Chapter 27
It took five deputies and more than a half dozen firefighters to get the room to settle down before Vivian Knowlton could continue to speak. When she did, I wasn’t so sure it was to address the matter of the book in question, or to promote her TV show.
“Thank you. Thank you for your trust in my psychic abilities. Unfortunately, we don’t have the time in this venue to address all of your needs, but I urge you to continue watching my show and sending your requests to my producer. Visit the Web site at PsychicDivasTelevision.com and be sure to mention Sun City West.”
“When is she going to get on with this?” Lucinda leaned across the table. “I thought we were here to discuss the book and listen to whatever stuff Harriet and her daughter uncovered.”
“I don’t think she’ll be too long,” Myrna replied. “She already got her photo op.”
Some brief static from the microphone jolted us for a second. Vivian held the book high in the air and leaned her head back as if the book were about to jump at her. “Aside from the plot of this intriguing novel, I sense there is a great deal more to the book itself. Something ephemeral. An enigma, if you will. I doubt the author set out to cast a curse on her readers, but the book, it seems, has taken on a spirit of its own.”
“Oh, brother,” I said. This time my mother didn’t nudge me or give me a kick under the table.
Gretchen moved closer to Vivian and took the microphone.
“Are you saying the book is indeed cursed?”
“I’m saying the book is more than words and paper. More than the plot and characters. Somehow, a fusion of elements has resulted in a dynamic that no one could have predicted. Not even the author.”
“Good Lord. What the heck is she saying?” Shirley whispered.
My mother and I shrugged at the same time.
Meanwhile, Vivian gushed on with her commentary. “So you see, what we have here is a tome that holds a power of its own. Something sinister, I fear. Something that demands our respect and our caution. Whoever Lily Margot Gerald is, she has unleashed a true gothic horror upon all of us.”
“I can’t take it anymore. I’m stepping in.” I stood. With or without the true identity of the author, I still had enough evidence to put a stop to this charade. Nevertheless, I made sure to put my cell phone in my pocket in case Nate called. I desperately wanted my hunch about Izzy dog to pan out. Then I walked over to one of the microphones that had been set up behind our table and took it, hoping no one would see my hands were shaking.
“I am so sorry to interrupt you, Miss Knowlton, but I can’t let this go on anymore,” I said.
The collective gasps coming from the audience set me on edge. I had to speak eloquently, clearly, and directly. And I had to speak fast before they yanked the microphone away. As if on cue, my mother slipped out of her seat and moved the whiteboard closer to the table. I swallowed once and began what Miss Marple would have called the “Big Reveal.” For me, it was “hurry up and get it over with before they all turn on you like a pack of rats.”
“My name is Sophie Kimball. I’m Harriet Plunkett’s daughter. I also work for the police department in Mankato, Minnesota, and I came here at my mother’s request to investigate the series of unexplained deaths and near encounters with death.” I made sure to look directly at Jeanette. So far, so good. No one knows I’m in accounts receivable. “Like many of you, my mother was convinced this novel, The Twelfth Arrondissement, was cursed. But that book is no more cursed than this table, these chairs, and the very microphone I’m speaking from.”
“THAT’S BULLSHIT, LADY, OR MY GRANDMOTHER WOULD STILL BE HERE!”
I didn’t have to pan the room to figure out Frankie was back at it. I wasted no time getting to the point. “Your grandmother wasn’t killed by this book. She died as a result of uncontrolled greed and a series of opportunistic actions taken by more than one person in this community.”
“SPEAK ENGLISH, LADY!”
My face turned beet red, and all I could do was scream out, “It was a setup! Is that good enough English for you?”
“YEAH, I’M LISTENING.”
Then, without warning, Gretchen Morin took the mic from Vivian. “We cannot have people popping up out of nowhere and spouting off anything and everything that comes into their mind. Now, Miss Knowlton was kind enough to travel all the way here from Los Angeles in order to shed some light on the book, and I feel we need to give her a chance.”
“I WANT TO HEAR FROM THE OTHER LADY. THE POLICEWOMAN WITH THE UGLY CLOTHES.”
Under ordinary circumstances, I would have been insulted since I was wearing something I deemed highly fashionable. But, given the fact that it was Maisy-Jayne speaking, I let it go. I also didn’t bother to clarify that I wasn’t a policewoman.
“Thank you. I’ll try to be brief.”
Gretchen started to say something, but Shirley Johnson grabbed the microphone away from her, and for a minute, I thought they were actually going to get physical. Instead, Gretchen motioned for someone to get over to the table, but I couldn’t see who. At the same time, my mother shoved a dry-erase marker into my hand and turned her head to the whiteboard. It was “showtime.”
Small beads of sweat formed on my forehead and I brushed them off with the back of my hand. “Please listen carefully, everyone, and I’ll try to explain why there is NO book curse.”
The audience got quiet for a second, and I went full speed ahead, hoping to avoid any more interruptions.
“As many of you may know, it’s very difficult to have a book published these days. The competition is fierce, from what I understand, and the likelihood of finding a literary agent is next to impossible. So, burgeoning authors sometimes self-publish, the way Lily Margot Gerald did when she wrote The Twelfth Arrondissement. The trouble is, no one knew who she was, and that made it less likely anyone would read her book.”
I was on borrowed time with my explanation and sure enough, Frankie broke in.
“WELL, GRANDMA MANAGED TO READ THAT THING AND NOW SHE’S PUSHING UP DAISIES!”
His father squelched his attempts. “SHUT YOUR TRAP, FRANKIE, AND LET THE WOMAN SPEAK!”
“Um, er, as I was saying, it was very unlikely anyone would read the novel. There was no publicity, no advertising. Nothing. Then it suddenly appeared on the Booked 4 Murder reading list. And that meant at least fifteen people would get their hands on it. Word spreads quickly in small communities, so if the book was any good, it would have a start. But here’s the interesting tidbit—no one in the book club recommended that book. So how did it get on the reading list? My guess, and it is simply a guess, is that someone from the library put it there.”
I didn’t exactly point fingers. I was waiting for a more opportune time.
“Then a series of unfortunate events happened. Well, deaths, actually, for a few members of the book club. Members who were reading the book. First, Marilyn Scutt had that awful golf cart accident and died. The only item that was found intact on the street was her copy of The Twelfth Arrondissement. Shortly afterward, Minnie Bendelson passed away at the hospital, while reading the same book. And that’s when someone came up with a brilliant idea to sell that book. Not only sell it, but catapult it to the New York Times best-seller list. And what could be more throat grabbing than the thought the book was cursed!”
I took a deep breath. I had the full attention of the audience. Not only that, but I finally located Jerry White sitting off to the side, near the exit. I wasn’t about to lose my momentum.
“Here’s where it gets tricky. While the author of the book, whoever that may really be, since no one can seem to find a Lily Margot Gerald, was just out to make her novel famous, other members of the community used that premise of a cursed book to take care of their own agendas.”
“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING, LADY?” Maisy-Jayne shouted. “THAT MY GRANDMOTHER WAS MURDERED?”
“Whoa. Hold on. I’ll try to get to everything.”
Just then, Gretchen pushed her way toward me and grabbed the microphone out of my hand. “This is absolutely ridiculous. Pure speculation. I insist we go back to our regular program agenda.”
“The hell with your agenda,” someone shouted. And it wasn’t a Kirkson. “We want to hear what that police lady has to say.”
“Yes, give her a chance,” came another voice.
And suddenly, the entire audience was up in arms, shouting for me to continue. Gretchen had no choice but to relinquish the mic and let me speak.
“Edna Mae Langford was the next member of the club to die. She was elderly, hard of hearing, legally blind, and more than just a little forgetful. Her family had been trying for years to get her into assisted living, but she would have no part of it. Her house was a veritable deathtrap, yet somehow she managed to live day by day. Her family was scared to pieces she would fall in the shower or, worse yet, turn on the stove, forgetting that she put the mail on top of one of the burners. Edna Mae refused to get one of those medical alert buttons and wouldn’t hear of letting anyone into her house to help her with her daily chores. And that’s when her daughter and a close friend hatched a plan to force Edna Mae out of the house. They would use the idea of a book curse to cover up what really happened.”
“She’s good,” Vivian Knowlton whispered to Gretchen. “I should get her on Psychic Divas.”
“Try to get her away from the microphone,” Gretchen hissed back.
“By tossing gravel near Edna Mae’s mailbox, Edna would certainly trip and fall on the pieces of rock. She was too blind to see them. Her daughter hoped it would be a “wake-up call” when Edna Mae found herself lying in the driveway. The daughter never expected Edna Mae to break a hip, much less wind up in the hospital and die of pneumonia. In fact, according to an eye witness, Edna’s fall was timed so that the UPS driver would be coming down the block shortly after the mail truck. Edna Mae would be seen and helped right away.” I looked directly at Jeanette and then moved my gaze to the audience, where Leslie Sackler was seated. Both of them were poker-faced, but I could tell by looking at Jeanette’s hands that she was shaking.
“Now there were three deaths. And all three of the women were reading that novel. The idea of a book curse was firmly hatched. As the rumor started to spread, some people in the community went out of their way to tell anyone and everyone they should stay away from that book.” I stared directly at Jerry.
“In fact, one such vigilant man got escorted out of the swimming pool for harassing people reading the book. Let’s face it, we’re all like kids and if we’re told not to do something, we immediately want to go ahead and do it. Reverse psychology was working well for this book marketing campaign.”
“WHAT ABOUT MY GRANDMA? YOU HAVEN’T SAID ANYTHING YET ABOUT HER!” Maisy-Jayne wasn’t giving up and neither was I.
I cleared my throat and, at that moment, my mother stood and gave me a poke in the arm.
“Use the whiteboard. Start writing names and information.”
“I think a timeline would really help, so give me a second,” I said to the audience as I began to write. I made sure each name was printed clearly and large enough to be seen on TV. The camera crews were all over the place. By now, my heart was palpitating, and I prayed I could get through this without falling apart.
Suddenly, Lucinda Espinoza started sobbing at the table. “It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.”
“What is?” Shirley asked.
“It’s my fault Edna Mae is dead.”