One It began, as so many unwelcome things do, with a loud banging on the door. Phaedra Brighton swam up out of a beguiling dream, in which she and Mr. Darcy shared a picnic on the banks of the river Thames, and sat up abruptly in bed. The digital numerals on the alarm clock informed her it was eight a.m. She tossed back the covers, sending her well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice tumbling to the floor with a thump and a flutter of pages, and bent down to retrieve the book. Perhaps if she waited, her visitor would go away. "Phaedra! I know you're in there. Open up!" The banging resumed, and she realized the person on the other side of the carriage house door wasn't going away. She hurried down the stairs, leaving her cozy loft bedroom and dreams of Mr. Darcy behind. She flung the front door open and regarded the slim woman with short, angular black hair. "Lucy?" Lucy Liang, professor of post-modernist literature and her closest friend on the Somerset University faculty, brushed past Phaedra and unshouldered a backpack. "The flea market," she said, answering Phaedra's unspoken question with the patience of a preschool teacher. "No classes until fall term. Freedom from academia until mid-August." She tossed the backpack on the sofa. From his perch atop the back of the sofa, Wickham, Phaedra's Himalayan cat, regarded the backpack with blue-eyed disfavor. This was his domain, where he kept vigil over the driveway and front lawn and monitored the red-and-blue flash of blue jays and cardinals winging by. Phaedra headed for the kitchen. Her hair, woven into a dark gold braid down her back, was coming loose, and her dream of Darcy and the sumptuous picnic they'd shared began to evaporate. She needed a bracing cup of Keemun, stat. "Tea?" she inquired. "Coffee, please. How could you forget?" "That you prefer coffee?" "That we had plans. And what is that you're wearing?" Lucy slid onto a seat at the kitchen island. Phaedra glanced at her long, flower-sprigged nightgown. "What's wrong with it?" "Nothing, if you're Catherine Morland, traipsing around Northanger Abbey with a guttering candlestick and a pounding heart." "It got chilly last night." Phaedra filled the teakettle and the coffee maker with water. "And the only pounding was you, banging on my door." "Then grab another blanket," she pointed out. "Or better yet, a male. Both work wonders to keep a girl warm." Phaedra didn't bother to correct her. Lucy knew her feelings on that matter. Instead, she filled the basket with fresh-ground beans and started the coffee maker. "Why are we going to the flea market? And so early? Remind me." "Because your aunt's threatening yet again to put the Laurel Springs Inn up for sale," Lucy reminded her, "and you convinced her to hold off-" "By promising to host a Jane Austen Murder Mystery week at the inn next month." Phaedra groaned as it all came back to her in a rush. A great, big, what was I thinking of rush. Yesterday morning, she'd seen a real estate sign planted in front of her aunt Wendy's bed-and-breakfast, the Laurel Springs Inn. FOR SALE. HISTORIC BED-AND-BREAKFAST. OFFERED BY BERKSHIRE HADLEY. BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. She'd rushed across the lawn separating the carriage house from the inn, a Queen Anne whimsy bristling with turrets and gables and elaborate gingerbread trim, and marched up the wide wooden steps to the porch. Inside, the front desk was empty. She glanced past the ornate 1920s brass counter bell and the numbered cubbies where room keys and telegrams were once tucked away, and faced the staircase that divided the first floor. "Aunt Wendy?" The door at the end of the hall leading to the kitchen swooshed open, releasing the smell of burnt toast and a string of French invective as Chef Armand scolded a server for some unknown infraction. A teakettle began to shriek. "Someone, please take that kettle off the stove!" Wendy Prescott snapped. "Before you burn the place down." The shrieking abruptly stopped. The door whooshed shut, restoring quiet as Phaedra's aunt approached the lobby. She paused as she caught sight of her niece. Normally groomed to the nines in elegant but comfortable clothes and bright cherry-red lipstick, Wendy looked fashionable but frazzled. She tucked a strand of hair, recently cut and streaked with caramel highlights, behind one ear and gathered her niece into a hug. "You saw the sign." Wendy drew back. Her hand strayed to the chunky necklace encircling her throat. "I wanted to talk to you first, but . . ." "You can't sell the inn. Tell me you're not serious." "I'm afraid I am." Glancing back at the kitchen door, her aunt took Phaedra's arm. "Let's go in the front parlor. We can talk privately there." ". . . and that's the long and the short of it," she finished a short time later. "Business is down and so are profits. We've limped along for six months, but I can't keep this place going at a loss any longer." "But selling?" Phaedra leaned forward on the sofa. "There has to be another way." "There isn't. I've cut staff, sourced cheaper produce, taken out ads . . . it's not enough. I know how much this place means to you, but I'm out of options. I'm sorry." "What about hosting seasonal events?" Phaedra, grasping at any straw, suggested. "Like the Spring Fling open house at the Poison Pen." Every spring, her father's bookstore sponsored a week's worth of book giveaways, guest authors, contests, and prizes, along with plenty of free nibbles. "I run a B and B," her aunt said. "Not a bookstore." "The principle is the same. You could host a . . . a Halloween-themed masquerade party, for example, or a Titanic tea. Or . . ." She thought of the pile of cozy mysteries on her bedside table. "A murder mystery week!" Her aunt sniffed. "A gimmick, you mean." "Call it what you want, but special events appeal to guests." Phaedra eyed the pocket doors separating the front parlor from the back. "We could throw a 1920s dinner dance." She warmed to the idea. "Flappers and gangsters, bathtub gin, everyone doing the Charleston and swigging champagne-" "Spilling booze and cigarette ash all over my Persian rugs?" Wendy shook her head firmly. "No, thank you." "Okay." A thoughtful expression settled over Phaedra's face. "What about something a little more elegant?" "Such as?" "Such as," she mused, "a Jane Austen immersive event." "And what's that, exactly?" "Just what it sounds like. Guests immerse themselves in the Regency period and leave their cell phones behind. They'll dress in period costumes, play card games, discuss Austen's novels, drink tea, dance, and stroll through the rose garden." "Sounds dull. And the rose garden needs pruning." Wendy frowned. "What would people do? Besides drink tea and wander around in long dresses?" "We'll have archery on the back lawn," Phaedra said, warming to the idea, "and tea in the dining room, with tea cakes and sandwiches. And maybe an Austen quiz, with a prize for the winner." "What sort of prize? I can't afford more than a box of notecards at this point." "And to make it even more fun," Phaedra rushed on, "what if we sponsor a murder mystery week?" She leaned forward. "Jane Austen inspired, of course. With a staged murder, a victim, and suspects. We could do a Persuasion theme," she mused. "With each guest assuming the role of a character in the novel. Whoever solves the murder first wins a prize." "You keep saying 'we,'" Wendy said. "I hate to throw water on the fire, but who's paying for all this? Who's arranging the costume rentals and hiring actors to take part in the murder? It sounds complicated. And expensive." "Elaine Alexander manages the Laurel Springs Players. We met at UVA years ago. She's opening a costume shop next door to the Poison Pen, and she's desperate for business. She'll jump at the chance to produce a murder mystery." Phaedra's enthusiasm quickened. "And perhaps I can persuade Clark to give us a write-up in the Clarion." Clark Mullinax, a reporter for the Laurel Springs Clarion, was brash and pushy, with a knack for turning up looking for a story at the worst possible times. They normally gave each other a wide berth. But a piece about the immersive Austen event in the Clarion would be sweet local publicity . . . not only for Elaine, but also for the inn. "Armand does an excellent dinner," her aunt said doubtfully, "but a tea? All of those scones and watercress sandwiches and fussy little cakes . . ." Phaedra stood up. "I'm sure he'll be up to the challenge. I'll meet with him and come up with a menu. Leave the details to me. And the cost." "Absolutely not," her aunt said. "I won't allow you to do that. More to the point, why would you want to do it?" "Memories." Phaedra's gaze softened as she glanced around the room. "Who could forget all the parties, New Year's Eve, Christmas-raiding Great-Aunt Hester's old trunks in the attic . . . And Halloween! Your costume parties were epic." "We once shared an entire carton of Chunky Monkey," Wendy reminded her. "Do you remember?" "How could I forget? It was right after Donovan dumped me for Emily Endicott." "Donovan," Wendy added darkly, "was a rat. Handsome as the devil, but still a rat." "Every spring you hid Easter eggs on the lawn for Hannah and me to find. So. Much. Candy." "I let you and your sister get away with murder. If your mother only knew the half of it . . ." "But she didn't. And that's why we loved you. Well, one of the reasons." Phaedra sighed. "Please, don't give up on the inn. Let me help." Wendy threw her hands up in surrender. Now, Phaedra regretted her impulsive promise. How could she deliver a Persuasion-themed murder mystery event in less than a month, with all that entailed . . . and save her aunt's bed-and-breakfast in the bargain? Pressure? Not much. Lucy glanced at her wristwatch. "The flea market opens in ten." "I'll wear my sprigged muslin," Phaedra decided, and set her mug down. "It's lightweight." "You're dressing in costume? On a Saturday? You don't usually do that." Phaedra shrugged. "Why not? It'll be fun." "Okay. But it's warm outside," Lucy pointed out. "And sunny. Bring your bonnet." Professor Brighton was a familiar sight on the campus of Somerset University, strolling across the quad or lingering to chat with one of her students, dressed head to toe in Regency attire. Wearing an Empire-waist gown, with a silk shawl draped around her shoulders and ballet slippers on her feet, she felt her clothing was both a teaching tool for her students and a nod to her favorite writer, Jane Austen. As Phaedra hurried up to the loft to change, Lucy dropped a slice of bread in the toaster. "What is it we're looking for, anyway?" she called up. Halfway up the stairs, Phaedra paused, her head dancing with visions of antique china teacups, old books, and lace tablecloths. "Possibilities," she said. One hour, two boxes of Regency romance novels, an armload of tea-length dresses, and a dozen mismatched vintage teacups and saucers later, Phaedra and Lucy returned to the carriage house. Lucy got out of the car and shaded her eyes against the sun. "Hey. Over there. What's going on?" Phaedra slid out of the car and followed her gaze. A police vehicle was parked halfway down Main Street, in front of the Poison Pen bookstore. No flashing lights or crime scene tape, but still, not a reassuring sight. "Why's a police car parked in front of your dad's bookstore?" Lucy wondered. "I'm sure it's nothing. It's probably just routine." But even as she said the words, Phaedra's throat tightened and her thoughts ran rampant. Had someone broken into the store? Vandalized it? Such things were largely unheard of in Laurel Springs, but the Poison Pen had been robbed once before, when two of her father's first editions went missing. "Go check it out," Lucy said. "And call me later." "I will." Lucy grabbed her backpack. "Okay. See you Monday." Phaedra nodded. The Jane Austen Tea Society held their book club meeting on the first Monday of each month. "I'll be there." As Lucy left, Phaedra pocketed her key fob, drew in a calming breath, and headed to her father's bookstore to find out what was going on. Excerpted from A Murderous Persuasion by Katie Oliver All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
