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

by Marilyn Levinson

  “Ah, the gala,” Mme. Trésor chirped, then peered nearsightedly at Rosie. “Aren’t you due for another fitting, Madame Rose?”

  Rosie gave a shamed-faced smile. “If you have time, we can do it after you take care of Lexie.”

  “I always have time for you, Madame Rose,” she said firmly before stepping closer to give me her undivided attention. She scrutinized me up and down, had me turn around, then ushered us to the back of the store which had two armchairs, two dressing rooms, and a three-part mirror. She held up a finger, disappeared, and returned minutes later holding a black and white gown with the most exquisite lace work I’d ever seen.

  “How lovely!" I exclaimed.

  “Try it on.”

  I entered one of the dressing rooms clearly meant for a child of ten, stripped to my underwear, and stepped into the gown. The white lacy bodice was low-cut and nipped in at the waist. The skirt floated out in layers of elegant swaths of black tulle. Madame Trésor knocked once then entered the tiny space to close the hooks that ran along the back of the bodice. When she was done, she fluffed out my skirts, and smiled.

  “Voilá! Vouz êtes trés belle! Regardez!” she instructed. “Look in the mirror.”

  I followed her out of the dressing room and stared at myself. My skin looked pale against the white bodice, but the fit was perfect.

  Madame Trésor slipped my bra straps from view and lifted my breasts. “Of course you’ll wear a different brassière that evening. And some rouge so you don’t look like a ghost.”

  I nodded.

  “Does the gown have to be shortened?” Rosie asked.

  “No, with the right shoes, it will be perfect. Mme. Lexie is slender and the perfect height." Madame Trésor sighed. “I wish I had it as easy with the other women—wonderful women to be sure,” she added quickly. “But Mrs. Blessing and her daughter have been to see me three times, and they’ve yet to be satisfied with their gowns.”

  We nodded in sympathy.

  “Three times, I tell you!" She lowered her voice so she was practically spitting when she spoke. “That poor Marcie won’t look belle whether I give her a gown of a different color or one with a different bust-line. Dowdy, is what she is.”

  Rosie and I exchanged glances. I stepped out of my gown and handed it to Mme. Trésor. She put it on a padded hanger, wrapped it in cellophane, and returned it to me with a smile. “Enjoy!" She cocked her head at Rosie. “And now it is your turn.”

  Mme. Trésor went into the back of the shop, and returned with a rose-colored dress on her arm. Rosie put it on in the dressing room.

  “It’s lovely,” I said, when she emerged, holding up the voluminous skirt. “Great color for you.”

  “Indeed it is,” Madame agreed.

  “Do you think so?” Rosie asked, dubiously. “It’s not too—garish?”

  “No!” Mme. Trésor and I answered in unison. She went on to say, “I will shorten the skirt and it will be perfect.” Mme. Trésor worked lightning fast, and minutes later we were bidding her good day.

  “Thanks, Rosie,” I said as we walked to the car.

  “Don’t mention it. It’s part of the cost of having you volunteer for the gala.”

  “Fair enough. Though with the money Sylvia left me—”

  “Isn’t to be spent on Old Cadfield fundraisers,” Rosie finished firmly. “I asked you to volunteer and can well afford to pay for your costume. So why shouldn’t I take care of it?”

  I laughed. “Now that’s an economic theory they don’t teach at my university.”

  She grinned. “They should. It works. But enough talk of money. Let’s go for lunch.”

  “My treat,” I said.

  “You’re on.”

  We went to a café well known for its salads and sandwiches. We gave our order to an attractive woman about our age and settled back against the booth’s vinyl cushions.

  “You’re getting a bird’s eye view of life in Old Cadfield,” Rosie commented.

  “I’m seeing more than I care to of overbearing mothers and cheating husbands.”

  Rosie shrugged. “We have our problems, like people everywhere.”

  “Sure. And toss a murderer into the mix.”

  Rosie looked at me. I saw the pain in her eyes. “Someone evil killed three of my friends. Someone I know.”

  “Evil? How about sick? Demented?”

  “Evil!” Rosie insisted, loud enough for the people at the nearby table to stare at us. She sighed. “Who do you think did it, Lex?”

  “I’ve no idea. Lowell? Marcie? Paulette?”

  “Why would someone kill Anne? What’s the motive?”

  I sipped my water. “I don’t know. Lowell told her he was going to stay with Paulette.”

  Rosie pursed her lips. “Why on earth would he choose Paulette over Anne?”

  “Dirty lucre. I heard Adele and Bob paid him off.”

  She grimaced. “I’m not surprised. The Blums will do whatever it takes to keep little Paulette happy.”

  “I hardly know Lowell, but he sounds like a sleaze to me.”

  Rosie smiled nostalgically. “He wasn’t always like that. When he and Paulette got engaged, he was determined to do his bit for humanity and represent the downtrodden poor.”

  “What a long way he’s come,” I said sarcastically.

  Our salads arrived. I ate as much as I could manage. “Please wrap it. I’ll take it home,” I told the waitress when she refilled our coffee mugs.

  She smiled and removed our plates. Rosie’s, I noticed, was wiped clean.

  “I must go on a diet,” she muttered, eying me balefully. “Even if I starved myself, I’d never have your figure.”

  I laughed. “Rosie, dear, don’t tell me you’re envious.”

  “You bet I am,” she answered, her scowl still in place.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I dropped my beach chair and heavy canvas bag on the sand and turned to Al. “Is this far enough?”

  “Keep going.”

  The stretch of beach around us was empty. “Why? There’s not a soul in sight.”

  “It’s Saturday. Trust me, in two hours time you won’t be able to see the sand. This entire section will be wall-to-wall people.”

  I giggled. “I didn’t know the beach had walls.”

  “Naughty girl. You don’t allow me my figures of speech.”

  “I’ll allow it, if you promise we can leave after an hour.”

  Al beamed that great grin of his. “I’m hoping you’ll change your mind.”

  “I hate the beach,” I mumbled as I adjusted my large hat, which had flopped to the side of my head. I grabbed the chair and the bag and trudged onward.

  “This is fine,” Al finally declared. “We’re still within view of the life guard, but it’s a long-enough trek to dissuade most people from coming this far.”

  “Wonderful." I dropped everything and helped him unfold the old quilt he’d brought along.

  Ever cheerful, Al grinned. “It’s a perfect beach day, Lexie. The sun’s warm enough for a swim.”

  I shook my head. “Not warm enough for me.”

  I opened my chair, slapped gobs of suntan lotion on my face and body, and reached for The A.B.C. Murders. “I’ll read while you swim.”

  Al glanced down at my novel. “I see you’re still planning on holding the next meeting.”

  “Of course. Aren’t you coming?”

  “I’ll be there, but some of your members might be too frightened to attend. So far, each meeting has ended with a real murder.”

  “True. But I’m an experienced teacher. I’ll come up with an incentive to reel them in.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ve been reviewing everything we know about the murders in hopes of discovering something we’ve missed." A look of smug satisfaction stole over his face. “I did check out one piece of information. It’s telling, but not limiting, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’ve no idea what you mean, so please stop tormenting me with hints!”
/>
  He crouched down beside me. “Okay. Remember all those certificates you noticed on the wall of Paulette’s bedroom?”

  “Her childhood bedroom in her parents’ house.”

  “I checked out the syllabus of nearby colleges and institutes.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “There’s an institute in Garden City that offers some, not all, of the courses you mentioned.”

  “That’s not surprising,” I said. “Paulette took them years ago. They must have changed many of the courses since then.”

  “But they continue to offer ‘The Complete Gardener.’ The syllabus said that poisonous plants and flowers is the subject of one lesson, a printout of which is handed out to students.”

  “How interesting,” I murmured. “Why didn’t I think to check that out?”

  “Because you can’t think of everything,” Al pointed out. “If you did, you wouldn’t need my input.”

  He reached over to kiss me, making me forget about murder and mayhem for the moment.

  “Let’s see what we have,” I recapped when I could focus once again. “Paulette learned that lilies of the valley, along with a bunch of other plants, are toxic. Being Paulette, would she have retained that information?”

  “Maybe she saved the printout,” Al said.

  “Which means Lowell might have read it. Or Paulette’s parents—depending on where it ended up. If she bothered to keep it.”

  Al looked dejected. “I’m afraid I haven’t come up with a very good clue, after all. Besides, anyone might know about the toxic nature of lilies of the valley.”

  I nodded. “I know it. So does Rosie. She makes sure to keep the flowers and any water she puts them in where Rex can’t reach them.”

  Al gave me a bemused smile. “You’re not thinking that perhaps Rosie—”

  “Of course not! I’m merely pointing out a fact.”

  “So we’re back to square one,” Al said, standing. “I’m off to try the water. If it’s frigid, I’ll stroll along the beach. Will you be all right on your own?”

  “I’ll be fine. Have fun.”

  I watched him dash into the surf, let out a yelp, and dash right out. A minute later, he waved as he started walking along the shore.

  I set my book aside, too agitated to read. I’d never considered that Rosie might be the murderer, and I wasn’t about to start now. Just because she had the means and opportunity to commit the crimes, as well as the specialized knowledge necessary for the first murder, meant nothing. She certainly had no motive that I could discern. Rosie thought the world of Sylvia. She cared for Gerda and Anne. They were her friends. And I was her best friend. Suspecting Rosie had to be the height of disloyalty.

  Months ago, when I’d hit rock bottom and could barely get through my classes, she’d been the epitome of kindness. She’d treated me to several lunches, where she cajoled and enticed me with very substantial remuneration until I agreed to lead the mystery book club. Why would she go to the trouble of setting up the book club with me in charge, only to sabotage it by offing her friends, one by one? Surely, she wouldn’t put me, her best friend, in jeopardy.

  I shivered, remembering how awful I’d felt when Donovan eyed me as a suspect. Rosie knew the aggravation I’d been through. She wouldn’t want to add to my troubles.

  Still....

  For a while, Rosie had refused to admit the deaths were homicides. But that was plausible, I told myself, even understandable. It was an act of self-delusion to keep herself feeling safe and secure.

  But what about her hostility because I’d kept my figure while she’d ballooned to her current weight? What else did she resent me for? Did it bother her that Hal had loved me first and wanted to marry me?

  Then there was the high-handed way she defended her Old Cadfield way of life.

  I hated to admit it, but innocent or guilty, there were aspects of Rosie’s personality I didn’t much like.

  The ocean air and the never-ending sound of waves breaking against the shore acted as a narcotic and lulled me into a stupor. My eyelids drooped, and I yielded to inertia. I must have drifted off, because I awoke with a start, plagued by a fierce hunger, the likes of which I used to get when I was pregnant with Jesse. It was barely nine-thirty. I’d had toast and coffee before we left, but there was something about the beach that gave one a hearty appetite. I reached into my bag and pulled out a tuna fish sandwich, which I devoured in four bites.

  A blast of hard rock music assailed my ears. I frowned. The beach was virtually empty, but for two family groups further along the shore. Why did people use noise as a way of claiming their sandy territory? Often radios played sound wars against one another, causing a cacophony of noise. One of the many reasons why I’d stopped going to the beach.

  Someone turned the volume down, and I nearly applauded. Hooray for good manners! I silently complimented the person. I heard a giggle. A familiar giggle, I realized, and swiveled around. My mouth fell open at the sight of Ginger and Lowell Hartman stretched out on low beach chairs, their bodies two inches apart.

  Oh my God! My first impulse was to scrunch down in my chair, glad that the high back hid me from their view. They were about thirty feet behind me, but they were bound to see me when they walked to the water.

  What the hell were they doing here? What was Ginger playing at, out on a beach date with her cousin’s husband, the same husband who’d recently lost his girl friend? The man who might very well have killed three people and would have no compunction about killing a fourth.

  My motherly instinct to protect Ginger rose like yeast in baking bread. Here she was, suffering the repercussions of her past trauma, and Lowell—that insatiable sex machine—was taking advantage of her vulnerability and making his move.

  Furious, I struggled out of my low-slung chair and marched up to the laughing twosome.

  Silence.

  “Lexie!" Astonishment, shame, and anger flashed across Ginger’s pretty face. “What are you doing here?”

  “More important, what are you doing with him?" I pointed at Lowell, who no longer was laughing.

  “We came here to talk—about things,” Ginger said lamely. “I’m going through some rough times.”

  “I suggested it,” Lowell said. “We both needed to get away from the stultifying air of Old Cadfield.”

  “I bet.” I glared at Lowell. “You should be home, giving Paulette emotional support.”

  “I would, but Adele’s seeing to that.”

  For a moment, his mocking tone left me too stunned to respond.

  “It’s not what you think,” Ginger interjected. “Lowell found me crying in the library. He tried to make me feel better—about Todd and me breaking up. Then he told me a bit about what he’s been going through these past few weeks.”

  “Touching,” I said. “I wonder what your mother will think of this. And Paulette!” I spat at Lowell, too angry to stop. “Hasn’t she been through enough?”

  “Lexie!” Ginger exclaimed.

  “I appreciate your concern for my wife,” Lowell said, sarcastically.

  “I don’t want you hurting Ginger,” I told him.

  “I wouldn’t hurt her for the world.”

  “In that case, take her home right now.”

  “Well, hello! I didn’t expect to find the two of you here!”

  The three of us turned to Al.

  “Frankly, we didn’t expect to see you here, either.” Lowell stood and folded his chair. “Come on, Ginger. I’m taking you home.”

  “But we just got here!” she complained.

  Furious, Lowell pulled down the huge shade umbrella and reached for the big cooler. From the looks of things, he’d been planning on staying all day.

  “Lexie,” Ginger called plaintively to me. I followed her a little way off. In a whisper, she begged, “Please don’t tell my mom Lowell took me to the beach. She won’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand, either. You know Lowell was involved with Anne
, then broke it off for a hefty sum of money.”

  “He didn’t do it for the money,” she hissed. “He wants to do right by Paulette.”

  “This is how he’s doing right by Paulette? By taking you to the beach?”

  “He’s my cousin, for God’s sake!”

  “Cousin by marriage and not to be trusted." I shuddered. “For all you know, he killed three women.”

  “Ginger, let’s go!” Lowell called.

  I reached out to squeeze her arm. “Be careful, Ginger. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  She gnawed at her lower lip, and I saw she was close to tears. “I wasn’t planning to. Maybe I’ll stay in my room and never come out!”

  Lowell put an arm around Ginger and glowered at me. “Thanks for setting her off again, Lexie.”

  I’d screwed up badly, I realized as I watched them walk away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Will you tell Rosie about this, or do you plan to keep Ginger’s confidence as she asked you to?”

  I studied Al’s face, eager to get his take on the matter, but was unable to read his expression. His eyes were fixed firmly on the road as we headed for home. I’d been mulling this over in my mind these past twenty minutes and still hadn’t come to a decision.

  “I think I’ll say nothing for the time being. Rosie’s my best friend, but Ginger’s a grown woman and entitled to her privacy. Besides,” I tried to rationalize, “it’s not like Rosie can stop Ginger from spending time with Lowell. And a lecture from her mother might push her into his bed." Though her mother might hate me for not telling her, and never speak to me again.

  “I think that’s wise,” Al murmured.

  Because of my agitated state, I barely heard him. “What an idiot I was, coming on like the morality police! I had no right to rip into them like that, humiliating poor Ginger." I sniffed. “Though I don’t give a damn about his feelings.”

  Al tried to jolly me back into good humor. “You were like Wonder Woman driving them from the beach.”

  “More like whichever angel it was that drove Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden.”

  “It wasn’t quite that dramatic.”