Murder at the Book Group (18 page)

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.

“I would imagine so—but don't quote me. Between you and me Evan was the one in love with her. She could take him or leave him.” And she had opted for leaving. Janet's assessment was consistent with Georgia's.

The three of us were among the few remaining from the earlier crowd. Vince waved and said he'd see us at the lunch. As we started walking toward the parking lot, Janet stopped. “Now, I'm wondering about something—something that struck me as being kind of funny when I heard about it.”

“What's that, Janet?”

“Well, it's this . . . I hadn't seen much of Evan since he moved out. But last weekend he was over, doing yard work. He said Carlene was out of town for the weekend, at a spa with her friend. When I heard about the suicide, I thought it very odd that Carlene would go to a spa and then come home and commit suicide.” Janet looked from me to Lucy, and asked, “What do you think?”

“We think it's odd too,” I said. Lucy nodded in agreement.

“Another thing that's odd . . . Carlene told me she was going to Costa Rica with a friend. Frankly, it sounded like hell to me. Not Costa Rica, just travel. I hate to travel. Anywhere. I'm a widow, you know.” How would I know that? And how was it relevant? I guessed it was a speech affectation. Now Janet said with a nervous laugh, “But my point is, why plan a trip like that if you have suicide in mind?”

Why indeed?

Lucy asked, “When did Carlene get back from the spa?”

“Sometime on Monday. Or maybe Sunday night.” That left Evan at the house, with Carlene away. Hmm. Lots of opportunity to plant cyanide. But wasn't poison a woman's crime? Sexist thought, but better than thoughts of Evan as wife killer. If he did it, it meant someone from the book group didn't do Carlene in after all and we were off the hook. That was the positive view. But it also meant that I had a killer ex-husband and at one time came close, at least in my fantasies, to having a killer present husband. No, I didn't like what I was thinking. Not at all.

But like it or not, I was stuck with the thought.

AT THE CLUBHOUSE LUCY
and I surveyed the buffet table laden with deviled eggs, lunch meats, tomatoes, breads, salads, fruits, and that staple of southern buffets, ham biscuits. Stephie and Ted greeted us with hugs. Between them, they wore enough metal piercings to bring airport security to its knees for days. I hoped I'd never have to travel on the same flight with them.

“It's awesome that so many people came out for Aunt Carlene.” Tears smudged Stephie's abundant eye makeup. Of course, that could have been the way she wore it anyway. “Do you know my uncle Kenny?”

The tall man with the mega hair whom I'd noticed at the church planted a kiss on Stephie's cheek. “Ken Berenger, Kat's brother,” he said. He shook hands with Lucy and me in turn. He took a long pull from his beer bottle. “Try the ham biscuits,” he invited.

“Yes,” Ted agreed. “They're awesome.” Awesome was the word of the day. Lucy and I filled plates with a little of this, a little of that. Several bowls contained what I imagined were pasta salad, potato salad, and the like—the thick layers of mayonnaise made it hard to tell. We eschewed them along with the ham biscuits.

As the room filled up, the low ceiling of the room trapped sound, creating an unbearable din. Shades of the seventies, I thought as I took in the shag carpeting, orange Formica counters, and harvest gold appliances in the kitchen. The furniture was upholstered in that plaid, nubby fabric that no cat in the world could resist scratching.

I spotted Evan standing under another seventies icon, a faux-Tiffany swag lamp. Warren Oglesby, our long-ago best man and Evan's port in the storm following his separation from Carlene, had his arm around Evan's shoulder while another man of Evan's age—and mine—stood with his hands in his pockets. I recognized him as Arnie Jeffers, an usher from our wedding.

Evan and I embraced in a tentative manner, like we were breakable. I felt a twinge or two of guilt for even thinking he would kill his wife. But I had little time to indulge in guilt—or college war stories, for that matter—and so, after a few minutes I excused myself and carried on in my self-appointed investigator role. I came upon Vince and a sandy-haired man with raffish good looks who turned out to be Detective Mick Jairdullo, Kat's inside information source. After making introductions, Vince again admired my ensemble but said I should have kept my hat on. I rejoined that the hat made eating difficult, if not impossible. Mick and I cast appreciative eyes on each other's outfits. An elderly relative channeled an outdated expression to me: “He cuts a fine figure . . .” Which Mick did in an impeccably tailored and likely Italian black suit, shoes shined to within an inch of their lives.

Aside from commenting, verbally and nonverbally, on my attire, the two were in cop mode, their attention on the crowd and not on me. Perhaps Vince gave my reservations about Carlene taking her own life more credence than he let on and had everyone under scrutiny. And likely Kat had won Mick over to her side with her own doubts about suicide. Of course, their law enforcement careers had instilled observation habits. At any rate, I wasn't about to get in their way and would seek more forthcoming conversation elsewhere.

Before I did so, I scanned the room. “Linda and company don't seem to be here.”

Vince offered a simple no. Mick nodded, seemingly up to speed on the Linda aspect.

That was that. Time to move on. I circulated around the room, asking people if they had noticed Linda and the sunglassed men. No one had. Not surprising, as the trio had arrived late, sat in the back of the church, and cut out early, escaping the attention of the present gathering. It occurred to me that the man in the car could be in the room, but Helen's vague description of someone with longish dark hair applied to several men. Allowing for recent haircuts added to the difficulty in spotting the elusive figure.

Kat and Janet were deep into what looked like a heartfelt and tearful discussion. I hadn't had a chance to talk to Kat. I felt bad interrupting them, but I made it short. When I told her about Linda being at the service and then slipping through my fingers, Kat exclaimed, “Dang! So close. We just
have
to find that woman.”

Annabel looked less than happy to see me. No doubt she regretted being so indiscreet two evenings before. Unless her scowl was directed at the two middle-aged and hungry-looking women who stood nearby, chatting up her son. Annabel denied seeing Linda with more vehemence than necessary. I looked askance as she walked away.

Kat grabbed her stepbrother by the hand and introduced him to Janet. Hal had a feral look, with his full dark beard and mustache and collar-length dark hair. Feral and gorgeous, an intoxicating combination. So what if he looked like a bum, I thought, taking in the jacket with the too-short sleeves, pants with the too-short legs and too-big waist, and scuffed loafers. I guessed that he'd put together an outfit preowned by a short, fat man during a thrift store run. He and Kat left Janet and weaved through the crowd toward the back of the room.

I found Art balancing a plateful of ham biscuits and took the empty seat next to him on the sofa. I was hoping to eat the food I'd been toting about uneaten for the past fifteen minutes. Art added his “no” to the tally of those who'd seen Linda. I launched into my debunking-the-suicide routine. “Art, you know I found that note and all . . . but I still have trouble with this whole suicide thing. Especially the
way
she did it.” I added a shudder for effect. “Too creepy.”

Art gave me a quizzical look. “People commit suicide all the time.”

“No, Art, they
don't
do it all the time. At least not in my world. And it definitely doesn't seem like something Carlene would do.”

Art bit into a ham biscuit. “I couldn't say, Hazel, I barely knew her. I mean, we were acquainted for a while, but as to what made her tick, I haven't a clue.”

I finished my turkey sandwich and put my plate down on an end table. Art took a large bite of his biscuit and chewed thoroughly before asking, “So, if not suicide, then what . . .” He lowered his voice. “Murder?”

Thank you, Art,
I said silently as he provided the opening I needed to discuss murder as an option. “Well, yeah, but”—I cringed for show—“I was thinking more along the lines of an accident.”

Art raised his eyebrows and regarded me with amusement. “Accident?”

“
Probably
not an accident. I'm just considering the full range of possibilities.”

“So, if we're talking murder . . . who's your candidate of choice?”

I laughed. “Goodness, I couldn't hazard a guess. I like to think we're all fine people . . .” I trailed off when I saw Art staring at me with his dark, penetrating eyes. I felt spooked. Maybe these suicide vs. murder debates weren't such a good idea. After all, one of us wasn't so fine, and that one could be Art. But I couldn't resist asking, “And yours?”

Art guffawed and parroted my earlier remark disqualifying the book group members. “Like you, Hazel, I think we're all
fine
people.”

I sighed. “It's all just speculation anyway. And, like I said before, there was that note. So, like it or not, we may have to accept the fact of suicide.” I did my best to sound airy and nonchalant. I shot a look at Art to gauge my success. He gave me that same unnerving look as before. What was up with that look?

He asked, “Was the note handwritten?”

“It was.”

“Maybe the killer composed it.”

“Assuming there was a killer.” I felt like we were going around in circles.

“No one really knew Carlene, so how can we know if she committed suicide or not? God knows Mom tried to get to know her, but couldn't get anywhere. They fought a lot.”

“Fought? About what?”

“The website.” With a lofty tone he added, “Artistic differences.”

“Artistic differences?”

“Mom wanted to be more creative. I mean, she
is
an artist.” I recalled Helen's vivid paintings covering the walls of her apartment. “But Carlene wanted a simple design. Of course, Carlene won, but they had a lot of set-tos about it. Mom grumbled that Carlene just didn't want to spend the money on a knockout design.”

Would Helen murder a client over artistic differences? How would she get her hands on cyanide? Was she so hell-bent on producing a stellar site that having to settle for a ho-hum one sent her over the edge? Speaking of going over the edge, was I? The thought of Helen killing was preposterous. She was so pro-life—it just didn't compute. But what did I know about Helen beyond her stand on social issues? What did I know about Art?

Seeing that lack of knowledge as an opportunity to steer the conversation away from murder, I asked Art about his background. He described an array of jobs that ran the gamut from convenience store clerk to telemarketer. After a bout of unemployment, he got his current job selling electronics at Walmart.

“Have you always lived in Richmond?”

“No, in Rochester.”

“Rochester, New York?”

When Art nodded, I said, “I wonder why I didn't know that. Because Evan and I went to school there and lived there when we were married.”

Art shrugged. “I guess by the time Mom and I met you we'd been here for a while. Rochester wasn't uppermost in our minds.”

“What did your mom do in Rochester?”

“She was a stay-at-home mom until I went to school. Then she had lots of jobs: art teacher, rug sales, insurance sales, magician's assistant, secretary, clown, you name it.”

I almost laughed out loud. I had only been listening to Art with half my attention, distracted by a man with a shock of white hair talking to Helen and Annabel. I didn't think he'd been at the church but I had seen him before, maybe at the signing. But I did catch the clown bit and tried, and failed, to conjure up an image of refined Helen as clown. Going for a change of subject, I asked Art, “How did you come to be here in Virginia?”

“Mom was a fan of Jerry Falwell.”

I imagined that Helen would be drawn to the controversial religious conservative. Jerry Falwell had built a virtual empire, including a mega church, university, and political organization, in Lynchburg, Virginia. Puzzled, I asked, “Then why Richmond? Falwell's in Lynchburg, over a hundred miles away.”