CHAPTER EIGHT
She glanced at her phone one more time, confirming the text she'd received from DeMarco ten minutes earlier: "Arriving now.
Parked on Elm Street, one block east if you need backup.
" The day had been frustratingly unproductive in terms of new leads.
Background checks on all the book club members had revealed nothing suspicious, financial records showed no unusual transactions, and none of the neighbors had noticed anything out of the ordinary on Tuesday evening.
Kate adjusted the simple black cardigan she'd chosen for the occasion, hoping it struck the right balance between mourning attire and newcomer casualness.
She'd spent considerable time selecting her outfit, wanting to blend in without appearing to try too hard.
The copy of Murder on the Orient Express in her purse felt heavier than it should, a tangible reminder of the connection between Margaret's death and the literature this group was gathering to discuss.
Eleanor's front porch light cast a warm yellow glow across the carefully maintained flower beds as Kate approached the front door.
Through the lace-curtained window, she could see movement inside and hear the soft murmur of female voices punctuated by nervous laughter.
Kate pressed the doorbell and arranged her expression into what she hoped was an appropriately somber but interested demeanor.
"Oh, Kate, you're right on time," Eleanor said as she opened the door. "Please, come in. Everyone is so curious to meet you." She was doing her best to seem nonchalant, but Kate picked up the slight tremor of anxiety.
Kate followed Eleanor through the same front hallway she'd visited the day before, but now the house felt different. The formal quietness had been replaced by the subtle energy of a gathering. She could smell coffee brewing somewhere in the kitchen, along with what might have been homemade cookies.
The living room had been arranged with chairs in a rough circle, and seven women were already seated with coffee cups and small plates balanced on their laps.
Kate immediately noticed that every single person was wearing black, from Eleanor's simple blouse and slacks to the more elaborate funeral dress worn by a woman who appeared to be in her early sixties.
"Ladies, I'd like you to meet Kate," Eleanor announced. "She's considering moving into the neighborhood and heard about our book club through a mutual friend. Given the circumstances, I thought it might be nice for her to join us this evening and see how our group operates."
"Though I should warn you," said a woman with short silver hair, "this isn't exactly a typical meeting for us."
Kate settled into the empty chair Eleanor indicated, noting the positioning allowed her to observe all the other members without appearing to stare. "I completely understand. Eleanor explained about Margaret, and I'm so sorry for your loss. I actually feel a bit rude being here at all."
“Oh, nonsense,” said the only man of the group. “We’re happy to have you.”
She received several nods of agreement.
"It’s a great group," said a woman Kate didn't immediately recognize.
She was probably in her mid-forties, with dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail and wearing a black sweater that looked expensive.
"I'm Jennifer Haynes. I've only been with the group for about a year, but they’ve all been so welcoming.
Honestly, Margaret was just beginning to feel like a real friend. "
Kate filed away the name and Jennifer's apparent emotional investment in Margaret's friendship. Jennifer's eyes were already slightly red-rimmed, suggesting she'd been crying either recently or frequently since learning about Margaret's death.
"I'm Sandra Morrison," said the silver-haired woman.
"I'm the one who originally invited Margaret to join us, so this whole thing has been particularly difficult.
" Sandra's voice carried a slight tremor, but her composure seemed more controlled than Jennifer's dramatic display of grief. Her eyes were red around the edges, indicating she’d been genuinely crying at some point during the afternoon.
The introductions continued around the circle.
There was Patricia Dunham, a heavyset woman in her late sixties who had apparently joined the group just two years ago; then there was Carol Stevens, a retired elementary school teacher who had been a founding member alongside Eleanor.
Diana Clark, a quiet woman in her fifties who seemed to be studying Kate with particular intensity.
Mary Richardson, who looked to be the youngest member at perhaps forty-nine or fifty, introduced herself as the business owner of a local juice bar and wellness center in town.
And the final introduction consisted of the only male of the group, who had spoken up just a few minutes ago.
"And I'm David Fletcher," he said. Fletcher was in his early sixties with thinning brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. "I know I might seem a bit out of place along with all these ladies. But they’ve been gracious enough to tolerate me for about three years now."
"David's male perspective is often very helpful," Eleanor said with a weak smile.
"He brings a different viewpoint to our discussions, especially when we're reading authors like Christie who often wrote about the relationships between men and women.
" Some of the other ladies chuckled warmly, and a few even looked at him with a bit of fondness in their gaze.
Kate noted that David had been fidgeting with his coffee cup throughout the introductions and continued to shift uncomfortably in his chair. She couldn't tell if his nervousness stemmed from being the only man in a group of grieving women, or from something else entirely.
"Before we go any further," Eleanor continued, "I want to acknowledge that tonight's meeting isn't going to follow our usual format.
We had planned to discuss Murder on the Orient Express, but under the circumstances, that feels inappropriate.
Instead, I thought we might share some of our favorite memories of Margaret. "
"I think that's a beautiful idea," Jennifer said, pressing a tissue to her eyes. "Margaret meant so much to all of us."
Kate watched the group's reactions to Jennifer's emotional display.
Carol Stevens nodded sympathetically, while Patricia Dunham reached over to pat Jennifer's hand.
But Kate caught Sandra Morrison's expression, a barely suppressed eye roll that suggested some irritation with Jennifer's dramatic response.
"Sandra, would you like to start?" Eleanor asked. "You knew Margaret longest."
Sandra composed herself and set down her coffee cup.
"Margaret was one of the most intellectually honest people I've ever known.
She never said something just to be polite or to make other people feel better.
If she disagreed with your interpretation of a book, she would tell you exactly why, and she would have three examples ready to support her position. "
"That sounds challenging," Kate observed carefully.
"It was challenging," Carol Stevens said.
"Margaret didn't suffer fools gladly, and she had very high standards for literary discussion.
But once you learned to appreciate her directness, you realized how much she was elevating the quality of our conversations.
It was hard sometimes, but it was how you could tell that she truly valued our group. "
"She could be intimidating," Patricia Dunham added.
"When I first joined the group, I was terrified to speak up during discussions because Margaret always seemed to know so much more than the rest of us.
But eventually I realized she wasn't trying to make anyone feel stupid.
She just had a genuine passion for literature. "
Kate noticed David Fletcher's continued fidgeting during this exchange. His discomfort seemed to increase whenever Margaret's direct communication style was mentioned.
"What about you, David?" Eleanor asked. "You and Margaret had some interesting discussions over the years."
David cleared his throat nervously. "Margaret was very well-read.
Sometimes I felt like she was testing us, seeing if we'd actually done the reading or if we were just skimming the surface.
" He paused, adjusting his glasses. "She could be quite pointed in her corrections when she thought someone had missed the author's intent. "
"But she was never mean about it," Jennifer interjected, her voice thick with emotion. "Margaret was honest, but she was never cruel. She just wanted us all to engage with the literature at a deeper level."
Sandra Morrison's expression suggested she might disagree with Jennifer's assessment, but she remained silent. There was some definite rolling of the eyes.
"Jennifer, you mentioned that Margaret was beginning to feel like a real friend," Kate said. "How did that friendship develop?" The question was out before she realized it, and she just hoped the women wouldn't find it strange that she, a supposed newcomer, would ask such a personal question.
But apparently, no one thought ill of it.
Jennifer dabbed at her eyes with her tissue and answered, "Margaret and I discovered we had similar tastes in contemporary mystery writers.
We started exchanging book recommendations between meetings, and sometimes we would call each other to discuss something we'd just finished reading. "
"That's lovely," Kate said, noting that none of the other members seemed to have developed that level of personal connection with Margaret.