Murder at the Book Group Read Online Free Page A

the rush of other parties, I rarely saw him. And yes, five years later I still lived with Lucy or, as I preferred to put it, we lived together . It put a whole different spin on temporary.
    I watched as Carlene arranged plates and dishes on the dining table and, after casting a critical eye on the result, rearranged them. I shook my head and laughed to myself over such fussing. The simplicity of the rest of the house didn’t reign in Carlene’s small dining room. A carved pumpkin holding a riotous assortment of fall flowers and greens served as a table centerpiece. With the early October weather being so warm, the fall decor seemed out of place. I piled the brownies on a plate and put them and the carafe amid a display of smaller pumpkins, orange candles, baby squash, gourds, acorns, and scattered leaves. It looked like Martha Stewart had run amok.
    What was going on with Carlene and Evan? Were they permanently separated or, in Evan’s parlance, on a “break”? Would the turkey dinner go on as usual in December? Maybe some of the issues that had plagued my marriage to Evan were raising havoc with the Carlene/Evan union some thirty years later. I remembered my chance encounter with Evan at Target the week before. I took him up on his offer of coffee at the Starbucks concession, where he told me about the separation, but not his second offer—dinner at Lemaire restaurant. Hard as it was to turn down dinner at Richmond’s most elegant restaurant, I didn’t date married men. And separated was, in my view, still married. Taking a so-called break even more so. So I’d collected my purchases and stood to leave, saying, “No, Evan. Thank you, but no. Not while you’re married to Carlene.” And I’d walked away. In truth, my fantasies of a reunion with a single Evan had dimmed to the point of extinction, so I couldn’t claim to be resisting temptation. Still, I regretted not sticking around to hear what had brought on this trouble in paradise—assuming that Evan would share such details.
    Little did I know that in a very short time their paradise would become a lot more troublesome.
    THE GROUP DRIFTED into the small dining room, a spirited discussion about Sudoku puzzles in progress. They loaded miniature plates with brownies and apple slices, some taking care to avoid the goat cheese. Annabel looked alarmed at Linda’s blow-by-blow description of her recent colonoscopy. I realized with something akin to despair that I’d reached the age where medical procedures and conditions were discussed in full and complete detail at every opportunity. Sighing, I fixed myself a cup of decaf but found the pitcher bone dry. I carried the creamer and my cup to the kitchen where Carlene poured water from the kettle into her mug.
    â€œCarlene, do you have milk or half-and-half?”
    She looked blank, then said, “Yes. In the fridge. Didn’t I put it out?”
    Sarah appeared in the other kitchen doorway. “Carlene, there’re no towels in the upstairs bathroom.” Then she grinned. “Jeans work just as well.” She rubbed her hands over her thighs in demonstration.
    â€œOh, dear,” Carlene heaved a sigh. “Sorry about that.” She left her mug on the counter and went upstairs, presumably to locate towels.
    We looked after Carlene’s retreating form. Sarah lowered her voice and asked, “Did you find out what was with her earlier?”
    I hesitated and wagged my hand back and forth. I could only assess the “huge mistake” discussion as well as the Linda one as vague and unsatisfying. And even if I had something concrete to report, I didn’t feel comfortable talking about Carlene in her own house. “Not really” was the best I could come up with to explain my conversation with Carlene.
    â€œLet’s go down to the family room and I’ll show you a few exercises you can do at home,” I heard Kat suggest to