The Agatha Christie Book Club

by Larmer, C. A.

  “Why on earth would you say that?” demanded Anders who was also in his work suit and was just dropping down onto the sofa, a large gym bag by his side.

  “Well, during book club at her pad, while the rest of you were trying to outdo each other with your witty repartee, I scuttled around the side of the house for a ciggie, remember? And, yes, thank you Dr Anders, I know it will slice 15 years off my life, but boy it’ll be one hell of a life!”

  Anders just scowled.

  “Anyway, there’s a tennis court round the back, no surprises there, and I spotted the young missy, tennis racquet in hand, snogging what looked like her instructor.”

  He stared at them all, looking very impressed with himself.

  “So?” said Anders. “Having an affair with your tennis coach doesn’t make you a killer.”

  “It does if Mommy dearest doesn’t want you to hook up with an older man. He has to be at least 10 years her senior. A bloody great spunk, too, I might add. Maybe Barbs caught them at it and they hit her over the head too hard with a tennis racquet?”

  “Oh for goodness sake,” said Claire, releasing her glossy black hair from a wide straw hat and brushing it down carefully with gloved hands.

  “What, you think everybody is innocent, Claire?” said Perry rounding on her suddenly. “You think people don’t pretend to be someone they’re not?”

  She looked at him, bewildered. “That’s not what I was saying.”

  “Look, forget about the daughter,” said Anders. “I’ve got a better idea. He produced a bottle of red wine from his bag.

  “Ooh that is a good idea!” announced Lynette jumping up to fetch glasses from the kitchen while they all settled in around the tea chest just as they had done that first book club meeting. He laughed.

  “Getting drunk wasn’t my idea,” he said. “Although, it’s a not a bad one in the circumstances. But, hey, listen, there was one thing I noticed when Barbara was showing Alicia, Lynette and I through the house, that day we were there, and I don’t think it’s inappropriate of me to mention it... now that she’s, well, disappeared.” He paused. “There was a phone number scribbled quite large on the white board beside the kitchen phone.”

  “There were a bunch of phone numbers,” said Lynette, returning with wine glasses. “So?”

  “So, one of them was a toll-free number for a shelter.”

  “Shelter?”

  “The Women’s Harmony Centre—a battered wives shelter.”

  “I don’t remember that,” said Lynette.

  “It was a bit cryptic. There were the initials WHC and the 1-800 phone number.”

  They all sat silently for a moment, the excitement of their little case edging away as harsh reality took over.

  “Oh dear,” said Alicia eventually. “You think she was being beaten up?”

  Anders held his hands up, defensively. “I think nothing of the sort. I work on evidence alone and I didn’t see any signs of bruising or broken limbs on the woman, but I did spot that number. It had been written quite large, so she certainly wasn’t hiding it. But then, I guess if you didn’t know what WHC meant...”

  “So how did you know?” asked Lynette. “Maybe they’re the initials for a hire car company or something?”

  “It was definitely the Harmony Centre number. Sadly I know it off by heart because I’ve had to hand it out one too many times at the surgery. Never to Barbara, of course, please let me make that perfectly clear. She was not a patient of mine.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” said Alicia. “Barbara had the number of the shelter but you don’t think she was being beaten up?”

  “I’m just saying, we don’t know for sure but it does make you wonder.”

  “She was wearing a scarf around her neck that day,” piped in Missy.

  “Yes, I noticed that, too,” said Alicia. “It was such a hot day, so it was a bit strange. You think she could have been hiding a bruise, perhaps?”

  She raised her eyebrows to indicate yes.

  “Listen, guys, I’ve seen elderly people come to my surgery in woollen coats mid-summer,” said Anders. “I don’t think we can read too much into a scarf.” Then, to their disappointed faces he added, “I’m not saying she wasn’t a battered wife, I’m just saying we need to tread carefully here. You don’t want to start pointing the finger until you have some solid proof. Mud sticks. But the fact remains Barbara had the number of a battered wives shelter by her phone. We don’t know why and for whom. Maybe it was for her. Maybe she was going to give it to a friend. Or maybe it’s unrelated. One other thing: do you remember, Alicia, how she mentioned that there was evil at her house?”

  Alicia considered this for just a second before it came flooding back. “Oh, that’s right!” She turned to the group to explain. “Claire had quoted from Evil Under the Sun and asked the question ‘Is there evil lurking everywhere under the sun?’ Most of us disagreed but Barbara was adamant that there was. Then you, Missy, pressed her on it.”

  “Oh, you’re right, yes! I said, surely not somewhere like your beautiful house. I can’t remember what she said after that.”

  “I know exactly what she said,” interjected Anders. “I’ll never forget it because it gave me the creeps. She said ‘especially here’.” He looked at Alicia for backup and she nodded. “I can’t say what she meant by that, no one can, but I think we should take note of it, and the battered wives number, too.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea,” said Alicia. “I’m going to take notes.”

  She jumped up to fetch her journal while Anders poured them each a glass of wine and Lynette returned to the kitchen to heat up last night’s leftover pizza.

  Ten minutes later the theories were running thick and fast. They all agreed something was amiss. Perhaps Barbara had had a fight with her housekeeper and been hit over the head with a rolling pin. Perhaps the housekeeper and the husband were in it together.

  “Lovers!” suggested Missy. “Out to rid themselves of the miserable fishwife. Oh I’ve read lots and lots of stories about this, very common, or at least it is in crime fiction. Agatha was a big fan of this scenario, too.” She paused. “I wonder if she had any life insurance?”

  “I still think the daughter was involved, I didn’t like the look of her one bit,” said Perry.

  “She probably didn’t like the look of you either,” Anders said and Missy giggled. “Listen, what are we doing here?” he asked suddenly and they stopped their chatter.

  “We’re investigating, aren’t we?” said Perry.

  “Just as Agatha would do,” added Alicia and they all nodded their heads.

  “Do you think we should?” Claire asked now. “I mean, is that the right thing to do? To poke our noses in? Isn’t that why we have a police force?”

  “Yes, but it can’t hurt for us to mull it over as well,” said Alicia. “We’re in the unique position in that we’re detached from it all and can give the case some perspective.”

  “And you really believe we have a case here?”

  Alicia didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Anders, I really do. It looks to me like Barbara Parlour has vanished from the face of the earth. Her husband, daughter and housekeeper—not your usual frumpy housekeeper I might add—all seem very relaxed about it. Way too relaxed. I wonder now whether Barbara joined our group for a reason.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Lynette, refilling her glass.

  “I mean, did she suspect that her life was in danger? Did she maybe hope that we would look out for her?”

  “Now that really is stretching it,” scoffed Lynette but Perry was nodding his head vigorously, stroking his black goatee at the same time.

  “I think Alicia’s on to something. Think about it! She was so determined that we have the first club at her house. Remember? I offered first—mine would have been fabulous, darlinks, you’re going to adore my place—but she insisted we go to her pretentious hovel. Why? I thought she was just showing off but maybe she knew that bullyboy husband was go
ing to do away with her and hoped we’d find a few clues while we were there. Then of course there’s yesterday’s book choice, which she also insisted on.”

  When they all looked at him blankly, he added, “Come on, gorgeous people, keep up with me! The Mysterious Affair at Styles! Affair, get it?”

  “Perry, Perry, Perry,” said Lynette laughing. “You are as over-the-top as Alicia! Barbara chose that book because it was the first time Poirot appears. Pretty logical.”

  “Or, was she trying to tell us something about her hideous husband and/or dreadful daughter?” He raised his eyebrows up and down dramatically.

  Anders held up a cautionary hand. “We mustn’t convict the family members too soon, people.”

  “Why?” demanded Perry. “Why do you keep sticking up for that lot?”

  “No, no, Anders is right,” said Missy. “It’s almost always not the first people you suspect.”

  “Actually, that’s not what I meant at all,” Anders retorted. “I meant, we have to get solid evidence first. And besides, she could still show up. It is early days. Didn’t you say, Alicia, that her husband thinks she’s with a friend?”

  “Yes, now what was the name... Wendy I think. No, Wanda. That’s it.”

  “Right, so why don’t we just check there first? Maybe Wanda can clear this whole mess up.”

  They all agreed it was a good idea.

  “But how will I get her number? I’ll have to annoy Arthur again. He won’t be happy.”

  “Do it now!” urged Perry and Alicia checked her watch.

  It was not yet 7:00 p.m; hopefully Arthur wasn’t sitting down to dinner. She grabbed the phone and put the call through. Rosa answered, her tone turning surly again when Alicia identified herself.

  “Okay, he here,” she said after a long pause, “but he no happy with you.”

  “Too bad Rosa, I need to speak to him. Can you put him on please? It’s important.”

  After an interminably long time, Arthur appeared on the phone and, as predicted, was extremely unhappy to hear from the meddling book club member. The good news was, he also clearly didn’t want to keep her on the line for long, and within seconds had offered up Barbara’s girlfriend’s full name—Wanda Birchin—and her home number.

  “Now leave me the hell alone!” he growled, hanging up.

  “Didn’t take him long to find the number,” said Claire curiously.

  “He was just desperate to get rid of me,” Alicia replied, keying Wanda’s number into the phone and pressing ‘dial’.

  “Halo, Wanda Birchin speaking,” came the faux English accent Alicia had come to expect of wealthy, eastern suburbs matron types.

  She introduced herself. “I’m looking for Barbara Parlour, actually, you don’t happen to know where she is?”

  “Barbara? No, of course not, have you tried the house? Asked Arthur?”

  “Yes, she hasn’t been seen for two days.”

  “Oh, I see.” The tone turned wary. “Who did you say this is again?”

  “It’s a friend from her new book club. She didn’t show up yesterday and her husband seems to have no idea where she is. We wondered whether you might know.”

  “Why would I know?”

  “It’s just, well, we wondered whether she might be staying with you.”

  Alicia scrunched up her face, realising it was a stretch but hopeful nonetheless.

  There was a long pause on the other end so Alicia quickly added, “Listen, I don’t mean to impose but we’re all really worried about her.”

  Wanda exhaled loudly. “Yes, yes, of course.” Her voice softened a little. “Can you come and see me? Tomorrow? Here?”

  “Sure.”

  Alicia retrieved her journal and pen while the club members stared wide-eyed at her. She jotted down the address and hung up, then turned to the group.

  “Well?” said Perry. “Spit it out!”

  “The plot thickens,” said Alicia. “I think Ms Wanda Birchin has something to tell us.”

  Claire gasped. “You don’t think Barbara really is hanging out there?”

  “I don’t know, maybe, maybe not, but it’s clear Wanda knows something. Wants to see me in person, so I’ll go there in my lunch break tomorrow, see what she has to say.”

  “Search the place while you’re there,” suggested Perry.

  “Yeah, I’m sure she’ll let me rummage through her house, Perry,” Alicia replied, eye rolling him.

  “You should really have someone go with you,” Anders added, frowning slightly. “Unfortunately I’ve got surgery.”

  “I’ll come with,” offered Claire. “I can always shut up shop for an hour or so.”

  “That’d be great, thank you. How about I pick you up around 1:15?”

  “Fine.” Claire grabbed her straw bag, which matched her hat perfectly, Alicia noticed, and produced a small card with the shop details on it.

  “I’ll be ready and waiting. But what if she’s not there? What if she has no idea what’s happened to Barbara?”

  “Then we follow Miss Marple’s meddling example and we investigate!” said Alicia, and they all raised their glasses in a toast to that.

  *****

  Just as the group was clinking glasses and agreeing to investigate, the police were doing a little investigating of their own. They had just discovered Barbara Parlour’s shiny silver Mercedes Benz parked near a train station on the upper North Shore. It had been locked and several personal items left behind for all to see.

  But there was no trace of the missing housewife.

  Chapter 11

  Wanda Birchin was the antithesis of Barbara Parlour. Dressed in a flowing leopard-print designer kaftan, with sparkly Chanel thongs, her overly streaked hair piled high on her head, her thickly lined lips bee-stung by Botox, she ushered the two women into her house with hands that were dripping with gems and gold.

  “We’ll go out to the pool,” she purred. “It’s such a glorious day.”

  As they were led through the house—another over-sized McMansion, this one decorated in various hues of red, black and gold, and nestled right up beside an exclusive golf course—Alicia and Claire kept a keen eye out for any sign of Barbara, but each enormous room appeared void of life.

  “I trust you’ve seen the papers?” Wanda said, indicating for them to take a seat on white wicker furniture in the shade of a polished timber gazebo.

  Beyond them, the long lap pool stretched, its water sparkling above turquoise blue tiles. It looked extremely inviting and Alicia couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy. Sometimes it was better not to glimpse how the other half lived.

  She looked away and down at the wicker table where several local newspapers were open at articles on the missing woman, then nodded gloomily. Alicia had heard the news over the radio that morning and caught up on the details online at work. At this stage, the facts were still sketchy. Barbara’s car had been found abandoned at Hornsby Railway Station, on Sydney’s upper north shore—miles from Barbara’s house—and the police had made a public appeal for anyone with information on the car or its owner to contact them.

  “They’re obviously completely in the dark,” Wanda was saying, glancing at the papers then back at Alicia. “I do hope the old duck’s alright. So, tell me, how are you lot involved in all of this?”

  Alicia filled Wanda in on the newly formed Agatha Christie Book Club. She told her how they had waited for Barbara to show up at their last meeting, to no avail, and then detailed her conversations with Arthur and their concerns for Barbara’s safety.

  “I guess we’re wondering if you have any idea where she might be.” She hesitated. “She’s not here is she?”

  “Here?” Wanda blinked several times. “You mentioned that before and no, she most certainly is not. I struggle to understand why you’d imagine she is.”

  “Well, we’re just thinking that maybe she had a fight with her husband and ran here to hide out for a bit. That’s what he suggested.”

  Wanda looked
amused suddenly. “Arthur suggested that? Cheeky bugger!”

  “Well you are her best friend, right?”

  “Best friend? Who, Barbara?” She blinked again. “Did Arthur say that as well?”

  “Well, he indicated—”

  “Then allow me to set the record straight. Barbara and I are certainly not best friends. I mean, sure we used to have a giggle once upon a time over champers at the club, but not recently. We’d, um, well, fallen out if you must know.”

  “What over?” asked Claire.

  Wanda glanced at Claire as though only just noticing her presence and, clearly deciding she didn’t like what she saw—a prettier, younger model was probably not welcome in these parts—glanced back at Alicia and said coldly, “That’s no one’s damn business.”

  “Fair enough,” said Alicia quickly, trying to keep the peace. “Can you at least tell us a little bit about Arthur?”

  Before she had a chance to reply, a large, flabby woman appeared squashed into a simple white dress and flat white shoes. She was in her 60s with short grey hair and ‘tuck-shop arms’, the kind that flop about when they move. She looked like a nurse but was clearly the maid—or whatever it was that rich people called poorer people who fetched them things at will.

  Without introducing her, Wanda simply said, “Thank God you’re here, Florrie, what would I do without you? A G&T would be fabulous. What about you ladies? Can I interest you in a gin? Wine perhaps?”

  Alicia resisted the urge to check her watch, it was only lunchtime after all, and asked for a soft drink instead. Claire repeated the request and Wanda looked disappointed.

  “Spoil sports,” she said, giving Florrie the nod. As the maid returned inside she asked, “So what do you want to know about Arthur?”

  “Could he be involved in some way?” asked Alicia. “I don’t want to sound alarmist but he just doesn’t seem worried enough.”

  Wanda shrugged. “He’s hardly the doting husband at the best of times. But I can tell you one thing, he’s worried as all hell now.”