Murder Most Persuasive

all week.

* * *

Work the next day was a mess, of course, but thankfully it passed quickly. Ann called Frances and Reggie and got us a reservation at one of our favorite restaurants, 1789. Aunt Winnie’s flight got in at four, and she was going to join us.

Ann and I picked up Aunt Winnie at the airport. As I mentioned, Aunt Winnie and her boyfriend, Randy, were renovating a house on Nantucket to serve as a B and B. From the looks of her outfit, apparently her time on the island hadn’t been spent in isolated concentration on the house. Normally she gravitated toward slightly edgy ensembles, especially those that emphasized her ample curves and deep cleavage. Today she was wearing an orange poplin A-line skirt emblazoned with dark blue lilies, topped with a bright red cardigan over a light blue blouse. Tan espadrilles completed the look.

Seeing me, she thrust out her left hip and struck a pose. “I’ve gone native,” she said. “What do you think?”

“I know that dress is your passion, but in this case, rather than indulging in a most harmless delight in looking fine, you look like you were attacked by Lilly Pulitzer,” I said slowly.

“Well, you would be wrong, missy,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “This look is all the rage.” Eyeing my own comparatively drab ensemble of a navy skirt and short-sleeve blue-and-white-striped oxford, she added, “I think you could do with a wardrobe update yourself, missy.”

“Well, I think you look wonderful,” Ann said with a laugh. Giving her a hug, she added, “Thank you so much for coming, Aunt Winnie. As you’ve probably heard, things are a real mess.”

“Yes, well, that’s usually what happens when Bonnie gets involved. It’s a particular talent she has,” said Aunt Winnie, after giving me a hug. “So what’s the plan?”

“We don’t have one yet. We’re meeting Frances and Reggie for dinner. We thought we could discuss our options then.”

“Well, I’m here as long as you need me,” Aunt Winnie said. Handing me her suitcase, she slid into Ann’s car. “Let’s go.”

“How’s the house?” I asked Aunt Winnie as we pulled out into traffic.

There was a brief pause before she answered. “Would you believe me if I told you it was haunted?”

I laughed. “Are you trying to prepare me for what horrors I will encounter this fall? Are there sliding panels, tapestries, and dimly lit halls?”

For once Aunt Winnie didn’t respond in kind. “I’m serious,” she said. “There’s something weird going on there. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s something.”

“Wait—you’re not kidding? What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. I glanced at her purse lying on the seat next to her. A well-worn copy of The Monk was visible. I looked from it to her. She caught my meaning. “Don’t…” she began.

“Don’t what?” I answered.

“Don’t try and blame my suspicions on my reading material. I read Dracula and I didn’t go around thinking that the undead were real,” she said. “Though it would be something if that vamp Eric from True Blood was real.”

“Um. Okay. Well, what does Randy think?” I asked.

“He thinks it’s nothing,” came the disgruntled reply. I have to admit, that made me feel better. Randy was level-headed and sensible. Not that Aunt Winnie wasn’t exactly, but if Randy wasn’t concerned, then I could relax a bit. Aunt Winnie seemed to sense my doubt and dropped the subject.

Forty-five minutes later, we arrived at 1789. A Georgetown tradition for dining, the renovated Federal house is decorated with American antiques, equestrian and historical prints, and Limoges china. If the Great House at Upper Cross had an American counterpart, it would be 1789.

Frances and Scott were waiting for us when we arrived. Scott was once again wearing an expensive suit and looking like he’d rather not be. Frances was neatly turned out in a Burberry print sheath. After greeting Aunt Winnie, Frances said, “Reggie is running late. Some bridezilla gone amok or something. She said she’d be here soon, though.”

Once seated and drinks ordered, Aunt Winnie looked around the table. “Okay. So I gather that Bonnie is not only holding on to the proceeds from the sale of the house, but she’s planning on giving this Julian character those proceeds plus God knows what else for him to ‘invest.’ Now, I imagine that any decent lawyer will be able to clear up Bonnie’s … shall we say misunderstanding about the proceeds on the house. The bigger problem is, how do we stop her from handing over the rest of her assets?”

“Frankly, I don’t care how she handles her own money,” said Frances. “She’s a grown woman and I don’t see what we can do to stop her. I’ve spoken to Stephen Guilford about the problems of the house, and from what I gather, we can get a court order to freeze the assets, but that, of course, takes time. For all we know, Bonnie may have already written this Julian a check.”

Scott nodded. “And I don’t know about the rest of you, but Frances and I need that money.”

“Scott!” Frances admonished.

Scott’s cheeks flushed and he glanced apologetically at his wife. “Sorry, Frances.”

Frances briefly closed her eyes. “It’s fine. There’s no point trying to hide it. Go ahead and tell them.”

“When Marty took a turn for the worse and officially tapped me for his successor, there were a few hiccups,” Scott said. “We lost a couple of bids and a few employees tried to take advantage of the change. I took full responsibility for the gaffes and used my own money to cover the losses because I knew we were due the money from the St. Michaels house. But if Bonnie gives that money away—”

“We could lose everything,” interjected Frances, her face pinched with worry. “The house, the cars, everything!”

“Well, we’ll just have to make sure that we get that money back, then,” said Aunt Winnie with determination.

“What money?” said a voice to my left. Turning, I saw that it was Reggie. Her normally perfect face was almost haggard. Her black dress was uncharacteristically wrinkled and her posture sagged. She sank wearily into an empty chair and gazed questioningly at us.

“The money from the sale of the house,” explained Frances. “Bonnie plans on giving it all to that horrible man she brought home.”

“Perfect. Just perfect,” Reggie said. “That’s the cherry on the top of my week. Where’s the waitress? I need a drink.” Seeing our server returning to the table with our drinks, Reggie ordered herself a martini. “Make it a double,” she added.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Ann.

“What isn’t wrong?” Reggie replied testily. “I’ve spent the past three hours dealing with a young woman who makes Leona Helmsley look like a pussycat. She’s forced her bridesmaids to submit to a weigh-in and screamed at one poor girl for not hitting her weekly goal. I swear to God, I think she’s going to make her own mother step on the scales before the end of next week. She’s also planning on singing her vows—in Italian, no less—and is constantly belting them out. My phone has been ringing off the hook from reporters asking about Michael, and now Bonnie is planning on giving away all of Dad’s money to some spa-trolling lothario.” Reggie looked pointedly at the empty spot in front of her. “And I don’t have a drink.”

The waitress arrived with Reggie’s martini and Reggie gratefully accepted it. Taking a large gulp she said, “That’s better. Now, what did I miss?”

Frances said, “We were discussing what to do about Bonnie. Scott and I will do what we can between now and tomorrow to find out our legal options. Should we try to talk to Bonnie at the party tomorrow?”

“I don’t know if it’ll do any good,” replied Scott. “You know how she gets.”

“I’ll talk to her,” said Aunt Winnie. “I think I can be a little more … direct with her about this than any of you can. Speaking of tomorrow, what is the plan?”

“Nothing fancy,” replied Ann. “We thought we’d do a cookout for the family. I don’t know what Bonnie is expecting, but frankly, with all that’s going on right now, that’s about all I can handle.”

“I assume Julian will be there?” asked Aunt Winnie.

Ann nodded.