“Will not your mind misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber—too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size—its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?”
—Henry Tilney to Catherine Morland, Northanger Abbey
On Sunday, Emily wanted nothing more than to relax with a good book and forget about murder. She brought Persuasion downstairs with her, intending to have breakfast and then hole up in the library for the entire day.
Breakfast, however, was not ready. Katie had just started the coffeemaker when Emily poked her head into the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Lizzie had a bad night, and I just got her settled down. I’ll have your breakfast ready in a jiffy.”
As Katie set the frying pan on the stove, Emily heard a doleful wail from the bedroom next door.
“Oh no…” Katie took a step toward the bedroom, then turned back to the stove. She broke an egg into the pan, then, “Oh shit, that was for the bacon!” She turned to Emily, a hand to her mouth. “Sorry … I just can’t think when she’s crying.”
“Is she hungry?”
“I just fed her.”
“I’ll see to her. Just relax and take your time.”
Emily tiptoed into the bedroom and up to the cradle. Little Lizzie’s perfect face was red and contorted; her tiny fists beat the air. Emily leaned down and picked her up, one hand behind her head, as Helen at church had taught her to do with her baby, Emilia, who was Emily’s goddaughter. Emily held the baby against her shoulder, rubbing her back and swaying as if to inaudible music. The wail subsided to a whimper.
Emily walked a slow circuit of dining room, foyer, parlor, library. By the third round, Lizzie’s featherweight was beginning to feel like lead, and Emily vowed the first chance she got to scour the attic for a rocking chair. She ducked her head and saw that Lizzie’s eyes were closed, her mouth making sucking motions as she slept. Maybe Emily could risk sitting down.
She stopped in the dining room and gingerly lowered herself into one of the hard chairs. Lizzie slept on. Emily felt a peace and contentment steal over her such as she hadn’t known in years, along with a rush of deep affection for the tiny bundle of humanity in her arms.
She kissed the baby’s downy red head, then leaned her own head against it and closed her eyes. In an instant she startled to see Katie laying a plate of bacon and eggs in front of her. A steaming mug of coffee followed the plate.
“Wow, I can’t believe she went to sleep for you!” Katie said softly. “I’ll take her now so you can eat.”
They made the transfer as delicately as if the baby were a ticking bomb. She stirred but did not go off.
“Thanks so much.”
“It was a pleasure. Truly.”
Emily ate her breakfast, then, out of old habit, took her dishes into the kitchen. Bustopher Jones sat in his corner, glaring with deep hatred at the world that had deprived him of his Agnes.
“He hasn’t eaten?” she asked Katie.
“Not a bite. I’ve tried tempting him with all sorts of goodies, but he’ll have none of it.”
Emily stooped and put out a cautious hand to the cat. He sniffed at it, then turned his head away. She gave his head a tentative scratch; he suffered her touch but did not respond.
She would have to do something about him soon—but what? Her knowledge of abnormal cat psychology was nil; her own two had always been remarkably well adjusted.
Marguerite was an expert on cats. She’d know what to do. Emily went to the phone in the library and called her.
“Chérie, do you know the time? Only for you do I answer so early on a Sunday. Do not tell me you have discovered another body?”
“Believe it or not, yes. My housekeeper. But I was actually calling you about her cat.” Emily described Bustopher’s normal personality and his current behavior.
“Ah, c’est difficile, le grief d’un chat. There was no one else he cared for besides this—how do you call her—Agnes?”
“Maybe Aunt Beatrice, but she’s gone too. He wouldn’t have anything to do with me.”
“Sometimes a shock, you know, a big change in the life, such as perhaps another animal in the house. You could bring in Levin and Kitty—he is too low to attack them, n’est-ce pas? And perhaps they might bring him around.”
“That sounds drastic. I hate to uproot them and then throw them in with Bustopher on top of that.”
“They are pining for you, chérie. When I went to feed them yesterday, they were heartbroken that I was not you. If you are not careful, you will have three chats désolés on your hands.”
Emily’s heart sank at the prospect of another trip to Portland—and then a trip back with two caged animals crazy with fear. Levin and Kitty hated traveling.
“I don’t think I’m up for coming to get them right now. Maybe in a few days.”
Marguerite put on her wheedling voice. “Perhaps I could be persuaded to bring them to you. If, you know, I were invited to stay a few days in your oh-so-riche maison sur la plage.”
“Oh, Margot, of course! What a terrible friend I am. I’ve been so preoccupied, I hadn’t even thought of that. But by all means, come down with the cats—if you can stand to drive with them—and stay as long as you like.”
“Bon. I will arouse myself and be there this afternoon, and you will see what a little feline company will do for your Bustopher Jones.”
* * *
Emily went in search of Katie. She didn’t want to use the intercom for fear of waking Lizzie, and anyway, Katie didn’t seem the intercom type.
Katie was washing up in the kitchen. She turned at Emily’s approach. “Lizzie’s asleep in the cradle. She loves that thing. I’m so glad you found it.”
“So am I. Next I’m going to look for a rocking chair. But meanwhile, I’ve just invited a friend from Portland to stay for a few days. She’s bringing my two cats with her. We’ll need to fix her up a room.”
Katie laid the last pan in the drainer and dried her hands. “Sure. Which room did you have in mind?”
“That’s a bit of a problem. Why don’t you come up with me and help me decide?”
They stood in the upstairs hall and looked around. “Of course Beatrice’s room is the nicest.” Emily pointed toward its closed door. “But I don’t feel right putting anyone in there just yet. Not till…” What Emily meant was, not till I’ve solved her murder, but she didn’t want to involve Katie in her suspicions. “Not till I’ve gone through her things.”
Katie turned to the right and glanced into what had been Brock’s room and the nursery at the end of the hall—the one sterile, the other shabby. “These two aren’t very appealing.”
She turned back to the front of the house and opened the doors of the two imposing guest rooms. “Boy, these rooms could be in a museum,” Katie said. “Hey, you know what they make me think of? The red-room where little Jane Eyre is shut up and then faints.”
“Oh, you’ve read Jane Eyre?” Emily was pleasantly surprised—a lot of young women were reading Austen these days, but it was less common to find one who knew the Brontës.
“Oh yeah. Loved it. Especially that part where Jane hears Rochester’s voice from clear across the country. Gives me the chills.”
“That’s my favorite bit too.” The two exchanged the smile of kindred spirits. “These rooms always reminded me of the red-room too. I was terrified of them as a child.” Emily went into the right-hand room and turned in place, taking in the dark mahogany wardrobe, tallboy, and desk, the burgundy velvet window drapes and bed-curtains. The only thing in the room that wasn’t dark was the pink-and-blue Aubusson rug.
She strode to the windows and pulled open the drapes, flooding the room with sunlight. “Marguerite might not mind too much. She’s French—she kind of likes all that old-world magnificence.”
Katie moved to the bay, whose western angle allowed a glimpse of the sea. “At least she could see the ocean from here. And I could bring in some flowers, cheer it up a bit. Any chance the bed-curtains could come down?”
“Absolutely. And I’ll bet I could rustle up a prettier coverlet for the bed.”
“The first thing to do is air it out. Nobody can be cheerful without fresh air.” Katie opened the windows, then pulled a stool up to the bed and began removing the drapes from their hooks.
Emily went to the linen closet in the hall for fresh sheets and found a cream crochet-lace coverlet with matching pillow shams buried on a high shelf. She passed these to Katie, then climbed to the attic and poked around in a garret she hadn’t yet visited. She found a couple of brightly embroidered throw pillows, as well as a rocking chair in reasonable condition that she felt unequal to negotiating down the stairs on her own.
When Emily reentered the guest room, Katie had finished remaking the bed and had placed a couple of vases of fresh flowers on the mantel and desk. She appeared to have a gift for flower arranging. Emily added the pillows, which picked up the colors of the rug, and the room was transformed.
“Hey, we make a good team,” Katie said. “You know, we could really fix this place up nice with some new wallpaper and stuff. It’d make a great B and B.” She darted a look at Emily. “I mean, if you wanted to. But you’d probably rather have your privacy.”
Emily was surprised to find a corner of her mind—or perhaps her heart—warming to this idea. “I am a pretty private person, and I certainly don’t need the income. But it does seem almost a crime to waste all these rooms.” She imagined a young honeymoon couple lounging in the lace-covered four-poster and gazing out on the lawns and the sea as they sipped Katie’s coffee—the girl did know how to make coffee—and nibbled at a flaky pain au chocolat. “I’ll give it some thought.”
* * *
Marguerite arrived just in time for tea. She left her Peugeot in the drive, doors open, as she hefted a cat carrier in each hand. She set the carriers down in the hall to embrace Emily in continental fashion with a kiss on each cheek. “Chérie, you did not tell me you were living in a château! C’est magnifique!”
Emily knelt to release Levin and Kitty from their prisons. They blinked up at her and let out welcoming mews. First Levin, then Kitty stepped cautiously out, and the two began to sniff their way around the hall.
Emily wondered if these could really be her own cats. “How on Earth did you keep them so calm? I thought they’d be basket cases after that drive.”
“A little pheromone spray works wonders. And I put their blankets in the carriers to smell like home. You should take them out and put them wherever you want les chats to sleep.”
“I’m sure they’ll end up in bed with me, but let’s put the blankets in the library for now. That’s where I spend most of my waking time.”
They set the blankets side by side on the window seat where the afternoon sun streamed in. Levin and Kitty, however, were still occupied in exploring the parlor, whiskers twitching as the cats crept around the perimeter of the room and checked out each piece of furniture. Emily and Marguerite stood in the open double doorway to the library and watched them until Levin, who had taken the shorter route, emerged from behind a sofa to face the door.
He stopped, nostrils working frantically. Then his hackles rose, and he backed up behind the sofa again. “He must smell Bustopher,” Emily said. “Bustopher used to sleep in here a lot, though he’s been holed up in the kitchen since Agnes—” She stopped, seeing again that indelible picture of Agnes sprawled at the bottom of the stairs.
“Pick Levin up and bring him in. Show him it is safe,” Marguerite said. She did the same with Kitty, who had reached the door with similar results.
The cats quivered in the women’s arms as Emily and Marguerite carried them around the room. “It’s all right, Levin, see? Nobody here but us,” Emily crooned, scratching the sleek gray fur in Levin’s favorite place behind his ear. She gave Bustopher’s chair a wide berth as she moved toward the window seat and deposited Levin on his blanket. Marguerite set Kitty down on hers. The two circled their respective beds, then sat and began grooming each other with intense concentration.
“They will do for now,” Marguerite said. “Let us see to this Bustopher Jones in white spats.”
But just then Katie came in with a trolley loaded with tea set, sandwiches, petit fours, and scones. “That can wait till after tea,” Emily said. “Katie, how did you manage all this so quickly?”
“Well, I did find the scones and petit fours in the pantry. They were wrapped up tight. I hope they’re not too stale.”
Emily spoke sternly but silently to the lump in her throat, reminding it that Agnes had not died of poison, and even if she had, she would hardly have put it in her own scones. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
Over tea, Emily updated Marguerite on recent events.
“Mais, chérie, quelle aventure!” Marguerite exclaimed. “Fate snaps its fingers, so, and you have wealth and romance and mystery all d’un seul coup. If I could be in your shoes!”
Emily grimaced. “I wish you were. You might find they pinch a bit. Any one of those things alone would be as much as I care to cope with. It’s no joke, Margot—the wealth is a huge responsibility; most of the town depends on me in one way or another. You’d think the romance would be all good, but you can’t imagine how it’s shaken me, knowing what really happened back then. And as for the mystery”—she put down her half-eaten scone and pushed her plate away—“more people’s lives could be at stake. We don’t know for sure why Beatrice and Agnes were killed, and therefore we don’t know how many other people the killer might think are in his way.” She rattled her teacup into its saucer. “Me, for instance.”
At last Marguerite’s pixie face registered concern. “You, chérie? But why? You have had no time to make enemies.”
“I’ve stepped into Beatrice’s place, and I’ve let it be known I intend to carry on in her tradition. Whatever motive led to her death—unless it was something strictly personal, like with Billy, which I really can’t swallow—could equally well apply to me.”
Marguerite waved an elegant hand. “Bah! I do not believe it. He would not be so bold. These two old ladies, he makes it look like an accident, non? Like natural. They are old; old people die, no one thinks twice. But you, chérie, in the prime of your life, with you it would not be so easy. And besides, now he is on his guard; he knows he has not fooled les gendarmes with this second murder.”
“But that’s just it. Unless it’s one of the people Luke’s already questioned, he might not know. Luke’s letting the public think Agnes’s death was an accident. And nobody knows we’re suspicious about Beatrice.”
Marguerite threw up her hands. “So we tell the world! We drop a few discreet hints, and soon the whole town knows. Is not that the way of it in a little village like Stony Beach?”
“We can’t do that! I’m sure Luke has his reasons. He knows his job, Margot. I’m not going to work against him.”
“Phoo, you are too compliant.” She reached for another petit four. “Where is the excitement in a romance if you always do what your lover tells you to do?”
“In this case, he’s not my lover; he’s the law.” Emily felt her face catch fire. “And anyway, he’s not my lover at all. Not now.”
“I speak in the old sense, like your revered Jane Austen. A lover is one who loves.”
One who loves. The words traveled through Emily’s veins and warmed her from head to foot. One who loves. Present tense. Just when she’d thought everything good and joyful and promising lay in her past, buried along with old secrets. Secrets she’d yet to share with Luke.
But the present wasn’t entirely rosy by any means. It held a number of problems, the least of which—but perhaps the most manageable—was Bustopher Jones. “If you’re finished, maybe we should go take a look at Bustopher.”
Marguerite popped the rest of her petit four into her mouth and licked her fingers sensuously, her pink tongue flicking out to grab the last crumbs and then the whole finger drawn slowly through pursed red lips, her eyes closed in mock ecstasy. Really, it was a pity no man was around to watch. “Bon. Lead me to this so-morose cat. We shall see if we can snap him out of his depression.”