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

by Marilyn Levinson

“Ah,” I moaned, savoring the moment.

  “Aunt Lexie,” Ginger began, then burst out laughing. “What exactly is going on in here?”

  “Nothing,” Allistair and I said in unison.

  I served coffee and dessert, and then everyone helped clear the table. We gathered inside the living room to start the meeting.

  Like last time at Rosie’s, except nobody was going to die tonight.

  I’d moved the sofas and chairs into a circle, choosing a high-backed chair for myself. I revved into my professorial persona, and was off and running.

  “While Dame Agatha’s sleuths—her most famous being Hercule Poirot and Miss Jane Marple—live on in our minds as vividly as Superman and Sherlock Holmes, her other characters do not. We know them as Colonel This and Mrs. That—stock figures who play their parts as victim, suspect, or murderer. I believe her plots are what make her mysteries so special and keep millions of readers turning pages today.

  I drew breath and continued. “In one of her novels—I won’t say which in case you decide to read it—the narrator turns out to be the murderer. Tonight we’ll discuss Murder on the Orient Express and Ten Little Indians, also known as And Then There Were None, both examples of her admirable plotting. Let’s talk about the two books, examine the elements they share and those elements unique to each particular novel.”

  The others watched me, eagerly awaiting my next pronouncement with baited breath. I smiled, feeling my anxiety dissolve as I geared up to do what I loved most.

  “Murder on the Orient Express was first published in England in 1934. Like so many Christie novels, it had a different American title: Murder in the Calais Coach. Aside from reading the book, many of you might have seen the movie.”

  Heads nodded.

  “And you might have gathered that this novel is based on the kidnaping and murder of Charles Lindbergh’s son.”

  “I thought so,” Ruth murmured.

  “A writer’s vengeance for a beastly crime,” Allistair said.

  I smiled at them both and went on. “Hercule Poirot is aboard the Orient Express when a fellow passenger is stabbed to death. Poirot is puzzled by the victim’s twelve stab wounds, all of various depths, showing both left and right-handedness. A heavy snow falls, prohibiting further travel, and Poirot must solve the murder within the closed environment so favored by Christie.”

  All eyes followed my progress as I paced the Persian carpet. “The evidence is varied and confusing. Poirot discovers that the dead man is an American criminal who kidnapped the three-year-old daughter of a wealthy American. Though her parents paid the ransom, he killed the child. This brutal act brought about the deaths of the child’s parents and of the family maid, who was accused of the crime.”

  I paused and leaned back.

  “We learn that each of the twelve passengers is related to someone who suffered because of the child’s murder: the little girl’s aunt, her nurse, the dead maid’s father, etc. Poirot decides there are two possible scenarios regarding the crime: either a professional killer came aboard the train while it was stopped, executed the man, and departed, or all twelve passengers took part in killing the child’s murderer. Though it’s evident that the second is what has happened, he presents the first scenario to the officials.”

  I took my seat. “Comments, anyone? Ginger?”

  “Poirot realizes that the murdered man committed a heinous crime for which he hasn’t been punished. The twelve people—did they have twelve jurors in England then, Aunt Lexie?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so." I grinned. “But good point, Ginger. American trials have twelve jurors. The crime on which this book is based took place in the U. S.”

  She grinned back, pleased with herself. “The lives of these twelve people were ruined because Cassetti murdered the little girl. Since the authorities didn’t punish him, they’re executing an act of justice.”

  “Justice or revenge?” Anne asked. Some of the others glared at her, but she refused to be intimidated. “Believe me, I’m not defending the murderer. It’s just that when people take revenge, sometimes the wrong person is killed.”

  “Christie makes it crystal clear that Cassetti killed the little girl,” I pointed out.

  “This is fiction,” Todd scoffed. “Bruno Hauptmann was executed for killing the Lindbergh infant. To this day, there’s doubt as to whether he committed the crime. He went to his death claiming his innocence.”

  “I imagine Dame Agatha wrote the book to give her readers a sense of closure and justice served,” I said. “She also raises the question: do we have the right to kill someone who’s committed a heinous crime and has managed to evade the system? We’ll discuss that later on.

  “In And Then There Were None, ten people have been invited to an island from which they have no escape." I smiled. “Christie likes her locked-in settings: a snowbound train, a manor house in the country, an island. We learn that each person has been responsible for causing another person’s demise, either deliberately or through negligence. At the first meal, they find ten tiny soldiers on the dining room table, along with a poem. As each person is killed in a manner very similar to the death in the poem, a toy soldier disappears from the table until all ten people are dead. The police have no idea who committed these murders. Some time later a letter is found, revealing that one of the guests has killed the other nine. A dying man with sadistic tendencies and the only guest not guilty of having caused an innocent man to die, the murderer set up the entire scenario in order to extract justice and to experience murder.”

  Rosie shook her head in disbelief. “I must admit, I enjoyed reading this book to the very end, but afterwards I found the resolution as farfetched as a vacation on the moon.”

  “I agree," I said. "The plot’s totally convoluted, especially the way the murderer stages his own demise to make it look like murder. But think of it as a puzzle instead of how real crimes are committed.”

  Anne nodded. “Besides that, his motivation’s bizarre. The killer is driven by a powerful need to make the guilty suffer. He sets himself up above the law.”

  Marcie raised her hand. “In both these books, Agatha Christie sees herself as judge and jury. A character or group of characters sets out to punish a wrongdoer. The punishment is death.”

  “Why not?” Paulette asked. “Those people on the island deserved to be punished. They deserved to die." Her voice wavered. “Didn’t they?”

  Anne’s tone was gentle, as if she were speaking to a child. “Paulette, we can’t go around getting rid of people because they’ve committed a crime. That’s why we have laws and courts—to administer justice.”

  “The courts don’t always do a good job of it,” Ginger said. “We give people on trial all sorts of leeway, regardless of what awful crime they’ve committed. They hire a lawyer, who finds all kinds of loopholes, and he gets them off scot free." She cast Todd an apologetic glance. “Though I’m sure you wouldn’t do anything like that if you knew the person was guilty.”

  “Lawyers know better than to ask if their client is guilty,” Marcie said wryly.

  “So what recourse does a victim have, if a court of law won’t punish the guilty party?” Ginger demanded, growing more agitated with every word she uttered. “Why should he get off after he does something awful, and goes on to do it again and again!”

  My heart started thumping. I thought Rosie would get up and take Ginger home, but she only sent her daughter a look of pure anguish.

  Todd didn’t know! He couldn’t, from the way he grinned at Ginger. “Come on, babe. Don’t tell me you’re for vigilante justice?”

  “Why not, if someone deserves to be punished! Don’t you want the person who killed Sylvia and Gerda put away for life?”

  “Of course I do. But I want to be damn sure they’ve got the right person.”

  “Oh!" Ginger stormed out of the room. Rosie chased after her.

  Was every meeting destined to be a stage for high drama? I cleared my throat. Time
to move on.

  “Let’s approach this novel from a different aspect. Did any of you guess the identity of the murderer? Do you think Christie was successful in hiding her outcome until the very end? Were you surprised?”

  “I sure was,” Paulette admitted.

  “Me, too,” Ruth seconded, “but I’d rather read about characters I care about. I didn’t like anyone in this book.”

  “Nor were you meant to. Yet, according to one source, this book is Christie’s best seller, perhaps the world’s best-selling mystery of all times. Mystery writers admire Agatha Christie. One of my favorites authors, Katherine Hall Page, wrote a book in the style of And Then There Were None called The Body in the Ivy. A college reunion takes place on an island off New England.”

  We discussed the two books a while longer. Rosie and Ginger returned to the room. Ginger took a seat far from Todd.

  “For our next mystery writer, I’ve been considering three old-time favorites of mine: Josephine Tey, Margery Allingham and her sleuth, the seemingly insipid Albert Campion, and Ngaio Marsh and her Inspector Roderick Alleyn." I grinned. “Or, if you’d rather, we could read some of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe novels. These, of course, are set in Manhattan—mostly in Nero Wolfe’s apartment because he doesn’t like to leave home if he can help it. Any preferences?”

  Marcie’s arm waved so hard, I thought it best to acknowledge her before it came loose from its socket.

  “Would it be all right—I mean if no one objected—could we spend another session reading more books by Agatha Christie?”

  I took in the nodding heads and shrugged. “Sure, why not? This is your group and we can stay with one author as long as you like." I thought a moment. “Let’s read The A.B.C. Murders, and one of her Miss Marple mysteries, A Murder Is Announced. Yes, Todd?”

  “I probably won’t be able to make the next meeting. I really have to focus on studying for the boards.”

  Ginger shot him an angry look then stared down at the floor.

  Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise.

  Chatting broke out as everyone stood and stretched, ready to head for home. I was surprised to note it was close to ten o’clock.

  “You’ve done a fantastic job,” Allistair said. “I was mesmerized.”

  “Thank you.”

  He was about to say something else, when Anne grabbed my arm.

  “Lexie, don’t forget. You promised to sign your will tonight.”

  “All right,” I said, none too graciously. I was tired and thirsty, and had to put the house back in order.

  “We’ll need two witnesses." Her eyes flitted to Allistair. “Can you stay a few minutes? This shouldn’t take much longer than that.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he murmured.

  “Rosie,” she called out, “can you stay to witness Lexie’s will?”

  “I guess." She turned to Ginger and Todd. “Can you kids wait a few minutes? I won’t be long.”

  Ginger and Todd exchanged glances, then quickly turned from one another. I hoped they’d be able to resolve their problem once they had a chance to talk things out.

  “Ginger and Todd can leave,” I told Rosie. “I’ll drive you home.”

  “Or I will,” Anne said.”

  “On second thought, Anne, could you stay a few minutes after this will business is finished? I’d like your advice on something.”

  Both Allistair and Rosie stared at me, but I had no intention of explaining myself.

  Allistair sighed. I supposed he was hoping to stay after the others had cleared out. But ever the gentleman, he said, “Rosie, I’ll be happy to drop you off.”

  Anne took herself off to a corner chair and pulled papers from her attaché case. Ruth, Marcie, and Paulette approached to say good-night.

  “Lexie, I must say, this turned out to be a most enjoyable evening,” Ruth declared. “You’re doing a terrific job. I’d be happy to host the next meeting.”

  “Thanks, Ruth. I’m glad you’re enjoying the book club.”

  “I’ll send everyone an email to let them know,” Rosie said.

  “Great meeting, Lexie,” Marcie said.

  “Yes,” Paulette agreed. “And thanks for dinner.”

  Minutes later, I sat alone at the kitchen table reading the will Anne had drawn up for me. Everything I possessed went to Jesse. Since she’d insisted that I have a secondary heir, I put down my sister, whom I hadn’t seen in years.

  “You can come in now,” I called out to the others. I’m ready to sign.”

  Anne, Rosie, and Allistair watched me sign the will and three copies. Then Rosie and Allistair signed their names on the last page of each copy.

  “Anything wrong?” Rosie asked as I ushered her and Allistair to the door.

  “No. Talk to you tomorrow."

  Allistair kissed my cheek. “I’ll call you.”

  I returned to Anne, perched on a living room sofa, her long legs tucked away. “What can I help you with?”

  I dropped down beside her. “I was wondering if you could give me the name of a good financial advisor, someone I could trust. Sylvia left me money, and I want to invest part of it.”

  She nodded as she thought. “I’ve a friend who handles my investments. He’ll steer you right.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow with his phone number." Anne gave me a curious look. “But Hal could advise you. That’s what he does for a living.”

  My face burned as I recalled what Brian Donovan had told me about my old friend. “I’d rather deal with someone on a purely professional level.”

  “Of course,” Anne said as she stood. She swung the strap of her pocketbook onto her shoulder and reached for her attaché case. “I’d better get going. I’ve a brief to write before I go to bed." She gave me a sad smile. “But I’m better off keeping myself occupied than mulling over the mess I’ve made of my life.”

  “I thought things were going well for you and—Rosie said..." My hand flew to my mouth. What was happening to me, once again blabbing about something Rosie had told me in confidence?

  Anne patted my arm. “It’s all right, Lexie. I know Rosie told you about Lowell and me after you nearly caught us doing the deed.”

  “Yes. Well,” I stumbled, flustered by how open these younger women were about sex. If it had been me caught with another woman’s husband, I’d have taken the first plane to Alaska.

  Anne plopped back down on the sofa and covered her face with her hands. “Nothing’s going the way it’s supposed to. After all we’ve been through together, Lowell’s wavering. He thinks he ought to give his marriage another chance.”

  I sat beside her and stroked her back. “Relationships tend to get sticky when one person’s married.”

  Anne reared up as if I’d struck her. “He had no business marrying that twit to begin with! Paulette came on to him the minute I left the country! She played him, all right, massaging his sore ego.”

  Not such a twit, after all, I thought, but kept my observation to myself.

  Anne’s eyes narrowed. “Paulette’s oblivious to the fact that she’s an utter moron because her doting mother constantly tells her how wonderful she is." She snorted. “After Paulette flunked out of that community college upstate, Adele gave her a pep talk on how bright she is in her own special way and the college was simply too ignorant to appreciate her! She tucked her back into her old room and enrolled her in classes in feng shui and flower arranging.”

  I tried to stem her flow of anger. “Maybe it’s time for you to move on. Find someone new." Someone available, was what I meant.

  Anne shook her head, whipping her long hair through the air. “You don’t understand! Paulette’s always chased after what I had because it was mine. In high school, if I bought a blue sweater, two days later she was wearing one just like it. She tagged along after the kids in my crowd, got friendly with my boyfriends.”

  She fisted away the tears streaming down her cheeks. “She went after Lowell beca
use he was my boyfriend. I didn’t care; I was so angry at him at the time. A few years later we ended up at the same firm and hooked up again. We had the same wonderful connection, only this time without the fights and fireworks. We realized we could make things work. Then Paulette announced she was pregnant.”

  “Which she isn’t any longer,” I commented.

  “No." The sad smile reappeared. “Now Lowell’s got it in his head that Paulette lost the baby because she found out about us. He feels guilty and angry at her at the same time. These past few days, guilt’s been edging ahead.”

  She drew herself up. “Enough of my sad story. You’ve had a long day. I’ll be fine. Either Lowell and I will make it, or we won’t. It’s as simple as that.”

  I hugged her good-night and told her to drive carefully, then went about turning off lights. I was thoroughly exhausted. I’d see to the washing and straightening up tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow, I told myself as I stepped into my nightgown. I brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and headed straight for bed.

  The doorbell awoke me the following morning. I squinted at the clock. Six forty-five! Who on earth was stopping by this early? I tried not to think of all the dire possibilities as I pulled on my bathrobe, made a quick stop in the bathroom, then ran to open the door. Brian Donovan stood before me, a uniformed officer at his side.

  Panic shot through me. They’d come to arrest me! I opened my mouth to ask, then closed it. Let them utter the dreaded words.

  Donovan’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Dr. Driscoll, Lexie, we need to talk to you. May we come inside?”

  I nodded and ushered them into the sitting room. Puss appeared and wove through my legs, meowing his outrage that I’d invited strangers into the house instead of attending to his needs.

  “I’ll be right back.” I fled to the kitchen where I turned on the cold water faucet full force. Who would take care of Puss while I was gone? What would Jesse think, his mother a suspect in two murders?

  “Lexie?”

  “What!" I jumped nearly a foot into the air. I turned to Brian Donovan, standing close behind me. My fear transformed to anger. “I came in here to feed the cat. You can give me a moment, can’t you?”