Murder at Longbourn

“Ah, yes. That would explain the worm-face remark.”

Averting my face to hide my blush, I saw the reason for Lady Catherine’s nocturnal visit to the dining room. My carefully laid out sideboard was trampled. The cereal canisters lay on their sides, their contents spread out every which way. A mass of pink flowers lay in a pool of water, their stems twisted and broken. I uttered a very unladylike oath. Daniel glanced at me in surprise. “Sorry,” I said, embarrassed. “By-product of four years at an all- girls boarding school.”

“Please, don’t apologize,” he said with a grin. “There’s something a little sexy about a fresh-faced girl with a filthy mouth.”

Unsure how to respond, I instead focused on cleaning up the mess. Daniel stayed and helped. Sometime during the process, Lady Catherine nonchalantly returned. With an incurious glance in our direction, she languidly settled herself in her bed. It was a large wicker basket filled with soft white pillows, embroidered with frolicking mice. Situated underneath the mahogany sideboard, it not only gave Lady Catherine an excellent vantage point of the room but also put her in close proximity to the food.

After we reset everything, Daniel walked me to the door of my room, almost as if it were the end of a date. I thanked him again. “It was my pleasure,” he said with an exaggerated bow.

Once inside my room, the sleep that had eluded me before now overtook me. I quickly changed into my pajamas and gratefully sank into the soft featherbed. As I leaned over to turn out the light, I saw that Aunt Winnie had hung a framed quote of Woody Allen’s over the nightstand: “The lion will lay down with the lamb, but the lamb won’t get much sleep.” Unbidden, Peter’s annoyed face swam before my eyes. The two of us were just not destined to get along, although for Aunt Winnie’s sake, I would try. Refusing to let my last thoughts before sleep center on Peter, I concentrated instead on Daniel. It certainly was nice of him to help me clean up the dining room, I thought sleepily. But just as I was drifting off, I realized Peter had come from upstairs when he heard me scream. So who had been in Aunt Winnie’s office? And why hadn’t whoever it was come, too?

CHAPTER 3

The trouble with trouble is that it always starts out like fun.

—ANONYMOUS

I DO NOT function properly until I’ve had at least two cups of coffee, so the next morning was a bit of a blur. I got up early to help Aunt Winnie with the breakfast, which was a yeoman’s task, given that my bed was warm, the room was chilly, and I had a faint headache. Somehow I forced myself out of the bed, threw on some clothes, and headed downstairs. Hearing movement in the kitchen, and assuming it was Aunt Winnie, I pushed the heavy door open with a greeting that, while not exactly cheerful, was as close as I was going to get at this hour of the morning. To my surprise, it was Peter who stood before me. Whatever his greeting might have been, it caught in his throat at the sight of my feet. I followed his gaze. Brilliant. I was wearing my bunny slippers. I stuck my chin out, silently daring him to say something. “Late night?” he finally choked out.

“Not in the way you think,” I shot back.

“Actually, I have no thoughts on the matter one way or another,” he said. “But, next time you might want to keep it down. This is a B and B, after all, not a frat house.”

“I thought you had no thoughts on the matter,” I said tartly. There was no point in trying to explain that I had been attacked by a crazed cat. Not without coffee, anyway.

Thankfully, Aunt Winnie entered the kitchen, putting a halt to our conversation. Other than a brief hello to Peter and a casual “Nice slippers, babe,” to me, nothing much more was said by any of us until I heard Peter humming “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.” I retaliated by humming “If I Only Had a Brain.” Finally, Aunt Winnie had enough of our dueling and began belting out the lyrics to Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train.”

After that we all worked quickly, getting the simple breakfast of coffee, banana-nut muffins, and sliced melon and strawberries ready. At some point, Lady Catherine wandered in, no doubt lured by the smell of food. By tacit agreement, I ignored her and she me. Instead, she wound her furry little body sinuously around Aunt Winnie’s ankles and purred like a locomotive.

Aunt Winnie loaded the first breakfast tray and, deftly pushing the door ajar with her foot, breezed through the open doorway with it. Minutes later, with slightly less flourish, I followed her out with my own tray. As I passed into the dining room, I heard Joan and Henry talking, their voices low.

“There’s nothing to worry about. It’ll be fine,” Henry soothed.

“But what if something goes wrong?”

“It won’t.”

“I hope so. I just can’t wait until it’s over,” she replied, her voice anxious. They stopped talking when they saw me and resumed eating. Henry made faint grunts of appreciation as he ate. I pretended that I hadn’t heard their conversation, much less Henry’s enthusiasm for his breakfast. I had made a ruckus the night before, and now I was padding around in tattered pink bunny slippers. I didn’t want to add “eavesdropper” to my list of bizarre behavior.

The rest of the morning went relatively quickly. After clearing the breakfast dishes, we made up the guests’ beds and cleaned the bathrooms. I had time for a quick shower before helping Aunt Winnie with the dinner preparations. Due to my pitiful cooking skills, I was assigned the simple tasks of chopping the vegetables and herbs. Aunt Winnie handled the trickier items, like the Gorgonzola sauce for the filets, and the dessert—her specialty— chocolate ganache cake.

The faint headache I had had earlier was now threatening to become a full-blown migraine. I didn’t need to look out the window to know that the weather must be bad; that’s the only time I get these kinds of headaches. Even so, I was still surprised at the bleak intensity of the sky when I finally stole a moment and went out into the back garden. Dark, heavy clouds hung low in the air, blocking out all but the smallest amount of light. A storm was definitely on the horizon, I thought, as I pulled my coat tightly around me and headed across the yard.

The lawn stretched out ahead of me, a thin layer of ice covering the brown grass. To the right and left of me, enormous rosebushes, their tan branches now bare, formed a spiky border. In the distance, I could see the rough blue-green waters of Nantucket Sound churning and roiling underneath white hats of foam. Off to one side stood a majestic and immense maple tree, under which sat a tall bird feeder, a white metal table, a bench, and several tall-backed chairs. This arrangement may have made for a charming spot in the summer, but in the dead of winter, it was terribly forlorn. Walking closer, I saw Joan Anderson hunched in one of the chairs, staring out at the ocean with tears streaming down her face. Not wanting to intrude, I stepped back, snapping a branch. She raised her head at the sound and immediately wiped her face. “Are you okay?” I asked, before realizing the absurdity of my question. Of course she wasn’t. She was sitting in the cold, alone, and crying. “I’m sorry,” I continued. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I turned to leave.

“No, please. Don’t go. I’m just being maudlin. Would you like to sit down?” She gestured to the bench.

I sat down awkwardly, not knowing what to say. Luckily, Joan was more in need of someone to talk to rather than someone to console her. “I don’t know what came over me,” she said. “I didn’t intend to come out here and start sobbing like this. But after a few minutes, the tears just started.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I was just thinking that the atmosphere was a little gloomy myself.”

“Maybe so,” she said with a half smile. “But being here again after so many years has brought back a lot of memories. I grew up near here, but everyone I knew has either died or moved away. That’s what I did—I moved to New York and started Miss Baxter’s Things of Yore. That’s how I met Henry, actually. He’d just inherited his business from his uncle. He was selling and I was buying.” She paused. “It’s funny. I never thought I’d marry. I was quite prepared to live out my life alone. I wasn’t some romantic waiting for my white knight, but Henry and I work well together.” She nodded to confirm this thought. A second later, her face clouded over again. “The truth is, this time of year is always hard for me. My sister died a few weeks before Christmas.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “We were so close. Our parents died when I was seventeen, you see, and … God, Vicky was so strong, even then. She was only a few years older than me, but she just stepped in and took over. I would have completely fallen apart if it hadn’t been for her. She made sure I went to college and had everything I needed. I adored her. And then one night coming home, she … she had an accident and …” She broke off. Throughout her painful narrative, Joan angrily