The Fallen Angels Book Club (5 page)

I pulled out my petition application, tucked into a thin manila file folder in my bottom desk drawer. These few pages were my passport to a real life. I wasn't looking forward to asking for letters of recommendation. I thought of writing them myself, but I figured it wasn't worth the risk of getting caught. A lesson I learned the last time. I decided not to question my better judgment.

“Hey, good morning.” Avery Mitchell, my supervising attorney, stood in the doorway.

My breath caught in my throat. I hoped he didn't notice the folder I slid out of sight into a drawer. I wasn't ready to share my plans.

“Hey.” I closed the drawer with my foot. Avoiding those sexy green eyes of his, I feigned avid interest in my desk pad. “I want to get the Clarkson filings over to the clerks for the court run. Are you going to be around for a bit?”

“I'll be around. As always, you're ahead of schedule. By the way, that Ninth District case you found saved the day.” The sincere note of appreciation in his voice brought a lump to my throat. I looked up.

I struggled to sound breezy. “Thanks. I remembered
California v. Ellison
Trust
from one of our conferences.”

He looked a second too long into my eyes, gave me a thumbs-up and walked back down the hall. We were good at playing the game. A touch that lasted more than a moment, innuendos that only had one meaning. Thank god we hadn't become lovers. We had come real close, but both of us were afraid of fire. Maybe after I got my pardon there might be a chance, but right now the pardon was my highest priority.

I was gathering up my purse and coat to leave when one of our new female law school interns came in. “Excuse me,” she said. “I thought I heard you tell Avery you had some filings ready to go to the courthouse. Can you get the clerks to file a settlement conference statement for me, before lunch?”

“No.” I didn't break my stride.

Helping Mark was one thing. Interns were another. Besides, I had revisions to my statement to finish, fast.

Abby finally called back, and we agreed to meet for lunch at Sam's Deli. She worked downtown, not far from Triple D. Abby was easy to get along with. I knew she was forty, because she left her driver's license on a store counter once, but she looked a lot younger. Over time we had developed a friendship. Not a close one—I don't have any of those anymore—but I cared about what she thought.

“I don't think it's a good idea,” she said, looking directly into my eyes.

I knew I'd have a hard time convincing her. I wanted a special meeting of the Fallen Angels. I had to get my name off the suspect list and that meant finding Rory's murderer. We needed to compare stories. Shaking off her gaze, I took a bite of my chicken salad. I didn't understand why she didn't want the club to get together.

“Everyone will want to meet,” I said. “We have to talk about Rory's death.” I leaned in for emphasis. “He was killed the same way as the guy in the club's book.”

“Hollis, you're not listening. I don't think it's a good idea.” She repeated her words as if putting an objection on record. “Don't you think that with our backgrounds it'll look like we tried to cover things up?”

“I hear you.” I decided to start over. “Clearly, you're not hearing me. Like you said, it's not like we're just some ordinary book club. We all have reasons for getting this thing resolved fast. We need to talk about what happened.”

“I know. That's my point. I don't want it to look like some group conspiracy to come up with a story. That's how I got into trouble in the first place.” Abby's face was flushed and her hand shook as she reached for her glass of water. I often wondered why she had served time, but she never offered to tell me and I was too polite to ask. I took our club's oath of “don't ask, don't tell” to heart.

I pretended not to see her reaction. My head didn't itch, but I scratched it anyway. “You just can't run away from the fact that Rory was killed like the villain in a book our club read. Doesn't that worry an ex-con like you?”

Her jaw tightened. “Yes, it does. Don't
you
get it? I'm sick and tired of worrying.” Her voice rose. “I'm sick and tired of jumping every time I hear a door slam. Of sitting up every time I hear a bell ring.”

“Abby—”

“Honestly, I'm sorry about Rory.” She was loud enough to attract the attention of the diners at the next table. “Yet I can't … I can't care about him.”

I lowered my voice. “Listen to me. You need to care who might have killed him. We may all be in trouble.”

Abby ran her ringed fingers through her hair. “Okay, okay. I'll call a meeting and set a date as soon as I hear back from the others.”

Without another word, she wiped her mouth with a napkin, got up and left me there to finish my salad.

For once I didn't feel like dashing back to work. I ordered another cup of tea and pondered the Fallen Angels. The club had helped save my sanity. It was like my personal halfway house. I didn't have to hide who I was; we all shared a life-altering experience. I had a hard time thinking people who loved books were anything but basically good. Still, I had to face the real possibility that one of my book-reading kindred spirit club members might have killed Rory.

I'd grown comfortable with the group when it was just the original members, but a few weeks ago Richard had wanted to add one more—Rena.

I wasn't thrilled. “Not so fast. I'm not trying to be a spoiler, but we've lasted as a group these past three years because of the trust we've built up over time.”

“I can't believe you're so resistant,” Abby said. “You're the one who always complains about how limited our viewpoints are. Jeffry and Richard checked her out. Now we have an opportunity to reach out to someone else who's looking for a connection back to the real world, and you're up in arms, arguing ‘no change.' ”

She was right, of course. Jeffry Wallace was another thing we had in common. He had been the parole officer for all of us at one time or another. There were very few people in this world I trusted unconditionally. Actually, there was only one, Jeffry. The book club was his idea. A transition to new beginnings. Last month we brought in the new member, Rena, age twenty-nine. With Rena, our only African-American, our ranks swelled to seven—three women and four men.

However, now we were six.

A
t home the first thing I saw was the blinking red light on my answering machine. This time I didn't hesitate to push the button.

The first was Abby. “Okay, Hollis. I called a special meeting of the club for tomorrow evening. Sorry for the short notice, but it was the only night I could get the library space. I'm not sure who's going to show up, but Richard agreed we should all get together. There'll be at least three of us there. Since this was your idea, don't you dare tell me you can't come. Call me on my cell if you want to talk this evening. Otherwise, we can talk tomorrow or I'll see you there.”

A smile crept across my face. Good. Now we could sort things out.

Next message.

“Hey, it's me again. We have to talk. You're in danger and I can help. Becky, I know you hate my guts, but I've never stopped loving you. You've got to talk to me. It has always been only you. We didn't break up because of another woman. Remember—”

I hit delete.

Danger, what kind of danger could I be in?

On the other hand, even though it had been five years since I saw him, I knew Bill always put himself first. He was likely the one in danger. What was his connection to Rory?

Despite protestations to the contrary, Bill was only interested in Bill. I knew, too, that I had to be prepared for him to show up on my doorstep. If he'd gotten this far, somehow he'd find me.

The next morning I tried not to think about Bill's message. I wrestled with calling and telling him I'd be blocking his calls. I didn't want him bothering my family. Still, if he'd gotten involved with Rory's mess, he would have to resolve it on his own. I didn't think Bill had it in him to kill, but he had to prove it to the police. I was determined not to get caught up in his drama.

Resolved to have a couple of hours without thoughts of Rory's murder or Bill, I checked out of the office. Once a week, or sometimes twice a week, I visited and assisted at the San Lucian Senior Residence & Community Center. For the past two years, I had helped the seniors complete Social Security forms, write complaint letters to recalcitrant merchants and draft wills. I even bought them special occasion cards to send to friends and family. It started when an eager coworker who wanted to “give back” during the Christmas season talked me into going with her. After she left to go to the East Coast with her new husband, I continued on. Now I had to admit I was hooked.

I made it a habit to precede my trip to the center with a stop at the bakery.

“Here's your order of gluten-free, dairy-free sweet rolls for the center.” The bakery clerk passed three pink boxes over to me. “I added a couple of our new unhealthy cherry cake donuts.”

I gave her a smile, gathered the boxes, and thanked her.

In order to keep the cost for resident care modest, the center did not invest in renovations, and the physical facilities had become faded, tired and outdated. Many seniors still feeling the cold opted to wear several layers of clothing, so they kept the thermostat turned up. As a result, the center was sweltering inside.

“Honey, put those pastries on the counter. We've all been waiting for you—'specially the older ones.” Tiny Collins pointed me toward the large community room. Tiny was at least two hundred pounds and had to be in her late seventies. She once told me she and her husband had owned a restaurant in Oakland on Grand Avenue. Her fog-gray hair was secured in a waist-length ponytail. Horn-rimmed glasses rested on the top of her head. Another pair hung around her neck. She peered at me through a third bright red pair that sat up on her nose. Her son was an optometrist.

I knew better than to question her orders. “There are a couple of cake donuts in there, too,” I told the slow-moving Tiny over my shoulder as I headed for the kitchen.

“Put those aside for me.” Tiny wobbled behind me. “Lily's in the library. I helped her get all her papers together.”

We'd fallen into a routine. Tiny was the self-appointed director of operations. As long as I'd helped the seniors get their legal affairs in order, I could count the number of times I'd encountered the center's paid director, Opal Murray, although she had given me a key. Nursing assistants always seemed to be elsewhere. The residents didn't appear to mind. They took care of their own.

I quickly laid out the baked goods on cafeteria trays and placed them in the dining area, trying to finish before the seniors got to the table. Over the months, I had suffered through endless comments about my weight—too fat or too thin, my poor skin, my bright eyes, my hair too long, my hair too short, my unmarried status and my preferences in men. One of the male residents slowly came through the door with his walker, followed by a few of his comrades. I rushed to finish putting out the napkins. The men were just a few feet away when I was finally able to escape down the hallway with a hearty wave.

The center's “library” was not a friendly place. It was a plain room with four six-foot-high, mismatched faux wood bookshelves. I brought the finished books from the Fallen Angels here. They fit right in with all the other well-worn discards. In one corner, two squeaky wooden chairs faced off on either side of a small battered desk. In the center of the room sat an oblong metal reading table and Lily Wilson.

“Good morning, Lily.” I sat next to her. “How are you today?”

“I began to wonder if you'd forgotten me. What's wrong with your hair? You need to let it grow.” Arthritic fingers grasped the handle of a coffee mug. Her other hand gripped her wheelchair armrest. “Here are my papers. I need you to read this letter from Social Security and tell me what it means. Please speak clearly. Don't mumble.”

I was used to Lily's less than warm greetings and marked it up to “no good deed goes unpunished.” I was the one who had asked the firm to adopt the senior center as our pro bono client.

“No problem. Remember, Avery Mitchell agreed to go over all your trust papers and real estate documents with you next Monday. I can be here with him, if you like.”

“You're not listening. This letter is about my Social Security, not my will. Is that nice girl back from her vacation? She listened to me. She can come back with Mr. Mitchell.”

Ignoring the slight, I pulled the letter out of the envelope. “Lily, remember Linda's not on vacation. She left the firm for a new job. I'm afraid you're stuck with me.”

“Oh, that's right.” She patted her thin hair. “Well, at least you try. Those Social Security people are changing my benefits. I earned that money. I worked thirty years as a teacher. So you're sure the nice girl isn't coming back?”

Inside the envelope was a piece of tablet paper folded in small squares. I spread it out and read it.

“Lily, this says Marla wants to see me, too.”