Murder Most Persuasive (21 page)

“Frankly, I don’t care how she handles her
own
money,” said Frances. “She’s a grown woman and I don’t see what we can do to stop her. I’ve spoken to Stephen Guilford about the problems of the house, and from what I gather, we can get a court order to freeze the assets, but that, of course, takes time. For all we know, Bonnie may have already written this Julian a check.”

Scott nodded. “And I don’t know about the rest of you, but Frances and I need that money.”

“Scott!” Frances admonished.

Scott’s cheeks flushed and he glanced apologetically at his wife. “Sorry, Frances.”

Frances briefly closed her eyes. “It’s fine. There’s no point trying to hide it. Go ahead and tell them.”

“When Marty took a turn for the worse and officially tapped me for his successor, there were a few hiccups,” Scott said. “We lost a couple of bids and a few employees tried to take advantage of the change. I took full responsibility for the gaffes and used my own money to cover the losses because I knew we were due the money from the St. Michaels house. But if Bonnie gives that money away—”

“We could lose everything,” interjected Frances, her face pinched with worry. “The house, the cars,
everything
!”

“Well, we’ll just have to make sure that we get that money back, then,” said Aunt Winnie with determination.

“What money?” said a voice to my left. Turning, I saw that it was Reggie. Her normally perfect face was almost haggard. Her black dress was uncharacteristically wrinkled and her posture sagged. She sank wearily into an empty chair and gazed questioningly at us.

“The money from the sale of the house,” explained Frances. “Bonnie plans on giving it all to that horrible man she brought home.”

“Perfect. Just perfect,” Reggie said. “That’s the cherry on the top of my week. Where’s the waitress? I need a drink.” Seeing our server returning to the table with our drinks, Reggie ordered herself a martini. “Make it a double,” she added.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Ann.

“What isn’t wrong?” Reggie replied testily. “I’ve spent the past three hours dealing with a young woman who makes Leona Helmsley look like a pussycat. She’s forced her bridesmaids to submit to a weigh-in and screamed at one poor girl for not hitting her weekly goal. I swear to God, I think she’s going to make her own mother step on the scales before the end of next week. She’s also planning on singing her vows—in Italian, no less—and is constantly belting them out. My phone has been ringing off the hook from reporters asking about Michael, and now Bonnie is planning on giving away all of Dad’s money to some spa-trolling lothario.” Reggie looked pointedly at the empty spot in front of her. “And I don’t have a drink.”

The waitress arrived with Reggie’s martini and Reggie gratefully accepted it. Taking a large gulp she said, “That’s better. Now, what did I miss?”

Frances said, “We were discussing what to do about Bonnie. Scott and I will do what we can between now and tomorrow to find out our legal options. Should we try to talk to Bonnie at the party tomorrow?”

“I don’t know if it’ll do any good,” replied Scott. “You know how she gets.”

“I’ll talk to her,” said Aunt Winnie. “I think I can be a little more … direct with her about this than any of you can. Speaking of tomorrow, what is the plan?”

“Nothing fancy,” replied Ann. “We thought we’d do a cookout for the family. I don’t know what Bonnie is expecting, but frankly, with all that’s going on right now, that’s about all I can handle.”

“I assume Julian will be there?” asked Aunt Winnie.

Ann nodded.

“Good,” said Aunt Winnie with a smirk. “I can’t wait to get a load of him.”

CHAPTER 20

His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle.

—
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

I
AWOKE EARLY
on Saturday. Not to sound superstitious, but I took this as a bad sign; sleeping in is one of my favorite things to do. Over the years, I’ve noticed that an early awakening usually heralds calamity. Rather than dwell on what really motivated my early rising, I chose to attribute it to my excitement at finally seeing Peter again. I knew that wasn’t it, but I nevertheless told myself that’s what it was. An anticipation of excitement was a much easier explanation to deal with than an anticipation of disaster. Besides, I didn’t minor in denial for no reason.

I headed downstairs and found that Ann had arisen early as well. She had already started the coffee and was buttering a bagel when I entered into the kitchen. “Good morning,” she said. “You ready for today?”

“As much as I can be, I suppose,” I said, pouring myself a large cup of coffee. “What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing much. I’m going shopping in a little bit. I guess the main thing I need is your support. I have a feeling today will be a tough one.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately, I doubt that prediction will get you a spot on the Psychic Friends Network. Are you going to invite Joe?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could. From the way Ann gaped at me in horror, I gathered I needed to work on my nonchalant affectations.

“Invite Joe? Are you kidding? Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” I said, after taking a sip of coffee. “I guess I think you two should give it another try.”

“But to invite him to a party honoring my father? Let’s face it, he wasn’t his biggest fan.”

“He who?” I asked. “He Joe or he your father?”

With a wry smile she said, “Both.”

*   *   *

Peter’s flight got in at one. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him until I saw him emerge from the gate. It was all I could do to suppress my squeal of excitement. It had been so long since I’d seen him that I almost expected him to have changed. But he hadn’t. He was still the six-foot-tall, brown-haired man I’d said good-bye to a few weeks earlier. I ran up to him and he enveloped me in a hug that left me with no doubt that he’d missed me just as much as I’d missed him. For the one hundredth time that week I cursed the fact that my apartment was uninhabitable.

After we said our hellos (in various different manners), we decided to grab a bite to eat while I brought him up to date on the latest developments. Although Peter was concerned about the potential of Julian draining Bonnie dry, he was more upset that Ann and I were “playing sleuth,” as he called it. Because he’d just gotten back, I didn’t argue the point.

“Damn it, Elizabeth,” he said. “A man was killed. Your snooping around trying to find the killer could scare the killer into trying to silence you or Ann!”

I poked at my chicken salad. I didn’t have a response to that. He was right, and I couldn’t really argue the point as it was almost exactly what I had advised Ann.

“I know,” I said. “You’re right. I’ll stay out of it and I’ll try and convince Ann to stay out of it as well. Although to be honest, I think that will be hard to do.”

“Don’t tell me the sleuthing gene runs in the family,” teased Peter.

“No, at least I don’t think so,” I said with a smile. “I think Ann’s desire to get involved is so that she has a reason to stay in touch with Joe.”

Peter said nothing. Taking a bite of his cheeseburger, he eyed me suspiciously.

“What?” I asked defensively.

He shook his head. “I’m not sure which is worse. You playing at sleuth or you playing at matchmaker.”

“Hard to say, seeing how I’m excellent at both,” I retorted as I helped myself to his fries.

“I still say it’s silly. Dangerously silly,” he said.

“Silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way.”

His eyes narrowed. “
Pride and Prejudice
?”

“
Emma
.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

*   *   *

We finished our lunches and headed over to Kit’s to pick up Aunt Winnie. She had opted to stay with Kit while in town. Although it made more sense for her to stay with Ann, she knew that Kit would view such an arrangement as a grave insult.

Aunt Winnie opened the door at our knock. After greeting Peter, she turned to me. “What the hell is with the jungle theme in your sister’s guest room?” she asked in a hushed voice. “I think that damn giraffe has Graves’ disease.”

“I tried to warn you.”

“Well, you didn’t warn me hard enough. I think I slept for only four hours!”

Kit entered the foyer and greeted us in some kind of strange gesticulating pantomime. Our faces must have registered confusion because she finally gave up and whispered, “I just put Pauly down for a nap. Keep your voices down. You know how he is when he doesn’t nap.” I did; the kid turned into Damien on crack.

“I thought I’d drive Aunt Winnie over to Ann’s,” I whispered back. “She wants to have a word alone with Bonnie and meet Julian before the guests arrive.”

Kit’s mouth pinched in concern. “Is this Julian guy that bad?”

I nodded. “Worse. He makes George look like Gandhi.”

“That
is
bad.”

“Speaking of George, are he and Mom coming over?”

Kit shrugged. “I have no idea. I called but he answered. You know how he is with phone messages. There was a game on in the background, so who knows if he even heard me.”

I sympathized. George loved all forms of televised sports. NASCAR, golf, fishing, football, you name it. If lawn care became a televised sport, George would watch it.

Kit promised to keep trying to get hold of our mom and said she’d see us at Uncle Marty’s after Pauly woke up from his nap. We headed out to my car—a used blue Volkswagen Jetta (yes, thank you, I
am
living the dream). At the car, Aunt Winnie dug out a bag from her purse and with great flourish handed it to Peter. A knowing smile played on his lips as he took it. “Dare I ask?” he said, as he peered cautiously into the bag.

“Now, now, don’t be skittish.”

Aunt Winnie and Peter had had a running contest for years to see who could outdo the other with inappropriate gifts. Last month Peter had sent Aunt Winnie an enormous bouquet of tail flowers, those vaguely sexual red flowers found only in Chinese restaurants. They are kind of flat with a long red stem jutting out from the center. One in a single vase is bad enough, but two dozen of them is patently pornographic. Peter pulled the item out of the bag; it was a white T-shirt. Shaking it open, he looked at the front and burst out laughing. He held it up so that I could see. It read:
I AM THE MAN FROM NANTUCKET.

Aunt Winnie giggled. “So what do you think?”

“I think,” I said as I studied the shirt, “that I would venture to recommend a larger allowance of prose in your daily study.”

Aunt Winnie laughed again and quipped, “I declare little faith in the efficacy of any books on gags like this.”

“Don’t you two ever stop?” Peter asked in mock exasperation.

“No,” Aunt Winnie and I answered in emphatic unison.

As we drove to Uncle Marty’s, Aunt Winnie told Peter what she and Randy had done so far on the house in Nantucket and asked his advice about some renovations. I stayed quiet as the two of them launched into some kind of builder code that was complete gibberish to me. It was a bit like that scene in
Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House
, where the contractor asks the hapless Cary Grant, “The second-floor lintels between the lally columns, should we rabbet them?” and the camera zooms in on his utter confusion. I suspected that my face now held a similar expression of befuddlement.

Finally we arrived at Uncle Marty’s. With minimal difficulty I found a parking spot and we headed to the house. Ann greeted us at the door. She was wearing a bright burgundy wrap dress, but her face was wan and pale.

“That bad?” I asked.

“You’ve no idea,” she muttered. Turning to Peter, she hugged him. “It’s good to see you again, Peter,” she said. “How was your trip?”

“It was fine,” he said. “I was sorry to hear about your father, Ann. Elizabeth told me a lot about him. I’m really sorry I couldn’t attend the funeral.”

“I completely understand,” said Ann. “Thanks for the flowers, by the way. They were lovely. I gather Elizabeth’s kept you abreast of the rest of the drama? About Michael’s murder and Bonnie’s new friend?”

“Yes. Again you have my sympathies.”

Ann shook her head in disbelief. “The whole thing is so surreal. Here I am, getting ready to host a party in memory of my father, and his widow is out back parading about with some Casanova in cheap cologne.”

“What can I do to help?” I asked.

“Most of the guests are coming around five. I’ve got everything under control. Could you just keep Bonnie away from me? Every once in a while she wanders into the kitchen trying to impress Julian with her domestic skills. The last time she almost cut off her thumb trying to peel an apple.”

“I can do that,” I said. “Where is she?”

“On the back patio. I warn you, she’s sunning herself.”

“And why are you warning me?”

“Because she’s wearing a new bathing suit. It might have been a bikini before it shrunk. I don’t even know how to describe Julian’s attire. Obscene might be a start, though.”

“Oh, dear God.”

Ann paused. “Yeah, okay,” she said in agreement after apparently considering the matter. “You could
try
prayer, but to be honest, I don’t think His presence is here today.”

Peter, Aunt Winnie, and I followed Ann into the kitchen and then headed out to the patio. It was a beautiful day, perfect for a barbecue. Autumn had not yet claimed the season. The air still held some lingering summer warmth and the sun shimmered overhead in one of those flawless blue skies dotted with white puffs of cloud. However, the setting wasn’t entirely unspoiled. As Ann had warned us, Bonnie was reclining on one of the chaise longues wearing a flimsy black two-piece, a large black straw hat, and large black sunglasses. Widow’s weeds for the gal on the make, I suppose. On the chaise next to her, Julian sat wearing a snug Burberry swimsuit. It was the tap pants style normally favored by small girls with no hips. I glanced away. My eyes hurt.

Bonnie gracefully rose to her feet and ambled toward us, her kitten heels tapping rhythmically on the stone patio and her newly tanned arms stretched out to greet us. When she got near us, Aunt Winnie said in a low voice, “Christ, Bonnie, what’s with the suit? Where’s the rest of it? On layaway?”