Murder at the Book Group (5 page)

Lucy nodded. “So, okay, if we rule out suicide and an accident as possibilities, we're talking deliberate, premeditated poisoning—in other words, murder. And my money's on this Linda. She and Carlene knew each other in L.A., they meet up here, Linda shows up at the book group, Carlene didn't seem thrilled to see her, Carlene winds up dead. It's a no-brainer. It all ties in with the huge mistake that came back to haunt her, meaning Carlene. Wait—I remember something from the signing, something sort of . . . funny.”

Lucy paused for a moment like she was calling up a memory. Impatient, I made a go-on motion and she started. “After Carlene signed my book, I was standing near the door, talking with Bonnie Stiller. Art Woods came by and said, ‘Do you see that woman there?' and he pointed to a woman who was leaving the store. He told us about her standing in front of him in the signing line, insisting that Carlene knew her and her husband in L.A. Carlene was equally insistent that she didn't know them. The woman was quite put out about it, said she was sorry that Carlene had already signed the book, else she'd return it.”

“Hmm.” I pondered this for a moment. “Interesting. Did you get a good look at this woman?”

“Not really. Like I said, she was leaving, so I just saw her from the rear. But her hair was heavily highlighted.”

“I'd sure like for it to be Linda, being an outsider. But, in Linda's defense, Carlene was agitated anyway, and possibly Linda's being there was nothing more than a coincidence.” I thought some more. “I'll give Art a call and see what he has to say about this.”

I stroked Daisy's silky fur and went on. “It has to be premeditated. It's highly unlikely that someone came up with the idea to spike Carlene's tea based on a chance discussion, a discussion Carlene herself initiated, and just happened to have cyanide on her—or his—person. Who carries cyanide around, who even possesses it, where do you even obtain it?” The very questions Carlene had posed. But the answers were simple enough—research, either via the Internet or the old-fashioned way, the public library.

“Oh!” Now Lucy sounded excited. “Could the cyanide have been added to the tea beforehand? Someone could have put something in the tea sometime during the day. That way it doesn't point to one of you.”

I shook my head. “It wasn't in the tea. The tea was new, something she'd never tried before. In fact, I saw her take the cellophane wrapper off the box. So unless we're talking about some clever mass murderer armed with cyanide-laced tea it does point to someone in the group.”

“But what about putting something in the mug ahead of time? Where was the mug, anyway?”

I closed my eyes and visualized the virtually empty kitchen. “On the kitchen table. On a tray.”

“Do you know how long the tray had been there?”

I shrugged. “So you think someone came over earlier? Someone outside of the book group?” I heard the hopeful note in my voice. Any possibility that the culprit was a non–book group person was welcome. “But let's not forget that this hypothetical person who visited earlier may be a book group person. Or,” I added as an unwelcome idea occurred to me, “there's Evan.”

Lucy cringed. I gazed out the window, biting my lip. The idea of a past marriage to a future wife killer rankled, although I was to find that thirty-plus years is a long time, more than enough time to form and re-form characters.

I regarded Lucy. “Who knows about Evan and me?”

“Everyone knows you were married to him.”

“But do they know about . . .”

“Why you moved here in the first place?” When I nodded, she said, “I don't know . . . Well, I think I told Sarah.”

I sighed. “When did you tell her?”

“It was before you arrived from California. Once you got here and found out that Evan was married, I said nothing, hoping she'd forgotten. She did ask me about it once, and I said you had a change of heart, and left it at that. After all, she didn't even know Carlene back then—I don't think so, anyway—she didn't know her until the book group started.”

“Who else?”

“I don't remember telling anyone else. Did you tell anyone?”

“No one in book group. Let's hope Sarah didn't say anything.”

“What are you worried about?”

“Looking like a suspect—like I was out to get rid of Carlene so I could have another go at Evan.”

“Well, it's unfortunate that you spent so much time in the kitchen. But, really . . . you a suspect?” Lucy shook her head in disbelief. “Unless I'm in denial, not willing to face the scary realization that I've lived with a killer relative for all these years. Tell me this: who knows about your conversation with Evan at Target?”

“No one. Just you. And Evan.”

“If I were you I'd keep these speculations between the two of us. As far as anyone else is concerned, especially in the book group, we completely accept the suicide verdict. Otherwise you run the risk of making the killer, assuming there is one, uncomfortable enough to kill
you
.”

“Yeah, you're right, Lucy.”

Lucy gave me a puckish look. “What about Vince as a resource? I'm sure his cronies in the police department keep him in the loop.”

Lucy was referring to Vince Castelli, a retired Richmond homicide detective turned true crime writer, my sometimes friend, sometimes more-than-friend, sometimes much-more-than-friend. A petite redheaded woman named Molly had accompanied him to Carlene's signing at Creatures 'n Crooks, confirming our current status to be in the “friend” category. Lucy's mission in life was to get me married off to Vince.

“Forget the matchmaking, Lucy. You saw his new girlfriend at the signing.”

Lucy waved a well-manicured hand in dismissal. “Probably won't last.”

Once again we lapsed into silence, but not for long. “This whole thing is so—creepy,” I said, not able to express my feelings better. “But who did it? And why? And how?” I sounded like a journalistic owl.

“I need more coffee.” Putting her knitting aside, Lucy got up and refilled her mug. “If we knew who we might know why. And vice versa. Coffee? And have one of these zucchini muffins,” she ordered. “I got up at seven and made them.” So as not to inconvenience Daisy, who now blanketed my lap, Lucy let me sit while she filled my mug with the arabica brew and handed me the basket of muffins.

After obediently accepting her offerings, I suggested, “Let's look at each person's connection to Carlene. And how she—or he—came to be in the group. I need paper. Will you hand me that pile of mail?” I asked, pointing toward the counter that separated the morning room from the kitchen. In practicing my recycle/reuse policy, I'd developed a penchant for writing on the backs of envelopes.

Envelopes and pen in hand, I started. “We know how I met Carlene—through Evan.” I felt my nose wrinkle at the memory of being jilted by my ex. Even after all these years, this inaccurate memory persisted.

“When did you and Carlene form the group?”

“Three, almost four years ago—early in 2002.” For some time before that, Carlene and I had attended the same library mystery group. Over time we found fault with the group and had our own ideas about how it should be conducted. So one day we said to each other, “Let's start our own and have things the way we want them.”

I asked, “How about Sarah?”

“We told her about the group at a neighborhood watch meeting.” Lucy snagged a nail on her knitting. As she took an emery board from the pocket of her robe, she asked, “Did she and Carlene have any association outside of book group?”

I thought. “Don't think so.”

Lucy held up a hand to check the progress of her filing. “Did you talk to Linda at all? We need to learn more about the Linda/Carlene connection.”

“No, I wanted to, but she was telling Annabel about her colonoscopy, so I steered clear of her.” Lucy smiled, knowing my aversion to medical topics. “Then she told someone, I think it was Helen, about some skin condition she had.”

I picked up my muffin and split it in half. “Carlene worked as a computer programmer in L.A. As a contractor she worked at a lot of companies. The IT community is small, even in a megacity like L.A. Using the theory of six degrees of separation, someone I know is bound to remember her. Maybe Linda as well, as they could have worked together.”

“So I take it you're going to get your L.A. buddies working on this?” Lucy asked.

“Sure thing.” I added the item to my to-do list. “I wish I'd thought to ask Linda for her e-mail and phone number. Maybe Kat has it. It sounded like they'd talked at the signing.”

Lucy looked thoughtful. “I wonder if Carlene had a lot of secrets . . . secrets that hold the key to why she died.”

A flurry of squirrel activity on the patio galvanized Shammy into action. Fur bristling, she raced from one side of the room to the other, while Daisy remained on my lap, oblivious to the commotion.

“Maybe rereading Carlene's book would help.”

“Possibly,” Lucy agreed. “You're thinking of looking for buried clues?”

I nodded. “And I'd love to get my hands on anything she's written for her third book.” I recalled the laptop in her den. Maybe Evan would give it to me. I wrote down a reminder and reviewed my notes. “Who's next?”

“Helen and Art.”

“Hmm. Carlene and Helen may have met at the gym.”

“So, we need to know how Helen and Art came to the group, and if either of them knew Carlene before.”

I wrote that on my growing list. “I dread getting buttonholed into a family values lecture. Helen was really on a tear last night.”

“Let me guess—pro-life?”

“You got it—with an emphasis on the stem cell aspect.” I rolled my eyes. “And now, who's left? Ah, Annabel. She also started at the group's beginning and definitely had a Carlene connection, being former Fan neighbors.”

“Were they close friends?”

“I'm not sure. Carlene invited her to join the group, but that doesn't necessitate closeness. And I know they went on a house and garden tour together last spring. I never heard of Carlene being close with anyone, except Georgia. And I don't even know how close they were, even though they'd known each other for years.”

I twirled my pen like a baton as I mused. “I always thought it was funny how closemouthed Carlene was about L.A. She admitted to living there, but that was as far as she'd go.” I looked up at the ceiling as if seeking heavenly inspiration. But the heavens were ignoring me. “Maybe the secrets, assuming there are secrets, can be traced to her L.A. days.”

“That brings us right back to Linda. When you call whomever you're going to call out there, you might come up with something. Hopefully something concrete, not just gossip.”

“Sometimes gossip's a good starting point.”

Lucy yawned in response. “Do we know anything useful about Carlene's marriage?”

“Nothing. Except that there appear to have been problems. My few, and brief, conversations with Carlene were limited to mysteries and writing. If I broached anything personal, like I did last night, she cut me off.”

“This is where Georgia would be a good resource. Hopefully she confided in her.”

“I'll call her now,” I said, reaching for the phone on the end table. I noticed the blinking voice mail light, but decided it could wait. I reactivated the ringer that I'd put on “do not disturb” the night before. I searched for Georgia's number in the directory, trying the office first. Knowing how she loved her work, I figured that's where she would seek solace, distraction.

Our conversation was short and tearful. Thankfully, Kat had already called her with the news. “She said the police found a suicide note. I can't believe it! Suicide? That's
nuts.
Why, we spent this past weekend at a spa. It was her birthday.” I remembered Carlene's stunning haircut and French manicure from the night before. Another no-suicide vote. For what seemed like a long time, but was probably no longer than a minute, all I heard was Georgia's sobs. Finally, she said, “I've got to go. I have a doctor's appointment. Let's talk tomorrow at the office. Will you be here?”

“I'll be there,” I assured her. I volunteered for Georgia at the Richmond Women's Resource Center a couple of days a week. “Take care of yourself, Georgia,” I said, and ended the call.

I told Lucy about the spa trip, ending with, “So that reinforces our hunch that Carlene didn't kill herself.” Lucy agreed.

“So what about Kat?” I looked blank for a moment, still in a reverie about the spa trip. Lucy explained, “We know how she come to be in the group—she was another founding member, likely at Carlene's invitation.”

I petted Daisy and considered Kat in suspect terms. “Vince says that in real life, as opposed to murder mysteries, the killer usually is the obvious one. And a family member to boot.”

“They could have had stepsister issues,” Lucy mused. “It seems like whoever did this had the perfect window of opportunity when Carlene went off on her towel-finding mission and left her mug in the kitchen. I know you told me before, but let's go over it again. Who—besides you—was in the kitchen at the time?”

I thought. “Sarah. A few of us went in and out. Annabel had a phone call and went down to the family room. Kat and Art cut through the kitchen to go down to the family room.” We smiled at the vision of Kat showing exercises to a love-struck Art.

“So—that means that five people had ample opportunity. Four, when we exclude you. Would Sarah have a motive to kill Carlene? Remember, she was the reason Carlene left the kitchen.”

I spread my hands to indicate being at a loss for a reason that Sarah would poison anyone's tea. “I could see it more with Annabel, what with professional jealousy over publishing.”