Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (18 page)

“I will. You know, Paulette wasn’t the only one with a motive to kill Anne. Marcie resented Anne for what she and her husband considered a screw up of a private adoption. The whole thing proved to be a scam, still Marcie blamed Anne when the adoption didn’t go through. She tried to make Anne pay back the money they’d lost, but Anne refused to reimburse them.”

“Did you mention this to Donovan?”

I shook my head. “No, but I will.”

“What about Lowell?” Al asked.

“What about him?”

“Maybe things didn’t go quite as Anne told you that night. Maybe when he told her he wanted to stay with Paulette, she threatened to cause trouble.”

“I never considered that, though I can’t imagine his choosing Paulette over Anne.”

Al pursed his lips. “I wonder if someone in the firm had words with Lowell—told him to get his act together if he wanted to remain on the partner track. The senior partners had to know about the affair. They wouldn’t appreciate any scandal associated with the firm.”

I grimaced. “Poor Anne. Cast as the other woman.”

“Maybe she refused to see things the way Lowell wanted her to, so he felt he had to take steps to eliminate her.”

“What about Sylvia? He was with her when she died, but there’s no evidence that he smothered her. Unless the police aren’t telling us the entire story.”

Al stood. "I'm sure they aren't."

I got to my feet. Al took me in his arms. “Talk to you tomorrow,” he murmured.

“Have fun in the city.”

“Fun,” he said, as though he didn’t like the word. “This is a job I could have done without.”

We kissed, then smiled at one another.

“Don’t do anything foolish, Lexie.”

“I’ll be careful.”

I cleared the breakfast dishes, and then called Brian Donovan. He wasn’t at the precinct, so I left word for him to contact me. He called a few hours later when I was out on the patio, deeply engrossed in my manuscript. I told him that Marcie had blamed Anne for screwing up the adoption, even after it was proven to be a con. He questioned me carefully regarding the details and my sources until he was satisfied I’d told him all I knew.

“I’ll follow up on this,” he said. “By the way, what kind of car does Mrs. Beaumont drive?”

“A BMW, I think.”

“Color?”

“Gray. Have you checked out Lowell’s alibi for that night?”

“We’re working on it. Anything else you remember?”

“No. I wish you’d find the person who killed those women.”

“Our sentiments exactly.”

He hung up. I had trouble getting back to my story. Angie, my protagonist, had just had a fight with her husband, and was restless and edgy. She had to take some sort of action, but I couldn’t decide what she should do. I tried out a few ideas, none of which grabbed me, since they did nothing to further the plot. I closed my laptop, telling myself I’d do better tomorrow when my mind was clear. After all, writing fiction allowed for all sorts of possibilities. Not like reality where once something happened, the consequences were set in stone.

S
everal cars were already parked in Adele’s driveway when Rosie and I arrived. Paulette, wearing a pink sleeveless summer smock that gave her a little-girl look, opened the door to let us in.

“Hello, Rosie, Lexie,” she greeted us listlessly. “Everyone’s in the family room.”

We followed her through the narrow center hall, gloomy despite the ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling two stories high. I peered into the rooms we passed but managed to see very little because all drapes had been drawn against the setting sun. Adele went in for a heavy, formal décor done in maroon and dark gray. I shuddered. I could never live in such a dreary, dismal place.

The din of women conducting several discussions at once assailed our ears before we reached the family room. Here, a persuasive interior decorator must have had his or her way, because light, natural colors presided. Paulette approached her mother and whispered something in her ear. Adele stroked her daughter’s blonde head as she answered. Then she kissed Paulette’s cheek and watched her join a group of young women gathered around the fireplace. Only then did she offer us her attention,  a look of adoration softening her plain features.

“I told Paulette not to exert herself, ” Adele said to us by way of a greeting. “She’s still weak from her miscarriage.”

“Paulette’s hale and hearty,” Rosie declared after she and Adele hugged perfunctorily. “She’ll regain her strength faster if she keeps busy.”

“You always know best, Rosie,” Adele murmured, and turned to me. “Hello, Lexie, nice to see you. We can always use another body.”

“I’m happy to be here.”

Adele’s critical gaze scanned me from head to toe. “You’ll have to be fitted for an Edwardian gown ASAP. I’d say you’re one size larger than Paulette.”

“An Edwardian gown?” I echoed, wondering how much that would set me back. “I hadn’t realized.”

Rosie shook her head in mock dismay. “Lexie, dear, I told you this was a costumed event. Since Littleton Manor was built in 1912, we’re doing Edwardian fashions this year.”

The image of a Chantilly lace dress flittered before my eyes. Costumes cost a fortune. “Yes, but I hadn’t planned on—”

“Don’t give it another thought." Rosie patted my arm. “We’ll stop by the costume shop tomorrow, if you’re free. Everything will be taken care of,” she said.

"Well, all right," I said, feeling very much the poor relative. I could afford to pay for my costume, but it would be damn expensive. Besides, I reminded myself, I hadn’t chosen to get involved in this gala. I was doing Rosie a favor. Despite the reality of the situation, I remained ill-at-ease.

Adele consulted her clipboard. “Rosie, you’ll be taking over Evelyn’s responsibilities. She was handling all communication with the orchestra. You’ll have to call their manager the day before the event. And get here early Friday morning to make sure they set up the tent properly. I’m dealing with the caterer, but there are a few things I’d like you to help me with.”

They talked on, forgetting about me. I grew more and more uncomfortable. I’d never been part of a society fundraiser before. This was all very Old Cadfield. I squirmed, aware that I didn’t belong and never would.

That’s right! I rounded on my cowering self. You’re not wealthy and you’re an outsider. You’re here for Rosie’s sake, not to fit in. As important, you’re here to learn everything you can about these people to help nail a murderer. Or has this slipped your mind?

Adele beckoned to Ruth, who broke away from the group of women surrounding her to join us. “Lexie was kind enough to offer her help as a volunteer,” Adele said. “Saturday night we’ll station her at the entranceway to check off guests’ names and collect cash and checks for last minute attendees. That’s your department.”

Ruth glared at me. Petite as she was, the hostility she radiated in my direction felt like a gale wind. “Adele, you deal with Lexie. You know what’s involved as well as I do,” she said, her voice cold as ice.

Adele stared at her co-chair. “What on earth’s gotten into you?”

Ruth sniffed. “I want nothing to do with this woman.”

“What’s your problem?” Rosie demanded. “You asked for volunteers, and I’ve brought you Lexie.”

Ruth turned on me, nostrils bristling with fury. I expected flames to emerge.  My cheeks burned as well when I realized what this was about. “Little Miss Detective went yapping to the police about something that happened two years ago! As if my Marcie would ever harm anyone!”

“What are you talking about?” Adele asked.

“That detective had Marcie in tears, accusing her of driving Anne off the road! They’re even inspecting her car." Ruth shook her head in disbelief. “As though my poor child would hurt a living soul. The police upset her so, I told her to stay home tonight.”

“So that’s why she’s not here,” Adele mused.

I tucked away that bit of information to share with Al. If the police had bothered to inspect Marcie’s car, it meant Anne’s killer had driven a gray car.

“Marcie told Paulette and me she hated Anne,” I admitted. “I felt obliged to pass that on to Detective Donovan.”

Fists clenched, Ruth rushed towards me. Though she was barely five-two—four inches shorter than me—the force of her maternal anger sent me backing up until I hit a wall.

“Of course Marcie was furious with Anne! She screwed up the adoption. Marcie and Scott lost money besides. But Marcie wouldn’t kill Anne! For God’s sake, they’ve known each other since high school.”

Adele slipped an arm around Ruth. “Take it easy, dear. You’re upset, but I promise you it will all come out right in the end." As she escorted Ruth out of the room, she called over her shoulder, “Rosie, I’ll be right back. Lexie, why don’t you join the group in the corner?  I’ll explain everything you need to know later.”

I stepped warily toward the group of young women laughing and talking. A skinny, red-haired woman no older than twenty-five but with the confident bearing of Hilary Clinton introduced herself as Corinne Brewster. She presented me to five other women, whose names I forgot as soon as I heard them. I was still reeling from Ruth’s attack and longed to slink back to Sylvia’s house to take refuge under the covers.

“It’s nice to have you here, Lexie,” Corinne said.

“What do I have to do at the gala?” I asked.

“Dressed in your exquisite Edwardian gown, you’ll meet and greet everyone who crosses your path. In other words, improvise.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Now go snag a plate of food in the kitchen and hurry back to us.”

I rushed off, glad to be on my own, and found myself in a totally white kitchen. The counters and table were covered with spreads, cheeses, deli meats, and salads of every imaginable kind. I made up a plate, poured myself an iced cappuccino, and returned to the family room. Corinne and a woman who said her name was Jan made room for me on the sofa. I’d eaten most of the food on my plate when I realized the others in “my” group were silently watching me.

“Now, Lexie, we’re dying to hear all about your murder book club,” Corinne said.

I cringed at her choice of words. “It’s a mystery book club,” I corrected. “We read and discuss mystery novels.”

“And someone’s murdered at every meeting,” Jan said. She had on granny glasses and wore her brown hair as short as a boy’s.

“Nonsense!" I cleared my throat. “Our book club has nothing to do with real murders. It’s unfortunate that someone died at our first meeting. Another member had an accident on her way home from our second meeting."
God, I was getting as bad as Rosie!

“Anne Chadwick, the lawyer?” Jan asked.

I nodded.

“Lots of people didn’t like Anne,” a chubby young woman offered. “My older sister knew her in college. She said Anne was
uber
ambitious, and stepped on friend and enemy alike to get ahead.”

“That’s a hell of a reason to kill someone, Poppy,” someone else protested.

“Maybe,” Corinne agreed, lowering her voice, “but she was carrying on hot and heavy with Lowell Hartman.”

“Big deal!” Poppy said. “They went together in law school.”

So much for the morals of our young.

Jan looked around, then beckoned us into a huddle. In a low voice, she said, “The way I heard it, Lowell was planning to leave Paulette, then her parents lured him back.”

Corinne nodded knowingly. “A quarter of a million dollars to fix up your house will do wonders for a marriage!”

The others laughed merrily, as though Lowell had negotiated a great business deal. Were they ever cynical. Poor Anne. Wherever she was now, she was well rid of Lowell Hartman.

“What about Sylvia Morris?” Poppy cocked her head. “Whom did she piss off?”

“I heard Gerda Stein had it in for her,” Jan said.

“Then somebody did Gerda in,” one of the other women said. “I wonder why. I heard she had no money.”

“Maybe there are two murderers!” Corinne widened her eyes until they seemed to bug out of her head.

Poppy cast her friend a look of derision. “Two murderers, Corinne? Don’t be ridiculous! This is Old Cadfield. What kind of place do you think we live in?”

What kind of place, indeed?
“Have all of you gotten your costumes already?” I asked.

The group was as amenable to changing topics as sheep obeying a border collie. They complained about sizes, colors, and fittings. I finished my iced cappuccino and needed to use the bathroom. I wandered along the darkened hall and knocked on the guest bathroom. A woman answered saying she’d be right out.

I took this as an excuse to find another bathroom and explore the rooms upstairs. Bedrooms reflected their inhabitants’ lives. Who knew what I might find?

I crossed to the staircase and looked about. No sign of Bob, Adele’s husband, or of anyone else. So far so good.

The upstairs hallway was in shadows. I peered into various rooms until I found a bathroom. I used the facilities, then opened the door, ready to sleuth.

I passed a guest room and a small den for TV viewing. The master bedroom suite was at the end of the hall. It was a good-sized room with a dressing alcove and adjoining bathroom. I stepped inside. The bureaus and night tables were of dark wood, the bedspread and drapes the same maroon and gray as that of the formal rooms downstairs. I moved further into the room. On the low bureau were two wedding photographs—one of Adele and Bob, the other of Paulette and Lowell.

A small desk stood in the corner by the bathroom. I approached it cautiously, wondering what I might find without turning on a light. In the dim light coming from the bathroom nightlight, I made out the pile of bills yet to be paid. The top one was for a series of lab tests. Was Adele ill? Was Bob?

I pulled open the only drawer. Nothing but pens and paper clips. I wasn’t about to rummage through Adele’s clothing, so I left the room. Across the hall was another bedroom, spacious but not as large as the master bedroom. This had to be Paulette’s room, the one she’d used before she was married. Adele must have forgotten to close the blinds and curtains because they were open to the night.