Chapter Fifty-One

After her friends left, Erin lay down on the couch, intending to rest her eyes, but when she awoke an hour later it was time to leave for the meeting. Outside, the air was heavy with impending rain, so overcast that not a single star was visible through the cloud cover.

She entered the church meeting room to find it nearly half full. She heard the din of voices as she came down the stairs; most of her friends had already arrived. Dressed in tight jeans and a blouse that revealed a lot of coastline, Hetty Miller stood next to Prudence, who looked frumpy as ever in a brown cardigan two sizes too large. Both were flirting with Jonathan Alder, looking appealing in a black turtleneck and jeans. Winton Pettibone stood a few feet away from everyone, looking out of place as usual.

Farnsworth waved at her from across the room, just as Erin felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Reverend Motley beaming at her through watery blue eyes.

“I heard about your unfortunate accident. How are you feeling?”

“Better, thanks. And it wasn’t an accident.”

“Goodness!” he exclaimed, but Erin thought he didn’t look very surprised. “You mean—”

“Someone deliberately ran me down.”

Before he could answer, Erin slipped in between the folding chairs to sit next to Farnsworth.

“We’re not the only ones who had the bright idea to show up early,” Farnsworth said, pulling a thermos from a large flowered Tesco bag. “At least I came prepared—since there’ll be no tea service, it’s strictly BYOT.”

“You’re a treasure.”

In the back of the room, leaning against the wall, was Detective Hemming. Arms crossed, he quietly observed the members as they arrived. Instead of his usual suit and tie, he wore a red-and-black flannel shirt over black trousers. Erin’s throat contracted at the sight of him, and she felt a little light-headed. Then she remembered she hadn’t eaten dinner.

“Did you bring anything to eat?” she asked Farnsworth.

Farnsworth rolled her eyes. “You do realize who you’re talking to?”

“I’ll rephrase that. What did you bring to eat?”

Farnsworth smiled as she extracted a baguette and a hunk of Saint-André cheese from the Tesco bag.

Erin inhaled the aroma of the soft, creamy cheese. “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“And for the health conscious,” Farnsworth said, producing an apple and a bunch of Concord grapes.

“Will you marry me?”

“It would break too many hearts. Speaking of heartbreakers, incoming Mr. Wickham at three o’clock.”

Erin turned to see Jonathan Alder approaching rather tentatively.

“Hello there,” he said. “I had the impression for a moment you were avoiding me.”

“Not at all,” Erin lied. Her feelings about Detective Hemming were confusing enough—she didn’t need to worry about Jonathan as well. But his presence gave her a frisson of pleasure.

“Why would anyone avoid you?” Farnsworth said. Her tone was flirtatious, but with an ironic edge. With Farnsworth it could be hard to tell. “Would you like some cheese and fruit?”

“Thanks, but I just ate,” he said, looking around at the people filing in. The room was filling up—not so many people as at the last meeting, but more than usual. “We could be in for some fireworks tonight.”

“Who do you think is the most likely candidate for president?” Farnsworth asked.

“I don’t even know who’s in the running.”

“What about you?” Hetty said, sauntering over to join them. She eyed Jonathan as if he were an expensive steak; she was practically salivating.

“Good heavens, no,” he said, blushing.

“You’re certainly popular enough,” said Hetty, “at least with the ladies.”

“And you don’t have many negatives, since no one knows much about you,” Farnsworth remarked.

“I don’t know about that—”

“It’s true,” Hetty said. “A real man of mystery. No one even knows where you came from.”

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” he said. “Sorry, but I have to run to the loo before we start.”

“When nature calls, you have to answer,” said Hetty.

“Interesting,” Erin, said, looking at her watch when he had gone. “We’re not due to start for another ten minutes.”

“He’s obviously avoiding talking about himself,” said Farnsworth.

“How odd,” said Hetty. “Most people love to talk about themselves.”

“Definitely a Mr. Wickham type,” Farnsworth remarked. “Not to be trusted. I’d watch out if I were you,” she told Erin.

“I’m not—” Erin began, but her attention was diverted by the sight of Winton and Prudence Pettibone, seated at a folding table, deep in conversation. She wondered if he was at last telling her about his illness, though this seemed an odd place to do it.

“Wonder what that’s all about?” Farnsworth murmured, following her gaze.

“Pru is desperate to run for president,” Hetty said, helping herself to a slice of cheese.

“I can’t imagine anyone wanting the job now,” said Farnsworth.

“Because they might become the next victim?” Hetty said, biting into a crisp slice of apple.

“Because it’s a den of vipers,” Farnsworth replied.

An attractive, athletic-looking blonde slid into the seat nearest the entrance. Her wide sunglasses and broad-brimmed floppy hat effectively hid her expression, but her firm, pointed chin and taut body suggested an iron will and strong personality. She immersed herself in her mobile phone, texting so quickly with her manicured thumbs that Erin couldn’t help sneaking a look at her.

She was clad in a red plastic raincoat, fastened snugly around her trim waist, and carried a tiny leather backpack, the kind that was all the rage among stylish urban women. Her heels were too high to be comfortable, her lipstick was perfectly applied, and her manicure was new. Everything about her looked expensive and pampered, carefully chosen for effect over utility.

“Who’s she?” Farnsworth whispered.

“I have no idea,” Erin answered.

After a few minutes, the woman rose and headed toward the lavatory, high heels clicking smartly on the polished floor. Erin wondered that the thought had not occurred to her earlier—suddenly the resemblance seemed so obvious.

She was Suzanne Becker’s sister.

As she approached the little hall leading to the restrooms, Kurt Becker emerged from the men’s room. Spotting her, he frowned, though he didn’t look entirely surprised to see her. He tried to brush past her, but she caught his arm and pulled him aside.

“Was hast Du getan?” she said, shaking her perfectly groomed head.

“Ich habe Dir gesagt, dass es nicht mein Schuld ist,” he said in a low voice.

“Unglaublich,” she said, a look of disgust on her taut face as he disappeared into the stairwell. She continued on her way to the ladies’ room, emerging a few minutes later with a fresh coat of lipstick. Sauntering back into the room, she stopped when she reached Erin and Farnsworth.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” she added, offering a slim hand. “I’m Katrine Auer, Suzanne’s sister.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Erin said, shaking it. It was cool and dry, the skin powdery, as though it had been dusted with talcum. “I’m Erin Coleridge, and this is Farnsworth Appleby.”

“Farnsworth—isn’t that an odd name for a female?” Katrine asked with a little smirk.

“I’m an odd female,” said Farnsworth. “Where’s Suzanne?”

“She’s indisposed,” Katrine replied. “I understand there has been a lot of excitement around here lately.”

“Is that what you call it in Germany?” Farnsworth said. “Here we call it murder.”

A frown flashed across her taut face, replaced by a tight smile. “I’d better find a seat before they start,” Katrine said. “Nice to meet you.”

“She thinks she’s all that and a packet of crisps,” Farnsworth muttered. “You speak German. What was that all about?”

“She said ‘What have you done?’” Erin said. “And he said it wasn’t his fault.”

“That’s interesting. Think they were talking about Sylvia’s death?”

“I wish I knew.”

At that moment Carolyn and Owen Hardacker entered the room. Simply clad in a long black linen dress, hair loose about her shoulders, Carolyn looked fragile, with dark circles under her eyes, while Owen wore a scowl suggesting it would be a good idea to keep a distance from him.

Carolyn walked over to Erin, opened her leather shoulder bag, and pulled out The Poisoner’s Handbook. “I’m so sorry. I was looking at this in your shop the other day and it ended up in my bag. I’ve been meaning to return it to you. Of course, I’d be glad to pay for it if you’d rather.”

“That’s not necessary,” Erin said, tucking the book into her backpack. Obviously the explanation was entirely for Owen’s sake, and she wasn’t going to embarrass Carolyn further by saying anything.

“Right,” said Owen, tipping his hat to the ladies, “now that we’ve got that sorted, shall we go sit down?”

“Go ahead, darling—I’ll be with you in a moment,” Carolyn said. Owen shrugged and obeyed. When it came to his wife, Erin thought, he was a pussycat.

Erin turned to see Jonathan approaching, but instead of talking to her, he addressed Carolyn.

“How are you feeling?”

“Rough, but I think it’s working,” she said.

“I’m so glad,” he said, squeezing her hand.

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“You already have.”

“It was worth every penny,” she said, hugging him before returning to her seat in the back row next to her husband.

“What was that all about?” Farnsworth whispered. “What was worth every penny?”

Erin stood up and went over to talk with Jonathan. After a couple of minutes, she returned to sit next to her friend.

“What did you learn?” said Farnsworth.

“Carolyn wasn’t giving him money for gambling debts. She’s paying him for hypnosis.”

“For her addiction!” Farnsworth said. “So that explains what you overheard.”

“Shh! Not so loud,” said Erin. “Apparently he’s trained in therapeutic hypnosis.”

“I wonder if he can help me lose weight?” Farnsworth said wistfully as Kurt Becker emerged from the stairwell, his lean face impassive. A couple of people leaned into each other, whispering as he passed, as he took a seat near the back. Crossing his arms, he sat stony-faced, staring straight ahead.

Constable McCrary entered the room behind him, striding with purpose toward Detective Hemming. The two policemen engaged in conversation, heads close. Erin strained to hear what they were saying, but they were too far away. The constable was blocking her line of sight, so she couldn’t see the detective’s reaction.

“Wonder why the coppers are here,” Farnsworth said. “Maybe they know something we don’t.”

Owen Hardacker stepped to the front of the room and cleared his throat.

“If this meeting would come to order,” he said, “we’ll get started. As past president, I’ve been asked to run things just for tonight. As you know, the reason for this meeting is to elect a new society president, so I’d like to open the floor for nominations.”

As he spoke, Erin looked up to see James Marlowe tiptoeing quietly into the room. Giving her a quick smile, he took the seat nearest the door.

“So,” Owen continued, “are there any nominations?”

Hetty’s hand shot into the air. “I nominate Jonathan Alder.”

“I second the nomination,” Farnsworth called out.

Erin looked around, but there was no sign of Jonathan.

“Right,” said Owen. “Any others?”

“I nominate Prudence Pettibone,” Winton said quietly.

Erin craned her neck to see Pru’s reaction, but her line of sight was blocked by Constable McCrary.

“I second that,” said James Marlowe.

“Very well,” Owen said. “Other nominations?”

He was greeted with silence. “Very well,” he said. “All in favor of—”

At that moment a deafening clap of thunder sounded. The lights flickered, then shuddered and went out. A murmur arose from the crowd, and Reverend Motley’s voice rose over the general noise.

“Don’t panic—there are candles upstairs!”

That was followed by a cry on the other side of the room, near the staircase—it sounded like a man’s voice—and the sound of a body hitting the ground. Digging frantically through her knapsack, Erin extracted a small pocket flashlight. Turning it on, she sprang from her seat and headed in the direction of the sound. A much brighter beam shone behind her, and she turned to see Constable McCrary, flashlight in hand, heading toward her. She could just make out Detective Hemming and Sergeant Jarral close behind him.

Following the beam of his flashlight, she saw, lying on the floor at her feet, Jonathan Alder. Her first thought was that he was dead, but to her relief, he stirred and sat up.

“What happened?” she said.

“Someone attacked me,” he said, rubbing his neck. “Hit me on the back of the head.”

The lights flickered again and went on. Blinking from the sudden brightness, Erin looked down at Jonathan, still sitting on the ground. Next to him was a broken flowerpot, its contents spilled onto the ground. She couldn’t help noticing that the bedraggled blossom lying amid dirt, roots, and broken pottery was Phalaenopsis schilleriana, the moth orchid, the same one she had procured the cutting from for Prudence.

Erin looked at Detective Hemming, his face grim.

He scanned the crowd of stunned onlookers before speaking.

“Nobody leaves this room.”