Murder at the Book Group

by Maggie King

  Lucy pulled some tissues from her purse and handed them to Kat and me. We blotted the sheen from our faces and necks. I asked, “Where did she move to in L.A.?”

  Kat shrugged. “I didn’t think to ask.”

  “Did Hal say he’d ever met the married guy?”

  “Yes, once. Said he had the shiniest and widest wedding band that he’d ever seen. Like a halo on his finger. He obviously didn’t have one on his head.” Kat snorted and said, “I asked what the guy looked like and, naturally, he had dark hair, dark eyes, average height.”

  I held back a scream of frustration. “I don’t suppose he remembered his name?”

  Kat shook her curls. “And he never heard of a P.G., a P.J., or a Linda Thomas.”

  Lucy mused, “Not much to go on. Still, we need to come up with a Linda-finding strategy.”

  “That’s the rub—finding her. If she was up to no good, she may have given us a phony name. And she might not even live around here.”

  Kat groaned. “You’re right, Hazel. She could be a—a Tilly Poindexter from Alabama. Probably even a PI couldn’t nail her down.”

  Lucy reined us in. “Let’s try finding her as Linda Thomas in Richmond before we go further afield.”

  Kat returned to the Hal conversation. “Eventually we talked of other things, catching up, that sort of thing. Consoling each other. Georgia had told him that Carlene became religious after she moved back here. I didn’t tell him otherwise.”

  Yes, I thought, there was no need to tell him that the whole religious quest hadn’t taken with Carlene and that she’d returned to what some would call her wicked ways—Randy and the man in the car capers being prime examples.

  Kat ended her report with a sigh and looked at each of us in turn. “Any news on your end? Hear anything interesting?”

  Lucy and I told her about Annabel’s visit and our conversation with Janet.

  Kat nodded. “Pretty much the same stuff Janet told me earlier—except she didn’t mention the mystery visitor. I do remember that article in the paper about Carlene and Randy. So now we have to add Annabel to our list.” Kat looked beleaguered at the thought of another suspect. “At least we know where she is.”

  We went back inside and the first person we ran into was Hal, sipping a yellowish beverage.

  Kat introduced me and Lucy to Carlene’s brother. I found myself looking into a familiar pair of money-green eyes. Just like Carlene’s.

  “I understand you live in Wyoming,” I said, fervently hoping I didn’t have food on my teeth.

  “Montana,” he corrected.

  We talked about his life in Montana until he smiled at a point behind me and I turned to find Evan, eyes red, and maybe feeling the effects of too much wine. Lucy and Kat had drifted off, probably pulled into other conversations.

  Evan put his arm around me and said, slurring his words, “This woman was a good friend to Carlene. A damn good friend.” Hardly. But Evan no doubt found solace in believing that his wives were friends, so I simply smiled and didn’t correct him.

  Hal said, looking from me to Evan, “Weren’t you two married to each other?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “Long, long ago.”

  “Weird.”

  “Yes.”

  The three of us reminisced about Carlene. Then Hal checked a battered watch. Another borrowed item? “Georgia and Gary are taking me to the airport,” he explained.

  He shook our hands solemnly, adding a hug for me, and turned to greet Georgia and Gary Dmytryk. Gary was garbed in a suit the color of blue ink, reminding me of the Hitchcock movies of the fifties where the men were suited in the same blue hue. Georgia pulled me aside and confirmed my guess that it was Randy sitting in front of us in the church and talking to Annabel outside. “Thankfully, he didn’t say anything to me.”

  When Georgia asked me to come into work on Monday if I could make it, I agreed. Then she and Gary left with Hal in tow.

  The place was thinning out. Evan urged me to take his business card. After a moment’s hesitation, I did. I noted his e-mail address, and thought it would be preferable to communicate with him electronically than via phone. I didn’t trust him to observe a proper mourning period for his wife, whatever a proper mourning period was these days. I thought about Janet’s revelation that he was moving back to the house he’d shared with Carlene and wondered if I should mention it. But I held my tongue—it was none of my business. The tight embrace he gave me was a far cry from our earlier sort-of hug. I hoped the wine was responsible and that another Lemaire invitation wasn’t imminent. Helen and Janice Singleton, the “earring lady,” stood next to me, waiting to talk to Evan. I didn’t relish being the subject of rumors and accusations of making a play for Evan at his wife’s memorial service, so I stepped aside and let them take my place. When Evan turned to Helen, the same get-me-out-of-here expression I’d seen countless times on faces of book group members came over his face. I smiled.

  I rounded up Lucy and we looked for Kat to say good-bye. We found her in the back of the room, curled up on a sofa, talking to her brother and to Mick. Shoes with heels even higher than mine toppled over on the floor in front of her. After introducing Lucy to Mick, Kat stood and wrapped each of us in tight hugs and we made a bloodless pact to find Linda. “I can’t believe she was this close.” Kat used a purple-tipped thumb and index finger to measure off a half-inch of distance. “Damn!”

  We moved through the room, stopping along the way for good-byes, hugs, kisses, more reminiscences about Carlene, a tear here and there, what have you. I thought that this whole business of detecting was not as easy as it looked. Plus it was potentially dangerous and I wasn’t a brave person—my vigilante streak hadn’t come packaged with courage. Even though the police were probably satisfied to deem Carlene’s death a suicide, I resolved to leave the matter in their hands. Let me get on with my life.

  Great idea in theory, but I didn’t welcome the prospect of living in a perpetual limbo of not having answers about Carlene’s death. Not knowing was infinitely worse than knowing. Every time I saw someone from the book group, I’d wonder: “Did she do it?” “Did he kill Carlene?” “Did Carlene kill herself?” Something like being a love fugitive.

  And what about those high-minded ideas I had about exacting justice?

  There was no turning back. I had to soldier on.

  So much for the getting-on-with-my-life idea.

  CHAPTER 14

  ONCE OUTSIDE, I KICKED off my shoes. Enough was enough. So what if I wrecked a pair of panty hose and a pedicure? Even with walking on asphalt with an occasional sharp stone impaling my feet, my relief was palpable. Lucy and I rehashed Kat’s account via Hal of an enraged woman throwing Carlene into her pool with our guess that Linda was the enraged thrower. Our rehashing being unproductive, I moved on to Helen, relaying Art’s tales about the website disputes. Lucy looked blank. “Is that all?” When I said, well, yes it was, she said, “So what? Are you saying that Helen poisoned Carlene over website differences?”

  “I’m not saying that at all. I’m just telling you what I heard.”

  “Carlene was paying her, even if it wasn’t as much as she wanted. Plus, we’re talking about Helen—the most religious, conservative woman we know. Murder is a sin.”

  “But religious people—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, they’ve been murdering for centuries for a good cause. But a website is hardly a good cause. Now if Helen was interested in Evan—uh-oh!”

  Lucy and I were so involved in our powwow that we were startled to find Vince and Helen standing between Lucy’s Honda hybrid and the open trunk of Helen’s car, some indeterminate model. Hopefully our voices hadn’t carried.

  Helen’s navy suit flattered her slim figure. A string of pearls and pearl teardrop earrings completed her simple yet elegant ensemble. She looked 100 percent lady. The tones of her hair, fashioned in a smooth pageboy, alternated between blond and silver, depending on the play of light. With the halolike effect she looked yo
unger than she was—not that I knew her age. I thought Art was about forty—so, regardless of the fact that Helen didn’t look a day over fifty, she had to be at least sixty. The cheekbones helped—I had a theory that prominent cheekbones held up the skin, keeping it from sagging.

  “Helen was just showing me her digital camera. Quite impressive.” Vince held a flyer in his hand, the same stem cell research one Helen had sent me earlier in the week.

  “Yes, come and see. I just got it this morning.”

  “Where’s Art?” Lucy asked.

  “He went to work.”

  I suspected that the camera was a ruse to get us over to her car to promote one of her causes, all of which she touted via a collection of bumper stickers. She proclaimed herself a “Bush Woman” and an NRA supporter. Sure enough, the inside of her trunk was piled high with brochures and flyers. A lot of library books, many with Agatha Christie titles, were fanned out over the floor of the trunk. Also Raymond Chandler and Jill Churchill. It looked like she’d raided the “CH” section.

  I recognized some titles from the Murder on Tour selections. Sarah had talked up Deadly Harvest with great enthusiasm when we “toured” Washington State. If memory served me the book featured a detective priest. I wondered if Helen read these books or if they just remained stashed in her trunk.

  Helen lovingly lauded every detail of her camera. Apparently it did everything but wash dishes. Sales pitch over, she picked some flyers off a stack and urged them on us, but I pushed them back at her, reminding her that Lucy and I already had one.

  Sensing that Helen was about to amplify on the event advertised on the flyer, I planned an exit strategy. Just then I was gifted with one—the stack of flyers toppled over in the trunk and my attention fell on a plastic see-through envelope that had been under the pile—specifically on the photograph visible inside it.

  I asked, leaning in for a closer look. “Is that Evan?”

  All eyes went to the photograph, showing a smiling Evan. The image looked familiar and no more than ten years old. I thought it could be the one our alumni publication had included with an article on Evan when he’d retired from his job in Rochester and headed south to Richmond. The envelope’s thickness suggested other photos besides the visible one.

  Helen made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, those are some photos I scanned for Carlene a while back. When I took a Photoshop class she gave me this envelope and asked me to digitize them and touch them up if necessary. She wanted to create a DVD for Evan for their anniversary. I wonder if she ever did.” Helen gave a short laugh. “I forgot all about them. You know how bad I am about keeping stuff in my car. I guess I should give them to Evan.”

  Lucy looked toward the clubhouse down the street. “He might still be there.”

  “Goodness, I won’t bother him now.” Helen straightened up the sheath of flyers now spread out across the trunk. “Well, I do hope to see all of you at the stem cell presentation. You know, don’t you—”

  Vince cut her off. “Would you ladies care to go to Crossroads?” he asked, referring to a neighborhood coffee house on Richmond’s Southside, near downtown.

  Helen spoke up. “Thanks for asking, but I have to get going. First stop is the library—I find myself there every day—always seem to have research to do.”

  “Which library?” Lucy asked.

  Helen closed her trunk and shrugged. “Mostly Westover Hills, just because it’s the closest. But my favorite is the main city library downtown.”

  “Yes, I like that one too. But don’t you research online? I’d think a computer-savvy person like yourself would.”

  “Oh, I do both. I don’t want to see the printed word go by the wayside. And then, speaking of the Internet, I have an appointment later with a new website client. Then Bible study. I just never stop!”

  After citing a list of errands, projects, and appointments that filled her days, Helen turned to me. “Hazel, what do you think about . . .” Then she looked at Lucy and Vince and said, “Oh, I’m holding everyone up. We’ll talk later, Hazel. I’ll call you.” And so I was saved, at least temporarily, from having to think.

  After Helen left, Vince looked at Lucy. “How about you, Lucy? Crossroads?”

  “Oh, you two go. I’m going to the office. You’ll give Hazel a ride home, won’t you, Vince?” Her nonchalant manner didn’t fool me. She was delighted with this turn of events. Like a stage mom. I halted her hasty retreat long enough to retrieve my purse and a travel coffee mug from her trunk. As part of our commitment to saving the environment, we each kept a stash of reusable shopping bags, coffee mugs, and take-out containers in the car. Reluctantly, I eased back into my shoes. When Vince suggested I wear the hat, Lucy plunked it on my head and fussed with it a bit. Then she drove off, waving gaily.

  Vince and I traveled along Forest Hill Avenue to Crossroads, officially called Crossroads Coffee & Ice Cream. As I stepped out of the car, Vince again remarked on my outfit. “Very sexy,” he said with an appreciative look. I felt a little self-conscious and very, well, sexy.

  I said, “So what did you and Helen talk about?”

  “Stem cell research,” Vince smiled. “Oh, and her digital camera.”

  A converted gas station, Crossroads was a funky and comfortable place with big purple couches and mosaic-topped bistro tables. Vince and I stood out in our dressy attire—but the jeans-clad customers were too involved with their newspapers and laptops to notice us. I produced my travel mug for my latte and urged Vince to specify a ceramic mug for his. I opened my purse, making a flirtatious show of looking for money that I knew wasn’t there. Vince fell in with my plans and insisted on paying.

  After sprinkling cinnamon on our coffee concoctions, we went to an adjacent room—probably a former waiting room—and settled in by a window. I lost no time in slipping off my shoes. For a few moments, we sat in a silence that looked to be companionable, but was really expectant. Finally Vince asked, “So, Hazel . . . tell me about your conversation with Carlene’s brother.”

  I looked at Vince, trying to gauge whether jealousy or an ingrained investigative instinct drove his question. But he wore that inscrutable expression mastered by cops everywhere. I mentally shrugged and said, leaving out my observations on his attractiveness, “Our conversation was very short. But Kat had an interesting talk with him.” I launched into Kat’s description of the pool incident. “It had to be Linda. After that remark she made to Carlene at the signing, it would be too much of a coincidence otherwise. We have to find her. Did you find an address for her?”

  “With a name like Linda Thomas she’s not the easiest person to find. But let’s back up for a minute—what remark did she make?” Vince’s blue-eyed gaze was intense.

  Realizing that I’d forgotten to tell him about the death-by-drowning remark, I filled him in on that reported exchange. He raised his eyebrows and nodded but made no comment. “Makes sense. Bears looking into.” He wrote something in a notebook that he produced from his pocket. “Anything else?”

  It didn’t escape my notice that he’d evaded my question about Linda’s address. But I let it go and went on to summarize the rest of Kat’s conversation with Hal. “Thankfully, he didn’t share his sister’s reserve. He sounds much more straitlaced than she was, rigid almost. Full of moral rectitude.”

  “Moral rectitude, huh?” Vince looked amused. “That’s what I get for taking a writer to coffee. Speaking of writing, how’s yours going these days?”

  “It’s taken a hit this week. But I’m gathering some excellent material. Thanks in large part to finding out all this stuff about Carlene. And yours?”

  Vince updated me on his latest research into the true crime story of the Lattimer sisters. Patty and Nancy Lattimer had stunned Richmond three years before when they shot and killed their wealthy parents. This tragic story always got me thinking about the dynamics of the obviously dysfunctional Lattimer family. Were the daughters born “bad” or was their environment responsible for their decisions? What
kind of parents had the Lattimers been? Vince was doing his best to find out but may never arrive at a satisfactory answer to the nature vs. nurture question.

  When he finished, he asked, “Who was that young man with Annabel today?”

  “Her son.”

  “I wondered. All those middle-aged women fawning over him. What’s the attraction? I didn’t think he was so great-looking.”

  “No, but he’s sexy as all get out. He looks like that actor, you know—Ralph Fiennes.”

  “The English Patient.” Vince’s tone conveyed his opinion of that movie. “That was three hours of my life that I’ll never get back.”

  “Yes, well, I long ago made it up to you with all those action films,” I retorted. “Anyway . . . speaking of Annabel, did she talk to you today? Or send you an e-mail?”

  Vince shook his head. “Maybe she had second thoughts.” I’d given Vince a heads-up that Annabel wanted to talk to him, probably about the whole Ronnie thing with the fingerprints. It occurred to me that what Annabel really had wanted to know was how tight I still was with Vince. Maybe after being seen with him today, I’d be hounded with requests, the go-to person for inside information.

  Vince sipped his latte and gave me a long look. “I’m telling you, Hazel, you could be in harm’s way with these people. Annabel certainly has a motive. Carlene stole her man. And if Annabel was doing all that library research . . .”

  “But why wait this long to seek revenge? Don’t people get over anything?”

  “Many don’t. Not ever.”

  Vince proposed that Carlene may have incited Annabel in other ways when they lived next door to each other. Maybe Carlene stole other men from her, waylaying them as they came up the walkway. I had a vision of Carlene appearing on one of those Fan verandas in a filmy peignoir and feathery high-heeled mules, luring men from Annabel’s door.