Free Murder a la Christie (The Golden Age of Mystery Book Club Mysteries 1) by Marilyn Levinson

move. The police now considered Sylvia’s death a homicide, and I was a suspect. I shuddered. Probably their chief suspect, along with Gerda Stein.
    Puss jumped onto the sofa and sniffed my face. Then he climbed on my chest, purring like a car motor while he cleaned his flank. I stroked his head, and he paused in his ablutions long enough to rub against my hand. Comforted by his acceptance and warm, furry presence, I gathered my wits in order to absorb and make sense of what Detective Donovan had told me.
    Sylvia had left me one hundred thousand dollars! A drop in the bucket by Old Cadfield standards, but a considerable fortune by mine. My dear friend wanted to help me, and her kindness had made me a suspect in her murder investigation.
    I reviewed my conversation with Detective Donovan, hoping I hadn’t said anything incriminating. Fool that I was! Of course a member of the book club had killed Sylvia. Her murderer was someone she knew. As reprehensible as the thought was, it was the only fact we had aside from the murder weapon—toxic water from lilies of the valley.
    Could it have been an accident? Had someone spilled the water into Sylvia’s glass thinking it wasn’t being used? Or maybe the person didn’t mean for Sylvia to die, but wanted her to get violently ill. I shook my head, annoyed that I had so much difficulty wrapping my mind around the fact that a friend or neighbor had deliberately and maliciously set out to end Sylvia's life.
    Agatha Christie never shrank from showing the dark side of human nature. Most readers considered her mysteries cozies because she often set them in English villages and the murders occurred off scene. But her murderers were ruthless and killed for a variety of reasons—blackmail, jealousy, an inheritance.
    Inheritance! I nearly choked on the thought. Michele and Eric stood to gain millions each, but neither had been present at the murder scene. I was. The amount of money Sylvia left me was a fortune to me, and Donovan knew it.
    I had to prove I was innocent! I thought of Dame Agatha’s two best known sleuths. Miss Marple posed as a naive innocent, when in fact her mind cut as sharp as a razor. She often compared the suspects she came across to denizens of her village, St. Mary Mead. I had no such baseline to work from. Only my eyes and ears and common sense. I’d make use of my “little grey cells” as Hercule Poirot did. 
    But how to go about it? I’d already spoken to Gerda, Marcie, Ruth, and Paulette and had gotten nowhere. Then it dawned on me. I’d been present at the scene of the murder. I had to think back on the entire afternoon and evening, recalling who had sat beside whom, who had poured the iced tea, who’d been alone in the kitchen during cleanup time and when we’d put out desserts and coffee.
    The phone rang, breaking my concentration. I reached automatically for my cell phone, then realized Sylvia’s phone was ringing.
    “Hi, Lexie. Allistair here.”
    Allistair! He and Sylvia had been good friends. He’d know if anyone besides Gerda held a grudge against Sylvia.
    “How sweet of you to call,” I said in my friendliest voice.
    “I noticed cars at the house and thought I’d ask how you’re settling in.”
    “Rosie and Ginger helped move me. I have to admit, it’s strange being here on my own, after the mob that showed up for the shiva.”
    “Would you like to come over for a drink? I could pick you up, if you like.”
    “I could use a drink,” I said, remembering my ordeal with Donovan. “I’ll walk over. I’d like the exercise.”
    “In that case, turn right when you leave the house and right again at the corner onto Marigold. I’m across the street, the third house from the corner. Number 12.”
    “Sounds easy enough,” I said. “When shall I come?”
    “As soon as you’d like.”
    I changed into black capris, a low-cut turquoise polo, and black sandals. I snipped lilac branches from bushes on the side of the house and breathed in