Murder at the Book Group Read Online Free Page B

Art. She walked, swaggered actually, through the kitchen to the family room beyond. A belly diamond winked at us over her jeans with thigh cutouts. Art, looking like a lovesick puppy, trailed behind her. Sarah and I turned to each other and laughed.
    Sarah said, “The guy’s so skinny —I can’t see him lifting even ten-pound weights.” Art was on the lean side. His lankiness combined with his height and concave chest reminded me of a folding lawn chair.
    Sarah asked, “What about Linda? What’s the story with her?”
    I kept my voice low and my eyes on the kitchen doorway. It shouldn’t take Carlene long to find a towel. “Carlene says she doesn’t remember Linda, so she had nothing to say about her.” Not verbally, anyway . A phone sounded in the dining room and a second later, Annabel appeared in the kitchen, clutching a tiny phone to her ear. She smiled at us and walked down the steps to the family room.
    I poked around in the refrigerator and finally located a small carton of 1 percent milk. I surreptitiously sniffed it before dumping some into my cup and the rest into the creamer. Sarah and I walked into the dining room and I resolved to do no more work. I saw Linda regaling Helen with an anecdote involving her dermatologist. A couple of minutes later Carlene, mug in hand, came into the dining room.
    Sarah pushed up her oversized glasses and began. “Anyway, Hazel, I need your opinion about this nonprofit.” Sarah volunteered for a couple of local organizations. As I clocked in many volunteer hours myself, I was frequently consulted for my opinion about various groups. We chatted for a couple of minutes until I picked up the words “stem cell,” “misguided liberals,” and “Bush” behind me. Uh-oh, Helen on her soapbox. I turned to find her preaching to Annabel and Carlene.
    â€œOh, no, she’s at it again,” Sarah muttered. “She already worked that subject half to death tonight.”
    Deciding to rescue them from Helen’s clutches, I held up a finger to Sarah in a wait-a-minute gesture. But Art beat me to it. Standing in the kitchen doorway with Kat, the body-building demo apparently over, he exhorted the “author contingent” to give progress reports on our work. I noticed Annabel’s grateful smile along with a flash of annoyance on Helen’s face. But, presumably remembering her manners, she smiled as she turned to Annabel and said, “You start, Annabel.”
    â€œOh, I’m on a brief hiatus from writing. But Sunset Over Monticello is due out in February.” Annabel set her police procedural series featuring Gloria Shifflett, a hard-bitten and hard-living homicide detective, in Charlottesville. I gave an update on my baby boomer sex romp. I didn’t look at Helen, who no doubt was fighting an urge to make faces at my subject matter.
    The group’s real interest was in Carlene, as the new kid on our block in the publishing world. She had recently sent her second book, Graveside Death, to her agent. The story started with the murder of a widow at her husband’s graveside service. The widow had been, by several accounts, faking her grief.
    â€œWhat are your plans for a third book?” Sarah asked. I remembered our earlier conversation in the den when Carlene alluded to a woman meeting up with her past.
    Carlene picked up an apple slice and took a dainty bite before saying, “I’m thinking of setting it at the Fountain Bookstore. I need to run it by Kelly Justice.” Kelly owned the independent bookstore located in Richmond’s historic cobblestoned Shockoe Slip area.
    â€œTell us about the story line.” Annabel made “come on” motions with her hand.
    â€œWell . . . it’s about a woman who’s been a fugitive for years. Not from justice, but from— love .” Carlene paused, perhaps for effect, then laughed and said, “And