Murder Most Persuasive (4 page)

I tried really hard not to look at the ceiling if I could help it.

When I’d moved in, Peter had taken one look at the room and reprogrammed the ring tone on his phone to play “Jungle Fever” every time I called. I did so now.

“Hey there!” he said. “I was just thinking about you. How are you doing?”

“Pretty good,” I said, scooting back on the bed so I could rest my head on the pillows all the while keeping my eyes averted from the ceiling. “Aunt Winnie says hi.”

“I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there. But I think we’re close to signing the deal.”

“That’s great!” I said. Peter was in San Diego overseeing negotiations for a new property. He’d promised to fly me out there for a getaway weekend if the deal went through. “When do you think you’ll be done?”

“What’s today? Tuesday? Probably by Friday. Think you can sneak away for the weekend? Or does Kit not let you take off weekends?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve started a tunnel to the outside from my bedroom closet. I dump the dirt out of my pants pockets when I take Pauly to the playground. By Friday, it should be ready. I already have the papier-mâché of my head completed.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you on the outside.”

We chatted a little while longer until Peter had to go. Before he hung up, he once again tried to convince me to stay at his place while my apartment was being redone. “The commute can’t be as bad as that tongue on your ceiling,” he said.

“You might have a point there,” I said with an uneasy glance upward.

“I do have a point. We’ll talk more Friday.”

“Okay. See you then.”

“Hang tough. I love you.”

My heart made that little flip-flop it did every time he said that. “I love you, too,” I said.

I hung up and rolled off the bed. Stepping out into the hall, I listened for signs of activity from Kit’s room but heard nothing. Peeking into Pauly’s room, I saw that he was still asleep, curled up with an assortment of wooden trains.

Heading downstairs, I looked at the clock. Seeing that it was five thirty, I cleaned up the kitchen and living room for Kit and then started dinner. Around six o’clock, Pauly woke up and came stumbling into the kitchen, wiping the sleep from his eyes. A few minutes later, Kit emerged from her room as well. “Oh, thanks, Elizabeth,” she said, when she saw that I’d started dinner. “I’m sorry you’ve been stuck doing so much. I just don’t have any energy these days. This pregnancy is really taking a toll on me.”

Sliding into a chair at the kitchen table, she pulled Pauly onto her lap. “We are very lucky to have Aunt Elizabeth staying with us, you know that, buddy?” she said, laying her blond head on his. Pauly nodded and grinned at me.

I smiled back and thought that Kit wasn’t all bad. After all, she was eight months pregnant and undoubtedly exhausted. Taking care of Pauly and the house had to be draining even when enjoying the best of health. She then ruined my newfound goodwill by suddenly frowning at the stove and asking, “Wait. Are you making spaghetti? Again?”

Aunt Winnie’s advice that “Patience is a virtue” popped into my head, reminding me of my own version of patience. I wondered where Kit kept the booze. Maybe I could make a nice vodka sauce for tonight.

Paul was home in time for dinner, which was good, as Kit tended to pout when he was late. Thankfully, he took over after dinner, cleaning up and giving Pauly his bath. While Kit prepared to snuggle in with Pauly and read him a Thomas the Tank Engine adventure, Paul turned to me and said, “Hey, Elizabeth, how about we go test out the new hot tub? It’s the latest model, you know.”

I did indeed know. It was a frequent topic of conversation. In fact, I think I could get a job at Paul’s store with all the “portable spa” knowledge I’d amassed in the last week. For instance, the model that Paul had installed was the Vanguard. It boasted a gray spa-stone surround, four-zone multicolor lighting, an integrated MP3 sound system, and a total of thirty-two jets. It could comfortably hold six adults and four hundred gallons of water or the entire cast of
The Jersey Shore
. Hair gel was optional.

“That’s not fair!” said Kit. “Elizabeth gets to use it before me! You know I can’t go in while I’m pregnant!”

Paul shot her an irritated look and Kit realized how horrible she sounded. “I’m sorry,” she said meekly. “I’m just grumpy, I guess. You guys go enjoy the tub. I’ll get Pauly to bed.”

I am not normally a hot tub person, but tonight it sounded like a good idea. I quickly changed into my bathing suit and stepped outside into the crisp evening air. As befitting a tub of this caliber, Paul had given it its own special area of the backyard. The tub was situated under a picturesque grouping of dogwood trees. The fall foliage provided a purplish-red canopy over it while elaborate stone flooring provided its base. It was all lit by a custom spotlight. As I climbed in the hot water, Paul fiddled with a few buttons and soon the lights and jets were both pulsing away. Hidden speakers were activated and Bruce Springsteen began to croon about a long-lost love and a car. Or it might have been about a long-lost love that
was
a car. I closed my eyes and leaned back, enjoying the quiet and letting the bubbling water ease away the tension in my shoulders.

“Hey, Elizabeth?”

I reluctantly pried my eyes back open and looked at Paul.

“I just want you to know that I really appreciate how helpful you’ve been these past few weeks.”

I smiled. “I think I should be the one thanking you. You guys helped me out of a bind. I really appreciate the use of … your guest room,” I said, thankful that I had stopped myself in time from saying “jungle land.”

“Well, I’m not sure that we didn’t get the better end of that deal,” said Paul with a rueful look. “I know that Kit can be difficult at times.” He paused and laughed. “Well actually, I don’t think I need to tell
you
that. But this pregnancy has thrown her, somehow. She complains about
everything
. You’ve noticed, haven’t you?”

I shifted uncomfortably in the tub. This wasn’t the relaxing time I’d had in mind when I’d accepted Paul’s offer. “Hmmm,” I said noncommittally.

“Well, I was wondering … do you think you could talk to her?”

Although I had a vague suspicion of what he was referring to, I refused to believe it. “Talk to her about what?”

“About her constant complaining.”

I opened my eyes wide in disbelief. “Are you serious? You want
me
to talk to her? About that?”

Paul sighed. “All right. Maybe it’s a bad idea.”

“Yeah, you think?”

“It’s just that maybe if she heard it from
you…”

“Oh, and she so loves my opinion as it is! I think you’ve spent too much time in this tub. It’s melting your brain.”

Paul opened his mouth to say something when Kit called out. “Elizabeth! Phone!”

“We will
not
continue this conversation later,” I said with a laugh as I hopped out of the tub. Grabbing a thick terry-cloth towel off a patio chair, I rubbed myself dry before stepping back inside the house. Kit was waiting by the door. I could tell from her face that she was annoyed.

“Who is it?” I whispered.

“Ann,” she answered, thrusting the phone at me.

Well, that explains the annoyance, I thought, taking the phone. Ann had asked for me and not her. Junior high all over again.

“Hello?” I said as Kit walked away pretending not to listen.

“Oh, Elizabeth, thank God I got you! Your cell phone keeps going to voice mail. I think it’s dead.” I was surprised when I heard her voice. Ann was agitated, an unusual state for her.

“What’s going on?”

“They found a body!”

“What?! Who found a body?” Across the room, Kit spun around and stared at me.

“The new owners of the house in St. Michaels,” said Ann. “Apparently they dug up the pool and found a body!”

“Holy shit, you’ve
got
to be kidding me!”

“Wait. It gets worse. The body. It’s Michael. It’s Michael Barrow.”

CHAPTER 4

Our pleasures in this world are always to be paid for.

—
NORTHANGER ABBEY

“M
ICHAEL BARROW!” I
gasped. “But that’s … that’s impossible!” At the sound of Michael’s name, Kit’s eyes grew wide and her hand flew up to her mouth. Our eyes met in mutual horror. She made no pretense about not listening to the rest of the conversation.

“I know, I know,” said Ann. “But nevertheless, it’s true.”

“But that means … Oh, my God, that means…”

“I know. I know. I can’t even get my head around it,” said Ann.

“Wait a minute. They found a body under the pool. How can they be so sure it’s Michael?”

“They found his wallet. The police are going to do some … tests, I don’t know. But they seem pretty confident. Oh, God, this is like some sick nightmare.”

Michael Barrow. It had been a long time since I’d thought about him. Movie star looks, intelligence, charm, and the morals of a sewer rat. My stomach turned in disgust now that I was forced to revisit the memory. A new thought occurred. “Reggie! Does Reggie know?” I asked.

“No. I haven’t told her yet and I don’t know
how
I’m going to tell her. I don’t know how I’m going to tell
any
of them.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

“Could you? I don’t know what I’m going to do. I need someone here. If you can, maybe you could spend the night? Bonnie is absolutely no help.” Lowering her voice, Ann added, “She still plans on going on that stupid spa retreat of hers. Can you believe it? She even packed the flag.”

“Oddly enough, I can. I’ll be over as soon as I can. Just let me grab some things.”

“Okay. Thanks, Elizabeth.”

I hung up the phone and stared at Kit, dumbfounded. “They found Michael Barrow’s body under the pool at the St. Michaels house,” I said.

“Dear God. Do they think he was murdered?” she asked.

“I didn’t ask, but I can’t imagine any other scenario. He had to have been murdered.” It was testament to the severe shock that this news had produced that Kit didn’t launch into some mocking speech about how I saw intrigue and mystery where there was none. But really, Michael didn’t bury himself under the pool.

Kit sat down heavily. “But I thought that Michael stole all that money from Uncle Marty and then ran off,” she said slowly.

“Yeah, well, it looks like he didn’t run very far,” I said. “I’ll call you when I know more. Ann wants me to come over.”

“Well, I should come!” Kit said. “After all I’m her cousin, too!”

I paused, unsure if Ann would want Kit to come. Kit didn’t know the whole story of Michael Barrow and Ann, and I wasn’t sure if Ann wanted to make that story public. If you have a secret, Kit is the last person you should tell it to.

“Kit,” I said calmly, “that’s very sweet of you, but you should stay here tonight. You’re tired, you need your sleep. And besides, what about Pauly? He needs you here. I’ll go to Ann’s and then I’ll call you.”

Kit stood up. “No,” she said, in a firm voice that I knew from experience brooked no argument. “I’m going. I’ve just as much right as you to go. After all, it’s my family, too.” Turning on her heel, she marched over to the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. Yanking the door back, she stuck her head out and yelled, “Paul! I’ve got to go out for a while with Elizabeth. Ann’s called and there’s a family emergency. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Turning back to me, she said, “Come on, get changed. I’m driving.”

I opened my mouth to protest but then thought better. I couldn’t change her mind even if I wanted to—and trust me, I wanted to. With a sigh, I went and changed, thinking that like Anne Elliot I had never submitted more reluctantly to the jealous and ill-judging claims of a sister; but so it must be.

I bet Jane Austen had a Kit in her family, too.

*   *   *

While Ann normally lived alone in a quaint two-bedroom house in Bethesda, she had been staying at Uncle Marty’s house in Georgetown. Ann had been required to make this temporary move because even though the family had hired a nurse for Uncle Marty (the infamous Mata Hari aka Rona Bjornstad), there were still gaps, gaps that Bonnie on her best day couldn’t fill. On her best day, Bonnie couldn’t keep a plastic houseplant alive. Now that Uncle Marty had died, Ann was still needed at the house. The task of organizing and distributing the many items Uncle Marty had willed to various friends and family had been left to Ann. Ann, of course, did all this with her usual grace and continued to stay at the house and commute to her job. Several years ago she received her doctorate in English literature from Cambridge and now worked at the Folger Shakespeare Theatre in D.C.

Kit had to park a few blocks from the house, as parking in Georgetown is always a nightmare, and we walked in silence to the house. I was still annoyed at her for barging uninvited into Ann’s crisis and frustrated at myself for not stopping her. At least I didn’t tell her that I was spending the night, which was the only reason Kit hadn’t stashed a change of clothes and a toothbrush into her tote like I had.

The night was cool, and after a minute Kit said, “This weather has been really unbelievable this week. So warm, but I think that’s all about to end.” I should mention that Washingtonians are convinced that their weather is like no other and spend inordinate amounts of time discussing it. While the past week had been lovely and, as such, much discussed, it had also been the last bloom of summer. Signs of fall were inescapable. From the earlier sunsets to the leaves on the trees that were now tinged with gold and red, it was clear that the warmth of the summer was giving way to the dying time of year.

Within minutes we turned onto Uncle Marty’s street, which was lined with both ancient trees and elegant homes, most of the latter dating from the early 1800s. Each of the Georgian façades boasted perfectly proportioned dormers and brightly painted paneled doors, flanked by flattened columns and topped with filigree fanlights. The houses faced the street, with little to no front yard. However, the backyards were the real jewels of the neighborhood. Unexpectedly large gardens, pools, and well-tended lawns were nestled behind the high fences that kept both neighbors and pedestrians at bay.