| |
Hal called for an ambulance. It appeared minutes later and transported Paulette and Lowell to the hospital. Adele and Bob followed in their car. The other guests began their leave-taking.
Rosie beckoned to me, so I returned to the pool area where Hal was removing the blood-soaked cushion from the chaise longue. Rosie gathered up the debris on the nearby table, no doubt forgetting for the moment she’d hired help to clean up after us.
She sighed. “Poor Paulette. She must have been farther along that she knew, to have lost all that blood.”
“And she wants a baby so badly,” I murmured. Rosie shook her head. “Maybe it’s for the best.”
I stared at her. “What do you mean?”
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. “Nothing.”
I swallowed. “Actually, I agree with you. I don’t think Lowell is good father material.”
“What about Paulette?” Rosie waved her hand dismissively. “Can you see her raising a child without Adele’s constant supervision?”
“She told me Lowell wasn’t ready to start a family. But damn it, Rosie! That’s no excuse for him to carry on with Anne. And in your house! The two of them were going at it like rabbits only minutes before poor Paulette miscarried!”
Rosie rolled her eyes. “You’re surprised?”
My mouth fell open. “What do you mean? Of course I’m surprised. Shocked is a more accurate term for what I’m feeling.”
Rosie laughed. “You’re shocked? Are we reversing roles, Lexie? Usually, you’re the free spirit and I’m the one standing up for family values.”
I stared at her. “Are you nuts? This is out and out adultery!”
Rosie shrugged. “That’s right. You meet Anne less than a year ago—after Gerald’s grand pyre. I never told you the story of Anne and Lowell?”
I shook my head.
“Anne grew up one town over. She went to high school with Marcie and Paulette. Lowell comes from the south shore. Anyway, Anne and Lowell were in law school together. Their hot and heavy romance didn’t fare well with studying torts and memorizing Supreme Court decisions. They’d fight, break up, then make up. Lowell met Paulette during one of their breakup times.”
“So?” I said. “These things happen.”
Rosie grimaced. “Paulette waited until Anne flew off to Europe, then she invited Lowell to dinner at the country club. For once in her life, she played her cards right, giving him the impression she was an agreeable, common-sense kind of gal from a wealthy family. She carried it out well with Adele’s coaching, I’ve no doubt. By the time Anne was back on American soil, Paulette and Lowell were engaged.
“Lowell thought he’d hit the jackpot—a congenial wife, wealthy in-laws willing to make a down payment on an Old Cadfield home, and who would introduce him to rich clients.”
“Only there was no happily-ever-after.”
“Hell, no. Lowell returned from their honeymoon, painfully aware he’d married a dim screw-up, attached at the hip to her mother.”
“Poor Lowell,” I said, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “He married for money and didn’t like the package it came in.”
“No, he married for the right reasons, but the goods weren’t there. Meanwhile, he and Anne have grown up. They’ve learned to manage their differences.”
“A bit late for that, don’t you think?” When Rosie didn’t answer, I said, “And you know all this because....”
She bit her lip before answering. “Because Anne’s confided in me. She and Lowell want to get married. Only Paulette’s pregnancy put a hold on that.”
“Now they can.” I glared at my best friend. “I can’t believe you’re taking their part. Against your own cousin, too!”
“My cousin who lied and deceived to trick Lowell into marrying her. Lowell’s not happy with Paulette. Now there’s no reason why he has to stay with her.”
“Now that she’s miscarried.”
Rosie didn’t answer. I discovered that I, too, had run out of words. I felt depleted and sad. Rosie and I irritated one another occasionally, but rarely did we view a situation so differently.
“I’m going home,” I announced.
I got halfway across the patio when I ran into Hal. “Thanks for a wonderful party.” I gave him a good-bye hug. “Sorry it ended as it did.”
“I’m afraid to host another anytime soon,” he said dryly. “By now our friends must believe a visit to the Gordons means trouble for someone.”
I patted his unshaven cheek. “I’ll be back soon. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
I considered following Rosie into the kitchen, then thought better of it. We’d talk tomorrow when I’d calmed down. Instead, I hurried along the path that led to the street. I couldn’t wait to return to the peaceful sanctuary of Sylvia’s home.
“Lexie.”
I turned, surprised that Allistair hadn’t left along with everyone else. “I thought I’d walk home with you.” I shrugged. “Sure.”
“Fear not. I won’t press you to tell me what’s troubling you.”
“How kind of you,” I said sarcastically.
Allistair’s ears reddened. I wanted to bite my tongue. Why was I being so nasty? Did I want to drive him away? Of course not! It made no sense.
“Sorry. I’m out of sorts today for a variety of reasons, none of which has anything to do with you.”
“I’m glad I’m not the cause. Shall we go?”
We set out for our respective homes. Old Cadfield had no sidewalks, so walking anywhere meant keeping an eye out for cars whizzing by. My mind was too full of the day’s events to make conversation, but the silence between us held no tension.
We stopped when we reached Marigold Street. Allistair turned to me. “How would you like to go to the beach one of these days?”
I smiled. “Sounds lovely.”
He kissed my cheek. “Call me and we’ll go.”
Clever Allistair, I thought as I walked on to Sylvia’s house. He was a kind man but unwilling to put up with b. s. Now the ball was in my court. If I wanted this relationship to work, I’d better not drive him away.
Puss welcomed me back with loud meows as he twined himself around my ankles. I bent down to pet him. “Hey there, boy. I’ll feed you in a minute.”
He started purring, a loud rumbling sound that made me laugh. I filled his plate with food, then rummaged around in the refrigerator for something to eat. Odd that I was still hungry.
I wandered through the house, reviewing the latest events in my mind.
Paulette had lost the baby.
Anne and Lowell were carrying on a hot and heavy affair.
Rosie was all for Lowell’s divorcing Paulette and marrying Anne, his once and present love.
Two women in my mystery book club had been killed, and I hadn’t a clue why.
I wondered if the police were any closer to finding the murderer. My pulse quickened as I thought of Detective Donovan and wondered when I’d see him next. I switched on the TV and watched a few mindless reruns, then read until it was time to go to bed.
I called the hospital Tuesday morning to find out how Paulette was doing, and was informed she’d been released. I called the Hartmans’ home number and got voice mail. I picked up the phone again, this time to speed-dial Rosie, then set it down. I was still angry at my best friend. It would pass, I knew, but for the present I didn’t want to talk to her. I found her attitude toward her young cousin cold and uncaring. How could she condone Lowell and Anne’s affair? She certainly wouldn’t want any man treating Ginger that way.
I slipped into an old pair of shorts and a polo, fed Puss, then headed for the garage to check out a bicycle either Michele or Eric had left behind. Both tires needed air, so I pumped until my arm could pump no more. I ran back into the house for a hat and sunglasses, then hopped on the bicycle and started down the road.
I returned to the house an hour later, sweaty and feeling healthy. I showered, grabbed toast and melon for breakfast, and carried my coffee mug out to the patio, along with an armful of Agatha Christie novels, short stories, and plays.
Dame Agatha Christie had written sixty-six mysteries and, by one person’s count, over one hundred and fifty short stories. While I’d read most of them at one point in my life, I needed to study her work as I would any literary writer because I planned to talk about her various themes, plots, settings, and style at the next book club meeting. I skimmed through her marvelous play, The Mousetrap, that began its run in a London Theatre in 1952 and was still going strong.
Next, I picked up The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and started reading. I soon forgot I was preparing for the book club and let myself enjoy the ride. What delightful prose! Not one unnecessary word. Dame Agatha dove right into her story and kept us entranced to the final sentence. If only I could do that, I mused, thinking of my own pathetic manuscript.
I stretched out on a chaise longue and continued reading Dr. Sheppard’s narrative of murder and mayhem in King’s Abbot, a cozy English village where Hercule Poirot, now retired, was raising marrows.
Marrows? I laughed, remembering they were squash, though what kind of squash I had no idea. Anyway, one of Dr. Sheppard’s patients supposedly commits suicide. Then her fiancé, Roger Ackroyd, is murdered, and his niece asks Poirot to investigate. The murderer proves to be a huge surprise. The surprise outraged many readers when the book was first published, while others found the plot highly original.
I read until Puss pressed against the glass sliding door, meowing for food. I was surprised to see it was close to two o’clock. I got to my feet, telling myself I’d skim through Murder on the Orient Express and And Then There Were None another day. I fed Puss some treats, made myself a sandwich, then decided to call Paulette again. This time she picked up on the third ring.
“Hello?” Her wavering voice made me think of a homeless waif braving a snowstorm.
“Hi, Paulette. It’s Lexie. I called to find out how you’re feeling.”
“Lousy.” She began to weep. “I lost the baby.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s my fault. I’m a bad person.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“It’s true! Lowell didn’t want a baby. Not yet.” She began sobbing in earnest, downing gulps of air. “This is what happens when you hurt people.”
“Please don’t cry.” While I felt sorry for Paulette, she was doing a damn good job of sucking me into her misery. According to Rosie, Paulette leaned on people emotionally because Adele had always coddled her and led her to believe the rest of the world would pamper her, too.
“Nobody cares what I’m going through.” Snivels and gasps broke through her words. “Lowell’s at work, and my mother left to keep a doctor’s appointment.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
She sniffed a bit. “I don’t like to trouble you.”
Hating myself for falling for her ploy, and, at the same time, feeling pity, I caved. “Would you like me to come over?”
“Oh, would you, Lexie! I’d love that—if you could.”
“I can only stay a while.”
“That’s okay. One more thing,” she said, as wistfully as a child, “could you stop by the deli in town and pick up a tuna sandwich on rye?”
“You mean you haven’t eaten lunch?”
“Mom gave me something a while ago, but I’m suddenly hungry. And Lexie?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t forget the pickle.”
The Hartmans lived on the outskirts of Old Cadfield, in the newer, less expensive section of homes. Still, it was a lovely place, I thought as I pulled into the driveway. One I’d never be able to afford. I rang the doorbell, which chimed the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth. A wan-looking Paulette in a frilly pink bathrobe let me in. I handed her the sandwich. Instead of offering to reimburse me, she gave me a dazzling smile.
“Thanks so much, Lexie. I’ll do the same for you when you’re not well.”
She led me into the kitchen, past the living room, empty but for a couch shoved against the far wall. The dining room was furnished with a card table and folding chairs.
Paulette must have caught my surprised expression because she said, “We only moved in a few months ago. I’ve been trying to find a decorator I really like. Do you have anyone you can suggest?’
“Not really,” I said.
The kitchen was well designed, with beautiful cherry wood cabinets and granite counter tops. But the wall of the eating area was covered with squares of wallpaper.
“I can’t decide which pattern I like. Which is your favorite, Lexie?” I glanced at the various patterns, finding one uglier than the next.
“I’m not really good at this.”
Paulette nodded, her mouth full of tuna sandwich. “I know. It’s so hard to make a decision,” she said when she could speak. “Would you mind making me some tea?”
I sat with Paulette at the kitchen table while she finished her sandwich and sipped her tea, wondering how soon I could make my excuse to leave.
“Is your mom coming back here after her doctor’s appointment?” I asked.
“After she picks up some things for me in the supermarket. Why don’t we go into the den? I’ve some fruit in the refrigerator if you’d like. Or you can open a can of Coke.”
“I’m fine.”
The den appeared to be the only finished room on the downstairs level. A leather couch and two lounging chairs were placed around a beautiful Persian carpet. A mammoth TV was mounted on the wall opposite the fireplace. Vertical blinds were pulled back from the glass sliding doors, revealing a cement patio filled with pieces of outdoor furniture, none of which matched.
Paulette sprawled out on the couch and covered herself with a knitted afghan. She lifted up the dog-eared paperback resting on the back of the couch.
“I’ve been reading And Then There Were None.” She smiled. “It’s a fun read.”
“Fun, as in humorous?” I asked, curious about her choice of words.
She shrugged. “I guess weird is what I mean.” She gave a little laugh. “As though someone would deliberately set out to kill a bunch of people, one by one.” She shivered. “I can’t imagine it. Can you?”
“Frankly, no. But this is fiction. We assume Dame Agatha has given the murderer a good motive to kill, so we read on.”
“Still, all those people! I wonder what they’ve done to make the murderer so angry.”
I looked at her. “What did Sylvia ever do to make anyone angry enough to kill her?”
Paulette closed her eyes. “Poor Sylvia. I feel so bad she’s gone.”
“Me, too.”
“And Gerda’s dead. She was always so stern. Sometimes she frightened me.”
“Did your mother go to her funeral?” I asked.
“No. Mom and Gerda weren’t friends. But she’ll pay a shiva call, I suppose.”
“So will I.”
Paulette cocked her head and gave me what she no doubt imagined was an endearing smile. God forgive me, but I was beginning to understand her husband’s affair with Anne. “Do you think you could bring me a glass of Coke, please? I’m so terribly thirsty.”
“Sure, Paulette.” I stood. “And then I’d better be going.” “Please add some ice from the ice maker. Large cubes, please.”
I did as she asked, grumbling under my breath. What Paulette needed was a servant to wait on her all her waking hours. Then I remembered why I’d come to visit and told myself to be more charitable. Only a few more minutes and I’d be out of here.
“Here you are.” She sat up and I handed her the glass of soda. The doorbell rang. Adele was back. I ran to let her in.
Marcie Beaumont stood in the doorway. She scowled when she saw me. “Hi, Lexie.” She lowered her voice. “If I knew you were here, I wouldn’t have driven like a maniac from school.”
“I called Paulette to find out how she was feeling, and she asked me to stop by.”
Marcie frowned. “Adele called me at school and practically ordered me to come here as soon as the dismissal bell rang. How is she?”
“All right.”
“I didn’t even get a chance to stop for flowers.”
Paulette was clearly delighted to have another visitor. “Thanks so much for coming, Marcie.”
“How are you feeling?”
Paulette shrugged. “Achy. Sad. I know the baby barely had a chance to develop, but I feel as though I’ve lost my child.” She gave a sad little smile. “I know he was a boy.”
Marcie patted Paulette’s shoulder before sitting down beside her. “This happens. For all you know, something could have been wrong with the baby’s development. You’ll have other children.”
To my surprise, Paulette leaned over to put her arm around Marcie’s waist as though she were comforting her.
I was about to leave when Paulette said, “We were talking about the books Lexie assigned for our next meeting. Did you get a chance to read them yet?”
Marcie laughed, embarrassed to be caught unprepared. “No, but I’m about to start Murder on the Orient Express. I’ve seen the movie. I know several people take part in a murder.”
Paulette nodded. “And Then There Were None is just the opposite. Someone kills ten people one by one.” She shuddered. “I suppose the murderer hated them all.”
Marcie turned to me. “Do you think people actually go around killing off people they hate?” Before I could mention Sylvia, Marcie said, “I know the police say Sylvia’s death was murder, but I’m sure they’ve got it wrong.”
She spoke with such conviction, I wanted to shake her. Marcie was one of those people who liked making proclamations, regardless of their veracity.
“How can you say that?” I asked. “There was an autopsy. Sylvia was poisoned.”
“Yes, but I bet her death was accidental,” Marcie said. “Everyone who was at Rosie’s house that night liked Sylvia. No one would want to hurt her.”
“Not even Gerda?” I asked, incredulously. “She threatened Sylvia just before the meeting.”
“Are you kidding?” She eyed me with disdain. “Gerda and Sylvia were close friends. People in Old Cadfield don’t go around murdering each other.”
I stared at her, wondering if she was for real. “I suppose next you’ll say the two murders aren’t connected.”
Marcie shrugged. “Are they?”
“I think so,” I said, “though I’ve no idea how. That’s for the police to find out.”
“The police. They’ll try to trap us with their questions, and when they catch someone in a lie, they’ll set out to make him confess as quickly as this.” She snapped her fingers. “The trouble is, everyone lies.”
I stared at Marcie in surprise. “Do you really think so? In a homicide case?”
“Why not? Everyone has secrets they don’t want exposed.”
What secrets do you have? I wondered.
“Gerda was grim, but I can’t imagine who’d want to kill Sylvia,” Paulette said, sighing. “She was the nicest person. Who would want to see her dead?”
“Surely, no one I can think of.” Marcie’s mouth fell open as an idea occurred to her. She sent Paulette a knowing smirk. “Except for maybe you-know-who.”
Paulette thought a moment, and nodded slowly. “Oh, right. How could I have forgotten?”
My pulse quickened. I wondered if they had Marcie’s mother in mind. “Who’s that?” I asked.
They ignored me and exchanged grins—two kids keeping a secret from an adult.
“Tell me!” I urged. “This might be important. Something the police ought to know.”
Marcie waved my suggestion away. “Don’t be silly, Lexie,” she said in the condescending tone she no doubt used to keep her students in line. “On second thought, this person would never hurt a fly.”
She leaned toward me, as though she were about to reveal something astounding. “But if we’re talking about someone who deserves to be killed, I could think of a name or two.”
“Oh, really,” I said, even though I knew she was simply diverting my attention. “Whom do you have in mind?”
“Anne Chadwick jumps to the top of my list.”