Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (21 page)

“Why do you think they’re on the verge of an affair?”

I shrugged. “Human nature.”

Al reached for my hand. “I think you’re too cynical about human nature. It can get in the way of romance.”

I had no answer to that. We rode in companionable silence the rest of the way to Old Cadfield, our fingers entwined.

Ten minutes later, Al dropped me off at Sylvia’s house. He had some work to do, but we’d be getting together in the evening. The following day he was leaving for the Berkshires.

I spent the afternoon swimming in the pool and writing. Despite the unsolved murders and my angst about Ginger, I felt tranquil. We hadn’t stayed at the beach long enough for it to have sedated me, which left Allistair as the reason for my peaceful state of mind. His company, I was discovering, was both stimulating and calming.

I felt a moment of panic at the thought of becoming dependent on his presence in my life. So often I’d fallen for a man only to lose him soon after. I didn’t want to grow too used to having Al around. Sure, I was cynical about human nature as he’d claimed. My life experience had taught me that no relationship remains static and enduring.

At a quarter to five, I gathered up my laptop and iced coffee and went inside.  The phone rang as I was locking the sliding glass door.

“Hello, Lexie? This is Lowell Hartman.”

I drew a deep breath. “Hello, Lowell.”

“You don’t sound happy to hear from me.”

“Does that surprise you?”

His laughter—a nice, rich sound—rumbled across the line. “Not as much as I was to see you this morning.”

“Sorry I came on like a scolding aunt, but Ginger’s my best friend’s daughter.”

“Lexie, we need to talk.”

His urgency changed the tenor of our conversation and sent shivers down my spine. “Fine. Talk away.”

“I mean face-to-face. May I come to your house?”

“No!” I all but shouted into the phone. “I—er have to get dressed. I’m going out soon.”

This time his laughter was sardonic. “I’m not the serial killer, Lexie, so you can put your mind at ease. I loved Anne. I’d never hurt her.”

“But you did hurt her, Lowell. Anne told me so the night she was killed.”

He inhaled what must have been gallons of air. “Please meet me. I want to explain everything to you so you’ll understand.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the only person in this entire farce who doesn’t have an ax to grind." When I said nothing, he went on. “If you can’t meet me now, how about tomorrow morning? Early. There’s a diner close to the park where I run. I’ll treat you to breakfast. It’s a public place.”

I thought it over. A public place meant I’d be safe. “All right, Lowell. If you think it’s that important.”

He gave me the diner’s address and asked if eight thirty was too early.

“It is, but I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, Lexie.”

Al wasn’t happy with my decision to meet Lowell, and tried to dissuade me from going as we drove to the restaurant.

“He might be the murderer.”

“He might be, but I doubt it.”

“He knows the route you’ll be taking. He could kill you while you’re on your way.”

“Why would he want to kill me?”

Al shrugged. “He’s angry. You humiliated him in front of Ginger, and sent him home with his tail between his legs.”

“A hell of a motive for killing someone.”

Al pursed his lips and looked at me. “I’m perturbed.”

I took his hand. “I don’t want you to be perturbed. What can I do to ease your worry? Besides not going, that is.”

He squeezed my hand. “I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not! You’re leaving at seven for the Berkshires, just as you planned.”

I thought a moment, then said, “I’ll call when I start out to meet Lowell. And I’ll leave the phone on the entire time I’m with him. This way we’ll be in constant touch.”

“What good will that do?”

“I’ll tell him what I’m doing. And if anything happens on the way, you’ll hear what’s happening.”

“It’s far from perfect,” he complained.

“But you’ll be a witness to everything. If Lowell turns dangerous, as I doubt he will, I’ll tell him you’re on the line.”

We arrived at the restaurant just as it was beginning to fill up. A handsome
maitre d’
greeted Al warmly and showed us to a table on the deck inches above the sand. We sat side by side, gazing out at the Long Island Sound. A breeze lifted a lock of my hair. Al reached out to tuck it behind my ear. My ear tingled from his touch. He reached for my hand, and we sat like that until our waiter brought us giant menus. Al asked for a bottle of Santa Margarita pinot grigio. The waiter noted his request and disappeared.

Our wine arrived and was decanted. We both ordered lobsters, then sat back savoring our wine, each other, and the view.

We said little as we devoured our lobsters, then relaxed over coffee and a shared dessert. Darkness fell, and tiny lights strung across wires came to life, along with candles at every table. The temperature had fallen. I huddled inside my shawl.

“Are you getting cold?”

“A bit,” I admitted, “ but I love sitting out here. I don’t want to go inside.”

“We don’t have to." He removed his jacket and placed it around my shoulders.

“Thank you.”

He reached over to kiss my neck. “I’m going to miss you,” he whispered.

“Good.”

He chuckled. “I’ll call every day.”

Famous last words
.

S
unday morning I drove to the diner, my neck in swivel mode, as I kept vigilant watch that no one ambushed me on the way to my—rendezvous? breakfast meet? interview?—with Lowell Harding. Traffic was light at 8:05, and my careful attention told me I hadn’t passed anyone I knew. Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the diner’s parking lot  and entered via the back door.

Though I’d made it my business to arrive ten minutes early, Lowell had beaten me to it. He waved from a corner booth. I smiled and hurried over.

“Lexie! I’m glad you made it."

I felt a jolt of adrenaline and something akin to sexual arousal, as he stood to kiss my cheek. He looked awesome in his worn Yale sweatshirt and runner’s shorts. I glanced down at long, muscular legs, up at broad swimmer’s shoulders—attributes I’d failed to appreciate during our brief encounter on the beach.

Cut it out! This is Rosie’s cousin’s husband who’s sixteen years your junior and possibly a killer.

“Have any trouble finding the place?”

“None at all." I grinned back at him, feeling complicit in a shared adventure, away from everyone we knew in Old Cadfield.

I slid into the booth opposite Lowell. He hadn’t bothered to shave, which only added to his sex appeal, but for me the spell was fading. With a pang, I imagined what a beautiful couple he and Anne would have made.

“You’ve been here a while,” I said, observing his half-empty mug of coffee, the folded-down section of the Sports Section.

“A while. Paulette didn’t settle down till after three. She’ll sleep till noon." He grimaced. “I’ll see to it she’s up and dressed by one. Then we’ll drive over to Adele and Bob’s for lunch.”

I felt a pang of sympathy for Lowell, but I was here to learn what I could. I decided to be blunt. “If you hate this life so much, why do you stay with Paulette?”

He gave me a bittersweet smile. “You mean, why didn’t I leave her to marry Anne?”

I nodded.

“Anne’s the love of my life. Dead or alive, that’s who she’ll always be. Paulette’s my wife. She needs me!”

His fervor wasn’t what I’d expected. It reminded me of what Rosie told me about Lowell’s earlier dream to represent clients who couldn’t afford an attorney.

The waitress, a woman in her forties with brassy blonde hair, brought over a steaming mug of coffee. Her nametag said “Sally." She plopped the mug down before me. “Morning. Know what you want?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

“Try the whole wheat pancakes with blueberries,” Lowell suggested.

“Sounds good to me.”

Sally fixed her gaze on Lowell. “You, too, hon?”

“I’ll have a bran muffin, lightly toasted, lightly buttered.”

“Right-o." She left to fill our orders. I poured a tiny container of milk into my coffee and sipped. “Mmm, good." I brought myself back to the subject at hand. “Is there something wrong with Paulette?”

He let out a humorless laugh. “You mean, aside from having a mother who treats her like a helpless child?”

I nodded.

“Paulette has Crohn’s Disease. Getting pregnant was a colossal mistake." He lowered his voice. “Please don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, including Rosie. Adele will have my head if it gets out. She doesn’t want anyone, including relatives, to know. She insists they’ll count it as one more black mark against Paulette.”

“Of course I won’t say anything." I recalled my conversation with Paulette at Ginger’s graduation party. “Paulette told me she needed to have children as soon as possible because of her illness.”

“Actually, it was the worst time. Her Crohn’s was acting up. She got pregnant because she’d found out about Anne and me.”

“And you feel guilty about the miscarriage.”

A steely look came into his eyes. “I have to protect her from her mother. Adele smothers Paulette at every turn.”

I thought a bit. “Crohn’s Disease runs in families. Does Adele have it?”

Lowell nodded. “Pretty bad, actually. She’s going to need more surgery.”

“Is that why she’s so overprotective of Paulette—because of the Crohn’s Disease?”

He pursed his lips. “Partly. Mostly it’s Adele’s need to control.”

I bit my tongue, wondering if I was going too far, but decided to ask my question. “Did Adele and Bob pay you to stay with Paulette?”

Lowell slammed his fist down, rattling the mugs of coffee. “That’s a lie!”

I shrugged. “I’m merely repeating what I’ve heard.”

“Typical Old Cadfield distortion and misinformation! My decision to stay with Paulette had nothing to do with her parents! They offered a generous gift to help us furnish our house. I knew Paulette wanted it, so I said,  ‘Why not?’”

A pretty speech, I thought, that somehow didn’t ring true.

Our food arrived, and I was suddenly too hungry to ask more questions. I smeared butter and poured syrup over my pancakes. I tasted a forkful of pancake and blueberries. I was in heaven!

We ate in silence. When my brain resumed functioning, I asked, “Does Adele and Bob’s gift come with strings?”

Lowell debated this. “They haven’t bought me, if that’s what you’re implying. I’ll do what I think is right for Paulette and me.”

Paulette’s emotional development had been stunted. She wasn’t about to mature any time soon. Surely, Lowell knew he was engaged in a losing battle. Or maybe Paulette’s neediness appealed to him on a subliminal level. Regardless, it was time to move on.

“What about Ginger?” I asked.

Lowell swallowed the last of his muffin. “You mean, what was I doing with her on the beach?”

I grinned at his straightforwardness.

“She was unhappy and upset—about her relationship with Todd Taylor, and an unresolved issue that recently reared its ugly head.”

“Ginger needs to talk to someone, but from the looks of things, the two of you were starting a relationship. That wouldn’t be in her best interest.”

“Nor in mine. Maybe we were a bit lax, but I never would have allowed matters to get out of hand. The thing is, I know what Ginger’s gone through. I told her about my cousin who had a similar experience.”

“She never worked the problem through. Rosie’s worried about her.”

Lowell shot me an accusing glance. “If I’d had the time, I’d have told Ginger to get some therapy. And not to give up on Todd.  He’s a good kid, but he has no idea of how her camp experience traumatized her.”

“She’s never told Todd what happened.”

“I suggested that she tell him.”

“Good suggestion,” I said.

“Am I off the stand?” he joked.

“Absolutely.”

We talked about the people we knew in common: Anne. Paulette. Rosie. Now that both my temporary sexual attraction and my view of him as a predatory Lothario had worn off, I discovered I liked Lowell Hartman. He was a sensitive, intelligent, earnest young man with a wicked sense of humor. After Sally filled our mugs a third time, he glanced at his watch.

“Time to go." He asked for the check and reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

I looked around the large room, surprised that all of the booths and tables were now filled with families and couples.

“Oh, no!” Lowell muttered a curse.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s Malice Mouth." He gestured at Marcie and Scott Beaumont across the room, studying their menus.

“Maybe they haven’t seen us,” I said, trying to be positive.

He wore an anguished expression. “Lexie, would you think it too awful of me if I were to ask you to leave now?”

“Of course not.” I got to my feet.

I started for the back exit as Sally approached our table, blocking Lowell from Marcie’s view. Good! I pushed open the door and, like Lot’s wife, couldn’t resist turning to see if Marcie had noticed me. She had, all right.  If the proverbial looks could kill, I’d be writhing on the floor in my death throes.

I
sped home as though the Headless Horseman was pursuing me, with Marcie’s venomous expression imprinted on my mind. Did she hate me for siccing Detective Donovan on her or because she’d seen me with Lowell? If the second were the case, was she angry on Paulette’s behalf or because she secretly had the hots for Lowell and, now that Anne was dead, considered him up for grabs?

I shuddered as I followed my thoughts to their logical conclusion: Marcie disposed of Anne because of her secret yearnings for the guy. I needed to find out just how well Marcie knew Lowell, and if the Beaumonts and the Hartmans spent time together.

Puss greeted me as I unlocked the front door. I bent to pet him, glad for his company. It was barely ten o’clock, and the day loomed before me as empty as an outdoor ice rink in July. I leafed through
The Times
, not taking in a word I read. Maybe I’d be better off working on my novel. I carried my laptop outside and inhaled several deep breaths to calm my mind and put myself in the writing mood. But despite several attempts to prod Angie, my protagonist refused to snap out of her doldrums and leave her philandering husband.