Murder Most Persuasive

Chapter 4

“Michael Barrow!” I gasped. “But that’s … that’s impossible!” At the sound of Michael’s name, Kit’s eyes grew wide and her hand flew up to her mouth. Our eyes met in mutual horror. She made no pretense about not listening to the rest of the conversation.

“I know, I know,” said Ann. “But nevertheless, it’s true.”

“But that means … Oh, my God, that means…”

“I know. I know. I can’t even get my head around it,” said Ann.

“Wait a minute. They found a body under the pool. How can they be so sure it’s Michael?”

“They found his wallet. The police are going to do some … tests, I don’t know. But they seem pretty confident. Oh, God, this is like some sick nightmare.”

Michael Barrow. It had been a long time since I’d thought about him. Movie star looks, intelligence, charm, and the morals of a sewer rat. My stomach turned in disgust now that I was forced to revisit the memory. A new thought occurred. “Reggie! Does Reggie know?” I asked.

“No. I haven’t told her yet and I don’t know how I’m going to tell her. I don’t know how I’m going to tell any of them.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

“Could you? I don’t know what I’m going to do. I need someone here. If you can, maybe you could spend the night? Bonnie is absolutely no help.” Lowering her voice, Ann added, “She still plans on going on that stupid spa retreat of hers. Can you believe it? She even packed the flag.”

“Oddly enough, I can. I’ll be over as soon as I can. Just let me grab some things.”

“Okay. Thanks, Elizabeth.”

I hung up the phone and stared at Kit, dumbfounded. “They found Michael Barrow’s body under the pool at the St. Michaels house,” I said.

“Dear God. Do they think he was murdered?” she asked.

“I didn’t ask, but I can’t imagine any other scenario. He had to have been murdered.” It was testament to the severe shock that this news had produced that Kit didn’t launch into some mocking speech about how I saw intrigue and mystery where there was none. But really, Michael didn’t bury himself under the pool.

Kit sat down heavily. “But I thought that Michael stole all that money from Uncle Marty and then ran off,” she said slowly.

“Yeah, well, it looks like he didn’t run very far,” I said. “I’ll call you when I know more. Ann wants me to come over.”

“Well, I should come!” Kit said. “After all I’m her cousin, too!”

I paused, unsure if Ann would want Kit to come. Kit didn’t know the whole story of Michael Barrow and Ann, and I wasn’t sure if Ann wanted to make that story public. If you have a secret, Kit is the last person you should tell it to.

“Kit,” I said calmly, “that’s very sweet of you, but you should stay here tonight. You’re tired, you need your sleep. And besides, what about Pauly? He needs you here. I’ll go to Ann’s and then I’ll call you.”

Kit stood up. “No,” she said, in a firm voice that I knew from experience brooked no argument. “I’m going. I’ve just as much right as you to go. After all, it’s my family, too.” Turning on her heel, she marched over to the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. Yanking the door back, she stuck her head out and yelled, “Paul! I’ve got to go out for a while with Elizabeth. Ann’s called and there’s a family emergency. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Turning back to me, she said, “Come on, get changed. I’m driving.”

I opened my mouth to protest but then thought better. I couldn’t change her mind even if I wanted to—and trust me, I wanted to. With a sigh, I went and changed, thinking that like Anne Elliot I had never submitted more reluctantly to the jealous and ill-judging claims of a sister; but so it must be.

I bet Jane Austen had a Kit in her family, too.

While Ann normally lived alone in a quaint two-bedroom house in Bethesda, she had been staying at Uncle Marty’s house in Georgetown. Ann had been required to make this temporary move because even though the family had hired a nurse for Uncle Marty (the infamous Mata Hari aka Rona Bjornstad), there were still gaps, gaps that Bonnie on her best day couldn’t fill. On her best day, Bonnie couldn’t keep a plastic houseplant alive. Now that Uncle Marty had died, Ann was still needed at the house. The task of organizing and distributing the many items Uncle Marty had willed to various friends and family had been left to Ann. Ann, of course, did all this with her usual grace and continued to stay at the house and commute to her job. Several years ago she received her doctorate in English literature from Cambridge and now worked at the Folger Shakespeare Theatre in D.C.

Kit had to park a few blocks from the house, as parking in Georgetown is always a nightmare, and we walked in silence to the house. I was still annoyed at her for barging uninvited into Ann’s crisis and frustrated at myself for not stopping her. At least I didn’t tell her that I was spending the night, which was the only reason Kit hadn’t stashed a change of clothes and a toothbrush into her tote like I had.

The night was cool, and after a minute Kit said, “This weather has been really unbelievable this week. So warm, but I think that’s all about to end.” I should mention that Washingtonians are convinced that their weather is like no other and spend inordinate amounts of time discussing it. While the past week had been lovely and, as such, much discussed, it had also been the last bloom of summer. Signs of fall were inescapable. From the earlier sunsets to the leaves on the trees that were now tinged with gold and red, it was clear that the warmth of the summer was giving way to the dying time of year.

Within minutes we turned onto Uncle Marty’s street, which was lined with both ancient trees and elegant homes, most of the latter dating from the early 1800s. Each of the Georgian façades boasted perfectly proportioned dormers and brightly painted paneled doors, flanked by flattened columns and topped with filigree fanlights. The houses faced the street, with little to no front yard. However, the backyards were the real jewels of the neighborhood. Unexpectedly large gardens, pools, and well-tended lawns were nestled behind the high fences that kept both neighbors and pedestrians at bay.

Soon we were in front of Uncle Marty’s three-story house. We made our way up the curved brick staircase. I had scarcely touched the bell when Ann flung open the door. She was still wearing the black sheath she’d worn to the funeral, although she was in her bare feet. Her normally rosy complexion was pale and her auburn curls hung in disheveled lank tendrils around her face.

The greeting she had planned died on her lips at the sight of Kit standing on her front steps with me. Through some eye twitching, I tried to convey that Kit’s presence was not my idea. I’m not sure if I got that exact point across. She may have just thought I’d developed a nervous facial tic since lunch. After a startled blink, Ann recovered, merely saying, “Oh, Kit. You’ve come as well. Thank you.”

Hearing this, Kit, of course, shot me one of her standard I-told-you-so looks, before saying, “Well, of course I came, silly! Where else would I be? You’re family!”

I shot Ann an apologetic look while she stood aside and politely waved us into the house.

I love Uncle Marty’s house. It has an effortless kind of charm that I knew from my own decorating attempts was anything but effortless. Mahogany wood floors run through the main level of the house, although most of those are covered with thick Oriental rugs in various muted hues. To my left was the dining room, where an antique Waterford chandelier hung from the ornate tray ceiling. The gilded mirror atop the stone fireplace sent the glittering light from the delicate crystals dancing on the white paneled walls. To my right was the living room, where Ann now led us.

Like the dining room, it too had a tray ceiling and a stone fireplace, atop of which was another large gilded mirror. The innate sophistication of the room had been tempered with the simple blue-and-white décor, largely inspired by the Wedgwood plaques set in the fireplace’s mantel. Kit and I sat on the ivory brocade couch and looked expectantly at Ann.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, seemingly now reluctant to discuss the reason for our visit.

“I’m fine,” said Kit, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Now tell me, what exactly happened? Elizabeth wasn’t very clear on the details.”

My blood pressure jumped a few notches and my stomach tightened. Leave it to Kit to make it sound like I hadn’t gotten the details accurately. I had. Annoyed that she had pushed herself unwanted into the situation, I simply had refused to give her anything other than the barest information. I was childish, perhaps, but not inaccurate.

With a brief glance in my direction, Ann sighed and sank into one of the matching blue club chairs opposite the couch, her posture one of weary resignation.

“Well,” Ann began, her voice low, “as you know, Father sold the house in St. Michaels a few weeks ago. The family that moved in decided that they wanted to expand the pool. They began construction this week and yesterday they found…” Ann paused. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “They found a body. It was decomposed, of course, but apparently there was ID on it. According to the police, the ID belongs to Michael Barrow. Obviously, they believe that the body is Michael. I guess they’re going to check dental records for confirmation, but for now that’s the assumption.”

“I see,” said Kit in a matter-of-fact tone. “And has his next of kin been notified?”

I stifled a groan. Kit was so excited to be a part of this tragedy that she was trying to appear more knowledgeable than she was, throwing around absurd pseudolegal terms like “next of kin.” Next she’d be spouting off about the “alleged murder.” Kit watches a lot of CSI.

Ann shook her head. “As far as I know, Michael had no family. His parents died years ago, before we ever met him. I believe he was an only child.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Kit said quickly. “I’d forgotten that. I remember now. So I gather that the police are treating this as an alleged murder investigation, correct?”

Told you.

“I … uh…” Ann’s face crumpled a bit at Kit’s question. I couldn’t blame her. If Michael had been “allegedly” murdered, as Kit put it, there were many people in the Reynolds family who would have to answer some very tough questions.

A noise on the stairs diverted our attention. It was Bonnie. For once, her entrance was a welcome distraction. Scarlett, her little Pomeranian dog, bounded excitedly into the room ahead of her. There used to be another dog, aptly named Rhett, but just as aptly, he ran away. Nobody blamed him.

“Oh, hello, my dears,” she said when she saw us. Unlike Ann, Bonnie had obviously had time to change out of her funereal garb. Although she was still wearing black, she no longer appeared as Vivien Leigh’s understudy from Gone with the Wind. Instead she was wearing a rather chic outfit consisting of lightweight wool trousers and a snug turtleneck. It not only hugged her curves but also emphasized her slimness. At sixty, Bonnie still had a great figure and wasn’t shy about showing that off.

Kit and I both stood and hugged her while Scarlett jumped on our calves. “I thought I heard the doorbell ring,” Bonnie continued. “Have you come to see me off?” Although I was used to Bonnie’s flakiness, it still took me by surprise how quickly she could switch gears. Just this morning she was inconsolable with grief over Uncle Marty’s death. Now she was all preoccupation over her impending trip.

Ann’s jaw clenched in annoyance. “They’re here because I called them, Bonnie. I told them about the discovery at the house. You remember? The body?”

“Oh, yes,” Bonnie replied, crinkling her nose in distaste. “Nasty business. Poor Michael. If it is Michael. Though I can’t imagine it isn’t. After all, they found his wallet. I mean, if it wasn’t Michael, I’d imagine that he’d have come looking for his wallet long before this.”

“Yes, well, thank you for clearing that up for us,” said Ann. I glanced at Ann in some surprise. Normally, she wasn’t so openly rude to Bonnie. However, seeing the lines of worry clustered around her hazel eyes, I couldn’t really blame her. After all, she’d had more than her fair share of stress today. This morning, she buried her father; this evening, she was dealing with a potential homicide investigation.

“Well, I don’t see why you’re so upset, Annabel,” Bonnie said. “He was a thief. And a common thief at that. No one here is mourning his passing.”

I wondered if Michael had been an uncommon thief it would be a different story. Would Bonnie have mourned him then? But what exactly was an uncommon thief? All that came to mind was Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief. I considered the matter. While I normally don’t agree with Bonnie, I had to admit she might be right about this one. If I had a John Robie in my life, I’d probably mourn his passing.

Bonnie continued on. “The only one I can see being upset by this news is Reggie. After all, it was Reggie who was engaged to Michael.”

“Didn’t she break it off with him, though?” asked Kit, as she bent down to pet Scarlett, who, in turn, helpfully presented her belly. “A few months before the wedding?”

Ann nodded. “She broke it off and…”

“And then Michael disappeared,” finished Bonnie. “But I guess he didn’t, did he? You don’t suppose he killed himself because Reggie broke it off with him, do you?”

Although Bonnie’s lack of a filter between thoughts and speech was no secret, it still managed to catch you by surprise from time to time. Ann briefly closed her eyes before answering. “No, Bonnie. I don’t think that Michael killed himself and then buried himself under the pool’s foundation.”

“Well,” Bonnie said with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “when you put it that way, I suppose it doesn’t work. Well, don’t worry yourselves about it, my dears. That’s what the police are paid to find out. I’ve no doubt that they can handle our little mystery. Like I always say, we can worry about that tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.” Shooting us a bright smile, she moved for the doorway. Scarlett paused, as if torn between staying with us and following her mistress. Just like her namesake, she opted for the decision that would suit her best: she sat down with us. Heading for the curved staircase that led upstairs, Bonnie paused and turned back to us. “Do you think you should mention Marty’s death to the police? Do you think there could be a connection?”

“No, Bonnie,” Ann said firmly. “I don’t.”

Bonnie looked unconvinced but said, “All right. Well, I’ve got to finish packing. Now remember, Ann, I’ll be gone one week. I’ve left all the instructions for Scarlett on the hall table. Take good care of her; you know how delicate she is.” We all looked at Scarlett, who was busy cleaning herself with great abandon. “When I get back, we can have that party for Marty. Why don’t you check the club and see if it’s available?” Almost as an afterthought, she called over her shoulder, “And just think! By then, this whole thing might be solved!”

Ann winced at Bonnie’s words. “That’s just what I’m afraid of,” she whispered. Scarlett stopped cleaning herself long enough to look up and bark.