Murder at the Book Group by Maggie King

proposition. For a distraction, and because I did want to know the answer, I asked, “How long will the house be a crime scene?”
    â€œHard to tell. Probably not long.”
    â€œThe place is so clutter-free it should take about thirty minutes to process it.”
    A long pause followed. Vince, while retired, hadn’t forgotten about the silence tactic police used in interrogations. The human tendency to fill the silence with talk often works to police advantage. The real problem for me was Vince’s soft-spoken Brooklyn accent, an accent that invited confidences, the baring of souls, the baring of . . . No lascivious thoughts, Hazel, I admonished myself. Focus on the matter at hand. I doodled on my envelope and scored a mini victory when Vince broke the silence. “How’s Kat taking this?”
    â€œShe’s pretty shaken up.” Should I tell Vince about Kat and Evan’s past relationship? I stopped doodling and made a note to think about it.
    â€œDid I tell you I saw Kat and Evan at Chipotle’s over at Stony Point?” Was the man reading my mind? Scary thought.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œWell, that’s it. I saw them.”
    â€œWhen was this?”
    â€œLast week. Maybe the week before.”
    â€œWhat were they doing?”
    â€œEating.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œJust thought it was curious, that’s all.”
    â€œThey couldn’t have been doing anything intimate with all those windows at Chipotle’s.” As much as I like Chipotle Mexican fast food, I didn’t find the fishbowl atmosphere conducive to a rendezvous.
    â€œNo, they probably just ran into each other.” Based on my earlier conversation with Kat, I felt a stab of skepticism about the just-running-into-each-other idea. As I’d wondered earlier, when did Kat find out about Evan and Carlene’s separation?
    â€œDid you talk to them?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t have time. We just waved.”
    The Chipotle sighting was interesting, but I still didn’t feel comfortable talking about Kat and Evan. Redirecting the conversation, I asked, “You said you talked to Dennis. Any word on what it was that . . . killed Carlene?”
    â€œNot yet. Hopefully tomorrow we’ll know. You gave the pathologists a good lead with the bitter almond smell.”
    â€œDetective Garcia didn’t seem impressed. It’s nice to know she gave my nose some credence.”
    â€œDetective Garcia is a woman of few words, but she’s a damn fine detective.”
    Let’s hope so, I thought. Aloud, I said, “Anyway, I hope no one gets any ideas about calling me in to assist at autopsies.”
    Vince snickered. I had a mental picture of him, and a pleasant picture it was: tall, broad-shouldered, shock of white hair, slate-blue eyes. Easy to get along with—except that somehow we didn’t get along. Hmm—did that make me the difficult one? The Dr. Phil intervention would have to wait. There were more pressing matters at hand.
    I asked, “Where was the cyanide? In the tea? Is it like sugar?”
    â€œWe won’t know for sure until they finish with the toxicology testing. Cyanide is a white powder, but I’m not sure if the consistency’s like sugar.”
    â€œThis is all pretty fast, isn’t it? The autopsy and results.”
    â€œUnless there’s a backlog, it doesn’t take long.”
    â€œAnd Carlene’s being cremated as soon as the results come in—gives me chills just thinking of it.” I felt myself choking up and took a deep breath. “By the way, where do you get cyanide?”
    â€œIt’s used in pest control, gold plating, photography, jewelry cleaning. When I say photography, I mean the darkroom type. Of course, a chemist might have it.”
    Who in our group would have such a chemical on hand? Or access to one? No one had confided in me about a pest control problem. I mentally scanned the