The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle Read online

  We laughed. Kerry made her money as Heaven’s most successful Realtor, but she was also the town’s part-time mayor. Coming up on fifty, she was brusque and competent, and had bulldozed a bunch of initiatives through the town council that had boosted the town’s economic development and made it an even more appealing tourist destination. She preferred police procedurals, maybe because her ex was Heaven’s retired chief of police.

  The front door squeaked open and closed gently, and we chorused, “Hi, Lola.”

  “Mew?”

  I leaned down to pick up Misty, now half-grown, as she butted her head against my ankle. I’d rescued her in May and bestowed her on Lola, who owned a plant nursery and had a more pet-friendly schedule than I did. Misty purred loudly as I scratched under her gray chin, and tried to investigate the beer bottle I’d pulled from the bucket.

  “I guess I’m the last,” Lola Paget said. She stood in the doorway, a petite but sturdy woman with a gentle smile. With espresso-colored skin, a short Afro, and wire-rimmed glasses, she looked like a scientist, and had majored in chemistry at Texas A & M before returning to Colorado and opening the nursery. She always picked a more literary mystery when it was her turn to choose a book. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought Misty. I had to keep her cooped up all day while we were spraying pesticides, and she was lonely.”

  “Of course not,” Brooke said immediately, although I knew she’d be vacuuming up gray hairs and spraying disinfectant around the moment we left. “Maybe Clarice will go into anaphylactic shock the next time she comes over.”

  “Is she that allergic to cats?” Lola asked, brow creasing. “I’ll put Misty in the car.”

  She reached to take the cat from me, but Brooke intervened. “No, no. I’d rather have Misty as a guest than Clarice.” Putting a hand to her mouth, she asked, “Did I really say that?”

  We laughed at her exaggeratedly comic expression, and I set Misty on the floor so she could explore. Helping ourselves to chili, we got down to the business of the evening: eating, drinking, and talking about our book. When I first formed the Readaholics, five years ago, we met in the library. When our membership settled at our current number, give or take a couple of women who drifted in and out, we began meeting in one another’s homes. Much more cozy. And the addition of beer, wine, or margaritas led to more . . . spirited discussions of the books.

  “Joe’s traveled on the Orient Express,” Maud said, lounging with one elbow on the back of the chair, and her legs straight out in front of her, crossed at the ankles. Her scuffed work boots looked alien against Brooke’s highly polished Brazilian cherry floor. Joe was her partner, a wildlife photographer who was more often bundled up against the weather photographing Arctic foxes, or slogging through the Amazon getting pictures of piranhas, than hanging out in Heaven. Their frequent separations seemed to suit him and Maud.

  “Went from Venice to Budapest, oh, twenty or twenty-two years ago,” she continued. “Joe’s client, the publisher of one of the mags Joe freelances for, rented the entire train for a celebration of some kind and hired Joe to do photographs of his guests. The flowing champagne, high-end sheets, and over-the-top luxury made him uncomfortable, I think. Too much. He’d rather have donated the cost of his ticket to a bird sanctuary.”

  “What an opportunity,” Lola said, an uncharacteristic whiff of envy in her voice.

  As the sole proprietor of Bloomin’ Wonderful, and supporter of her grandmother and teenage sister, she didn’t get the opportunity to travel often. I suspected money was tight in the Paget household. I swallowed a mouthful of chili. “You know,” I said. “I didn’t get into the book as much as I expected to. I mean, I enjoyed trying to figure out who killed Ratchett, but I didn’t feel connected to any of the characters, and none of them felt connected to each other, except maybe the count and his young wife.”

  Kerry nodded briskly. “I react that way to most of Christie’s books. They feel emotionally . . . flat.”

  “I knew that they were all in on it before I started reading—I saw the movie years ago,” Maud said, “but I was interested to see how Poirot would figure it out. He should have smelled something fishy when two or three of the characters all admitted having ties to that kidnapping. First rule of conspiracies: There are no coincidences.” She pursed her lips in disappointment at Poirot’s slowness.

  “How did you feel about Poirot concocting that story at the end to let them all get away with it?” I asked.

  Lola shook her head slowly. “That was wrong. Yes, Ratchett was despicable, but murdering him was wrong, too.”

  “You don’t think there’s ever a situation when it’s okay to kill someone?” Brooke asked. She rose to put the now empty chili pot in the sink to soak.

  Lola considered, as she usually did. Lola was not like me—she didn’t often say things in haste and immediately regret opening her mouth. “Maybe in self-defense, or in defense of someone helpless. Not in cold blood like in the book.”

  “They say revenge is a dish best served cold,” Kerry said.

  “It’s best not served at all,” Lola said with surprising tartness.

  “Whoa, Lo,” Brooke said. “That’s easy to say, sitting around this table, but what if someone kidnapped and killed your child and the police couldn’t catch them? Wouldn’t you want to see them get theirs?” Elbows on the table, she put her chin in her hands and leaned forward to gauge Lola’s reaction.

  “I might want to see them punished, but I hope I wouldn’t do anything illegal or immoral to make it happen.” Lola creased her brow.

  “Were they all equally guilty,” Kerry asked, “or just the ones who struck the early blows that actually killed Ratchett?”

  “Interesting,” Maud said, dipping her chin to study Kerry.

  The discussion swirled off in new directions and it was almost ten when we broke up, making plans to watch the movie version of Murder on the Orient Express next Thursday, a week from today.

  “I hope you’re all coming tomorrow night,” I said as we took our dishes to the sink and got ready to leave. “Well, all except you, Misty,” I said to the kitten, who was trying to decide if a sliver of corn chip was edible. She eventually disdained it and stalked, tail straight up, to Lola.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Kerry said, scraping the leftover guacamole into the trash as Brooke approached with the cling wrap. “You don’t want to keep this, Brooke, not after we’ve been double-dipping.” She tucked the plate into the dishwasher. “Always good for the mayor to be seen supporting local businesses. And I’m happy to do my part,” she said with a self-sacrificing air, “especially when it involves beer.”

  “That’s why we voted for you, Ker,” Maud said. She rose to her feet, yawned, and stretched long arms over her head. “I’ll be there. Joe’s in town, so I’ll drag him along.”

  They left and Lola followed them, saying she and her grandmother would be at the opening. Since they were teetotalers, I appreciated the gesture. When it was just me and Brooke, we each grabbed another beer and settled into the squashy, loden green leather chairs in her family room. In the winter, there’d be a cheery fire crackling in the stone fireplace, but it was too warm for one now.

  “Where’s Troy?” I asked.

  “Doing campaign strategy with his dad and some county movers and shakers,” Brooke said. She was seated sideways on the chair, her knees draped over the armrest, and one foot kicked restlessly.

  “Are you okay with it, that he’s running for state senator?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not against it, if it’s what he really wants. Trouble is, I don’t know if it’s what he wants, or what his parents want. I’ve been married to Troy for ten years, and with him for almost fifteen, and I still have trouble sifting out who he really is sometimes, from who his folks want him to be. I think that’s because he’s not sure.” She took a long pull on her beer.

  I didn’t k
now what to say to that. My taste had always run toward men who were sure of who they were—for better or worse—and I’d never understood Troy’s attraction. Yeah, he was good-looking, rich, and a decent enough guy, but he kowtowed to his parents too much for my taste, let them decide where he was going to college (CSU), what he was going to study (business), and where he’d work afterward (Daddy’s car dealership). Marrying Brooke was the only time he’d defied his parents. That he’d loved her enough to go against them had made me feel more warmly toward him for a while, but that feeling had worn off earlier this summer when he accused me of investigating Ivy’s murder because I was an attention hound.

  “Anything new on the adoption front?” Against her in-laws’ wishes, Brooke had talked Troy into starting the adoption process after ten years of marriage and six years of trying unsuccessfully to have children.

  “We’ve got someone coming to do a home survey on Monday. If we pass that—”

  “When.” Brooke kept the cleanest house in Heaven and had already baby-proofed every inch of it.

  “—the agency will put our profile in their book of prospective parents who are interested in talking to pregnant girls—women—who are considering putting their babies up for adoption.”

  “Did they say how long it’d take?”

  Brooke wrapped a piece of hair around her finger. “Same old story. A week, a year, never.”

  I could see she was trying not to get her hopes up and didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Giving her an encouraging smile, I changed the subject, telling her about the fight I’d witnessed between Gordon and Derek and the article I’d pulled up.

  “I’m so afraid for Derek,” I said, voicing fears I hadn’t even acknowledged to myself. “I don’t know how—or if—he’ll handle it if the pub goes under.”

  “Hey, Derek’s a levelheaded guy,” Brooke consoled me. “He wouldn’t do anything drastic.”

  “What about the time he ran away from home after the incident at A. J. Lingenfelder’s birthday party—”

  “He was four!”

  “—or the time he spray-painted ‘CHEATER’ on the Zooks’ garage door, or—”

  “Amy Zook did cheat. She Sparknoted the answers to—”

  “—when he got arrested for vandalizing the signs and for that bar fight?”

  “They dropped the charges when everyone said the other guy started it. He’s older now,” Brooke said. “Less impulsive.”

  “Hmph.” I set my tone to “unconvinced.”

  “We could have Troy’s announcement party at the pub,” Brooke suggested.

  “That’s a great idea,” I said gratefully, “if the pub lasts that long.” The announcement was timed for mid-January of next year.

  She leaned over to put her hand on my arm. “It’ll be okay, A-Faye. He’s a big boy. He’s smart, he’s resourceful, and he makes darn good beer. Things’ll work out for him.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled, thinking that only-child Brooke didn’t understand. I’d been watching out for Derek all my life. Yeah, he was an adult now, and he made his own decisions and lived with the consequences, but I still wanted to help all I could.

  On the drive home, I decided that the only way I could help at the moment was to produce the best-ever grand opening party, and that was what I determined to do. Not that I’d been planning a ho-hum grand opening, but I vowed to clear my calendar tomorrow and spend the day at Elysium Brewing overseeing every teensy-weensy, minute detail.

  Chapter 4

  Friday dawned crisp and clear, with the possibility of afternoon thunderstorms. Typical weather for this time of year. I said a little prayer that the storms would hold off, since we were counting on using Elysium’s patio space to keep the crowd under fire marshal–mandated levels. Then I headed off to yoga, figuring I needed a little meditation if I were to survive this day mentally intact. Feeling limber and relaxed after class—held in Yael’s studio on the third floor of the building where my ground-floor office was—I descended the stairs past the law firm on the second floor to the Divine Herb, which had the street-front space. Standing in line for a coffee, I overheard a cluster of suited men talking about coming to Elysium tonight and it made me smile.

  “You look like the cat that ate the canary,” said a voice behind me.

  A happy glow spread through me. I turned to see Detective Lindell Hart smiling at me. The police detective was attractive without being handsome, although the longer I knew him, the handsomer he got. Hmm. He had ever-so-slightly receding, curly brown hair, a nose that had clearly been broken at least once, and a tan that testified to his time in a softball league and fly-fishing. He was almost a foot taller than me, maybe six-four, so I had to look up. “Hi. No canaries. I’m going to settle for a yogurt parfait and a large—a very large—coffee. Busy day.”

  “I’ll bet. Everything ready?”

  “It will be,” I said with determination.

  “I know you hired a couple of our off-duty guys to help with traffic control and security,” he said. “Good move.”

  “Never hurts to have a cop on hand.” I accepted my coffee, yogurt, and change from the clerk and moved to the condiments ledge to dump in some cream. Hart held my parfait for me while I tamped the lid back down on my cup.

  “See you there at seven?”

  “Come for the preopening party at six,” I invited him impulsively. “It’s for family and the area’s movers and shakers.”

  “Which am I?” His brown eyes gazed into mine, humor and something else lurking in them.

  “Neither. You’re special.” I gave the word a droll twist.

  He grinned. “I’ve been waiting months to hear you say that.”

  Was he serious? He sounded like he was joking, but . . . I pondered the way his smile made my pulse race a bit, and wondered if it might be nice to be Lindell Hart’s special someone. He’d moved here from Atlanta in April, and we’d gone out a few times this summer, but he’d been at a Homeland Security training session for almost two months, and my job tied me up most weekends, so we hadn’t been able to spend a lot of time together. Then there was Doug.

  I shook my head slightly to dislodge both Hart and Doug. I didn’t have time to sort out my love life. Not that I really had a love life. I had two attractive men on the periphery of my life, one of whom had dumped me two years earlier and become engaged to another woman this past year, and another I barely knew. I needed to focus on the grand opening. Focus, focus, focus.

  Hart and I parted on the sidewalk in front of the tea shop. “Gotta run,” he said. When he handed over my yogurt, his fingers brushed mine and I felt that tingly glow again.

  “Criminals keeping you hopping?” I asked.

  “Staff meeting. I’d prefer the criminals.”

  I laughed, waved, and headed for my van as he walked down the block and turned the corner toward the police department.

  • • •

  I crunched into Elysium’s gravel parking lot half an hour later, near nine o’clock, having taken a two-minute shower, pulled my hair into a ponytail to keep it out of the way, and shrugged into jeans and a tank top. Today was about work, not impressing potential clients. I’d sneak home before the actual party started and change clothes. Opening the van door to let the morning’s cool breeze in, I spooned up my yogurt and scanned my to-do list. It was lengthy. It ranged from directing the caterers (for the preopening party—we were serving the pub’s food during the grand opening), banner hangers, and cleaning staff, to making sure the extra chairs arrived and were arranged attractively in the second-floor pool table area for the preopening party, to checking stocks of toilet paper and towels in the bathroom, confirming with the valets, off-duty cops, and other extra staff, picking up the Elysium Brewing T-shirts we were handing out to the first hundred guests, and a couple of dozen more things. Where was Al?

  On the thought, he drove up
and stopped beside my van with a puff of dust from the gravel. “Reporting for duty, boss,” he said.

  “Don’t call me ‘boss,’” I told him for the millionth time.

  “Where do you want me to start?”

  A delivery truck from the party rental company in Grand Junction turned into the lot just then, so I sent Al upstairs with their team to supervise the transformation of the pool table loft. I headed for the kitchen, hoping the catering staff would show up before too long. Bernie was there, sponging a spot off the front of her uniform shirt. I said hello and peered out the kitchen’s open back door. A produce delivery van was off-loading while a kitchen worker kept track by marking items off on a clipboard. Two industrial-size Dumpsters yawned open behind the van, already half-filled with pallets and bulging trash bags stuffed with kitchen refuse, I guessed from the smell. Gordon Marsh, looking much more together today in pressed khakis and an orange Elysium Brewing golf shirt, a Band-Aid on his cheek, stood beside a Dumpster, apparently arguing with a zaftig blonde who used her hands as she talked. She looked familiar . . .

  Bernie appeared beside me, probably curious about what I was staring at, and I asked her, “Is that Gordon’s sister?”

  She shrugged thin shoulders. “Wouldn’t know. I’ve never met his sister. I think she’s a step-, though, so you can’t tell anything by looking at them.” We studied the quarreling pair, who hadn’t noticed us.

  I put it aside, not interested in Gordon’s love life, and too pissed off at him for what he was doing to Derek to say good morning. I checked with the head chef to make sure everything was okay in his domain. He gave me an “okay” sign with circled thumb and forefinger, and I left the kitchen in time to meet the janitor coming through the front door.