Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (26 page)

By now, Ruth had joined Adele. “What attempted murder?” she demanded, her nostrils quivering with fury. “Wherever did you get your information?”

Brian stepped forward to introduce himself. “We received a phone call that someone dropped a stone planter on three guests.”

Ruth drew in breath. “That was an accident. Luckily, no one was hurt.”

“We’ll decide that,” Brian said. “In view of the recent murders, it’s our obligation to investigate.”

Ruth’s eyes searched the audience like a lighthouse beam until they settled on me at the rear of the tent.

“Lexie Driscoll! You’re responsible for ruining our evening!”

Everyone’s gaze followed hers. I read disappointment, anger, even pity in their expressions. Though I felt my face blazing with embarrassment, I held my head high until Brian touched my shoulder.

“Come inside and tell me all about it.”

My knees were weak as we climbed the stone steps to sit at one of the cleared-off tables in the dining room. I described the scene—Lowell approaching me, and Ginger joining us shortly after.

He thought a moment, then said, “if it was an attempted homicide, any one of you could have been the intended target.”

“I know.”

“Why Ginger?”

I hesitated, then told him about their morning at the beach. “Lowell comes on to women. I don’t know if he intends to start an affair each time, or simply likes to talk to us. Regardless, his friendly behavior incites intense jealousy." I felt myself blushing as I said, “I told you how Marcie responded when she saw me with Lowell at the diner.”

“Marcie Beaumont,” he mused, stroking his chin. “She pops up everywhere in this case.”

“She claims Lowell confided in her. Which doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like to have him for herself.”

Brian grinned, looking pretty damn good to my eyes. I wondered where he’d been when I pulled him into yet another Old Cadfield situation. “Acting the confidant is one sure way of getting into someone’s pants.”

“Now, now, Detective Donovan,” I chided. Then I remembered. “I saw a flash of pink as someone shut the window upstairs. It was the color of Paulette’s shawl.”

“Many of the women are wearing pink gowns and shawls. It must be this year’s color.”

I grimaced. “True enough.”

Brian stood. “Anything else I should know?”

I pointed to the planter. “Two of the men pulled it there, so their fingerprints will be all over it.”

“Fingerprints are hard to lift on porous stone, but we’ll have the lab check it out. Anything else you recall?”

"No."

“In that case, I’ll run upstairs, see if the person who dropped the planter left any telltale signs. I’ll have them tape off the area till the crime scene investigators can check it out.”

I nodded, though I knew obvious clues like a dropped handkerchief were the stuff of fiction. I must have looked as glum as I felt, because Brian chucked a finger under my chin.

“Cheer up, Lexie. We’re getting closer. We’ll get the murderer very soon.”

“Sooner or later,” I groused.

“Maybe you should stay at your friend Rosie’s house tonight.”

“No need. I’ll be okay.”

He gave me a thin smile. “When you get home, lock the doors and windows. I’ll have a car swing by during the night.”

I squeezed his arm. “Thanks, Brian.”

“Any time.”

I stood outside the tent, feeling like an intruder as I watched the action inside. The police had divided the guests into large groups and were asking general questions: who witnessed the incident? Had anyone seen someone go up the stairs to the top floor? As though anyone in this crowd would squeal on another Old Cadfield resident, I thought cynically. The cops would learn nothing tonight.

Rosie came over to me and drew me into a much-needed hug.

“You probably hate me, but I had to call the police,” I said.

Rosie released me. After a moment, she nodded. “You did the right thing. Damn whoever might have pushed that heavy planter! I could have lost my daughter or my best friend!”

Might have?
“In that case, you’re the only one who thinks this might have been a deliberate attempt to kill one or all three of us.”

Rosie grimaced. “Did you see anything?”

“I saw someone closing the window on the top floor.”

“Come listen to the concert,” she coaxed. “Show them what you’re made of.”

What I was made of? Probably sand and clay and crumbly stuff like that.
I shook my head. “I’m going home.”

“You’re sure?”

I nodded.

She kissed my cheek. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

I went up the staircase, feeling as foolish and alone as Cinderella at midnight. I changed out of my Georgian gown then stopped by the ladies’ room. The sound of crying came from the only closed stall. I peered underneath, spotted Paulette’s fuchsia and rhinestone sandals.

“Paulette,” I called softly. “It’s Lexie. Are you okay?”

“Leave me alone,” she said through her tears.

“All right.”

I left the bathroom wondering if she were crying because someone had nearly killed her husband, or because she’d failed in her attempt to finish him off. I drove off in a sour mood. Calling the police had been the right thing to do, but not in the eyes of the Old Cadfield set.

Back at Sylvia’s house, I downed a stiff drink of scotch, something I rarely drank. It did nothing to soothe my jangled nerves. I couldn't stop wondering who had dropped the planter. Who was the intended victim? Could Paulette have come running into Lowell’s arms so soon after heaving the planter out the window? I doubted anyone could move that fast. I considered Marcie. If she was hung up on Lowell, the sight of him with an arm around me then around Ginger could have set her off. She might have raced up the steps to the top floor, determined to take out all three of us!

If that were the case, how had she gotten up there so quickly? Ginger had just joined Lowell and me when that planter came tumbling down. I shuddered. Was I the killer’s intended target? For what reason? Because she didn’t like seeing me with Lowell? Or because I'd become too inquisitive, asking too many probing questions?

What would Poirot do? Miss Marple?

I picked up
A Murder Is Announced
and turned to the last chapter. As in most Christie novels, everyone involved in the murders were gathered together. Accusations flew as secrets were revealed and the murderer was exposed. Too bad I couldn’t do that with the Old Cadfield crowd.

Or could I?
Why not have a party and raise pertinent questions à la Christie?

Because it simply wouldn’t work in real life.

I went from door to window, making sure they were locked, fed Puss an extra large serving of treats, and went upstairs. In bed, I tossed and turned till three, when I fell into a dreamless sleep.

The phone awoke me. It was Ruth.

“Lexie? Did I wake you?”

“No,” I lied, then glanced at the clock. It was after ten.

“I feel so bad that you ran off the way you did. Rosie told me you were very upset by everything that happened last night.”

“I was.” I waited for the lecture on how I should never have called the police to begin.

Ruth cleared her throat. “I want to apologize for treating your near brush with death in such a cavalier manner. Even if it had been an accident, it was unforgivable of me to put the gala before the welfare of three of our loved ones.”

I was a loved one?
“No one likes to believe someone, much less a friend, is capable of murder. Which is why you insisted it was an accident. What made you change your mind?”

“Detective Donovan. He pointed out there were no other planters up on the second story. And he said you saw someone close the window.”

Thanks, Brian. I owe you one.
I decided to milk her sympathy. “It was pretty awful, Ruth, with everyone glaring and making me feel
persona non grata
for calling the police. That, on top of nearly getting killed.”

“So awful.” Ruth lowered her voice. “Do you think this has anything to do with the three murders?”

“I do. Ginger, Lowell, and I were at Rosie’s when Sylvia was poisoned.”

“But Gerda was alone in her house when she was killed. And Lowell wasn’t at the meeting when Anne’s car went into the pond.”

“True, but I believe the same person’s responsible,” I said.

Ruth cleared her throat and changed the subject. “I’m so dreadfully sorry, Lexie dear, that you felt driven away last night." She tsk-tsked. “You were kind enough to give up an evening to help out at the gala, and nearly got yourself killed in the process. Is there anything we can do to make it up to you?”

I was about to dismiss her suggestion, when I realized I'd been handed my golden opportunity. "I'd love to host a cocktail party for the book club members and their families. Before everyone leaves on vacation,” I quickly added.

“Is that what you want? A party?" Ruth sounded puzzled.

“Exactly." I pretended to be concerned. “Or do you think that’s too much to ask of you and Sam, Adele and Bob, and everyone else we know?”

“Of course not, dear." The warmth was back in her voice. “We’d be delighted. And more than happy to bring refreshments.”

That would be a plus. “I thought we’d have it a week from Wednesday, when the mystery book club meets. I’ll hold the meeting in the late afternoon and the cocktail party immediately after. How does that sound to you?”

“It sounds lovely, if you’re sure you want to go to all that trouble.”

“Believe me, it will be my pleasure.”

I was still grinning when I punched in Donovan’s number.

“Y
ou did what?” Brian thundered over the phone. “Asked a bunch of crazy people, including a murderer, to your house? Do you have a death wish? Are you looking for thrills? You’d be better off taking a walk along the edge of the Throgs Neck Bridge! It’s a hell of a lot safer than what you’re planning.”

I should have known he’d react this way. “Calm down, Brian. A party's the best setting for flushing out the murderer.”

“Says who?” he growled. “Sounds to me you’re confusing real life with Agatha Christie plots. I strongly advise you to reconsider this ridiculous idea.”

Don’t defend, advance.
“There is some danger, I admit. Which is why I’d feel a hell of a lot safer with you here.”

“You mean come to your meeting?”

“And stay for the cocktail party,” I added.

Brian made a strange sound, as though he was too stunned by my proposal to adequately express his shock and disapproval. Then he found his voice.

“Don’t expect me to take part in your lame brain plan, Lexie.  I’m not Poirot, and you’re no Miss Marple. This is real life. Someone could get hurt.”

“Think about it, Brian. It’s our last chance to gather all those people into one room." I let out a snort of derision. “And they’ll come, all right. Out of guilt for making me feel like crap last night.”

“I suppose,” he mumbled.

“After that, they scatter to the four winds—China, Nantucket, you name it. Sylvia’s kids want to empty out the house the last week in August. The week before that, I’ll be gone,” I added dramatically.

“Know where you’ll be living?”

“Nope, and I don’t want to think about it now.”

Encouraged by his changing the subject, I pushed my case. “It’s easy enough to segue from the Christie books to a discussion of the real murders.”

Silence.

I drew in a deep breath. “So, are you coming?”

Silence.

“I’ll explain you’re a mystery fan and read lots of mysteries.”

“You would,” he muttered.

“May I take that as a yes?”

He let out a groan of defeat. “All right. I’ll be there.”

With great difficulty, I resisted the impulse to climb on a table and cheer. “Thanks, Brian.”

“I hope no one gets killed in the process.”

“Don’t be so morbid.”

“Life is morbid for a homicide cop." He paused, then said, “I suppose your boyfriend will be coming, too.”

My heart started thumping. “Sure. Allistair’s a member of the club.”

“Oh, hell, the more the merrier,” was his morose comment before he hung up.

I called Rosie to let her in on my plans, implying that I had Brian’s hearty support.

“I don’t approve, but I see you’re determined to go ahead with this ridiculous plan. I’d be wasting energy if I tried to stop you.”

I laughed. “You always knew when to fold.”

“I’ll come to your revelation party, but I don’t want Ginger there. Saturday night was enough of a scare.”

I was afraid of this. “Everyone has to come, Rosie, in order for it to work.  Surely, the murderer won’t try anything in Detective Donovan’s presence.”

Rosie let out a huff of defeat. “All right. The three of us will come. And Todd.”

“Thanks, Rosie.” If Rosie brought Ginger, the others would follow suit.

“Email Hal your grocery and liquor lists.”

“There’s no need—”

“It’s the least I can do for having been so stupid! I put my head in the sand about the murders. No one’s safe until the monster’s caught.”

“Thanks, Rosie. You guys are the best.”

“Be careful, Lex. Your playing detective may have set the murderer after you." She drew a ragged breath. “That planter came so close to Ginger. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt my daughter.”

The scene of Ginger and Lowell at the beach flashed before me. “I’ve no idea.”

“Or maybe Lowell was the target. I’m beginning to have my suspicions about him.”

I snorted. “Me, too. Lowell comes on to every woman who crosses his path. He does it in the guise of friendship.”

“Even Ginger?”

I hesitated, then opted for disclosure. “Their brief moment has come and gone.”

“I kind of thought so, from comments she made a week or so ago.”

“Lowell may be determined to work on his marriage, but he gets nothing from Paulette. Which is probably why he flirts with every woman.”

“I don’t know and I don’t care, as long as he keeps away from my daughter!”

Allistair arrived home Monday afternoon. He called, inviting me over for drinks that evening. We ordered in pizza, then had a hot and heavy make-out session on his living room sofa. Finally, he stood and took my hand, intent on concluding matters in the bedroom. Brian Donovan’s grinning face floated into my head. Of all times! My excitement plummeted and I pulled free of Al’s clasp.