Murder a la Christie: Golden Age of Mystery Bookclub, #1

For Bernie. I miss you.

List of Characters:

Professor Lexie Driscoll – (48) leader of the Golden Age of Mystery book club

Sylvia Morris – (70) old friend of Lexie’s and member of the book club

Gerda Stein – (72) Sylvia’s neighbor and a member of the book club

Rosie Gordon – (48) Lexie’s best friend and member of the book club

Hal Gordon – (49) Rosie’s husband; Lexie’s college boyfriend

Ginger Gordon – (21) Rosie and Hal’s youngest daughter

Todd Taylor – (25) Ginger’s boyfriend

Ruth Blessing – (55) member of the book club

Marcie Beaumont – (32) Ruth’s prickly daughter

Anne Chadwick – (32) Lexie’s beautiful, young lawyer and a member of the book club

Paulette Hartman – (32) Rosie’s dim-witted young cousin, a member of the book club

Lowell Hartman – (33) Paulette’s husband

Adele Blum – (57) Paulette’s mother and Rosie’s older cousin

Allistair (Al) West – (57) world-renown architect

Brian Donovan – (49) homicide detective

CHAPTER ONE

W rite that book if you dare, but you won’t live to see it in print!

I stared at the two older women—the usually subdued Gerda Stein, her face flushed with anger, and my dear friend Sylvia—but neither seemed aware that I’d entered the kitchen.

Sylvia shook her head in dismay. I’ve no wish to upset you, but your father’s story is the keystone of my book. He was a Nazi, Gerda, and responsible for killing thousands of innocent people.

I know what my father was! Fury made Gerda’s German accent more pronounced. But I told you about him in confidence. Not so you’d write about it and expose him to the world!

I cleared my throat. The meeting’s about to begin. I came in for water, I added, to apologize for my intrusion during this highly volatile and personal exchange. I made a beeline for the sink and turned on the faucet. From the corner of my eye, I watched Gerda stomp out of the room. After that outburst, I wondered if she’d be staying for the first meeting of the Golden Age of Mystery Book Club, which I’d been asked to lead.

Someone touched my shoulder, and I almost dropped the glass I was filling. I turned and caught Sylvia’s expression of concern. I’m sorry you had to hear that, Lexie. Gerda can be the most stubborn, obstinate person I know.

She threatened you!

Sylvia dismissed any possibility of danger with a wave of her hand. She doesn’t mean it. Though I must admit, in the thirty years we’ve been neighbors, I’ve never seen her this agitated.

Before I could respond, my best friend Rosie burst in, bristling with exasperation. Lexie, what are you doing in here? Everyone’s waiting for you.

Sylvia and I murmured our apologies and followed our hostess across the marble-floored hall, through the living room, and into the rosewood-paneled library. Rosie and Sylvia joined the others on three leather couches placed around the coffee table now littered with glasses, cups, and half-eaten desserts. The antique desk I’d claimed for my notes formed the fourth side of the square. Gerda hadn’t left, after all, but sat glowering in the far corner of the room.

I smiled as I passed around handouts filled with bios of Golden Age of Mystery authors and their novels. I went to stand in front of the desk. In the silence I intoned, Now let us speak about murder.

Pleased to have captured everyone’s full attention, I continued. I refer, of course, to literary murder during the Golden Age of Mystery. This period refers to mysteries written between the two World Wars by authors still read by millions of readers—Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, Rex Stout, Ellery Queen, and several others I’ve listed for you to read about at your leisure.

Papers crackled as the members glanced through the pages I’d distributed.

You’ll note that most of the authors are English and American. Tonight, we’ll talk about Dame Agatha Christie, queen of the detective novel.

I segued into an abbreviated bio. Agatha Mary Clarissa Miller was born in 1890 in Torquay, England. Her father was American, and she was home-schooled. Her life presents a mystery of its own. After her husband told her he wanted a divorce to marry his lover, Agatha disappeared. They found her eleven days later in a Yorkshire hotel, supposedly having suffered a bout of amnesia.

The members entered into a lively discussion of the film, Agatha. After I commented that the movie was a highly fictionalized version of what certainly hadn’t occurred during Christie’s disappearance, Rosie flashed me a warning glance. The professor in me longed to redirect the conversation to the book we were scheduled to analyze, but Rosie’s earlier advice came through loud and clear: you’re leading a book club, not teaching Chaucer to a class of English majors. Expect plenty of digressions, interruptions, and comments. People join book clubs to express their opinions and speak their mind.

Eventually I managed to get back on track. Agatha Christie’s second husband was an archeologist. She accompanied him on expeditions to the Middle East, the setting of several of her books. During World War I, she worked in a hospital and a pharmacy, where she learned a good deal about drugs. Many of her murderers used poison to kill their victims.

Todd Taylor, the only male in the room, grinned. So, you’re saying old Agatha had plenty of firsthand experience poisoning people? I smiled back at the handsome young man sitting next to Ginger, Rosie’s youngest daughter. No, Todd, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m pointing out that she knew a good deal about toxicology and made use of this knowledge in her novels.

Ginger poked him in the ribs. Please excuse Todd’s bad behavior, Aunt Lexie. He’s giddy from taking his last law exam.

I’ll behave, Todd said to Ginger rather than to me, as they exchanged knowing glances.

Oh? And when had this come about? Rosie had never breathed a word that Ginger and Todd were dating, or whatever the going expression was this year. My memory flashed back to a skinny little girl trailing after the older boy who lived down the block, even when he made her hold his can of worms. Suddenly I felt decades older than my forty eight years.

Rosie beamed at the two lovebirds, her obvious approval out there for anyone to notice. Beside her, Sylvia stared into space. I wondered if she was mentally at work on her current manuscript. Or was she still reeling from her encounter with Gerda?

I cleared my throat and returned to my duties as facilitator. "Hercule Poirot makes his first appearance in The Mysterious Affair at Styles, Christie’s first published novel, which came out in 1920. As for Poirot, the renowned Belgian detective features in over eighty of Christie’s stories. I smiled. Poirot’s so famous, that when he ‘died’ his obituary appeared in the Times.

Before we talk about the plot, would any of you care to share your opinions regarding Dame Agatha’s writing in general. Yes, Ruth?

Ruth Blessing, a petite, attractive woman in her mid-fifties cocked her sleekly coifed head. Though Christie wrote this book almost one hundred years ago, the language is simple and straightforward. I zipped right through it.

Dame Agatha’s style is thoroughly enjoyable, a primary reason why she’s still widely read, I said. Anyone else?

She knows of the evil that lurks in all our hearts, Todd said.

I shivered, remembering Gerda’s fierce threat issued minutes ago. Surely, she wouldn’t kill Sylvia for refusing to do as she’d demanded. But she wanted to. Had I ever wanted to kill anyone? Perhaps my second husband.

Lexie? Rosie prompted.

’Fess up, has everyone read the novel? I asked.

Everyone but Anne Chadwick, my clever, young lawyer, raised a hand. Even embarrassed, she looked smashing—a slightly older version of the blonde, all-American model she’d been in her teens. She gave an apologetic laugh.

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.

CHAPTER TWO

Too 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 talking 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.

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.