Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (12 page)

Puss welcomed me back with loud meows as he twined himself around my ankles. I bent down to pet him. “Hey there, boy. I’ll feed you in a minute.”

He started purring, a loud rumbling sound that made me laugh. I filled his plate with food, then rummaged around in the refrigerator for something to eat. Odd that I was still hungry.

I wandered through the house, reviewing the latest events in my mind.

Paulette had lost the baby.

Anne and Lowell were carrying on a hot and heavy affair.

Rosie was all for Lowell’s divorcing Paulette and marrying Anne, his once and present love.

Two women in my mystery book club had been killed, and I hadn’t a clue why.

I wondered if the police were any closer to finding the murderer. My pulse quickened as I thought of Detective Donovan and wondered when I’d see him next. I switched on the TV and watched a few mindless reruns, then read until it was time to go to bed.

I called the hospital Tuesday morning to find out how Paulette was doing, and was informed she’d been released. I called the Hartmans’ home number and got voice mail. I picked up the phone again, this time to speed-dial Rosie, then set it down. I was still angry at my best friend. It would pass, I knew, but for the present I didn’t want to talk to her. I found her attitude toward her young cousin cold and uncaring. How could she condone Lowell and Anne’s affair? She certainly wouldn’t want any man treating Ginger that way.

I slipped into an old pair of shorts and a polo, fed Puss, then headed for the garage to check out a bicycle either Michele or Eric had left behind. Both tires needed air, so I pumped until my arm could pump no more. I ran back into the house for a hat and sunglasses, then hopped on the bicycle and started down the road.

I returned to the house an hour later, sweaty and feeling healthy. I showered, grabbed toast and melon for breakfast, and carried my coffee mug out to the patio, along with an armful of Agatha Christie novels, short stories, and plays.

Dame Agatha Christie had written eighty mysteries and, by one person’s count, one hundred and sixty short stories. While I’d read most of them at one point in my life, I needed to study her work as I would any literary writer because I planned to talk about her various themes, plots, settings, and style at the next book club meeting. I skimmed through her marvelous play, “The Mousetrap,” that began its run in a London Theatre in 1952 and was still going strong.

Next, I picked up
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
and started reading. I soon forgot I was preparing for the book club and let myself enjoy the ride. What delightful prose! Not one unnecessary word. Dame Agatha dove right into her story and kept us entranced to the final sentence. If only I could do that, I mused, thinking of my own pathetic manuscript.

I stretched out on a chaise longue to read Dr. Sheppard’s narrative of murder and mayhem in King’s Abbot, a cozy English village where Hercule Poirot, now retired, was raising marrows.

Marrows? I laughed, remembering they were squash, though what kind of squash I had no idea. Anyway, one of Dr. Sheppard's patients supposedly commits suicide. Then her fiancé, Roger Ackroyd, is murdered, and his niece asks Poirot to investigate. The murderer proves to be a huge surprise. The surprise outraged many readers when the book was first published, while others found the plot highly original.

I read until Puss pressed against the glass sliding door, meowing for food. I was surprised to see it was close to two o’clock. I got to my feet, telling myself I'd skim through
Murder on the Orient Express
and
And Then There Were None
another day. I fed Puss some treats, made myself a sandwich, then decided to call Paulette again. This time she picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?" Her wavering voice made me think of a homeless waif braving a snowstorm.

“Hi, Paulette. It’s Lexie. I called to find out how you’re feeling.”

“Lousy." She began to weep. “I lost the baby.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s my fault. I’m a bad person.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“It’s true! Lowell didn’t want a baby. Not yet." She began sobbing in earnest, downing gulps of air. “This is what happens when you hurt people.”

“Please don’t cry.” While I felt sorry for Paulette, she was doing a damn good job of sucking me into her misery. According to Rosie, Paulette leaned on people emotionally because Adele had always coddled her and led her to believe the rest of the world would pamper her, too.

“Nobody cares what I’m going through." Snivels and gasps broke through her words. “Lowell’s at work, and my mother left to keep a doctor’s appointment.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

She sniffed a bit. “I don’t like to trouble you.”

Hating myself for falling for her ploy, and at the same time feeling pity, I caved. “Would you like me to come over?”

“Oh, would you, Lexie! I’d love that—if you could.”

“I can only stay a while.”

“That’s okay. One more thing,” she said, as wistfully as a child, “could you stop by the deli in town and pick up a tuna sandwich on rye?”

“You mean you haven’t eaten lunch?”

“Mom gave me something a while ago, but I’m suddenly hungry. And Lexie?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t forget the pickle.”

The Hartmans lived on the outskirts of Old Cadfield, in the newer, less expensive section of homes. Still, it was a lovely place, I thought as I pulled into the driveway. One I’d never be able to afford. I rang the doorbell, which chimed the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth. A wan-looking Paulette in a frilly pink bathrobe let me in. I handed her the sandwich. Instead of offering to reimburse me, she gave me a dazzling smile.

“Thanks so much, Lexie. I’ll do the same for you when you’re not well.”

She led me into the kitchen, past the living room, empty but for a couch shoved against the far wall. The dining room was furnished with a card table and folding chairs.

Paulette must have caught my surprised expression, because she said, “We only moved in a few months ago. I’ve been trying to find a decorator I really like. Do you have anyone you can suggest?’

“Not really,” I said.

The kitchen was well designed, with beautiful cherry wood cabinets and granite counter tops. But the wall of the eating area was covered with squares of wallpaper.

“I can’t decide which pattern I like. Which is your favorite, Lexie?”

I glanced at the various patterns, finding one uglier than the next. “I’m not really good at this.”

Paulette nodded, her mouth full of tuna sandwich. “I know. It’s so hard to make a decision,” she said when she could speak. “Would you mind making me some tea?”

I sat with Paulette at the kitchen table while she finished her sandwich and sipped her tea, wondering how soon I could make my excuse to leave.

“Is your mom coming back here after her doctor’s appointment?” I asked.

“After she picks up some things for me in the supermarket. Why don’t we go into the den? I’ve some fruit in the refrigerator, if you’d like. Or you can open a can of Coke.”

“I’m fine.”

The den appeared to be the only finished room on the downstairs level. A leather couch and two lounging chairs were placed around a beautiful Eastern carpet. A mammoth TV was mounted on the wall opposite the fireplace. Vertical blinds were pulled back from the glass sliding doors, revealing a cement patio filled with pieces of outdoor furniture, none of which matched.

Paulette sprawled out on the couch and covered herself with a knitted afghan. She lifted up the dog-eared paperback resting on the back of the couch.

“I’ve been reading
And Then There Were None
." She smiled. “It’s a fun read.”

“Fun, as in humorous?" I asked, curious about her choice of words.

She shrugged. “I guess weird is what I mean." She gave a little laugh. “As though someone would deliberately set out to kill a bunch of people, one by one." She shivered. “I can’t imagine it. Can you?”

“Frankly, no. But this is fiction. We assume Dame Agatha has given the murderer a good motive to kill, so we read on.”

“Still, all those people! I wonder what they’ve done to make the murderer so angry.”

I looked at her. “What did Sylvia ever do to make anyone angry enough to kill her?”

Paulette closed her eyes. “Poor Sylvia. I feel so bad she’s gone.”

“Me, too.”

“And Gerda’s dead. She was always so stern. Sometimes she frightened me.”

“Did your mother go to her funeral?” I asked.

“No. Mom and Gerda weren’t friends. But she’ll pay a shiva call, I suppose.”

“So will I."

Paulette cocked her head and gave me what she no doubt imagined was an endearing smile. God forgive me, but I was beginning to understand her husband’s affair with Anne. “Do you think you could bring me a glass of Coke, please? I’m so terribly thirsty.”

“Sure, Paulette." I stood. “And then I’d better be going.”

“Please add some ice from the ice maker. Large cubes, please.”

I did as she asked, grumbling under my breath. What Paulette needed was a servant to wait on her all her waking hours. Then I remembered why I’d come to visit and told myself to be more charitable. Only a few more minutes and I’d be out of here.

“Here you are." She sat up and I handed her the glass of soda.

The doorbell rang. Adele was back. I ran to let her in.

Marcie Beaumont stood in the doorway. She scowled when she saw me. “Hi, Lexie." She lowered her voice. “If I knew you were here, I wouldn’t have driven like a maniac from school.”

“I called Paulette to find out how she was feeling, and she asked me to stop by.”

Marcie frowned. “Adele called me at school and practically ordered me to come here as soon as the dismissal bell rang. How is she?”

“All right.”

“I didn’t even get a chance to stop for flowers.”

Paulette was clearly delighted to have another visitor. “Thanks so much for coming, Marcie.”

“How are you feeling?”

Paulette shrugged. “Achy. Sad. I know the baby barely had a chance to develop, but I feel as though I’ve lost my child." She gave a sad little smile. “I know he was a boy.”

Marcie patted Paulette’s shoulder before sitting down beside her. “This happens. For all you know, something could have been wrong with the baby’s development. You’ll have other children.”

To my surprise, Paulette leaned over to put her arm around Marcie’s waist as though she were comforting
her
.

I was about to leave when Paulette said, “We were talking about the books Lexie assigned for our next meeting. Did you get a chance to read them yet?”

Marcie laughed, embarrassed to be caught unprepared. “No, but I’m about to start
Murder on the Orient Express
. I’ve seen the movie. I know several people take part in a murder.”

Paulette nodded. “
And Then There Were None
is just the opposite. Someone kills ten people one by one." She shuddered. “I suppose the murderer hated them all.”

Marcie turned to me. “Do you think people actually go around killing off people they hate?" Before I could mention Sylvia, Marcie said, “I know the police say Sylvia’s death was murder, but I’m sure they’ve got it wrong.”

She spoke with such conviction, I wanted to shake her. Marcie was one of those people who liked making proclamations, regardless of their veracity.

“How can you say that?” I asked. “There was an autopsy. Sylvia was poisoned.”

“Yes, but I bet her death was accidental,” Marcie said. “Everyone who was at Rosie’s house that night liked Sylvia. No one would want to hurt her.”

“Not even Gerda?” I asked, incredulously. “She threatened Sylvia just before the meeting.”

“Are you kidding?" She eyed me with disdain. "Gerda and Sylvia were close friends. People in Old Cadfield don’t go around murdering each other.”

I stared at her, wondering if she was for real. “I suppose next you’ll say the two murders aren’t connected.”

Marcie shrugged. “Are they?”

“I think so,” I said, “though I’ve no idea how. That’s for the police to find out.”

“The police. They’ll try to trap us with their questions, and when they catch someone in a lie, they'll set out to make him confess as quickly as this." She snapped her fingers. “The trouble is, everyone lies.”

I stared at Marcie in surprise. “Do you really think so? In a homicide case?”

“Why not? Everyone has secrets they don’t want exposed.”

What secrets do you have?
I wondered.

“Gerda was grim, but I can’t imagine who’d want to kill Sylvia,” Paulette said, sighing. “She was the nicest person. Who would want to see her dead?”

“Surely, no one I can think of." Marcie’s mouth fell open as an idea occurred to her. She sent Paulette a knowing smirk. “Except for maybe you-know-who.”

Paulette thought a moment, and nodded slowly. “Oh, right. How could I have forgotten?”

My pulse quickened. I wondered if they had Marcie’s mother in mind. “Who’s that?” I asked.

They ignored me and exchanged grins—two kids keeping a secret from an adult.

“Tell me!" I urged. “This might be important. Something the police ought to know.”

Marcie waved my suggestion away. “Don’t be silly, Lexie,” she said in the condescending tone she no doubt used to keep her students in line. “On second thought, this person would never hurt a fly."

She leaned toward me, as though she were about to reveal something astounding. “But if we're talking about someone who
deserves
to be killed, I could think of a name or two.”

“Oh, really,” I said, even though I knew she was simply diverting my attention. “Whom do you have in mind?”

“Anne Chadwick jumps to the top of my list.”

M
arcie refused to tell me why she hated Anne, and the conversation turned to a discussion of Paulette’s decorating problems. They chatted away like close friends, which made me wonder. I’d known Paulette and Marcie for years. Never once, at the many parties Rosie and Hal’s had hosted, had I seen them in each other’s company. They were as different as any two young women who’d grown up in the same town could be. While Marcie wasn’t my favorite person, she was bright and had a career. Paulette was...Paulette. But maybe now that they were both married and settled, their shared history had forged a bond that overruled common interests, abilities, and outlook.