Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) (28 page)

Heads turned to stare at him. His silence had lulled the others into forgetting his presence. Now they appeared apprehensive to discover he was still in the room.

I went on. “Charlotte planned the young man’s murder down to the very last detail.”

Sylvia’s death, on the other hand, wasn’t premeditated. Her murderer had lashed out, choosing the closest weapon at hand—poisonous water—which she poured into Sylvia's iced tea. However, Anne’s murder was deliberate and premeditated.

I gave a start. Could Anne have been the intended victim all along? I shook my head in frustration. No, that wouldn’t explain why Gerda was killed. Or the incident at the gala.

“Lexie?”

I looked up, into Rosie’s concerned face.

“Sorry. To continue. What about the other two people Charlotte murders—Bunny, her old schoolmate, and a neighbor who’d been present when the young Swiss was shot?”

Rosie spoke up. “She kills them both to cover up her true identity so she can inherit her boss’s fortune. Charlotte kills poor Bunny, of whom she’s fond, because the woman’s growing senile. Bunny’s supposed to keep Charlotte’s secret, but she calls her Lotty instead of Letty. Lotty is Charlotte’s nickname.”

“And the neighbor?”

Ruth raised her hand. “Her housemate questions her until the woman realizes the only person who could have shot the young man was their hostess.”

“Only” Ginger cut in, “her housemate is called away before the woman reveals the murderer, and she’s murdered.”

“How did Charlotte manage to be Johnny-on-the-Spot?” Al asked with a wink. "Was she hiding in the bushes?"

I laughed. “We’ll call that literary license. As is the fact that Miss Marple just happens to be staying at the spa where the young Swiss worked." I picked up my copy of
A Murder Is Announced
.

“Jane Marple appears in half as many novels as Hercule Poirot, but we remember her as well. Here’s how Dame Agatha describes her: ‘She was far more benignant than he had imagined and a good deal older. Indeed, she seemed very old. She had snow-white hair and a pink, crinkled face and very soft, innocent blue eyes, and she was heavily enmeshed in fleecy wool. Wool round her shoulders in the form of a lacy cape and wool that she was knitting, and which turned out to be a baby’s shawl.’”

I looked up. “Quite the deceptive appearance because Jane Marple is as sharp as they come. She knows her fellow humans are capable of the most heinous crimes. She recognizes character types, often comparing the villains she encounters to residents of her village, St. Mary Mead. She’s an admitted snoop, extremely observant, and not above playing a trick to flush out a murderer."

I smiled, making eye contact with every member of my attentive audience. “What trick does Miss Marple play on Charlotte?”

Several hands flew into the air. I called on Paulette.

“When everyone’s together, Miss Marple pretends to be Bunny’s ghost and says  ‘Lotty, don’t do it,’ and scares her half to death.”

“Very good, I commended her. “While Jane Marple’s often ingratiating, sneaky, and downright nosy, both readers and Christie herself like her better than Hercule Poirot.”

We chatted a bit more, and then I called for a ten-minute break. Al made a beeline in my direction, but I held up my palm to indicate I couldn’t talk, and headed for the bathroom. Our discussion had set off alarms in my brain, and I needed to recap what I’d learned.

I ran through the old professorial “compare and contrast” between the novel we’d just discussed and the real life murders. Like the first murder in the book, every suspect had been at Rosie’s house the night Sylvia was murdered: the book club members, Hal, Lowell, and even Adele had stopped by. However, there were huge differences. Unlike the carefully staged first murder in
A Murder Is Announced
, Sylvia had been poisoned with whatever was available. Charlotte goes on to kill two more people to protect her false identity that will bring her a large fortune.

The Old Cadfield murderer killed three women, too. But I had no idea what Sylvia, Gerda, and Anne shared in common. As for motive, the police never did unearth a motive regarding Sylvia’s murder. Maybe she wasn’t the intended victim, as Brian once suggested. Was Gerda the intended victim? Could be, since she was killed next.

Then why was Anne murdered? I couldn't find a pattern anywhere.

Powerful emotions drove people to murder. Which, whether I wanted to or not, forced me to reconsider Paulette. She must have been furious that Lowell had driven Anne, his former girlfriend, to the barbecue while forgetting the sweater she’d asked for.

Had Paulette known about the affair the night Sylvia was killed?

Of course she did! According to Lowell, Paulette had gotten pregnant because of the affair. I grimaced. And Paulette was loopy enough to have set the poisoned iced tea in front of Sylvia instead of Anne.

There was Marcie to consider. She was an embittered soul with grievances against Anne dating back to their school days.

Maybe Marcie resented Anne for getting Lowell back.

Maybe she'd meant to make Anne sick, but the glasses of iced tea got mixed up on the table.

Maybe—

The bathroom door rattled. “Is anyone in there?”

“Be right out,” I called, my train of thought completely shot. Minutes later I was back in the living room, resuming my role as facilitator.

“In
The A.B.C Murders,
also known as
The Alphabet Murders,
a murderer kills four people and convinces an innocent man that he’s committed the murders in order to inherit his brother’s fortune.”

Ruth smiled. “Another convoluted plot, as unrealistic as they come, but I couldn’t put the book down.”

I smiled back as I wondered if Ruth had killed Sylvia. How badly had she wanted to co-chair this year’s gala event? I shook my head to eradicate the ugly possibility. Then I told myself to get real. Even a country mouse like Miss Marple knew that all sorts of people murdered for a variety of reasons. I felt a quiver of excitement as a new idea emerged! Maybe there were two murderers! One killed Sylvia and Gerda, and the other killed Anne.

“Who will give us a brief summary of the plot?” I asked.

“I will.” Marcie puffed out her chest and cleared her throat. “Poirot receives a letter announcing that a murder will take place on a specific day in a town beginning with the letter A. And it happens. Alice Ascher in Andover is killed before Poirot can save her life.”

Ruth giggled. “This reminds me of a game we used to play with a pink Spaulding ball when we were little: A, my name is Alice. My husband’s name is Al. I come from Alabama, and I sell Apples.”

“Mo-om, please." Marcie frowned at Ruth. “If I may continue. A murder takes place in towns beginning with B, C, and D. Poirot receives a letter before each murder, but each time he arrives too late to stop the murderer. Then it seems that the wrong person is killed in the town beginning with D, and a quiet, unassuming man named Alexander Bonaparte Cust is arrested. We read excerpts written from his point of view, which lead us to believe he’s committed the crimes.”

“Only Hercule Poirot doesn’t believe Cust is guilty,” Ginger tossed in.

“Correct!” Marcie boomed in her teacher’s voice of approval. “Cust is surprised when Hercule Poirot visits him in jail. He’s never heard of the detective. That’s when we learn he’s an epileptic who loses consciousness after every convulsion. Since all the murdered people bought stockings from him, Cust assumes he’s killed them, though he can’t remember having done so.”

Paulette raised her hand. “Marcie, you forgot to add that Poirot forms a committee of the people connected to the A, B, and C murder victims. He uses his little grey cells.”

We all laughed, but Marcie wasn’t amused. Nostrils flaring, she finished her summary. “Poirot proves that Franklin Clarke, whose brother was among those killed, actually murdered all four people and managed to put the blame on poor A. B. Cust.”

“He killed the others to cover up his intended crime,” Todd said.

“And had no compunction about blaming it on poor Cust,” Ginger added. “Christie’s murderers are heartless. They feel no guilt about killing and framing someone else for their crimes.”

I nodded. “Let’s talk for a minute about the methods Poirot employs to identify the murderer. Anyone?”

“For one thing,” Rosie said, “Poirot says he counts on his friend, Captain Hastings, to state the obvious.”

“Very good,” I said. “Sometimes the facts are before us, though we can’t see the forest for the trees. In fact, I think Poirot uses that expression. In this book, the various murders are the forest—to cover up for the one murder that’s intended.”

As I spoke, something about the real murders clicked into place. I caught Brian’s eye and he winked.

I continued. “By focusing on what he knows to be the murderer’s character and personality, Poirot manages to reveal his identity. One of the victims, Betty Barnard, was a flirt. Poirot figures the murderer had to be personable enough to lure her to her death, something Cust could never have done. Besides, Cust has an alibi for her murder.

“Which is how Poirot arrives at his conclusion that Franklin Clarke is the murderer.”

I glanced around the room. All eyes were on me, but no one offered to speak. “Clarke was the only one of the group who had something to gain from the death of any of the four victims. He was after his brother’s fortune, and to get it, he killed three other people.”

“Personality may give the murderer away,” Todd said, “but concrete evidence is required to convict him of his crimes.”

My heart sank as I considered that no evidence had been found in the three Old Cadfield murders. The police hadn’t found the vase from the lilies of the valley, fingerprints on the vase used to kill Gerda, or the damaged car that had sent Anne to her watery death. I forced myself to return to our discussion.

“As for evidence, Poirot finds the murder weapon Franklin Clarke used to kill two of his victims."

Al laughed. “And after Clarke pulls out a gun, he discovers Poirot had someone remove the bullets.”

I nodded. “Dame Agatha’s sleuths think of everything when they expose a murderer.”
Or murderers.
My eyes nearly bugged out as everything concerning the Old Cadfield murders fell into place. What must have happened was suddenly as clear to me as a pane of glass.

A
t six thirty Hal and Sam Blessing arrived. They helped the others polish off the remaining nuts and chips. Lowell arrived ten minutes later, harried and upset. He all but shoved a bottle of merlot into my hands, muttering something about his in-laws coming as soon as a problem was resolved. Then he rushed off to find Paulette.

I placed more chips and Ruth’s dips out on the dining room table and asked Todd to uncork three bottles of wine. I slid trays of burritos, spinach pie, and mini franks into the oven. My hostess duties fulfilled for the moment, I called Rosie, Al, and Brian into the kitchen. The moment the swinging doors stopped swinging, I told them who had killed the three victims and how I’d figured everything out.

“And I did it using Dame Agatha’s methods.”

Rosie shook her head in disbelief. “That’s impossible! You must be wrong.”

Her incredulity irked me. “Come on, Rosie. The murderer had to be someone you know.”

“Lexie’s conclusions sound plausible to me!” Al said.

Brian grimaced. “To me, too, but we need evidence.”

“Will you settle for a confession?” I asked. “You shall have one, by the time I’m through.”

Three pairs of eyes glared at me.

Brian was the first to regain his power of speech. “What the hell are you planning, Lexie? You’re in way over your head!”

Before I could answer, his cell phone rang. He scowled at me, then strode out of the kitchen to speak in private. I wondered if the call had anything to do with the Old Cadfield murders.

Al put a hand on my shoulder. “Lexie, don’t do anything reckless.”

“Of course not,” I lied. “Rosie, please help me bring out more appetizers.”

“Of course.”

Al sent me a questioning look, but I waved him out of the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a container of guacamole and cut-up veggies then checked on the hors d’oeuvres warming in the oven. They weren’t piping hot, which was how I liked to serve them, but if I didn’t take them out now, I probably wouldn’t get to them in time and they’d burn to a crisp.

The party was in full swing as Rosie and I carried our trays into the living room. I navigated slowly around the room, pausing before each group to give my guests ample opportunity to spear several mini hors d’oeuvres and set them on their plates. Still no sign of Adele and Bob. Where were they? What kind of delay was holding them up? I wanted them here, but I had to move ahead with my plan. It was now or never.

I stopped at Ginger and Todd, laughing and feeding each other guacamole-covered chips. “Ginger, I hate to interrupt, but I need you to play hostess and carry this tray around the room until every scrap of food is gone.”

She gave me an odd look, but rose to her feet. “Sure, Aunt Lexie. Whatever.”

I wandered over to Lowell and Paulette, sitting side by side on two dining room chairs. They both wore glum expressions.

“I see you’ve invited Detective Donovan.” Lowell guzzled the rest of his beer.

“He likes Agatha Christie novels,” I answered.

Lowell stood. “I’m getting another beer.”

“Lowell... ” Paulette said.

He ignored her and strode off.

I took his seat and plastered on my brightest, phoniest smile. “I hope you enjoyed the book discussion.”

“I sure did,” Paulette said, though her mind was obviously on Lowell and his foul mood.

“Which Christie novel did you enjoy more—
A Murder Is Announced
or
The A.B.C. Murders
?”

Paulette wrinkled her nose as she thought. Tonight she wore a pink and white flowered polo and white capris. She was the picture of a pretty if vapid young woman in the blush of life.

“I have to go with
A Murder Is Announced
,” she decided, her tone solemn as though she were a participant on a TV quiz show. “I like that it takes place in a small village, and many of the characters have secret pasts." She smiled. “And I like Miss Marple better than Hercule Poirot.”