that a person could not know who Lizzie Borden was. Just ask John. He’ll talk your ear off. But if you read the book first, he’ll appreciate it.”
Mother actually wrote the title in her little notebook. She really meant it about John Queensland, she was really serious about getting married. I couldn’t decide how I felt; I only knew how I ought to feel. At least acting that out made my mother happy.
“Really, Aurora, I want you to tell me about the club in general, though I do want to discuss John’s particular interest intelligently, of course. Now that you and he are both tied in with this horrible murder, and you and I got sent that candy, I want to know what the background on these crimes is.”
“Mother, I can’t remember when Real Murders started… about three years ago, I guess. There was a book signing at Thy Sting, the mystery book store in the city. And all of us now in Real Murders turned up for the signing, which was being held for a book about a real murder. It was such a funny coincidence, all us Lawrenceton people showing up, interested in the same thing, that we sort of agreed to call each other and start something up we could all come to in our own town. So we began meeting every month, and the format for the meetings just evolved-a lecture and discussion on a real murder most months, a related topic other months.” I shrugged. I was getting tired of explaining Real Murders. I expected Mother to change the subject now, as she always had before when I’d tried to talk about my interest in the club.
“You told me earlier that you believe Mamie Wright’s murder was patterned on the Wallace murder,” Mother said instead. “And you said that Jane Engle believes that the candy being sent to us is also patterned like another crime- she’s trying to look it up?”
I nodded.
“You’re in danger,” my mother said flatly. “I want you to leave Lawrenceton until this is all over. There’s no way you can be implicated, like poor Melanie was with that purse hidden in her car, if you’re out of town.”
“Well, that would be great, Mom,” I said, knowing she hated to be called ‘Mom’, “but I happen to have a job. I’m supposed to just go to my boss and tell him my mother is scared something might happen to me, so I have to get out of town for an indefinite period of time? Just hold my job, Mr. Clerrick?”
“Aren’t you scared?” she asked furiously.
“Yes, yes! If you had seen what this killer can do, if you had seen Mamie Wright’s head, or what was left of it, you’d be scared too! But I can’t leave! I have a life!”
My mother didn’t say anything, but her unguarded response, which showed clearly in those amazing eyebrows, was “Since when?”
I went home with a plateful of leftovers for supper, as usual, and decided to have a Sunday afternoon and evening of self-pity. Sunday afternoons are good for that. I took off my pretty dress (no matter what Amina says, I do have some pretty and flattering clothes) and put on my nastiest sweats. I stopped short of washing off my makeup and messing up my hair, but I felt that way.
What I hated to do most was wash windows, so I decided today was the day. The clouds had lightened a little and I no longer expected rain, so I collected all the window washing paraphernalia and did the downstairs, grimly spraying and wiping and then repeating the process. I carried around my step stool, even with its boost barely reaching the top panes. When they were shining clearly, I trudged upstairs with my cleaning rag and spray bottle and began on the guest bedroom. It overlooked the parking lot, so I had a great view of the elderly couple next door, the Crandalls, coming home in their Sunday best. Perhaps they’d been to a married child’s for lunch… they had several children here in town, and I recalled Teentsy Crandall mentioning at least eight grandchildren. Teentsy and her husband Jed were laughing together, and he patted her on the shoulder as he held open the gate. No sooner were they inside than Bankston’s blue car entered the lot and he and Melanie emerged holding hands and smoldering at each other. Even to me, and I am not really experienced, it was apparent that they could hardly wait until they got inside.
As a crowning touch to a feel-sorry-for-yourself afternoon, it could hardly be beat. What did I have to look forward to? I asked myself rhetorically. “60 Minutes” and heated-up pot roast.
I decided I’d take Amina’s advice after all. I’d be there when her mom’s shop opened at 10:00 the next morning. With luck and my charge card, I could be ready for my trip to the city to have lunch with Robin Crusoe.
Then I decided that there was, after all, something I could do with my evening. I picked up my personal phone book and began dialling.
Chapter 8
By 8:00 they were all there. It was crowded in my apartment, with Jane, Gerald, and Sally given the best seats and the others perched on chairs from the dinette set or sitting on the floor, like the lovebirds, Melanie and Bankston. I hadn’t called Robin, because he had only been to Real Murders one time; one disastrous time. LeMaster Cane was sitting apart from everyone else, speaking to no one, his dark face deliberately blank. Gifford had brought Reynaldo, and they were huddled together with their backs pressed against the wall, looking sullen. Gerald still looked shocked, his pouchy face white and strained. Benjamin Greer was trying to be buddies with Perry Allison, who was openly sneering. Sally was trying not to watch her son, and carrying on a sporadic conversation with Arthur, who looked exhausted. John’s creamy white head was bent toward Jane, who was talking quietly.
Even under the circumstances, I was sorely tempted to stand and say, “I guess you’re wondering why I called you all here,” but I didn’t quite have the nerve. And after all, they knew why they were here.
I had assumed John would take the lead, since he was the president of our club. But he was looking at me expectantly, and I realized that it was up to me to start.
“Friends,” I said loudly, and the little rags of conversation stopped as though they’d been trimmed off with a knife. I paused for a minute, trying to marshall my thoughts, and Gifford said, “Stand up so we can see ya.”
I saw several nods, so I stood. “First,” I resumed, “I want to tell Gerald we’re all sorry, grieved, about Mamie.” Gerald looked around listlessly, acknowledging the murmur of sympathy with a nod of his head.
“Then,” I went on, “I think we need to talk about what’s happening to us.” I had everyone’s undivided attention. “I guess you all know about the tampered-with candy sent to me and my mother. I can’t say poisoned, because we don’t know for sure it was; so I can’t be sure the intent was to kill. But I suppose we can assume that.” I looked around to see if anyone would disagree. No one did. “And of course you all also know that Mamie’s purse was put in Melanie’s car.”
Melanie looked down in embarrassment, her straight dark hair swinging forward to hide her face. Bankston put his arm around her and held her close. “As if Melanie would do such a thing,” he said hotly.
“Well, we all know that,” I said.
“Of course,” Jane chimed in indignantly.
“I know,” I went on very very carefully, “that Sally and Arthur are in a delicate position tonight. Sally might want to report to the paper that we met, and Arthur will have to tell the police that he was here and what happened. I can see that. But I hope that Sally will agree that tonight is off the record.”
Everyone looked at Sally, who threw back her bronze head and glared at us all. “The police want me not to print that the murder was a copy,” she said in exasperation. “But everyone in Real Murders has been telling other people anyway. I’m losing the best story I ever had. Now you all want me to not be a reporter tonight. It’s like asking Arthur not to be a policeman for a couple of hours.”
“Then you won’t keep this off the record?” Gifford said unexpectedly.“ ‘Cause if this isn’t off the record, I’m out the door.” He stared at Sally, and smoothed back his long hair.
“Oh, all right,” Sally said. Her tan eyes snapped as she glared around the room. “But I’m telling you all, this is the last time anything said to me about these murders is off the record!”
That reduced us all to speechlessness for a moment.
“Just what did you want us here for, dear?” Jane asked.
Good question. I took the plunge.
“It’s probably one of us, right?” I said nervously.
No one moved. No one turned to look at the person beside him.
A presence in the room gathered power in that silence. That presence was fear, of course. We were all afraid,
