The fact of the matter was, no matter how organized or devoted its members were, every book club broke up eventually. This group was already half-way there. Solomon Brice wasn’t here for books, Pearl Hansen was a no-show and Hector Mandela looked like he couldn’t wait to leave.
“I don’t expect us to choose older titles simply to accommodate me,” Josephine said. “Although I’m sure there are others who would appreciate it if we did lean that way.” She glanced at Solomon who had been shovelling baklava in his mouth and washing it down with milky tea.
“Oh sure,” he said around a mouthful of baklava. “It’s a problem. I didn’t see that coming when I thought of signing up. The expense, I mean.”
Avery didn’t correct him with the reminder that he didn’t technically ‘sign up’ as Solomon Brice was there in his capacity as a journalist. He should be honest about that, she thought.
The doorbell rang and Elliot left to answer it. Avery took the opportunity to speak to the boy. “Don’t you think you should tell everyone you’re here for a story?”
“I would if there was a story,” he said mildly. “But so far there’s nothing. I only came because I didn’t want Hansen to scoop me and she’s not here so I won’t be sticking around.”
Avery was sure he meant it right up until Elliot ushered Pearl into the room. “Everyone, this is Pearl Hansen,” he announced. “She arrived late but if we’re still accepting members, she’d like to join our club. Does anyone have any objections?”
Solomon jumped to his feet, scattering crumbs on the Turkish rug. “I object! This is my story, Hansen. I got here first. First come, first served.”
“Did they teach you that in journalism school?” she scoffed.
“Story? What’s he talking about?” Dennis Potter turned to Elliot.
“Solomon came tonight, hoping for a story,” Avery said. “Pearl is here for the same reason. They’re from the Herald.”
Pearl hovered in the middle of the room, as if debating leaving. Solomon had a more rebellious appearance. He’d learned to stand his ground.
Elliot rubbed his mouth first and then his head of wiry hair that was still black in places. “In this day and age of criminal investigation, we believe that murder is easy to solve. But there are plenty of suspicious deaths in Northumberland County alone that are unsolved to this day.”
The group listened to this little speech politely, wondering what that had to do with reporters in their midst, or with the debate between choosing backlist titles versus new releases.
Elliot Marks gazed at each one of them and suddenly Avery felt a thrill go through her. Something was about to happen.
“I have no objection to journalists being part of our team,” he said portentously.
“Cub reporters,” corrected Hector Mandela under his breath.
Elliot nodded. “Even better. They’ll serve as the eyes and ears of the public. These two young people will have the sacred responsibility of chronicling our investigations and reporting our conclusions. Trustworthy because they are not one of us, but they are not one of them either. They have yet to sell out to the establishment.”
Hector rolled his eyes. Helen Potter sat upright with a baffled look on her face and Josie Gaskell wore an expression of dismayed pity. Avery’s opinion was that Elliot Marks was a loon after all and wondered how soon she could leave without seeming rude.
“What investigations are you referring to?” Dennis Potter was taking the pragmatic approach. “Decoding murder mysteries? In my opinion, Briggs must be getting desperate if a book club warrants sending two reporters.”
“Briggs is desperate,” Solomon clarified. “And for the record, he didn’t send us. We’re here on our own time. It was Pearl’s idea. I have no idea why.”
“I thought it sounded interesting,” she replied tartly. “I have a question.” Pearl raised her hand. “Why do you call it a murder club? It sounds like you’re going to commit murders.”
“Excellent question, Miss Hansen,” Elliot replied enthusiastically. “I wondered if anyone picked up on that, and when they were going to mention it. Not commit them, Miss Hansen. Solve them! Instead of reading about fictional murders, I propose we solve an actual murder.”
The room fell silent. Avery could hear the clock ticking on the mantle.
Elliot held up his hands, a placating gesture. “I have a murder in mind, a cold case from 1975. The body of Jenny Blake, aged seventeen, was found at St. Ives Abbey. This was before it was purchased in 1998 and turned into a spa. In 1975, it was still an abandoned property belonging to the Catholic Church. No money was put into its upkeep, it was left to go to ruin. Warning signs against trespassing were posted, but did little to prevent teenagers in the Seventies from turning it into a hang-out.”
Josephine bounced forward. “I remember this!” Her tone became solemn. “I was in nursing school at the time but I remembered her from middle school. My parents were born in Greece but I was born here in St. Ives and went to school here. Jenny Blake was five years younger than me; my brother was in the same class as her kid sister. Her murder shocked the entire county. My father said the murder of Jenny Blake was the day St. Ives lost its innocence.”
Hector cleared his throat. “I’m not from here. I don’t see how I can help with a cold case mystery.”
“That’s where I disagree.” Elliot rubbed his mouth and paced as he spoke. “You are exactly the sort of man we need. Clear-headed, logical, your judgement untainted by the local prejudices and theories—”
“Hold on, hold on,” Dennis interrupted. “What are we talking about here? The police aren’t going to open a cold case for us—a bunch of amateurs. We’re a book club for God’s sake.” He laughed. “Not going to happen.”
“How would we go about it then?” Avery was becoming interested. “If a bunch of amateurs wanted to solve an unsolved mystery, how would we begin?”
Everyone spoke at once. “Murders are usually sloppy ill-thought-out affairs,” Hector said, his baritone rising above the others. “Not like in novels. Real killers leave clues everywhere.”
“Not this killer,” Josie said firmly. “I’m sure the Herald has the stories on file, but as I recall there was nothing—nothing to point to a suspect.”
“There was Jesse Sutcliffe,” Solomon Brice said around a mouthful of cheese.
Everyone turned to stare at him.
Helen Potter asked: “Who is Jesse Sutcliffe?”
“Jenny Blake’s ex-boyfriend. He was interviewed but he had an alibi. One of the first jobs Briggs gave me to do on the paper was to scan the back print editions to digital for the archives. The story caught my eye and now here we are talking about it.”
Avery hunched forward. She was beginning to get excited. “Do you think we could we talk to this guy? I’m in the same boat as Hector. I’m new to St. Ives. I don’t know anybody.”
Elliot raised his hands. “I suggest we team up to cover more ground. Assemble our evidence and meet back here in one week to go over what we’ve learned. It’s a case that’s gone unsolved for over forty years. We have nothing but time to solve it.”
“Yes, but why?” Helen laughed weakly. “Why are we doing this? What is the purpose?”
“To solve the puzzle,” said Elliot, his brow crinkling. “I’d rather solve a real puzzle than a fictional one.”
Josie rose to her feet. “I would just like to say that even though charges were not laid against Jesse Sutcliffe, everyone believed he did it. The suspicion affected him very badly. He took to drink and now he’s living near the railroad tracks. My church supplies the homeless with food and clothes. I’ve seen Jesse now and again, but I doubt he would know me.”
“That sounds like guilt to me,” Helen objected. “A guilty conscience drove him to drink.”
“Or the presumption of guilt taking its toll,” her husband said. “Innocent until proven guilty is the law. Unfortunately that’s not how we roll in today’s society.” Dennis turned to Josie. “I kn
ow that hobo village you’re talking about. I worked for Via Rail for thirty years, rolled past that trash heap every damned day. He lives there? I wouldn’t object to talking to him if we’re going through with this thing.”
Edwards turned his firm piercing stare on each of them. “Jenny Blake was strangled and her killer is still out there. He or she thinks he’s gotten away with murder. I’m not ready to retire my faculties. I want to do something useful with the time I have. What about the rest of you? Do we have a club—a murder club?”
“This is crazy,” Dennis said with a half-laugh.
They all agreed—it was crazy.
And yet....
A ripple of excitement went through the group. The St. Ives Murder Club was formed.
Chapter Four
IT WAS AFTER ten o’clock before Avery got home. She was buzzing with energy and excitement, and too excited to sleep. A cup of chamomile tea, that’s what she needed to slow her brain down. Elliot Marks was definitely an eccentric—interesting, intensely absorbed—and charismatic. Look how easily he’d persuaded them to attempt to solve a decades-old murder!
Avery had paired up with him to visit the Spa tomorrow morning. Elliot wanted to get there before the staff arrived. She wasn’t sure what they could learn after all this time by visiting the site but he said he wanted to get a feel for the crime scene. He seemed to believe he would notice something that was overlooked in the original investigation.
Josie and Helen were going to the school to search through old records for students the victim might have known. Karen Haggerty was the school secretary at St. Ives—Josie knew her; she was confident she’d give them access. When they had some names they were going to track down Jenny’s classmates and interview them. Helen Potter was one of those benign, middle-aged women who were frequently underestimated. She’d have no trouble getting people to open up. Josie Gaskell was another proposition.
The kettle whistled. Avery filled her cup and carried it upstairs to her bedroom. She opened the window a crack as she usually did and the cool night air wafted in. After washing her face, brushing her teeth and choosing a clean pair of pyjamas to wear, it was almost eleven o’clock before Avery crawled into bed. The bedside light cast a warm glow over the duvet.
She picked up her book—a murder mystery that she thought she was being oh-so-clever in borrowing from the library. She was going to suggest the title for the book club, never imagining they’d be sleuths in a real murder case.
It was impossible to imagine a killer living in St. Ives, but someone in this sleepy hamlet had killed and he could be living only a few miles away. Dennis and Hector were going to talk to Jesse Sutcliffe. Elliot cautioned them to be careful. If Sutcliffe was the guilty party, he could become violent if cornered.
What was Jenny Blake up to that night that got her killed? From what Avery remembered of the Seventies, it could’ve been anything. Solomon and Pearl were going to the police station to get a look at the case files. They were going as reporters, presumably working on a story for the Herald. What that story was, Solomon said they’d make it up as they went along.
Pearl had said little. Her colour changed when Solomon told her he’d pick her at her place so they could get an early start. She suggested they leave from the office instead. Pearl Hansen was definitely uncomfortable with the turn the book club had taken, though it was hard to say why. Wasn’t investigation her whole reason for being there? At least the young people didn’t have their eyes glued to their phones for the entire meeting.
Avery put on her reading glasses and turned her attention to the book in her lap and sipped her chamomile tea. A deep sense of contentment came over her. Chasing down a real murderer was an unexpected adventure. Elliot was right—crime-solving was fun.
And then she thought of something. Something she wished she had not thought of because it introduced doubt. And doubt was no fun.
How did Elliot Marks know Jenny Blake had been strangled?
✽✽✽
“I WOULDN’T have thought of it of Josephine Gaskell, Helen observed to her husband as they brushed their teeth. No late night television tonight. They both had an early day tomorrow. Helen was meeting Josie at her house and from there they would drive to the school. They didn’t have an appointment but Josie knew the school secretary and didn’t anticipate a problem.
“She suggested we make up a story about planning a high school reunion so we don’t tip the killer off.” Helen laughed. “I didn’t think of that. She such a do-gooder, I’m amazed that she thought of it! “
“You know her?” Dennis asked.
“Oh, she’s into everything! Her kids moved far away, I think to get away from her. She’s one of those overbearing mothers that never cut the apron strings. It’s sad really. She never sees her grandchildren. I suppose that’s why she fills her hours with volunteer work. Nobody dares turn her down. It was funny her mentioning being Greek. I didn’t know she was Greek. Her baklava was incredible.” Helen mused aloud. “I hope this isn’t a huge mistake.”
Dennis rinsed his mouth and spat. “If it is, we’ll find out soon enough. I’m meeting Hector at ten o’clock to talk to Jesse Sutcliffe.”
“Are you nervous?”
“I am a little, yes. This is the strangest thing I’ve ever gotten myself into. And Hector being a naval man—I hope he doesn’t think that gives him authority. I had plenty of authority on the trains if it’s going to come down to a pissing match.”
“Yes, but why are you nervous?”
Her husband met her eyes in the mirror. “Aren’t you? Whatever Elliot Marks thinks of this—a hobby, a puzzle—we’re poking around where we don’t belong and someone isn’t going to like it.”
“You should do what we’re going to and make up a reason for asking questions. Pretend the murder is the last thing on your mind.”
She opened a jar of face cream, not saying the one thing uppermost in her mind—that this was the first time in years she and Dennis conversed at bedtime. Pillow talk, her mother used to call it. Dennis was usually glued to the nightly news while she read a book.
“I’ll run it by Mandela. He’ll have a plan of attack, I’m sure. Bound to, being a Navy man.”
Helen smiled happily. Dennis was right of course about the danger. But this was so much more exciting than reading a book.
✽✽✽
HECTOR CAME down for breakfast in the morning. Joyce stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “What the devil are you wearing?”
He looked down at his costume of jeans and a long-sleeved tee-shirt that sported a grease stain. “I thought I might clean out the garage today.”
Joyce was going into Casterbridge with the girls for lunch. “I’ll try to be home by three if you want to do something then,” she said.
“That’s all right,” Hector said easily. “I’ll be up to my neck in work. Don’t hurry back.”
It might take them longer than expected to track down Jesse Sutcliffe and who knew what they’d find when they got there. He didn’t want to have to rush back. His stomach filled with butterflies in anticipation.
“How did it go last night?” Joyce asked, absently flipping through a magazine. “Oh! Did you want me to pick up a book when I’m in Casterbridge? They have a decent book store there.”
“Book?”
Joyce looked up. “For the murder mystery book club. What title did your group decide on?”
Hector drank coffee to delay answering. In thirty years of marriage he’d not lied to Joyce once in all that time. But this was something he’d decided to keep from her. It was for her protection. It occurred to him last night that there was an element of danger in what they were planning to do. He wasn’t worried about that. Danger had been part and parcel of his career, but he wasn’t going to bring that danger home and let it cross his threshold.
“The new Louise Penny. Oh—I can’t remember what it’s called. Do you know?”
“No, but that’s why they make sales clerks,
dear.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll find it. Have a good day and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
They both laughed because of the two of them, Joyce was the one who would do anything.
✽✽✽
SOLOMON ARRIVED at the office more or less on time to find the door unlocked and Pearl Hansen sitting at his desk on the phone and busily writing things down on a notepad. Briggs wasn’t in yet. He usually came in late after a meeting with Lucinda Pye. Gary Briggs was not a brave man and Lucinda was a terrifying woman. He always needed a six-pack to recover from their meetings.
Solly went to the back room where the coffee maker was kept. He’d have to lay down some ground rules, he thought as he hunted around for the filters. Rule Number One: The first one in makes the coffee. He was quite mean to her last night. He hoped she didn’t hold a grudge. Pearl was pretty quiet on the drive home. She’d walked to the Abercrombie place so he offered her a lift home which delayed him getting home, which meant his mother wasn’t happy.
Veronica Wakefield-Brice has rules about using her car and if her son was going to violate those rules, she would have to rethink their arrangement.
His mother had been saying things to him like that since he was eleven. Solly told her about the book club and Pearl Hansen showing up and what was he supposed to do—let her walk home alone after they’d been talking about a murderer running loose?
“I don’t see what that has to do with you. I was under the impression you were covering a story for the paper. What has murderers running loose to do with anything?”
Solly poured cold water into the coffee machine and pushed the button. And this is how liars are made, he thought. Telling his mother about the truth about the murder club was out of the question. Instead he entertained her with a rundown of all the book club members, putting them down in clever ways he knew she would appreciate. He stopped short of saying anything much about Pearl Hansen, other than to mention that she was the new intern at the paper. He was sure she didn’t notice.
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