In the Club (10 page)

Park leaned forward. “What happened then?”

A pause. Then Mother Margaret sighed. “I believe you girls have told me the truth. I believe you’ve told me what you know and that you genuinely want to help, so I’ll be very honest with each of you. But what I tell you must remain private. You cannot go around school blabbing it to your friends.”

Madison, Park, and Lex glanced at one another. Then Madison said, “You have our word. Please tell us what you know.”

“Several months ago, back in March, we had a theft here at the school,” Mother Margaret began. “It was the weekend of March eighteenth. I remember it distinctly because the very next day, Sister Brittany came to join us. Anyway, that weekend, someone broke into the school, and the intruder didn’t try to be neat about it. Whoever it was had the audacity to leave a mess right here in my office. That’s why it was easy for us to see almost immediately that a number of the school’s highly confidential financial documents had been invaded, and several were stolen.”

Lex’s face registered confusion. “Who would want that stuff? Are there a lot of secrets in those documents?”

“Not necessarily secrets,” Mother Margaret said. “But things—information—that are best kept private. But the theft really wasn’t what disturbed us the most. It’s what the police found in here after they came to investigate.”

“What did they find?” Park asked.

Mother Margaret and Sister Brittany again exchanged worried glances. “The police found traces of nitroglycerin, sodium carbonate, and diatomaceous earth,” Mother Margaret said gravely.

“You’ll have to clarify what that means,” Madison told her. “Unfortunately, none of us is that great at chemistry.”

Sister Brittany sat down on the edge of the big desk. “Those substances are used to make dynamite, girls. As in, explosives.”

“Explosives!” Lex cried. “Are you kidding me?”

“Unfortunately, we’re not.” Mother Margaret shook her head. “The investigation has been ongoing since then—privately, of course. We didn’t want to worry students and parents.”

“That’s understandable,” Park said. “But I still think the student body and our parents have a right to know.”

“Federal agents from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives have been in here repeatedly, and they requested that we keep it quiet,” Mother Margaret replied. “And I’ve respected their wishes. There’s also no immediate threat to the school or my students. Right now it’s just…a disturbing fact.”

“Does this mean someone was trying to blow up the school?” Madison’s voice broke. She reached out and grabbed Lex’s hand.

“We don’t know,” Sister Brittany replied. “Right now it means that the person who broke into the school back in March had traces of those chemicals on his or her clothes or shoes.”

Park nodded firmly, then held up her hand. “Okay. This is all totally crazy news, but what does it have to do with Damien’s murder or the Black Cry Affair?”

“Well, first of all, the members of that little exclusive club—Concetta Canoli, Emmett McQueen, Julian Simmons, and now Jessica Paderman—are all outstanding chemistry students,” Mother Margaret said. “Damien was a good chemistry student too, but not an
outstanding
one.”

“But you’re making a very big assumption here,” Park said. “Lots of students are outstanding in chemistry. What you’re saying is very, very circumstantial. Besides, what motive would any of them have?”

Mother Margaret shrugged slowly. “I can’t think of one. I’m merely making the connection between the break-in here at the school and Damien’s murder.”

“That would never hold up in court,” Lex continued. “Did you mention your suspicions to the ATF?”

“Yes,” Mother Margaret answered. “I gave them a list of all our top chemistry students, but they said what you’ve just said. And that weekend, every locker in the school was thoroughly searched.”

Madison’s eyes widened. “You mean, federal agents went rifling through our lockers without our permission?”

“I’m afraid so.” Mother Margaret replied. “What other choice did they have, dear? Possession of dynamite is a felony directly related to terrorism. They couldn’t take any chances.”

“But the Feds didn’t find anything suspicious in Concetta Canoli’s locker,” Park said. “Or any member of the Black Cry Affair’s locker?”

“No. Nothing.” Sister Brittany shook her head. “But there’s still reason to believe the Black Cry Affair might have had something to do with the theft and the dynamite…and with Damien’s murder.”

“Forgive me for saying this, Sister,” Lex said. “But you sound totally twisted. The club is a group of role-players. Why would they be interested in making dynamite, or stealing documents?”

Another exchange of glances between the two nuns.

“The night of the theft, police found something else—a little detail I hadn’t given much thought to, until now,” Sister Brittany told them. She pointed to the black steel file cabinets on the opposite side of the office. “There was a smattering of glitter on the cabinets. Probably the same glitter you girls saw tonight on Damien’s hair.”

“Oh, crap,” Park said as Madison and Lex gasped.

Sister Brittany leaned over. She put her right hand on Park’s knee and her left one on Lex’s. Her bright, cheerful face went dark and serious. “No one really knows what goes on in those role-playing sessions. No one—certainly not any of us—has been able to penetrate the Black Cry Affair. It’s a very secretive club. Everything you found in Concetta’s locker—the notebook—could all be a ruse for what might really be going on.”

“And we think Damien was about to blow the whistle on the club,” Mother Margaret added. “He came and made an appointment with me earlier today. He was supposed to come speak with me on Monday morning, before the graduation ceremony. But now, of course…he won’t.”

“So that’s why he was in your office today,” Madison said. “When I saw him in the student lounge, he told me he’d overheard you telling Mrs. Burns that Lex and I were expected in your office.”

“Damien was probably still standing out in the hall when I told Mary Grace you and Lex were expected in here,” Mother Margaret replied.

Park shook her head. “Wait a sec. If the Black Cry Affair really is a group that’s doing bad things—like engineering dynamite—and Damien wanted to blow the whistle on them, why would he wait for an appointment to speak with you? Why wouldn’t he just bust in here and tell you there are psychos walking these halls?”

“True.” Lex nodded. “I don’t get that either.”

“I’m assuming he wanted to do it quietly, without creating a ruckus or arousing too much suspicion.” Mother Margaret stood up and began pacing the floor again. “Damien was also the only person who knew about the secret surprise guest coming to Monday’s graduation ceremony.”

“Who’s coming?” Lex asked.

“As you girls know, it’s St. Cecilia’s tradition to have a surprise guest at every graduation ceremony,” Mother Margaret said. She sighed and clenched her hands together. “On Monday, specifically because Damien was supposed to graduate, David Gordon, the prime minister of England, will be here to address our graduates.”

“I
love
David!” Lex bounced up and down in the chair. “He’s always so sweet to us when we visit London.”

“Make sure you have blueberry scones on the menu,” Park said to Mother Margaret and Sister Brittany. “He loves those.”

“The way things look now, the prime minister most likely won’t be coming!” Mother Margaret wailed. “Damien was himself English royalty. The news has already sent shock waves throughout England.”

“David will
absolutely
still come,” Madison said confidently. “It would be a bad publicity move if he didn’t show up. Foreign relations between Britain and the United States are very strong. And you’ll be doing some sort of memorial service for Damien, won’t you?”

“Of course!” Sister Brittany gasped.

“When does David arrive?” Lex asked.

“Tomorrow,” Mother Margaret answered. “I’m expecting a call from him any minute now. This is disastrous, just…disastrous. The prime minister will have the worst time of his life here—the press, the shame.”

Park reached into her purse, pulled out a tissue, and wiped a trail of sweat from her forehead. “Listen, Mother. I know you have a lot on your plate right now, but as it stands, Concetta Canoli has been arrested for killing Damien. I don’t want to believe it either, but the evidence fits. She was completely obsessed with Damien, and she was wearing the weapon.”

“Unless you girls figure out otherwise,” Mother Margaret said quietly.

Park raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sister Brittany stood up. Her eyes squinted into a hard gleam. “We can’t penetrate the Black Cry Affair because we’re adults. But you girls
can.
Concetta is a friend of yours. So is Emmett McQueen. You could—”

Lex’s right hand shot into the air. “I am
not
joining some role-playing club. I refuse to prance around in bad clothing. If my wardrobe ever gets a little overdramatic and costume-ish, it’s only because Jean Paul Gaultier or John Galliano designed something for me.”

“You don’t understand,” Mother Margaret said, coming around the desk. “In just a few hours, every newspaper will be running the story of Damien’s murder and Concetta’s alleged guilt. It’s going to wreak havoc on the school. And then the news of the chemical traces will be made known. It’s more scandal than we can handle. There are already countless people out there who hate St. Cecilia’s Prep for being such a powerful private school—just imagine how much ammo this will give them!”

“It could very well ruin the school forever,” Sister Brittany whispered.

Park didn’t know what to say. Neither did Lex. They both stared at Madison, silently waiting for her advice.

“I just don’t know,” Madison said quietly. “What makes you think we can even penetrate the club?”

“Because you girls are
excellent
when it comes to getting your own way,” Mother Margaret replied. She shot them a pleading look. “Please, help us. Monday’s commencement ceremony will be ruined. The prime minister will be mortified. And I don’t know who else will end up
dead
!”

9

Hey, Mr. DJ!

T
he penthouse slumbered in the cool darkness. Madison opened her bedroom door as quietly as possible and tiptoed out into the corridor. She took careful, silent steps as she bypassed Park’s room and then continued into the kitchen. It was nearly dawn. She felt wired and edgy and tense, images from the night flashing before her eyes like snapshots.

She knew sleep wouldn’t touch her. And even if it did, she feared her dreams would be vivid with splotches of blood and garish stilettos. Or, worse, they would be old memories of Damien Kittle playing out against her subconscious—his smile, his laugh, the feel of his lips against the back of her hand. As she stepped through the darkness and into the kitchen, she fought to hold back another flow of tears, knowing that her sobs would wake Park, Lex, and their housekeeper, Lupe. She needed to be alone for a while. And she needed the company of old, familiar friends.

Reaching the refrigerator, Madison yanked the door open and immediately spotted a carton of milk. She pulled it out and set it down on the island. Next came the chocolate sauce from the lowermost cabinet. She felt her muscles loosening by the second, but where the hell was the champagne? There was none on ice, nor was there a spare bottle in the pantry. Several minutes went by before she finally turned on the lights and climbed onto the counter beside the sink. She stretched her arms up to the two cabinets usually reserved for emergency baking products and many of Lupe’s odd South American herbal remedies. Finally, Madison found a bottle of Dom Perignon hidden behind a jar of pickled celery and pig’s feet—a secret age-defying mixture, Lupe once told her, that rivaled Botox. The very thought of it made Madison dizzy, so she grabbed the champagne and hopped back onto the floor.

She smiled happily as she filled a glass halfway with milk and shot it with the chocolate syrup. The bottle of champagne wouldn’t be so easy: it wasn’t as much fun if you didn’t pop the cork, but she knew how important it was to be quiet. If her sisters found out, they’d forbid her to drink the dangerous concoction. She bit her lip as she searched for something to mask the sound. She found a damp dish towel, but just as she was about to twist the cork out, a strange feeling seized her.

She was being watched.

Throwing a quick glance over her shoulder, she scanned the kitchen and even peered through the shadowy web of the dining room. Nothing. Then, dropping her gaze slowly to the floor, she spotted Champagne, Lex’s teacup Chihuahua, staring up at her. The dog’s small, shiny eyes were disapproving and accusatory, as if he were saying:
You know you’re not supposed to drink that. Now put the damn bottle down.

“Shoo!” Madison whispered. She waved her hand over him, hoping the gesture would get him moving, but Champagne stayed put. Maybe Champagne wanted some champagne? She sighed and went back to the dish towel.

The dog started growling.

“Be quiet,” Madison pleaded. “If you wake them up…oh…I’ll burn every last piece of doggie couture Lex bought you. Now hush!”

In response to her threat, Champagne barked.

Madison swiftly opened the cabinet under the sink, pulled out a box of dog biscuits, and tossed one across the kitchen.

Champagne skittered after it, settling down beside the stove.

Madison sighed. Why did everything have to be so difficult? Determined to mix her favorite stress-relieving drink, she wrapped the dish towel around the mouth of the bottle and gave it a twist. The cork moved but didn’t pop. She pressed the bottle against the edge of the counter, trapping it between her stomach and the solid marble. But as she pulled back again with her right hand, the cork shot out and up like a rocket, cutting across the kitchen, slamming into the toaster with a clang, and ricocheting off the refrigerator door before finding its target: Champagne’s little head.

“Oh!” Madison gasped. “Oh, no—” She jumped back as the frothy contents of the bottle spewed into her face like a geyser, a bubbly stream of it rushing into her nostrils. She shook her head, trying to ward off a second spray, but in three seconds flat her cheeks, chin, and forehead were dripping wet.

The dog emitted a low, weak groan.

Madison set the bottle on the counter and quickly wiped the wetness from her eyes. “Oh my God!” she screamed, dropping to her knees and scooping Champagne up in her arms. “Oh, you poor little thing! I’m so sorry! Auntie Madison didn’t mean it! I swear! Oh, Champagne, please don’t die!” She held the dog up and stared into his cloudy eyes; he looked as though he were going to pass out any second. Unable to control her panic, Madison cradled him in her arms and began fanning him with the dish towel. Was there some sort of procedure to follow when it came to canine trauma? Were you supposed to perform CPR on a dog? She would have gone on asking herself questions if Park hadn’t suddenly stepped into the kitchen.

“Oh! Thank God!” Madison cried. She set a wobbly Champagne on the counter. Then she turned around, slid across the puddle on the floor, and landed flat on her butt. “Ouch,” she whispered.

Park was staring down at her with a calm, bemused expression.

“I guess I woke you up,” Madison said. She sniffled to free her nostrils of the bubbly booze.

Park shook her head. “Look at what you’ve become—a desperate alkie who’ll do anything for her fix of milk and champagne.”

“And speaking of Champagne…I think I killed the dog!” Madison heaved a sigh as she scrambled to her knees.

“I don’t even want to know how this happened,” Park said, reaching out and scooping Champagne into the crook of her left arm. She went to the refrigerator, grabbed ice from the freezer, and dropped several cubes into a paper towel. Then she applied the little ice pack to the knot on the dog’s head and stared at Madison. “You have Dom Perignon all over your face, up your nose, and all over your head.”

Madison stuck her chin up and ran a hand through her damp hair. “In some countries, Dom Perignon is known for its medicinal purposes. It’ll probably make my hair shinier and fuller.”

Park sighed. “Go ahead and fix yourself the stupid drink. You’ve gone to enough trouble already.”

“Is the dog okay?” Madison asked as she reached for the bottle and her glass again.

“He’ll be fine. He just needs some rest. I won’t tell Lex you tried to kill him.” Park smoothed her hand over his ears.

Madison scowled and finally, blessedly, filled her glass with what was left of the Dom. She gave the drink a quick stir and then took a long, sweet gulp. “God, that feels good! I can already feel my anxiety melting away.” She held the glass out to Park.

Crinkling her nose in disgust, Park stuck her hand out. “
Ugh.
If we were marooned on a desert island and that was the only drink we had, I’d
still
opt for seaweed juice.”

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Madison said quietly.

“You didn’t. I was already awake. I’ve been watching the news since we got home.” Park set Champagne down and watched him skitter into the pantry. “The news is tearing us apart again, as usual, and I can’t bring myself to believe that Damien is dead and that traces of dynamite were found at school. I can’t believe any of it.”

“What are they saying about us?” Madison asked, taking another long gulp.

“The same crap. Scandal, too much partying. You’d think these reporters would remember that we caught a killer not so very long ago.”

“That’s
good
news about us. The media doesn’t want to report the good stuff.”

“And Concetta? They’re already calling her the Mozart Murderer.” Park sighed. She walked over to a flat-screen built into the counter and flicked it on.

A picture filled the screen: a male reporter standing in front of Cleopatra while sirens flashed behind him and yellow tape sealed off the front entrance of the club. “…where the body of Damien Kittle was discovered,” the man was saying. And a moment later: “…the Hamilton triplets—Madison, Park, and Lexington Hamilton—were inside the club but have not given any statements to the media regarding…”

Park shook her head. “See? Same crap. What the hell are we supposed to say? It’s obvious that we’re upset.”

“Has Jeremy called you yet?” Madison asked.

“Yeah, he left me two messages, and we finally spoke about an hour ago.” Park yawned. “I had to convince him not to come over. He thinks we’re in danger with a killer on the loose.”

Madison rolled her eyes. “Like we haven’t been in
that
predicament before. But…you know…” Her voice trailed off.

“What?” Park said.

Madison opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged. Instead, a gargantuan, earsplitting burp shot out of her and rocked the air around them. She stared at the floor.

Park closed her eyes and shook her head. “Put down that glass, Madison.
Now.
”

Madison set the glass on the counter and shoved it away.

“What were you going to say?” Park asked.

“I was going to say that, technically speaking, Jeremy
does
have a point. I mean, a killer
might
still be out there.”

“So then you don’t believe Concetta’s guilty.”

“I don’t know what I believe,” Madison answered quietly. “Was this really a crime of passion, or does the whole secret club Concetta runs have something to do with it? And what about all that stuff that was found in Mother Margaret’s office? If it
is
all tied together somehow, then we have a lot to worry about.”

“I have a bad feeling about the Black Cry Affair,” Park said. She took a bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge and poured herself a glass.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that I don’t think it’s just an innocent role-playing club. I think there’s a lot more that goes on in that Chamber thing than anyone might imagine. Let’s say the group
does
have something to do with the break-in back in March and the traces of explosives—what are the members of the group planning? Why play around with deadly stuff like that?”

Madison frowned. “The glittery stuff we saw on Damien’s head and the glitter that was found on Mother Margaret’s cabinet pretty much link both crimes.”

“Yeah—but why would Concetta break into the office?”

“Maybe she didn’t,” Madison offered. “Maybe another member of the group did. We don’t know why yet, but it could’ve been someone else. And every member of the Black Cry Affair was at Cleopatra tonight.”

“We have to consider the obvious facts first.” Park held up a hand, as if to keep speculation away. “First off, Concetta was wearing the murder weapon—it belongs to her. Second of all, we all saw her going toward the cages with Damien. Third, she was obsessed with him. Fourth—”

“She has an intense shoe fetish.” Madison nodded sadly. “Talk about a clear picture. But, you know, stranger things have happened.”

Park narrowed her eyes and stared across the kitchen, rapt in thought. “Talking about strange—did you notice anything strange about our little meeting in Mother Margaret’s office tonight?”

“Duh,” Madison said. “I think you’re referring to Sister Brittany—I don’t buy her explanation of how she knew Jessica Paderman is a member of the club.”

“Totally right.”

Madison patted her chin and cheeks with a napkin. “So what are we saying now? That Sister Brittany is up to no good? We can’t keep digging holes here. And no matter what—she
is
a nun. An annoying and nosy nun, but still a nun.”

“If we’re going to link the break-in and Damien’s murder, we have to believe he was killed for some very specific reason, and not that this was a crime of passion,” Park deduced.

“We don’t know enough yet,” Madison said quietly. “It’s all just a big blur.”

Park sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “There are too many freaking questions to consider! I
hate
this!”

A silence descended over the kitchen as they both leaned against the counter. The television was still on, and now the reporter’s voice circled them.

“…another development that has just been released by NYPD officials,” the man was saying. “According to one source close to the investigation, detectives are ruling out as suspects the two DJs who were working the opening night at Cleopatra. Apparently, those two DJs—Christopher Mellin and Frank Kellerman—were found
unconscious
in their music booth above the dance floor at Cleopatra. Both of them were rushed to Saint Luke’s–Roosevelt Hospital, where they’re apparently undergoing treatment for what appears to be…uh…some kind of respiratory distress. Now, this distress looks like it might have been the result of inhaling some sort of toxic chemical….”

“What?” Madison screamed. “Holy shit!”

Park’s jaw dropped as she stared at the television.

The screen flashed from the live shot of a male reporter standing in front of Cleopatra to a bright news studio where Diane Sawyer was sitting at the anchor desk. “Now, John, have the police given any word as to
why
Concetta Canoli might have committed this truly horrendous crime?”

The screen jumped back to the male reporter. He frowned and shook his head. “The police have not made an official statement yet, Diane,” he said. “All we know is that teen heiress and celebutante Concetta Canoli is the main suspect in the murder of Damien Kittle, and that she’s being interrogated right now and will very likely be arraigned in court in just a few hours.”

Back to Diane. She shook her head gravely. “A tragic story creating shock waves on both sides of the Atlantic…and made all the more shocking by the horrendous piece of footwear that is apparently the murder weapon. We turn now to our top fashion expert…”

Park flicked off the television. “The DJs were unconscious,” she whispered. “So
that’s
how the Mozart Requiem was played. Concetta actually went into the tech booth where the DJs were working and…”

“And what?” Madison threw up her arms in frustration. “Sprayed them with anesthesia? Suffocated them with her other shoe? What the hell led to ‘respiratory distress’?”

“Some sort of…chemical, I guess?” Park said, insinuating the obvious.