Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (5 page)

Hal and I joked with one another, as was our way. He held no rancor because of my earlier comment. He’d fallen hard for me during our junior year at college. I knew he was about to ask me a serious question best answered by “I do,” so I broke things off. He was heartbroken, but recovered in time to ask Rosie out before spring semester finals. The rest, as they say, is history.

Besides, we both knew what I’d said was true. He
was
better off married to Rosie, living the good life in Old Cadfield and commuting to Wall Street on the LIRR. I gravitated to men who were interesting and offbeat.

And look where that’s gotten you. No home. No money. No life to speak of.

As we speculated about how soon it would be before Tara announced she was pregnant, I mulled over Sylvia’s death. I still considered Gerda Suspect Number One. But since I had no way of proving it, I moved on to observations I’d made. Observations that had to be factored in, if I were to be honest and rational regarding my deductions.

One, Rosie and Hal didn’t consider Gerda a potential suspect, and two, Rosie and Hal were very protective of people in Old Cadfield. Which meant either my friends truly believed none of their friends and neighbors was capable of killing Sylvia, or they simply felt the need to close ranks and see to it that no Old Cadfield resident was charged with the crime, even though Sylvia was an Old Cadfield resident herself.

I shuddered. Either way, I couldn’t count on Rosie to help me with this investigation.

But I could ask questions. I turned to Rosie. “Hal’s convinced Gerda didn’t kill Sylvia. Is that what you think?”

Rosie nodded. “She came here in tears, which is very unusual for Gerda. She’s terribly upset that Sylvia died while they were estranged. For the first time in all the years we’ve known her, she spoke of her childhood.”

I held my tongue.

“Gerda was eight when she and her mother fled Germany to go to England,” Hal said. “She never saw her father again. She remembers him as a kind and loving man.”

“I’m sure,” I said wryly.

“Eventually Gerda and her mother came to live in the United States,” Hal continued. “Gerda was nineteen when her mother admitted her father was a Nazi and not the hero she’d fabricated for Gerda’s sake. Ever since, Gerda’s lived in shame.”

“Gerda and Sylvia were close friends,” Rosie said. “Which is why Gerda told her about her father.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, suddenly understanding. “So that’s how Sylvia grew interested in the subject! She decided to write a book about him and others like him.”

“She felt she owed it to the Jewish people. To all people," Rosie said. "When Gerda found out about the book, she was terribly distraught. She told Sylvia her father was dead. Exposing his name like that served no purpose except to upset her, her sons and their families.”

“I imagine the book won’t be published now,” I said.

Hal shrugged. “That’s up to Sylvia’s publisher, and how much of the book has been written.”

Rosie got up to clear the table. I helped her put things away.

“Feel like going to the mall to do some shopping?” she asked when we were done.

I shook my head. “I want to see if Michele could use a hand. Then I’ll unpack and veg out.”

“Suit yourself. We’re eating out tonight. Chinese or Italian?”

I grinned. “Can we go to that Chinese restaurant in Garden City?”

“Why not? I’ll call and make a reservation.”

Admitting to myself that staying with Rosie and Hal had definite perks, I went to my room and called Michele on my cell phone. She sounded harried.

“Can I help with anything?” I asked. “I’m only a few blocks away, at Rosie’s.”

“I’m about to drive into town to order cold cuts and cake for whomever comes back here after the funeral. Do you think you could come to the house after the service to let the delivery man in and set up for our guests?”

“Absolutely." I thought a moment. “Want me to stop by now? You can show me where everything’s kept.”

“Oh, would you?” Michele sounded so plaintive my heart went out to her. “I feel totally overwhelmed. It’s worse than when my father died. Then Mom took care of everything." She lowered her voice. “And Eric’s useless. He’s such a bundle of nerves, I told him to take one of his sedatives and watch TV.”

“I’ll be right over,” I said.

Ten minutes later, I was sitting in one of Sylvia’s chrome kitchen chairs as Michele brought out platters and cake dishes from cabinets in preparation for the shiva.

“Are there paper plates anywhere?” I asked.

“In the pantry, I think.” Michele said. A minute later she carried over a pile of paper goods and set them on the table.  We reviewed her food list, and I made a few suggestions. “Be right back.” She returned with a folder, which she handed to me. “Mom left this for you. Instructions and directions.”

I skimmed the three single-spaced typewritten pages that described in easy steps how the washer, dryer, and dishwasher worked: how to record TV programs and watch movies; what, how much, and when to feed Puss; when the pool service and cleaning services would be coming.

I set the folder down on the table and gave Michele a bittersweet smile. “Your mom planned for everything.”

“Except how to take care of herself,” Michele said bitterly.

I opened my mouth to rebut that, then closed it. Sylvia’s children would find out soon enough if her death had been a homicide.

I stood. “I’d better go and let you place the order.”

I hugged Michele, waved to Eric channel surfing in the den, and had almost reached the front door when Michele called after me. “Lexie, I almost forgot! Here’s the key to the house. I’ll tell them to deliver everything between noon and one."

H
ours later Rosie, Hal, and I were zipping along in the Gordons’ Mercedes on our way to dining out in another wealthy community. We’d finished the bottle of chardonnay I’d brought, and I was feeling mellow.

I could get to used to this life—living in an elegant home, dining in restaurants without worrying about car payments or having to choose between a new pair of shoes or having my hair styled in a really good salon.

The restaurant’s red, gold, and black décor made subtle use of recessed lighting. I finished my sweet and sour soup and ate most of my crispy duck and vegetables that had been prepared in the most delectable sauce. Rosie and Hal insisted that I sample their chicken and lobster dishes. I sipped tea, taking pleasure in the quiet elegance of the room.

“I’ve brownies and apple cake at home," Rosie said as Hal slipped a credit card into the leather folder our waiter had delivered with a smile.

“How can you think of eating more food?” I demanded. “I’m stuffed to the gills.”

Rosie laughed. “Are you kidding? You burn up food like nobody else our age. You’ll be ready for dessert by the time we get home.”

How right she was. I was scooping chocolate ripple ice cream onto my warm apple cake, when the doorbell chimed.

“Who can that be at a quarter to ten on a Saturday night?” Hal asked.

Rosie shrugged and went to find out, an excited Rex at her side. She returned with Ruth Blessing.

“Hello, Hal, Lexie,” Ruth greeted us. “Sorry to interrupt. I noticed your lights as we were driving home from dinner, and thought I’d stop by for the details regarding the funeral.”

The funeral! I felt a pang of guilt for having forgotten about Sylvia these past few hours.

“It’s at Rappaport’s at ten-thirty,” Rosie said. “Would you like us to drive you and Sam?”

“No thanks. Marcie and Scott are taking us." Ruth shook her head as she tsk-tsked. “Poor Marcie. She’s still reeling from it all. My daughter’s never experienced someone practically dying before her very eyes. Do they know for certain it was Sylvia’s heart?”

“We’ll find out after the autopsy,” Lexie said.

Ruth opened her eyes wide. “An autopsy! Do they suspect it was something she ate?”

“We certainly hope that’s not the case,” Rosie said dryly.

Ruth gave a false laugh. “It couldn't be anything you served that evening. The rest of us are here to tell the tale.”

“Thank God for that.” Rosie’s eyes fluttered, a sure sign Ruth was pissing her off.

Ruth hugged Rosie. “I’ll say good night. Sam’s waiting for me in the car.”

“Why didn’t she call earlier to ask about the funeral?” Hal demanded when he’d returned from seeing Ruth out.

“Because she’s a yenta,” Rosie answered. “She stopped by to find out if we learned anything more about Sylvia’s death.”

“She did wonder if it was a coronary,” I pointed out.

Rosie grimaced. “That’s just Ruth being nosy.”

The phone rang. Hal rolled his eyes at me. “Grand Central Station,” he murmured as he reached for it. He listened, smiled. “Congratulations! Here, I’ll let you speak to Rosie.”

Rosie grabbed the telephone and disappeared in the dining room.

“It’s her cousin, Adele, Paulette’s mom,” Hal explained while Rosie made happy sounds. “Paulette saw the doctor and it’s confirmed. She’s pregnant.”

“How wonderful!" I mentally congratulated myself for having zoned in on the reason for her odd behavior Wednesday night.

Rosie returned to us a few minutes later and offered more details. “The baby’s due the middle of January. Everyone’s ecstatic.”

“Some nice news for a change,” Hal said.

We finished our dessert, then watched TV on the 56-inch screen in the den. I sat beside Rosie on the sofa, glad to be with friends and not alone in some dismal motel room. We watched a silly sitcom then the news. At eleven-thirty, I bid them good night.

“See you in the morning,” Rosie said.

I drifted off to sleep, reviewing what I’d learned that day: Gerda insisted she hadn’t murdered Sylvia; Ruth was a doting mother and a first class yenta; Paulette was pregnant. Nothing important or conclusive. Some sleuth I was turning out to be! I’d yet to unearth one clue that pointed conclusively to Sylvia’s murderer.

*

M
onday afternoon, I drove alone to the funeral because I wasn’t going on to the cemetery with the others. The service started promptly at two. After the rabbi gave his spiel, Michele and Eric spoke about their mother. I drove to Sylvia’s house and unlocked the front door. The spacious rooms were filled with evidence of Sylvia’s good taste, from the modern yet comfortable furniture to the large oil paintings and colorful wall hangings.

The order arrived. I set the platters and containers of food covered in plastic wrap on the dining room table, prepared pots of regular and decaf coffee, and placed paper plates, napkins, and plastic utensils at one end of the table. Puss appeared and rubbed against my leg. I took the hint and returned to the kitchen to feed him.

“Once the crowd leaves, it’s you and me, babe,” I told him.

Puss meowed as if he’d understood what I said, then chowed down.

The friends and neighbors who had accompanied Sylvia’s children to the cemetery arrived shortly after four o’clock. I put out the milk and other perishables. Lured by the aroma of freshly made coffee, everyone swarmed into the kitchen, filled up on food in the dining room, and gathered in small groups to nosh and chat.

Michele’s eyes were red when she entered the kitchen. “It’s done,” she said softly. “My mother’s in the ground, next to my dad.”

I poured a cup of coffee for Michele and sat her down at the kitchen table. I stood behind her and rubbed her back. “Sit here and rest a minute. You’ve had a trying day.”

She turned to me in astonishment, the tears flowing again. “You used to do that when I was little—rub my back when I couldn’t fall asleep.”

The massage soothed her. A few minutes later, she left to play hostess, and I put up another pot of decaf coffee.

A slim man in his mid-fifties, spiffy in a navy sports jacket, lavender shirt, and navy tie, came into the kitchen for coffee. Noting his well-cut salt-and-pepper hair and short beard, it occurred to me I’d never kissed a man with a beard. Now where the hell had that thought come from? Kissing this stranger or any man was the last thing on my mind.

“Would you happen to know if there’s more milk?” he asked with a hint of a British accent.

I smiled. “I was about to refill the pitcher." I opened the refrigerator and reached for the milk carton.

“Are you a friend or a relative?” he asked as I poured milk.

“I’m Lexie Driscoll, an old friend of the family. I’ll be staying at the house for the summer.”

He put down his coffee cup to stare at me. “So you’re Lexie!”

“I am.”

I must have sounded as wary as I felt because he apologized as he extended his hand. “Sorry. Sylvia told me you’d be living here this summer. I’m Allistair West. I live nearby.”

His grip, like his smile was friendly and warm. Now I remembered who he was. “You’re the architect who designed this house! The Morrises used to live across the street from my family. I remember how excited they were to be buying a West home." I was gushing, but I couldn’t help it. “This house is wonderful! Everything’s so totally light and airy and—livable! Much more beautiful than homes I’ve seen in magazines.”

“Actually, it
was
featured in a magazine—‘Many Mansions’—the first of my homes to receive such distinction." A shadow crossed Allistair’s face. “Unfortunately, the house became the battleground of an acrimonious divorce, and was practically in shambles when it went on the market. Sylvia and Phil brought it back to its proper condition.”

I nodded. “They did it with loving care.”

“Sylvia was a lovely woman,” Allistair said. “I’m heartbroken that she’s gone. We had the most amazing conversations at the oddest of times.”

“Sounds like you knew her very well.”

The glance he shot me was discerning and understanding. “As well as any two friends can know one another.”

His answer gave me the courage to ask, “Did you know about the book she was writing?”

Allistair sighed. “Oh, yes.”

“And that Gerda wanted her to omit all mention of her father?”

Allistair grimaced as he leaned against the refrigerator. “It bothered Sylvia considerably. Kept her up at nights. Gave her palpitations. I advised her to cut out the part about Gerda’s father. Hell! Forgo the whole damn book! But she insisted she had to write it. ‘To hold the villains accountable,’ she said, ‘for atrocities committed against the human race.’ I told her almost all the murderers were dead. Only their offspring were alive, and there was no point in making them suffer for the sins of their parents, but she held fast.”