ten

When Francine knocked on Charlotte’s door that night for the Summer Ridge Bridge Club meeting, she was greeted by an eye checking her out through the peephole. Francine understood. It had been a difficult afternoon. If she wasn’t so tired, she’d have found it difficult to believe not twenty-four hours had passed since they found the dead body.

The door creaked open, and Charlotte hustled Francine in, shutting the door behind her. “Can you believe the promos for our Good Morning America appearance were running by the evening news?” Charlotte said. “It’s been nonstop madness since.”

“I wouldn’t answer the phone after the first one ran.”

Charlotte beckoned her into the family room, slid back a red paisley curtain panel, and peered out. “I guess so. I must’ve left a hundred messages for you.”

“Didn’t you get the phone call from Jud not to say anything? It wasn’t long after that the phone started ringing off the hook. I didn’t recognize the numbers, so I stopped checking to see who was calling.”

“It wasn’t just the phone calls that bothered me. It was the reporters who camped outside my house. At least they’re gone now.” She straightened the curtain.

Charlotte’s house was one of the smaller ones in the subdivision, a three-bedroom ranch with a small family room to the right off the front hall, the kitchen and dining room straight ahead, and a screened-in porch off the back past the dining room. She led Francine to the right toward the bedrooms.

“Joy says Darla Baggesen was out at her house telling the reporters it was against the homeowners’ agreement to park on both sides of the street and narrow traffic to one lane,” Francine said. “They didn’t pay much attention, but they did try to interview her. I’m guessing what she told them won’t make it past the censors.”

Charlotte had long ago transformed the third bedroom of her home into a library. Well-organized shelves full of alphabetized books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. They were all mysteries or thrillers.

But the room was not tidy. A dozen partially-read books lay open, scattered throughout the room. Sticky notes protruded from their pages. Francine had to move one off the padded rocking chair she usually sat in.

Charlotte pulled a thin white cardigan around her. “Do you want any brandy? I feel like I need a nip of it.”

Francine debated whether it was the coolness of the air conditioned room or the bizarre day that fueled the brandy comment. She wasn’t crazy about brandy—it burned all the way down her throat. But she knew Charlotte wouldn’t drink alone. If she took a tiny bit for herself she could always knock it back if the others showed up early. She was fifteen minutes ahead of the agreed-upon eight o’clock meeting. “I’ll pour us each a little. You just have a seat.”

She went to the liquor cabinet, took out a couple of crystal aperitif glasses, and poured a tiny amount into hers, then a bit more in Charlotte’s, while her friend eased herself into her favorite reading chair, an apricot-colored recliner. It was getting threadbare but was still the most comfortable chair in the house. Charlotte thought the apricot added a splash of color against the dark blue flowered wallpaper. Francine would have ditched the wallpaper two decades ago.

She distributed the brandy glasses and took a seat in the rocker. In spite of all that had happened that day, she relaxed. Just being in a familiar place with a friend felt good. “Are you really going to go through with it?”

“With what?”

“The Good Morning America interview tomorrow. You know how nervous you get when someone shoves a microphone in front of you.”

“Pshaw.” Charlotte took a swallow of the brandy. “Joy’s going to do all the talking, which is good because she can really talk. Besides, I’m better than I used to be about stuff like that.”

Francine doubted the latter, but she did hope that Joy would do the talking. “Still, don’t overburden your digestive system in the morning. Okay?”

Charlotte didn’t answer the question but picked up an open notebook and pen sitting on top of an open mystery book. “I’ve been looking at this Friederich Guttmann murder from different angles, trying to figure out who could have wanted him dead. Larry is hardly the best candidate.”

Francine touched the glass to her lips and pretended to sip. “I agree about Larry. We’ve known them since they moved in a couple decades ago. Seems like we’d have noticed something odd about him if he were the killer type.”

“I’ve been looking to draw a parallel with one of the cozy mysteries I read sometimes. They almost always have a killer you’d never suspect. Although, I can usually spot them from the beginning now.”

“The papers seem to favor Larry. Either him or Jake Maehler.”

“Jake Maehler is more likely in my opinion. Here’s a guy who became a NASCAR driver, gets branded a loser because he can’t finish in the top ten anywhere, and returns to Brownsburg. His back is against the wall. He’s desperate. And he had a dustup with Friederich two weeks ago.”

Francine had done a little research that afternoon, so she knew about it. The sports section of the Hendricks County Flyer had covered it extensively at the time. Jake had wrecked at the Night Before the 500 race in May and blamed Friederich’s work. “But they patched things up. They announced they were going to work together at SpeedFest.”

“You realize that announcement was just Thursday? Friederich disappeared on Saturday. It might have been a ruse.”

Francine took her first sip, a tiny one. “Or someone didn’t like their decision to keep working together.”

“I do like the way you think. That’s another good angle. You’ve hardly touched your brandy. Don’t you like it?”

The doorbell rang. Francine looked at the glass. The others were probably here, and she didn’t like them seeing her drink outside of dinner. She tilted her head and drank it down. It burned, making her cough. “I’ll get the door,” she choked out. “I assume we’re going to meet in here.”

“Thanks, Francine. It saves me from having to get up and come back.”

She took her aperitif glass and detoured to the kitchen to set it in the sink before she answered the door. Mary Ruth, Joy, and Alice were on the doorstep together.

“Why is the door locked?” Mary Ruth said, breathing heavily. “I rushed up the sidewalk thinking I was late and tried to get in, but the door wouldn’t open.”

“You had a catering event today, didn’t you?” Francine answered. “The rest of us have been hounded by reporters all afternoon. Jonathan and I hid upstairs in his office, but they still didn’t leave until Jud showed up and told them to disperse.”

“It was awful,” Alice said.

“It was wonderful,” said Joy. She looked at Alice. “Sorry. I know it was awful for you.”

Francine wondered how Alice had learned of the meeting. “I didn’t think you’d be coming,” she said. “You have a lot to deal with.”

“All the more reason to be here. Plus, I need to talk to all of you.”

Mary Ruth handed Francine a small square cake. “Here, this is my famous flourless chocolate cake. I made an extra one for the event today but didn’t need it.” She stepped into the house, flapping her arms and trying to get a breeze going under her pink Mary Ruth’s Catering t-shirt.

Joy tapped Mary Ruth on the shoulder. “You’re available tomorrow morning, aren’t you? Good Morning America is going to interview all of us at Alice’s pool near the scene of the crime.”

Mary Ruth’s stared in fear. “I don’t think so!”

“It won’t be so bad,” Joy said, taking her by the arm. “Alice can’t be on because of the lawyer, but the rest of us will be there. It’s not so much about the murder as it is about the skinny-dipping and our Sixty Lists.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

The two walked back to the library, Joy speaking soothingly. She must have been effective because by the time Francine took the cake to kitchen and got back to the library, Mary Ruth had agreed to participate.

The five women sat in a circle, the latecomers having unpacked folding chairs from the library closet. Joy, as president of the group, tried several times to start the meeting but everyone kept talking. Just as she got the group quiet, Alice interrupted.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got something I’ve got to get off my chest and if I don’t do it right now I think I might burst.” They all leaned in a little closer. “Larry hasn’t been in Las Vegas, like he said. He came back on Saturday, and he’s been staying in a hotel on the east side of Indianapolis. The police located him an hour ago. He’s down at the police station with his lawyer.” She burst into tears.