Free Murder at Teatime by Stefanie Matteson Page A

of Hollywood. They belonged to a disappearing breed of New England aristocrat that invests its faith in honesty, brains, and good manners. She had once heard a pundit remark, in a paraphrase of Plato, that for the affluent Wasp, the unexamined life is worth living. It was true—introspection wasn’t their strong point. Nor was there much uncertainty in their secure little world: they were shielded from unpleasantness by a cocoon of money and tradition. But their lack of doubt made them confident and fearless; they wore a patina of grace and simplicity that it took others a lifetime of achievement to acquire. If that grace sometimes carried an element of smugness, it was easily overlooked in favor of their loyalty and generosity. And if they were sometimes a bit stuffy, they were also unfailingly kind, unassuming, and cultured. In general, as nice a bunch as you could find anywhere.
    Judging from Ledge House, Thornhill was cut from the same mold.
    The parlor was furnished with the comfortable elegance that is the mark of old wealth. Thornhill’s Boston antecedents had been in the China trade, and the room was decorated with the precious cargo of the great clipper ships. A round table with a quartet of wicker chairs cushioned in faded chintz stood in the center of the room. On it rested a large famille rose bowl heaped to overflowing with Fran’s potpourri, which added a spicy note to the room’s other smells. An antique mahogany sideboard topped by a pair of ginger jars decorated with a blue and white dragon design stood against one wall, and a pair of tall Chinese coromandel screens flanked the door on the other wall. At the rear, a stretch of French doors opened onto the screened veranda, where a somnolent Felix reclined on a chaise longue, his head slumped over the book in his hands. Beyond the veranda, the blue sky was cloudless.
    Once again Charlotte had walked up Broadway to Ledge House, this time for a tour of the bindery and library. The door had been answered by Grace, who had gone off to announce Charlotte’s arrival. As Charlotte awaited her return, a silver Mercedes Benz with a license plate reading CHUCK D pulled into the driveway and parked just beyond the front door. Charlotte assumed the driver was Chuck Donahue. As he got out of the car she noticed that he bore a strong resemblance to his father-in-law, supporting the popular wisdom that women tend to marry men who look like their fathers. His hair was more blond than red and he was much beefier, but he had the same cold blue-gray eyes and the same bushy mustache. Unlike Thornhill, however, Chuck was a flashy dresser. He wore a double-breasted navy blue blazer and gray flannel slacks, accented by white patent leather loafers and a red silk handkerchief. His clothes made him look more like a racetrack habituè than an insurance broker. “An overdressed jerk” was how Stan had described him, with his usual caustic accuracy.
    He strode briskly up the front steps and through the door, only to be brought up short by the presence of a stranger in the parlor.
    “Mr. Donahue?” said Charlotte. She stood up and extended her hand. “Charlotte Graham. I’m staying with Stan and Kitty Saunders.”
    Spreading his lips in what she presumed was meant to be a smile, he strode across the room to greet her. “Pleasure,” he muttered. He spoke out of the side of his mouth, as if a cigar was clenched between his teeth. Glancing at the door to the adjacent room, he asked: “Are you here to see Thornhill?”
    “Yes, but not at the moment,” she replied. “Daria Henderson’s going to give me a tour of the bindery in a moment. Then Dr. Thornhill’s going to show me some of the books in his collection.”
    “Oh,” he answered, looking relieved. He pushed oily strands of blond hair away from his forehead with a nervous gesture. “Well,” he said, turning away, “nice to have met you.” He entered the library, closing the door behind him.
    Charlotte turned back