At five to four, Sara said she doubted if anyone was going to show up. She sounded hopeful. At one minute to four, the doorbell rang.
Jack said, “I’m going to look for the boys.” In a very cowardly way, he scurried out the back.
They had invited four women, but six of them showed up and went straight to the dining table. Behind them, his shoulders bent, his face tired and drawn, was the only man.
“Eric Yates,” he said to Sara. “I think you’ve heard of me.”
“From the memorial service, yes.” She gave no other information.
He followed the others into the dining room, where Kate had started pouring cups of tea. She stepped away to stand beside her aunt Sara. “Do you think they know what this is about?”
“I do. Men don’t usually invite themselves to tea parties,” Sara said. “So how do you plan to start this?”
“You sit over there and begin autographing.”
Sara started choking.
“Just kidding. Do whatever it was that I saw you planning, then I’ll take over. Unless you want to run the show.”
“No! You. Not me.”
They waited until 4:30 p.m. to begin. It was a solemn group, talking in subdued voices of gardens and the problems caused by the non-native iguanas.
When they were full of tea and smoked salmon and puff pastries, Kate directed them into the living room. They filled the two couches and the chairs, then looked expectantly at Sara.
She stood at one end, a pile of 4x6 index cards in her hands. “As I think you know, we have some serious matters to discuss. Things we don’t want other people to know about. At least not yet.”
She looked at the cards in her hands. “If you’ve ever read a murder mystery you know how important alibis are, so I’m going t
o give you one.” She handed the cards to the woman on the end for her to start passing out. “We all understand that husbands want to believe they know all, but they don’t want to listen. So I’ll explain writing in a few sentences. Memorize them so you can parrot them back to your hubby or whoever asks and sound as though we really did have a book club meeting.”
On the card was written:
There are no secrets to writing. Put your butt on a chair and do it. One sentence at a time. And never say you want to BE a writer. Say that you want to write.
She gave the women time to read the cards. “The book club portion of the evening is now completed. You know all there is to know about writing. I turn this over to Kate.”
Kate didn’t tiptoe around. “We want the truth about Janet Beeson.” As she expected, there was no answer. “It doesn’t have to be a truth that you know for sure. It could be something that you believe. Your gut instinct. A feeling.”
There was still silence. Kate looked at Sara as though to say that this had been a failure. But when she turned away, Valerie Johnson stood up and moved to stand before the window.
“I think Janet Beeson burned down my studio.”
She paused for a moment as she gathered the courage to tell the rest of her story. “My husband had it built for our thirty-second anniversary. It was very cute, and north facing so the sun wouldn’t hurt my eyes. He put in a powder room so I wouldn’t have to go into the house. It was his last gift to me and he knew it. After he passed, I nearly lived in there. It made me feel close to him. It was in there that I created a baby blanket for the grandchildren I was never going to have. It won first prize in four contests before I entered it in the Lachlan fair.”
She swallowed. “On the day I entered it, Janet smiled and said it was a good effort. She was letting me know that it wouldn’t win. I didn’t tell her about the other contests. I just let her think that was my first. When I won, I said, ‘I guess the judges chose the best one.’ It was arrogant of me. I should have been more humble. She looked at me—” Valerie crossed herself. “With hatred. Pure hatred. She made the hairs on my entire body stand on end. I was afraid. Over a local crochet contest!”
She took a moment to breathe. “Two days later, my studio burned down. The fire chief said it was an electrical problem. To me, it was like I’d lost my husband a second time.”
Valerie’s face changed from sorrow to anger. “The embers hadn’t stopped smoldering before Janet showed up with a huge basket of supplies. The finest yarns, silk from India, and needles from Switzerland. Those needles! I think she ordered them before my studio burned down. I looked at her smiling face and I knew she had done it. I just plain knew it.”
She sat down, tears on her face. The woman next to her put her arms around her.
They were quiet for a moment, then Lyn Kelson stood up. “I know that look of hatred. It chills the soul. Janet gave it to me when I accidentally dyed her hair green. My son was in the hospital and we didn’t know if he was going to live or die. My husband and I took turns going to work and being with him. I wanted to be there the whole time but I owned the salon. I ran everything and my employees needed the work.”
She looked down at her hands. “I messed up. It was a mistake. I was in tears of sorrow, but I couldn’t repair her hair for forty-eight hours. I was afraid it would fall out.”
Lyn took a breath. “Two weeks later someone bought the old hardware store across the street from me. Within a month a new salon moved in. They had equipment I couldn’t afford and I couldn’t compete. Six months later I had no business. Even my regulars went to them. But then, somebody sent them seventy-percent-off coupons.”