by Maggie King
I found her reaction over the top, but tried to mollify her. “No one said it meant anything. Vince just mentioned it when we talked last night.” Trying for a casual tone, I asked, “So, how did you happen to be having lunch with Evan?”
“I ran into him at the T-Mobile kiosk. I said I was headed for Chipotle’s and did he want to join me. He said yes. That simple.”
“When was this, anyway?”
“At least a month ago. Maybe three weeks, I dunno.”
“Did you know that he and Carlene were separated at the time?”
“Yes, he told me that day. He kind of hinted around that we should get back together, but I pretended not to take the hint.”
“You weren’t even tempted?”
“Not really.” Her eyes twinkled, and she revised her claim. “Okay, I was. Like I said before, the sex was to die for. But it occurred to me that the whole separation thing could be very temporary and then, once again, I’d be dropped like a hot potato. Not appealing.”
Kat didn’t add anything more about Chipotle and possibly there was nothing more to add. I had no choice but to give her the benefit of the doubt, at least for the time being.
I nibbled on my muffin, finding that I was hungrier than I’d thought. Before I could introduce Helen’s man in the car sighting, Kat said, “I talked to Georgia earlier.”
“Yes, I talked to her as well.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Well . . . Carlene had some trouble when she lived in L.A. Did Georgia tell you anything about that?”
“No. We didn’t get past reminiscing about high school. What kind of trouble?”
“No one really knows.” I ran down my conversation with Georgia, hoping that I didn’t sound insulting or judgmental of Carlene. I felt like I was violating Carlene’s privacy, as everything I said seemed to be news to Kat. If she’d wanted Kat in on her drama, she’d have shared it with her. As Kat sipped she alternated between concern, alarm, and delight with Carlene’s sexual hijinks.
“Fiancé, stalker, doomed love affair, fundamentalist church? I never heard about any of this. Who on earth could the stalker be? And why didn’t she ever tell me about her riotous sex life? I thought she was a prude.”
“You said you fell out of touch with her until she moved back here. By that point she was closemouthed. Remember how I said that she didn’t want to discuss L.A.? She didn’t want to the other night either, when Linda arrived.”
“Linda again.” Kat gritted her teeth. “She must be involved in this L.A. story.”
I agreed and sighed. “There’s more. Helen called.”
Kat’s face clouded and her voice took on an edge. “And?”
I told Kat Helen’s tale about the man in the car. Kat took it in, looking grim. When she spoke it was only to say, “My sister was no prude, was she?”
“Definitely not,” I said as I finished my last crumb.
Tears welled in Kat’s eyes and spilled over. As they streamed down her cheeks, I looked for tissues, but Kat grabbed a napkin from a pile on the table. “I’m glad she discovered sex and enjoyed it so much—but it sounds like it had something to do with getting her killed. Now Helen would say that was true, she’d call her a sinner.” Her voice bitter, she went on. “Helen was here earlier and asked me if I thought Carlene had committed suicide. I said, ‘Oh, Christ, no.’ Of course, I got a chiding look for taking the Lord’s name in vain. Then she asked, ‘So do you think someone poisoned her?’ ”
“I said it certainly looked like it. I asked Helen if she saw anyone hanging around in the kitchen. We got into a cagey discussion with Helen claiming that she wasn’t, after all, on kitchen patrol and didn’t want to finger anyone, although she managed to finger several of us. She said Annabel got a call and went out to the kitchen. And you and Sarah were by the refrigerator, whispering.”
I explained to Kat how I went into the kitchen for creamer when Carlene was fixing her tea. “When Sarah showed up saying there were no towels in the bathroom, Carlene went to find some. She probably left the tea unattended in the kitchen. I mean, why would she take it with her?”
Kat said, “And Art and I traipsed through the kitchen so I could show him those exercises in the family room. Helen didn’t mention that as it would implicate her dear son, although it’s possible she didn’t see us. She didn’t see Linda in the kitchen, and neither did I—still, Linda’s an unknown, so she wound up in first place on Helen’s likely suspect list.”
Kat pounded the unsteady table, making it bounce. “We’ve got to find Linda.”
We sat for a few moments, listening to our own thoughts as we downed our coffee concoctions.
WHEN IT WAS time for Kat to lead her group exercise class, we went back to the gym and headed for the locker room. She repaired her ravaged face as best she could and I donned a long T-shirt and leggings, the same outfit I’d worn for ten years. I found a treadmill where I could watch CNN. But my news watching was short lived, as I heard an appreciative “Hi, Hazel” and turned to find one of my favorite gym denizens on the treadmill next to me.
“Joe!” I exclaimed with delight. “It’s so good to see you.” I tried not to stare at his muscles, very evident in his tank top and shorts. Dark hair lightly salted with white trailed from the bottom of his baseball cap with “Cincinnati” emblazoned across the front. A tiny diamond stud sparkled from one ear while a wide gold ring decorated the third finger of his left hand. Sigh. Once again my thoughts strayed to my hair. By my best estimate, Joe’s age was close to mine. Men could be sexy, hot, at any age, but women didn’t enjoy the same perks. Sixty is the new forty, the media proclaimed. But the media was full of it. I felt skeptical enough of the media’s news coverage, so why trust them with age perceptions? Did people believe the hype?
Joe asked, “How’s the writing going?”
“I’m working on the final draft.” It felt nice to talk about normal stuff, not death.
“Speaking of writing, did you know that woman author who died?”
So much for the normal stuff. I looked at Joe and nodded. “Carlene Arness. Not only did I know her, but I was there when it happened.” At Joe’s amazed reaction, I gave a bare-bones account of Carlene’s harrowing death.
Joe shook his head. “What a dreadful experience. Cyanide, huh? Suicide?”
As Joe wasn’t involved in the group, I figured I was safe in airing my views with him. “No one knows yet. But I don’t buy the idea of suicide.” I didn’t go into Carlene’s past with the murky characters, love fugitives, lovers, and so on, or even her recent past with the man in the car. I did present her publishing success, spa day, and upcoming Costa Rica trip as arguments against suicide.
I heard strains of music, the kind of dance music Kat played for her class. When I turned I saw a latecomer to the class closing the door behind her. “Do you know Kat? The trainer here?” When Joe smiled and said, “Oh, yes,” I told him about the connections she and I had to Carlene.
“Amazing! Stepsister. Ex-wife.” Joe shook his head again. “How’s her husband holding up?”
“From what I understand, he’s devastated.” I sipped from my water bottle. “They were separated, but still . . .”
“Any children?”
“None.” I put my hand up at that point and said I’d just as soon not talk about it anymore. Joe said he understood and started to run on the treadmill. I resumed watching CNN, but had no idea what I saw. Whatever it was paled in comparison to the drama in my own world.
Joe interrupted my reverie. “Got to get back to work.” He stopped the treadmill, cleaned it off, and said, “Take care of yourself, Hazel.” I watched him as he walked away, sweat pouring down his face, and envisioned him in the pages of my book.
I smiled.
CHAPTER 10
LUCY AND I SAT in the kitchen, twirling linguine topped with Lucy’s award-winning marinara sauce. The particulars of the long-ago award had faded into obscurity, but not the wonderful taste and aroma. Wh
en I finished updating her on the day’s conversations, Lucy said, “I’m relieved that we decided to trust Kat.”
“Yes, nobody can fake tears like that. I really feel bad for her. It’s hard to suspect someone you pity.”
Lucy looked thoughtful as she speared a lettuce leaf. “And she’s going out with Mick to keep in the information loop?”
“And maybe for protection. Since she’s as against the suicide verdict as I am, she realizes that someone killed Carlene and may not stop at one death.”
Lucy grimaced at that. “Well, let’s move on.” Shaking a finger at me, she started. “What about your cell phone? Vince was right about the camera.”
“Okay, after dinner, you and the felines can pose for me. And quit shaking that finger at me.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes. I finished my pasta and put my fork on the plate. Lucy put her elbows on the table and folded her hands under her chin. Her plum polish was the exact shade of her blouse. “So,” she began, “let’s see where we are now. We have Linda and Annabel . . . Trudy would’ve been a good suspect, but this marriage of hers puts a damper on that idea. That bit that Georgia told you about Carlene having an affair with what’s-his-name was interesting.”
“Randy,” I supplied.
Lucy stood to clear the table. “So far Art, Helen, and Sarah look innocent. But maybe we’ll come up with something on them.”
“At this point, my money’s on Linda. I wish I could get a handle on this P.G./P.J. person. Somehow it seems important. I hoped Georgia might know, but she didn’t. Neither did Kat.”
“Are you sure it refers to a person?”
I hadn’t considered that possibility. “Well . . . no.” I remembered my decision to make “thinking outside the box” my new mantra.
Once the kitchen was tidied up, we went upstairs, where I took photos of Lucy and the cats. It didn’t take more than a minute to refamiliarize myself with my phone’s camera feature, and the results were acceptable, even recognizable. But the point of the exercise was to become a quick draw, meaning I couldn’t fumble with the danged thing, looking for the right menu options.
I set to adding Dennis Mulligan’s numbers—office, cell, home—to my contact directory along with speed-dial designations. When the landline rang I jumped.
“Annabel,” I mouthed to Lucy. The only words I could get in were “sure,” “okay,” “see you then.”
“She’s coming over.”
“When?”
“Now. She’s in the area and needs human contact with someone from the book group. She didn’t explain why we’re the humans she picked, but I guess we’re as good as anyone.”
“Well, I’m glad she did. Maybe we can get something out of her. Remember—let her do the talking. Don’t tell her a thing.” I agreed as the doorbell rang. To arrive so quickly, Annabel had to be coming here by intent. Lucy and I weren’t on the way to anywhere and didn’t live by a main street. She came through the door, looking as crisp and pristine as ever in a charcoal gray pantsuit. I could never figure out why she dressed like a lawyer. She was a full-time writer with little need to turn herself out so well. I guessed that wearing professional clothing was a personal preference. As for me, I admired the clothing but did not miss the days when suits and three-inch heels were my daily uniform.
After a round of awkward hugs Annabel presented a bakery box filled with an assortment of cookies: oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, peanut butter, and macadamia nut. “Coffee?” Lucy offered. “Don’t worry, at this hour, it’ll be decaf.”
We agreed to decaf and Lucy headed for the kitchen, cookies in hand. Annabel sat on the edge of the armchair seat, back straight with legs together and slanted to the right. I plopped down on the sofa and put my feet up on the table.
“Poor Evan,” Annabel said. “Such a nice man. Have you talked to him?”
“No. I left him a voice mail, but haven’t heard back. According to Kat, he’s coping. It has to be a horrific shock.”
“Any word on what it was that killed her?”
“No.” I lied, holding to my resolve to keep inside information under wraps.
I wanted to get Annabel going on the reason for this impromptu visit but figured Lucy would be furious if I started without her. So I forced myself to be patient as Annabel eased herself into the chair and set to twirling a lock of hair behind her ear. If Lucy didn’t show up soon, I’d have to resort to small talk about the weather. As it turned out, the cats saved me from bland conversational efforts. The reserved Shammy hovered at the edge of the room, observing our visitor from afar, while the extroverted Daisy sniffed the toe of Annabel’s sling-back pump. When she jumped up onto Annabel’s lap and Annabel shrieked I shooed the cat away. She gave each of us a reproachful look before she joined Shammy and they trotted off.
“Sorry about that,” Annabel said as she brushed at her pants. “I’m not a cat person.” I remembered that Annabel had a preference for toy poodles.
Annabel went back to twirling that lock of hair and tapping her toe to a rhythm only she could hear. The dark circles under her eyes told of at least one sleepless night. When Lucy finally showed up with a tray laden with a carafe of decaf, mugs, and cookies, Annabel looked as relieved as I felt.
We went through the rituals of adding cream and stirring, leaving the sugar untouched. Lucy and I picked our favorite cookies—macadamia nut for her and oatmeal raisin for me. I felt a moment of unease, wondering if we had an antidote to any poison in the cookies. That begged the question: what was the antidote? As if by mutual agreement, Lucy and I waited for Annabel to eat her peanut butter cookie before taking tentative bites of our own. Then Annabel turned to me and, voice overly bright, began. “I wonder if I should talk to your friend Vince.” Her voice broke and tears spilled down her cheeks. “That is, if you still communicate—I saw him with that redhead at the signing.”
Lucy grabbed the box of tissues from the end table and handed it to Annabel. I waited a moment for her to collect herself before prompting, “How could Vince help you?”
Annabel didn’t answer. Instead she hemmed and hawed for a full minute. Heaving a sigh she said, “I guess I can trust both of you. Right?” She looked at each of us in turn. When we agreed with her assessment of our trustworthiness, yet another sigh came forth. At last she began. “Do you remember Ronnie, that horrible woman Trudy Zimmerman brought to book group last summer?”
I nodded and, for Lucy’s benefit, described Ronnie as a petite woman with oversized glasses who worked as a librarian at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. She’d seemed pleasant enough to me, but Annabel’s use of the word “horrible” suggested a darker side.
Annabel said, “She came up to me that night and said she remembered me from the library at UVA where I did research when I lived in Charlottesville. At first I thought she was a fan, but she quickly disabused me of that notion. You won’t believe this, but she said that maybe I did that research for purposes other than my writing—for example, maybe for killing my dear husband.”
Annabel always referred to her late spouse as her “dear” husband, never as simply husband and never by his given name.
The tears started falling again and Annabel said, “She laughed but you don’t kid around about things like that.”
Lucy asked, “Why would she think you killed your de—your husband?”
Again, Annabel didn’t answer. She blotted her eyes and blew her nose. I considered that Annabel tested a murder method at book group. I read a mystery where a writer poisoned someone to try out the method for authenticity in her writing. The method had worked for that writer and, if Annabel did the same thing, it had worked for her as well. I set aside the what-if scenarios for later—I didn’t want to miss any tidbits Annabel might drop.
“Last night she called and started right in with her needling. I guess Trudy told her the news about Carlene.” I didn’t let on that Trudy was out of the country—but I imagined that Ronnie had other ways of getting inf
ormation.
Annabel reenacted the conversation with Ronnie, giving herself a normal voice and Ronnie a chipmunk one. “She said, ‘Funny thing, Ms. Annabel, you’re involved in not one but two suspicious deaths.’ I reminded the twit that Carlene committed suicide. ‘Yeah, right! According to whom?’ ‘According to a note that she left.’ ‘How do we know she wrote the note? I can’t help but wonder about you, Annabel . . . I mean, you know so much about killing. You spent hours here at the library poring over books about murder methods and I’m sure that your fingerprints remain. Wasn’t your first book about a woman killing her husband? It sure would be interesting to match the prints on all the books you handled here at the library with the ones on the note. But maybe now you’re too smart to leave your prints. Too bad you weren’t so smart years ago.’ By this time the woman was cackling.
“Like I’d have killed my dear husband. I loved him!” Annabel blew her nose again.
Had she? Was her husband really “dear”? Was Annabel using her killer characters to write obliquely about herself? Did she have personal knowledge of a killer’s mind?
I asked, “How long ago did your husband die?”
“Ten years next month. I’ve never gotten over it. Never.” She continued to weep and rail. “Can you believe the gall of that woman, the total lack of feeling?”
“Would your prints still be there on the books? How long do they last? And wouldn’t other people have used the books in the meantime?”
Annabel held up her hand in a wait-a-minute gesture. Somewhat composed, but with her face still scarlet with emotion, she said, “I don’t know how long prints last on paper. As for other people using the books, there are plenty of mystery writers in Charlottesville, so I imagine some of them have availed themselves of the same books.” She took a fresh tissue and mopped her eyes. I hoped our supply would last, but there was always toilet paper. Maybe Annabel was the last of the weeping women we’d have to console. With all the tears of late I regretted not buying stock in a tissue company.
