“Who is it?” I whispered.
“Ann,” she answered, thrusting the phone at me.
Well, that explains the annoyance, I thought, taking the phone. Ann had asked for me and not her. Junior high all over again.
“Hello?” I said as Kit walked away pretending not to listen.
“Oh, Elizabeth, thank God I got you! Your cell phone keeps going to voice mail. I think it’s dead.” I was surprised when I heard her voice. Ann was agitated, an unusual state for her.
“What’s going on?”
“They found a body!”
“What?! Who found a body?” Across the room, Kit spun around and stared at me.
“The new owners of the house in St. Michaels,” said Ann. “Apparently they dug up the pool and found a body!”
“Holy shit, you’ve
“Wait. It gets worse. The body. It’s Michael. It’s Michael Barrow.”
Chapter 4
Our pleasures in this world are always to be paid for.
“Michael Barrow!” I gasped. “But that’s … that’s impossible!” At the sound of Michael’s name, Kit’s eyes grew wide and her hand flew up to her mouth. Our eyes met in mutual horror. She made no pretense about not listening to the rest of the conversation.
“I know, I know,” said Ann. “But nevertheless, it’s true.”
“But that means … Oh, my God, that means…”
“I know. I know. I can’t even get my head around it,” said Ann.
“Wait a minute. They found a body under the pool. How can they be so sure it’s Michael?”
“They found his wallet. The police are going to do some … tests, I don’t know. But they seem pretty confident. Oh, God, this is like some sick nightmare.”
Michael Barrow. It had been a long time since I’d thought about him. Movie star looks, intelligence, charm, and the morals of a sewer rat. My stomach turned in disgust now that I was forced to revisit the memory. A new thought occurred. “Reggie! Does Reggie know?” I asked.
“No. I haven’t told her yet and I don’t know
“Do you want me to come over?”
“Could you? I don’t know what I’m going to do. I need someone here. If you can, maybe you could spend the night? Bonnie is absolutely no help.” Lowering her voice, Ann added, “She still plans on going on that stupid spa retreat of hers. Can you believe it? She even packed the flag.”
“Oddly enough, I can. I’ll be over as soon as I can. Just let me grab some things.”
“Okay. Thanks, Elizabeth.”
I hung up the phone and stared at Kit, dumbfounded. “They found Michael Barrow’s body under the pool at the St. Michaels house,” I said.
“Dear God. Do they think he was murdered?” she asked.
“I didn’t ask, but I can’t imagine any other scenario. He had to have been murdered.” It was testament to the severe shock that this news had produced that Kit didn’t launch into some mocking speech about how I saw intrigue and mystery where there was none. But really, Michael didn’t bury himself under the pool.
Kit sat down heavily. “But I thought that Michael stole all that money from Uncle Marty and then ran off,” she said slowly.
“Yeah, well, it looks like he didn’t run very far,” I said. “I’ll call you when I know more. Ann wants me to come over.”
“Well, I should come!” Kit said. “After all I’m her cousin, too!”
I paused, unsure if Ann would want Kit to come. Kit didn’t know the whole story of Michael Barrow and Ann, and I wasn’t sure if Ann wanted to make that story public. If you have a secret, Kit is the last person you should tell it to.
“Kit,” I said calmly, “that’s very sweet of you, but you should stay here tonight. You’re tired, you need your sleep. And besides, what about Pauly? He needs you here. I’ll go to Ann’s and then I’ll call you.”
Kit stood up. “No,” she said, in a firm voice that I knew from experience brooked no argument. “I’m going. I’ve just as much right as you to go. After all, it’s my family, too.” Turning on her heel, she marched over to the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. Yanking the door back, she stuck her head out and yelled, “Paul! I’ve got to go out for a while with Elizabeth. Ann’s called and there’s a family emergency. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Turning back to me, she said, “Come on, get changed. I’m driving.”
I opened my mouth to protest but then thought better. I couldn’t change her mind even if I wanted to—and trust me, I wanted to. With a sigh, I went and changed, thinking that like Anne Elliot I had never submitted more reluctantly to the jealous and ill-judging claims of a sister; but so it must be.
I bet Jane Austen had a Kit in her family, too.
While Ann normally lived alone in a quaint two-bedroom house in Bethesda, she had been staying at Uncle Marty’s house in Georgetown. Ann had been required to make this temporary move because even though the family had hired a nurse for Uncle Marty (the infamous Mata Hari aka Rona Bjornstad), there were still gaps, gaps that Bonnie on her best day couldn’t fill. On her best day, Bonnie couldn’t keep a plastic houseplant alive. Now that Uncle Marty had died, Ann was still needed at the house. The task of organizing and distributing the many items Uncle Marty had willed to various friends and family had been left to Ann. Ann, of course, did all this with her usual grace and continued to stay at the house and commute to her job. Several years ago she received her doctorate in English literature from Cambridge and now worked at the Folger Shakespeare Theatre in D.C.
Kit had to park a few blocks from the house, as parking in Georgetown is always a nightmare, and we walked in silence to the house. I was still annoyed at her for barging uninvited into Ann’s crisis and frustrated at myself for not stopping her. At least I didn’t tell her that I was spending the night, which was the only reason Kit hadn’t stashed a change of clothes and a toothbrush into her tote like I had.
The night was cool, and after a minute Kit said, “This weather has been really unbelievable this week. So warm, but I think that’s all about to end.” I should mention that Washingtonians are convinced that their weather is like no other and spend inordinate amounts of time discussing it. While the past week had been lovely and, as such, much discussed, it had also been the last bloom of summer. Signs of fall were inescapable. From the earlier sunsets to the leaves on the trees that were now tinged with gold and red, it was clear that the warmth of the summer was giving way to the dying time of year.
Within minutes we turned onto Uncle Marty’s street, which was lined with both ancient trees and elegant homes, most of the latter dating from the early 1800s. Each of the Georgian façades boasted perfectly proportioned dormers and brightly painted paneled doors, flanked by flattened columns and topped with filigree fanlights. The houses faced the street, with little to no front yard. However, the backyards were the real jewels of the neighborhood. Unexpectedly large gardens, pools, and well-tended lawns were nestled behind the high fences that kept both neighbors and pedestrians at bay.
Soon we were in front of Uncle Marty’s three-story house. We made our way up the curved brick staircase. I had scarcely touched the bell when Ann flung open the door. She was still wearing the black sheath she’d worn to the funeral, although she was in her bare feet. Her normally rosy complexion was pale and her auburn curls hung in disheveled lank tendrils around her face.
The greeting she had planned died on her lips at the sight of Kit standing on her front steps with me. Through
