Murder at the Book Group (31 page)

I thought of Donna's description of the then-frumpy Helen. Wondering what Evan's dark face signified, I asked, “Where did you meet her?”

“At our apartment complex, off of Jahnke Road. I'm not sure how . . . maybe in the laundry room. Or at school. She was taking courses at Tanson. Still does.”

“Did you ever go out together?”

“No, but she invited me over for dinner a lot. Wanted to make sure I got a home-cooked meal. Helen, Art, and me—boring as all get out.”

Lucy said, “It sounds like Helen was interested in you—so why have Art there?”

“Beats me.” Evan ran his hands through his already tousled hair, making it stand up in randomly placed tufts. “The woman was a pain in the ass. She was
everywhere
. Home, school, you name it. I thought about getting a disguise.”

I said, “Maybe she wanted you to initiate something romantically. Like ask her on a date.”

“A date?” Evan nearly spat the word.

A floorboard creaked overhead and we looked upward. Likely the bedroom was over the family room, according to the usual plan in these split-level houses. Apparently Evan's paramour was up and about. He excused himself, promising to return in “no time.”

Lucy watched Evan go up the stairs and turn the corner to continue up to the bedroom level. She stage whispered, “Who's up there? Kat?”

“No, Janet.”

“Janet!”

“Shh. He said he'd be back in no time.” Overhead, voices competed with the creaking floorboards and a flushing toilet. I prayed that Evan wouldn't get sidetracked into a quickie.

Lucy chuckled. “Kat's sure missing out on some drama.”

“I think she has enough drama with Mick's lunatic girlfriend. Let's look at these photos.” The floor-to-ceiling bookcase lined a wall section. Three shelves contained books, mostly hardbacks and oversized art volumes. Two of the shelves were so crowded with framed family photographs that we had to move the ones in the front to see what was behind them. I recognized Evan's parents, dressed and groomed to perfection. Hal, Kat, Carlene at different ages; Carlene's mother, whom I recognized from the photo upstairs in the den.

Tucked behind a large framed photograph I found a three-by-four-inch photo of a toddler-aged boy, standing in front of a house, wearing shorts and a striped top. With his aggressive stance and lips pressed firmly together he looked fierce and determined.

The boy appeared in several other photos; one showed him in a Little League outfit, another wearing a Mouseketeer hat, yet another with missing front teeth. I assumed it was the same boy at different ages. In the next picture, taken in the late sixties judging by the hairstyles, an awkward teenager in a white tuxedo jacket peered at the camera through black-framed Woody Allen glasses. His prom date looked equally ill at ease. By this age he was looking familiar. The senior year photo made me gasp, and with good reason—without the glasses I realized I was looking at none other than my first ex-husband, Evan Arness.

Evan returned, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Since he'd changed he was more relaxed, less worried about flashing his family jewels. He sat on the couch and put his bare feet on the coffee table.

I took up the conversation where we'd left it. “So how long did you go to the dinners at Helen's?”

“Oh, I don't know, a few months. The woman gave me the willies—especially after I found those pictures of me in her bedroom.”

“Pictures? And what were you doing in her bedroom?”

“I wasn't actually
in
her bedroom, I was in her den. She was showing me something on her computer. The bedroom door was open and I saw this big thing, like a bulletin board, just inside. It looked like all pictures of me.”

“Where did she get them?”

“I guess from those dinners. She took lots of pictures then. I couldn't see all of them from the den, and didn't even want to.”

Lucy and I looked at each other, then back at Evan. I was speechless, but Lucy managed, “Well, I guess it was a compliment—sort of.”

“She's certainly attractive, and it was nice of her to feed me and all, not that her cooking was all that great, but I'm not a fussy eater. And her place was kind of a dump; my butt would get sore from her uncomfortable chairs.”

Lucy and I laughed knowingly at that one. We knew all about getting sore butts from sitting on Helen's furniture. Book group usually ended early when held at her place.

Evan said, “It was like there was something else going on.”

“Like she was in love with you?” Lucy suggested.

“Yeah, but in a weird way. Not normal. I can't explain it.” Using his fingers, Evan raked his hair and smoothed it down. “I started making excuses about coming to dinner and she seemed to take the hint. Then I met Carlene, we married, and bought this house. When I ran into Helen at school, she talked me into giving her my new address so she could send us a gift. Then the dinner invitations started up again, this time for me
and
Carlene. I gave in, thinking that with Carlene it wouldn't be so bad. I was wrong. And when I checked on the photos in the bedroom, they were still there. Helen continued to ask us over, but I told Carlene I wanted nothing to do with the woman. I didn't tell her about the pictures, just said I couldn't stand Helen or Art. If Carlene wanted to invite them to the turkey dinners, I figured there were plenty of people around, so that was okay.”

This was the most I'd heard Evan say at one time in years. And I hadn't known him to be so exercised about anything in, well . . . I never had. Regaining my speech, I said, “Evan, you've certainly had a time of it with Helen. I just never dreamed . . .”

“Well, you wouldn't. I never wanted to talk about it—in fact I can't believe I'm talking about it now. Maybe because it's all happening again. She's called me a couple of times since . . . you know . . . leaving messages. I might have to get a new number or give up the landline altogether. At least she doesn't know my cell number. But there's always school.” Again, Evan ran his fingers through his hair and over his face as well—his agitation was mounting. “And at the memorial service she invited me to, what else, dinner. At this rate, I'll never get rid of the woman.” I recalled his long-suffering look when Helen approached him at the memorial service.

“Did she ever try to get you to go to church?”

“Yeah, that was another thing.”

“How about when she was designing Carlene's website? Was she around here a lot then?”

Evan stated, with great emphasis, “Not when I was.”

Lucy asked, “Did Carlene give you a DVD for your anniversary?”

“No.”

So either the DVD had been intended for their
next
anniversary or Helen was lying. I suspected the latter.

Evan looked at the ceiling. As if on cue, the floor creaked again. “Um, are you almost done? I've got a guest and . . .”

Thankfully we'd collected enough dirt on Helen before we wore out the little welcome we had. I turned to Lucy. “Ready to go?” I grabbed three photos of Carlene at random and Lucy pulled out a coffee table tome on stone houses.

Evan's relief was palpable, and with our departure imminent, he summoned up some charm as he herded us toward the door. We agreed to stay in touch. He said that Kat and Georgia were coming over to either take for themselves or donate Carlene's stuff, like books, clothes, jewelry, and whatnot. If we were interested, we could come over once they finished. Being offered a dead woman's picked-over possessions wasn't exactly appealing, but we said we'd be honored to have a keepsake.

I said I'd like a copy of the book Carlene had been working on. When he said he'd get it to me, I wished I'd asked him at a time when I could get the copy right away. As it was, I had put myself in a position of having to remind him. He'd never remember once he returned to Janet and her distractions. However, the invitation to paw through Carlene's items would furnish an opportunity. I'd arrive at the house with a flash drive in hand.

This time we all hugged, but gingerly. Even with clothes on, touching Evan felt way too intimate.

“DO YOU BELIEVE IT?
Evan's living a soap opera. Where do we start? Janet? Helen?”

Lucy pulled away from the curb. “Janet. Why do you think it was her upstairs?”

When I told Lucy about the ashtray and the Bazooka Joe–pink lipstick on the wineglasses, she said, “Oh, that explains why Evan came charging up to the kitchen with those glasses. That's when I saw the wine bottle on the table.”

“The only person I've seen wearing that shade since 1966 is Janet. Also, there was no car in the driveway or in the street indicating a visitor. All Janet would have to do is walk across the two driveways.” I groaned. “And that makes her yet another suspect.”

We waited for the light at the Jahnke Road exit off the Chippenham Parkway to change. Lucy said, “Just because Janet and Evan are lovers doesn't mean that Janet killed Carlene. The same holds true for Helen, if she really is, or was, in love with Evan. Granted it casts both of them in a suspicious light. But why . . . for
Evan
?”

“I
know
—why on earth would someone kill over the likes of him?”

Lucy turned off Jahnke Road into the entrance of Helen's apartment complex and drove through a tunnel of supersized pine trees. As she backed into a space and turned off the engine, she said, “As for Helen, Evan did confirm our speculations that she's in love with him. But I never in a million years would have pegged Helen a stalker. What do you think of all that stuff Evan said about her? And the photos in her bedroom?”

I shook my head, the stalker possibility looming large in my beleaguered brain. “I just can't fathom it all. And stalkers—they often kill. So did Helen kill Carlene to get Evan to herself? Of course,” I rushed to chant the familiar disclaimer, “Carlene may have died by her own hand. Only thing was, she didn't. If Helen kills the women who stand in her way, then Janet had better watch her step.”

Lucy tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “Why would she wait so long to kill Carlene?”

“Good question.” We needed to rethink this whole thing, I moaned to myself, feeling something akin to despair at the prospect of more thinking. But the thinking would have to wait.

I said, “I'm not looking forward to this evening. At least Janet won't be there. And I don't imagine Linda will show up.”

Lucy glanced at the dashboard clock and said, “Gotta go, Hazel. It's seven thirty.” We got out of the car. I took a moment with my electronic paraphernalia, muting my phone and stashing it in the deep pocket of my sweater. I added tissues for padding. I had affixed a Velcro patch to Vince's speed-dial button so I could locate it by touch. I tucked the recorder into my bra. Then we started walking toward Helen's apartment.

Speaking in low tones, I said, “I wonder if Helen still has that photo display in her room.”

“It's a safe bet that she does. Especially if she's asking Evan over for dinner.”

“I'd love to see it. But how can I get into her bedroom?”

We stopped in the middle of the parking lot and brainstormed. It didn't take two minutes to come up with plan A and plan B.

In retrospect, we should have added plan C: turn tail and run.

“FINALLY! I THOUGHT YOU
two got lost.” Helen's pique gave way to grudging forgiveness when Lucy and I proffered apologies for our tardiness. I couldn't look the woman in the eye, thanks to Evan's revelations.

Sarah and Annabel were eye-contact challenged as well. Sarah sat with arms crossed under her bosom and a scowl on her face. She nodded at a point behind us. Annabel focused on her cherry-red pumps and ignored us. Art's eyes met mine briefly and I was reminded of that indecipherable look he'd given me at the memorial service lunch. He offered to take Lucy's sweater, but she opted to keep it with her.

Helen waved a hand at two chairs next to her. As we sat, I said, “Kat called. Something came up and she can't make it.” Helen's only response was a raised eyebrow, while Annabel smirked and Sarah continued to concentrate on some point on the far wall. Art folded his lanky form onto the floor.

Helen's many paintings adorned the walls. And that was where her attempts at decorating began and ended. The apartment color scheme ran the gamut of beige to Hershey-chocolate brown. Walls, carpeting, furniture, you name it—brown prevailed in one shade or another. We sat on card table chairs and furniture with wooden frames and foam cushions with a thickness of one and a half inches. Helen had lived here for several years, long enough to purchase decent furnishings, but evidently her attention was on Evan and her social service projects, leaving her little time or interest for creature comforts or aesthetics beyond her artwork. Beige paint covered the one brick wall, where a large canvas showcased an oversized fish. He, or she, regarded the group with a baleful eye.

Lucy began, “Helen, I have a client who's looking for an apartment in this area. Are all the apartments here two bedroom, like yours?”

“Mostly, but they have one- and three-bedroom ones as well.”

“And do they all have two baths? This woman has to have at least two baths. Doesn't want to share one with her husband; you know how that is.”

Helen smiled in understanding. “The two- and three-bedroom units all have two baths. There are a couple of vacancies now.”

“And the second bath is part of the master suite?”

“Yes.”

“I'll tell her. Thanks, Helen.”

I exhaled, relieved that I now had my excuse to get into Helen's bedroom. “By the way, did Evan ever live in this complex?”

Helen gave me a why-do-you-ask look, but merely said, “I believe so. A long time ago.”