Arsenic with Austen Read Online Free

one with a name.
    Emily avoided Brock’s arm this time and smiled her way through the crowd to her car. She had to be alone, if only for the space of a five-minute drive. She had to prepare herself for the inevitable: a conversation with Luke.
    As she drove down the hill and turned right toward the north end of town, she debated how to receive him. Not with reproaches—that would be undignified. Certainly not with any display of the turbulent emotions one glimpse of his face had aroused in her: shock at how he’d aged, fury at all his broken promises, a jolt of desire such as she hadn’t felt for years, and, most treacherously, an undercurrent of leaping joy that made it difficult to keep her foot on the pedals and her hands on the wheel. What she wanted was to run and dance and sing.
    But no, surely a calm, friendly, but distant greeting would be best. Let him take the lead. He was the one with all the explaining to do. But he surely wouldn’t do it in a crowd of a hundred people.
    Emily drove past the last stragglers of the beachfront rentals that lined the highway on this end of town, then on another mile to the stout stone pillars that marked the entrance to Windy Corner. Beyond the open gate, tall poplars stood sentry around the sloping lawn and lined the curving driveway. Emily followed the curve, then took the fork that led to the garage, which would surely be occupied by Beatrice’s own car. Thirty-five years ago it had been a venerable black Mercedes sedan; now it was probably a slightly newer black Mercedes sedan.
    She was surprised to see another vehicle parked at the end of the drive—a white commercial van with GIFTS FROM THE SEA emblazoned on its door. So this “little reception” was being catered. And the whole town invited. Emily wondered what Brock would consider “big.”
    She parked the Cruiser, walked back to the main drive, and took the fork that circled before the front door. The house rose above her, its brick-red paint as fresh and perfect as she remembered. Cream, sage, and gold picked out the doors and windows and the gingerbread that lined the numerous gables and dormers. She dropped back a few paces to get a good view of the octagonal tower, soaring three stories into the bright-blue sky. The aerie at the top of the tower had always been her favorite spot to curl up in a window seat and read. Now she’d be able to take refuge there anytime she wished.
    Anytime except now. Other cars were already following her up the drive.
    She stepped up to the front door and tried the knob. Locked. Automatically, she rang the bell, then remembered the keys Jamie had given her. She was fumbling in her purse for them when the door opened and a tall, cadaverous old woman in a starched, white-collared black shirtdress glared down at her.
    Emily quailed, feeling like a third grader who hadn’t done her homework. “Hello,” she managed. “I’m Emily Cavanaugh. Beatrice’s niece.”
    The glare did not soften but gave partial space to a flicker of deference. “Agnes Beech. Housekeeper. Until you make other arrangements.”
    Emily put out her hand. The other woman eyed it as if it were something dragged in by the obese black-and-white cat that now slunk out from behind her. But at last she condescended to touch Emily’s fingers in a parody of a handshake.
    â€œThank you so much for staying on and keeping things running. It seems we’re having a reception. I hope the caterers have managed all right?”
    Agnes Beech drew in a long and eloquent sniff. “Caterers!” she spat. “As if I couldn’t have done it all myself with one hand behind my back, and made it worthy of the mistress’s memory. But Mr. Brock would have his way.” She turned on her heel and stalked off down the hall toward what Emily remembered as the kitchen.
    Emily peeked into the spacious dining room and saw several white-suited young people