LUCY AND I SAT in the kitchen, twirling linguine topped with Lucy’s award-winning marinara sauce. The particulars of the long-ago award had faded into obscurity, but not the wonderful taste and aroma. When I finished updating her on the day’s conversations, Lucy said, “I’m relieved that we decided to trust Kat.”
“Yes, nobody can fake tears like that. I really feel bad for her. It’s hard to suspect someone you pity.”
Lucy looked thoughtful as she speared a lettuce leaf. “And she’s going out with Mick to keep in the information loop?”
“And maybe for protection. Since she’s as against the suicide verdict as I am, she realizes that someone killed Carlene and may not stop at one death.”
Lucy grimaced at that. “Well, let’s move on.” Shaking a finger at me, she started. “What about your cell phone? Vince was right about the camera.”
“Okay, after dinner, you and the felines can pose for me. And quit shaking that finger at me.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes. I finished my pasta and put my fork on the plate. Lucy put her elbows on the table and folded her hands under her chin. Her plum polish was the exact shade of her blouse. “So,” she began, “let’s see where we are now. We have Linda and Annabel . . . Trudy would’ve been a good suspect, but this marriage of hers puts a damper on that idea. That bit that Georgia told you about Carlene having an affair with what’s-his-name was interesting.”
“Randy,” I supplied.
Lucy stood to clear the table. “So far Art, Helen, and Sarah look innocent. But maybe we’ll come up with something on them.”
“At this point, my money’s on Linda. I wish I could get a handle on this P.G./P.J. person. Somehow it seems important. I hoped Georgia might know, but she didn’t. Neither did Kat.”
“Are you sure it refers to a person?”
I hadn’t considered that possibility. “Well . . . no.” I remembered my decision to make “thinking outside the box” my new mantra.
Once the kitchen was tidied up, we went upstairs, where I took photos of Lucy and the cats. It didn’t take more than a minute to refamiliarize myself with my phone’s camera feature, and the results were acceptable, even recognizable. But the point of the exercise was to become a quick draw, meaning I couldn’t fumble with the danged thing, looking for the right menu options.
I set to adding Dennis Mulligan’s numbers—office, cell, home—to my contact directory along with speed-dial designations. When the landline rang I jumped.
“Annabel,” I mouthed to Lucy. The only words I could get in were “sure,” “okay,” “see you then.”
“She’s coming over.”
“When?”
“Now. She’s in the area and needs human contact with someone from the book group. She didn’t explain why we’re the humans she picked, but I guess we’re as good as anyone.”
“Well, I’m glad she did. Maybe we can get something out of her. Remember—let her do the talking. Don’t tell her a thing.” I agreed as the doorbell rang. To arrive so quickly, Annabel had to be coming here by intent. Lucy and I weren’t on the way to anywhere and didn’t live by a main street. She came through the door, looking as crisp and pristine as ever in a charcoal gray pantsuit. I could never figure out why she dressed like a lawyer. She was a full-time writer with little need to turn herself out so well. I guessed that wearing professional clothing was a personal preference. As for me, I admired the clothing but did not miss the days when suits and three-inch heels were my daily uniform.
After a round of awkward hugs Annabel presented a bakery box filled with an assortment of cookies: oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, peanut butter, and macadamia nut. “Coffee?” Lucy offered. “Don’t worry, at this hour, it’ll be decaf.”
We agreed to decaf and Lucy headed for the kitchen, cookies in hand. Annabel sat on the edge of the armchair seat, back straight with legs together and slanted to the right. I plopped down on the sofa and put my feet up on the table.
“Poor Evan,” Annabel said. “Such a nice man. Have you talked to him?”
“No. I left him a voice mail, but haven’t heard back. According to Kat, he’s coping. It has to be a horrific shock.”
“Any word on what it was that killed her?”
“No.” I lied, holding to my resolve to keep inside information under wraps.
I wanted to get Annabel going on the reason for this impromptu visit but figured Lucy would be furious if I started without her. So I forced myself to be patient as Annabel eased herself into the chair and set to twirling a lock of hair behind her ear. If Lucy didn’t show up soon, I’d have to resort to small talk about the weather. As it turned out, the cats saved me from bland conversational efforts. The reserved Shammy hovered at the edge of the room, observing our visitor from afar, while the extroverted Daisy sniffed the toe of Annabel’s sling-back pump. When she jumped up onto Annabel’s lap and Annabel shrieked I shooed the cat away. She gave each of us a reproachful look before she joined Shammy and they trotted off.
“Sorry about that,” Annabel said as she brushed at her pants. “I’m not a cat person.” I remembered that Annabel had a preference for toy poodles.
Annabel went back to twirling that lock of hair and tapping her toe to a rhythm only she could hear. The dark circles under her eyes told of at least one sleepless night. When Lucy finally showed up with a tray laden with a carafe of decaf, mugs, and cookies, Annabel looked as relieved as I felt.
We went through the rituals of adding cream and stirring, leaving the sugar untouched. Lucy and I picked our favorite cookies—macadamia nut for her and oatmeal raisin for me. I felt a moment of unease, wondering if we had an antidote to any poison in the cookies. That begged the question: what was the antidote? As if by mutual agreement, Lucy and I waited for Annabel to eat her peanut butter cookie before taking tentative bites of our own. Then Annabel turned to me and, voice overly bright, began. “I wonder if I should talk to your friend Vince.” Her voice broke and tears spilled down her cheeks. “That is, if you still communicate—I saw him with that redhead at the signing.”
Lucy grabbed the box of tissues from the end table and handed it to Annabel. I waited a moment for her to collect herself before prompting, “How could Vince help you?”
Annabel didn’t answer. Instead she hemmed and hawed for a full minute. Heaving a sigh she said, “I guess I can trust both of you. Right?” She looked at each of us in turn. When we agreed with her assessment of our trustworthiness, yet another sigh came forth. At last she began. “Do you remember Ronnie, that horrible woman Trudy Zimmerman brought to book group last summer?”
I nodded and, for Lucy’s benefit, described Ronnie as a petite woman with oversized glasses who worked as a librarian at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. She’d seemed pleasant enough to me, but Annabel’s use of the word “horrible” suggested a darker side.
Annabel said, “She came up to me that night and said she remembered me from the library at UVA where I did research when I lived in Charlottesville. At first I thought she was a fan, but she quickly disabused me of that notion. You won’t believe this, but she said that maybe I did that research for purposes other than my writing—for example, maybe for killing my dear husband.”
Annabel always referred to her late spouse as her “dear” husband, never as simply husband and never by his given name.
The tears started falling again and Annabel said, “She laughed but you don’t kid around about things like that.”
Lucy asked, “Why would she think you killed your de—your husband?”
Again, Annabel didn’t answer. She blotted her eyes and blew her nose. I considered that Annabel tested a murder method at book group. I read a mystery where a writer poisoned someone to try out the method for authenticity in her writing. The method had worked for that writer and, if Annabel did the same thing, it had worked for her as well. I set aside the what-if scenarios for later—I didn’t want to miss any tidbits Annabel might drop.
“Last night she called and started right in with her needling. I guess Trudy told her the news about Carlene.” I didn’t let on that Trudy was out of the country—but I imagined that Ronnie had other ways of getting information.
Annabel reenacted the conversation with Ronnie, giving herself a normal voice and Ronnie a chipmunk one. “She said, ‘Funny thing, Ms. Annabel, you’re involved in not one but two suspicious deaths.’ I reminded the twit that Carlene committed suicide. ‘Yeah, right! According to whom?’ ‘According to a note that she left.’ ‘How do we know she wrote the note? I can’t help but wonder about you, Annabel . . . I mean, you know so much about killing. You spent hours here at the library poring over books about murder methods and I’m sure that your fingerprints remain. Wasn’t your first book about a woman killing her husband? It sure would be interesting to match the prints on all the books you handled here at the library with the ones on the note. But maybe now you’re too smart to leave your prints. Too bad you weren’t so smart years ago.’ By this time the woman was cackling.
“Like I’d have killed my dear husband. I loved him!” Annabel blew her nose again.
Had she? Was her husband really “dear”? Was Annabel using her killer characters to write obliquely about herself? Did she have personal knowledge of a killer’s mind?
I asked, “How long ago did your husband die?”
“Ten years next month. I’ve never gotten over it. Never.” She continued to weep and rail. “Can you believe the gall of that woman, the total lack of feeling?”
“Would your prints still be there on the books? How long do they last? And wouldn’t other people have used the books in the meantime?”
Annabel held up her hand in a wait-a-minute gesture. Somewhat composed, but with her face still scarlet with emotion, she said, “I don’t know how long prints last on paper. As for other people using the books, there are plenty of mystery writers in Charlottesville, so I imagine some of them have availed themselves of the same books.” She took a fresh tissue and mopped her eyes. I hoped our supply would last, but there was always toilet paper. Maybe Annabel was the last of the weeping women we’d have to console. With all the tears of late I regretted not buying stock in a tissue company.
“So, anyway, I think she intends to blackmail me.”
Unfortunately I had a mouthful of decaf. Choking, I managed to swallow it without spitting any on myself. “Blackmail?” I asked with alarm and more than a little disbelief. I remembered posing the question to Lucy about Carlene blackmailing Annabel—but I was just pulling ideas out of thin air. Did blackmail even exist in the real world? I realized that it did, but I’d never known it to touch the lives of anyone of even my remotest acquaintance. But I’d never known murder to touch their lives either. Had I read one too many murder mysteries and now found myself passing eternity in the pages of one, à la The Twilight Zone? “What do you mean she intends to blackmail you? Why didn’t she do it when you were on the phone?”
“The blackmail was implied.” Annabel’s pressed her lips in a grim line. “She broadly hinted that she could be persuaded not to call the police about the prints. I told her I’d sue her for libel or slander. Whatever.”
I still felt stunned about the word “blackmail,” but Lucy took up the slack. “Frankly, I’m missing something here . . . Why does this Ronnie think you killed Carlene?”
Annabel groaned. “Oh, no doubt it all goes back to the whole thing between Carlene, Randy, and me. I’m sure Trudy told Ronnie the whole sordid story. Or as much of it as she knew to tell—I was never sure just what Trudy knew. So now Ronnie’s intimating that I killed Carlene out of revenge. Over Randy! The guy’s nothing. That’s when she went into the wild thing about my fingerprints. She said she’ll notify the police about my fingerprints, and that they’ll take her seriously because of my close connection with two deaths.”
“Whoa! Let’s back up a bit—who’s Randy?” Annabel didn’t have to know that I already knew about him.
“Yes, um, Randy. Well, he wasn’t any big deal. No real loss at all. Despite what he thought about himself.” Annabel tossed her already well-tossed hair.
“So, who is he?”
“Randy Baker. Trudy’s ex. No real loss,” she repeated. Despite her airy tone, I caught a hint of pain and wistfulness crossing Annabel’s face. Perhaps Randy was a bigger loss than she cared to admit. Annabel’s speech got pressured as she continued, “But another woman might not have taken it so lightly when her man was snatched away from her.”
I thought of a twangy country lament about tragic love. “It sounds like . . . first you were seeing Randy, then Carlene was seeing him. Is that right?”
Annabel huffed a sigh and said, “Okay.” She poured more decaf, added milk, and sipped. Fortified, she began. “You know that Carlene and I were neighbors in the Fan, don’t you?” She didn’t wait for us to affirm before going on. “We rented the same duplex where I live now.” She took another sip of her decaf. “Anyway, Randy and I met at a signing for Jack Hit the Road. He claimed he was a big fan of mine. And so we started dating.”
Lucy asked, “How long did you two date?”
“Oh, a couple of months, I guess. Until the night we went out to dinner with Carlene and her man of the moment. The next thing I knew Carlene and Randy were seeing each other and I was out in the cold. Along with the man of the moment. What was his name?” Annabel looked at us like she expected us to provide the answer. Then she snapped her fingers in triumph. “Tom. Tom something.”
Any regard I had for Carlene was taking a serious nosedive. “Well, that was a crappy thing for them to do! I’m so sorry, Annabel.”
Annabel waved a hand in dismissal. “All in the past. At the time I was pissed, I’ll tell you that right now. Not because I especially liked Randy. Truth is, I was about to dump him and he beat me to it. It was the principle of the thing. You know, we never even slept together. I have morals, I don’t just jump into bed with men willy-nilly,” she sniffed. “I make them wait. What’s all the fuss about sex anyway?”
From her sniffing I guessed she was putting herself above someone who did jump into bed with men willy-nilly. And I had a good idea who that someone was. “And Carlene?”
Annabel, involved in converting a tissue into an origami creation, laughed. “She most definitely didn’t make men wait, and Randy was no exception. I heard that headboard banging against my wall the same night as the double date. I thought she was with . . . what did I say his name was?”
“Tom. Tom ‘something,’ ” Lucy supplied.
“But the next morning I saw Randy leaving.” Annabel paused, perhaps to emphasize the implications of her statement. Lucy and I looked appropriately appalled and Annabel gave a harsh laugh. “I could write a book based on the woman’s sex life.”
I felt tempted to advise her that writing about vicarious sex didn’t work. It might work for some writers but most needed to have a sex life or at least enjoy sex. As far as I knew, Annabel didn’t fit in either category. As for myself, I fit in the second category and hoped that soon I’d fit in the first.
“The walls in those Fan duplexes are thick but not thick enough. Oh shoot!” Annabel spilled decaf on her jacket and we devoted the next couple of minutes to cleaning up the mess. Between Daisy and the decaf, Annabel’s dress-for-success outfit wasn’t faring well.
“Now where was I?” Annabel asked.
When Lucy prompted with “the walls in the duplex not being thick enough,” Annabel said, “Right. Her bed was on the other side of the wall from mine, so night after night, I had to listen to them. I wound up changing bedrooms. And then,” she said with a dramatic flourish, “one day, it was around dinnertime, I went to Carlene’s kitchen door to ask if she’d feed my dog while I went out of town.” As she leaned forward and lowered her voice, I could tell she was enjoying herself. “Did you two see Fatal Attraction?”
“Ah, the famous kitchen scene,” I said. We laughed as we recalled the intense kitchen sex between Michael Douglas and Glenn Close. It brought to mind the kitchen sex scene Georgia had told me about, the one that sent Carlene’s L.A. roommate packing.
“Randy and Carlene could have been reenacting that scene. There they were, Carlene up on the edge of the sink and Randy’s naked behind facing me.”
We laughed all the more. Tears running down my face, I asked, “Did they see you?”
“I don’t think so. They were too . . . involved. And I think he was standing on a stool or something. He was quite short.”
“What did you do?”
“Do? Why—I walked away and resolved never to approach her door unannounced. The next day I called her from work and asked about my dog. I didn’t mention the scene from the night before. She agreed to take care of Yvonne and that was that.”
Lucy said, “So, it sounds like you remained friends with Carlene. If not, you wouldn’t ask her to take care of Yvonne. Hazel and I wouldn’t let anyone we didn’t like tend to Daisy and Shammy.”
At the mention of their names, the cats appeared. They made their way to my side, giving Annabel a wide berth. Lucy checked her watch. “It’s nine o’clock. Treat time.” Lucy got up to dispense the treats. “Can I get anything else while I’m in the kitchen?”
We shook our heads and I turned back to Annabel. “Yes, not only did you remain friends with Carlene, but the two of you went on tours, attended exhibits, stuff like that. And you came to the book group because of her.”
“Yes, well, we had common interests. Like mysteries. And the arts. But that didn’t make us close.” It occurred to me that if I wanted to kill someone, I’d manage to be in that person’s company on a regular basis. That way I could plan my murder strategy and wait for the optimum time without being pressured. Lucy returned as Annabel said, “And you know something . . . I believe in forgiveness. I’m not a grudge holder.” This she managed with such a pious tone that I was hard-pressed to keep from laughing.
To appease her, I said, “I’m sure you’re not.” Privately, I wasn’t so sure. Just as I wasn’t so sure Annabel was the forgiving soul she claimed to be. She had a powerful motive for killing Carlene, regardless of how many years had passed since they’d shared that Fan duplex. Apparently, grudges run deep and long with some folks. And Annabel wouldn’t be the first person to be in grudge denial. But my musings about grudge holding distracted me from Annabel’s recounting of Carlene and Randy’s tawdry relationship. I cautioned myself to stay focused.
“Carlene asked me if I minded if she went out with Randy, I’ll grant her that much. Not that they went out much.” Annabel arched an eyebrow at this. “I assured her I didn’t mind in the least. Of course, I did mind, but I didn’t want to admit it.” Annabel and Kat operated by the same set of dumpee rules. Mind, but don’t ever admit it.
“So how long did Carlene and Randy see each other?” Lucy asked.
Annabel raised her eyes like she expected to find the answer on the ceiling. “Oh, I don’t know. Six months? Real hot and heavy, then Evan came along and Randy got dumped on his behind.” I thought about Kat getting dumped by Evan at the same time. A whole lot of dumping going on. And musical beds.
“Then what happened?” Lucy and I looked like children listening to stories around a campfire.
Annabel grabbed a chocolate chip cookie and took a bite. “Randy didn’t take well to being dumped and kept coming around to Carlene’s place, even when Evan was there. Maybe especially when Evan was there. One night there was a big brouhaha because he was banging on the door, yelling things like, ‘You f-ing bitch,’ and worse. It went on and on, and finally one of the neighbors called the police. The first time Randy left before they arrived. The second time, he didn’t manage to escape, or maybe didn’t want to, and the incident ended up in the paper.”
“What happened after that?” Lucy asked.
“Randy showed up a few more times, but he was much quieter. Evan and Carlene got married quite soon after they met, about six weeks, and they moved to where they live now. Lived,” she amended in a rueful tone.
In keeping with my ask-don’t-tell policy, I didn’t want to reveal that Carlene and Evan had separated or that she’d been seen with another man. So I tried an oblique approach. “I wonder if Carlene and Evan were happy. Did she confide in you about that or if she was seeing another man?”
If I had any doubts about this being a silly question, Annabel’s gales of laughter set me straight. “Are you joking? Carlene confide? In me? No way, recently or not. Carlene was not a confider and didn’t suffer personal questions.” She laughed again.
Lucy asked, “Did she ask you for advice on writing?”
Annabel waggled her hand back and forth. “Sometimes about publishing, agents, that kind of stuff. But not writing per se.” That struck me as odd. But maybe Carlene didn’t like Annabelle’s writing.
I moved on to Trudy. “When Trudy showed up at book group, did you recognize her as being Randy’s ex-wife?”
“Oh, yes, we knew each other from the library. Neither of us ever mentioned Randy. As for Carlene, I don’t know if she recognized Trudy. You see, Carlene and I never referred to that . . . time, or anything or anyone associated with it.” Annabel scowled. “We pretty much kept our conversations to small talk.”
Annabel had no more information and no memory of other men in Carlene’s life, although she assured us there were plenty. Carlene didn’t go long without male companionship. And Annabel had nothing to add to the meager knowledge we had of Linda Thomas—she remembered her from the signing but nothing of any ruckus with Carlene.
“Of course, I know way too much about the woman’s colonoscopy.” Annabel rolled her eyes. “Honestly, between her and Helen, it was tough avoiding the two of them the other night. Every time I turned around, there was Helen, or there was Linda, nattering on about something I didn’t want to hear.”
Annabel frowned at her fancy watch. “Goodness, is it nine thirty already? I must dash.” She slanted a look at me and asked, “Now do you see why I need to talk to Vince? How can I get in touch with him, Hazel?”
“Well, let’s see . . .” I hesitated. I thought that a lawyer would be a better choice than Vince. Aloud, I said, “I’ll give you his e-mail address. Wait a sec while I go upstairs and look it up.” Annabel didn’t need to know that I had it in my head.
When I returned with the address on a Post-it, Annabel said, “Thanks so much!” She picked up her satchel bag, started to stand, and then, as if the effort was too great, she sat down again. “I just hope that Ronnie doesn’t show up at the service. I’m just so upset about this whole thing. Plus I’m devastated about poor, poor Carlene.” The “poor, poor Carlene” part sounded like an afterthought if ever I heard one.
“Did Carlene ever mention a person named P.G. or P.J.?” Catching Annabel’s exasperated look, I said, “I know, I know, she didn’t confide in you. But you never know . . .”
“I understand. But, once again, I can’t help you. Sorry.”
This time Annabel managed to stand, smoothing her pants and adjusting the straps on her sling-backs. “Well, gotta go! See you on Friday.” We walked her to the door.
Lucy and I waited until Annabel started her car and drove off. Then, in perfect synchronization, we turned to each other. Lucy mimed wiping her brow and said, “Whew! Do you believe her?” From Lucy’s skeptical tone, it didn’t sound like she herself did.
I waggled my hand back and forth. “Not sure. Not sure at all. But she’s definitely gained a top spot on the suspect list. Unlike Kat, she didn’t voice any doubt about Carlene’s committing suicide. That could mean that she poisoned her. What better cover for murder than a suicide verdict?”
“And just yesterday we talked about how Annabel found Carlene and could easily have left the note by her chair.”
I nodded. “I wonder if Carlene did, or said, something recently to piss off Annabel and dredge up the old feelings. Something that stoked Annabel’s dormant rage. Or maybe not so dormant.”
“The woman is—what would be a good word—fraught?”
“As good a word as any. I sure wouldn’t want to get on her bad side. I can just see her sitting at home sticking pins in voodoo dolls.”
Lucy said, “And my guess is that two of those dolls resemble Carlene and Ronnie. Ronnie sounds like the devil incarnate. As for Carlene, she didn’t respect relationship boundaries, did she?”
I considered the recent reports of Carlene as a sexually provocative woman who made a practice of appropriating other women’s husbands and boyfriends. Did she finally piss off the wrong woman? It may have been just a matter of time before she got her comeuppance. A very deadly comeuppance.
Lucy said, “All this talk about blackmail . . . Remember how the other day we wondered if Carlene knew about Annabel’s husband and maybe . . . blackmailed her?”
“As I recall, I wondered about it and you dismissed the idea out of hand.”
“Yes, well, you may have been on to something.”
“So Annabel could have more than one motive.”
“She very well could.”