Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (23 page)

“Yes?" Something about the voice made the hairs rise on the back on my neck.

“This is a friendly warning! If you want to keep on breathing, leave the married men alone.”

For a moment, I was too flustered to speak. “Who is this?” I managed to sputter. Too late. The line was dead.

It must have been Marcie jumping to conclusions. I told myself she was being childish. Or playing teacher and keeping everyone in line. Still,
did I want to keep on breathing?
Those were ominous words, considering the three homicides. I had no desire to become murder victim number four.

I managed to calm down by the time Brian showed up exactly forty-five minutes after he’d called, a bag of food in each arm.

“Are you always this prompt?” I asked by way of a greeting.

He grinned. “I manage it once every fifteen years. This time you’re the lucky recipient.”

He’d shaved recently and looked well-rested and appealing in a blue rugby shirt that did wonders for his eyes.

Very appealing, indeed.

“Lexie?”

“Come this way!" I strode off, in the direction of the kitchen. What was wrong with me, viewing every man that crossed my path as eye candy? Well, not every man. Certainly not Hal or Sam Blessing or Bob Blum. Just Allistair, Lowell, and Brian.

“Everything all right?" Brian put his hand on my arm.

I gave a start. “Sorry." I breathed in the rich aroma of a garlicky wine sauce. “Mmm, smells delicious.”

“I suggest you heat the main dish at a low temperature and refrigerate the salad. Unless we’re ready to sit down and eat.”

“I thought first we’d have a glass of wine out on the patio." I turned on the oven and took care of the food.

Brian leaned against the table, looking very pleased with himself. “I got us two veal dishes, pasta, bread, and salad from my favorite Italian restaurant. I hope you’ll like everything.”

“I’m sure I will.”

I uncorked the pinot grigio I’d chilled and poured us each a glass. “Let’s take this outside,” I said, leading the way.

We sat at the glass-topped table, clinked glasses and sipped.

“Nice,” Brian said.

“Sylvia knew her wine. Her kids told me to drink what I liked.”

“I hope you don’t mind my calling you the last minute like this. I had the day off. Spent most of it taking care of personal business, then thought I’d give you a ring.”

I smiled. “I’m glad you did. This beats the eggs I’d planned to scramble for my dinner.”

Brian looked about, taking in the setting. “It’s lovely here.”

“I was supposed to housesit this summer while Sylvia went to an artists’ colony. Her son and daughter asked me to stay here as planned. They’ve yet to go through everything, decide what they want to keep or to sell. It will be months before they put the house on the market.”

We breathed in the fragranced air, content to remain silent.

After a while, I asked, “Making any headway in the case?”

Brian stretched out his legs and sighed. “Nothing conclusive. We’ve been checking the cars of everyone who attended the meeting the night Anne Chadwick was murdered. So far, no sign of repairs or a paint job." He laughed. “Weird, how almost everyone’s car is gray.”

“So I’ve noticed. A gray Mercedes or BMW seems to be
de rigueur
among the Old Cadfield set." I twisted the stem of my glass. “That bit of paint on Anne’s car is probably the only piece of evidence you have. When Sylvia died, you had no idea she’d been murdered.”

Brian pressed his lips together, clearly debating whether or not to reveal a piece of information. I held my breath, hoping he would. Finally, he said, “Sylvia Morris’s death might have been an accident.”

I shot him a look of disbelief. “You mean, Sylvia drank the water from the vase because she was thirsty? Give me a break!”

“What I meant was, we’re considering the angle that Mrs. Morris wasn’t the intended victim.”

“Oh, of course,” I mumbled, totally embarrassed. After a minute, I asked, “And you’ve never found that vase?”

“Nope." Brian shook his head.

“Rosie found the flowers in the garbage, but not the vase.”

“I reread Captain Hennessy’s report and decided to have my men undertake an extensive search for the vase.”

I felt a stab of excitement. “Maybe it’s still in Rosie's house somewhere! Or in the garage.”

“Hmm." I could tell that behind his musing air, the cogs of his mind were spinning like crazy. “That’s what we’re hoping,” he finally conceded.

“Still, what difference would it make? Even if you come up with fingerprints, anyone could have touched the vase.”

“Did you?”

I shook my head. “Why would I?  It was set back on the counter, close to the wall.”

He gave me a wolfish grin. “Stands to reason no one but the murderer would have touched it, either.”

“I suppose the same holds true for the vase used to kill Gerda.”

We went inside shortly after. I pulled crusty Italian bread from the toaster oven, served the salad, then poured each of us another glass of wine. By unspoken agreement, we talked of other things. Brian asked me how I was enjoying the summer, and I told him about the book I’d been writing.

“I haven’t gotten very far, what with the murders and—other distractions.”

“Like dating Allistair West?”

I glowered at him. “You’ve been checking on my personal life.”

“Of course. I’m a homicide detective, and you’re smack in the middle of my investigation.”

“Is that why you’re here tonight?” I asked, suddenly deflated. “To find out what I know?”

Brian had the grace to look embarrassed. “I told you it was a mixed bag—police business and a social evening." He turned up his palms. “If you want me to leave, just say the word.”

“Hah! Fat chance I have, since we’re about to eat the food you brought.”

He smiled. “I was hoping you’d see reason. I’ve told you before—I’d appreciate hearing any observations regarding people and relationships you care to share.”

I was being a sorehead. Just because I’d read romance in his dinner invitation, was no reason not to help him find the murderer. “I’ll share, if you like. If you think it will move the investigation forward.”

“That’s exactly what I think. We’ve interviewed everyone involved in the case, and we’ll talk to them again. And again. They leave out valuable information—sometimes inadvertently, sometimes on purpose." He sighed. “You know these people, but you’re not part of their world. I’d like you to tell me your impressions of them. Anything weird or out of the ordinary, especially regarding their connections to the dead women.”

“Ratting on them, you mean?”

Brian laughed, a deep belly laugh. “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing on your own—trying to solve the murders à la Christie?”

My face grew warm. “
Touché.
How did you know?”

“Human nature. Your nature.”

We finished our salad. I brought the dishes to the sink and served the veal and pasta piping hot. After downing a few mouthfuls, I said, “Everyone in the book club and their families are interconnected. Ginger’s dating Todd Taylor. The women are all involved in this latest fundraiser.”

“Anything else?”

I repeated what Lowell had told me that morning, how Marcie glared at me when I left the diner, and the phone call I’d received a while ago.

“I didn’t recognize her voice, but I assume it was Marcie. She might be an excellent teacher, but she’s also one spiteful young woman.”

“Tough as nails,” he agreed. “She resented being questioned about her past history with Anne.”

“She has a sense of entitlement. Got it from her mother." I shook my head and sighed. “Adele Blum’s even worse with Paulette. Controls her as if she were a child. Probably because she has Crohn’s Disease and passed it on to Paulette.”

“And there’s the matter of Paulette’s pregnancy and miscarriage.”

“Lowell said Paulette got pregnant because she was afraid he was going to leave her for Anne. Which he was.”

“Clever girl,” Brian murmured.

I nodded. “She’s not the dodo we think she is. Paulette caught Lowell on the rebound, when he and Anne had split.”

“Maybe Paulette called you before.”

“It’s possible, I suppose.”

“Could be Marcie Beaumont told Paulette she saw you this morning, and Paulette decided to nip her husband’s new affair in the bud, so to speak. I’ll check out all calls made from the Beaumonts’ and Hartmans' phones, and let you know if I find anything.”

‘Better check their parents’ phones, as well.”

“Will do.”

I thought a bit. “You know, when I was upstairs in Adele’s house, I saw certificates of classes that Paulette had taken. One was for ‘The Complete Gardener.’”

Brian scratched his head. “And you’re supposing that the course covered which flowers are poisonous if ingested.”

“Allistair found out the instructor had distributed handouts to the class that listed poisonous flowers. Lowell or Paulette’s parents could have read the list as well.”

“Or they knew all along that lilies of the valley are poisonous."

“I know. None of this points a finger at anyone." I laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Brian asked.

“Sorry.
The Moving Finger
is a Christie title.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Too bad I can’t resolve this business like Dame Agatha—round up the suspects, break down their alibis, and expose the killer.”

"Too bad,” I agreed.

T
he phone rang while Brian and I were on our second cup of coffee. Allistair’s cell number flashed on my Caller ID. I took the phone to the far end of the kitchen for privacy.

“Hi, Lexie. What have you been up to since I left?”

“I went to a craft fair with Rosie this afternoon." I cleared my throat. “Detective Donovan stopped by a while ago. In fact, he’s still here.”

“Really? He came by at suppertime on a Sunday evening?”

“I suppose that’s what he did,” I said, feeling more awkward with every word I uttered. “He wanted to discuss the murders.”

“To discuss the murders?” Al asked incredulously. “As if you and he were colleagues?”

“Kind of. He thinks Sylvia’s death might have been an accident. That the murderer meant to kill someone else.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. I can’t picture Gerda or Ruth poisoning Sylvia.”

I glanced at Brian. Though he had his back to me, he must have sensed I was looking at him because he turned and winked.

“Al, I hate to cut you short, but I can’t talk now. Can I call you back later?”

“We’re due at a concert in half an hour, then we’re going out for dessert with some of Tessa’s friends. Just a second." I heard people talking in the background. Al returned a minute later. “I have to go.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.

“Good night,” he said abruptly and cut the connection.

When I returned to the table, Brian shot me a grin. “I take it the boyfriend wasn’t too happy to hear I’m on the premises.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“Anyway, it’s time I got going,” he said.

“Doubly abandoned,” I said, only half-kidding.

I followed Brian to the front door. He stopped, and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, he squeezed my arm. “Thanks for tonight. It was the most fun I’ve had in weeks.”

“Thanks for bringing dinner.”

He grinned. “My pleasure.”

*

T
he week that followed was the lull before a storm. I called Al the following morning, but he was having a late breakfast with his daughter and her husband and couldn’t talk. I tried him twice after that. Both times his cell phone was off. Either he was angry at me—which he had no right to be—or he was caught up in a hectic schedule. I hoped he wasn’t perturbed. If he was, I’d deal with our relationship when he returned home.

Brian called to let me know the anonymous call I'd received hadn’t come from any phone connected to the Hartmans, the Beaumonts, the Blums, or the Blessings. I received no further threats and put the matter out of my mind.

I swam most mornings and spent my afternoons writing. Surprisingly enough, I was making headway with my novel. I felt free and relaxed, which might have accounted for my protagonist’s bold and astonishing actions. Instead of micromanaging Angie as I ordinarily would, I gave her her head and went along for the ride. I was churning out eight pages a day, quite a record for me. What’s more, I liked the way the story was shaping up.

I stopped at five each evening for a glass of wine and to pore through
A Murder Is Announced
, jotting down themes and discussion questions.

The book was typical Agatha Christie: the setting a small English village with a large cast of characters, and Miss Marple on hand to solve the murders. I mused how Jane Marple was still one of our all-time favorite sleuths. Readers took delight in her pretending to be easily flustered while she shrewdly made sense of the suspects' alibis and behavior. Nothing slipped past her. Like The Shadow, she knew what evil lurked in the heart of men. And women. As in many Christie novels, this one ended with the suspects gathered around the drawing room where the murderer was revealed.

Why not do the very same thing at our next meeting! Excited, I paced the hallway, growing more and more certain that my plan would work. Since we’d be discussing murder, what could be more natural than talking about the actual murders? I’d ask Brian to come and ask provocative questions to stir the pot. With both of us prodding suspects for answers, making an accusation here and there, we were bound to unnerve the murderer. If he didn't actually confess to the crime, there was a good chance he'd give himself away.

Thursday morning, my department chairman surprised me by calling. Lawrence Pruitt was a large, pot-bellied man with a wicked sense of humor. I was fond of Lorrie, but gave him a wide berth to avoid being the subject of his sardonic barbs. Still, he was by nature a generous man, especially to those of whom he was fond.

“Lexie, dear, how goes your summer?”

“Lovely, Lorrie. I’m making headway with my novel.”

“Glad to hear that, since next summer I’ll be calling on you to teach a few summer classes.”