The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle
PRAISE FOR THE READAHOLICS AND THE FALCON FIASCO
“Smart, fast-paced, and fun . . . Laura DiSilverio’s first book in her excellent new Book Club Mystery series features an appealingly clever protagonist and her witty group of Readaholics, who dissect great books while solving an intricately plotted murder that kept me turning pages late into the night.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kate Carlisle
“Laura DiSilverio hits it out of the park . . . engaging characters. Beautiful setting. Readers will be enchanted.”
—New York Times bestselling author Carolyn Hart
“Witty, fresh, and thoroughly engaging, Amy-Faye Johnson and her Readaholic friends will leave you wanting more in this engaging new mystery series.”
—national bestselling author Sally Goldenbaum
PRAISE FOR THE OTHER NOVELS OF LAURA DISILVERIO
“An original heroine, a clever concept. . . . Put this series at the top of your shopping list.”
—national bestselling author Elaine Viets
“Laura DiSilverio is a tremendous new talent . . . a magnificent mystery.”
—Cornelia Read, author of Valley of Ashes
“Well-crafted.”
—The Boston Globe
“Charming, fun, and refreshing.”
—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“DiSilverio has a bit of Sue Grafton’s tone about her with a dash of Janet Evanovich thrown in. . . . Expect to laugh.”
—Library Journal
OTHER MYSTERIES BY LAURA DISILVERIO
The Book Club Mystery Series
Book 1: The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco
The Mall Cop Mystery Series
Book 1: Die Buying
Book 2: All Sales Fatal
Book 3: Malled to Death
The Swift Investigations Series
Book 1: Swift Justice
Book 2: Swift Edge
Book 3: Swift Run
OTHER MYSTERIES BY LAURA DISILVERIO WRITING AS ELLA BARRICK
The Ballroom Dance Mystery Series
Book 1: Quickstep to Murder
Book 2: Dead Man Waltzing
Book 3: The Homicide Hustle
WRITING AS LILA DARE
The Southern Beauty Shop Series
Book 1: Tressed to Kill
Book 2: Polished Off
Book 3: Die Job
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of New American Library.
Copyright © Laura DiSilverio, 2015
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Obsidian and the Obsidian colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
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ISBN 978-0-698-16580-9
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Praise
Other Mysteries by Laura DiSilverio
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Excerpt from The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala
For my father-in-law, Robert E. DiSilverio, 1928–2015. Rest gently, Bo. We miss you.
Acknowledgments
At times, my gratitude for being able to write novels overwhelms me. I get up every morning and engage in work that excites and energizes me, that brings me fulfillment and a sense of having done something worthwhile. For that, I owe a lot of people thanks.
First and foremost, I thank my agent, Paige Wheeler, and my editors at Penguin Random House, especially Sandy Harding and Michelle Vega. Their insights and comments have made my books better, and their friendship has brightened my life.
Thank you also to the friends and fellow writers who have brainstormed with me, critiqued manuscripts or parts thereof, offered cover quotes, listened to me rant when stymied or frustrated by the writing process or the vagaries of publishing, and who lift me up with their generosity and brilliance. These include (but are not limited to) Amy Sagendorf, Linda Petrone, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Joan Hankins, Cindy Stauffer, Patrick Butler, Hans VonMilla, Glenn Miller, Jill Gaebler, Gretchen Gaebler, Catriona McPherson, Carolyn Hart, the sisters and misters of Sisters in Crime, my coconspirators in Mystery Writers of America, Lin Poyer, Marie Layton, the amazing writers of Pikes Peak Writers, and many, many more.
I am grateful, as always, to the readers who have made Amy-Faye Johnson and the Readaholics part of their world, and who share their thoughts and friendship with me via Facebook and e-mail and at conventions or conferences. Writing would be totally unrewarding without you.
Finally, thank you to my husband, Tom, and the best daughters in the whole world, Lily and Ellen. You give me joy each and every day, and I am so grateful for your love, laughter, support, and presence in my life.
Chapter 1
Choosing a book for the Readaholics to read is a tough task, and the five of us who make up the book club take the responsibility seriously. Usually. There was the one time we wrote the titles of books ranging from Gone Girl to The Moonstone on slips of paper, taped them on my folks’ garage door, and threw darts to pick a winner. Margaritas were involved. (Trust me, the garage door, unpainted since Fleetwood Mac hit the top ten, and liberally pocked with woodpecker holes to start with, was not greatly harmed by our selection process.) Only Lola managed to get a dart to stick. Did I mention the margaritas? Her dart picked Elizabeth George’s A Great Deliverance. And there was the time, at least two years ago, when we decided (I don’t remember why) that we had to find a title that started with Q and found ourselves reading an Inspector Rebus novel. But mostly, we take the task seriously.
Which is how I ended up having a conversation six weeks ago with Brooke Widefield, my best friend, whose turn it was to pick a book. We were sitting in my sunroom, almost uncomfortably warm with the sun streaming through the panes t
hat I had Windexed to streak-free perfection only that morning. The celadon green tiles gleamed, and the plants (chosen with much help from Lola Paget, who owned a plant nursery) stretched greenly toward the sunlight. I’d had an event that went late the night before, Friday, and I was makeup-less with my copper-colored hair in a ponytail, wearing a faded University of Colorado T-shirt and shorts that had fit better five pounds ago. Brooke Widefield, of course, as always, looked exquisite, mink-dark hair curling over her shoulders like she had just finished filming a shampoo commercial and green eyes emphasized by taupe shadow and mascara. Her crisp red capris and denim jacket could have been featured in a magazine spread about how to look chic rather than sloppy running weekend errands. I was the “before” photo and Brooke the “after.” I was used to it.
“It’s hard to find murder mysteries without murders in them,” Brooke observed facetiously. “But since Ivy, well, I’m not in the mood to read anything too realistic.”
Ivy Donner, one of the Readaholics and our friend since high school, had been poisoned in May and we were all still reeling. I found myself agreeing with Brooke that we didn’t need a police procedural or urban noir book for next month.
“There are lots of books without serial killers or gore,” I said, taking a swig of my diet soda. “Tons of ’em. Really, when you think about it, books with brains caked on the walls and criminologists deducing the killer’s identity from blood-spatter analysis are a relatively modern development. What about something more old-fashioned, something pre–Girl with the Dragon Tattoo?”
“Dick Francis,” Brooke mused. “Except sometimes he kills off horses and I can’t take that.”
Brooke had a soft heart for animals and volunteered at the Heaven Animal Haven, the no-kill shelter here in Heaven, Colorado.
“Dorothy Sayers?”
She wrinkled her nose. “After reading that one about the bells, I’m not much of a Sayers fan. Bor-ing. I’m more in the mood for something along the line of Nancy Drew.”
“I don’t think the others will be too keen on that,” I said. “Get it? Carolyn Keene?”
Brooke groaned and tossed a throw pillow at me.
“I guess that’s why they call them throw pillows,” I said, catching it.
“Stop with the puns already,” she said, “or I’m leaving.” She made as if to rise.
“Fine, fine.” I held up my hands in surrender.
“What about Agatha Christie?” she said. “We haven’t ever read one of her books.”
I thought about it. “I guess you’re right,” I said slowly. “I guess I assumed everyone had already read a lot of Christie, since she is the queen of mysteries.” I paused for a beat and decided to confess. “I’ve never read a Christie book, though. Don’t toss me out of the Readaholics.”
“I’ve read all the Miss Marples.” She put down her diet soda, being careful to place a coaster under it, even on the glass table. “I’ve never tried any of the others, though.”
And that’s how we came to be reading Murder on the Orient Express, the book jouncing on the van’s passenger seat as I headed for my brother Derek’s pub. I’d finished it the night before and was looking forward to the Readaholics’ discussion tomorrow. I tried to anticipate everyone’s reactions, but the only one I was sure of was Maud’s. Our resident conspiracy theorist would be wholeheartedly enthusiastic about the book because it contained a conspiracy. I smiled to myself as I parked the car in the gravel lot. I had found the whole conspiracy thing totally unbelievable. Twelve people working together to kill one man? Puh-leeze. Murder conspiracies didn’t work, not in real life.
• • •
We’ve all heard the advice about doctors not performing surgery on their own family members. It’s against the Hippocratic oath, I think, or maybe the American Medical Association bans it. The same should hold true for event organizers. If there were an event organizer governing body, I’d be happy to propose a bylaw that made it unethical to plan parties for family members, especially brothers. Under that rule, such an act would be punishable by having to retake high school sex ed, listening to an endless loop of John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High,” or a cross-country road trip with said family. In a VW Beetle. With no air-conditioning. In August.
I looked at Derek and said in my reasonable voice, even though my day’s supply of “reasonable” was about exhausted, “You can’t invite more people. The fire marshal’s max capacity is two hundred and twenty. We’ve already invited three hundred, not counting the people who will come because they read about the opening in the Heaven Herald, or heard about it from a friend. A fair chunk of the invitees won’t be able to come, especially the ones from Denver, but you’re asking for trouble by sending out more invitations this late.”
We were sitting in my brother’s ready-for-grand-opening brewpub, Elysium Brewing, on the outskirts of Heaven, Colorado. The building had originally been a factory—shoes, I think—and the designer had kept an industrial vibe with exposed pipes and the original brick walls. They contrasted nicely with the new fittings installed late last month. On a sultry August day, the narrow windows were open and brilliant sunshine lit up the booths with their orange leatherette upholstery and made the woodwork gleam. When I’d heard the pub’s decorator was going with orange, I was skeptical, but against the dark wood and the bar’s brass fittings, it looked really good, especially in the evening under the soft glow from the antique-looking pendant lights. A nook near the front windows held sofas and bookshelves that gave the pub a homey feel. I kept meaning to scope out the books, which I suspected the designer had bought by the yard. From where we sat in a corner booth near the kitchen, I could barely glimpse the patio where Derek envisioned selling a lot of brews on long summer evenings, and the wide staircase that led to an open area with eight pool tables and an auxiliary bar on the second floor, offices on the third floor, and a rooftop space that would eventually be a venue for private functions. At the moment, though, it was bare and pebbly and unattractive, off-limits to the public. A humongous stainless steel vat with tubing spiraling around it took up a large chunk of space. It sat in a glass enclosure so Colorado’s craft beer enthusiasts could watch the brewing process in action. Whoop-de-do.
The janitor mopped his way past us, leaving an odor of lemon cleanser that temporarily overpowered the hoppy beer scent that pervaded the pub. Derek ran a hand through his short hair, which was a deeper auburn than my coppery locks. It stood on end. “People won’t all come at the same time,” he argued.
“I know, but trust me when I say that guests with an invitation in hand are going to expect to walk right in, not have to wait in line until the place empties out enough that there’s room for them.” I’d owned my event-organizing business, Eventful!, for four years now, and I’d learned a thing or two the hard way.
“But we’ve got to invite Gordon’s doctor sister, Angie, and her husband, Eugene—he’s an accountant—now that they’re back in town. Their daughter—what a tragedy. And that guy who’s running for state senator against Troy Widefield—not that I want him to beat Troy, but—”
A tattoo of stiletto heels on the stairs and raised voices interrupted us. “—what the judge has to say, Gordo,” a woman’s voice said. “You can’t just not pay Kolby’s college tuition. The semester starts in a couple of weeks. He’s—”
“He’s twenty-four and a useless parasite,” came Gordon Marsh’s voice. “I paid for his first attempt at college, and I don’t feel I owe him another go-round. I gave him a job here and that’s more than he deserves. I’m damn sure he drinks or spills more beer than he sells.”
“He’s your son!” The speaker, a slim brunette, came into view. In tight jeans, a Western shirt that strained the pearl snaps across her chest, and carefully feathered hair, she looked a decade younger than the fifty-two or – three she had to be.
“Don’t remind me,” Gordon growled. He appeared on the
stairs above her and followed her down, his heavier footsteps in contrast to the angry tapping of her heels. Derek’s partner in Elysium Brewing, Gordon Marsh was in his early fifties with a full head of dark blond hair sprinkled with gray. His tanned face had its share of lines, and he carried a little extra weight around his middle, but he was still a handsome man. He reminded me of a younger, blonder James Brolin. He had a reputation as a player, though, with a philosophy of love ’em and leave ’em. Lots of ’em, if rumors were correct. I was sure he thought of himself as a “stud.” He’d tried his pitch on me when he first went into business with Derek, but I was having none of it. Sure, I’d gone out once with a guy who turned out to be a murderer, but I had to draw the line somewhere.
I’d asked Derek why he’d partnered with Gordon, and he’d told me Gordon was an investment genius, head of his own venture capital firm, GTM Capital, with a knack for underwriting start-up bars and restaurants that went on to be hugely successful. He had a unique hands-on approach to his projects, where he or one of his senior staff “embedded” with the company they were underwriting until it was well and truly launched.
“I need him. Don’t piss him off, sis,” Derek had said, stopping short of suggesting I date the man to keep him happy. He knew how that was likely to go over.
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” Susan Marsh said, eyes narrowed to slits. “You can’t do this to Kolby.”
“The hell I can’t!” Without warning, Gordon swiped a beer mug from the bar and hurled it in Susan’s direction. It missed her by a good three feet, hit a booth, and shattered on the floor.
Derek was on his feet immediately, making calming gestures as he approached his partner. “Whoa, big guy, no need for this.” He stood between Gordon and Susan, which made me nervous, but Gordon didn’t seem inclined to launch more missiles at his ex-wife.
Susan, eyes big, scuttled out of the bar, but not without stopping to snap a picture of the broken glass with her phone. For her lawyer’s use, I imagined. I was so startled by Gordon’s sudden fury that I stayed seated, not sure whether to call the cops or let Derek handle it. The two men talked for thirty seconds, and then Derek clapped his partner on the shoulder and returned to me while Gordon headed up the stairs to the roof, shaking a cigarette out of a packet as he went. Derek had complained to me before about Gordon disappearing to the roof for his smoke breaks.