Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (16 page)

He blinked then gazed down at Puss howling at our feet. “Of course.”

He left the kitchen. I poured water into Puss’s water bowl, filled another bowl with canned food, and placed both on his plastic mat. Puss purred as he ate, oblivious of my agitation. I dreaded returning to the sitting room to learn what fate had in store for me.

But I had no choice. I thrust back my shoulders and forced one foot in front of the other. The policemen rose as I entered the room.

“How can I help you, gentlemen?”

Donovan exchanged glances with the young officer, then turned to me. His expression was kind, but I refused to relax my guard. I knew all about the good-cop-bad-cop routine from TV shows.

He gestured with his chin to one of the love seats. “Why don’t you sit down?”

I glared at him. “I don’t want to sit down. Tell me what you have to say straight out.”

He sighed. “As you wish. Last night Anne Chadwick’s car went off the road and took a nosedive into the Bayberry Road pond. She was dead by the time the first police car arrived on the scene.”

I sank onto the sofa and buried my face in my hands. “Not Anne! Oh, no, not Anne.”

I sobbed loud, gasping sounds. Donovan handed me a glass of water and I gulped most of it down. “We held our book club meeting here last night,” I said when I could speak. “But you know that.”

“Yes. She had copies of your will in her attaché case.”

I nodded and drank the rest of the water. “Anne brought my will for me to sign. Rosie and Allistair West witnessed it. They left. Anne stayed. We talked a bit.”

“About what?”

I shrugged. “Personal stuff.”

“Yours or hers?”

“Hers. Why?" I realized the officer—his badge said Wiley—was taking notes. I turned to Donovan. “You’re not saying Anne was murdered.”

He grimaced as he sat down. “We can’t say for sure.  They’re bringing up her car today.”

“That pond’s less than a mile away!” I said in amazement. “Bayberry’s a curvy road." I shook my head. “But still. Anne knows these roads. She grew up the next town over.”

“What time did she leave?”

I stared up at the ceiling. “Ten-thirty, a quarter to eleven. The meeting ended close to ten o’clock.  Everyone left, except for Rosie and Allistair. Anne was insistent that I sign my will that evening since I hadn’t come to her office to do it.” I gave a humorless laugh. “It was a boilerplate will. I read it and signed it. Then we talked.”

“Did Mrs. Gordon and Mr. West leave after they witnessed your signing the will?”

I nodded.

“Who besides them knew Anne Chadwick had stayed behind after the meeting?”

My heart raced even faster. “I’ve no idea. People were milling about, getting ready to leave. Anyone could have heard her ask Rosie and Allistair to act as witnesses.”

Donovan glanced at Officer Wiley, who was scribbling away. “Please tell me the names of everyone present.”

“Ginger Gordon, Todd, Marcie Beaufort and her mother, Ruth Blessing. And Paulette.”

He whistled. “The same cast of characters that attended your last meeting when Sylvia Morris was poisoned.”

I was overcome by a wave of nausea, and hoped I wasn’t about to start retching. Donovan had uttered my thoughts precisely. But I couldn’t accept it! One of the book club members was a serial killer. Someone who’d sat at my table, ate my food, and took part in our discussion, all the while plotting a real homicidal scenario.

I shook my head. “It’s so difficult to accept Anne’s dead. Last night we were talking.”

“About what, Lexie?” Donovan asked gently, as though he were coaxing a child to relate a bad dream.

I didn’t answer.

“You do want to help us find her killer, if she was killed.”

“Of course I do! But if Anne’s death was an accident, I’ll be revealing intimate details about people's lives.”

Donovan smiled. “Trust me. I’m very discreet." He took in my scowl, and added, “Really, I’ve heard every indiscretion committed by the human race. Unless it proves to be relevant to the crime, everything will be kept confidential.”

I repeated what Anne had told me about her relationship with Lowell, how Paulette had idolized and stalked her and her friends in high school. I felt kind of foolish when I’d finished.

“I can’t see Paulette going after Anne. She’s only getting back to herself after her miscarriage. She came to the meeting with Marcie and Ruth. Besides—” I stopped in mid-sentence. Brian Donovan was entitled to know what I knew. He wasn’t welcome to my opinions.

“You don’t think she’s clever enough to have killed two people under everyone’s nose,” he finished for me.

I gave him a bleak smile. “Precisely.”

Donovan stood and rubbed his eyes, leaving them bloodshot. I only then noticed the bags under his eyes. He must have been called out hours ago, perhaps even before he’d gone to bed.

I followed them to the front door. Donovan tapped my upper arm. “You have my cell number—call if you remember anything else Anne Chadwick told you last night, and what any of your other guests said to her.”

I nodded, and locked the door behind them.  First Sylvia, then Gerda, now Anne. Three book club members murdered. It was only when they drove off that I realized I wasn’t a suspect. It should have been a big load off my mind, but it wasn’t.

How could it be, when I felt partly responsible for Anne’s death? If I’d sent her home after I’d signed the will, she’d have driven off when Allistair and Rosie left. Maybe two sets of headlights would have deterred the killer. Instead, I encouraged her to talk about her personal life, giving her murderer ample time and opportunity to ambush her from the opposite direction and drive her off the road.  Poor Anne! I squeezed my eyes shut but I couldn’t block the image of her little red car veering off the road and crashing into the pond. What a waste of a beautiful, young life!

Now three people were dead, killed by a maniac in our midst. If it was the last thing I did, I’d find their murderer!

“Y
ou’re a thousand miles away,” Allistair said.

I shook off my morass of morbid thoughts and tried for a smile. “No, I’m not.”

Allistair neither spoke nor looked at me, but kept his gaze glued to the Jaguar’s windshield as we drove along Sound Avenue.

I reached for his hand. “I’m here beside you on this lovely June day.”

He moved his hand. “It’s not that lovely with you shutting me out.”

“You’re serious,” I said.

“I’m perturbed.”

I’d never seen Allistair perturbed before, and I didn’t like it. I tried to talk it away. “We’re driving out to the North Fork. We’ll have a great time.”

He turned to me. “You’re distant. Distracted. You might as well have stayed home.”

That did it! I forgot my social manners and went for the truth. “What do you expect? I’m upset because Anne’s dead. She was killed leaving my house. Excuse me,” I said sarcastically. “Sylvia’s house. I had to go to her funeral and offer empty condolences to her parents as they buried their only child.”

Allistair turned to me. “I’m sorry about Anne. She was a lovely young woman.”

“Who somebody killed. Donovan said there was a streak of paint along one side of her car, though he wouldn’t say what color.”

He took my hand. “Lexie, I’ve gotten the definite impression that you like me. Am I wrong?”

I squeezed his hand. “Of course I like you."
Why was this so difficult to admit?

“Then why are you acting like this?”

I laughed. “You mean like a man? Oops,” I amended when I caught the flash of displeasure in his eyes, “I mean, the way some men behave.”

He released my hand. “You’re right. Plenty of blokes come on strong, get the girl’s interest, then back off. But I believe in relationships. I’ve no idea where ours is headed, but I think it deserves a chance.”

I gave a little laugh. “Maybe I’m not ready for a relationship right now.”

He scowled. “Because your husband died burning down your house?”

“Hey, you stole my line,” I complained.

“That’s because it is a line, and has nothing to do with us.”

Allistair slowed down behind a truck. I tried to form my words as politely as I could. After all, I liked the guy and had no desire to drive him completely away.

“Look, Allistair—”

“Call me Al. That’s what my good friends call me.”

“Al?” I shot back. “Some of my friends call me Al." I shook my head. “This is too weird.”

“Will you try it?”

“I will. Soon.”

“Okay.”

I took a deep breath. “Since I was thirteen, I’ve been gaga over some guy. This went on through high school, college, graduate school, and in between husbands. When I wasn’t writing papers or reading or studying for tests, my energies went into some guy. Getting him, keeping him happy, fighting, making up, worried he was angry at me, worried he liked someone better."

I exhaled, pleased that Allistair had made no attempt to interrupt because he knew I wasn’t finished. “Now I’m at a point where I’m not hung up on some male. I’m concentrating on my life, on the book I’m writing, and figuring out who killed Sylvia, Gerda, and Anne.”

Our eyes locked. He turned back to the road to concentrate on passing the truck.

“I like you, Allistair or Al. I think about living with you and making blueberry pancakes for breakfast. But frankly, I can’t go through all the angst and crap and aggravation that male-female relationships require.”

That cracked him up laughing. He pulled to the side of the road, and caught me in a fierce hug. “At last the truth emerges!”

I stared at him. “You’re not perturbed?”

“I’m not." He shook his head. “How can I be, when you’ve told me the way things are?”

“You’re not going to tell me how I ought to feel?"

"Certainly not."

I wrinkled my nose. “You’re weird.”

He shook his head. “I’m not weird, which might be the problem.”

My neck grew warm. He’d scored another home truth. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He laughed. “Rosie told me you go for the artistic type. Which I suppose I am, being an architect. But inside I’m the guy next door.”

I shrugged, though all my nerves quivered. He was edging too close to the make up of my psyche.

“She mentioned you dated Hal in college, then ditched him for being boring and normal.”

“My loss,” I said lightly. “Look how well Hal’s doing. If I’d played my cards right, I’d have my own home in Old Cadfield instead of housesitting here.”

“You don’t belong in Old Cadfield, Lexie.”

“Thanks!" I crossed my arms and pursed my lips.

“Hey, that wasn’t meant as an insult." Allistair put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. “You’re complicated and loving and real. Which is precisely why I find you adorable.”

“I care about you, too, Al." I giggled. The nickname sounded strange when I said it out loud. “Only I can’t have complications in my life right now. I don’t want to have to worry: Will he call me? Does he like me?”

“No need to worry,” he said teasingly. “I like you. I’ll call. We’ll take things slow—till you’re ready to move ahead. Just keep me informed of what you’re thinking.”

I smiled. “Sounds good to me. We’re friends. But right now I want to focus on finding the person who killed Sylvia and Anne before he or she kills someone else.”

“And I want to help." He ran his fingers up and down my arm. “I can be amazingly helpful when it comes to analyzing situations.”

“All right. I suppose two heads are better than one." I thought a minute. “Although Brian warned me not to play detective.”

“Brian?”

“Donovan. The detective on the case.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you were on a first name basis with him.”

My face grew warm. Why
had
I mentioned Brian’s name?

“He gave you good advice, but I’ll be around to make sure you don’t do anything rash.”

Allistair drove on. “This looks like a nice place,” he said a few minutes later. He turned into a winery. “Shall we try their vintage?”

I’d heard of this winery. “It has a good reputation, but it’s barely noon.”

“So?" Al—I was starting to think of him as Al—shut off the ignition and offered me his first smile of the day. “We’re on holiday. Let’s take things as they come.”

Some of the heaviness that had pressing down on my shoulders disappeared. “Yes, damn it! Let’s enjoy ourselves!”

We walked up to the bar, which was empty except for two young wine servers chatting. The lack of customers was no surprise, this being a Wednesday and early in the season. We studied the selections and made our choices. I opted for their best chardonnay and Al chose their award-winning merlot. While he paid, I carried our glasses out to the patio, which faced the vineyard.

He sat down beside me and sipped his wine. “Very nice. Care to try?”

I didn’t really like red wine, but accepted his offer.

“Mmm, very nice,” I agreed. It was mellow with none of the harshness I associated with red wine. “Taste mine.”

Al sipped and nodded his approval. We sat in quiet harmony. I reached for his hand. “I’m sorry I pulled away like that. I was getting scared." There, I said it!

“You can always talk to me, whether it’s good news or bad." A shadow crossed his face. “I loved my wife, Melody, very much. It pained me that she found it impossible to share what she called her dark feelings." He shook his head. “No matter how often I reassured her I wouldn’t get angry or upset with whatever she had to say, she found it impossible to tell me anything negative or unpleasant regarding our relationship. It set up a barrier between us.”

I sighed. “Then let me say, I’ve talked enough about us for the next six weeks. I want you to help me find out who killed the three women." I shivered. “I feel like we’re on that island in
And Then There Were None
.”

“You think Sylvia, Gerda, and Anne were killed for different reasons?” he asked.

“I have no idea, which makes all this so frustrating.”

Al cleared his throat. “I hate to say it, but their only connection seems to be the book club.”

“You mean me? I can’t see how any of the murders had anything to do with me.”