Murder Most Persuasive

“She’s met somebody!” Ann shrieked into the phone.

I pulled the receiver away from my ear and said, “Who’s met somebody?”

“Bonnie!” came the hysterical answer. “Apparently he’s her ‘soul mate’ and she’s bringing him home with her! Can you believe it?”

I stared unseeingly at the article on my desk. “Wait. Bonnie is bringing home a guy? Who is he?”

“His name is Julian. Can you believe it? And not just Julian—Julian St. Clair, if you please! Dad’s funeral was only last week! Not only does she run off to a spa the day after the funeral, but now she’s coming back with her soul mate!”

“Whose name is Julian St. Clair,” I added. I admit I was somewhat at a loss for words. Granted, Bonnie certainly had outdone herself this time, but I didn’t quite understand Ann’s extreme reaction to it. “Ann, I’m sure it’s harmless. Bonnie has always been daffy. And besides, so what if she’s met someone? I mean the name does sound like a character out of a Harlequin romance novel, but where’s the harm?”

“Where’s the harm?” Ann repeated in astonishment, her voice growing shrill. “Where’s the harm? Well, aside from the general horrible tackiness of it all, there’s the potential for a great deal of harm! I haven’t gotten to the worst part yet. Julian is not only her soul mate, but her new financial adviser! Apparently he’s, and I’m quoting here, ‘an absolute genius with money.’”

“Oh,” I said. “Oh, God.”

“Oh, shit is more like it! What am I going to do? They’re coming home today!”

“Okay. Don’t panic,” I said, hoping to calm her down. “Nothing has happened. Yet. Maybe Julian is actually a nice, stable accountant. Maybe he is her soul mate.”

Of course, neither of us believed that. Nevertheless, we weren’t prepared for the horrible reality that was Julian.

* * *

After work I went straight to Uncle Marty’s house. Ann looked terrible. Her eyes appeared dazed and her color pale. Her hair stood out in various directions in a manner that suggested she’d been pulling at it. A lot. In lieu of a greeting, she handed me a large glass of white wine. “Here. You’re going to need this,” she said.

I took the glass. “He’s that bad?”

“Worse.”

I trusted Ann’s judgment. I took a sip. “Where is he?” I asked.

“They’re both out on the back patio. Come on,” she said wearily, turning and heading that way.

With some trepidation, I followed her. I caught sight of Bonnie first. Wearing cream linen pants and a coral silk blouse, she was reclining on the chaise longue with Scarlett curled up at her feet. Oversized sunglasses hid most of her face. In her right hand, she held a martini glass; in her left, a cigarette. Seeing me, she smiled and sat up a little straighter. “Elizabeth, darling! How are you? Annabel tells me you’ve been just a wonderful help to her this past week. She certainly looks better than she has in years! Her face has gotten some color in it.” To Ann, she asked, “Ann, dear, did you start using that new moisturizer I gave you? It’s supposed to work wonders.”

“No.”

“Oh, well. You should, you know. You know what they say about the face. It’s the gateway to the soul.”

“That would be the eyes, actually,” said Ann.

Bonnie crinkled her nose and considered this. “Well, the moisturizer is supposed to help with crow’s-feet, too.” Shifting her gaze to my direction, she said, “Anyway, thank you, Elizabeth, for all your help to Ann. It’s all such a ghastly mess. I know I could never stomach it. I’d be hopeless at it.”

It was unclear if she was referring to the murder investigation or the cataloging of Uncle Marty’s things. Not that it really mattered. Either way she was right—she would have been hopeless at both.

Bonnie continued, “Now, I’d like to introduce you to someone very special. Elizabeth, this is my friend Julian St. Clair.” With a smoky flourish, she gestured to the man sitting languidly at the table.

I now understood the reason for Ann’s distress. I’d heard the term lounge lizard, but until now I had never visualized one. Next to the definition in the dictionary, there should be a picture of Julian. I judged him to be in his early to late fifties. He was fit, deeply tan, with slicked black hair and predatory blue eyes. His mouth was full, his cheeks were artfully stubbled, and his chin was weak. He wore an expensive beige linen blazer, tight black jeans, and Italian loafers. I revised my earlier categorization of him as someone out of a Harlequin romance novel; he was more like the villain from one of the cheesier Bond movies.

As I turned his way, he politely rose to his feet. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Elizabeth. I’m so looking forward to meeting all of Bonnie’s extended family,” he said in a voice that hinted at a foreign accent. From where I couldn’t tell, but I would bet money that it was about as authentic as his tan. Glancing over at Bonnie, he whispered confidentially to me, “She’s quite a special lady.”

Oh, please. I took a quick sip of wine to hide the disgusted grimace I was quite sure was visible on my face. Bonnie simpered. Scarlett ignored us all and slept. For once, she had the right idea.

Julian continued. “Bonnie tells me that you have been helping Ann sort out this unfortunate business with the murder of the young man, Michael?”

“Well, we’ve been doing what we can to help the police,” I answered, taking a seat at the table. I was unsure how much Ann had actually shared with Bonnie and how much Bonnie had made up.

“Such a terrible tragedy,” he murmured. “Bonnie mentioned that she had concerns about her own dear husband’s death.”

I looked over at Bonnie in annoyance. Was she really still pushing her ridiculous theory that Marty was murdered? Bonnie met my glance with an innocent wide-eyed gaze.

“I told Julian all about it,” she said breathlessly. “He agrees with me about poor Marty. Tell me, do the police think there’s a connection?”

“No,” I answered firmly. Changing the subject, I turned back to Julian and said, “I understand that you two met at the spa?”

“Yes,” said Julian. “I noticed Bonnie one morning at the pool. I could see right away from her amazing aura that she was a singular individual. I introduced myself and our connection was instantaneous—almost cosmic.” He smiled at Bonnie, his small white teeth flashing brilliantly in the sunlight. From the doorway, Ann made a noise and abruptly went back inside.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you say her ‘aura’?”

Julian nodded and leaned toward me, his manner intimate and faintly flirtatious. “Yes, her spiritual signature is very clear and strong. As you must already know, the aura is a reflection of our true nature at any given moment.” He placed his hand over mine. I wasn’t surprised to see that his nails were manicured and buffed to a glossy shine and that he was wearing a gold pinkie ring. “Surely a clever young woman such as yourself must have noticed it,” he said as he leaned toward me. The small movement sent a whiff of his cologne my way. My nostrils began to sting. And then burn.

I quickly slid my hand out from under his and moved it under my nose to block the odor. Unfortunately, the scent had transferred itself to my fingers. My eyes began to water. Julian continued, unaware of my distress. “Of course, not everyone has the trained eye. Bonnie’s aura is bright, clean pink. It’s very rare.”

“Of course it is,” I murmured, as I tried to pinpoint the main ingredient of the smell. Gasoline? Formaldehyde?

“The pink aura is an indication that the individual has achieved a perfect balance between spiritual awareness and the material existence.” I glanced at Bonnie to gauge her reaction to this, but she was busy admiring her manicure, her satisfied expression signifying a kind of spiritual appreciation of the material, I guess.

“Well, that is something,” I said in what I hoped was a tone of awe. Julian completely missed the sarcasm in my voice and nodded importantly. Bonnie attempted to look modest.

“The most advanced people also have a yellow halo around their head,” Julian continued, as if sharing a secret.

“Like Jesus?” I cried excitedly.

This time Julian caught the sarcasm. His eyes narrowed slightly and he leaned away from me. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a very distinctive aura, my dear? It’s very dark.”

“Oh, I know,” I replied confidentially. “But that’s because I’m Irish. To paraphrase Yeats, we Irish have an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustains us through temporary periods of joy.”

Julian said nothing. Lighting one of those small, nasty-smelling European cigarettes, he leaned farther back in