Murder at the Book Group (24 page)

“But what's the likelihood that they did?”

“Pretty good,” I sighed. “And that makes Sarah another suspect.” Then I hastened to recite the mantra, “If it wasn't suicide, that is.”

As I had earlier, I speculated about what Den could do. When I asked Vince for his take on the matter, he had a suggestion.

And a very interesting suggestion it was.

ON SUNDAY MORNING
we enjoyed a late breakfast at Joe's Inn. Then, after a lengthy good-bye, Vince left to work on his writing and I sat at my computer, determined to get cracking on my own. I put all thoughts of Carlene's death out of my head but kept the erotic ones generated by the previous evening. I expected to produce steamy scenes by the dozens. Sex had never been a problem for Vince and me. Although, unlike Carlene and her penchant for sex in uncomfortable places like desks and cars, I wasn't quite so adventurous, preferring the comfort of a bed. I contemplated my newly resurrected relationship with Vince—what direction would it follow? What direction did I want it to follow? Deciding to dispense with the relationship what-ifs and put my recharged sex muse to good use, I opened my latest chapter.

But neither my muse nor my characters got to first base. The phone rang, with Kat Berenger's name scrolling across the display window.

“Hazel, you'll never guess who's here at the gym!” Not waiting for my guess, she exclaimed, “Linda!”

“I DIDN'T REALIZE SHE
was a member, but she said she just joined recently. And not a minute too soon—the woman's thighs are pure cottage cheese! She was
not
pleased to see me, I can tell you that. Anyway, she did offer her condolences before she tried to give me the brush-off. I told her we'd been trying to find her, wanting to include her in the book group. She said she wasn't interested.

“She did ask how it happened. When I said cyanide, she immediately jumped to the suicide conclusion. Painful as it was, I didn't bother correcting her. She couldn't get away from me fast enough, so I didn't get to grill her.” After a sharp exhale, Kat continued. “You might have better luck with her, Hazel, being as you're more . . . sedate. How soon can you get here? I doubt she's the sort who clocks in much time at gyms. I got her address and phone number from the database here, but it would be
much
better if you confronted her in person.”

“I don't know about confronting her, but I do want to talk to her. And you're right, it would be easier if I just ‘happened' to run into her than if I called her.”

I sprang into action, throwing clothes and shoes into my gym bag. As I opened the kitchen door, the phone rang again—Lucy, according to caller ID, no doubt expecting a debriefing of my date with Vince. I let her leave a message. I wasn't about to let Linda slip through my fingers.

Kat met me at the door to the gym. Her getup of the day, unconventional even for her, involved yellow patent leather and leopard velvet. How did all that patent leather “breathe”? Kat launched right into an update on Linda. “She just left the Jacuzzi. I was right, she didn't spend much time exercising, just strolled on the treadmill for five minutes. So go. Meet her in the locker room. I'll scan you in.”

“What about you?” I sounded like a toddler on her first day of nursery school, clinging to her mother's skirt. Now that I was about to meet Linda face-to-face, I wanted Kat's comforting muscle. The exercise area looked sparsely populated and mostly by men, making me doubt that the locker room contained women in significant numbers. This investigation business was fast losing its appeal. In books, silly amateur detectives put themselves in dangerous situations with not even a token regard for the consequences. The fact that I didn't live in the pages of a book was never clearer to me than now. But Linda wasn't likely to pose a danger in the locker room. Was she? My contrary mind itemized the potential danger zones—showers, sauna, lockers, just for starters. What about my promises to Lucy and Vince that I'd avoid being alone with anyone from the book group?

“What
about
me? She already blew me off. Besides, I have a personal training session in a few minutes. Call me if you need me. You've got your phone, right? Put it in your pocket. And you've got me on speed dial, right?”

“Yes, we took care of that the other day.” I checked the assigned number as I transferred my phone from my purse to my jacket pocket. “Eight.”

“Good. Well . . . just go. You'll be fine.” I shot Kat a doubtful look.

“You're just having a casual chat with her, nothing more.” Kat made shooing motions with her hands. “You'd better get a move on.”

Casual was not a word that I'd use to describe my feelings at that moment. More like terror when imagining myself folded into a locker. Looking for a delaying tactic, I asked, “How's Mick? I haven't heard anything about him.”

Kat looked exasperated. “Just
go
.”

THINKING FAST ON
my feet was never my strong suit. With more advance notice, I'd have invested time planning my strategy. Yet another aspect of investigating that detective fiction glosses over is the need for improvisational skills. But planned conversations weren't likely to work anyway. I needed to establish myself as a trustworthy confidante and hope that Linda responded with an outpouring of Carlene-related angst. I ignored Vince's voice telling me to turn tail and run.

Herbal shampoo and sweat permeated the locker room. I caught Linda in the act of peeling off her wet suit. Not stellar timing on my part. Kat was right—Linda needed to spend some quality time at the gym.

I couldn't see or hear anyone, confirming my fear that Linda and I were alone. Not even the sound of a shower promised the eventual appearance of someone. Fortunately Linda was close to the locker room entrance so I could make a hasty exit if necessary. Resolving to remain calm and matter-of-fact, and hoping I'd remember my resolve to remain calm and matter-of-fact, I put on my brightest smile and gushed, “Linda! How wonderful to see you. I'm Hazel Rose. Remember me? From the book group.”

“Yeah, I remember you.” She sounded underwhelmed. She finished removing her suit and stood there, naked, looking at me.

Despite feeling more than a little disconcerted at her display, I maintained a bubbly manner. “Kat and I have been looking for you, but we didn't have your phone number or e-mail address.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. Yellow Bird jumped on me the minute I got here.” I took it that Yellow Bird was Kat. An apt description.

Linda's long streaked hair hung around her head in wet ropes. The Jacuzzi had melted off her thick eye makeup and now it settled in creases under her eyes. Had she forgotten that she was naked? As if she heard my question, she draped her towel around her neck. I toyed with the idea of suggesting she cover other parts as well. No, just ignore the whole thing, I decided. And maintain eye contact.

Linda didn't ask why we'd tried to reach her, but that didn't stop me from explaining. “We wanted to welcome you to the book group and invite you to a special planning meeting on Tuesday.” I ad-libbed our agenda, leaving out the part about the group possibly disbanding. “Can you join us?”

Linda looked blank for a moment before realizing that I'd asked a question, putting the ball in her court. “Uh, Tuesday?” When I nodded, my smile starting to feel frozen, she said, “Sorry, can't. Tuesday's Bingo night.”

“Oh well, another time perhaps. We so enjoyed meeting you, despite the circumstances.” Then I went from gushing to sympathetic. “I'm so sorry about your loss.” I reached out a hand but didn't touch her. Even though it would have just been her arm, that was attached to her naked body. Off limits.

“Loss?”

“Carlene. Weren't you two friends in L.A.?”

Linda gave a derisive snort. “Not hardly. But she was obviously a friend of yours, so I won't say a word.” She gave me a coy look.

I took that as my cue to stand up and count myself one of the legions of women who had lost out in the romance department to femme fatale Carlene, thereby establishing a common bond with Linda. “Well—” I drew out the well and tried for my own coy look. “We weren't exactly
friends
.” I looked around, acting like I had confidences to share and didn't want to be overheard. “Just between you and me, I'll tell you something I
never
talk about—Carlene stole my fiancé right out from under my nose! Not to speak ill of the dead, of course.”

“You're kidding!” Linda looked delighted.

I told her how I had moved from L.A. to Virginia to marry my fiancé, but my plans got derailed when Carlene stepped in and married him before I'd even arrived. I left out unimportant details, like the fact that neither my so-called fiancé nor Carlene knew of my marriage plans.

I definitely had Linda's attention. “Nothing that woman could do would surprise me.”

“Sounds like you had a bad experience with her as well.”

“You might say that.” Linda slanted a look at me, perhaps debating with herself if she could trust me.

Prodding her, I asked, “Was that back in L.A. or recently?”

“L.A. Years ago.”

Everyone had a story to tell, and I expected that Linda was no different. I waited a couple of beats before my next prod. “So how did you know Carlene? Did you work with her?”

“No, my husband worked with her. Carlotta, that's what she called herself then.” Scowling, she added, “I met her at their company Christmas party.”

“Carlotta?”

“Yes, Carlotta. Fancy-assed name. Maybe she changed it to Carlene after the incident with the fiancé and the tapes.”

“Fiancé? Tapes?” Maybe I was about to hear an expanded version of Jeanette's fiancé story. Jeanette had alluded to tapes that one of Carlene's lovers had made.

Linda laughed. “Sorry. I'm getting ahead of myself. Where was I?”

“The Christmas party.”

“Ah, yes. The infamous Christmas party.” Linda took a deep breath and began. “Carlene had her fiancé with her, a lawyer. He was actually very nice, but for some reason felt he had to tell us that he and wifey-to-be didn't have sex 'cause they were born-again Christians. I mean, why did I have to know that?

“Anyway, the four of us kind of hung out together at this party. On the way home, I noticed that B.J. reeked of perfume. When I asked about it, he said he'd danced with someone who'd gone overboard with the stuff. I was suspicious but didn't really know what to think. Well, I
did
know what to think, just didn't want to. I didn't remember him dancing with anyone. I came to realize that he and that floozy Carlene took off somewhere for a quickie. So much for her being a born-again Christian.”

I wanted to cheer in triumph at the confirmation of B.J.'s identity. I hoped my feigned amazement at Carlene and B.J. having a quickie masked my elation. “You're kidding! A quickie? Did they leave the party at any point?” I doubted Carlene was a born-again Christian on either coast, so I left that aspect of Linda's account alone.

“I'm sure they did, but all I would have thought was that they were going to the restroom. I mean, it was a party, who really pays attention?” Linda's expression turned hard. “Maybe they did it in a stall.”

Or on a desk.
Aloud, I asked, “You said you came to realize that they went off somewhere. How was that?”

“It was the tapes that I found in B.J.'s desk. Tapes of him . . . and Carlene. You can just imagine what they were doing.” A note of pain crept into her voice, replacing the previous hostility.

“Oh, Linda, I'm so sorry—”

With an impatient gesture, Linda dismissed my expression of sympathy. “I started following Carlene home from work. I expected B.J. to show up but I never saw him. Maybe they went somewhere else. One night I went to her apartment and, get this—there was another man there! He said she didn't live there, but I didn't believe him and said I'd wait. I sat by the pool, one of those apartment complexes with the courtyard, pool, the whole Southern California bit. And, finally, she came home.” She paused in her narration.

Jeanette had mentioned Marty's Hideaway as Carlene's “trysting” spot when Hal was visiting, which might explain B.J.'s not showing up at the apartment. Should I tell Linda it was Carlene's brother Hal in the apartment? And ask if she'd recognized him at the memorial service? No, I concluded. She'd wonder how I had that information. “And then?” I asked.

“I told her to stay away from my husband. Or she'd regret it.”

“How did she respond to that?”

Linda shrugged. “Don't remember. I do remember neighbors opening their doors, watching us, and the guy from Carlene's apartment coming out and escorting her inside.”

So Linda was leaving the pool incident out of her tale. I nudged her some more. “I guess your confrontation was pretty loud to get the neighbors outside.” She allowed that the exchange was heated but didn't offer additional information.

“The next day I sent copies of the tapes to her.
And
to the fancy lawyer. Thankfully he had given me his card at the party.”

I felt my sympathy for Linda slipping away. It was bad enough to send the tapes to Carlene, but sending them to the lawyer was over the top. Linda had no doubt suffered pain over B.J.'s infidelity and the tapes might have been too much to bear. But still. As for B.J., where was he in all of this? Had he emerged unscathed from this tragedy of sorts? Trying to sound neutral, I asked, choosing my words and tone with care, “When were the tapes recorded?”

“According to the date stamp, exactly one week before the Christmas party. I guess the tramp wasn't cut out for celibacy.”

No, Carlene and celibacy were not a match made in heaven. Aloud, I asked, “Did she know it was you who sent the tapes?”