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

by Marilyn Levinson

  Ruth glared at me. Petite as she was, the hostility she radiated in my direction felt like a gale wind. “Adele, you deal with Lexie. You know what’s involved as well as I do,” she said, her voice cold as ice.

  Adele stared at her co-chair. “What on earth’s gotten into you?”

  Ruth sniffed. “I want nothing to do with this woman.”

  “What’s your problem?” Rosie demanded. “You asked for volunteers, and I’ve brought you Lexie.”

  Ruth turned on me, nostrils bristling with fury. I expected flames to emerge. My cheeks burned as well when I realized what this was about. “Little Miss Detective went yapping to the police about something that happened two years ago! As if my Marcie would ever harm anyone!”

  “What are you talking about?” Adele asked.

  “That detective had Marcie in tears, accusing her of driving Anne off the road! They’re even inspecting her car." Ruth shook her head in disbelief. “As though my poor child would hurt a living soul. The police upset her so, I told her to stay home tonight.”

  “So that’s why she’s not here,” Adele mused.

  I tucked away that bit of information to share with Al. If the police had bothered to inspect Marcie’s car, it meant Anne’s killer had driven a gray car.

  “Marcie told Paulette and me she hated Anne,” I admitted. “I felt obliged to pass that on to Detective Donovan.”

  Fists clenched, Ruth rushed towards me. Though she was barely five-two—four inches shorter than me—the force of her maternal anger sent me backing up until I hit a wall.

  “Of course Marcie was furious with Anne! She screwed up the adoption. Marcie and Scott lost money besides. But Marcie wouldn’t kill Anne! For God’s sake, they’ve known each other since high school.”

  Adele slipped an arm around Ruth. “Take it easy, dear. You’re upset, but I promise you it will all come out right in the end." As she escorted Ruth out of the room, she called over her shoulder, “Rosie, I’ll be right back. Lexie, why don’t you join the group in the corner? I’ll explain everything you need to know later.”

  I stepped warily toward the group of young women laughing and talking. A skinny, red-haired woman no older than twenty-five but with the confident bearing of Hilary Clinton introduced herself as Corinne Brewster. She presented me to five other women, whose names I forgot as soon as I heard them. I was still reeling from Ruth’s attack and longed to slink back to Sylvia’s house to take refuge under the covers.

  “It’s nice to have you here, Lexie,” Corinne said.

  “What do I have to do at the gala?” I asked.

  “Dressed in your exquisite Edwardian gown, you’ll meet and greet everyone who crosses your path. In other words, improvise.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Now go snag a plate of food in the kitchen and hurry back to us.”

  I rushed off, glad to be on my own, and found myself in a totally white kitchen. The counters and table were covered with spreads, cheeses, deli meats, and salads of every imaginable kind. I made up a plate, poured myself an iced cappuccino, and returned to the family room. Corinne and a woman who said her name was Jan made room for me on the sofa. I’d eaten most of the food on my plate when I realized the others in “my” group were silently watching me.

  “Now, Lexie, we’re dying to hear all about your murder book club,” Corinne said.

  I cringed at her choice of words. “It’s a mystery book club,” I corrected. “We read and discuss mystery novels.”

  “And someone’s murdered at every meeting,” Jan said. She had on granny glasses and wore her brown hair as short as a boy’s.

  “Nonsense!" I cleared my throat. “Our book club has nothing to do with real murders. It’s unfortunate that someone died at our first meeting. Another member had an accident on her way home from our second meeting." God, I was getting as bad as Rosie!

  “Anne Chadwick, the lawyer?” Jan asked.

  I nodded.

  “Lots of people didn’t like Anne,” a chubby young woman offered. “My older sister knew her in college. She said Anne was uber ambitious, and stepped on friend and enemy alike to get ahead.”

  “That’s a hell of a reason to kill someone, Poppy,” someone else protested.

  “Maybe,” Corinne agreed, lowering her voice, “but she was carrying on hot and heavy with Lowell Hartman.”

  “Big deal!” Poppy said. “They went together in law school.”

  So much for the morals of our young.

  Jan looked around, then beckoned us into a huddle. In a low voice, she said, “The way I heard it, Lowell was planning to leave Paulette, then her parents lured him back.”

  Corinne nodded knowingly. “A quarter of a million dollars to fix up your house will do wonders for a marriage!”

  The others laughed merrily, as though Lowell had negotiated a great business deal. Were they ever cynical. Poor Anne. Wherever she was now, she was well rid of Lowell Hartman.

  “What about Sylvia Morris?” Poppy cocked her head. “Whom did she piss off?”

  “I heard Gerda Stein had it in for her,” Jan said.

  “Then somebody did Gerda in,” one of the other women said. “I wonder why. I heard she had no money.”

  “Maybe there are two murderers!” Corinne widened her eyes until they seemed to bug out of her head.

  Poppy cast her friend a look of derision. “Two murderers, Corinne? Don’t be ridiculous! This is Old Cadfield. What kind of place do you think we live in?”

  What kind of place, indeed? “Have all of you gotten your costumes already?” I asked.

  The group was as amenable to changing topics as sheep obeying a border collie. They complained about sizes, colors, and fittings. I finished my iced cappuccino and needed to use the bathroom. I wandered along the darkened hall and knocked on the guest bathroom. A woman answered saying she’d be right out.

  I took this as an excuse to find another bathroom and explore the rooms upstairs. Bedrooms reflected their inhabitants’ lives. Who knew what I might find?

  I crossed to the staircase and looked about. No sign of Bob, Adele’s husband, or of anyone else. So far so good.

  The upstairs hallway was in shadows. I peered into various rooms until I found a bathroom. I used the facilities, then opened the door, ready to sleuth.

  I passed a guest room and a small den for TV viewing. The master bedroom suite was at the end of the hall. It was a good-sized room with a dressing alcove and adjoining bathroom. I stepped inside. The bureaus and night tables were of dark wood, the bedspread and drapes the same maroon and gray as that of the formal rooms downstairs. I moved further into the room. On the low bureau were two wedding photographs—one of Adele and Bob, the other of Paulette and Lowell.

  A small desk stood in the corner by the bathroom. I approached it cautiously, wondering what I might find without turning on a light. In the dim light coming from the bathroom nightlight, I made out the pile of bills yet to be paid. The top one was for a series of lab tests. Was Adele ill? Was Bob?

  I pulled open the only drawer. Nothing but pens and paper clips. I wasn’t about to rummage through Adele’s clothing, so I left the room. Across the hall was another bedroom, spacious but not as large as the master bedroom. This had to be Paulette’s room, the one she’d used before she was married. Adele must have forgotten to close the blinds and curtains because they were open to the night.

  The décor was pink and white with touches of red. A queen-sized canopied bed stood in the center. One long wall was a closet. Two bureaus and a desk stood against the opposite wall, above which ran a shelf, every inch filled with dolls: baby dolls, dolls dressed in various national costumes, some sitting, some standing. I smiled to myself. The perfect room for the young Paulette.

  The short wall between two windows was covered with a few innocuous paintings. I stepped over to the desk and switched on the lamp. The surface of the desk was empty, but in the space above the desk and beneath the doll shelf were certific
ates of classes Paulette had attended. I moved closer to see what they were for. “Feng shui,” “Flower Arranging,” “Painting in Water Colors,” “The Beginning Gardener." Quite an array of subjects.

  A rustling noise set my heart pounding. I spun around as Paulette flopped down on the bed. My concern for her wellbeing overcame my embarrassment. “Paulette, are you all right?”

  “I’m exhausted,” she murmured as she curled into a fetal position. “Turn out the light.”

  “Of course.” I did as she asked, then hovered over her. “Can I get you something? Water? An aspirin?”

  She seemed oblivious to my presence. I was about to leave her in peace when she started rocking back and forth, hugging herself and moaning. “It hurts. It hurts so badly.”

  Frightened, I asked, “Is it your stomach? Are you cramping?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I patted her shoulder. “I’ll get your mother." I looked up, surprised to see Adele entering the room.

  “Paulette’s not feeling well,” I said, but Adele only had eyes for her daughter. She rushed to the bed and lay down next to Paulette, cradling her in her arms. “It’s all right, my darling. Everything will be all right.”

  Paulette whimpered. “Mommy, hold me. It hurts so bad.”

  “Shhh. Rest now." Adele turned to me. In the dim light I saw the stern face of a woman chieftain. “Lexie, tell everyone I’ll be down after I see to Paulette.”

  “Sure. Will do."

  The meeting was breaking up anyway. I said goodnight to Corinne and the other young women in my group, and went searching for Rosie. I found her in the kitchen.

  “Adele’s upstairs with Paulette. She's in terrible pain.”

  Rosie frowned. “Paulette’s suffered from stomach aches all her life. If you ask me, they’re psychosomatic, but my cousin Adele uses them as an excuse to baby her.”

  “Are you sure something's not seriously wrong? Has she been checked out by a doctor?”

  “She had a complete GI Series years ago. Why?”

  “I was wondering if it had anything to do with her miscarrying. Paulette told me she had an illness, which was why she wanted to get pregnant as soon as she could.”

  Rosie let out a snort of derision. “Paulette’s as healthy as a horse. She exaggerates so people will feel sorry for her. Besides, if there were anything wrong with her, Adele would have told me. Now Adele...”

  “Adele what?” I asked.

  “Nothing! Adele’s fine.”

  What was Rosie hiding? Adele had seen a doctor the day I visited Paulette. The lab bill was on her desk.

  “Is Adele sick?” I demanded.

  “Ssshhh,” Rosie ordered, her eyes scanning the room to see if anyone had overheard our conversation. “Let’s leave it that Adele has seen better days.”

  What was wrong with her? How serious was the condition? There was no point asking Rosie. She’d tell me when she was ready and not a minute sooner.

  We said good night to Ruth. Ruth hugged Rosie and ignored me. As we walked to the car, I said, “Ruth’s pissed at me. I suppose that means she’ll drop out of the book club. Too bad, since she’s scheduled to host the next meeting.”

  Rosie waved my worry away. “Ruthie’s as emotional as a diva. She takes everything to heart, especially when it comes to Marcie." She stepped into the gray Mercedes. I got into the passenger’s seat. “But she forgives and forgets.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I said, remembering she hadn’t held a grudge after my detecting fiasco at Sylvia’s shiva.

  Rosie backed out of the spot and drove slowly down the road towards Sylvia’s house. “But I wouldn’t tangle with Marcie, if I were you. Now there’s a girl who holds a grudge.”

  My pulse quickened. “You think she might have killed Anne?"

  “I’ve no idea. But Marcie sees things as black or white, and only from her perspective. She’s been that way since she was a child. She and Anne knew each other in high school." Rosie gave a little laugh. “Anne’s not from Old Cadfield, which makes her from the other side of the tracks, so to speak. She was beautiful and brainy, and had to fight for everything she got. While Marcie—”

  “Had everything handed to her.”

  Rosie nodded. “There was some sort of a contest in their junior year—a community project. Who could sell the most tickets, or some such thing. Marcie and Anne were neck-and-neck in the lead. The teachers gave the prize to Anne. Marcie made an ugly scene. She insisted she’d sold more tickets and should have been chosen, that they only gave it to Anne because she was poor." Rosie laughed. “Of course that wasn’t the case. In high school, Anne was making thousands of dollars modeling, which probably irked Marcie even more, being she’s so plain.”

  “You’d think they’d grow out of that high school stuff,” I said.

  “They never do." We digested that thought. Rosie gave a half smile. “I’m going to miss Anne. We were always the first to arrive at the gym. We walked side by side on our treadmills." She chuckled. “Of course Anne went miles faster than I ever could. She was something, that girl. Very special.”

  She drove onto Sylvia’s driveway and turned to me. “Are you free tomorrow to pick out your costume?”

  I grimaced. “You know how I hate shopping for clothes. Frankly, this entire gala thing isn’t my cup of tea.”

  Rosie grinned. “You’ll feel differently once you've seen those gowns.”

  “If you say so.”

  It was only when I was safe inside the house that it dawned on me: Rosie’s car, which I’d been riding in a minute ago, was gray. Like the car that had driven Anne off the road.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Why are you driving a different car today?” I asked Rosie the following morning as I stepped into a blue Lexus.

  Rosie threw me a “what’s-up-with-you?” look before stepping on the gas. “Since when do you notice the difference between a Jaguar and a JEEP?”

  “Hey, I’m not that bad!”

  “Well?” she persisted.

  “I was just wondering. Last night’s car was gray. This one’s blue.”

  “I took Hal’s car last night because it was blocking my Lexus.”

  “Oh.”

  Rosie slowed down to give me a big smile. “You’re still playing detective.”

  I shrugged. “I figured if the police checked Marcie’s car because it’s gray, then Anne’s murderer drives a gray car.”

  “The same color your best friend’s husband drives.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to implicate Hal,” I said, too flustered to come up with something clever.

  Rosie’s cheery laugh rang out. “Lexie, dear, half of Old Cadfield’s population drives a gray car. Including....”

  “Yes?”

  Rosie gnawed at her lower lip. “Lowell.”

  “Lowell,” I echoed. “He pops up everywhere. He was with Sylvia when she died. He and Anne were lovers.”

  “He wasn’t at the book club meeting.”

  “So what? Lowell knew Anne would be attending and the route she’d take home. He had plenty of time to position his car in the opposite direction and wait for her to drive by.”

  Rosie let out a snort. “I wonder what your Hercule Poirot would make of all this.”

  “He’d use his little grey cells to find the murderer.”

  “While we have to rely on the police checking everyone’s alibi.”

  “And everyone’s car,” I added. “Whichever car sideswiped Anne’s left telltale signs.”

  We talked about other things as we drove to the costume shop.

  “How are the lovebirds?” I asked.

  Rosie grimaced. “Honestly, I don’t know. When I got home last night, Ginger was on her cell phone, arguing with someone. She slammed her door shut when she saw me. I knocked a few minutes later, but she didn’t want to talk. This morning she left for her job in a glum mood. She hasn’t been that way in ages.”

  “Every couple quarrels,” I said, try
ing to be philosophical. “Besides, maybe she was arguing with a girl friend.”

  Rosie braked for a red light. “I’m pretty sure it was Todd. I’m worried, Lex. He’s her first serious boyfriend ever, and they’ve been at odds ever since the last book club meeting.”

  “When she got incensed about offenders not being apprehended for their crimes.”

  “And even more incensed when Todd had a different take on the matter.”

  I put a hand on Rosie’s arm. “That’s between Ginger and Todd. Thank God, you’re not an interfering mother like Ruth and Adele.”

  Rosie gnawed away at her lower lip so vigorously I feared she’d cause serious damage. “I hate to intrude, but that awful camp experience still impacts her life.”

  “Of course you’re concerned. But I thought you sent her for therapy.”

  “We did. She saw the therapist twice, then insisted she was okay and refused to go back. I ended up seeing the therapist to learn how to deal with Ginger.”

  “Maybe what’s going on between her and Todd has nothing to do with what happened then.”

  Rosie accelerated with a heavy foot. “Sorry,” she said when my head bounced against the headrest. “That old business has everything to do with Ginger’s state of mind. She’s still furious the guy was never brought up on charges, much less sent to prison. She’s angry at Todd and feels he doesn’t support her, though he has no idea of what she’s been through. Ever since the meeting, she’s been like a hand grenade ready to explode. I’m worried about her, Lexie. I really am.”

  We drove the rest of the trip in silence. The costume shop was on the main street of a town that had seen better days. Rosie found a parking spot on the street two doors away. I put a quarter in the meter, and followed her past a show window filled with mannequins dressed in various costumes.

  A bell chimed as we entered the dingy shop. High above us, long florescent lights cast shadows on the cracked linoleum worn in spots clear through to the wooden slats beneath. On both sides, costumes of every sort hung on racks that extended the entire length of the shop.

  Rosie introduced me to Mme. Trésor, the tiny white-haired proprietress, and explained why we’d come.