Chapter Two

Hazel Bailey was a petite woman. Just under five feet tall and soft-spoken, she’d never possessed an intimidating personality. But the way she was standing at the door now, with her mouth pulled down in a deep scowl and her arm flung out to block our entrance into her home, so surprised me that I backed up a few steps.

I had thought she liked me.

A few months ago, Hazel had believed a rumor that I was pregnant with her only son’s child. She’d been thrilled. Of course, there’d been no truth to the outrageous rumor. And once she understood how ridiculous it all was, Hazel and I had laughed together.

Much to her delight (and grandmotherly aspirations), I had recently started dating her son. A few weeks ago, she’d asked Jace to invite me over for a family Sunday supper. I’d reluctantly declined because my own Mama Eddy had threatened to throw a hissy fit if I even suggested I would miss having Sunday supper with her, since Sunday was one of the few times a week she got to see me, her only daughter. But I had asked Jace to tell his mom that I’d be happy to come on any other night.

Was she upset that I hadn’t come to her house for Sunday supper? Had he botched explaining to her why I couldn’t?

Or was it something else?

Oh gracious, I bet it was something else. Jace had been acting secretive lately. He’d also been canceling our dates for no good reason. Just last night we were supposed to bundle up and go for a moonlight boat ride on the lake. But he’d called at the last minute to tell me he couldn’t make it while offering no other explanation. He often claimed that he’d been working long hours for the police department, but whenever I would ask him about why his work hours had recently been expanded, he’d change the subject.

I hadn’t dated enough men to know all the games they played.

But I did know my best friend, Tori. She’d dated more men than I could count and had married (and divorced) four of them. She would claim she was working long hours whenever she started growing bored in a relationship. Only rarely would she actually be at work. Most of the time she’d be at my house watching chick flicks. A few times, she’d even be out on a date with someone new.

Was “working long hours” the lie everyone told when a relationship got stale, and no one had bothered to tell me? Had Jace told his mother that the relationship was over?

Oh. No. Oh. No. Was I the last to know that my relationship with Jace was over? Of course I would be the last to know. I’m always the last to know when it comes to things like this.

I started to hyperventilate . . . just a little bit.

“What’s wrong with you?” Hazel demanded, her hands on her hips. “Jace already explained to me why you couldn’t come to Sunday supper, if that’s what you’re huffing and puffing about.”

Oh! She was still miffed and feeling like I’d snubbed her invitation. I tried to apologize.

She cut me off with a gruff “No apology necessary. Anyone who’s ever met Mama Eddy understands.”

Did she just insult my mother? My shoulders tensed. I opened my mouth, prepared to defend Mama Eddy. My mother wasn’t as crazy as most in these parts thought. She was just . . . well, just a bit more eccentric than the average Southerner. And I suppose that really is saying something considering how colorful Southerners could be, especially those Southerners who called Cypress home.

I took a deep breath and willed my shoulders to drop back down.

“You did ask me to come a half hour early,” I gently reminded Hazel. Perhaps she’d forgotten.

“Did I?” She rolled her eyes before adding, “I suppose I must have.”

“You remember Flossie Finnegan-Baker. She came along to assist me. You did say it would be okay if she accompanied me when we spoke on the phone,” I added, since she was still blocking the doorway and staring at the two of us as if we were trying to sell her an outdated and overpriced set of encyclopedias. “May we come in?”

Warm, spicy aromas that reminded me of my grandmother’s house wafted out the front door to tease our senses.

Hazel finally stepped to one side of the door. “I suppose you can set up in the living room. That’s where you’ll be giving the presentation. I am looking forward to hearing what you have to say.”

We followed her inside.

A few steps in and I felt as if I’d been transported onto a page in House Beautiful magazine.

Wow, I mouthed. She had completely redone her living room since my last visit.

Well, she did still have her collection of weird dolls. They stared at you from every corner of the room. But she’d arranged them tastefully, having them sit in beautiful crystal bowls, peering down from bookshelves, and peeking out from behind the lamps.

Everyone in town kind of just ignored the dolls, since we already knew they were there and weren’t startled by them anymore. Despite the weird doll collection, the room was impressive. Hazel had managed to seamlessly blend a formal Southern style with casual chic. “Who did you hire to decorate your house?” Flossie asked as she looked around the room. “It’s brilliant.”

“This?” Hazel acted as if she were seeing her home for the first time. She relaxed into a smile. “It’s just something I put together. I like to change things up every season. Don’t you?”

Flossie made noises indicating her agreement even though the décor in her lake house hadn’t changed a jot since her husband’s death nearly a decade ago. His winter coats were even still hanging in the front closet.

“Gracious sakes, Hazel, you know I’m allergic to gluten,” a woman shrieked from another room. “Are you trying to kill me? I can’t eat any of this.” A plate clattered as if tossed down in anger.

Hazel flashed a tense smile before murmuring, “Excuse me. I need to take care of that. If you don’t mind waiting here.” She nodded toward one of the overstuffed sofas in front of a bank of windows that looked out into the fading gray sky. “I’ll be back with a few stiff cocktails in a moment.”

“Did you recognize that voice?” Flossie whispered after Hazel had disappeared through a swinging door that (if the delicious scents coming from that room were any indication) led to the kitchen.

Although the high-pitched screechy voice sounded familiar, I couldn’t put a name to it.

“That’s Rebecca White,” Flossie whispered with trembling reverence. When I didn’t faint away from rapturous joy at the mention of the name, she added with a huff, “The woman who invited you here? She once had a starring role on Desiring Hearts. You remember that soap opera? It was a-maze-ing. I heard she believed the job was a waste of her acting skills and quit after one season even though her character was on her way to becoming wildly popular. Surprisingly, she never managed to find another acting gig. At least, none that matched her talent, and she decided she’d rather never work again than accept an inferior part. You have to respect her integrity. We’re so lucky she moved to Cypress. You do know who she is now, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, I know who she is,” I said with a laugh. “I’ve lived in Cypress all my life.”

“She’s also president of the Arete Society and arbiter of literature in Cypress.” Despite my protests that I’d heard it all before, Flossie continued to rhapsodize about the former starlet. Her voice remained soft with a hushed admiration. “Nothing gets read by the members of this group without her approval. And I mean nothing. A few years ago a member was spotted reading a best-selling novel that didn’t meet Rebecca’s high standards. And poof. The poor woman was banned from ever attending another meeting. The woman’s friends, those who were still club members, stopped talking to her. She ended up moving to Charlotte.”

I stared hard at Flossie. “And you want to be a part of this group? Why?”

“Because it’s the only book club in the state worth joining,” she said, as if that should have been obvious. “It’s the Arete Society, for goodness’ sake.”

I felt a bit hurt. “I think our book club is the best one around.”

“We’re a casual meeting of friends who share a love of mystery books. The Arete Society is formal and . . . well, it’s—it’s different.”

“You are trying to kill me!” we heard Rebecca screech from behind the door Hazel had gone through. Another plate clattered. “There’s gluten in this dish too! Did you not read any of the instructions I’d sent over?”

“Please, Rebecca, I did read them. I’m not—!” Hazel cried.

The door to the kitchen swung open. The former soap star, dressed in a wide-legged red pantsuit, marched out carrying a plate of mini lobster tacos. She reminded me of a diva entering from stage left.

“This sauce has gluten in it.” Rebecca bit off the words. Her short curly hair bounced, echoing her agitation. “There’s nothing on the platter I can eat. It’s all contaminated because you put that sauce everywhere.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Hazel followed behind Rebecca. She darted a worried glance in our direction and mouthed I’m sorry before chasing after Rebecca, who was rushing toward the front door. “In my defense, though, the placard for that appetizer does mention gluten. I thought that since the book we’d read for this month was set in Maine, it would be fun to serve something with lobster in it as an appetizer. Most of the other appetizers are gluten-free. I promise. And I replaced the steak dish I’d planned with a fresh tuna macaroni salad for the entrée because you decided two days ago to give up red meat.”

Rebecca stopped her tirade when she seemed to notice she had an audience watching her with mouths gaping open. “How would you feel if you were invited for dinner, but you were unable to eat everything served?” she asked us, sounding much less hysterical.

She swung the platter in our direction. I don’t know what was in the white sauce that the lobster-taco filling was swimming in, but its tangy, spicy aroma made my mouth water.

“You’d feel terrible,” she declared with deep, round tones and then pulled the plate away just as I had started to reach for one of those plump little tacos.

I made a distressed sound that Rebecca mistook as my agreeing with her. In reality, the cry was a knee-jerk reaction to smelling something that delicious on an empty stomach and being denied the chance to eat it.

“Please,” Hazel pleaded. “Please, don’t get so upset. Please, don’t run off. I’ll remove them. There are plenty of other dishes that are gluten-free. I promise.”

“Other dishes?” Rebecca’s lips tightened. “You’re serving macaroni salad as your main dish.”

“The pasta is gluten-free.” Hazel twisted her hands in the flowered apron she was wearing. “I can show you the box.”

“It’s macaroni salad.” She looked as if the words somehow tasted sour in her mouth. “This isn’t a church picnic, Hazel. It’s the Arete Society. We have standards. High standards. I thought you understood that. You certainly had no trouble wolfing down the gourmet meals the other hostesses have prepared.”

“But, but I assure you—” Hazel tried to say as she continued twisting her hands in her apron.

“And I forgot to tell you, Emma called about an hour ago. She says she’s too sick to come tonight.”

“Emma? Is that sweet girl okay?” Hazel asked, sounding genuinely worried. “She was here earlier today. I’ve been giving her sewing and cooking lessons.”

“If you ask me, she backed out because she didn’t read the book. Not that it ever matters. She never has anything intelligent to add to the discussion. I swear, if not for that icebox cake she always brings, I’d kick her out too.”

“T-too?” Hazel’s voice quivered.

“I should have kicked her out ages ago, I suppose. Now Hazel, if you can’t pull yourself together, this will be your last night in the society,” Rebecca warned. “If not for your grand house and reputation for being able to pull off elegant society events, you would have never been invited to join the society in the first place. And don’t forget our special guest. We all want to impress her, do we not?”

“Of course we do,” Hazel said softly.

I blushed when I realized that I was the special guest that Rebecca and Hazel were making such a fuss over. “I’m easy to impress,” I assured them.

No one seemed to have heard.

“Tonight will work out. But . . . but . . . Emma isn’t coming?” Hazel whispered. She shot Flossie and me a panicked look. “I was counting on her dessert.”

“You don’t have to stand here and tell me about it. Just go whip something up,” Rebecca said, as if it were as easy as that. “And while you’re at it, find something more appetizing than macaroni salad to serve as a main dish. I want everything to be perfect. I have an important announcement I want to make this evening.”

Hazel muttered nervously under her breath as she headed toward the kitchen door.

“While you’re busy in there, I’ll help get things ready out here by rearranging your living room. This setup will never do. With my help and a little luck, I think I can keep this meeting from turning into a complete disaster.”

“You’re going to rearrange my furniture?” Hazel squeaked.

“Ye-e-esss.” Rebecca drew out that one word until it had three syllables. “You wouldn’t want your guests seeing your place looking like this. It’s a pity we don’t have time to do anything about the color of those drab gray walls. Blue would have been a bolder choice. Besides, I always look better in front of a blue backdrop.” Rebecca pushed Hazel toward the kitchen. “The only thing I like is how you arranged those cute little dolls of yours. But don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything out here. You have enough to handle in the kitchen. Go on. Go on. Tonight is going to be epic.”

Hazel opened and closed her mouth like a fish that had been pulled from the water, but no sound came out. “But I worked so hard on everything,” she finally managed to croak.

“I know you did your best, dear.” With one last shove, Rebecca managed to get Hazel back into the kitchen. “That woman is in hopelessly over her head. This is her first time hosting the book club. I had expected that she could . . . Well, I should have known she wasn’t up to the task.” She looked over at me. “Now, stop standing there gaping like an imbecile and help me move the sofa. It really needs to be on the other side of the room. We don’t have much time. Our special guest, Joyce Fellows, from Ideal Life, will be here in less than a half hour.”

“Joyce Fellows?” Flossie asked, her eyebrows shooting up into her hairline.

“Jo-Jo will be producing a segment about the Arete Society for her television show. She says what I’ve done with the group and how I’ve made it the best book club in the state should be a model for book clubs all over the country to follow. She insisted she come and film. Of course, it will be quite an honor to be back on national television.” She thought about that for a moment. “It’s also a huge honor for Jo-Jo’s little television show to feature me. I’m sure this episode will set a ratings record.”

“The Arete Society has been one of the most respected book clubs in South Carolina and in the Southeast for nearly a hundred years,” Flossie murmured. “Long before—”

“What’s that?” Rebecca asked, but she didn’t wait for Flossie to repeat herself. Instead, she turned to me and clapped her hands. “Get moving. We’re running out of time.”

I jumped to action and raced across the room toward where Rebecca had already lifted one end of the sofa. That was when I heard a sob coming from the direction of the kitchen. Poor Hazel, no wonder she had been so frazzled when we arrived a few minutes ago. Rebecca was acting simply awful.

I bypassed the sofa and continued toward the kitchen door. The Grind, a restaurant not that far away, sold the best caramel drizzle cake anyone’s mouth had ever tasted. If Hazel was agreeable, I could pick up a cake for her and get back before cocktail hour was over.

“This sofa isn’t going to move itself,” Rebecca barked at me. “And Jo-Jo expects perfection. We all do.”

“I . . . The room looks fine,” I said.

“Not for a televised book club meeting, it doesn’t. I should know. I was in television. We don’t have much time before the members start arriving. Come help me move this sofa.”

“But I was going to—”

“Tru, don’t keep Miss White standing there with half a sofa in the air. It’s bound to be heavy,” Flossie said, sending a pleading look my way.

For Flossie’s sake, I supposed I could move one sofa before rushing off to pick up the cake and still get back in time to have the main course.

“Rebecca White, I’m not sure you remember me.” Flossie rolled behind us as Rebecca and I slowly moved the heavy sofa from one end of the room to the other. “I’m Flossie Finnegan-Baker. I have been on the society’s waiting list—”

“When there’s an opening,” Rebecca said without glancing in Flossie’s direction, “an invitation goes out to an applicant who we think will elevate our discussions. If we let just anyone join, we wouldn’t experience the intelligent conversations that are expected at each meeting.”

“I assure you, Rebecca, that with my education, travel, and experience penning books, I would—”

“I’m sure you would. Unfortunately, there are no openings for new members right now.”

Flossie tapped her chin as if in deep thought. “People travel from miles around just to buy some of the deep dark chocolate brownies I bake for the church bazaar every year. I buy the chocolate from a shop that makes their own bars from the bean. It’s fair trade and delicious.”

“Chocolate gives me a migraine,” Rebecca grumbled. She set down a small, round side table next to the sofa I’d helped move.

“Oh, well,” Flossie pressed on. “I write a fair bit, as you might have heard. And I read a wide range of books, both fiction and nonfiction.”

“Don’t we all?” Rebecca directed me to move the chairs from one place to another.

“Flossie makes a mean catfish stew,” I offered with a grunt as I lifted a heavy armchair. “I don’t know what she puts in it, but it’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted. In a good way.”

“An old fisherman’s wife in Morocco taught me the recipe.” Flossie mouthed thank you to me when Rebecca’s back was turned. “The stew is delicious with almost any kind of fish, really. It’s the blend of spices that really makes it work—a mix of coconut sugar, paprika, cumin, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, salt, pepper, and a pinch of cayenne. I serve it over a fragrant basmati rice. I’d be happy to make it for you sometime.”

“I don’t like spicy food,” Rebecca said, still not even bothering to glance in Flossie’s direction. “Trudell, not there. Put the chair by the window. We need to hurry.” I was working up quite a sweat moving furniture for Rebecca. The maddening woman would have me put something in one place only to decide that it would work better somewhere else.

“The stew is not hot spicy,” I assured Rebecca.

“Just rich with flavors,” Flossie explained, starting to look panicked. “But I have collected dozens of recipes from all around the world. I’m sure I can make something you’d like.”

“I doubt it.” She finally gave Flossie the courtesy of looking at her when she spoke. “Look. I get what you’re trying to do, but I think you’d be happier if you stuck with being a member of that little book club of yours.”

Flossie frowned as she bit her lower lip.

Rebecca went back to giving me directions, directions I felt much less inclined to follow. I wanted to say something to defend Flossie, but I had no idea what the right words might be. I needed time to think.

“No.” Flossie lifted her chin defiantly. “No, Miss White. You’re wrong. I have life experiences, but at the same time I’m not a bore. I don’t feel a need to talk about myself all the time. I know the classics of literature, but I also enjoy reading popular literature. And I’m sure I could cook something that would tempt even your selective taste buds. If you’d only take the time to—”

Hazel breezed through the kitchen door. “How are things going in—?” Her eyes widened as she took in the state of her living room. Her face lost all color and after a moment she muttered, “I . . . um . . . I think something is burning.” She disappeared back into the kitchen.

“I’d better go see what that woman is ruining now,” Rebecca said after directing me to move the side table, the coffee table, and that heavy armchair to its third location. “No, Trudell. Not there.” She pointed to a far corner. “Over there.”

As soon as Rebecca left the room, I dropped the armchair where I stood, which happened to be in the middle of the room, and slumped into it. “Are you sure you still want to join this club?” I asked Flossie while trying to catch my breath.

“Of course I do. It’s the Arete Society.”

“I don’t think they deserve you.” I blotted at my brow with a tissue I’d found in a pocket. “What club is worth the aggravation of dealing with that dragon?”

“This is the Arete Society we’re talking about, Tru. It’s been around for generations. My mother and my grandmother were members. And I’m sure it has been run by dragons from time to time.”

A loud crash from the kitchen made us both jump.

As we moved toward the swinging door to investigate, the doorbell rang.

“What should we do?” I asked as I automatically moved toward the front door. “Answer the door or offer our help in the kitchen?”

“Kitchen,” Flossie answered as she rolled her wheelchair in that direction. “As hostess, Hazel should be the one to greet her guests. She wouldn’t thank us for doing that for her.” The kitchen door swung back and forth in Flossie’s wake.

I hesitated.

The head librarian, Mrs. Farnsworth, might be on the other side of the front door, ringing the bell. She wouldn’t appreciate being made to wait outside.

But then there was a second crash in the kitchen.

“Flossie? Is everything all right in there?” I abandoned my quest to open the front door and jogged to the kitchen to find Flossie sitting in her wheelchair next to an enormous kitchen counter lined with sumptuous dishes. Gleaming china platters and crystal bowls added extra elegance to the most creative dishes I’d ever seen in person. The spread rivaled the best of the best on some of my favorite cooking shows.

“Hazel did this all by herself?” I wondered aloud, barely able to restrain myself from taking a nibble out of one of the rainbow-colored mini hamburgers topped with feta cheese. I knew Hazel was a good cook, but I’d never guessed she was this good. My empty stomach rumbled.

Strangely, Flossie wasn’t looking at the food but was busy slipping something into her bag.

“What were those crashes?” I asked her.

“I ran into the counter when I saw this mess. Hazel must have dropped her pasta casserole onto the floor. It’s everywhere,” Flossie said. Her wheelchair made a squishy sound as she rolled through elbow pasta floating in an eggy mayonnaise sauce strewn with cucumbers, pink seared tuna, and chives. “You’d better get a mop.”

“We’re going to need more than a mop,” I said as I stepped farther into the kitchen.

I pointed to the hardwood floor where a pair of legs were sticking out from behind the kitchen counter.

“Is it—?” Flossie asked.

I peered around the counter and followed the legs up to the rest of the woman. Rebecca White was lying flat on her back. Her unmoving eyes seemed to be staring judgmentally at a tiny cobweb hanging from the ceiling.

Flossie looked at the shattered casserole dish lying in pieces next to Rebecca’s body. “Tell me she isn’t dead.”

“Can’t do that.” I sighed.

Flossie breathed out a long, loud breath. “It looks like there will be an opening for a new member after all.”

“An opening? What do you mean an opening?” Hazel demanded. “Did Rebecca say something about my membership?” Our hostess had come into the kitchen through the back door. She was wearing bright yellow dish gloves while carrying an empty garbage can. I was embarrassed that she’d heard Flossie’s uncharitable remark about a dead woman. “What’s going on in here?” Her voice was filled with suspicion as soon as she noticed the awful mess.

“What did you do to Rebecca?” Flossie demanded right back at our hostess.

Hazel looked first at the pasta salad splattered all over the floor and then at Rebecca, who was lying in the middle of the mess. “Good gracious, Mary and Joseph. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

The doorbell rang a second time.

“And the rest of the ladies are here. And I suppose the television crew is bound to be out there too. Of course they are,” Hazel said before bursting out in a loud peal of laughter. The poor woman laughed so hard she had to bend over and grab hold of her knees to keep from falling over. And she kept laughing.