“We had our first meeting of the mystery book club Wednesday night. It was my friend Rosie Gordon’s idea. She’d gathered a group of interested friends and neighbors and asked me to lead the group, since I teach English lit at Mondale University.”
“You have your doctorate?”
I nodded, wondering what the hell that had to do with anything.
“Admirable. I always wanted to get a degree in literature. Besides Mrs. Gordon and her family, had you ever met any of the others who were at the house when Mrs. Morris died?”
“I knew them all." I cleared my throat. “Rosie invited everyone in the book club to a barbecue earlier that evening. Everyone came.”
“When did you arrive?”
“Close to four o’clock.”
Donovan sipped his water. “Who was there?”
“Rosie and Hal Gordon, their youngest daughter, Ginger. Hal had taken the day off. He barbecued spare ribs and hamburgers, while Rosie made side dishes and salads." I gave a little laugh. “But that’s not what you need to hear.”
He pursed his lips. “That’s exactly what I want you to tell me. Was anyone besides the family at the house when you arrived?”
“Todd Taylor, who lives down the block from the Gordons. When I arrived, he and Ginger were on the terrace drinking mojitos. They were celebrating their upcoming graduations—Todd’s from law school, Ginger’s from Mondale.”
“That’s nice,” Donovan commented. “Did Todd stay for the meeting?”
“Yes. Ginger asked if he could, since he’s an Agatha Christie fan.”
“Was anyone else at the Gordons’ home when you arrived?”
I’d almost forgotten. “Paulette Hartman was sunning herself by the pool. Paulette’s Rosie’s cousin—first cousin once removed. She and her husband, Lowell, recently bought a home in Old Cadfield.”
“What’s Mrs. Hartman’s relationship with Mrs. Morris?”
I shrugged. “I suppose they knew each other, since Paulette grew up in Old Cadfield.”
Detective Donovan raised his eyebrows. “Care to elaborate?”
I felt the queasiness of a squealer. “All I mean is, aside from their both knowing Rosie and living in the same neighborhood, they’ve nothing in common. Sylvia was in her early sixties—a bright, cultured woman who’d been writing non-fiction books these past fifteen years. While Paulette...” I paused to choose my words carefully so I wouldn’t sound critical.
“Yes?”
“Paulette’s in her early thirties. She’s a sweet girl, really, though I don’t think her thoughts run much beyond her husband, their new home, and starting a family.”
“When the others arrived, what did you all talk about?”
“Nothing special. The upcoming meeting. Old Cadfield gossip.”
“Did anyone quarrel with Mrs. Morris that evening?"
I told him about Sylvia and Gerda’s argument. I finished by saying, “They were good friends. I find it impossible to believe Gerda would hurt Sylvia.”
I wanted to kick myself! Why was I defending Gerda? A few days ago I was ready to escort her to the police station.
Donovan burst out laughing. “Dr. Driscoll, you’d make one hell of a detective— excusing every suspect, one by one, on a purely emotional basis.”
“It’s just that I’ve known most of these people for years through Rosie and Hal. I can’t believe any one of them would set out to poison poor Sylvia.”
“Right. They’re all good citizens,” he said sarcastically. “Not like those characters in the mysteries your book club reads.”
“Now you’re teasing me,” I said coldly.
“A bit. Sorry.”
His apology sent a ripple of satisfaction through my body. “Lowell and Anne arrived around six. They work in the same law firm." I paused, remembering, then forced myself to continue. “Paulette seemed annoyed with Lowell because he’d forgotten to stop by their house to bring her the sweater she’d asked for." I stopped.
“Please go on.”
“I don’t want to interpret something that may be totally innocent, yet could cast someone in a guilty light.”
He smiled. “Spill it. I’ll keep your observation in mind. If it’s relevant to the case, it will rear its head again. Not relevant, it falls by the wayside.”
“But what if something I tell you leads you to the wrong conclusion? Takes you off in the wrong direction?”
Donovan shrugged. “You need to tell me every single action and reaction you observed. We check out facts and narratives again and again. Please don’t filter what you’re telling me because you’re reluctant to incriminate any of your friends.”
“I’ll keep in mind that one of them’s a killer,” I said grimly.
“You were saying that Paulette was annoyed with her husband.”
“Right. She’s generally even-tempered and pleasant, which was why I was surprised when she expressed hostility because Anne showed up for dinner.”
Donovan turned back a page of his notebook. “Are you saying Ms. Chadwick wasn’t expected for dinner?”
I closed my eyes and thought. “I suppose, since Anne mentioned something about someone not faxing her the papers she was expecting, so she was able to come to the barbecue, after all.”
“Did she say how she expected to get home that evening? Or retrieve her car, which she must have left at the office?”
“I think Marcie Beaumont drove her home. They both live in the next town, about ten minutes from here.”
Donovan made a notation, then asked, “Do you think Mrs. Hartman was angry because her husband gave his coworker a lift?”
That was precisely what I thought. “Could be,” I hedged.
“Do you think Mrs. Hartman believes her husband and Ms. Chadwick are lovers?”
I laughed because hearing the words spoken aloud, it sounded ludicrous. “It occurred to me, though at the meeting Paulette sat between Anne and Marcie.”
“Are the three young women friends?”
“I don't think so. They’re all very different from one another, but they’ve known each other since high school.”
“What are they like?”
“Marcie’s stiff and bristly." I gave a little laugh. “Sometimes she treats the rest of us like her third graders.”
“And Mrs. Hartman?”
“Frankly, she’s not very bright." I thought a bit. “It could be she’s envious of Anne’s career and good looks—though Paulette’s quite pretty, too,” I finished lamely. It was like comparing a daisy to a rose.
“You think very highly of Anne Chadwick.”
“She’s my lawyer. I met her through Rosie when my estranged husband burned down my house." I stopped abruptly, regretting having said that much.
“Ah,” Donovan said, making the connection. “I remember that business. As I recall, he perished in the fire.”
“Yes, he did." I shuddered. That “business” was the worst event of my life.
Donovan asked me how the food and drinks were served. I told him we all helped, and were constantly in and out of the kitchen.
“Do you remember who drank what?”
I shook my head.
“What happened after dinner?”
“Anne helped Ginger, Paulette, and me clear the table and put out the desserts on the kitchen table. Ruth helped Rosie set up coffee and water for hot tea, then Rosie had a chat with Gerda on the patio. We all poured ourselves a cup of coffee, tea or more iced tea, selected a dessert or two, and carried everything into the library. I returned to the kitchen for water and heard Gerda issue her ultimatum to Sylvia.”
When he’d finished getting all that down, Donovan turned the full force of his concentration on me. “Please think carefully, Dr. Driscoll—during dinner or the meeting, did you notice anyone touching Mrs. Morris’s iced tea?”
I closed my eyes and tried to recall the evening. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Once the meeting began, I concentrated on my talk, making sure I kept
everyone’s attention. The only thing I remember was that the table around which everyone but Gerda sat was covered with dishes, cups, and glasses.”
Donovan’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting. Mrs. Morris was drinking iced tea. Did you happen to notice who else was having a cold drink instead of hot tea or coffee?"
I shook my head. “No. Sorry.”
“Did Mr. Hartman or Mr. Gordon join your meeting at any time?”
“No. I didn’t even know Lowell was still in the house, until he came dashing into the library looking for Rosie to tell her Sylvia had died.”
“Why her and not Mr. Gordon?”
I shrugged. “I suppose because Rosie’s the person everyone turns to when there’s a catastrophe.”
“Do you know where Mr. Gordon was when Mrs. Morris took sick?”
“No, but he was at Sylvia’s side when we came upstairs—after Lowell said she was dead.”
“Had Mr. Gordon been upstairs all along?”
He was scaring me. “I’ve no idea where Hal spent the evening up till that time.”
“Was he with Mr. Hartman?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know that, either.”
“Did you find it odd that Mr. Hartman had discovered Mrs. Morris was dead?”
“Yes,” I admitted, “but the following morning Rosie explained he’d gone up to speak to Sylvia on Gerda’s behalf. She was threatening to sue, though I doubt she had any basis for a lawsuit.”
Donovan wrote for what seemed like minutes, the longest notation he’d made so far.
“I thought you said Sylvia died of poison.”
The grin he gave me was macabre. “She did. But I find it strange that anyone would bother a sick woman.”
“Me, too,” I admitted.
Donovan switched gears. He leaned back, stretching both arms along the back of the sofa.
“Did anyone attending the meeting stand to gain from Mrs. Morris’s demise?”
I shook my head. “Not that I know of.”
The ice blue eyes gleamed at me. “What about you?”
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?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
After 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.
“S
hall 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.”
Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) Page 6