Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (7 page)

“Why don’t you unpack?” Rosie dropped the last carton on the bedroom floor.

“I’m not in any rush. I’ll wait till you and Ginger leave.”

“Go on. We’re heading home just as soon as I catch my breath.”

“Fine with me,” I said, and got to work putting my new living quarters in order. Back in college I’d learned the futility of bucking Rosie on small issues and saved my energy for important disagreements. I stowed clothes in the bureau and closet and set my laptop on the desk. Feeling thirsty, I went into the kitchen for water before arranging my toiletries on the bathroom shelves. Rosie was closing the refrigerator, a look of satisfaction on her face. I shooed her away and opened the door. Inside were packages of cheese, turkey, containers of shrimp salad and tuna. Fresh fruits and vegetables filled the plastic bins.

“You shouldn’t have done this!” I protested.

“Now you can work on your manuscript without having to run to the store for groceries. I know you didn’t write one word while you stayed with us.”

I grabbed her in a bear hug. “Thanks, Rosie.”

In the living room I was further astonished to see Ginger filling three large vases with the most beautiful flowers.

“I’m deeply touched,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion.

“You should be,” Rosie answered. “With Jesse living in California and your wacky sister in Utah, we’re the only family you have. And we want you to have the best summer ever, despite the sad way it began.”

I was still teary-eyed when they left, refusing Rosie’s dinner invitation, promising to call and make plans as soon as I settled in.

Puss appeared from God-knew-what hiding place, meowing and demanding dinner. I opened one of the tiny cat food cans stacked in the pantry and emptied it on his plate. Then I went outside to gaze at the pool. It was too chilly to swim, but I promised myself that in the warmer weather I’d make use of the pool to my heart’s content.

The opening bars of the William Tell Overture rang out. I hurried inside to answer my cell phone.

“Hello, is this Alexis Driscoll?” a baritone voice asked.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Detective Brian Donovan of the Nassau County Police Department. Captain Hennessy of Old Cadfield PD suggested you might help us with our inquiries. I’d like to talk to you as soon as it’s convenient.”

My pulse speeded up to quick time. How had he gotten my unlisted number? And why was he calling
me?
“Is this about Sylvia Morris?”

“Yes. I understand you’re staying at Mrs. Morris’s home. Would it be all right if I stop by, say, in ten minutes?”

I grew more tense with each word he uttered. “I suppose.”

He barked out Sylvia’s address and I agreed it was correct. “See you,” he said and disconnected.

Calm down
, I ordered myself. The police must be questioning everyone who’d been at the Gordons’ house the night Sylvia was poisoned. No doubt, Michele and Eric told him I’d be living here when he spoke to them yesterday. I gulped down seltzer, which set off a coughing fit.

Lieutenant Donovan arrived fifteen minutes later. I led him into Sylvia’s high-ceilinged living room, its many windows open to the sunny afternoon and view of the trees and bushes outside.
My first visitor, and one I hadn’t invited
.

He sat on one of the overstuffed white sofas and sipped from the glass of water he’d accepted. I sat across from him, watching him skim through pages of his notebook, sigh once with disgust, then jot down a notation with a ballpoint pen. He was of medium height, medium weight, and had medium brown hair. Nothing about his appearance stood out until he fixed his pale blue eyes on me. They pierced straight to my brain like an ice pick.

“The autopsy report on Mrs. Morris indicates her death wasn’t due to natural causes. We’re considering it a homicide.”

I knew this, still my voice trembled when I said, “Michele told me the tox tests showed Sylvia had been poisoned.”

Detective Donovan gave me a half smile. “You suspected this from the get go. Which is why you paid a visit to the Old Cadfield precinct the morning after she died.”

I nodded.

“Right now we’re gathering information about the night your friend was poisoned. Unfortunately, a week’s gone by since the crime occurred and that’s lousy for the case every which way.”

He hunched forward, his eyes glittering with intensity. “Now I need to know everything you remember about last Wednesday evening. And I mean everything, no matter how small, how insignificant you think the incident may be.”

“We had our first meeting of the mystery book club Wednesday night. It was my friend Rosie Gordon’s idea. She’d gathered a group of interested friends and neighbors and asked me to lead the group, since I teach English lit at Mondale University.”

“You have your doctorate?”

I nodded, wondering what the hell that had to do with anything.

“Admirable. I always wanted to get a degree in literature. Besides Mrs. Gordon and her family, had you ever met any of the others who were at the house when Mrs. Morris died?”

“I knew them all." I cleared my throat. “Rosie invited everyone in the book club to a barbecue earlier that evening. Everyone came.”

“When did you arrive?”

“Close to four o’clock.”

Donovan sipped his water. “Who was there?”

“Rosie and Hal Gordon, their youngest daughter, Ginger. Hal had taken the day off. He barbecued spare ribs and hamburgers, while Rosie made side dishes and salads." I gave a little laugh. “But that’s not what you need to hear.”

He pursed his lips. “That’s exactly what I want you to tell me. Was anyone besides the family at the house when you arrived?”

“Todd Taylor, who lives down the block from the Gordons. When I arrived, he and Ginger were on the terrace drinking mojitos. They were celebrating their upcoming graduations—Todd’s from law school, Ginger’s from Mondale.”

“That’s nice,” Donovan commented. “Did Todd stay for the meeting?”

“Yes. Ginger asked if he could, since he’s an Agatha Christie fan.”

“Was anyone else at the Gordons’ home when you arrived?”

I’d almost forgotten. “Paulette Hartman was sunning herself by the pool. Paulette’s Rosie’s cousin—first cousin once removed. She and her husband, Lowell, recently bought a home in Old Cadfield.”

“What’s Mrs. Hartman’s relationship with Mrs. Morris?”

I shrugged. “I suppose they knew each other, since Paulette grew up in Old Cadfield.”

Detective Donovan raised his eyebrows. “Care to elaborate?”

I felt the queasiness of a squealer. “All I mean is, aside from their both knowing Rosie and living in the same neighborhood, they’ve nothing in common. Sylvia was in her early sixties—a bright, cultured woman who’d been writing non-fiction books these past fifteen years. While Paulette...” I paused to choose my words carefully so I wouldn’t sound critical.

“Yes?”

“Paulette’s in her early thirties. She’s a sweet girl, really, though I don’t think her thoughts run much beyond her husband, their new home, and starting a family.”

“When the others arrived, what did you all talk about?”

“Nothing special. The upcoming meeting. Old Cadfield gossip.”

“Did anyone quarrel with Mrs. Morris that evening?"

I told him about Sylvia and Gerda’s argument. I finished by saying, “They were good friends. I find it impossible to believe Gerda would hurt Sylvia.”

I wanted to kick myself! Why was I defending Gerda? A few days ago I was ready to escort her to the police station.

Donovan burst out laughing. “Dr. Driscoll, you’d make one hell of a detective— excusing every suspect, one by one, on a purely emotional basis.”

“It’s just that I’ve known most of these people for years through Rosie and Hal. I can’t believe any one of them would set out to poison poor Sylvia.”

“Right. They’re all good citizens,” he said sarcastically. “Not like those characters in the mysteries your book club reads.”

“Now you’re teasing me,” I said coldly.

“A bit. Sorry.”

His apology sent a ripple of satisfaction through my body. “Lowell and Anne arrived around six. They work in the same law firm." I paused, remembering, then forced myself to continue. “Paulette seemed annoyed with Lowell because he’d forgotten to stop by their house to bring her the sweater she’d asked for." I stopped.

“Please go on.”

“I don’t want to interpret something that may be totally innocent, yet could cast someone in a guilty light.”

He smiled. “Spill it. I’ll keep your observation in mind. If it’s relevant to the case, it will rear its head again. Not relevant, it falls by the wayside.”

“But what if something I tell you leads you to the wrong conclusion? Takes you off in the wrong direction?”

Donovan shrugged. “You need to tell me every single action and reaction you observed. We check out facts and narratives again and again. Please don’t filter what you’re telling me because you’re reluctant to incriminate any of your friends.”

“I’ll keep in mind that one of them’s a killer,” I said grimly.

“You were saying that Paulette was annoyed with her husband.”

“Right. She’s generally even-tempered and pleasant, which was why I was surprised when she expressed hostility because Anne showed up for dinner.”

Donovan turned back a page of his notebook. “Are you saying Ms. Chadwick wasn’t expected for dinner?”

I closed my eyes and thought. “I suppose, since Anne mentioned something about someone not faxing her the papers she was expecting, so she was able to come to the barbecue, after all.”

“Did she say how she expected to get home that evening? Or retrieve her car, which she must have left at the office?”

“I think Marcie Beaumont drove her home. They both live in the next town, about ten minutes from here.”

Donovan made a notation, then asked, “Do you think Mrs. Hartman was angry because her husband gave his coworker a lift?”

That was precisely what I thought.
“Could be,” I hedged.

“Do you think Mrs. Hartman believes her husband and Ms. Chadwick are lovers?”

I laughed because hearing the words spoken aloud, it sounded ludicrous. “It occurred to me, though at the meeting Paulette sat between Anne and Marcie.”

“Are the three young women friends?”

“I don't think so. They’re all very different from one another, but they’ve known each other since high school.”

“What are they like?”

“Marcie’s stiff and bristly." I gave a little laugh. “Sometimes she treats the rest of us like her third graders.”

“And Mrs. Hartman?”

“Frankly, she’s not very bright." I thought a bit. “It could be she’s envious of Anne’s career and good looks—though Paulette’s quite pretty, too,” I finished lamely. It was like comparing a daisy to a rose.

“You think very highly of Anne Chadwick.”

“She’s my lawyer. I met her through Rosie when my estranged husband burned down my house." I stopped abruptly, regretting having said that much.

“Ah,” Donovan said, making the connection. “I remember that business. As I recall, he perished in the fire.”

“Yes, he did." I shuddered. That “business” was the worst event of my life.

Donovan asked me how the food and drinks were served. I told him we all helped, and were constantly in and out of the kitchen.

“Do you remember who drank what?”

I shook my head.

“What happened after dinner?”

“Anne helped Ginger, Paulette, and me clear the table and put out the desserts on the kitchen table. Ruth helped Rosie set up coffee and water for hot tea, then Rosie had a chat with Gerda on the patio. We all poured ourselves a cup of coffee, tea or more iced tea, selected a dessert or two, and carried everything into the library. I returned to the kitchen for water and heard Gerda issue her ultimatum to Sylvia.”

When he’d finished getting all that down, Donovan turned the full force of his concentration on me. “Please think carefully, Dr. Driscoll—during dinner or the meeting, did you notice anyone touching Mrs. Morris’s iced tea?”

I closed my eyes and tried to recall the evening. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Once the meeting began, I concentrated on my talk, making sure I kept everyone’s attention. The only thing I remember was that the table around which everyone but Gerda sat was covered with dishes, cups, and glasses.”

Donovan’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting. Mrs. Morris was drinking iced tea. Did you happen to notice who else was having a cold drink instead of hot tea or coffee?"

I shook my head. “No. Sorry.”

“Did Mr. Hartman or Mr. Gordon join your meeting at any time?”

“No. I didn’t even know Lowell was still in the house, until he came dashing into the library looking for Rosie to tell her Sylvia had died.”

“Why her and not Mr. Gordon?”

I shrugged. “I suppose because Rosie’s the person everyone turns to when there’s a catastrophe.”

“Do you know where Mr. Gordon was when Mrs. Morris took sick?”

“No, but he was at Sylvia’s side when we came upstairs—after Lowell said she was dead.”

“Had Mr. Gordon been upstairs all along?”

He was scaring me.
“I’ve no idea where Hal spent the evening up till that time.”

“Was he with Mr. Hartman?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know that, either.”

“Did you find it odd that Mr. Hartman had discovered Mrs. Morris was dead?”

“Yes,” I admitted, “but the following morning Rosie explained he’d gone up to speak to Sylvia on Gerda’s behalf. She was threatening to sue, though I doubt she had any basis for a lawsuit.”

Donovan wrote for what seemed like minutes, the longest notation he’d made so far.

“I thought you said Sylvia died of poison.”

The grin he gave me was macabre. “She did. But I find it strange that anyone would bother a sick woman.”

“Me, too,” I admitted.

Donovan switched gears. He leaned back, stretching both arms along the back of the sofa.

“Did anyone attending the meeting stand to gain from Mrs. Morris’s demise?”

I shook my head. “Not that I know of.”

The ice blue eyes gleamed at me. “What about you?”