Murder at the Book Group (13 page)

“Anyway, Carly said she felt smothered. She was too free-spirited for a possessive guy. And the fact that Evan was supporting her financially didn't help. She was glad to be able to write full time, but was planning to return to her, as she put it, ‘day job.' ”

“Yes, it takes a while to make a living as a writer.”

Georgia carried on with her story. “One day in September, I met her for lunch. She said she and Evan had separated on a trial basis. Actually, she considered it permanent; the trial part was just to soften it for him. He called and stopped by the house constantly. Carly was fed up with him and I think she worried she had another stalker on her hands.”

Again, I felt denial rising in me. It was bad enough to consider Evan as domineering and controlling, but to add killer and stalker to the mix was going over the top. And hadn't Georgia described Randy in similar terms? “You said that Randy was domineering as well. It sounds like Carlene was attracted to such men.”

“Could be. Although she always said she wasn't.” I resisted the temptation to comment on Carlene's psychology. “After they separated, I didn't say much to Carly about Evan. It's best not to in these situations. I just said I'd be supportive. About three weeks later, she had her signing at Creatures 'n Crooks. We met at a restaurant in Carytown for dinner. She seemed more relaxed that evening, said she hadn't seen or heard from Evan in a week. But toward the end of the evening she became rattled and edgy. Not terribly so, but it was enough of a contrast to how she'd been earlier.” Must have had to do with Linda. Georgia drew in a deep sigh and new tears welled up in her swollen eyes. “I'm so glad I got to spend her birthday with her.”

Her voice broke and I reached out and touched her hand, assuring her that she was fortunate to have had that time with her lifelong friend. We talked for a few more minutes until Georgia said she had to get some work done. “I have to do something normal.”

As I gathered my purse and overstuffed tote bag, I asked, “How's Vivian working out?”

Georgia waggled her hand back and forth. “Oh, she's a mixed bag. Great on the phone—that voice, you know. But if she's not reading the paper, she's going on and on about her wonderful son. Calls him ‘baby boy.' ” Georgia rolled her eyes. “This so-called baby works in the state Attorney General's Office. The other day she showed me an article about a woman who found her birth mother after a search of twenty-five years.”

“Persistent, wasn't she?”

“I'll say. Vivian said she didn't agree with this business of searching for birth mothers. Then she proceeded to tell me what ‘baby boy'—who apparently is adopted—said when she told him about the article: ‘Mom, you're my mother and you're the only mother I've ever known. Maybe my birth mother is out there somewhere, but I have no desire to find her. After all, she gave me up, didn't she?' Of course, she looked quite pleased to have such a loyal son.

“Oh, she's a good person and I'm sure her son's wonderful, but still. A little less talk about him would suit me just fine. She doesn't say much about her husband at all.”

I left Georgia to her various tasks. After leaving the banana bread in the staff kitchen, I proceeded to the volunteers' desk. Most of the staff had arrived by then.

After fielding questions about Carlene's strange death, I called Lucy and asked her to go over to Creatures 'n Crooks and see what information she could assemble about Linda from the signing. She agreed and said she had an errand to run in the area at lunch and would swing by the store then. She'd pick up a copy of
Murder in the Keys
if they had one. I told her I'd fill her in later on my conversation with Georgia. I didn't want to conduct a private conversation with several sets of ears in hearing range.

I mailed out donor acknowledgment letters and managed some routine database maintenance, but my mind refused to focus on my work. Not surprisingly, it focused on Carlene and her mysterious sex-laden past. I felt convinced that her huge mistake had its roots in L.A. and that Linda was either involved in it or at least knew about it. The fact that Carlene's relocation to Richmond marked her transition from openness to reticence, a reticence that lasted until two days ago, indicated that something went awry on the West Coast. The mistake likely had to do with the doomed love affair, stalker, fiancé, and God only knew what else. Any one of these dramas held mistake potential. Taken in combination, they added up to trouble—in other words, a “huge mistake.” I hoped to enlist Susie Abbott, my friend and former coworker from my own L.A. days, in getting information about Carlene's past.

At one o'clock I gave up trying to be productive, at least as far as the center was concerned. I decided to swing by the library even if Trudy was away. It might be interesting to survey the site of Carlene's parking lot rendezvous.

Georgia was on the phone, so I mimed a good-bye and see you tomorrow.

I walked to my car, my head spinning with Carlene minutiae. Was Georgia right in thinking that sex was Carlene's undoing? Georgia's description of Carlene's sexually active lifestyle suggested that her death was punishment for sexual “sinning.” My mouth twisted in distaste at the notion, but a number of people held such beliefs. Was Georgia one of those people? Did her fundamentalist church teach along the lines of divine retribution?

Divine retribution . . . now that was scary stuff.

BASED ON HELEN'S ACCOUNT,
Carlene's backseat assignation with the man in the car took place in the farthest corner of the back row of the library parking lot. As I headed that way I barely missed a collision with a woman in an SUV. Her simultaneously lighting a cigarette and wedging a cell phone between her ear and shoulder as she steered hampered her progress in backing out of her space. Not for the first time, I rued the day that multitasking became a valued skill. A skill few people possessed.

I dodged a few more oblivious drivers and pedestrians before reaching my destination. Once I nosed into a space I sat and reviewed my surroundings. Oak trees provided heavy cover for the spaces in this back row where the lighting was sparse at night, making it an ideal trysting spot. I considered Randy a viable candidate for the mysterious lover. Georgia's description of him as bald didn't eliminate him as a candidate—a toupee or hair plugs were easy enough to come by. I smiled at a vision of the toupee falling off in the backseat. A character in my book has a similar experience.

A tinny rendition of “Fly Me to the Moon” sounded from my phone. Realizing that Vince was right about my phone, I'd turned it on that morning and tucked it into the deep side pocket of my purse. My challenge was remembering to recharge the battery before it pooped out. I also remembered my promise to get up to speed on taking pictures. I'd practice on the cats when I got home. And there were those numbers Vince had given to me to add to my contact list. No question about it—I had to spend time with my cell phone later.

Vince's name showed on the tiny display screen. He dropped the news that wasn't news at all. “I wanted to tell you about the test results—the tea was full of cyanide.”

“Oh. Okay. Not exactly a surprise.” I took a deep breath. “So I guess the cremation's next.” We said nothing for a moment, perhaps honoring the gravity of the situation.

I related the highlights—and lowlights—of my conversations with Georgia, including the very, as the British put it, randy Randy. We ended the conversation with Vince saying he'd call the next day from the airport. For a few moments I sat in my car, gazing into the middle distance. The stress of the past couple of days descended upon me in a cloud and I felt weary to my bones. This investigating business required energy. It was time to head to the gym for some recharging.

I turned my key in the ignition, drove out of the lot, and headed south.

I SAW KAT
before she saw me. Like the day before, her outfit was solid black, save for her leopard print shoes. She chatted with the young woman who worked behind the check-in counter. “Hazel!” Kat exclaimed. “I'm so glad to see you.” The young woman, Amy, smiled a hello.

As I returned my scanned card to my gym bag, Kat said, “Let's talk.” Before I could say yea or nay we were sitting at a wobbly table in the café area. “Want anything?” Kat gestured toward the counter. I shook my head.

Kat's reddened eyes indicated bouts of crying, but her heavy makeup appeared to be intact. She said, “I'm trying to get Amy to do something different with her hair.” Amy habitually pulled her curly hair into a tight bun on top of her head. It looked painful.

“Good idea. But you know, Kat, if I'd adapted her style thirty or so years ago, I might have avoided this facial sagging. I'd likely be bald . . . But, looking at it from the bright side, I could wear a wig, not have to worry about my roots, and have a sag-free face to boot.”

We laughed for a moment before Kat ended the small talk. “Mick and I are having coffee later.”

I tried to recall someone, anyone, named Mick. “Oh, Mick. Your police friend. With Beverly the crazy girlfriend.”

Kat snickered. “Yeah, I've got to watch out for that one. Anyway, Mick told me about the autopsy results.” She gave me a meaningful look. “Cyanide.”

I nodded. “Vince told me.”

“Vince! Does that mean you two—”

“No. It doesn't mean a thing. We just talked, that's all.”

Kat gave me a measuring look before going back to Mick's report. “He says the results confirm that the cyanide was in that wretched tea. I wonder if it was in that crap all along—God only knows where it comes from.”

Kat drew a deep breath. “So . . . the cremation is tomorrow.”

“It's all going so fast.” At Kat's perplexed look, I explained. “The autopsy, testing, cremation, memorial service. I just expected it to take longer. And the church—”

“It's all Warren's doing. St. Bernard's is his church, so he got us in there. And the medical examiner goes to the same church and is Warren's great pal. It's who you know, and Warren knows a lot of people.”

“Are you going? To the . . .” The very word stuck in my throat. “. . . cremation?”

“Not me, I couldn't take it. Evan and Warren are.”

After a pause, Kat said, “I want to find out from Mick what the cops are saying about this, if they really buy the suicide bit. And if they have any suspects.” Kat's eyes filled with tears. “Hopefully not you or me. It's bad enough that I to have cope with Carlene's death, but being a suspect on top of it would be too, too much.”

“No, it's not a thrilling prospect.”

Kat produced a tissue from her cleavage and dabbed at each eye. “Damn! I don't want to cry now.”

“It's okay to cry, Kat.” I tried to sound soothing.

“No it isn't,” she said with gritted teeth. “We need to find out who did this, who killed my stepsister.”

“I'm still wondering about Linda.”

Kat looked thoughtful. “I'm coming up with zero on her. I searched for her online but, like we said yesterday, there are lots of Linda Thomases out there. And I called all of them, along with the L. Thomases. I wish we knew the husband's name.”

I shot Kat a look of admiration. She'd acted like a real detective, calling the names in the directory. Besides not being a real detective, I was a lazy one. Kat spread her hands on either side of her face in an unwitting imitation of
The Scream,
that famous painting by a Swedish—or was it Norwegian?—painter. Instead of screaming, she settled for a sigh. “We have to find her.”

I asked, “What did the husband look like?”

“Tall, skinny, blond hair going gray.” Another one of those descriptions that fit thousands of men in Richmond alone. Why couldn't I get a description of someone with turquoise hair and a limp? Kat continued, “And he wore a knit shirt, the kind with those two-toned panels.” Kat's curled lip indicated her opinion of that fashion choice.

“Did you hear any conversation between Linda and Carlene at the signing?”

“No. I only met Linda when she was leaving.”

“Well, let me tell you what Art told me.” When I finished, Kat said, “It sounds like Linda deliberately sought me out to pump me for information about Carlene.”

I shrugged. “Could be. Did you tell her about the book group or did she bring it up?”

Kat thought. “I think—I think
she
did, said she heard that Carlene had a book group and asked if I belonged to it. So I told her about it and gave her my card. Then she left.”

“And she said that she knew Carlene in L.A., right?”

“Yeah, she did. But she said nothing about Carlene not remembering her.”

“Funny. Because if she was leaving when she talked to you she must have already had the conversation with Carlene. Did she seem pissed at all?”

“Not that I recall.” Kat rested her chin in her hands and pressed her lips together. After a moment, she said, “But you don't kill someone for not remembering you. Do you?”

“No. But I suspect that Carlene did remember her. And the memory wasn't pleasant. I think that explains her agitation from the other night.”

“We have to find Linda. That's all there is to it. I'll call Creatures 'n Crooks.”

“Oh, Lucy was going over there at lunchtime. Let me give her a call.” I looked around. It was a little after two and few people worked the machines and the group exercise rooms were empty. But Kat was popular and no telling who might interrupt us once members started pouring in. Talk of murder required privacy. “Can we go next door to Starbucks? It's easier to talk there.”

Kat told Amy she'd be back in “a few.” In Starbucks, Kat opted for a vanilla Frappuccino. I wasn't hungry but I hadn't had lunch, so decided on a blueberry muffin and a latte, remembering in the nick of time to specify a ceramic mug. I usually made the effort to bring my travel mug for coffee occasions, but didn't feel like making the trip to my car. As usual when I found myself buying coffee I gritted my teeth at the exorbitant amount of money I handed over to the server—excuse me, “barista.” Oh, those pretentious terms born of the Seattle coffee invasion. I joined Kat at a table by the window, away from the other patrons.