Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (24 page)

I groaned.

“I almost had to call on you for the current session. Grace flew off to Michigan to take care of her sick mother, but we found a replacement for her—Charlotte Buckner. That lovely young grad student mad about Chaucer.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said as sweetly as I could manage. Lorrie wanted me good and grateful that he hadn’t interrupted my summer.

“How goes your Golden Age of Mystery book club?”

“You remembered that,” I said with genuine pleasure.

“Indeed I do." He chuckled. “You must be affecting me subliminally, because every novel I reach for this summer is a thriller.”

“We’re about to have our third Agatha Christie session. I’m not sure whom we’ll do next—Josephine Tey or Dorothy Sayers, perhaps.”

“My vote goes to Josephine Tey.
Brat Farrar
is one of my favorites. And
The Daughter of Time
is a truly original plot: did Richard the Third kill the crown princes?”

“I’ll consider it,” I said.

“Indeed. And you mustn’t ignore our own countrymen. Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett are both terrific writers. As is the dynamic duo that made up Ellery Queen.”

When I was beginning to wonder why he’d called, Lorrie said, “I was at a friend’s barbecue the other evening, and we got to talking about book clubs.”

Lorrie at a barbecue? I had trouble envisioning that.

“Anyway, I mentioned your Golden Age mystery book club. My friend’s wife said it sounded like the very thing she and her friends would be interested in starting.”

“Really?” I said.

“I told her you were an inspiring teacher. So, when she begged for your name I said I’d call to see if you’d consider facilitating a new group.”

“I’d like that.”

“Wonderful! In that case, I’ll give Helena Fields your number. If I know her, she’ll be calling very soon.”

“Thanks, a lot, Lorrie.”

“Don’t mention it. In fact, I was wondering if you’d like to lead a Golden Age of Mystery book club at the university, perhaps through the Continuing Ed division.  They’re looking for classes that draw in students. This may very well be one of them.”

I thanked him again for thinking of me and we said goodbye. Of course, Lawrence Pruitt never did anything without an ulterior motive. By recommending me, he was winning points with the university and with his friend. But I didn’t care. I enjoyed leading discussions of Golden Age mysteries and looked forward to working with a few more groups.

R
uth hosted our final meeting before Saturday night’s gala. She welcomed me with open arms, which led me to believe that Marcie hadn’t mentioned seeing me and Lowell in the diner. She drew me into the dining room to explain once again my duties as ticket taker. When we joined the others in the living room, I saw no sign of Rosie or Adele.

“Have Rosie and Adele gone off for a high-powered meeting?” I kidded.

Ruth’s expression turned solemn. “Adele couldn’t make it tonight. She’s not feeling very well. No doubt, Rosie’s speaking to her on the kitchen phone.”

“Poor Adele,” I said, with more emotion that I felt. “I hope she’ll be up to coming Saturday night.”

“Oh, she’ll be there, all right. Even if Bob has to carry her in on a stretcher.”

Ruth turned to answer someone’s question when I spotted Marcie in the group of young women clustered around the living room fireplace. Like magnets, we stared at one another. I wondered about her capacity for evil, while Marcie all but growled at me. Paulette sat beside her, oblivious to the negative vibes flying through the air like poisoned arrows. She smiled and I waved back.

I flinched when Ruth put her hand on the small of my back. “Why don’t you join Corrine and the rest of your group? They’ll fill you in on what to do before the concert.”

“Lexie!" Corinne beckoned to me from the far corner. She and the others greeted me like old friends.

Jan pushed up her granny glasses, which were sliding down her nose. “Ready for the big night?”

“As ready as ever. I’ll be collecting tickets and last minute monies at the start of things. Then what? Ruth said you guys will fill me in.”

Corinne chuckled. “We told you last time—circulate. Offer assistance to anyone who seems to need it.”

That drew a round of laughter. “Watch out for some of the men after they’ve tossed back a few,” Poppy advised. She lowered her voice. “Especially Bob Blum. He’s an obnoxious drunk.”

Adele’s husband was a lech!
I nodded. “Will do.”

“They’ve set aside two of the small bedrooms where we can change into our gowns,” Corrine said.

“I didn’t realize we’d be changing clothes,” I said.

“You didn’t think you were going to drive here in your gown, did you?” Corrine said. “They’re much too delicate.”

“Make sure you wear comfortable shoes,” Jan added. “Simple, low-heeled shoes are best. Spikes dig into the ground, which will be soggy if it rains.”

I nodded, trying to remember all their instructions.

“Ugh!" Poppy shuddered. “Don’t mention the word ‘rain’. I can see us traipsing around in a downpour, our gowns trailing behind in the mud.”

“Let’s think positively,” Corrine said.

I listened, awed by my ignorance regarding a topic they knew so much about. I felt even more out of it when the conversation turned to vacations. In August everyone was off to some far off corner of the world. Everyone but me. Corinne and her husband were going to Ireland, Poppy was flying to Egypt, and Jan and her family were driving out West to visit the national parks. Poppy’s eyes took on a gleam as she beckoned us into a huddle.

“I hear Marcie and Scott are flying to France to visit some of his relatives." She lowered her voice. “And to adopt a child.”

Corrine nodded. “So I’ve heard. The mother’s a distant relative. She’s young, poor, and unmarried, and glad to give her child the chance to grow up in the U. S.”

Jan shivered. “Poor kid! I wouldn’t want Marcie Beaumont for my mother.”

“Me, neither,” Poppy and Corrine said in unison, then burst out laughing.

Curious, I asked, “Why? What’s Marcie done?”

“She’s a bitch,” Poppy declared. “Haven’t you noticed?”

I shrugged, trying to appear noncommittal.

Poppy nudged Corrine. “Marcie’s in Lexie’s mystery book club, so she won’t say anything negative about Miss Priss.”

I laughed, in spite of myself. “Is that what people call her?”

“And worse,” Corrine said.

“My sister tells some ugly high school tales,” Poppy said. “Marcie hated Anne back then. I wonder if she killed her.”

I wondered, too, as I listened to a litany of Marcie’s numerous acts of malice.

*

I
woke up Saturday morning, excited as a kid on her birthday. Tonight I was going to the Littleton Gala! No need to rush to the window to check out the weather. Sunlight slipped past the verticals and flooded my room. I leaped out of bed, eager to start the day.

I swam laps, ate breakfast, then headed into town. The phone rang as I was putting away my groceries.

“Hi, Lexie. Al here.”

“Hello, Allistair. How nice to hear from you.”

I was both pleased to hear from him and annoyed that he hadn’t called all week. He picked up on the sarcasm in my voice and gave a guilty little laugh. “Sorry I’ve been incommunicado these past few days.”

His apology was too vague to carry any weight. “Whatever. I hope you’re having a nice time.”

“It’s been hectic. Frankly, too hectic for me. Tessa has us attending shows, plays, and concerts every afternoon and evening. I suppose she feels the need to entertain me, which is hardly the case at all." He laughed again. This time it sounded genuine. “It’s been wonderful spending time with her and Jonathan. Still, I look forward to coming home on Monday.”

“Miss me?"
Damn! I hadn’t meant to say that!

“Very much,” he answered softly.

Startled, I veered away from the personal. “Tonight’s the gala. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Galas are lots of fun and hoopla. I wish I were going with you.”

“Me, too.”

“Well, there’s always next year.”

We hung up shortly after that. I went about the rest of the day in a happy state, Allistair’s caring words draped like a shawl around my shoulders. I had no idea if I’d be attending next year’s gala, but this year I was part of it and the object of his affection. That had to suffice for now.

I drove back into town for my three o’clock hair appointment. After passing the beauty salon innumerable times, each time telling myself the prices were outrageously expensive, I’d finally convinced myself I could afford a good haircut, and the gala was a perfect occasion to try a new look.

I was giving my name to the tall, slender receptionist at the front desk when Ginger called to me. She was having her long hair put up in a glamorous do. I waved to her and to a few other women, as I trailed behind the receptionist’s spiked heels to a hair-washing station.

A petite girl with a Russian accent asked if I wanted her to use a particular shampoo or conditioner.

“Any will be fine.”

She shrugged and got to work. Her hands worked magic as they lathered and rinsed my hair. I’d nearly fallen asleep when she had me sitting up to towel dry my hair.

“Melissa will be taking care of you." She pointed to a chair.

Melissa, another slender young woman with jet black hair, studied my face in the mirror. Without saying a word, she started snipping. She was done five minutes later.

“Wow!" I exclaimed.

“You like?” She grinned.

“Very much,” I said, with feeling.

“We’re not done yet." She reached for her styling brush and hair dryer and got to work. Fifteen minutes later she handed me a mirror, then spun me around so I could view the back of my head.

“Marvelous!" I left Melissa a ten-dollar tip, and gave the girl who’d washed my hair a few dollars.

Rosie entered the salon as I was leaving. She eyed me critically.

“You look stunning, Lex.”

“Thanks, Rosie." Impulsively, I hugged her. “I’m looking forward to tonight.”

She smiled. “It will be a night you’ll always remember.”

I drove home slowly, feeling like a high school senior about to go to her prom. Which was weird because I was attending the gala alone. But I’d be among people I knew. For once, I’d be part of an Old Cadfield event, all dressed up and looking as well off as everyone else.

I fed Puss, then went upstairs to shower and put on make up. This time I bothered with liquid foundation, eye shadow, mascara and blush. I patted my hair into place, removed my lovely gown from the closet, remembered my strappy high heels, and set out for the evening.

R
iffs of the orchestra rehearsing reached me as I climbed out of my car. It was a good thing I’d followed Rosie’s advice and arrived early enough to snag a parking space in the lot closest to the mansion. It was nearly filled to capacity with cars and vans of various sizes.

I climbed the steps to the mansion and couldn’t resist a peek into the ballroom where we’d be dining. I counted sixteen tables set in lavender linen, on which crystal goblets and fine china sparkled with reflections from the three brilliant chandeliers above.

Ruth approached dressed in a lovely gray gown, its folds drifting elegantly almost to the floor. Her cheeks glowed with anticipation as she kissed me warmly, then directed me upstairs to the two bedrooms being used as dressing rooms.

I climbed the sweeping staircase, pausing midway to muse about the many parties and balls held here a century ago. I envisioned beautiful women and charming men dancing, dining, and falling in love. I felt a pang of loneliness and suddenly wished Allistair were here beside me.
Silly girl, you’re here to help out.
With that in mind, I dashed into the first bedroom to change into what I now considered my working clothes.

Too late, I remembered all those hooks that ran up the back of my gown. I’d need someone to fasten them for me. The room was empty, so I moved on to the second changing room. If no one was there, either, I’d have to traipse downstairs to ask Ruth to do me up.

But someone was in the smaller bedroom—the person I least wanted to see. “Hello, Marcie,” I said, doing my best to sound cordial.

“Hello, Lexie." She had on a brown tulle dress that did nothing for her coloring or her stocky figure.

I waited while she folded the clothes she’d come in, then asked, “Do you think you could help me with the hooks of my gown?”

“Of course I can,” she said stiffly, “though I can’t imagine what you’re doing here so early." She gave a little laugh. “I suppose you’ve never been to a gala and want to take in every minute.”

My face heated with anger, but I was determined not to squabble. “Your mother asked me to come early. I’ll be collecting tickets.”

Marcie sneered. “I suppose you offered to do anything, just so you could attend.”

“On the contrary. I was asked to help. The committee needed volunteers.”

Marcie sniffed. “Hard to believe they’d take just anyone.”

I’d had enough of her snobbery. I moved into the space between us, forcing her back against the dresser. “What’s that supposed to mean? That you’re special because you grew up in Old Cadfield?”

Her gaze fell, along with her high tone. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you think living here gives you some sort of free ticket through life? Makes you a better teacher? A better wife?”

Marcie sniffed. “I never said it did.”

“In your own way, that’s exactly what you said! You’re a snob, Marcia Beaumont. That’s all I can say about you.”

“What about you, Professor Driscoll? Camping out in Sylvia’s house. Pretending to belong, when you don’t.”

“I’m not pretending anything!”

“Starting an affair with Lowell Hartman, when he’s first getting over Anne’s death.”

“An affair with Lowell?" I burst out laughing. “I don’t go around robbing the cradle.”

“Of course you don’t!" Marcie thrust out her jaw, which did nothing for her appearance. “You were up to something, all right, rendezvousing with Lowell on a Sunday morning.”