On a good week, I wondered why we bothered holding Cape Hope Book Club meetings.
Even when it seemed like most of the attendees had read the book—or at least the first few chapters before skipping to the end—the conversation usually devolved into topics completely unrelated to anything literary within the first thirty minutes or so.
Once the wine started flowing, all bets were off.
And that was on a good week.
This week? After news of the murder had spread? The murder of somebody who owned property in Cape Hope? To say nothing of the fact that it had been I who’d discovered his body?
This was not a good week. This was maybe the worst week.
It was also the most packed my mom’s house had ever been for this particular event.
“Standing room only,” Darcy murmured on her way past with a pitcher of sangria.
I was carrying a platter of cheese and crackers which I placed beside a platter of fruit, nuts and honey. Many of those in attendance—twenty-two at last count—had brought treats with them.
Probably to make up for the fact that they hadn’t read the book. How did I know? Because I had never seen them at a book club meeting before.
That and the fact that they followed my every move like I was the dot at the end of a laser beam and they were a bunch of cats. I wanted to turn around and demand they stop staring, but that would come off as too wacky even for this bunch.
And they were wacky. Most of them were friends with my Auntie Nell, who was probably the one who’d spread the word about the meeting in the first place. The house was packed with her library pals who happened to share an affinity for murder.
I was somewhat on the morbid side, but I had nothing on her crew.
She helped Mom carry in a tiered tray of fresh cupcakes, which took a place of honor in the center of the dining room table. “Well,” Mom breathed, beaming. “I have to admit, I never expected this sort of turnout.”
Her voice was just as sweet as could be, the way it normally sounded. Rarely had she ever raised it that I was aware of, not even the time Darcy and I got into a buttercream fight in the café’s kitchen.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t shoot her best friend a dirty look. So she knew this was all Nell’s doing. I wondered if Raina and I would be like those two when we got older.
I couldn’t imagine my impossibly chic best friend dressing like a holdover from a Southern gothic novel, however, so that was out. Nell made a big to-do out of fluffing the ruffled lace cuffs of her gauzy white blouse, seemingly oblivious to my mother’s ire.
“I suppose we should begin,” Mom suggested with a sigh. “Did you all bring your copies of the book?”
I had mine. So did my sister, seated beside me at the head of the table. All the better to get the first crack at the food, which was one of the main reasons I attended these meetings at all. Sure, I liked to read, but we hardly ever discussed the book anyway.
A few of the others, the regulars, held up their copies. The rest did not, looking guilty and shifty as they exchanged glances.
My poor mom. She had no idea what to do.
I stood, wishing I’d taken a fortifying sip of sangria before now. “Okay. I think we can all drop the pretense of being here for Book Club when most of you aren’t actually in the club. At least you brought snacks, which is really nice. I can’t wait to tear into that olive tapenade, whoever brought it. Anyway, you want to talk about the murder. I get it. Do you have questions for me?”
Mom let out a sigh and sat down, fanning herself with a napkin. “Thank goodness. I didn’t know what to do.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got this.” I looked out over a sea of faces. Some familiar, some not so familiar. Most of the women attached to those faces had their hands raised. Sheesh. I chose one at random.
She cleared her throat. “Nina George, I work at the library.” Several of the women murmured in response and I wondered how I’d ended up in Bizarro World when all I wanted was sangria, snacks and a couple of hours of girl time. “What was it like? Did you touch the body?”
“I didn’t. Except for tripping over his leg, which I guess doesn’t count.” I looked down at my sister, wondering if I was hallucinating this or if she was witnessing it along with me. Her half-hidden grin told me it was the latter.
I recognized Breanna Schultz from yoga class, back when I used to go to yoga class. “Was there a lot of blood?” she asked, eager.
“No. I mean, it was dark, but I don’t think so.”
Several of the women whispered to each other, and I had to wonder what I’d said to make them disapprove. I thought I heard one of them claiming she would’ve seen whether there was blood, dark or not.
I was halfway ready to tell her I wished it had been her instead of me, but I was in my mom’s house and she was actually there and everything. My poor tongue would never recover from all the biting I’d done lately.
“Who’s that cutie you were sporting around town a couple of days ago?” somebody asked from the back of the living room before I called on her.
Mom fielded that one for me, bless her heart. “I told you, Frankie. That’s her gentleman friend.”
Darcy pressed a freshly-filled wine glass into my hand.
“He’s not…” I took a deep, calming breath that didn’t actually calm me, but it was better than screaming. “He happened to be taking pictures for the article I was supposed to be writing about the restaurant opening. He was the second person to see the body. He was nice enough to drive in to show me some of the work he did that night.”
“I wouldn’t mind him showing me some of his work!” Mrs. Merriweather chirped from the easy chair, causing no end of knowing laughter.
I drained half the wine in my glass in a single gulp.
“Okay, ladies,” Mom called out, holding her hands above her head. “Emma’s love life is not the subject of this meeting.”
“He’s not even—” I started, then realized I was fighting a losing battle. Like trying to fill a bucket when half the bottom had fallen out. “Anyway. Let’s move on. What else do you wanna know?”
By the time an hour had passed, my voice was about to go and I felt like a wrung-out washcloth. I had nothing left to give, plus my sister had been feeding me sangria throughout the process so I was a little unsteady. Mom announced it was time to eat and socialize.
I wondered what we had been doing until then and why it wasn’t considered socializing.
I was glad to turn to the food, since I needed something to soak up all the wine in my otherwise empty belly.
Breanna-from-yoga caught up to me, tugging my sleeve. “Hey. I just wanted to say I’m sorry this is all happening. It really sucks.”
My voice was barely a whisper, and not because I was trying to be discreet. “Yeah, it does.”
She twirled the end of her long braid, chewing her lip as she continued hounding me. “I shouldn’t have asked the question about the blood, but it just seems strange to me that there wasn’t a lot of it. My mom’s a nurse, and the first thing she said when she heard of this case is that there should’ve been a ton of blood if he was stabbed in the chest. I mean, it should’ve gotten everywhere.”
“The knife was still in his chest when I found him,” I explained, still whispering, before popping a tapenade-covered cracker in my mouth. If I had to live on one thing and sugar was off the table, appetizers would be my next choice. I could make entire meals out of them.
“I know, but still. Unless a person knew just where to insert the knife, it would be a bloodbath. You have to get pretty close to somebody to plunge a knife into their chest. Something would be bound to end up on the person who did it.”
“Hmm. You’re right, I guess. I never thought about it that way.”
“And there wasn’t a lot on him, either?” she asked, stroking her chin.
The girl had my attention. Maybe this night wasn’t a complete loss. “No. A small pool on his chest. That’s it.”
“Hmm. Maybe whoever did it knew where to stab to kill him right away. Otherwise, it seems like a pretty big coincidence that they happened to do it where they’d cause the least about of blood loss and kill him quick enough that he didn’t try to pull the knife out.”
This girl was straight-up blowing my mind, and not because I was leaning toward tipsy thanks to my sister’s bartending skill. “That’s true. I mean, if there was a knife sticking out of your chest, wouldn’t you try to pull it out?”
“Exactly. So they hit him right where they needed to on the first blow. That’s pretty lucky for them, I guess.”
“And for him, I guess,” I added. “Less suffering.”
“What if he was drugged?”
He had been drinking an awful lot of champagne that night. And alcohol was a blood thinner. But there had hardly been any blood at all.
Maybe somebody had drugged one of those glasses of champagne before he took it.
Maybe he’d gone outside to clear his head, wondering why he was suddenly so woozy.
Maybe that same somebody had followed him, knowing he’d be woozy and knowing he wouldn’t fight back.
I left my plate on the table and took her by the arms. “Breanna, you’re a very interesting person and I’m sorry we haven’t spent more time together. That might have to change. Excuse me, I need to make a phone call.” I elbowed my way out of the house and onto the wraparound front porch on which I’d spent so many hours dreaming as a kid.
Never did I imagine calling a detective about a murder I’d stumbled into.
“Sullivan.” That was how he answered. His last name. Nothing more.
“Detective Joe?” I asked, pacing the length of the porch.
He paused. “I said it was me. Who is this? Who’s calling me Detective Joe?”
“Emma Harmon.”
“Why did I not know that before I asked?” he sighed. “Only you would call after nine o’clock.”
“Oh. It’s that late? Why are you still at work?”
“Because I find it so gosh-darned fun. Why are you calling? Are you in trouble?”
“Unless you count a book club meeting that turned into me being grilled for an hour by curious and well-meaning neighbors as being in trouble, I’m okay.”
“I don’t know. That sounds like trouble to me. What’s the matter?”
“Did the toxicology report come back yet? On James Flynn?”
“What?” he spat. “Why are you asking me about this?”
“Somebody gave me an idea just now. What if he was drugged in advance of the killing? It makes sense, right? I mean, whoever did this had to get the stabbing just right. It couldn’t be a quick crime of passion sort of thing, done in anger. Not when they struck him in exactly the right place on the first try. He must’ve been slow, woozy. Maybe he had already fallen on the ground!” My voice was getting louder all the time, even though it had practically left me during my impromptu talk.
“Emma—”
“Either way, it was premeditated. It had to be. Nobody gets that lucky without advance planning. Somebody drugged him.”
He paused for one long, silent beat. “Are you drunk?”
“No!”
“Have you been drinking?”
“…no?”
“Jesus.”
“What does that have to do with anything? Everybody knows Book Club is code for drinking wine and gossiping. Big deal. That shouldn’t negate what I’m telling you.”
He sighed. He was very good at sighing. “Maybe you’ll listen to me now, while you’re under the influence, since you sure don’t listen while you’re sober. Stay. Out. Of. This. Investigation. Do you realize you’re wasting my time right now? I could be doing something worthwhile, but instead, I’m listening to inebriated ramblings from a would-be super sleuth.”
That hurt. I couldn’t deny it. “Silly me, thinking somebody would be interested in learning the truth.”
“Now, wait a minute.”
“I mean, you have a man in jail when he stood to lose his shirt—his entire wardrobe—if this project went under. He had more to lose than just about anybody else. Meanwhile, it looks more and more like this was a premeditated crime, meaning that Robbie wouldn’t have done it even in a fit of rage. Who stabs once, then leaves their fingerprint-covered knife behind? It just doesn’t fit together.”
He waited. When I offered nothing more, he asked, “Is that it? Or are you planning to tell me more about how I ought to do my job? Since you’re such a hit at book club meetings, maybe I could have you come in and lecture the force on proper detective work.”
“Forget it,” I snapped, then ended the call before he could keep being mean. I wanted to throw the phone for good measure, but that wouldn’t be any help.
Instead, I made another call. “Deke? I want to see your pictures again. This time, I know what to look for.”