Murder at the Book Group by Maggie King Page A

interests of the members, trying to recall any avid gardeners, jewelers, or photographers. Helen used a digital camera for her website work, so didn’t need darkroom chemicals like cyanide.
    â€œDoes anyone still develop in darkrooms?” I jotted down another note, this time to consider cyanide possession possibilities.
    â€œI’m sure plenty still do.” Then Vince asked, his voice gentle, “Do you feel like talking about last night?”
    â€œSure.” I took a couple of deep breaths. Where to begin? At the beginning, I guess. And so I launched into the unbelievable tale of my first, and hopefully last, death experience. “Well, last night our book group met at Carlene’s and . . .” A disjointed mess of facts, “and-thens,” “what-ifs,” and just plain angst came tumbling forth at breakneck speed. Vince listened and, save for an occasional uh-huh, didn’t interrupt. His long career as a homicide detective hadn’t been in vain—he was up to untangling such all-over-the-place accounts.
    By the time I finished, I’d managed to cover every detail from my arrival at Carlene’s to my much later arrival home. I described Carlene’s tirade about the book, the ominous cyanide discussion, Linda’s appearance, my discussion with Carlene, the “huge mistake” bit, the logistics of the tea mug, the love fugitive plot of Carlene’s third book, Annabel’s shrieking, and a host of other details, large and small. After all, the solution could be hidden in a point I deemed unimportant.
    â€œI really think Linda is a key figure. The woman just shows up and Carlene dies. I believe in coincidences, but this is too much of one.”
    â€œAre you questioning the suicide?”
    â€œWell . . . there was that note.”
    â€œYes. And I’m sure that doesn’t convince you.” Like a mere note was proof? I never bought the easy answers; I expected complications and difficulties. Vince knew that about me. The book group members did not, a fact that could work in my favor when I pretended to buy the suicide with the attendant note.
    â€œAnyone could have left that note—Annabel, of course, since she found Carlene. But we were all down there in the family room running around like chickens without heads.”
    A back-and-forth about the suicide question followed. Vince snorted when I presented Carlene’s spa day from Saturday as an argument against her killing herself. “You’ve always claimed you didn’t know her, that she refused to disclose much of herself, but now you’re reading her mind.”
    â€œNo, I don’t claim to know, or even guess, what Carlene thought or felt about anything. I do know that she looked better than ever last night. That is, until the end.” My voice caught on that last, but I plowed on. “A woman hell-bent on suicide doesn’t invest in herself that way.”
    â€œMaybe she wanted to look good when she died. If Evan’s the one who precipitated the split, she wanted to send a message: look what you gave up.”
    â€œThat’s assuming the split was Evan’s idea.”
    â€œWell, that really doesn’t matter. Regardless of whose idea it was, she may very well have been distressed about the breakup. It’s hard to say what will drive someone off the deep end.”
    â€œAnd why pick cyanide? She couldn’t have looked worse.” I shuddered again. “But maybe she didn’t realize how she’d look. In detective stories, they never mention how someone looks. They just slump over their tea or whatever. And then I have this House of Mirth theory . . .”
    â€œ House of Mirth ?” Vince groaned. “You mean that interminable movie you made me sit through?”
    â€œIt was a great movie.” I outlined my idea of how Carlene would have picked Lily Bart’s suicide method and be found