Murder at the Book Group Read Free

subject.”
    Nodding in agreement, I had said, “We’ll all be giving Helen a wide berth tonight. Maybe Sarah as well.” Often I enjoyed hearing people’s viewpoints, especially if they differed from mine. But I avoided Helen’s endless soapbox speeches whenever I could, otherwise I endured them. Sarah was the only one who bothered to challenge Helen. Even though Sarah held conservative views, they sat far to the left of Helen’s on the Republican political spectrum.
    Helen used her hands to emphasize her points. Her long fingers and a dangling thread from the ruffled sleeve of her periwinkle blouse distracted me from her earnest account. But loose threads and dancing fingers didn’t capture my attention for long, so I looked around the room, wondering if Carlene had added anything new to the decor since the last time I was here. Being a minimalist, she had more likely subtracted. Touches of burgundy and forest green accented the soft yellows and peaches of the conversational grouping of sofa, love seat, and oversized chairs. No knickknacks interrupted the smooth table surfaces, but a couple of large modern paintings and a sculpture filled up the wall space.
    Just as Sarah started with, “Helen, don’t you realize the potential benefits of stem cell research . . .” I felt a tap on my shoulder. Carlene whispered, “Hazel, I need to ask you something. Let’s go to my den.” Then, flashing a smile at the others, she said, “Please excuse us—business,” and we moved off, leaving the others to suffer through the debate.
    Carlene detoured into the kitchen to switch on the coffeemaker before we walked up a short flight of steps to her den. “I figured we could forgo the conference recap,” she grinned. “It could go on forever. And they’ll probably get into the childbirth tales.”
    I rolled my eyes and smiled. Childbirth stories were a frequent staple of this group. They usually started with someone announcing the birth of a grandchild and included complete details of the pregnancy, labor, and birth. Conception as well, if they were privy to those details. Being childless, Carlene and I had missed out on a lifetime ticket to female bonding. In my fifty-something years I’d acquired husbands and cats, but children, not a one.
    Carlene said, “We don’t have to worry about Art. He can busy himself with everyone’s books.”
    Carlene’s minimalist leanings extended to her den. A Persian rug in a black and teal pattern covered the gleaming hardwood floor. Only a lamp, laptop, printer, and cordless phone disturbed the polished wood surface of the desk. Not a plant in sight, no pictures on the walls. An ergonomically correct chair and a bookcase provided the only other furniture. I wondered about the correlation between uncluttered surroundings and an uncluttered mind. Would it enhance my own writing to establish order out of the chaos in my den? Would I try it? Probably not.
    â€œHazel, I’m sorry I created such a fuss over that silly book. I get so irritated when people go on and on about hating a book.” Her voice, now reverted back to its usual near whisper, was so soft that I risked violating the standard conversational distance between us by moving closer. It was either that or take a shot at lip reading.
    â€œDon’t worry about it.” By now I was more interested in broaching the subject of Linda. “So—are you excited about your friend Linda showing up?”
    Carlene gave a brief laugh and said, “Well, no. To be honest, I don’t even remember the woman. It’s embarrassing since she seems to remember me so well.”
    â€œOh. So she wasn’t a friend in L.A.?”
    â€œOh, no. She says I worked with her husband. Maybe I met her at a work party. I simply don’t remember.” She spread her hands as if asking how she could possibly remember everyone she