Murder at the Book Group Page 7

  “No, there was plenty of space between them. I don’t think they were even talking. He was sitting kind of bent over, with his elbows on his knees, and his chin in one hand.”

  I pictured Rodin’s famous Thinker sculpture. “It sounds like they were having a serious discussion, or an argument.”

  Helen’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “Obviously they resolved whatever it was.”

  “So, what did this guy look like?” I asked. “The one on the bench?”

  “Dark hair. Longish.”

  “Facial hair?”

  Helen thought. “Don’t think so, but not sure. It was evening and I couldn’t see that well.”

  “Did you meet him?”

  “No, Carlene just said hi before turning back to him. He looked up briefly, then away.”

  “Did you think it was Evan? He has dark hair. Maybe—”

  “Maybe what?”

  I tried for a dithery tone. “Oh dear, I lost my train of thought.” I’d been about to suggest that they were trying for a reconciliation, but caught myself in time. It sounded like Helen didn’t know about Evan and Carlene’s separation and I didn’t want to enlighten her, at least not yet. Such knowledge could temper her outrage and make her less eager to share other interesting information.

  “Besides, Evan knows us. He would have said hello.”

  “Did anyone else see them?”

  “No one’s mentioned it to me.”

  “Maybe the guy on the bench and the one in the car were two different people. And that allows that Evan could have been the man in the car.”

  “No, the one in the car had the same long hair.”

  It sounded like she got a good look through the window despite her claiming that the car was parked in a dark corner and that they tried not to stare. But I let it go.

  We mined the cyanide discussion, wondering if we’d missed an indication that Carlene harbored plans of suicide. Something that made us cry in regret, “We should have known,” “We should have seen it coming.” But nothing came to mind.

  Helen muttered something that sounded like, “Imagine her doing that to my boy.” What was she talking about? What had Carlene done to Art? I didn’t find out because the policy of not speaking ill of the dead occurred to Helen and she scolded herself. “But one last thing . . . You know, Hazel, God would have forgiven Carlene for her adultery. She didn’t have to take her own life. If she’d only been a churchgoer, all this could have been avoided. We’ll have to pray for her salvation.”

  Lest I get grilled about my religious habits, I asked Helen how she and Art first heard about the book group.

  “Let’s see, where was it? I think at the gym. Carlene posted a flyer.”

  “So you didn’t know Carlene from before?”

  “No.”

  I wasn’t getting anywhere with Helen or Art using this avenue of inquiry. Both were vague about their introduction to the group. But sometimes such details were elusive and their not remembering wasn’t necessarily significant.

  I had paused long enough for Helen to steer the conversation to her favorite subject. “Speaking of flyers—there’s a woman speaking at my church next week on stem cell research. A very important topic. Do come, and bring Lucy.”

  I envisioned a church full of Helens descending on us like vultures. We wouldn’t get out of there alive. To appease Helen, I asked, “Did you say you have a flyer?”

  “I do. I’ll e-mail it to you. Let me educate you about stem cell—”

  “Got to run, Helen. Someone’s at the door.” I lied, not up to being educated. After assuring her that Kat would let us know about the funeral, I hung up.

  I was fast overloading and shorting out. Too little sleep, too much talking, too much death, plus I was knee deep in maybes and wonderings.

  CHAPTER 6

  “WHAT’S WITH THE SEX HAIR?”

  I put my hands on my head and felt matted tufts going every which way. I regretted that the prosaic reason for my tangled mess was sleeping on wet hair. Normally, my hair brushed my shoulders in chestnut waves.

  “Oh, I washed it and fell asleep before it dried.”

  “You must have slept for a long time. It’s seven thirty now.” Lucy smiled at Shammy and me. Daisy looked up from her seat on Lucy’s lap, yawned, and went back to sleep.

  “Since about one, I guess. After you left, Helen called. Then I took a shower, started rereading Murder à la Isabel, and drifted off.”

  “Did you glean anything from your reading?”

  I sighed. “Not a thing.” I’d had hopes of unearthing a clue that might explain Carlene’s death. But I felt none the wiser for having read her book, if in fact I read it at all before sleep took over. “Unless I registered some insight at a subconscious level. But who knows when, or if, it will surface.”

  I’d awakened from my long nap with Shammy tucked behind my knees. Now she stood by my side in the morning room. She probably figured that I needed watch-cat services. I picked her up and scratched her ears.

  Lucy’s fingers flew through the same teal afghan from that morning. This time her robe was a deep eggplant. She didn’t have a separate closet for her at-home wear, but it was just a matter of time before she’d need one. Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto emanated from the CD player. I liked classical music, but the Mendelssohn piece was one of the few I could identify with confidence.

  Lucy’s brows drew together. “What about those roots?”

  “I know, I know. I’m calling Rhea in the morning.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “How about some scrambled eggs?”

  “Yes, comfort food. Thanks.” Somehow I thought it would take more than eggs to regain my comfort level, but I’d take what I could get.

  “Let’s talk while I fix them. I called you earlier but I guess you were already out cold.” Lucy eased Daisy off her lap and set her knitting beside her chair.

  Lucy broached her favorite subject, Vince. “He left several messages.” When she paused to check my reaction, I kept my face blank. “I didn’t want to wake you, so I called him. He says to call anytime. I guess he told you he was in San Diego for Roseanne’s wedding.”

  “He did.” I sat at the table and regarded the Norman Rockwell plates bordering the room.

  Lucy opened the refrigerator and took out an assortment of egg-related items. Giving me a sly look, she said, “Maybe some good will come out of this whole sorry mess if it brings you and Vince together again.”

  Did I hope something would come of it? Okay, I did, but hesitated to openly admit it. “Cool it on the matchmaking, Lucy. Besides, that fiery-looking Molly is probably with him.”

  Before Lucy could come back with a rejoinder, I asked, “Why did you call me earlier?”

  “To see how you were doing and to find out if you’d heard anything interesting. Any word on Evan?”

  “Not yet. But Kat gave me his number. Reluctantly, I might say. I’ll call him after we eat.”

  “Speaking of Kat, she sent an e-mail to the book group. The memorial service is on Friday at eleven, at St. Bernard’s.”

  “Why St. Bernard’s? Did Carlene go there?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “I didn’t think churches held services for people who weren’t members.”

  “Depends on the church I guess.”

  “And you said memorial service. Does that mean no funeral, as in . . . no body?”

  “Correct. She’s being cremated, either tomorrow or Thursday. As soon as they finish with the autopsy and toxicology tests. Apparently she and Evan drew up wills when they married and she specified cremation.” The idea of cremation made me wince. It was fine in theory, but I didn’t like thinking about it.

  “And the church is okay with her committing suicide? A lot of churches frown on that.” Wouldn’t God have compassion for someone despairing enough to commit suicide?

  Lucy had nothing to offer on church attitudes toward suicide. “Back to Evan.
I went by the house and saw the crime scene tape. This tiny blond woman named Janet was getting her mail from in front of the house next door. We recognized each other from the turkey dinners.”

  “Was she the one he got in touch with last night?”

  “Yes, she said she was. When I asked if she’d talked to him she said she had and that he was staying with a friend. We talked a bit about last night, but I didn’t learn anything new. She did mention that the police had talked to her and the other neighbors. Oh, and that Sarah had just been by with a casserole that she left with Janet. And so—” Lucy said with a hand flourish, “What did Helen have to say?”

  I recounted Helen and Art’s coming upon Carlene and the “man in the car.” Even if I ever learned his identity, I would probably continue to think of him as the “man in the car.”

  Lucy and I looked at each other for a moment, clearly admiring the impropriety of the very proper Carlene. I said, “It’s sure funny how the same actions that get you branded a floozy at sixteen give you sex goddess status at fifty. Middle age has its perks.”

  “I guess there’s an element of excitement in doing it in a car, in a public place,” Lucy allowed. “Doesn’t one of your characters, someone in our age bracket, do it in a car?”

  I smiled. “On the hood of a car. And yes, she and her lover are in their fifties.” When I started my romance-writing career the year before, I heard a lot of pooh-poohing of my plan to feature characters enjoying sex in middle age and beyond. Time would tell if they were right, but I was determined to prove it didn’t take elastic breasts and a wrinkle-free complexion to enjoy sex. “Carlene’s definitely going into my next book. In fact, she has recurring character potential.”

  “I can just picture prim and proper Helen coming upon that scene.”

  I laughed. “She was quite indignant.” Yawning, I said, “The man could very well be Evan. Even though Helen claimed it wasn’t based on the fact that the guy didn’t say hello. Maybe he and Carlene were reconciling. At least temporarily.”

  Lucy whisked eggs in a glass bowl and added shredded cheese and roasted red peppers. She held up four slices of bread. “Toast?”

  “Sure.” I stifled another yawn and got up to fix some herbal tea. “I want to know who these mysterious people are—P.J./P.G., the man in the car, Linda . . .” I trailed off. “And what did you think about that stuff Kat told us about Evan?” Without waiting for Lucy’s response, I went on. “First Evan dumps Kat in favor of Carlene. Then, adding insult to injury, he marries Carlene, becoming Kat’s stepbrother-in-law. And possibly Kat envied Carlene her book success. Very classic. You don’t suppose . . . ?”

  Lucy poured the egg mixture into a pan sizzling with olive oil. “Well . . . she was quite open about her relationship with Evan and how he dumped her. Would she do that if she’d just done Carlene in the night before? However, you’re right—she certainly had powerful motives of jealousy and revenge. And who knows what their childhoods were like, with all that alcoholism. “Lots of grudge potential there.”

  “Want some Sleepytime?” Lucy nodded and I dunked teabags in two mugs of water and placed them in the microwave. “But after all this time?” Wasn’t there a statute of limitations for grudges? Granted, I held somewhat of a grudge against Evan for going off and marrying Carlene, but it was a low-level and passive grudge, as grudges go.

  Lucy continued. “But you know something? I tend to think Kat didn’t do it. She seems so genuinely sad. And I don’t think she’s a good enough actress to fool us. She’s too out there. And if she killed it would be in a physical way, something with her hands, like strangling, stabbing, not poison. Poisoning’s a sneaky way to kill.”

  “She could probably kill someone with a well-placed karate chop. She does have a black belt.”

  Lucy nodded. “You have to match the person to the crime.”

  When the microwave beeped I took the mugs out. Lucy set two plates on the table. With a sour-lemon look at the mugs, she asked, “Isn’t it kind of creepy to drink tea so soon after last night?”

  I looked at Lucy. “I didn’t even think of that. And I won’t start now.”

  We tucked into our food and ate in silence. I felt ravenous, like I hadn’t eaten in days, and restrained myself from licking the plate. “Thanks for the great food, Lucy.”

  “Back to Kat, I’m pretty sure she didn’t do it, but I’m not a hundred percent sure—so be careful.”

  “I will. I will.” I held up my hands in mock surrender. I wasn’t entirely convinced of Kat’s innocence myself, so I’d give it further thought.

  Lucy ignored my look of wry amusement. Then, trying for a casual tone, she asked, “Are you going to call Vince tonight? It’s three hours earlier in San Diego.”

  “I’m aware of the time difference, Lucy. Don’t worry, I’ll call him. After I call Evan.”

  I turned the conversation in a different direction. “You know, Lucy, I need to find out who did this.”

  “I hope that doesn’t mean you plan to play amateur detective.”

  “Lucy, the woman died right in front of me. The two of us started the book group together, so I feel a responsibility to at least try to get some answers. Granted, I wasn’t crazy about her, but she didn’t deserve to die like that.” Finished pleading my case, I shrugged and smiled.

  “You always did have a strong sense of justice. I remember visiting you when you were only ten and you’d be outraged at something you read in the paper about a bad deal someone got.” Lucy sighed. “And just how do you intend to get these answers?”

  “Talk, snoop around, ask questions. The usual.”

  “The usual,” Lucy snorted. “Hazel, my dear, dear cousin, the ‘usual’ can get you killed.”

  “I’ll be careful, I promise. Tell you what, I’ll act at all times like I don’t know anything. I can’t be a threat if I don’t know anything.”

  Lucy gave me a long look. “If you’re hell-bent on doing this, promise me you won’t be alone with anyone from the group. Ever. If you have to meet face-to-face with anyone, I’ll go with you. Just call.”

  “Oh, so now you’re my official bodyguard.”

  “Damn right.”

  I thought Kat would make a better bodyguard. Another reason to drop suspicion of her—I could take advantage of her muscle.

  I HUNTED FOR the napkin I’d used to scribble Evan’s cell number and headed back to bed. I stifled a scream when his electronic voice exhorted me to leave my name, number, and a brief message.

  “Evan, I’m so sorry. Carlene was a lovely woman.” I sounded like someone’s elderly aunt, but I felt strapped for sincere platitudes. I thought about trying him at Warren’s house since I knew he was probably there, but decided that calling him on one number was sufficient. I speed-dialed Vince.

  He answered immediately. “Hazel! How are you holding up?”

  “Frankly, I’ve been better. I keep seeing poor Carlene, the way she looked . . .” I trailed off and shuddered. “But I’ve been so busy—or so asleep—that the whole thing hasn’t hit me.” Shammy joined me on the bed. I adjusted the pillows behind my head. “How did you hear about it, Vince? I’m sure it didn’t make the San Diego news.”

  “Dennis called me. He knew I’d want to know.” Dennis Mulligan and Vince were long-time partners in the Richmond Police Department. “He remembered when Carlene consulted with me about her book. And he knew you were there last night.”

  “You’ve probably already heard, but the memorial service is on Friday at eleven. Will you be back by then?”

  “Yes, I’ll be back on Thursday night.” He paused. “How’s Evan doing?”

  “Don’t know. I tried calling his cell but wound up leaving a message. Kat says he’s staying with his friend Warren.”

  Vince turned the conversation in a direction I’d hoped to avoid. “According to Dennis, Evan and Carlene were separated.”

  I vowed to keep my responses short, hopefully to one syllable. “Yes.”

  �
�So you knew about that?”

  “Yes.” Then my mouth disengaged from my brain and I heard myself adding, “I ran into Evan one day. At Target. He told me then.” I prayed my brain and mouth would synchronize before I spilled the beans about the Lemaire proposition. For a distraction, and because I did want to know the answer, I asked, “How long will the house be a crime scene?”

  “Hard to tell. Probably not long.”

  “The place is so clutter-free it should take about thirty minutes to process it.”

  A long pause followed. Vince, while retired, hadn’t forgotten about the silence tactic police used in interrogations. The human tendency to fill the silence with talk often works to police advantage. The real problem for me was Vince’s soft-spoken Brooklyn accent, an accent that invited confidences, the baring of souls, the baring of . . . No lascivious thoughts, Hazel, I admonished myself. Focus on the matter at hand. I doodled on my envelope and scored a mini victory when Vince broke the silence. “How’s Kat taking this?”

  “She’s pretty shaken up.” Should I tell Vince about Kat and Evan’s past relationship? I stopped doodling and made a note to think about it.

  “Did I tell you I saw Kat and Evan at Chipotle’s over at Stony Point?” Was the man reading my mind? Scary thought.

  “And?”

  “Well, that’s it. I saw them.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last week. Maybe the week before.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “Eating.”

  “So?”

  “Just thought it was curious, that’s all.”

  “They couldn’t have been doing anything intimate with all those windows at Chipotle’s.” As much as I like Chipotle Mexican fast food, I didn’t find the fishbowl atmosphere conducive to a rendezvous.

  “No, they probably just ran into each other.” Based on my earlier conversation with Kat, I felt a stab of skepticism about the just-running-into-each-other idea. As I’d wondered earlier, when did Kat find out about Evan and Carlene’s separation?