Arsenic with Austen (35 page)

“Oh.” Katie slumped back in her chair. “I guess I thought you'd be going back to Portland in the fall. Then the house would be empty most of the time. I was mainly trying to think of a way to keep myself busy while you were gone.”

“The truth is, I haven't made a final decision about that yet. I certainly don't need to work anymore, and I've been getting kind of tired of teaching the last few years. I might see if I can get a sabbatical for next year and see how I like living here full-time.”

“Well, I guess we can just go on as we have been, in that case. Certainly less work for me, just having you to take care of.” Katie didn't sound as enthusiastic about that prospect as Emily would have been in her place. Ah, the energy of youth.

Marguerite's parting words came back to Emily:
Your library has some magic in it.
“You know, there is another alternative. Maybe a little less scary—to me—than a B and B.”

Katie looked up, the light back in her eyes.

“Marguerite said something about what a great place this was for her to write. I expect there are a lot of people who need a quiet place to write. People who might not be able to afford regular B and B or hotel prices. Maybe we could make this house into a writers' retreat. Open only by invitation or referral from someone I know.”

Katie leaned forward again, hands clasped on the table. “Oh, that would be fabulous! I'd get to meet some real writers. And the house would love it, I know it would. This is totally a literary house.”

She jumped up and began to move about the room, nearly dancing. “And we could theme each room around a different writer. We could have an Austen room, all light and eighteenth-century. Keep that Victorian room just like it is, red and spooky, and call it the Brontë room. Maybe pick somebody exotic and do a foreign room, Indian or something.”

“Beatrice's old room would simply have to be Forster.
A Room with a View.
”

Katie clapped her hands. “I love it! But don't you want that room for yourself?”

“I'm happy with my tower room. In fact, I might think about fixing up more of the attic space for a bathroom and a private sitting room. That way I could get away from the guests if I wanted to.”

Katie froze. “Oh yeah. I'd be right in the middle of everybody down here. And Lizzie, too. That could be a problem.”

Emily thought fast. “I'm pretty sure there's an apartment over the garage where Beatrice's chauffeur used to live. We could fix that up for you, and then we'd have a ground-floor room for people who can't handle the stairs. We could call it the Dickens room—for all those crippled villains of his.”

Katie's mouth quirked. “How about the cupboard under the stairs as the J. K. Rowling room?”

Emily laughed. “A bit cramped, don't you think? But we could put a Rowling sign on the door and still use it as a broom cupboard.” She stood and hugged Katie. “You know, I think this is going to be a lot of fun.”

 

thirty-three

“But I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by shewing that where I have most injured I can least forgive.”

Willoughby to Elinor Dashwood,
Sense and Sensibility

On Monday, Luke went to work, in his sling, then came to Windy Corner for dinner. Katie outdid herself with boeuf bourguignon—so tender Luke could eat it one-handed—and flaming crêpes suzette for dessert.

“Katie, this is a meal fit for a king,” Luke said as he dug into his dessert.

“You two are my heroes,” Katie replied with a catch in her voice. “You saved me and Lizzie. I could never do enough to repay you.”

“I'll have to make a habit of saving good cooks, then. I could get used to this.” He winked at Emily.

As they sipped their coffee in the library, Luke filled Emily in on the events of his day. “Brock sang like Sinatra soon as he knew we'd arrested Vicki. Told us the whole story.”

“Even his own part in it?”

Luke nodded. “He wasn't responsible for the actual murders, though he knew about 'em. Vicki had a whole clutch of coconspirators, apparently. She and her aunt sent Beatrice the poisoned Turkish delight. Vicki had her claws into Brock by then, and he'd convinced her he was set to inherit the lot. Then, when it went to you, it was Vicki's plan for Brock to marry you and get the money that way. Only his heart wasn't in it 'cause he was so far under Vicki's spell.” He shot her a sidelong glance. “Lucky for me, I guess.”

Emily reached over to squeeze his hand. “You should know me better than to think I'd fall for anyone like Brock, even if he'd been as sincere as a hundred Romeos. Especially with you right there in the picture.”

He returned her pressure with a smile. “Agnes was like we thought: a cover-up—Brock overheard something that made him think she knew about the Turkish delight. Vicki got the mayor to fix that one up. He's been under her spell for some time—hadn't even guessed she was two-timing him with Brock.”

“So what excuse did Vicki give Trimble for doing Agnes in?”

“Claimed they weren't trying to kill her, just get her injured and out of the way. But he knew about Beatrice's murder, all right, just not about Vicki's plan to marry Brock. He thought the deal was Brock would sell out to them and push their development plan ahead. He figured he'd go down as a coconspirator if Vicki got caught.” Luke made a wry face. “In which he was not mistaken.”

“You're not going to tell me Brock is completely innocent in all this?”

“No way. He was complicit in the two murders, and it was him that set fire to your rental house.”

“I knew it! I was certain we had him there if anywhere. And I was basically right about him being Mr. Elliot, wasn't I? Even though that wasn't the whole story?”

“Yeah, I'd say that was pretty well on target. It was him who fixed your brakes, too.”

Once again Emily went cold. “So he really does hate me.”

“I have to admit, it did seem kinda personal. He rambled on about stuff that happened when you were kids. I didn't know you knew him that far back.”

“I didn't remember him myself at first, but when I found his stuff in the headboard, it all came back to me. I guess Geoff and I weren't very nice to him. Did he mention anything specific?”

“Something about you locking him in a secret passageway?”

Emily clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh my gosh, I'd forgotten all about that! It was Geoff's idea—I didn't want to, but Geoff wouldn't listen. I did sneak back later and let Brock out. But I guess I could've stopped Geoff if I'd tried hard enough.”

“So where is this secret passageway? Just out of curiosity. Unless you think you're going to need to hide from me someday.”

“Don't be silly, I'd never want to hide from you. It's right over here.” She got up and walked over to the corner where the fiction shelves bowed out into the room. “If I can remember where the catch is … Ah, yes.” She pulled down the top spine of a volume at the end of a shelf titled
One Thousand and One Arabian Nights.
The bookcase creaked open just a crack.

“Open Sesame.” She tugged at the edge of the bookcase. “This probably hasn't been opened since we played in it. Come give me a hand.”

Luke lent the strength of his good shoulder, and the bookcase opened out to reveal a spiral staircase.

“Got a flashlight?” she asked.

“Natch.” He turned his back so she could grab it out of the back of his belt. She turned it on the staircase, and her face fell.

“Dust and spiders. I was afraid of that.”

“We don't have to go up. Where's it lead to?”

“Beatrice's room. Disguised as a closet. The door locks at that end.”

Luke examined the edges of the bookcase opening. “I don't see a keyhole here.”

“No. This end locks automatically. There's a release—Geoff and I knew about it, but Brock didn't. He was too short to reach it anyway.” She showed him a knothole in the paneling of the stair enclosure. “You just push this and it opens.”

“So he was in here in the dark? With the spiders? How old?”

She shrugged. “Six? Seven? It was cruel, but he kind of brought it on himself. You wouldn't believe what a little pill he could be back then. We called him Eustace—you know, like the kid in Narnia who almost deserved it.”

“He sure doesn't think he deserved it. He's got quite a grudge against your whole side of the family—which at this point, I guess, comes down to you. He feels like you all stole his inheritance—Horace's whole estate should've come to him.”

“You know, I think Beatrice would have split it more evenly if she'd thought he'd make good use of it. But she saw through him. Besides, she built the estate up quite a bit on her own after Horace died. I'd say the portion Brock got was just about fair.”

“Which will now revert to you, I assume. If he goes down for arson and attempted murder.”

“I suppose it will. I don't care for my own sake—I've got plenty—but I am glad those tenants won't have Brock for a landlord. Him or whatever developer he would've decided to sell out to.” Emily sneezed. “This dust is getting to me.” She made to leave the enclosure.

Luke pulled her back. “Just a minute. We can't let this nice dark secret space go completely to waste.” He pulled the door nearly shut, then wrapped his good arm around her and kissed her deeply. “Ever do anything like that in here before?”

“You know I haven't. If I had, it would only have been with you.”

“I have a new goal. I'm gonna kiss you in every hidden corner of this amazing old house.”

“Sounds good to me.” She glanced up at a huge web right over Luke's head. “As soon as Katie gets rid of the dust and spiders.”

*   *   *

That night Emily dreamed of her sixteenth birthday. On the real day so long ago, Beatrice had thrown a party for her—quite a small one, as Emily knew hardly anyone in town. She and Luke had barely met then, though he'd already turned his teasing smile on her in a way that made her glow from head to foot.

But in the dream, Luke was there as her established boyfriend. Philip was there too, though in life she wouldn't meet him for several years; but he and Luke chatted like old friends. Geoff and Beatrice attended, of course, and Ethel, Agnes's predecessor, officiated, assisted by Agnes herself. In life, Emily's father's absence had been the elephant in the room, the gaping space no one else could fill. But in this dream, he sat on the love seat with her mother, hands entwined—her mother, a gentle soul who had died, worn down and brokenhearted, when Emily was eight. Horace, who had also been dead some years by the time of the real party, nodded at Emily across the table, and at his side was the sulky young boy she still thought of as Eustace—Brock.

Emily, in mysterious dream fashion, was both her teenaged self and her present self, and those around her seemed to be all ages at once. The cake and ice cream were as delicious as only Ethel could make them, and the presents rained down in an endless stream. But the greatest gift of all for Emily was to have all these loved ones gathered around her, all those she had lost from her childhood on. She thought her heart would burst with joy.

When the festivities were winding down, she sat at her mother's feet, resting her head on her lap as her mother stroked her hair. Eustace came and stood before her, face red, toe scraping the carpet.

Emily's joy faded as her stomach began to roil. “Forgive, darling,” her mother said softly. “Forgive. He didn't know what he was doing.”

Aunt Beatrice, sitting opposite, added her voice. “Forgive them all, Emily. They have suffered more than we. And they will go on suffering until they learn how to love.” At Beatrice's side, Agnes gave her crisp nod.

“Teach them, my darling,” her mother crooned. “Teach them by loving them first.”

Emily awoke with tears streaming down her face. She knew what she must do.

*   *   *

She asked Luke to drive her to the jail. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked her as they parked outside. “Those people won't be exactly happy to see you, y'know.”

“I know.” Half of her wanted to run the opposite direction, but the dream still upheld her. “This is what I have to do.”

She went to the women's side first. The guard brought in Vicki and Mrs. Sweet together. The wild look was gone from Vicki's eyes, but the hatred remained.

“Come to gloat over us, have you? Just like a Worthing,” Mrs. Sweet spat. Her eyes were a laser beam of pure malice, but Emily was protected by the shield of her family's love.

“No. I've come to apologize for anything I or my family have done to hurt you. And to ask if there is anything I can do for you.”

“You? Do for us?” Vicki's once-elegant voice came out in a growl. “Like send us a poisoned cake, for example?”

“Like pay for a top-notch lawyer. I'm quite serious.”

“We don't want your money,” Mrs. Sweet said. “Got enough of our own. Trust ourselves to some lawyer you've got in your pocket? Not a chance.”

Emily took a deep breath, remembering Beatrice's words as the dream faded:
All you can do is offer. You can't make them accept.

“I'm sorry you feel that way. If you should change your minds, the offer stands.”

She signaled to the guard, who let her out. Luke escorted her to the men's side, where Brock and Trimble were already waiting. Brock sat, his head in his hands, while the mayor's eyes darted around the room as he fidgeted with the neck of his jumpsuit.

Emily looked at the man who had tried to kill her—the man who mere days ago had filled her with horror—and felt only pity. “Brock, I've come to tell you I'm sorry for anything my family did to hurt you. I'm sorry we locked you in the secret passage, and I'm sorry you didn't come out better under Beatrice's will. Is there anything I can do to help you now? Get you a good lawyer, for example?”