Murder Most Persuasive

Frances’s eyes narrowed and she leaned toward Bonnie. “That never happened,” she said, tapping out each syllable on the tabletop with her finger for emphasis.

“Frances, what are you saying?” Bonnie asked.

“I think it’s pretty clear what I am saying. I don’t know what you think you remember from that night, but Scott and I came upstairs together. I was with him all night and there was no fight with Michael. You are mistaken.”

A chill settled over me as Bonnie protested this. “But Frances, that’s simply not true. You can’t lie about this. It’ll only make it worse.”

“Do not tell me what to do,” she said. “And if you repeat that ridiculous story to anyone, you could ruin everything Scott and I have worked for. I won’t let you do that.”

Over the years, the family had joked about Frances’s resemblance to Lady Macbeth where Scott’s career was concerned. Never had it been more apparent than now.

“What’s going on here?” asked a voice. It was Scott. He was standing in the doorway, staring at Frances in confusion.

Frances whirled around. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Bonnie and I were just having a disagreement. But it’s fine now.”

“A disagreement about what?” he asked.

“Bonnie claims to have heard you and Michael fighting at Dad’s Fourth of July party,” she said. “I merely told her that she is mistaken and … encouraged her not to repeat the story.”

Scott’s brows drew together. He glanced doubtfully at Bonnie. “You heard me fight with Michael?”

“She thinks she did, Scott,” Frances said. “But she’s wrong. You were with me all night. I will swear to that in court if I have to.”

“Frances, just stop for a minute.” Scott held up a large hand. Turning back to Bonnie, he said, “Bonnie, I don’t have any memory of fighting with Michael, but considering that I was drinking back then that’s not too surprising. Sadly, there are a lot of evenings I don’t remember. What did you hear?” Scott’s face held an expression of sincere befuddlement. If he did remember the fight with Michael, he was doing an excellent job of hiding it.

Finally, Bonnie said, “You and Michael were on the patio at the end of the night. Michael was saying terrible things to you about his being chosen over you to run the company. You were pretty angry.”

Scott’s forehead bunched in concentration as he tried to search his brain for the memory. Eventually he shook his head in defeat. “I vaguely remember talking to him, but that’s all. I didn’t like him—well, to be perfectly blunt, I thought he was an asshole. But I don’t remember the fight.”

“That’s because it didn’t happen,” interjected Frances. “If I remember correctly, Bonnie, you were drinking wine that night. I wasn’t, because I was still nursing the twins. Who’s to say that you didn’t imagine it, dream it, or that your memory is just faulty?”

“Frances! This is absurd. I am not making this up and I certainly wasn’t drunk. I saw them fighting and overheard what they said. I’m not saying it means anything; it’s just a simple statement of fact,” Bonnie cried.

“A fact that is wrong. Scott came upstairs with me that night. He was never alone with Michael.”

“Frances, that’s not true,” said Scott. “You did go up before me. I did sit outside with Michael and talk. I do remember that much.”

Frances smiled—not very nicely—and said, “No, Scott. You are forgetting that I was there when you talked to Michael. And then we went to bed. Together. You were with me for the rest of the night. You had been drinking too much, which was why I insisted that you go to bed.”

Suddenly Scott looked down at his right hand in remembrance. “My hand,” he said quietly. Looking up at Frances, he repeated, “My hand. The next morning there was a cut on it. You told me that I cut it on a glass I dropped. Is that true?”

Frances flushed slightly but gave a curt nod. “Of course it’s true. You dropped a glass in the bathroom. You cut yourself when you tried to clean it up.”

No one spoke. Scott looked from Frances to Bonnie, clearly upset and confused. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here,” Scott said. “I don’t remember fighting with Michael—that’s the truth. But I don’t see how Bonnie has any reason to lie about it either. However, no matter what happened, I can’t believe that I could have been involved in Michael’s disappearance.”

“That’s because you weren’t,” Frances said firmly. Turning to Bonnie, she said, “And if anyone else suggests otherwise, they are not only wrong but skating on very thin ice.”

The rest of us stood very still. My mind was racing. Obviously Frances was lying to cover for Scott. The question was, was she lying because she knew Scott hadn’t done anything, or because she knew he had? No one spoke for a minute, all of us lost in the same unspoken thought. As Lady Macbeth might opine, Scott was too full of the milk of human kindness to kill Michael. Conversely, Frances would be the type to screw her courage to the sticking place and do the dirty deed.

Rather than dredging up additional pithy Shakespeare quotes (you’re welcome), I focused on a new thought: in giving Scott a solid alibi for that night, she was also giving herself one. That thought triggered a far-flung memory, but before I could catch it, it faded away.

“What do you take me for?” Bonnie now asked Frances with a faint smile. “I’m not going to mention it to the police. But even if I did, I don’t see what the harm would be. So what if Scott fought with Michael? I don’t how see how that affects the family.”

“It’s a problem because his body was buried underneath the pool’s foundation, Bonnie! And construction on the pool began the day after the Fourth of July party, on the fifth,” Ann added unnecessarily. But then again, maybe it was necessary; after all, she was talking to Bonnie. “Michael had to have been buried a day or so after the party.”

“But we’d all left the house by then and we didn’t go back…” Bonnie abruptly stopped. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, something clicked. She’d remembered the fight with Uncle Marty and her self-imposed exile to St. Michaels. Honestly, you couldn’t ask for a more obvious example of someone Remembering Something Important than the procession of expressions that moved across Bonnie’s face. First her brows pulled together in deep concentration. Then they cleared, leading the way to a widening of the eyes. This was followed by lips forming a small “o.” Finally, her eyes narrowed, first into an angry slant and then shifting into more of a sly gaze. Yes, people, Bonnie knew something! The question was (as was usually the question with matters concerning Bonnie’s intellect): exactly what did she know?

“Bonnie?” I asked. “What is it? Have you remembered something?”

She did not answer right away. Finally she said, “No, but I just remembered that I went back out to the house after the party. I was there for a day or so. I must have been there when…” She fell silent, pressing a delicate hand to her mouth in apparent anguish. She turned large blue eyes to Julian. “Why, to think that I might have been there when he was killed! Oh, how terrible! Just to think that I might have been killed, too, if I’d seen anything! Why, it makes me almost dizzy!”

Julian extended his perfectly manicured hand to hers and made soft noises, which I gathered were supposed to soothe the distraught Bonnie. I don’t know what it did for her; all it did for me was set my teeth on edge. Finally he murmured, “You poor, poor dear. How much more can a person take? It’s quite unbelievable. But you’re safe now.”

Bonnie granted him a misty smile. “But still, if I had seen something, how different things might be now. There’d be none of this confusion and uncertainty. The police would know who the killer was and we’d be fine. Oh, I don’t know how I can ever forgive myself. It’s going to take a lot, I can tell you that. I feel as if I’ve let everyone down! But most of all I feel as if I’ve let down my poor Marty!”

Aunt Winnie studied Bonnie, a curious expression on her face. “Bonnie, what the hell are you talking about? If you didn’t see anything while you were at the house, then you didn’t see anything. However, if you did, then you need to tell the police.”

Bonnie shook her blond head vigorously. “But that’s just the problem. I didn’t see anything. And I feel just terrible about it because I should have.”

“There’s no use regretting the past, my dear,” said Julian. “What matters now is the future. And I can see from your aura that your future is bright. As I promised you earlier, I’m going to help you make sure of it.”

“And how do you plan on doing that, may I ask?” asked Laura. Miles stood next to her, his face etched with