Murder Most Persuasive

“Good,” said Aunt Winnie with a smirk. “I can’t wait to get a load of him.”

Chapter 20

His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle.

—Sense and Sensibility

I awoke early on Saturday. Not to sound superstitious, but I took this as a bad sign; sleeping in is one of my favorite things to do. Over the years, I’ve noticed that an early awakening usually heralds calamity. Rather than dwell on what really motivated my early rising, I chose to attribute it to my excitement at finally seeing Peter again. I knew that wasn’t it, but I nevertheless told myself that’s what it was. An anticipation of excitement was a much easier explanation to deal with than an anticipation of disaster. Besides, I didn’t minor in denial for no reason.

I headed downstairs and found that Ann had arisen early as well. She had already started the coffee and was buttering a bagel when I entered into the kitchen. “Good morning,” she said. “You ready for today?”

“As much as I can be, I suppose,” I said, pouring myself a large cup of coffee. “What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing much. I’m going shopping in a little bit. I guess the main thing I need is your support. I have a feeling today will be a tough one.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately, I doubt that prediction will get you a spot on the Psychic Friends Network. Are you going to invite Joe?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could. From the way Ann gaped at me in horror, I gathered I needed to work on my nonchalant affectations.

“Invite Joe? Are you kidding? Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” I said, after taking a sip of coffee. “I guess I think you two should give it another try.”

“But to invite him to a party honoring my father? Let’s face it, he wasn’t his biggest fan.”

“He who?” I asked. “He Joe or he your father?”

With a wry smile she said, “Both.”

* * *

Peter’s flight got in at one. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him until I saw him emerge from the gate. It was all I could do to suppress my squeal of excitement. It had been so long since I’d seen him that I almost expected him to have changed. But he hadn’t. He was still the six-foot-tall, brown-haired man I’d said good-bye to a few weeks earlier. I ran up to him and he enveloped me in a hug that left me with no doubt that he’d missed me just as much as I’d missed him. For the one hundredth time that week I cursed the fact that my apartment was uninhabitable.

After we said our hellos (in various different manners), we decided to grab a bite to eat while I brought him up to date on the latest developments. Although Peter was concerned about the potential of Julian draining Bonnie dry, he was more upset that Ann and I were “playing sleuth,” as he called it. Because he’d just gotten back, I didn’t argue the point.

“Damn it, Elizabeth,” he said. “A man was killed. Your snooping around trying to find the killer could scare the killer into trying to silence you or Ann!”

I poked at my chicken salad. I didn’t have a response to that. He was right, and I couldn’t really argue the point as it was almost exactly what I had advised Ann.

“I know,” I said. “You’re right. I’ll stay out of it and I’ll try and convince Ann to stay out of it as well. Although to be honest, I think that will be hard to do.”

“Don’t tell me the sleuthing gene runs in the family,” teased Peter.

“No, at least I don’t think so,” I said with a smile. “I think Ann’s desire to get involved is so that she has a reason to stay in touch with Joe.”

Peter said nothing. Taking a bite of his cheeseburger, he eyed me suspiciously.

“What?” I asked defensively.

He shook his head. “I’m not sure which is worse. You playing at sleuth or you playing at matchmaker.”

“Hard to say, seeing how I’m excellent at both,” I retorted as I helped myself to his fries.

“I still say it’s silly. Dangerously silly,” he said.

“Silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way.”

His eyes narrowed. “Pride and Prejudice?”

“Emma.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

* * *

We finished our lunches and headed over to Kit’s to pick up Aunt Winnie. She had opted to stay with Kit while in town. Although it made more sense for her to stay with Ann, she knew that Kit would view such an arrangement as a grave insult.

Aunt Winnie opened the door at our knock. After greeting Peter, she turned to me. “What the hell is with the jungle theme in your sister’s guest room?” she asked in a hushed voice. “I think that damn giraffe has Graves’ disease.”

“I tried to warn you.”

“Well, you didn’t warn me hard enough. I think I slept for only four hours!”

Kit entered the foyer and greeted us in some kind of strange gesticulating pantomime. Our faces must have registered confusion because she finally gave up and whispered, “I just put Pauly down for a nap. Keep your voices down. You know how he is when he doesn’t nap.” I did; the kid turned into Damien on crack.

“I thought I’d drive Aunt Winnie over to Ann’s,” I whispered back. “She wants to have a word alone with Bonnie and meet Julian before the guests arrive.”

Kit’s mouth pinched in concern. “Is this Julian guy that bad?”

I nodded. “Worse. He makes George look like Gandhi.”

“That is bad.”

“Speaking of George, are he and Mom coming over?”

Kit shrugged. “I have no idea. I called but he answered. You know how he is with phone messages. There was a game on in the background, so who knows if he even heard me.”

I sympathized. George loved all forms of televised sports. NASCAR, golf, fishing, football, you name it. If lawn care became a televised sport, George would watch it.

Kit promised to keep trying to get hold of our mom and said she’d see us at Uncle Marty’s after Pauly woke up from his nap. We headed out to my car—a used blue Volkswagen Jetta (yes, thank you, I am living the dream). At the car, Aunt Winnie dug out a bag from her purse and with great flourish handed it to Peter. A knowing smile played on his lips as he took it. “Dare I ask?” he said, as he peered cautiously into the bag.

“Now, now, don’t be skittish.”

Aunt Winnie and Peter had had a running contest for years to see who could outdo the other with inappropriate gifts. Last month Peter had sent Aunt Winnie an enormous bouquet of tail flowers, those vaguely sexual red flowers found only in Chinese restaurants. They are kind of flat with a long red stem jutting out from the center. One in a single vase is bad enough, but two dozen of them is patently pornographic. Peter pulled the item out of the bag; it was a white T-shirt. Shaking it open, he looked at the front and burst out laughing. He held it up so that I could see. It read: I AM THE MAN FROM NANTUCKET.

Aunt Winnie giggled. “So what do you think?”

“I think,” I said as I studied the shirt, “that I would venture to recommend a larger allowance of prose in your daily study.”

Aunt Winnie laughed again and quipped, “I declare little faith in the efficacy of any books on gags like this.”

“Don’t you two ever stop?” Peter asked in mock exasperation.

“No,” Aunt Winnie and I answered in emphatic unison.