Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (2 page)

“Sorry, I’ve been working late every single night these last few weeks. I read the first few chapters, but that’s as far as I got.”

I smiled at Anne and went on. “The story takes place in Styles, an Essex country manor. Everyone present at the time of the murder is a relative or has a close connection to the victim.”

“Kind of like us,” Ginger offered. “We all know each other. And while the layout of our home is different, it’s something like Styles, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” I reluctantly agreed because her observations were right on target. Even I knew everyone in the group, had known them for ages. And the Gordons’ house in Old Cadfield, one of the wealthiest communities on Long Island,
was
almost as large as the manor house in the novel.

“Now for the mystery. A rich widow, recently married to a much younger man, is poisoned. Would anyone like to comment on the other characters and their relationships to one another?”

“Emily’s rich because she inherited her stepsons’ fortune,” Ruth observed. “But the two young men don’t seem to resent her for it.”

“‘Seem’ being the operative word,” her daughter, Marcie, contributed. “We don’t know what they feel. When Emily’s murdered, the brothers are the logical suspects."

“So’s the husband,” Todd offered. “He’s one weird dude and twenty years younger than Emily. They no sooner marry and she dies. It’s pretty clear he’s done it.”

I nodded. “But he has an alibi. He’s away from home when his wife is murdered. As is Emily’s personal assistant, who leaves Styles in a tiff and warns that Emily’s in danger from her nearest and dearest.”

“Foreshadowing,” Marcie murmured.

“Yes, indeed.” I glanced around the room to check my audience’s interest. Even Gerda leaned forward in her chair, intrigued by our discussion. But Sylvia slumped against the arm of the sofa she shared with Ruth and Rosie, her hand clasped to her stomach. All thoughts of facilitating fled my mind.

“Syl, what’s wrong?”

She blinked as though puzzled by my question. “I-I don’t know. My heart’s racing and my stomach hurts. I feel weird. Spacey.”

Apprehension appeared on everyone’s face. Sylvia had a heart condition. We all feared she was experiencing another episode.

All of us but Rosie, who rarely lost her cool. “Syl, if your stomach hurts, you probably ate something that didn’t agree with you. I’ve just the thing to help you feel better." A few grunts escaped as she struggled to her feet. My college roommate had gained considerable girth since our younger days, but her face remained as beautiful and cherubic as ever. “I’ll go upstairs and get it for you.”

Sylvia’s forehead glistened with perspiration as she stumbled past the couches. “I’ll come with you. I don’t want to disturb everyone.”

Ruth turned to her. “Did you take your medicine today?”

“Yes, of course,” Sylvia gasped.

I felt a chill in my heart. I’d never seen her this ill. I started to rise. “Syl, let me take you home and call your doctor.”

“No, Lexie. Go on with the meeting. Rosie will look after me.”

“Are you sure?”

Sylvia nodded, her eyes pleading that I do as she’d asked. I sat down, not wanting to upset her further. I’d wait five minutes then check on her. And if she wasn’t any better, I was calling her doctor, whether she liked it or not.

Paulette Hartman’s thoughts must have been running along the same track as mine, because she jumped up from the couch she shared with Marcie and Anne. “Rosie, let me help!” she pleaded. “I’ll stay with Sylvia until she feels better.”

Rosie stopped in her tracks to roll her eyes at me. She was fond of her younger cousin but considered Paulette a twit who couldn’t do anything right—from finishing college to holding a job. Though she had managed to snag a wonderful husband, a bright, up-and-coming lawyer who worked in the same firm as Anne. I knew from Rosie the young couple was trying to start a family.

“Thanks, Paulette,” Rosie said firmly, “but I’ll see to this."

Paulette’s face burned as pink as her blouse. “I want to help! Sylvia mustn’t suffer!" Maybe Paulette wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the box, as they say, but she had a kind heart.

“Please!” Sylvia bleated. “You’re all making too much of a fuss. I’ll be fine.”

Rosie took Sylvia’s arm and urged her toward the hall staircase. “Come, dear, we’ll get you upstairs where you can lie down and rest. If you don’t feel better soon, I’ll call your doctor." To Paulette, who’d persisted in following, she snapped, “Sit down and let Lexie get on with the discussion." 

Embarrassed, Paulette whispered, “Sorry, Lexie.”

I watched in astonishment as she dashed out of the library. Another emotional outburst, which made me wonder if Paulette was pregnant and suffering from hormonal swings. Earlier this evening, she’d been put out when her husband Lowell arrived with Anne and had forgotten to stop by their house for her cardigan as she’d requested. I couldn’t fathom if Paulette was annoyed with her husband, with Anne, or with both of them. However, by the time Rosie had called our meeting to order, she and Anne appeared to be on cordial terms and were sitting beside one another.

By now I’d completely lost track of what I’d been saying, so I decided to talk about the other characters in the novel. “A doctor specializing in poisons is a visitor at Styles. What else does he turn out to be?”

“A German spy!” Ginger rang out.

Gerda gasped and fled from the room.

What a meeting this was turning out to be! People were dropping out of sight like the characters in
And Then There Were None
, as they’re killed off one by one.

Rosie returned to the library. “Sylvia’s resting in the guest room,” she said as she took her seat. Ruth leaned over to whisper in her ear, most likely to tell her about Gerda’s strange behavior, because she took off again.

Heads turned to one another to whisper concerns. My upbeat attitude about leading this book club was fast melting like snowflakes falling on water. How could we carry on a discussion with everyone coming and going? I had to grab their attention or I’d lose it for good.

“The murder occurs in Chapter Three,” I said a bit stridently. I lowered my pitch. “Someone has poisoned Emily Inglethorp during the night. Poirot is brought in to investigate.”

Lowell burst into the library, his face as white as paper.
Where the hell had he come from? I’d assumed he’d gone home after dinner, but obviously I was wrong.
His eyes darted from face to face. He made a beeline for Rosie as she reentered the room, followed by his wife.

“Come quick! It’s Sylvia. I think she’s—”

“No!” I cried as I sped through the living room and up the stairs. Rosie and the others followed in my wake. Maybe it was all this talk about murder, but I had a sickening feeling my friend was dying. Rex, the Gordons’ golden retriever raced past me. Todd pushed ahead, mumbling something about knowing CPR. When I reached the guest room, he was kneeling beside the bed where Sylvia lay motionless. He put his ear to her heart then looked up at Rosie’s husband, Hal, who was standing beside him.

“Is she—?”

Hal held her wrist and checked for a pulse. We watched, breathless, as he pressed his fingers against her neck. “I’m afraid she’s gone.”

“We can’t be sure!" Todd pinched Sylvia’s nostrils closed and performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. “Come on, Sylvia! Breathe!”

He pressed down on her heart, listened, and repeated the procedure. Hal took him by the shoulders and led him away from the body on the bed. Tears filled my eyes. Minutes ago Sylvia was with us, eating and drinking and talking about books. And now she was dead.

“Her heart gave out,” Rosie murmured.

“I’ll call 911.” Hal touched my arm. “Lexie, do you have Sylvia’s kids’ phone numbers? They need to be told.”

I sobbed, too distraught to answer. Finally, I brushed away my tears. “Not with me, but I know where they live. I’ll go online and get their numbers.”

“Use the laptop in my office."

Hal left and Rosie coaxed the rest of us from the room like a mother hen. I hung back to have a moment alone with Sylvia. I bent to kiss her cheek and whispered a silent good-bye. Then I closed the door behind me.

I nearly collided with the small, dark figure of Gerda hovering outside the room.

“My poor, dear friend,” she murmured. “I feel so bad.”

“Really?" I glared at her. “I bet you’re happy she’s dead.”

T
oo numb to move, I huddled in the corner of Rosie’s living room sofa, oblivious of the others conversing in hushed tones. I’d known Sylvia Morris since I was eight years old, when she and her husband moved into the house across the street from my family. My mom and Sylvia struck up a close friendship that, for some reason or other, included me. Sylvia treated me as a favorite niece, perhaps because we were both bookworms. She gave up her job in the city when her daughter was born and started writing—first magazine articles, then books. In high school, I often babysat for her two children.

The Morrises moved to Old Cadfield the year I went away to college. Mom and Sylvia kept up their friendship, but I lost touch with her for several years. After both my parents and her husband died within two years of one another, Sylvia and I made a point of speaking at least once a month. When she heard that Gerald, my estranged second husband, had managed to kill himself while burning down my house, she invited me to live with her, pointing out that her home was much too large for one person. I would have loved to let her pamper me, but my “independence” button—which both my husbands called my Stubborn Streak—kicked in, and I turned down her offer. Though my sudden expenses due to the fire had eaten into my savings, I refused to accept charity.

But Sylvia, God bless her, had persisted. A few months later she called to say she’d be spending the summer at an artists' colony, putting the final touches on her latest book. I’d be doing her the hugest of favors if I’d house and cat sit while she was away. I agreed, secretly relieved by her offer. I was sick of living in a dark, dinky apartment with paper-thin walls that let in my neighbors’ every smell and sound. I regarded my upcoming stay in luxurious if temporary living quarters as a sure sign my life was finally moving in the right direction.

Now Sylvia was dead.

A siren wailed in the night. The doorbell rang. Two policemen and four Emergency Medical Service paramedics filled the hall. Rosie, Hal, and the others answered the officers’ questions in the den while the three male and one female paramedics trouped upstairs. I turned away when they descended, not wanting to see Sylvia leaving the house on a gurney.

We all die at one time or another, but Sylvia had died too soon.

I paid scant attention as the others bid Rosie and Hal good night and left.

“Lexie.”

Startled, I looked up into Anne’s eyes filled with concern.

“I’m so sorry, Lexie. I know Sylvia was an old friend.”

I nodded in appreciation of her sympathy. “I had no idea her health had taken a turn for the worse.”

“Take care,” Anne said. “When you’re feeling up to it, call the office to set up an appointment.”

“Oh, right! I have to sign my will."

Alone again, I stifled the hysterical laughter bubbling in my throat. As though I had anything of value to leave my only child!

Enough of this doom and gloom, I told myself. Dwelling on death and self-pity would drive me to that dark place that sucked at me like quicksand, draining my will until I barely had the strength to get out of bed. I wouldn’t go there again! I couldn’t! I forced myself to my feet and walked into the library where Rosie was setting dirty dishes on a tray. I started stacking glasses.

She tried to shoo me away. “Go home, Lexie. Or stay the night, if you like.”

“I’ll leave soon, but now I have to keep busy, if you don’t mind."

“Suit yourself.” Rosie rested the tray on the table and sighed. “Hal managed to reach both Michele and Eric. They’re taking early morning flights, and should be in Old Cadfield by eleven tomorrow morning. They’d like us to go with them to the funeral home when they make the arrangements.”

I swallowed. “Of course.”

Rosie went on. “Their mother’s death was a shock to them both. Sylvia’s cardiologist had given her a good report after her last battery of tests.”

I swallowed. “How long will Michele and Eric be staying?”

“As long as it takes to settle matters. They both made a point of saying they have to return home as soon as possible.”

“I can understand that." Michele, her husband, and their two young children lived in a rural area of Vermont. Her brother taught high school science in Seattle. “I suppose they’ll be putting the house on the market.”

“They’ll probably talk to a realtor while they’re here. At any rate..." Rosie’s voice faltered.

At any rate—I mentally finished her sentence for her—my summer house sitting plans were canceled. I was supposed to be moving into Sylvia’s house next week. Rosie cleared her throat. I knew she was about to broach the subject on both our minds.

“I’m sorry, Lexie. This hasn’t been a very good year for you.”

I shrugged, making light of the matter, while inside I felt like a top spinning off a cliff.
You’ll get through this, as you’ve gotten through every difficult period in your life.
“I’ll find another apartment,” I said aloud. “That rats’ nest I’ve been staying in has been rented out as of next week.”

Rosie put her arm around my shoulders. “You know you’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like.”

I glanced away so she wouldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes. Her sympathy unnerved me. I needed to remain strong in order to cope with this latest ordeal. With forced vigor, I helped Rosie put the house back into shape. I was glad for the activity, glad to keep my hands and mind occupied. A question arose in my mind as I carried a tray of dirty glasses and cups into the kitchen.

I turned to Rosie, who was stacking the dishwasher. “How come Lowell found Sylvia? I mean, what was he doing upstairs?”

Rosie pursed her lips, weighing her answer. She drew a deep breath. For a moment I thought she wasn’t going to tell me. Finally, she said, “Gerda asked him to speak to Sylvia. In his legal capacity.”