Murder at the Book Group (19 page)

Art shrugged his bony shoulders. “It's closer than Rochester.”

“Yes, well . . .” I didn't pursue that illogical logic. “Do you share your mother's religious convictions?”

“Hell, no.” So Art wasn't a true mama's boy, at least not in all areas. I caught another one of those disconcerting looks. But now I thought I knew what it meant. He wanted me to say something, ask something,
do
something. Since I hadn't a clue as to what the something could be, I turned the conversation to romance, or the possibility of romance. “Is your mother seeing anyone?”

Art's “Oh crap, it's the complaining dominatrix” followed by “Hi, guys” put that conversational gambit on hold. The “guys” were Phyllis Ross and Janice Singleton from the fiction group. Phyllis was wearing a flowing black dress that appeared to be scarves connected together—whether knotted, pinned, or stitched, I couldn't tell. I remembered her as the group's chief complainer and the reason that Lucy and I had developed “scheduling conflicts” as our excuse for leaving the group. It was easy to peg Phyllis the “complaining dominatrix.” Janice favored close-cropped hair and earrings long enough to give her a good smack if she turned her head too quickly.

The two women complimented me on my outfit and, remembering Lucy and me from before our defection, suggested that we return to the group. I offered a vague “maybe we will,” but they had moved on to discussing the group's next book with Art. In no time, Phyllis was grumbling about having to read
A Farewell to Arms
. “Never could stomach Hemingway.” I remembered Helen telling me that Art had picked that book. Taking this as my cue to leave, I smiled at the three of them and got up from the sofa.

After disposing of my plate and utensils, I scanned the room, looking for more prospects for my Linda search. But Kat, with Lucy in tow, put the hunt on hold when she rushed up and said, “Lots to tell. Let's go to the garden,” and hustled me out a back door.

The garden was a weed-choked affair surrounding a nonfunctioning fountain and boasting one weather-beaten bench. In deference to my screaming feet I perched on the edge of the bench, taking care to avoid the bird droppings. Kat and Lucy opted to stand.

Kat's reddened and smudged eyes revealed recent tears. The day being warm, she removed her shawl and draped it over the fountain. A belt covered in fake leopard circled the waist of her black sheath dress. “I was just out here with Hal. We had a good cry.”

Kat stopped and took a deep breath. “Well, like I told one of you, can't remember who, Georgia said that Hal and Carlene lived together for a while in L.A. I never knew that. So I asked him if he remembered any names of her friends from out there. After all, they probably don't know what happened and I offered to get in touch with them. But he said he never met any friends.”

Catching a breath, Kat went on. “He said it was difficult living with her and that now he wishes he'd been more patient. He didn't care for her lifestyle. He started getting cold feet about saying negative stuff, but I could tell he needed to unload, so I just waited.”

I felt the warmth of the day seeping through my black ensemble. But the only clothing I wore under my jacket was a bra. Granted, it was a knockout bra and I'd feel no embarrassment if I had an accident that landed me in the hospital. But present circumstances and propriety dictated that I sweat it out.

“He said Carlene was engaged to one guy and seeing another one, that one married. And suddenly the engagement was off and she wouldn't talk about it. Or anything else for that matter. But after an incident with the married guy's wife, Carlene ended that sordid affair.

Lucy asked, “What was the incident with the married guy's wife?”

“She came by one night looking for her husband, demanding to see Carlene. To protect Carlene, Hal said she didn't live there, but the woman said then why was her name on the mailbox? He finally convinced her that no one except for him was in the apartment. So she sat by the pool and smoked. After a couple of hours, he heard commotion and screaming. Lots of cursing, ‘stay away from my husband,' stuff like that. Hal went outside, but not soon enough. Carlene wound up in the pool.”

Lucy and I looked alarmed at this revelation, no doubt both of us thinking of the death-by-drowning comment Lelia Taylor had overheard someone fitting Linda's description make at the Creatures 'n Crooks signing. Did the comment relate to this long-ago pool incident? It would be too coincidental if it didn't. “Did the woman throw her in the pool?”

Kat said, “I asked that very question. He said he wasn't sure that she
threw
her. It could have been an accident. It all happened so fast.”

At least Carlene's reticence didn't run in her family. I asked, “What did this woman look like?”

“Skinny with dark hair.” Kat heaved a sigh. “You know men with their descriptions. And it was a long time ago.”

Skinny with dark hair—not a current description of Linda. But take away the highlights and a few pounds and Linda could well be a skinny, dark-haired woman.

Lucy, apparently deciding that her own feet needed a rest, carefully lowered herself to the other end of the bench. “It sure ties in with the drowning remark Lelia Taylor overheard at the Creatures 'n Crooks signing, wouldn't you say?”

Glumly, we nodded. Kat said, “When Hal wondered why I had so many questions and what any of this long-ago stuff had to do with what's going on now, I gave him a rundown on Linda, including the death-by-drowning comment.

“Apparently Carlene was pretty shaken by the whole pool thing. Scared. And a few days later she got something in the mail that upset her.”

Lucy asked, “What was it?”

“He didn't know. She wouldn't say.” After a pause, Kat continued, “He said she was planning on moving to Wyoming with him, then decided she'd just move to another part of L.A. where this guy and his deranged wife couldn't find her. Hal felt skeptical about that, and didn't like the idea of leaving her there, but she was adamant and he was losing patience with her. So he helped her move and then left for Wyoming.”

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.

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.