The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle (3 page)

When he drew even with me, he shot me a sidelong look. “Leave it,” he said, forestalling my questions.

The door closed behind us as we started down the stairs. “Derek, what—”

“It's none of your business and you can't help anyway.”

As much as I wanted to help him, I knew his moods well enough to clamp my lips together. Sometimes brothers didn't want big sisters' help. In fact,
usually
brothers didn't want sisters weighing in on their activities, choice of friends, love lives, work, or drinking habits. At least, Derek didn't. I could still hear him yelling at our youngest sister, Natalie, last Christmas that she had no right doing an Internet search on his girlfriend of the moment, now ex, largely because of the info Nat gathered. Re this current crisis, he'd tell me when he was ready. Or not.

When we reached the third-floor landing, he peeled off, saying, “Tell whoever it is I'll be there in a minute. I've got a dry shirt in my office.”

“Sure.”

The door snapped shut and I wasn't sure he'd even heard me. Pinning a smile on my face, I walked down the last flights and emerged into the pub, now largely deserted except for the bearded man at the bar flirting with Bernie, and a couple of women dawdling over piña coladas in one corner.

“Everything okay?” Bernie gave me a look that told me I looked rumpled or pissed off or both.

“Derek will be here in a minute,” I told her and the bearded man.

“Better be,” he grunted.

“Wow, Don, I could take that the wrong way. You're not enjoying our conversation?” Bernie asked archly, with the suggestion of a wink at me.

Smiling gratefully, I grabbed a bar cloth and began swabbing down tables. Derek emerged two minutes later, greeted Don, and escorted him up to the offices. I wondered whether Gordon was there or if he'd left.

“Any idea what that was about?” I asked Bernie, nodding toward the disappeared Derek and Don.

“Nonpayment of bills.” Worry creased her brow. “Don told me all about it. The pub's ninety days in arrears with what they owe him for hops. I hope I'm not going to have to find another job again. This one suits me fine. Works great with my school schedule. I so do not want to have to job-hunt again. Gawd.”

“I'm sure it's not as bad as that,” I said, not sure of any such thing. I was ashamed that my first thought was for the nest egg I'd invested in Derek's pub, and not for Derek's disappointment if the pub failed. “Once Elysium is really open, after the grand opening Friday, this place'll be packed with people. I'm sure it'll be turning a profit in no time.”

Bernie looked unconvinced but said nothing. Hefting a tub of dirty dishes, she carried it into the kitchen, bumping the door open with her hip. I tried not to think about how long it had been before Eventful! showed even a tiny profit margin. It was still hit-and-miss some months, four years in. When Bernie returned, I told her I was taking off and she nodded.

“I'll hang until Derek comes out. I'm on the clock until ten o'clock tonight anyway.” Gesturing to the now empty pub, she added, “I think I can handle it on my own.”

With a laugh, I said good night and left, emerging
into a cooling Colorado dusk. A line of light on the western horizon tattled on the just-set sun, and an owl hooted. Pulling a flyer off the van's window, I crumpled it without reading it and tossed it into the passenger seat. Trash. I relaxed into the seat with a sigh. I'd forgotten how physically exhausting bar work could be. I was beat and the bar hadn't even been that busy. I was grateful I was supervising the grand opening festivities and not bartending Friday night. On my recommendation, Derek had already taken on extra help for the occasion, everything from kitchen workers, to servers, to janitorial staff. Cranking the ignition, I headed for home, a long bath, and bed.

C
lient meetings kept me busy the next morning, and I was pleased as punch to land a December wedding (“We're not bringing a shotgun, but we ought to be, if you know what I mean,” the bride's father told me grimly) and a family reunion.

“We're going to have to take on more staff now that you're getting better at signing up clients,” Al said when I told him. Today's bow tie had clown fish printed on it. We were standing in the reception area, absently watching a window cleaner hired by the building manager squeegee the panes in the French doors.

“‘Getting better'?” I raised my brows.

“Yeah. You used to come across as way too desperate. Scared people off. You're more relaxed now.”

I was half affronted, but I finally laughed. “Desperate? And here I thought that only applied to my love life. Glad to hear I no longer come across that way to clients. Maybe you'd like to come on full-time when
you graduate,” I said. I hadn't intended to broach the idea with him so soon, but since the opening was there . . .

Al blinked. “Really? Wow. Let me think about it.”

“Did you have something else lined up? Other plans?”

“No. Nothing definite. I always figured I'd move to Denver or the Springs, maybe even out of state, and get a job in marketing with a big company or a nonprofit. I planned to sign up for some interviews through the college's career office.” He tugged on his fishy bow tie, a habitual gesture when he was nervous.

“Well, let me know. If you want to stay, we can look into getting another intern from Mesa when you graduate.” I didn't want to pressure Al, but I'd come to rely on him over the past months and I hoped he'd decide to sign on permanently with Eventful! “You're still available to work the pub opening Friday night, right? We'll definitely need all hands on deck for that.”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” He saluted.

Rolling my eyes, I returned to my office to work on invoices until lunchtime. Twice, I picked up the phone to call Derek and twice I put the phone down again. If he needed my help, he'd ask for it. If he didn't want to share what was going on between him and Gordon, that was his prerogative. On impulse, I pulled my laptop closer and punched “Elysium Brewing,” “Gordon Marsh,” and “Derek Johnson” into a search engine. The first article that came up was from the business section of the
Denver Post
. T
ROUBLE IN
P
ARADISE?
ran the headline. I skimmed it.

“Trouble in Paradise, or rather Elysium? Recent reports suggest that Elysium Brewing, the latest in a long line of craft breweries opening around the state, may not be on solid financial ground. Venture capitalist Gordon Marsh has suffered reversals lately, including the failure of his Grand Junction nightclub Moonglade (see our June 7 article “Moonglade Bankruptcy”) and damages assessed in a recent court case. He may be forced to liquefy some assets, and his stake in Elysium Brewing, located in Heaven, Colorado, is low-hanging fruit. This would leave first-time entrepreneur and award-winning brewmaster Derek Johnson high and dry without the capital to sustain the new venture. The craft brewing scene would be the poorer for such an outcome, in this reporter's opinion, because Elysium Brewing's Angel Ale is fit for, well, the gods.”

Guilt niggled at me for invading Derek's privacy, but nothing reported in a major newspaper counted as “private,” did it? At least now I knew what Gordon and Derek had been arguing about. Gordon wanted out of their deal. Anger burned in me. How could he do this to Derek? Owning the pub was Derek's dream. Gordon had no right to back out at the last second, just as the pub's doors were opening for business. I sympathized with Derek wanting to beat him up; if Gordon had been standing in my office, I'd have punched him myself. I wondered how far it had gone, if Gordon had already severed their partnership, or if he was only contemplating it. Surely their contract protected each of them against this kind of possibility? Maybe that was why Derek had mentioned arbitration. I felt so sad
for Derek. Here he was, so close to having his dream come true, and Gordon was pulling the rug out from under him. I wished I knew another venture capitalist, or had a fairy godmother inclined to grant wishes, so I could help him out. But I'd already invested every penny I could afford (and some I couldn't) in the pub.

I reached for the phone to call Doug Elvaston, my former boyfriend who was a top-notch corporate lawyer. Then I remembered he was still on a leave of absence from his firm, crewing his way around the world on a friend's yacht. His bride had left him at the altar in May and he'd taken it hard. I'd gotten occasional postcards from him this summer, from places like Pago Pago, Manila, and Christchurch. They were blandly impersonal, although humorous, talking about the weather, the rigors of sailing, and the exotic sights he'd seen. One had ended with “Wish you were here,” and I wondered wistfully if that was true, or if it was just standard postcard-speak. I shook myself. At any rate, Doug wasn't here to explain the legal ins and outs of partnership contracts to me.

With three birthday “events” scheduled for the next two weeks, plus a corporate retreat for five hundred and a retirement party, I reluctantly put Derek and his troubles out of my mind to concentrate on work. With any luck, the grand opening would be such a huge success that the pub would succeed even without Gordon's money. If not, well . . . we'd cross that bridge when we came to it.

•   •   •

That evening I parked between Maud's battered Jeep
and Kerry Sanderson's Subaru Outback in front of my best friend Brooke Widefield's McMansion. Her in-laws had bestowed it on Brooke and Troy when they married and I knew it sometimes felt more like a prison than a home to Brooke. Her mother-in-law, Miss Clarice, conducted regular inspections to ensure that the house was immaculate. Not really, but that was how it felt. Brooke wore herself to a frazzle cleaning, straightening, and decorating the place anytime she had warning that Miss Clarice was coming over. The Widefields didn't want Brooke to work outside the home because that didn't convey the right “image,” whatever that meant. Troy, something of a wet noodle who worked for Troy Sr.'s auto dealership, didn't have enough backbone, in my opinion, to tell his parents to find someone else's marriage to meddle in.

I entered the house without knocking and was greeted by the tantalizing aromas of cumin and oregano. Mmm . . . Brooke had made her special chili. Yum. My mouth watered and I realized I'd skipped lunch. “Hey,” I called out as I entered. The formal entryway with its travertine floor, plaster walls, and crystal chandelier was cavernous and I wouldn't have been surprised to hear an echo, but if there was one, Brooke drowned it out. “In the kitchen, A-Faye.”

I followed the tantalizing aroma to Brooke's gourmet kitchen, where I found Brooke at the stove, sampling the chili, and Maud and Kerry at the table, noshing on chips and guacamole. The kitchen was the least intimidating room in Brooke's house. It reeked of expensive the way budget kitchens smelled like old
grease sucked into the paint and curtains—acres of granite, appliances with foreign names I couldn't pronounce, and extras like warming drawers and a second oven and a walk-in wine cooler—but it was homey, too, with redbrick around the stove and floral cushions on the chairs. The table in her breakfast nook looked out on a landscaped backyard, and three copies of
Murder on the Orient Express
lay on it, next to a galvanized bucket loaded with ice and beer. Brooke smiled her lovely Miss Colorado smile and came over to give me a hug, holding her spoon at arm's length so she wouldn't drip chili down my back. I was glad our relationship was back to normal after some stiffness when I insisted on investigating our friend Ivy Donner's death a few months ago, even after Brooke said we should give it up. Jointly rescuing Doug from his wedding fiasco had made us comfortable with each other again.

“I didn't buy it,” Kerry Sanderson announced, scooping a gob of guac onto a chip. Her short gray-flecked brown hair barely twitched when she shook her head. She raised the chip to her aquiline nose with its flaring nostrils and sniffed at the guacamole, trying to identify an ingredient, perhaps. “No way.”

We stared at her, puzzled.

“The book, the book,” she explained, waving her copy of
Orient Express
. “No way did twelve people get together, hash out the plan, and come to consensus on jointly killing that Ratchett man. I've sat through enough meetings to know that it's virtually impossible to get more than five people to agree on a completely
noncontroversial course of action at any one time. Murder? Never happen. Have you ever been to a town council meeting? They go on so long they make me murderous. I'll grant you that.” She bit into the chip with a loud crunch.

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.”