By now I’d completely lost track of what I’d been saying, so I decided to talk about the other characters in the novel. “A doctor specializing in poisons is a visitor at Styles. What else does he turn out to be?”
“A German spy!” Ginger rang out.
Gerda gasped and fled from the room.
What a meeting this was turning out to be! People were dropping out of sight like the characters in And Then There Were None, as they’re killed off one by one.
Rosie returned to the library. “Sylvia’s resting in the guest room,” she said as she took her seat. Ruth leaned over to whisper in her ear, most likely to tell her about Gerda’s strange behavior, because she took off again.
Heads turned to one another to whisper concerns. My upbeat attitude about leading this book club was fast melting like snowflakes falling on water. How could we carry on a discussion with everyone coming and going? I had to grab their attention or I’d lose it for good.
“The murder occurs in Chapter Three,” I said a bit stridently. I lowered my pitch. “Someone has poisoned Emily Inglethorp during the night. Poirot is brought in to investigate.”
Lowell burst into the library, his face as white as paper. Where the hell had he come from? I’d assumed he’d gone home after dinner, but obviously I was wrong. His eyes darted from face to face. He made a beeline for Rosie as she reentered the room, followed by his wife.
“Come quick! It’s Sylvia. I think she’s—”
“No!” I cried as I sped through the living room and up the stairs. Rosie and the others followed in my wake. Maybe it was all this talk about murder, but I had a sickening feeling my friend was dying. Rex, the Gordons’ golden retriever raced past me. Todd pushed ahead, mumbling something about knowing CPR. When I reached the guest room, he was kneeling beside the bed where Sylvia lay motionless. He put his ear to her heart then looked up at Rosie’s husband, Hal, who was standing beside him.
“Is she—?”
Hal held her wrist and checked for a pulse. We watched, breathless, as he pressed his fingers against her neck. “I’m afraid she’s gone.”
“We can’t be sure!" Todd pinched Sylvia’s nostrils closed and performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. “Come on, Sylvia! Breathe!”
He pressed down on her heart, listened, and repeated the procedure. Hal took him by the shoulders and led him away from the body on the bed. Tears filled my eyes. Minutes ago Sylvia was with us, eating and drinking and talking about books. And now she was dead.
“Her heart gave out,” Rosie murmured.
“I’ll call 911.” Hal touched my arm. “Lexie, do you have Sylvia’s kids’ phone numbers? They need to be told.”
I sobbed, too distraught to answer. Finally, I brushed away my tears. “Not with me, but I know where they live. I’ll go online and get their numbers.”
“Use the laptop in my office."
Hal left and Rosie coaxed the rest of us from the room like a mother hen. I hung back to have a moment alone with Sylvia. I bent to kiss her cheek and whispered a silent good-bye. Then I closed the door behind me.
I nearly collided with the small, dark figure of Gerda hovering outside the room.
“My poor, dear friend,” she murmured. “I feel so bad.”
“Really?" I glared at her. “I bet you’re happy she’s dead.”
CHAPTER TWO
Too numb to move, I huddled in the corner of Rosie’s living room sofa, oblivious of the others conversing in hushed tones. I’d known Sylvia Morris since I was eight years old, when she and her husband moved into the house across the street from my family. My mom and Sylvia struck up a close friendship that, for some reason or other, included me. Sylvia treated me as a favorite niece, perhaps because we were both bookworms. She gave up her job in the city when her daughter was born and started writing—first magazine articles, then books. In high school, I often babysat for her two children.
The Morrises moved to Old Cadfield the year I went away to college. Mom and Sylvia kept up their friendship, but I lost touch with her for several years. After both my parents and her husband died within two years of one another, Sylvia and I made a point of speaking at least once a month. When she heard that Gerald, my estranged second husband, had managed to kill himself while burning down my house, she invited me to live with her, pointing out that her home was much too large for one person. I would have loved to let her pamper me, but my “independence” button—which both my husbands called my Stubborn Streak—kicked in, and I turned down her offer. Though my sudden expenses due to the fire had eaten into my savings, I refused to accept charity.
But Sylvia, God bless her, had persisted. A few months later she called to say she’d be spending the summer at an artists' colony, putting the final touches on her latest book. I’d be doing her the hugest of favors if I’d house and cat sit while she was away. I agreed, secretly relieved by her offer. I was sick of living in a dark, dinky apartment with paper-thin walls that let in my neighbors’ every smell and sound. I regarded my upcoming stay in luxurious if temporary living quarters as a sure sign my life was finally moving in the right direction.
Now Sylvia was dead.
A siren wailed in the night. The doorbell rang. Two policemen and four Emergency Medical Service paramedics filled the hall. Rosie, Hal, and the others answered the officers’ questions in the den while the three male and one female paramedics trouped upstairs. I turned away when they descended, not wanting to see Sylvia leaving the house on a gurney.
We all die at one time or another, but Sylvia had died too soon.
I paid scant attention as the others bid Rosie and Hal good night and left.
“Lexie.”
Startled, I looked up into Anne’s eyes filled with concern.
“I’m so sorry, Lexie. I know Sylvia was an old friend.”
I nodded in appreciation of her sympathy. “I had no idea her health had taken a turn for the worse.”
“Take care,” Anne said. “When you’re feeling up to it, call the office to set up an appointment.”
“Oh, right! I have to sign my will."
Alone again, I stifled the hysterical laughter bubbling in my throat. As though I had anything of value to leave my only child!
Enough of this doom and gloom, I told myself. Dwelling on death and self-pity would drive me to that dark place that sucked at me like quicksand, draining my will until I barely had the strength to get out of bed. I wouldn’t go there again! I couldn’t! I forced myself to my feet and walked into the library where Rosie was setting dirty dishes on a tray. I started stacking glasses.
She tried to shoo me away. “Go home, Lexie. Or stay the night, if you like.”
“I’ll leave soon, but now I have to keep busy, if you don’t mind."
“Suit yourself.” Rosie rested the tray on the table and sighed. “Hal managed to reach both Michele and Eric. They’re taking early morning flights, and should be in Old Cadfield by eleven tomorrow morning. They’d like us to go with them to the funeral home when they make the arrangements.”
I swallowed. “Of course.”
Rosie went on. “Their mother’s death was a shock to them both. Sylvia’s cardiologist had given her a good report after her last battery of tests.”
I swallowed. “How long will Michele and Eric be staying?”
“As long as it takes to settle matters. They both made a point of saying they have to return home as soon as possible.”
“I can understand that." Michele, her husband, and their two young children lived in a rural area of Vermont. Her brother taught high school science in Seattle. “I suppose they’ll be putting the house on the market.”
“They’ll probably talk to a realtor while they’re here. At any rate..." Rosie’s voice faltered.
At any rate—I mentally finished her sentence for her—my summer house sitting plans were canceled. I was supposed to be moving into Sylvia’s house next week. Rosie cleared her throat. I knew she was about to broach the subject on b
oth our minds.
“I’m sorry, Lexie. This hasn’t been a very good year for you.”
I shrugged, making light of the matter, while inside I felt like a top spinning off a cliff. You’ll get through this, as you’ve gotten through every difficult period in your life. “I’ll find another apartment,” I said aloud. “That rats’ nest I’ve been staying in has been rented out as of next week.”
Rosie put her arm around my shoulders. “You know you’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like.”
I glanced away so she wouldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes. Her sympathy unnerved me. I needed to remain strong in order to cope with this latest ordeal. With forced vigor, I helped Rosie put the house back into shape. I was glad for the activity, glad to keep my hands and mind occupied. A question arose in my mind as I carried a tray of dirty glasses and cups into the kitchen.
I turned to Rosie, who was stacking the dishwasher. “How come Lowell found Sylvia? I mean, what was he doing upstairs?”
Rosie pursed her lips, weighing her answer. She drew a deep breath. For a moment I thought she wasn’t going to tell me. Finally, she said, “Gerda asked him to speak to Sylvia. In his legal capacity.”
“Legal capacity?" I was outraged. “Gerda’s father’s activities are in public records. She couldn’t sue over something like that!”
“Probably not, but the fact that Sylvia was writing about him created a terrible situation between them. Sylvia refused to cut the section about Gerda’s father from her book, and Gerda was just as determined that she omit it.”
“I know. That’s what they were talking about before the meeting began. Gerda threatened to kill Sylvia if she wrote about her father.”
For once I managed to shake Rosie up. “Gerda actually said that? 'I’ll kill you if you write about my father’?”
I backtracked. “Not exactly. But that’s what she implied.”
She sighed with relief. “People say all kinds of things when they’re angry.”
I stared at Rosie. “Do you think Gerda killed Sylvia to stop her?”
“Of course not!" Rosie hugged me. “Lexie, you read too many mysteries. This is real life, my dear. Sylvia had a heart condition. No doubt, all this tumult brought on another coronary.”
I nodded. “Probably. We’ll know for sure after the autopsy.”
She frowned. “The autopsy?”
“Of course. The authorities insist on autopsies in all cases of sudden death.”
*
I drove east on the Long Island Expressway, glad that the traffic was light. Exhaustion pressed down on my head and shoulders like a smothering blanket, as it tended to do during times of stress. Sylvia was gone. What’s more, as of next week I had no idea where I’d be living. No problem. As I told Rosie, I’d find another apartment. No biggie. Everything I owned fit in my car. I laughed aloud at my ridiculous situation. And for having started the day with abounding optimism.
I’d spent the morning and early afternoon at the university, handing in grades and fulfilling administrative chores so my chairman would have no reason to contact me over the summer. At two thirty, I set out for the Gordons, as happy as a sailor on leave. It was a lovely Wednesday in late May. The sun was blazing, and I was free, free, free! No inattentive students, poorly-written term papers, or petty university politics for almost three months! I’d looked forward to having the run of Sylvia’s spacious home, its sylvan grounds and Olympic-sized pool. I hoped to finally finish the novel I’d started before the bad times had begun.
At last I pulled in front of the sorry-looking garden apartment that was to be my home for five more days, and climbed the rickety stairs to the second floor. I undressed and slipped into bed. But the moment I closed my eyes, I was no longer sleepy. I kept seeing Sylvia lying motionless on the bed in Rosie’s guest room.
I blinked back tears, determined not to turn weepy and maudlin. “Get it all out,” might be what therapists advised, but I knew from experience I was better off reining in my emotions and memories.
I rose from the lumpy mattress and heated some milk, which I sweetened with honey. The potion worked its magic. I relaxed as the grip of sorrow loosened around my heart and allowed my thoughts to wander. I remembered how furious Gerda had been at Sylvia for exposing her father’s past to the world. I drifted off to sleep wondering if Gerda had been angry enough to kill.
But why do it in Rosie’s house with so many people around? To throw off suspicion, of course. Only it hadn’t worked out that way.
Morning sunlight poured through the gauzy curtains. I awoke with a sense of urgency. I thought back to last night’s hectic events, concentrated on the various settings of dishes and glasses until I retrieved what I was after: a small vase of lilies of the valley on the kitchen counter. I’d noticed it during dinner, when I’d come inside to refill the pitcher of iced tea. I remembered feeling relieved it had been placed against the backsplash so Rex would have no opportunity to knock it over, then lap up the water. Lilies of the valley were poisonous. The water they were placed in turned toxic as well.
My heart raced as I tried to remember if the flowers had been on the counter after Sylvia had died. I dialed Rosie’s number.
“Hello?" Her voice sounded muffled with sleep.
“Rosie, this is important. Do you remember that vase of lilies of the valley you had on the counter?”
“What time is it?”
I glanced at the clock beside my bed. “Eight thirty. Do you?”
I heard a big yawn. “Sure. What about it?”
“Were the flowers still on the counter when we cleaned up last night?”
“I can’t remember. What does it matter? Why are you calling so early? Uff, get off me, Rex! Ginger, take this beast out of here!”
I heard Ginger in the background and a few short barks. When it was quiet again, I continued. “Because I don’t think it was there later on. I mean, after everyone left and they took poor Sylvia away.”
“Oh, my God! I have a dozen phone calls to make. And I told Michele and Eric I’ll pick them up at Sylvia’s house at eleven, so be here a quarter to. Gotta go!”
“Wait, Rosie, this is important! When you put lilies of the valley in a vase, the water turns toxic.”
She snorted. “Don’t you think I know! I keep those flowers far from Rex’s reach. And I know he didn’t drink any of the water from the vase because he’s fine.”
But Sylvia wasn’t. “Think a moment. Was the vase on the counter when you were loading the dishwasher?”
Rosie didn’t answer right away. Finally, she sighed. “I didn’t notice. Don’t tell me you think someone poured the water into Sylvia’s iced tea.”
“I hope not, but I’ll feel a hell of a lot better after you tell me the vase, along with the water and flowers, are still on your counter.”
“Lexie! You’re spouting nonsense! This isn’t an Agatha Christie mystery we’re talking about. Sylvia died of her heart condition.”
“After dinner she was holding her stomach as though she were in pain.”
“She was,” Rosie agreed. “I hope it wasn’t our cooking that did her in.”
I drew a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “Maybe Sylvia was poisoned.”
“Who would do a thing like that?”
“Who? You know as well as I do—Gerda.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m running into the bathroom, then I’ll scoot down to the kitchen and let you know if the vase is still there. I’m hanging up.”
She called a few minutes later. “It’s weird. I couldn’t find the vase anywhere, but the flowers were at the bottom of the trash.”
We digested that bit of news in silence.
“That’s no proof of anything,” Rosie said. “With so many people in my kitchen, someone might have knocked over the vase, then wiped up the water and tossed the flowers." She gave a strained laugh. “Hal’s always tossing flowers. He says I love to set them out, but ignore them when they die.”
&nbs
p; “The lilies weren’t dead,” I told her. “And where’s the vase?”
“Could be someone broke it, and thinking I’d be upset, threw out the pieces where I wouldn’t see them.”
“Or removed the vase to get rid of the evidence,” I persisted.
“What evidence? Stop thinking you’re Hercule Poirot.”
“People kill other people,” I reminded her. “And they burn down houses.”
That made Rosie pause. “You really think Gerda was angry enough to poison Sylvia?”
I exhaled loudly. “I don’t know what to think. Only that I ought to head down to your little police station and tell them about this.”
“For real?”
“Of course for real.”
Her Pollyanna attitude back in place, Rosie let out an exasperated sigh. “I think you’re overreacting as you usually do when something awful happens. But do what you have to.”
“I will.”
“Knock yourself out,” were her parting words, “but be here by ten fifty-five, the latest.”
I showered, dressed in capris and a polo, then headed back to Old Cadfield. For once, Rosie’s casual outlook on life did nothing to soothe my apprehensions. Sure, Hal or Ginger—or anyone else, for that matter—might have thrown out the flowers and dumped the water. But where was the vase? Sylvia’s death had been sudden. Given her medical history, we’d all jumped to the conclusion she’d suffered a heart attack. But she’d gripped her stomach in pain. And she’d been disoriented and dizzy. All signs of having been poisoned.
I shuddered at the awful conclusion I’d come to—that someone at the meeting had killed Sylvia. Everyone who’d been at Rosie’s last evening was connected to Sylvia in various ways and on many levels. How could any one of them have hated her enough to deliberately end her life? Gerda and Sylvia had been close friends. They dined in one another’s home and exchanged confidences. Suddenly I understood how betrayed and hurt Gerda must have felt when she found out Sylvia was going to expose what she considered a private matter.
Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) Page 2