Murder the Tey Way: A Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mystery (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 2) Read online

  MURDER THE TEY WAY

  by

  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.

  Copyright © 2014 by Marilyn Levinson

  Cover design by Polly Iyer

  Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting

  For my granddaughter, Olivia Brooke Levinson:

  I hope you grow up to love books as much as I do.

  Other Books by Marilyn Levinson

  Mystery & Romantic Suspense:

  Murder a la Christie

  Murder in the Air

  A Murderer Among Us

  Dangerous Relations

  Giving Up the Ghost

  Novels for Young Readers:

  No Boys Allowed

  Rufus and Magic Run Amok

  Getting Back to Normal

  And Don’t Bring Jeremy

  Table of Contents

  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

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  About the Author

  Other Books by Marilyn Levinson

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Who’s clever enough to solve a fifteenth century murder by studying a portrait in his hospital bed?” I asked in my most professorial tone.

  No one answered, of course, since I was alone in my car.

  “Josephine Tey’s Inspector Alan Grant of Scotland Yard is who, in her unique and unforgettable novel The Daughter of Time.”

  A damn good opener for tonight’s meeting of the Golden Age of Mystery book club, I decided as I exited Mondale University and headed for home. I was in a glorious mood. This morning my “Shakespeare’s Comedies” and “Chaucer’s Tales” students surprised me with their insightful observations, leaving me hopeful that literature, as we academics know it, will continue to thrive, even when read on electronic devices.

  I made a quick mental review of the food supply in my refrigerator and pantry, and concluded that I needn’t stop for groceries. Home these days was a modest three-bedroom ranch house in Ryesdale, Long Island. I was paying a ridiculously low rent because the house belonged to my boyfriend, Allistair West. I’d lived in a state of transition this past year, ever since my estranged second husband burned down my house and managed to incinerate himself in the process. Al wanted to take our relationship to the next level. I balked at moving in with him just as I’d balked at buying a home of my own.

  If I were being totally honest, I’d admit the state of transition suited my comfort zone. The few times I’d opted for commitment and permanence had ended badly. Still, as my forty-ninth birthday grew near, some latent nesting instinct kept urging me to settle down.

  I joined the flow of light traffic traveling east on Northern State Parkway and exited twenty minutes later. I bypassed downtown Ryesdale, which consisted of three long blocks of shops and restaurants, made a few turns, and followed Magnolia Lane almost to the dead end.

  I drew to a stop in front of my neighbor’s house. “Hey, Felicity,” I called through the passenger’s window. “Your decorations are awesome.”

  Felicity Roberts looked up from her crouched position. She was setting up a festive Halloween scene in her rock garden. She’d already staked in a goblin and a green-faced witch, and had placed three ghosts of white sheeting in the nearby tree. I felt a twinge of guilt for not having put so much as a pumpkin on my top step, though Halloween was a few weeks away.

  “Do you think so?” A note of anxiety sounded in Felicity’s little-girl’s voice, making her seem much younger than her twenty-something years. “Corinne claims I make too much of Halloween. She says I’m not a kid anymore.

  “But the children love my Halloween decorations,” she said earnestly, as if I’d sided with her older sister. “Besides, Halloween’s my favorite holiday after Christmas.” She grinned. “I can’t wait to dress up in my vampire costume and put in my fangs when the kids come by for Trick or Treat.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I told her, though inwardly I wondered, and not for the first time, if Felicity was all there. She held down a part-time job at a local children’s clothing store and shared the large, rambling house with her older sister, a practical, no-nonsense sort of person and vice president of a bank in a neighboring town. Both sisters belonged to the mystery book club.

  “Bye. See you tonight,” I called out.

  It was a good thing I hadn’t driven on, because Felicity chose that moment to run toward the car and lean into the open passenger window.

  “Do you think every murderer leaves evidence behind?” she whispered, though no one was around to hear us.

  I smiled at her earnestness and couldn’t resist. In a low, conspiratorial tone, I asked. “Did you kill someone, and you’re worried the police will catch you?”

  “Of course not!” Felicity’s blush covered her ears and her neck, making me regret having teased her.

  “I finished reading The Daughter of Time last night, and it got me thinking,” she explained, giving her little-girl laugh. “I know I’m being silly and it’s only a novel, but if Inspector Grant could prove Richard the Third didn’t kill his nephews five hundred years after the fact, then it seems to me any murder can be solved.”

  I cleared my throat and felt my professorial persona take over. “I believe everything we do leaves a trail of crumbs, so to speak, especially murder and other criminal actions. Tey didn’t come up with the theory that Richard was innocent, though her novel certainly popularized it.” I smiled. “I’m glad you find the subject intriguing. We’ll talk about it at our meeting tonight.”

  Felicity hunched her shoulders. A tremor ran down her skinny frame as she stared down at the ground. “Lexie, don’t be angry, but I can’t make the meeting. Something’s come up.”

  “Oh,” I said, embarrassed because she was such an awful liar. “That’s okay, Felicity. This isn’t school. You can miss a meeting if you like.”

  “But Corinne’s coming,” she added quickly. “I know she’s looking forward to seeing everyone tonight.”

  “Great.”

  I waited until Felicity returned to her Halloween decorations, then turned into my driveway. Puss, m
y friend Sylvia’s Russian Blue tom I’d adopted after she died, greeted me with a plaintive meow meant to inspire guilt. I fed the nagging feline, then made myself a sandwich for lunch. In the spare bedroom I’d set up as my office, I flipped through my notes for this evening’s presentation and realized I didn’t need them. The Daughter of Time was one of my all-time favorite mysteries.

  For once I had no papers to grade or administrative paperwork to complete for my anal department head. I was free to devote the next few hours to my Work in Progress.

  I’d started writing a woman’s literary novel some years ago. This past summer I deleted all 220 pages and began a mystery. But facilitating a mystery book club, even having hands-on experience solving real-life murders, hadn’t improved my fiction-writing skills. I’d been stuck on chapter three since August. Still, I refused to give up! I was intelligent! I had a PhD! If all those writers out there could complete a manuscript and get it published, then I could too!

  I turned on my laptop. Minutes passed while I stared at the first page of Chapter One. I changed a few words then changed them back again. The phone rang. It was Al.

  “Hi, Lexie. I’m off to the airport. My limo should be here within the hour.”

  “I told you I’d be happy to drive you.”

  “It’s better this way. You might run into heavy traffic coming home from Kennedy. And you have a meeting tonight.”

  Thoughtful Al. One of the reasons I liked him so much.

  He paused. “I know it’s premature—and we needn’t act on it as soon as I’m home again—but I’d like you to think about our moving in together.”

  I swallowed. “I’ll think about it, Al.”

  I heard the smile in his voice, when he said, “I know we’ll be happy, Lexie.”

  His use of the future tense instead of the conditional sent a frisson of anxiety along every nerve in my body. I cared about Al, but after two failed marriages I was far from certain I wanted to share quarters with him or any male, for that matter.

  A doorbell rang at his end, sparing me further discussion along these lines. “Time to go,” he told me a minute later. “The limo driver’s taken my luggage. Why do they always arrive so early?”

  Now someone was ringing my doorbell. I suddenly wished Al hadn’t taken on the architectural project that would keep him in England for the next two months. “I’m going to miss you,” I admitted.

  “Me, too, but we’ll talk on Skype. We’ll text and exchange emails. I’ll be home before you know it.”

  I sent him a kiss and put down the phone. The doorbell rang more insistently. I flung open the door to find my friend, Joy—former FBI agent and current soccer mom—jogging in place. Though the weather was cool for mid-September, Joy wore racing shorts and a sleeveless polo as though it were still July. She slipped into the house, panting and sweaty.

  “What’s up?” I asked. “Want a cup of coffee?”

  She shook her head as she led me into the kitchen, where she continued to jog in place. “I have five minutes. Mrs. Horton leaves at two sharp. She’ll give me hell if I’m home one minute late.”

  I burst out laughing. “A tough gal like you afraid of a little old lady?”

  “You’re damn straight I’m afraid—terrified she’ll stop sitting for us and take up with a punctual on-time mommy. My two older kids consider her their third grandmother. Brandon stops crying when he hears her voice.”

  “Al just called to say good-bye. He’s on his way to Kennedy.”

  Joy grinned. “You still have that sexy homicide detective to fool around with.”

  A quiver of excitement tinged with guilt shot through me.

  “I’ve seen Brian Donovan exactly three times since I moved here—if you count the night he got called away before we even touched our main course. I don’t consider him relationship material.”

  “Says who? Cops make damn good spouses when they set their minds to it.”

  I smiled, picturing her teddy-bear of a husband carrying their six-year-old on his shoulders. “Except your Mike went into security work so he could keep normal hours.”

  Joy nodded. “’Family first’ is Mike’s motto. Did you hear? There was another break in last night.”

  “No? What happened?”

  “A couple who lives on Thornton, three blocks away, came home to find their home burgled. She kept all her jewelry in a wall safe. Everything was taken. Mike’s former partner said it looks like an inside job.”

  I bit my lip. “It almost makes me glad I have nothing to steal.”

  “On a lighter note, do you have everything you need for the meeting?”

  “I think so.”

  “Including gluten-free cookies for Marge Billings?”

  I pressed my hand to my cheek. “I forgot Marge has celiac disease! I’ll run out to Stop & Shop. They carry the cookies she likes.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll whip up a batch. Two batches, in fact, and keep one for us. Ruthie’s supply of gluten-free desserts is running low.”

  I laughed as I saw Joy out. The quintessential homemaker. Who would ever guess that Joy had been a much decorated FBI agent before setting down to have her third offspring?

  I sat down to reread Chapter One of my manuscript. I promised myself I’d read for content, but the editor in me took over. I wasn’t happy with a phrase in the first sentence, then I decided the entire sentence had to go. I changed more phrases and deleted another sentence. I’d reached page two, when the phone rang.

  “Lexie?” The voice was almost a whisper.

  “Gayle! I’m glad you called,” I told my baby sister, embarrassed because we hadn’t spoken in months. “I was never sure you received the card I sent with my new address and phone number.”

  “I did. Lexie….”

  She paused so long, I was about to ask what was wrong when her words spilled out in a torrent. “Can I come stay with you for a while?”

  “Of course,” I said automatically, though my stomach twitched with anxiety. “What’s wrong? You sound upset.”

  “I’m in Ohio. I should get to you some time after nine.”

  “You’re driving here?”

  “Uh huh. I left Utah two days ago.”

  And you’re first calling me now? My typical go-with-the-flow sister. I swallowed back my annoyance and asked, “Do you know how to get to my house?”

  “I plotted it out on Map Quest. Lexie, don’t tell anyone I’m coming.”

  A chill ran down my body. “Who would I tell?”

  “I mean, anyone. Promise me, Lexie.”

  “I promise, Gayle, but why would anyone call me about you?”

  Instead of answering, she disconnected. When I called back, there was no response, not even a robotic voice instructing me to leave a message.

  I drove to the supermarket and bought what I remembered were Gayle’s favorite foods: bagels and cream cheese, tuna fish salad, stuffed grape leaves and chocolate-covered nuts. How she used to devour chocolate-covered nuts! And all the while I mulled over what was driving her from the home she loved so much—a four-room cabin her friends had helped her build seven years ago in rural Utah.

  Gayle was forty-two, six years younger than me, and would have been at home among the Flower Children of the Sixties. She’d left college in her freshman year to wander around Europe on God knows what money. She’d ended up living in an ashram in India. When she returned to the U.S., she moved to California then to Utah, living a communal life with friends until she built her own home. She made jewelry with semi-precious stones, and these last few years had gotten into pottery. She’d had various lovers over the years, but no one she’d stayed with for more than two years. She was my sister, but we’d seen each other half a dozen times in the past twenty-five years.

  Home again, I put away the groceries and tried to call Gayle. No answer. I told myself there was no use fretting. I’d find out what was happening when she arrived tonight sometime during my meeting. The thought left me even more unsettled. I
returned to my manuscript and spent the rest of the afternoon tweaking Chapter One.

  It was nearly five o’clock when I closed my laptop, forced to admit that I didn’t much like my sleuth. She was too cerebral, too hesitant to act. I sighed. Maybe tackling a novel was too big a job to start with. Maybe I should write short stories instead, at least until I my writing skills improved.

  I made a cheese omelet for dinner, then dragged three dining room chairs into the living room and placed them between the sofa and two armchairs, forming a circle around the rectangular cocktail table. We’d be seven without Felicity, a small but lively group of people more than willing to voice their opinions.

  I turned on lamps and set out the snacks. Now the room looked almost homey. Al and his wife had bought the house fifteen years ago, and he’d been renting it out ever since. Except for the two paintings I’d hung on the wall, the living room was devoid of character. I decided not to pull the curtains on the picture window looking out on the cement patio. No one could see us, since tall hedges separated the backyard from my neighbors behind me.

  The doorbell rang at a quarter to eight. Marge and Evan, was my educated guess, and I was right. Retired dairy farmers in their mid-seventies, both were large in every sense of the word, with generous smiles and curly gray hair. They looked more like brother and sister than husband and wife.

  After each had hugged me, Evan claimed one of the armchairs. Marge handed me a plate of cookies. “Gluten-free.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “Joy’s baking another batch for you.”

  Marge chuckled. “How sweet. Our own Martha Stewart.” She followed me into the kitchen and was spooning decaf coffee into the coffee maker a minute later.

  The bell rang again, and Evan went to the door. I heard Timothy Draigon’s booming bass alternating with Sadie Lu’s sweet contralto as they came into the kitchen to find me. We exchanged greetings and hugs. I was fond of both Tim, a tall, jocular lawyer in his mid-forties, and Sadie, a high school guidance counselor ten years his junior. Both were divorced. They drove to book club meetings together. I couldn’t decide if they were a couple or not.