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

by Marilyn Levinson

  We sat in silence lost in our own musings, and for once my mind was at rest. I was content to sip my drink and absorb the peace and tranquility of the scene, observing how the breeze blew my hair about my face.

  I gave a start when Allistair asked if I’d like a refill.

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I?” I laughed. From where I sat, the world was a beautiful place.

  He asked if I knew other people besides Sylvia in Old Cadfield, and I told him about Rosie’s invitation to lead the mystery book club, my initial reluctance, then how happy I’d been to do it until Sylvia was murdered.

  Another delicate subject, one that Allistair sensed I’d had my fill of. He talked about his two daughters: Davida, who was studying art in Paris, and Tessa, who lived in Manhattan with her husband and their pug.

  I told him about Jesse's becoming a musician like his father. The breeze grew stronger, and he caught me shivering. “Be right back,” he said, darting up from his chair. He returned a minute later with a light blanket, which he placed around my shoulders.

  “So, tell me about yourself, Lexie Driscoll.”

  I smiled. “I thought I’d been doing that.”

  “I’d rather hear the unedited version."

  I gave a little laugh. “You cut right to the chase, don’t you?”

  He gave me a level look. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m fifty-seven. If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that life is short.”

  I drew a breath and began. “You know Rosie was my college roommate in Boston. I married my first husband Godfrey during my senior year. He took off a year and a half later, right after Jesse was born. He claimed he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood, though you’d never know that now." I let out a humorless laugh. “Father and son both live in LA and are the best of pals.”

  “I’m sorry,” Allistair murmured.

  I waved my hand. “I’m sorry for whining. I can’t believe it still bothers me. Anyway, I returned to New York and worked any odd job I could find while I took classes and wrote my dissertation. I got my PhD in English lit and started teaching at Mondale University. Four years ago, I married Gerald, another English professor, and he turned out to be a total loon. We separated. He burned down our house—my house, to be precise—and killed himself in the process. I moved into a dinky apartment out East. Sylvia coaxed me to live in her house while she went to an artists’ colony for the summer, and here I am for now." I gave a little laugh. “End of story.”

  Allistair gave me a lazy grin. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve skipped over the juiciest parts? I’m sure you don’t do that when you’re writing your novel.”

  Flustered, I demanded, “Who said I was writing a novel?”

  “Rosie.”

  “Rosie,” I echoed, aggrieved. But since I’d quizzed her about Allistair, why wouldn’t I expect he’d question her about me?

  Allistair laughed. “Don’t be angry at her. Here in Old Cadfield, there’s little we don’t know about each other’s lives.”

  “I’m glad to hear that because I want to pick your brain about a few people.”

  That caught him up short.

  “The police now know that Sylvia’s been poisoned,” I told him. “They’re looking at me as a possible suspect because she left me money, which I knew nothing about until yesterday.”

  “Stupid of them." Allistair pursed his lips.

  “I don’t want you to betray any confidences, but I’d appreciate it if you could tell me if Sylvia ever had serious disagreements with anyone who was at the Gordons the night she died.”

  He thought a moment. “You know about Gerda’s quarrel with Sylvia.”

  I nodded, and it occurred to me to ask, “Who was that rather obese man she was talking to at the shiva? Gerda didn’t appear to like what he was saying.”

  Allistair chortled. “She wouldn’t, I’d imagine. Ronnie Goldfarb’s her accountant. He lives a few blocks from here.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Gerda’s broke. Most of her investments have gone south. She’s having trouble paying her taxes.”

  Stunned, I stared at him. “How do you know?”

  He leaned over the table and lowered his voice. As if anyone could hear us. “This isn’t for public knowledge.”

  “Of course not,” I agreed.

  “Gerda asked which bank I’d recommend she go to for a home equity loan or a reverse mortgage. She talked about having to put her house on the market. I advised her to wait, if she could, for home values to rise. Another martini?”

  I shook my head. “I find it difficult to grasp that anyone living in Old Cadfield has serious money troubles.”

  “More than you’d imagine,” he said, and I wondered if I’d touched on a sore spot.

  “What about Ruth Blessing?” I recalled how, at the shiva, the others in the mother-daughter group had stared at her when I asked who’d had disagreements with Sylvia.

  “As far as I can tell, she and Sam aren’t declaring bankruptcy,” Allistair answered dryly.

  The poor guy was having a hard time of it, blabbing about his neighbors’ private affairs. I felt sorry for him, but I pushed on. “What I want to know is how did Ruth and Sylvia get along? Had they have argued recently?”

  Allistair stared at me as if I had mind-reading abilities. “Interesting you should ask. There was a brouhaha about the time I moved to Old Cadfield.”

  I felt a quickening of interest. “Doesn’t matter how long ago. It could be relevant.”

  He hesitated. “Sylvia told me about this several months after everything was straightened out.”

  “Sylvia’s dead, Allistair. I want to know who had reason to kill her.”

  He sighed. “Sylvia and Ruth co-chaired a fundraiser for one of those orphan diseases that are always left out in the cold. Sylvia had to go out of town for a few weeks. When she returned, some big checks had been cashed and weren’t accounted for. She was frantic. When she asked Ruth about them, Ruth gave her one lame excuse after another. Finally, Sylvia accused Ruth of stealing the money. Ruth resigned in a huff. The money turned up in hundred dollar bills the night of the fundraiser dinner.”

  “So what you’re telling me,” I said slowly as I worked it out, “is that Ruth Blessing took the money she’d collected for an orphan disease...”

  “And replaced it in time.”

  “But that’s stealing! No wonder Sylvia was furious.”

  Allistair laughed. “No harm done, as they say. I’ve heard since that this wasn’t the first time something like this happened, but people usually look the other way.”

  “Why would Ruth do something like that? Is she a spendthrift? Does she max out her charge cards each month?”

  “I heard Sam’s business was going through a bad spell. They took out a second mortgage on the house, and for a while he thought he was going to have to sell it and the business. But everything worked out in the end.”

  I thought a bit. “I’ve never noticed any animosity between the two women. In fact, they were sitting side by side at the book club meeting.”

  “People who live in Old Cadfield have to get along. Or at least pretend to since we’re constantly thrown together at one affair or another.”

  “But all this happened years ago. What reason would Ruth have for holding a grudge against Sylvia?”

  Allistair pursed his lips and remained silent.

  “Please, Allistair!” I implored. “I’m not gossiping! I’m asking for a reason.”

  “The biggest fundraiser of the season’s coming up. Next week the committee selects the co-chairs of the Littleton Gala. Ruth wants it. Badly.”

  My stomach flip-flopped. “Was Sylvia thinking of blackballing Ruth?”

  He pressed his lips together. “Two weeks ago she showed me a letter she’d written to the committee. I advised her not to send it. I’ve no idea if she did or not.”

  I sat back to digest all this. “Do you think Ruth knew about the letter?”

  “Certainly, if Sylvia sen
t it.”

  “Do you think Sylvia would have talked to Ruth about it?”

  Allistair shook his head then stared at me. “God, I hope not. That would have been one ugly scene.”

  And in this town, a reason for murder.

  We sat without speaking, but the atmosphere had changed. When darkness fell, I said I’d better start back.

  “I’ll escort you home,” Allistair rose from his seat.

  I opened my mouth to insist I could manage the short walk by myself, then reconsidered. “Thanks. That would be nice.”

  “Wait a sec, while I get a torch,” Allistair said.

  “A torch?”

  He laughed. “A flashlight. There are no streetlights between here and Sylvia’s.”

  We set off down the road. When a car approached, he gripped my arm and pulled me closer to the side of the road. We walked hand-in-hand the rest of the way. As we turned the corner, Allistair asked, “What are you going to do with what I’ve told you?”

  “Think about it. Share it with Detective Donovan. I want the police to find Sylvia’s murderer.”

  “So do I. She was a dear friend and deserves that at least.”

  I nodded. We’d reached Sylvia’s driveway when Allistair said, “I’d like to join your book club, if I may.”

  “Of course. We’d love to have you.”

  “I’ll call during the week, and you can tell me which books to read for the next meeting.”

  I was about to rattle off the two titles, then realized he wanted a reason to call me again. At the front door we turned to one another.

  “Thanks for the drinks and the information,” I said.

  “You’re welcome." He stepped in closer for a good-night kiss. It was short but thorough, with the promise of things to come. “Good-night, Lexie. We’ll talk soon.”

  “That will be nice,” I answered and entered the house.

  I fed Puss his evening snack, and settled down in Sylvia’s cozy den to watch a rerun of a police procedural.

  Jesse called on my cell phone. He sounded excited. “Hey, Mom. How’re doing?”

  “Fine. I moved into Sylvia’s house for the summer.”

  “Lucky you. That house is awesome.”

  “So it is." I hesitated, then added. “Poor Sylvia died.”

  “Really? That’s too bad. Was she sick?”

  “Something she ingested made her violently ill,” I hedged. I didn’t want to worry my son. “What’s happening in your life?”

  He proceeded to tell me he’d gotten a temporary job with a new band, but that it might turn into something more permanent. “They have some great gigs coming up. And the good thing is, they’re open to new stuff. They like the kind of songs I write.”

  “Wonderful! How’s your dad?”

  “He and Stacey are good. I’ll be seeing them this weekend. With Cici.”

  “Cici?”

  Jesse gave a little laugh. “Cici’s my new girlfriend.”

  This one was special. “Ah.”

  “Well, gotta go. I’ll call you again soon. Love you.”

  “Love you,” I echoed, wishing I could tell him so in person. How fair was it that his negligent father should be the one to meet Jesse’s girlfriend before me?

  Sylvia’s phone rang as I was preparing for bed. “Hello,” I said, expecting it be Rosie wanting to know how I was settling in.

  “Lexie?” a voice asked. I couldn’t determine if it was male or female.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Stop poking around for a murderer or you’ll be next!”

  My heart hammered. My voice stuck in my throat. “Who is this!”

  “Stop with the questions, or else." The line went dead.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I spent an anxiety-filled night of twisting and mulling, and finally fell asleep at dawn. It seemed no more than minutes had passed when an irate Puss jumped on the bed meowing for his breakfast. Groggy and disoriented, I stumbled to my feet. I blinked furiously at the sunlight pouring past the flowery curtains.

  A beautiful May day, I told myself—until I remembered last night’s threatening phone call. I’d managed to ruffle the murderer’s feathers, which wasn’t very smart. I had the paranoid thought that he or she must have eavesdropped on my conversation with Allistair. I shivered. The sooner I told Lieutenant Donovan what I’d learned about Ruth, the better. It wouldn’t prevent the murderer from coming after me, but I’d have some satisfaction that I was leading the police to a new suspect.

  I used the bathroom then obliged Puss, who was herding me like a Border Collie to the kitchen. I fed him then saw to my breakfast. I was stacking my coffee mug and dish in the dishwasher, when the phone rang. Fearful that the murderer might be calling again made me hesitate. Should I or shouldn’t I answer the damn phone? Sylvia’s answer machine was just kicking in, when I picked up.

  “I’d like to speak to Ms. Alexis Driscoll, please,” a self-assured woman said.

  “This is she. And you are?”

  “I’m calling for Mr. Tommasi of Tommasi, Dwyer, and Fox.”

  I gulped. “Is that a law firm?”

  “Yes, indeed. Mr. Tommasi was Mrs. Morris’s attorney. He’d like you to stop by the office to take care of some business regarding Mrs. Morris’s estate.”

  “When shall I come?”

  “Let’s see." I heard rustling of papers. “This afternoon, if you’re free. Mr. Tommasi can see you at two-thirty. Please bring two pieces of ID.”

  My heart began to race. Could it really be as easy as that—I go into the lawyer’s office and I’m handed a check? No, I reminded myself. There were things like probate, which took months before matters were settled.

  Less enthusiastically, I asked for the firm’s address, jotted it down, and hung up.

  At least, I told myself, I had something constructive to do this afternoon.

  I removed Lieutenant Donovan’s card from the bulletin board and regarded the three phone numbers listed. I decided to call the precinct first.

  “Donovan.”

  “Oh!” I said, surprised. “I didn’t think you’d be there.”

  He laughed. “Hello, Ms. Driscoll. And where did you imagine I’d be?”

  “Out in the field, I suppose.”

  “Hunting down murderers.”

  “Something like that,” I admitted.

  “I’ll be doing that soon enough. Right now I’m at my computer catching up on paperwork. How can I help you?”

  “I was over at a neighbor’s house and learned something I think you should know.

  “Name?”

  “The person this is about? Ruth Blessing. She was at the meeting the night Sylvia was poisoned.”

  “The neighbor’s name.”

  “Oh." My cheeks began to burn, and I was glad Donovan couldn’t see me blushing. “Allistair West. He was Sylvia’s good friend.”

  “Allistair West, the architect?”

  “That’s right.”

  I heard nothing for a minute, then Donovan said, “So, you were over at Mr. West’s house and he happened to tell you something you consider relevant to Mrs. Morris’s murder.”

  “Yes.”

  Was that a chuckle? I told him about Ruth’s behavior at the fundraising she’d chaired with Sylvia and that Sylvia might have sent in a letter blackballing her from chairing an upcoming event.

  “I’ll look into it,” Donovan said. “Anything else Mr. West revealed that you consider important?”

  “Nothing. But I received a strange phone call when I got home." I repeated verbatim what the person had said.

  Donovan whistled. “Ms. Driscoll, this phone call worries me. Aside from your meeting with Mr. West last night, have you been asking questions? Talking to people about the murder?”

  My face grew warm. “A bit, I suppose. I mentioned it at Sylvia’s shiva.”

  “I know you want to see Mrs. Morris’s murderer brought to justice, but you’re going to have to leave it in the hands of me a
nd my men.”

  “But you don’t know these people!” I exclaimed.

  “If you’ll forgive my being presumptuous, neither do you.”

  Damn him, he had a point.

  “I’m not trying to be rude, but except for the Gordons, you know the others in a purely social context. You’ve no idea who has a criminal record, cheats on his taxes or beats his spouse. Or her spouse, as the case may be.”

  “And you have access to all that information? I don’t think so.”

  Donovan sighed heavily into the phone. “Believe me, Ms. Driscoll, we do our best.”

  *

  At two o’clock I left to see Sylvia’s lawyer. Because of all the traffic, it took me twenty minutes to get to his office. I parked beneath the building and took the elevator up to a well-appointed office. A pretty receptionist greeted me, saying Mr. Tommasi would be available in less than ten minutes. To my surprise, that proved to be the case.

  Ralph Tommasi was short, square, and in his mid-fifties. He sported a black mustache and a big smile. He welcomed me into his office and offered me his sympathy regarding Sylvia’s demise.

  “Mrs. Morris named you as beneficiary on one of her bank accounts.”

  I nodded. “Michele told me.” I hesitated, then asked, “how soon do you think it will be before I can receive the money?”

  “As soon as you like.” He reached inside a large envelope and pulled out a bank book and a folded piece of paper. “Here’s the bank book and a copy of the death certificate Michele was kind enough to bring us. Take it to the bank and collect your inheritance.”

  I opened the bankbook and noted with a gasp that the amount I’d be receiving was close to one hundred and fifteen thousand dollars. Bless you, Sylvia.

  “Now all that remains is for you to show me your license and another form of identification, and I’ll have you sign these release forms,” Mr. Tommasi said.

  Minutes later our paperwork completed, we shook hands again.

  “I was very fond of Sylvia,” the lawyer said. “I hope they find her killer very soon.”

  “Me, too.” I cleared my throat. “By the way, this money she left me came as a big surprise.”

  He grinned. “Sylvia wanted it that way. She figured you’d try to talk her out of it if you knew.”