Murder at the Book Group (27 page)

I sat there, letting my mind wander until it came upon the recording from the memorial service—I still hadn't listened to that. I nudged Daisy off my lap and went upstairs to get my quilted bag. Back in the morning room, I spent the next three hours listening, with the lofty hope of hearing a confession. But if anyone had confessed, it was in tones too low for my unsophisticated gadget to catch. One word did strike me as having significance: “insurance.”

When Art had recited the list of jobs his mother had held over the years, I hadn't noticed the insurance one. I'd been so floored at learning she'd been a clown that the rest of her jobs had escaped my notice. And insurance is, after all, a boring topic.

But now a connection occurred to me: Evan worked in the insurance field in Rochester for many years before he retired and moved to Richmond. Could he and Helen have worked for the same company and known each other? If so, was that significant? I reminded myself that there was no shortage of insurance companies and that Rochester, a fairly large city, likely boasted several of them.

Still, something sent me to my address book to look up the number for Donna McCarthy, a friend from college who worked for the same insurance company as Evan. Donna and I exchanged Christmas cards and talked on the phone every so often.

After leaving a message on her machine, including my home and cell numbers, I pondered the possibilities beyond the book group. Someone, supplied with the deadly white powder, visited Carlene during the day of the book group. Like the mysterious early-evening visitor. Or, as Vince had speculated, was the visitor a hoax, fabricated by Janet? I entertained the idea of Janet as perpetrator, seeking revenge for an affair between her husband and Carlene—then I remembered Janet's proclamation that she was a widow. But for how long? Had Carlene and the husband had an affair before his death? Had he died during the “act”? That would supply Janet with plenty of motive for killing Carlene.

Looking at my notes, I realized that it boiled down to the same theme: Carlene liked sex and she took advantage of all opportunities to have it—wherever, whenever, with whomever those opportunities presented themselves, leaving a trail of lovers and scorned women, some of them mighty unsavory, in her wake. And the betrayed fiancé—why would she even have been with the man? Could he have showed up on Carlene's doorstep on that fateful Monday, abandoning religious principles, seeking revenge? A crime of passion perhaps? No, poison is not the weapon of passion crimes.

When considering the problems that plagued Carlene—separation, her love fugitive status, Linda's resurfacing in her life, a possible guilty conscience from stealing other women's men—suicide was looking more likely. Maybe her conscience became a burden.

Assuming she had one.

I HEARD A
scratching sound and followed it to the living room. Daisy and Shammy used their scratching posts to good avail but fancied a nice piece of furniture on occasion. Shammy was indeed applying her paws to the chair, working at something behind the cushion. I reached around her and pulled out a MasterCard in the name of one Annabel M. Mitchell. I remembered her sitting there during her so-called impromptu visit on Wednesday.

I put Annabel's card in my purse, making a mental note to let her know that I had it. I punched Vince's speed-dial button. After fulfilling his professional duty of admonishing me for talking to Linda and B.J., he said, “At least now you can stop going on about that man in the car.”

“Well, it seemed worth going on about, as you so charmingly put it. I just wish it had turned out to be a more significant discovery. Instead the guy's just a garden variety ne'er-do-well.” Then I brightened. “But Linda's looking more and more like a suspect. Actually cosuspect. There's still Annabel.”

“Don't be too sure,” Vince cautioned. “Your findings are interesting, but inconclusive. We don't have enough to go on, Hazel. Not enough to move forward.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. No proof.” Even after looking at this thing six ways from Sunday, I still couldn't come up with proof.

Vince expressed interest in the tapes, going so far as to propose watching them together. “No way, Vince, just forget it. Even if we had the tapes, which we don't, I'm not about to watch my ex-husband's deceased wife having sex with some—some low-life lothario.”

“Just a thought.” Vince sounded unruffled.

“Besides, I wouldn't relish being compared to Carlene.”

As Vince rushed to reassure me of my carnal talents, I laughed to myself.

Was I really envying the sex life of a dead woman?

MONDAY TURNED OUT TO
be a quiet day at the Richmond Women's Resource Center, allowing us to get caught up. I didn't usually volunteer on Mondays, but with Georgia being without an assistant, her development director on vacation, and the emotional distress of losing her lifelong friend, she was running behind. Vivian handled the few calls that came through, leaving her time to thoroughly read not only one but two newspapers. In my opinion, she could help with the clerical work too, but that wasn't my call.

While I merged donor acknowledgment letters my cell phone rang. Donna McCarthy.

“Hi, Donna.” Not wasting time with preliminaries, I asked, “Did you hear about Evan's wife?”

“I sure did. Arnie told me and I spread the word here. Acer sent flowers for the memorial service and we sent a group card. I've been meaning to call you. Just a second, Hazel.” After having a muffled exchange with someone Donna came back on the line. “How's Evan doing with all this? What happened anyway?”

“Evan's about how you'd expect.” After filling Donna in on the details of Carlene's death, I got to the real purpose of my call. “Donna, there's this woman in our book group, Helen Adams, and I just found out that she worked with you and Evan at Acer Insurance.” I wasn't above fibbing for a good cause. “Did you know her?”

“Sure, I knew Helen. Gosh, she left here a long time ago, at least ten years. She had a different last name then—was it Riley? Something like that. She got divorced shortly before she moved to Richmond. I hadn't heard that she remarried. Carol never said.”

“She's not married now. Who's Carol?”

“A friend of Helen's. She hears from her occasionally.”

“Does Carol work at Acer?”

“No, I know her from church. In fact, I'll see her tonight at Bible study. She's kind of a gossip. She and Helen grew up together, same schools and all. Carol once told me that Helen went away for a while when she was about fifteen and everyone thought she had a baby in secret. Those were the days when you went to a special home and gave your baby up for adoption.”

I did some quick math in my head. If a fifteen-year-old Helen had a child, I figured it would be about forty-five now. Assuming that Helen was in fact sixty. If she was my age, fifty-five, that dropped the child's age to forty. Art's age. Interesting.

“Did Helen and Evan know each other at Acer? I ask because I don't remember either of them ever mentioning it.”

“I don't know. They were in different departments, he in operations and she in claims.”

“But wouldn't they run into each other in the cafeteria, or at the company Christmas party?”

“I guess.” A note of exasperation crept into Donna's voice. “Hazel, why don't you just ask them?”

“Oh I will. Like I said, I just found out about it . . . I forget who told me.”

“It's possible Evan wouldn't have noticed Helen because she was a bit frumpy, overweight. Not exactly a head turner.”

“Really? She's quite attractive now. And slim. Maybe she had a makeover when she moved to Virginia.”

Donna had a meeting, so we ended the call. I sat looking out the window at the leaves fluttering in a gentle breeze, reflecting on this new information. It couldn't be a coincidence that Helen and Evan had worked for the same company.

Could it?

I WENT BACK
to my acknowledgment letters, only to be interrupted by Annabel calling on the center's line. “Oh, I'm
so
glad you're there. I left a message at your house, and I don't have a cell number for you.” She rushed on without pausing. “By any chance did I leave a credit card at your house?”

“Yes, you did . . . Sorry, I meant to call and let you know. I just found it last night, wedged behind the cushion of the chair where you were sitting. I have it in my purse.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I didn't miss it until today when I tried to use it. I hate to inconvenience you, but . . .”

It wasn't hard to guess in what way she hated to inconvenience me. Not that I minded—the Fan district where Annabel lived was a stone's throw from the RWRC and one of my favorite areas of Richmond. The Fan was so named because the roads that radiated westward from its eastern border adjacent to downtown formed a fan shape. It was known for its locally owned restaurants, active nightlife, and post-Victorian architecture. The eastern end of the Fan, or Lower Fan, was home to Virginia Commonwealth University, dubbed VCU by the locals. The Upper Fan, or western end, was one of Richmond's most desirable neighborhoods for young professionals.

“I'd be happy to bring it by your house. I'm working here until four, so I can be there about four fifteen or so.”

“Thanks so much, Hazel. I don't know if I'll be there, I have a
ton
of errands today, but my friend Sam might be. He's stopping by to assemble a computer chair for me and then we're going out for dinner. If he's not there you can just stick the card through the mail slot.”

We chatted for a few minutes. Annabel's gorgeous son had left that morning to return to Charlottesville and she sounded wistful. She said nothing about Ronnie or blackmail and I followed suit. After assuring each other that we'd both be at Helen's the next evening, we hung up.

At four, I grabbed my keys, logged off the network, and said my good-byes to Georgia and Vivian. Vivian, finished with her newspapers, now flipped through a magazine.

PARKING WAS SCARCE
on Annabel's street and I had to settle for a spot a couple of blocks away. Fortunately I always welcomed exercise so I didn't mind hoofing it a bit. Plus it gave me a chance to look at the Fan's charming homes along the way, many adorned with bay windows, stained glass, and turrets.

Crape myrtle trees presided over monkey grass plants on the postage-stamp-size lots that fronted Annabel's duplex, a mustard-colored brick. Plants trailed verdant leaves from the hanging pots placed at two-foot intervals around the perimeter of the porch. White columns supported the veranda that spanned the length of the house. The porch railing posts suggested bowling pins. From the almost identical glider swings with flowered cushions and wrought-iron tables, it looked like Annabel and her neighbor had coordinated their decorating efforts, unlike the individual approach taken by most Fan denizens. The whole setup conjured up images of evenings spent watching the world go by with a mint julep in hand. Did Annabel glide away the hours in one of her power suits?

As I climbed the steps, I noticed a plump older woman sweeping on the other half of the porch. She looked like a grandmother straight out of central casting with her white hair gathered into a bun, bib apron tied around a shirtwaist dress, and orthopedic shoes. I pictured a batch of cookies baking in the oven while a pot roast simmered on the stove.

“I'm returning something of Annabel's,” I said when she eyed me with friendly curiosity. I held up the envelope that contained the credit card. “She said I could put it in her mail slot. She accidentally left it at my house the other day . . .” I trailed off as I caught myself overexplaining.

“Oh, sure, honey, go right ahead. Annabel's been so upset over the business with that poor woman getting killed. Did you know her?” She stopped sweeping and pointed at her half of the house. “You know, she used to live right here.” This she whispered, like it was a state secret.

“Yes, I did know her. In fact, Annabel and I were both there when it . . . happened.”

The woman looked distressed as she shook her head. “Oh, by the way, I'm Mabel Crenshaw. My daughter and her family live here. I come over during the day to take care of the girls. And you are . . . ?”

“Hazel Rose.”

“Hazel Rose. Pretty. Well, like I said, Annabel feels just wretched about—what was her name, Carla something?”

“Carlene Arness,” I supplied.

Mabel nodded. “Yes, she wrote a book. I read it and so did my daughter. Not as naughty as we expected.” Mabel looked disappointed at the lack of naughtiness. “Annabel had a terrible time with her.” Again, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Apparently Carlene seduced Annabel's son.” She stopped, gauging my reaction.

Suppressing a smile, I tried for a shocked demeanor. “Seduced?”

“Yes, seduced. Although that probably wasn't hard to do, men being what they are. And these days the young ones aren't as innocent as they were in my day. And he's an awfully handsome man. So polite. Sylvia—that's my daughter—says he looks like that English actor with the funny name.”

“Ralph Fiennes,” I said, using the correct pronunciation, “Rafe Fines.”

“That's it! Anyway, Frankie was nice enough to come here from Charlottesville for Carlene's memorial service. His former lover. So sad.” When Mabel placed her hand over her heart, I irreverently listened for the wail of violins. “He just left this morning.”

“Yes, Annabel told me. So, she said that Carlene
seduced
Frankie? When did this happen?”

“Let's see, Sylvia and Roy moved here in 2000—or was it 2001?” Mabel looked off like she expected a passing motorist to yell out the answer.

I didn't care what year the big seduction took place. My interest in the Carlene/Frankie affair was in its possible long-term consequences—like Carlene's death. “Did Frankie live here with his mother then?”