Murder with a Twist by Tracy Kiely Page A
Authors: Tracy Kiely
time.”
“Why?”
She fluttered her hands. “I don’t know. It just does.” She took another sip of her drink. So did I. “You said you talked to Leo’s ‘friends,’” she said. “Who else did you talk to?”
“A woman named Lizzy Marks. Apparently she and Leo are close. Feel free to interpret that any way you want.”
Daphne wrinkled her nose in disgust. “No, thanks. I gather she didn’t have any news?”
I shook my head. “No. She claimed not to know much of anything, which I don’t believe because she grew up with Frank and Danny Little, and she seemed to have a grudge against your family.”
Daphne raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Our family? Why? What did she say?”
“Something along the lines of ‘the women are all money- grabbing hypocrites and that Audrey is more concerned about her image than Leo’s safety.’ Does her name ring a bell?” I asked.
“What was is again?”
“Lizzy Marks.”
Daphne thought. “I don’t think I know her. I’ll ask Mother. What did she look like?”
I described Lizzy. “In her forties. Pretty. Long blonde hair. Fake tan. She’s very fit and not shy about showing off her body. Has tattoos of butterflies on one ankle and a dove on the other.”
“That’s quite a description,” Daphne said. “And you think Leo was having an affair with her? With a woman in her forties ?”
“She struck me as one of those women that men like. You know the type?”
Daphne exhaled and sat back against her chair. Rolling her eyes, she said, “Oh, yes. I know the type.”
seventeen
Daphne’s phone rang and she went to answer it in a quieter spot. I turned to join Nigel’s conversation. He was arguing the merits of old movies to a man across the table. “How can you say that, Tom?” Nigel was indignantly demanding to know. “How can you possibly say that the actors in movies before the fifties aren’t any good?”
Tom was thin, with olive skin and large brown eyes framed by thick black lashes. He laughed at Nigel. “Dude. Seriously? They’re old ! Half of those movies are in black-and-white.”
“That doesn’t affect the acting or the plot , you moron! Can you honestly tell me that you don’t think Humphrey Bogart wasn’t a great actor?”
“Who?” Tom asked.
“Humphrey Bogart! He was in The Maltese Falcon ,” Nigel yelled.
Tom shook his head. “I thought we were talking about movies , not books.” He paused. “No. Wait. Boggart ? Isn’t that from Harry Potter? I do like those movies. But again, my point is made. They were made after 1950 and are in color .”
Nigel stared at Tom aghast. “Good God, man. I don’t even know where to begin. Humphrey Bogart was an actor—the likes of which the world will never see again. Google him.You’re thinking of a boggart, which, I grant you, is from Harry Potter. But you do know that those were books first, yes? Please tell me yes, for the love of humanity, Tom, please. Tell. Me. Yes.”
Tom smiled. “Yes, of course.”
Nigel sighed his relief.
“But,” Tom went on, “in my experience, the movie is always better than the book, so I rarely read.”
Nigel began to sputter, his expression apoplectic. “What? WHAT?”
I gently patted him on the shoulder. “Calm down, Nigel. I know that you have a special love for the classics, but don’t forget that you enjoyed the Harry Potter films, too.”
Nigel took a large sip of his drink and said, “Yes, but not at the expense of Humphrey-freaking-Bogart.”
_____
While Nigel and Tom switched topics, now debating which movie earned the title of Best Christmas Movie, a woman named Nan Coswald slid into Daphne’s empty chair. Her face was thin and angular, a feature made even more so by the severe pageboy cut of her jet-black hair. Nan was a friend of Daphne’s from law school. She was nice enough, but lived and breathed what she referred to as “The Law.” It made for some tiring conversations.
“Hello, Nic,” she said. “Where’s
“Why?”
She fluttered her hands. “I don’t know. It just does.” She took another sip of her drink. So did I. “You said you talked to Leo’s ‘friends,’” she said. “Who else did you talk to?”
“A woman named Lizzy Marks. Apparently she and Leo are close. Feel free to interpret that any way you want.”
Daphne wrinkled her nose in disgust. “No, thanks. I gather she didn’t have any news?”
I shook my head. “No. She claimed not to know much of anything, which I don’t believe because she grew up with Frank and Danny Little, and she seemed to have a grudge against your family.”
Daphne raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Our family? Why? What did she say?”
“Something along the lines of ‘the women are all money- grabbing hypocrites and that Audrey is more concerned about her image than Leo’s safety.’ Does her name ring a bell?” I asked.
“What was is again?”
“Lizzy Marks.”
Daphne thought. “I don’t think I know her. I’ll ask Mother. What did she look like?”
I described Lizzy. “In her forties. Pretty. Long blonde hair. Fake tan. She’s very fit and not shy about showing off her body. Has tattoos of butterflies on one ankle and a dove on the other.”
“That’s quite a description,” Daphne said. “And you think Leo was having an affair with her? With a woman in her forties ?”
“She struck me as one of those women that men like. You know the type?”
Daphne exhaled and sat back against her chair. Rolling her eyes, she said, “Oh, yes. I know the type.”
seventeen
Daphne’s phone rang and she went to answer it in a quieter spot. I turned to join Nigel’s conversation. He was arguing the merits of old movies to a man across the table. “How can you say that, Tom?” Nigel was indignantly demanding to know. “How can you possibly say that the actors in movies before the fifties aren’t any good?”
Tom was thin, with olive skin and large brown eyes framed by thick black lashes. He laughed at Nigel. “Dude. Seriously? They’re old ! Half of those movies are in black-and-white.”
“That doesn’t affect the acting or the plot , you moron! Can you honestly tell me that you don’t think Humphrey Bogart wasn’t a great actor?”
“Who?” Tom asked.
“Humphrey Bogart! He was in The Maltese Falcon ,” Nigel yelled.
Tom shook his head. “I thought we were talking about movies , not books.” He paused. “No. Wait. Boggart ? Isn’t that from Harry Potter? I do like those movies. But again, my point is made. They were made after 1950 and are in color .”
Nigel stared at Tom aghast. “Good God, man. I don’t even know where to begin. Humphrey Bogart was an actor—the likes of which the world will never see again. Google him.You’re thinking of a boggart, which, I grant you, is from Harry Potter. But you do know that those were books first, yes? Please tell me yes, for the love of humanity, Tom, please. Tell. Me. Yes.”
Tom smiled. “Yes, of course.”
Nigel sighed his relief.
“But,” Tom went on, “in my experience, the movie is always better than the book, so I rarely read.”
Nigel began to sputter, his expression apoplectic. “What? WHAT?”
I gently patted him on the shoulder. “Calm down, Nigel. I know that you have a special love for the classics, but don’t forget that you enjoyed the Harry Potter films, too.”
Nigel took a large sip of his drink and said, “Yes, but not at the expense of Humphrey-freaking-Bogart.”
_____
While Nigel and Tom switched topics, now debating which movie earned the title of Best Christmas Movie, a woman named Nan Coswald slid into Daphne’s empty chair. Her face was thin and angular, a feature made even more so by the severe pageboy cut of her jet-black hair. Nan was a friend of Daphne’s from law school. She was nice enough, but lived and breathed what she referred to as “The Law.” It made for some tiring conversations.
“Hello, Nic,” she said. “Where’s