by Maggie King
“So, anyway, I think she intends to blackmail me.”
Unfortunately I had a mouthful of decaf. Choking, I managed to swallow it without spitting any on myself. “Blackmail?” I asked with alarm and more than a little disbelief. I remembered posing the question to Lucy about Carlene blackmailing Annabel—but I was just pulling ideas out of thin air. Did blackmail even exist in the real world? I realized that it did, but I’d never known it to touch the lives of anyone of even my remotest acquaintance. But I’d never known murder to touch their lives either. Had I read one too many murder mysteries and now found myself passing eternity in the pages of one, à la The Twilight Zone? “What do you mean she intends to blackmail you? Why didn’t she do it when you were on the phone?”
“The blackmail was implied.” Annabel’s pressed her lips in a grim line. “She broadly hinted that she could be persuaded not to call the police about the prints. I told her I’d sue her for libel or slander. Whatever.”
I still felt stunned about the word “blackmail,” but Lucy took up the slack. “Frankly, I’m missing something here . . . Why does this Ronnie think you killed Carlene?”
Annabel groaned. “Oh, no doubt it all goes back to the whole thing between Carlene, Randy, and me. I’m sure Trudy told Ronnie the whole sordid story. Or as much of it as she knew to tell—I was never sure just what Trudy knew. So now Ronnie’s intimating that I killed Carlene out of revenge. Over Randy! The guy’s nothing. That’s when she went into the wild thing about my fingerprints. She said she’ll notify the police about my fingerprints, and that they’ll take her seriously because of my close connection with two deaths.”
“Whoa! Let’s back up a bit—who’s Randy?” Annabel didn’t have to know that I already knew about him.
“Yes, um, Randy. Well, he wasn’t any big deal. No real loss at all. Despite what he thought about himself.” Annabel tossed her already well-tossed hair.
“So, who is he?”
“Randy Baker. Trudy’s ex. No real loss,” she repeated. Despite her airy tone, I caught a hint of pain and wistfulness crossing Annabel’s face. Perhaps Randy was a bigger loss than she cared to admit. Annabel’s speech got pressured as she continued, “But another woman might not have taken it so lightly when her man was snatched away from her.”
I thought of a twangy country lament about tragic love. “It sounds like . . . first you were seeing Randy, then Carlene was seeing him. Is that right?”
Annabel huffed a sigh and said, “Okay.” She poured more decaf, added milk, and sipped. Fortified, she began. “You know that Carlene and I were neighbors in the Fan, don’t you?” She didn’t wait for us to affirm before going on. “We rented the same duplex where I live now.” She took another sip of her decaf. “Anyway, Randy and I met at a signing for Jack Hit the Road. He claimed he was a big fan of mine. And so we started dating.”
Lucy asked, “How long did you two date?”
“Oh, a couple of months, I guess. Until the night we went out to dinner with Carlene and her man of the moment. The next thing I knew Carlene and Randy were seeing each other and I was out in the cold. Along with the man of the moment. What was his name?” Annabel looked at us like she expected us to provide the answer. Then she snapped her fingers in triumph. “Tom. Tom something.”
Any regard I had for Carlene was taking a serious nosedive. “Well, that was a crappy thing for them to do! I’m so sorry, Annabel.”
Annabel waved a hand in dismissal. “All in the past. At the time I was pissed, I’ll tell you that right now. Not because I especially liked Randy. Truth is, I was about to dump him and he beat me to it. It was the principle of the thing. You know, we never even slept together. I have morals, I don’t just jump into bed with men willy-nilly,” she sniffed. “I make them wait. What’s all the fuss about sex anyway?”
From her sniffing I guessed she was putting herself above someone who did jump into bed with men willy-nilly. And I had a good idea who that someone was. “And Carlene?”
Annabel, involved in converting a tissue into an origami creation, laughed. “She most definitely didn’t make men wait, and Randy was no exception. I heard that headboard banging against my wall the same night as the double date. I thought she was with . . . what did I say his name was?”
“Tom. Tom ‘something,’ ” Lucy supplied.
“But the next morning I saw Randy leaving.” Annabel paused, perhaps to emphasize the implications of her statement. Lucy and I looked appropriately appalled and Annabel gave a harsh laugh. “I could write a book based on the woman’s sex life.”
I felt tempted to advise her that writing about vicarious sex didn’t work. It might work for some writers but most needed to have a sex life or at least enjoy sex. As far as I knew, Annabel didn’t fit in either category. As for myself, I fit in the second category and hoped that soon I’d fit in the first.
“The walls in those Fan duplexes are thick but not thick enough. Oh shoot!” Annabel spilled decaf on her jacket and we devoted the next couple of minutes to cleaning up the mess. Between Daisy and the decaf, Annabel’s dress-for-success outfit wasn’t faring well.
“Now where was I?” Annabel asked.
When Lucy prompted with “the walls in the duplex not being thick enough,” Annabel said, “Right. Her bed was on the other side of the wall from mine, so night after night, I had to listen to them. I wound up changing bedrooms. And then,” she said with a dramatic flourish, “one day, it was around dinnertime, I went to Carlene’s kitchen door to ask if she’d feed my dog while I went out of town.” As she leaned forward and lowered her voice, I could tell she was enjoying herself. “Did you two see Fatal Attraction?”
“Ah, the famous kitchen scene,” I said. We laughed as we recalled the intense kitchen sex between Michael Douglas and Glenn Close. It brought to mind the kitchen sex scene Georgia had told me about, the one that sent Carlene’s L.A. roommate packing.
“Randy and Carlene could have been reenacting that scene. There they were, Carlene up on the edge of the sink and Randy’s naked behind facing me.”
We laughed all the more. Tears running down my face, I asked, “Did they see you?”
“I don’t think so. They were too . . . involved. And I think he was standing on a stool or something. He was quite short.”
“What did you do?”
“Do? Why—I walked away and resolved never to approach her door unannounced. The next day I called her from work and asked about my dog. I didn’t mention the scene from the night before. She agreed to take care of Yvonne and that was that.”
Lucy said, “So, it sounds like you remained friends with Carlene. If not, you wouldn’t ask her to take care of Yvonne. Hazel and I wouldn’t let anyone we didn’t like tend to Daisy and Shammy.”
At the mention of their names, the cats appeared. They made their way to my side, giving Annabel a wide berth. Lucy checked her watch. “It’s nine o’clock. Treat time.” Lucy got up to dispense the treats. “Can I get anything else while I’m in the kitchen?”
We shook our heads and I turned back to Annabel. “Yes, not only did you remain friends with Carlene, but the two of you went on tours, attended exhibits, stuff like that. And you came to the book group because of her.”
“Yes, well, we had common interests. Like mysteries. And the arts. But that didn’t make us close.” It occurred to me that if I wanted to kill someone, I’d manage to be in that person’s company on a regular basis. That way I could plan my murder strategy and wait for the optimum time without being pressured. Lucy returned as Annabel said, “And you know something . . . I believe in forgiveness. I’m not a grudge holder.” This she managed with such a pious tone that I was hard-pressed to keep from laughing.
To appease her, I said, “I’m sure you’re not.” Privately, I wasn’t so sure. Just as I wasn’t so sure Annabel was the forgiving soul she claimed to be. She had a powerful motive for killing Carlene, regardless of how many years had passed since they’d shared that Fan duplex. Apparen
tly, grudges run deep and long with some folks. And Annabel wouldn’t be the first person to be in grudge denial. But my musings about grudge holding distracted me from Annabel’s recounting of Carlene and Randy’s tawdry relationship. I cautioned myself to stay focused.
“Carlene asked me if I minded if she went out with Randy, I’ll grant her that much. Not that they went out much.” Annabel arched an eyebrow at this. “I assured her I didn’t mind in the least. Of course, I did mind, but I didn’t want to admit it.” Annabel and Kat operated by the same set of dumpee rules. Mind, but don’t ever admit it.
“So how long did Carlene and Randy see each other?” Lucy asked.
Annabel raised her eyes like she expected to find the answer on the ceiling. “Oh, I don’t know. Six months? Real hot and heavy, then Evan came along and Randy got dumped on his behind.” I thought about Kat getting dumped by Evan at the same time. A whole lot of dumping going on. And musical beds.
“Then what happened?” Lucy and I looked like children listening to stories around a campfire.
Annabel grabbed a chocolate chip cookie and took a bite. “Randy didn’t take well to being dumped and kept coming around to Carlene’s place, even when Evan was there. Maybe especially when Evan was there. One night there was a big brouhaha because he was banging on the door, yelling things like, ‘You f-ing bitch,’ and worse. It went on and on, and finally one of the neighbors called the police. The first time Randy left before they arrived. The second time, he didn’t manage to escape, or maybe didn’t want to, and the incident ended up in the paper.”
“What happened after that?” Lucy asked.
“Randy showed up a few more times, but he was much quieter. Evan and Carlene got married quite soon after they met, about six weeks, and they moved to where they live now. Lived,” she amended in a rueful tone.
In keeping with my ask-don’t-tell policy, I didn’t want to reveal that Carlene and Evan had separated or that she’d been seen with another man. So I tried an oblique approach. “I wonder if Carlene and Evan were happy. Did she confide in you about that or if she was seeing another man?”
If I had any doubts about this being a silly question, Annabel’s gales of laughter set me straight. “Are you joking? Carlene confide? In me? No way, recently or not. Carlene was not a confider and didn’t suffer personal questions.” She laughed again.
Lucy asked, “Did she ask you for advice on writing?”
Annabel waggled her hand back and forth. “Sometimes about publishing, agents, that kind of stuff. But not writing per se.” That struck me as odd. But maybe Carlene didn’t like Annabelle’s writing.
I moved on to Trudy. “When Trudy showed up at book group, did you recognize her as being Randy’s ex-wife?”
“Oh, yes, we knew each other from the library. Neither of us ever mentioned Randy. As for Carlene, I don’t know if she recognized Trudy. You see, Carlene and I never referred to that . . . time, or anything or anyone associated with it.” Annabel scowled. “We pretty much kept our conversations to small talk.”
Annabel had no more information and no memory of other men in Carlene’s life, although she assured us there were plenty. Carlene didn’t go long without male companionship. And Annabel had nothing to add to the meager knowledge we had of Linda Thomas—she remembered her from the signing but nothing of any ruckus with Carlene.
“Of course, I know way too much about the woman’s colonoscopy.” Annabel rolled her eyes. “Honestly, between her and Helen, it was tough avoiding the two of them the other night. Every time I turned around, there was Helen, or there was Linda, nattering on about something I didn’t want to hear.”
Annabel frowned at her fancy watch. “Goodness, is it nine thirty already? I must dash.” She slanted a look at me and asked, “Now do you see why I need to talk to Vince? How can I get in touch with him, Hazel?”
“Well, let’s see . . .” I hesitated. I thought that a lawyer would be a better choice than Vince. Aloud, I said, “I’ll give you his e-mail address. Wait a sec while I go upstairs and look it up.” Annabel didn’t need to know that I had it in my head.
When I returned with the address on a Post-it, Annabel said, “Thanks so much!” She picked up her satchel bag, started to stand, and then, as if the effort was too great, she sat down again. “I just hope that Ronnie doesn’t show up at the service. I’m just so upset about this whole thing. Plus I’m devastated about poor, poor Carlene.” The “poor, poor Carlene” part sounded like an afterthought if ever I heard one.
“Did Carlene ever mention a person named P.G. or P.J.?” Catching Annabel’s exasperated look, I said, “I know, I know, she didn’t confide in you. But you never know . . .”
“I understand. But, once again, I can’t help you. Sorry.”
This time Annabel managed to stand, smoothing her pants and adjusting the straps on her sling-backs. “Well, gotta go! See you on Friday.” We walked her to the door.
Lucy and I waited until Annabel started her car and drove off. Then, in perfect synchronization, we turned to each other. Lucy mimed wiping her brow and said, “Whew! Do you believe her?” From Lucy’s skeptical tone, it didn’t sound like she herself did.
I waggled my hand back and forth. “Not sure. Not sure at all. But she’s definitely gained a top spot on the suspect list. Unlike Kat, she didn’t voice any doubt about Carlene’s committing suicide. That could mean that she poisoned her. What better cover for murder than a suicide verdict?”
“And just yesterday we talked about how Annabel found Carlene and could easily have left the note by her chair.”
I nodded. “I wonder if Carlene did, or said, something recently to piss off Annabel and dredge up the old feelings. Something that stoked Annabel’s dormant rage. Or maybe not so dormant.”
“The woman is—what would be a good word—fraught?”
“As good a word as any. I sure wouldn’t want to get on her bad side. I can just see her sitting at home sticking pins in voodoo dolls.”
Lucy said, “And my guess is that two of those dolls resemble Carlene and Ronnie. Ronnie sounds like the devil incarnate. As for Carlene, she didn’t respect relationship boundaries, did she?”
I considered the recent reports of Carlene as a sexually provocative woman who made a practice of appropriating other women’s husbands and boyfriends. Did she finally piss off the wrong woman? It may have been just a matter of time before she got her comeuppance. A very deadly comeuppance.
Lucy said, “All this talk about blackmail . . . Remember how the other day we wondered if Carlene knew about Annabel’s husband and maybe . . . blackmailed her?”
“As I recall, I wondered about it and you dismissed the idea out of hand.”
“Yes, well, you may have been on to something.”
“So Annabel could have more than one motive.”
“She very well could.”
CHAPTER 11
AT TEN O’CLOCK I left Lucy, reading Murder in the Keys, and went upstairs to my den. I had felt exhausted and talked out before Annabel’s arrival. Her visit, while enlightening, hadn’t energized me. But I didn’t want to put off my quest to dig up dirt from Carlene’s L.A. days. It was seven in L.A., and unless she was sitting in freeway traffic, I had a chance of finding Susie Abbott at home.
I hoped the number I had for her was a current one, as she moved a lot. So did many others in my address book, judging by the crossed-out entries in the AB section alone. I could barely make out the number squeezed onto the edge of the page. When would I learn to use a pencil?
I wound up leaving a message on Susie’s machine. It was probably just as well, as a conversation with her could run into hours. I told her I’d send her an e-mail and that we could talk the next day. The e-mail I composed outlined the bare bones about Carlene’s death and a description of Linda. I included a link to Carlene’s site.
Her website photo was backlit, so I hunted around for some better ones. The previous Christmas Lucy had given me a digital camera, and for
a while I had snapped pictures every chance I got. I found a folder on my computer called “Book Group” with three good pictures of Carlene, including one of the two of us, looking chummier than we ever actually were. I attached them to the e-mail and asked Susie to send them around to people in the IT community. I figured that if she sent them to enough people and they in turn sent them to enough people, someone was bound to remember Carlene. I wished I had a photo of Linda to include.
LATER THAT EVENING, I lay back against my pillows, petting Daisy as she nestled up against my thigh. Usually Shammy was my buddy, but every so often the cats switched allegiances. I had just finished Murder à la Isabel but felt none the wiser for having reread it. No buried clues. Carlene’s second or third books might be more insightful. Maybe eventually I could take a look at her computer.
Carlene’s author photo on the back cover was a duplicate of the one on her website. It showed her posing beside a dogwood tree, backlit by the sun. She wore a black leather coat over slacks and a turtleneck, and stood with arms raised and spread apart, like she was doing the yoga sun salute.
Her author biography was a sketchy one. She was a programmer analyst in another life. She wrote mysteries at an early age, reading installments to her friends on her way home from school. Nancy Drew and the Dana Girls were her biggest influences. She lived in Richmond with her nameless husband and was hard at work on her next Minerva Mazarek adventure.
I continued to study the photo that was little more than a silhouette and her to-the-point biography. “Hiding,” I said aloud. “Why’s she hiding?”
Hiding. And who hides?
Fugitives.
Love fugitives.