by Maggie King
“Anyway, I don’t want the business about my son getting around because, well, frankly it makes me look like a suspect. I didn’t want to reveal any more than was necessary. Not with the unsolved murder of my dear husband . . . and with that damn Ronnie on my case.”
“Did you hear anything more from her?” I asked.
“No.”
“What was the business with your son?” Lucy asked.
Annabel looked suspicious. “Lucy Hooper, do you mean to tell me that Hazel didn’t tell you? I don’t believe it.”
“I haven’t had a chance to tell her, Annabel. You called not five minutes after Lucy got home.”
Annabel took a deep breath. I assumed she was about to launch into the saga of her son and Carlene. But she sat silent, literally wringing her hands. Lucy murmured something about tea and went to the kitchen, leaving me with Annabel and an uneasy silence for company. Daisy showed up but beat a quick retreat when she saw Annabel, remembering their last encounter.
Lucy reappeared with a tray of steaming mugs and a plate of cheese and crackers. “Try some chamomile tea. It’s relaxing.”
I felt impatient to hear this latest installment in Annabel’s soap-opera life, but forced myself to wait while she blew on her tea, trying to cool it down. I flinched at the memory of Carlene standing in her dining room, sipping her too hot tea. Was it poisoned at the time?
While we waited for Annabel, Lucy and I sipped our own tea and munched on the cheese and crackers. Annabel finally set her mug down on the coffee table. She looked first at us, then away, pressing her lips together. Taking a deep breath, she began, “My Frankie was one of the scores of men Carlene managed to seduce. He was only twenty-one years old, and Carlene was more than twice his age.” She picked up the mug and resumed the blowing process.
“So Frankie and Carlene had a relationship?”
Annabel snorted. “Relationship! That’s a good one, Hazel. It was hardly a relationship. He visited me for two weeks one summer. My first mistake was in introducing them. In no time he was spending all his time at her place. It started out with her asking him to help her carry a chair into the house. He was smitten from the get-go. I was outraged.”
Annabel held up a hand. “Now I know what you’re both thinking: Was I outraged enough to kill her? If so, why wait all these years? I’ve had opportunity aplenty. But even in my wildest rages, I had to admit that they were consenting adults, although in his case, just barely. And neither was married. I couldn’t police his sex life. But I just hated the idea of him being that woman’s boy toy, or toy boy, whatever the hell you call it.”
“How long did they see each other?”
“Two weeks. Frankie went back to UVA and in no time Carlene took up with that Tom somebody who I told you about before. And then Randy.” Annabel snorted again. “At least they were in her age group.”
“What was your relationship with her like after that?” Lucy asked.
“Strained. For a while. But, like I said, I could hardly be mad. Oh, I could be, and was.”
According to Mabel, you still are, I thought.
Annabel sipped her tea. “Like I said, they were adults. So I resolved to be one too. What I went through with that woman, I just can’t tell you.” But she did anyway. “For over a year, I endured that damn headboard banging against my wall. And the screams! Thankfully I had changed bedrooms before she got her claws into my baby boy.” First Vivian with the baby boy bit, and now Annabel.
“So, what happened with Frankie after he went back to UVA?”
“Oh, he moved on. He’s engaged to a nice girl. Unlike Carlene, who wasn’t at all nice.”
Nice. Such an inexact adjective. I used to think Carlene was nice. Not very exciting, but nice. But Annabel was right, she wasn’t nice at all. Oh, she had a nice manner and I felt certain she didn’t torture animals or trip old ladies. But she had wreaked havoc in the lives of any number of people. An unbidden thought came to me—was the Annabel/Frankie/Randy trio Carlene’s huge mistake? I was starting to think Carlene’s past harbored huge mistakes by the dozens. I put that thought on my mind’s back burner.
“And Jennifer is three years younger than he is.” Annabel sounded triumphant, liked she’d scored a coup.
No one spoke for a minute. Annabel busied herself with the cheese and crackers. Looking pleased, she said, “So there you have it. I fall into the category of those who could have done it, but where’s the proof? I know I’m not eliminated as a suspect, but it needs to be proven, now doesn’t it?” With that she popped a cheese-laden cracker into her mouth.
Lucy assumed a puzzled look. “Why would anyone suspect you, Annabel? Carlene committed suicide.”
Annabel looked crestfallen, like she enjoyed being a suspect. “Well, yes. But we don’t know that for sure.”
I asked what might have sounded like a non sequitur: “Annabel, tell us about Sam. How did you two meet?”
Annabel brightened, but finished chewing before answering. “I met him at an exhibit he had here in Richmond. I asked Helen if she wanted to do a website for him. She said she’d think about it. But when I asked her about it last week, she said she was too busy. Too busy? What’s she busy doing anyway? She should jump at the chance. Sam’s so good and . . .” Annabel went on about how good Sam was and how he needed a professional-looking Web presence. “Sam says Helen wants too much money and won’t negotiate. If you ask me she’s getting full of herself. Well, if she doesn’t come through, I’ll get him in touch with a woman from Charlottesville, someone I know from high school. Sam lives out that way anyway.” She waved her hand vaguely in an easterly direction. As Charlottesville was northwest of Richmond, I assumed she wasn’t striving for accuracy.
Annabel finished her snack and wiped her mouth with a napkin, leaving a bright red lipstick smudge. “Well, I’ll be going now. I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner. Thanks so much for letting me unload. I feel much better.” Despite her words, Annabel still wrung her hands. Her unloading was clearly not a cathartic experience. “See you tomorrow.”
“Lucy’s coming too.”
We talked for a few minutes about mundane, ordinary, non-Carlene matters. As I closed the door when she left, all I could think was that the woman screamed guilty from every fiber of her being. She toppled Linda from top-suspect position.
“So—what did you think about that story?” I asked.
“Well, I suppose it’s all true. But combine that with what she told us the other night, and I’d say that Annabel’s a nutcase. Which makes me wonder if she was a nutcase before she met up with Carlene.”
“Probably a nutcase in the making. Especially when you factor in her husband’s murder and her possible culpability in that.”
“The question is, did she do it? Kill Carlene, I mean?”
“She had motive, opportunity, and Sam the photographer possibly gave her access to cyanide. Oh—” I remembered with a start that I’d started to tell Lucy about my visit to Annabel’s house before Annabel herself interrupted.
When I finished, Lucy thought for a moment. “So you say there’s a darkroom at the farmhouse that Sam hasn’t used . . . You think there could be cyanide there?”
“It’s a possibility.”
Lucy looked skeptical. “But would the stuff still be potent?” When I said I didn’t know, she said, “I’m inclined to think that Annabel, or whomever, got cyanide elsewhere, not from a photography source—that’s just not reliable anymore. Everything’s digital now, isn’t it?”
I shrugged. “I’m sure everyone hasn’t embraced digital technology. Just like some writers still use typewriters.” I shook my head in amazement, but word-processing holdouts weren’t a pressing concern at the moment. “Let me show you Sam’s website.”
We went upstairs where my computer was in standby mode. When I “woke” it up, the page with the Nazi collage appeared. Lucy was unimpressed by Sam’s creative efforts. Even the collage that I found so powerful underwhelmed her.
/> Then Lucy took a closer look at the page. “That’s interesting artwork. I guess it’s a book or a magazine.” The black-and-white design featured a German title and the inevitable swastika. Lucy scrolled down the page. Sam had transformed the collage to an outline, inserted numbers in the outline of each item, and provided names in a corresponding list. Number one caught my attention: what I thought was a bullet was a brass cyanide vial container.
Lucy and I looked at each other, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “My God,” I whispered like I feared being overheard. “This is where she got the cyanide.”
“You think Annabel got hold of that container?”
“It’s a good possibility. I don’t know how old this photo is, or where Sam got the items, but just suppose he took the photo recently . . .”
“But this could be from a magazine. Or a book. Or a museum. He wouldn’t necessarily possess any of this stuff.”
“True, and I did wonder if he photographed this collection at a museum. But you have to admit it’s the closest we’ve come to a source for Annabel. Or anyone else for that matter.”
“I do admit that. And I’d love to have this mystery solved and behind us. But the container might not have cyanide in it. And even if it did, would it still be effective? We’re talking sixty years ago.”
I wouldn’t be swayed. “You mark my words, Lucy. This is Annabel’s link.”
“I don’t disagree. It’s just that—let’s do some research.” She keyed “cyanide vial container” into a search engine, clicked on the first result, and a magnified version of the container in Sam’s collage appeared.
“It looks just like Sam’s.”
“Yes, but they probably all look alike.”
Lucy read the inscription on the cap, “It says ‘Tesch U.’ on the top line, then those SS initials: ‘Hamburg,’ ‘77/42,’ ‘Stabenow.’ Probably manufacturing stamps.”
The container was for sale. It had a press-on cap and measured one-half inch in diameter and one and three-quarters inches in length. It accommodated a glass vial of cyanide. The vial was similar to an ammonia ampule used for reviving people who have fainted. I flashed back to a long-ago fainting episode on a hot day in an un–air-conditioned church. When the ushers waved that vial under my nose, I came to quickly.
Lucy said, “Interesting, but not conclusive.”
“Still, it’s something.” We sat in silence and watched the cats roll around on the floor. “Oh!” I exclaimed, startling Lucy and the cats. “Guess what I found out about Helen.”
When I finished my account of the conversation with Donna McCarthy, Lucy said, “Well, coincidences do happen. And lots of folks move to Virginia from up north. Helen and Evan probably met up here at a turkey dinner or while Helen was designing Carlene’s website. They likely discussed Rochester and Acer Insurance at that time and then forgot about it. It’s not that amazing, Hazel.”
“Yes, well, I still think it’s funny.” Daisy jumped into my lap, circled around, and settled down. “You know something, Lucy? There’s lots of mother-son stuff going on here.”
“Mother-son stuff?” Lucy knit her brow. “Besides Annabel, who do you mean?”
“Well, there’s Vivian with her baby boy. I know, I know, she’s just one other person. I can’t explain it, I just have this feeling . . . about mothers and sons.” I stopped, not knowing where this thought was taking me.
“Lots of women have sons. I have a son.”
“I’m just saying, that’s all.”
We hashed over Mabel and Annabel’s accounts of the Carlene/Frankie affair, comparing the two. “In Mabel’s words, Annabel is angry about the whole thing to this day.”
To this day . . . to this very day.
CHAPTER 20
LUCY AND I CONTINUED talking until we realized we were going around in circles. And when I called Vince to relate the latest Annabel tale, the meeting with Sam and Mabel, and the Rochester association involving Helen and Evan, he was definitely interested. Who wouldn’t be? We had the ingredients of a soap opera. But, as usual, he cautioned me about jumping to conclusions. When I noted that our Saturday-night dinner plans had never materialized, we settled on the coming Saturday for the replacement dinner and agreed to meet for coffee after the Tuesday book group meeting at Helen’s.
I knew I should call Kat to get her up to speed on the latest brouhaha but didn’t feel up to another conversation. On Tuesday morning, I left a message on her voice mail. Then I sat at my computer and waved a hand over my face, symbolically erasing thoughts of murder and suicide. I called up my memories of Saturday night with Vince and produced an especially titillating sex scene. I worked steadily until Daisy tapped me on the arm, reminding me that it was lunchtime. I glanced at the computer clock and realized she was right—it was noon. Who needed clocks with cats around?
After feeding the cats, I fixed a lunch of whole wheat toast and peanut butter and took it back to my den. The short break put a damper on my writing. My characters’ energy had fizzled out and I had to wrestle with them before concluding that I was fresh out of literary Viagra. I briefly checked my e-mail and saw a notice from the library that the copy of Bitter Almonds I’d ordered over the weekend was ready for pickup. Thinking that a walk to the library would recharge me and my characters, I took my backpack and walking shoes out of the closet.
I reached into the side pocket of my purse where I usually kept my keys. Not finding them, I hunted around and found them in a different pocket and pulled out a ratty envelope. I scanned a scribbled list of mystery titles on the envelope, titles we’d discussed at book group . . . when Carlene was still alive, I thought with a pang of sadness. I pictured Helen waving her hands about as she raved about John MacDonald’s color-coded series. Carl Hiaasen’s Strip Tease and The Ice Maiden by Edna Buchanan—the titles seemed remote now. Maybe I’d read them eventually, but not until the memory of that ill-fated evening faded.
As I locked the door, a thought hovered at the edge of my conscious mind. I laughed, thinking how gnawing intuitions were a staple of murder mysteries. A brisk walk might propel the elusive thought into the part of my brain that could produce the classic “aha” moment. All the more reason to get out of the house.
AT THE LIBRARY, I loaded my backpack with books. The walk didn’t give me any insight into the Carlene mystery, but it did revitalize my characters. Back at home I worked without stopping for the rest of the afternoon. I was in the kitchen pouring apple juice when Kat called.
“I just got your voice mail even though you sent it hours ago. Dumbass cell phones. You had a busy day yesterday. I’m sorry I’m not doing much, but I had back-to-back training sessions all day yesterday.”
Kat’s not doing much hadn’t escaped my notice. But I did seem to have more connections, I didn’t overwhelm people with an outsized persona, and Annabel chose Lucy and me to be her confidants. I gave Kat credit for calling all those L. Thomases.
“So tell all.”
I told her all: about meeting Sam and Mabel, about Annabel’s visit, and about Sam’s collage with the cyanide container.
“So you think Annabel did it?” Kat sounded grim.
“I don’t know.”
“Wait! Oh, God, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier. The other day you said Janet saw someone arrive at Carlene’s about six thirty. That must have been Annabel.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Those pumpkin brownies—”
I cut her off. “You mean the ones from last week?” I now remembered reaching for the last brownie, planning to split it with Sarah, when Annabel’s shriek sent us racing to the family room. And I’d told Detective Garcia about them when she’d requested an inventory of food items, but I’d had no idea who’d brought them. Somewhere along the line I’d forgotten all about the brownies. “Annabel brought them?”
“Yes. I asked Carlene about them when I first got there and saw them on the kitchen table. Carlene said Annabel had an appointment and thought she
’d either be late or not be able to make book group at all, so she came over with the brownies earlier.”
A bad feeling was coming over me as I slowly realized the implications. Annabel kept appearing at every turn in this whole sorry mystery. And not in a good way.
Kat said, “So you think . . . But wait, the cyanide couldn’t have been in the brownies because we all ate them.”
“No, no, no. I’m thinking that Annabel . . . did . . . something . . . when she arrived the first time. Put something—”
“She put cyanide in Carlene’s mug! Wait’ll I get my hands on that little—”
I rushed to say, “We don’t know that Annabel did any such thing—it’s only a possibility and we’re still hampered by no proof. It’s that collage . . . so damning but still circumstantial. But Lucy said it could be a museum display or a photograph. So let’s just take a few deep breaths.”
Kat wasn’t ready to concede the point. “I don’t know,” she grumbled.
I sipped my juice. “How are things with Mick?”
Heaving a sigh, Kat lamented, “Not good. That Beverly is always doing something. Don’t get me started on her.”
“Okay, I won’t. So . . . anything new on your end?”
“That jerk B.J. just got out of his monster SUV.” I heard car doors slamming so I figured Kat was in the gym parking lot. She snickered. “He’s giving me a sheepish look. Anyway, I talked to Helen earlier. I asked her who was bringing refreshments tonight. She said she’d have decaf and if anyone wanted to bring something to go ahead. Just to be safe I’m sticking a Balance bar in my purse.”
“I hate it that we can’t trust each other. It doesn’t bode well for us as a group.”
“Yeah, we don’t want to put our lives in jeopardy for something that’s supposed to be enjoyable. Hold on a sec.” I heard a muffled exchange before Kat said, “Hazel, sorry, but I gotta give a tour.”
“Okay. See you later at Helen’s?”
“You bet. Annabel better be able to run fast.”
