Murder at the Book Group (11 page)

“Um, well, not too much. But I did take a picture of Daisy and Shammy.” Shammy, nestled against my thigh, looked up at the sound of her name.

“And how long ago was that?” I had no idea, but hastened to assure Vince that I knew how to use the camera and that besides, I had a manual. Vince said, “Remember, if you have a killer in your group, you'll need protection.”

“And taking pictures of this would-be killer will protect me?”

“Just humor me, Hazel. Use your phone. You may need to use it quickly.” Vince paused for a moment. “Again, be careful. You're too curious by half.”

“Is curious a euphemism for nosy?”

He laughed but didn't disagree. Echoing Lucy's earlier remark about my concern for justice, he said, “You do have a vigilante streak.” Now he became earnest. “Hazel, I don't want to lose you. Keep your phone on and with you at all times. Familiarize yourself with the camera feature so you can take a picture at a moment's notice. Is my number on your speed dial?” It was, but I didn't want to admit that. “Uh, no. But don't worry, I'll take care of it.” After he gave me Dennis Mulligan's numbers to assign on speed dial, he said, “Call me tomorrow?”

I assured him that I would, and we hung up. I got out of bed, trying not to disturb Shammy, and walked down the hall to my den where I turned on my computer. After sending the book group directory to Vince, I read e-mails from Kelly Justice at the Fountain as well as Lelia Taylor from Creatures 'n Crooks, both of them offering glowing tributes to Carlene as an up-and-coming author. I looked at the e-mail that Kat sent:

As many of you already know, my sister, Carlene Arness, passed away last night at her home from unknown causes. She was hosting Murder on Tour. All who were present are devastated at the loss of this talented woman. Evan is inconsolable.

As the group's cofounder, she offered unique insights into our reading selections. And her recent publication of
Murder à la Isabel
was a huge success, the start of what promised to be a long and successful writing career.

A memorial service is scheduled for Friday, October 14, at 11:00 at St. Bernard's Episcopal Church.

Fondly,

Kat Berenger

Various replies followed, along the lines of “Just awful,” and “I still can't believe it,” “Poor Evan,” “I'm so sorry for your loss.” Helen said she'd pray for Carlene's soul.

Annabel sent a message to the group, omitting Kat as a recipient. “Does anyone know what Carlene ingested?” No one had responded, not even with a speculation.

I opened Helen's e-mail with the attached flyer promoting the lecture on stem cell research. Above a photo of a woman wearing pearls and hair sprayed to within an inch of its life read the caption: “Stem Cell Research: What You Need to Know.” I hit the delete button.

Lucy and Daisy came up to my den and plopped down on the day bed. Lucy said, “Tell all.”

“I didn't talk to Evan, just left a message. As for Vince . . .” When I got to the part about Vince's sighting of Evan and Kat at Chipotle, Lucy looked thoughtful. “Well, that either means something or . . . it doesn't. It's possible they just ran into each other and talked.” She petted Daisy, who gazed at her with adoring eyes. “But in view of what she told us this morning, it might very well mean
something
.”

“I wonder if Kat got an invitation to Lemaire?” We shared a laugh when we tried to picture the stir she'd cause if she walked into that traditional restaurant in one of her leopard getups.

Lucy was disappointed in my lack of progress in getting back together with Vince. “You just have to look smashing at the memorial service.”

The unwelcome specter of Molly loomed. What was the point of putting energy into developing, or redeveloping, anything with Vince if he and Molly were an item?

“Don't forget Molly.”

“All the more reason to knock his socks off on Friday.”

I LOVED RICHMOND'S NORTHSIDE,
with its historic neighborhoods and beautiful mansions dating from the turn of the twentieth century. Much of the area had been developed by Lewis Ginter, a philanthropist who had made his fortune in the tobacco industry. Remarkable architecture abounded in neighborhoods like Ginter Park and Bellevue. A brick Georgian Revival mansion, complete with stone gates and expanse of lawn, housed the Richmond Women's Resource Center. With earplugs I could imagine the original beauty and tranquillity surrounding me. Otherwise I had to endure the present-day reality of RWRC's noisy neighbor, Interstate 95.

The Women's Resource Center's stated mission was to plant the seeds for girls and women to grow and succeed in life and in their careers. To that end we provided counseling services, along with career and personal development services.

The house stood flanked by magnolia trees; Ionic columns supported a wide veranda. Even recent events couldn't take away the delight I always felt when I approached the postbellum mansion that RWRC had appropriated ten years before. In the early 1900s a new set of owners added a third floor as well as an “East Wing” in the Colonial Revival style that blended well with the Gothic Revival style of the original “West Wing.” In the latter part of the twentieth century the house was updated to be handicapped accessible by adding a tower to the east side of the house. The beautiful result ensured that the house would remain a community treasure for years to come.

Georgia Dmytryk pulled into a parking space just as I started up the steps leading to a small wooden veranda. I waited for her and we hugged before proceeding into the house. A woman sitting at the reception desk took off her reading glasses and set them on the newspaper she had spread on the desk. She greeted us in warm, dulcet tones. I guessed her to be the temp filling in while the office manager was out on maternity leave.

“I'm Vivian Durand. And you must be Hazel.” I shook the ringed hand she offered me. Vivian arranged her golden-going-on-gray hair in the long-ago fashion known as the Gibson Girl, a poufy updo not unlike a mushroom, albeit an attractive one.

The phone rang and when Vivian answered I noted her professional and soothing phone manner. Georgia nudged me and said, “Let's go to my office and talk.”

Not for the first time, I admired the way Georgia carried herself. Georgia and Carlene had shared not only a childhood, but a commitment to perfect posture. I'd often teased them, asking if they'd spent giggly girlhood sleepovers walking around with books on their heads. In fact they had done just that, with Georgia winning their contests to see who could walk the longest without dropping her book. With her regal bearing and statuesque figure she reminded me of a ship's figurehead. Her dark hair swung in a harmony only found in an expensive cut—likely the result of the spa weekend she'd shared with Carlene.

We walked into Georgia's office. RWRC may be a nonprofit operation, but it was a classy one. A crystal chandelier presided over the large space with its floor-to-ceiling windows, just-for-show fireplace, and Oriental carpet. Georgia motioned for me to close the door. I did so, then sat next to a potted something-or-other. Georgia's haggard and drawn face revealed at least one sleepless night. “Can I get you something?” I asked. “Tea? Oh . . .” I started rummaging through my tote bag. “I brought some banana bread. Courtesy of Lucy.”

“No. No, I'm fine.” Not a convincing fine, but as my nurturing talents were limited, I let it go.

Then Georgia wailed, taking her glasses off and setting them, lenses down, on a desk the size of my dining room table. Not the time to tell her how damaging that was to the lenses. She mopped the tears that streamed down her face and put her head in her hands. Tears were contagious and soon we were crying together, sharing the box of tissues on her desk.

When our tears subsided, Georgia asked if I'd seen the obituary in the paper. I nodded, but didn't comment on the brevity of the piece. “Beloved wife of Evan” and the memorial service logistics were included, but nothing on her family or background. I guessed that Evan had provided the information and either didn't know his wife very well or chose to honor her tight grip on privacy.

Georgia started to reminisce about Carlene, aka Carly. That suited me, as I wanted to get going on my so-called investigation. I deemed Georgia to be my best source for Carlene-related information. Reminiscing was a good way to start and could turn up something unexpected.

“Carly and I met in first grade, up in Fairfax. My family was loving and close-knit, so Carly spent a lot of time at our house. Her parents were always drinking, occasionally fighting, but usually they were passed out, so things were quiet. They pretty much ignored Carly and her brother, Hal. Eventually they divorced and her mother married Dean Berenger. You know him, don't you?”

“Yes, I've met him at the turkey dinners.” The same place where I'd met Georgia, who had lost no time in enlisting me as a volunteer for RWRC.
No more turkey dinners,
I thought, feeling disappointed and a little selfish.

“Did you and Carlene go to the same high school?”

“Yes. We were good students, nerds actually, always with our noses in our books. Neither of us dated much in high school, we weren't even interested, although we did go to the prom with equally nerdy guys. We were curious about sex, and my mom told us a little, admonishing us to wait for marriage. Kat told us a lot, but she didn't suggest waiting. As it happened, neither of us waited for marriage, but we were well into college before we, let's say, succumbed.

“And Carlene didn't just succumb, she got so into sex that she worried me to no end. I was always concerned she'd get into trouble with her freewheeling lifestyle.” Fresh tears streamed down her face unchecked. At least Georgia didn't have to worry about ruining her makeup, because she never appeared to wear any, a grooming choice at odds with her high-maintenance hair and nails. I admired her bronze polish, a departure from the burgundy shades most women favored.

Georgia continued. “It was almost like she led a double life. She was always and forever the perfect lady. From the time we were little kids she was polite, refined, soft spoken. When she discovered sex she remained that same lady and became a hedonist at the same time.”

“How
did
she discover sex?” This business with a sexual alter ego was intriguing, as I'd only known Carlene in her perfect lady mode.

“When Carly was a senior at the University of Pittsburgh, she had an affair with a married professor. Until then, her experience was limited to one boy from college, who wasn't exactly sexually inspiring. But the professor took his teaching responsibilities into the bedroom and showed Carly a world of pleasure. After graduation she moved to L.A., where her college roommate lived. She embarked on a sexual odyssey that lasted for years. She and the roommate lived together for a while but had a falling-out over Carly having breakfast sex in the kitchen.

I tried to stifle a laugh, but didn't succeed. Georgia started to laugh too, that cleansing laughter that often follows sadness, shock, tragedy. We laughed until our stomachs ached, then laughed some more.

The more I learned about Carlene's adventures, the more I felt like a voyeur. But my plans to immortalize her by making her a character in an upcoming book provided a ready rationalization. Georgia said, echoing my thoughts, “She definitely belongs in the pages of your book, Hazel, or the next one, anyway.”

It occurred to me that Carlene's book contained no sex scenes or sexual references. Why would such a sexually adventurous woman populate her book with squeaky-clean characters? When I asked Georgia for her take, she shrugged.

“All kidding aside, Carly was pretty reckless and I often feared for her health and safety. She had a lot of partners, and would try anything, at least once. I don't even want to think about some of the things she told me.” Georgia blotted her eyes. “I hope I don't sound like I'm antisex, because I'm not. I just think she used it to seek validation.”

Maybe, maybe not, I thought. It could be that the woman just plain liked sex. “I don't mean to question her truthfulness, but did you believe all her stories?”

“Yes, unfortunately. I wish I could say she was spinning fantasies—but she was always truthful when we were growing up, so I have to say that I think her tales were true.” Georgia's face clouded. “What I
don't
believe is that she committed suicide. Was it that tea that she drank? Is that what did it? I never trusted that stuff—wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole.”

“It probably was the tea.” As gently as I could, I told Georgia about the possibility of cyanide in the tea.

“Cyanide! That's nuts. Carly wouldn't take cyanide. I think I told you that we spent the weekend at a spa. We had a wonderful time. It was Carly's fiftieth birthday, you know.” Georgia smiled at the memory. “Of course, I just got the basics: facial, massage, mani/pedi. Carly got all that plus an herbal wrap, mud bath, and a few other things. Spent a
fortune
. On the way home, we went to a jewelry store where she got diamond studs and a second hole pierced in each ear. And that
still
wasn't enough—we had to stop at a tattoo parlor where she got a toucan tattooed on her ankle.”

“Oh, for your Costa Rica trip. I remember the toucans from when I went there.” The large-billed birds populated the rain forest in great numbers. “You know, on Monday night Carlene and I arranged to meet with you and talk about your upcoming trip.”

Georgia shook her head in disbelief. “I ask you, Hazel, does this sound like a woman about to commit suicide? Does it?”

Naturally, I agreed with Georgia's stance, but still wanted to play both sides of the suicide argument. “Was Carlene upset about anything? Was the separation weighing heavily on her mind? Was she in despair?”