“I’ll remind you of that when the time comes,” I joshed back.
He rolled his eyes. “They’re in the kitchen.”
The voices of the three women avidly discussing the gala carried across the hall. They fell silent as I approached. Rosie stood to hug me.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m sorry to interrupt your meeting. I’ll wait in the den.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Rosie said. “We’re not a secret society, and besides, you’re helping out. Sit down. I’ll heat up some blintzes for you.”
I sat. Ruth gave me a friendly smile. “Well, hello, Lexie. How are you these days?”
“Just fine,” I answered cautiously. Did this woman blow hot and cold with everyone, or only me?
“Have you rented a gown yet?” Adele asked. “You know, the gala’s next weekend.”
“Lexie’s picked out a gown,” Rosie called from the other end of the kitchen where she was warming my blintzes in the microwave. “It’s absolutely stunning, and didn’t require one stitch of alterations.”
“Neither did Paulette’s,” Adele commented.
“Is Paulette’s gown pink?” I asked. “I know how she favors that color.”
Adele simpered. “Paulette does look lovely in pink, but this time we went for something a bit deeper. A light fuchsia, I suppose you’d call it. Mme. Trésor said it suits her perfectly. And Madame knows fashion.”
Ruth frowned. “I don’t know how you can rave about that woman! The first gown she had Marcie try on was hideous. The second needed so many alterations, she had to settle for a simple brown gown.”
“Simple is always elegant,” Rosie declared, setting the steaming dish before me. She pushed over the half-empty plate of sour cream. “Eat!”
I giggled. “You sound like my mother.”
I ate, blocking out their chatter until I’d finished three of the four blintzes on my plate. I sat back and sipped the coffee Rosie had brought.
Ruth turned to me. “Lexie, can you be at the mansion at six thirty next Saturday night? The gala officially begins at seven, but some of our guests insist on arriving early. And since you’ll be taking tickets at the door...”
“If you need me, of course I’ll get there by six thirty.”
“And when you’ve finished taking entrance tickets, you’ll join everyone for dinner,” Adele chimed in, “always keeping in mind you’re there to lend a helping hand. After dinner you’ll usher our guests to their concert seats. Paulette and Marcie, along with the young women you met at our last meeting, will be doing the same.”
I nodded.
Ruth must have taken my silence for confusion, because she gave my arm an encouraging pat. “It’s not difficult, really it’s not.”
I opened my mouth to say that since I’d managed to get a Ph.D., I should be able to cope with my gala duties, then shut it again. I was there to gather information, not to squabble. “Got it,” I said.
“I’ll write everything out for you,” Ruth continued, “and hand it to you that evening.”
I smiled at her then turned to Adele. “How’s Paulette feeling?”
Adele gave me a blank look.
“She had an awful stomachache the night we met at your house. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
Adele disregarded my concern with a wave of her hand. “Paulette’s as right as rain. In fact, she and Lowell are coming over later for lunch." She glanced at her watch. “Ruthie, dear, I think we’d better get going.”
“Yes,” Ruth said. “Sam has a two o’clock tee off at the club. Afterwards, Marcie and Scott are joining us for dinner.”
My sources were leaving! Frantically, I asked, “do they come to the club often?”
“Marcie and Scott?" Ruth thought a moment. “Once in a while, though Marcie plays tennis there almost every day during the summer." She shot a smug grin at each of us. “Last year she won the singles’ tournament. We’re so proud of her!”
“I really have to get home,” Adele said through clenched teeth.
“Of course. We’re leaving this very minute,” Ruth gushed, ignoring Adele’s impotent resentment. God! These women were too much!
Ruth and Adele hugged Rosie and thanked her for her hospitality. I scanned my brain for questions to ask.
“Does Paulette ever go to the club?”
I read puzzlement on Ruth and Adele’s faces, amusement on Rosie’s.
“We don’t belong,” Adele said, her tone frosty. “Bob and I don’t go in for golf or tennis.”
“Do your daughters ever go out together? Socially, I mean. With their husbands.”
“Well, let’s see." Ruth propped a hand under her chin. “I suppose they must have, at one time or another, though I can’t remember when that might have been.”
“They see each other at events. In fact, they’re sitting at the same table at the gala,” Adele said. “After all, Paulette and Marcie have been friends since high school.”
Ruth grimaced at what she clearly considered an exaggeration.
“And Lowell and Scott enjoy each other’s company,” Adele added.
“They do,” Ruth admitted.
Translated: while Marcie had sympathy for Paulette, she didn’t consider her a friend or an equal. The night of the Littleton Gala I’d be able to see for myself if Marcie had the hots for Lowell. And if she intended to do anything about it.
Rosie followed her two guests to the front door. Suddenly, Adele clutched her side. Ruth moved quickly to brace her from falling. She helped Adele stagger back to the kitchen table, while Rosie filled a glass with water.
“Take one of your tablets and drink this,” she instructed her cousin.
Obediently, Adele removed a vial of pills from her pocketbook and swallowed one with several gulps of water. Ruth and Rosie stood by her, attentive as nurses.
“Feel better?” Rosie asked.
Adele nodded.
“Can we get you anything else?” Ruth asked.
Adele shook her head. “Just give me a minute.”
We stood around her in silence. Finally, Adele rose heavily to her feet. Rosie and Ruth escorted her out to the car. When Rosie returned, I asked, “Was that her Crohn’s Disease acting up?”
She gave me the baleful look I was fast becoming familiar with. “You’ve been busy collecting information.”
I shrugged. “One hears things.”
Rosie’s eyes moved from side to side, as they tended to do when she was deciding something important. “Adele’s scheduled for surgery, but there’s no guarantee another operation will do her much good.”
I shuddered. “Is it fatal?”
Rosie sighed. “Let’s put it this way: Adele’s condition is very bad and will only get worse.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“So, Miss Marple, turn up any clues to help solve the murders?” Rosie asked as we followed a winding Route 25A to Huntington Village.
“I wish." I made a face. “Miss Marple has it easy. Her murderers have the same foibles as people who live in her village. I’ve no prototypes to compare to the residents of Old Cadfield.”
Rosie laughed. “We are a unique and complicated bunch.”
“With dark sides and sins galore.”
She threw me a look of mock outrage. “Surely you don’t include us Gordons in that group.”
“Of course not,” I fibbed.
Rosie raised a fist. “Spoken like a true friend.”
I gazed out at the bay as we approached Cold Spring Harbor. We drove slowly through the village of quaint shops crowded with browsers.
“Actually, I’m discovering everyone has secrets,” I said. “The trick is zooming in on what’s relevant.”
“Anyone you’ve eliminated from the list of suspects?”
I hesitated.
“Well?” Rosie prodded.
“Lowell. I don’t think he’s our murderer.”
She nodded, whether in agreement or because she was pleased that I’d eliminated someone, I
couldn’t be sure.
“I had a long talk with him recently. He loved Anne. I doubt he could have murdered her.”
Rosie sniffed. “I’ll never understand why he stays with Paulette.”
“He sees himself as Paulette’s protector.”
Rosie laughed. “From whom?”
“Her mother.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Then he’s a fool. That umbilical cord will never be cut.”
“I tend to agree. But Lowell strikes me as a kind of Don Quixote who champions the underdog. He likes going after impossible causes.”
Rosie stared at me in amazement. “You know, I think you’re right.”
“I love being right, but it doesn’t get us any closer to finding the murderer.”
We drove on. Rosie broke the silence. “Ginger’s going to see a therapist.”
I squeezed her arm. “I’m glad.”
“Me, too." She glanced at me, a smile on her lips. “Did you, by chance, have a heart-to-heart talk with her?”
“Not this time.”
“Really? I thought it was you.”
I basked in the good feeling her comment gave me. “If Jesse ever needs a bout of sound advice from a disinterested third party, I hope he has the sense to call you.”
Rosie laughed. “He has our phone number.”
I thought this over. “We’re there for each other’s kids as well as for own. Thank God we’re not like Adele and Ruth.”
“How those two micro-manage and brag!" Rosie made a face. “If either one were my mother, I think I’d kill myself.”
“Let’s not talk about killing,” I urged.
“Let’s not,” Rosie agreed.
We had a delightful time at the craft fair. I bought a lovely pair of crystal earrings and a matching pendant. Rosie treated herself to a rather expensive funky bracelet. We bought ice cream and lemonade, which we ate sitting at one of the wooden tables. Then we headed for home.
Puss greeted me at the door, howling for his dinner. I filled his plate, and poured myself a glass of chardonnay. I’d no sooner settled down in the living room when the phone rang. I ran to answer it, hoping it was Al.
“Hi, Lexie. Brian Donovan.”
“Oh.”
He laughed. “I’m never the person you’re expecting.”
“I’m not expecting anyone,” I insisted.
“Hoping, then. It’s the same verb in Spanish.”
“So it is.”
“Are you busy now?”
“Not really. I’ve just come back from a craft fair with Rosie.”
“Hungry?”
I laughed. “That’s a weird question, coming from a cop.”
“Cops have to eat, too. Will you be hungry, say in forty-five minutes?”
My heart started to thump. “By then I’ll be starving.”
“Do you like Chinese, Italian, or leave-it-to-Brian?”
Now my heart was racing like a Ferrari. “Leave-it-to-Brian sounds about right.”
“Do you need dessert? Wine?”
“I’ve both, thank you." Then it dawned on me, “Hey, is this a date or a visit from your friendly detective?”
I heard a long intake of air. “Both, if that’s okay with you.”
I hummed as I set the table with Sylvia’s most colorful dishes, then waltzed about the kitchen with a cake I'd pulled from the freezer. Of course this wasn’t a date! Brian was only kidding. What man asked a woman out half an hour before an actual date?
I changed into a scooped-neck top, and freshened up my lipstick, my heightened sense of anticipation dampened by the occasional pang of guilt. Allistair and I had a sort of understanding. But he was out of town, and I had every right to share a meal with another man.
Did Brian Donovan know that Allistair and I were dating? Had this all come about because somehow he’d found out Allistair was away? Of course not! I told myself, and did my best to quash my qualms.
The phone rang, putting an end to my musings.
“Lexie, is that you?” a muffled feminine voice asked.
“Yes?" Something about the voice made the hairs rise on the back on my neck.
“This is a friendly warning! If you want to keep on breathing, leave the married men alone.”
For a moment, I was too flustered to speak. “Who is this?” I managed to sputter. Too late. The line was dead.
It must have been Marcie jumping to conclusions. I told myself she was being childish. Or playing teacher and keeping everyone in line. Still, did I want to keep on breathing? Those were ominous words, considering the three homicides. I had no desire to become murder victim number four.
I managed to calm down by the time Brian showed up exactly forty-five minutes after he’d called, a bag of food in each arm.
“Are you always this prompt?” I asked by way of a greeting.
He grinned. “I manage it once every fifteen years. This time you’re the lucky recipient.”
He’d shaved recently and looked well-rested and appealing in a blue rugby shirt that did wonders for his eyes.
Very appealing, indeed.
“Lexie?”
“Come this way!" I strode off, in the direction of the kitchen. What was wrong with me, viewing every man that crossed my path as eye candy? Well, not every man. Certainly not Hal or Sam Blessing or Bob Blum. Just Allistair, Lowell, and Brian.
“Everything all right?" Brian put his hand on my arm.
I gave a start. “Sorry." I breathed in the rich aroma of a garlicky wine sauce. “Mmm, smells delicious.”
“I suggest you heat the main dish at a low temperature and refrigerate the salad. Unless we’re ready to sit down and eat.”
“I thought first we’d have a glass of wine out on the patio." I turned on the oven and took care of the food.
Brian leaned against the table, looking very pleased with himself. “I got us two veal dishes, pasta, bread, and salad from my favorite Italian restaurant. I hope you’ll like everything.”
“I’m sure I will.”
I uncorked the pinot grigio I’d chilled and poured us each a glass. “Let’s take this outside,” I said, leading the way.
We sat at the glass-topped table, clinked glasses and sipped.
“Nice,” Brian said.
“Sylvia knew her wine. Her kids told me to drink what I liked.”
“I hope you don’t mind my calling you the last minute like this. I had the day off. Spent most of it taking care of personal business, then thought I’d give you a ring.”
I smiled. “I’m glad you did. This beats the eggs I’d planned to scramble for my dinner.”
Brian looked about, taking in the setting. “It’s lovely here.”
“I was supposed to housesit this summer while Sylvia went to an artists’ colony. Her son and daughter asked me to stay here as planned. They’ve yet to go through everything, decide what they want to keep or to sell. It will be months before they put the house on the market.”
We breathed in the fragranced air, content to remain silent.
After a while, I asked, “Making any headway in the case?”
Brian stretched out his legs and sighed. “Nothing conclusive. We’ve been checking the cars of everyone who attended the meeting the night Anne Chadwick was murdered. So far, no sign of repairs or a paint job." He laughed. “Weird, how almost everyone’s car is gray.”
“So I’ve noticed. A gray Mercedes or BMW seems to be de rigueur among the Old Cadfield set." I twisted the stem of my glass. “That bit of paint on Anne’s car is probably the only piece of evidence you have. When Sylvia died, you had no idea she’d been murdered.”
Brian pressed his lips together, clearly debating whether or not to reveal a piece of information. I held my breath, hoping he would. Finally, he said, “Sylvia Morris’s death might have been an accident.”
I shot him a look of disbelief. “You mean, Sylvia drank the water from the vase because she was thirsty? Give me a break!”
“What
I meant was, we’re considering the angle that Mrs. Morris wasn’t the intended victim.”
“Oh, of course,” I mumbled, totally embarrassed. After a minute, I asked, “And you’ve never found that vase?”
“Nope." Brian shook his head.
“Rosie found the flowers in the garbage, but not the vase.”
“I reread Captain Hennessy’s report and decided to have my men undertake an extensive search for the vase.”
I felt a stab of excitement. “Maybe it’s still in Rosie's house somewhere! Or in the garage.”
“Hmm." I could tell that behind his musing air, the cogs of his mind were spinning like crazy. “That’s what we’re hoping,” he finally conceded.
“Still, what difference would it make? Even if you come up with fingerprints, anyone could have touched the vase.”
“Did you?”
I shook my head. “Why would I? It was set back on the counter, close to the wall.”
He gave me a wolfish grin. “Stands to reason no one but the murderer would have touched it, either.”
“I suppose the same holds true for the vase used to kill Gerda.”
We went inside shortly after. I pulled crusty Italian bread from the toaster oven, served the salad, then poured each of us another glass of wine. By unspoken agreement, we talked of other things. Brian asked me how I was enjoying the summer, and I told him about the book I’d been writing.
“I haven’t gotten very far, what with the murders and—other distractions.”
“Like dating Allistair West?”
I glowered at him. “You’ve been checking on my personal life.”
“Of course. I’m a homicide detective, and you’re smack in the middle of my investigation.”
“Is that why you’re here tonight?” I asked, suddenly deflated. “To find out what I know?”
Brian had the grace to look embarrassed. “I told you it was a mixed bag—police business and a social evening." He turned up his palms. “If you want me to leave, just say the word.”
“Hah! Fat chance I have, since we’re about to eat the food you brought.”
He smiled. “I was hoping you’d see reason. I’ve told you before—I’d appreciate hearing any observations regarding people and relationships you care to share.”
Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) Page 18