Murder Most Austen (21 page)

Alex bit her lip and gave a nod of her head, the small gesture sending a section of silky hair tumbling over her shoulder. With a quick movement, she raised a hand to tuck the errant strands back behind her ear. “Thank you,” she said.

“Have the police made any progress?” I asked.

Alex shook her head. She regarded us with a wary expression. “Not really. They’re still looking at your friend, Cora.”

“I know you don’t know either of us from a hole in the wall,” offered Aunt Winnie, “but I can tell you that I’ve known Cora for a very long time. She’s not a violent person. I firmly believe that she did not do this.”

Alex regarded us in silence, her expression unreadable. Byron returned with a cup filled with steaming caramel-colored liquid that I assumed was coffee. He placed it in front of Alex. She thanked him and took a grateful sip.

“So I understand that the presentation of Richard’s paper is on hold. Is that right?” Aunt Winnie asked, her expression deceptively innocent.

Alex’s face pulled into a dark frown. She sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “Good God. Is that really all you people care about? That damn paper? My husband is dead. Murdered. And yet the first thing out of any of your mouths is a question about the status of his paper. As hard as this might be for you to believe, I really haven’t given it much thought.”

Byron stared awkwardly at his lap, while Aunt Winnie nodded with enthusiastic approval. “I have to say, I’m glad to hear you say that. I quite agree with you,” she said.

Alex leaned forward, her arms on the table. “Excuse me? You
agree
with me? You’re the one who asked me about the paper in the first place!”

“Yes, but only because I wanted to make sure that you weren’t going to present the paper,” Aunt Winnie replied. “I’m glad to know that you’re not. I think it’s the best way to find Richard’s killer. Because despite how it looks, Cora Beadle did not kill your husband. I want to find out who did.”

Alex’s only response was to gawk at her in confusion. I couldn’t blame her. It was all I could do not to join in.

Byron now leaned forward as well. “Wait, why do you think that delaying the publication of the paper will help find Richard’s killer?”

“Because,” answered Aunt Winnie, “it might force him or her to try and destroy it. If Richard was killed because of that paper, then whoever did this will try and stop it from ever being presented.”

“So you want to use the paper to set a trap?” asked Byron.

Aunt Winnie nodded. I picked at my salad. She was driving this train; I had no idea where she was going or where it was scheduled to stop. I figured I might as well grab a bite while I could. “That’s exactly it,” Aunt Winnie said.

Byron glanced questioningly at Alex. She raised her shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said slowly. “I tend to think it might make more sense to let the police handle it. Alex? What do you think?”

Alex closed her eyes and gave a weary sigh. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Just then, there was an amplified cough, and a voice said, “Um … excuse me? If I could have your attention, please.”

We all looked up at the source and saw Ian standing awkwardly at a microphone. “I’d like to take a few minutes to thank you all for coming out tonight,” he said, after clearing his throat again. “As you know, my father loved Jane Austen’s work, and this festival was very dear to him. It means a lot to us that you came here tonight.” Ian paused, clearly not comfortable speaking in front of a crowd. “I would just like to say,” he continued, “that I hope this terrible occurrence does not negatively affect this festival or future ones. I know that my father would not have wanted that.” He paused again.

Valerie swiftly approached Ian or, more accurately, she swiftly approached the microphone. With a less than gentle hip check, she pushed him out of the way and quickly took his place. With a serene smile, she gazed out at the room. Seeing her tiny, pale frame and weird smile, I had the sudden, and frankly uncomfortable, sensation that I was watching a scene from an updated version of
Carrie,
specifically, the one when Sissy Spacek smiles out at her classmates—right before her telekinesis goes haywire and she kills everyone. I instinctively glanced over to the room’s doors to assure myself that they were still standing open.

“This is obviously very difficult for my husband—for all of us,” Valerie began, “but I want to add my sincere thanks that you all came out tonight to pay your respects, not only for Professor Baines the man but also to his amazing body of work.”

From across the table, I heard Alex mutter, “Oh, God.” Byron shot her a quick look of annoyance but said nothing.

“However, before I do that,” Valerie said, “I wanted to take a moment to sing a quick verse of one of Professor Baines’s favorite songs. Not only was it his favorite, but I think it captured his spirit quite well.”

Valerie closed her eyes and delicately cleared her throat directly into the microphone. The amplified sound left the audience with the unfortunate impression of a tuberculosis patient’s final strangled cough. However, this was still preferable to what came next, as Valerie bleated out the lyrics to the first stanza of “My Way” in elevated octaves normally associated with amorous chipmunks. Aunt Winnie shot me a look of horrified amusement. I shot one right back at her.

Once finished with her musical tribute, Valerie dipped her head to the nonexistent applause and said, “Professor Baines devoted his career not only to studying Jane Austen and her novels but also to sharing his amazing discoveries and revelations with the literary establishment. He unveiled aspects of Austen’s work that no one ever detected before.” There was a quiet murmuring among many of the attendees when this was said. I wondered if they were murmurings of agreement or derision. Valerie continued on. “As many of you know, Professor Baines was planning on presenting a groundbreaking paper this week, one that would forever change the way both Jane Austen and her body of work would be viewed.” Alex stiffened in her chair, her eyes narrowed with dark suspicion. “Even though Professor Baines has cruelly been denied the opportunity to present this paper himself, I would like to ask everyone here to take a moment to demonstrate our support of his work and support for this piece of work in particular.” Valerie paused and seemed to look directly at Alex. “Professor Baines was taken away too soon. But I hope you’ll support me in seeing that his excellent work is neither lost nor forgotten.”

With that, Valerie raised her hands and began to clap. After an awkward pause, the rest of the room followed along. It was like watching lemmings clap, if lemmings had hands, that is.

“Alex?” Valerie called out into the microphone. “Would you like to come up here and say a few words?”

There was a rippling sound of heads turning our way, as the crowd tried to see both Alex and her response. They were just in time to miss it, Alex having replaced the furious scowl that covered her face with a more composed expression. Her eyes, however, still glittered with anger. Slowly getting to her feet, Alex said, “Thank you all for coming…”

“They can’t hear you back there, Alex, dear,” Valerie purred into the microphone. “You’d better come up here to talk.”

There was a brief pause, during which I was sure that Alex was debating either leaving the room or cramming the microphone down Valerie’s throat. She did neither. Instead, she pasted a brittle smile onto her face and quickly strode up to the microphone. Taking it from Valerie, she turned to the small crowd before her. “As you know, this has been a very horrible couple of days for me and Richard’s family. I want you to know that I appreciate your sympathy and support in coming out tonight to honor Richard’s memory. Thank you very much.”

Turning the microphone back over to Valerie, Alex made to leave. Valerie stopped her short with her next announcement. “Thank you, Alex,” she said, “but before you go, I wondered if you could tell us when Professor Baines’s paper will be delivered. I know that many of us here tonight, myself included, want to make sure that his work is heard.”

Alex froze and regarded Valerie with an expression that left no room for doubt as to her feelings of disgust and contempt. Walking slowly back to the microphone, Alex seemed to come to a decision. Squaring her shoulders, she faced the room, a determined gaze in her eyes. “But of course,” she said. “I can think of no reason that Richard’s paper should not be delivered as planned. He would have wanted it no other way.”

“Well, I expect he’d have preferred not to be dead when it was delivered,” Aunt Winnie muttered to me under her breath, while I smothered a wholly inappropriate smile. I quickly glanced at Byron to make sure he hadn’t heard and was relieved to see that his attention was focused on Alex. I also noticed that he did not appear happy at her announcement, despite the general round of applause that greeted it.

I nudged him gently. “You don’t agree with her, do you?”

Byron pulled his attention away from Alex and regarded me, his mouth pinched in concern. Finally, he shook his head. “No, I don’t. I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but I have to be honest. If Richard was killed because of his paper, I don’t want to use it as bait. After all, I was second only to Richard in putting it together, and speaking from a purely selfish standpoint, I’d rather not be used as bait, either.”

I looked back to where Valerie and Alex stood just in time to see Alex turn on her heel and head for the doors. After a moment’s hesitation, Lindsay called out after her. If Alex heard, she didn’t let on and continued out of the room. Lindsay bit her lip and paused, as if debating whether she should follow. Dear God, I thought. She wasn’t really going to spring the news of her pregnancy on Alex now, was she?

Apparently not, I was relieved to note, as she turned back and headed into the room. I was, however, surprised to see that instead of rejoining Valerie, she was now walking our way, her stride determined.

“Byron,” Lindsay said, once she drew near, “can I talk to you?” From the way she gnawed at her lower lip, I saw that something was bothering her. Either that or she had mistaken her mouth for an hors d’oeuvre.

“Is something wrong?” Byron asked, apparently coming to a similar conclusion.

“I don’t know. It might be. It depends,” Lindsay said, with a nervousness that was hard to miss.

“Is it about the paper?” Byron asked, lowering his voice.

Lindsay glanced uneasily in my direction, while I attempted to exude a harmless, yet trustworthy persona. Apparently, it’s a trait I need to work on, as Lindsay said, “Umm … yeah, it is. But I don’t want to talk about it here. Can I talk to you later? In private?” she added with another sideways glance my way.

“Sure,” said Byron, his expression perplexed. “When do you want to talk?”

“Can I come to your room after this is over?”

“Sure, that sounds fine. I’ll be there.”

“There you are, Lindsay,” a shrill voice sang out. “We’d wondered where you got to.” Lindsay gave a startled jump, and pressed a steadying hand against her stomach, before turning around to face the owner of the voice—Valerie. Next to her stood John and Gail, the latter’s head tilted and studying Lindsay as if she were preparing to sketch her portrait. “Is everything all right?” Valerie asked Lindsay. “You ran off in such a hurry, I thought you might not be feeling well.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” Lindsay replied, her voice a squeak. “I just was talking to Byron.”

“Yes, so I see. How are you, Byron?” Valerie asked, her eyes now sliding in his direction. “I imagine you are pleased that Alex decided to go ahead with the paper’s presentation.”

“I am,” Byron replied. “But I only hope that its presentation doesn’t detract from the focus to find Professor Baines’s killer.”

Valerie glanced at Lindsay a moment. “I’m sure it won’t,” she said.

Gail, her head still slightly tilted to one side as she gazed at Lindsay, said nothing.

CHAPTER 20

Let me only have the company of the people I love, let me only be where I like and with whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say I.

—NORTHANGER ABBEY

“I
THOUGHT VALERIE SANG VERY ILL
tonight,” observed Aunt Winnie sometime later as we were making our way back to our hotel.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Poor Valerie. But she is determined to do it.”

Having politely extricated ourselves from having to endure another ride in John’s Little Car of Horrors, we strolled along the streets of Bath, in no particular hurry. The night was lovely, with just enough warmth left in the air to prevent us from feeling as if we were imitating the ideal of the “hearty Englishman.” More important, it allowed us to talk without fear of being overheard.

“So tell me,” said Aunt Winnie as we turned down a street lined with crisp white buildings and perfectly aligned trees. “What did you think of the memorial?”

“Oh, I expect you know what I think. In fact, I expect your thoughts on the matter are remarkably similar,” I said.

“That depends,” she answered. “Do your thoughts contain the words
vulgar, hysterical,
and
painful
?”

“Throw in
absurd,
and I believe that we have a match.”

Aunt Winnie laughed loudly. A woman who was walking a small white poodle across the street looked up in surprise. Giving the leash a quick tug, she hurried along. “Then we need to discuss it no more,” Aunt Winnie said lightly. Dropping her voice to a more serious tone, she added, “Except I don’t know what to make about Richard’s paper. Do you think it was the reason behind his death?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, shoving my hands into my coat’s pockets. “It certainly seemed to be a lightning rod of sorts for lots of people.”

“That’s for sure. However, I feel as if I’m missing something. Granted, the paper was sure to make a sensation—the ridiculous generally does. But would it really have skyrocketed Richard to literary stardom?”

I considered the question. It was one that I’d pondered myself as well. I knew little about the world of literary analysis and even littler about the world of Richard Baines. Many people seemed to be of the opinion that this paper was valuable, but whether that value was monetary or intellectual depended on who you talked to. I wondered how Richard himself saw it. Granted, he had been a very wealthy man, but that wealth came from his father, not from his career as an English professor. Was the goal of this paper to be able to legitimately add to that wealth, or was he solely interested in boosting his reputation as a Jane Austen (ahem) expert? And did it even matter what
his
goal had been? He might have been killed either for the potential money associated with the paper or to prevent its release. Then again, the man might have been killed merely for being a pompous, two-timing jackass. I sighed. When you stopped to think about it, there were several reasons someone might want to kill Richard Baines. It was very vexing, I thought, although, I suppose, more so for him than me.