked me not to. She wanted to be the one who told people. It is her inn.”

“Yeah. Thank God that hasn’t changed,” I said. Peter’s face fell. I knew that I wasn’t being fair. But I had been angry. I was angry that Jackie was dead and Linnet had been in the hospital. I was angry that Peter and Aunt Winnie had been right about Daniel using me. “I’ve got to go,” I muttered. “We can talk about this later.” I didn’t wait for his response. Jamming my arms into my coat, I left, slamming the door behind me.

I tried to reconcile Jackie’s text message to Linnet with the facts as I knew them. I couldn’t. I tried to visualize Lauren slipping on the glove and shooting Gerald. I couldn’t do that either. And then there was the lie I’d heard told to Detective Stewart. What was the reason for it? A niggling in my brain told me that I was missing something. I drove to the beach. I walked along the hard sand, my head bent low against the wind. I pulled out my gloves from my coat pocket and slipped them on. And then it came to me. I had seen Lauren write out a number for her friend with her left hand. Like most blondes, Lauren was a southpaw. The glove found at the murder scene was for a right hand. Someone had tried to frame Lauren! But who? Lauren might be annoying and vapid, and she had clearly never loved Gerald, but it took a special kind of hate to frame someone for murder. Slowly a fantastic idea took form in my brain. I froze in my tracks, thinking about Lauren. There was someone, after all, who might have hated Lauren, someone who would derive satisfaction at seeing her in jail. But that would mean …

My mind raced with the events of the last few days, replaying scenes in my head. Of course! I had been looking at everything upside down. Once the pieces fell into place, it all made sense. However, my only proof lay in the details of a lost love and a seemingly white lie told to Detective Stewart. Could I even get Detective Stewart to listen to me? I knew better than to try. I needed more evidence, evidence I would simply have to get myself.

I raced back to my car, left a message for Aunt Winnie as to where I was going, and drove to the Linnet’s house. Thankfully, no one was home. Now that I was here, though, the question of how exactly I was going to get in presented itself. Smashing a window would no doubt set off an alarm. I peeked under the doormat in the faint hope that I’d find a key. There was none. I dragged my hands through my hair in frustration. I simply had to get in. Without the evidence, Detective Stewart would never listen to me.

I ran around the side of the house, all the while petrified that I’d be spotted by the neighbors. Despite the cold, a clammy sweat broke out on my neck and back, and I realized I could never lead a life of crime. Not due to