Arsenic with Austen (28 page)

The noise of the printer woke Lizzie in her cradle, invisible on the far side of the bed. Jamie jumped again at her cry, and a look of utter consternation swept over his features.

Katie picked the baby up to soothe her and then shot a worried look at Emily. “Oh dear, I was hoping to get your dinner on the table before she woke.”

“It's my fault. I'll take her, unless she needs to eat right away. Would you ask Billy to come in, please? And we'll need dinner put off a bit to give us time to sign the will.”

Lizzie snuggled into Emily's neck, and she carried her into the library. One-handed, she punched in Luke's number. “I've got a will made, but I need another witness. Can't be you or Katie or Marguerite. Do you know anyone you can draft in a hurry?”

“Sure, I'll rustle up a deputy and be there in fifteen minutes.”

Emily sat down to proofread the will, but Lizzie turned squirmy. “I can take her,” Jamie said. His color had drained completely, and his freckles stood out dark against his white skin. With expert hands, he took Lizzie from Emily's arms and bounced her gently.

“You seem pretty comfortable with babies,” Emily said. “That's unusual in a young man.”

“I'm the oldest of five. Plus I have lots of little cousins.”

Emily felt her way carefully. “I thought perhaps you had an aversion to babies, from the way you reacted when she first woke up.”

Jamie reddened again. “Oh no, I love babies. It's just—I guess this means Katie's married, huh? Or taken, anyway.”

“Not married. Not taken. Just a mom.”

Jamie's face took on a glow as if he were a new father himself. He didn't speak, but began to hum “Annie Laurie” softly under his breath as he jiggled Lizzie around the room.

Emily found no typos in the will. By the time she'd finished reading it, Billy was standing by and Luke had arrived with two deputies. “I brought Pete to witness and Heather to notarize. Assuming you need a notary.”

Jamie thanked him and looked around for someone to hand Lizzie off to who wasn't needed for the signing ceremony. Marguerite backed off as if the baby's skin were coated with poison, but Luke held out his arms. “Come here, you. I'm a sucker for a pretty girl.” He carried Lizzie over to the windows and babbled nonsense to her as if he'd been holding babies all his life. Emily teared up, watching him. If only …

Jamie called her attention back to the matter at hand. As she took his blue-ink fountain pen in her fingers, she had the feeling she was signing her life away—but in fact she was probably saving it. Peculiar and wrong that so much should hinge on a bit of ink on a piece of paper. Billy and Pete signed after her with similarly solemn faces, as if Death had entered the room along with them.

Heather applied her seal, and the ceremony was complete. Emily offered sherry all around. They all sipped in somber silence for a moment, then gradually thawed out. Marguerite flirted with Pete, a handsome young blond, while Heather, cute and petite with hair as red as Jamie's, darted barbed looks their way and attempted to flirt with Jamie. He, however, was already far beyond her reach.

Katie shimmered in, Jeeves-like, as they were all finishing their sherry, and whispered to Emily, “Is everyone staying for dinner? Because it's ready, but I'm not sure there's enough to go around.”

“No, just us and Jamie. I'll give Luke a hint, and he'll get the others away.”

Emily sidled over to Luke and took Lizzie from his arms. “I'd invite you for dinner, but your deputies would be stranded, and I'm afraid we don't have enough to feed them.”

“No problem. I've got work to do anyhow.” He glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then gave her a quick kiss. “See you tomorrow.”

Lizzie was beginning to fuss and bump her open mouth against Emily's shirt, so Emily was relieved when Katie finished setting out the food and took the baby back from her. Marguerite and Emily kept the conversation going through dinner; Jamie never said a word beyond please and thank you in response to offers of food and drink. When Katie left the room, his gaze retreated to some distant cloud. When she returned with dessert, his eyes fastened onto her until her face was nearly as red as his own. She stayed in the dining room while they ate their blueberry cobbler, fussing about the table and doing who-knew-what at the sideboard.

When they'd finished, Emily said to Marguerite, “Shall we be very English and leave Jamie alone with a glass of port?”

Marguerite nodded with a conspiratorial smile. But Jamie jumped to his feet and said, “No, no, I'm afraid I have to go. Have to drive back to Tillamook, you know. No port for me.” He gathered his things and bustled out without a backward glance.

Alone in the library, Emily and Marguerite burst into laughter. “
Le pauvre petit!
Never did I see a case so bad. But he must not despair—I think his lady love is not completely indifferent,
n'est-ce pas?
”

“I'd say not. He'll find his tongue eventually, and then I imagine they'll get along just fine.”

*   *   *

A drizzle had begun while they were eating; after Jamie left, it escalated into a full-fledged storm. Katie built a fire in the library. Emily cozied up to it with her knitting, and Marguerite played with the three cats on the hearthrug: Kitty jumped for the toy mouse Marguerite dangled, while Bustopher and Levin wrestled like kittens over a squeaky toy. The scene was outwardly as cozy as a Dickens Christmas, but underneath Emily felt far from calm; it was all she could do to keep her hands steady on the needles. When a flash of lightning cast a white glare across the room, followed by a deafening crash of thunder and then the doorbell, she jumped and dropped two stitches. She nearly fainted with relief when Luke walked into the room.

Marguerite excused herself with a staged yawn. “Now that you have someone to keep you company,
chérie,
I will go enjoy that so-lovely clawfoot tub of yours.” Emily gave her a grateful smile.

“Got a call from the mechanic just now,” Luke said as he flopped into Bustopher's unoccupied chair. “Your brakes were definitely tampered with. Fluid line cut down by the back wheel.”

Emily shivered. She hadn't doubted it before, but having actual proof that someone had tried to kill her threatened to send her back into a state of shock. “I think I need a sherry,” she croaked.

Luke poured a sherry for each of them. “Talked to Brock earlier. Dropped a hint about your new will. Shook him up, but he rallied. I guess that acting training is good for something even if it doesn't get him decent roles.”

“Did you question him about my car?”

“Sure did. He claims he was with ‘a lady friend' all night, but he wouldn't give me her name to back him up. I got a look at his tires, though. Don't need a search warrant for that.” He gave her a sidelong glance.

“And?” Emily was figuratively on the edge of her seat, and he chose this moment to tease her.

“They match. Flat spot and all.”

“So what'd he have to say about that?”

“Oh, he had a story, of course. Said he and his lady went for a drive early in the evening and just happened to pull over at that spot. He implied she couldn't wait till they got to the hotel to get her hands on him.” Luke snorted. “Then I pointed out he must've been there after the rain, which came later—sometime between midnight and dawn.”

“Aha! You got him. He couldn't squirm out of that, could he?”

“Nope. Just gave me a look and said, ‘Country sheriffs really shouldn't try to play Sherlock Holmes. The tracks were made in the dry dirt, and the rain set them. Elementary, my dear Watson.' He can do a fair British accent, I'll give him that much. But he knows as well as I do rain would've wiped out dry tracks. He was sweating, literally. Tough thing about real life—no makeup people to powder you up so the sweat doesn't show.”

“So did you push him for the name of his lady friend?”

“I did, but he wouldn't budge. Now I know for sure I've got a charge of attempted murder, I'll go to town first thing in the morning and get a warrant for his arrest. That ought to loosen his tongue.”

“Of course, even if he does give her name, she might back him up.”

“Might. But I don't see Brock inspiring any strong personal loyalty, do you? And the fact he doesn't want to identify her suggests there may be something we can hold over her to make her tell the truth. Might be married, for instance.”

“Good point. And she's probably the same good-looking blonde who went out with him on the boat. She could be a gold mine.”

“Exactly.” Luke stretched, yawning. “By the way, did you hide that will?”

“Not to say hide. It's locked in the desk.” Emily pointed with her chin at the immense rolltop across the room.

“If I were you, I'd hide it. Brock's gonna be pretty anxious to find out who cut him out.”

“Good point.” Emily put down her knitting, walked over to the desk, and unlocked the shallow drawer. “I know just the place. But you'd better come with me—so somebody can find it if…” She couldn't finish that sentence.

He followed her upstairs and into Beatrice's room. “Beatrice showed me her hiding place.” She went to the ornately carved mantelpiece and twisted a medallion in the center below the mantel shelf. The panel dropped open to reveal a small steel door with a combination lock. “In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she'd left something there—I doubt anyone else would know this was here.”

“You know the combination?”

“She wasn't terribly sneaky about that—I think she relied more on nobody knowing the safe existed. She just used her initials.” Emily spun the dial to clear it, then carefully turned it to
B
–
W
–
R
. The door clicked and swung open.

Inside was a fat envelope, which proved to contain an exact copy of Beatrice's will, the same version that now resided in Jamie's office. Underneath that was a velvet box. Emily opened it to see a Victorian-style choker consisting of six rows of tiny, perfectly matched pearls with a large cameo in the middle.

Luke whistled. “I never saw her wear that—did you?”

“No. She showed it to me once, though. I'd forgotten all about it till now. In fact, I think that's why she opened the safe—she showed me this and told me it would be mine one day. It belonged to her grandmother.” Emily traced the profile of the cameo with her finger. This piece would not have been Beatrice's style—her clothes were always severely practical, though custom-tailored of the best materials. But the choker would complement Emily's Edwardian-inspired wardrobe perfectly.

“I think I'll keep this out.” She closed the box, placed both folded wills inside the safe, and restored the safe to its former invisibility, making sure she left no telltale cracks around the secret panel.

As they left the room, Luke checked his watch. “Getting late. I hate to leave you unprotected like this. Sure you won't reconsider coming to my place? Just for tonight—after tomorrow he'll be in jail.”

“Brock's not likely to try anything now that he knows you're onto him. I'll be fine.” Brave words, but she didn't feel as confident as she sounded.

“You wouldn't let me sleep on your couch?”

“My couch! If it comes to that, I have about half a dozen empty bedrooms.” She bit her lip, weighing safety against independence. “All right, you win. I would feel better with you under the same roof tonight. I'll give you your choice of rooms.”

“Just a sec.” Luke ran down the stairs and came back a minute later, soaking wet and carrying a small overnight bag. “I packed a toothbrush just in case you said yes. One good thing, fella'd have to be nuts to get up to mischief on a night like this.” A thunderclap punctuated his pronouncement.

Luke chose the front room next to Marguerite's because its bay would give him a view of both the drive and the approach to the front door. “I'd perch on the roof where I could see three sixty if it weren't for this rain.”

He placed an easy chair where he could see out either the windows or the open door to the hall. “Any chance Katie could come up with a pot of coffee?”

“You're not planning to sit up all night?”

“That is exactly what I'm planning to do. Not to say I might not doze in the chair a bit, but I'm not gonna get too comfortable. Not when your life is on the line.”

She walked into his embrace. “I'm glad you're here.”

He kissed her lightly. “No distracting an officer on duty, ma'am.”

“I'll go see about that coffee.”

 

twenty-eight

As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, [Marianne] grew silent and thoughtful.

—
Sense and Sensibility

Emily fell into bed, exhausted, but slept fitfully, dreaming of riding in an out-of-control car driven alternately by Brock, Luke, and her long-dead father. At one point she startled awake, some unknown noise having penetrated her dream. She strained her ears but heard nothing more, and soon she slept again.

When she came down in the morning, Luke was just leaving the bathroom, freshly shaved but with deep shadows under his eyes. She wanted to run back upstairs and hide her disheveled hair and puffy raccoon eyes, but it was too late—he'd seen her. He smiled as if she were dressed for a ball.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he said as he wrapped his arms around her ratty old bathrobe.

“Lack of sleep seems to have affected your eyesight,” she said, turning her lips away from his attempted kiss. “I haven't brushed my teeth yet. And I know I look like something my cats would be too finicky to drag in.”

He took her chin and turned her face back. “You're alive and unharmed. That makes you a beautiful sight—and eminently kissable.” He suited the action to the word.