Murder at the Book Group (14 page)

I took my phone out of my purse and speed-dialed Lucy. I dispensed with hellos and dived right into my purpose for calling. “Did you go to Creatures 'n Crooks?”

“Well, hello to you too. Where are you?”

“At Starbucks, next to the gym. Talking to Kat.”

“Okay. Yes, I did go. I got
Murder in the Keys
and talked to Lelia Taylor. When I asked her if she was aware of an altercation between Carlene and a customer, she said she'd been pretty busy, but did remember this woman with bizarre highlights.” If Linda took up a life of crime, assuming she hadn't already, she'd do well to rethink her hair-coloring options. Lucy went on. “The woman left the signing table but went back a few minutes later and said, ‘So, Carlene, or whatever your name is now, maybe you should write a book about death by drowning. True crime, of course.' Then she winked and walked away again.”

“Sounds like a threat to me. What did Carlene do?”

“She left shortly after that, said she didn't feel well. According to Lelia, she looked pretty stunned.”

“I'll bet she was. Did Lelia have a customer record for Linda?”

“No, nothing for a Linda Thomas. She didn't recall ever seeing her before. And Linda's a person you'd remember. So either one of the shop assistants sold the book to her and she paid cash, or she got the book someplace else and brought it into the store for the signing. Kind of crass if she did that.”

“Okay, thanks. See you at the house.”

When I told Kat, she sighed in frustration. And when I asked if she'd ever heard of anyone named P.J. or P.G. she screwed up her face in thought. But the initials didn't ring any bells and she slowly moved her head from side to side.

Kat asked, “Have you heard anything else?”

One sticking point remained for me in clearing Kat of suspicion: the Chipotle lunch. Going for the direct approach, I said, “Vince said he saw you having lunch with Evan at Chipotle's.”

Kat looked first startled, then exasperated. “So? Oh, I suppose that means that Evan and I plotted to kill Carlene so we could live happily ever after?” Kat put her head in her hands and groaned. “It was
Chipotle's,
a frigging fishbowl. Hardly a place for romance.” She said romance with the accent on the second syllable and a flourish of her hand, tipped by red leopard-print nails.

I found her reaction over the top, but tried to mollify her. “No one said it meant anything. Vince just mentioned it when we talked last night.” Trying for a casual tone, I asked, “So, how did you happen to be having lunch with Evan?”

“I ran into him at the T-Mobile kiosk. I said I was headed for Chipotle's and did he want to join me. He said yes. That simple.”

“When was this, anyway?”

“At least a month ago. Maybe three weeks, I dunno.”

“Did you know that he and Carlene were separated at the time?”

“Yes, he told me that day. He kind of hinted around that we should get back together, but I pretended not to take the hint.”

“You weren't even tempted?”

“Not really.” Her eyes twinkled, and she revised her claim. “Okay, I was. Like I said before, the sex was to die for. But it occurred to me that the whole separation thing could be very temporary and then, once again, I'd be dropped like a hot potato.
Not
appealing.”

Kat didn't add anything more about Chipotle and possibly there was nothing more to add. I had no choice but to give her the benefit of the doubt, at least for the time being.

I nibbled on my muffin, finding that I was hungrier than I'd thought. Before I could introduce Helen's man in the car sighting, Kat said, “I talked to Georgia earlier.”

“Yes, I talked to her as well.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Well . . . Carlene had some trouble when she lived in L.A. Did Georgia tell you anything about that?”

“No. We didn't get past reminiscing about high school. What kind of trouble?”

“No one really knows.” I ran down my conversation with Georgia, hoping that I didn't sound insulting or judgmental of Carlene. I felt like I was violating Carlene's privacy, as everything I said seemed to be news to Kat. If she'd wanted Kat in on her drama, she'd have shared it with her. As Kat sipped she alternated between concern, alarm, and delight with Carlene's sexual hijinks.

“Fiancé, stalker, doomed love affair, fundamentalist church? I never heard about any of this. Who on earth could the stalker be? And why didn't she ever tell me about her riotous sex life? I thought she was a prude.”

“You said you fell out of touch with her until she moved back here. By that point she was closemouthed. Remember how I said that she didn't want to discuss L.A.? She didn't want to the other night either, when Linda arrived.”

“Linda again.” Kat gritted her teeth. “She must be involved in this L.A. story.”

I agreed and sighed. “There's more. Helen called.”

Kat's face clouded and her voice took on an edge. “And?”

I told Kat Helen's tale about the man in the car. Kat took it in, looking grim. When she spoke it was only to say, “My sister was no prude, was she?”

“Definitely not,” I said as I finished my last crumb.

Tears welled in Kat's eyes and spilled over. As they streamed down her cheeks, I looked for tissues, but Kat grabbed a napkin from a pile on the table. “I'm glad she discovered sex and enjoyed it so much—but it sounds like it had something to do with getting her killed. Now Helen would say that was true, she'd call her a sinner.” Her voice bitter, she went on. “Helen was here earlier and asked me if I thought Carlene had committed suicide. I said, ‘Oh, Christ, no.' Of course, I got a chiding look for taking the Lord's name in vain. Then she asked, ‘So do you think someone
poisoned
her?' ”

“I said it certainly looked like it. I asked Helen if she saw anyone hanging around in the kitchen. We got into a cagey discussion with Helen claiming that she wasn't, after all, on kitchen patrol and didn't want to finger anyone, although she managed to finger several of us. She said Annabel got a call and went out to the kitchen. And you and Sarah were by the refrigerator, whispering.”

I explained to Kat how I went into the kitchen for creamer when Carlene was fixing her tea. “When Sarah showed up saying there were no towels in the bathroom, Carlene went to find some. She probably left the tea unattended in the kitchen. I mean, why would she take it with her?”

Kat said, “And Art and I traipsed through the kitchen so I could show him those exercises in the family room. Helen didn't mention that as it would implicate her dear son, although it's possible she didn't see us. She didn't see Linda in the kitchen, and neither did I—still, Linda's an unknown, so she wound up in first place on Helen's likely suspect list.”

Kat pounded the unsteady table, making it bounce. “We've got to find Linda.”

We sat for a few moments, listening to our own thoughts as we downed our coffee concoctions.

WHEN IT WAS
time for Kat to lead her group exercise class, we went back to the gym and headed for the locker room. She repaired her ravaged face as best she could and I donned a long T-shirt and leggings, the same outfit I'd worn for ten years. I found a treadmill where I could watch CNN. But my news watching was short lived, as I heard an appreciative “Hi, Hazel” and turned to find one of my favorite gym denizens on the treadmill next to me.

“Joe!” I exclaimed with delight. “It's so good to see you.” I tried not to stare at his muscles, very evident in his tank top and shorts. Dark hair lightly salted with white trailed from the bottom of his baseball cap with “Cincinnati” emblazoned across the front. A tiny diamond stud sparkled from one ear while a wide gold ring decorated the third finger of his left hand. Sigh. Once again my thoughts strayed to my hair. By my best estimate, Joe's age was close to mine. Men could be sexy, hot, at any age, but women didn't enjoy the same perks. Sixty is the new forty, the media proclaimed. But the media was full of it. I felt skeptical enough of the media's news coverage, so why trust them with age perceptions? Did people believe the hype?

Joe asked, “How's the writing going?”

“I'm working on the final draft.” It felt nice to talk about normal stuff, not death.

“Speaking of writing, did you know that woman author who died?”

So much for the normal stuff. I looked at Joe and nodded. “Carlene Arness. Not only did I know her, but I was there when it happened.” At Joe's amazed reaction, I gave a bare-bones account of Carlene's harrowing death.

Joe shook his head. “What a dreadful experience. Cyanide, huh? Suicide?”

As Joe wasn't involved in the group, I figured I was safe in airing my views with him. “No one knows yet. But I don't buy the idea of suicide.” I didn't go into Carlene's past with the murky characters, love fugitives, lovers, and so on, or even her recent past with the man in the car. I did present her publishing success, spa day, and upcoming Costa Rica trip as arguments against suicide.

I heard strains of music, the kind of dance music Kat played for her class. When I turned I saw a latecomer to the class closing the door behind her. “Do you know Kat? The trainer here?” When Joe smiled and said, “Oh, yes,” I told him about the connections she and I had to Carlene.

“Amazing! Stepsister. Ex-wife.” Joe shook his head again. “How's her husband holding up?”

“From what I understand, he's devastated.” I sipped from my water bottle. “They were separated, but still . . .”

“Any children?”

“None.” I put my hand up at that point and said I'd just as soon not talk about it anymore. Joe said he understood and started to run on the treadmill. I resumed watching CNN, but had no idea what I saw. Whatever it was paled in comparison to the drama in my own world.

Joe interrupted my reverie. “Got to get back to work.” He stopped the treadmill, cleaned it off, and said, “Take care of yourself, Hazel.” I watched him as he walked away, sweat pouring down his face, and envisioned him in the pages of my book.

I smiled.

LUCY AND I SAT
in the kitchen, twirling linguine topped with Lucy's award-winning marinara sauce. The particulars of the long-ago award had faded into obscurity, but not the wonderful taste and aroma. When I finished updating her on the day's conversations, Lucy said, “I'm relieved that we decided to trust Kat.”

“Yes, nobody can fake tears like that. I really feel bad for her. It's hard to suspect someone you pity.”

Lucy looked thoughtful as she speared a lettuce leaf. “And she's going out with Mick to keep in the information loop?”

“And maybe for protection. Since she's as against the suicide verdict as I am, she realizes that someone killed Carlene and may not stop at one death.”

Lucy grimaced at that. “Well, let's move on.” Shaking a finger at me, she started. “What about your cell phone? Vince was right about the camera.”

“Okay, after dinner, you and the felines can pose for me. And quit shaking that finger at me.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I finished my pasta and put my fork on the plate. Lucy put her elbows on the table and folded her hands under her chin. Her plum polish was the exact shade of her blouse. “So,” she began, “let's see where we are now. We have Linda and Annabel . . . Trudy would've been a good suspect, but this marriage of hers puts a damper on that idea. That bit that Georgia told you about Carlene having an affair with what's-his-name was interesting.”

“Randy,” I supplied.

Lucy stood to clear the table. “So far Art, Helen, and Sarah look innocent. But maybe we'll come up with something on them.”

“At this point, my money's on Linda. I wish I could get a handle on this P.G./P.J. person. Somehow it seems important. I hoped Georgia might know, but she didn't. Neither did Kat.”

“Are you sure it refers to a person?”

I hadn't considered that possibility. “Well . . . no.” I remembered my decision to make “thinking outside the box” my new mantra.

Once the kitchen was tidied up, we went upstairs, where I took photos of Lucy and the cats. It didn't take more than a minute to refamiliarize myself with my phone's camera feature, and the results were acceptable, even recognizable. But the point of the exercise was to become a quick draw, meaning I couldn't fumble with the danged thing, looking for the right menu options.

I set to adding Dennis Mulligan's numbers—office, cell, home—to my contact directory along with speed-dial designations. When the landline rang I jumped.

“Annabel,” I mouthed to Lucy. The only words I could get in were “sure,” “okay,” “see you then.”

“She's coming over.”

“When?”

“Now. She's in the area and needs human contact with someone from the book group. She didn't explain why we're the humans she picked, but I guess we're as good as anyone.”

“Well, I'm glad she did. Maybe we can get something out of her. Remember—let her do the talking. Don't tell her a thing.” I agreed as the doorbell rang. To arrive so quickly, Annabel had to be coming here by intent. Lucy and I weren't on the way to anywhere and didn't live by a main street. She came through the door, looking as crisp and pristine as ever in a charcoal gray pantsuit. I could never figure out why she dressed like a lawyer. She was a full-time writer with little need to turn herself out so well. I guessed that wearing professional clothing was a personal preference. As for me, I admired the clothing but did not miss the days when suits and three-inch heels were my daily uniform.

After a round of awkward hugs Annabel presented a bakery box filled with an assortment of cookies: oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, peanut butter, and macadamia nut. “Coffee?” Lucy offered. “Don't worry, at this hour, it'll be decaf.”