Murder at the Book Group (28 page)

“No, as I understand it he was visiting his mama. He lived in Charlottesville with his grandparents. I don't know why he didn't live with his mama and I don't like to pry, of course.”

“So, he was visiting,” I prompted, trying to keep Mabel on track.

“Yes, summer vacation or break. According to Annabel, she hardly saw him. He was over here the whole time.” Now Mabel went back to her whispering. “Upstairs. In the bedroom.”

“Annabel must have been mad.”

“Oh, honey, she was mad as a wet hen. She's still mad about it to this day and it was a good long while ago.”

Interesting. Very interesting
. Aloud, I asked, “How old was Frankie?”

“Oh, young,” she said, waving a hand. “College age. After all, he's not very old now. Carlene was at least twice his age if not more.” Mabel shook her head in wonderment. “Lands sakes alive! In my day you didn't see goings-on like that.” She tsked and then laughed. “I guess I sound like an old lady.”

Her laughing allowed me to let go and have a good chuckle myself. “How long did the affair last?”

“Well, until he went back to Charlottesville. And then, and this is what made Annabel really mad, Carlene took up with someone else immediately. I'd have felt the same way if some hussy had gone after my Walter. He's my son,” she explained with pride.

Mabel smiled in delight at a point behind me. “Hi, Sam.” I looked up to see the white-haired man who'd been talking to Annabel and Helen at the memorial service.

“Sam, this is Hazel Rose. Hazel, Sam Smith.”

“Oh, yes, Annabel said you'd be here to assemble a chair for her.” We shook hands. Sam appeared to be on the far side of middle age. Oh, wait,
I'm
on the far side of middle age and Sam had a good ten years on me if not more . . . so that made him, well, the near side of old age. “I recognize you from the memorial service the other day. You were talking to Annabel and Helen.”

“Ah, yes, Helen. Wonderful woman.” Despite his hearty manner, I caught something fleeting in Sam's blue eyes that made his bonhomie ring false and made me doubt that he found Helen quite so wonderful. He continued, “And one tough businesswoman, I'll tell you that. Annabel wanted her to do a website for me. I already have a Tripod site but Annabel wants me to have a better one. More professional.”

I vaguely recalled overhearing Annabel asking Helen about doing a website for someone named Sam. It must have been at the book group. “And is Helen going to do the site?”

“We talked about it, but couldn't come to terms on price. And the Tripod one is fine with me. Lots of banner ads, but I don't mind. It's free.”

First Carlene objected to Helen's prices, and now Sam—I wondered what the woman charged, or overcharged, for her Web designs.

“Tell me about the site.”

“It's for my photography. Something I dabble in.” My ears perked up. I remembered Vince saying that cyanide was used in darkroom supplies.

Mabel proclaimed, “He takes beautiful pictures. Simply gorgeous. You have to see them, Hazel.”

I decided to get Sam going and look for an opening where I could ask a question about cyanide without being too obvious. It was a long shot, but I had to grab my investigative opportunities when I could. “What are your subjects?”

“Still lifes, landscapes, European military history. That's my field, European history.”

“Sam's a retired professor.” Mabel beamed like a proud mother. “VCU.” Then she looked like an unwelcome realization struck her. “Oh, my goodness, I'm forgetting all about my roast.” I was right, she had a roast going in the kitchen. If only I could apply my food-related intuition to solving this mystery. “It was nice meeting you, Hazel. I hope I see you again. And good seeing you again, Sam.” She dashed into the house, broom in tow.

I asked Sam, “Do you do digital photography?”

“Oh, absolutely. It's the only way to do it these days.”

“Did you ever do it the traditional way, darkroom, mixing chemicals together?”

“No, I just started a few years ago. Digital was well under way by then.” Sam produced a card from his pocket and handed it to me. I read “Sam Smith, Photographer,” with a Charlottesville address.

I almost stamped my foot in frustration. I'd hoped to nail Sam as Annabel's perhaps unwitting cyanide source. I put the card into the side pocket of my purse. “You live in Charlottesville?”

“Yes, on a farm between Charlottesville and Scottsville, right off Route 20.” I nodded like I knew exactly where he meant. In truth I knew nothing about Scottsville or Route 20.

“It's funny you asking me about darkroom processing, Hazel, because I've been thinking about trying my hand at that—there's a darkroom in the farmhouse. The previous owner set it up.”

And maybe the previous owner left behind a gift of cyanide. Perfect opportunity for Annabel to get her mitts on the poison. Had she been to the farmhouse? The only way to find out was to ask. I smiled and gushed, “Really! I just know you'll enjoy it, Sam. People tell me photography without the darkroom just isn't the same. Doesn't have the artistic . . . signature.” No one had told me any such thing, but Sam didn't have to know that. “Tell me, has Annabel visited your farm yet?”

“Oh, yes. Several times.”

Hmm.

I asked Sam if he'd been at Carlene's signing. He had, but didn't recall Linda, anyone of her description, or anyone clashing with Carlene. We exchanged a few remarks about Carlene, the usual what-a-shame-so-talented sort of thing, before I left him to his chair-assembly task. Realizing that I still held the envelope with the credit card, I entrusted it to Sam.

Walking back to my car, I reviewed my conversations with Sam and Mabel. I laughed aloud at Mabel's revelations, drawing strange looks from passersby. But not everything I'd just learned was funny: Annabel was mad about Carlene seducing her son.

Just how mad was she? Enough to kill? Enter Sam with his possible cyanide connection. Motive, means, opportunity: Annabel had all three in spades. Factor in the Randy-related motive and things were definitely looking up as far as working out this puzzle. But—always a “but” to keep me humble—I still had that proof issue to nail down.

AT HOME, I
climbed the stairs to my den, the cats darting ahead of me, determined to win the race to the top. They did. Checking the address on Sam's card, I pulled up his Tripod site. Tripod might charge nothing to design a Web page, but the banner ads created the cyberspace equivalent of ants at a picnic. The still lifes and landscapes in Sam's portfolio were fair, not exceptional, but showed potential.

His real interest showed in the military history section. One collage of black-and-white photos struck me with its power—a grouping of Nazi paraphernalia: hats, armbands, uniforms, magazines, bullets, pins, badges, coins, whatnot. I wondered if Sam had photographed the collection, which included a tattered-looking copy of
Mein Kampf,
at a museum, so professional was the display. Why did these Nazis keep popping up? I looked at the collage again for something, anything that I could tie to Annabel.

When Lucy opened the kitchen door I went to the top of the stairs. “I'm up here,” I yelled. “Looking at Nazi stuff.”

Lucy came into view, the cats in her wake. “Nazi stuff?”

But the ringing of the phone put the subject on hold. Lucy answered and all I heard was, “Hi, Annabel,” and, “Yes, sure, of course, we're here.”

“Annabel,” Lucy explained. “She's coming over. Again.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. She said she needed to talk to us about something.”

My guess was that Annabel was on a damage- control mission—probably Mabel told her about chatting with me about Frankie. “Oh, wait until I tell you about her neighbor.”

But the doorbell ringing stopped me before I started my tale. Annabel came through the door in a panic. Her charcoal gray suit and red pumps looked as pristine as ever, but her unsettled state showed in the deer-caught-in-the-headlight look in her eyes.

“Would you like to join us for dinner?” Lucy's cheerful manner contrasted with Annabel's agitated one.

“No. Thanks, but no.” Annabel walked to the sofa and perched on the edge of the seat cushion. “Sam's waiting for me; we're going out. I'll get right to the point. I know you talked with Mabel today. Oh, and thanks for bringing my credit card. Anyway, I so regret telling her and Sylvia about Carlene and Frankie. The thing is, they're both such sweet and engaging souls, always giving me tea. Especially Mabel. On the other hand, they're
hopeless
busybodies.

“Anyway, I don't want the business about my son getting around because, well, frankly it makes me look like a suspect. I didn't want to reveal any more than was necessary. Not with the unsolved murder of my dear husband . . . and with that damn Ronnie on my case.”

“Did you hear anything more from her?” I asked.

“No.”

“What was the business with your son?” Lucy asked.

Annabel looked suspicious. “Lucy Hooper, do you mean to tell me that Hazel didn't tell you? I don't believe it.”

“I haven't had a chance to tell her, Annabel. You called not five minutes after Lucy got home.”

Annabel took a deep breath. I assumed she was about to launch into the saga of her son and Carlene. But she sat silent, literally wringing her hands. Lucy murmured something about tea and went to the kitchen, leaving me with Annabel and an uneasy silence for company. Daisy showed up but beat a quick retreat when she saw Annabel, remembering their last encounter.

Lucy reappeared with a tray of steaming mugs and a plate of cheese and crackers. “Try some chamomile tea. It's relaxing.”

I felt impatient to hear this latest installment in Annabel's soap-opera life, but forced myself to wait while she blew on her tea, trying to cool it down. I flinched at the memory of Carlene standing in her dining room, sipping her too hot tea. Was it poisoned at the time?

While we waited for Annabel, Lucy and I sipped our own tea and munched on the cheese and crackers. Annabel finally set her mug down on the coffee table. She looked first at us, then away, pressing her lips together. Taking a deep breath, she began, “My Frankie was one of the scores of men Carlene managed to seduce. He was only twenty-one years old, and Carlene was more than twice his age.” She picked up the mug and resumed the blowing process.

“So Frankie and Carlene had a relationship?”

Annabel snorted. “Relationship! That's a good one, Hazel. It was hardly a relationship. He visited me for two weeks one summer. My first mistake was in introducing them. In no time he was spending all his time at her place. It started out with her asking him to help her carry a chair into the house. He was smitten from the get-go. I was outraged.”

Annabel held up a hand. “Now I know what you're both thinking: Was I outraged enough to kill her? If so, why wait all these years? I've had opportunity aplenty. But even in my wildest rages, I had to admit that they were consenting adults, although in his case, just barely. And neither was married. I couldn't police his sex life. But I just hated the idea of him being that woman's boy toy, or toy boy, whatever the hell you call it.”

“How long did they see each other?”

“Two weeks. Frankie went back to UVA and in no time Carlene took up with that Tom somebody who I told you about before. And then Randy.” Annabel snorted again. “At least they were in her age group.”

“What was your relationship with her like after that?” Lucy asked.

“Strained. For a while. But, like I said, I could hardly be mad. Oh, I could be, and was.”

According to Mabel, you still are,
I thought.

Annabel sipped her tea. “Like I said, they were adults. So I resolved to be one too. What I went through with that woman, I just can't tell you.” But she did anyway. “For over a year, I endured that damn headboard banging against my wall. And the screams! Thankfully I had changed bedrooms before she got her claws into my baby boy.” First Vivian with the baby boy bit, and now Annabel.

“So, what happened with Frankie after he went back to UVA?”

“Oh, he moved on. He's engaged to a nice girl. Unlike Carlene, who wasn't at
all
nice.”

Nice. Such an inexact adjective. I used to think Carlene was nice. Not very exciting, but nice. But Annabel was right, she wasn't nice at all. Oh, she had a nice manner and I felt certain she didn't torture animals or trip old ladies. But she had wreaked havoc in the lives of any number of people. An unbidden thought came to me—was the Annabel/Frankie/Randy trio Carlene's huge mistake? I was starting to think Carlene's past harbored huge mistakes by the dozens. I put that thought on my mind's back burner.

“
And
Jennifer is three years younger than he is.” Annabel sounded triumphant, liked she'd scored a coup.

No one spoke for a minute. Annabel busied herself with the cheese and crackers. Looking pleased, she said, “So there you have it. I fall into the category of those who could have done it, but where's the proof? I know I'm not eliminated as a suspect, but it needs to be proven, now doesn't it?” With that she popped a cheese-laden cracker into her mouth.

Lucy assumed a puzzled look. “Why would anyone suspect you, Annabel? Carlene committed suicide.”

Annabel looked crestfallen, like she enjoyed being a suspect. “Well, yes. But we don't know that for sure.”

I asked what might have sounded like a non sequitur: “Annabel, tell us about Sam. How did you two meet?”

Annabel brightened, but finished chewing before answering. “I met him at an exhibit he had here in Richmond. I asked Helen if she wanted to do a website for him. She said she'd think about it. But when I asked her about it last week, she said she was too busy.
Too busy?
What's she busy doing anyway? She should jump at the chance. Sam's so good and . . .” Annabel went on about how good Sam was and how he needed a professional-looking Web presence. “Sam says Helen wants too much money and won't negotiate. If you ask me she's getting full of herself. Well, if she doesn't come through, I'll get him in touch with a woman from Charlottesville, someone I know from high school. Sam lives out that way anyway.” She waved her hand vaguely in an easterly direction. As Charlottesville was northwest of Richmond, I assumed she wasn't striving for accuracy.