Page 14 of The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year
“So happy you could make it. I would have given you more notice, but, well... I like a twist.” Eleanor’s smile was quick and sharp and teasing. A little self-deprecating, too, because when you’ve sold more books than the Bible you can afford to be the butt of your own jokes.
Maggie knew Eleanor was in her early eighties, but the woman before them seemed timeless in a black sweaterdress that was probably decades old but had never gone out of style, kind of like the woman who wore it. Her only item of jewelry was a pearl and silver brooch in the shape of a magnifying glass. It felt whimsical and out of place but also extremely, exactly perfect.
“You’re...” Maggie barely recognized her own voice. She thought she might pass out. And maybe she would have if she hadn’t felt a pressure around her waist—a strong arm pulling her tight against far too many muscles.
“How was your flight?” Eleanor asked.
The pressure on Maggie’s waist tightened, like Ethan was tryingto squeeze a reply out of her. “Uh...”
“It was great!” Ethan beamed. “Thank you so much for having us. We’re honored to be here.”
He squeezed again.Ouch.“Hi. Hello. Hi.”
“We’re big fans.” It was a lie, of course, but Maggie was probably fan enough for both of them and Ethanwaspractically carrying her toward the door—like they were contestants in a three-legged race but only two of their legs were working properly and they both belonged to him.
“You’re...”Eleanor Ashley. My favorite author. The reason I do what I do. My idol. My favorite. My oldest friend even though we’ve never met.“You’re... You’re...”
“—home is lovely,” Ethan filled in, giving Maggie a look that saidget it together, so she did the only thing she could think to do in front of the Duchess of Death: she dipped slowly and—
“Did you just curtsy?” Ethan whispered.
“I...”
“We’re both just thrilled to be here. Right, Maggie?” He glanced down at her. “Maybe a little tired, though? Didn’t you say you were tired?” he prompted, then gave a low, soft laugh. “It was a long flight.”
Maggie felt the weight of Eleanor’s gaze then. Appraising. Calculating. Like at any moment she was going to order Maggie back into the Rolls, the airplane. The sea. Like Maggie was going to get sent away before she’d even stepped inside. But that would have been okay, Maggie told herself. The last two minutes were already the best Christmas of her life.
But Eleanor simply turned to lead them inside, and Maggie couldn’t keep from staring at the way she leaned heavily on the cane, not quite limping, but moving slowly. Carefully. For the first time, she seemed frail. And she must have read Maggie’s mind because she gestured to the cane with her free hand.
“Don’t mind this. I just carry it to keep the boys away.” Eleanor gave a weak chuckle, then admitted, “And I slipped on the stairs a few weeks ago. Thought I might as well use the damn thing.I’ve had it forever. There’s a dagger inside. See?”
She picked up the cane and twisted and then,click, out popped a dagger. Even on the overcast day it glistened in the sun. “I have another one that will shoot a tranquilizer dart twenty feet if you press the rose on the handle.”
There was pure mischief in the older woman’s eyes. And sheer adoration in Ethan’s.
“I love you,” he said. “Will you marry me? Or adopt me? I’m happy either way. Totally your call.”
“I like you.” Eleanor smiled like a woman who had heard far worse offers, and then she cocked her head and said, “We’ll see.”
Chapter Ten
Maggie had no idea what to expect from an English mansion that was probably hundreds of years old. Suits of armor? Small, interior moats? Maybe a jester in residence? But what she found on the other side of the door was a wide, open space that stretched to the back of the house. Giant columns rose into a high, arching ceiling and the floors were polished wood. It felt more like a cathedral than a home, and there wasn’t a doubt in Maggie’s mind that, if she’d yelled, she would have heard an echo.
The only thing out of place was the staircase, which was two different colors—like patchwork.Eleanor fell on the stairs, Maggie’s tired mind remembered. Someone had started a repair job that they hadn’t quite had time to finish, but aside from that, the whole house seemed to be brand-new and incredibly old at the same time. She was just starting to wonder how that was possible when she heard footsteps and a high voice crying out, “Well, there you are!”
The girl couldn’t have been much over twenty, with long blond hair pulled back in a headband that matched her pale pink sweater. There were pearls at her neck and French tips on her nails, and when she stopped beside a pair of antique dueling pistols, she looked like she was getting ready to pledge Kappa Kappa Murder.
“You went outside!” the girl exclaimed in an accent that sounded more like Alabama than Great Britain. “In the cold! Without a coat!”
“And lived to tell the tale,” Eleanor replied in a singsong tune.
“Now, Aunt E, you know what the doctor said—”
“Cecilia.” Eleanor cut off what was sure to be a lecture she’d heard before. “Come meet our guests. Ethan. Maggie. May I introduce Cecilia Honeychurch?”
That was when the girl seemed to notice the guests. Or, well,guest. Because her eyes went to Ethan and never left. His hair was wavier than usual and his eyes a little sleepy but,wouldn’t you know it, Ethan Wyatt made jet lag look good.
Meanwhile, Maggie’s hair was tangled and her skin was dry, and when she looked down, she saw a blotch of omelet on her sweater. Not that anyone was looking at her.
