by Maggie King
Evan returned, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Since he’d changed he was more relaxed, less worried about flashing his family jewels. He sat on the couch and put his bare feet on the coffee table.
I took up the conversation where we’d left it. “So how long did you go to the dinners at Helen’s?”
“Oh, I don’t know, a few months. The woman gave me the willies—especially after I found those pictures of me in her bedroom.”
“Pictures? And what were you doing in her bedroom?”
“I wasn’t actually in her bedroom, I was in her den. She was showing me something on her computer. The bedroom door was open and I saw this big thing, like a bulletin board, just inside. It looked like all pictures of me.”
“Where did she get them?”
“I guess from those dinners. She took lots of pictures then. I couldn’t see all of them from the den, and didn’t even want to.”
Lucy and I looked at each other, then back at Evan. I was speechless, but Lucy managed, “Well, I guess it was a compliment—sort of.”
“She’s certainly attractive, and it was nice of her to feed me and all, not that her cooking was all that great, but I’m not a fussy eater. And her place was kind of a dump; my butt would get sore from her uncomfortable chairs.”
Lucy and I laughed knowingly at that one. We knew all about getting sore butts from sitting on Helen’s furniture. Book group usually ended early when held at her place.
Evan said, “It was like there was something else going on.”
“Like she was in love with you?” Lucy suggested.
“Yeah, but in a weird way. Not normal. I can’t explain it.” Using his fingers, Evan raked his hair and smoothed it down. “I started making excuses about coming to dinner and she seemed to take the hint. Then I met Carlene, we married, and bought this house. When I ran into Helen at school, she talked me into giving her my new address so she could send us a gift. Then the dinner invitations started up again, this time for me and Carlene. I gave in, thinking that with Carlene it wouldn’t be so bad. I was wrong. And when I checked on the photos in the bedroom, they were still there. Helen continued to ask us over, but I told Carlene I wanted nothing to do with the woman. I didn’t tell her about the pictures, just said I couldn’t stand Helen or Art. If Carlene wanted to invite them to the turkey dinners, I figured there were plenty of people around, so that was okay.”
This was the most I’d heard Evan say at one time in years. And I hadn’t known him to be so exercised about anything in, well . . . I never had. Regaining my speech, I said, “Evan, you’ve certainly had a time of it with Helen. I just never dreamed . . .”
“Well, you wouldn’t. I never wanted to talk about it—in fact I can’t believe I’m talking about it now. Maybe because it’s all happening again. She’s called me a couple of times since . . . you know . . . leaving messages. I might have to get a new number or give up the landline altogether. At least she doesn’t know my cell number. But there’s always school.” Again, Evan ran his fingers through his hair and over his face as well—his agitation was mounting. “And at the memorial service she invited me to, what else, dinner. At this rate, I’ll never get rid of the woman.” I recalled his long-suffering look when Helen approached him at the memorial service.
“Did she ever try to get you to go to church?”
“Yeah, that was another thing.”
“How about when she was designing Carlene’s website? Was she around here a lot then?”
Evan stated, with great emphasis, “Not when I was.”
Lucy asked, “Did Carlene give you a DVD for your anniversary?”
“No.”
So either the DVD had been intended for their next anniversary or Helen was lying. I suspected the latter.
Evan looked at the ceiling. As if on cue, the floor creaked again. “Um, are you almost done? I’ve got a guest and . . .”
Thankfully we’d collected enough dirt on Helen before we wore out the little welcome we had. I turned to Lucy. “Ready to go?” I grabbed three photos of Carlene at random and Lucy pulled out a coffee table tome on stone houses.
Evan’s relief was palpable, and with our departure imminent, he summoned up some charm as he herded us toward the door. We agreed to stay in touch. He said that Kat and Georgia were coming over to either take for themselves or donate Carlene’s stuff, like books, clothes, jewelry, and whatnot. If we were interested, we could come over once they finished. Being offered a dead woman’s picked-over possessions wasn’t exactly appealing, but we said we’d be honored to have a keepsake.
I said I’d like a copy of the book Carlene had been working on. When he said he’d get it to me, I wished I’d asked him at a time when I could get the copy right away. As it was, I had put myself in a position of having to remind him. He’d never remember once he returned to Janet and her distractions. However, the invitation to paw through Carlene’s items would furnish an opportunity. I’d arrive at the house with a flash drive in hand.
This time we all hugged, but gingerly. Even with clothes on, touching Evan felt way too intimate.
CHAPTER 22
“DO YOU BELIEVE IT? Evan’s living a soap opera. Where do we start? Janet? Helen?”
Lucy pulled away from the curb. “Janet. Why do you think it was her upstairs?”
When I told Lucy about the ashtray and the Bazooka Joe–pink lipstick on the wineglasses, she said, “Oh, that explains why Evan came charging up to the kitchen with those glasses. That’s when I saw the wine bottle on the table.”
“The only person I’ve seen wearing that shade since 1966 is Janet. Also, there was no car in the driveway or in the street indicating a visitor. All Janet would have to do is walk across the two driveways.” I groaned. “And that makes her yet another suspect.”
We waited for the light at the Jahnke Road exit off the Chippenham Parkway to change. Lucy said, “Just because Janet and Evan are lovers doesn’t mean that Janet killed Carlene. The same holds true for Helen, if she really is, or was, in love with Evan. Granted it casts both of them in a suspicious light. But why . . . for Evan?”
“I know—why on earth would someone kill over the likes of him?”
Lucy turned off Jahnke Road into the entrance of Helen’s apartment complex and drove through a tunnel of supersized pine trees. As she backed into a space and turned off the engine, she said, “As for Helen, Evan did confirm our speculations that she’s in love with him. But I never in a million years would have pegged Helen a stalker. What do you think of all that stuff Evan said about her? And the photos in her bedroom?”
I shook my head, the stalker possibility looming large in my beleaguered brain. “I just can’t fathom it all. And stalkers—they often kill. So did Helen kill Carlene to get Evan to herself? Of course,” I rushed to chant the familiar disclaimer, “Carlene may have died by her own hand. Only thing was, she didn’t. If Helen kills the women who stand in her way, then Janet had better watch her step.”
Lucy tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “Why would she wait so long to kill Carlene?”
“Good question.” We needed to rethink this whole thing, I moaned to myself, feeling something akin to despair at the prospect of more thinking. But the thinking would have to wait.
I said, “I’m not looking forward to this evening. At least Janet won’t be there. And I don’t imagine Linda will show up.”
Lucy glanced at the dashboard clock and said, “Gotta go, Hazel. It’s seven thirty.” We got out of the car. I took a moment with my electronic paraphernalia, muting my phone and stashing it in the deep pocket of my sweater. I added tissues for padding. I had affixed a Velcro patch to Vince’s speed-dial button so I could locate it by touch. I tucked the recorder into my bra. Then we started walking toward Helen’s apartment.
Speaking in low tones, I said, “I wonder if Helen still has that photo display in her room.”
“It’s a safe bet that she does. Especially if she’s asking Evan over for dinner.”
“I’d love to see it. But how can I get into her bedroom?”
We stopped in the middle of the parking lot and brainstormed. It didn’t take two minutes to come up with plan A and plan B.
In retrospect, we should have added plan C: turn tail and run.
CHAPTER 23
“FINALLY! I THOUGHT YOU two got lost.” Helen’s pique gave way to grudging forgiveness when Lucy and I proffered apologies for our tardiness. I couldn’t look the woman in the eye, thanks to Evan’s revelations.
Sarah and Annabel were eye-contact challenged as well. Sarah sat with arms crossed under her bosom and a scowl on her face. She nodded at a point behind us. Annabel focused on her cherry-red pumps and ignored us. Art’s eyes met mine briefly and I was reminded of that indecipherable look he’d given me at the memorial service lunch. He offered to take Lucy’s sweater, but she opted to keep it with her.
Helen waved a hand at two chairs next to her. As we sat, I said, “Kat called. Something came up and she can’t make it.” Helen’s only response was a raised eyebrow, while Annabel smirked and Sarah continued to concentrate on some point on the far wall. Art folded his lanky form onto the floor.
Helen’s many paintings adorned the walls. And that was where her attempts at decorating began and ended. The apartment color scheme ran the gamut of beige to Hershey-chocolate brown. Walls, carpeting, furniture, you name it—brown prevailed in one shade or another. We sat on card table chairs and furniture with wooden frames and foam cushions with a thickness of one and a half inches. Helen had lived here for several years, long enough to purchase decent furnishings, but evidently her attention was on Evan and her social service projects, leaving her little time or interest for creature comforts or aesthetics beyond her artwork. Beige paint covered the one brick wall, where a large canvas showcased an oversized fish. He, or she, regarded the group with a baleful eye.
Lucy began, “Helen, I have a client who’s looking for an apartment in this area. Are all the apartments here two bedroom, like yours?”
“Mostly, but they have one- and three-bedroom ones as well.”
“And do they all have two baths? This woman has to have at least two baths. Doesn’t want to share one with her husband; you know how that is.”
Helen smiled in understanding. “The two- and three-bedroom units all have two baths. There are a couple of vacancies now.”
“And the second bath is part of the master suite?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll tell her. Thanks, Helen.”
I exhaled, relieved that I now had my excuse to get into Helen’s bedroom. “By the way, did Evan ever live in this complex?”
Helen gave me a why-do-you-ask look, but merely said, “I believe so. A long time ago.”
Then she looked around the room and said, “Well, we—”
I cut her off. “Annabel, Lucy, and I looked at Sam’s site last night. Quite impressive.” I hoped my bright and cheerful manner covered my nervousness. I stuffed my hands into my pockets in case they started trembling.
Anabel sniffed. “Yes, he’s very talented.” She shot Helen a look of reproach.
“Especially that Nazi collage. Where did he find all those items?” Lucy’s artless tone betrayed none of the unease that I felt. I felt a twinge of envy for her acting ability.
Annabel narrowed her eyes at Lucy, perhaps suspecting a trick question. Reluctantly, she said, “His uncle was an SS officer.”
So did that mean Sam actually owned the items, perhaps bequeathed to a military historian nephew by his doting uncle? That roused Sarah from her reverie. “An SS officer! You’re in a relationship with a man related to a Nazi?”
“Sam’s not responsible for what his uncle did.” Annabel’s eyes blazed.
Helen put out her hand in the stop position. “Ladies, please. Let’s start. Hazel, since you’re a cofounder of the group, I thought you might lead the discussion.”
Startled, I managed, “Fine.” I’d had the impression that Helen was going to facilitate, as she was so intent on having the meeting in the first place. Not that it mattered. “I guess the first order of business is to decide if we want to continue to meet and if we want to continue reading mysteries.”
I scanned the faces. Annabel had returned her attention to her shoes, describing circles in the air with her right foot. Maybe I’d misjudged her embarrassment threshold and she did regret her earlier revelations. Whatever the reason, it was fine with me if she avoided eye contact. I felt edgy enough just being in the same room with her, especially after learning of her early arrival at Carlene’s the previous week to deliver brownies. And my edginess now extended to Helen. One suspect was more than enough for the likes of me. Two was way over the top. The sooner I expedited this discussion, the sooner I could get into Helen’s bedroom.
I asked, “What do you think, Annabel?”
When she managed with an aggrieved air, “Whatever you all decide is fine with me,” I resisted the urge to raise my eyes to the ceiling.
After a lengthy exchange the group agreed to wait until after the holidays and see how we felt then. A “cooling off” period as Art put it.
I was about to propose a group vote, but when Annabel asked, “Does anyone really think Carlene committed suicide?” everyone started talking at once. But the speculations they floated echoed my own, with nothing new or helpful.
When the discussion wound down, I thought it was as good a time as any to find out if someone in the group had been the mysterious, shadowy figure Janet claimed she saw early in the evening of the previous Monday. Specifically, I hoped for a reaction from Annabel. But how would I finesse the question?
I never got the chance. Helen, clearing her throat, started, “I’d like to propose a prayer in memory of Carlene, a woman who gave so much of herself to this group.”
I looked at Sarah, who looked mutinous at Helen’s suggestion. But Annabel’s half laugh turned my attention to her.
“And just what was the ‘so much’ that Carlene gave to the group?” She didn’t wait for an answer before moving along. “I really can’t participate in a prayer. I’d feel like a complete hypocrite. You see, I’m not sorry that Carlene is dead. The woman was no frigging saint.” Annabel bit her lip before going on. “She slept with my boyfriend and then she slept with my son.” Lucy and I shot uneasy looks at each other while Annabel ran down Carlene’s transgressions, thankfully condensing the account she’d given to us.
Sarah looked astonished. “Goodness gracious. When did all this sleeping business happen?”
“Um, a while back.”
“Since you came to the book group?”
“Uh, no, before.”
Helen slanted a knowing look at me, probably in a nonverbal reference to our conversation of a week earlier when she’d reported her man-in-the car sighting. Aloud, she said, “But, Annabel, you and Carlene were friends.”
Annabel’s face contorted into a sneer, but she said nothing. She stood, smoothed her skirt, and picked up her cherry-red handbag. “Yes, well, like I said, I simply can’t join you in a prayer. Art, my jacket please.”
Art displayed considerable flexibility as he rose from the floor. We waited in an uncomfortable silence until he returned with a short black jacket. He tried to help Annabel into it, but she grabbed it out of his hands and walked to the front door. Turning back, she said, using a formal tone, “I’m glad we’ve had this time together.” With that, she left.
We all looked taken aback, Lucy and I less so than the others. Helen made a show of rolling her eyes and huffing disapproval. Thank God Annabel’s gone, I thought. But Helen kept me from breathing a sigh of relief.
“Well,” said Art.
“Well,” parroted Sarah. I half expected Sarah to contribute a story involving Carlene and Den. She didn’t, and possibly she didn’t have one to share.
Helen started, “So, about that prayer . . .”
Now Sarah leveled a challenging look at Helen. “I agree with Annabel.
I don’t want to pray. I fail to see how prayers are going to help Carlene now.”
“You don’t have to pray, Sarah,” I said through gritted teeth, thinking that we should be praying for ourselves.
“I’ll just be on my way. Then you can pray in peace. Art? My jacket?” Art disappeared again, reappearing with a jean jacket. Sarah left with little fanfare.
“Does anyone want to pray with me?” Helen stopped short of calling us heathens, a term no doubt on the tip of her tongue. Lucy, probably feeling the need to diffuse the situation and move the prayer proceedings along, suggested that we simply observe a moment of silence. Helen didn’t look happy, but as we indicated agreement with the silent option, she scowled and joined us in a moment that lacked the intended spiritual flavor. All I thought about was what Lucy and I were about to do.
After the moment of silence, we sat, looking uncertain. Helen announced with a sweep of her hand toward the kitchen, “There’s decaf, and Sarah brought some éclairs.”
Lucy looked at me and smoothed an eyebrow, our prearranged signal to start the action. “Just as soon as I use the restroom,” she said.
“First door on your right.”
I waited a minute for Lucy to get into the hall bathroom and close the door. Then I launched into my act. Grabbing my stomach, I groaned, “Oh God, I feel sick. Where’s your other bathroom, Helen?” I injected as much desperation into my voice as I could.
Helen started down the hall. She opened a door and turned on the overhead light. She turned left, opened another door, and turned on another light. “Right in here.” I hoped she wouldn’t stay outside in the bedroom, thwarting my plans.
