Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (14 page)

Rosie accepted my invitation with alacrity. Of course she was coming, and so were Ginger and Todd so I didn’t have to bother calling them. She offered to bring a cheesecake for dessert, for which I thanked her profusely. I tended to over-enthuse when I was annoyed with a friend for having caused a blip in our relationship. I was still bristling from Rosie’s high-handed order not to inform the police that Adele had stopped by the night of Sylvia’s murder.

For the first time, the vast difference between her economic status and mine  made me uncomfortable. Was Rosie implying I had no say in matters concerning Old Cadfield residents, or was she trying to stop me from implicating a member of her family? Either way, it put up a wall between us and made me bitterly aware of my position as an outsider.

I called Anne at her office. She said she was looking forward to dinner and the meeting and would bring a few containers of ice cream.

“You still haven’t come in to sign your will,” she reminded me.

“Why don’t you bring it to the meeting? We’ll have more than enough witnesses.”

“Sure thing. See you then.”

Paulette sounded delighted to hear from me. She said she was feeling fine and looking forward to an evening out. I left messages for Marcie and her mother.

They both called me the following evening, Marcie to say she’d bring cookies, Ruth to complain. “Lexie, I can’t believe you’re actually holding another book club meeting after all that’s happened!”

“Well, yes, Ruth." I swallowed, then took the offensive. “I’m sorry you feel that way. Everyone else is eager to come, including Marcie.”

“Marcie’s coming? She didn’t mention it. I’m worried about her. I mean, going to poor Sylvia’s house. Having dinner there, no less.”

I gritted my teeth. “Marcie will be just fine.”

Ruth sputtered. “How do you know? Someone poisoned Sylvia at our last meeting, and then killed Gerda! Maybe this murderer is out to kill us all!”

“Ruth, nothing’s going to happen at this meeting,” I said as gently as I could. "I wish you’d join us. We enjoy hearing your comments and observations,” I added.

She sniffed. “Well, maybe I will.”

I spent most of the weekend poring through the two novels we’d be discussing, jotting down notations and making up questions as I went along. Except for Sylvia and Gerda, everyone who’d attended the first meeting was coming: Rosie, Ginger, Todd, Anne, Marcie, Ruth, and Paulette. And Allistair and me. I couldn’t help thinking of
And  Then There Were None,
in which an avenging murderer kills off ten visitors on an island, one at a time.

Only nothing horrendous was going to happen Wednesday night. No squabbles, no threats, no murders, except for the ones in the novels. I’d see to that!

Allistair and I went out for dinner Saturday night. We drove to a lovely French restaurant in Suffolk County and chatted amiably over gourmet food and fine wine.
I can get used to this
, I told myself. Back at Sylvia’s house, we necked a bit. I appreciated that he wasn’t rushing me off to bed.

“We’ll go to the beach the first really hot day,” he said as he left.

“I’m looking forward to it." And I was.

Wednesday morning, I drove to Costco and filled my wagon with a tray of wraps, hummus, guacamole, lobster spread, corn chips, a bag of salad, and fresh fruit. I stopped at a liquor store for wine, then hurried home to straighten up the house. There wasn’t much to do, since Sylvia’s cleaning service had done a thorough job of it on Monday. Still, I plumped up pillows and removed a few cat hairs from the living room sofas, where we’d converge after our dinner
al fresco
.

I was sampling a bit of everything and calling it lunch when the doorbell rang.
Allistair.
“Coming!” I called out and hurried to open the door.

“Oh!” I greeted Detective Donovan.

He laughed. “Hello, Dr. Driscoll. And a good afternoon to you, too.”

“Sorry,” I said, feeling my face heat up. “I thought you were someone else.”

He waved his hand. “I’m used to it. People react to a visit from me like they do to a trip to their dentist.”

“Good analogy,” I said, as I ushered him inside. I led him into the small sitting room off the living room. We sat down on the love seats and faced one another across the glass table.

“Have you gotten any new leads in the case?” I asked.

“Nothing conclusive since we last spoke, though we’ve learned quite a bit about everyone who was at the Gordons’ home the night Mrs. Morris died." He gave me a meaningful look. “And I mean everyone.”

“Oh!" I couldn’t imagine what he’d dug up about me. Or was he annoyed because he’d learned Adele had stopped by that evening and I hadn’t mentioned it?

“I’m talking about your good friends the Gordons.”

I stared at him. “What could you possibly have unearthed about Rosie and Hal?  They’re as stable as those sit-com families from the Fifties.”

“Not quite. A year ago they suffered a severe financial setback after one of Mr. Gordon’s risky deals fell through. Risky and hardly legal, though all he got was a slap on the wrist.”

I felt a tremor, as if the ground had shifted. “I had no idea.”

“And you won’t say I told you.”

“Of course not.”

My mind rolled back to the few months before the fire. Rosie had been preoccupied and tense. Though I needed her support, we hardly spoke during that entire period. Then Gerald died, and she was the same, solid Rosie I’d always been able to count on.

“Poor Rosie,” I murmured.

“Now that you live in Old Cadfield, I assume you see some of the book club members occasionally.”

“Yes. In fact, I’m hosting dinner and our next meeting here tonight. Everyone’s coming—except Sylvia and Gerda, of course," I added awkwardly.

Detective Donovan shot me a conspiratorial grin. “Care to share anything you’ve learned about them, anything at all?”

I couldn’t resist. I cocked my head and gazed up at him, fluttering my eyelashes. “Why, Detective Donovan, that would be gossiping.”

We both laughed.

“It’s Brian,” he said.

“Lexie.”

Solemnly, we shook hands.

“Paulette Hartman had a miscarriage Memorial Day. Her husband wasn’t happy about the pregnancy. In fact, he and Anne Chadwick have resumed their previous relationship. They’ve made plans to marry once he divorces Paulette.”

“Sounds like a nice guy,” he said dryly. “What else?”

“You knew about Gerda’s reaction to Sylvia’s writing about her father, of course.”

He nodded.

“And that Adele, Paulette’s mother, stopped by—oh!” I covered my mouth, but it was too late.

Brian Donovan rested his elbows on the table and let out a mournful sight. “Lexie, I thought we agreed you were going to be helpful.”

My blush traveled down to my feet. “I was going to, though—” I stopped not wanting to bring in Rosie or make things worse for myself. I gave a little laugh. “I’m not very good at this. I wouldn’t ever want to be interrogated by you.”

“Then don’t commit a homicide,” he said, sending a shiver down my spine.

“I wasn’t planning to,” I mumbled.

Brian laughed. “Would it put your mind at ease if I told you I knew about Mrs. Blum’s visit to the Gordons’ house that evening?”

Relieved, I nodded.

“I could use your help, Lexie. You’re intelligent and intuitive and have access to these people, every one of whom could have killed the two victims. Call me if anyone—and I mean
anyone
—says or does something suspicious.”

“I will.”

“For God’s sake, don’t go investigating on your own! Don’t raise questions about the murders. Don’t talk about them.”

“Of course I won’t! What made you think I would?

“I don’t know." He pretended to think. “Your over-developed curiosity. Your closeness to both murders. Arranging your book club meeting here, where you think you'll be safe.”

Brian stood and rested a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t want to frighten you, but you’re not safe. You’ve received one warning; you won't receive another. If the same perp killed both women, he or she won’t hesitate to kill again. Rattle the killer’s cage and you’re victim number three." 

He looked me in the eye. “I’d be very sorry to see that happen.”

T
he club members started arriving at six twenty-five. Anne was the last to show up. She appeared flushed as she kissed my cheek.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Of course." She handed over two gallons of chocolate ripple ice cream, then pointed to her attaché case. “I’ve copies of your will to sign.”

“Let’s take care of it at the end of the meeting.”

“Fine.” She followed me out to the patio.

Aware of the various grievances my guests held against one another, I watched Anne choose a seat next to Ginger and Todd. She definitely was upset about something and wasn’t her usual cheery self.

Rosie and Ginger helped me carry out the wraps and spreads; Marcie and Ruth poured the wine. I smiled and acted the part of the perfect hostess, while inside I shivered like a bowlful of Jell-O. Donovan’s words rang in my ears: rattle the killer’s cage and you’re Victim Number Three.

I kept jumping up from the table every few minutes to retrieve some article or other in the kitchen. All this moving about like a jack-in-the-box kept me from concentrating on any one conversation. Even if someone confessed to the murders, the words would probably sail right over my head.

“Relax,” Rosie whispered in my ear as I passed her on my way to the kitchen for more napkins. “Your dinner’s a success. Everyone’s eating up a storm.”

I flashed her a smile. “You know how I get when I’m feeding more than four people.”

I drained my second glass of pinot grigio, but it did nothing to soothe my jangled nerves. One of my guests was a murderer and I might become victim number three! While Ginger, Anne, and Marcie cleared the table and Rosie and Ruth tossed the disposable cups, plates, and utensils into a large pail, I escaped inside to start the coffee. I heard footsteps, and turned to see Allistair had followed me into the kitchen. Though he hadn’t known me very long, he knew me well enough to pick up on my anxiety.

“You’re much too tense,” he murmured as he placed his hands on my neck and kneaded away.

“Ah,” I moaned, savoring the moment.

“Aunt Lexie,” Ginger began, then burst out laughing. “What exactly is going on in here?”

“Nothing,” Allistair and I said in unison.

I served coffee and dessert, and then everyone helped clear the table. We gathered inside the living room to start the meeting.

Like last time at Rosie’s, except nobody was going to die tonight.

I’d moved the sofas and chairs into a circle, choosing a high-backed chair for myself. I revved into my professorial persona, and was off and running.

“While Dame Agatha’s sleuths—her most famous being Hercule Poirot and Miss Jane Marple—live on in our minds as vividly as Superman and Sherlock Holmes, her other characters do not. We know them as Colonel This and Mrs. That—stock figures who play their parts as victim, suspect, or murderer. I believe her plots are what make her mysteries so special and keep millions of readers turning pages today.

I drew breath and continued. “In one of her novels—I won’t say which in case you decide to read it—the narrator turns out to be the murderer. Tonight we’ll discuss
Murder on the Orient Express
and
Ten Little Indians,
also known as
And Then There Were None
, both examples of her admirable plotting. Let’s talk about the two books, examine the elements they share and those elements unique to each particular novel.”

The others watched me, eagerly awaiting my next pronouncement with baited breath. I smiled, feeling my anxiety dissolve as I geared up to do what I loved most.

“
Murder on the Orient Express
was first published in England in 1934. Like so many Christie novels, it had a different American title:
Murder in the Calais Coach.
Aside from reading the book, many of you might have seen the movie.”

Heads nodded.

“And you might have gathered that this novel is based on the kidnaping and murder of Charles Lindbergh’s son.”

“I thought so,” Ruth murmured.

“A writer’s vengeance for a beastly crime,” Allistair said.

I smiled at them both and went on. “Hercule Poirot is aboard the Orient Express when a fellow passenger is stabbed to death. Poirot is puzzled by the victim’s twelve stab wounds, all of various depths, showing both left and right-handedness. A heavy snow falls, prohibiting further travel, and Poirot must solve the murder within the closed environment so favored by Christie.”

All eyes followed my progress as I paced the Persian carpet. “The evidence is varied and confusing. Poirot discovers that the dead man is an American criminal who kidnapped the three-year-old daughter of a wealthy American. Though her parents paid the ransom, he killed the child. This brutal act brought about the deaths of the child’s parents and of the family maid, who was accused of the crime.”

I paused and leaned back.

“We learn that each of the twelve passengers is related to someone who suffered because of the child’s murder: the little girl’s aunt, her nurse, the dead maid’s father, etc. Poirot decides there are two possible scenarios regarding the crime: either a professional killer came aboard the train while it was stopped, executed the man, and departed, or all twelve passengers took part in killing the child’s murderer. Though it’s evident that the second is what has happened, he presents the first scenario to the officials.”

I took my seat. “Comments, anyone? Ginger?”

“Poirot realizes that the murdered man committed a heinous crime for which he hasn’t been punished. The twelve people—did they have twelve jurors in England then, Aunt Lexie?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so." I grinned. “But good point, Ginger. American trials have twelve jurors. The crime on which this book is based took place in the U. S.”

She grinned back, pleased with herself. “The lives of these twelve people were ruined because Cassetti murdered the little girl. Since the authorities didn’t punish him, they’re executing an act of justice.”