Murder at Longbourn by Tracy Kiely

completely different kinds of cocktail parties. “This is a murder investigation,” he continued, as if addressing a particularly slow child. “I need absolute honesty, not polite double-talk. Now, if you can’t do that, we can continue this conversation at another time and in another place.”
    I was relieved that he hadn’t said “downtown.” If he had, my strained nerves would surely have given way to a fit of giggles. I had seen “downtown” on my ride in yesterday. It consisted of four antiquesstores, three gourmet bakeries, two garden centers, and more boutiques than you could shake a credit card at. It certainly wasn’t the kind of atmosphere that inspired fear, unless maybe you were a recovering shopaholic.
    Nevertheless, something about his tone got under my skin. I sat up a bit straighter and looked him directly in the eye. “Fine, you want my opinion of the man? I’ll tell you. He struck me as a controlling, disagreeable, pompous ass. I don’t know what he was like on the other nights of his life, but that’s how he was on his last.”
    For a second, I thought he was going to laugh. His eyes glittered and his mouth twitched a little. But he merely said, “I see. You didn’t like him. That’s interesting.” Crap, now what had I done? I tried to undo the damage. “No, Detective Stewart, I didn’t like him. But if you’re insinuating that I killed a man because I didn’t like him, may I just add that there are a lot of people I don’t particularly like. My boss, for one. She thinks running her clothes to the dry cleaners is part of my job description. I’m also not particularly fond of the checkout clerk who routinely comments on my purchases. And don’t get me started about my mother’s boyfriend. But I think you’ll find, Detective Stewart, that I didn’t kill any of them.”
    Detective Stewart’s eyebrows rose so high they were in danger of disappearing into his hairline. “Are you always this angry, Ms. Parker?”
    I sighed. “No. I think I’m usually a very nice person. But it’s been a stressful night.”
    “I can understand that,” he said. “And I’m sorry to add to your apparently considerable stress level, but we do need to get as much information about what happened here tonight as we can. Let’s try this again.”
    He read something in his notebook and said, “Why don’t we skip over Mr. Ramsey for now, other than to note that he was not to your liking.” I searched his face for any traces of irony but found none. “Who did he talk to?”
    I closed my eyes, trying to remember. “When he first arrived, he was with his wife, daughter, and their friend, Daniel Simms,” I replied. “But they weren’t really talking to each other. Mr. Ramsey did all the talking.” I vividly remember what happened next: Gerald had all but threatened Aunt Winnie that he would force her to sell him the inn. Gerald’s words hadn’t bothered Aunt Winnie in the least. She wasn’t afraid of bullies and she wouldn’t have lost a minute’s sleep over his threat. But I knew Aunt Winnie and the police didn’t. To an outsider, their exchange about the house could look incriminating. I had to make sure that Detective Stewart didn’t get the wrong idea about Aunt Winnie.
    “He commented on the changes that my aunt had made to the inn since she’d purchased it,” I continued. “From what he said, I gathered that when this place went on the market, Mr. Ramsey was interested in buying it, but the owner took a liking to my aunt instead. Mr. Ramsey indicated that he was still interested in owning the place and was hoping to convince my aunt to sell it to him.” I remembered what Aunt Winnie had said about Gerald’s influence with the zoning board and I could still hear Gerald’s “by fair means or foul” threat. “He was, in my opinion, somewhat rude about the whole thing, but my aunt just laughed it off.” There. That should downplay the exchange on the off chance that any of the