by Maggie King
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know.” Kat waved her hand, nails painted a blue shade that matched her top. “So, what’s this about picking my brain?”
When I told Kat about Nina and her pleas that I find her sister’s killer, she said, “Roxanne Howard, huh? So you’re investigating her murder?”
“Sort of. I told Nina I’d ask around. Actually, I have the whole book group involved.” I summarized what I knew of Rox’s murder, the family connections, and what I’d learned so far in the early days of our inquiries. Kat howled with laughter when I told her about our visit to the Moonshine Inn. Heads turned. Between her flamboyant appearance and often boisterous manner, Kat attracted attention wherever she went. “And so here I am, asking you for information.”
Kat thought a minute and then answered. “Rox came to meetings for a while, went out, came back again, went out. I’m not sure how many times she repeated the cycle. And if she was at the Moonshine Inn the night she was murdered, I guess she was drinking again and would eventually have been back at meetings.”
“I understand she got two DUIs.”
“Probably. At least two.” Kat leaned closer to me and muttered, “The guy next to us keeps turning around and scowling at us.”
I tried to appear nonchalant as I turned my head to see a man decked out in a suit and tie, engrossed in something on his tablet screen. I turned back to Kat and shrugged.
“Well, he was scowling before,” Kat said. “Getting back to the matter at hand, I do remember one night after an AA meeting, Rox had a big row with some guy, not someone from the meeting. He was screaming and yelling, using the F-word, the C-word, he went through the alphabet. The F-word was his personal favorite.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Last year sometime. It was hot. Maybe about this time of year.”
“Then what happened?”
“Just more yelling, cursing, and the like. Then the guy roared off on a red Harley.”
A frisson of excitement ran through me. This had to be the lunatic! “And you hadn’t seen this guy before?” I asked.
“No. Neither had anyone else. My guess is that he was a spurned lover or something and tracked her down at the meeting.”
“I wonder what she did to incite such rage. How was she reacting?”
“She was screaming right back at him. But I had the idea that she didn’t know him. No, not exactly that.”
“You think maybe she was pretending to not know him?” Somewhere in my brain I realized I’d split an infinitive. Oh well.
“That’s it. She was playing a part. A game.”
“Hmm. Weird. Have you seen him since?”
Kat shook her curls. “But I bet he’s a drunk. A dry one, anyway.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the suited man at the next table turning and looking at us. Was he fascinated by our conversation? Or annoyed by it? The tables were full of chattering people, so why single us out for his annoyance? I decided to ignore him and asked Kat, “What’s a dry drunk?”
“That’s someone who no longer drinks but behaves like he, or she, still does. May still be seething with anger and resentment and vent in an out-of-control way.”
“Much like this guy was doing?”
“Much like he was.”
Kat looked daggers at the man next to us. “Got a problem, buddy?” He turned around and didn’t turn back. After a few minutes he finished his coffee, grabbed his tablet, and left. “Must be one of those dry drunks,” Kat noted in a wry tone.
“So,” I continued. “I’m wondering if the lunatic I told you about before, the one at the Hamlin Group, is the same one you just described. And the same one who smashed her windshield.”
“Could be.” Kat grinned. “But lunatics are probably much the same. And Rox may have been drawn to that type.” Was Brad that type? It wouldn’t surprise me if he was.
Kat asked, “So, are you thinking that one of these crazies killed Rox?”
“Do you see it?”
“From what I saw that night after the meeting, I’d say it’s a possibility. Rox was probably a provocative type and the guy was provoked, no doubt about that.”
“Did you ever talk to her? What was your impression of her?”
“I never spoke with her. She wasn’t serious about getting sober, she just did what she had to do to satisfy the court. She hung with the guys at the meetings. They sure enjoyed her, especially the rougher types. She was loud and bawdy.” I knew Kat could be loud and bawdy and tried to imagine her back in her drinking days. I felt sure she’d entertained those “rougher types,” too.
“Do you think—”
“Do I think one of the AA guys killed her? Who knows?”
I decided to deal with the slew of suspects I already had before adding more to the roster; Brad, Nina, Andy, Foster, the lunatic, and Evangeline were more than enough.
“What did this guy—the lunatic—look like?”
“Oh,” Kat reapplied her lipstick, a sizzling shade of pink. “Bald. And a bushy mustache.” She pressed her lips together and put the tube back in her satchel and touched her left ear. “Earring. Grizzle on his face.”
I now realized that I never got a description of the lunatic at the Hamlin Group on Friday. I’d ask Nichole when I saw her. Or I could text her. I hadn’t reached the point on my path to technological sophistication where I automatically thought to text.
We spent the rest of our visit catching up on each other’s lives. “What are you working on now?” Kat asked.
“I sent off my manuscript last week and I’m waiting for my editor to get back to me.” I summarized that plot, and the new one I’d started about women who get sun, fun, and romance while cruising the Greek Islands.
“Didn’t you guys go to Greece a few years ago?”
“Yes, I’m modeling it after that cruise.”
Kat’s blue eyes sparkled. “I can help you with your research.” She proceeded to rave about the sexual prowess of her latest lover, a singer named Demetrios. “He’s straight from the Greek mainland.”
“He sounds fabulous, Kat. I’ll keep you two in mind.”
•••
When I left Kat, I sent a text to Nichole, asking her to describe the lunatic. Within sixty seconds, she responded: bald head, bushy mustache, and grizzly short beard. She didn’t mention an earring but I felt confident she and Kat had witnessed the same lunatic in action. Once again I updated the group on my findings.
I devoted Monday to my writing, adding a sensual Greek lover named Demetrios to the cast of characters. Lucy sent me a text asking if Vince and I wanted to join her at O’Tooles’s that evening. Lucy’s musician husband Dave often performed at the Irish pub. I checked with Vince and texted Lucy back that we’d love to be there, but it might be eight-thirty or so, after our meeting with Evangeline. I added that Trudy might join us. Lucy responded with a smiley face emoticon.
At four o’clock I got a call that I needed to return for a follow-up mammogram due to a shifting pattern in my breast calcifications. Stunned, I made the appointment. I was plunged into a pit of anxiety, and the Greek Island adventures flew from my mind.
Several years earlier I’d been advised to have a breast biopsy, also due to calcification changes. At the time I’d done extensive research and learned about the two types of calcifications: the macro type that resembled large white dots and were considered noncancerous; and micro calcifications that appeared as white specks on the mammogram. They were usually noncancerous, too, but the aforementioned pattern shift could, just may, indicate precancerous cells or early breast cancer.
I had the micro kind.
Everything had been fine back then and I advised myself to be optimistic, as did Vince when I shared the unsettling news with him.
“Everything will be fine,” he assured me as he held me close and stroked my hair.
THIRTEEN
A LITTLE LATER, I drove over to Trudy’s house to pick her up for our “surprise�
� meeting with Evangeline and Nichole.
Trudy opened the door. “Be with you in a sec.”
I wandered into the den. Trudy was a casual housekeeper. I’d grown up in a chaotic, disorganized home so Trudy’s place didn’t bother me, but the rest of the book group had had to adjust to the piles of papers, magazines, and mail. Plus, cat hair everywhere from her shedding pet, Sammy.
I petted the purring Sammy while I waited for Trudy. When she appeared, looking cool in a pink linen shirt, she gathered her purse and we were off for our rendezvous at Italian Delight.
Italian Delight on Jahnke Road served good food at moderate prices. It was wedged in an unpretentious neighborhood strip mall that catered to a diverse clientele.
When we walked in, an older couple looked up from their salads and smiled at us. I spied Nichole and an enormous woman in a booth in an adjacent room. When Nichole saw us, she feigned surprise. “Hazel Rose, is that you?”
“Nichole!” I exclaimed. “How nice to see you.”
“This is Evangeline Goudreau. Evangeline, meet Hazel Rose.” She looked at Trudy. “And you are . . . ?”
“Trudy Zimmerman,” I completed the introductions.
Evangeline wore a floral-patterned housedress with snaps instead of buttons down the front.
I guessed she had once been pretty before weight and arthritis took a toll on her health. She wore her blonde hair short. Her eyes looked like she’d wrung the blue color out of them. Nichole’s eyes were also a pale blue, and it felt eerie having two sets of arresting eyes fixed on me.
After a round of hand shaking, Evangeline asked, “Are you Hazel Rose, the romance writer?”
“Yes, I’ve written a few romances.” I tried for a modest tone. After all, I didn’t count myself in the same league as Danielle Steele or Nora Roberts.
“Oh, I just love your books, Hazel. They’re so, well, romantic.” She held a swollen-looking hand over her heart and I half expected her to swoon.
“Sit with us,” Nichole invited.
“Yes, please do,” Evangeline seconded the motion. “We’ll scooch over.” Evangeline’s scooching left scant room for Trudy, leaving half of her hanging over the edge of the booth. I’d picked the better seating, next to the slim Nichole. The wait person appeared, informed us that her name was Avila, and took our drink orders.
“Want to share a couple of pizzas with us?” Evangeline asked.
“Sure.” Trudy nodded her agreement.
We gave our orders to Avila when she delivered our drinks. We had the whole room to ourselves. I traced a low hum of voices to a CNN broadcast on a TV mounted on the wall in one corner.
“So, how do you two know each other?” Evangeline looked first at me and then at Trudy.
“We’re in the same book group,” I said.
“Romances?”
“No, mysteries.”
“That’s surprising, Hazel, since you write romances.”
“I like to read both. And I’m thinking of starting a romantic suspense series.” I’d toyed with the idea for a while but up ‘til now had never voiced it.
“Cool.” Evangeline regarded me with admiration.
Nichole began, “Evangeline, Hazel was at the Hamlin Group the other day.” Evangeline’s lip curled at the mere mention of the place. “She’s researching sex in the workplace for her next book.”
A smile of delight replaced the lip curl. “Sex in the workplace? In that workplace?”
“Well, I do write fiction—”
Evangeline chortled. “It would have to be fiction if you’re using the Hamlin Group as a setting. Now if I were you I’d go to the Alzheimer’s Research Society where our dearly departed VP used to work—and play. God rest her soul.” Again, the pudgy hand crossed her heart, likely in a mock tribute to the memory of her former boss.
“She’s talking about Rox Howard,” Nichole explained. “We mentioned her the other day.”
“But there was some excitement the day that guy showed up, screaming and yelling like he’d just lost his nuts. Remember that, Nichole?”
“Oh, yes. We told Hazel about that.”
“Guy sure had his shorts in a bunch.” Evangeline and Nichole giggled at the memory.
“We figured they’d had a lover’s tiff. The makeup sex must have been something.” Evangeline waved her hand in a parody of fanning out a blaze.
As if on cue, Trudy’s phone burst into a rendition of Whiter Shade of Pale and Nichole’s into something I didn’t recognize.
“Crap! it’s my ex,” Nichole cried. “Excuse me, Hazel.” I stood to let her out of the booth. She stomped into the next room and outside to take her call.
“I have to take this,” Trudy said. “Should just be a minute or so.” Trudy retreated to a booth by the window where she could still see me and fulfill her bodyguard duties.
So it was me and Evangeline. Unless the woman managed to poison my drink, I didn’t have much to fear.
“You started to say something about the Alzheimer’s place?” I made a “please begin” gesture with my hand.
“Oh, yes.” Evangeline told the now familiar story about Rox Howard at her former job, a woman who belittled and marginalized her employees. But her real legacy was in her ultra-dramatic relationship with Foster Hayden. Evangeline ran down the movie theater incident as well.
“How did you get along with Rox?” I asked.
“Fine for a while. She surprised me by asking me to join her for drinks a couple of times. It was flattering at first, because I don’t think she asked anyone else. The woman liked to drink but I wasn’t used to it. I thought she had an agenda, was trying to pump me for information about myself and the other employees. I didn’t tell her anything. Truth is, there wasn’t much to tell. I lead a boring but exasperating existence with my mother.” Evangeline started tearing her napkin into strips.
Trudy remained in her booth, a serious look on her face as she listened to her caller. I saw Nichole outside, walking by the window. Even though blinds and a potted plant partially obscured my view, I could still make out her teal shorts and milky white legs. Were the two deliberately staying away to enable me to “bond” with Evangeline? Likely Trudy preferred to stay where she was and not have to settle for a sliver of space next to the corpulent Evangeline.
“So, I take it you’re not still at the Hamlin Group,” I said to get Evangeline talking about her termination.
“Oh, lordy, no. Did they tell you about my last day there?”
“Uh, no. They didn’t.”
“Probably the lawsuit’s got their lips zippered up. The lawyers don’t want any of us to talk about it.” Evangeline waved a hand, dismissing the cautious lawyers. She was clearly eager to tell all and no one would cow her into submission.
“You see, Hazel, Rox fired me for falling asleep on the job. I’d just had some minor surgery and was on pain meds. She had warned me about it, saying she didn’t know how much longer she could pay me. I had a note from my doctor so I wasn’t too worried. But one day she called me into her office. Harold Hamlin was there, he’s the chairman and CEO of the Hamlin Group. Guy’s a weasel. Anyway, she fired me. I was devastated and, well, I threatened her. I said I had some items that I doubted she’d want going public. ‘Remember the day I helped you clean out your friend Marcie’s place?’ and as soon as I mentioned Marcie’s name, Rox went white, the blood just drained from her face. And the weasel’s lips puckered up like the place smelled like that smelly cheese.”
“Limburger?”
“That’s it, Limburger. So then he went to the door and told Sandy to call security. I said, ‘Don’t bother, Harold honey, I’m going.’ Harold and Sandy hovered over me while I collected my things. And Harold hauled boxes out to my car.
“What did they think I was going to do, anyway? I did have my cane and I guess I could’ve started whacking everyone in sight. In fact, that’s what Mother did later, but I’m getting ahead of myself.” Evangeline’s tone turned mischievous. “I have to
admit that the whole time we were clearing out I never stopped yelling about the pictures I was going to send to John-Boy and to Rox’s husband, showing them what Rox was really like. Needless to say, I got hustled right out of there.”
With the cane and arthritis, it must have been a slow hustle.
Evangeline carried on, her tone arch. “Later, at home, Brad Jones—do you know who he is?”
“Sounds familiar.” I tried for my best figuring out look. “They might have mentioned him the other day.”
“He was Rox’s husband. They just got married last Christmas. At the time I got fired they were engaged. Anyway, he showed up at my house that night, threatening me if I showed anything about Rox to the Board, or to anyone else for that matter. ‘You’ll deeply regret it, you fat cow,’ he yelled as he shook a finger very close to my face.”
I had such classy relatives. I considered deleting Brad from the family tree.
“Mother came to my rescue. She swung her cane at him, smacking him right across the back. I thought he was going to pop a blood vessel, he was so mad. She swung again, but he caught the cane before it hit him again.
“‘Get out of here, Sonny. How dare you come here and threaten my daughter.’” Evangeline gave a fair imitation of the creaky, raspy voice so common in the elderly.
“‘I’ll have you arrested for assault, you nasty old woman.’
“‘And I’ll sue you for trespassing and harassment. See you in court, sonny. Now get out of here before I crack this over your head.’ She had the cane poised to do just that.
“And he left. He never filed charges. I guess he didn’t want to admit he’d been bested by a ninety-one-year-old woman.” I joined Evangeline in a titter over that one.
“So your mother was your hero.”
Evangeline’s face darkened. “Yes, briefly. No sooner was Brad gone than she was all over me. I hadn’t yet told her about being fired, so I had to do that. That unleashed a heap of verbal abuse. Then it was ‘What was that nincompoop talking about?’ I left that vague, just said I made some idle threats to Rox but I didn’t actually have anything on her.”