When Emily Cavanaugh inherits a fortune from her great aunt, she expects her life to change. She doesn't expect to embark on a murder investigation, confront the man who broke her heart 35 years before, and nearly lose her own life.
Emily travels to the sleepy coastal village of Stony Beach, Oregon, to claim her inheritance, centered in a beautiful Victorian estate called Windy Corner but also including a substantial portion of the real estate of the whole town. As she gets to know the town's eccentric inhabitantsincluding her own once-and-possibly-future love, Sheriff Luke Richardsshe learns of a covert plan to develop Stony Beach into a major resort. She also hears hints that her aunt may have been murdered. Soon another suspicious death confirms this, and before long Emily herself experiences a near-fatal accident.
Meanwhile, Emily reads Persuasion, hoping to find belated happiness with her first love as Anne Elliot did with Captain Wentworth. She notices a similarity between her not-quite-cousin Brock Runcible, heir to a smaller portion of her aunt's property, and Mr. Elliot in Persuasion, and her suspicions of Brock crystallize. But as she and Luke continue to investigate and events speed toward a climax, Emily realizes that underneath the innocent-looking rocks of Stony Beach lurk festering jealousies that would have shocked even the worst of Jane Austen's charming reprobates.
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About the Author
KATHERINE BOLGER HYDE has lived her life surrounded by books, from teaching herself to read at age four to majoring in Russian literature to making her career as an editor. She lives in California with her husband. Arsenic with Austen is her first novel.
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Arsenic with Austen
A Crime with the Classic Mystery
By Katherine Bolger Hyde
St. Martin's PressCopyright © 2016 Katherine Bolger Hyde
All rights reserved.
"Change of scene might be of service — and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as any thing."
— Mrs. Gardiner to Elizabeth Bennet, Pride and Prejudice
A gentle late-spring breeze ruffled the tender leaves of the maple and cherry trees on Reed College's front lawn, flirted with the skirts of the graduates' robes and tugged at the edges of their mortarboards, then swirled up three stories to tease Emily's upswept hair as she stood at her open office window. Of late this scene had become the favorite of her whole teaching year, because it meant the year was over.
She shrugged gratefully out of her heavy doctoral robes and smoothed the lace-trimmed ivory linen dress she wore underneath. When had teaching literature ceased to be a joy she looked forward to each morning and become instead a dreaded chore? When had her students and colleagues become a band of indifferent strangers instead of her own beloved community? Sometime after you left me, she said aloud to Philip, whose presence was one only she could perceive. None of it means anything anymore.
You only get out of it what you put into it, his voice reprimanded her. He never seemed to say anything new these days — only things she'd heard him say a thousand times before. Death must put a damper on one's creativity.
Maybe I need a sabbatical. Time to write that book, finally. She'd been planning it for years: the definitive work on Dostoevsky's conflicted relationship with his Orthodox faith. But Reed's emphasis on teaching over publication had allowed her to keep putting it off.
Philip, for once, was silent. What would he say? You can't run away from your problems; you have to face them. Or: It's about time you stopped talking about that book and actually wrote it. Or, most maddeningly: You must do as you think best, my dear.
Too late to ask for a sabbatical for next fall, anyway. She could defer the decision awhile. As she seemed to be deferring all action these days.
She straightened the few remaining papers on her desk, filing some, placing others in her briefcase. Among them was a pile of mail she'd picked up from her campus box on the way up. Lit and Lang Department memos, a sweet handwritten note of thanks from a thesis advisee, next year's academic calendar — and one stiff white envelope that had come through the regular mail.
The return address was in Tillamook: MacDougal & Simpson, Attorneys at Law. What on Earth ...?
She stared at the envelope in her hand until Philip's voice nudged her. Only one way to find out, my dear.
Apparently, the letter opener had left for vacation ahead of her; it was nowhere to be found. She ripped the flap open and extracted a folded letter.
Dear Mrs. Cavanaugh:
As the legal representatives of your great-aunt Beatrice Runcible, it is our melancholy duty to inform you that Mrs. Runcible passed away on May 22 of this year. Her funeral will be held at two P.M. on May 27, 2013, at St. Bede's Episcopal Church in Stony Beach, Oregon, with interment to follow.
As a legatee under Mrs. Runcible's will and coexecutor of her estate, we beg you will visit our office at your earliest convenience, preferably before the funeral. Please telephone 503-555-1407 to confirm a time.
Your obedient servant,
James P. MacDougal, Attorney at Law
Emily stared at the letter, unable to realize Aunt Beatrice was dead.
She'd been in — what, her early fifties? — a thousand years ago, when Emily's father used to dump his children on Beatrice's doorstep each summer while he toured the Northwest in search of his next teaching job. So she must be well into her eighties now. Must have been, when she died.
Emily was surprised by the strength of the pang that drove her into her chair. Aunt Beatrice, dead. That vibrant, seemingly ageless woman whose will and energy galvanized the entire village of Stony Beach, most of which she owned. How could she be dead?
And how could Emily have neglected her all these years? She'd written from time to time, but they hadn't seen each other since — great heavens, could it be since Emily and Philip's wedding?
It must be. Aunt Beatrice hadn't wanted to leave Stony Beach for anything less than a wedding or a christening. There had never been any christenings. And Emily had never been able to bring herself to return to Stony Beach. Not since the summer she was sixteen. Not since Luke ...
A tidal wave of emotion flooded her body, stinging her eyes and clenching her gut. A wave far stronger than her grief for Aunt Beatrice. She'd kept thoughts of Luke at bay for so long, she would have sworn she'd forgotten him.
But clearly she hadn't. And probably never would.
His face sprang before her, undimmed by any trick of memory, unchanged by the passage of years. His thick dark hair and sun-reddened cheeks, his teasing smile, the deep gray eyes that could shift in a heartbeat from laughter to longing. Eyes that could render her breathless in one glance.
"Luke ..." she whispered, but his image faded on her breath. How could she go to Stony Beach and risk seeing him again?
But no. He wouldn't be there. He'd left at eighteen, vanished, untraceable. And Stony Beach wasn't a place people went back to when once they'd gotten away.
She'd go and pay her respects to Aunt Beatrice. She owed her that much. After all, it was Aunt Beatrice who'd opened the world of literature to Emily in the first place — the world she'd inhabited peacefully and, in the main, contentedly for the last thirty-five years.
Emily read the letter again, wincing at the dangling modifier (which would have horrified Aunt Beatrice) but this time taking in its meaning: legatee and coexecutor. Clearly it was her duty to go, whether she wanted to or not.
Legatee. Aunt Beatrice had been a wealthy woman all those years ago. Some of the property, Emily vaguely remembered, was tied up under Beatrice's late husband's will, but the house was not — nor the library it contained. If Aunt Beatrice had left Emily her books ...! That would be a legacy well worth claiming.
Funeral on May twenty-seventh. Emily glanced at the calendar on the wall. May twenty-seventh was tomorrow!
With shaking fingers she fumbled for the telephone, pressed 9 for an outside line and then the number of the lawyer's office. A youthful, high-pitched male voice answered, and Emily pictured a Dickensian clerk, a Guppy or a young Bob Cratchit, slaving away with a quill on a high stool. Only, of course, such a clerk wouldn't have had a telephone.
She introduced herself and heard the young man's tone shift into full attention mode. "Oh, Mrs. Cavanaugh! I'm so glad our letter reached you. We weren't entirely sure we had the right address."
"I just got it today. Pretty squeaky timing. Tomorrow is not only the funeral but my first day of vacation — I might not have gotten the letter till August if it hadn't come today."
"Yes, I'm sorry about that. But as I say, we couldn't be sure. ... At any rate, you will be able to come? For the funeral?"
"I'll be there. I can meet with Mr. MacDougal on my way down, if that's convenient."
"Certainly. Would ten o'clock suit you?"
Tillamook was about ninety minutes from Portland. Not too early a start. "Fine."
Emily finished packing up and paused in her office doorway for a last look around. Well, Philip, it looks as though I'm going to get a change whether I want one or not.
A little change will do you good, my dear.
But something told Emily that whatever lay before her, "a little change" would hardly be an adequate description.
* * *
Tillamook lay in a green bowl between the coastal mountains and Tillamook Bay. A placid town, as quiet and unhurried as the dairy cattle that peppered the rolling slopes to each side of the road. You had to love cattle to live in Tillamook — their reek pervaded the air, their milk fueled the cheese industry that kept the town alive. Cheese, of course, was essential to life, but Emily preferred to obtain it from a grocery store well removed from its pungent source.
Luke used to tease her about her aversion to cows. What's not to like about cows? he'd say. Gentlest creatures in the world.
They're big and scary and they stink, she'd insist.
He'd laugh, slinging his long burly arm around her summer-freckled shoulders. One of these days I'll take you to my uncle's and introduce you to Bessie. Nobody could be scared of Bessie.
One of many promises he never kept.
She shook off thoughts of Luke like a cow flicking its tail at a fly. He was gone. This trip was not about him. It was about Aunt Beatrice. Aunt Beatrice, who was dead and whose lawyer wanted to speak with her.
She found the lawyer's office with no difficulty in Tillamook's regular, numbered grid of downtown streets. At ten o'clock precisely, she tried the door of MacDougal & Simpson, only to find it locked. She stepped back in annoyance but then saw a slight young man with a violent shock of red hair and a dense coating of freckles bustling up to the door.
"Mrs. Cavanaugh?" he asked. She nodded. "I'm so sorry — had trouble starting my car." He nodded toward an ancient Honda parked next to her PT Cruiser. "Just give me a sec."
He got the door open and ushered her into an office that looked more like a professor's than a lawyer's. Two venerable wooden armchairs faced an enormous battered desk piled high with leaning stacks of papers, while books overflowed the bookcases on the back wall to form piles on the frayed carpet.
Emily glanced pointedly toward the door that she assumed led into an inner office. "Will Mr. MacDougal be in soon?"
The young man blinked at her from behind the desk, where he'd been searching for a clear spot to lay down his briefcase. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Jamie MacDougal."
Emily forgot her manners and stared. This was the lawyer Aunt Beatrice had chosen to manage her affairs? There must be some mistake. He hardly looked old enough to be out of high school, let alone law school.
A flush crept up his neck. "My father was your aunt's lawyer for many years. He passed away a few months ago, and I took over. Please don't be concerned; I am fully qualified. Passed the bar and everything."
His apologetic smile was so winsome that Emily relented. She had a soft spot for young redheads anyway — they always made her think of the children she and Philip might have had. "I'm sure you're doing a fine job, Mr. MacDougal."
"Oh, please — call me Jamie. When people say Mr. MacDougal, I still look around for my dad."
Emily dimpled at him and sat down. "Jamie, then."
He opened his briefcase and fumbled inside. "Just give me a second to find the papers. ... Here they are." He closed the briefcase and sat behind the huge desk. With his suit coat hanging off his shoulders and his shirt collar loose on his skinny neck, he looked like a second grader playing teacher. "Would you like to read the will, or would you just like me to summarize it?"
"I suppose I'll have to read it eventually, but just a summary for now, please."
"Okay." He held up a thick document, on the back of which Emily could read The Last Will and Testament of Beatrice Worthing Runcible.
"Some of the storefront properties in Stony Beach go to Brock Runcible under the terms of Horace Runcible's will. Then there's ten thousand dollars to Agnes Beech, Mrs. Runcible's housekeeper, and a hundred thousand to a trust for the purpose of establishing a clinic in Stony Beach. One of the storefront properties is willed to that trust also. We have a few small bequests to various charities, and then — the rest is yours."
Emily was sure she couldn't have heard correctly. Why would Aunt Beatrice have left all the rest to her? They'd had little contact beyond Christmas cards for the last thirty-five years.
"The — the rest? What is the rest, exactly?"
"Well, let's see. There's her house, Windy Corner, of course, and all her personal property. A number of beach rentals — I'll get you the list in a minute. Three blocks of storefronts she acquired after her husband's death. And, after taxes, I'd guess about" — he shuffled some papers — "six million dollars in cash and liquid investments."
"Six — million?"
"That's right." Jamie grinned, his eyes dancing. "You have just become a very wealthy woman."CHAPTER 2
The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself agreeable.
— Pride and Prejudice
Emily sat back in her chair, all the wind knocked out of her. "I can't believe it. I thought — hoped — she might have left me her library. But all this" — she waved a hand wide to encompass the immensity of her inheritance — "I can't take it in."
"It appears you were her only living relative. So it's not all that surprising she'd leave most of it to you."
"I guess that's true. I hadn't thought about it." Her parents were long gone; her one brother, Geoff — named for Geoffrey Chaucer — had died a few years before, leaving no children. Beatrice had no offspring of her own, no other nieces or nephews. The Worthings were quickly dying out.
Emily shook her head briskly to orient herself to the here and now. "What are my duties as coexecutor?"
"To some extent, that's up to you. I'm the other executor and, if you prefer, you can leave most of it in my hands. All you'll have to do is sign checks and papers. And make decisions about what to keep, what to sell, et cetera. Of course, if you'd like to take a more active role, you certainly have that option."
Emily pictured her aunt's house as she had last seen it: a four-thousand-square- foot Victorian crammed to the rafters with books, knickknacks, keepsakes, and heirlooms. "I think going through the house is going to keep me plenty busy. I'm happy to just sign things."
"Great." Jamie's smile suggested the extra work would not come amiss. What a feeling — to be able to delegate hours of work to a lawyer and not have to worry about how much it would cost. She could get used to this.
He bustled and rustled and in a few minutes handed her several paper-clipped stacks of documents. "Here's a copy of the will and a list of all the assets — except for the miscellaneous personal property. The more valuable things — the ones she insured specifically — are listed here." He indicated one of the stacks. "You can look at these at your leisure, no rush."
She stood to receive the papers. Belatedly, he looked around for something to put them in, then handed her a battered expanding file. "Sorry, this is all I've got."
"No problem." She wedged the papers into the file and extended her hand. "Thank you, Jamie. I suppose I'll see you at the funeral?"
"Absolutely." He scooted past her and opened the door. In a moment she stood on the sidewalk, feeling like a completely new woman.
Emily Cavanaugh, heiress. She could be the heroine of one of her favorite novels — a Trollope, perhaps. The Runcible Inheritance. At least she was old enough that fortune-hunting suitors wouldn't be beating down her door.
* * *
With two hours to kill before the funeral, Emily treated herself to a leisurely brunch at the local pancake house, then made the twenty-minute drive along the marshy north shore of Tillamook Bay and up the coast to Stony Beach. Every mile brought back memories: the abandoned log cabin outside Garibaldi that she and Luke had jokingly dubbed their "dream house" and had woven whole histories about. The little tourist train that ran between Garibaldi and Stony Beach that they'd miraculously had to themselves one day. No, mustn't go there; that memory was far too strong.
On northward through the woods to the south end of Stony Beach, where Luke's family had lived. She couldn't see the house from the road — just as well. The one time he'd taken her there, his mother had turned the warm summer day to arctic winter with one glance. It had taken Emily the rest of the day and into the night to thaw Luke out after that.
Downtown Stony Beach, such as it was, had changed little. The shops and restaurants had different names, and she thought there were a few more of them. That one hotel surely hadn't been there in her day, looming on the beach side of the highway and blocking the view of the ocean from the shops. A couple of the cafés had FREE WI-FI signs, and the cars were more modern; but for that she could have believed herself back in the late seventies.
She turned east and drove up the hill a few blocks to St. Bede's, arriving at the modest, old-fashioned white-clapboard church with half an hour to spare before the funeral began. The day was fine and warm — unusual for May on the coast — so she wandered among the graves in the churchyard. Runcibles dominated the sunniest corner, where a newly dug grave gaped beneath an imposing stone carved with angels that read, HORACE RUNCIBLE, 1919–1971. BELOVED HUSBAND, RESPECTED PATRON OF STONY BEACH. And beside that, BEATRICE WORTHING RUNCIBLE, 1927– with room for an epitaph underneath.
Excerpted from Arsenic with Austen by Katherine Bolger Hyde. Copyright © 2016 Katherine Bolger Hyde. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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