Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) Read online

  MURDER A LA CHRISTIE

  BY

  MARILYN LEVINSON

  Copyright © 2016 Marilyn Levinson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or to actual events or locales is purely coincidental and beyond the author’s intention.

  All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing means without the author’s permission.

  Cover design by Polly Iyer

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Other Books by Marilyn Levinson

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  About the Author:

  The Next Book in The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries

  A Note to My Readers

  Sign up for Marilyn Levinson's Mailing List

  Dedication

  In memory of Bernie

  Other Books by Marilyn Levinson

  Mystery and Romantic Suspense:

  Murder the Tey Way

  A Murderer Among Us

  Murder in the Air

  Dangerous Relations

  Giving Up the Ghost

  Novels for Young Readers:

  The Devil’s Pawn

  No Boys Allowed

  Rufus and Magic Run Amok

  Getting Back to Normal

  And Don’t Bring Jeremy

  What Readers Are Saying about MURDER A LA CHRISTIE:

  "Charming and entertaining, this cleverly affectionate contemporary

  twist on the traditional mystery will delight Christie fans!”

  ~ Hank Phillippi Ryan, award-winning mystery author

  "Marilyn Levinson presents a great plot that'll keep you guessing,

  with multiple red herrings, and plot twists.” ~ Stephanie Jones

  "If you, as I do, enjoy the tradition of Agatha Christie cozies,

  you will enjoy "Murder a la Christie!”’ ~ J. Hanahan

  "Marilyn Levinson's Murder a la Christie is a must for every mystery lover's bookshelf. It has all the trappings of a traditional English village mystery ... set on Long Island.” ~ T. S. Owen

  “ ...the PLOT keeps you wanting to read until you’ve figured out

  who the heck done it!“ ~ Must Read Faster

  "Murder a la Christie is a smart whodunit and delightful homage to

  the grand dame of the genre from a contemporary mystery writer."

  ~ Book Club Librarian

  "Murder a la Christie is a fast, fun, read for Christie fans.”

  ~ The Bookwyrm’s Hoard

  "A well-written novel with intriguing characters, good dialogue, multiple victims and a light romance, Ms. Levinson’s book captured my

  attention from the first page and never let go.”

  ~ Queen of All She Reads

  “This book is absolutely wonderful, just when I thought I knew who did it another clue was pointed out that change my mind. It was a page turner.”

  ~ Shanna Crabtree

  “Ms. Levinson has created likable, relatable characters and a fast-paced plot in this this clever whodunnit! Lexie Driscoll, a college literature professor takes up temporary residence with the upper crust and discovers these ‘nice people’ aren't too nice at all. A thoroughly enjoyable read and I highly recommend it!”

  ~ Hollister C. Price

  And check out Sandra Murphy’s humorous review in Kings River Life: http://kingsriverlife.blogspot.com/2014/03/murder-al-la-christie-by-marilyn.html

  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 boy friend

  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 – (53) world-renown architect

  Brian Donovan – (49) homicide detective

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Write 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 marbl
e-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. “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 One, she worked in a hospital and a pharmacy, where she learned a good deal about drugs. Many of her murderers use 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 he
r 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.