Free Murder at the Book Group by Maggie King Page B

surprised by my relief at hearing Vince’s voice. Why did I break up with this nice man? Was he just too nice to wind up on my roster of husbands? “Call me anytime. I’m in San Diego until Thursday. Roseanne’s wedding.” Roseanne was his daughter. I wondered if Molly had accompanied him to the big do. I didn’t need to note the cell number he gave me—after a series of break-ups and makeups, it was easier just to keep his number on my speed dial. I had a one-sided conversation with him via voice mail, assuring him of my well-being—all things being relative.
    I punched in Art’s number. “Hi, Hazel. How are you doing today?”
    â€œOkay. At least I’m alive.”
    â€œTerrible about Carlene,” he said. “Just terrible. Do you really think she did it herself?”
    Yet another person doubting the suicide. Remembering my promise to Lucy to tread carefully, I said, “Well, there was a note.” Maybe a hint of skepticism combined with a seeming acceptance of facts struck the right balance of believing yet not believing the suicide idea.
    â€œArt, do you remember at Carlene’s signing when you pointed out a woman, saying she was mad that Carlene didn’t remember her or her husband?”
    â€œSure. It was Linda. I couldn’t forget that striped hair. No, not striped—two-toned!” Art exclaimed, triumphant in grasping an elusive hair concept.
    â€œIt’s called highlighting, Art. In her case, violently so.”
    â€œAnd those eyes. The woman looked like a tiger had his—or her—way with a raccoon.”
    I laughed at the rather apt description. I asked, “Were you surprised to see Linda last night?”
    â€œI was, considering the conversation she and Carlene had at the signing. But then I thought maybe they’d talked since and Carlene had invited her.”
    â€œHmm. Maybe. But they weren’t too chummy.”
    â€œSo do you know what happened? How she . . . died?”
    â€œI don’t. But she had a new tea; I saw her take the cellophane off the box. God only knows where she got the stuff, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it had something weird in it.” It would be nice for all of us suspects and would-be suspects if the tea purveyors were at fault. But I doubted it.
    â€œArt, do you mind going over what was said between Carlene and Linda at the signing?”
    â€œOkay. The first thing I heard was, ‘You don’t remember us? You don’t remember P.J.?’ Carlene said, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t,’ and she was trying to look around Linda, reaching for my book. So Linda said, ‘I wish I could demand my money back, but you’ve gone and signed it. It’s probably crap anyway.’ ”
    â€œDid you have the impression that Carlene did recognize her?”
    With no equivocation, Art said, “Yes, I did.”
    Interesting. “Then what happened?”
    â€œLinda walked away, stomped away, actually. Carlene signed my book. Her hand shook a little, so she had trouble writing. I tried to make a joke to put her at ease and she gave me a pained smile. A few minutes later, I saw Linda leaving. That’s when I mentioned the incident to Lucy and Bonnie Stiller.”
    â€œDid anyone else hear this conversation?”
    â€œI don’t know. Carlene is—was—so soft-spoken, but Linda wasn’t. But it was pretty noisy in the store.”
    â€œWho was behind you in line?”
    When Art said he didn’t remember, I moved on. “And you said Linda referred to someone as P.J.? As in initials?”
    â€œYeah. Could have been P.G.”
    â€œWho do you suppose this P.J. or P.G. could be? You don’t suppose she meant something innocuous, like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”
    â€œIt was a pretty heated exchange. So unless Linda gets intense about sandwiches . . .” Art trailed off.
    We