Booked 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  In the meantime, my mother had scooted off to where Herb Garrett was standing and, the next thing I knew, he was directing people to sit down. Between the two of them, they were able to restore some semblance of order so I could continue to explain why there was no book curse. As I reached for the microphone, Jeanette grabbed me by the wrist.

  “You’re not going to mention Edna Mae Langford anymore, are you? I mean, that ship has sailed, hasn’t it?”

  “Sorry, Jeanette, but that ship is about to crash on the rocks.”

  Before she could utter another word, I was back on the mic. “This won’t take long, but I will be able to clarify a few things regarding those deaths. As I mentioned earlier, the book curse was the perfect ruse to disguise the fact that a number of people were responsible for what happened to Thelmalee and Edna Mae. Listen carefully.”

  “Edna Mae Langford was born Edna Mae Tilton-bury. She was married twice and outlived both of her husbands, Fredrick Langford and Jackson Sackler. She kept Langford as her last name but Sackler was the name on the death certificate. I found out from snooping around with her neighbors that she didn’t want to deal with the paperwork associated with another name change. It must not have mattered to her second husband. She had one daughter from her most recent marriage, Leslie Sackler, and a number of nieces and nephews.”

  “Lord Almighty, what does any of this have to do with her death?” Shirley said, loud enough for her voice to carry into the mic.

  “I’m getting to that,” I said. “Excuse me. Um, uh, as I was saying, Edna Mae’s relatives were more than just a little concerned about her. Especially her daughter. Fortunately, well, I’m not so sure fortunately is the word, but anyway, her daughter had a close friend and ally who helped her with a scheme that was supposed to make Edna Mae realize it was time to give up the house and move to assisted living.”

  Someone at the table gasped, but I kept talking. “Leslie’s girlfriend, and former college buddy from Lawrence University, class of nineteen eighty-two, thought all they had to do was put rocks in front of the mailbox, and Edna Mae would tumble into her new life in a safe environment. Isn’t that right, Jeanette?”

  Jeanette Tomilson looked as if she’d been caught red-handed breaking into a bank vault. At first she didn’t say a word. Then, the drama act began. “That’s ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. I, myself, was a victim of that book curse. You know that. You know someone got into my garage, took my car keys, and left my car running so my house would fill up with carbon monoxide. You were there that night! Along with the entire street!”

  “That’s true. Very true. Except for one small detail. It took me a while to figure it out, but I eventually did. You created the fake attempt on your life to throw off any suspicions about your involvement in Edna Mae’s death. No one would connect you. After all, why would anyone care that a beige SUV with advertising for West Valley Home Mortgage Solutions was at your house so often? That company belongs to your old college friend, Leslie Sackler, Edna Mae’s daughter.”

  “You still can’t prove anything,” Jeanette said as she glanced toward Leslie.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You told a deputy sheriff, on the night of the incident, that your car key was on the same keychain as your house key and that in order to let yourself into the house, you had to turn off the car. You insisted that someone got into your garage from the side door and somehow snuck into the laundry room to retrieve the car keys, turn on the car, and leave out the same side door.”

  “Don’t say anything, Jeanette,” came a voice from across the room. It was Leslie Sackler. She stood and started heading toward the table.

  I had one more final “punch,” and I was going to use it. “Here’s the interesting part—your car doesn’t use a key. It has a keyless remote. It’s a brand-new KIA Sportage SX and, not only that, but no keys are required to open the doors. It’s all remote. I should know. I test-drove one a few weeks ago, thinking I might be ready for a new car. I just wasn’t ready for a new car loan. If someone did break into your garage, like you said, they wouldn’t be able to start your car. It has voice recognition and a number of other neat things I can’t afford right now.”

  Leslie Sackler had pulled an empty chair over to Jeanette and put her arm around her friend, who had now started crying. I felt awful. Did Miss Marple ever feel bad when she revealed who the responsible parties were? I doubted it.

  “You have no idea how tormented we are over what happened. We wanted to help my mother, not watch her die.” Leslie’s voice was beginning to crack.

  “So you used this book curse thing to cover up what really happened.”

  “Excuse me, Phee,” Cecilia said. “I don’t think any of the deputies are left in the room. They all went with the Kirksons.”

  “We’re not killers,” Leslie said. “And we’ll make our own way to the sheriff’s office.”

  Gretchen Morin seized that minute to return to the microphone. “Well, under the circumstances, I guess this about sums up our book club. No sense in keeping anyone any longer.”

  “But we haven’t even discussed the book,” someone said.

  Suddenly, my phone began to vibrate, and this time I grabbed it immediately. I had received a text message.

  I was staring at three words that could change everything, and my heart started to race.

  “Don’t leave yet, folks! The best part is coming!” I shouted.

  Lucinda poked my mother in the elbow. “Is your daughter always this dynamic?”

  “No, she’s really kind of mousey when it comes to public speaking.”

  I ignored the conversation at the table and stood as tall as I could. “I am about to end that book curse right now, so LISTEN UP!”

  In the background, my mother mumbled, “Remember to underline.”

  “The author of The Twelfth Arrondissement deserves far more credit as a marketer than a writer. Although, the book itself is really quite decent.”

  I tried to read the expression on Gretchen’s face, but it was blank.

  “Lily Margot Gerald is a pen name. No one by that name wrote the book. But, interestingly, the royalties from all book sales are being deposited to a bank account under the name of IZZY BAY BEBOI.”

  “Izzy Baby Boy? Izzy Baby Boy? Jerry White’s dog? You’re saying Jerry White’s dog wrote that book?” Cindy Dolton stood, hands on her hips, shaking her head and trying to keep herself from laughing.

  “Not the dog, but the owner,” I said. “And he wasn’t working alone.”

  I turned to the whiteboard and wrote Lily Margot Gerald in big letters. Then, underneath, I wrote, White Gretchen Jerry.

  “You see, Margot is French for Gretchen, and Gerald is, well . . . Jerry. And we all know Lily is synonymous with white. So, there you have it. The tag team of our own librarian and her companion worked together to launch their first novel.”

  “I ought to have you sued!” Jerry shouted. Although, compared to the Kirksons, it was more like a loud statement.

  “For what? You’re the ones who deceived the public and created the hype about a book curse. In fact, if it wasn’t for you and Gretchen, Josie Nolan and her pals would never have gotten the idea to use the book curse as a cover to explain how Thelmalee got stung by those bees. She had no choice but to keep that book curse rumor going because, without it, her plot would have unraveled pretty quickly. Josie knew all the details, seeing that she and her husband were frequent dinner companions of yours.”

  Then Myrna Mittleson pointed a finger at Gretchen. “It was you! It was you all along who selected that book to read. Our club could have you arrested for fraud.”

  “Psst! Myrna! Psst!” It was Louise Munson. “I don’t think that counts for fraud.”

  I was about to pat myself on the back for my keen investigative instincts, but I knew it didn’t take a genius to tap into Ancestry.com, e-yearbook.com (at the $4.95 monthly subscription), and every other site I’d used to gather data. And, without Nate and Rolo’s hel
p, I wouldn’t have been able to prove who really wrote that book. I was as much of an investigator as Izzy Bay Beboi was a writer. Still, I did manage to put an end to the book curse. Or so I thought. I was about to thank the audience and go back to my mother’s house when, out of nowhere, Vivian Knowlton grabbed the mic.

  “Please welcome our latest addition to Psychic Divas! The little sleuth from Minnesota is more psychic than sleuth and she belongs on our show!”

  The social hall erupted in applause and I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me.

  “Wait. No, I’m not a psychic, and if the truth be known, I’m not a policewoman either. I mean, I do work for the police department, but—”

  “You stinkin’ detectives are all the same. Once you pass that test, you forget where you came from.”

  It was a voice I thought I recognized, but I wasn’t so sure. It was certainly loud as if the guy behind it was a linebacker.

  Vivian and I were speechless.

  “Well, I’ll tell you something, my brother Milton’s a police officer in Boston and proud of it.”

  Before I could even clarify, someone else stood and spoke. “That’s right. My cousins, Mario and Nicholas, have been police officers in Trenton for over twenty years, and it’s good enough for them.”

  “Yeah,” someone shouted, “my father, rest his soul, was a beat cop in New York City, but I guess that’s just how it is. You make the grade and the next thing you know, you’re a detective or an investigator or whatever title they give you.”

  For a minute I wished I could bring back the Kirksons. All of them. Then, thankfully, Vivian grabbed the microphone again. “The spirit of The Twelfth Arrondissement is still in this room, and that’s why no one can rest.”

  “Oh, brother,” Shirley blurted.

  Then Gretchen took over. “Ms. Kimball is right. There is no book curse. More importantly, Mr. White and I were never part of any conspiracies to cause harm to anyone. We only wanted to promote our book, which, by the way, is still on sale by the door.”

  Just then, Josie Nolan’s husband, Tom, raced to the front of the room faster than the Kirksons on their way to a free meal. In a matter of seconds, he had grabbed Gretchen by the shoulders and began to shake her. “YOUR BOOK? YOUR BOOK? YOU UNSCRUPULOUS LYING LITTLE WITCH! YOU DIDN’T WRITE THAT BOOK! ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS SNEAK IT ONTO THAT BOOK CLUB LIST. THAT WAS OUR AGREEMENT. IN RETURN FOR A PORTION OF THE ROYALTIES.”

  Then, like one of those scenes straight out of a horror movie where the madwoman runs tearing through the mansion, Peg from the sunbathing group stormed up to her brother and gave him a shove in the chest. “HOW DARE YOU GIVE HER A PORTION OF THE ROYALITES WITHOUT CONSULTING ME FIRST! I’M THE ONE WHO CAME UP WITH THE IDEA FOR THE BOOK. PLOT. CHARACTERS. EVERYTHING!”

  “YEAH, BUT IF IT WASN’T FOR JERRY AND ME, THAT’S ALL YOU WOULD HAVE HAD. SO, GIVE IT UP, MARGARET. WE AGREED IT WAS A THREE-WAY DEAL.”

  In that split second, I swore the room lost a fair amount of oxygen as everyone gasped.

  “Looks like you got it wrong, Phee,” my mother whispered as I tried to figure out what on earth was happening. “So much for Margot translating into Gretchen.”

  “At least I wasn’t way off base like your lunatic theories about jealous wives,” I told her.

  I wanted to say more but couldn’t get above Thomas Nolan’s voice. It could drown out the United States Marine Band. He turned to Jerry White and, for a minute, I thought he was actually going to take a punch at him. “WHY DID YOU JUST SIT THERE AND LET THE LIBRARIAN TAKE THE CREDIT?”

  “BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T WANT YOUR WIFE TO KNOW WE WERE WRITING THIS BOOK TOGETHER!”

  “WHAT?” came a high-pitched voice from the rear of the social hall. It was Josie Nolan. She was back. Somehow she’d managed to elude the deputies. “I could hear your voice, Tom, all the way out in the parking lot. I nearly broke an ankle trying to run from one of the deputies and get back inside. You took Peg’s idea and wrote that book? You were the one responsible? You and Jerry? You told me the two of you were working on investments. Investments, for crying out loud! I wondered why our finances weren’t improving. You were working on that book instead of our wealth management. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you were too busy working on your tan. We were losing clients.”

  Jerry took a step toward Josie and cleared his throat. “He didn’t want to tell you because he invested a lot of money into that book, what with formatting costs, special cover design . . .”

  Then, as if on cue, Josie turned her anger away from her husband and she slapped Gretchen right in the face. “Don’t plan on getting any royalties. It’s bad enough we’ll have to split them with his sister and Jerry.”

  My mother poked me in the arm and leaned toward me. “I never saw that coming, did you?”

  “Apparently not,” I replied.

  “Now can we discuss the book?” Cecilia said. “I want to know why the mistress hid the fact she was the governess’s sister.”

  I was about to say something when the CNN news crew headed straight toward Gretchen. Sure enough, it was Don Lemon. More adorable in person than on-screen.

  “Oh my God!” Lucinda yelled. “It’s the cute one from CNN!”

  The noise level in the room increased dramatically as people stood to get a good look.

  The TV anchor, apparently used to these situations, walked over to Josie and asked if they could interview her and her husband.

  “Whoa! I’m right here!” Jerry White shouted as he made his way toward the camera crew. “Someone better interview me!”

  “There would be no book without me,” Peg yelled. “If anyone should be interviewed, it should be me!”

  I turned off the mic and leaned over to the table. “I don’t know how anyone else feels, but maybe the club should discuss the book at a different place and time.”

  “My daughter’s right. It’s way too chaotic in here. Let’s meet on Friday at Bagels ‘N More. How about at ten?”

  A consensus was reached in less than five seconds.

  “So, that’s it,” my mother said. “Ten a.m. on Friday. And don’t tell anyone. We don’t need another sideshow.”

  Next, my mother took the microphone and ended the program faster than the career of a politician who’d just been caught cheating on his or her spouse. “I’m afraid this concludes the monthly meeting of Booked 4 Murder. New members are always welcome. Please sign up at the library. There are at least four or five news crews in the social hall, not to mention the newspaper reporters, and I’m sure they’d love to hear from the public.”

  “Come on, Mom,” I said. “Let’s get out of here while we can.”

  There was a small exit door down the corridor to our left, and we moved quickly, followed by Myrna and Shirley. I didn’t turn around to see who had decided to stay. I figured it would either be on the news that night or in the morning paper.

  Chapter 30

  “Oh my God, Mom. That was horrendous. I’m glad you offered to drive us home. Can you get us out of this parking lot any faster? My head is spinning. It was awful in there. I never expected it to be so . . . so . . .”

  “Catastrophic?”

  “Yeah, that’s a good word.”

  “Look at the bright side. You were on the right track, Phee. Even though you did get it wrong in the end.”

  “I know. I know. So much for the ‘Big Reveal.’ And all this time I was certain Gretchen Morin was the brain trust behind the book. Huh. Turned out she was only a small part of the scheme. Imagine that. Thomas Nolan wrote the book with Jerry White. And they got the idea from Tom’s sister, Peg. I should have realized Peg is a nickname for Margaret. And worse yet, I didn’t even connect Izzy’s dog hairs on Tom’s trousers that day at Nolan and Nolan Realty. Jerry White must have lied to Tom as well about Izzy being a pure-bred Coton de Tulear. Those dogs don’t shed. I told you I wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing.”

  “Who says you’re not cut out for
investigating? You figured out how Jeanette and Edna Mae’s daughter were responsible for Edna Mae’s fall. Not to mention that ugly business with Thelmalee and the ladies from the pool.”

  “I didn’t exactly get that right either. Josie Nolan wasn’t the one who put the sugar under the bush. It was Joanne. And you know what else I didn’t solve? That cryptic e-mail all of the members in your book club received. The one that said, ‘Death lurks between the lines.’”

  My mother’s face began to flush. “Oh, that. I completely forgot. In all this turmoil, it absolutely slipped my mind. It wasn’t a cryptic e-mail after all. It was an announcement for the Sun City West Theater’s fall production of a new play, Death Lurks Between the Lines. Eunice Berlmosler, the publicity chair, called me a few days ago. They sent the e-mail but forgot to include the message. Can you believe it?”

  “Yeah, at this point, I can believe anything. Listen, I don’t think I’m going to be too welcome here in Sun City West this Christmas. Maybe you should visit me in Minnesota.”

  “Are you crazy? With all that snow? I don’t do snow anymore, Phee. I only like to see it on The Weather Channel and holiday cards. Besides, I already bought tickets for the three of us to see The Nutcracker Suite ballet in Phoenix this December.”

  “Three of us?”

  “You didn’t think I wasn’t going to invite my only granddaughter?”

  “She’ll love it. And the timing works great with her teaching schedule.”

  She beamed and it felt good.

  “So, do you feel like getting a bite to eat, Phee? We don’t have to drive right home.”

  “Sure. As long as it’s out of ‘the compound.’”

  We were in luck and got a great corner table at Olive Garden, and I finally reached Nate on the phone. I think my mother was more anxious than I was to see what he’d found out. She kept moving closer and closer to me as I was fielding the call. When I thanked Nate and clicked the End button, my mother jumped in.

  “So, what did he say? How they’d figure it out? Is the money in some bank account in the Caymans? You know, they always hide money in the Cayman Islands.”