But that didn’t give her license to kill Sylvia.
As I crossed into Nassau County, I couldn’t help but draw parallels between the murder in The Mysterious Affair at Styles and Sylvia’s demise. In the novel, Dr. Bauerstein, the specialist in poisons, determines that Emily’s been poisoned. And Dr. Bauerstein turns out to be a German Jew who spied for his country during World War One. Gerda, another German Jew, threatened Sylvia hours before she died.
I shook my head and ordered myself to stop comparing and contrasting real life with a Christie mystery as if it were a midterm question. I didn’t have a shred of evidence that someone had poisoned Sylvia, though she had complained of stomach pains and mental confusion—all possible symptoms of ingesting a toxic substance. I thought back to last night and tried to remember who had access to her food and drink. During dinner Ginger, Paulette, Anne, and I had poured and handed out glasses of iced tea. Rosie was in and out of the kitchen. We all were.
I couldn’t remember if the vase was still on the counter when we were milling around, putting away food and setting out coffee and dessert. I shook my head, daunted by the large number of possibilities. Anyone could have poisoned Sylvia’s iced tea.
Too many people. Too many unanswered questions.
And what about Lowell? He’d been the last to see Sylvia alive. Why had he chosen that moment—when she was lying down, weak and sick—to talk to her? Maybe he had his own reasons for wanting Sylvia dead. Who was to say he hadn’t followed her upstairs and smothered her with a pillow?
I exited the LIE and turned onto the tree-lined road that led to Old Cadfield. I drove slowly past the two blocks of shops that made up the village center, and parked in front of the building that housed the police station, post office, and town hall.
A middle-aged woman greeted me at the desk. Her eyes widened when I said I wanted to talk to someone about Sylvia Morris’s death.
“Captain Hennessy will be right out.”
He appeared five minutes later—a tall, potbellied man in his mid-fifties, with a receding hairline and bulging blue eyes. Without a word, he ushered me into a small room. When we sat facing one another across a table, he cocked his head and gave me a questioning look. “You are?”
I told him my name and address, and that I’d been at the Gordon home last night when Sylvia Morris died.
He nodded. “I understand a meeting was going on there." He smiled. “Of the mystery book club.”
His smile was not so much condescending as mocking. Furious, I felt the heat rise from my neck to my ears. But I stifled my anger and answered politely. “Yes. I’m the facilitator. Er—the group’s leader.”
This time his smile was genuine. “I know what a facilitator is. Believe it or not, we have a few of them in the police department.”
“Oh.”
“As you were saying, Ms. Driscoll?”
I drew a deep breath, realizing just how silly I was about to sound. “I know it’s the general belief that Sylvia died of natural causes, but this morning it occurred to me that a vase of lilies of the valley that had been on the counter disappeared sometime during the evening.”
“And you’re concerned about this because—?”
Damn him, he was laughing at me! “Because lilies of the valley are toxic!” I exclaimed, louder than I’d meant to. “Someone could die from drinking the water they were in. And because I was there when someone threatened Sylvia Morris.”
“Who?”
I drew a deep breath, aware that I was crossing a line. “Gerda Stein, Sylvia’s next-door neighbor. Sylvia was writing a book that included a section on Mrs. Stein’s father’s background. He was a Nazi responsible for killing thousands of people.”
“I see." He gave me an exaggerated look of concern, as if he feared for my sanity. “And you think someone, perhaps Mrs. Stein, added water from that vase to Mrs. Morris’s drink and caused her to expire?”
I longed to reach out and slap him! “That’s for you to determine,” I said, not caring that my nostrils flared or that I came across stuffy and huffy. “I’m offering you information I believe to be relevant.”
“You’re suggesting a far-removed possibility. The kind you might read about in one of your mystery novels.”
I glared at him. “When they do the autopsy, please tell the medical examiner to test for that particular toxin." I thought of Lowell. “And for other causes of death—like smothering.”
“Oh? Is there more than one murderer at large?”
“It was just an idea,” I said quickly, not wanting to incriminate Lowell, in case he was innocent.
Captain Hennessy nodded. “I see you’re up on your CSI programs.”
My face burned and I knew I’d turned blood red. “I catch one occasionally.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” he drawled. “The public’s awareness keeps us on our toes. I’ll pass on what you’ve been telling me.“ He winked. “But for the record, real autopsies and tests take longer than they do on television.”
“I know that!" I stormed out of the room. Captain Hennessy called after me.
“A minute, Ms. Driscoll. Would you be so kind as to make a list of everyone who was in the house last night?”
I turned around. It was my turn to smile. “In case I might be right, and you’ll want to ask a few questions?”
“Just in case.”
CHAPTER THREE
Rosie pulled into Sylvia’s driveway and turned to me, a severe expression on her face. “Remember, Lexie, not one word about poison, about lilies of the valley, or about murder. Understood?”
“Understood,” I mumbled.
We walked up the grey stone steps to the front door and rang the bell. A renowned architect had been commissioned to build the house, and the results were awesome. Constructed of wood and stone, the outside appeared to be a series of squares and rectangles, while oversized windows and skylights brought in the great outdoors. I swallowed back the ignoble regret that now I’d never have the chance to live in this wonderful home.
Michele let us in. Tall and thin, her dark hair cascading down her back, she was the image of her mother when I’d first met Sylvia. She barreled into my arms and started crying. “Oh, Lexie. I can’t believe Mom’s gone. It happened so suddenly!”
Didn’t it? “I’m so sorry, Michele,” I said.
Eric appeared, a folder of papers in his hand. I hugged him, too, but he remained stiff and reserved, more from natural diffidence than anything else. Eric was a few inches taller than his sister, gaunt rather than thin. He hunched his narrow shoulders the way his father used to, and wore the same perpetual expression of anxiety.
“Shall we go?” he asked. “They’re expecting us at the funeral home.”
We climbed into Rosie’s car and drove off. Rosie and I said little on the way. In the back seat, brother and sister bent their heads toward one another, murmuring softly about funeral arrangements and contacting the few relatives they hadn’t been able to reach.
Half an hour later we were sitting in the funeral director’s plush office listening to his spiel of the funeral home’s many services, from providing a rabbi to organizing the cavalcade of cars to the cemetery. My mind wandered as he asked questions regarding Sylvia’s history and where she’d be interred. I remembered my parents’ funerals. Thank goodness Gerald’s mother had insisted on overseeing his burial, so I hadn’t had to deal with it.
“Tomorrow’s Friday. Can we hold the funeral then?” Michele asked. “My brother and I live out of state and need to return home as soon as possible.”
The funeral director cleared his throat. “Since the death occurred so unexpectedly, there will be an autopsy. That will delay interment.”
“Oh, no!” Michele moaned. Tears filled her eyes. “I have to get home! My little boy’s sick.”
Rosie put a hand on her arm. “Don’t fret, Michele. Hal’s making calls to expedite matters. Your mother will be buried in the next few days.”
The director looked pained. “I
would gladly be of assistance, but unfortunately, my hands are tied.”
As though on cue, the phone rang. The funeral director listened, expressed deep gratitude and obvious relief, and ended the conversation. He turned to Michele and Eric, a broad smile on his lips. “That was the Medical Examiner’s office. They can perform the autopsy first thing Monday morning. We’ll schedule the service for your mother Monday at two.”
Rosie and I waited in the hall while Michele and Eric selected a coffin and took care of financial matters.
“I hope Captain Hennessy bothered to alert the ME to check Sylvia’s body for poisons,” I said.
“Lexie!” Rosie warned. “Don’t start.”
“The purpose of an autopsy is to discover if the deceased died of natural causes. Don’t you want to know if someone killed Sylvia?" I gestured at the closed office door. “Don’t they have the right to know?”
“Of course they do." She shook her head. “Right now I’m more concerned about you. You have to vacate your apartment in less than a week, and you’ve no place to live.”
“I’ll manage. Don’t I always?”
“Come stay with Hal and me. We’ve plenty of room, and I promise to give you your space. It takes weeks to find an apartment. I don’t want you spending unnecessary money on a hotel.”
I cringed at the thought of living with Rosie, Hal, and Ginger like a poor relative. The pitiful single friend who had no life of her own.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll find somewhere to stay.”
“I’m offering you a place to stay!” Rosie said, her volume rising with each word. “Give your pride a break! Admit your plans fell through. You were supposed to stay at Sylvia’s, and now things have changed.”
“It’s not my pride,” I lied, my voice rising to match her volume. “I need privacy. I’m not good at living with a houseful of people. I agreed to housesit for Sylvia because she was going to that artists’ colony.”
Rosie’s hands settled on her hips. “Okay, Miss Independence, where are you planning to go? The Waldorf Astoria in the city? The Montauk Yacht Club out east? And since when are Hal, Ginger, and me a houseful of people?”
“Maybe I’ll be lucky and find an available apartment over the weekend,” I shot back. And if I didn’t, I’d sleep in my car until it was ready for me to move in. I’d done it before, though not in the past twenty-five years.
I hadn’t noticed Michele and Eric approach, but here they were facing us in the hallway.
“Lexie, we were hoping you’d spend the summer at Mom’s house as planned,” Michele said.
I spun around to gape at her, not certain I’d heard correctly. “I didn’t think... I assumed you’d put the house on the market.”
“Eric and I have to get home ASAP. My baby’s sick, and Eric’s students are about to take their finals. We can’t possibly sell the house without going through everything first.”
Eric put his arm around his sister. “We’ll sit shiva at the house Monday after the funeral and see the lawyer on Tuesday. Mom’s cleaning service comes Wednesday mornings. You can move in that afternoon, if you like.”
I looked from one sibling to the other, checking for the slightest sign they were doing this out of pity.
“Please, Lexie!" Michele’s eyes filled again. “We can’t leave the house empty. And there’s Puss to consider. Neither of us can take him.”
Sir Pussival! I’d adopt Sylvia’s beautiful Russian Blue in a heartbeat if I had a permanent residence.
“You really want me to stay,” I murmured, stunned by the latest reversal of my fortune.
“Mom would want you to,” Michele said. “We found the list she’d made out for you explaining how everything works. And which days the gardeners and pool service come. You’ll fax me the bills as they arrive." She and Eric exchanged glances. “And we intend to pay you for looking after everything.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I protested. “I’m happy to—”
“We insist." Michele rode over my words. “Or we can’t, in good conscience, have you stay there." She cast me a fierce look.
I nodded, knowing I was beaten.
“That’s settled,” Rosie said. “And you’ll come to us until Wednesday,” she told me rather than asked.
“Of course,” I agreed.
After the fight I’d put up minutes earlier, Rosie sent me a look of disbelief. But I suddenly had a different perspective on things. Living at Rosie’s, I’d have the perfect opportunity to discover who had killed Sylvia and why.
*
I spent the next two days packing up my belongings and making the necessary phone calls and cancellations that moving demanded. At noon on Saturday, I set out for Old Cadfield, a bottle of Hal’s favorite chardonnay wrapped in foil on the seat beside me. The weather was balmy and warm. Memorial Weekend—which I considered the official start of summer—was a week away. I eschewed my usual classical music station and punched various buttons till I found upbeat popular music, and sang along with the mindless, love-centric songs as I sped along the LIE.
At the Old Cadfield Exit, I made the necessary lefts and rights, finally turning onto the Gordons’ long driveway. The giant rhododendron bushes on either side were in full bloom, their fuchsia flowers a sight to behold. I parked in the circular brick entrance, behind a gray BMW.
I knocked on the oak double door. No one came, so I tried the handle. It was unlocked as usual. With a suitcase in one hand and a wine bottle in the other, I stepped into the hall. Rex skittered across the black and white marble floor, barking his greeting. He slid to a stop before leaping up to give me a slobbering kiss.
“Down, Rex, down!" Hal, barefoot, in shorts and a polo, shouted his commands as he strode toward me.
Rex ignored his master and continued to lick my face until Hal pulled him away.
“Sorry about that, Lexie." He bussed my cheek then reached for the bottle of wine. He read the label and whistled. “Should you be throwing away money on such expensive booze?”
I punched his arm hard. “That’s a hell of a way to greet your guest.”
“My apologies. It’s just that a gift is unnecessary. Rosie and I want you to feel at home.”
“And I thought it would be nice if we drank this tonight.”
“We will." I stopped him before he headed for the kitchen. “Hal, thanks for getting the powers-that-be to put a rush on the autopsy.”
“I simply explained that we Jews must bury our dead ASAP.”
“Right,” I said, thinking Hal had come a long way from the nerd he was during our college days.
Rosie rushed over and gave me a fierce hug. “Lexie! Let me show you to your room.”
I followed her upstairs, into what used to be their oldest daughter’s room, and set my suitcase on the pink and green flowered spread. I gazed out the window, to the empty pool below, and was grateful not to be sleeping in the bed where Sylvia had spent her last minutes. I shivered. Still, it was only across the hall.
“I put lots of fluffy towels in the guest bathroom,” Rosie said. “Wash up and come out to the patio. I’ve salads and bagels for lunch.”
I resisted the impulse to unpack and settle in. Instead, I followed Rosie’s directive, then opened the kitchen sliding door to the bluestone terrace. Hal was relating a story. He stopped when he saw me gaping at Gerda seated between him and Rosie at the wrought iron table, a plate of food before her.
“Hello, Alexis,” she greeted me, formal as always.
I nodded, too angry to speak.
“Gerda stopped by to drop something off, and I asked her to stay for lunch,” Rosie said. She gestured to the table, filled with various spreads and salads, bagels and bialys. “Sit down and make yourself a sandwich. There’s hot coffee in the carafe.”
I considered leaving then and there, but I was hungry so I sat down and did as she suggested. The food was from the local deli and top rate. I bit into my lox and whitefish bialy. Delicious! A few more bites helped improve my
mood.
Hal finished telling his story while I reassessed my situation. What was I carrying on about? Here was my perfect opportunity to question the person with the motive and opportunity to poison Sylvia. Hercule Poirot and Jane Marple, Christie’s famous sleuths, came to mind. Poirot depended on his little grey cells: his brain. Jane Marple relied on her knowledge of human nature, often comparing the scoundrels she met to her neighbors in St. Mary Mead. Brains and common sense. I had them both. Now to put them to work.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Are you going to Sylvia’s funeral on Monday?” I asked Gerda.
She drew back her head to stare at me, appalled as if I’d asked if she flushed after using the toilet.
“Certainly, I’ll be there! What a question! Sylvia was my dear friend.”
“Your dear friend?" I met her outrage with mock surprise. “I never would have guessed that, from the way you raged at her the night she died." I pretended to have difficulty retrieving her words when they were written indelibly in my memory. “Write that book, if you dare, but you won’t live to see it in print.”
“Lexie,” Rosie warned.
Red blotches colored Gerda’s cheeks.
“That was an unfortunate comment, one I’ll always regret. Sylvia and I had a difference of literary opinion. And now it’s too late for me to take back my harsh words.”
“True,” I murmured. “Sylvia’s dead.”
Gerda’s eyes filled with tears. “I blame myself for bringing on her demise.”
I was right! Gerda had killed Sylvia, and we were about to hear her confession. I forced myself to speak calmly. “What exactly did you do?”
“You know very well what I did! I caused her anguish and distress, and brought on her coronary. Please believe me, I had no idea her heart was so weak.”
Angry because she’d dodged the issue, I glared at her. “Admit it. You murdered Sylvia!”
“Murdered?" Gerda squinted, totally perplexed. “I upset Sylvia. Is that murder?”
“Of course not,” Hal said.
“Sylvia was murdered,” I said.
Gerda stared at me. “That’s ridiculous! Why would anyone want to kill her?”
Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) Page 3