“I liked what you said about Austen inventing the trope of the virtuous man who initially appears cold and remote—”
“Like Darcy?” said Khari.
“Or reserved and taciturn, like Colonel Brandon,” he said.
“Yes,” Farnsworth agreed. “But don’t forget the flip side—”
“The cad who first appears as a romantic hero,” said Erin.
“Like Willoughby,” said Khari.
“I’m not the first to point that out, of course,” he said, smiling. He had very thick, dark eyebrows, and when he smiled, they rose in unison, like obedient caterpillars.
“But the way you framed it in the social mores of her time period was incredibly compelling,” said Farnsworth.
“Actually, what I like most about Austen’s works is that women are always the central characters. For all their political and social power, men exist as satellites in their world.”
“Surely as a woman, it was natural for Austen to put females in the center of her stories,” said Khari.
“Indeed,” he said, raising his glass. His hands were broad and muscular, with thick, strong fingers. He was, Erin thought, a man you would want on your side. “Let’s drink to the centrality of women in culture.”
He winked at Farnsworth and Erin saw her friend blush. She wondered if Apthorp was laying it on a bit thick, playing the enlightened male, or if he was indeed what he appeared to be. Whatever his intentions were, she thought, he had better be more Colonel Brandon than Willoughby, or he would have Erin to reckon with.
By the time they finished their first round, Farnsworth was flushed and boisterous, her silk shawl fallen around her elbows, displaying plump white shoulders. Her rosy cheeks shone, and her eyes—her best feature—sparkled. Erin thought she looked fetching, and suspected Grant Apthorp did too. The cues were all there—he was smiling at her and touching her hand or arm from time to time. He was definitely paying her attention and Erin was glad to see her friend so animated.
“My turn to buy,” Grant said, rising from his chair. “Same again?”
“It’s too late to desert Alice now,” said Farnsworth.
The others agreed, and he maneuvered his way through the crowd toward the bar. The room was packed now, the din of voices having long reached what Erin’s mother would call “the danger decibel.” She was afraid of damaging her hearing, a fear she communicated to Erin, who also disliked loud noises of any kind. The volume of conversation was so loud now it was impossible to communicate in a normal voice.
* * *
“What do you think?” Farnsworth shouted.
“About what?” said Erin.
“Grant Apthorp, of course!”
“He seems to be a nice gentleman,” Erin replied. “Wouldn’t you agree?” she asked Khari.
“Yes, and very articulate.”
“Speaking of which,” said Farnsworth, “you have a beautiful accent. Is English your first language? You seem so at home in it.”
“Along with Wolof and French, yes.”
“Wow,” said Erin. “That’s so amazing, to be fluent in three languages.”
Khari shrugged. “My parents were teachers, and insisted we keep up our studies. But Senegal is multilingual, like a lot of other African countries.”
Apthorp returned carrying four drinks, which wasn’t much of a challenge; his massive hands were as capacious as the rest of him. Unusually tall and broad shouldered, he carried a fair amount of weight on his generous frame. Erin’s mother would have referred to him as “heavyset.” Erin thought it suited him, though. It only added to his already impressive presence.
As he set the drinks down, Erin’s eyes were drawn back to the bar. “Barry Wolf and an elegant middle-aged woman in a striking green cocktail dress were having an intense conversation, and he looked angry.” His face was red, and he jabbed his index finger at her repeatedly. Wolf never quite touched her, but the gesture struck Erin as violent and threatening.
“Who’s that?” she asked Grant. “Do you know that woman?”
“That’s Barry’s ex-wife, Judith Eton. She’s quite the scholar herself—a historian and author of a number of important academic publications.”
“You know them well?” asked Farnsworth.
“Barry and I worked at the same university years ago, and it was during that time he and Judith met. She was my research assistant at the time, but I didn’t introduce them. He’s always had an eye for beautiful women.”
“She /is/ very attractive,” agreed Farnsworth.
“They have a son, too—Jeremy. He’s at uni here in York. I saw him in the lobby earlier today.”
“Oh yes, please,” Farnsworth said to a waiter hoovering nearby, carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres, as she plucking a salmon croquette from the plate. Erin chose a piece of sushi, while Grant and Khari went for the puffed cheese balls.
“You should have seen Judith when they met,” Apthorp said. “What a stunner. Mr. Wolf always had an eye for the ladies. Lived up to his name in that regard.”
“The mystery is why the ladies had an eye for him,” Farnsworth mused.
“Maybe he has money,” Khari suggested.
“Or maybe he’s a really nice guy,” said Erin.
“He’s not,” said Grant. “He’s a tosser. I suppose some women go for that.”
“Rubbish,” said Farnsworth. Yikes. Harsh.
“I am glad to hear it,” Grant replied, smiling.
The argument between Barry Wolf and his ex-wife seemed to be nearing its climax. Wolf’s face was so red that Erin feared he might have a stroke. Judith Eton listened to him, stony-faced, arms crossed, her weight settled onto one spiky-heeled sandal. She really was a handsome woman, with high cheekbones and full lips. Her dark hair as fastened in a smooth chignon at the nape of her neck.
While Wolf was still talking, she turned abruptly and stalked away as rapidly as her high heels would allow. He watched after her for a moment, then turned back toward his current wife and attempted to put an arm around her, but she shrank from him. Erin’s mind whirled, trying to come up with scenarios explaining this curious behavior, until Farnsworth tapped her on the arm.
“Earth to Erin,” she whispered.
“What?”
“You’re staring.”
“Who’s for another round?” Erin said, a little too heartily. “My turn to buy.”
The cocktail party went on until nearly the end of the dinner hour. Fortunately, Farnsworth summoned everyone to the dining room just in time. The the hotel’s renowned cuisine lived up to its reputation, with locally sourced ingredients and an imaginative menu. Erin had the seared hake with orange braised chicory. Farnsworth and Grant went for the duck, while Khari ordered the vegetable filo tart, explaining she was mostly vegetarian.
“At least you’re not a vegan,” Farnsworth said as the waiter filled up their wine glasses. Erin could only imagine what kind of hangover they would all have tomorrow.
“I do eat fish sometimes,” Khari admitted. “But I never found meat very appealing.”
“More for us,” Grant said with a wink at Farnsworth.
It was nearly midnight by the time they left the restaurant, full of good food and bonhomie. Grant and Khari had rooms on the ground floor, so Erin and Farnsworth bade them goodnight and headed for the lift.
“What time is your panel?” Farnsworth, stifling a yawn as she pressed the button.
“Two o’clock,” Erin said, yawning in response.
“Lucky you. Mine’s at ten. Did you bring your hangover remedy?
“Of course. Thought we might need it.”
“Will you marry me?”
“What about Grant Apthorp?”
“He is lush, isn’t he?” Farnsworth said as they got off the lift.
“And he clearly thinks a lot of you.”
“Rubbish. I’m too old for romance.”
“Stop fishing for compliments. You’re gorgeous and you know it,” Erin said, fiddling with her
key card. It took three tries before she got it—she was more affected by the alcohol than she realized. “Here you are,” she said, retrieving a packet of crystallized ginger from the dresser drawer. “Cup of tea to go with that?”
“I won’t say no,” Farnsworth said, sinking into the settee. She looked around the room. “Your place is smaller than mine. But then, I got a suite.”
“All right for some,” Erin said, turning on the kettle.
“You could have had one too.”
“I wanted a top-floor room.”
“Why?”
“I like slanted ceilings.”
Farnsworth shivered. “It’s too La Bohème for me. Mimi coughing herself to death in her garret room.”
“Where’s your sense of romance?”
“Sitting in front of a roaring fire with a snifter of brandy.”
There was the sound of giggling and low voices in the hall.
“You hear that?” Farnsworth whispered.
“Yeah. I wonder who it is?”
“Let’s find out,” Farnsworth said. Getting off the couch, she tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole.
“Who is it?”
“A young couple. I can’t see their faces. Wait—they’re leaving.”
“Can I look?” said Erin, but she got to the door just in time to see them retreating down the hall toward the lift. She thought the young man had blond hair, just like the one she had seen earlier near the cloakroom. The girl appeared to have dark hair, but it was hard to be sure.
“Wonder why they’d come up here to canoodle?” Farnsworth said.
“My guess is that they can’t meet in their rooms—”
“Because they’re here with someone else!”
“Tea’s ready,” Erin said, pouring them each a mug.
“Nice flowers,” said Farnsworth. “Let me guess who sent them. Now you’ll have to call him.”
“Why?”
“To thank him for the flowers, of course.”
When they had finished their tea, Erin offered to walk Farnsworth to her room.
“Very kind of you, but—”
“I want to pop down to the front desk anyway and get an eye mask. I forgot to bring mine,” Erin said. She was a light sleeper, and preferred total darkness at night.
“You could have one sent up.”
“I don’t want to be that much trouble.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“But—”
“Then you can walk me to my room.”
She agreed, and the two women rode the lift to the nearly deserted lobby.
“Good lord, is it that late?” Farnsworth said, looking at the wall clock over the desk. It was a few minutes before twelve.
The hotel clerk, a very bright-eyed, cheery young man, seemed only too glad to fetch Erin an eye mask.
“I’ll just nip down to housekeeping,” he said, coming around from behind the desk. “Won’t be a minute.”
Before she could protest, he darted down the hall and around the corner.
Glancing down the hall in the other direction, toward the restaurant, Erin saw Barry Wolf talking to a tall, wiry man of about fifty. He wore his thick gray hair slicked back from his angular face, which reminded her of a crow, with its beakish nose and sharp, dark eyes. In fact, he was a dead ringer for the Irish writer, Samuel Beckett. The two men seemed to be engaged in deep discussion—the wiry man’s arms were crossed; he was nodding and biting his lip.
“Who’s that talking to Barry Wolf?” she asked Farnsworth.
Her friend peered down the hall. “Oh, that’s Terrence Rogers. He’s a leading literary scholar specializing in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century women writers. We nearly asked him to deliver the keynote speech, but decided on Wolf in the end.”
It was clear that Rogers did not like what Wolf was saying; his face darkened and he turned away. Wolf followed up the remark with something else, and for a moment, Erin thought Rogers was going to turn and slug him, but he just shook his head and walked away. Wolf waited a moment before heading in the other direction, toward the cloakroom.
“Could you hear what they were saying?” Farnsworth whispered.
“No,” Erin replied, as Terrence Rogers entered the lobby. He gave the women a brief, preoccupied smile before ringing for the lift.
“You can’t lie to me, remember? I always see through you.”
“I really didn’t hear them,” Erin said as the hotel clerk returned.
“Here you are,” he said. “I brought two in case your friend wants one.”
“How very thoughtful,” said Farnsworth. “Cheers.”
“My pleasure, madam. Anything else I can do to be of service?”
“No, thank you,” said Erin. “Much appreciated, thanks.”
By the time Erin got back to her room, she was so tired that she flung herself into bed without flossing her teeth. The last thing she saw before she drifted off was the red lights of the alarm clock flashing 12:30 AM.
Chapter Five
“Erin! Erin, wake up!”
Erin was dreaming about having tea with her mother at Vaults & Garden Café, located in the back of the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, where her father was vicar. As the sun filtered in through the tall fourteenth-century windows, she was just about to take a bite of raisin scone with clotted cream and jam when she heard the sound of loud knocking.
“Erin! Open the door!”
She inhaled the aroma of fresh scone, opening her mouth for a bite …
“If you don’t open this door, I’ll break it down!”
The café slowly dissolved, giving way to her room in the Grand Hotel, the scone becoming a knob of bedsheet clutched between her fingers. Her disappointment was replaced by concern, as she realized the voice belonged to Farnsworth, who continued knocking insistently.
“Be right there,” Erin called, still half asleep. Throwing her legs over the side of the bed, she stumbled to the door, images from the dream trailing after her. But when she opened it, her mother’s smiling face was replaced by Farnsworth’s alarmed one. “What is it?” Erin said. “What’s happened?”
“Barry Wolf—he’s dead!” Farnsworth exclaimed, unable to hide a certain glee in her voice. She appeared to have dressed hastily, in tan slacks and long wool cardigan over an untucked white shirt, her dark hair pulled into an untidy bun.
“What—how?”
“He was found in the cloakroom this morning.”
“Who found him?”
“One of the hotel staff.”
“How did he die?”
“I don’t know.”
“Give me a minute to get dressed,” Erin said, opening the door to let Farnsworth in. “What time is it?”
“It’s after nine.”
“What about your panel?”
“We canceled all the morning events.”
“Tell me what you know so far,” Erin called from the bathroom.
“Not much—I went down for breakfast and saw all these EMT workers. Sam filled me in on the details.”
“Sam?” Erin said, shoving a toothbrush into her mouth.
“Our waiter from last night.”
Erin poked her head out of the bathroom. “So you’re on a first-name basis now?”
“He’s quite nice, you know—insisted on buying me breakfast to make up for last night.”
“You’re making friends everywhere, aren’t you?”
“I refused, of course, but it was a nice gesture.”
“Did you have breakfast?”
“There was too much going on—I didn’t want to miss anything.”
“Why didn’t you come get me?” Erin said, pulling on a black jumper over jeans.
“Don’t be cross with me because you slept in.”
“I fell asleep before I could set the alarm.”
“I’m a natural early riser. I never sleep past eight.”
“How’s your ankle?”
“Still a bit swollen, but
much better.”
“I’m ready,” Erin said, slipping on some sandals and grabbing a cardigan from the closet. “Let’s go see the scene of the crime.”
“No one said anything about a crime,” Farnsworth replied as they left the room, the door closing behind them with a fatalistic clunk. “Do you think we might have a bit of breakfast? I’m starving.”
“Crime solving should never be done on an empty stomach,” Erin said as they strode down the carpeted hallway toward the lift.
Downstairs, the atmosphere in the hotel was completely transformed. The air was charged with a strangely exhilarating excitement, a contagious electricity that made Erin’s skin tingle. The hotel desk staff looked a bit stunned, as if they were extras who had ended up on the wrong movie set. Tricia, the perky young eavesdropper from the day before, had been replaced by a soft, middle-aged woman with a sweet, heavily powdered face. Several younger staff members scurried about, answering phones and peering at computer screens intensely as if they held the key to explain what had just happened.
The kindly concierge, whose name was Harriet, informed them the body had already been removed, but Erin spied an emergency vehicle outside the front entrance, lights flashing. A couple of medics perched on its bumper, drinking from paper coffee cups.
“Come along,” Erin told Farnsworth, striding across the lobby’s inlaid marble floor. “Let’s have a chat.” Pushing open the heavy front door, Erin was surprised at how biting the air was. The temperature had dropped overnight, the rain giving way to a bone-chilling cold. She immediately regretted neglecting to throw on a coat.
“Ugh,” Farnsworth said as a gust of wind swooped across the broad street. “Must we talk with them now?”
“You can go back inside. I won’t think less of you.”
“Bollocks,” Farnsworth said, pulling her cardigan tight around her generous frame. “Just make it quick.”
“Can I help?” said the older of the two medics, a tall woman with tightly braided hair over high cheekbones. She had a Jamaican accent and a regal bearing, and Erin tried not to be intimidated. According to her name tag, her name was Shanise.
“We were just wondering if you could tell us anything,” Erin said.
“You see, we know the vic—the, uh, man who died,” Farnsworth added.
Death and Sensibility Page 3
