Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (19 page)

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 certificates 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.

“W
hy 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, trying 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.

“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.