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

by Marilyn Levinson

  “Where do you live?”

  He laughed, a most delightful sound. “Sorry. I forgot you don’t live here yet. I’m around the corner. Twelve Marigold Street. It’s the only other home I’d designed in Old Cadfield. When it came on the market three years ago, I decided to buy it.”

  “Oh,” I said, absorbing what Allistair had just told me. And what he hadn’t. I’d no idea if he was divorced or widowed, but I’d find out.

  “I’d love to come by for a drink,” I said casually, as though I were used to good-looking men inviting me over every other day of the week.

  Allistair waved as he left, and I headed for the dining room to make myself a platter of food. Since every chair was occupied, I ate standing up. When I was finished, I figured it was time to be sociable. I walked over to Rosie and Hal conversing with neighbors. We chatted a few minutes. Other neighbors came by. I glanced around the living room. Except for Anne, the other book club members were here at the shiva. Gerda sat in the corner of the room, her head bent as she listened to an extremely obese man. From the way she pursed her lips, I got the definite impression she didn’t like what she was hearing. Ginger and Todd stood with plates in hand, talking to Eric and another young man I didn’t know.

  Marcie waved me over and scooted closer to her mother to make room for me on the couch. Ruth, Paulette, and Adele Blum stopped conversing long enough to greet me, then returned to their discussion regarding Paulette’s unborn child.

  It never failed to amaze me how some mothers and daughters bore not the slightest resemblance to one another in style or appearance. Ruth always looked elegant in tailored clothes that flattered her slender figure, while big-boned Marcie reminded me of an overgrown adolescent in her shapeless pants and blazers. Adele, with her stocky legs and nest of blonde hair, was a larger, homelier version of her daughter.

  Even more interesting, was watching the mother-daughter teams at work. Once the oohing and ahing over the unborn child had run its course, each mother set out to best the other by racking up points in favor of her daughter. Ruth bragged what a wonderful teacher Marcie was, how her district had voted her “teacher of the year,” while Adele talked on and on about Paulette’s new home. I caught Marcie glancing at her watch, no doubt wishing she could leave. Paulette sat demurely in her chair, gazing off into space. Musing, no doubt, about furnishing her baby’s nursery.

  I had no wish to hear another word about Marcie’s reading methods or Paulette’s new kitchen cabinets. I was here to learn who, besides Gerda, had a grudge against Sylvia. The moment the two verbal gladiators paused for breath, I dove in.

  “I wonder what the autopsy report is going to tell us."

  Four pairs of eyes opened wide in astonishment.

  “What autopsy?” Paulette asked. As usual she was wearing her favorite color. Today it was a salmon pink sweater set and tan slacks.

  “There’s always an autopsy in the case of sudden death,” I explained.

  “But surely that’s only a formality,” Ruth said. “We know poor Sylvia died of a coronary.”

  “Do we?" I asked. “A vase that held toxic water is missing. There’s a good chance someone poured the water into Sylvia’s iced tea.”

  Adele gasped. “That’s absurd.”

  Marcie fixed her slightly protruding eyes on me. “It certainly is! Why would anyone want to hurt Sylvia? It makes no sense.”

  Adele tsk-tsked. “This conversation is most inappropriate, Lexie. We’re here to remember Sylvia, and to help her children mourn their mother’s death.”

  Their disapproval was as thick as California smog, but I forced myself to push ahead. “And what if someone killed her? Don’t you think we owe it to Sylvia and her children to uncover the truth?”

  “How are we supposed to do that?" Marcie demanded. “Skulk around, listening in on conversations? You have murder mysteries on the brain.”

  “I’m well aware of the difference between fiction and real life,” I said. “You’ll be looking at this quite differently when the tox report comes back positive. Then the police will come around, searching for her murderer.”

  No one spoke. I decided to stir the pot. ”Did anyone have a grievance against Sylvia or benefit from her death?”

  Marcie and Adele stared at Ruth, who turned a bright red. She cleared her throat. “Sylvia was a wealthy woman." She lowered her voice. “Her death leaves her children several million dollars richer.”

  “But neither Michele nor Eric could have poisoned Sylvia,” I pointed out. “Since they were hundreds of miles away when it happened."

  Marcie gestured at Gerda, now sitting by herself and looking pensive. “We all heard about Gerda’s outburst. I’d say she’s the most likely suspect.”

  “She’s a suspect,” I agreed. “We all are—except you, Adele, since you weren’t at Rosie’s that night.”

  Adele shook her head in dismay. “It’s hard to believe anyone at your meeting meant to kill Sylvia. I mean, couldn’t her death have been an accident?" She gave a little laugh. “Someone might have put something in her food or drink accidentally. Paulette told me so many of you were in the kitchen helping Rosie.”

  “I don’t see how someone could have made that kind of mistake,” Marcie said.

  “Me, neither,” Paulette agreed. She stood. “I’m getting another piece of cake. Would anyone like something?”

  Adele stretched out her arm to stop her. “Sit down, Paulette. I’ll get it for you.”

  “Chocolate cake, Mom.”

  Adele smiled adoringly. “Of course, sweetie.”

  I stood, mumbled something about having to leave, and went in search of Michele and Eric to say good-bye. I found them together in the kitchen discussing their mother’s estate.

  “Stop by tomorrow, Lexie, so we can go over a few things,” Michele said.

  “Around twelve-thirty would be good,” Eric said. “We’re meeting with the lawyer at ten.”

  I nodded. “Certainly. I’ll see you then.”

  I waved to Rosie and Hal on my way out the door.

  “We’ll be home soon,” Rosie mouthed to me.

  At Rosie’s house, I headed up to my room and slipped out of my black silk top and slacks and put on jeans and a polo. The fish salads I’d eaten at the shiva left me thirsty. I went down to the kitchen for a glass of seltzer and carried it out to the patio.

  I followed the sound of soft rock music coming from the pool area. Ginger lay stretched out on a lounge chair reading Murder on the Orient Express. She smiled as I approached.

  “Hi, Aunt Lexie." She stroked Rex’s back. “Todd went home to study for the LSATS.”

  I sat down beside her. “He’s nice.”

  “I know." Ginger arched her back and smiled like the proverbial Cheshire cat.

  I grinned. “How long has this been going on?”

  Ginger shrugged. “A few weeks, I guess. Something like that.”

  “Something like that,” I mocked. Her smug expression told me Ginger knew damn well to the minute when it all began. “When did you—?" Meet? They’d met when they were both in elementary school.

  Ginger burst into giggles. “We ran into each other at one of the local bars near the university. We were both out with friends, taking a break from studying.”

  “Odd, that,” I commented. “Your knowing each other since you were little.”

  “It happens. Besides, who can say where it will lead? In September, Todd’s moving into Manhattan to start his job. I’ll be teaching on the Island." She grinned “Till then, I’ve my counselor job at the day camp and the evenings to enjoy my last summer of freedom.”

  Freedom. She sounded so young. At her age I was married to Godfrey and carrying Jesse.

  Ginger pursed her lips, suddenly somber. “That was sad, Sylvia’s dying so unexpectedly. I feel sorry for her kids. I know they’re grown—in their thirties—but still, now they’re orphans with no family but each other.”

  “Your mom might have told you I think someone
poisoned Sylvia with water made toxic by lilies of the valley. Did you notice anyone spilling liquid into Sylvia’s glass of iced tea?”

  Ginger shook her head. “No.”

  “See anyone arguing?”

  She nibbled at her lower lip. “Well, Marcie and Anne were going at it in the den. That is, Marcie seemed angry at Anne.”

  “About what?”

  “I’ve no idea. But it’s easy to piss Marcie off.”

  We both laughed, then sat back in comfortable silence. Of Rosie and Hal’s three daughters, Ginger was the one I felt closest to. I’d been delighted to have her in my Shakespeare course this past semester, and the A she received wasn’t a handout from a loving godmother.

  I gestured to the Agatha Christie novel open on her stomach.

  “Are you enjoying Murder on the Orient Express?”

  “I am.” Ginger gave me a half smile. “I’m sorry the first book club session ended the way it did.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I mean, for you.”

  “Oh." Shades of her mother.

  “We never set up the date for our next meeting.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to announce it, but we have a schedule. Your mother and I decided to hold our meetings the second Wednesday of each month, unless there’s a conflict of some sort.”

  “Where are we meeting in June?”

  “Since I’m spending the summer at Sylvia’s, I’d be happy to host the next meeting.”

  Ginger, suddenly energized, leaped to her feet. “When things calm down, I’ll get everyone’s email address from Mom and send out the info regarding our next meeting.”

  “Good idea, Ginger. You can remind them we’ll be discussing Murder on the Orient Express and And Then There Were None in June.”

  “Will do.”

  I smiled. “You’re becoming as efficient as your mother.”

  “Oh, no!" Ginger put a hand over her mouth. She looked absolutely terrified. “I don’t ever want to become a control freak like Mom!”

  “Rosie’s not a control freak,” I protested. “She’s just—”

  At which point, the devil herself appeared, a huge grin on her face. “Well, hello, you two. What have you been discussing?”

  “Nothing!” Ginger and I shouted in unison, then cracked up laughing.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Mom didn’t die of a coronary,” Eric said. “She was poisoned.”

  I sank into one of Sylvia’s kitchen chairs and gaped at her son then at her daughter. It was one thing surmising my dear friend had been poisoned, quite another learning I’d been right.

  “How do you know? Did the ME’s office call?”

  Michele nodded. “A Lieutenant Donovan’s stopping by any minute now to interview us.”

  I bit my lip. “But surely neither of you know anything. You weren’t even here when your mother—took sick.”

  Eric grimaced, his usual downtrodden expression replaced by one of suppressed fury. “You knew all along, didn’t you?”

  An arrow of guilt flew straight to my heart. “A vase with toxic water disappeared the night your mother died. I wondered if it had something to do with her death.”

  “They told us you reported all this to Captain Hennessy the following day,” Michele said, her voice quivering. “Why didn’t you tell us, Lexie? Didn’t you think Eric and I had the right to know?”

  It took all my effort to meet her accusing eyes. “And what if I’d been wrong?"

  “We would like to have known what you suspected," Eric said. "You told everyone else who attended Mom’s funeral.”

  This time the guilt felt more like a cannon shot. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled as I got to my feet. “I’ll be going. Give you privacy to talk to the police lieutenant.”

  Michele walked me to the front door I’d passed through not five minutes earlier. I felt awful. I’d feared someone at the meeting had poisoned Sylvia. Now her kids were pissed at me for not telling them my suspicions. I wondered if they were angry enough to cancel our arrangement.

  As I reached for the door handle, Michele said, “I’m sorry Eric and I came down on you like that.”

  I shook my head. “Perfectly understandable. You thought I was keeping something from you, while I felt I had no right to upset you unnecessarily.”

  She gave me a bittersweet smile so like her mother’s that tears stung my eyes. “The truth is, we felt you were still treating us like kids. Being our old baby sitter and all.”

  “Oh." I nodded, suddenly understanding.

  Michele squeezed my arm. “It means a lot to us that you’ll be staying here in Mom’s house. We’ve no relatives we’re close to. You’re the only link to our childhood.”

  We hugged. I said I’d stop by later for last minute instructions.

  “One more thing,” Michele said as I opened the door. “You’ll be getting a phone call from Mom’s lawyer, today or tomorrow.”

  “Something to do with my staying here?”

  “No. Regarding her will. She left you a bequest.”

  I walked slowly back to Rosie’s, my thoughts and emotions flashing over one another like neon lights.

  Sylvia left me money.

  She’d been murdered by someone in the book club.

  I’d been going around asking questions, which the murderer wouldn’t much like.

  *

  Ginger and Rosie helped me move into Sylvia’s house the following afternoon. I told them they needn’t bother since all my possessions fit in the back seat and trunk of my car and I’d be settled in no time, but they insisted. We lugged my suitcases, cartons of books, and computer into the bedroom suite I’d be occupying.

  “Why don’t you unpack?” Rosie dropped the last carton on the bedroom floor.

  “I’m not in any rush. I’ll wait till you and Ginger leave.”

  “Go on. We’re heading home just as soon as I catch my breath.”

  “Fine with me,” I said, and got to work putting my new living quarters in order. Back in college I’d learned the futility of bucking Rosie on small issues and saved my energy for important disagreements. I stowed clothes in the bureau and closet and set my laptop on the desk. Feeling thirsty, I went into the kitchen for water before arranging my toiletries on the bathroom shelves. Rosie was closing the refrigerator, a look of satisfaction on her face. I shooed her away and opened the door. Inside were packages of cheese, turkey, containers of shrimp salad and tuna. Fresh fruits and vegetables filled the plastic bins.

  “You shouldn’t have done this!” I protested.

  “Now you can work on your manuscript without having to run to the store for groceries. I know you didn’t write one word while you stayed with us.”

  I grabbed her in a bear hug. “Thanks, Rosie.”

  In the living room I was further astonished to see Ginger filling three large vases with the most beautiful flowers.

  “I’m deeply touched,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion.

  “You should be,” Rosie answered. “With Jesse living in California and your wacky sister in Utah, we’re the only family you have. And we want you to have the best summer ever, despite the sad way it began.”

  I was still teary-eyed when they left, refusing Rosie’s dinner invitation, promising to call and make plans as soon as I settled in.

  Puss appeared from God-knew-what hiding place, meowing and demanding dinner. I opened one of the tiny cat food cans stacked in the pantry and emptied it on his plate. Then I went outside to gaze at the pool. It was too chilly to swim, but I promised myself that in the warmer weather I’d make use of the pool to my heart’s content.

  The opening bars of the William Tell Overture rang out. I hurried inside to answer my cell phone.

  “Hello, is this Alexis Driscoll?” a baritone voice asked.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Detective Brian Donovan of the Nassau County Police Department. Captain Hennessy of Old Cadfield PD suggested you might help us with our inquiries. I’d lik
e to talk to you as soon as it’s convenient.”

  My pulse speeded up to quick time. How had he gotten my unlisted number? And why was he calling me? “Is this about Sylvia Morris?”

  “Yes. I understand you’re staying at Mrs. Morris’s home. Would it be all right if I stop by, say, in ten minutes?”

  I grew more tense with each word he uttered. “I suppose.”

  He barked out Sylvia’s address and I agreed it was correct. “See you,” he said and disconnected.

  Calm down, I ordered myself. The police must be questioning everyone who’d been at the Gordons’ house the night Sylvia was poisoned. No doubt, Michele and Eric told him I’d be living here when he spoke to them yesterday. I gulped down seltzer, which set off a coughing fit.

  Lieutenant Donovan arrived fifteen minutes later. I led him into Sylvia’s high-ceilinged living room, its many windows open to the sunny afternoon and view of the trees and bushes outside. My first visitor, and one I hadn’t invited.

  He sat on one of the overstuffed white sofas and sipped from the glass of water he’d accepted. I sat across from him, watching him skim through pages of his notebook, sigh once with disgust, then jot down a notation with a ballpoint pen. He was of medium height, medium weight, and had medium brown hair. Nothing about his appearance stood out until he fixed his pale blue eyes on me. They pierced straight to my brain like an ice pick.

  “The autopsy report on Mrs. Morris indicates her death wasn’t due to natural causes. We’re considering it a homicide.”

  I knew this, still my voice trembled when I said, “Michele told me the tox tests showed Sylvia had been poisoned.”

  Detective Donovan gave me a half smile. “You suspected this from the get go. Which is why you paid a visit to the Old Cadfield precinct the morning after she died.”

  I nodded.

  “Right now we’re gathering information about the night your friend was poisoned. Unfortunately, a week’s gone by since the crime occurred and that’s lousy for the case every which way.”

  He hunched forward, his eyes glittering with intensity. “Now I need to know everything you remember about last Wednesday evening. And I mean everything, no matter how small, how insignificant you think the incident may be.”