Murder On The Bride's Side Part 17

I looked expectantly at Detective Grant. He said nothing, but he did blink several times. After an eternal pause, he asked, "Would you testify to this if necessary?"

"Of course," Peter replied.

"Well, then I guess I need to make a few phone calls about Harry," said Detective Grant with a sigh. He reached for his phone.

Peter turned to me, a wide grin on his face. I momentarily forgot my anger with him and returned it. Detective Grant spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece before shutting the phone with a loud click.

"Well?" I asked.

"I've asked one of my deputies to drive him home. He should be here later this afternoon."

"That's great!" I said.

Detective Grant nodded slowly. "It's great news for Harry. But I wouldn't say it's great news for certain people," he said with a meaningful look at me.

Without thinking, I said, "People? I ain't people." However, quoting from Singin' in the Rain didn't seem to change Detective Grant's low opinion of me, judging by the scowl on his face.

s.h.i.t. My brilliant deduction had just opened up the spot of main suspect for someone else in the Matthews family or for me.

This kind of c.r.a.p never happens to Nancy Drew.

Three hours later, everyone was gathered in the living room anxiously awaiting Harry's return. No one spoke, preferring the soothingly monotonous ticking of the grandfather clock's swinging pendulum to conversation. At the first sound of tires crunching over Barton Landing's driveway, everyone scrambled outside to the front steps. Well, almost everyone. David was absent from our group, opting instead to stay in his room and keep a previous engagement with a fresh bottle of vodka.

Gingerly pulling his long, bedraggled frame out of the squad car, Harry quietly surveyed us with a shadow of his old smirk. "I have an announcement to make," he said. "Contrary to popular belief, jail is not good for you."

Although his tone was light, I could see that he wasn't kidding. His pale complexion and bloodshot eyes were evidence of his obvious miserable state. Granted, he was hungover, but I doubted that was the sole cause of his haggard appearance. Any of his friends had seen him hungover a dozen times, but I'd never seen him like this.

With a m.u.f.fled sob, Megan pushed past the rest of us and flung herself into Harry's arms. "Oh, I'm so glad you're home," she said, her voice thick with tears.

"Well, that makes two of us," he joked. Hearing Megan's soft sobs, he wrapped his arms protectively around her. "Don't cry, Meg," he said, his voice soothing. "It's all over. How are you?"

Megan lifted her face to his. "Better now," she said with a watery smile. "I was just so worried."

Elsie let out an impatient grunt. "Move over, Megan," she said. Using her cane to put those words into action, she gently but firmly moved Megan to one side, saying simply, "I want to see Harry."

After staring searchingly into Harry's wan face, Elsie said, "Did they treat you all right? Were they abusive?"

Harry managed a smile. "Abusive? Far from it. I was quite the hit. In fact, I believe one of the other inmates proposed."

Avery cleared his throat. "Harry?"

At the sound of his father's voice, Harry turned. "How are you, Dad?" he said softly.

Avery nodded. "I'm glad you're home."

Harry moved to hug Avery, while Elsie shooed the rest of us back into the house, saying, "Let's give them a minute, shall we?"

As we dutifully filed into the living room, there was almost a new lightheartedness in the air, an easiness that had been missing ever since . . . well, ever since Avery married Roni. I stood back a bit, watching as everyone settled into their seats, smiling at each other with obvious relief. Roni was gone and Harry was home. I was half surprised that Elsie didn't crack open a bottle of champagne. Like them, I was happy that Harry had returned, but I couldn't totally share in their celebration. I wondered if one of them had really tried to divert attention from Harry by throwing me into the glare of Detective Grant's bright spotlight. The fire blazed in the hearth, but I was overcome with a chill that no amount of external heat could chase away.

My eyes stung and I knew I was seconds away from bursting into tears or screaming in rage. Someone had planted Roni's necklace in my room-among my things! Someone had tried to frame me! My mind reeled. The Matthews family was an extension of my own, yet one of them had tried to pin Roni's murder on me. I was both furious and sick to my stomach.

I made my way to the study. I needed to be alone. I needed to regain my composure. I stepped inside and reached to shut the door, when Peter pushed it back open. Poking his head around the wooden frame, he said, "Elizabeth? What's going on? What's wrong?"

Looking up at his concerned face, my self-control broke. "What's wrong?" I repeated. I let loose a small laugh that didn't sound normal even to my overwrought ears. "Where would you like me to start? With finding Roni's body? With finding her necklace planted in my room? With knowing Detective Grant thinks I may have had something to do with all of this?" I felt hysteria rising. "Or should we skip all that and just focus on the fact that you seem to have gone completely gaga over some . . . some anorexic, Prada-wearing catering n.a.z.i?"

Peter's face flushed. "Elizabeth, I can explain about Chloe. I've wanted to tell you, but I just didn't know how. You see . . ."

His words buzzed in my head. I can explain about Chloe. Had he really just said that? Explain what? I couldn't do this now, I simply couldn't. Hearing Peter confess anything about Chloe would push me over the edge-from where I now teetered on one toe. I shoved him away from me-hard. "Get out," I hissed. "Get out now. I'd like to have my nervous breakdown without an audience, if you don't mind."

Peter's lips parted in protest, but I gave him a final shove that caught him off guard and he stumbled backward. Taking advantage of his inadvertent retreat, I shut the door in his face, locking it for good measure. He knocked several times and jiggled the handle, but I ignored him. After a few minutes, he gave up and went away and I got angry with him all over again.

I sank into the leather chair behind the desk, happy for once not to be on the other side of it and facing Detective Grant. His unsmiling face as he all but accused me of covering up aspects of Roni's murder swam up before me. I buried my head in my hands to try and block out the memory, but to no avail. I had to get a grip on myself. I wasn't thinking clearly. I needed to talk to someone. Unfortunately, the two people I usually turned to when in crisis were in the next room. I couldn't very well tell Bridget that I thought her family had used me to clear Harry, and I wasn't speaking to Peter at the moment.

Thinking of my mother, I reached for the receiver of the old-fashioned black phone on the desk. I glanced at my wrist.w.a.tch and saw that it was six o'clock. My mother was in Dublin attending a symposium on James Joyce; it was after midnight there. Dropping my hand from the receiver, I idly played with the coiled black cord while I considered my options. I knew my older sister, Kit, would be at home, but I doubted talking to her would be the best thing for my psyche. Kit is married to a nice man named Tom and is the mother of my nephew, Tommy. In Kit's adept hands, these normal facts have become "achievements," and achievements that only certain special individuals, like herself, can attain. As such, one of Katherine's favorite topics is What Is Wrong With Elizabeth and How If She Only Listened to Me, She Would Be Okay. I think she may even be attempting to get her doctorate using me as her thesis. Over the years, I've learned not to willingly hand her additional material for her research. Telling her that I'd once again stumbled upon a dead body would be bad enough, but admitting that I was on the verge of losing yet another boyfriend would no doubt be the equivalent of handing her the degree.

I stared dumbly at the phone for another minute until the obvious solution hit me. Aunt Winnie! I needed to talk to Aunt Winnie.

Aunt Winnie is technically my great-aunt. She is seventy-three years old and like no other woman I know. As a young woman, she inherited a substantial amount of money from her parents, and after years of wise investments she tripled that inheritance until she was an extremely wealthy woman. She has never married, always repeating the old line that marriage is an inst.i.tution and she doesn't want to be in an inst.i.tution. Besides, she says she prefers the freedom of affairs. Two years ago, while on a visit to Cape Cod, she impulsively bought a house and turned it into a bed-and-breakfast, despite the fact that she had no experience running such a venture. She promptly named the place the Inn at Longbourn, a testament to her admiration (read: obsession) with all things Jane Austen. That obsession is just one of the many reasons we get along so well.

I quickly dialed her number, offering a prayer that she would be at home. For the first time this weekend, the Fates smiled on me, and her familiar voice answered the phone.

"Elizabeth!" she cried, when she heard my voice. "Thank G.o.d! I've been worried sick about you! What the h.e.l.l is going on down there?"

I pressed the receiver close to my ear at her words and shut my eyes. I hadn't realized just how much I missed her until now. I wished I could squeeze myself through the phone and into her house. "Oh, you know-betrayal, murder," I said, keeping my tone light to prevent myself from crying. "Just your typical Greek tragedy, really."

She saw through me, of course. She's been doing that since I was six years old. "Betrayal?" she said. "Peter told me about the murder, but he didn't say anything about a betrayal." She paused. "Or is the reason he didn't say anything because he's the one who did the betraying?"

"You know, you can be downright spooky sometimes," I mumbled, choking back tears.

"Elizabeth, for goodness' sake! Stop trying not to cry. I can't understand a word you say when you do that. Let it out and tell me what's going on!"

As she no doubt expected, as soon as she told me to cry, my body did the exact opposite. Sitting straighter in my chair, I took a deep breath and launched into my tale, bringing her up to date on the goings-on of the last seventy-two hours. It wasn't the most coherent recital of my life, but I managed to get the more salient points across.

"What an unholy mess," Aunt Winnie said when I finally finished.

"I know."

"Do you want me to come down? I could be there by tomorrow morning."

I was seriously tempted by her offer. Knowing I had someone on-site firmly in my corner would be nice, but it didn't seem fair to drag her hundreds of miles just to boost my self-esteem.

"No, I'll be okay," I said. "I'm sure this will all be straightened out soon enough. And then I'll be up . . ." My voice quavered. I was going to visit Aunt Winnie. The question was, was Peter still going to come with me?

"Elizabeth," Aunt Winnie said firmly, "you are wrong about Peter. He cares for you. I know he does. I don't know who this Chloe person is, but Peter is not the sort of man to be swayed by a pretty face." My spirits buoyed somewhat at this, until I wondered what that comment meant about my face. Before I could ask, Aunt Winnie went on. "You've always been insecure, Elizabeth. I don't know why, but you have. And I think you're letting your insecurities cloud your judgment on this. Why don't you simply ask Peter what's going on rather than make yourself sick imagining the worst?"

"You make it sound so simple."

"Well, that's because it is simple, dear! This is Peter we're talking about-not one of your sc.u.mmy ex-boyfriends." With a slight laugh, she added, "Besides, what did you expect me to say? That he is not the only man worth having? That with your pretty face, you will never want admirers?"

That wrung a smile out of me. She was right, of course. She usually is. "Okay, Aunt Winnie, I'll talk to Peter." With a hollow laugh, I added, "Right after I clear my name of murder."

"No, talk to Peter first."

"Why?"

"Because I suspect it will be the harder of the two tasks."

"Gee, thanks."

"Seriously, Elizabeth. Do you want me to come down? I could catch an early flight."

"No, thanks, Aunt Winnie. I'll be okay."

"Would it help if I called Detective Stewart and had him get in touch with the police down there? Maybe it would help if he vouched for your character."

Detective Stewart had led the investigation of the murder at Aunt Winnie's inn last New Year's. In the end, I'd helped him solve the case. In the beginning, however, we did nothing but b.u.t.t heads and I think he was well on his way to developing a facial tic at the sound of my name-similar to how Inspector Dreyfus reacts at the mention of Clouseau. I dreaded to think how he would react if he learned that I'd not only landed in the middle of yet another murder investigation, but was also suspected of tampering with the evidence.

"No," I said again, this time more firmly. "I don't think you need to call him. I'll be fine. I'll straighten this out and be up by the end of the week. I promise."

"Okay," said Aunt Winnie, "if you're sure. But if you change your mind, let me know."

"I will."

"And Elizabeth?"

"Yes?"

"Go talk to Peter. Now."

I sighed. "Okay," I said, wondering why hearing Peter say that he preferred Chloe over me scared me more than the thought of Detective Grant arresting me for interfering with a murder investigation.

After replacing the receiver, I remained slumped in the leather chair for several minutes. This was silly, I told myself. I couldn't sit in the study and hide forever. It was time to face all the messiness that lay on the other side of the door. However, I resolved to face it calmly and without my usual show of hysterical emotion. I would not cry or fall apart. I would be calm.

I opened the door. Everyone had left the living room-except for Peter. He sat in one of the fireside chairs, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Seeing me, he jumped to his feet and rushed across the room.

"Can I talk to you now?" he asked.

I nodded and walked to the chair opposite the one he'd vacated. The fire's blue-and-yellow flames leaped and swayed to an unknown beat. With a sigh, I sat down on the plush seat cushion and stared at my lap. Peter settled across from me. Leaning forward in his chair, he took my hands in his.

"Elizabeth? I know I should have told you this before, but I just didn't know how. Chloe and I know each other." He glanced uneasily at me to gauge my reaction. I gazed calmly back at him. "You . . . you don't seem surprised."

"That's because I'm not. Chloe already told me."

He swallowed. Hard. "Chloe told you?"

"Yes. Chloe. Funny how she managed to find the time."

"When did she tell you?"

"During the reception, but then I saw you two for myself. It was pretty obvious you two hadn't just met."

Peter flushed. "I didn't know you'd seen us talking. You seemed to be spending a lot of time dancing with Harry."

I shifted in my seat. "I believe you were telling me about Chloe."

Peter sighed and nodded. "Sorry. Our parents are close friends and so we were thrown together a lot as kids. There was this general a.s.sumption that Chloe and I would eventually date, and, well, we did." He paused, his eyes shifting briefly to the floor. "We were pretty serious, actually. Anyway, we talked about the possibility of taking it to the next step, but there were some things that we just didn't agree on-kids, for instance. I wanted them and she wasn't sure."

Chloe's absurdly indulgent behavior toward Ashley suddenly made sense-she was trying to show Peter how over-the-moon about kids she'd become. G.o.d, I really hated her.

Peter continued. "Anyway, we agreed it would be a good idea to see other people before we made any major commitments. I had no idea that she was going to be here."

My heart plummeted and I nodded dumbly, staring at my hands entwined in his. This was harder than I thought it would be. There is a difference, I thought wryly, between the expectation of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty itself. At least now I understood why Peter had never discussed marriage with me. The only reason he was dating me was to discover if he wanted to marry Chloe. My resolve failed. I wished the conversation was already over.

Yanking my hands out of his warm grasp, I said with a steadiness that belied my true feelings, "So, have you been in touch with her the entire time we've been dating?"

"Not really. She called once or twice, but that's all."

"Did you tell her about me?"

Peter hesitated and I knew his answer before he gave it. "No, I didn't. I don't know why. I guess I just a.s.sumed that she'd moved on. But after seeing her this weekend, I realize that she hasn't." I stared at him in silence, waiting for him to elaborate. "Chloe can be pretty . . . direct sometimes," he finally added.

"I'll give her direct," I muttered.

"Elizabeth, I'm sorry about all of this. I should have told you."

"Yes, you should have. But the fact remains you didn't." A numbing sensation seeped through my veins, as if my brain dosed my body with a kind of emotional novocaine. I sat very still and was grateful for the feeling-or lack thereof. For once, I just might be spared from making a colossal a.s.s of myself. "Peter," I said with a steadiness that surprised me, "we've been dating for more than eight months. During that time you never told me about Chloe, and more important, you never bothered to tell Chloe about me. I think that says it all."

"What do you mean?"

I raised my eyes to his. "It means that you still have feelings for Chloe. If you didn't, you would have called her and told her about me. You would have ended it completely with her."

He looked like he was going to interrupt. I didn't want to hear any more. I couldn't hear any more. I just wanted to get out of this room before the novocaine wore off. I wanted to be alone when I finally burst into tears. "I can't do this again, Peter. I won't do this again."

"Won't do what?" he asked, confusion registering across his face.

Get dumped for the other woman. "Peter, a relationship where someone is always wondering about what might have been is no good. There's no point in being with someone when you're confused."

"Elizabeth, I . . . I don't know what to say. I don't want to end things. Frankly, it sounds like you're the one who wants to . . . see what could have been."

I had no idea what that meant. I could only hear the blood pounding in my ears as the novocaine wore off and the realization that Peter and I were breaking up caused my heart to shudder and thud unevenly.

I stood up. "Peter, I really like you, but I think it's best if we just go back to being friends."

"But we never really were friends," he said with a small attempt at a smile.

I couldn't return it. "Yeah, well maybe that was part of the problem."

Before he could say another word, I turned and left the room, tears already blurring my vision. I went upstairs and headed for the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face until I finally stopped crying. Then I grabbed my purse and car keys. I needed to go for a long drive. When I got back downstairs, Peter was gone.