The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle

by Laura Disilverio

  We laughed. When everyone had a drink, Maud dimmed the lights and clicked the remote. The rumble of the train, the elegance of the 1930s costumes and hairstyles, and the edgy tension of the dialogue held us spellbound for the first half of the movie, although there were some complaints about the casting.

  “They did a good job casting the men,” Kerry said, crunching on popcorn, “but the women—good grief! Lauren Bacall as an ‘elderly’ American lady, who I pictured as overweight, and Ingrid Bergman as a woman the book described as having a ‘sheeplike’ face. Come on! There is nothing in the world less sheeplike than Ingrid Bergman.”

  “Jacqueline Bisset is lovely as the young countess,” Lola said.

  “Albert Finney makes a good Poirot,” Maud put in. “Arrogant and obnoxious.”

  “Shush,” I commanded, trying to catch the dialogue.

  “It would be easier to find Gordon Marsh’s real murderer if you had a finite set of suspects,” Kerry observed later during a quiet moment. “Poirot had it easy—no one could come and go.”

  “True,” I said. “I drew up a timetable today, like Poirot did. Here.” I had made copies of it and I passed them out, explaining about Courtney and the discovery materials she had shared with me. “I’m afraid it doesn’t help much. This other page”—I passed it out—“is the crime scene sketch that was in the file.”

  “You know,” Lola said slowly, studying the latter, “I don’t know if I could have dragged a man Gordon’s size fifteen or twenty feet and then gotten him up and over the wall, and I’m stronger than most women.”

  Biting my lip, I nodded in agreement. Lola wasn’t tall, but she had muscular arms and legs, a product of hauling heavy plants and sacks of fertilizer and soil around all day at Bloomin’ Wonderful.

  “She’s got a point,” Maud said. “Gordon must have weighed—what?—two twenty, at least? And a dead body is just plain awkward. I’ve only got experience with deer and elk, of course, but moving a body is not like lifting a nice, stable weight bar at the gym.”

  “We should try it,” Brooke announced, startling me. “We need to know if we can rule out the women suspects.”

  I turned to look at her. “We should try throwing someone off the pub roof?”

  “No.” She laughed, but didn’t look any less determined. “We try an experiment here. How high was the wall?”

  I held my hand just below my rib cage. “About here.”

  “Okay. Maud, do you have anything around here that’s about that height?”

  Maud thought for a moment, upper lip pushing out over the lower. “I think the deck rail’s just a bit lower.”

  Kerry, getting into the spirit of the experiment, asked, “Who’s going to be Gordon? None of us weigh anything like two twenty.”

  Mischief sparkled in Maud’s pale blue eyes. “Joe’s home.” She disappeared down the hallway and reappeared a moment later with Joe Wrobleski, a rumpled-looking guy of her height and age, sporting a closely trimmed, mostly gray beard.

  “I hear you need a guinea pig,” he said good humoredly, his voice a bass rumble.

  “Do you mind?” Brooke asked.

  Like most males, he was not proof against her hopeful green eyes. “Heck no. I was only watching a Big Bang rerun.”

  “To the deck,” Brooke said, twirling her hand over her head and pointing.

  We trooped through the kitchen and out the back door onto the deck. Only a thin line of yellow showed on the western horizon, so Maud turned on a light so we could see what we were doing. It startled a great horned owl that took off from a lodge pole pine near Maud’s boat shed. Moving the picnic table and grill, which took up most of the room on the deck, we cleared a space for Joe to lie down.

  “He needs a towel,” I said, “so he won’t get splinters when we drag him.”

  “Good thinking.” Maud whisked away and came back with a ratty army blanket, which she folded into a pad and spread on the deck.

  “Okay,” Brooke said, apparently appointing herself director, “who wants to be the murderer?”

  “Should I be faceup or facedown?” Joe interrupted, lowering himself to the blanket with an audible creak from his knees.

  We looked at one another. “I don’t think it matters,” I finally said. “Faceup will probably be more comfortable, since we’re going to drag you.”

  “Absolutely,” Kerry said. When no one moved forward to be the murderer, she said, “Oh, heavens, I’ll do it.” She positioned herself behind Joe’s head, reached down, and hooked her hands under his armpits. Her bangs flopped into her eyes and she tossed her head impatiently so she could see. In a crouch, she began to drag him across the deck. Joe stiffened initially, but when Brooke ordered him to go limp, he let his head loll and asked, “How’s this?”

  “Corpses don’t talk,” Maud reminded him.

  Corpses don’t have muscle control, either, but I noticed he gripped handfuls of the blanket in either fist so it slid along with him and he didn’t get pulled off it.

  Kerry was breathing hard after five steps and grunting before she was halfway to the rail. She paused, lowering Joe to the deck. “You’re sure you only weigh two twenty?” she asked the corpse.

  Without opening his eyes, he mumbled, “Two fourteen this morning,” from the side of his mouth.

  Trying a new approach, she hooked her elbows under his calves and began to drag him. She managed to get to the deck rail with only a couple of complaints from the corpse about splinters, but we could all tell there was no way she was going to be able to maneuver him to waist height and dump him over. Wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, Kerry said, “There have got to be easier ways to kill someone.”

  Maud handed her her drink. “Let me see if I can get him up in a fireman’s rescue carry.”

  With a great deal of effort, Maud finally managed to get Joe slumped over her shoulder, head down her back, her arm clamped around the back of his thighs at chest level. To his credit, Joe didn’t object once, not even when he started to slip and we all jumped forward to wedge him against her shoulder. She staggered to the deck rail with him and tried to heft him up and forward enough to get him over the rail.

  “Ow,” Joe complained as she banged his spine against the wood.

  After two more tries, Maud told him to stand up. He brushed himself off and rubbed his back. “This has given me a new perspective on hazardous occupations,” he said. “Next time I’m inching down a canyon wall to get a shot of cliff swallows, I’ll remember this and not complain.”

  “You were a good sport,” Brooke said.

  “A strong man might just have been able to get him over the railing,” said Lola, who’d stood a bit away observing the whole process like the scientist she was, “but I have trouble seeing any woman managing it on her own.”

  “She’d have blood on her, too,” Brooke pointed out, “if she’d done that rescue carry. And her clothes and hair would be a mess. Surely someone would have noticed if a woman disappeared for twenty minutes or so and then came back looking like she’d been wrestling a bear?”

  “Hey,” Joe objected.

  “I meant a very handsome, gentle bear.” Brooke smiled at him.

  “That’s okay, then,” he said. He drew his hands down his beard to smooth it. “The corpse needs a drink. What’s that you’re having?”

  Once Joe had a sidecar, we reassembled in the living room. “I still think it was more than one person,” Maud said stubbornly. “It’s too awkward for one person alone, even a man.”

  “You might be right,” Kerry said reluctantly (because she hated to agree with Maud on anything conspiracy-related). “If so, who are the obvious coconspirators?”

  “Kolby and Susan,” I said.

  “I nominate the WOSCers,” Maud said. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, never mind dozens of women scorned.”
/>   “I’ll keep that in mind,” Joe teased. He sat beside her, their thighs touching, and their obvious respect and affection for each other made me happy.

  “His sister and her husband had the most visceral motive,” Lola said. “They think he’s responsible for their daughter’s death. I’m a Christian woman, and Axie’s my sister, not daughter, but I’d sure want to hurt anyone who hurt her.” Her eyes behind her glasses were quite fierce.

  “Angie’s too small and he’s got an alibi,” I pointed out.

  Lola’s shrug said she wasn’t convinced.

  “Anyone know Gene Dreesen, Angie’s husband?” I asked.

  “He’s an accountant,” Brooke said. “He does the books for the dealership, but I’ve never met him.”

  How would Hercule Poirot finagle a meeting with a suspect? He’d march in and introduce himself as the world’s greatest detective. That wasn’t going to work for me. What would Lydia Chin do? Or V. I. Warshawski? Before I could figure that out, Kerry interrupted my thoughts.

  “Money makes the world go round,” Kerry said, pulling off a clip earring and massaging her earlobe. “I’m with Amy-Faye. I think it was the ex and the son. They’re the ones who benefit most.”

  “Except she sat at the WOSC table all night—wasn’t gone for more than five minutes at a crack, according to the other women,” I said. I pointed to my timeline.

  “But you don’t have anything down here for Kolby,” Brooke said.

  “He was moving around too much, serving drinks, going to the kitchen to pick up food orders, and who knows what else? We could maybe track his movements more closely with the receipts from that night,” I said, the thought striking me so quickly that I sat up and spilled a couple of drops of my second sidecar on my thigh. “Every server has a code that they enter into the computer when logging an order. I could pull up the data from that night and see what it tells us.”

  “Good thinking,” Maud said with an approving nod.

  Brooke, who had been looking thoughtful, said, “I think you—we—need to look at the unlikely allies. I mean, look at Orient Express.” She nodded toward the TV screen, which was frozen on a still of Albert Finney as Hercule Poirot. “You’d never think half those people would even know each other, much less conspire to kill someone together. Maybe some of the suspects have connections we don’t know about.”

  Kerry threw up her hands and sucked in a deep breath through flared nostrils. “This is hopeless,” she said. She immediately added, “I’m sorry, Amy-Faye; I didn’t mean that. Even if we don’t discover who killed Gordon, I’m sure Derek won’t get convicted. If the moving parts and timelines and possible suspects are confusing us, just think how the poor jurors will feel. There’s enough reasonable doubt in all this to fill an Olympic-size swimming pool.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, knowing she hadn’t meant anything by her outburst. I was frustrated, too. I rose to go. “Thanks for having us over, Maud. And thanks for playing corpse, Joe. You’ve got a real future in the acting biz if you ever decide to give up on photography.”

  “Be on the other side of the lens? No, thanks,” he said, unexpectedly rising and folding me into a comforting bear hug. “Don’t let it get to you, Amy-Faye. It’ll all come out right.”

  I sniffed. “Thanks, Joe.” I was grateful for the kindness of this man I didn’t even know very well. “I’m sure you’re right.” I looked around at the Readaholics. “Thanks to all of you for helping, and for caring about Derek. Keep drinking Elysium beer—it’s paying his legal bills.”

  They laughed, and some of the others also got ready to leave. As we walked out in a clump, I reflected on how blessed I was to have such wonderful friends. The thought warmed me all the way home. For my bedtime reading, I picked up the latest Royal Spyness book from my to-be-read pile. The 1930s setting reminded me of the movie we’d just watched, and I was in the mood for Lady Georgie’s antics. Snuggling into the crisp white sheets, I drifted off to sleeping, thinking hazily that if only America were a monarchy, I could have been a minor royal, too.

  Chapter 20

  I woke Friday morning with an idea for getting in touch with Gene Dreesen. It had come to me in a jumbled dream that included both the Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov Hercule Poirots, Lady Georgie, a train that went round and round on a circular track, and, for some unknown reason, a ballerina dancing to the Sugar Plum Fairy song. She broke her arm halfway through her solo and had to finish dancing in a cast. Somewhere out of that strange collage had come the idea: Gene Dreesen was an accountant and I was a business owner who employed an accountant. Suppose I met with him, pretending I was looking for a new CPA to do my books and taxes? I said a silent apology to Perdita Coss, my real accountant, and hoped word wouldn’t get back to her that I was looking to replace her.

  Accordingly, after stopping for a large coffee at the Divine Herb, and eyeing the women coming downstairs from yoga enviously—I needed to put yoga back in my schedule—I called Dreesen’s firm as soon as I walked into the office. When I explained that it was urgent, they were happy to give me an appointment at one o’clock.

  I put thoughts of Derek and the investigation out of my mind, working feverishly all morning on the events we had on the books for this weekend. Chasing down murder suspects had cut into my work time and I was not as prepared as I liked to be for what was shaping up to be a busy weekend with a bachelorette party tonight, a community yard sale Saturday morning, an anniversary do Saturday night, and a brunch Sunday morning. Al drifted into my office midmorning, wanting to talk about Courtney, but I wasn’t able to tell him anything about her relationship status.

  “All I can say is, she’s not dating my brother.” I remained focused on the toast I was editing for the husband of the anniversary couple tomorrow night. When I’d started out in event organizing, I’d had no idea my English degree would actually come in useful, but it did on occasion. I was constantly amazed by the number of best men; maids of honors; corporate honchos making remarks at promotions, retirements, or other events; and others who asked me to either write their remarks or edit them.

  “Eliminating one possible boyfriend still leaves her a lot of scope,” he pointed out dolefully.

  “Look her up on Facebook.”

  “Already did. She’s not on there.”

  I finally looked up from the notes I was making. “Call her and ask her out.”

  “Like on a date?” He looked comically surprised at the notion.

  “Exactly like that. An assignation, a rendezvous, dinner and a movie . . . a date.”

  Al wandered out so gobsmacked by the idea that he couldn’t even respond.

  I grinned and returned to my editing.

  • • •

  At twelve forty-five, I climbed into the van and headed for the east end of town and the office building where Madrid, Dreesen, and Jones had their CPA firm. I climbed the stairs to their third-floor office, wanting the time to collect myself and go over the new approach I planned to take. Instead of impugning Perdita by hinting that there was something amiss with Eventful!’s books, I was going to say that we—my family—needed Elysium’s books audited by an independent firm because we thought there was something amiss in the wake of Gordon’s death. I’d called to discuss the idea with my mother and Derek, and they were on board with it, as long as I didn’t actually turn over the books to Gene Dreesen.

  “He’s got a conflict of interest, doesn’t he?” Derek asked. “Being Gordon’s brother-in-law?”

  “Probably.” I didn’t know what the CPA code of ethics looked like. “I’m just using it as an excuse to get in and see him, so it won’t matter if he ends up saying he can’t do the audit. In fact, it makes it easier if he recuses himself, because then I won’t have to come up with an excuse for not giving him the job.”

  Smoothing my pale blue skirt over my thighs, and lifting my hair off my neck for a moment, I pu
shed through the door and into the CPA firm’s reception area. I barely had time to note glass end tables flanking a black leather sofa, and a flourishing ficus tree before the male receptionist whisked me back to Gene Dreesen’s office.

  “Your one o’clock,” the receptionist said, reducing me to an appointment time. He hurried back to the reception desk to answer the ringing phone.

  The office was minimalist, the desk a slice of black acrylic or some kind of space-age material, the desk lamp made of industrial pipe with a wire basket over the bulb, and no desk clutter except a slim laptop and a framed photo of a girl who had to be Kinleigh. A gray cellular shade cut the glare from the large window but allowed plenty of natural light. There wasn’t a piece of paper in sight—Maud would approve.

  “Amy-Faye Johnson,” I said, smiling and extending my hand.

  “Eugene Dreesen. Call me Gene.”

  He was about ten years older than Dr. Angie Dreesen, I thought, which put him in his mid-fifties. His hair was prematurely white, but full, framing a long face and mostly covering thick-lobed ears. When he stood to shake my hand, I saw that he was tall and slightly stooped. His charcoal pin-striped jacket fit loosely, as if he’d recently lost weight, and I suspected the groove between his brows and the lines bracketing his mouth were deeper now than they had been six months ago, before his daughter’s death.

  “How can I help you, Ms. Johnson? You own an event-organizing business, I understand.”