by J. C. Eaton
By the time I walked to the front door of the social hall, the crowd had swelled. It took me fifteen minutes to get inside. Thirteen of them were spent in a conversation with Trudy and Gertie from the plane. They had arrived along with twenty or so others from The Lillian and were dressed as if it was a cocktail party—silky white dresses and sage green hats with taffeta bows. Gertie grabbed my wrist as I tried to get to the front table.
“Remember us? From the airplane? We thought we recognized you. Phee, right?”
“Um, sure. Of course. Gertie and Trudy. Uh, how’ve you been?”
“We were fine until this book curse found its way to our community. I must tell you everyone at The Lillian is on edge. Last thing we need is to bring something like that into our home. Isn’t that right, Trudy?”
Trudy locked her hand around my other wrist and I was stuck. She gave her sister a nod of approval as people elbowed their way around us. Then she spoke directly to her sister as if I wasn’t there.
“It’s Aunt Hortensia’s cursed wedding ring all over again.”
“What are you talking about? The ring wasn’t cursed. The marriage was.”
“Listen to me, Gertie, the marriage wouldn’t have been cursed if it wasn’t for the ring.”
“The marriage was cursed because Uncle Ambroise dallied around with other women.”
“He wouldn’t have done that if it wasn’t for the ring. Who buys a wedding ring that has pearls in it? Pearls bring bad luck.”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone.”
I tried to shake their hands from my wrists, but all I succeeded in doing was flapping my arms about like a cartoon chicken. It didn’t help matters any that my shoulder bag was flinging itself all over the place. Finally I raised my voice. “Stop it, please. Both of you. There is no curse. You’ll see. Take a seat and relax, okay?”
I heard two audible sighs and felt badly for my outburst. “I’m sorry, ladies, but this curse thing has gotten out of hand. You have nothing to worry about. Maybe we can chat later.”
My words seemed to appease them. Luckily Gertie spotted two empty seats and hustled her sister over there. I’d never seen such chaos in all my life. People were pushing and shoving from all directions. Compared to this scenario, Bingo night was small potatoes. Off to the right was a giant table with a banner over it. It said, SIGNED COPIES OF THE TWELFTH ARRONDISSEMENT. The line in front of that table wound down the corridor toward the restrooms.
My mother was already in the front of the room by the table that had been prepared for the book club. Even though the membership had dwindled, they had placed at least fifteen chairs around it. And sure enough, the whiteboard was off to the side, a few feet from the head of the table. Most noticeable were the microphones that seemed to be everywhere. Behind me, seats were filling fast. This was going to be SRO in a matter of minutes.
The chairs for the audience were arranged as if they were going to be watching a major theatrical production. I doubted opening night for an Oscar Hammerstein musical held as many people. That wasn’t the worst of it. As I made my way toward my mother, I witnessed what best could be described as “a field day” for every realtor and funeral parlor business in the area. Business cards were being handed out, along with pens and assorted novelties. A carnival barker would’ve been right at home here. Unfortunately, I wasn’t. My mouth was dry and I had used up the last of my mints a few days ago.
I wormed my way over to the table and gave a wave to the book club ladies who were already seated—Cecilia, Shirley, Lucinda, Jeanette, Louise, and Myrna. Jeanette kept looking over her shoulder, and I realized why. Apparently Leslie Sackler had taken a seat in the audience a few rows back.
And I was worried she wouldn’t show up. I casually turned around and scanned the place, trying to not look too obvious when I found myself eye-to-eye with Josie Nolan. She nodded as if to acknowledge me and then turned her attention to the people sitting near her. Next to her was an empty seat I presumed was for her husband, who was probably handing out business cards. A few rows away from them were Gertie and Trudy. I wondered if they were still arguing over the cursed wedding ring. As I took in the entire room, I was beginning to feel nauseated.
No sign of Jerry White, but it was, after all, a huge social hall, and he could be anywhere. My mother’s voice reached me and I turned around.
She was busy yacking with Herb Garrett. “Why are you standing like that? It looks like you can’t breathe, Herb.”
“I’m sucking in my gut, Harriet. There are TV crews everywhere. Those cameras add at least ten pounds, you know.”
“Hey, Herb!” someone yelled. “I saved you a seat. Hurry up!”
“See you later, Harriet. That’s Eddie from pinochle.”
I couldn’t catch the rest of the conversation since the noise level was getting worse by the minute. Those microphones were a good idea after all. I started to take a seat next to the head of the table where my mother would be conducting the meeting. My rear end hadn’t even made contact with the chair when I heard the unmistakable voices of Thelmalee’s family. They were making their way to the front of the room and, in that second, I knew we were in for a disaster.
“Are you ready for this?” my mother whispered as she leaned toward me.
“I, um, er . . .” I muttered, but before I could say anything, Gretchen Morin stood over us like a sentinel. I didn’t even see her approach.
“I’m going to get the meeting started, Mrs. Plunkett, and I’ll be introducing Vivian Knowlton. Once she says a few words, you can go ahead and run the book club, same as always.”
I glanced up, but my eyes moved right past Gretchen to Vivian Knowlton. She looked the same as the artistic rendering on the side of the bus—flaming red and pink hair with some sort of a tiara and a dress that probably traveled with the Grateful Dead’s entourage in the sixties. I didn’t realize it, but my jaw had opened to the point where it was obvious. My mother gave me a nudge with her foot, and I immediately turned away from Vivian.
“You don’t want the cameras to catch that, Phee.” My mother’s voice was barely audible, but because we were sitting right next to each other, I heard every word.
Without wasting another second, Gretchen walked over to the tallest microphone. “May I have your attention please? Your attention please!”
With the exception of Thelmalee’s relatives, who were still elbowing their way to the front of the room, literally everyone seemed to quiet down.
“Welcome, everyone, to the Sun City West’s Booked 4 Murder book club. I’m Gretchen Morin, director of our library. Normally, this would be a small meeting of the club and it would run itself. All I do is reserve the library space.”
I started to roll my eyes but thought better of it.
“However, given the magnitude of events that have transpired, I felt I should provide some background and introductions. You see, the book the club selected this past month has met with . . . shall we say, some inexplicable circumstances.”
“IT DAMN WELL KILLED MY GRANDMOTHER,” someone yelled, and I knew that Thelmalee’s family had finally made it to the front of the room.
Gretchen stood steadfast. The fact one of the sheriff’s deputies was moving toward the guy must have added to her already inflated sense of bravado. Too bad she didn’t realize the Kirksons outnumbered the deputies.
“WHEN WE GET DONE SUING YOUR ASS, THERE WON’T BE A BOOK LEFT IN YOUR LIBRARY!”
I turned my head to see a scraggly looking kid about sixteen or seventeen.
“SHUT THE HELL UP, FRANKIE. I WANNA HEAR WHAT SHE HAS TO SAY. THEN WE’LL SUE THE CRAP OUT OF HER.”
Frankie. That must have been the brother who was “on the pot” the day I stopped by Thelmalee’s house. And the man who was yelling at him had to be the father. If anyone was trying to have a private conversation during Gretchen’s “introduction,” it would have been impossible.
Without blinking so much as a single eyelash, she cleared her
throat. “As I was saying, the book club selected a gothic romance-mystery by a new author and unfortunately, a number of its readers met with their demise shortly after, or even while they were reading the novel.”
She went on to provide details and facts leading up to the book’s reputation of being cursed. That’s when she introduced Vivian Knowlton from the reality show Psychic Divas. At least that shut Frankie up for a few minutes. That, or maybe the fact his father was only one fist away from the kid’s mouth.
“And so, it gives me great pleasure to introduce a lady who really needs no introduction for those of you who watch her top-rated TV reality show. Please welcome Vivian Knowlton from Psychic Divas.”
The applause was thunderous as Vivian took the microphone. She held a copy of The Twelfth Arrondissement. For a woman who was a psychic, she seemed to have no clue what was about to happen. No sooner did she utter the words, “Thank you, Gretchen, it’s my pleasure to be here today,” when all of a sudden a heavyset woman with short, curly brown hair and a floral duster ran to the front of the room and yelled, “ Vivian, Vivian, can you please channel my late husband, Morty?”
If that wasn’t enough, another woman stood and screamed, “My grandmother Eunice. Eunice Baker. Please contact her from beyond. Eunice! It’s Eunice Baker. From Pocatello, Idaho.”
Just then, a balding man wearing a Hawaiian shirt waved his hands in the air as he pushed his way to the front table. “We need to find out where my crazy old uncle Harry hid the money! Harry Petrillo. From New Jersey. He mentioned money in the will, but the old codger never told us where it was. Can you find out?”
It was like watching a dam break. More people. More shouting. More demands for Vivian to speak with the dead. But the worst was when Miranda Lee stood up, unscrewed the top of her water bottle, and began to slush it around, resulting in a near riot.
“If you’re conjuring up the dead, you’ll need Fiji water for purification,” she yelled.
I looked at the stricken expression on my mother’s face.
“Now will you believe me?” I said. “It’s totally out of control.”
I closed my eyes and moved my head from side to side. My mother gave me a nudge.
“Let the Psychic Diva deal with it.”
Before Vivian could say a word, the Kirksons were back in the game.
“CONJURE UP GRANDMA NOW!” Maisy-Jayne screamed. “I WANT TO GET OUT OF THIS STINKIN’ PLACE!”
“You know what, Mom?” I whispered. “I think I do, too.”
Chapter 27
It took five deputies and more than a half dozen firefighters to get the room to settle down before Vivian Knowlton could continue to speak. When she did, I wasn’t so sure it was to address the matter of the book in question, or to promote her TV show.
“Thank you. Thank you for your trust in my psychic abilities. Unfortunately, we don’t have the time in this venue to address all of your needs, but I urge you to continue watching my show and sending your requests to my producer. Visit the Web site at PsychicDivasTelevision.com and be sure to mention Sun City West.”
“When is she going to get on with this?” Lucinda leaned across the table. “I thought we were here to discuss the book and listen to whatever stuff Harriet and her daughter uncovered.”
“I don’t think she’ll be too long,” Myrna replied. “She already got her photo op.”
Some brief static from the microphone jolted us for a second. Vivian held the book high in the air and leaned her head back as if the book were about to jump at her. “Aside from the plot of this intriguing novel, I sense there is a great deal more to the book itself. Something ephemeral. An enigma, if you will. I doubt the author set out to cast a curse on her readers, but the book, it seems, has taken on a spirit of its own.”
“Oh, brother,” I said. This time my mother didn’t nudge me or give me a kick under the table.
Gretchen moved closer to Vivian and took the microphone.
“Are you saying the book is indeed cursed?”
“I’m saying the book is more than words and paper. More than the plot and characters. Somehow, a fusion of elements has resulted in a dynamic that no one could have predicted. Not even the author.”
“Good Lord. What the heck is she saying?” Shirley whispered.
My mother and I shrugged at the same time.
Meanwhile, Vivian gushed on with her commentary. “So you see, what we have here is a tome that holds a power of its own. Something sinister, I fear. Something that demands our respect and our caution. Whoever Lily Margot Gerald is, she has unleashed a true gothic horror upon all of us.”
“I can’t take it anymore. I’m stepping in.” I stood. With or without the true identity of the author, I still had enough evidence to put a stop to this charade. Nevertheless, I made sure to put my cell phone in my pocket in case Nate called. I desperately wanted my hunch about Izzy dog to pan out. Then I walked over to one of the microphones that had been set up behind our table and took it, hoping no one would see my hands were shaking.
“I am so sorry to interrupt you, Miss Knowlton, but I can’t let this go on anymore,” I said.
The collective gasps coming from the audience set me on edge. I had to speak eloquently, clearly, and directly. And I had to speak fast before they yanked the microphone away. As if on cue, my mother slipped out of her seat and moved the whiteboard closer to the table. I swallowed once and began what Miss Marple would have called the “Big Reveal.” For me, it was “hurry up and get it over with before they all turn on you like a pack of rats.”
“My name is Sophie Kimball. I’m Harriet Plunkett’s daughter. I also work for the police department in Mankato, Minnesota, and I came here at my mother’s request to investigate the series of unexplained deaths and near encounters with death.” I made sure to look directly at Jeanette. So far, so good. No one knows I’m in accounts receivable. “Like many of you, my mother was convinced this novel, The Twelfth Arrondissement, was cursed. But that book is no more cursed than this table, these chairs, and the very microphone I’m speaking from.”
“THAT’S BULLSHIT, LADY, OR MY GRANDMOTHER WOULD STILL BE HERE!”
I didn’t have to pan the room to figure out Frankie was back at it. I wasted no time getting to the point. “Your grandmother wasn’t killed by this book. She died as a result of uncontrolled greed and a series of opportunistic actions taken by more than one person in this community.”
“SPEAK ENGLISH, LADY!”
My face turned beet red, and all I could do was scream out, “It was a setup! Is that good enough English for you?”
“YEAH, I’M LISTENING.”
Then, without warning, Gretchen Morin took the mic from Vivian. “We cannot have people popping up out of nowhere and spouting off anything and everything that comes into their mind. Now, Miss Knowlton was kind enough to travel all the way here from Los Angeles in order to shed some light on the book, and I feel we need to give her a chance.”
“I WANT TO HEAR FROM THE OTHER LADY. THE POLICEWOMAN WITH THE UGLY CLOTHES.”
Under ordinary circumstances, I would have been insulted since I was wearing something I deemed highly fashionable. But, given the fact that it was Maisy-Jayne speaking, I let it go. I also didn’t bother to clarify that I wasn’t a policewoman.
“Thank you. I’ll try to be brief.”
Gretchen started to say something, but Shirley Johnson grabbed the microphone away from her, and for a minute, I thought they were actually going to get physical. Instead, Gretchen motioned for someone to get over to the table, but I couldn’t see who. At the same time, my mother shoved a dry-erase marker into my hand and turned her head to the whiteboard. It was “showtime.”
Small beads of sweat formed on my forehead and I brushed them off with the back of my hand. “Please listen carefully, everyone, and I’ll try to explain why there is NO book curse.”
The audience got quiet for a second, and I went full speed ahead, hoping to avoid any more interruptions.
“As many of you may know, it’s very difficult to have a book published these days. The competition is fierce, from what I understand, and the likelihood of finding a literary agent is next to impossible. So, burgeoning authors sometimes self-publish, the way Lily Margot Gerald did when she wrote The Twelfth Arrondissement. The trouble is, no one knew who she was, and that made it less likely anyone would read her book.”
I was on borrowed time with my explanation and sure enough, Frankie broke in.
“WELL, GRANDMA MANAGED TO READ THAT THING AND NOW SHE’S PUSHING UP DAISIES!”
His father squelched his attempts. “SHUT YOUR TRAP, FRANKIE, AND LET THE WOMAN SPEAK!”
“Um, er, as I was saying, it was very unlikely anyone would read the novel. There was no publicity, no advertising. Nothing. Then it suddenly appeared on the Booked 4 Murder reading list. And that meant at least fifteen people would get their hands on it. Word spreads quickly in small communities, so if the book was any good, it would have a start. But here’s the interesting tidbit—no one in the book club recommended that book. So how did it get on the reading list? My guess, and it is simply a guess, is that someone from the library put it there.”
I didn’t exactly point fingers. I was waiting for a more opportune time.
“Then a series of unfortunate events happened. Well, deaths, actually, for a few members of the book club. Members who were reading the book. First, Marilyn Scutt had that awful golf cart accident and died. The only item that was found intact on the street was her copy of The Twelfth Arrondissement. Shortly afterward, Minnie Bendelson passed away at the hospital, while reading the same book. And that’s when someone came up with a brilliant idea to sell that book. Not only sell it, but catapult it to the New York Times best-seller list. And what could be more throat grabbing than the thought the book was cursed!”
I took a deep breath. I had the full attention of the audience. Not only that, but I finally located Jerry White sitting off to the side, near the exit. I wasn’t about to lose my momentum.
