CHAPTER TWO
DeMarco met Kate at the front door, looking as professionally composed as always despite having been on scene for over an hour.
At thirty-one, DeMarco had developed into one of the Bureau's most reliable agents, no longer the eager rookie who had once looked to Kate for constant guidance.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and she wore her standard field outfit of black slacks and a navy blazer.
"Kate, thanks for coming," DeMarco said, stepping aside to let Kate enter the foyer. "I have to warn you, this one is definitely unusual."
"Duran mentioned something about Agatha Christie staging," Kate replied, pulling on latex gloves.
“Yeah, it seems that way. Did you ever read much by her?”
“Yes, actually. Lots, when I was in my twenties. Where's the local detective who made the connection?"
"Detective Patterson left about twenty minutes ago.
He had to respond to a domestic disturbance call, but he'll be back later.
He was the one who recognized the literary elements.
" DeMarco led Kate through the front hallway toward the back of the house.
"I've never read 'Murder on the Orient Express,' so I spent some time Googling plot summaries while I waited for you. "
The house had the lived-in comfort of a long marriage.
Family photos lined the hallway walls, showing Margaret and a tall, balding man Kate assumed was her husband at various stages of their life together.
Vacation shots from beach trips and mountain cabins, formal portraits from anniversary celebrations, candid moments that captured genuine happiness.
The hardwood floors showed wear patterns from decades of daily use, and the paint had the slightly faded quality that came from years of sunlight streaming through windows.
"The victim is Margaret Carlisle, sixty-two years old," DeMarco continued, repeating what Duran had already told her as they walked. "She’s a retired high school librarian. She was married, but no kids.”
“Where’s the husband?”
“The poor guy fainted when he was on the phone with 9-1-1. He made the call around eleven last night and has been in the hospital ever since.”
“Jesus. Poor guy.”
“Margaret was active in a local book club. According to the neighbors I spoke with, she was well-liked and kept to herself mostly since her husband died."
They passed through a dining room with a polished cherry table and matching chairs, the kind of formal set that gets used for holidays and special occasions.
A china cabinet displayed what looked like wedding gifts from decades past: crystal stemware, silver serving pieces, and delicate porcelain figurines.
The kitchen beyond was dated but clean, with white appliances and blue countertops that probably seemed modern in the 1990s.
"Any signs of forced entry?" Kate asked.
"None. Front door was unlocked when the medics arrived, but that makes sense because the husband had just come in. But I had a look myself, and there’s no damage to any of the entry points.
Back door was still locked from the inside, all windows secure.
" DeMarco paused at the entrance to what was clearly the home's library.
"The victim apparently answered the door for someone she knew, or at least someone she trusted enough to let inside. "
Kate stepped into the library and immediately understood why Detective Patterson had made the Christie connection.
Margaret Carlisle sat in a burgundy recliner, her body positioned with the sort of careful arrangement that indicated deliberate staging.
It looked as if she might have been posing for a portrait.
She wore a pale blue cardigan over dark slacks, and her gray hair had been brushed back from her face in a style that looked too neat for someone who had died violently.
Most striking was the heavy brass candlestick that lay on the floor beside her chair, positioned parallel to her body with mathematical precision.
"The candlestick was the murder weapon?" Kate asked.
"The ME’s preliminary examination suggests blunt force trauma to the head, consistent with being struck by something like that candlestick. But here's where it gets interesting." DeMarco pointed to the mahogany side table next to Margaret's chair. "Look at what's on the table."
Kate moved closer and saw a well-worn copy of Murder on the Orient Express lying open, a yellow legal pad beside it covered with handwritten notes.
A wine glass sat nearby, still containing about an inch of red wine.
But what caught Kate's attention immediately was the bookmark protruding from the closed sections of the book.
"She had the book bookmarked at page 127," DeMarco said.
"When I looked up the plot summary online, that's right around the part where Hercule Poirot is examining the crime scene where Ratchett was murdered.
And according to what I read, Ratchett was found stabbed in his compartment, but there was also a bloodied candlestick in the room that was initially thought to be the murder weapon. "
Kate felt a familiar tingle of professional interest. She'd read Christie's masterpiece at least six times over the years, and DeMarco was correct about the details.
In the novel, the candlestick had been a red herring, placed deliberately to confuse the investigation.
The real murder weapon had been a knife, but the candlestick's presence had been part of the killer's elaborate misdirection.
"Someone who knows the book well enough to recreate specific details," Kate murmured, studying the scene more carefully. "But they've adapted it for a different murder method."
"That's what I was thinking. The positioning is too deliberate to be coincidental."
Kate examined the candlestick without touching it.
The brass was tarnished with age and showed what appeared to be blood near the base.
If she had to venture a guess, it probably belonged to a matching pair.
The other one was likely displayed somewhere else in the house as decoration rather than practical use.
"Have you found where this candlestick normally belongs?" Kate asked.
"There's an empty spot on the mantelpiece in the living room where its partner is still sitting. So the killer took it from another room, used it here, and then positioned it very specifically as part of the staging."
Kate walked around the library, taking in the details.
The bookshelves were organized with the precision of someone who had worked as a librarian.
Mysteries were separated from biographies, fiction was arranged alphabetically by author.
She noted several other Agatha Christie novels, along with works by Louise Penny, Tana French, and other contemporary mystery writers.
A section of the bottom shelf was devoted to gardening books, and another area contained what looked like engineering textbooks and fiction of the military variety, like Tom Clancy and Scott Turow.
"What about the legal pad?" Kate asked, nodding to the table by the chair. "Those look like discussion notes."
DeMarco nodded. "According to a neighbor, Sandra Morrison, she took the book club very seriously. They meet the third Thursday of every month, which would be tomorrow. The notes appear to be questions she'd prepared for discussing Murder on the Orient Express."
Kate read some of the handwritten questions without touching the pad.
"How does Christie use the confined setting to build tension?
" "What role does social class play?" "Do you think Poirot made the right decision?
" The handwriting was neat but showed slight trembling, the kind that often develops with age or mere impatience.
"So she was preparing for a book club discussion when someone came to her door," Kate said. "Someone she trusted enough to let inside, someone who knew enough about her reading habits to stage this specific scene."
"That's my reading of it,” DeMarco said. “The question is whether we're dealing with someone from her book club, someone else who knew about her reading preferences, or someone who's making a broader statement about Christie novels in general."
Kate continued her examination of the library.
A small bar cart in the corner held a few bottles of wine and liquor, along with crystal glasses that matched the ones in the dining room cabinet.
The Persian rug showed wear patterns that suggested this was where Margaret spent most of her time when she was home.
Everything about the room spoke of quiet evenings spent reading, the kind of peaceful retirement that many people worked their entire lives to achieve.
"Have you spoken with any of the other book club members aside from Morrison?" Kate asked.
"Not yet. I was waiting for you to examine the scene first. Sandra Morrison gave me a list of the members, and I've got their contact information. Seven other women, all between forty-nine and sixty-seven."
Kate found herself drawn back to the victim's position in the chair.
Margaret's hands were folded in her lap, her legs positioned parallel, her head tilted slightly to one side.
It was the kind of arrangement that required time and care, suggesting the killer had remained in the house for several minutes after Margaret's death.
"Any idea about time of death?" Kate asked.
"Coroner estimates sometime between eight and ten p.m. last night.
Margaret's car is in the garage, and according to Sandra Morrison, Margaret rarely went anywhere in the evenings except for book club meetings.
Her husband got home around ten after eleven from his job at the grocery store.
Neighbors said he usually works a few nights just to make some extra cash and stay busy. The call to 9-1-1 came at 11:12."
Kate studied the wine glass on the side table. "Was she drinking alone, or did she offer wine to her visitor?"
"Good question. I found only one glass with wine residue. There's a clean glass in the kitchen sink, but it's unclear when it was last used. The wine bottle is in the library bar cart, about half empty."
The methodical staging bothered Kate more than the murder itself.
In her experience, killers who took time to arrange their victims were either satisfying some deep psychological need or making a deliberate statement.
The Christie connection suggested someone educated, someone familiar with classic detective fiction.
But the specific choice of Murder on the Orient Express was interesting, since that novel involved multiple killers working together to achieve justice that the legal system had failed to provide.
"This isn't random," Kate said finally. "Someone planned this carefully. They knew Margaret's reading habits, they knew she'd be home alone last night up until a certain time, and they knew enough about Christie's work to recreate specific details from the novel."
"So we're looking for someone in her social circle," DeMarco said. "Someone with access to her house and knowledge of her schedule."
Kate nodded, but something about the staging nagged at her. The precision of the candlestick placement, the careful positioning of Margaret's body, and the bookmark left at exactly the right page. It felt like a message, though she wasn't sure yet what that message might be.
"I want to see the rest of the house," Kate said. "And then I think we need to talk to the book club members if possible. If this is connected to her reading group, one of them might know more than they realize."
As they left the library, Kate found herself thinking about the wine glass and the legal pad full of discussion questions.
Margaret Carlisle had been preparing for a book club meeting, ready to discuss Hercule Poirot's most famous case.
The irony wasn't lost on Kate that Margaret had been murdered while reading about a murder, killed by someone who understood Christie's work well enough to use it as inspiration.
To say it was intriguing was an understatement. And though it made her feel a little pang of guilt, she knew there was no way she could just stand on the sidelines for this one.
Kate glanced around the house one more time, noting the family photos and comfortable furnishings that spoke of a life well-lived.
But someone had turned her peaceful retirement into the setting for a real-life murder mystery.
The question now was whether they were dealing with a single killer making a literary statement, or whether Margaret's death was the first in a series of Christie-inspired murders.