“Allistair’s a keeper, Lexie. You could have a wonderful life together.”
“I thought I’d hold off asking him to marry me till next week.”
We both laughed.
“One more thing,” I said. “Paulette and Marcie had a veiled conversation in front of me. They know someone who didn’t like Sylvia and hated her enough to want her dead, but wouldn’t say who. I wondered if they were talking about Ruth. Allistair told me what she’d done while co-chairing an event with Sylvia.”
Rosie made a disparaging sound. “That happened years ago.”
“Allistair didn’t know whether or not Sylvia sent a letter to the fundraising committee to keep Ruth from being a co-chair this year.”
“Wow! You’re doing a great job unearthing all the OC dirt,” Rosie said, sounding annoyed.
“Why are you angry? I’m not after gossip. I want to find out who killed Sylvia.”
“I can’t see little Ruth Blessing poisoning Sylvia, then bopping Gerda over the head with a vase.”
I sighed. “Neither can I. But I can’t imagine anyone else we know killing them, either.”
Rosie grunted in agreement.
“At least your cousin Adele isn’t a suspect. She wasn’t at your house the night Sylvia was poisoned.”
Silence.
“Rosie?”
“Actually, she was,” Rosie said. “Hal told me the next day. She’d stopped by while we were in our meeting. For a couple of eggs, of all things. Adele was baking the following morning and only remembered she had no eggs when she drove by our house.”
“Oh.”
“My cousin Adele’s not my favorite person, but she’s no murderer." She cleared her throat. “Besides, the only time she was furious with Sylvia was years ago, when Sylvia voted in favor of creating a park on the parcel of land next to Adele and Bob’s house. Sylvia’s was the deciding vote, and the park went through. ”
“Did you tell Detective Donovan this?”
“Of course not." Rosie paused. “And don’t you go running over to share it with him, either."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next few days passed without any major upheavals. I swam or cycled in the morning, and spent the afternoons writing and preparing for the next book club meeting. Late Thursday afternoon I went over to Gerda’s house to pay a shiva call. I extended my sympathy to her sons, whom I’d never met before. They knew I’d found their mother and wanted to hear the details of how she’d died. I told them honestly that I thought it had happened very quickly. I poured myself a cup of coffee and joined the six relatives seated around the cheerless living room. After a half hour of small talk I left.
Detective Donovan called a few hours later to ask if he could stop by that evening. He rang the doorbell as I was finishing my dinner. He looked exhausted, and he needed a shave.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked as he followed me into the kitchen.
“Sounds good to me." He sank into a chair and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.
“How about something to eat? I’ve leftover meatloaf. I can heat it up in the microwave.”
“No need to heat it up,” he said.
I served meatloaf and salad, and watched him devour it as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Then he asked to use the bathroom.
His being here felt both comfortable and exciting. Cut it out! This is not a social visit. Donovan’s here to question you about two murders. Still, he accepted my offer of a bowl of ice cream, and waited till we’d finished eating to ask his questions.
He took me through the afternoon I’d found Gerda dead in her front hall. Afterward, he asked if I remembered hearing the car driving away.
“I was passing through the wooded area between her house and Sylvia’s and didn’t see the car. But it sounded very close. It could have been the murderer escaping.”
“It probably was the murderer escaping, according to the ME’s time of death. You were lucky he or she didn’t see you.”
“You’re right." I smiled at him. “Does this mean you no longer regard me as a suspect?”
Donovan grimaced as he shook his head. “Dr. Driscoll, when did I ever consider you a suspect?”
He asked me how everything appeared when I’d walked into Gerda’s hall. “Regarding the car. Would you recognize the sound of the motor?”
I thought about that for a minute. “Sorry, no. I’m not a car person. They all pretty much sound the same to me.”
Donovan got to his feet. “Thanks for your cooperation, Dr. Driscoll. We’ll get the bastard who did these murders.”
“But you don’t have anything yet,” I said as we walked to the front door.
“We’ll have something soon. I promise.”
Donovan’s smile transformed his face. The man was downright handsome! “Thanks for dinner. That was the best meal I’ve had in ages.”
I treated myself to another dish of ice cream and thought about Detective Brian Donovan. When he wasn’t playing the heavy, he was one appealing male. And so is Allistair, I reminded myself.
Allistair was single, sexy, and nice. Donovan was sexy and—what else did I know about him? He could be married or take a different woman to bed every week, for all I knew.
Who was to say he was interested in me?
Allistair, on the other hand, was definitely interested in me. Which was probably why I backed off every time we met. He was eligible. A good guy.
He was available.
I could have a good life with Allistair. He had money. We’d travel. I’d have my hair styled at a good salon. I’d join a gym like Rosie.
It was my move. I’d had enough of interesting men. Unreliable men, to be more accurate. It was time I settled down with someone dependable. With a man who was steady, on an even keel. I promised myself I’d call Allistair later and set up a date for the beach.
That settled, I reviewed what I knew and didn’t know about the two murders. Brian Donovan had tried to get me to identify the sound of the murderer’s car. Most people in Old Cadfield drove a Mercedes or a BMW. I could barely tell the difference between the appearance of the two cars, let alone identify the different sounds of their motors.
I was a people-oriented individual and had to work from that perspective. I didn’t agree with Rosie that no one who’d been at her house the night Sylvia died could be the murderer. All of them were suspects. I mulled over everything I knew about each person, hoping to find a clue that would point to the murderer’s identity.
At least two people—Gerda and Ruth—had a grudge against Sylvia. Maybe there were others. Did Gerda’s murder mean she hadn’t killed Sylvia? Or had the murderer killed Gerda because she'd witnessed him or her pour poison into Sylvia’s iced tea?
No, that didn’t make sense. If Gerda had witnessed the murderer doctoring Sylvia’s drink, surely she would have told the police what she’d seen.
Unless she'd tried her hand at blackmail.
I sighed. The book club members appeared to be friends and good neighbors, but hostilities infected their relationships like a poisonous underground spring.
*
I emailed Allistair, informing him I’d be hosting the next meeting of the mystery book club on Wednesday evening. After I signed my name I added that I’d love to go to the beach with him. Then I called the other members to remind them of our meeting. Though Rosie and Ginger must have contacted them by now, I’d learned early in life that the personal touch makes a difference. I invited everyone to a pre-meeting dinner. I hoped that during the course of everyday conversation, the murderer would say something incriminating and give him or herself away.
Rosie accepted my invitation with alacrity. Of course she was coming, and so were Ginger and Todd so I didn’t have to bother calling them. She offered to bring a cheesecake for dessert, for which I thanked her profusely. I tended to over-enthuse when I was annoyed with a friend for having caused a blip in our relationship. I was still bristling from Rosie’s high-handed order not to inform the
police that Adele had stopped by the night of Sylvia’s murder.
For the first time, the vast difference between her economic status and mine made me uncomfortable. Was Rosie implying I had no say in matters concerning Old Cadfield residents, or was she trying to stop me from implicating a member of her family? Either way, it put up a wall between us and made me bitterly aware of my position as an outsider.
I called Anne at her office. She said she was looking forward to dinner and the meeting and would bring a few containers of ice cream.
“You still haven’t come in to sign your will,” she reminded me.
“Why don’t you bring it to the meeting? We’ll have more than enough witnesses.”
“Sure thing. See you then.”
Paulette sounded delighted to hear from me. She said she was feeling fine and looking forward to an evening out. I left messages for Marcie and her mother.
They both called me the following evening, Marcie to say she’d bring cookies, Ruth to complain. “Lexie, I can’t believe you’re actually holding another book club meeting after all that’s happened!”
“Well, yes, Ruth." I swallowed, then took the offensive. “I’m sorry you feel that way. Everyone else is eager to come, including Marcie.”
“Marcie’s coming? She didn’t mention it. I’m worried about her. I mean, going to poor Sylvia’s house. Having dinner there, no less.”
I gritted my teeth. “Marcie will be just fine.”
Ruth sputtered. “How do you know? Someone poisoned Sylvia at our last meeting, and then killed Gerda! Maybe this murderer is out to kill us all!”
“Ruth, nothing’s going to happen at this meeting,” I said as gently as I could. "I wish you’d join us. We enjoy hearing your comments and observations,” I added.
She sniffed. “Well, maybe I will.”
I spent most of the weekend poring through the two novels we’d be discussing, jotting down notations and making up questions as I went along. Except for Sylvia and Gerda, everyone who’d attended the first meeting was coming: Rosie, Ginger, Todd, Anne, Marcie, Ruth, and Paulette. And Allistair and me. I couldn’t help thinking of And Then There Were None, in which an avenging murderer kills off ten visitors on an island, one at a time.
Only nothing horrendous was going to happen Wednesday night. No squabbles, no threats, no murders, except for the ones in the novels. I’d see to that!
Allistair and I went out for dinner Saturday night. We drove to a lovely French restaurant in Suffolk County and chatted amiably over gourmet food and fine wine. I can get used to this, I told myself. Back at Sylvia’s house, we necked a bit. I appreciated that he wasn’t rushing me off to bed.
“We’ll go to the beach the first really hot day,” he said as he left.
“I’m looking forward to it." And I was.
Wednesday morning, I drove to Costco and filled my wagon with a tray of wraps, hummus, guacamole, lobster spread, corn chips, a bag of salad, and fresh fruit. I stopped at a liquor store for wine, then hurried home to straighten up the house. There wasn’t much to do, since Sylvia’s cleaning service had done a thorough job of it on Monday. Still, I plumped up pillows and removed a few cat hairs from the living room sofas, where we’d converge after our dinner al fresco.
I was sampling a bit of everything and calling it lunch when the doorbell rang. Allistair. “Coming!” I called out and hurried to open the door.
“Oh!” I greeted Detective Donovan.
He laughed. “Hello, Dr. Driscoll. And a good afternoon to you, too.”
“Sorry,” I said, feeling my face heat up. “I thought you were someone else.”
He waved his hand. “I’m used to it. People react to a visit from me like they do to a trip to their dentist.”
“Good analogy,” I said, as I ushered him inside. I led him into the small sitting room off the living room. We sat down on the love seats and faced one another across the glass table.
“Have you gotten any new leads in the case?” I asked.
“Nothing conclusive since we last spoke, though we’ve learned quite a bit about everyone who was at the Gordons’ home the night Mrs. Morris died." He gave me a meaningful look. “And I mean everyone.”
“Oh!" I couldn’t imagine what he’d dug up about me. Or was he annoyed because he’d learned Adele had stopped by that evening and I hadn’t mentioned it?
“I’m talking about your good friends the Gordons.”
I stared at him. “What could you possibly have unearthed about Rosie and Hal? They’re as stable as those sit-com families from the Fifties.”
“Not quite. A year ago they suffered a severe financial setback after one of Mr. Gordon’s risky deals fell through. Risky and hardly legal, though all he got was a slap on the wrist.”
I felt a tremor, as if the ground had shifted. “I had no idea.”
“And you won’t say I told you.”
“Of course not.”
My mind rolled back to the few months before the fire. Rosie had been preoccupied and tense. Though I needed her support, we hardly spoke during that entire period. Then Gerald died, and she was the same, solid Rosie I’d always been able to count on.
“Poor Rosie,” I murmured.
“Now that you live in Old Cadfield, I assume you see some of the book club members occasionally.”
“Yes. In fact, I’m hosting dinner and our next meeting here tonight. Everyone’s coming—except Sylvia and Gerda, of course," I added awkwardly.
Detective Donovan shot me a conspiratorial grin. “Care to share anything you’ve learned about them, anything at all?”
I couldn’t resist. I cocked my head and gazed up at him, fluttering my eyelashes. “Why, Detective Donovan, that would be gossiping.”
We both laughed.
“It’s Brian,” he said.
“Lexie.”
Solemnly, we shook hands.
“Paulette Hartman had a miscarriage Memorial Day. Her husband wasn’t happy about the pregnancy. In fact, he and Anne Chadwick have resumed their previous relationship. They’ve made plans to marry once he divorces Paulette.”
“Sounds like a nice guy,” he said dryly. “What else?”
“You knew about Gerda’s reaction to Sylvia’s writing about her father, of course.”
He nodded.
“And that Adele, Paulette’s mother, stopped by—oh!” I covered my mouth, but it was too late.
Brian Donovan rested his elbows on the table and let out a mournful sight. “Lexie, I thought we agreed you were going to be helpful.”
My blush traveled down to my feet. “I was going to, though—” I stopped not wanting to bring in Rosie or make things worse for myself. I gave a little laugh. “I’m not very good at this. I wouldn’t ever want to be interrogated by you.”
“Then don’t commit a homicide,” he said, sending a shiver down my spine.
“I wasn’t planning to,” I mumbled.
Brian laughed. “Would it put your mind at ease if I told you I knew about Mrs. Blum’s visit to the Gordons’ house that evening?”
Relieved, I nodded.
“I could use your help, Lexie. You’re intelligent and intuitive and have access to these people, every one of whom could have killed the two victims. Call me if anyone—and I mean anyone—says or does something suspicious.”
“I will.”
“For God’s sake, don’t go investigating on your own! Don’t raise questions about the murders. Don’t talk about them.”
“Of course I won’t! What made you think I would?
“I don’t know." He pretended to think. “Your over-developed curiosity. Your closeness to both murders. Arranging your book club meeting here, where you think you'll be safe.”
Brian stood and rested a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t want to frighten you, but you’re not safe. You’ve received one warning; you won't receive another. If the same perp killed both women, he or she won’t hesitate to kill again. Rattle the killer’s cage and you’re victi
m number three."
He looked me in the eye. “I’d be very sorry to see that happen.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The club members started arriving at six twenty-five. Anne was the last to show up. She appeared flushed as she kissed my cheek.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Of course." She handed over two gallons of chocolate ripple ice cream, then pointed to her attaché case. “I’ve copies of your will to sign.”
“Let’s take care of it at the end of the meeting.”
“Fine.” She followed me out to the patio.
Aware of the various grievances my guests held against one another, I watched Anne choose a seat next to Ginger and Todd. She definitely was upset about something and wasn’t her usual cheery self.
Rosie and Ginger helped me carry out the wraps and spreads; Marcie and Ruth poured the wine. I smiled and acted the part of the perfect hostess, while inside I shivered like a bowlful of Jell-O. Donovan’s words rang in my ears: rattle the killer’s cage and you’re Victim Number Three.
I kept jumping up from the table every few minutes to retrieve some article or other in the kitchen. All this moving about like a jack-in-the-box kept me from concentrating on any one conversation. Even if someone confessed to the murders, the words would probably sail right over my head.
“Relax,” Rosie whispered in my ear as I passed her on my way to the kitchen for more napkins. “Your dinner’s a success. Everyone’s eating up a storm.”
I flashed her a smile. “You know how I get when I’m feeding more than four people.”
I drained my second glass of pinot grigio, but it did nothing to soothe my jangled nerves. One of my guests was a murderer and I might become victim number three! While Ginger, Anne, and Marcie cleared the table and Rosie and Ruth tossed the disposable cups, plates, and utensils into a large pail, I escaped inside to start the coffee. I heard footsteps, and turned to see Allistair had followed me into the kitchen. Though he hadn’t known me very long, he knew me well enough to pick up on my anxiety.
“You’re much too tense,” he murmured as he placed his hands on my neck and kneaded away.
Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) Page 11