I was being a sorehead. Just because I’d read romance in his dinner invitation, was no reason not to help him find the murderer. “I’ll share, if you like. If you think it will move the investigation forward.”
“That’s exactly what I think. We’ve interviewed everyone involved in the case, and we’ll talk to them again. And again. They leave out valuable information—sometimes inadvertently, sometimes on purpose." He sighed. “You know these people, but you’re not part of their world. I’d like you to tell me your impressions of them. Anything weird or out of the ordinary, especially regarding their connections to the dead women.”
“Ratting on them, you mean?”
Brian laughed, a deep belly laugh. “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing on your own—trying to solve the murders à la Christie?”
My face grew warm. “Touché. How did you know?”
“Human nature. Your nature.”
We finished our salad. I brought the dishes to the sink and served the veal and pasta piping hot. After downing a few mouthfuls, I said, “Everyone in the book club and their families are interconnected. Ginger’s dating Todd Taylor. The women are all involved in this latest fundraiser.”
“Anything else?”
I repeated what Lowell had told me that morning, how Marcie glared at me when I left the diner, and the phone call I’d received a while ago.
“I didn’t recognize her voice, but I assume it was Marcie. She might be an excellent teacher, but she’s also one spiteful young woman.”
“Tough as nails,” he agreed. “She resented being questioned about her past history with Anne.”
“She has a sense of entitlement. Got it from her mother." I shook my head and sighed. “Adele Blum’s even worse with Paulette. Controls her as if she were a child. Probably because she has Crohn’s Disease and passed it on to Paulette.”
“And there’s the matter of Paulette’s pregnancy and miscarriage.”
“Lowell said Paulette got pregnant because she was afraid he was going to leave her for Anne. Which he was.”
“Clever girl,” Brian murmured.
I nodded. “She’s not the dodo we think she is. Paulette caught Lowell on the rebound, when he and Anne had split.”
“Maybe Paulette called you before.”
“It’s possible, I suppose.”
“Could be Marcie Beaumont told Paulette she saw you this morning, and Paulette decided to nip her husband’s new affair in the bud, so to speak. I’ll check out all calls made from the Beaumonts’ and Hartmans' phones, and let you know if I find anything.”
‘Better check their parents’ phones, as well.”
“Will do.”
I thought a bit. “You know, when I was upstairs in Adele’s house, I saw certificates of classes that Paulette had taken. One was for ‘The Complete Gardener.’”
Brian scratched his head. “And you’re supposing that the course covered which flowers are poisonous if ingested.”
“Allistair found out the instructor had distributed handouts to the class that listed poisonous flowers. Lowell or Paulette’s parents could have read the list as well.”
“Or they knew all along that lilies of the valley are poisonous."
“I know. None of this points a finger at anyone." I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Brian asked.
“Sorry. The Moving Finger is a Christie title.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Too bad I can’t resolve this business like Dame Agatha—round up the suspects, break down their alibis, and expose the killer.”
"Too bad,” I agreed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The phone rang while Brian and I were on our second cup of coffee. Allistair’s cell number flashed on my Caller ID. I took the phone to the far end of the kitchen for privacy.
“Hi, Lexie. What have you been up to since I left?”
“I went to a craft fair with Rosie this afternoon." I cleared my throat. “Detective Donovan stopped by a while ago. In fact, he’s still here.”
“Really? He came by at suppertime on a Sunday evening?”
“I suppose that’s what he did,” I said, feeling more awkward with every word I uttered. “He wanted to discuss the murders.”
“To discuss the murders?” Al asked incredulously. “As if you and he were colleagues?”
“Kind of. He thinks Sylvia’s death might have been an accident. That the murderer meant to kill someone else.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I can’t picture Gerda or Ruth poisoning Sylvia.”
I glanced at Brian. Though he had his back to me, he must have sensed I was looking at him because he turned and winked.
“Al, I hate to cut you short, but I can’t talk now. Can I call you back later?”
“We’re due at a concert in half an hour, then we’re going out for dessert with some of Tessa’s friends. Just a second." I heard people talking in the background. Al returned a minute later. “I have to go.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.
“Good night,” he said abruptly and cut the connection.
When I returned to the table, Brian shot me a grin. “I take it the boyfriend wasn’t too happy to hear I’m on the premises.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Anyway, it’s time I got going,” he said.
“Doubly abandoned,” I said, only half-kidding.
I followed Brian to the front door. He stopped, and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, he squeezed my arm. “Thanks for tonight. It was the most fun I’ve had in weeks.”
“Thanks for bringing dinner.”
He grinned. “My pleasure.”
*
The week that followed was the lull before a storm. I called Al the following morning, but he was having a late breakfast with his daughter and her husband and couldn’t talk. I tried him twice after that. Both times his cell phone was off. Either he was angry at me—which he had no right to be—or he was caught up in a hectic schedule. I hoped he wasn’t perturbed. If he was, I’d deal with our relationship when he returned home.
Brian called to let me know the anonymous call I'd received hadn’t come from any phone connected to the Hartmans, the Beaumonts, the Blums, or the Blessings. I received no further threats and put the matter out of my mind.
I swam most mornings and spent my afternoons writing. Surprisingly enough, I was making headway with my novel. I felt free and relaxed, which might have accounted for my protagonist’s bold and astonishing actions. Instead of micromanaging Angie as I ordinarily would, I gave her her head and went along for the ride. I was churning out eight pages a day, quite a record for me. What’s more, I liked the way the story was shaping up.
I stopped at five each evening for a glass of wine and to pore through A Murder Is Announced, jotting down themes and discussion questions.
The book was typical Agatha Christie: the setting a small English village with a large cast of characters, and Miss Marple on hand to solve the murders. I mused how Jane Marple was still one of our all-time favorite sleuths. Readers took delight in her pretending to be easily flustered while she shrewdly made sense of the suspects' alibis and behavior. Nothing slipped past her. Like The Shadow, she knew what evil lurked in the heart of men. And women. As in many Christie novels, this one ended with the suspects gathered around the drawing room where the murderer was revealed.
Why not do the very same thing at our next meeting! Excited, I paced the hallway, growing more and more certain that my plan would work. Since we’d be discussing murder, what could be more natural than talking about the actual murders? I’d ask Brian to come and ask provocative questions to stir the pot. With both of us prodding suspects for answers, making an accusation here and there, we were bound to unnerve the murderer. If he didn't actually confess to the crime, there was a good chance he'd give himself away.
Thursday morning, my department chairman surprised me by calling. Lawrence Pruitt was a large,
pot-bellied man with a wicked sense of humor. I was fond of Lorrie, but gave him a wide berth to avoid being the subject of his sardonic barbs. Still, he was by nature a generous man, especially to those of whom he was fond.
“Lexie, dear, how goes your summer?”
“Lovely, Lorrie. I’m making headway with my novel.”
“Glad to hear that, since next summer I’ll be calling on you to teach a few summer classes.”
I groaned.
“I almost had to call on you for the current session. Grace flew off to Michigan to take care of her sick mother, but we found a replacement for her—Charlotte Buckner. That lovely young grad student mad about Chaucer.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said as sweetly as I could manage. Lorrie wanted me good and grateful that he hadn’t interrupted my summer.
“How goes your Golden Age of Mystery book club?”
“You remembered that,” I said with genuine pleasure.
“Indeed I do." He chuckled. “You must be affecting me subliminally, because every novel I reach for this summer is a thriller.”
“We’re about to have our third Agatha Christie session. I’m not sure whom we’ll do next—Josephine Tey or Dorothy Sayers, perhaps.”
“My vote goes to Josephine Tey. Brat Farrar is one of my favorites. And The Daughter of Time is a truly original plot: did Richard the Third kill the crown princes?”
“I’ll consider it,” I said.
“Indeed. And you mustn’t ignore our own countrymen. Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett are both terrific writers. As is the dynamic duo that made up Ellery Queen.”
When I was beginning to wonder why he’d called, Lorrie said, “I was at a friend’s barbecue the other evening, and we got to talking about book clubs.”
Lorrie at a barbecue? I had trouble envisioning that.
“Anyway, I mentioned your Golden Age mystery book club. My friend’s wife said it sounded like the very thing she and her friends would be interested in starting.”
“Really?” I said.
“I told her you were an inspiring teacher. So, when she begged for your name I said I’d call to see if you’d consider facilitating a new group.”
“I’d like that.”
“Wonderful! In that case, I’ll give Helena Fields your number. If I know her, she’ll be calling very soon.”
“Thanks, a lot, Lorrie.”
“Don’t mention it. In fact, I was wondering if you’d like to lead a Golden Age of Mystery book club at the university, perhaps through the Continuing Ed division. They’re looking for classes that draw in students. This may very well be one of them.”
I thanked him again for thinking of me and we said goodbye. Of course, Lawrence Pruitt never did anything without an ulterior motive. By recommending me, he was winning points with the university and with his friend. But I didn’t care. I enjoyed leading discussions of Golden Age mysteries and looked forward to working with a few more groups.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ruth hosted our final meeting before Saturday night’s gala. She welcomed me with open arms, which led me to believe that Marcie hadn’t mentioned seeing me and Lowell in the diner. She drew me into the dining room to explain once again my duties as ticket taker. When we joined the others in the living room, I saw no sign of Rosie or Adele.
“Have Rosie and Adele gone off for a high-powered meeting?” I kidded.
Ruth’s expression turned solemn. “Adele couldn’t make it tonight. She’s not feeling very well. No doubt, Rosie’s speaking to her on the kitchen phone.”
“Poor Adele,” I said, with more emotion that I felt. “I hope she’ll be up to coming Saturday night.”
“Oh, she’ll be there, all right. Even if Bob has to carry her in on a stretcher.”
Ruth turned to answer someone’s question when I spotted Marcie in the group of young women clustered around the living room fireplace. Like magnets, we stared at one another. I wondered about her capacity for evil, while Marcie all but growled at me. Paulette sat beside her, oblivious to the negative vibes flying through the air like poisoned arrows. She smiled and I waved back.
I flinched when Ruth put her hand on the small of my back. “Why don’t you join Corrine and the rest of your group? They’ll fill you in on what to do before the concert.”
“Lexie!" Corinne beckoned to me from the far corner. She and the others greeted me like old friends.
Jan pushed up her granny glasses, which were sliding down her nose. “Ready for the big night?”
“As ready as ever. I’ll be collecting tickets and last minute monies at the start of things. Then what? Ruth said you guys will fill me in.”
Corinne chuckled. “We told you last time—circulate. Offer assistance to anyone who seems to need it.”
That drew a round of laughter. “Watch out for some of the men after they’ve tossed back a few,” Poppy advised. She lowered her voice. “Especially Bob Blum. He’s an obnoxious drunk.”
Adele’s husband was a lech! I nodded. “Will do.”
“They’ve set aside two of the small bedrooms where we can change into our gowns,” Corrine said.
“I didn’t realize we’d be changing clothes,” I said.
“You didn’t think you were going to drive here in your gown, did you?” Corrine said. “They’re much too delicate.”
“Make sure you wear comfortable shoes,” Jan added. “Simple, low-heeled shoes are best. Spikes dig into the ground, which will be soggy if it rains.”
I nodded, trying to remember all their instructions.
“Ugh!" Poppy shuddered. “Don’t mention the word ‘rain’. I can see us traipsing around in a downpour, our gowns trailing behind in the mud.”
“Let’s think positively,” Corrine said.
I listened, awed by my ignorance regarding a topic they knew so much about. I felt even more out of it when the conversation turned to vacations. In August everyone was off to some far off corner of the world. Everyone but me. Corinne and her husband were going to Ireland, Poppy was flying to Egypt, and Jan and her family were driving out West to visit the national parks. Poppy’s eyes took on a gleam as she beckoned us into a huddle.
“I hear Marcie and Scott are flying to France to visit some of his relatives." She lowered her voice. “And to adopt a child.”
Corrine nodded. “So I’ve heard. The mother’s a distant relative. She’s young, poor, and unmarried, and glad to give her child the chance to grow up in the U. S.”
Jan shivered. “Poor kid! I wouldn’t want Marcie Beaumont for my mother.”
“Me, neither,” Poppy and Corrine said in unison, then burst out laughing.
Curious, I asked, “Why? What’s Marcie done?”
“She’s a bitch,” Poppy declared. “Haven’t you noticed?”
I shrugged, trying to appear noncommittal.
Poppy nudged Corrine. “Marcie’s in Lexie’s mystery book club, so she won’t say anything negative about Miss Priss.”
I laughed, in spite of myself. “Is that what people call her?”
“And worse,” Corrine said.
“My sister tells some ugly high school tales,” Poppy said. “Marcie hated Anne back then. I wonder if she killed her.”
I wondered, too, as I listened to a litany of Marcie’s numerous acts of malice.
*
I woke up Saturday morning, excited as a kid on her birthday. Tonight I was going to the Littleton Gala! No need to rush to the window to check out the weather. Sunlight slipped past the verticals and flooded my room. I leaped out of bed, eager to start the day.
I swam laps, ate breakfast, then headed into town. The phone rang as I was putting away my groceries.
“Hi, Lexie. Al here.”
“Hello, Allistair. How nice to hear from you.”
I was both pleased to hear from him and annoyed that he hadn’t called all week. He picked up on the sarcasm in my voice and gave a guilty little laugh. “Sorry I’ve been incommunicado these past few days
.”
His apology was too vague to carry any weight. “Whatever. I hope you’re having a nice time.”
“It’s been hectic. Frankly, too hectic for me. Tessa has us attending shows, plays, and concerts every afternoon and evening. I suppose she feels the need to entertain me, which is hardly the case at all." He laughed again. This time it sounded genuine. “It’s been wonderful spending time with her and Jonathan. Still, I look forward to coming home on Monday.”
“Miss me?" Damn! I hadn’t meant to say that!
“Very much,” he answered softly.
Startled, I veered away from the personal. “Tonight’s the gala. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Galas are lots of fun and hoopla. I wish I were going with you.”
“Me, too.”
“Well, there’s always next year.”
We hung up shortly after that. I went about the rest of the day in a happy state, Allistair’s caring words draped like a shawl around my shoulders. I had no idea if I’d be attending next year’s gala, but this year I was part of it and the object of his affection. That had to suffice for now.
I drove back into town for my three o’clock hair appointment. After passing the beauty salon innumerable times, each time telling myself the prices were outrageously expensive, I’d finally convinced myself I could afford a good haircut, and the gala was a perfect occasion to try a new look.
I was giving my name to the tall, slender receptionist at the front desk when Ginger called to me. She was having her long hair put up in a glamorous do. I waved to her and to a few other women, as I trailed behind the receptionist’s spiked heels to a hair-washing station.
A petite girl with a Russian accent asked if I wanted her to use a particular shampoo or conditioner.
“Any will be fine.”
She shrugged and got to work. Her hands worked magic as they lathered and rinsed my hair. I’d nearly fallen asleep when she had me sitting up to towel dry my hair.
“Melissa will be taking care of you." She pointed to a chair.
Melissa, another slender young woman with jet black hair, studied my face in the mirror. Without saying a word, she started snipping. She was done five minutes later.
Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) Page 19