Murder Most Persuasive (20 page)

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you say her ‘aura’?”

Julian nodded and leaned toward me, his manner intimate and faintly flirtatious. “Yes, her spiritual signature is very clear and strong. As you must already know, the aura is a reflection of our true nature at any given moment.” He placed his hand over mine. I wasn’t surprised to see that his nails were manicured and buffed to a glossy shine and that he was wearing a gold pinkie ring. “Surely a clever young woman such as yourself must have noticed it,” he said as he leaned toward me. The small movement sent a whiff of his cologne my way. My nostrils began to sting. And then burn.

I quickly slid my hand out from under his and moved it under my nose to block the odor. Unfortunately, the scent had transferred itself to my fingers. My eyes began to water. Julian continued, unaware of my distress. “Of course, not everyone has the trained eye. Bonnie’s aura is bright, clean pink. It’s very rare.”

“Of course it is,” I murmured, as I tried to pinpoint the main ingredient of the smell. Gasoline? Formaldehyde?

“The pink aura is an indication that the individual has achieved a perfect balance between spiritual awareness and the material existence.” I glanced at Bonnie to gauge her reaction to this, but she was busy admiring her manicure, her satisfied expression signifying a kind of spiritual appreciation of the material, I guess.

“Well, that
is
something,” I said in what I hoped was a tone of awe. Julian completely missed the sarcasm in my voice and nodded importantly. Bonnie attempted to look modest.

“The most advanced people also have a yellow halo around their head,” Julian continued, as if sharing a secret.

“Like Jesus?” I cried excitedly.

This time Julian caught the sarcasm. His eyes narrowed slightly and he leaned away from me. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a very distinctive aura, my dear? It’s very dark.”

“Oh, I know,” I replied confidentially. “But that’s because I’m Irish. To paraphrase Yeats, we Irish have an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustains us through temporary periods of joy.”

Julian said nothing. Lighting one of those small, nasty-smelling European cigarettes, he leaned farther back in his chair and turned his attention back to Bonnie. He was not going to waste any more time trying to charm me, for which I was grateful. Frankly, I don’t think my nose could take it.

*   *   *

Julian and Bonnie went out for dinner that night. Ann and I opted to eat in—not that we were asked to join them, of course, and not that we would have even if we were asked. With their departure, Ann and I settled into our routine of the past week. We cooked a simple dinner (grilled chicken, squash, brown rice) and took our plates out onto the back patio. The night was almost cool (that previously mentioned breeze from either the north or south having picked up) and the stars stood out with unusual intensity. If it weren’t for the lingering scent of Julian’s cologne, it might have all seemed a very bad dream. Bonnie was absolutely besotted with the man and clearly had every intention of handing over the entire contents of her bank account to him for “handling.” As a grown woman (at least according to her birth certificate), she had every right to make all the idiotic decisions she wanted to. However, as she was still holding on to the proceeds from the sale of the St. Michaels house, I very much doubted that Julian’s role of financial adviser would go uncontested by the rest of the family.

“Can you believe this?” Ann asked, as she angrily speared a piece of chicken. “It’s bad enough that I’ve got to deal with a murder investigation, but then Bonnie decides to bring home some greasy boy toy who not only ‘sees auras’ but smells like he’s been marinating in gigolo juice! Have you ever smelled anything so god-awful in your life?”

I laughed. “No, but I imagine that cologne is restricted to a very elite clientele, clientele obviously lacking in olfactory cells.”

“I can’t imagine the ingredients in that concoction are legal.” Ann rolled her eyes in disgust. “But in any case, it’s not the sort of scent you’d expect from your money investor.”

“Speaking of which, what are we going to do about that? We can’t allow Bonnie to give him access to her accounts. He’ll drain them dry!”

“I know. I know,” Ann said with a shake of her head. “But short of having her committed, I don’t know what we can do.”

“Have you called Reggie and Frances and brought them up to date?”

“Yes. We’re going to meet for dinner tomorrow night. I want to talk to them both before they come here. I don’t think they completely understand the severity of the situation. I don’t think anyone really
can
until they meet Julian in person.”

I nodded. “The smell alone will tip them off.”

*   *   *

It was late by the time Bonnie and Julian returned. Ann made a point of staying up until they got home so she could make sure that Julian at least began the night in the second guest bedroom. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let her take that man into her bedroom,” she said. “All that oil in his hair will ruin the good sheets.”

Bonnie made no objection to the arrangement, a factor I took as a good sign. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to knock some sense into her silly head. Once Julian retired for the night (after making a big show of gallantly kissing Bonnie’s hand), Bonnie followed Ann and me into the kitchen. Pouring herself a glass of white wine, she settled herself at the kitchen counter and said, “So how are the plans coming for Marty’s party?”

Ann turned and contemplated her stepmother in horrified disbelief. “The party? Well, gee, Bonnie, I haven’t really had time to do anything about that. I’ve been rather busy, you know?”

Bonnie’s blue eyes opened in surprise. “Busy? Doing what?”

Ann let out a strangled laugh. “A great deal, actually. I’ve been cataloging and organizing everything Dad mentioned in his will, not to mention dealing with the police.”

Bonnie shrugged. Never having had to organize anything beyond her shoes, she didn’t see the problem. “Well, I would still like to have it. I think Saturday would be perfect.”

Ann gaped at her. “Saturday? This Saturday?” Bonnie nodded. “But it’s already Thursday! I can’t possibly put together a memorial party in just two days!”

“Oh, Annabel, I’m sure Elizabeth here will help you. Besides, as I’ve always told you, you can do whatever you put your mind to.” Bonnie lifted the wineglass in a toast to Ann and took a large sip.

Ann turned to me, her expression one of incredulous fury. While I don’t confess to an ability to read minds, I nevertheless had a pretty good idea what Ann would do right now if, as Bonnie suggested, she just put her mind to it. And while it was true that Ann could always count on me, I didn’t think assault and verbal battery was our best course of action right now.

“I’d be happy to help,” I said quickly, hoping to forestall the outburst I saw forming in Ann’s head. “Ann and I will get started on that now. Bonnie, you must be exhausted. Why don’t you go to bed and let us get started with the plans? We can tell you all about it in the morning.”

Bonnie slumped a little in her seat and nodded. “It
has
been an exhausting week,” she admitted with a small sigh. “Julian’s been wonderful, of course, but even he can’t take away the dreadful shock of Marty’s death.”

Next to me, Ann’s mouth began to twist and curl in an apparent effort to prevent herself from screaming. “Exactly,” I said. “You should get to bed. Ann and I can handle this. You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

Bonnie took another sip of her wine before setting the glass on the counter. “You’re probably right. Let me know what I can do to help,” she said to Ann, as she slid out of her chair and scooped up Scarlett. “Julian and I have lunch plans and after that I’m taking him sightseeing. But I should be around later. I think. It really depends on what Julian wants to do.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ann said through clenched teeth.

With a backward wave of her hand, Bonnie floated out of the kitchen, Scarlett tucked under her arm.

“She’s—” Ann began, but I cut her off.

“Yes, she is. And more. But there’s no point wasting your breath about it. She is what she is. We’ll call everyone and tell them to be here at five on Saturday. We’ll get some steaks and wine and do a cookout. That will be the easy part. The hard part will be convincing her not to hand over all the money to Julian.”

“Is there anything we can do legally?” Ann asked.

“Short of having her ruled incompetent by the courts, I’m not sure.”

“Well, I’m sure as hell going to find out. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit by and let her drain everything my father worked for just so she can hand it over to that gigolo.”

“Don’t worry. That won’t happen. I promise,” I said.

CHAPTER 19

You ought certainly to forgive them as a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing.

—
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

A
FTER ANN WENT TO BED,
I called Aunt Winnie and brought her up to date on the latest events. When I got to the part about Julian and the money, she began to curse. Spectacularly. Brilliantly. Like the dad in
A Christmas Story,
she worked in profanity the way other artists worked with oil or clay. It was her true medium. When she finished, I said, “Yes, yes. But what are we going to
do
?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’m coming down tomorrow. Let me book a flight. I’ll call you later with the details.”

My next call was to Peter. While the essence of his reaction to hearing about Bonnie was essentially the same as Aunt Winnie’s (shock, disgust, concern), it was not nearly as vulgar. “Well, my flight gets in Saturday afternoon,” he said. “I don’t know what I can do, but I’ll be there for you.”

“That’s all I need.”

We talked for several minutes more, but the points of
that
conversation didn’t have any relevance on either Michael’s death or Bonnie’s grifter boy toy. As such, it was the nicest conversation I’d had all week.

*   *   *

Work the next day was a mess, of course, but thankfully it passed quickly. Ann called Frances and Reggie and got us a reservation at one of our favorite restaurants, 1789. Aunt Winnie’s flight got in at four, and she was going to join us.

Ann and I picked up Aunt Winnie at the airport. As I mentioned, Aunt Winnie and her boyfriend, Randy, were renovating a house on Nantucket to serve as a B and B. From the looks of her outfit, apparently her time on the island hadn’t been spent in isolated concentration on the house. Normally she gravitated toward slightly edgy ensembles, especially those that emphasized her ample curves and deep cleavage. Today she was wearing an orange poplin A-line skirt emblazoned with dark blue lilies, topped with a bright red cardigan over a light blue blouse. Tan espadrilles completed the look.

Seeing me, she thrust out her left hip and struck a pose. “I’ve gone native,” she said. “What do you think?”

“I know that dress is your passion, but in this case, rather than indulging in a most harmless delight in looking fine, you look like you were attacked by Lilly Pulitzer,” I said slowly.

“Well, you would be wrong, missy,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “This look is all the rage.” Eyeing my own comparatively drab ensemble of a navy skirt and short-sleeve blue-and-white-striped oxford, she added, “I think you could do with a wardrobe update yourself, missy.”

“Well, I think you look wonderful,” Ann said with a laugh. Giving her a hug, she added, “Thank you so much for coming, Aunt Winnie. As you’ve probably heard, things are a real mess.”

“Yes, well, that’s usually what happens when Bonnie gets involved. It’s a particular talent she has,” said Aunt Winnie, after giving me a hug. “So what’s the plan?”

“We don’t have one yet. We’re meeting Frances and Reggie for dinner. We thought we could discuss our options then.”

“Well, I’m here as long as you need me,” Aunt Winnie said. Handing me her suitcase, she slid into Ann’s car. “Let’s go.”

“How’s the house?” I asked Aunt Winnie as we pulled out into traffic.

There was a brief pause before she answered. “Would you believe me if I told you it was haunted?”

I laughed. “Are you trying to prepare me for what horrors I will encounter this fall? Are there sliding panels, tapestries, and dimly lit halls?”

For once Aunt Winnie didn’t respond in kind. “I’m serious,” she said. “There’s something weird going on there. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s
something.
”

“Wait—you’re not kidding? What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. I glanced at her purse lying on the seat next to her. A well-worn copy of
The Monk
was visible. I looked from it to her. She caught my meaning. “Don’t…” she began.

“Don’t what?” I answered.

“Don’t try and blame my suspicions on my reading material. I read
Dracula
and I didn’t go around thinking that the undead were real,” she said. “Though it would be something if that vamp Eric from
True Blood
was real.”

“Um. Okay. Well, what does Randy think?” I asked.

“He thinks it’s nothing,” came the disgruntled reply. I have to admit, that made me feel better. Randy was level-headed and sensible. Not that Aunt Winnie wasn’t exactly, but if Randy wasn’t concerned, then I could relax a bit. Aunt Winnie seemed to sense my doubt and dropped the subject.

Forty-five minutes later, we arrived at 1789. A Georgetown tradition for dining, the renovated Federal house is decorated with American antiques, equestrian and historical prints, and Limoges china. If the Great House at Upper Cross had an American counterpart, it would be 1789.

Frances and Scott were waiting for us when we arrived. Scott was once again wearing an expensive suit and looking like he’d rather not be. Frances was neatly turned out in a Burberry print sheath. After greeting Aunt Winnie, Frances said, “Reggie is running late. Some bridezilla gone amok or something. She said she’d be here soon, though.”

Once seated and drinks ordered, Aunt Winnie looked around the table. “Okay. So I gather that Bonnie is not only holding on to the proceeds from the sale of the house, but she’s planning on giving this Julian character those proceeds plus God knows what else for him to ‘invest.’ Now, I imagine that any decent lawyer will be able to clear up Bonnie’s … shall we say
misunderstanding
about the proceeds on the house. The bigger problem is, how do we stop her from handing over the rest of her assets?”