The Fallen Angels Book Club (2 page)

I added, “I never thought about it much, but I guess I'm a Fallen Angel for the same reason as Miller. I just hate being eligible.”

My internment in prison was the lowest point of my life. There I wasn't Hollis Morgan. I was a number. Five years later a smell, a sound, a name could take me back there.

My fellow members were silent, probably reliving moments from their own prison stays.

Rory cleared his throat. “Sorry. I didn't mean to get us off track. Anyway, Georg Oster wrote this book because he needed money. It was largely plagiarized from a little known nineteen-thirties playwright.”

“How in the hell do you know all that?” I said.

The emotion that flashed across his face was gone before I could be sure I saw it.

“Ms. Morgan, you'd be surprised what all I know.” He ran his hand over his hair. “Look,
The New Yorker
had a review a couple of months ago that pointed to this play from nineteen thirty. Sadly, for the author, the reviewer's mother was a cousin to the playwright. She recognized the story line.”

Miller sat up. “Why didn't you tell us this when I brought the book list in for our selection?”

Rory shrugged. “I didn't know it until I Googled the book. Remember, I'm a research-aholic.” He stopped clicking his pen. “Besides, since you can get books for free, who cares? It beats that wandering ode to egotism we read last month.”

Miller mumbled something under his breath that sounded like “sandbag.”

Richard sucked on his tooth and took out a page of notes. “Well, like I said, I found the book to be pretty good. Oster had a good grasp of the time and setting. It could have had a better ending, though.”

“All right now,” Abby said. “It's my turn. If I could talk without being interrupted.” She lifted her book in the air. “I did some research, too. Oster came from an upper-class family in an upper-class neighborhood. His back cover said he wrote this novel as a thinly disguised memoir of his own coming of age.”

Abby always wanted our full attention if she had the floor.

“I agree,” Gene said. “I don't know anyone who'd consider
World at Midnight
to be a lightweight reading escape. It got me thinking.”

Rory snorted. “Give me a break. He wrote it for the money. His last two books flopped. He had to get something out in the market.”

“Not everyone has your money motive.” Richard looked at Gene and they both rolled their eyes.

“What the hell does that mean?” Rory's cheeks turned deep pink.

Gene wasn't intimidated. He loved drama. “Well, maybe it means that unless we're reading a self-help book, your comments always center on getting, keeping or losing money.”

I waved my hand. “Time out, guys. For Pete's sake, let's focus on the book. I think we all agree that the female protagonist is caught in a time warp of values. When the villain is finally killed, we don't feel a thing for him and not a lot of sympathy for her, either. The book was good. Not great, but good. So, I agree with Gene.”

Miller, usually the peacemaker, cleared his throat. “Same here. I think this was a well-written book.”

I snuck a peek at Rory, whose face and neck were turning rage red. A muscle spasm flickered in his jaw.

“Do us a favor,” Richard said. “Just this one time admit you might be wrong. It would be so refreshing.”

“Go to hell.” Rory grabbed his jacket and snatched up his book. His chair screeched as he pushed it backward. When the door slammed behind him, the thin glass in the windows shivered.

I winced at the scar-like gash left behind in the once-flawless hardwood floor.

I
was relatively bright, young—well, thirty-two—and free as a bird. When I stopped to think about it, these qualities didn't sound like a big deal, but I couldn't say the same for myself five years ago. Back then I was coming off parole after serving half of a three-year sentence for insurance fraud. I was innocent, but my guilty ex-husband cut a deal with the prosecutor and left me behind for shark bait.

I poured myself another cup of tea. I found myself going through this thinking ritual every morning. I couldn't seem to let go.

It had taken me a while to make peace with the fact that Bill set me up. He knew I'd stopped loving him and it was only a matter of time before I left. For that, Bill hated me as much as he loved me—or maybe he hated himself bec
ause
he loved me.

As I put my mug in the sink, my reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator caught my eye. Running my fingers through my auburn hair, I peered closer. The beginning of bags under my big brown eyes were a product of my sleepless study nights. I stretched the skin taut. It was time to find a better stainless steel cleaner.

The numerals on the wall clock rolled over. I still had time before I had to leave for my appointment. I reached for the thick hardback novel perched precariously on top of three other books and tried to relax. Unfortunately, this time reading didn't provide its usual escape. My brain kept going to the meeting with my attorney, Clay Boone. A meeting that would mark another step toward getting my life back.

One thing was in my favor. Certain ex-felons, like me, may petition the court for a Certificate of Rehabilitation and Pardon, as long as they could show they had stayed out of trouble for at least five years after parole. I qualified. Boone said it was never a no-brainer, but I was a good candidate. If granted, the certificate would clear my record of conviction, allow me to complete law school and take the bar exam to become a lawyer. I had to stop saying “if.” There was nothing I wouldn't do to get that pardon. Nothing.

I put the cup to my lips and took a deep drink. The doorbell rang.

I never had visitors.

Peering through the peephole, I didn't recognize the pair of suits standing on my porch.

I glanced around, taking deep breaths to calm my nerves. Luckily, the living room was always the most together. Typically, things went downhill as one moved through my condo. Grabbing my purse, I put it behind the sofa. The doorbell rang again. I pulled up my sweats. At five-feet-three inches tall, I find it hard to buy pants that don't drag on the floor. I opened the door.

“Ms. Morgan? Detectives Faber and Lincoln with the San Lucian Police Department. May we come in?”

My hand shook. I was afraid to let go of the doorknob. It required an enormous effort to put on my best blank face, smile my sweetest smile and step aside to let them in. “Sure. What's this about?”

“Thank you. We shouldn't be long,” the tall one, Faber, responded. He hadn't answered my question. Faber looked around the room without seeming to look around. I used the opportunity to observe him. His smooth, olive-toned skin belied his almond-shaped eyes and wavy brown hair. He reminded me of a Heinz 57 pooch. Not that he was a dog, but rather an interesting combination of ethnicities. Not a bad-looking guy.

I pointed to the overstuffed chairs next to the fireplace and sat down on the sofa arm.

“We understand you know a Rory Norris,” Faber said.

I nodded.

“Last night Mr. Norris was murdered.”

“Murdered?” I couldn't catch my breath. I slid down onto a sofa cushion. “What happened?”

Lincoln ignored my question. “We know you are in a book club together. One of the other members had their name and number in Norris' car. He gave us the club's contact list.” He kept rubbing his collar. He was only a few inches taller than me with carrot-red hair and freckles. He looked about twelve. “We understand you were good friends with the deceased.”

“Good friends? I wouldn't say we were good friends. I know next to nothing about him.” I shifted in my seat, hoping they wouldn't hear the half-lie. “Sometimes we went out after a meeting for coffee to keep talking about a book. However, I wouldn't say we were good friends.”

“Were you going to New Zealand with him?”

“New Zealand? No way. I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't even know he was going.” I refrained from adding that the thought of going anywhere with Rory made me nauseous. I'd learned never to volunteer any information.

Lincoln kept his eyes on me. “We found a travel confirmation on him. Did he say anything about a trip?”

“Not to me.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Faber asked.

“At our meeting last night.” A bead of sweat slipped down my back. My warning radar engaged.

“How did he seem to you?”

I took another deep breath and mentally debated the idea of telling the complete truth. There was no need to lie. “Rory was upset. He could be somewhat rigid. We read
World at Midnight.
Have you read it?” They both shook their heads. “Well, it's a deep book. He had his own views on the author's theme, and some of us disagreed with him.”

“Some?” It was Faber again.

“Well, all of us, actually. None of us agreed with him.”

This time Lincoln spoke. “What happens when you don't agree at a book club meeting?”

“Well, Detective, we kill the person.”

Shut up
. Nerves.

They both glared at me.

I wanted to kick myself. “Sorry.” I hoped I looked remorseful. “This is still unbelievable to me. Rory was a good guy. He's been—I mean he was with the group for over a year. We met once a month and Rory rarely missed a meeting. He seemed fine last night. He even told a little joke.”

“What time did he leave?”

I knew they must be checking our stories. “We all started to leave around nine o'clock. Rory left before that. Now, can you answer a question for me? What happened?”

Faber flipped through several sheets of paper in a small pad. I was paranoid enough to think he was buying time—trying to make me crazy with waiting. “A passerby discovered Mr. Norris' body in a parking lot about five miles from your meeting location. Where did you go after the meeting?”

“I came home.” My mind flashed back to the last time the police asked me for an alibi. Now, I sat on my hands to hide the shaking. My resolve to turn over a new leaf by never lying was being fully tested.

“That it?” Faber persisted. “Were you alone?”

“Yes and yes.”

He got up and peered through the glass doors of the étagère I inherited from my grandmother, which held her ceramic frog collection. It was my least favorite possession—the solid walnut piece weighed a ton and didn't fit the rest of my décor—but I didn't have the heart to give it away. My relationship with Gram made up for the lack of one I had with the rest of the family.

“It took us a while to ID him,” Faber said. “He was beaten and then run over several times.”

I stared at the back of his head. A knot of dread grew larger and larger in my stomach as my words tumbled out. “Beaten? With a baseball bat?”

“Yes.”

“And his clothing … were all the labels cut out?”

Detective Lincoln's look snared me with laser accuracy. “What do you know about how Norris was murdered?”

I finally got air into my lungs. “I don't believe it.” I stood and walked over to the windows then back toward the sofa.

“Ms. Morgan,” Faber said, “I'm sorry, but we're going to need some better answers from you. So far there don't appear to be any witnesses, but you seem to know quite a bit. We're checking with all the book club members, and we didn't tell anyone details.”

I waved my hand at them. “No, no. It's the similarity. It's—it's about the crime scene. It's the way he died.”

“I don't understand.” Lincoln frowned. “Enlighten me.”

I could hardly get the words out. My voice sounded like a whisper to my own ears. “The scene, it's the same as in the book we reviewed last night.”

Faber sat up. “What do you mean?”

I sank into the sofa cushions. This wasn't going to be easy. “Well, we read
World at Midnight,
like I said. There's this murder. The vic is beaten with a baseball bat and then run over by the bad guy. He's a tailor. Anyway, he's run over back and forth. The murderer takes the ID and cuts the labels out of the vic's clothes to stall identification. It gives him time to cover his tracks and get away.”

Faber nodded. “I see.” He gave me an amused glance. “I notice your use of the term ‘vic.' Is that something you read about, too?”

“What? Oh, yeah. I guess I get carried away,” I murmured.

“Do you have a copy of this book we can borrow?” Lincoln asked.

I nodded and reached under the coffee table. The book wasn't there. “I must have left it in the office with my other lunchtime reading.”

Faber shrugged. “That's not a problem. We'll get a copy. Ms. Morgan, you didn't answer our earlier question. What happened when Rory disagreed with the group about the book?”

Warning bells went off in my head. I licked my lips. I was uncomfortable with his tone. “There was a lot of loud talk. He got defensive and we all said things that weren't too cool.”