Murder Most Persuasive (3 page)

“I’d love to come and help you with the inn, too, Aunt Winnie,” Kit said now, a faint note of melancholy in her voice. “I have a fabulous sense of design. All my friends say so.”

Aunt Winnie smiled at Kit. “And I’d love to have you, but I think you’ll be rather busy,” she said, with a meaningful look at Kit’s belly. Kit is eight months pregnant with her second child. When Kit was well and feeling fine, she could be fun, but to steal a phrase from Austen, any indisposition sunk her completely and it was easy for her to fancy herself neglected and ill-used. These days her pregnancy left her feeling exceedingly neglected and ill-used, and so she was pretty well completely sunk most of the time. If Mary Musgrove’s sore throats were worse than anybody’s, well, then the same could be said of Kit’s pregnancies.

Kit’s crabbiness had only further strained our relationship, which was rocky at best. Kit was the “responsible” one in our family—happily settled with a nice house and a nice family. I was the “irresponsible” one who still hadn’t decided on a career and only recently entered into a stable adult relationship. Kit’s sheets smelled of lavender; the only thing that smelled in my place was the kitchen sponge. As a result, she tried to advise me on how to run my life and I tried to refrain from openly scowling.

Kit glanced down at her rounded belly now, patting it fondly. “True,” she said. “I
will
be busy. But if Elizabeth is going to be there, she can help
me,
while I help
you
. I know she’ll be wonderful with the baby. She’s been just amazing with little Pauly these past few weeks; she’s much more patient than I am—but that’s probably because he’s not hers.”

To steal another line from Austen, Kit always thought a great deal of her own complaints, and was always in the habit of claiming me when anything was the matter.

Aunt Winnie grinned at me. “Yes, I could see how you would think that Elizabeth is the properest person to watch the baby.”

I nodded in mock agreement. “Quite. For I have not a mother’s feelings.”

Kit stamped her foot in annoyance while Aunt Winnie and I giggled. “I hate it when you two do that!” she said. “It’s like hanging out with people who insist on speaking in some juvenile code!”

It drives Kit crazy when I quote Jane Austen at her, mainly because she never gets the references. “Jane Austen is not juvenile!” I said with a laugh. “She’s a classic!”

“Sorry, I guess that makes
you
the juvenile,” Kit retorted.

“Kit, if you read the books, you’d get the references.”

“Sorry, but unlike some people, I don’t have the luxury to spend time reading. I have a house to run and a child to raise.”

I bit my tongue and said nothing. Restraint was a skill I’d been forced to perfect over the last few weeks ever since my apartment had been deemed “unfit” to live in due to a rampant mold issue. Armed with my landlord’s promise that the problem would be rectified in two weeks, I moved into Kit’s guest bedroom in her house in Silver Spring. I would have preferred to have stayed with Peter, but his place was in Annapolis, too far a commute to my newspaper job in D.C. Don’t get me wrong. I was extremely grateful to Kit for taking me in, it’s just that Kit has the ability to ruin even the most generous of gestures. What began as a chance for us to “bond” (her words) had quickly morphed into a chance for me to perfect my skills as a live-in nanny, maid, and sous chef (my words). Two days ago, she asked if I wouldn’t mind incorporating some fresh dinner recipes into my new nightly routine, as she felt that my staples of spaghetti, ham-and-cheese omelets, and grilled chicken were a bit “pedestrian.” “Paul and I really want to expand little Pauly’s taste buds,” she had told me.

To be fair, if my kid wolfed down Play-Doh with the enthusiasm Pauly did, I might think about expanding his taste buds, too. Nevertheless, when my landlord called to tell me that it looked as if repairs would be at least another week, I felt a sudden weight on my neck that threatened to pull me to the ground.

The weight actually turned out to be little Pauly; he likes to launch sneak attacks on me (and just for the record, “little” Pauly is a misnomer; I’m beginning to suspect that Play-Doh is high in calories). Anyway, the realization that Kit wanted me to reprise my role of Mary Poppins this fall—with Pauly
and
a newborn—made me want to sit down with my head between my knees.

Happily, Aunt Winnie came to my rescue. “Oh, Kit, I would love to have you and the baby to the new place, but I couldn’t in good conscience let you come before the repairs are completed. We’re going to be gutting a large portion of the house. It’ll be a dusty mess and God only knows what kind of toxic particles we might be unearthing. I wouldn’t feel comfortable having a baby around all that dirt and grime. As soon as it’s done, though, I want you to come.”

Kit’s lips pulled down into a pout, but she did not argue. “Well, I guess I’ll stay here alone while you all go off to Nantucket.”

My self-restraint gave way and I laughed, saying, “Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off, when you are all gone away to be happy at Bath!”

Aunt Winnie smothered a smile. I think my mother did, too. Kit, however, glared at me. “Oh yeah?” she snapped. “You want to trade pithy quotes? Well, how about this? ‘C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me!’ And I guess it’ll have to be because no one seems to want to help me!”

My mother attempted to appease Kit with an indulgent pat on the back. “Now, Kit,” she said soothingly, “that’s not true. I told you that I would be happy to stay with you and help.”

“And Kit, if you think gutting a house is fun, then you really do need a vacation!” added Aunt Winnie. “You come up once everything’s ready. That way I can give you a proper vacation, pamper you, and show off my latest great-niece or great-nephew. Wait, is that right?” Aunt Winnie paused thoughtfully. “Would it be my great-great-niece or great-great-nephew? Would that make me a great-great-aunt? I don’t know, it sounds weird.”

“How about we just call you Extraordinary Aunt?” I said, laughing.

“Done,” Aunt Winnie agreed. Turning back to Kit, she asked, “Do you have any idea what the sex of the baby is?”

“No,” Kit replied. “We want to be surprised, but I keep having dreams that it’s a girl.”

Aunt Winnie smiled. “Oh, a little girl! How fun that would be!”

Mollified, Kit chatted happily about possible names for the baby if it was a girl until Aunt Winnie finally left to catch her flight. Giving me a final hug, she whispered in my ear, “Patience is a virtue.”

“So’s vodka,” I whispered back.

With a laugh and a final wave good-bye, Aunt Winnie headed for her terminal. We watched her until she was swallowed up by the bustling crowd of fellow travelers before piling back into my mom’s car.

“So, I was thinking that maybe sometime next week we all could meet for dinner somewhere,” my mom said as she pulled out into the traffic, ignoring three separate cabbies’ horns of warning. “I know that George would love to see you.”

George is my mother’s boyfriend. When our father died five years ago, our mom took it pretty hard. She left the house only for classes at the college where she taught English literature. In fact, if it weren’t for her job, I don’t think she would have left the house at all. To help, Kit and I had chipped in and signed her up for some spin classes at a local gym, thinking that the interaction might help ease her out of her loneliness. As fate would have it, George was the instructor. At first we thought it was cute when he’d asked her out, and we’d good-naturedly teased her about being a cougar. That was four years ago and it was no longer cute or funny. It isn’t that George is a bad guy, mind you. He’s nice enough. He is good-looking and in good shape. He is just dumb as an ox. The last time we all went out to eat at one of his favorite restaurants, I asked him if the turkey burger was any good. He answered that he didn’t know because, and I’m quoting here, “I’m not one of those pansy vegetarians.” He then flexed his biceps,
kissed it,
and added, “My guns need protein.”

Really, not even Jane Austen would have a snappy comeback to that.

At my mom’s mention of George, Kit and I exchanged glances of derision. It was funny, but after a lifetime of butting heads, we’d finally found one thing in common. We both found a night with George to be a damned tedious waste of an evening. But we love our mother, so we put up with him. The only reason we hadn’t had to deal with him today was that he was at some cycling convention in Seattle, learning how to channel Lance Armstrong or something.

“Yeah, Mom, that would be great,” said Kit. “Just let me know when it’s a good time.”

“I’m free all next week,” I added.

“Except Tuesday,” said Kit. “Don’t forget, you’re watching little Pauly for us next Tuesday night.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I’ll be there,” I mumbled. My social life had taken a hit lately, and Kit saw no reason not to take full advantage of this temporary lull. My best friend, Bridget, was newly married. She and her husband, Colin, had purchased a “fixer-upper” and now spent most of their time trolling Home Depot and poring over paint samples. As much as I love them both, I couldn’t endure another conversation about whether “hushed hue” or “inner balance” would be a better color for the living room. (Seriously, do either of those colors suggest taupe to you? Why can’t they just call colors what they are? In this case, “really light taupe” and “even lighter taupe.”)

As for Peter, he was putting together a new business deal in California, and we hadn’t had much of a chance to get together. The result was that in addition to my other “Kit duties,” I had now become her very own free babysitting service.

From the front seat, Kit suddenly gave a loud laugh. “Well, you’ll be there unless they suddenly discover that Uncle Marty was murdered and you have to fly off to solve the case!”

I looked out the window and sighed, wondering for maybe the hundredth time just how bad exposure to mold was anyway.

CHAPTER 3

If there is anything disagreeable going on men are always sure to get out of it.

—
PERSUASION

I
T WAS AROUND
THREE
when we arrived at Kit’s house, a two-story, whitewashed colonial dating from the 1940s. Like many of the houses in Silver Spring, it retains a vintage charm in spite of being expanded and modernized over the years. Kit, of course, is hoping to move into one of those McMansions that line the Beltway.

As soon as Kit stepped inside, Pauly launched himself at her with an enthusiasm that bordered on violence. Pauly is a miniature of his father. He has curly brown hair, a round freckled face, and a sweet, lopsided smile. He has some of his mother in him, too. He doesn’t like it when things don’t go his way and isn’t shy about letting people know it. I should know, I have bruises on my shins to prove it.

“Will you play Candy Land with me? Please? I’m so bored,” he wailed, climbing up Kit’s leg. Wiping his nose, he repeated, “Please?”

“Don’t wipe your nose on your sleeve,” Kit said automatically. “Are you feeling better, baby? Where’s Daddy?”

A head cold had kept Pauly home from preschool today. Kit’s husband, Paul, had stayed home from his job as a hot-tub salesman to watch him. Hearing our voices in the foyer, Paul wandered out from the living room, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Gesturing to Kit to wait a minute, he continued his conversation. “Yeah, Tom? Hey, listen, my wife just got in so I can get to the store after all. Tell them I’ll be there within the half hour. Okay, thanks. Bye.”

He turned to Kit. “Hey, babe. How was the funeral?”

While I tried not to laugh at the absurdity of the question, Kit put her hands on her hips and glared at Paul. “Did I hear you correctly? Are you going into the store? Today? Now?”

“Babe, come on. It’s the high season for hot tubs. You know that. The store is packed today. As manager, I have to be there. This could mean a big bonus for us.”

“You’re really going to leave? I just came home from burying my uncle! I’m exhausted!” Kit cried.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize that they actually made you dig the hole!” Paul shot back. “If you’re that tired, take a nap. I’m sure Elizabeth can watch Pauly,” he casually offered.

“But that’s not the point,” Kit began.

“Kit, he’s right,” I said. “I have the whole day off. You go take a nap. Let Paul go to the store. I can watch Pauly.” Turning to Pauly, I said, “Come on, little man, let’s go play Candy Land. But I get to be the blue guy.”

“Deal!” said Pauly, breaking into a run to his room to get the game.

“Thanks, Elizabeth,” said Paul. Looking back at Kit, he said, “Babe, don’t be this way. I have to go in to work. I wish I didn’t, but I do. I’ll try not to be too late.” Giving her a peck on the cheek, he waved good-bye to me and yelled to Pauly, “I’m leaving now, Pauly. Love you, buddy. Play nice with your aunt Elizabeth!” Two seconds later, he was out the door. I turned to Kit, about to say, “Nursing does not belong to a man; it is not his province,” but then I saw her face and thought better of the idea.

Kit frowned at the door Paul had just exited before storming up the stairs to her bedroom. “Men,” I heard her mumble before shutting the door behind her.

“Sisters,” I added under my breath before heading to Pauly’s room for a rousing game of Candy Land.

Two hours later, after multiple trips to the Candy Cane Forest and Gum Drop Mountain and hanging out with Princess Frostine, I felt like a diabetic in need of an insulin shot. Happily, Pauly seemed as exhausted as I felt, and I had no problem convincing him to take a nap. I tucked him into his Pottery Barn Speedboat bed, which Kit paid through the nose for after getting into a bidding war over it on eBay. Given the final price of the bed, I suspected that Pauly would be stuck with it all the way through high school. But who knows? It just might have been wise parenting on Kit’s part. I mean, I doubt the kid was ever going to try and sneak any girls into his room to make out on the plank detailing.

Once I was sure that Pauly was asleep, I headed for my room and flopped on my bed. Immediately, the lyrics to “I Wanna Be Like You” from Disney’s
The Jungle Book
burst into my brain. It wasn’t my fault. My room was the future nursery, and Kit had decided to go with a—you guessed it—jungle theme. Everywhere I looked animals of all shapes and sizes crowded together and gazed back at me. On the walls, painted monkeys and chimpanzees swung from twisted branches. From the closet doors, an elephant and a rhino peered out from behind a giant bush. On the ceiling, a giraffe leaned toward a full green leaf, its long blue-black tongue extended to take a bite.