Cyanide with Christie Read online

  Olivia looked up from petting Kitty to dart a glance at Marguerite, then spoke to her teacup in a voice Emily had to strain to hear. ‘I’m so sorry to be a nuisance – didn’t Marguerite tell you? – I’m gluten-intolerant. I can’t eat wheat flour or anything with gluten.’

  Marguerite struck her forehead in exaggerated remorse. ‘Mon dieu, I completely forgot! Désolée, chérie. But I am sure the so capable Katie can come up with something for poor Olivia to eat?’ She looked entreatingly at Katie.

  ‘No problem. Fruit and cheese OK?’

  ‘Perfect, thank you.’ Olivia gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I hope this won’t play havoc with your dinner plans?’

  ‘Not at all. Tonight the only gluten is in the rolls. But will it be a problem having food that’s cooked in the same kitchen with gluten? One of my sisters is celiac and we had to be super careful with her.’

  ‘No, mine isn’t quite that serious. A little cross-contamination won’t bother me.’

  ‘Awesome. Then we’re cool.’ Katie whisked out and returned in a couple of minutes with a beautifully arranged plate containing alternating slices of several cheeses, plus apple, persimmon, and kiwi. In the center sat one plump chocolate truffle. ‘A little consolation prize,’ Katie said as she handed the plate to Olivia.

  Olivia broke into a smile of pure delight that transformed her face. ‘How very thoughtful. Thank you so much.’

  Ian, having worked his way through his first plateful, launched into fulsome praise of the library – both its architecture and its contents. ‘What a treasure you have here! Is one allowed to work in this room during the day, or must we confine ourselves to our bedrooms?’

  ‘The library is a designated quiet zone open to all during the day, from after breakfast until teatime. Any who wish to take a break from writing may congregate in the dining room, where Katie will have coffee and snacks available all day, or in the parlor.’

  Ian sighed in contentment. ‘I’m feeling inspired already.’

  The doorbell rang and Katie went to answer it. A couple of minutes later she ushered in a wet and shivering young man. ‘Mr Dustin Weaver,’ she announced in true parlormaid style.

  Emily rose and extended her hand. ‘Welcome, Mr Weaver.’

  Granted, the young man couldn’t be at his best soaked to the skin and freezing, but Emily did not find Dustin Weaver especially prepossessing at first sight. His medium-sized frame tended toward middle-aged spread, although he looked to be only around thirty. His straw-colored hair was over-long, not in a deliberate way but as if he’d simply neglected to have it cut; his beard similarly showed several days’ growth – a style Emily particularly disliked, feeling a beard should be all or nothing. His tweed jacket hung lumpily, with visible fraying at the edges, and his T-shirt and jeans looked as if he’d pulled them from the reject pile at Goodwill.

  All this could have been forgiven if mitigated by a pleasant expression and gracious words. But Weaver’s petulant scowl seemed to blame Emily personally for the inclement weather. ‘Practically got blown off the road,’ he grumbled. He ignored her proffered hand and strode directly to the fire, jostling the tea tray and stepping on Bustopher Jones’ tail in the process. All three cats rose haughtily and stalked off to the parlor. ‘And I swear I drove through two or three lakes. This place sure is the back of beyond.’

  Emily was taken aback, but a guest’s rudeness never excused answering rudeness in a host. ‘We did attempt to warn you to come early because of the storm, but Marguerite wasn’t able to get through to you by phone. Did you get her message?’

  ‘Yeah, at three o’clock, when it was already too late to get here for your precious “tea”. I don’t suppose you saved me any food?’

  Emily glanced around for Katie and saw her coming in with a replenished three-tiered tray of pastries. ‘Plenty to go around, Mr Weaver,’ Katie said cheerfully. ‘And I’ll freshen up the tea.’

  ‘Not on my account. Can’t stand the stuff.’ He shoved half a teacake into his mouth and mumbled around it, ‘Got anything stronger?’

  Emily drew herself up, summoning Aunt Beatrice’s shade to help her put this oaf in his place without transgressing the bounds of hospitality. ‘Katie, please pour Mr Weaver a glass of sherry. Normally the sherry is reserved for the cocktail hour, but in view of your need for warmth we’ll make an exception.’

  Katie handed him one of the second-best sherry glasses with a little more than the standard amount of Harveys Bristol Cream. He downed it in one gulp and made a face. ‘I’m a whiskey man myself.’

  ‘I’m sorry, we don’t have any whiskey in the house.’ Emily waited until he’d slowed down his face-stuffing to introduce the others, who all sat in stunned silence. ‘Mr Weaver, I believe you’ve met Marguerite Grenier?’

  ‘Nah. Old McClintock at Reed hooked us up by email, never met in person.’ He gave Marguerite the once-over and leered. ‘Wish we had, though.’

  Marguerite looked as frosty as only a Frenchwoman can. ‘I also wish we had met before I recommended you to Emily.’ The implication was clear, to Emily at least – if she’d met him, he would never have been asked. His lusty grin faded as that possibility appeared to dawn on him.

  Emily hurried to continue her introductions. ‘And this is Olivia Mountjoy, whom you may have heard of as the author of the Sadie Jones mysteries.’

  ‘Never read that crap. No offense there, Olivia. I’m sure lots of old ladies think it’s great.’ He leered at Olivia in turn even as he insulted her writing. She did not answer but passed her cup to Emily for a refill of tea.

  ‘And Ian MacDonald, whose work I’m sure you’re familiar with.’

  This time Dustin condescended to shake hands, though he neglected to brush the crumbs off his own first. ‘Yeah, read one of yours once. Not bad. Haven’t written anything for a while, though, am I right?’ Unlike Oscar’s, Dustin’s question was clearly meant to turn the knife in the wound.

  Ian drew himself up and repeated his line about having a major project in the works. Dustin gave a skeptical sneer and moved on to Oscar as Emily said, ‘And this is Oscar Lansing, who’s working on his PhD thesis. He’s an adjunct prof at Reed.’

  Dustin’s sneer intensified. ‘Poor sucker. All that advanced degree stuff is crap. A writer needs to live, experience the world, not just read about it.’

  ‘I believe there is a place in the life of a writer for both study and experience, Mr Weaver,’ Ian said repressively. ‘I myself have an MFA, and I feel it has greatly benefited my writing.’

  Dustin snorted. ‘One year of college was enough for me. I’m a self-made man, a whaddayacallit – auto-something or other.’

  ‘“Autodidact” is the word you’re searching for, I believe,’ Oscar said with commendable composure. Emily reflected that ‘didact’ was an excellent word for Dustin Weaver, and he was certainly ‘auto’ as well – no other person’s instruction, feelings, or convenience would get any consideration from him. Whether he had actually learned anything from his own instruction was another question altogether.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘If you’ve all finished, I’ll show you to your rooms so you can get settled and freshen up before dinner. We dine at seven.’ She turned to Dustin. ‘Mr Weaver, you have the Dickens room here on the ground floor. But you’re welcome to come up and see the other rooms if you wish.’

  He set down his glass and wiped his hands on his jeans. ‘Nah, never could see the charm of these drafty old barns. Just point me to my room. That girl bring my bags in?’

  ‘I’m sure Katie has taken your things to your room.’ Emily was perilously close to losing her temper with this man. On top of everything, he’d managed to insult her beloved Windy Corner and her beloved Katie all in one breath. It was a good thing she’d given him the Dickens room, though he hardly deserved it – at least he wouldn’t be sharing a bathroom with anyone and he’d be a bit out of the others’ way. If it weren’t for the weather, she’d have seriously considered sending him bac
k to Portland; but she wouldn’t send a dog out in this storm. Not that she’d ever met a dog she didn’t like better than Dustin Weaver – and a dog person she was not.

  ‘Katie will show you the way.’

  Katie smiled cheerfully at Dustin. Thank God for her intrinsic equanimity; even a boor like Dustin couldn’t faze her – at least, as long as he kept his hands to himself. Fortunately, Katie didn’t appear to be his type, or else he regarded her as beneath his notice, because he barely glanced at her as he followed her out of the room.

  Emily turned to her other guests with the brightest smile she could muster. ‘Let’s go upstairs, shall we?’

  Marguerite was charmed by the Austen room – all light colors and delicate eighteenth-century furniture – which she had seen only in its preliminary stages of transformation from the dark and dreary east room of Emily’s childhood. ‘C’est presque français,’ she said – the highest compliment she could give.

  Ian MacDonald gave an appreciative shiver as Emily led him into the Brontë room. She had given him this room, with its heavy walnut furniture and dark red hangings, because of the dark nature of his writing. ‘This is absolutely perfect. I can’t fail to be inspired here.’

  Olivia emitted a little gasp of delight when Emily opened the door of the Montgomery room, cheery even in the midst of a storm with its white iron bedstead, handmade quilt, and braided rag rug. ‘Oh, I love it! I could lie down on that quilt and wake up in Prince Edward Island in 1890. Like in Somewhere in Time.’ She gave Emily an impulsive kiss on the cheek, then turned away in confusion.

  Emily smiled. ‘I’m so glad you like it. It’s the coziest room in the house.’

  That left the Dostoevsky room unoccupied, which was fine with Emily. She was going to have her hands quite full as it was.

  SIX

  Emily was tempted to pray that Dustin Weaver might have an attack of indigestion – not unlikely, given the way he’d wolfed his tea – and decline dinner. Instead she prayed she would have the patience and the wit to deal with him and keep the evening pleasant for her other guests.

  Luke’s attendance at dinner might be helpful. He was impossible to intimidate and had a way of repressing inappropriate behavior simply by his authoritative presence. She’d asked him to come at six-thirty so they’d have a chance to reconnoiter before the other guests came down for a pre-dinner sherry.

  He was prompt, and this time he’d changed into a neatly pressed dress shirt and jeans. Luke only wore a suit when he had to, but he looked as put-together in his current ensemble as most men would in a coat and tie. Emily clung a few extra seconds when they kissed hello.

  He took her hands and looked into her eyes. ‘Everything OK?’ He could always tell when something was bothering her.

  She blew out a long breath. ‘One of my guests is going to be troublesome.’

  Immediately the lawman came to the fore. ‘Do I need to intervene?’

  ‘Not as a sheriff. He’s not that kind of troublesome. Just extremely rude. Loud, self-centered, deliberately tactless. What I do need you to do is prevent him from dominating the conversation. Everyone else was horrified into silence at tea.’

  ‘I can do that.’ He gave her shoulders a squeeze. ‘Don’t you worry. Between us we’ll put him in his place.’

  The other guests drifted in from upstairs, and Emily introduced Ian and Olivia to Luke; Marguerite, of course, he already knew. Emily served sherry, and they all chatted pleasantly about nothing of consequence until Katie sounded the gong for dinner. Then Emily awoke from her pleasant dream and realized Dustin had not joined them.

  ‘These two seem nice enough,’ Luke said low in her ear as they walked into the dining room. ‘Somebody missing?’

  ‘Yes. Dustin Weaver. He has the Dickens room. Maybe he fell asleep – he had a pretty rough trip, apparently.’

  But as they were all sitting down, Dustin appeared in the doorway, catching himself against the jamb as he swayed slightly. ‘Starting without me, eh?’

  ‘Katie did ring the gong, Mr Weaver. We thought perhaps you’d fallen asleep.’

  He belched loudly. ‘Just having my own little cocktail hour.’ He moved to the nearest chair, bumping against the table as he fell into it.

  Emily stared at him, aghast. The man was drunk. He’d obviously made provision against any potential dearth of his favorite beverage.

  She shot a panicked glance at Luke, who answered with a let me handle this look. ‘Maybe you didn’t get a chance to read the house rules. No outside alcohol allowed.’

  Dustin swung his head in Luke’s direction. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Emily said in her best Aunt Beatrice voice, ‘This is Lieutenant Sheriff Luke Richards, my very dear friend. Luke, this is Dustin Weaver.’

  Dustin bridled. ‘So what, it’s illegal now to bring a bottle into a hotel?’

  ‘This is not a hotel, Mr Weaver. This is my home, and if you wish to remain in it, you had better keep a civil tongue in your head.’

  He put up his palms as if warding off an attack. ‘Well, excu-u-use me!’ But he shut up after that.

  ‘Katie, you may serve now.’

  Katie had outdone herself again, this time with boeuf bourguignon. After a few delicious bites, the other guests recovered from their shock and made polite conversation again. The main topic was the weather, which had grown even worse – the rain was freezing now, and speculation was rife as to whether it would turn to snow.

  As they started on their dessert of chocolate mousse with ladyfingers, the doorbell began to ring insistently, accompanied by energetic pounding. Luke looked at Emily with raised eyebrows. ‘You expecting somebody else?’

  ‘No. The student who was supposed to come with Marguerite begged off at the last minute.’ She stood and laid her napkin on the table. ‘I’d better go see who it is.’

  Katie had already admitted the insistent ringer, who now stood on the mat divesting herself of her outdoor garments. Layer after layer of brightly colored clothing peeled off until a short, dumpy, middle-aged figure remained. Emily took in the crimson knit hat shoved down over frizzy bleached hair; the kelly green sweater, through the holes of which gleamed a sparkly violet shirt; and the full, ragged-hemmed gauze skirt, a garish print in which every vibrant color known to the modern chemical imagination vied for prominence. The woman looked like a bag lady who’d lost a game of paintball.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Emily said when she’d recovered from the initial sensory shock.

  The apparition stuck out a grimy, ill-kept hand. ‘Cruella Crime. Heard young Alex Gordon couldn’t make it and came along in his place.’

  Emily was speechless. This woman’s effrontery outdid even Dustin’s. ‘Did you say … Cruella Crime?’ The name sounded vaguely familiar, but it certainly couldn’t be real. And oddly, black and white seemed to be the only colors missing from her ensemble.

  ‘My pen name. Real one’s a closely guarded secret. Only my publisher knows for sure.’ She gave an exaggerated wink.

  Now the name clicked. Emily had seen it splashed across the lurid covers of airport paperbacks. Cruella wrote the worst sort of sensationalist ‘true’ crime, although according to Luke the crimes were far too imaginative for the average criminal to have plotted.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Ms … Crime …’ That sounded so ridiculous Emily couldn’t go on.

  ‘Call me Cruella. Everybody does.’

  ‘Cruella, then – but attendance at this retreat center is by invitation only. We don’t take in just anyone who happens to come by, open room or no.’

  Cruella threw back her head in a raucous laugh. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for now, honey. Have you looked outside? I slid in here on a two-inch coat of ice. No way are my poor bald little tires getting out till this thaws.’

  Emily’s head whirled as her visions of a stimulating week of polite intellectual conversation and civilized Christmas celebration came crashing down between her ears. Dear God, send a thaw tomorro
w, she begged. Early.

  Meanwhile, she was a hostess. She’d better pull herself together and act like one. ‘The others are finishing dessert. Have you eaten?’

  ‘Not a bite. I’m ravenous.’ Cruella bared pointy teeth in a wolflike grin, and Emily hoped there was plenty of beef left over. Otherwise Cruella might start in on the guests themselves.

  ‘This way, please. We’ll see what Katie can come up with.’

  Katie, seeing the way the wind blew, had already laid another place at the table and heated up the leftovers, which to Emily’s relief seemed adequate to the most voracious appetite. Emily showed Cruella to the one empty chair and returned to her own. Settling her napkin back in her lap and taking up her spoon, she smiled around the table at her other guests.

  ‘Everyone, I’d like you to meet Cruella Crime. She’s arrived unexpectedly, but in this weather all travelers must be welcomed.’

  She was about to begin introducing the others when she realized three of the faces at the table had turned to stone. While Luke, Marguerite, and Oscar regarded Cruella with varying degrees of wary curiosity, the three newcomers – Ian, Olivia, and Dustin – looked as if their worst nightmares had come to life and sat down at the table with them.

  Emily shot a glance at Cruella, whose face was split in a self-satisfied leer. ‘But perhaps some of you know her already.’

  Olivia quietly rose and laid her napkin on the table. The suppressed tremor of her movements betrayed some powerful emotion barely contained. She drew herself up and walked at a measured pace out of the room.

  Ian, with a glare at Cruella that would have reduced most women to jelly, rose and strode out after Olivia. Cruella gave another raucous laugh. ‘Those two know me, all right.’ She elbowed Dustin, who was seated next to her. ‘And so does this one. Don’t you, Billy?’

  Dustin, or perhaps Billy, went green. He toppled his chair in his haste to get out of it and rushed out in the direction of the bathroom.

  Emily’s detective brain was spinning with curiosity, but she was not about to press Cruella for details. She made short work of introducing the others, then rose. ‘We’ll retire to the library now and leave you to finish your dinner in peace. Katie will show you to your room when you’ve finished.’