Murder at the Book Group (33 page)

It didn't take long to find Helen's underwear drawer in the dresser and start rummaging. People must think that burglars and amateur investigators didn't know about the underwear drawer as a favorite hiding place for valuables and secret items, like safe-deposit box keys, cash, love letters . . .

And, in Helen's case, a brass cyanide vial container.

I found the item in a zippered plastic bag under a pile of half-slips heavily scented with lavender sachets. It so resembled the container in Sam's collage that I felt confident in identifying it. I almost picked up the bag but remembered in time to use a tissue from the box on the dresser and not leave fingerprints. I shook the container out of the bag. The cap was stamped but too small to read the inscription without a magnifying glass. Remembering from our Web research that the cap was the press-on type, I used another tissue to pull it off the container and removed the glass vial. The top of the vial had been snapped off and a few grains of white powder clung to the sides of the glass. I held my breath, not wanting to inhale any fumes.

I stood at the end of the dresser so I faced the door and could see if anyone came into the room. That precaution didn't keep me from nearly jumping out of my skin when the doorknob moved. No time for a mad dash to the bathroom and a groan or two for effect. No time to hide the container with the telltale remnants of a deadly poison.

Helen loomed before me. I felt sure her deer-in-the-headlights look mirrored my own. We had mutually caught each other.

Helen rallied and her expression turned to indignation as she demanded, “Just what do you think you're doing, Hazel?”

My adrenaline charge must have short-circuited my brain because I couldn't respond.

Helen pressed on. “Why are you looking through my things?”

I found my voice—sort of. I choked out, “Just—just curious, that's all.” Trembling, I swept the container, bag, and tissues back into the still-open drawer. “I'm so sorry.” I whispered.
Sorry on so many levels
.

Helen raised an eyebrow in a questioning slant, but she decided to play it nice. “How are you feeling?” She moved toward the nightstand.

“Not—not good.”

“I'll make you a nice cup of tea.” She opened the drawer.

Yikes,
I thought. Tea? Lucy and I needed to beat it out of this place pronto. “Thanks so much, but Lucy and I will be going now.”

“Not so fast. We need to talk.” I caught Helen's menacing tone.

That was when I saw the gun.

LATER, WHEN ASKED WHAT
kind of gun, all I could say was that it was small, something easily carried in a purse or pocket. I knew next to nothing about guns and would just as soon keep it that way. Helen pointed the thing right at me, in the vicinity of my pounding heart. A trapdoor opened in my stomach and my whole body succumbed to fear.

Why I stood there like a ninny, not running while I had the chance, not realizing that she was getting a gun out of her drawer, I couldn't explain. It stood to reason that she'd stash her gun in her nightstand drawer—wasn't that where gun owners traditionally kept their weapons? Granted, my window of opportunity had been small, but still. So I was left in the throes of the fight-or-flight response with no resources for fighting or fleeing.

Helen crab-stepped to the door, never taking her eyes or the gun off of me. Opening the door, she barked, “Art, get down here. Something's wrong with the toilet.”

A few seconds later, I heard a low mumble of words. Then Helen turned back to me. “Get moving,” she ordered, waving the gun toward the door.

I obeyed. Really, what choice did I have? Helen jammed the gun into the small of my back and prodded me into the living room where Art, trying his best to look intimidating, guarded the door that led to the outside. And freedom. Hmm. I wondered if this meant that Helen had enlisted her son to help her kill Carlene. And was he a willing partner or had she bullied him? I suspected the latter.

Lucy sat on the uncomfortable love seat. Per Helen's instruction, I took the matching chair. She kept the gun trained on me. Lucy gasped and I looked over at her. The blood had beaten a hasty retreat from her face and her eyes looked like saucers.

Helen turned the gun on Lucy. “No funny business, you two.”

Nothing funny about this business
. With a trembling hand, I reached into my pocket for my phone and, finding the Velcro-padded key, pressed Vince's number. I banked on Helen thinking I still kept my phone buried in my purse.

She pounced on me. “What are you doing?”

“Just getting a tissue.” I said as I pulled out a wrinkled Kleenex. “See?” My voice quavered so much I could barely get the words out. And I wasn't sure I had pressed the speed-dial button firmly enough for the call to go through. Hopefully I'd have another chance. If I lived long enough. I admonished myself to hold positive, uplifting thoughts. For good measure, I added a quick but fervent prayer.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Art spoke for the first time, sounding puckish. “Mom, is that gun even loaded?”

When his mother looked daggers at him, he shrugged. “Just trying to lighten the mood a bit.”

Helen sat on the sofa that completed the three-piece “conversational” grouping. “Honestly, Art, you'll have these ladies nervous wrecks, wondering if the gun's loaded or not.”

Like we weren't nervous wrecks already,
I thought. Lucy and I stole quick glances at each other. What was with the gun, anyway?
Was
it loaded? Was Helen going off the deep end? If so, who knew what she would do. I imagined an unloaded gun could become a loaded one easily enough. Would it help if I emulated Art and injected humor? But even if I could come up with some knee-slapper, humor and guns didn't combine well, and besides, I suspected that Helen's threatening me with a gun, unloaded or not, had to do with one Evan Arness.

It didn't take long for Helen to prove me right. “So, Hazel, what's going on with you and Evan?” When I took a deep breath and glanced at Lucy, she raged, “Don't look at Lucy! Just answer the question.”

I had to find a way to disarm Helen—literally and figuratively. I had little talent in the disarming department, but as our survival hung in the balance I had to put forth my best effort. Or as best as I could manage with a mouth as dry as cotton.

“Me and
Evan
?” I rasped. “What would be going on with us?”

“I know you're sleeping with him. I won't have it. You're just like that—that Jezebel, ruining his life.”

I took it Carlene was “that Jezebel.” I shook my head. “No, not . . . not sleeping together.” My voice kicked in. “Not even thinking about it.”

“That's not the way it looked last week at the lunch. The two of you looked awfully chummy. I was right beside you.” Her eyes narrowed. “If you find him so attractive, you shouldn't have divorced him. It's simply shameful, you getting your claws into the dear man so soon after losing his wife. Although if he only knew what a tramp that woman was . . . First I had to deal with her and now
you
.”

I didn't like the sound of that: “dealing” with me. Aloud I said, “Helen, Evan had too much to drink and was feeling rather, um, emotional.” Helen looked unconvinced, so I forced a smile and added, “That's all.”

Lucy spoke up, her voice hoarse. “Hazel . . .” She cleared her throat and, with a shaking finger, pointed to me. “She's . . . she's back with Vince.”

I nodded. “Yes, in fact we're getting married.” Where did that come from? I guess one will say anything when facing the business end of a gun.

“Humph!” Helen looked suspicious but turned her attention back to Carlene. “That Carlene was a first-class tramp. Put my boy through all that. You know, Evan used to come over here for dinner and he really enjoyed himself. We had a lovely time, didn't we, Art?”

“Lovely.” Art leaned against the wall and rolled his eyes. It sounded like he hadn't enjoyed the dinners any more than Evan had. Helen either didn't catch his sarcastic tone or chose to ignore it—or, the most likely possibility, she was just plain clueless. I caught her use of “my boy.” She'd used the same phrase when she first told me about the parking lot incident involving the man in the car. At the time I thought she referred to Art. Now it sounded like Evan, but it was an odd way for her to refer to the object of her affection.

“And then
she
came along and ruined it all. No more dinners. I invited both of them but they only came over once.”

Lucy said, “Maybe Carlene was jealous of you. Didn't want the competition.”

Helen gave Lucy a rueful smile. She still held the gun but placed it next to her on the sofa. Shaking her head, she said in a small voice, “After that I only saw him at school, but not very often.”

Helen's words and pained demeanor made me wonder if Evan had left out key details of his relationship with her. There had to have been more involved than threesome dinners with Art—if the relationship had grown intimate, it would explain Helen's obsession with my—thankfully—former husband. But to the point of killing his wife?

Had it not been for the gun at Helen's side I might have felt sympathy. Her grip on it had loosened, but not enough to rush her. If I could take on Helen while Lucy kept Art at bay . . . Lucy's knitting needles could do some bodily damage and surely I had a sharp object in my purse, but I doubted that the mother-son duo would wait politely while I unearthed it.

Thoughts of my purse made me look around for it. I didn't see it by the chair where I'd sat earlier—nor did I see Lucy's purse or knitting bag.

“What are you looking for?”

“Um, nothing.”

Helen smirked. “Your purses are in a safe place. I didn't want you digging your phone out from the bottom of your purse. And I'm sure Lucy keeps hers in a more accessible place.”

With my fledgling overtaking-the-captors plan thwarted, at least temporarily, I sighed. Where was Kat when we needed her most? A well-placed karate chop or two from our missing bodyguard and we'd be out of that apartment in a flash.

Moving on to the next item on her agenda, Helen asked, “And why did you call Donna McCarthy, asking questions about me?”

I braced myself, hoping to sound believable. “Well, it occurred to me that Donna might not know about Carlene, so I gave her a call. After all, she and Evan had been friends back in their coworking days. While we talked, I thought of you. You see, at the memorial service Art said you were from Rochester and that you'd worked for an insurance company. I thought, what were the odds it was Acer? Small world.” I added a little laugh, but Helen just stared at me with no expression. “How did you find out, Helen—did Donna call or e-mail you?”

“No, my friend Carol Mobley called and told me about it. She and Donna are in the same Bible study group.” Carol, the gossipy high school friend. According to Donna, that friend thought Helen might have had a baby in high school.

Apparently Helen bought my explanation that sounded thin and unconvincing to my ears, because she circled back to her earlier point. “Now back to Evan . . . Stay away from him.” She pointed the gun at me, as if to illustrate the consequences of not keeping my distance from lover-boy Evan. “I finally got rid of Carlene and I don't want to have to get rid of you.”

I stifled a gasp at her increasing anger. The phrase “I finally got rid of Carlene” had not escaped me. Was she saying that she personally got rid of Carlene? If so, her confession ratcheted up our personal danger an infinite number of notches. And no sign of Vince, confirming my earlier fear that I hadn't pressed the speed-dial button firmly enough. If only I could get my hand in my pocket again—but Helen had me on the hot seat, not taking her eyes off me. She paid little attention to Lucy, making me think that if Lucy could access her phone she could call Vince. I doubted that Lucy had Vince on speed dial, but she could call 911. But Lucy didn't have her purse and, besides, Art could be the watchdog for her. If only we'd developed a contingency plan in case things went awry—and things were very, very awry.

“I was kind of surprised when she actually died.” Helen spoke in a matter-of-fact, reasonable tone, like she was discussing the price of milk.

“Mom . . .” Art warned. Helen ignored him.

Lucy matched Helen's matter-of-fact tone. “Why were you surprised?”

“That stuff was so old, from World War II. I didn't know how potent it was. I mean, I did research and all, but couldn't find anything about how long the stuff would last. I didn't know if she'd die or just get really sick.”

“Mom, you better not say anything more.”

“Oh, they won't say anything. If they do I'll take this gun and go after them. I do know how to use this, you know.” I didn't doubt it. The NRA sticker plastered on her car loomed large in my mind. “Just consider this whole evening a warning. Not a word about this conversation. And stay away from Evan.”

I squeaked, “No problem.” Lucy nodded her agreement.

Did that mean we could go? That Helen wasn't going to kill us? Or was she toying with us, fully intending to consign us to a ghostly eternity haunting her beige apartment? What would they do with our bodies—dump us in the James River at 3 a.m.? I looked from the gun to Art, still at his post by the door.

Figuring it wouldn't hurt to ask, I did so. “Does that mean we can go?”

“Why, not until I've served refreshments.” But Helen didn't make a move toward the kitchen. She hadn't produced the tea she'd promised earlier, but I figured that was a good thing. Again I wondered if we could overtake the two of them. If the gun was loaded—and I didn't relish verifying this—its power trumped any collective muscle Lucy and I could summon up. Plus Helen was in good shape. We'd have better luck getting around the undernourished-looking Art, but we had to get past his mother first. Maybe we could just throw a net over the obsessed Helen and get her admitted to a psych ward. Such a feat, of course, required a net. Again, I silently cursed the absent Kat.