Murder at the Book Group

by Maggie King

  “Kat, you can’t—”

  “Oh, I know, I know. I’ll behave myself. But you might have to hold me down.”

  I’d like to see myself hold Kat down, I thought.

  Kat asked, “Do you think the group will survive this whole thing with Carlene?”

  “That’s what we’re supposed to address tonight.”

  Our future.

  CHAPTER 21

  I PONDERED THE NEW wrinkle of Annabel and the brownies. Her early arrival at Carlene’s gave her the opportunity to administer the poison—providing that Carlene’s mug was on the table and chances were good that it was. She also needed to have Carlene out of the kitchen, but she could invent some item she needed for Carlene to get for her. Did Annabel have the necessary nerve? She’d displayed considerable excitability during my recent experiences with her. But maybe calmness, or the lack of it, didn’t matter if she found herself alone in the kitchen. It took seconds to pour powder into a mug, and the whiteness of both the powder and the mug would escape notice.

  I entertained the thought of finishing Carlene’s love fugitive mystery. If I got my hands on it, maybe I could write my way to solving the mystery of her murder. Did she back up her writing? Probably—she had the same IT training that I did. Was it too soon to approach Evan about acquiring his wife’s computer and finishing her work-in-progress?

  Sarah called, asking for Helen’s address. “I can’t find it and it’s not in the book.” I kept a hard copy of the book group directory in a folder under the counter that divided the kitchen from the morning room. As I recited the address I was struck anew by the feeling of familiarity I had with it. Of course, I’d been to Helen’s place a number of times, but something else, something akin to déjà vu, drifted just below conscious level.

  Sarah wasn’t inclined to talk beyond a clipped, “Thanks. See you later.”

  All I could think was that I knew someone who lived in the same area, making the address resonate in my brain. But I couldn’t name a single person who lived in Helen’s large apartment complex. Then I went back further, trying to think of people who might’ve lived there in the past. The problem was that I didn’t know where my friends and acquaintances had lived in the past. In the five years that I’d lived in Richmond they’d been at their current addresses.

  Then it came to me—someone I’d known for longer than five years. Much longer. Upstairs, I turned to the “A” page of my address book. Bingo! I’d crossed out Evan Arness’s old addresses, but I could read one of them—3576 Brissette Drive. Helen was at 3514 Brissette. When I’d looked up Susie Abbott’s phone number I must have seen Evan’s address and registered it on some level of awareness where it hovered for nearly a week.

  Hmm. First Helen and Evan both worked at Acer Insurance and then they lived at the same apartment complex hundreds of miles away. That those facts were significant was undeniable—but what they signified eluded me.

  When Lucy came home I raced downstairs and found her in the kitchen, petting two adoring cats who flanked either side of her chair. I spilled out my latest discovery.

  When I’d finished, Lucy looked thoughtful for a moment. “Do you think Helen and Evan had something going on? Maybe still do?”

  “Like an affair? Were they in cahoots, planning Carlene’s demise?” I shivered at the possibility. Perhaps they were pretending to observe a decent period of mourning, whatever decent meant, before they officially paired up.

  “Well, you’re running with this, but it’s conceivable that they had an affair. And the other day at her car, with those photos of Evan—”

  I broke in. “Oh yes, her cover story for having the photos of Evan in her car . . . I bet she made up that bit about Carlene wanting them digitized for a DVD.”

  “She did seem nervous, like we’d caught her doing something she shouldn’t have been doing.” Lucy laughed and said, “If our speculations are true, it means that Evan has an incredible range of taste in women. You, Kat, Carlene, Helen. Think of it.”

  “Evan’s not even religious. Or conservative.” Or was he? He wasn’t at the time of our marriage. Or was he? We never talked about that stuff, we didn’t even have views. Aside from our occasionally indulging in marijuana, the hippie movement and the Vietnam War passed us by. I marveled at the things I didn’t know about the people closest to me. Only, I remembered, Evan wasn’t close to me.

  I sprinted back upstairs and found the card Evan had handed to me at the memorial service. Back in the kitchen I dialed the number on the card, hit the send button, and waited.

  “Who’re you calling?”

  “Evan. Why sit here and speculate? I hate to do it, but we have to get him involved.” I left a message on Evan’s cell, then tried him at home. When prompted by Carlene’s voice, I winced and hung up.

  “He’s not picking up. Let’s just go to the house and see if he’s there. He could be ignoring the phone. Or ignoring me. If we leave soon, and if he is there, we’ll have time to grill him about his relationship with Helen before we have to leave for book group. While we’re at it, we can ask him if Carlene gave him a DVD for their anniversary.”

  “Fine with me, but after we eat. Let’s have that chili you slow-cooked overnight and a salad.”

  While I heated the chili and Lucy assembled the salad, I shared my latest on Annabel and her pumpkin brownies.

  “So, Annabel brought the brownies over earlier. And that means something . . . What does it mean? Oh, she must be the one Janet saw around dinnertime.”

  “Exactly.”

  I pointed out how Annabel had a golden opportunity to add the cyanide either when she delivered the brownies or when she arrived the second time and took her jacket down to the family room. I explained, perhaps reexplained, how Annabel and Linda arrived at the same time and Annabel took her jacket downstairs while everyone in the living room was focused on the newcomer, Linda.

  Lucy asked, “Did Linda take her jacket downstairs?”

  “No, she kept it with her. I saw her pulling it on when she left.” I ladled the chili into bowls. “Of course, we don’t know that Annabel did any of this—it’s just a possibility.” Yet another thing to get all het up about. I felt myself scowling as I again recalled Annabel’s arrogant tone on the proof situation from the night before.

  “Annabel looks worse and worse all the time.” Lucy tossed the salad as she pondered this latest information. “Still . . . no proof.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I groaned. “I’m getting tired of those two words ‘no proof.’ We’ve got to rustle up some proof. I hate to admit it, but I’m afraid of Annabel. At this point, I’m afraid of the whole damned lot of them.”

  “That’s understandable. They’re an unsavory bunch, that’s for sure. Annabel absolutely unnerves me. The problem is that we know way too much about her. Of course, it’s all stuff she told us herself. Probably regrets it now.”

  “But then, if she’s the killer, why would she be so open with us? She isn’t stupid. Is she?”

  “Maybe she meant to disarm us so we’d ask ourselves these very questions and not suspect her. At any rate, what can she do tonight? I’m sure she’s not bringing doctored pumpkin brownies. If she does, we won’t let anyone eat them. Besides,” Lucy added, “Annabel might not even show up. After all her revelations, she may be too embarrassed.”

  “Somehow I doubt that. I think she revels in all the drama.” We sat and tucked into our food. “Maybe I can figure out a way to ask her if she brought the brownies over earlier and see what she says.”

  “Hazel . . .” Lucy’s warning tone was unmistakable.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be subtle.”

  Lucy’s skeptical look told me what she thought of my subtleness, but she changed the subject back to Evan. “You know, we can’t just barge in on Evan and pepper him with questions about Helen. We need a good reason for being there—and we need to take food.”

  “Yes, we never gave him a bereavement casserole.”

  “There�
��s the chili.”

  “Okay, fine,” I said. Chili didn’t strike me as standard bereavement food, but Evan used to like mine, so why not?

  As for the good reason for being there—that required thinking. By the time we finished eating, we had a cover story of sorts.

  ON THE WAY over to Evan’s, Kat called, sounding frazzled. “I’m sorry, Hazel, I can’t make it. Beverly came to the gym today and started screaming at Mick. Then she started in on me, calling me nasty names. Steve the manager banned her from the gym.” Kat paused to take a breath, then rushed on. “When I went to my car later, someone had keyed the whole driver’s side and let the air out of one of my tires. Gee, I wonder who that was.”

  “I’m sorry, Kat. Is there anything we can do?”

  “Find some way to nail Annabel. I’m passing on tonight. I’m really sorry, but I have enough BS to deal with.”

  I stifled a groan. So now Lucy and I will be faced with not one, but two suspects, and without benefit of Kat’s bodyguard services. The evening had the makings of a high-wire act.

  I decided not to mention our incipient suspicions about Helen. “I understand. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Maybe I’ll call you later.”

  “Don’t call on my cell phone. I’m reserving it for Vince.” I didn’t elaborate on that vague explanation. “If you need to talk to one of us, call Lucy.” The night before, Vince and I had worked out a signal. If I called him, I had a problem that required him to hightail it over to Helen’s—with backup. Otherwise, we’d communicate with Lucy’s phone.

  After Kat’s exhortations to “be safe, be careful,” we ended the call and I told Lucy about Kat’s misadventures. By the time I’d finished we were in front of Evan’s house. “There’s his car!” I sounded like a game-show contestant as I pointed to the Camry parked in the driveway. “He’s home.”

  After the events of just eight days ago, it felt eerie to walk up to the house. After ringing the bell three times with no response, we started pounding on the door. Just as I looked at Lucy and said “I hope he’s all right,” the door opened. Evan’s annoyed look morphed to mild irritation when he saw who we were.

  “Hazel? Lucy?”

  From his flannel robe, bare feet, and rumpled hair, I guessed that he’d been showering all the time that we were ringing and pounding. Not waiting for an invitation, I pushed the door open further and walked in, Lucy in my wake.

  Once we were inside, Evan tightened his robe belt and cast a nervous glance up the stairs. I looked in the same direction, but saw no one. Who was up there? Kat? If so, she’d recovered from the Beverly episode in record time as I’d just spoken with her a few minutes before. That was assuming the story of Beverly’s rampage wasn’t a trumped-up one. So did that put Kat back in the suspect spotlight? Or was she just trying to get out of going to book group? Not that I could blame her—sex or book group? Hmm.

  I half expected her to appear in Evan’s shirt, or nothing at all, striking a provocative pose, tousled blond hair going every which way.

  Suspicion kept ricocheting from Linda to Annabel, now to Helen and back to Kat, with Sarah as runner-up, in a murderous game of hot potato.

  The circumstances made hugging unseemly, so I didn’t embrace Evan and neither did Lucy. “We’re sorry to bother you, but, you see, we’re on our way to book group and . . .” I went into a song and dance about needing to pick up a special book that Annabel wanted, a memento of Carlene; plus I wanted a few photos to give to Helen for the memorial page on Carlene’s website. “We tried calling, but you didn’t answer. When we saw your car, we figured you were home. Five minutes. Ten, tops, and we’ll be out of your hair and you can get back to . . .” My unfinished sentence hung in the air. “Everything we need should be down in the family room. Helen will make copies of the photos and return them.”

  A look I couldn’t decipher passed over Evan’s face and disappeared in an instant. Then, probably realizing the only way to get rid of us was to give us the run of the family room, he waved his hand in that direction. “Yeah, okay, go ahead.”

  Lucy held up the container she carried. “We brought you some of Hazel’s chili.”

  Despite his prior lack of enthusiasm, Evan brightened. “Your famous recipe?”

  “It is. You remembered.” I felt just as pleased as I had all those years ago when he’d praised my chili, the one thing I could make at the time. Over the years I’d adjusted the recipe, originally calling for fatty ground beef, using what was “in” at the moment—turkey, bison burger, whatever. “Do you want us to heat it up?” Evan shook his head, saying he’d have it later. I’d never considered chili a postcoital snack. I gave the idea a permanent pass.

  Despite my outward bravado, I felt skittish about being in the family room. Lucy sensed my discomfort and squeezed my arm, flashing a look of understanding. Steeling myself, I carefully stepped into the kitchen while Lucy put the chili into the refrigerator. On the table, a half-full wine bottle caught my eye. I smiled at my use of “half-full,” the word choice of an optimist.

  The family room reeked of tobacco. Who smoked? Certainly not Kat. And I recalled Evan opening windows and waving away smoke from my long-ago cigarettes. I averted my eyes from the chair where we’d found Carlene’s body and her poisoned tea, focusing on the two wineglasses and ashtray on the coffee table. Bubblegum-pink lipstick ringed the filters of two cigarette butts. A half crescent of the same shade marked the rim of one of the glasses. It was a shade worn by teenagers back in the sixties, not one favored by mature women in any era, and especially not by Kat. But I’d seen that shade lately, and on a smoker. Janet. I sighed. It was Janet upstairs, waiting for Evan to return to their love nest.

  The sight of the glasses and ashtray galvanized Evan into action. He picked them up and headed for the kitchen, passing Lucy on the steps. Remembering his role of impromptu, if reluctant, host, he turned and asked with little graciousness, “Would you ladies care for some wine?” We declined, then exchanged knowing looks before we bit our lips and looked away to keep from laughing.

  Lucy and I threw our sweaters and bags onto the sofa and stationed ourselves in front of the bookcase, pretending to study book titles and photographs. This accorded with our plan to do something that took time and ensured that we’d be there for a while. I reflected on Janet, the new addition to this puzzle that was spiraling out of control. Did she kill Carlene to get Evan? My mind formed a picture of Janet calling on Carlene, making a neighborly request for a cup of sugar and, while inside the house, leaving a present of cyanide. Posing as a friendly neighbor provided perfect cover for all manner of skullduggery.

  That neighborly friendliness apparently extended to romps with the recently bereaved. Had Janet arrived earlier bearing a casserole and a bottle of wine and one thing had led to another? Assuming today was the first time.

  Evan came halfway down the steps and stood leaning against the banister, taking care to keep his robe closed.

  I picked up a photo of Carlene and Evan, clad in swimsuits, walking on a beach. “Oh, Evan, I have to tell you, I talked to Donna McCarthy yesterday. She sends her condolences.”

  “Yeah, she sent a card.”

  “She told me something I never knew—that Helen Adams lived in Rochester and worked at Acer.” I slanted a look at Evan and asked, “Did you know her up there?”

  Evan’s face clouded. “No, I met her down here. But she said she’d worked at Acer. Didn’t look familiar, though.”

  I thought of Donna’s description of the then-frumpy Helen. Wondering what Evan’s dark face signified, I asked, “Where did you meet her?”

  “At our apartment complex, off of Jahnke Road. I’m not sure how . . . maybe in the laundry room. Or at school. She was taking courses at Tanson. Still does.”

  “Did you ever go out together?”

  “No, but she invited me over for dinner a lot. Wanted to make sure I got a home-cooked meal. Helen, Art, and me—boring as all get out.”

&nbs
p; Lucy said, “It sounds like Helen was interested in you—so why have Art there?”

  “Beats me.” Evan ran his hands through his already tousled hair, making it stand up in randomly placed tufts. “The woman was a pain in the ass. She was everywhere. Home, school, you name it. I thought about getting a disguise.”

  I said, “Maybe she wanted you to initiate something romantically. Like ask her on a date.”

  “A date?” Evan nearly spat the word.

  A floorboard creaked overhead and we looked upward. Likely the bedroom was over the family room, according to the usual plan in these split-level houses. Apparently Evan’s paramour was up and about. He excused himself, promising to return in “no time.”

  Lucy watched Evan go up the stairs and turn the corner to continue up to the bedroom level. She stage whispered, “Who’s up there? Kat?”

  “No, Janet.”

  “Janet!”

  “Shh. He said he’d be back in no time.” Overhead, voices competed with the creaking floorboards and a flushing toilet. I prayed that Evan wouldn’t get sidetracked into a quickie.

  Lucy chuckled. “Kat’s sure missing out on some drama.”

  “I think she has enough drama with Mick’s lunatic girlfriend. Let’s look at these photos.” The floor-to-ceiling bookcase lined a wall section. Three shelves contained books, mostly hardbacks and oversized art volumes. Two of the shelves were so crowded with framed family photographs that we had to move the ones in the front to see what was behind them. I recognized Evan’s parents, dressed and groomed to perfection. Hal, Kat, Carlene at different ages; Carlene’s mother, whom I recognized from the photo upstairs in the den.

  Tucked behind a large framed photograph I found a three-by-four-inch photo of a toddler-aged boy, standing in front of a house, wearing shorts and a striped top. With his aggressive stance and lips pressed firmly together he looked fierce and determined.

  The boy appeared in several other photos; one showed him in a Little League outfit, another wearing a Mouseketeer hat, yet another with missing front teeth. I assumed it was the same boy at different ages. In the next picture, taken in the late sixties judging by the hairstyles, an awkward teenager in a white tuxedo jacket peered at the camera through black-framed Woody Allen glasses. His prom date looked equally ill at ease. By this age he was looking familiar. The senior year photo made me gasp, and with good reason—without the glasses I realized I was looking at none other than my first ex-husband, Evan Arness.