Murder at the Book Group

by Maggie King

  “Hmm.” I pondered this for a moment. “Interesting. Did you get a good look at this woman?”

  “Not really. Like I said, she was leaving, so I just saw her from the rear. But her hair was heavily highlighted.”

  “I’d sure like for it to be Linda, being an outsider. But, in Linda’s defense, Carlene was agitated anyway, and possibly Linda’s being there was nothing more than a coincidence.” I thought some more. “I’ll give Art a call and see what he has to say about this.”

  I stroked Daisy’s silky fur and went on. “It has to be premeditated. It’s highly unlikely that someone came up with the idea to spike Carlene’s tea based on a chance discussion, a discussion Carlene herself initiated, and just happened to have cyanide on her—or his—person. Who carries cyanide around, who even possesses it, where do you even obtain it?” The very questions Carlene had posed. But the answers were simple enough—research, either via the Internet or the old-fashioned way, the public library.

  “Oh!” Now Lucy sounded excited. “Could the cyanide have been added to the tea beforehand? Someone could have put something in the tea sometime during the day. That way it doesn’t point to one of you.”

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t in the tea. The tea was new, something she’d never tried before. In fact, I saw her take the cellophane wrapper off the box. So unless we’re talking about some clever mass murderer armed with cyanide-laced tea it does point to someone in the group.”

  “But what about putting something in the mug ahead of time? Where was the mug, anyway?”

  I closed my eyes and visualized the virtually empty kitchen. “On the kitchen table. On a tray.”

  “Do you know how long the tray had been there?”

  I shrugged. “So you think someone came over earlier? Someone outside of the book group?” I heard the hopeful note in my voice. Any possibility that the culprit was a non–book group person was welcome. “But let’s not forget that this hypothetical person who visited earlier may be a book group person. Or,” I added as an unwelcome idea occurred to me, “there’s Evan.”

  Lucy cringed. I gazed out the window, biting my lip. The idea of a past marriage to a future wife killer rankled, although I was to find that thirty-plus years is a long time, more than enough time to form and re-form characters.

  I regarded Lucy. “Who knows about Evan and me?”

  “Everyone knows you were married to him.”

  “But do they know about . . .”

  “Why you moved here in the first place?” When I nodded, she said, “I don’t know . . . Well, I think I told Sarah.”

  I sighed. “When did you tell her?”

  “It was before you arrived from California. Once you got here and found out that Evan was married, I said nothing, hoping she’d forgotten. She did ask me about it once, and I said you had a change of heart, and left it at that. After all, she didn’t even know Carlene back then—I don’t think so, anyway—she didn’t know her until the book group started.”

  “Who else?”

  “I don’t remember telling anyone else. Did you tell anyone?”

  “No one in book group. Let’s hope Sarah didn’t say anything.”

  “What are you worried about?”

  “Looking like a suspect—like I was out to get rid of Carlene so I could have another go at Evan.”

  “Well, it’s unfortunate that you spent so much time in the kitchen. But, really . . . you a suspect?” Lucy shook her head in disbelief. “Unless I’m in denial, not willing to face the scary realization that I’ve lived with a killer relative for all these years. Tell me this: who knows about your conversation with Evan at Target?”

  “No one. Just you. And Evan.”

  “If I were you I’d keep these speculations between the two of us. As far as anyone else is concerned, especially in the book group, we completely accept the suicide verdict. Otherwise you run the risk of making the killer, assuming there is one, uncomfortable enough to kill you.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Lucy.”

  Lucy gave me a puckish look. “What about Vince as a resource? I’m sure his cronies in the police department keep him in the loop.”

  Lucy was referring to Vince Castelli, a retired Richmond homicide detective turned true crime writer, my sometimes friend, sometimes more-than-friend, sometimes much-more-than-friend. A petite redheaded woman named Molly had accompanied him to Carlene’s signing at Creatures ’n Crooks, confirming our current status to be in the “friend” category. Lucy’s mission in life was to get me married off to Vince.

  “Forget the matchmaking, Lucy. You saw his new girlfriend at the signing.”

  Lucy waved a well-manicured hand in dismissal. “Probably won’t last.”

  Once again we lapsed into silence, but not for long. “This whole thing is so—creepy,” I said, not able to express my feelings better. “But who did it? And why? And how?” I sounded like a journalistic owl.

  “I need more coffee.” Putting her knitting aside, Lucy got up and refilled her mug. “If we knew who we might know why. And vice versa. Coffee? And have one of these zucchini muffins,” she ordered. “I got up at seven and made them.” So as not to inconvenience Daisy, who now blanketed my lap, Lucy let me sit while she filled my mug with the arabica brew and handed me the basket of muffins.

  After obediently accepting her offerings, I suggested, “Let’s look at each person’s connection to Carlene. And how she—or he—came to be in the group. I need paper. Will you hand me that pile of mail?” I asked, pointing toward the counter that separated the morning room from the kitchen. In practicing my recycle/reuse policy, I’d developed a penchant for writing on the backs of envelopes.

  Envelopes and pen in hand, I started. “We know how I met Carlene—through Evan.” I felt my nose wrinkle at the memory of being jilted by my ex. Even after all these years, this inaccurate memory persisted.

  “When did you and Carlene form the group?”

  “Three, almost four years ago—early in 2002.” For some time before that, Carlene and I had attended the same library mystery group. Over time we found fault with the group and had our own ideas about how it should be conducted. So one day we said to each other, “Let’s start our own and have things the way we want them.”

  I asked, “How about Sarah?”

  “We told her about the group at a neighborhood watch meeting.” Lucy snagged a nail on her knitting. As she took an emery board from the pocket of her robe, she asked, “Did she and Carlene have any association outside of book group?”

  I thought. “Don’t think so.”

  Lucy held up a hand to check the progress of her filing. “Did you talk to Linda at all? We need to learn more about the Linda/Carlene connection.”

  “No, I wanted to, but she was telling Annabel about her colonoscopy, so I steered clear of her.” Lucy smiled, knowing my aversion to medical topics. “Then she told someone, I think it was Helen, about some skin condition she had.”

  I picked up my muffin and split it in half. “Carlene worked as a computer programmer in L.A. As a contractor she worked at a lot of companies. The IT community is small, even in a megacity like L.A. Using the theory of six degrees of separation, someone I know is bound to remember her. Maybe Linda as well, as they could have worked together.”

  “So I take it you’re going to get your L.A. buddies working on this?” Lucy asked.

  “Sure thing.” I added the item to my to-do list. “I wish I’d thought to ask Linda for her e-mail and phone number. Maybe Kat has it. It sounded like they’d talked at the signing.”

  Lucy looked thoughtful. “I wonder if Carlene had a lot of secrets . . . secrets that hold the key to why she died.”

  A flurry of squirrel activity on the patio galvanized Shammy into action. Fur bristling, she raced from one side of the room to the other, while Daisy remained on my lap, oblivious to the commotion.

  “Maybe rereading Carlene’s book would help.”

  “Possibly,” Lucy agreed. �
��You’re thinking of looking for buried clues?”

  I nodded. “And I’d love to get my hands on anything she’s written for her third book.” I recalled the laptop in her den. Maybe Evan would give it to me. I wrote down a reminder and reviewed my notes. “Who’s next?”

  “Helen and Art.”

  “Hmm. Carlene and Helen may have met at the gym.”

  “So, we need to know how Helen and Art came to the group, and if either of them knew Carlene before.”

  I wrote that on my growing list. “I dread getting buttonholed into a family values lecture. Helen was really on a tear last night.”

  “Let me guess—pro-life?”

  “You got it—with an emphasis on the stem cell aspect.” I rolled my eyes. “And now, who’s left? Ah, Annabel. She also started at the group’s beginning and definitely had a Carlene connection, being former Fan neighbors.”

  “Were they close friends?”

  “I’m not sure. Carlene invited her to join the group, but that doesn’t necessitate closeness. And I know they went on a house and garden tour together last spring. I never heard of Carlene being close with anyone, except Georgia. And I don’t even know how close they were, even though they’d known each other for years.”

  I twirled my pen like a baton as I mused. “I always thought it was funny how closemouthed Carlene was about L.A. She admitted to living there, but that was as far as she’d go.” I looked up at the ceiling as if seeking heavenly inspiration. But the heavens were ignoring me. “Maybe the secrets, assuming there are secrets, can be traced to her L.A. days.”

  “That brings us right back to Linda. When you call whomever you’re going to call out there, you might come up with something. Hopefully something concrete, not just gossip.”

  “Sometimes gossip’s a good starting point.”

  Lucy yawned in response. “Do we know anything useful about Carlene’s marriage?”

  “Nothing. Except that there appear to have been problems. My few, and brief, conversations with Carlene were limited to mysteries and writing. If I broached anything personal, like I did last night, she cut me off.”

  “This is where Georgia would be a good resource. Hopefully she confided in her.”

  “I’ll call her now,” I said, reaching for the phone on the end table. I noticed the blinking voice mail light, but decided it could wait. I reactivated the ringer that I’d put on “do not disturb” the night before. I searched for Georgia’s number in the directory, trying the office first. Knowing how she loved her work, I figured that’s where she would seek solace, distraction.

  Our conversation was short and tearful. Thankfully, Kat had already called her with the news. “She said the police found a suicide note. I can’t believe it! Suicide? That’s nuts. Why, we spent this past weekend at a spa. It was her birthday.” I remembered Carlene’s stunning haircut and French manicure from the night before. Another no-suicide vote. For what seemed like a long time, but was probably no longer than a minute, all I heard was Georgia’s sobs. Finally, she said, “I’ve got to go. I have a doctor’s appointment. Let’s talk tomorrow at the office. Will you be here?”

  “I’ll be there,” I assured her. I volunteered for Georgia at the Richmond Women’s Resource Center a couple of days a week. “Take care of yourself, Georgia,” I said, and ended the call.

  I told Lucy about the spa trip, ending with, “So that reinforces our hunch that Carlene didn’t kill herself.” Lucy agreed.

  “So what about Kat?” I looked blank for a moment, still in a reverie about the spa trip. Lucy explained, “We know how she come to be in the group—she was another founding member, likely at Carlene’s invitation.”

  I petted Daisy and considered Kat in suspect terms. “Vince says that in real life, as opposed to murder mysteries, the killer usually is the obvious one. And a family member to boot.”

  “They could have had stepsister issues,” Lucy mused. “It seems like whoever did this had the perfect window of opportunity when Carlene went off on her towel-finding mission and left her mug in the kitchen. I know you told me before, but let’s go over it again. Who—besides you—was in the kitchen at the time?”

  I thought. “Sarah. A few of us went in and out. Annabel had a phone call and went down to the family room. Kat and Art cut through the kitchen to go down to the family room.” We smiled at the vision of Kat showing exercises to a love-struck Art.

  “So—that means that five people had ample opportunity. Four, when we exclude you. Would Sarah have a motive to kill Carlene? Remember, she was the reason Carlene left the kitchen.”

  I spread my hands to indicate being at a loss for a reason that Sarah would poison anyone’s tea. “I could see it more with Annabel, what with professional jealousy over publishing.”

  “But Annabel’s pretty accomplished already. She had a head start on Carlene.”

  “Don’t forget Annabel’s the one who found Carlene and could easily have deposited the note by her chair. And”—I shook my finger when I remembered yet another reason to implicate Annabel—“there was the business with her husband.”

  “But she was never tried for that or even arrested—” The sound of the doorbell startled us. Lucy stood and walked through the kitchen to the hall. “It’s Kat.”

  I removed a protesting Daisy from my lap, stashed the envelopes under a cushion, and walked to the front door. Just before Lucy opened it, I stage whispered, “Let’s be careful what we say, in case she did it.”

  “So who the hell killed Carlene?” Kat demanded as she charged through the doorway.

  Then she burst into tears.

  CHAPTER 4

  “KAT, WE’RE SO SORRY,” I said. Lucy echoed my sentiments. We exchanged hugs before Lucy shepherded us into the morning room. “Coffee?” I offered. When Kat nodded wordlessly I went to the kitchen to get a mug. Kat’s willingness to accept refreshment struck me as pretty trusting. After all, coffee served the same purpose as tea as a vehicle for poisoning. Of course, if Kat poisoned Carlene’s tea she had nothing to fear from anyone else’s beverage offerings. If she was innocent, maybe any danger hadn’t yet occurred to her.

  “I’ll get more tissues,” Lucy said as she headed for the downstairs bathroom. I poured coffee into Kat’s mug and handed it to her, thinking as I caught her miserable expression that if she was the killer, she was either racked by guilt or a consummate actress. I admonished myself not to get carried away with this killer business. I couldn’t dismiss the suicide conclusion out of hand.

  Lucy returned with a box of tissues and placed it next to Kat. As we sat, I took a moment to inventory Kat’s wardrobe. I think that anyone who met the woman, regardless of the circumstances, shared my fascination with her flamboyant style. But the first detail I noticed was one made conspicuous by its absence—something leopard. Her usual black prevailed in her leather jacket and leotard with plunging neckline. Tight stretchy pants clung to her slim, well-developed legs and flared at the bottom. Her mass of blond curls seemed slightly flatter, her abundant eye makeup smudged beyond repair after what looked like a lot of tears. Kat was still “out there,” just not as far as usual.

  Lucy looked her usual elegant self in her periwinkle robe with a satin shawl collar. My contribution to this fashion show of sorts was a pair of sweats purchased long ago at a California swap meet and socks with holes at the heels.

  Kat sat on the end of the sofa and looked down at her lap. “I hope you don’t mind me barging in on you like this. I’m meeting Evan and Dean at eleven to discuss the . . . arrangements.” Dean Berenger was Kat’s father, an affable sort whom I’d met at Evan and Carlene’s turkey dinners. He’d spent most of his time standing in the driveway with a can of soda and a cigarette. “In the meantime I couldn’t bear being alone.” At that her voice broke and tears flowed down her cheeks. My eyes filled and soon the three of us were off on a crying jag.

  “I can’t believe the whole thing. I can’t take it in,” Kat sobbed. Then she grabbed my arm with a
hand decorated with at least ten rings. “So how are you doing after last night?”

  I whispered, “I’m okay.” Then, my voice restored, “And Evan?”

  “Evan doesn’t know what hit him yet. As for Dean, he’s full of regret about the past—useless regret, in my opinion. Carlene never really forgave him or her mother for all the hurts of her childhood.” Kat blew on her coffee. “I tried to get her to go to Al-Anon but she refused.”

  “What about her parents? Did someone let them know?” Lucy asked.

  “Both dead.”

  “How did Evan find out?” I asked. “Who told him?”

  “He found out because he called Carlene and—” Kat’s voice broke again. After a ragged inhale, she continued. “Can you imagine, she died right when they were talking.” I had forgotten the male voice yelling through the phone.

  Kat continued. “When no one responded, naturally he was frantic—he was at a conference in Northern Virginia, two hours away. He called Janet, their next-door neighbor, to find out what was going on. Thankfully, she has a listed number and Evan knew her last name. By the time he reached her, all hell had let loose, what with the ambulance and police and all. Janet called the police, who of course wouldn’t tell her anything, but she told them how to get in touch with Evan.” Kat grabbed a wad of tissues from the box. “Then he had to drive back here and be interviewed by the police. So he’s had no sleep.”

  Lucy went to the kitchen and came back with a bowl of fresh fruit and placed it next to the basket of muffins. Kat’s tears streamed down her face, making the smudgy black spots under her eyes fade. I couldn’t remember a time when Kat wasn’t fully made up. She looked younger now, almost innocent. Shammy jumped up on her lap. “Cats know when you need them,” she said as she stroked Shammy, who rewarded her with an adoring look. “My Leopold is a huge comfort to me right now.”

  Kat mopped at her eyes and cheeks. “I’m sure I look a fright,” but seemed unconcerned as she sipped her coffee and seemed to take strength from it. “Anyway, Dean’s trying to find Hal. We have no idea how to get in touch with him.”