Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (8 page)

My mouth went dry. I had to swallow before I could speak. “Michele told me yesterday Sylvia left me money. I had no idea!”

He shrugged.

“You don’t believe me?” I asked, my voice sounding two octaves higher.

“Witnesses lie all the time.”

Incensed by his smug attitude, I added, “I still haven’t spoken to her lawyer. I don’t know how much I’ll be receiving.”

“Over a hundred thousand dollars.”

The number clamored in my head. I gaped at him. “Oh, my God!”

To my disgust, I began to tremble. Detective Donovan reached across the coffee table as if to pat my shoulder, then thought better of it. “Please calm down, Dr. Driscoll.”

I blinked back tears and glared at him. “How can I calm down when all this is a shock to my system! I loved Sylvia! She was like a relative, someone I’d known since I was a child. And you’re accusing me of killing her when I had no idea she’d put me in her will!”

I covered my face and wept—for losing Sylvia, for her kindness that made me look like a suspect, for all I’d endured this past year. Furious at losing control in front of this callous interrogator who preyed on my vulnerabilities, I swiped away my tears. “I didn’t kill Sylvia!” I shouted.

“Somebody did,” he said, totally unfazed by my outburst.

“Somebody who was at the house that night, eating and talking with us as though everything were normal.”

He got up. “Just like in your Agatha Christie novels, eh, Dr. Driscoll?”

A
fter Detective Donovan left, I curled up on Sylvia’s white nubby sofa, too shaken to move. The police now considered Sylvia’s death a homicide, and I was a suspect. I shuddered. Probably their chief suspect, along with Gerda Stein.

Puss jumped onto the sofa and sniffed my face. Then he climbed on my chest, purring like a car motor while he cleaned his flank. I stroked his head, and he paused in his ablutions long enough to rub against my hand. Comforted by his acceptance and warm, furry presence, I gathered my wits in order to absorb and make sense of what Detective Donovan had told me.

Sylvia had left me one hundred thousand dollars! A drop in the bucket by Old Cadfield standards, but a considerable fortune by mine. My dear friend wanted to help me, and her kindness had made me a suspect in her murder investigation.

I reviewed my conversation with Detective Donovan, hoping I hadn’t said anything incriminating. Fool that I was! Of course a member of the book club had killed Sylvia. Her murderer was someone she knew. As reprehensible as the thought was, it was the only fact we had aside from the murder weapon—toxic water from lilies of the valley.

Could it have been an accident? Had someone spilled the water into Sylvia’s glass thinking it wasn’t being used? Or maybe the person didn’t
mean
for Sylvia to die, but wanted her to get violently ill. I shook my head, annoyed that I had so much difficulty wrapping my mind around the fact that a friend or neighbor had deliberately and maliciously set out to end Sylvia's life.

Agatha Christie never shrank from showing the dark side of human nature. Most readers considered her mysteries cozies because she often set them in English villages and the murders occurred off scene. But her murderers were ruthless and killed for a variety of reasons—blackmail, jealousy, an inheritance.

Inheritance! I nearly choked on the thought. Michele and Eric stood to gain millions each, but neither had been present at the murder scene. I was. The amount of money Sylvia left me was a fortune to me, and Donovan knew it.

I had to prove I was innocent! I thought of Dame Agatha’s two best known sleuths. Miss Marple posed as a naive innocent, when in fact her mind cut as sharp as a razor. She often compared the suspects she came across to denizens of her village, St. Mary Mead. I had no such baseline to work from. Only my eyes and ears and common sense. I’d make use of my “little grey cells” as Hercule Poirot did. 

But how to go about it? I’d already spoken to Gerda, Marcie, Ruth, and Paulette and had gotten nowhere. Then it dawned on me. I’d been present at the scene of the murder. I had to think back on the entire afternoon and evening, recalling who had sat beside whom, who had poured the iced tea, who’d been alone in the kitchen during cleanup time and when we’d put out desserts and coffee.

The phone rang, breaking my concentration. I reached automatically for my cell phone, then realized Sylvia’s phone was ringing.

“Hi, Lexie. Allistair here.”

Allistair! He and Sylvia had been good friends. He’d know if anyone besides Gerda held a grudge against Sylvia.

“How sweet of you to call,” I said in my friendliest voice.

“I noticed cars at the house and thought I’d ask how you’re settling in.”

“Rosie and Ginger helped move me. I have to admit, it’s strange being here on my own, after the mob that showed up for the shiva.”

“Would you like to come over for a drink? I could pick you up, if you like.”

“I could use a drink,” I said, remembering my ordeal with Donovan. “I’ll walk over. I’d like the exercise.”

“In that case, turn right when you leave the house and right again at the corner onto Marigold. I’m across the street, the third house from the corner. Number 12.”

“Sounds easy enough,” I said. “When shall I come?”

“As soon as you’d like.”

I changed into black capris, a low-cut turquoise polo, and black sandals. I snipped lilac branches from bushes on the side of the house and breathed in their heavenly scent as I walked the short distance to Allistair’s home.

He waited for me at the end of his driveway dressed in Bermuda shorts, a navy polo shirt and sandals. He kissed my cheek, then took the flowers and drank in their aroma. “Ah, lilacs. One of my favorites.”

I grinned. Coming from another man, his behavior would have had me wondering about his sexual orientation.

“Shall we?" With a sweep of his arm, Allistair ushered me up the driveway and welcomed me into his home.

The living room/dining room area was airy and light like Sylvia’s, but built on a smaller scale. Trees and bushes grew outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, giving one the sense of being inside a forest. Bold fabric hangings set off stark-white walls. The Scandinavian furniture had clean, simple lines. Allistair smiled as I took it all in.

“Like it?” he asked.

“Very much. Spare but comfortable." I laughed. “Not like the clutter I create, given the slightest opportunity.”

I followed him into the kitchen and admired the state-of-the-art appliances, white wooden cabinets, and copper-colored granite counters. He removed a pitcher from the refrigerator and snagged two glasses with his other hand.

“Pomegranate martinis." He jutted his chin toward a tray holding two dips and chips on the counter. “Would you be so kind as to grab that? I thought we’d enjoy the good weather.”

He opened the sliding door. Outside, I paused at one of the outdoor tables, but Allistair continued across the deck and down three steps to the terrace below. I was suddenly surrounded by giant bamboo plants and a pond of koi fish that transported me to another world. The sound of running water drew my attention to a fountain consisting of three flat stones, each on a different level.

I sat at the small wrought iron table and sighed. “This is heaven.”

“My bit of it, anyway." He filled the glasses and handed me one. “Cheers.”

“
L’chaim
.”

We clinked glasses and sipped. “Perfect,” I murmured.

He winked. “We aim to please.”

I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Though I hardly knew Allistair, I felt no need to chatter or make idle conversation. I closed my eyes. A minute or so passed. “This is the most serene I’ve been in weeks. Make it this past year.”

Allistair nodded. “The house has that affect. My wife would have loved living here. I lost Melody four years ago. Lung cancer.”

So Rosie had told me when I’d mentioned meeting Allistair. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. Now she’s at peace.”

We sat in silence lost in our own musings, and for once my mind was at rest. I was content to sip my drink and absorb the peace and tranquility of the scene, observing how the breeze blew my hair about my face.

I gave a start when Allistair asked if I’d like a refill.

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?” I laughed. From where I sat, the world was a beautiful place.

He asked if I knew other people besides Sylvia in Old Cadfield, and I told him about Rosie’s invitation to lead the mystery book club, my initial reluctance, then how happy I’d been to do it until Sylvia was murdered.

Another delicate subject, one that Allistair sensed I’d had my fill of. He talked about his two daughters: Davida, who was studying art in Paris, and Tessa, who lived in Manhattan with her husband and their pug.

I told him about Jesse's becoming a musician like his father. The breeze grew stronger, and he caught me shivering. “Be right back,” he said, darting up from his chair. He returned a minute later with a light blanket, which he placed around my shoulders.

“So, tell me about yourself, Lexie Driscoll.”

I smiled. “I thought I’d been doing that.”

“I’d rather hear the unedited version."

I gave a little laugh. “You cut right to the chase, don’t you?”

He gave me a level look. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m fifty-seven. If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that life is short.”

I drew a breath and began. “You know Rosie was my college roommate in Boston. I married my first husband Godfrey during my senior year. He took off a year and a half later, right after Jesse was born. He claimed he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood, though you’d never know that now." I let out a humorless laugh. “Father and son both live in LA and are the best of pals.”

“I’m sorry,” Allistair murmured.

I waved my hand. “
I’m
sorry for whining. I can’t believe it still bothers me. Anyway, I returned to New York and worked any odd job I could find while I took classes and wrote my dissertation. I got my PhD in English lit and started teaching at Mondale University. Four years ago, I married Gerald, another English professor, and he turned out to be a total loon. We separated. He burned down our house—
my
house, to be precise—and killed himself in the process. I moved into a dinky apartment out East. Sylvia coaxed me to live in her house while she went to an artists’ colony for the summer, and here I am for now." I gave a little laugh. “End of story.”

Allistair gave me a lazy grin. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve skipped over the juiciest parts? I’m sure you don’t do that when you’re writing your novel.”

Flustered, I demanded, “Who said I was writing a novel?”

“Rosie.”

“Rosie,” I echoed, aggrieved. But since I’d quizzed her about Allistair, why wouldn’t I expect he’d question her about me?

Allistair laughed. “Don’t be angry at her. Here in Old Cadfield, there’s little we don’t know about each other’s lives.”

“I’m glad to hear that because I want to pick your brain about a few people.”

That caught him up short.

“The police now know that Sylvia’s been poisoned,” I told him. “They’re looking at me as a possible suspect because she left me money, which I knew nothing about until yesterday.”

“Stupid of them." Allistair pursed his lips.

“I don’t want you to betray any confidences, but I’d appreciate it if you could tell me if Sylvia ever had serious disagreements with anyone who was at the Gordons the night she died.”

He thought a moment. “You know about Gerda’s quarrel with Sylvia.”

I nodded, and it occurred to me to ask, “Who was that rather obese man she was talking to at the shiva? Gerda didn’t appear to like what he was saying.”

Allistair chortled. “She wouldn’t, I’d imagine. Ronnie Goldfarb’s her accountant. He lives a few blocks from here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Gerda’s broke. Most of her investments have gone south. She’s having trouble paying her taxes.”

Stunned, I stared at him. “How do you know?”

He leaned over the table and lowered his voice. As if anyone could hear us. “This isn’t for public knowledge.”

“Of course not,” I agreed.

“Gerda asked which bank I’d recommend she go to for a home equity loan or a reverse mortgage. She talked about having to put her house on the market. I advised her to wait, if she could, for home values to rise. Another martini?”

I shook my head. “I find it difficult to grasp that anyone living in Old Cadfield has serious money troubles.”

“More than you’d imagine,” he said, and I wondered if I’d touched on a sore spot.

“What about Ruth Blessing?” I recalled how, at the shiva, the others in the mother-daughter group had stared at her when I asked who’d had disagreements with Sylvia.

“As far as I can tell, she and Sam aren’t declaring bankruptcy,” Allistair answered dryly.

The poor guy was having a hard time of it, blabbing about his neighbors’ private affairs. I felt sorry for him, but I pushed on. “What I want to know is how did Ruth and Sylvia get along? Had they have argued recently?”

Allistair stared at me as if I had mind-reading abilities. “Interesting you should ask. There was a brouhaha about the time I moved to Old Cadfield.”

I felt a quickening of interest. “Doesn’t matter how long ago. It could be relevant.”

He hesitated. “Sylvia told me about this several months after everything was straightened out.”

“Sylvia’s dead, Allistair. I want to know who had reason to kill her.”

He sighed. “Sylvia and Ruth co-chaired a fundraiser for one of those orphan diseases that are always left out in the cold. Sylvia had to go out of town for a few weeks. When she returned, some big checks had been cashed and weren’t accounted for. She was frantic. When she asked Ruth about them, Ruth gave her one lame excuse after another. Finally, Sylvia accused Ruth of stealing the money. Ruth resigned in a huff. The money turned up in hundred dollar bills the night of the fundraiser dinner.”

“So what you’re telling me,” I said slowly as I worked it out, “is that Ruth Blessing took the money she’d collected for an orphan disease...”