Murder at the Book Group

by Maggie King

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “No, I didn’t have time. We just waved.”

  The Chipotle sighting was interesting, but I still didn’t feel comfortable talking about Kat and Evan. Redirecting the conversation, I asked, “You said you talked to Dennis. Any word on what it was that . . . killed Carlene?”

  “Not yet. Hopefully tomorrow we’ll know. You gave the pathologists a good lead with the bitter almond smell.”

  “Detective Garcia didn’t seem impressed. It’s nice to know she gave my nose some credence.”

  “Detective Garcia is a woman of few words, but she’s a damn fine detective.”

  Let’s hope so, I thought. Aloud, I said, “Anyway, I hope no one gets any ideas about calling me in to assist at autopsies.”

  Vince snickered. I had a mental picture of him, and a pleasant picture it was: tall, broad-shouldered, shock of white hair, slate-blue eyes. Easy to get along with—except that somehow we didn’t get along. Hmm—did that make me the difficult one? The Dr. Phil intervention would have to wait. There were more pressing matters at hand.

  I asked, “Where was the cyanide? In the tea? Is it like sugar?”

  “We won’t know for sure until they finish with the toxicology testing. Cyanide is a white powder, but I’m not sure if the consistency’s like sugar.”

  “This is all pretty fast, isn’t it? The autopsy and results.”

  “Unless there’s a backlog, it doesn’t take long.”

  “And Carlene’s being cremated as soon as the results come in—gives me chills just thinking of it.” I felt myself choking up and took a deep breath. “By the way, where do you get cyanide?”

  “It’s used in pest control, gold plating, photography, jewelry cleaning. When I say photography, I mean the darkroom type. Of course, a chemist might have it.”

  Who in our group would have such a chemical on hand? Or access to one? No one had confided in me about a pest control problem. I mentally scanned the interests of the members, trying to recall any avid gardeners, jewelers, or photographers. Helen used a digital camera for her website work, so didn’t need darkroom chemicals like cyanide.

  “Does anyone still develop in darkrooms?” I jotted down another note, this time to consider cyanide possession possibilities.

  “I’m sure plenty still do.” Then Vince asked, his voice gentle, “Do you feel like talking about last night?”

  “Sure.” I took a couple of deep breaths. Where to begin? At the beginning, I guess. And so I launched into the unbelievable tale of my first, and hopefully last, death experience. “Well, last night our book group met at Carlene’s and . . .” A disjointed mess of facts, “and-thens,” “what-ifs,” and just plain angst came tumbling forth at breakneck speed. Vince listened and, save for an occasional uh-huh, didn’t interrupt. His long career as a homicide detective hadn’t been in vain—he was up to untangling such all-over-the-place accounts.

  By the time I finished, I’d managed to cover every detail from my arrival at Carlene’s to my much later arrival home. I described Carlene’s tirade about the book, the ominous cyanide discussion, Linda’s appearance, my discussion with Carlene, the “huge mistake” bit, the logistics of the tea mug, the love fugitive plot of Carlene’s third book, Annabel’s shrieking, and a host of other details, large and small. After all, the solution could be hidden in a point I deemed unimportant.

  “I really think Linda is a key figure. The woman just shows up and Carlene dies. I believe in coincidences, but this is too much of one.”

  “Are you questioning the suicide?”

  “Well . . . there was that note.”

  “Yes. And I’m sure that doesn’t convince you.” Like a mere note was proof? I never bought the easy answers; I expected complications and difficulties. Vince knew that about me. The book group members did not, a fact that could work in my favor when I pretended to buy the suicide with the attendant note.

  “Anyone could have left that note—Annabel, of course, since she found Carlene. But we were all down there in the family room running around like chickens without heads.”

  A back-and-forth about the suicide question followed. Vince snorted when I presented Carlene’s spa day from Saturday as an argument against her killing herself. “You’ve always claimed you didn’t know her, that she refused to disclose much of herself, but now you’re reading her mind.”

  “No, I don’t claim to know, or even guess, what Carlene thought or felt about anything. I do know that she looked better than ever last night. That is, until the end.” My voice caught on that last, but I plowed on. “A woman hell-bent on suicide doesn’t invest in herself that way.”

  “Maybe she wanted to look good when she died. If Evan’s the one who precipitated the split, she wanted to send a message: look what you gave up.”

  “That’s assuming the split was Evan’s idea.”

  “Well, that really doesn’t matter. Regardless of whose idea it was, she may very well have been distressed about the breakup. It’s hard to say what will drive someone off the deep end.”

  “And why pick cyanide? She couldn’t have looked worse.” I shuddered again. “But maybe she didn’t realize how she’d look. In detective stories, they never mention how someone looks. They just slump over their tea or whatever. And then I have this House of Mirth theory . . .”

  “House of Mirth?” Vince groaned. “You mean that interminable movie you made me sit through?”

  “It was a great movie.” I outlined my idea of how Carlene would have picked Lily Bart’s suicide method and be found prettily dead and alone in bed, as opposed to how she was found: flushing and foaming at the mouth like a menopausal, rabid dog while hosting the book group. I failed to impress Vince.

  “I was just glad that she, meaning the character, did die and the damn movie ended. You may have a point about Carlene’s vanity determining her choices, even in death. But you said she brought up the cyanide topic during the book group. And that she seemed distressed.”

  “People get distressed and don’t do themselves in. Besides, distressed isn’t quite the right word. Agitated is more accurate. As opposed to her usual calm, serene self. Besides, there’s her book success. Despite the thing with Evan, things were looking up—oh, I forgot about the Costa Rica trip.” I told Vince about Carlene’s travel plans and how she asked me to have coffee with her and Georgia. “She wanted travel tips about the country. Does someone plan a trip and then turn around and kill herself?” Vince allowed that suicide didn’t follow.

  “Of course, I don’t want to get carried away here. It’s certainly possible that she did commit suicide. Who could figure the woman out anyway?” I moved on to share the conversations I’d had earlier, starting with the man in the car.

  “Sounds like this was an ongoing relationship,” Vince noted when I finished. “Maybe ongoing encounter is a better word.”

  “Why, I didn’t think of it that way. I had an idea he was someone new.” I resolved to start thinking outside the box and wrote it down to be sure I remembered. “Do you think he was the reason for the separation?”

  “Could be. Just speculation, of course. What other conversations did you have today?”

  I told him about Art’s description of Linda and Carlene at the signing. Despite my earlier decision to keep quiet about anything to do with Kat and Evan, I wound up spilling the beans on their hot affair. Other than agreeing that it was a funny combination, strange bedfellows and all that, Vince had little reaction. I imagined that as a cop he’d seen and heard it all.

  After a pause, Vince asked, “Did Carlene and Linda talk to each other last night?”

  “Not that I saw. I’m sure Carlene was avoiding Linda. She seemed puzzled that Linda remembered her so well when she didn’t remember Linda. Personally, I think she remembered Linda very well, and that she wasn’t a pleasant memory. I never saw Carlene so rattled. Of course, she was rattled before Linda showed up . . . That could mean that she knew ahead of time that Linda was
coming . . .” I trailed off, trying to collect my thoughts. “I thought Linda and the huge mistake might be connected.”

  “Did you talk to Linda?”

  “No. She was in the dining room describing her colonoscopy to Annabel. I didn’t want to interrupt.” Vince hooted. “She left early, way before any one else did, so the police don’t have any contact information for her, and no one else does either.” I told him about Kat’s deleting Linda’s number from her incoming call register.

  “You say you were all in the dining room when Carlene closed the pocket doors to take her call in private. Did Linda look for Carlene to say good-bye?”

  “No. I distinctly remember that because I thought it was funny that she didn’t ask where Carlene was, or say, ‘Well, tell her I said good-bye,’ something like that. She just left by the front door. Of course, Carlene had ignored her, so she might have been miffed about that.”

  “And now a word of caution, Hazel.” Vince, in police mode, echoed Lucy’s earlier words. “Don’t discuss this information with anyone, especially not with your group members.”

  Sniffing, I said, “Well, since I was there last night, I have a vested interest in anything to do with what happened.”

  “Not if it puts you in danger. Keep in mind that if Carlene didn’t die at her own hand, she died at someone else’s, likely someone in your group.” Vince issued the expected warnings about not being alone with any of them, avoiding eating or drinking anything with them, and so on.

  “Okay, let’s wrap this up. You must be exhausted. Will you send me a list of names and addresses—snail mail addresses—of everyone in your group? I’ll run background checks on them.”

  “And are you going to share your findings with me?”

  “Only if appropriate.”

  “Will you at least give me Linda’s number? To welcome her to the group and all.”

  He ignored me. “By the way, did you ever figure out how to use the camera on your cell phone? Are you even using your phone?”

  “Um, well, not too much. But I did take a picture of Daisy and Shammy.” Shammy, nestled against my thigh, looked up at the sound of her name.

  “And how long ago was that?” I had no idea, but hastened to assure Vince that I knew how to use the camera and that besides, I had a manual. Vince said, “Remember, if you have a killer in your group, you’ll need protection.”

  “And taking pictures of this would-be killer will protect me?”

  “Just humor me, Hazel. Use your phone. You may need to use it quickly.” Vince paused for a moment. “Again, be careful. You’re too curious by half.”

  “Is curious a euphemism for nosy?”

  He laughed but didn’t disagree. Echoing Lucy’s earlier remark about my concern for justice, he said, “You do have a vigilante streak.” Now he became earnest. “Hazel, I don’t want to lose you. Keep your phone on and with you at all times. Familiarize yourself with the camera feature so you can take a picture at a moment’s notice. Is my number on your speed dial?” It was, but I didn’t want to admit that. “Uh, no. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” After he gave me Dennis Mulligan’s numbers to assign on speed dial, he said, “Call me tomorrow?”

  I assured him that I would, and we hung up. I got out of bed, trying not to disturb Shammy, and walked down the hall to my den where I turned on my computer. After sending the book group directory to Vince, I read e-mails from Kelly Justice at the Fountain as well as Lelia Taylor from Creatures ’n Crooks, both of them offering glowing tributes to Carlene as an up-and-coming author. I looked at the e-mail that Kat sent:

  As many of you already know, my sister, Carlene Arness, passed away last night at her home from unknown causes. She was hosting Murder on Tour. All who were present are devastated at the loss of this talented woman. Evan is inconsolable.

  As the group’s cofounder, she offered unique insights into our reading selections. And her recent publication of Murder à la Isabel was a huge success, the start of what promised to be a long and successful writing career.

  A memorial service is scheduled for Friday, October 14, at 11:00 at St. Bernard’s Episcopal Church.

  Fondly,

  Kat Berenger

  Various replies followed, along the lines of “Just awful,” and “I still can’t believe it,” “Poor Evan,” “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Helen said she’d pray for Carlene’s soul.

  Annabel sent a message to the group, omitting Kat as a recipient. “Does anyone know what Carlene ingested?” No one had responded, not even with a speculation.

  I opened Helen’s e-mail with the attached flyer promoting the lecture on stem cell research. Above a photo of a woman wearing pearls and hair sprayed to within an inch of its life read the caption: “Stem Cell Research: What You Need to Know.” I hit the delete button.

  Lucy and Daisy came up to my den and plopped down on the day bed. Lucy said, “Tell all.”

  “I didn’t talk to Evan, just left a message. As for Vince . . .” When I got to the part about Vince’s sighting of Evan and Kat at Chipotle, Lucy looked thoughtful. “Well, that either means something or . . . it doesn’t. It’s possible they just ran into each other and talked.” She petted Daisy, who gazed at her with adoring eyes. “But in view of what she told us this morning, it might very well mean something.”

  “I wonder if Kat got an invitation to Lemaire?” We shared a laugh when we tried to picture the stir she’d cause if she walked into that traditional restaurant in one of her leopard getups.

  Lucy was disappointed in my lack of progress in getting back together with Vince. “You just have to look smashing at the memorial service.”

  The unwelcome specter of Molly loomed. What was the point of putting energy into developing, or redeveloping, anything with Vince if he and Molly were an item?

  “Don’t forget Molly.”

  “All the more reason to knock his socks off on Friday.”

  CHAPTER 7

  I LOVED RICHMOND’S NORTHSIDE, with its historic neighborhoods and beautiful mansions dating from the turn of the twentieth century. Much of the area had been developed by Lewis Ginter, a philanthropist who had made his fortune in the tobacco industry. Remarkable architecture abounded in neighborhoods like Ginter Park and Bellevue. A brick Georgian Revival mansion, complete with stone gates and expanse of lawn, housed the Richmond Women’s Resource Center. With earplugs I could imagine the original beauty and tranquillity surrounding me. Otherwise I had to endure the present-day reality of RWRC’s noisy neighbor, Interstate 95.

  The Women’s Resource Center’s stated mission was to plant the seeds for girls and women to grow and succeed in life and in their careers. To that end we provided counseling services, along with career and personal development services.

  The house stood flanked by magnolia trees; Ionic columns supported a wide veranda. Even recent events couldn’t take away the delight I always felt when I approached the postbellum mansion that RWRC had appropriated ten years before. In the early 1900s a new set of owners added a third floor as well as an “East Wing” in the Colonial Revival style that blended well with the Gothic Revival style of the original “West Wing.” In the latter part of the twentieth century the house was updated to be handicapped accessible by adding a tower to the east side of the house. The beautiful result ensured that the house would remain a community treasure for years to come.

  Georgia Dmytryk pulled into a parking space just as I started up the steps leading to a small wooden veranda. I waited for her and we hugged before proceeding into the house. A woman sitting at the reception desk took off her reading glasses and set them on the newspaper she had spread on the desk. She greeted us in warm, dulcet tones. I guessed her to be the temp filling in while the office manager was out on maternity leave.

  “I’m Vivian Durand. And you must be Hazel.” I shook the ringed hand she offered me. Vivian arranged her golden-going-on-gray hair in the long-ago fashion known as the Gibson Girl, a poufy updo not unlike a mushro
om, albeit an attractive one.

  The phone rang and when Vivian answered I noted her professional and soothing phone manner. Georgia nudged me and said, “Let’s go to my office and talk.”

  Not for the first time, I admired the way Georgia carried herself. Georgia and Carlene had shared not only a childhood, but a commitment to perfect posture. I’d often teased them, asking if they’d spent giggly girlhood sleepovers walking around with books on their heads. In fact they had done just that, with Georgia winning their contests to see who could walk the longest without dropping her book. With her regal bearing and statuesque figure she reminded me of a ship’s figurehead. Her dark hair swung in a harmony only found in an expensive cut—likely the result of the spa weekend she’d shared with Carlene.

  We walked into Georgia’s office. RWRC may be a nonprofit operation, but it was a classy one. A crystal chandelier presided over the large space with its floor-to-ceiling windows, just-for-show fireplace, and Oriental carpet. Georgia motioned for me to close the door. I did so, then sat next to a potted something-or-other. Georgia’s haggard and drawn face revealed at least one sleepless night. “Can I get you something?” I asked. “Tea? Oh . . .” I started rummaging through my tote bag. “I brought some banana bread. Courtesy of Lucy.”

  “No. No, I’m fine.” Not a convincing fine, but as my nurturing talents were limited, I let it go.

  Then Georgia wailed, taking her glasses off and setting them, lenses down, on a desk the size of my dining room table. Not the time to tell her how damaging that was to the lenses. She mopped the tears that streamed down her face and put her head in her hands. Tears were contagious and soon we were crying together, sharing the box of tissues on her desk.

  When our tears subsided, Georgia asked if I’d seen the obituary in the paper. I nodded, but didn’t comment on the brevity of the piece. “Beloved wife of Evan” and the memorial service logistics were included, but nothing on her family or background. I guessed that Evan had provided the information and either didn’t know his wife very well or chose to honor her tight grip on privacy.