Murder at Longbourn (20 page)

I was. I had only nibbled at my cranberry muffin at breakfast and Peter had eaten all the bread at the Teapot. It was now late afternoon and I was starving.

We put our bags in the Jeep and Peter drove us to the Captain’s Knot, a restaurant overlooking the harbor—a description that sounds much nicer than the reality. Since the temperature was well below freezing, we had no qualms about leaving the groceries in the car, as we hurried into the tavernlike restaurant. A few locals sat at the worn mahogany bar, sipping from large mugs of beer and watching football on the overhead television. To the right, several tables had a view of the water. The hostess waved to us to take our pick and we chose a table next to the large window.

As we sat down, an awkward silence descended between us. I busied myself by studying the laminated map that covered the tabletop. Peter stared out the window. Outside, a horn sounded and I turned in my chair. A large white ferry was slowly maneuvering its way out of the harbor. The wind slapped at the boat’s flags and at the few people who had decided to brave the cold and stand on the top deck. Proud of their hardiness, they waved manically to anyone who looked their way.

“There goes the ferry to Nantucket,” said Peter.

“Cool,” I said. Cool? What was I, twelve? Why did I turn into such an idiot when I was around him?

“Do you remember that time we went with Aunt Winnie?” he asked.

How could I forget? He had terrorized me during the entire journey with horrible tales of children being swept up by sudden
gusts of wind and tossed overboard. I think he may even have swiped my chocolate doughnut, too.

“I remember,” I muttered. “It was two years before I could get on a boat again without clinging to the rails.”

“Now that you mention it, I do remember you looking a bit green around the gills. A green Cocoa Puff,” he said and laughed. As he chuckled gleefully in fond memory of my nautical misery, all the pent-up embarrassment and frustration I’d suffered at his hands as an insecure, overweight kid boiled over.

“Look,” I hissed at him. “Do you think you could drop that stupid nickname? In case it has escaped your notice, I’m not some dopey kid anymore. I’ve changed. I’m a grown woman. However, you appear to be the same misogynist who delighted in making me feel like a moron, so you can take me back to Longbourn right now. I don’t need you to make me feel like a moron. My skills at
that
outrank yours any day.”

Peter’s face was a caricature of surprise. “I don’t think you’re an idiot, Elizabeth,” he said finally. “I know I teased you a lot when we were kids, but I always liked you. If I hadn’t, I would have ignored you. To be honest, I always thought you were a pretty good sport.”

I couldn’t believe this. “You liked me? You called me names and locked me in the basement! Who does that to someone he likes?”

He shrugged. “Most fourteen-year-old boys, I think. And while we’re on the subject, I recall certain names being flung my way and, on one occasion, finding something wet and slimy moving around in my bed.” I stared at him dumbfounded. That’s how he remembered things, with me as a willing adversary rather than a hapless victim? In my memories, I had cast myself in the role of a young Jane Eyre—plain and unhappy. Rather than her counterpart, the
moody Mr. Rochester, I had pegged Peter as a more sinister version of Simon from
Lord of the Flies
. Had I been wrong?

He reached across the table and gently took my hand. Giving it a squeeze, he said quietly, “Elizabeth? I’m sorry if I was horrible. For what it’s worth, I was pretty miserable that summer, too. My parents were off in Europe and I had to stay behind. Aunt Winnie was great, but she wasn’t family. If I remember correctly, you were this smart-alecky kid who walked around with her nose in a book most of the time. You thought I was a creep.”

“That’s because you
were
a creep.”

“Yeah, well, when you’re fourteen you’re insecure enough. You don’t need someone else pointing out your failings.”

I was speechless. Luckily, the waitress arrived to take our order or I would have continued to gape at him like one of the fish offered on the daily specials.

After ordering the obligatory cup of clam chowder, I opted for fried clams. Peter ordered a steak sandwich. I idly played with the blue-and-white sugar packets in their little stand and struggled to reconcile the memory of the unrelenting nemesis of my youth with this new version of Peter as just a goofy, although utterly obnoxious, kid.

He raised his water glass. “Friends?” he asked, by way of a toast. I hesitated a long moment but finally gave in. Raising my glass to his, and meeting his warm brown eyes, I reminded myself that with a murderer on the loose I needed all the friends I could get.

The awkwardness slowly faded and we started to chat like old friends. He told me that he was following in his parents’ footsteps and getting involved in their hotel business. He was in the process of getting his MBA and after that he was going to take over one of his parents’ hotels. I told him about my goal of becoming a writer
and of my frustration at being limited to just fact-checking other people’s stories. Before I knew it, two hours slipped by; the sun was sinking onto the horizon, sending red bands of light across the water, and our waitress was hovering impatiently with the check.

Peter relieved the woman of the bill. “This is on me.”

“Oh, but you don’t have to do that,” I said.

“No, I insist. Consider it restitution for the bad behavior of my youth.”

I laughed. “Oh, no. If this is an attempt at restitution, it’s just a drop in the bucket.”

“I was afraid of that,” he said with mock seriousness. “Well then, by your calculations, how many lunches will it take to clear my name?”

I pretended to consider the question before answering, “At least eight thousand six hundred and forty-two.”

“Seems a fair trade,” he said with a smile. Peter could be very charming when he wanted to be. I tried to ignore the cynical part of me that questioned
why
he was suddenly being charming to me.

B
Y THE TIME Peter and I got back to the inn, the sun had set. All around us, houses blazed with Christmas lights. The inn was conspicuously dark. I knew the gesture was meant to convey respect for Gerald and his family, but in the midst of so many other cheerful displays, the absence of lights created a different kind of tribute, one of darkness and gloom.

Inside, Daniel was sitting in the reading room. He immediately stood up and came over.

“Here, let me get these for you,” he said, taking the grocery bags from my arms. Looking them over, he added, “I hope all this food doesn’t mean that you already have plans for dinner?”

“Why, I, um …” I began, unsure how to answer.

“Because I was hoping I could convince you to join me,” he continued. “I know a place that makes great clam chowder.”

I stifled a laugh and glanced at Peter, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at Daniel with a bland expression. It was a look I had seen often that summer years ago, usually right before an attack was launched on my person. The hairs on my neck stood up in a long-forgotten salute. The feeling only increased when Peter asked
in a disinterested voice, “You’re not dining with Mrs. Ramsey this evening?”

“No,” Daniel said simply.

“Oh,” said Peter. “I see.”

Daniel must have caught the faint disapproval that these words carried because he hesitated and added, “People have visited and interviewed Lauren and Polly nonstop for the past two days. What they want now is a little privacy. They should absorb this without an audience.”

Peter said nothing. Perhaps driven by his silence, Daniel continued, “Sometimes monstrous things happen to monstrous people,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care. “But when that monstrous thing is a murder, well, it may force one to hide true feelings. Just because you dislike someone doesn’t mean you murdered him. But let’s not be naïve, it does give you a motive. And that’s what the police are looking for. Motive.”

“I think I know what you mean,” said Peter. “When you know you’re being scrutinized, you act accordingly. You play a role.”

“Exactly,” said Daniel.

I thought of what I had seen of Lauren’s behavior yesterday. If that had been a toned-down version of her true emotions, then she must be dancing a jig in private. “No offense,” I said gingerly to Daniel. “I know Lauren is your friend, but if she’s trying to downplay her true feelings, she’s not doing a very convincing job of it.”

Daniel turned to me with a shake of his head. “I didn’t say I was talking about Lauren.”

His words took me by surprise. Although Polly had professed that she hadn’t cared much for her father, she nevertheless seemed genuinely upset. If not because he died, at least at how he died. Had that been an act?

“Well, all the same,” said Peter, “I expect that Lauren appreciates your role in this.”

Daniel eyed Peter with a puzzled expression. “My role?”

“Of a good friend,” Peter explained. “It must mean a lot to her knowing she has you on her side.”

Daniel’s eyes narrowed slightly. He seemed to sense that Peter’s words held another meaning. Of course they
did,
but that meaning was meant for me.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to discuss dinner,” said Peter. His attack completed, he took his bags to the kitchen.

“Did I miss something?” Daniel asked. Traces of a faint scowl lined his face, as he watched Peter’s retreating form.

“Oh, who knows,” I answered. “Just ignore him.” Changing the subject, I asked, “You mentioned dinner?”

Forcing his face into a more pleasant expression, Daniel turned to me. “Yes.” He smiled. “Dinner. How’s eight o’clock sound?”

“Perfect. Just let me check first that Aunt Winnie doesn’t need me.”

“Of course,” said Daniel, following me into the kitchen.

Daniel helped Peter and me put away the groceries. Thankfully, nothing more was said about acting or roles. In fact, not much of anything was said, as Peter had apparently gone mute. Once the groceries were put away, I went to Aunt Winnie’s room.

“Come in,” she called out in answer to my knock.

I found her at her desk, scribbling away in a tattered notebook.

“What are you doing?”

She held up her hand, signaling me to wait while she finished.

I plopped down on the bed next to Lady Catherine, who displayed her displeasure at my proximity by flicking her tail at me in a suspiciously vulgar gesture. Ignoring her, I sank back into the
bed’s thick pillows and studied the room. Years ago, I read that a person’s bedroom is the best indicator of his or her personality. I had laughed because at the time I was sleeping in a depressing space with colorless walls, battered furniture, and mismatched sheets, though in hindsight that was an accurate reflection of my life then. Looking around me, I realized that this room did mirror Aunt Winnie’s personality, which was probably why I liked it so much. The walls were painted a tangy shade of sage green. The curtains were a jumbled mix of soft tangerine, crisp rose, and lime green. The furniture was simple, except for the headboard, which was an enormous wrought-iron structure that looped and intertwined halfway up the wall. Piles of books, some stacked, others just strewn about, covered every available surface. The whole effect was just like Aunt Winnie—colorful, energetic, and unconventional.

After a few minutes, she put down her pen with a satisfied air. “There,” she said, stretching her arms out in front of her. “Done.”

“What are you doing?”

“I decided to write down everything we know about the murder and the suspects,” she said. “I know it sounds silly, but if I can just get everything organized on paper, something important might jump out at me.”

“It doesn’t sound silly,” I said. “I think it’s a good idea. What do you have so far?”

She handed me the notebook. In her familiar sprawling handwriting, I read: