Murder at the Book Group Page 21

  “Besides, I wouldn’t relish being compared to Carlene.”

  As Vince rushed to reassure me of my carnal talents, I laughed to myself.

  Was I really envying the sex life of a dead woman?

  CHAPTER 19

  MONDAY TURNED OUT TO be a quiet day at the Richmond Women’s Resource Center, allowing us to get caught up. I didn’t usually volunteer on Mondays, but with Georgia being without an assistant, her development director on vacation, and the emotional distress of losing her lifelong friend, she was running behind. Vivian handled the few calls that came through, leaving her time to thoroughly read not only one but two newspapers. In my opinion, she could help with the clerical work too, but that wasn’t my call.

  While I merged donor acknowledgment letters my cell phone rang. Donna McCarthy.

  “Hi, Donna.” Not wasting time with preliminaries, I asked, “Did you hear about Evan’s wife?”

  “I sure did. Arnie told me and I spread the word here. Acer sent flowers for the memorial service and we sent a group card. I’ve been meaning to call you. Just a second, Hazel.” After having a muffled exchange with someone Donna came back on the line. “How’s Evan doing with all this? What happened anyway?”

  “Evan’s about how you’d expect.” After filling Donna in on the details of Carlene’s death, I got to the real purpose of my call. “Donna, there’s this woman in our book group, Helen Adams, and I just found out that she worked with you and Evan at Acer Insurance.” I wasn’t above fibbing for a good cause. “Did you know her?”

  “Sure, I knew Helen. Gosh, she left here a long time ago, at least ten years. She had a different last name then—was it Riley? Something like that. She got divorced shortly before she moved to Richmond. I hadn’t heard that she remarried. Carol never said.”

  “She’s not married now. Who’s Carol?”

  “A friend of Helen’s. She hears from her occasionally.”

  “Does Carol work at Acer?”

  “No, I know her from church. In fact, I’ll see her tonight at Bible study. She’s kind of a gossip. She and Helen grew up together, same schools and all. Carol once told me that Helen went away for a while when she was about fifteen and everyone thought she had a baby in secret. Those were the days when you went to a special home and gave your baby up for adoption.”

  I did some quick math in my head. If a fifteen-year-old Helen had a child, I figured it would be about forty-five now. Assuming that Helen was in fact sixty. If she was my age, fifty-five, that dropped the child’s age to forty. Art’s age. Interesting.

  “Did Helen and Evan know each other at Acer? I ask because I don’t remember either of them ever mentioning it.”

  “I don’t know. They were in different departments, he in operations and she in claims.”

  “But wouldn’t they run into each other in the cafeteria, or at the company Christmas party?”

  “I guess.” A note of exasperation crept into Donna’s voice. “Hazel, why don’t you just ask them?”

  “Oh I will. Like I said, I just found out about it . . . I forget who told me.”

  “It’s possible Evan wouldn’t have noticed Helen because she was a bit frumpy, overweight. Not exactly a head turner.”

  “Really? She’s quite attractive now. And slim. Maybe she had a makeover when she moved to Virginia.”

  Donna had a meeting, so we ended the call. I sat looking out the window at the leaves fluttering in a gentle breeze, reflecting on this new information. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Helen and Evan had worked for the same company.

  Could it?

  I WENT BACK to my acknowledgment letters, only to be interrupted by Annabel calling on the center’s line. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re there. I left a message at your house, and I don’t have a cell number for you.” She rushed on without pausing. “By any chance did I leave a credit card at your house?”

  “Yes, you did . . . Sorry, I meant to call and let you know. I just found it last night, wedged behind the cushion of the chair where you were sitting. I have it in my purse.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. I didn’t miss it until today when I tried to use it. I hate to inconvenience you, but . . .”

  It wasn’t hard to guess in what way she hated to inconvenience me. Not that I minded—the Fan district where Annabel lived was a stone’s throw from the RWRC and one of my favorite areas of Richmond. The Fan was so named because the roads that radiated westward from its eastern border adjacent to downtown formed a fan shape. It was known for its locally owned restaurants, active nightlife, and post-Victorian architecture. The eastern end of the Fan, or Lower Fan, was home to Virginia Commonwealth University, dubbed VCU by the locals. The Upper Fan, or western end, was one of Richmond’s most desirable neighborhoods for young professionals.

  “I’d be happy to bring it by your house. I’m working here until four, so I can be there about four fifteen or so.”

  “Thanks so much, Hazel. I don’t know if I’ll be there, I have a ton of errands today, but my friend Sam might be. He’s stopping by to assemble a computer chair for me and then we’re going out for dinner. If he’s not there you can just stick the card through the mail slot.”

  We chatted for a few minutes. Annabel’s gorgeous son had left that morning to return to Charlottesville and she sounded wistful. She said nothing about Ronnie or blackmail and I followed suit. After assuring each other that we’d both be at Helen’s the next evening, we hung up.

  At four, I grabbed my keys, logged off the network, and said my good-byes to Georgia and Vivian. Vivian, finished with her newspapers, now flipped through a magazine.

  PARKING WAS SCARCE on Annabel’s street and I had to settle for a spot a couple of blocks away. Fortunately I always welcomed exercise so I didn’t mind hoofing it a bit. Plus it gave me a chance to look at the Fan’s charming homes along the way, many adorned with bay windows, stained glass, and turrets.

  Crape myrtle trees presided over monkey grass plants on the postage-stamp-size lots that fronted Annabel’s duplex, a mustard-colored brick. Plants trailed verdant leaves from the hanging pots placed at two-foot intervals around the perimeter of the porch. White columns supported the veranda that spanned the length of the house. The porch railing posts suggested bowling pins. From the almost identical glider swings with flowered cushions and wrought-iron tables, it looked like Annabel and her neighbor had coordinated their decorating efforts, unlike the individual approach taken by most Fan denizens. The whole setup conjured up images of evenings spent watching the world go by with a mint julep in hand. Did Annabel glide away the hours in one of her power suits?

  As I climbed the steps, I noticed a plump older woman sweeping on the other half of the porch. She looked like a grandmother straight out of central casting with her white hair gathered into a bun, bib apron tied around a shirtwaist dress, and orthopedic shoes. I pictured a batch of cookies baking in the oven while a pot roast simmered on the stove.

  “I’m returning something of Annabel’s,” I said when she eyed me with friendly curiosity. I held up the envelope that contained the credit card. “She said I could put it in her mail slot. She accidentally left it at my house the other day . . .” I trailed off as I caught myself overexplaining.

  “Oh, sure, honey, go right ahead. Annabel’s been so upset over the business with that poor woman getting killed. Did you know her?” She stopped sweeping and pointed at her half of the house. “You know, she used to live right here.” This she whispered, like it was a state secret.

  “Yes, I did know her. In fact, Annabel and I were both there when it . . . happened.”

  The woman looked distressed as she shook her head. “Oh, by the way, I’m Mabel Crenshaw. My daughter and her family live here. I come over during the day to take care of the girls. And you are . . . ?”

  “Hazel Rose.”

  “Hazel Rose. Pretty. Well, like I said, Annabel feels just wretched about—what was her name, Carla something?”

  “Carlene Arness,” I
supplied.

  Mabel nodded. “Yes, she wrote a book. I read it and so did my daughter. Not as naughty as we expected.” Mabel looked disappointed at the lack of naughtiness. “Annabel had a terrible time with her.” Again, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Apparently Carlene seduced Annabel’s son.” She stopped, gauging my reaction.

  Suppressing a smile, I tried for a shocked demeanor. “Seduced?”

  “Yes, seduced. Although that probably wasn’t hard to do, men being what they are. And these days the young ones aren’t as innocent as they were in my day. And he’s an awfully handsome man. So polite. Sylvia—that’s my daughter—says he looks like that English actor with the funny name.”

  “Ralph Fiennes,” I said, using the correct pronunciation, “Rafe Fines.”

  “That’s it! Anyway, Frankie was nice enough to come here from Charlottesville for Carlene’s memorial service. His former lover. So sad.” When Mabel placed her hand over her heart, I irreverently listened for the wail of violins. “He just left this morning.”

  “Yes, Annabel told me. So, she said that Carlene seduced Frankie? When did this happen?”

  “Let’s see, Sylvia and Roy moved here in 2000—or was it 2001?” Mabel looked off like she expected a passing motorist to yell out the answer.

  I didn’t care what year the big seduction took place. My interest in the Carlene/Frankie affair was in its possible long-term consequences—like Carlene’s death. “Did Frankie live here with his mother then?”

  “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 cybers
pace 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.