Murder Most Persuasive

the movie. A lot.)

Now, while I’ve been known to quote my fair share of Jane Austen, I maintain that it is an entirely different habit. Muttering “Capital! Capital!” is one thing. Randomly calling out “Fiddle-dee-dee!” is quite another.

At Bonnie’s insistence, Uncle Marty’s burial flag had accompanied us to the restaurant. Tightly clutching the flag to her chest, Bonnie had advanced on the poor hostess and mournfully (and rather loudly) announced, “My husband is dead. May I have some lunch?” Hostesses in D.C., especially those in such close proximity to the Capitol, have seen their fair share of the odd and have as such developed a certain immunity to it. However, based on the way ours took a sudden step back and seemed incapable of speech, I think Bonnie managed to penetrate that professional façade.

The flag now sat propped up in a chair next to hers. Not just any chair, mind you, but the chair at the head of the table. From time to time, Bonnie would glance at the flag and then quickly press the hankie to her quivering mouth. Like now.

Next to her, Frances, who at age thirty-five is the second eldest of Bonnie’s stepchildren, gave a loud sigh of exasperation. Frances is something of the family expert on sighs of exasperation. Over the years, she’s cultivated it into its present deep, melancholy, breathy sound. Hearing it, a stranger might legitimately expect to find that it originated from a kind of modern-day Marilyn Monroe rather than a dowdy plump woman with a penchant for tweed.

“Bonnie,” Frances said, running her fingers through her short nut-brown hair, “Father had been ill for years. His passing is a blessing, really. He’s in a better place now.”

Bonnie lowered her black hankie and peered in astonishment at Frances. “A better place?” she echoed, her chin wobbling. “A better place? How can you say that?” With an accusatory gesture at the flag, she added, “He’s in a coffin!”

Frances blanched at this blunt, although apt, description of her father’s whereabouts. Pursing her lips and studiously not looking at the flag, she tried again. “What I meant is that he’s no longer in pain. He’s at peace.” Frances’s voice held the steely intonation that adults often use with petulant children, not that I ever heard Frances use it on her own kids. Steely intonations have no effect on Frances’s twin boys. Referred to by the rest of the family as Thing One and Thing Two, they respond only to threats and bribes. It is only a matter of time before stun guns are employed.

Bonnie gave a loud sniff and raised the hankie back up to her eyes. “Well, he may be at peace, but I’m certainly not,” she moaned from behind the black veil.

Frances threw up her hands in defeat and looked beseechingly around the table at the rest of us. Her gaze settled on her younger sister, Ann. Catching her sister’s eye, she jerked her head toward Bonnie’s slumped form and hissed, “Do something!”

“Like what?” came Ann’s frustrated reply.

Hearing the exchange, Bonnie peeked up again from her soggy hankie. “Annabel, were you saying something?”

Ann (aka Annabel) is the youngest of the Reynolds siblings. In my opinion, she couldn’t look more unlike her name. To me, the name Annabel conjures up an image of a curvy figure with masses of wavy, golden hair and a coy smile. Ann is none of those things. She’s trim, with short auburn hair and a direct, intelligent gaze. Ann obviously felt the same about her given name and long ago opted to shorten it to Ann. It was far more suitable, and in fact, no one ever called her anything but that.

No one, that is, except Bonnie. At the sound of her given name, Ann winced slightly, the faint lines of exhaustion around her large hazel eyes making her look older than her thirty years.

“Bonnie,” Ann said, shifting her body to face her stepmother, “I know this is a hard time for you. It’s hard for all of us. But we need to be strong. Father would want us to celebrate his life rather than cry at his passing.”

A watery blue eye peered over the hankie. “Celebrate?” Bonnie asked.

“Yes.” Ann nodded. “We should concentrate on all the good times.”

I applauded Ann’s efforts, but the sad fact was that Martin Reynolds had been a dyed-in-the-wool workaholic. If we were to celebrate all his good times, we would either have to hold the party in his opulent board room or down at the bank. However, the idea appealed to Bonnie and she cautiously lowered the hankie.

“Do you really think Martin would want that?” she asked dubiously, glancing at the flag as if for confirmation.

No doubt glad that the hankie had finally been cast aside, Ann nodded her head. Across the table, Frances added, “I’m sure of it.”

“What do you think, Reggie?” Bonnie asked, turning to her oldest stepdaughter.

Regina “Reggie” Ames, née Marshall, née Stewart, née Reynolds, lowered her martini glass and studied her stepmother with undisguised scorn. At thirty-seven, Reggie ran one of D.C.’s more popular wedding planner services, services that she herself has used quite frequently. She’s now, as she puts it, unaffiliated with a husband—hers or anyone else’s. But by no means is she through with the institution. Reggie attracts men the way butter pecan ice cream attracts me. She’s one of those women who are better-looking today than they were at twenty-one—and at twenty-one she was gorgeous. She’s slim, toned, and still has all the right curves. Some of my closest friends still refuse to believe we’re related. In fact, if we weren’t related, I’d probably hate her. If I’m completely honest with myself, there likely would be a voodoo doll involved.

“What do I think about what?” Reggie asked.

“About having a party for your father,” Bonnie replied.

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” Reggie murmured, before raising her glass to take a sip.

“Reggie!” hissed Frances.

“What did you say?” asked Bonnie, leaning closer. “I didn’t hear.”

“I said I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Reggie said, setting down her glass. Pushing a lock of her glossy black hair behind one ear, she said, “Let me know what I can do. I’d love to help.”

Bonnie leaned back in her chair, a faint line forming between her brows. “I don’t know. I’d hate to appear insensitive.” Reaching out to the flag, she lightly stroked its stars and stripes, before continuing. “Annabel, you’re always so sensible. Do you really think we should have a party?”

From the way Ann blinked several times before answering, it was clear that she was a bit perplexed that her suggestion that her father’s life be celebrated had been taken seriously. Nevertheless she said, “I think a party honoring Dad would be lovely.”

Bonnie considered this before announcing with a teary smile, “Then it’s settled. I’ll start planning it as soon as I get back.”

“Get back?” asked Frances, an edge in her voice. “Get back from where?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” asked Bonnie, her blue eyes round. “I was sure that I did. I’m going on a spa retreat, out to a place in Arizona. The horrible suddenness of poor Martin’s death has been so stressful for me. I need to find my center. I need to unwind.”

“What exactly does she call what she does now?” Aunt Winnie muttered to me.

It might not be the most diplomatic question, but it was a fair one. Much of Bonnie’s day was spent either shopping or lunching. It was hard to see how such a schedule would require unwinding.

Frances shot her husband, Scott, an anxious look. His round face mirrored his wife’s concern. Rubbing his large hand across his chin, he leaned across the table, his posture reminiscent of an arm wrestler—an arm wrestler wearing an expensively tailored gray suit. However, despite its obvious excellent quality and fit, it still looked all wrong on him. Scott Phillips was one of those men who are more at ease in jeans and a T-shirt. Although he’d been tapped to take over Uncle Marty’s business years ago and had shown great promise in continuing the company’s success, he’d never gotten used to having to wear the suit.

“When are you leaving, Bonnie?” he asked.

“Tomorrow. I’ll be gone just a week.”

Scott coughed. It was not the cough of someone with a cold. It was the cough of someone with a problem. “Bonnie, I know this isn’t the best time,” he said, with an uneasy glance at the rest of us, “but there’s that matter I discussed with you earlier.”

Seeing the perplexed expression on Bonnie’s face, he continued, “The property in St. Michaels? We need to discuss the proceeds of the sale of the house.”

“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, not that again,” said Bonnie, with a dismissive wave of her hand.