Murder at the Book Group

by Maggie King

  “Me too. But she never showed anything to me—probably hadn’t reached the critiquing stage.” We described the love fugitive idea to Den.

  Den turned the conversation to the memorial service, with each of us agreeing it was lovely, a nice send-off, so to speak.

  “Carlene was one beautiful woman.” Den shook his head in sorrow, but the hint of a playful smile remained. “I’ll miss her.”

  I wondered at Den’s choice of words, I’ll miss her. Apart from the turkey dinners, when had he and Carlene seen each other?

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure you’ll miss her, honey.”

  Sarah’s edgy tone wasn’t lost on me. Had there been something between Den and Carlene? Was he another notch on Carlene’s bedpost? If so, it sounded like Sarah was not only on to it, but grudgingly accepting. At this point, Carlene and affair went together. The question was, despite Den’s charm and provocativeness, could he, um, deliver? I didn’t know the extent of his injuries, and Carlene had been one adventurous woman. And so, yes, Den could deliver something. Feeling that a paraplegic character with alternative sexual gifts would add spice to my work-in-progress novel, I hoped to hold on to the idea long enough to record it once I got back in the house.

  “We have to go,” Sarah announced. “We’re having in-laws over for dinner.” I stood watching them walk and roll down my walkway, wondering what the abrupt departure was all about. Maybe Sarah wasn’t crazy about her in-laws. I thought of Evan’s cold parents. The parents and siblings of my other husbands had been considerably nicer, but our acquaintance had been too brief to get to know them. Then I realized what prompted the hasty good-byes—Sarah might have realized that despite the brevity of our conversation, she and Den had revealed too much. If Carlene did have an affair with Den, that provided Sarah with a motive to kill her. And Sarah had told Carlene that she had no towels in her bathroom. Easy enough to arrange an outage and remove Carlene from the kitchen for as long as it took to sprinkle white powder into her mug. I sighed at the prospect of adding yet another book group member to my suspect roster, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that Sarah had just cast even more doubt on the suicide verdict. For the time being I made her an “understudy” suspect, to borrow theatrical lingo.

  I toyed with the idea of going for a walk. The temperature hovered at about seventy-five degrees, my cutoff point for comfort. But walking required shoes—too much trouble. Back inside the house, I remembered my idea for a paraplegic Don Juan and looked around for my recorder. Keeping track of the recorder, intended to aid me in my writing, presented a perpetual challenge. As I jotted down the Don Juan idea on the back of a receipt, I remembered using the recorder, tucked away in my dressy purse, at the memorial service. I’d had a lofty notion of capturing someone’s murder confession. But I didn’t want to take the time to listen to at least three hours of recording and, besides, I needed a diversion from death and its aftermath. At the moment, cleaning loomed as a viable, if not welcome, one.

  Even though Vince and I didn’t stand on ceremony, the place needed at least a light cleaning, and light it would be. Starting with the important rooms, my bedroom and bath, I spent the better part of an hour sprucing up the place. My next e-mail check still yielded nothing from Jeanette, but the messages from the book group had multiplied. The general consensus on the book group meeting was that Tuesday worked better than Monday. My eye fell on Helen’s home address. Something struck me as being familiar about it. Of course, I’d been to her place many times over the past couple of years. But something else prompted the recognition. I laughed at my need to find significance in the smallest detail. The smallest detail could break this case wide open. That’s the way it worked in murder mysteries. The fictional kind, I reminded myself.

  As she had a few days before, Annabel sent an e-mail that didn’t include Kat as a recipient. “Yesterday, Kat told me that Carlene ended her life with cyanide. It was in her tea. How very, very sad.” Annabel was likely paraphrasing because I doubted that Kat used the phrase “Carlene ended her life.” Just how sad did Annabel find Carlene’s death? She ended her missive with “And weren’t you all talking about cyanide at the book group right before I got there? Where would she get the stuff?” So far no one had replied. I didn’t either.

  Jeanette finally came through. Looking at the photos, I realized she was right—Linda’s midnineties persona recalled Morticia Addams, with her Gothic-looking long, dark hair and tight black dress. If I had Photoshop, it would be child’s play to produce a present-day Linda. It was a simple matter of painting white stripes on her hair and adding digital meat on her bones.

  As for the man sitting next to Linda, B.J. Miller, Jeanette was also right about his bad-boy looks and bedroom eyes. His look stirred a feeling of familiarity, but I couldn’t place him. Besides, he could be anywhere and may or may not still have the mustache and beard. My efforts to remove hair and add years via mental Photoshop fell short. Besides, for all I knew he might still be in Chicago, or wherever he and Linda moved to all those years ago.

  Carlene, aka Carlotta, wearing a glittery holiday sweater, stood off to the side, auburn hair flowing over her shoulders in Art Nouveau–type waves. Age-wise, she looked much the same as she had five days before. While Linda chose not to smile, Carlene wore a big grin, whether from precoital anticipation or postcoital bliss depended on whether the photo was taken before or after the desk incident. B.J.’s similar smile fueled my suspicion that he was the desk guy. Jeanette had included a photo of Carlene by herself and one of her with the suited and celibate fiancé.

  I sent the photos to Kat and asked her to call me when she got them. I debated with myself about sending them to Helen and Art, asking them if B.J. could be the man in the car. But how would I explain Linda’s presence in the photo? They probably wouldn’t even recognize her, but I took the precaution of cropping her out of the picture before sending it to them. Maybe I’d get a break and get a match on B.J.

  But the break wasn’t coming that day, at least not courtesy of Helen and Art, with whom I exchanged a few rounds of e-mails. Neither of them could identify B.J. as Carlene’s parking lot companion with any degree of certainty. “Art and I barely saw him when he was sitting on the bench. And when they were in the car we couldn’t actually see him.”

  Art asked the inevitable question: “How did you get this photo?”

  “I was talking to this friend of mine from L.A. who knew Carlene years and years ago. She thought I’d be interested in some photos of Carlene and e-mailed a few to me. When I saw them, something made me think the guy with her could be the man you and your mom saw her with that night.” Apparently my explanation sufficed, as I heard nothing further from Helen or Art.

  When Kat called I gave her a lightly edited version of my conversation with Jeanette. I figured she’d appreciate the desk sex bit.

  I was right. “Still amazes me,” she said with a chuckle. “These are good pictures of her. She hadn’t changed a bit over the years. Ageless.” I heard a catch in her voice. “Really ageless now,” she said ruefully. “As for Linda, she looks, I don’t know . . . anorexic? And B.J.’s her ex, you say? He looks familiar. I think. But you said this picture was taken nine or ten years ago, so it’s hard to be sure.”

  “Yeah, and he might have a lot of gray now, or maybe he’s bald. And he may not have the beard and mustache anymore either.”

  Kat turned away from the phone to blow her nose. “I just can’t put a name with his face. But I know one thing—I wouldn’t mind taking a tumble with him. Maybe I did—maybe that’s why he seems familiar.” I “heard” a smile through her tears.

  I had to face it—the man in the car could remain an eternal mystery.

  “WELL, CARLENE CERTAINLY didn’t change over the years.” Vince echoed Kat’s assessment. “You say this is from 1995?”

  “Thereabouts. Maybe ninety-six.”

  Vince sat next to me at my computer. Both cats competed for his attention, Daisy walking around on
his lap, with Shammy licking his hand. As we studied the photograph describing the triangle formed by B.J., Linda, and Carlene, I gave him a rundown of my conversation with Jeanette. When I got to the part about the desk sex, Vince looked at me and I looked at him.

  Our dinner plans fell by the wayside—unless we counted the pizza we had delivered and ate in bed, scrutinized by cats looking for handouts.

  When I told Vince about Sarah and Den’s visit much later, I took care to qualify my remarks. “Of course, we don’t know that Carlene and Den had an affair.”

  “But what’s the likelihood that they did?”

  “Pretty good,” I sighed. “And that makes Sarah another suspect.” Then I hastened to recite the mantra, “If it wasn’t suicide, that is.”

  As I had earlier, I speculated about what Den could do. When I asked Vince for his take on the matter, he had a suggestion.

  And a very interesting suggestion it was.

  ON SUNDAY MORNING we enjoyed a late breakfast at Joe’s Inn. Then, after a lengthy good-bye, Vince left to work on his writing and I sat at my computer, determined to get cracking on my own. I put all thoughts of Carlene’s death out of my head but kept the erotic ones generated by the previous evening. I expected to produce steamy scenes by the dozens. Sex had never been a problem for Vince and me. Although, unlike Carlene and her penchant for sex in uncomfortable places like desks and cars, I wasn’t quite so adventurous, preferring the comfort of a bed. I contemplated my newly resurrected relationship with Vince—what direction would it follow? What direction did I want it to follow? Deciding to dispense with the relationship what-ifs and put my recharged sex muse to good use, I opened my latest chapter.

  But neither my muse nor my characters got to first base. The phone rang, with Kat Berenger’s name scrolling across the display window.

  “Hazel, you’ll never guess who’s here at the gym!” Not waiting for my guess, she exclaimed, “Linda!”

  CHAPTER 17

  “I DIDN’T REALIZE SHE was a member, but she said she just joined recently. And not a minute too soon—the woman’s thighs are pure cottage cheese! She was not pleased to see me, I can tell you that. Anyway, she did offer her condolences before she tried to give me the brush-off. I told her we’d been trying to find her, wanting to include her in the book group. She said she wasn’t interested.

  “She did ask how it happened. When I said cyanide, she immediately jumped to the suicide conclusion. Painful as it was, I didn’t bother correcting her. She couldn’t get away from me fast enough, so I didn’t get to grill her.” After a sharp exhale, Kat continued. “You might have better luck with her, Hazel, being as you’re more . . . sedate. How soon can you get here? I doubt she’s the sort who clocks in much time at gyms. I got her address and phone number from the database here, but it would be much better if you confronted her in person.”

  “I don’t know about confronting her, but I do want to talk to her. And you’re right, it would be easier if I just ‘happened’ to run into her than if I called her.”

  I sprang into action, throwing clothes and shoes into my gym bag. As I opened the kitchen door, the phone rang again—Lucy, according to caller ID, no doubt expecting a debriefing of my date with Vince. I let her leave a message. I wasn’t about to let Linda slip through my fingers.

  Kat met me at the door to the gym. Her getup of the day, unconventional even for her, involved yellow patent leather and leopard velvet. How did all that patent leather “breathe”? Kat launched right into an update on Linda. “She just left the Jacuzzi. I was right, she didn’t spend much time exercising, just strolled on the treadmill for five minutes. So go. Meet her in the locker room. I’ll scan you in.”

  “What about you?” I sounded like a toddler on her first day of nursery school, clinging to her mother’s skirt. Now that I was about to meet Linda face-to-face, I wanted Kat’s comforting muscle. The exercise area looked sparsely populated and mostly by men, making me doubt that the locker room contained women in significant numbers. This investigation business was fast losing its appeal. In books, silly amateur detectives put themselves in dangerous situations with not even a token regard for the consequences. The fact that I didn’t live in the pages of a book was never clearer to me than now. But Linda wasn’t likely to pose a danger in the locker room. Was she? My contrary mind itemized the potential danger zones—showers, sauna, lockers, just for starters. What about my promises to Lucy and Vince that I’d avoid being alone with anyone from the book group?

  “What about me? She already blew me off. Besides, I have a personal training session in a few minutes. Call me if you need me. You’ve got your phone, right? Put it in your pocket. And you’ve got me on speed dial, right?”

  “Yes, we took care of that the other day.” I checked the assigned number as I transferred my phone from my purse to my jacket pocket. “Eight.”

  “Good. Well . . . just go. You’ll be fine.” I shot Kat a doubtful look.

  “You’re just having a casual chat with her, nothing more.” Kat made shooing motions with her hands. “You’d better get a move on.”

  Casual was not a word that I’d use to describe my feelings at that moment. More like terror when imagining myself folded into a locker. Looking for a delaying tactic, I asked, “How’s Mick? I haven’t heard anything about him.”

  Kat looked exasperated. “Just go.”

  THINKING FAST ON my feet was never my strong suit. With more advance notice, I’d have invested time planning my strategy. Yet another aspect of investigating that detective fiction glosses over is the need for improvisational skills. But planned conversations weren’t likely to work anyway. I needed to establish myself as a trustworthy confidante and hope that Linda responded with an outpouring of Carlene-related angst. I ignored Vince’s voice telling me to turn tail and run.

  Herbal shampoo and sweat permeated the locker room. I caught Linda in the act of peeling off her wet suit. Not stellar timing on my part. Kat was right—Linda needed to spend some quality time at the gym.

  I couldn’t see or hear anyone, confirming my fear that Linda and I were alone. Not even the sound of a shower promised the eventual appearance of someone. Fortunately Linda was close to the locker room entrance so I could make a hasty exit if necessary. Resolving to remain calm and matter-of-fact, and hoping I’d remember my resolve to remain calm and matter-of-fact, I put on my brightest smile and gushed, “Linda! How wonderful to see you. I’m Hazel Rose. Remember me? From the book group.”

  “Yeah, I remember you.” She sounded underwhelmed. She finished removing her suit and stood there, naked, looking at me.

  Despite feeling more than a little disconcerted at her display, I maintained a bubbly manner. “Kat and I have been looking for you, but we didn’t have your phone number or e-mail address.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. Yellow Bird jumped on me the minute I got here.” I took it that Yellow Bird was Kat. An apt description.

  Linda’s long streaked hair hung around her head in wet ropes. The Jacuzzi had melted off her thick eye makeup and now it settled in creases under her eyes. Had she forgotten that she was naked? As if she heard my question, she draped her towel around her neck. I toyed with the idea of suggesting she cover other parts as well. No, just ignore the whole thing, I decided. And maintain eye contact.

  Linda didn’t ask why we’d tried to reach her, but that didn’t stop me from explaining. “We wanted to welcome you to the book group and invite you to a special planning meeting on Tuesday.” I ad-libbed our agenda, leaving out the part about the group possibly disbanding. “Can you join us?”

  Linda looked blank for a moment before realizing that I’d asked a question, putting the ball in her court. “Uh, Tuesday?” When I nodded, my smile starting to feel frozen, she said, “Sorry, can’t. Tuesday’s Bingo night.”

  “Oh well, another time perhaps. We so enjoyed meeting you, despite the circumstances.” Then I went from gushing to sympathetic. “I’m so sorry about your loss.”
I reached out a hand but didn’t touch her. Even though it would have just been her arm, that was attached to her naked body. Off limits.

  “Loss?”

  “Carlene. Weren’t you two friends in L.A.?”

  Linda gave a derisive snort. “Not hardly. But she was obviously a friend of yours, so I won’t say a word.” She gave me a coy look.

  I took that as my cue to stand up and count myself one of the legions of women who had lost out in the romance department to femme fatale Carlene, thereby establishing a common bond with Linda. “Well—” I drew out the well and tried for my own coy look. “We weren’t exactly friends.” I looked around, acting like I had confidences to share and didn’t want to be overheard. “Just between you and me, I’ll tell you something I never talk about—Carlene stole my fiancé right out from under my nose! Not to speak ill of the dead, of course.”

  “You’re kidding!” Linda looked delighted.

  I told her how I had moved from L.A. to Virginia to marry my fiancé, but my plans got derailed when Carlene stepped in and married him before I’d even arrived. I left out unimportant details, like the fact that neither my so-called fiancé nor Carlene knew of my marriage plans.

  I definitely had Linda’s attention. “Nothing that woman could do would surprise me.”

  “Sounds like you had a bad experience with her as well.”

  “You might say that.” Linda slanted a look at me, perhaps debating with herself if she could trust me.

  Prodding her, I asked, “Was that back in L.A. or recently?”

  “L.A. Years ago.”

  Everyone had a story to tell, and I expected that Linda was no different. I waited a couple of beats before my next prod. “So how did you know Carlene? Did you work with her?”

  “No, my husband worked with her. Carlotta, that’s what she called herself then.” Scowling, she added, “I met her at their company Christmas party.”