Murder at the Book Group (8 page)

I thought to myself that Kat might also see getting in good with the law as a way of shielding herself if she wound up a suspect in her stepsister's murder. As for Vince, I didn't know if I could “get him” to ditch the new girlfriend, Molly, and I wasn't about to get involved in ferreting out killers. “Yes, well, you need to be careful with the cops as well. Pillow talk will only protect you so much.” Kat responded by leveling a look at me with smudged and reddened blue eyes.

“Kat, maybe you can locate Linda. Find out something about her and her relationship with Carlene.” Best to let Kat think I suspected someone other than her. Naturally, Linda came to mind as the someone. “You said she called you—was it on your cell phone?” When Kat nodded, I went on. “Is the number in your incoming calls register?”

She got her phone out of her pocket again and checked her log. Then she shook her head. “No, I was afraid of that. I delete my calls right away.” I silently cursed the neat freaks of the world with their compulsions to keep even their phone logs tidied up. I went to the kitchen and grabbed the phone book, turning to the listings for the needle-in-a-haystack name of Thomas. I found a number of “Lindas” as well as “L” initials.

“Why does she have to have a name like Thomas?” I griped. “What about her husband? The listing could be under his name.”

Kat thought. “I don't think she mentioned his name. Just called him ‘husband.' Hazel, don't worry, I'll track her down. It will give me something to focus on. When I find her, I'll tell her about Carlene. Since she left early last night, she might not know.”

When Kat suggested we program each other's numbers into our phones, I went upstairs and retrieved mine. We spent a couple of minutes assigning speed dial designations. For good measure, I suggested that she program Lucy's number as well.

I asked, “Should we send an e-mail to the book group about what happened last night—especially for the folks who weren't there, like Trudy Zimmerman?”

“Is she still even a member? Doesn't matter, I guess. As soon as I know about the funeral arrangements, I'll let everyone know.”

After teary good-byes, Kat left and I went back to the morning room. I knew I should check my voice mail, but I stared into space, reviewing the conversation with Kat. It struck me as odd that we hadn't mentioned cyanide, or any poison for that matter. And, despite being fired up about finding Carlene's killer, Kat hadn't presented any candidates for the killer role. Unless I was her candidate of choice . . . Sobering thought.

Had Kat really gotten over Evan's dumping her to pursue Carlene? It was, after all, a long time ago. Wouldn't she be over it by now? How long did one hold a grudge, anyway? When had she found out about the recent separation? Did she know from the start, a month ago? If so, maybe she saw an opportunity for another try at a relationship with Evan and, not wanting to chance that he and Carlene would reconcile, had eliminated the competition. On the other hand, her grief and sorrow seemed genuine enough. Besides, the same speculations could apply to me. I imagined someone posing the argument that following my encounter with Evan at Target, I'd fantasized about getting back together with him and had taken my own measures to avoid being thwarted a second time—and that meant that Carlene had to go.

I resolved to let
no one
in on the details of the Target encounter.

THE FIRST VOICE MAIL
I listened to was from Art. “I'm so sorry about Carlene.
Shattered
is a better word for how I feel. She had a lot of class.” Art really did sound shattered. “Call me. I need to talk about this—with someone besides my mother. And I don't want to bother Kat at a time like this.” I wrote down his cell number.

“Hazel dear, I heard what happened last night and that you were there.” I felt surprised by my relief at hearing Vince's voice. Why did I break up with this nice man? Was he just too nice to wind up on my roster of husbands? “Call me anytime. I'm in San Diego until Thursday. Roseanne's wedding.” Roseanne was his daughter. I wondered if Molly had accompanied him to the big do. I didn't need to note the cell number he gave me—after a series of break-ups and makeups, it was easier just to keep his number on my speed dial. I had a one-sided conversation with him via voice mail, assuring him of my well-being—all things being relative.

I punched in Art's number. “Hi, Hazel. How are you doing today?”

“Okay. At least I'm alive.”

“Terrible about Carlene,” he said. “Just terrible. Do you really think she did it herself?”

Yet another person doubting the suicide. Remembering my promise to Lucy to tread carefully, I said, “Well, there
was
a note.” Maybe a hint of skepticism combined with a seeming acceptance of facts struck the right balance of believing yet not believing the suicide idea.

“Art, do you remember at Carlene's signing when you pointed out a woman, saying she was mad that Carlene didn't remember her or her husband?”

“Sure. It was Linda. I couldn't forget that striped hair. No, not striped—two-toned!” Art exclaimed, triumphant in grasping an elusive hair concept.

“It's called highlighting, Art. In her case, violently so.”

“And those eyes. The woman looked like a tiger had his—or her—way with a raccoon.”

I laughed at the rather apt description. I asked, “Were you surprised to see Linda last night?”

“I was, considering the conversation she and Carlene had at the signing. But then I thought maybe they'd talked since and Carlene had invited her.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But they weren't too chummy.”

“So do you know what happened? How she . . . died?”

“I don't. But she had a new tea; I saw her take the cellophane off the box. God only knows where she got the stuff, but I wouldn't be surprised if it had something weird in it.” It would be nice for all of us suspects and would-be suspects if the tea purveyors were at fault. But I doubted it.

“Art, do you mind going over what was said between Carlene and Linda at the signing?”

“Okay. The first thing I heard was, ‘You don't remember us? You don't remember P.J.?' Carlene said, ‘I'm sorry, but I don't,' and she was trying to look around Linda, reaching for my book. So Linda said, ‘I wish I could demand my money back, but you've gone and signed it. It's probably crap anyway.' ”

“Did you have the impression that Carlene did recognize her?”

With no equivocation, Art said, “Yes, I did.”

Interesting. “Then what happened?”

“Linda walked away, stomped away, actually. Carlene signed my book. Her hand shook a little, so she had trouble writing. I tried to make a joke to put her at ease and she gave me a pained smile. A few minutes later, I saw Linda leaving. That's when I mentioned the incident to Lucy and Bonnie Stiller.”

“Did anyone else hear this conversation?”

“I don't know. Carlene is—was—so soft-spoken, but Linda wasn't. But it was pretty noisy in the store.”

“Who was behind you in line?”

When Art said he didn't remember, I moved on. “And you said Linda referred to someone as P.J.? As in initials?”

“Yeah. Could have been P.G.”

“Who do you suppose this P.J. or P.G. could be? You don't suppose she meant something innocuous, like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”

“It was a pretty heated exchange. So unless Linda gets intense about sandwiches . . .” Art trailed off.

We reviewed the previous night's events but Art didn't remember much except for Kat and Linda, and only vaguely recalled the cyanide discussion even though he'd participated in it. Not an ideal witness.

“Art, do you remember how you came to join the book group?”

“Yes, Mom told me about it. Can't remember how she heard. She thought we should do something together. Mother-son thing.” Art sounded amused.

Art and I talked a few minutes more until he had to leave for his job at Walmart. I sat staring at my phone, like I expected to divine the answers to my questions via technology.

I recalled the conversation Lucy and I had started earlier about Annabel, a conversation aborted by Kat's arrival. Annabel's husband had been shot and killed several years before and the case remained unsolved. His killer was never found, but Annabel had been, and likely still was, a “person of interest” in the investigation. Annabel was not only a spouse, but a published crime writer with an impressive knowledge of murder weapons. But her husband, Greg Mitchell, had been a homicide detective in Charlottesville, Virginia, so the list of possible suspects ready and willing to gun him down was likely a long one.

Annabel's mysteries were gritty fare, set in Charlottesville. The main character, a homicide detective named Gloria Shifflett, mirrored Annabel's experience. After her own husband's unsolved murder, Gloria began specializing in cold cases. The killers invariably turned out to be women killing the abusive, philandering men who'd wronged them. Annabel published a new mystery annually.

So what could all this have to do with Carlene?

“WHAT IF CARLENE
came upon some damning information about Annabel having to do with her husband's murder? What if she used that information to blackmail Annabel? Blackmail is always a good motive for murder.”

“Blackmail?” Lucy looked incredulous. “That goes along with cyanide in being a staple of fiction. Blackmail on top of those B.J. initials Art told you about, it all seems like make-believe—”

“It's P.J. or P.G.”

Lucy looked askance. “Oh, well, Ps and Bs sound alike. Let's talk about this later. I've got to go.” Looking around, she asked, “Did you see my keys?”

“It's something to consider, that's all. Let's be open-minded.” I handed Lucy her keys. She was the most organized person I knew—except when it came to tracking her keys.

She picked up her slim-line briefcase. How did she fit anything into that skinny thing? Blowing me a kiss, she said, “Get some rest,” and her power-suited figure disappeared through the door.

I started up the stairs, en route to the shower. But the sound of the phone thwarted my plans.

“Hazel. It's Helen.”

I held back a sigh. Of course, she could have something illuminating to offer—I just had to steer her away from her soapbox.

She got right to the point. “So do you think Carlene committed suicide?”

As I had with Art, I acknowledged suicide but allowed an element of doubt. “Well, I . . . I don't know. There
was
a note.” Once again in the morning room, I plopped down into a rattan chair. “But it's funny . . . Saturday was Carlene's birthday and she and her friend Georgia went to a spa for the weekend, must have spent hundreds.”

“That doesn't sound like something you'd do just before you kill yourself.” Helen heaved a sigh. “Unless she was worried about looking good—she was so particular about her appearance.”

“Exactly. So why pick such an ugly way to die?” I told Helen my picture of how Carlene would stage her own death: beautifully. Then, remembering to hold on to the note of doubt, I added, “But all bets are off when it came to Carlene. Who could figure her out?”

“Maybe it has to do with that incident at the library. She could have felt guilty enough about that to kill herself.” I waited for Helen to explain her cryptic statements. “Last week, Tuesday it was, our fiction group met at the library. Art and I started going there recently.”

Lucy and I had decided a while back to boycott the fiction group. The members spent little time discussing books and much time ranting about bad writing. Not unlike Carlene's trashing of
Murder in the Keys.

“Don't they just read contemporary fiction? I thought Art preferred historical settings.”

“He's steering them in that direction. He picked our next book,
A Farewell to Arms
. But let me get back to my story.” Taking a deep breath, she launched into what turned out to be quite a tale. “When Art and I first arrived, we were walking through the parking lot and saw Carlene sitting on a bench with a . . .
man
.” She paused, like she expected me to react with horror.

“Well . . . so what? Why can't she talk to a man?”

“It's just that, um, well, there's more.” Helen took another deep breath. I hoped she got through this story before she hyperventilated. “Carlene never came in to the group. We waited for a few minutes, then started without her. It was nine by the time we left the library, and we'd forgotten all about her. Art and I stood outside for a while chatting with a couple of women and by the time we walked to our cars, hardly anyone was left in the lot. We saw Carlene's car in the back row, in a dark corner. You can't miss her license plate, it says
CARLENE
plain as day. So”—Helen stopped, perhaps for effect—“as we walked by the car, we saw two figures in the backseat. First we saw a bare foot propped up against the window of the rear passenger side. Then a figure moving up and down, like . . . you know . . .”

“They were having sex?”

“Yes! Disgraceful. And Carlene a married woman. Art and I were so embarrassed. We moved quickly past the car, trying not to stare.”

I felt sure they tried to see whatever they could. I said, “Well,” and, not able to come up with another word, said, “Well,” again. Finally, I rallied enough to ask, “When Carlene and the man were on the bench were they sitting close together? Did they seem . . . intimate?”

“No, there was plenty of space between them. I don't think they were even talking. He was sitting kind of bent over, with his elbows on his knees, and his chin in one hand.”

I pictured Rodin's famous
Thinker
sculpture. “It sounds like they were having a serious discussion, or an argument.”