The Agatha Christie Book Club

by Larmer, C. A.

  “You should know that the day Barbara held the book club at her house, one of our members spotted her daughter, Holly, kissing the tennis coach.”

  She felt like a Year Nine schoolgirl and looked at him sheepishly waiting for the eye roll. He showed no expression so she rattled on. “The daughter’s 16. The instructor is closer to 30 as far as I can tell.” She held her palms up. “I’m just telling you that, I’m not saying it has anything to do with Barbara’s disappearance, although I get the impression they’re both hiding something...”

  She recalled the conversation she and Claire had overheard at the tennis court two days before and repeated it to the policemen now.

  Roger, who had been madly writing, his bald head bobbing up and down as he did so, stopped and said, “Let me get this straight: the daughter, Holly, says, ‘We have to tell him. It can’t be kept quiet’ and the coach, Jake, says, ‘But you can’t even prove it was me’?”

  Alicia shrugged. “Something like that. That was the gist of it anyway. But, as I say, it could have been perfectly innocent, a discussion over a broken tennis racquet or something.”

  Ward looked impatient. He’d stopped stroking his mo’. “You let us worry about what is and isn’t innocent thanks Miss Finlay. What’s the full name of this coach?”

  “Jake Smith. That’s all I know.”

  He nodded at Roger who wrote the name down.

  “Anything else?”

  “Just one other thing. I’m sure you’re already onto this but I wanted to mention Barbara’s younger brother.”

  “Niles Blakely? What about him?”

  “He’s a beneficiary of Barbara’s will—”

  “And you know this, how?”

  She paused. “It seems to be common knowledge actually. Holly mentioned it to me, and then, well, Niles told my sister as much himself. Just yesterday. She called in on him at his café.”

  Ward’s bushy eyebrows bunched together. “Your book club seems to be popping up everywhere.”

  “We’re very worried, that’s all. We thought maybe the brother could help us track her down. You do know about his money troubles?”

  “Yes, thank you, we do have a few investigative skills of our own.” He stood up. “I can’t discuss any more details about this case with you, Miss Finlay. At this stage we’re not even sure there is a case to answer. For all we know Mrs Parlour may show up safe and well.”

  “You don’t really believe that, right?”

  He ignored the question and led her out. At the station door he stopped and turned back. “Miss Finlay, you seem like a smart person but you and your book club need to be very, very careful. This is not some fictitious mystery you can sit down and chat about over cups of tea. Mrs Parlour may have walked out of her own accord or she may be in serious danger. As far as I’m concerned, there are suspicious circumstances and at this stage we hold grave fears for the woman’s life.”

  “I realise that.”

  “Then stick to what you do best, crime fiction, and leave the real crime to the experts. Got it?”

  She promised to do just that but metaphorically her fingers were firmly crossed. There was no way she was giving up on Barbara now. And if she knew the other members of the Agatha Christie Book Club, they would be right behind her.

  *****

  Just as Alicia was stepping out of the police station, Arthur Parlour was stepping back onto the fairway of his favourite golf course. He’d managed to give the press the slip earlier that afternoon, and was proud of himself for that, but his mood was now dark and petulant as he trudged past the fifth hole, towards the sixth, his golf clubs clattering behind him in his two-wheeled designer leather bag.

  That hadn’t worked out very well at all, he thought of the quick detour he’d just made. What a waste of bloody time! He’d expected her to be happy to see him, it had been days since they’d been together after all, but she’d been a cow.

  A first-class bitch, actually, and he was fuming now.

  What more did she want from him? He’d needed her; she must have seen that. It had been a horrendous few days. The press was camped at his bloody doorstep, the cops were circling like vultures, and his own daughter could barely look him in the eye.

  And now she had turned against him, too. It infuriated him. He thought he could trust her. After all this time. But obviously not.

  He snarled and pulled the bag up to the teeing ground, then rolled it a little further back so he could get a clear hit. He pulled out the number 1 wood, frowned, then slipped it back in and grabbed the 9-iron, studying it lovingly. It was his favourite golf club, his lucky club if truth be told. He’d pitched a few killer shots with this one recently, surprised the crap out of old Jonsey from Accounts at the last company tournament. Jones had scoffed at the iron, suggested the driver instead, but Arthur had shown him, and shown him good.

  He sniggered and stroked the club’s shaft, admiring the gleam. It was part of a new set he’d bought just six months ago. They were Callaway—light, aerodynamic and cost a small fortune—but he didn’t regret one cent. He knew they were ostentatious, but he also knew he deserved it. Hell, after everything he’d just been through, he deserved it, and more. He grabbed a ball and tee then strode towards the green, pushing the tee into the overgrown grass, and dropping the ball on top.

  He stepped back and peered into the distance, down the expansive fairway. There was no one in sight. Good, it was just as he liked it.

  He studied the ball, then glanced out at the fairway, and back at the ball again. He adjusted his grip on the club, admiring its shiny, silver lines as he did so, then shifted his feet and jiggled his hips a little. Jiggled them some more.

  Then he groaned. He just couldn’t get his head into it today.

  Bloody hell, now she’d gone and ruined his form. He’d never get a good hit off in this mood.

  He dropped the club to the ground, and shook his arms, trying to shake all thought of her away at the same time. A slight noise behind him caught him off guard and he swung around, eyes wide.

  “Oh Jesus! It’s you, you gave me a bloody fright,” he said, visibly relaxing. Then his eyebrows knotted together. “What the hell are you doing out here, anyway? Did you follow me here? You have got to be kidding me.”

  He turned back, shaking his head and scowling out at the green. Now the day really was a disaster. Couldn’t he have one little golf game in peace?

  “This is bloody unbelievable,” he continued ranting, hands on hips. “I haven’t got time for this shit. I’m not going to tell you again—”

  And he was right.

  Arthur Parlour never did speak again. Within seconds his head was being smashed in by his shiny silver golf club.

  Chapter 17

  “Come, perch next to me,” said Missy as she pushed a few books to the side and made way for Claire who was just joining them at a side table. “Alicia was telling us how a bossy police officer is trying to scare us all off.”

  “No way?” said Claire.

  “Way,” said Missy, bespectacled eyes wide.

  It was 6:30 p.m. on Thursday night and they had taken over an entire section at the library, which was now closed to the public, and, apart from Anders who had a medical emergency, were all present and ready to continue dissecting the case.

  “What have I missed?” asked Claire and Alicia quickly filled her in telling her about Barbara’s last sightings and the book she had left behind in her car.

  “Unfortunately, none of us have read The Mystery of the Blue Train,” said Missy, looking deeply ashamed, as though they had all let Agatha Christie down terribly. “And our only copy is out.” Her frown turned to a look of delight. “But you’ll never guess who borrowed it?” Before Claire could answer, Missy squealed, “Barbara! I looked it up. That copy the police have, the one they found in her car, has to be mine! How spooky is that? Well, not mine, exactly, but you know what I mean, it belongs to this library. I knew I recognised her that first day we met, she’s def
initely been here.” She paused. “I wonder why she said she hadn’t?” She shrugged, her curly copper locks bobbing about. “Anyway, Barbara borrowed a bunch of books a few weeks ago, before the club even started—”

  “Hang on, did you say The Mystery of the Blue Train?” interrupted Claire. “That does ring a bell. I think I have read that one.”

  “Really?” said Alicia. “Can you remember what it’s about? Maybe there’s a clue in there or she was trying to send us a message. Maybe there was a suicide or a battered wife or something?”

  Claire considered this for a moment. “I don’t think battered wives were Ms Christie’s style, do you? Much too common. But let me think...” She swept her black locks back from her face and smudged her glossy lips to one side. “It’s about a group of people all chasing some fabulously expensive ruby with an even more fabulous name, and they all end up on that famous Blue Train that used to go to the French Riviera. Oh, I would adore that trip! If I remember rightly, the story featured an exotic dancer, some shifty swindlers, a male impersonator, but, no, definitely no battered wives. A riveting read, though.” She paused. “I really can’t see what this has got to do with anything. I’m sure if the police searched any of our cars or houses they’d find several old Poirot mysteries lurking about. We are members of the Agatha Christie Book Club after all.”

  “Too right!” said Missy, who had switched to a computer terminal and was madly tapping away. “Okay, so, according to my little digital friend here, The Mystery of the Blue Train was first published in 1928, and re-published fairly regularly after that. Um... oh this is interesting, Agatha Christie started writing it two years earlier, in 1926—that’s a really long turn-around for her. She usually churned her books out within a year. Just reading the description... ah, yes, Claire, the ruby was called ‘the Heart of Fire’! Don’t you just love Agatha’s imagination? The way she turned things like jewellery and trains into characters of their own?”

  “Yeah, yeah, but what’s any of this got to do with Barbara’s disappearance?” asked Perry, impatiently.

  “Well, let me finish. Okay, according to Wikipedia—”

  Alicia groaned. “So we’re relying on the reputable sources then?”

  “Oh they’re all right! Now, shhh, this is an interesting quote from some English crime critic. Of the book he says, and I quote, ‘Christie’s least favourite story, which she struggled with just before and after the disappearance. The international setting blah blah blah...’ It ends with, ‘There are several fruitier candidates for the title of ‘worst Christie’.’”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s her worst book by any means,” said Claire. “Not even close. I hated The Man in the Brown Suit or whatever it was called.”

  They launched into a lengthy debate about their least favourite Christie novels before Perry threw a hand up, wearily.

  “Hello! I have a hot dinner date in half an hour. Can we just get on with it, please!”

  “Fine,” said Missy. “So, lovely people, why did Barbara leave this particular book—Agatha Christie’s least favourite novel no less—in her car before she disappeared? What does it mean?”

  “Allow me to do an Anders and say, ‘probably nothing’,” said Claire. “But I guess it’s worth noting.”

  “Duly noted then,” said Alicia, underlining the title in her journal.

  At that moment Lynette jumped up, her eyes wide, her mouth agape. “Oh my God!” she gasped.

  She was staring into her smartphone, mesmerised by the something on the screen.

  “What is it?” asked Missy looking up from her own screen.

  “I was just checking out the online news to see if there were any more developments...”

  “And?!” yelled Perry.

  “It’s Arthur Parlour.”

  “Have they arrested him? Has he done a runner?” Perry asked.

  Lynette shook her head again, swallowed hard then looked up at them all. “You’re not going to believe this...”

  “What?!” screamed Alicia now.

  “He’s dead. Arthur Parlour has been found, dead!”

  Chapter 18

  For the first time since they met, the Agatha Christie Book Club were speechless. Lynette had just dropped the bombshell and was scrolling through her phone’s internet site, desperately trying to find out more while Missy did the same on her computer screen then jumped up and flicked on the library TV. Alicia took over the remote control and began switching through the channels, to no avail. Arthur’s death had not yet made the commercial news.

  Eventually, Perry broke the silence. “There goes my dinner date,” he moaned and Claire shot him a withering look.

  Alicia sighed. “I can’t believe it. I... I feel terrible, just awful.”

  “Why?” asked Missy. “What’s it got to do with you?”

  “Well, I hounded the poor bugger for days, and then I told the cops he was dodgy... I never suspected he’d be killed.”

  “Hey, we don’t even know if he was killed,” said Claire. “Maybe he took his own life or had some terrible accident—”

  “Okay here it is!” interrupted Lynette, waving her small screen at them. “It’s breaking news online... hang on, it just needs to reload. Okay, it says here that it’s believed that the body of Arthur Parlour was found late this afternoon, at some golf course, oh, right the Rose Bay golf club... ‘Fatally wounded’ that’s what they say.” She scrolled down. “Nope, nope, that’s all it says. But that’s suspicious—it doesn’t sound like suicide to me.”

  “Where are you getting this from?” asked Missy, fingers flying across her keyboard as she attempted to catch up.

  Lynette showed her the web address. “It’s a reputable news site but it’s obviously just broken, they don’t have much. No luck with the TV, Lis?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  “They’re such dinosaurs,” Lynette scoffed, scrolling through her web browser while Alicia continued to beat herself up.

  “Here we were thinking Arthur was a cold-blooded killer and now he’s dead. It doesn’t make any sense. And still no one knows where Barbara is.”

  “Oh, God, poor Holly,” said Missy. “I mean, sure she was hardly Daughter of the Year but still, for her mum to go AWOL and Dad to show up murdered.”

  “We still don’t know it was murder,” said Claire. “It said ‘fatally wounded’, so it could be manslaughter or a horrific accident. Maybe he got hit by a passing golf ball or something?”

  No one was buying it.

  “What does all this mean?” asked Perry. “What does this have to do with Barbara’s disappearance?”

  They stared at him, stunned, not knowing how to answer that.

  “Oh, here’s another longer story, possums,” Missy said and they all huddled around as she read from the screen aloud, scanning the basics.

  “Arthur Parlour, respected Eastern suburbs investment manager and prospective state politician, blah blah blah, found dead on the Rose Bay golf course around 5:00 p.m. this evening by club security... um, he was found with a blow to the head in what is believed to be a vicious random attack—”

  “Attack?” said Alicia. “That means he was murdered.”

  “Yes, but random attack?” piped in Perry. “Are they suggesting, quelle horreur, that he was just knocked over the noggin by some passing lunatic and left for dead? I mean, they’re not connecting the dots to his missing wife? Really?”

  “Hush, honey, I’m getting to that bit,” Missy said, tapping at the keyboard to move the screen down. “Now, where was I, yes, here we are... um, ‘police will not confirm if his death is linked to the recent disappearance of his wife, Barbara Parlour, who has not been seen since Saturday afternoon... However they are not ruling anything out at this stage. They are asking for witnesses to come forward’ etc etc.”

  “What a joke!” he spat.

  “Of course they see a connection,” said Alicia. “They’re just not giving anything away. The question is, how do we all feel abou
t it? Do we think there’s a connection between the two cases?”

  Every single one of them nodded their heads gravely.

  “They have to be connected,” said Missy. “It’s too coincidental. But how? Why?”

  “Maybe the tennis coach really did kill Barbara,” said Perry. “Maybe he did as Holly asked and confessed to Arthur and then they came to blows.” He stopped, realised how silly that sounded. “No... no, I’ve got a better idea!”

  “Here we go,” groaned Claire but he ignored her.

  “It’s a ransom gone wrong. Has to be.”

  “Sorry?” said Claire.

  “Think about it. They’re wealthy as all hell. Perfect candidates for that kind of thing. She goes missing, he’s very clandestine about it all, doesn’t want the coppers involved, assures us she’s okay. Maybe she was being held to ransom and he was told not to tell anyone. Maybe the arrogant fool thought he could pay the ransom and get her back on his own. So he agrees to rendezvous at the golf course and instead of getting his wife back, he gets a bang over the head, dead.”

  Not a bad theory, thought Alicia but Claire wasn’t buying it.

  “So why wouldn’t the kidnapper just hand Barbara back? And are you saying Jake did the kidnapping or someone else? I’m confused.”

  “Maybe Barbara and Arthur discovered the identity of the kidnapper so they both had to die. I don’t know, Claire, I don’t have all the answers, I just have the fabulous theories.” Perry dropped back into his seat, deflated.

  “Well, I for one like the way your mind works, Perry,” said Alicia. “It’s even freakier than mine.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  “But, listen, I have another theory, and I think you’re going to like this one better, Claire.” They all gave Alicia their undivided attention. “Lyn, didn’t you say that Arthur’s body was found at a golf course in Rose Bay?” Her sister nodded. “Guess who lives right next door to a golf course in Rose Bay? Her property fronts the fairway.”