The Fallen Angels Book Club

by R. Franklin James

  “No.” I didn’t break my stride.

  Helping Mark was one thing. Interns were another. Besides, I had revisions to my statement to finish, fast.

  Abby finally called back, and we agreed to meet for lunch at Sam’s Deli. She worked downtown, not far from Triple D. Abby was easy to get along with. I knew she was forty, because she left her driver’s license on a store counter once, but she looked a lot younger. Over time we had developed a friendship. Not a close one—I don’t have any of those anymore—but I cared about what she thought.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she said, looking directly into my eyes.

  I knew I’d have a hard time convincing her. I wanted a special meeting of the Fallen Angels. I had to get my name off the suspect list and that meant finding Rory’s murderer. We needed to compare stories. Shaking off her gaze, I took a bite of my chicken salad. I didn’t understand why she didn’t want the club to get together.

  “Everyone will want to meet,” I said. “We have to talk about Rory’s death.” I leaned in for emphasis. “He was killed the same way as the guy in the club’s book.”

  “Hollis, you’re not listening. I don’t think it’s a good idea.” She repeated her words as if putting an objection on record. “Don’t you think that with our backgrounds it’ll look like we tried to cover things up?”

  “I hear you.” I decided to start over. “Clearly, you’re not hearing me. Like you said, it’s not like we’re just some ordinary book club. We all have reasons for getting this thing resolved fast. We need to talk about what happened.”

  “I know. That’s my point. I don’t want it to look like some group conspiracy to come up with a story. That’s how I got into trouble in the first place.” Abby’s face was flushed and her hand shook as she reached for her glass of water. I often wondered why she had served time, but she never offered to tell me and I was too polite to ask. I took our club’s oath of “don’t ask, don’t tell” to heart.

  I pretended not to see her reaction. My head didn’t itch, but I scratched it anyway. “You just can’t run away from the fact that Rory was killed like the villain in a book our club read. Doesn’t that worry an ex-con like you?”

  Her jaw tightened. “Yes, it does. Don’t you get it? I’m sick and tired of worrying.” Her voice rose. “I’m sick and tired of jumping every time I hear a door slam. Of sitting up every time I hear a bell ring.”

  “Abby—”

  “Honestly, I’m sorry about Rory.” She was loud enough to attract the attention of the diners at the next table. “Yet I can’t … I can’t care about him.”

  I lowered my voice. “Listen to me. You need to care who might have killed him. We may all be in trouble.”

  Abby ran her ringed fingers through her hair. “Okay, okay. I’ll call a meeting and set a date as soon as I hear back from the others.”

  Without another word, she wiped her mouth with a napkin, got up and left me there to finish my salad.

  For once I didn’t feel like dashing back to work. I ordered another cup of tea and pondered the Fallen Angels. The club had helped save my sanity. It was like my personal halfway house. I didn’t have to hide who I was; we all shared a life-altering experience. I had a hard time thinking people who loved books were anything but basically good. Still, I had to face the real possibility that one of my book-reading kindred spirit club members might have killed Rory.

  I’d grown comfortable with the group when it was just the original members, but a few weeks ago Richard had wanted to add one more—Rena.

  I wasn’t thrilled. “Not so fast. I’m not trying to be a spoiler, but we’ve lasted as a group these past three years because of the trust we’ve built up over time.”

  “I can’t believe you’re so resistant,” Abby said. “You’re the one who always complains about how limited our viewpoints are. Jeffry and Richard checked her out. Now we have an opportunity to reach out to someone else who’s looking for a connection back to the real world, and you’re up in arms, arguing ‘no change.’ ”

  She was right, of course. Jeffry Wallace was another thing we had in common. He had been the parole officer for all of us at one time or another. There were very few people in this world I trusted unconditionally. Actually, there was only one, Jeffry. The book club was his idea. A transition to new beginnings. Last month we brought in the new member, Rena, age twenty-nine. With Rena, our only African-American, our ranks swelled to seven—three women and four men.

  However, now we were six.

  CHAPTER SIX

  At home the first thing I saw was the blinking red light on my answering machine. This time I didn’t hesitate to push the button.

  The first was Abby. “Okay, Hollis. I called a special meeting of the club for tomorrow evening. Sorry for the short notice, but it was the only night I could get the library space. I’m not sure who’s going to show up, but Richard agreed we should all get together. There’ll be at least three of us there. Since this was your idea, don’t you dare tell me you can’t come. Call me on my cell if you want to talk this evening. Otherwise, we can talk tomorrow or I’ll see you there.”

  A smile crept across my face. Good. Now we could sort things out.

  Next message.

  “Hey, it’s me again. We have to talk. You’re in danger and I can help. Becky, I know you hate my guts, but I’ve never stopped loving you. You’ve got to talk to me. It has always been only you. We didn’t break up because of another woman. Remember—”

  I hit delete.

  Danger, what kind of danger could I be in?

  On the other hand, even though it had been five years since I saw him, I knew Bill always put himself first. He was likely the one in danger. What was his connection to Rory?

  Despite protestations to the contrary, Bill was only interested in Bill. I knew, too, that I had to be prepared for him to show up on my doorstep. If he’d gotten this far, somehow he’d find me.

  The next morning I tried not to think about Bill’s message. I wrestled with calling and telling him I’d be blocking his calls. I didn’t want him bothering my family. Still, if he’d gotten involved with Rory’s mess, he would have to resolve it on his own. I didn’t think Bill had it in him to kill, but he had to prove it to the police. I was determined not to get caught up in his drama.

  Resolved to have a couple of hours without thoughts of Rory’s murder or Bill, I checked out of the office. Once a week, or sometimes twice a week, I visited and assisted at the San Lucian Senior Residence & Community Center. For the past two years, I had helped the seniors complete Social Security forms, write complaint letters to recalcitrant merchants and draft wills. I even bought them special occasion cards to send to friends and family. It started when an eager coworker who wanted to “give back” during the Christmas season talked me into going with her. After she left to go to the East Coast with her new husband, I continued on. Now I had to admit I was hooked.

  I made it a habit to precede my trip to the center with a stop at the bakery.

  “Here’s your order of gluten-free, dairy-free sweet rolls for the center.” The bakery clerk passed three pink boxes over to me. “I added a couple of our new unhealthy cherry cake donuts.”

  I gave her a smile, gathered the boxes, and thanked her.

  In order to keep the cost for resident care modest, the center did not invest in renovations, and the physical facilities had become faded, tired and outdated. Many seniors still feeling the cold opted to wear several layers of clothing, so they kept the thermostat turned up. As a result, the center was sweltering inside.

  “Honey, put those pastries on the counter. We’ve all been waiting for you—’specially the older ones.” Tiny Collins pointed me toward the large community room. Tiny was at least two hundred pounds and had to be in her late seventies. She once told me she and her husband had owned a restaurant in Oakland on Grand Avenue. Her fog-gray hair was secured in a waist-length ponytail. Horn-rimmed glasses rested on the top of her head. Ano
ther pair hung around her neck. She peered at me through a third bright red pair that sat up on her nose. Her son was an optometrist.

  I knew better than to question her orders. “There are a couple of cake donuts in there, too,” I told the slow-moving Tiny over my shoulder as I headed for the kitchen.

  “Put those aside for me.” Tiny wobbled behind me. “Lily’s in the library. I helped her get all her papers together.”

  We’d fallen into a routine. Tiny was the self-appointed director of operations. As long as I’d helped the seniors get their legal affairs in order, I could count the number of times I’d encountered the center’s paid director, Opal Murray, although she had given me a key. Nursing assistants always seemed to be elsewhere. The residents didn’t appear to mind. They took care of their own.

  I quickly laid out the baked goods on cafeteria trays and placed them in the dining area, trying to finish before the seniors got to the table. Over the months, I had suffered through endless comments about my weight—too fat or too thin, my poor skin, my bright eyes, my hair too long, my hair too short, my unmarried status and my preferences in men. One of the male residents slowly came through the door with his walker, followed by a few of his comrades. I rushed to finish putting out the napkins. The men were just a few feet away when I was finally able to escape down the hallway with a hearty wave.

  The center’s “library” was not a friendly place. It was a plain room with four six-foot-high, mismatched faux wood bookshelves. I brought the finished books from the Fallen Angels here. They fit right in with all the other well-worn discards. In one corner, two squeaky wooden chairs faced off on either side of a small battered desk. In the center of the room sat an oblong metal reading table and Lily Wilson.

  “Good morning, Lily.” I sat next to her. “How are you today?”

  “I began to wonder if you’d forgotten me. What’s wrong with your hair? You need to let it grow.” Arthritic fingers grasped the handle of a coffee mug. Her other hand gripped her wheelchair armrest. “Here are my papers. I need you to read this letter from Social Security and tell me what it means. Please speak clearly. Don’t mumble.”

  I was used to Lily’s less than warm greetings and marked it up to “no good deed goes unpunished.” I was the one who had asked the firm to adopt the senior center as our pro bono client.

  “No problem. Remember, Avery Mitchell agreed to go over all your trust papers and real estate documents with you next Monday. I can be here with him, if you like.”

  “You’re not listening. This letter is about my Social Security, not my will. Is that nice girl back from her vacation? She listened to me. She can come back with Mr. Mitchell.”

  Ignoring the slight, I pulled the letter out of the envelope. “Lily, remember Linda’s not on vacation. She left the firm for a new job. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” She patted her thin hair. “Well, at least you try. Those Social Security people are changing my benefits. I earned that money. I worked thirty years as a teacher. So you’re sure the nice girl isn’t coming back?”

  Inside the envelope was a piece of tablet paper folded in small squares. I spread it out and read it.

  “Lily, this says Marla wants to see me, too.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. I wrote it to remind me. You’re to see Marla in the kitchen. Or, was it the sunroom? Just help me first.”

  After about an hour of starts and stops, we finished. Wheeling her into the recreation room with the others, I placed her next to the windows.

  She grabbed my hand. “You know, I have a beautiful stained glass window in my dining room. My daughter was an artist and made it for me. The windows here are ugly.” She squeezed my fingers. Tears slipped down her pale cheek. “Now my daughter’s gone. I miss her and I miss my window. Tell Mr. Mitchell to sell everything else. Not my window.”

  “I’ll let him know. I won’t let anything happen to your window. I’m going to your house in a few days to take an inventory. I’ll make sure the window is excluded from the real estate listing papers.”

  I patted her hand and with a fragile smile, she waved me off like a servant.

  Marla sat in the community room. “Hello, sweetie, it’s so good to see you.”

  Bending over, I gave her a light kiss on her upturned cheek. “Good Morning. How are you?”

  “Every day I wake up is a good day,” she chuckled.

  It was a ritual we went through. She walked around with two pairs of eyeglasses, evidence Tiny’s son had made sales inroads at the center. Tall and thin, Marla wore pale blue jeans with an elastic waist and a bright yellow button-up sweater. Her almond-white hair was cut short and a little uneven, thanks to one of the seniors who used to be a barber before he got the shakes.

  I took a cup and saucer from the counter. “You’re looking well. Are you ready to fill out forms?”

  She raised herself out of the chair and squinted at me. “Come closer, I don’t want you to say anything, but there’s something wrong with Lily.”

  I wanted to point out that there were likely a lot of things wrong with Lily, but instead, I took my cue from her loud whisper. “What’s the matter?”

  “I think she’s getting the wrong medicine.” She turned and looked over her shoulder.

  There was no one there.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t want to talk now. Can you come back on Friday? I know you don’t usually come on that day, but Friday’s when Joseph is gone.”

  Joseph was a nurse practitioner at the center. He looked to be in his forties, with a quarter-sized purple birthmark near the beginning of his hairline. He was cordial to me, and appeared to be professional and caring. I didn’t see him that often and, when we passed each other in the halls, our brief exchanges centered on weather, sports and traffic conditions.

  “Sure. I have some office things to get done, but I can be here in the late afternoon on Friday.”

  We agreed I should come at four.

  That seemed to satisfy her. “Now, sweetie, what’s up with you? You seem bothered today.”

  I had to laugh. At seventy-nine, Marla liked to think she kept up with the latest slang. “One of our book club members was killed a few days ago.”

  “They think you did it?”

  I dropped my pen on the floor. A year ago Marla confided in me about her husband, who died full of bitterness trying to defend his name against a political opponent. In a moment of weakness, without going into a lot of detail, I shared my own loss of reputation. She promised to keep my confidence. Still, it threw me off balance when, from time to time, she made a reference to my past. I began to regret my possibly misplaced trust.

  “I don’t know—maybe.” I retrieved my pen.

  “Well, I don’t think you could ever do something like that. When my Leland was alive, he worked for the DA’s office. I can’t tell you how many times he looked someone in the eye and could tell they were guilty. I look into your eyes, and I don’t think you’re guilty.”

  I squeezed her shoulder. “Thank you. Now, let’s get to those forms.”

  While the police would give no credence to Marla’s rather subjective litmus test, it made me feel a little better.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  By the time I got to our club meeting, the wall I’d built to contain my anxiety had started to crack. I mistakenly sent certified mail to myself and had to make three attempts before I remembered the main phone number to the office. Everyone was already in their seats. I gazed around the table and wondered if the book club would continue. I thought not.

  “Let’s get started.” Abby put her glasses on and looked around the room. “You know why we’re here.”

  Gene picked at his eyebrows. “I only came to clear the air about Rory.”

  Miller glanced at the ceiling, as if looking for divine intervention. “What’s there to say? He’s dead.”

  I ignored him. “I agree with Gene. Didn’t anyone else take notice of the way h
e died?”

  “Hell, yeah.” Richard sat stiffly in his chair. “He died the same way Antonio did in our last book.”

  “I caught it, too.” Rena’s large brown eyes opened wide. “I mean, well, it’s like—well, I’m just going to say what everyone’s thinking. Maybe it could have been done by a club member. The police think it was one of us.”

  It was out. Silence screamed throughout the room.

  Abby groaned and sank down in her chair.

  Gene got up and leaned over the table. “Maybe a friend of his read the book and copied the killing.”

  “Some friend,” Miller mumbled and reached for an origami sheet from his pocket.

  “Wait a minute, folks.” While I usually liked to sit back, letting other people speak before I committed myself, this wasn’t what I had in mind. “Before we start climbing into our caves, let’s pause a moment. What do we know about the killing, other than that it mimics a book we read?”

  No one jumped in to answer.

  “For that matter, what do we really know about Rory? Like each of us, he has a questionable past. We don’t know anything about him outside of this group.”

  Richard peered over his rimless glasses and sucked a tooth. “Not true, Hollis. I was out about two weeks ago with … with a friend, and I saw Rory with a real nice-looking young lady. I figured he’d want me to walk past, but he stopped, said hello and introduced her.”

  “Well, dude, who was she?” Miller urged.

  “Now, in retrospect, it seems kind of strange. He said she was his fiancée, but she looked totally bored with him.” Richard paused. “There was something else about the way he reacted, like he was anxious for me to think she was hot, but I could tell he was nervous about me, too.”

  Gene said, “You think? He probably didn’t know if you’d blow his cover.”

  Richard shook his head. “Nah, it was something else.”