~ The Mystery Club And The Serial Widow ~

by

Harley L. Sachs

The Rose Plaza Mystery Club gathered for their weekly Monday meeting. They were Mary Higgins, who had been a ferry pilot in World War II, Wilma Peters who still bravely pedaled her three speed Raleigh to the Safeway for bargain groceries, Ann Chambers, who acted as secretary and carried her ever present notebook in the basket of her walker, Katherine Seller, who had served on the elected Plaza Board of Directors, and Sylvia Jessup, a retired press photographer and self-appointed historian of the Plaza who took everyone’s picture for her ever-growing scrapbook.

Roberta Nelson, the only member who still drove and was the club’s unofficial chauffeur, arrived late, bringing with her the new addition, Caroline Kostinsky. Mrs. Kostinsky looked like she had stepped out of a hacienda. She was wearing a stylish, matching outfit more suitable for a Mexican fiesta than Portland, Oregon. Though she probably had at least one in her wardrobe it wasn’t a flouncy party dress with full skirts and lots of ribbons. She wore a leather jacket with a tight waist that showed off her figure and a sporty knee-length skirt to match. If she’d had a hat it might have been one of those flat, wide-brimmed Gaucho models with a feather. She was plainly overdressed for the casual group of mystery readers.

“I’d like you all to meet Caroline,” Roberta said. Because of her arthritic neck she had to turn her whole body to face the newcomer. “She’s just moved into the Heights addition and reads mysteries.”

Ann Chambers had her gold fountain pen ready to take notes. “Welcome. Let me get your name for our roster.”

“Kostinsky.” She spelled it.

“Is that Russian?” Ann asked.

“My husband was Russian. I’m originally from Indiana.”

Roberta added, “Caroline just moved back to the states from Mexico.”

Sylvia Jessup’s ever present digital camera, which hung on a cord around her neck like an oversize pendant, was already in play.

The brief flash irritated Mrs. Kostinsky. “I don’t like to have my picture taken. I’m not very photogenic.”

Ann Chambers shook her head at the false modesty. Anyone who dressed like that wanted to be noticed. Ann, the oldest member of the Mystery Club, was ninety. “Don’t be afraid of a few wrinkles, Caroline. They’re a badge of authority. What’s your apartment number in case I send out a notice of a special meeting or a new reading list? Since you’re so new you won’t yet be in the Plaza directory.”

Caroline told her and changed the subject. “What are you reading now?”

“We always pick something the Multnomah Library has multiple copies of,” Wilma explained. “No sense in each of us buying a copy at Powell’s bookstore. Where would we put all those books? My studio apartment hasn’t room for them and what would I do with them once they’re read?”

“You could donate them to the library,” Katherine Seller suggested. She was wearing one of her ever-present berets. Today’s was blood red, befitting the mystery club and crime.

Mary Higgins knew Wilma Peters was broke. Buying books was beyond Wilma’s budget. She didn’t just ride that bicycle for sport or to keep in shape. Wilma couldn’t afford the honored citizen bus coupons. In fact, she was secretly subsidized by the Plaza Foundation, a charitable fund created so residents who outlived their assets would not be evicted to join Portland’s ranks of homeless. “One can sell books back to Powell’s, but then you have to make a trip downtown. It’s better if we all read something the library can deliver. The bookmobile comes every month.”

“What are you reading now?” Caroline asked again.

Mary Higgins couldn’t remember the title. “An old Agatha Christie.” Her short term memory was going and she feared the onset of Alzheimer’s. “It’s the one where the victim is poisoned.”

Sylvia added. “Agatha Christie was a specialist in poisonous plants.”

Caroline’s expression flickered with a moment of unguarded recollection and guilt. “Mr. Kostinsky died from a poisonous plant.” She added quickly, “It was accidental, of course. Our Mexican cook made a mistake. It wasn’t murder.”

“Dreadful,” Roberta said. “You must have been terribly shocked. You could have been poisoned yourself.”