Arsenic with Austen Read Online Free Page A

bustling about. “Hello,” she said, then repeated it louder when no one turned. “I’m Emily Cavanaugh.” Blank faces. “I’ve just arrived, but I’m the new owner.”
    One woman, a little older than the rest, detached herself and came to shake Emily’s hand. “We were hired by a Mr. Runcible. He doesn’t live here?”
    â€œNo. He’s the other legatee—I’m the one who got the house. But I couldn’t get down here before today.” She craned her neck around the woman to see the table, which was laden with platters and cake stands, a huge arrangement of lilies towering over all. “Is everything nearly ready? People are starting to arrive.”
    â€œOh yes, just the finishing touches.” She turned to the other workers and clapped her hands. “Finish up now, it’s showtime!”
    Right on cue the doorbell rang. Emily turned to answer it, but Agnes Beech was already striding down the hall. Emily hoped she’d be a trifle more welcoming to the guests than she’d been to her new employer.
    The townspeople seemed to move in schools, like fish, because after the first ring they streamed in so steadily, Agnes never had an opportunity to shut the door. Within minutes all the reception rooms were packed with black-garbed guests, white-coated waiters with high-held trays slipping between them like flashes of sunlight on a cloudy day.
    Too late, Emily realized she should have been standing at the door to receive the guests’ introductions and condolences. Heading toward the parlor, she could glimpse Brock’s tall form moving from cluster to cluster, his face as preternaturally solemn as an undertaker’s, playing the host and grieving heir. She didn’t know whether to be amused, grateful for being spared the role, or indignant at his presumption.
    She settled on grateful. Being in this crowd was bad enough without being its focal point.
    But her reprieve didn’t last long. Brock spotted her and made his way to her side, then took her elbow again—what was this fascination he had with her elbow?—and guided her into the parlor. There he stationed himself beside her, and by some incomprehensible magnetism people began to flow toward the two of them, one or two at a time.
    The first was a paunchy, balding man of around sixty who pumped her arm so hard, she expected to start spouting water. “Everett Trimble. Mayor of Stony Beach. Too bad about the old girl, but this town’s moving forward, get it? Great to get some new blood in.” He ran a handkerchief up over his shiny brow and down his scalp. “Give me a ring when you get settled. You and me gotta cooperate, get it? Get this town on the move.” He shoved a business card into Emily’s hand, clapped Brock on the shoulder, and headed toward the food.
    Right behind him was a tall, svelte blonde in red lipstick and a red suit that burst out like a splash of blood against the black-and-white crowd. At first glance Emily thought the woman was in her early thirties, but after a glance at her neck, where a string of perfect pearls gleamed against a not-so-dewy throat, she revised the estimate up ten years. “Vicki Landau,” the red lips said in a crisp, commanding alto voice. “Realtor. I’m sure you’ll want to be selling some of your properties. Windy Corner, for starters.” She surveyed the room with a greedy spark in her midnight-blue eyes. “Much too big for one person, don’t you think? Just give me a call. I’ve got buyers lined up from here to Portland.”
    Her smile made Emily feel like a freshman in a class of graduate students. She took the business card Vicki offered and shoved it into her pocket along with the mayor’s, intending never to look at either again.
    More faces, more handshakes, more names she hadn’t a prayer of remembering. In most cases a thin veil of solemnity overlaid avid