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  The Fallen Angels Book Club

  A Hollis Morgan Mystery

  by

  R. Franklin James

  Camel Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.camelpress.com

  www.rfranklinjames.com.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  The Fallen Angels Book Club

  Copyright © 2013 by R. Franklin James

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-917-6 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-918-3 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013933745

  Produced in the United States of America

  * * * * *

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, thanks to my dream critique group: Kathy Asay, Pat Foulk, Norma Lehr, Terri Judd and Cindy Sample.

  Special thanks to Linda Townsdin, Michele Drier and Sean Watkins—my loyal readers of earlier rough versions.

  Thanks to Kristen Weber, who helped me from the beginning with her heart, skill and know-how.

  Huge thanks to Coffeetown/Camel Press publisher and editors Catherine Treadgold and Jennifer McCord, who worked their magic and transformed my manuscript into a published book.

  To my agent, Dawn Dowdle, who brought my work to light.

  And to my wonderful husband, Leonard James, the kindest man I know.

  For Bobbi Franklin and Lillian Shannon who make me grateful, for Sean and Stefan who make me proud and for Leonard, who makes me happy

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  That night it was my turn to arrive early and set up the space for our book club meeting. Our monthly gatherings were held in a small, windowless conference room adjacent to San Lucian Library’s main reading room. The Fallen Angels Book Club has only two requirements. Members must be 1) book lovers and 2) white collar ex-felons.

  I peeled off my gloves and rubbed my hands together. The March chill was typical for the San Francisco Bay Area and made my fingers feel like icicles. Thank goodness someone had remembered to turn on the heat. The door opened and a gush of wind blew in a cluster of leaves along with Gene Donovan, who tossed his hoodie and a small brown leather “man purse” onto one of the folding chairs.

  “Hollis, let me help you with that.” His tousled blond hair was more askew than usual. Placing his book on the floor, he came over to where I struggled to roll out the meeting table.

  “Appreciate it.” I straightened my back and allowed him to carry the bulk of the table’s weight. Fortunately, when I was with Gene, we didn’t have to speak. I caught a glance of his manicured nails and tucked mine into my palms. I liked Gene. He wasn’t afraid to show his feminine side.

  We took special care not to drag the metal chair legs across the glowing veneer of the hardwood floor. Its pristine condition was the handiwork of the night cleaning crew, who waited for us to leave so they could begin their labor.

  We had settled into our chairs when Rory Norris strode in, let the door slam and dumped his books on the table. His hazel green eyes did a sweep across the room, as if expecting an ambush. A few more pounds had crept onto his already thickening middle-aged frame.

  Rory patted his buzz cut and laid his black leather jacket over the chair. “Hey, people, did you notice if they lock the gates to the parking lot? My Beemer just got detailed and I don’t want some neighborhood juvenile mistaking it for a marker board.”

  “Nice touch, Norris, letting us know you got a new BMW,” Richard Kleh said as he pulled off his knitted skullcap, revealing an emerging bald crown. He sucked on his front tooth and nodded toward the door. “Go check for yourself. Hey, Hollis, did you finish the read?”

  “Of course. You’re the one who never finishes a book.”

  “Well, I finished this one. It had me going until the end. The characters were realistic and … and—”

  “Memorable?” I could tell from his frown he wasn’t kidding.

  My ability to catch people in lies started when I was about ten years old. My parents were alternately appalled and fascinated with their youngest daughter. As I grew older, I became somewhat of an expert, except when someone close to me lied. Over the years I realized the gift of my internal lie detector was turning into a curse. I caught myself lying just because it was convenient and I was good at it. After prison, I committed to becoming reacquainted with the truth, and now I’m on my way to being a reformed liar. However, the best liars, hands down, were my fellow book club members.

  The door opened again and Abby Caldwell entered with Miller Thornton a step behind her. Both pulled off coats and scarves.

  I glanced down at my jeans and smoothed out a few wrinkles on my well-worn Berkeley Cal Bears sweatshirt. I looked up to see Gene gazing at me. He shrugged and flashed a smug smile.

  If Gene made me feel self-conscious, Abby made me feel downright inferior. She was clothed like a high-powered executive. Her sky-blue eyes picked up the slightly darker blue in her silk blouse and her shiny, wavy black hair was pulled back in a low ponytail that rested over a black wool suit. Richard and Rory exchanged knowing—and male—looks. Once more I wondered where she worked. The rules of the club required we keep our current circumstances private, so I could only imagine.

  Abby was oblivious to her effect on us. She smiled. “Hello, everyone, sounds like we have good comments already. I made a list of questions, but we probably won’t need them. Why don’t we get started with our meeting?”

  Adding insult to injury, Abby was smart and kind. Last year she brought to our attention that the children’s section in the library had more empty shelves than full and asked us to donate money for books and child-sized furniture. Then, on her own, she worked with the librarians to buy two research computers. She never told us about that purchase. I happened to see the acknowledgment card posted on the notice board in the entry.

  “Madame President, aren’t we going to wait for Rena?” Miller said in a mocking voice, taking his book out of his briefcase.

  We didn’t have officers, but with a little prodding, Abby had assumed the unofficial leadership role with ease. At first she resisted, especially after Rory suggested we call her “warden”—a joke no one thought funny. Still, she took her role seriously and without her sense of order, we’d never have gotten past our propensity to talk all at the same time. She was such a good leader we never needed to appoint another.

  She took a quick look at her slim black Movado watch. While I don’t wear a lot of jewelry, just a few choice pieces, I had a background in insurance appraisals. The diamonds encrusted around its face were real.

  “Let’s give her another couple of minutes. She has to come across the bridge.”

  Gene sighed. “It’s not like Rena walks. She takes rapid transit.” He picked at his eyebrows, a habit when he got agitated.

  “I’m here. I’m here.” Rena Gabriel rushed through the door. Tall, pretty and African American, she had glowing, honey-colored skin and brought an energy with her that never ceased to amaze me. It was as if we all slept until she turned on the light.

  We straightened in our chairs.

  She quickly removed her parka and hood. Her long, tightly curled black hair sprang free. “I apologize. My train was late. I don’t see any open books so I can’t be too t
ardy.”

  She beamed at me and Gene then turned her warm smile on the rest of the group.

  I slowly shook my head. “Rena, I know this is only your second club meeting, but if you’re late, you have to bring refreshments.”

  Her large brown eyes opened wider. “Really? I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Each time I come here I learn more rules. Do I go back out and return with some goodies?”

  “Hollis, give her a break.” Richard sucked on a tooth. “Rena, there’s no such rule. Unfortunately, our rules aren’t written down, but you already know the important ones. Of course, if you feel you have to feed us, we won’t protest.”

  I gave her a reassuring nod and tried to look contrite. She appeared relieved.

  Miller lifted a pair of glasses to his eyes. He’d started to gray at the temples—a striking contrast with his youthful face. “Okay. We’re all here. Let’s get started. I, for one, liked World at Midnight. At first I had a hard time getting into it, but about thirty pages in, I couldn’t put it down.”

  “Come on. It wasn’t that good,” I said.

  “All right then.” Gene nudged his elbow into my arm. “Hollis, why don’t you tell us what you thought of the book?”

  I paused for a moment. “Unlike Miller and Richard, I could put it down. Rosemarie had no redeeming qualities. She was one dimensional. No one can be evil all the time.”

  Abby broke in. “For me, she was believable. I know people just like her—without a conscience.” Her voice rose half an octave. “Someone should lock her up and throw away the key.”

  There was a thick silence. I couldn’t help giving the normally pacifist Abby a questioning look.

  “Nobody here, of course,” she added.

  Miller and Richard gave a short laugh.

  Rena raised her hand. “I agree with Hollis. The author could have shown us why Rosemarie was so angry. I liked the book because of the storyline, not so much the characters.”

  Gene snorted. “First, you don’t have to raise your hand when you want to speak. Second, what are you saying, not so much the characters? A book is its characters. Just because you don’t like them doesn’t mean they weren’t well developed. I think the book fell short. It was good but not great. Too much reliance on coincidences. What’s the likelihood that a group of misfits would meet and form a society? It’s not real.”

  “What about us?” I said. I couldn’t believe he didn’t see the connection. “We came together in a book club.”

  Gene nodded. “Good point. Some people would say we’re misfits.”

  I could tell from the downward cast eyes of the others that he’d struck home.

  Misfits.

  My deepest fear was that I wouldn’t be given another chance to fit in. It didn’t matter to society that my crime was a white collar offense. It didn’t matter that I was innocent. What mattered to me was having a chance to prove I wasn’t a misfit. With any luck at all, I would soon obtain my pardon and restart my life the way I’d always planned.

  Rena wasn’t to be deterred. “That’s what touched me. It’s the reason I thought it would be a good thing to join you guys. I like the idea of people like us coming together and building trust again. It’s just that these characters wouldn’t be the ones I would have chosen.”

  Rory started clicking his ballpoint pen. More than a little irritated by this habit, I looked at the ceiling and started counting down from ten. He didn’t disappoint me; I didn’t make it to six.

  “Rena, how long did you spend inside?” Clickety-click.

  Rena looked as if she was about to gag.

  Abby jumped in, “Rory, that’s none of your business. You know it’s against the rules to ask about our prison terms and personal lives.”

  He gave his pen a couple of quick clicks and shrugged. “You’re right. One of those rules. Forgive me, Rena.”

  Clickety-click.

  Rena shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Why did you ask about how long I was in prison?”

  “Because you still seem hopeful.” Rory took a deep breath. “People like us come with a label; we’ve been branded as non-redeemable. The longer you’re inside, the more likely you are to forget who you are. Why do you think we’re all here? Not to assure others we’re just like anyone else, but to assure ourselves.”

  Miller was folding his usual tiny origami pelicans with thin colored sheets of paper. Ordinarily, I was transfixed by his artistry. Not tonight. He looked up. “I would have joined this group even if I hadn’t been to prison. Books have always been a refuge for me. Admittedly, I feel accepted here.”

  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 hi
s 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.

  CHAPTER TWO

  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 because 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.