The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle (11 page)

M
onday morning at the office was busy, as Al and I completed our usual “lessons learned” drill about each of the weekend's events and prepared and mailed billing statements. Al eyed me as we worked.

“You seem to be in an unusually good mood, boss,” he said. “Cheery.”

“Full of joie de vivre.”

“No fair using foreign words. Jovial.”

“Merry.”

“Like you got— Oops.” Al blushed and hid it by bending to look for something in his desk drawer.

I pretended I hadn't heard him, although I suspected I was blushing, too. Pointlessly, since I hadn't, in fact, gotten laid. But I'd come a lot closer to it than I had in a very long time, and the prospect was still out there, tantalizing, energizing.
Work. Focus on work
.

The phone rang. Al picked up. “Detective Hart for you,” he said.

Happiness bloomed in me. “I'll take it in my office,” I said. I knew my smile aroused Al's curiosity, but I couldn't help it.

“Good morning,” I said, picking up the phone.

“Good morning back.”

I heard the smile in Hart's voice, but then he turned businesslike. “Foster Quinlan. Tell me about him.”

I felt a bit deflated. He was calling about the message Derek had left yesterday, not because he couldn't bear to start his day without talking to me. I made my tone match his as I recounted everything I could remember about my conversation with Foster. “He said he didn't kill Gordon,” I admitted, “but I didn't believe him. He really had it in for Gordon. Blamed him for losing his job, his friends, his house, and his dining room.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“We'll talk to him. We're talking to other people, too. Your brother wasn't the only one with a motive for killing Gordon Marsh.”

“Thank you for that,” I said.

He lowered his voice. “I had fun last night.”

“Me, too.”

“I wish you weren't involved in this case.”

“Me, too,” I said fervently. Because that would mean Derek wasn't implicated.

“I'll be in touch.”

We hung up and I wondered if his last words meant professionally or personally. I rolled a pencil across the desk so it dropped off the far side. Having to keep our lives compartmented into personal and professional boxes because of Gordon's murder was frustrating. I rejoined Al in the front office, trying not to look self-conscious and failing miserably if the grin on his face was anything to go by.

“I need to put some time in today on the triathlon,” I said. “I'm not happy with the Web site.” The event wasn't until next summer, but the Web site I'd had a designer working on for two months needed to go live within a couple of weeks and it still had too many glitches. Shades of Obamacare. Giving Al a list of tasks to complete before he left for class at noon, I closed myself in my office and worked steadily for a couple of hours. When I came up for air and a coffee break, I settled back at my desk and typed “Guinevere Dalrymple” into a search engine.

And there she was. The zaftig blonde who'd been arguing with Gordon the evening he died. I guessed organizing Women Outing Serial Cheater events didn't pay the bills because the Linked In head shot that came up made it look like she owned an online dating service. Was that how she and Gordon had met? Oh, the irony. Her office was in Grand Junction, forty-five minutes away. I had at least three folks I needed to talk to in Grand Junction, meetings I'd been putting off, and I suddenly decided that this afternoon was the perfect time to squeeze them in.

Since Al had already left for class, I turned on the answering machine and locked up. Another reason to get another intern: I didn't like leaving the office unattended. True, event planning didn't lend itself to a lot of walk-in business, but still. The trip from Heaven to Grand Junction, although only about forty miles, was like descending from heaven to Hades, at least in terms of temperature at this time of year. At eighty-two hundred feet, Heaven's altitude and forests and nearby
lake kept us cool, even in August. Grand Junction, much lower, and practically in Utah, was broiling hot. Ninety-eight degrees, in fact, I noted, as I passed a bank displaying time and temperature. At a stoplight, I wriggled out of the shrug I was wearing over a sleeveless blue blouse and tossed it in the passenger seat, netting an appreciative honk from the grinning guy in a pickup in the next lane.

I conducted my meetings as quickly as possible, touring a new caterer's facilities and talking to the young couple who ran the business about their training and rates (I was getting more and more work in Grand Junction), watching a magician's act and deciding he was too lame to book for any of the kids' parties I organized, and sitting down with the Web site designer to explain the problems I was having with the triathlon Web site. Between the magician and the Web site designer, I grabbed two tamales at the hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint I loved so I was ready to tackle Guinevere Dalrymple by two.

The online dating service, Mutual E-ttraction, was located in a strip mall between a pet-grooming parlor and a bowling alley. Keeping in mind that Guinevere might have seen me at the pub, I loosed my hair from its French braid and shook it around my face so I looked as different as possible from Friday night. Getting out of the van, I approached the business. It looked reasonably prosperous, with the name in navy blue script, sparkling clean windows, and square planters on either side of the door brimming over with geraniums, greenery, ice plant, and other blooms. A
sixteen-by-twenty-inch poster in the window was headed W
OMEN
O
UTING
S
ERIA
L
C
HEATERS
in bold typeface, and listed upcoming “events.” This was definitely the right place. I scanned it quickly but didn't recognize any of the men's names. Mentally reviewing my story, I pushed through the door, which announced my presence with a deep
binng-bonng
.

Two desks faced me, both empty, with two closed doors behind them. Three computers sat on a long counter that ran down the left side of the room. Comfy chairs on castors sat before each terminal, and a stack of brochures poked from the top of a wire container affixed to the wall. Everything was some shade of green: spring green on the walls, moss green carpet, tweedy green upholstery on the chairs, lime green organizers on the desks. The only nongreen item was the listless corn plant in the corner, trending toward an “I give up” tan. I felt as if I'd wandered into a jungle.

“Green is the color of hope, of birth,” a woman's voice announced. I turned to see Guinevere Dalrymple emerge from the right-hand door. She shut the door on the sound of flushing and moved toward me. “We're about the birth of new relationships here at Mutual E-ttraction, so it seems wonderfully apropos, don't you think? I'm Guinevere and I'm so happy to meet you . . . ?”

“Faye,” I supplied.

Her voice was low-pitched and musical, practically hypnotic. She should have been a radio host or a sermonizing minister. Her ample bosom swelled beneath a thin apricot sweater, and a wide white belt defined
her waist. An ankle-grazing skirt did a good job of slimming full hips. Blond hair cascaded in an expensively highlighted tumble to her shoulders, and her suspiciously full lips gleamed with a peachy lipstick. Her plumpness minimized facial wrinkles, but I guessed she was in her mid-forties, maybe even pushing fifty.

“Are you looking for a relationship, Faye?” she asked. “We can get you started right now.” She gestured toward the computers.

Grasping for the script I'd mentally prepared, I said, “No, actually I'm here because of an earlier relationship.” I gestured toward the poster in the window. “My ex cheated on me. With lots of women. I don't even know how many.” I worked a sob into my voice.

Guinevere glided over and patted my shoulder. “Oh, my dear, we've all been there. Some detractors have taken issue with my running both a dating service and Women Outing Serial Cheaters, but we've got to face reality, right? Numbers don't lie. The vast majority of men are going to cheat on their wives or girlfriends. It's biology. I'm not excusing them, not at all, but it's the way they're wired. The good Lord just plumb screwed up when he gave men testosterone.” She launched into a scientific-sounding bunch of claptrap about why men couldn't help cheating.

I fought down the urge to giggle and wished Lola, the chemistry major and science whiz, could be here to laugh at this with me. “I'm sure you're right,” I said. I couldn't help asking, “Do you have a science degree? You know so much.”

“That's kind of you to say, dear. I've made this aspect of biology a life study, but my degree's in marketing.”

Ha! No surprise there. “How did you end up starting a dating service?” I asked, genuinely curious about her and momentarily losing sight of my mission.

“Oh, everything in my life seemed to draw me toward this,” she said, plumping down in a chair and gesturing for me to do the same. “Growing up on a ranch where I learned the value of selective mating; my time in college observing dating rituals and breakups; working in advertising and sales, which are all about relationships, right?; and, of course, my own marriage and divorce from a serial cheater. I knew if I could help people find their way to healthy relationships, I would be doing the world—well, at least, Grand Junction—a service. We do such a good job of matching people at Mutual E-ttraction, and for a very reasonable rate, that I think I can say with certainty we've cut down, way down, on the instances of cheating.” She gave a modest little smile.

“Despite the biological imperatives,” I couldn't resist saying.

“Indeed.” Her smile got tight, and she swiveled to the computer, typing in a few quick commands. “Now, let's get your account set up.”

“I don't think I'm ready for another relationship yet,” I said, dabbing at my dry eyes with a tissue. “Ever since I found out about Gordon and that—”

“Who?” She sat bolt upright and whipped around to
face me. Her blond hair flew out and then resettled less artfully.

“Gordon,” I said, widening my eyes innocently. “My ex-boyfriend. You ‘outed' him on Friday, but I had to work so I couldn't participate, and I wanted to know—”

“You're talking about Gordon
Marsh
?”

“Uh-huh. And even though he's dead, I—”

Her chair went sailing across the room with the force of her explosion from it. “What? Dead? You're saying Gordo is dead? There's no way. I— Who are you?” She leaned over me, exuding clouds of Oriental-spiced perfume, and I stood up so I wouldn't feel at such a disadvantage. “What happened?”

Her surprise seemed genuine, as did her distress. I felt a pang of guilt at breaking the news to her so abruptly. “I'm sorry. I figured you'd know. It's been in the papers, on the news—”

“I don't pay attention to the
news
,” Guinevere said, as if I'd accused her of being a Peeping Tom. “He can't be dead.”

“I'm afraid he is. The police think someone pushed him off the roof of Elysium Brewing.”

“Murdered. The bastard, the dumb bastard.” She put the back of an index finger against her lower lid to stop the tears. “I always told him he'd push someone too far one day, but would he listen?”

I gazed at her in gathering astonishment. “Excuse me,” I said, “but did you know him?”

“Know him?” She gave a bittersweet smile. “Who do you think invested in this place”—she gestured to
the green room—“and helped me get it off the ground? WOSC was his idea.”

Bam
. I rocked back on my heels.

She didn't seem to notice my reaction. “When I divorced him for cheating on me—”

“You were married?” I yelped.

“I'm the reason he and Susan broke up,” she admitted. “Wait a mo. I need a drink.” Disappearing through the nonbathroom door, she returned moments later with a bottle of rosé wine. Unscrewing the top, she explained, “We host weekly get-togethers for our matches. Help them break the ice. Wine, beer, Chex Mix, blooming romance.”

I had to stop myself from offering her ideas on how to make the weekly events more unique.

Pulling a Harry Potter mug off her desk, she filled it with wine. “Want some?” She offered the bottle.

“No, thanks. Driving.”

“To Gordo.” She lifted the mug in salute and then downed about half its contents. “We didn't last long. Only six months. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that a man who would cheat on his wife with me would cheat on me. But I was. I had at him about it, of course, and he promised it would never happen again, but I wasn't that stupid. Fool me once, shame on you, et cetera, et cetera. We got divorced, but managed to stay friends. ‘Friends with benefits,' they'd call it today.” She downed another long swallow of wine, refilled the mug, and said, “We went on a vacay to Acapulco a few years back, after he'd had another nasty breakup with some gal who pitched a hissy about
his cheating, and that's when we dreamed up the WOSC idea.

“There were margaritas involved,” she said with a reminiscent smile. “Lots of margaritas. We thought we were joking, but it still seemed like a good idea in the morning, so we made it happen. We've done plenty of outings in Denver, and been as far as Salt Lake City and Laramie, even to Birmingham once. You'd be surprised by what some women will pay to see men who cheated on them humiliated. In a completely legal and nonviolent way,” she added with the air of one parroting a lawyer's phrases. She drank the mug's contents again, looked at it, and took a swig straight from the bottle.

“He was the first cheater WOSC outed, of course. He gave me the names of a dozen women he'd dated. I contacted them, and eight of them ponied up a hundred bucks to be in on it. We got some local news coverage, word of mouth took over, and pretty soon it was a nice little sideline. I wouldn't want to have to pay my mortgage off what I make from WOSC, but I redid my kitchen lasht year on the proceeds and took a nice cruishe.” She was beginning to slur her
S
's. “Damn you, Gordo. Why'd you have to go and get yourshelf killed?”