Murder at the Book Group Read Free Page B

the same. As a result, I knew little about her. That didn’t stop me from wondering if Hal served as the family’s black sheep, making him off-limits for discussion.
    â€œOkay, I’ll give you a hand,” I offered with reluctance. I wanted to stay in the den and look at photos and ask nosy questions. But even if Carlene was willing to satisfy my curiosity, there were only the two photos anyway.
    Carlene stopped at the door and turned to me. “Hazel,” she started, looking uncertain. “I have a, um, hypothetical question for you.”
    â€œYes?”
    She continued to look indecisive before finally taking the proverbial nosedive. “Have you ever made a huge mistake?”
    â€œMistake?” I laughed. “Of course .” My mistakes were too numerous for a quick mental scan. There were the failed marriages, Evan being the first of them. And more than one wrong turn on the career path. But huge? “What do you mean by huge?”
    â€œThe kind that comes back later to haunt you.”

CHAPTER 2
    I LOOKED AT CARLENE, trying to get a bead on her meaning. Did her question have to do with Evan, with their separation? But the haunting bit threw me—haunting implied a past mistake. That thought took me to the not-remembered Linda. Carlene’s eagerness to leave the subject of Linda shed doubts on her claims of not remembering her. Who could forget hair like that? Of course, the hair may have been different at the time—for all I knew, Linda had been a nondescript type until a midlife crisis led to her falling in with a creative hairdresser.
    Perhaps Carlene was about to confess to a crime. Or she’d been an accomplice, a mobster’s moll. “Carlene, does this have anything to do with Linda?”
    The rebuff didn’t surprise me. “Linda again? I said I didn’t remember her.” Then, smiling, she offered, “Sorry, I guess I’m being . . . fanciful.” Fanciful. A writer’s word. Anyone else would say “silly.” “You see, it’s for this book I started . . .” Carlene went on to describe the book, how the main character meets up with her past—a past she had hoped was, well, in the past. Carlene had talked about her upcoming book at the signing so I guessed that this was her third book. “I’m just collecting experiences, that’s all.” And with that, she left the den and proceeded down the short flight of steps to the kitchen, apparently forgetting her question about my own mistakes. I thought about Carlene’s conveniently falling back on her writing to explain her provocative question. I held to my suspicion that Linda had triggered this haunting business.
    Carlene’s kitchen, with its barn-red walls, white cabinets, black-and-white-checkered floor, and black appliances was a study in elegance and simplicity, simplicity being the operative word. My own kitchen abounded with plants, refrigerator magnets attaching shopping lists and emergency numbers, cat dishes, cats themselves, and often pleasant cooking aromas. Carlene’s kitchen gave off a model house feeling. A round wooden table held a tray of refreshment paraphernalia and a Tupperware container of what looked like brownies. The notion that less is more can be inaccurate, and sometimes less is just less.
    Curious about what was going on in Carlene and Evan’s private world I asked, “Carlene, how’s Evan these days?” The fact that it was their private world didn’t temper my nosiness. I waited to see if she’d mention the separation.
    Not a chance. She only stiffened and said “fine” in a tone that brooked no further questions. I felt a twinge of guilt for asking. Terse or not, the woman could well be suffering—her behavior throughout the evening indicated that. Now, using more concentration than necessary, she filled a kettle with water, set it on the stovetop, and turned on