by Maggie King
CHAPTER 12
“COFFEE. I NEED COFFEE,” I groaned to myself. Either coffee or twenty-four hours of uninterrupted sleep.
I was back at the Women’s Resource Center, trying to proofread a grant proposal, but fatigue was having its way with me. But I perked up considerably when Vince, waiting for his plane to board in San Diego, called.
After the preliminary inquiries—“How are you?” “How are you feeling?”—I found myself telling him about Annabel’s visit.
His reaction was predictable enough. “Annabel came to your house? Hazel, I told you to be careful. Like it or not, everyone in your book group is a suspect. And that includes Annabel.”
“I was careful.” I practically bit off my words. “Lucy was with me, we were armed with cell phones, and I’ve been taking pictures madly.” All two of them. “Now let me tell you what Annabel said. Without the interruptions.”
“Okay. Calm down. Proceed.” I gave him a rundown of Annabel’s revelations, including her version of the Randy saga and Ronnie’s hints of blackmail in the matter of Annabel’s dear husband and his unsolved murder.
When I finished he said, “I remember hearing about those incidents with Randy. As for Greg Mitchell, when I was running through the names of your book group members, I refreshed myself on the details of his murder. The man wasn’t dear. He was a philandering cop who enjoyed ‘special’ relationships with scores of women. So many that prevailing thought had it that an unhappy woman or her husband had killed him. Annabel may have taken advantage of that theory. She was certainly a suspect herself. As you know, they never did catch the person who shot him.”
“Maybe Annabel hired someone.”
“Maybe.” Vince sounded skeptical. He went on, “The neighbors had a lot to say about Greg and Annabel. A lot of fighting and yelling. No one would have been surprised if Annabel did it.”
“Just supposing it was Annabel, why shoot him? Why not just divorce him?” The very question Laci Peterson’s mother asked her son-in-law, Scott Peterson, during his trial for murdering her daughter. It was a rhetorical question—I neither expected nor received an answer.
“Greg helped her with her writing. She wrote her first two books before he died—one was a poisoning, the other a shooting. In both, a woman killed her husband. Ironically, Greg may have been participating in his own murder.”
“Cheery possibility to ponder.”
After a pause Vince said, “And now she’s bringing up all this stuff about the library and her fingerprints. Interesting.”
“Yes, it seems kind of dumb, but I think she wanted to get all her dirty linen out in the open. That way, she’d look like she had nothing to hide and could make Ronnie reconsider her blackmail scheme. Assuming she had blackmail in mind.”
“Could be, but it doesn’t gain Annabel much as far as Carlene is concerned. She had as much of a motive as anyone.”
Vince had a point. Annabel belonged to the swelling ranks of Carlene’s romance victims. As did I. At least I knew I was innocent.
“Is the house still a crime scene?”
“Oh, no. Not since yesterday.”
“So what happens now?”
Vince paused, then an edge crept into his voice. “It’s an open case.”
“For how long?”
“I can’t say.”
I sighed. I interpreted Vince’s testy responses to mean that the police had nothing to go on and would probably declare Carlene’s death a suicide. Which meant that we had to come up with something for them to go on.
When Vince’s flight was called for boarding we ended the conversation and agreed to talk the following day at the memorial service.
I left the center at three and resolved to put all thoughts and discussion of Carlene and her untimely death on hold for the rest of the day. I got my roots touched up and let Rhea talk me into coloring my hair with a zippier shade of chestnut than my usual subdued one, accentuating the reds and golds against the brown. I even splurged on a manicure and pedicure. Lucy brought home Thai takeout and I broke the Carlene moratorium long enough to catch her up on Vince’s latest about Annabel and the dear husband. I broke it again when Susie Abbott called and I gave her a blow-by-blow account of Carlene’s suspicious death. Susie said she’d already sent the photos around and would let me know when she heard anything.
Then Lucy and I curled up with the cats to watch The Turning Point, one of my favorite movies, one I’d seen at least five times since its release in 1977.
But not for a sixth time—I didn’t make it through the first scene before sleep took over.
THE BEAUTY OF sun beaming through the mullioned windows of St. Bernard’s Episcopal Church almost made me forget why we were assembled there. Also the fact that this church was quite—what would be a good word?—unchurchlike. With its yellow walls, vaulted ceiling, gold chandeliers, and the not-stained-glass windows, we could have been in an upscale home. I couldn’t even locate a cross. Only the pipe organ and pews hinted that we were indeed in a church, awaiting Carlene’s memorial service.
When the minister appeared, I spotted his toupee from my seat in the back of the church. Shouldn’t a man of God be unconcerned with such worldly effects as hair? Half a dozen bouquets and wreaths, attached to easels or sitting on pedestals, flanked him as he stood at the front of the church. He welcomed the family and opened the service with a prayer of remembrance. Not a personal remembrance—he didn’t know Carlene from Adam. Eve, rather. He delivered a generic every-dead-person-was-wonderful kind of eulogy, rhapsodizing on Carlene’s literary success. I thought literary a bit overstated, but . . . whatever. Despite his faux hair and limitations of not knowing his subject, he lent an eloquent and sincere tone to the service.
Much sniffling and rummaging for tissues accompanied Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven.” When the minister invited family and friends to speak, Kat, flinging her shawl over her shoulder, went forward first. She kept her eulogy subdued, sharing a couple of childhood anecdotes involving her stepsister. Her voice broke several times, but she pressed on. Like Kat, Georgia didn’t let her tears stop her from sharing memories of the lifelong friendship she shared with Carlene. I smiled as I imagined someone getting up and regaling us with the carnal adventures of Carlene’s “other life.”
Carlene’s brother followed. Hal was well spoken, reminiscing about childhood with his older sister. I had noticed him when he walked down the aisle with the family, a scruffy but handsome man wearing a mishmash of ill-fitting clothes. I had correctly guessed him to be Hal the hermit. Kat had called earlier with the news that Dean had located Hal and flown him out from Colorado—or was it Wyoming? “He arrived late last night,” Kat had said. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to him. Georgia told me that he lived with Carlene for a while in L.A., but she doesn’t remember when. If you talk to him after the service try to get something out of him.” We’d see how my getting-something-out-of-people skills were holding up.
Before Hal finished, I heard a minor commotion behind me. Two men and a woman came in and slid into the pew behind where I sat with Lucy and Vince. One of the men bumped my hat, making it tilt over one ear. When I turned to see who the offender was, a tall, thin man sporting sunglasses, a dark suit, and stylish blond-turning-gray hair mimed a profuse apology. To my surprise, Linda stood next to him, her own wide-brimmed hat not quite covering her highlighted glory. I guessed that she’d seen the obituary. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a second man, dark haired, standing off to the side. His well-tailored suit and sunglasses duplicated those of the blondish man, who I figured was Linda’s husband. But who was the nonhusband? I didn’t want to crane my neck or turn all the way around and peer at them. As I righted my hat, I resolved to be patient and buttonhole Linda after the service.
Evan remained in his seat and did not offer a eulogy for his wife. I wondered if that was due to grief, ambivalence, anger, or all three.
Readings from the Old Testament, New Testament, Twenty-third Psalm,
and a soprano of all sopranos singing “Pie Jesu” failed to hold my attention. I scanned the printed program with Carlene’s author photograph and an image from Murder à la Isabel gracing the cover, my thoughts drifting as I regarded the assemblage from my vantage point at the back of the church. Lucy and I had arrived early to claim the best people-watching spot, with Vince showing up shortly afterward, taking a seat on the other side of me.
Of the mystery book group, all of us were present with the exception of the globe-trotting Trudy. Helen’s military bearing was on display, contrasted with Art’s slumped one. Sarah’s braid, usually hanging down her back, now coiled around her head, coronet-style. Her husband, Den, a Vietnam paraplegic and flirtatious as all get out, positioned his wheelchair in the aisle next to his wife.
Many of the arrivals had waved and I’d waved back whether or not I recognized them. Some looked familiar, while others didn’t. There was a contingent of regulars from the turkey dinners, and no doubt some were Carlene’s former coworkers and Evan’s present coworkers. I recognized faces from the fiction group. I wondered if any of the men present numbered among Carlene’s former lovers.
The soprano reappeared, belting out the Lord’s Prayer. Then we riffled through the pages of the hymnals for “Amazing Grace,” one of my favorite hymns.
All in all, the service was a moving one and I regretted not fully appreciating it. Once we were dismissed, I turned to find Linda and her entourage gone. How had I not noticed them leaving? I knew I should wait for the family to leave first but I couldn’t pass up my opportunity to speak with Linda, assuming I even had one. So I made a beeline for the door, scanning the area in front of the church as well as the street. Not a soul. Lucy, with my purse in hand, appeared by my side with Vince. Both asked what I was doing. Agitated, I vented my frustration at having Linda so close only to vanish into thin air.
Vince asked, “That was Linda behind us?”
I nodded, continuing to fume. “One of those guys was probably her husband. The blond one. As for the dark-haired guy, I couldn’t tell who he was. Not with the shades.”
The family was spilling outside followed by the rest of the mourners. I ducked back into the church to look at the guest register. Since Linda had arrived late, I started at the bottom. No Linda. But I wasn’t giving up hope of her showing up—for all I knew she was using the facilities.
Evan, wearing a charcoal gray suit with a blue striped tie, shook hands at random. If pressed to identify the emotion indicated by his demeanor, I’d say somber, but it wouldn’t be quite right—lack of emotion would be more accurate. A tall man with enough hair to cover two heads stood next to him. Who could he be? Kat’s brother, I guessed by the process of elimination. Kat and Dean walked arm in arm. Kat’s daughter, Stephie, and her husband, Ted, completed the very small family. That smallness surprised me until I remembered that both Carlene and Evan had lost their parents and I didn’t think there were many other relatives. Again, I felt that pang at yet another reminder that I was not a member of this family. With its dwindling size, the family should welcome even ex-members.
From the surprised looks I guessed my dramatic, noir style startled people. I’d always wanted to wear one of those big hats, the kind that could double as a serving platter in a pinch—or a Frisbee. The hat covered the updo I’d had Rhea arrange the day before. An ensemble of sophistication to match the hat was in order, starting with the form-fitting black suit and moving on to large gold disks at my ears and sky-high heels—a rare turnaround of my belief that comfort trumped style any day. No question about it, I looked great, like a femme fatale who shows up in a seedy office of a down-and-out detective created by Raymond Chandler or Dashiell Hammett. With a large-brimmed hat shading her face, she spins a tragic tale of a missing husband.
For once I looked better than Lucy. And that was saying something as she stood out from the crowd in her eggplant suit. As I looked around, I saw every color on the spectrum, including pastels. Somehow black for funerals, or a very dark color, was ingrained in me, but these days anything went. Georgia had opted for a tan pantsuit.
A young man who looked like the actor Ralph Fiennes accompanied Annabel. Lucy and I looked at each other. “Son?” Lucy ventured, with a lascivious look.
I shrugged. “Probably.” Unless Annabel was taking up with young men. Except for the brief and, by her account, sexless relationship with Randy, I’d never known her to be in a relationship. A short, bald man who had sat in front of us in the church sidled up to Annabel. She returned his mischievous look with one I could only describe as civilly polite. The couple of crab steps she took to put distance between them spoke volumes in body language. I wondered if he was Randy.
Vince worked the crowd, smiling and shaking hands as he did so. Like me, he was on the lookout for signs of guilt, culpability. Unlike me, he knew what he was doing. Vince’s heady combination of Brooklyn and southern gentleman served him well in law enforcement and in romance. Especially since he wasn’t always a gentleman . . . not when it counted. I sensed an imminent reunion with his ungentlemanly side. Then I remembered Molly and a crankiness descended on me like a shroud. Shroud? Appropriate enough, I guessed, given the occasion.
Kat weaved in and out of the crowd, handing out flyers. She had reserved the clubhouse of her town home community for the post–memorial service lunch. I was about to suggest to Lucy that we head on over there when I saw her chatting with a petite woman who looked familiar. In a flash it came to me who she was—Janet, Evan’s next-door neighbor, the one who had gotten word of Carlene’s death to him.
If pressed to describe Janet, I’d say she was a middle-aged version of the classic girl-next-door. Cheerleader was written all over her—blond hair cut in a pixieish style, charming overbite with a gap between her front teeth, perky manner. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if she executed a cartwheel right there on the sidewalk. I remembered wearing her shade of bubblegum-pink lipstick in the sixties. I introduced myself, perhaps unnecessarily. While I had seen her at the turkey dinners, I didn’t recall if we had actually met. When she spoke I caught a whiff of tobacco breath that didn’t square with the cheerleader image.
“It was good of you to come.” I sounded like an undertaker. Appropriate enough under the circumstances, but still.
Lucy still held my quilted chain bag. I didn’t think the femme fatales of film noirs carried shoulder bags, but my need to emulate the sirens of stylish forties-era crime dramas only went so far. Besides, this bag held a number of essentials, including the digital recorder I’d started at the beginning of the service, hoping to catch some incriminating scraps of conversation. I took the bag from Lucy and looped it over my shoulder.
Lucy said, “Janet was just saying that Evan’s moving back to the house tonight.”
“Oh? Surprising.” I didn’t add that I also found it macabre.
“Yes,” Janet explained. “He’s having the house cleaned today. The investigators messed it up a bit.” She pressed her lips together before going on. “I’m just sick about this whole sorry mess. And so sorry for poor Evan. He and Carlene were such nice people. I couldn’t have asked for better neighbors. So quiet, so considerate—”
I cut her off. “So you’re the Janet who contacted Evan . . . that night?”
“Yes.” Janet looked wistful. “It’s impossible to believe that Carlene committed suicide. I’m just glad I wasn’t there when it happened.”
I asked, hoping that I sounded casual, “Janet, did anyone visit Carlene on Monday before the book group met? Early in the evening?”
Her eyes widened. “Yes! Someone did visit her on Monday. About six thirty or so. I was in the kitchen fixing dinner when I heard a car pull up. My kitchen looks out on their driveway. I didn’t see anyone, just a car. A few minutes later, I heard a door slam and the car backed out of the driveway.”
I could barely contain my excitement—this might make up for Linda’s slipping through my fingers.
“Was it a man o
r a woman?”
“I never saw.” Janet cringed, like she thought we’d hit her for botching her responsibilities as nosy neighbor. Perhaps hoping to redeem herself, she added, “But I’m sure it was just one person. I’m sure only one car door slammed.”
“And you said this person stayed for only a few minutes?” Lucy asked.
“I’m not sure exactly how long. Not as long as a half hour. I don’t think.” The apologetic look appeared again.
Janet wasn’t the best witness. Although why should she be? The poor woman was innocently preparing dinner, not spying on her neighbors. Who could the mysterious visitor be? Even if the person stayed only a minute, a minute was all it took to sprinkle cyanide in Carlene’s mug. The hyperorganized Carlene likely had all her dishes laid out for the group. I remembered a time when our refrigerator conked out and I had to take some sort of dessert, one that required refrigeration, over to Carlene’s early on book group night. All the dishes were laid out on the dining room table, testimony to her preparedness. It was easy enough to pick out her mug with the “C” swirled across it. Did whoever provided the refreshments the other night bring them over early?
I shifted from one foot to the other as we stood on the sidewalk. I asked, with little hope of a definitive answer, “Did you see what kind of car the person drove?”
“No. It was small. And dark.” I stifled a groan. Small, dark car, indeed. My patience for Janet’s substandard observational skills took a nosedive.
Lucy, probably sensing my dwindling tolerance, asked Janet, “Back to the suicide and just how unbelievable it seems . . . Did you notice any problems between Carlene and Evan?”
Janet started, like she’d just been struck by a thought. Hopefully a helpful one. She leaned forward and lowered her voice like she had state secrets to reveal. “Well, they were separated.” For show, we assumed you’re-kidding expressions. Janet went on, “So sad for Evan . . . he lost her twice.”
“I guess Carlene initiated the separation?” I prompted.