The Fallen Angels Book Club (4 page)

“We're closed. Our system is down.”

I sat anyway. “Not a problem. I just want access to my safe-deposit box—not your system.”

At that, she looked me in the eye with a less than convincing show of regret and pointed to the clock. “Sorry, the safe-deposit center closes at two thirty on Saturdays—almost a half hour ago.”

“Wait, I've been here after two thirty before, and as long as I was in before three, I got access.”

“New rules.” She shook her head with fake sympathy.

“New rules? Well, unless you want to be even later getting home, I suggest you signal the bank manager to come over here and give me access to my box. Never mind. I'll call him over myself.”

She clicked out an extension on the phone. I couldn't help staring at her one-inch fire-red nails with delicate yellow roses painted on the tips. Once again I found myself tucking my own unadorned nails out of sight.

In prison, I mastered the art of ignoring glares. Certainly the twenty-something manager who strode up to the desk was not in my league. I disregarded his ill-concealed irritation.

“I'll only be a moment.” I smiled sweetly.

Saying something under his breath about people wanting to go home to their families, he pointed toward the wrought-iron side gate that led to a secured area. I followed him and waited for the automatic door to buzz open and then close behind us as if air-locked. I went straight to the box at the end of the third row, a few inches from the floor. After I had signed the required card, he inserted his key into the lock and I did the same. Finally alone, I gingerly opened the container, grabbed a pile of Polaroids and flipped through them. They had started to fade a little. Next time I'd have to bring my digital camera to take shots of the photos. I skimmed through them one more time.

My smile hadn't changed over the years, but my eyes had. In a crowd of revelers, the twenty-three-year-old who grinned back at me with her arm loosely thrown around the shoulders of her sister was long gone. The shot was taken BB—Before Bill, when I still had expectations of doing good in the world. Rita insisted on taking a picture with me holding my acceptance letter to Hastings Law School. It was the only picture I had of my sister. Bill destroyed all of our photographs in a futile effort to get rid of anything incriminating. Baby brother, Greg, had taken the photos with Mom's old camera. I didn't have any pictures of him. I could only imagine how he must look now. Blinking back tears, I knew this train of thought would take me to a past that had abandoned me, and I it.

Taking the pictures I came for, I neither thanked nor looked at the manager as he stiffly stood at attention holding the front door open.

I am a so-so cook, but I make great salads. I find that the right ingredients can make the most stressful day come to a peaceful end with a simple toss of salad greens.

I hummed along to a CD of Diana Krall as I added chopped endive, sliced artichoke hearts and heirloom cherry tomatoes and topped it all with cannelloni beans, a few chunks of blue cheese and leftover pancetta. I pulled a bottle of my favorite pinot noir from the pantry shelf and took everything to the table.

At last.

The first sip of wine brought a satisfied smile to my face. As I reached for the honey-mustard vinaigrette, the doorbell sounded. Figures.

I looked through the peephole and froze.

“Who is it?” I said, hoping to buy myself a couple of seconds.

“Ms. Morgan? It's Detective Faber. I'm with Detective Lincoln. Can we speak to you for a few minutes?” His voice sounded loud and clear, even through the door.

Taking a deep breath, I let them in. “Why have you come back?”

They looked around with curiosity as if they'd never been here before. I guided them once more into the living room. I didn't sit because I didn't want them to. We all stood around the coffee table.

Faber took out that thin black notebook of his and flipped open a page. “Ms. Morgan, do you know a Rebecca Lynley?”

They had me. I knew my voice would have a tremble. “I think you already know the answer to that. Yes, I legally changed my name. Hollis is my middle name and Morgan is my maiden name.”

Rebecca Hollis Morgan Lynley was my unlucky name. It was the name that brought shame to me, my family and my friends. It was the name I was known by when I served time in prison. It was the name I acquired when I married that jerk. Rebecca Hollis Morgan Lynley. It was a name I never wanted to hear again, but here it was, turning up like a bad penny. For one insane moment, I wondered what was behind that bad penny saying. I knew how that penny felt.

Lincoln said, “I see. Well, we talked to your former parole officer and he spoke highly of you. Does your employer know of your record?”

Ah, a man after my own way of thinking. Straight to the point of pain
. My heart raced. “The ones who need to know do. Why? Is there a reason you're asking?”

Lincoln seemed to come to life. “I wondered if you checked the felon box on your job application.” His expression told me that he expected I had lied.

So that was it; he liked pulling wings off butterflies. He wanted me to squirm.

“Detectives, is there a reason why you're here? I admitted I changed my name. I don't know any more about Rory's death now than I did when you were last here.”

“Mrs. Lynley—”

“Morgan,” I insisted.

Faber gave me a condescending smile. “Okay, Ms. Morgan, we followed up on that book tip you gave us, linking it to the mode of Norris' death. It was right on. Then we took things a little further, did a little research on the other members of the book club. You know what we discovered? A club of ex-felons.”

At that I had to sit. They followed suit.

My thoughts raced. “I know there's a temptation to conclude that we're plotting the downfall of the Western world, but all that we have in common—well, not
all,
I guess—is that we love books.”

“That so?” Faber's lips were pursed just shy of a smirk. “Yet I would imagine all of you must live in fear of having your prison backgrounds exposed. A blackmailer would think he hit the lotto.”

Lincoln leaned over and picked a foil-wrapped chocolate out of the glass candy dish on the table. I tried to remember how long the candy had been there. One of the prison staff had given me a small box as a good luck gift. Could people die from eating candy three years past the “best by” date? He popped it in without noticing the thin whitish coating and grabbed for another.

I stared at the chocolates. “We don't pry into each others' pasts. That's one of our rules. We only get together to share our opinions about books.”

Lincoln gave me a hard look. “We visited Mr. Norris' apartment. We found canceled checks and bank statements that raise the possibility he might have been a blackmailer.” Lincoln chewed. “Was he blackmailing you?”

“Rory, a blackmailer?” I couldn't stop my voice from trembling. “No. No. I'm not being blackmailed.”

“You didn't know Norris was a blackmailer?” Faber asked.

“No,” I answered weakly. “I only knew him through the book club.”

“Yeah, so you said.” Faber flipped back a couple of pages in his notebook. “Mrs. Lynley—excuse me, Ms. Morgan—would you be surprised to know your husband's name was in an address book we found in Mr. Norris' apartment?”

The air fled my lungs as if I'd been punched. On top of that I thought my hearing must be impaired. “I'm sorry. Did you say
Bill's
name was in Rory's address book?”

“That's right. How did they know each other?” Faber asked.

“Bill and Rory knew each other?” The words left my lips but sounded far away.

Faber leaned over to my side of the table. “Do you know where your husband is?”

“Ex
-husband. I haven't seen him since my trial.”

Only a half-lie
.

To my relief, Lincoln pushed the candy dish away. “You haven't had any contact with William Lynley since your conviction?”

I chose my words carefully. “We haven't spoken since I was sentenced.”

Let's try to maintain some integrity here
.

I couldn't tell if they believed me. They asked a few more questions about the club and then left with the promise to get back to me if they thought of anything else. Based on my last law enforcement encounter, I had a feeling their next step would be to obtain a search warrant.

I tossed the salad down the disposal and went out on the deck with my wine. I'd lost my appetite. The opposite of love isn't hatred, it's indifference. I was working on it, not every day, but as often as my sanity allowed. I was glad to feel
almost
nothing.

Nighttime was always the worst for me. Insomnia had become my companion. At night, I'd close my eyes, and the noises and smells from prison would assail me. A few months ago there was a special on TV about women in prison. I couldn't watch it. Even though my cell was behind a door and not bars, I heard my fellow inmates crying and praying. It went on for hours on end. I could neither cry nor pray now.

I had to get a pardon. I'd do whatever it took. Rory's unsolved murder could threaten my future dreams. I had to have another chance.

I had to.

S
aturday evening slid into Sunday. To keep busy, I spent the day cleaning out my garage. Thinking about Bill and Rory would only take me back to how much I had at stake and the one prospect that froze my heart—returning to prison. By the weekend's end, I'd finished a rough draft of my statement but Abby still hadn't returned my call. I wasn't surprised not to hear from the other members. I didn't want my name to crop up on their caller ID, either.

It was difficult, but I was able to avoid even contemplating Bill's request to call him. If it seemed as if my thoughts might venture in that direction, I recalled the bad case of poison ivy I caught during my internment.

I was more than ready for Monday when it came. It might appear ironic to an outsider that I had found a job working in a law firm. After my tour in California's residence hotel at Chowchilla Prison, I was wary of the law enforcement profession, but I had an immense amount of respect for the law.

I passed my key card over the gray panel next to the ceiling-high wooden doors and listened for the sound of the opening click. I loved the firm's front entry. Plush maroon and deep purple Persian area rugs covered wide-planked hickory floors. Three sage green upholstered sofas encircled an oblong glass table covered with an assortment of art catalogs, stock market newsletters and regional magazines. Something for everyone. The cleaning crew rubbed lemon oil on the massive oak bookshelves holding antique Chinese curios and artifacts. The place not only looked rich, it smelled rich.

I headed along the wide hallway for my office, determined to let work keep my thoughts from returning to the vision of a murdered Rory. I stopped. Mark Haddan, a new young associate, came toward me with rolled up sleeves and a loosened tie.

“Thank goodness, Hollis. I'm so glad you came in early. Can you help me with the copy machine? I've got my first deposition at eight thirty and my opening questions are jammed inside this wretched piece of junk.”

“Good morning to you, too, Mark. Why did you wait until this morning to prepare your questions?” I shook my head and followed him down the narrow corridor. As we rounded the corner leading to the staff offices, the luxury décor of the front reception area abruptly ended, and we trod on well-worn indoor-outdoor carpet.

“Spare me,” Mark said. “If I admit I'm an idiot, will you fix the damn thing?”

“You'll owe me.” Even as I said it, I knew I couldn't count on collecting. Attorneys never noticed the administrative staff until they needed something.

Ordinarily, on a Monday morning, the lineup of gray steel copy machines stood in welcome for the onslaught of us Type-A workaholics. During the week, the stacked files, scattered paperwork, discarded half-filled coffee cups, and open law books would incrementally take possession of the room, coming to a crescendo of chaos by week's end. I looked unbelievingly at the room. Mark had already wreaked enough havoc to make it look like Friday. I put my purse down near the door, in the only spot not covered in paper.

I decided to give him a break. Everyone knew the law partners weren't pleased with his progress in the firm, and I didn't want to contribute to his demise. “How did you create such a mess? I'll show you how to fix it, just in case no one is around next time.”

Waving him around to the side panel, I showed him how to open the various drawers, doors and roller pins. Finally, I tugged free an accordion folded piece of paper jammed under a row of clamps. The printer churned to life.

“Thanks. You saved my day.” A flushed Mark grabbed another sheet to place under the copier cover.

“Don't forget to put the client number on the log sheet.” I picked up my purse and left him to clean up the mess.

In my office I went straight to work. Opening a green legal folder stretched to its limit with draft court documents, I entered the client number into the electronic billing system and sorted the pleadings by date. Unlike my home, my office was a bastion of order and organization. Reference books lined the shelves according to topic and my current case files were stacked neatly in deadline order on the credenza behind my chair. An hour later, I hefted several bulky files into my arms and stacked them in the outgoing file cart parked in the hallway.