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

“You know Rosie was my college roommate in Boston. I married my first husband Godfrey during my senior year. He took off a year and a half later, right after Jesse was born. He claimed he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood, though you’d never know that now." I let out a humorless laugh. “Father and son both live in LA and are the best of pals.”
    “I’m sorry,” Allistair murmured.
    I waved my hand. “ I’m sorry for whining. I can’t believe it still bothers me. Anyway, I returned to New York and worked any odd job I could find while I took classes and wrote my dissertation. I got my PhD in English lit and started teaching at Mondale University. Four years ago, I married Gerald, another English professor, and he turned out to be a total loon. We separated. He burned down our house— my house, to be precise—and killed himself in the process. I moved into a dinky apartment out East. Sylvia coaxed me to live in her house while she went to an artists’ colony for the summer, and here I am for now." I gave a little laugh. “End of story.”
    Allistair gave me a lazy grin. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve skipped over the juiciest parts? I’m sure you don’t do that when you’re writing your novel.”
    Flustered, I demanded, “Who said I was writing a novel?”
    “Rosie.”
    “Rosie,” I echoed, aggrieved. But since I’d quizzed her about Allistair, why wouldn’t I expect he’d question her about me?
    Allistair laughed. “Don’t be angry at her. Here in Old Cadfield, there’s little we don’t know about each other’s lives.”
    “I’m glad to hear that because I want to pick your brain about a few people.”
    That caught him up short.
    “The police now know that Sylvia’s been poisoned,” I told him. “They’re looking at me as a possible suspect because she left me money, which I knew nothing about until yesterday.”
    “Stupid of them." Allistair pursed his lips.
    “I don’t want you to betray any confidences, but I’d appreciate it if you could tell me if Sylvia ever had serious disagreements with anyone who was at the Gordons the night she died.”
    He thought a moment. “You know about Gerda’s quarrel with Sylvia.”
    I nodded, and it occurred to me to ask, “Who was that rather obese man she was talking to at the shiva? Gerda didn’t appear to like what he was saying.”
    Allistair chortled. “She wouldn’t, I’d imagine. Ronnie Goldfarb’s her accountant. He lives a few blocks from here.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Gerda’s broke. Most of her investments have gone south. She’s having trouble paying her taxes.”
    Stunned, I stared at him. “How do you know?”
    He leaned over the table and lowered his voice. As if anyone could hear us. “This isn’t for public knowledge.”
    “Of course not,” I agreed.
    “Gerda asked which bank I’d recommend she go to for a home equity loan or a reverse mortgage. She talked about having to put her house on the market. I advised her to wait, if she could, for home values to rise. Another martini?”
    I shook my head. “I find it difficult to grasp that anyone living in Old Cadfield has serious money troubles.”
    “More than you’d imagine,” he said, and I wondered if I’d touched on a sore spot.
    “What about Ruth Blessing?” I recalled how, at the shiva, the others in the mother-daughter group had stared at her when I asked who’d had disagreements with Sylvia.
    “As far as I can tell, she and Sam aren’t declaring bankruptcy,” Allistair answered dryly.
    The poor guy was having a hard time of it, blabbing about his neighbors’ private affairs. I felt sorry for him, but I pushed on. “What I want to know is how did Ruth and Sylvia get along? Had they have argued recently?”
    Allistair stared at me as if I had mind-reading abilities. “Interesting you should ask. There was a brouhaha about the time I moved to Old Cadfield.”
    I felt a quickening of interest. “Doesn’t matter how long ago. It could