Murder at the Book Group (20 page)

Helen's navy suit flattered her slim figure. A string of pearls and pearl teardrop earrings completed her simple yet elegant ensemble. She looked 100 percent lady. The tones of her hair, fashioned in a smooth pageboy, alternated between blond and silver, depending on the play of light. With the halolike effect she looked younger than she was—not that I knew her age. I thought Art was about forty—so, regardless of the fact that Helen didn't look a day over fifty, she had to be at least sixty. The cheekbones helped—I had a theory that prominent cheekbones held up the skin, keeping it from sagging.

“Helen was just showing me her digital camera. Quite impressive.” Vince held a flyer in his hand, the same stem cell research one Helen had sent me earlier in the week.

“Yes, come and see. I just got it this morning.”

“Where's Art?” Lucy asked.

“He went to work.”

I suspected that the camera was a ruse to get us over to her car to promote one of her causes, all of which she touted via a collection of bumper stickers. She proclaimed herself a “Bush Woman” and an NRA supporter. Sure enough, the inside of her trunk was piled high with brochures and flyers. A lot of library books, many with Agatha Christie titles, were fanned out over the floor of the trunk. Also Raymond Chandler and Jill Churchill. It looked like she'd raided the “CH” section.

I recognized some titles from the Murder on Tour selections. Sarah had talked up
Deadly Harvest
with great enthusiasm when we “toured” Washington State. If memory served me the book featured a detective priest. I wondered if Helen read these books or if they just remained stashed in her trunk.

Helen lovingly lauded every detail of her camera. Apparently it did everything but wash dishes. Sales pitch over, she picked some flyers off a stack and urged them on us, but I pushed them back at her, reminding her that Lucy and I already had one.

Sensing that Helen was about to amplify on the event advertised on the flyer, I planned an exit strategy. Just then I was gifted with one—the stack of flyers toppled over in the trunk and my attention fell on a plastic see-through envelope that had been under the pile—specifically on the photograph visible inside it.

I asked, leaning in for a closer look. “Is that Evan?”

All eyes went to the photograph, showing a smiling Evan. The image looked familiar and no more than ten years old. I thought it could be the one our alumni publication had included with an article on Evan when he'd retired from his job in Rochester and headed south to Richmond. The envelope's thickness suggested other photos besides the visible one.

Helen made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, those are some photos I scanned for Carlene a while back. When I took a Photoshop class she gave me this envelope and asked me to digitize them and touch them up if necessary. She wanted to create a DVD for Evan for their anniversary. I wonder if she ever did.” Helen gave a short laugh. “I forgot all about them. You know how bad I am about keeping stuff in my car. I guess I should give them to Evan.”

Lucy looked toward the clubhouse down the street. “He might still be there.”

“Goodness, I won't bother him now.” Helen straightened up the sheath of flyers now spread out across the trunk. “Well, I do hope to see all of you at the stem cell presentation. You know, don't you—”

Vince cut her off. “Would you ladies care to go to Crossroads?” he asked, referring to a neighborhood coffee house on Richmond's Southside, near downtown.

Helen spoke up. “Thanks for asking, but I have to get going. First stop is the library—I find myself there every day—always seem to have research to do.”

“Which library?” Lucy asked.

Helen closed her trunk and shrugged. “Mostly Westover Hills, just because it's the closest. But my favorite is the main city library downtown.”

“Yes, I like that one too. But don't you research online? I'd think a computer-savvy person like yourself would.”

“Oh, I do both. I don't want to see the printed word go by the wayside. And then, speaking of the Internet, I have an appointment later with a new website client. Then Bible study. I just never stop!”

After citing a list of errands, projects, and appointments that filled her days, Helen turned to me. “Hazel, what do you think about . . .” Then she looked at Lucy and Vince and said, “Oh, I'm holding everyone up. We'll talk later, Hazel. I'll call you.” And so I was saved, at least temporarily, from having to think.

After Helen left, Vince looked at Lucy. “How about you, Lucy? Crossroads?”

“Oh, you two go. I'm going to the office. You'll give Hazel a ride home, won't you, Vince?” Her nonchalant manner didn't fool me. She was delighted with this turn of events. Like a stage mom. I halted her hasty retreat long enough to retrieve my purse and a travel coffee mug from her trunk. As part of our commitment to saving the environment, we each kept a stash of reusable shopping bags, coffee mugs, and take-out containers in the car. Reluctantly, I eased back into my shoes. When Vince suggested I wear the hat, Lucy plunked it on my head and fussed with it a bit. Then she drove off, waving gaily.

Vince and I traveled along Forest Hill Avenue to Crossroads, officially called Crossroads Coffee & Ice Cream. As I stepped out of the car, Vince again remarked on my outfit. “Very sexy,” he said with an appreciative look. I felt a little self-conscious and very, well, sexy.

I said, “So what did you and Helen talk about?”

“Stem cell research,” Vince smiled. “Oh, and her digital camera.”

A converted gas station, Crossroads was a funky and comfortable place with big purple couches and mosaic-topped bistro tables. Vince and I stood out in our dressy attire—but the jeans-clad customers were too involved with their newspapers and laptops to notice us. I produced my travel mug for my latte and urged Vince to specify a ceramic mug for his. I opened my purse, making a flirtatious show of looking for money that I knew wasn't there. Vince fell in with my plans and insisted on paying.

After sprinkling cinnamon on our coffee concoctions, we went to an adjacent room—probably a former waiting room—and settled in by a window. I lost no time in slipping off my shoes. For a few moments, we sat in a silence that looked to be companionable, but was really expectant. Finally Vince asked, “So, Hazel . . . tell me about your conversation with Carlene's brother.”

I looked at Vince, trying to gauge whether jealousy or an ingrained investigative instinct drove his question. But he wore that inscrutable expression mastered by cops everywhere. I mentally shrugged and said, leaving out my observations on his attractiveness, “Our conversation was very short. But Kat had an interesting talk with him.” I launched into Kat's description of the pool incident. “It had to be Linda. After that remark she made to Carlene at the signing, it would be too much of a coincidence otherwise. We have to find her. Did you find an address for her?”

“With a name like Linda Thomas she's not the easiest person to find. But let's back up for a minute—what remark did she make?” Vince's blue-eyed gaze was intense.

Realizing that I'd forgotten to tell him about the death-by-drowning remark, I filled him in on that reported exchange. He raised his eyebrows and nodded but made no comment. “Makes sense. Bears looking into.” He wrote something in a notebook that he produced from his pocket. “Anything else?”

It didn't escape my notice that he'd evaded my question about Linda's address. But I let it go and went on to summarize the rest of Kat's conversation with Hal. “Thankfully, he didn't share his sister's reserve. He sounds much more straitlaced than she was, rigid almost. Full of moral rectitude.”

“Moral rectitude, huh?” Vince looked amused. “That's what I get for taking a writer to coffee. Speaking of writing, how's yours going these days?”

“It's taken a hit this week. But I'm gathering some excellent material. Thanks in large part to finding out all this stuff about Carlene. And yours?”

Vince updated me on his latest research into the true crime story of the Lattimer sisters. Patty and Nancy Lattimer had stunned Richmond three years before when they shot and killed their wealthy parents. This tragic story always got me thinking about the dynamics of the obviously dysfunctional Lattimer family. Were the daughters born “bad” or was their environment responsible for their decisions? What kind of parents had the Lattimers been? Vince was doing his best to find out but may never arrive at a satisfactory answer to the nature vs. nurture question.

When he finished, he asked, “Who was that young man with Annabel today?”

“Her son.”

“I wondered. All those middle-aged women fawning over him. What's the attraction? I didn't think he was so great-looking.”

“No, but he's sexy as all get out. He looks like that actor, you know—Ralph Fiennes.”

“
The English Patient
.” Vince's tone conveyed his opinion of that movie. “That was three hours of my life that I'll never get back.”

“Yes, well, I long ago made it up to you with all those action films,” I retorted. “Anyway . . . speaking of Annabel, did she talk to you today? Or send you an e-mail?”

Vince shook his head. “Maybe she had second thoughts.” I'd given Vince a heads-up that Annabel wanted to talk to him, probably about the whole Ronnie thing with the fingerprints. It occurred to me that what Annabel really had wanted to know was how tight I still was with Vince. Maybe after being seen with him today, I'd be hounded with requests, the go-to person for inside information.

Vince sipped his latte and gave me a long look. “I'm telling you, Hazel, you could be in harm's way with these people. Annabel certainly has a motive. Carlene stole her man. And if Annabel was doing all that library research . . .”

“But why wait this long to seek revenge? Don't people get over anything?”

“Many don't. Not ever.”

Vince proposed that Carlene may have incited Annabel in other ways when they lived next door to each other. Maybe Carlene stole other men from her, waylaying them as they came up the walkway. I had a vision of Carlene appearing on one of those Fan verandas in a filmy peignoir and feathery high-heeled mules, luring men from Annabel's door.

“Carlene stole Trudy's man too. But Trudy wasn't at book group. She got married and is on her honeymoon as we speak.”

Vince took notes when I told him Janet's account of Carlene's mysterious visitor on Monday evening, but he looked skeptical. “Or maybe Janet was the visitor.”

I looked stunned. “Why—I never thought of that.” My skepticism skills were undeveloped.

“She gave you a lot of vague details. I always wonder about these sightings.”

“Lucy and I wondered if Carlene had reason to think that Annabel killed her husband; if so, Carlene might have gone in for a bit of blackmail herself.” When Vince looked doubtful, I said, “Hey, she could have heard all kinds of stuff when they were neighbors in the Fan.”

“I do remember something—when Carlene consulted with me, she mentioned Annabel and her husband. She thought his unsolved murder would be a good idea for a future book.”

A thought struck me so hard I wondered how my hat stayed on. “What—what if she decided to interview Annabel about it? And what if Annabel didn't want Carlene to write about it and decided to nip that problem in the bud by killing her?” My words collided in my excitement.

Vince allowed that it was a possibility but, not surprisingly, reminded me that we had no proof and there was little likelihood of getting any. He fell to reviewing his notes while I twisted my napkin into various shapes. I got up and looked at the flyers tacked to the walls: lost pets, music lessons, Bible study groups. I considered telling Vince about Helen and Carlene's website disputes. It all sounded lame, but after a lightning-quick hemming and hawing session with myself, I decided to tell him anyway and went back to the table.

When I finished, his look confirmed the lame judgment. He closed his notebook and put it on the table. “I wonder why your book group attracted so many people who had an axe to grind with Carlene.” When I didn't respond to this provocative statement, he went on, “Annabel, Linda . . . maybe Kat and even Helen.”

“Well, I'm glad you don't include me with that bunch. Or Sarah. Or Art.”

“I forgot about Sarah and Art. As for you, I don't see you as a killer, Hazel. Oh, maybe in a moment of passion, but premeditated murder . . .” He shook his head. “Plus, I never felt there was any great feeling between you and Evan. I imagine he was the reason you moved to Richmond in the first place, but still.” I couldn't think of a good enough comeback, so I finished my latte and tried to affect an allure that suited my noir persona.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?”

I waited a couple of beats before saying, “Sure.” Then Molly appeared in my mind, unbidden. Much as I wanted to ignore her, I knew I had to deal with the woman, the sooner the better. “But what about Molly?”

“Molly?”

“Yes, Molly. I thought you two were an item.”

“Hardly. I think she's a Nazi.”

“A
Nazi
?”

“Yes. She has some very authoritarian views. I introduced her to Bill Hall.”

I laughed. “They might get along.” Bill Hall was one of Vince's former police colleagues. Vince and I once tried to fix him up with Helen and she found him too conservative. Go figure.

“So, how about that dinner?”

With Molly out of the picture, I had no trouble agreeing. “Yes, I'd like that. When?”

“Well, I guess next weekend. I'd like to see you tomorrow night, but don't want to be asking at the last minute.”

“Well . . .” I made a show of mentally reviewing a hectic social calendar. Should I play hard to get or at least challenging to get? Nah—we were too old for those games. “Let's say tomorrow at seven.”