Murder at the Book Group (36 page)

I asked, “Why did you decide to use cyanide?”

Helen said, “Oh . . . I did a lot of research—read everything I could get my hands on—and it seemed like a good choice.” Yes, Helen was a library hound. I recalled our car-side conversation after the memorial service when she'd lauded the public library. She'd even mentioned not wanting to see the printed word fall into oblivion. It made sense that she'd use the library for nefarious purposes. I thought of the Stella Nickell book I'd seen earlier in Helen's room. If Helen read everything she could get her hands on . . . then she left fingerprints. Just like Stella Nickell. And, allegedly, Annabel.

“Mom knew that Carlene was researching cyanide, reading a lot about it. Her dying from it would be the ultimate irony. She also banked on Carlene having her odious tea, thinking the tea would mask the taste of the cyanide—whatever cyanide tastes like.”

“Yes, and cyanide figured so prominently in our earlier conversation that night.”

“Yeah. Funny. Not planned on our part.”

Lucy commented, “And I guess your research told you how to administer it, how much to use, all those pesky details.” Like how potent cyanide from World War II would be in the present day—I felt sure Helen researched those details.

I asked. “Okay, so how did you get cyanide? Didn't you say something about it going back to World War II?”

“From Sam.” Helen looked at me like I was an idiot for not knowing Sam was the go-to person for cyanide.

“Sam?”

“Yes, Sam. Sam Smith.”

“Oh, yes, we've met him. But why would he . . .” Lucy looked puzzled. “Are you and Sam in cahoots?”

Helen looked affronted. “Heavens, no. The man's a dimwit. And a liberal.” Apparently in Helen's world liberal and dimwit were synonyms.

“He sure was smitten with Mom.” Art started pacing back and forth behind Helen and she warned him to keep the gun pointed at us. He gave his mother a withering look and continued. “He seemed like one of those chumps, easy to manipulate.” Art had no business sounding so derisive about the chumps of the world. I thought of those shadowy film noirs of the forties. Typically they featured a femme fatale who hooked up with a man whose brains were in his, um, nether regions, and she had no trouble getting him to do her bidding. And her bidding usually involved killing one or more persons. Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray in
Double Indemnity
was my favorite case in point. But this was real life, not the silver screen, and Helen as femme fatale with Sam as her lapdog didn't have the same appeal. Equally evil was her manipulation of her son to achieve her ends.

“But how did she get the cyanide from Sam?”

“Okay, you know Sam's a military historian?”

“Yes. In fact, much of his photography is military oriented. He gave me his card yesterday and I looked at his Tripod site. Lots of military stuff.”

“Like Annabel said earlier, Sam Smith's uncle was a midlevel Nazi officer. Like many of those guys, he carried a vial of cyanide in case he got captured. He never did. When he died, Sam got all his Nazi paraphernalia . . . including the vial.”

Art looked at his mother and offered her the floor, but she demurred. “No, Art, you're the historian.”

He rolled his eyes and went on. “You see, Annabel introduced us to Sam at Carlene's signing. Annabel tried to get Mom interested in doing a website to showcase Sam's photography. He had a Tripod site—the one you saw—but Annabel wanted him to ditch that, get something professional. In the meantime, Sam and I discovered our mutual love of history, Sam being a military historian and retired professor whose specialty was World War II. He invited us to visit his farm in Scottsville anytime to look at his historical collection. He gave each of us a card with the Tripod site.”

Art pressed on. “When Mom and I looked at Sam's photographs on the site I saw this metal item that could be mistaken for a bullet—but I'd seen it before and recognized it for what it was—a container for a glass vial of, get this,
cyanide
.

“Mom didn't like Sam's pictures, thought them amateurish, so she told him she was too busy to do a site for him.”

But after the parking lot episode she thought about the cyanide container and Sam became quite attractive. She didn't know if the container even
had
cyanide, but it was worth a try. She called Sam and reminded him of the invitation to visit his farm and see his historical collection. They could talk about the website as well. She said that I was especially interested in the Nazi collection of pins and such and asked if he actually owned those items as part of his collection. Sam admitted that his uncle had been a Nazi officer and that he'd inherited the collection as his uncle knew of his interest in historical artifacts. Not that Sam approved of his uncle's activities; he just had the historical interest. They set up a time and Mom embarked on a flurry of research about cyanide. I found a brass cyanide container online and had it sent express delivery.

“We showed up at the farm at the planned time, with me feigning a sore foot, and viewed the collection. Mom put on quite a show of enthusiasm. First she wanted a tour of the farm and then they could discuss business matters. I stayed behind to peruse Sam's extensive library—the sore foot let me skip the tour. It took me no time at all to switch the containers. Then I sat in the library with a book in my lap and my foot propped up, waiting for them to return.

“When they did, I noticed that his ardor had cooled quite a bit. Apparently they'd had a series of arguments during the tour: politics, social issues, you name it.” Art snickered. “Of course I had the cyanide in my possession by that point, so it didn't matter. I gave Mom the high sign, meaning that I had the goods. Having no more use for Sam, she quoted him a ridiculous price for the site. They argued some more, and he said he'd think about it. And so we left.”

I remembered talking to Sam the day before at Annabel's, how he sounded so off on Helen. It looked like this time poor Annabel had escaped being thrown over for another woman.

“The police searched our purses and pockets. How did you conceal the vial from them?” I hoped she wouldn't say she hid it in a bodily orifice.

Art looked smug as he answered my question. “I slipped out the side door while we were waiting for the paramedics and put the vial in Mom's trunk. I didn't think anyone would miss me.” He was right, we didn't notice. At least I didn't.

Helen sprang up and, brimming over with hospitality, proclaimed, “Time for refreshments! I for one need comfort food. Sarah brought some scrumptious-looking éclairs. I'll add a dollop of whipped cream. And don't worry, the coffee's decaf. Wouldn't want to keep you ladies up.”

Did that mean we could go? After, of course, partaking of so-called comfort food.

As Helen moved toward the kitchen, she told Art to keep the gun on us. “Don't let them move.” The woman put a unique spin on hospitality.

Suddenly it hit me. Helen told the truth earlier when she said she wouldn't shoot us—because she meant to kill us via poisoned éclairs. She'd probably doctor up the whipped cream. Or the decaf that wouldn't keep us up—ever. Then she'd force us at gunpoint to eat and drink. And she'd pin the whole thing on poor Sarah.

Lucy and I exchanged uneasy looks. Then I realized that Art wasn't watching us because he was watching his mother. I quickly took advantage of his inattention and found my speed-dial button, firmly pressing on it. I glanced over the counter that divided the dinette from the kitchen and saw Helen bustling around the kitchen. When she opened the refrigerator door and reached inside, Art tossed the gun down the hall. Judging from the clunk it stopped at Helen's bedroom door.

Art opened the front door that he'd been guarding. “Run,” he ordered.

We ran.

Once outside we didn't waste time planning strategy or bemoaning the loss of our purses. I had my phone and recorder and it turned out that Lucy had her keys in her pocket, so we were better off than we might have been. Most important, we were out of that apartment. Helen wasn't happy, evidenced by her shrieking, “You idiot! You moron!”

To get to Lucy's car we needed to walk directly away from Helen's apartment, making us targets in case she came charging out, determined to gun us down. In tacit agreement, we ran to the left of the apartment, cutting through lawns, running past windows and bushes.

That's when we saw Vince, climbing a grassy knoll from the parking lot that served the next grouping of apartment units. Our silver-haired guardian angel had never looked so good.

I wanted to ask him if he had backup and if he had a gun, but when a shot rang out I put my questions on hold. Lucy and I dived under a large bush. Vince kept low to the ground as he moved toward Helen's apartment. The walkway to her door was well lit and we had no trouble seeing what was going on. The woman herself appeared, brandishing her gun, looking frantic as she looked in all directions, no doubt hoping to spot our fleeing figures.

“Put the gun down, Helen.”

Who was that? Vince? I didn't recognize the commanding tone of a voice used to stop criminals in their tracks. It brought me up short.

“Put the gun
down
,” the voice repeated. “Now!”

Maybe Vince startled Helen into dropping the gun, or maybe it was the years she spent holding male authority figures in awe. At any rate, we heard a satisfying clunk on the grass. Helen fell to the ground in a heap and started wailing, keening, and generally making god-awful sounds.

Vince and the backup team, moving slowly and carefully toward Helen, grabbed the gun.

Then the work started.

IT WAS 2 A.M.
by the time the police let us go. They agreed to give us time to let Evan know about the breaking events of the last few hours before going public with the news. We had no trouble retrieving our purses and Lucy's knitting bag as the police found the items under a large bush by Helen's door. Whether Helen or Art had tossed them outside before or after our confrontation was anyone's guess.

The two of them were taken into custody. Art, unhurt, was found standing in the doorway watching his mother like she was performing on stage. The shot we heard had wounded the fish with the evil eye. The bullet was likely embedded in the brick wall behind the painting.

Exhausted, the three of us piled into Vince's car, figuring Lucy's would be safe until later. We pulled up in front of Evan's house and, in a replay of our earlier visit, Lucy and I pressed on the bell and pounded on the door. Evan answered the door wearing the same scowl and ratty robe as before. I held up a hand like a traffic cop, but that didn't stop his “What
now
?”

“Evan, we have something important to tell you. Let us in.” His frown deepened but he obeyed and ushered us down to the family room.

Trying for gentleness, I told him about discovering that the Helen he knew in Richmond was the same Helen who had called him long ago in Rochester with the news that she was his birth mother.

When I mentioned that I'd never known about his adoption, he shrugged. “Didn't know myself until Helen called one day, out of the blue, claiming to be my mother. Mom and Dad were gone by then, so I couldn't ask them. But I found the papers.”

Speechless, I stared. What horrible parents, birth and adopted. How traumatic it must have been to hear such news at middle age, and from a stranger professing to be your mother—a murderous stranger, to boot.

“So, is this why you're all here in the middle of the night”—Evan looked angry and bewildered at the same time—“to tell me that Helen's my mother?”

“No, um, there's more.” No more procrastination. When I told Evan that his mother, assisted by his half brother, had poisoned his wife, Evan took it all in with unnerving calm. I spared the details and he didn't ask for any. Nor did he ask how I came by that information. Likely he assumed that Vince had a hand in tracking down Carlene's killer.

Had Evan been so stoic during our long-ago marriage? I decided that he hadn't been called upon to show stoicism, or lack of it, during our brief union. Although I could be mistaking stoicism for shock. I didn't want to leave him, but didn't want to stay either. Lucy and I had been through a harrowing experience—probably were in shock ourselves—and would just as soon not prolong our visit.

Lucy went up to the kitchen and started opening and closing cabinets. I figured she was scouring the place for shock remedies.

“Anyone want brandy? Or tea?”

“Not for me,” I called back, thinking of Carlene's teas. In fact I may swear off tea forever. Evan and Vince said nothing.

“It's my fault.”

I stared at Evan, wondering how I should respond to this declarative statement. Or if I should respond at all.

“It's my fault,” he repeated. “If only I'd been nice to Helen and Art, this wouldn't have happened.”

In my view the parking lot sex was Helen's tipping point. But I didn't share that with Evan. Instead I softened my voice and, keeping my remarks simple, said, “There's no way of knowing that, Evan.”

He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Lucy handed him a juice glass. “Brandy,” she explained. “Good for shock.”

He sipped the fiery spirit and grimaced.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Be right back.”

Vince and Lucy stayed downstairs with Evan while I sprinted up to the bedroom, which I guessed was behind the closed door at the end of the hall. Time for Evan's lover to take over.

As I expected, Janet responded to my knock, tying a belt around a black satin kimono that I suspected came from Carlene's closet. She listened wide eyed as I updated her on recent events. Back downstairs, Evan insisted on telling Kat the news himself. I didn't think it a good idea but, as I was reminded yet again, he and Kat were family. The reminder no longer rankled—in fact, I counted my lucky stars I wasn't part of that family—I just doubted that Evan had the finesse to tell her. I suggested that he call right away so she didn't first hear the news via the media. Kat could get hold of Hal and I'd take care of calling Georgia. Thankfully, Evan offered no argument and we left him in Janet's care.