Arsenic with Austen (5 page)

Furious, Emily slapped the paper down on the table just as Agnes appeared in the doorway. “Can't they give me even a day's peace? Good heavens, anyone would think I was royalty!”

Agnes's mouth quirked in a parody of a smile. “That's Stony Beach for you. Better get used to it if you plan to stick around.” She primmed her mouth and drew herself up. “And speaking of that, madam, I'd appreciate knowing your plans as soon as possible. I've got my own arrangements to make.”

“Oh! As to that—well, I've hardly had time to think about it. But I certainly won't be selling Windy Corner anytime soon, and as long as I have it, I suppose I'll need a housekeeper, whether I'm living here full-time or not.” A house like this couldn't safely be left unattended. “I'd be pleased if you'd stay on.”

Agnes's expression was unreadable. Had Emily said the wrong thing? “That is, if you want to. Unless you're thinking of retiring?”

Agnes gave a mighty snort. “And just what would I do with myself if I retired? Putter about some tiny cottage all day? No, thank you. I'll stay right where I am, if it pleases you. Besides, I'm the only one who can handle That Cat.”

The animal in question now slunk into the room and heaved his bulk up to lean his white forepaws against the sideboard, nostrils twitching. “I have all the food I need, Agnes. Really, it's way too much for one person. Does Bustopher Jones get the leftovers?”

“That he does, madam, the ungrateful beast. But I'll make a bit less from now on, seeing as you're such a light eater.” She eyed the food on Emily's plate and shook her head. “The missus, now, you'd be surprised at how much she could put away, thin as she was. Always moving, that one.”

“Yes, well, I've got quite a bit of moving to do myself today. Lots of people to see, things to get straightened out. In fact, you'd better not count on me for lunch. But by dinner I should have a healthy appetite.” She smiled at Agnes, who merely humphed and commenced clearing the extra food.

Emily addressed herself to her breakfast before it cooled completely. Agnes Beech might have her little ways, but she certainly knew how to cook.

If Emily stayed in Stony Beach, she'd never have to cook for herself again. Nor settle for college cafeteria food. Could any consequence of her inheritance be sweeter than that?

*   *   *

Emily hadn't quite finished eating when the doorbell boomed. She heard Agnes open the door, then a brisk, commanding alto voice reply. Oh, no. Not the real estate agent. She didn't lose any time, did she?

Through the open door Emily saw Vicki Landau push past Agnes Beech and into the dining room. Emily rose, expecting an apology for the intrusion; but Vicki just headed for the sideboard, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down. Emily was too astonished to stop her. Clearly Miss Manners was not revered in Stony Beach.

Dazed, Emily sank back into her chair. Vicki sipped her coffee, then opened her portfolio and took out a fat sheaf of papers. “I've got the contract all ready for you,” she said. “All you have to do is sign.” She held out a pen.

Emily kept her hands in her lap. “Contract?”

“For me to sell the house. We talked about it yesterday.” Vicki's tone implied Emily's memory was not all it should be.

“I recall you mentioning the possibility, but I certainly didn't agree to it. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't sign anything until probate goes through. Legally, I don't even own the property yet.”

Vicki's face froze. Her hand remained suspended, pen out. “But you will sell after probate?”

Could this woman be real? “I doubt it. I'm quite fond of Windy Corner. It holds a lot of memories. And it's the perfect getaway from city life.”

“Exactly.” Vicki reanimated. “Which is why I can get such a premium price for it.”

“Ms. Landau, you don't seem to understand. I don't need more money, and I don't want to sell. Now perhaps you'll allow me to finish my breakfast in peace.”

Vicki retracted her pen but stayed in her chair. “Some of your other properties then. Surely you don't want to be bothered with all those vacation rentals and commercial buildings your aunt owned. You being in Portland most of the year. You just name your price, and I'll make sure you get it.” Her red lips curled into a smile, her slightly longer, curiously sharp canine teeth denting her lower lip.

Emily shook her head, as much in disbelief as in denial. Stony Beach might have changed since she was here last, but surely it hadn't become home to vampires. “I haven't even had a chance to find out what all I'm inheriting, let alone make any decisions about it. You really must give me more time. I'll let you know if I do decide to sell anything.”

Vicki's smile vanished as if it had never been. “Oh, very well. I'll check back with you in a week or so.” She gathered her things and stood. But before she turned to go, she scanned the room with its carved moldings, built-in sideboard, and the pane of stained glass in the bay window. Her eyes were alight with greed, but Emily glimpsed something else behind the greed—something even darker. Before she could pin it down, Vicki was gone.

Emily refreshed her coffee, hoping to wash out all traces of Vicki Landau. But almost the instant the door closed behind her, the bell boomed again. Aunt Beatrice must have had it made loud enough for Agnes to hear from the attic.

This time it was Mayor Everett Trimble who bustled into the room. He at least greeted her and shook her hand with a firm if sweaty grip before eyeing the coffeepot. Emily saved him from copying Vicki's rudeness by offering him a cup.

“Thank you, thank you.” His shiny face beamed. “Agnes Beech makes the best coffee in town.”

And if it had been intended only for him and Vicki, she'd probably have poisoned it. “To what do I owe the honor of this early visit?” Emily stressed the word
early,
but the mayor didn't seem to notice. She motioned toward the chair across the corner from hers, which Vicki had just vacated.

“Just being neighborly.” He pulled out the chair next to her. “You and me, we gotta get on the same page. Between us we can bring this old town into the twenty-first century. Progress, that's what Stony Beach needs. Town's so stuck in its ways, might as well be called Sleepy Beach. Get it?” He elbowed her so hard, her coffee sloshed into her saucer. Aunt Beatrice's old-fashioned cups had their merits.

“I've always thought its sleepiness was Stony Beach's greatest charm.” She glanced demurely at Trimble over the edge of her cup.

He guffawed, slapping his thigh. “You're a funny one, aren'tcha? Real joker. Greatest charm! That's a good one.” He shook out an enormous handkerchief and wiped his eyes, then his bald pate.

“I'm quite serious. I'd hate to see this town change its character. Why should we be like Seaside? People who want a noisy mob can go there. People who want peace and quiet can come here. It works out perfectly.”

The mayor scowled. “Now just you listen to me, young lady. You've been away from here for what, thirty years? Things happen in that time, get it? Towns change. People change. Don't you go making pronouncements on what you know nothing about.”

She had to admit he had a fair point, even though it contradicted what he'd said earlier. “You're quite right, Mayor Trimble. I don't really know the town anymore, and that's why I propose to spend the next few days finding out as much as I can. I don't want my decisions to be poorly informed.”

His smile beamed again. “That's the spirit, girlie. Once you've got the goods, you'll see things my way. Gotta pull together, get it? Get this cart out of the mud.”

He heaved himself out of the chair and stuck out his hand again. Emily pretended not to see it. “Good day, Mayor. Perhaps I'll see you around.”

“Right.” He bustled out, and Emily was left free to enjoy the humor of being called “young lady” and “girlie” by someone at most ten years her senior when she herself would never see fifty again.

She finished her coffee and moved to the library, where she spread out on the massive desk all the papers Jamie MacDougal had given her. She read through the will, which was straightforward and contained little of Aunt Beatrice's characteristic acerbic voice until Emily came to the paragraphs detailing her own bequest.

To my great-niece, Emily Worthing Cavanaugh, I leave all my books, as I know no one else who would value them as I have done. As I do not wish the books to be moved, I leave her Windy Corner as well; and since the house is likely to become a money pit in its old age, I bequeath to said great-niece all the residue of my property not otherwise disposed of herein. I regret to say this is likely to include the cat Bustopher Jones, who will undoubtedly outlive me as he is far too ornery to die; however, it may be possible to palm him off onto Agnes Beech, who seems to have an unaccountable fondness for the creature.

It is my hope and belief that this sudden acquisition of wealth will not spoil Emily's character nor prove to be too great a burden; but if it does become a burden, I ask only that she shall not dispose of any of the real property in accordance with the fiendish and underhanded plans for development of Mayor Everett Trimble, nor entrust it to the agency of Vicki Landau for sale. This is a request, not a condition, as I have every faith in Emily's intrinsic Worthing good sense, which bypassed her father but has only wavered in Emily once, to my knowledge, in her extreme youth.

Emily smiled as she read. She could hear Beatrice's voice in her head, could almost see her standing just there, by the French window, dictating these words to Jamie MacDougal. She winced at the final phrase, though. So Aunt Beatrice had known about Luke, though Emily had hugged the secret of their relationship to her chest like a safety blanket. Of course. Aunt Beatrice knew everything.

And if Emily did not carry out her wishes, Aunt Beatrice would know that, too, and would undoubtedly exact some awful vengeance, such as siccing Bustopher Jones on her from beyond the grave. It was fortunate Emily's good Worthing sense had already set her on the right path.

The will, to her surprise, did not specify the wording of Beatrice's epitaph, stipulating only that Emily should be the one to write it. She was touched by that. Beatrice trusted her not only to honor her memory, but to do so eloquently, concisely, and without undue sentiment. This was not stated, but Emily knew from the many times Beatrice had corrected her essays exactly what her aunt would expect.

She turned to the list of properties. A total of fifty-three rental units, including single houses, duplexes, and a couple of fourplexes, most of them in prime locations within sight of the beach. The Driftwood Inn, the biggest and classiest of the town's three hotels. Three entire blocks of downtown retail space. “Downtown” was a mere four blocks long, and the fourth block had gone to Brock. This left only a few outlying shops, cafés, and taverns to be owned by others. In addition, Emily now owned all the undeveloped property from the beach to the highway for more than a mile to the north of town, all the way past Windy Corner and up to the rocky promontory that put a parenthesis to that end of the town's five-mile-long beach.

No wonder Trimble was eager to get Emily on his side. North was the only direction the town could potentially grow. To the east, the coastal range rose too sharply to permit more building. To the south, the beach ended where the houses petered out and Tillamook Bay began. Beatrice, and now Emily, stood in the breach, single-handedly defending Stony Beach from unwelcome expansion.

She felt rather like Boadicea defending Britain from the Romans. She might fight with all her valor, but her eventual defeat seemed assured.

 

six

As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!—How much of pleasure or of pain it was in his power to bestow!—How much of good or evil must be done by him!

—
Pride and Prejudice

The office of Wade Evans, CPA, occupied one corner of an unassuming building on Tillamook's main street. Evans had suggested ten thirty when Emily called for an appointment, and she was right on time.

She opened the outer door onto a reception room empty of receptionist. A bare, somewhat battered wooden desk took up one side of the room. Across from it, under the windows, stood a row of chairs that looked like refugees from a farm kitchen. The door to the inner office stood ajar.

Emily clicked across the linoleum floor, but just as she raised her hand to knock, a deep voice called out, “Come on in!”

She pushed the door open and found herself face-to-face with a white-haired man who, judging by the length of the jean-clad legs and the size of the cowboy boots slung up on his desk, must be well over six feet tall. He was leaning back in his wooden desk chair and aiming a balled-up sheet of paper at a point above her head. She dodged to the side and looked up to see a wire wastebasket suspended above the door. The paper ball found its target with inches to spare.

He smiled—not at her—then swung his legs off the desk and stepped around it to shake her hand. His spare frame must have had several inches on Luke, who was six foot two. Emily had to crane her neck to look at him.

“Wade Evans. You must be the niece.”

“Emily Cavanaugh.” His grip would have done justice to a blacksmith—a comparison no doubt inspired by the dozens of photographs of horses that jockeyed for wall space with bookcases and framed certificates. Most of the photos included Evans himself.

“Take a load off.” He gestured to the wooden armchair, twin of his own but without the wheels, which stood in front of the desk. So far Emily had not glimpsed a square inch of fabric or upholstery in the entire place.

“So what can I do you for?”

She blinked at the colloquialism but decided that if he really meant to swindle her, he probably wouldn't advertise the fact. “I'd like to get a general idea of the state of Beatrice's possessions. Well, mine now, or as soon as probate goes through. I have a list of the properties and their market value, but I'd like more detail—what condition are they in, are they profitable, and so on.”