The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle

Book 2: A Book Club Mystery

by Laura DiSilverio

Genres: Mystery; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Agatha Christie is on the book club’s reading list in the latest from the author of The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco. This time, Amy-Faye and her friends might have to read between the lines to catch a killer.
 
Amy-Faye Johnson’s book club, the Readaholics, is engrossed in Murder on the Orient Express, and Poirot’s surprising resolution is stirring up debate. Is the solution remotely realistic? Is justice served by Poirot's decision? Well, the book is fiction after all…

Then, just as Amy-Faye is planning the grand opening of her brother Derek’s pub,
his hot-headed partner is murdered. To keep Derek from being railroaded as a suspect, Amy-Faye and the Readaholics take a page from Poirot and investigate. But as the clues lead to unlikely places, surprising motives, and a multitude of suspects, Amy-Faye and her pals wonder if truth can be just as strange as fiction.

Release date: December 1, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 336

Sample

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

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 that 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.

“What was that all about?” I whispered.

Derek shook his head. “I don’t know. Gordon’s been edgy lately, losing it over the least little thing. When we first started putting this deal together, fifteen months or so ago, he was brusque, sometimes rude, but you could always see where he was coming from, you know? I mean, yeah, he was out for number one, looking to structure the partnership contract in his favor, but that’s just business. When I didn’t lie down and roll over, he respected it, I think. I mean, our contract’s fair.” He ran a hand through his hair again. “Lately, though, sis”—he gave me a serious look—“I don’t know how much longer I can put up with it. If I could afford to buy him out, I’d do it tomorrow. He’s rude to the employees—that’s why Sam quit—and he busted a crate of hops the other day when the delivery truck was an hour late. If he behaves like that around customers . . .”

I could see worry in the deep line between his brows and the way his jaw worked. I reached over the table to punch his shoulder. “Hang in there. Maybe it’s the grand opening that’s got him on edge. Hopefully, he’ll settle down once we’re past Friday night.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

He didn’t look hopeful and I got the feeling there was more he wasn’t telling me. I didn’t have time to draw it out of him, though, since I was on the verge of being late for a client meeting. “Hang in there,” I repeated, sliding out of the booth as gracefully as I could in my tan pencil skirt. “I’ll be back at five.”

I’d agreed to take a few shifts behind the bar until Derek could find a replacement for Sam, the bartender who’d left in a huff after a run-in with Gordon the day before. I’d put myself through college bartending, among other jobs, and I wanted to help out because Derek had begged me to and because I, like my folks and sisters, had a fair chunk of change invested in Elysium Brewing. I’d even persuaded the Readaholics to put off our discussion of Murder on the Orient Express until tomorrow night so I could work at the pub this evening.

“Thanks, Amy-Faye. You’re a lifesaver.”

“I’ll add that to my résumé.” With a smile and another shoulder punch, I left him sitting in the booth and headed for the parking lot and my van.

The van might not be the BMW Z4 I was currently drooling over, but it was a lot more practical in the event-planning business. I wouldn’t have been able to haul 101 stuffed Dalmatians to Lulu Vancura’s sixth birthday party last night in a Bimmer. They were party favors for 101 of her closest friends who gathered to watch the movie in the theater the Vancuras rented—through me—for the occasion. The party had gone well and I was looking forward to planning many more of Lulu’s birthday bashes. Ka-ching. I hadn’t thought about it much before, but doing birthday parties created a lot more repeat business for an event planner than doing weddings. I mean, people had birthdays on an annual basis, whereas most folks spread their two or three weddings out over twenty years. The lucky ones, of course, only wed once.

The van bumped over the railroad tracks and past the sign welcoming visitors to Heaven, Colorado, population 10,096. EVERYBODY WANTS TO GO TO HEAVEN, it said in blue script underneath, quoting the Kenny Chesney song. Heaven wasn’t always named Heaven. When I was growing up, it was Walter’s Ford. Then, when I was a high school sophomore, the town council, in a bid to attract more tourists and destination wedding business, voted to rename the town. Developers piled on the bandwagon, dubbing housing areas Jubilee Heights and Cherubim Glen and the like. Many of the streets got new names that reflected the town’s theme, as well. The town’s main drag, where my office is located, was rechristened Paradise Boulevard. (It was formerly John Elway Avenue.) Funny that I would grow up to be an event organizer and benefit from the veritable tide of brides and grooms that washed into town, tickled by the idea of getting married in Heaven.

Eventful! was headquartered on the ground floor in the back of an old three-story building that also housed the Divine Herb, a tea shop (that probably sold more coffee than tea), and a yoga studio. The two-person law firm that had had offices on the second floor closed suddenly last month, and the building owners were trying to rerent the space. I parked on the street and walked around to the French doors that opened onto our reception area, where my part-time assistant, Al Frink, sat at his desk. I shared my new insight about weddings vs. birthdays with him. A student at Colorado Mesa, he had gelled back the sandy hair that typically flopped over his high forehead. He looked like a teenage escapee from the 1950s in his sweater vest and bow tie, even though he was twenty-two. The college had hooked him up with me for an internship one semester and we’d clicked, so he’d stayed on.

“Cynical much, boss?” he asked in response.

“Realistic,” I countered.

“You should pitch divorce parties, then,” he said. “Lots of booze, a ritual shredding of wedding photos—or better yet, a bonfire—and all the honoree’s single pals helping put together a Match-dot-com or eHarmony video. Maybe we could offer a free month’s subscription. I’ll get with the Match-dot-com folks this afternoon and see what kind of deal we can get.” He pretended to make a note.

“Ha-ha.” Inside, I wondered if he wasn’t onto something. I couldn’t, offhand, think of a tasteful way to advertise the idea, however.

He grinned, and then told me my prospective client had canceled. I shrugged philosophically. You win some, you lose some. And even when you win some—land a client—you occasionally lose if they’re obnoxious or refuse to pay. I asked Al for an update on the several events he was working, and he filled me in, adding his usual too-truthful observations about our clients.

“That Bethany D’Andrea is a harridan. One of my SAT vocab words. Have you ever noticed how she manages to be nasty by only saying what sounds like nice stuff?” He put on a treacly accent. “‘Oh, honey, you’ve been so strict with your diet. It’s too bad that your green dress is looking tighter.’ ‘I just love mauve and teal! I’d’ve done my house in those colors, too, sweetie, if they weren’t so 1990.’ Blech.”

I couldn’t suppress a grin, because he was so right. “She told me the other day that she thought I was so brave, she admired me so much, for keeping on the trail of Ivy’s killer, but then I’d always been brash and impulsive, hadn’t I?”

“Harpy,” Al said.

“Shrew.”

“Vixen.”

“Virago.” I was on a roll.

“I’ll have to look that one up. Witch.”

“Or something that rhymes with ‘witch.’”

He laughed and turned away to answer the phone. I went into my office, the green, white, and lemon space I found energizing, yet relaxing. My “desk” was a six-foot-long project table. A whiteboard with a huge calendar imprinted on it hung behind it and showed all our bookings going out two years. Yep, we already had three weddings and a family reunion on the books for two summers from now. Even though those far-off commitments sometimes fell victim to breakups or other disasters, it made me feel a bit more confident that Eventful! would survive when I looked at the whiteboard.

The interchange and mention of Ivy Donner dipped me into one of those puddles of sadness that seem to linger on life’s path after a loss. Sometimes you could skirt them, edge past them by hanging out with friends, or losing yourself in work, but sometimes you fell into them and they were deeper than you imagined. My friend Ivy had been murdered three months ago, and it’s not like I thought about her every minute of every day, but when her name came up, or something reminded me of her, I felt my mood go from sunny to wilted in a heartbeat. I could have done without the publicity that catching Ivy’s killer had netted me, too, despite the fact that it brought a new stream of clients to Eventful! But the Heaven Herald had run a front-page piece on the arrest and my part in it, and I anticipated more publicity when the trial started up. It was still a couple of months away, but I’d have to testify and I wasn’t looking forward to that, mostly because I’d have to think about Ivy dying every day.

Forcing myself to put aside the melancholy thoughts, I worked out a few details for Elysium’s grand opening on Friday, including coordinating with a U.S. representative’s scheduler about the congresswoman’s attendance. She was in the area anyway for a fund-raiser in Grand Junction, and had promised to drop by. For Derek’s sake I was pleased, because that meant the likelihood of more publicity. And all publicity was good publicity, as the maxim went, and Ivy’s death had proven in a distasteful way. The afternoon flew by in a flurry of phone calls, e-mails, and a meeting with a Heaven Parks and Rec official to see if he’d authorize painting the gazebo at Lost Alice Lake pink for a client’s wedding, as long as she bore the cost and repainted it white after the event. He looked flummoxed by the request and said he’d have to put it before the town council.

“You sure come up with some off-the-wall ideas, Ms. Johnson,” he said, shaking his head.

“Amy-Faye,” I reminded him. “And don’t blame me for this one. It’s all the client’s idea. Thinks pink is her lucky color and her marriage is doomed if the ceremony doesn’t take place in a pink facility.”

“Unless her groom’s as nutty as she is, the marriage is doomed anyway,” he said. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I talk to the council.”

“The wedding’s not till next April, so no hurry.” Thanking him, I crossed the meeting off my list—there’s almost nothing more satisfying than striking through a to-do item—and headed for home to change into bartending gear.

Chapter 2

The pub’s staff uniform for female employees was jeans with an orange shirt that tied at the waist and plunged to show cleavage. Not the real me. The men had a simple orange Polo shirt. The top had an embroidered harp—for “Elysium”—over the employee’s name. In my case, the name was “Sam” because I was wearing her uniforms, not having time to get one of my own. Since I didn’t intend to return to bartending as a full-time career, I was okay with being “Sam” for a few nights, until Derek and Gordon could hire a replacement. As I French-braided my hair to keep it out of the way, I grimaced at the way the orange shirt clashed with my hair and sallowed my clear complexion. Oh well.

When I pulled up at the brewpub parking lot, I noticed two women tucking flyers beneath the windshield wipers of parked cars. Hustling past them so as not to get caught up in a discussion of their cause or business—whatever it was—I entered the pub to find a scattering of customers downing Angel Ale and Exorcise Your Demons IPA. Even though the grand opening wasn’t until Friday, the pub had been open for business for almost two weeks on a limited basis as Derek and Gordon trained their staff and finalized their menu.

Derek was behind the bar and he looked frazzled, even though the customer load was light. A twenty-something with a soul patch slouched between tables, taking orders.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Derek greeted me. “Bernie’s late and I need to be in the kitchen. Kolby’s on the floor. It’s all yours. You can figure it out, can’t you?”

He disappeared on the words and I entered the circular bar through the hinged section and familiarized myself with the bar stock, sink setup, glasses, and draft choices. The grid beneath my feet was still firm, not squishy from years of being marinated in beer and alcohol, like the place I worked at in Boulder. Being behind the bar made me feel like I was back at CU, sacrificing sleep for money and grades. Hmm. Ten years on, my life hadn’t changed all that much, only now I was giving up sleep to run my own business and I didn’t have to worry about finals.

Kolby bellied up to the server’s station and said, “Hey. A pitcher of Angel Ale, a Coke, and three Demons. Is your name Sam, too?” he asked, nodding toward my shirt.

He was kidding, right? “Nope. Amy-Faye. Derek’s sister. Temp help. Just a couple of days until they replace Sam.”

I studied Gordon’s son. He was more slender than his dad but had the same dark blond hair and blue eyes. He shifted from foot to foot while I filled a pitcher, waited for the suds to subside, and topped it off.

“Lucky you,” he said. “I wish I could say the same. My dad’s making me work here the rest of the summer. And he’s not even paying me! Slave labor. He’d make me work here year-round, I’ll bet, except I’m going back to Ft. Collins next month. I was planning on doing some rafting—the rivers’re still running really high—but my dad nixed that.” He sounded aggrieved.

I figured if his dad was paying his tuition, that counted as a salary, but I didn’t say so. I added the Coke to his tray and gave him a noncommittal smile.

“Maybe we could hang out sometime,” he suggested, eyes roving over me in a way that told me the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. “I’ve always liked redheads.”

“Who doesn’t?” I agreed, not bothering to tell him I didn’t routinely “hang out” with whiny, underemployed men ten years my junior. My taste ran more to well-seasoned cops and a certain blond lawyer . . .

“Hey, that’s a good one.” Kolby’s laugh had a neighing quality to it.

Without wanting to side with Gordon on anything, I found myself agreeing with him about his son’s loserhood. I immediately felt bad about the thought, since I’d only known the kid for two minutes. Sometimes that’s long enough, my unkinder side said.

“Looks like your table’s getting impatient,” I hinted, eager to get rid of him. I blew out a long breath as he finally sauntered away.

“Hey, what’s a gal gotta do to get a brew around here?”

“Maud!” I swung around happily at the sound of my friend’s whiskey-and-cigarettes voice. An original member of the Readaholics book club, Maud Bell held a brew menu at arm’s length and squinted.

“Don’t get old, Amy-Faye,” she advised, pulling rectangular reading glasses from a pocket of her camouflage pants and perching them on her nose. “It sucks.”

“Noted. What’ll you have? The Exorcise Your Demons IPA is my fave.”

“Give me one of those.” She slid the menu down the bar.

Sixty years old and six feet tall, she had a wiry build and weathered skin that testified to her summer and fall occupatio