Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (3 page)

“Legal capacity?" I was outraged. “Gerda’s father’s activities are in public records. She couldn’t sue over something like that!”

“Probably not, but the fact that Sylvia was writing about him created a terrible situation between them. Sylvia refused to cut the section about Gerda’s father from her book, and Gerda was just as determined that she omit it.”

“I know. That’s what they were talking about before the meeting began. Gerda threatened to kill Sylvia if she wrote about her father.”

For once I managed to shake Rosie up. “Gerda actually said that? 'I’ll kill you if you write about my father’?”

I backtracked. “Not exactly. But that’s what she implied.”

She sighed with relief. “People say all kinds of things when they’re angry.”

I stared at Rosie. “Do you think Gerda killed Sylvia to stop her?”

“Of course not!" Rosie hugged me. “Lexie, you read too many mysteries. This is real life, my dear. Sylvia had a heart condition. No doubt, all this tumult brought on another coronary.”

I nodded. “Probably. We’ll know for sure after the autopsy.”

She frowned. “The autopsy?”

“Of course. The authorities insist on autopsies in all cases of sudden death.”

*

I
drove east on the Long Island Expressway, glad that the traffic was light. Exhaustion pressed down on my head and shoulders like a smothering blanket, as it tended to do during times of stress. Sylvia was gone. What’s more, as of next week I had no idea where I’d be living. No problem. As I told Rosie, I’d find another apartment. No biggie. Everything I owned fit in my car. I laughed aloud at my ridiculous situation. And for having started the day with abounding optimism.

I’d spent the morning and early afternoon at the university, handing in grades and fulfilling administrative chores so my chairman would have no reason to contact me over the summer. At two thirty, I set out for the Gordons, as happy as a sailor on leave. It was a lovely Wednesday in late May. The sun was blazing, and I was free, free, free! No inattentive students, poorly-written term papers, or petty university politics for almost three months! I’d looked forward to having the run of Sylvia’s spacious home, its sylvan grounds and Olympic-sized pool. I hoped to finally finish the novel I’d started before the bad times had begun.

At last I pulled in front of the sorry-looking garden apartment that was to be my home for five more days, and climbed the rickety stairs to the second floor. I undressed and slipped into bed. But the moment I closed my eyes, I was no longer sleepy. I kept seeing Sylvia lying motionless on the bed in Rosie’s guest room.

I blinked back tears, determined not to turn weepy and maudlin. “Get it all out,” might be what therapists advised, but I knew from experience I was better off reining in my emotions and memories.

I rose from the lumpy mattress and heated some milk, which I sweetened with honey. The potion worked its magic. I relaxed as the grip of sorrow loosened around my heart and allowed my thoughts to wander. I remembered how furious Gerda had been at Sylvia for exposing her father’s past to the world. I drifted off to sleep wondering if Gerda had been angry enough to kill.

But why do it in Rosie’s house with so many people around? To throw off suspicion, of course. Only it hadn’t worked out that way.

Morning sunlight poured through the gauzy curtains. I awoke with a sense of urgency. I thought back to last night’s hectic events, concentrated on the various settings of dishes and glasses until I retrieved what I was after: a small vase of lilies of the valley on the kitchen counter. I’d noticed it during dinner, when I’d come inside to refill the pitcher of iced tea. I remembered feeling relieved it had been placed against the backsplash so Rex would have no opportunity to knock it over, then lap up the water. Lilies of the valley were poisonous. The water they were placed in turned toxic as well.

My heart raced as I tried to remember if the flowers had been on the counter after Sylvia had died. I dialed Rosie’s number.

“Hello?" Her voice sounded muffled with sleep.

“Rosie, this is important. Do you remember that vase of lilies of the valley you had on the counter?”

“What time is it?”

I glanced at the clock beside my bed. “Eight thirty. Do you?”

I heard a big yawn. “Sure. What about it?”

“Were the flowers still on the counter when we cleaned up last night?”

“I can’t remember. What does it matter? Why are you calling so early? Uff, get off me, Rex! Ginger, take this beast out of here!”

I heard Ginger in the background and a few short barks. When it was quiet again, I continued. “Because I don’t think it was there later on. I mean, after everyone left and they took poor Sylvia away.”

“Oh, my God! I have a dozen phone calls to make. And I told Michele and Eric I’ll pick them up at Sylvia’s house at eleven, so be here a quarter to. Gotta go!”

“Wait, Rosie, this is important! When you put lilies of the valley in a vase, the water turns toxic.”

She snorted. “Don’t you think I know! I keep those flowers far from Rex’s reach. And I know he didn’t drink any of the water from the vase because he’s fine.”

But Sylvia wasn’t. “Think a moment. Was the vase on the counter when you were loading the dishwasher?”

Rosie didn’t answer right away. Finally, she sighed. “I didn’t notice. Don’t tell me you think someone poured the water into Sylvia’s iced tea.”

“I hope not, but I’ll feel a hell of a lot better after you tell me the vase, along with the water and flowers, are still on your counter.”

“Lexie! You’re spouting nonsense! This isn’t an Agatha Christie mystery we’re talking about. Sylvia died of her heart condition.”

“After dinner she was holding her stomach as though she were in pain.”

“She was,” Rosie agreed. “I hope it wasn’t our cooking that did her in.”

I drew a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “Maybe Sylvia was poisoned.”

“Who would do a thing like that?”

“Who? You know as well as I do—Gerda.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m running into the bathroom, then I’ll scoot down to the kitchen and let you know if the vase is still there. I’m hanging up.”

She called a few minutes later. “It’s weird. I couldn’t find the vase anywhere, but the flowers were at the bottom of the trash.”

We digested that bit of news in silence.

“That’s no proof of anything,” Rosie said. “With so many people in my kitchen, someone might have knocked over the vase, then wiped up the water and tossed the flowers." She gave a strained laugh. “Hal’s always tossing flowers. He says I love to set them out, but ignore them when they die.”

“The lilies weren’t dead,” I told her. “And where’s the vase?”

“Could be someone broke it, and thinking I’d be upset, threw out the pieces where I wouldn’t see them.”

“Or removed the vase to get rid of the evidence,” I persisted.

“What evidence? Stop thinking you’re Hercule Poirot.”

“People kill other people,” I reminded her. “And they burn down houses.”

That made Rosie pause. “You really think Gerda was angry enough to poison Sylvia?”

I exhaled loudly. “I don’t know what to think. Only that I ought to head down to your little police station and tell them about this.”

“For real?”

“Of course for real.”

Her Pollyanna attitude back in place, Rosie let out an exasperated sigh. “I think you’re overreacting as you usually do when something awful happens. But do what you have to.”

“I will.”

“Knock yourself out,” were her parting words, “but be here by ten fifty-five, the latest.”

I showered, dressed in capris and a polo, then headed back to Old Cadfield. For once, Rosie’s casual outlook on life did nothing to soothe my apprehensions. Sure, Hal or Ginger—or anyone else, for that matter—might have thrown out the flowers and dumped the water. But where was the vase? Sylvia’s death had been sudden. Given her medical history, we’d all jumped to the conclusion she’d suffered a heart attack. But she’d gripped her
stomach
in pain. And she’d been disoriented and dizzy. All signs of having been poisoned.

I shuddered at the awful conclusion I’d come to—that someone at the meeting had killed Sylvia. Everyone who’d been at Rosie’s last evening was connected to Sylvia in various ways and on many levels. How could any one of them have hated her enough to deliberately end her life? Gerda and Sylvia had been close friends. They dined in one another’s home and exchanged confidences. Suddenly I understood how betrayed and hurt Gerda must have felt when she found out Sylvia was going to expose what she considered a private matter.

But that didn’t give her license to kill Sylvia.

As I crossed into Nassau County, I couldn’t help but draw parallels between the murder in
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
and Sylvia’s demise. In the novel, Dr. Bauerstein, the specialist in poisons, determines that Emily’s been poisoned. And Dr. Bauerstein turns out to be a German Jew who spied for his country during World War One. Gerda, another German Jew, threatened Sylvia hours before she died.

I shook my head and ordered myself to stop comparing and contrasting real life with a Christie mystery as if it were a midterm question. I didn’t have a shred of evidence that someone had poisoned Sylvia, though she had complained of stomach pains and mental confusion—all possible symptoms of ingesting a toxic substance. I thought back to last night and tried to remember who had access to her food and drink. During dinner Ginger, Paulette, Anne, and I had poured and handed out glasses of iced tea. Rosie was in and out of the kitchen. We all were.

I couldn’t remember if the vase was still on the counter when we were milling around, putting away food and setting out coffee and dessert. I shook my head, daunted by the large number of possibilities. Anyone could have poisoned Sylvia’s iced tea.

Too many people. Too many unanswered questions.

And what about Lowell? He’d been the last to see Sylvia alive. Why had he chosen that moment—when she was lying down, weak and sick—to talk to her? Maybe he had his own reasons for wanting Sylvia dead. Who was to say he hadn’t followed her upstairs and smothered her with a pillow?

I exited the LIE and turned onto the tree-lined road that led to Old Cadfield. I drove slowly past the two blocks of shops that made up the village center, and parked in front of the building that housed the police station, post office, and town hall.

A middle-aged woman greeted me at the desk. Her eyes widened when I said I wanted to talk to someone about Sylvia Morris’s death.

“Captain Hennessy will be right out.”

He appeared five minutes later—a tall, potbellied man in his mid-fifties, with a receding hairline and bulging blue eyes. Without a word, he ushered me into a small room. When we sat facing one another across a table, he cocked his head and gave me a questioning look. “You are?”

I told him my name and address, and that I’d been at the Gordon home last night when Sylvia Morris died.

He nodded. “I understand a meeting was going on there." He smiled. “Of the mystery book club.”

His smile was not so much condescending as mocking. Furious, I felt the heat rise from my neck to my ears. But I stifled my anger and answered politely. “Yes. I’m the facilitator. Er—the group’s leader.”

This time his smile was genuine. “I know what a facilitator is. Believe it or not, we have a few of them in the police department.”

“Oh.”

“As you were saying, Ms. Driscoll?”

I drew a deep breath, realizing just how silly I was about to sound. “I know it’s the general belief that Sylvia died of natural causes, but this morning it occurred to me that a vase of lilies of the valley that had been on the counter disappeared sometime during the evening.”

“And you’re concerned about this because—?”

Damn him, he was laughing at me!
“Because lilies of the valley are toxic!” I exclaimed, louder than I’d meant to. “Someone could die from drinking the water they were in. And because I was there when someone threatened Sylvia Morris.”

“Who?”

I drew a deep breath, aware that I was crossing a line. “Gerda Stein, Sylvia’s next-door neighbor. Sylvia was writing a book that included a section on Mrs. Stein’s father’s background. He was a Nazi responsible for killing thousands of people.”

“I see." He gave me an exaggerated look of concern, as if he feared for my sanity. “And you think someone, perhaps Mrs. Stein, added water from that vase to Mrs. Morris’s drink and caused her to expire?”

I longed to reach out and slap him! “That’s for you to determine,” I said, not caring that my nostrils flared or that I came across stuffy and huffy. “I’m offering you information I believe to be relevant.”

“You’re suggesting a far-removed possibility. The kind you might read about in one of your mystery novels.”

I glared at him. “When they do the autopsy, please tell the medical examiner to test for that particular toxin." I thought of Lowell. “And for other causes of death—like smothering.”

“Oh? Is there more than one murderer at large?”

“It was just an idea,” I said quickly, not wanting to incriminate Lowell, in case he was innocent.

Captain Hennessy nodded. “I see you’re up on your CSI programs.”

My face burned and I knew I’d turned blood red. “I catch one occasionally.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” he drawled. “The public’s awareness keeps us on our toes. I’ll pass on what you’ve been telling me.“ He winked. “But for the record, real autopsies and tests take longer than they do on television.”

“I know that!" I stormed out of the room. Captain Hennessy called after me.

“A minute, Ms. Driscoll. Would you be so kind as to make a list of everyone who was in the house last night?”

I turned around. It was my turn to smile. “In case I might be right, and you’ll want to ask a few questions?”

“Just in case.”

R
osie pulled into Sylvia’s driveway and turned to me, a severe expression on her face. “Remember, Lexie, not one word about poison, about lilies of the valley, or about murder. Understood?”