The Book Club Murders (10 page)

She fumed silently for a moment, then relented, throwing up her hands. “How do you do that?”

“It's a gift.”

“Well, you got me.”
At least he's distracted now.
She sighed elaborately. “Talk about trouble.”

“I'm thinking more like ‘juicy,' ‘titillating,' and ‘romance of the year.' That's actually a phrase, but—”

“Shut up.”

“No can do, Charley. Does Frankie know?” He whipped out his cell. “This calls for a summit at the highest level.”

“Trust me, she knows.” She could picture, in vivid detail, Frankie's triumphant “I Told You So” dance as Dmitri confirmed her latest suspicions. “I can't stop you two from having a cozy giggle at my expense. But please don't say anything to anyone else. It's not like I intend to pursue it.”

“You
don't
?” Dmitri regarded her with disbelief. “You're giving up without a fight? That's not like you, Charley.”

She avoided eye contact. “Let it go, okay?”

“I don't get it. What's the problem? You're hot and single, he's hot and single. You have some history, sure, but that just means you know he's not an axe killer or a psycho perv. From where I'm standing, it's a match made in heaven.”

His words sent a thrill through her, even as she contradicted him. “Except it's not. Aside from that history, there are other…issues in play.”
Like hunting a serial killer.
She extended her pinkie. “I don't want to give Midge and the others any more reason to stalk me. Please, Dmitri? Don't make me beg.”

“Weeelll…” He considered. “Can I tease you in code?” She glared at him. He sighed, but linked little fingers. “Fine, pinkie swear. Killjoy.”

Charley turned her VW onto Hathaway Road and parked in front of the Delaneys' modest split-level home, the smallest house on the block. The Sizemores lived a few doors down in a much grander residence. As Charley climbed out of the car, she glanced across the street. The houses there backed up to another charming little street. And that street backed up to the trail where Serena's body was found. How convenient. Did Wilson ever go for a run down there?

She'd waited fruitlessly for the Agathas to present themselves for questioning. Curiously, after racing in this morning, the entire clan was now making itself conspicuously scarce. She'd resorted to calling first Kitty, then Jelly, planning to use their Reunion gowns as an excuse, but neither of them had picked up. That went beyond coincidence. Were they screening her calls?

Charley stood a moment, taking in the meticulously kept lawn, the tightly trimmed boxwoods, the gleaming brass mailbox mounted by a front door sparkling with fresh black paint. The recently blacktopped driveway appeared clean enough to eat from. Even for a suburb that prided itself on appearances, this property's military precision bordered on the obsessive. Not so much as a twig was out of place. Rather than welcoming, she found the overall effect repellent.

Charley was halfway up the front path when the door flew open to reveal Wilson, her face a mask of tension.

“Charley Carpenter, twice in one day. What a pleasant surprise.” Her smile was stiff, just this side of hostile. “Do you know your detective friend was here? He questioned me, for pity's sake!”

“That's why I'm here!” Charley poured on a little melodrama. “He told me he meant to, and I told him he was an idiot, but…well, the man's impossible. I had to make sure you're all right. Are you? After you told me about Lisa…”

Charley let the dead girl's name hang between them. After a long moment, Wilson reluctantly allowed Charley entry and led her down an immaculate hallway to a living room devoid of personality. Blue sofa, brown chairs, tan carpeting. Reproduction landscapes dotted the walls. Aside from a single framed photograph of Robert and Wilson on their wedding day and some defeated-looking silk flowers precisely centered on a side table, no other decorative elements had been permitted.

Wilson indicated the sofa as she perched on the edge of a wooden chair. Charley tried to view her with an impartial eye. She thought, not for the first time, that Wilson's mode of dress was almost inappropriately youthful. Her long, ash blond hair was no longer secured with the clip she'd bought at Old Hat. She now wore it pulled back with the sort of cloth band Charley remembered girls wearing in high school. Low-waisted designer jeans revealed a peek of smooth, tanned tummy. She wore little or no makeup, her oval face pale, hazel eyes faintly shadowed with fatigue or worry.

A formfitting, sleeveless jersey top showcased surprisingly impressive musculature. Ever since Michelle Obama, Charley reflected, biceps were the new cleavage. When had Wilson gotten so buff? She realized with a start that, of all the Agathas, this woman was probably the most physically capable of committing murder.

Wilson tugged absently on the hem of her shirt as if trying to close the gap between it and her jeans. She caught Charley's eye and immediately stopped, coloring faintly and twisting her fingers together in her lap.

“Robert picked this out for me,” she said defensively, as though Charley had voiced criticism. “He likes me to dress…a certain way.”

Ah,
Charley thought, seeing the tortured lawn, the blinding glitter of the hall floor, and this barren room in a new light. That explained a great deal. She imagined Robert liked most things…a certain way. She wondered what he thought about Wilson's recent efforts at bodybuilding, and decided that had likely been his idea as well.

“What happened to Lisa?” Wilson's expression was eager. “Those detectives wouldn't tell me a thing! But surely, you—”

“You told me she broke her neck.”

Wilson's eyes widened and, for a moment, Charley thought she might get tossed out on her ear. Then Wilson waved a hand, the motion jerky and unnatural. “It was a rumor. I don't actually know what happened, of course.”

“Of course not,” Charley agreed easily. “What did Marc ask you?”

“Precious little.” Wilson's smile slipped. “He did say I was probably the last person to see her alive. It's as plain as day the police think something's…not right. Your friend made quite a point about Lisa's state of mind. He and the other detective tried to imply Lisa might have hurt herself. The idea is absurd.” Giggle. “After three years of taking her exercise classes, and then working with her in planning my party, I think I'd know if something were wrong.” Chortle.

Charley murmured something noncommittal, letting the Delaney train roll.

“The most likely explanation is an accident, and I told them so.” Wilson shifted, hands restless, eyes darting around the room. “But it couldn't have had anything to do with my party. Such a lovely event…Robert says entertaining is an important part of…but all those people in your own home, well, honestly, that's really just so very…The staff didn't drink cocktails, of course,” she tittered, curiously emphatic on this point. “But they were encouraged to eat their fill. I explained all that, and how they proceeded with their normal cleanup duties so they could go home on time.”

“But Lisa stayed to lock up?”
What a stupid question.
Grilling suspects was a lot harder than it sounded in the mysteries they read for Book Club.

“She had paperwork to do, I believe. And she did eat, I made sure of that, bless her.” Wilson bit her lip and blinked back tears, the first genuine emotion Charley had ever seen her express. “Oh, that dear girl.” Charley reached over and clasped her hand, her own eyes prickling in sympathy. “Whatever happened to her, I guess I really am the last person who saw her alive, aren't I?”

That depends on whether or not you're a murderer,
Charley thought bleakly.

Her cell rang. She checked the display, intending to send the call to voicemail. When she saw who it was, inspiration struck. She smiled apologetically at Wilson. “Frankie? Everything okay?”

“About time! Where have you been? Did you hear about Lisa Summerfield?”

Frankie was churning like a tornado. No wonder, since Charley had deliberately ignored four calls and two frantic texts from her BFF. After that scene with Dmitri, she hadn't been up for another session of lying to a friend. Once again, Charley chose her words carefully, mindful of her audience. Wilson was watching her like a hawk.

“Marc told me there might be some…suspicious circumstances concerning…that situation.” Wilson's jaw dropped.

“Shut UP!” Frankie squealed. “He said that? What else did he tell you?”

“He says the police have to—wait. I can't talk right now.” She lowered her voice, making sure Wilson could still hear her. “I'm with someone. Come see me at the shop. You can help me with inventory, and we'll swap notes.”

She stood, tucking away her cell. “I'm afraid I've got to run. I'm just so glad you're okay.” She hugged Wilson quickly and started toward the door.

“But…suspicious circumstances, did you say? Does it have something to do with Lisa?” She glanced up the street toward Kitty's house. “I tried to call…I can't get anyone else to—”

“I'll have to call you later. Or something.” Charley gave a little wave and hurried down the walk, half afraid Wilson would follow. When she got into her car, she glanced back. Wilson was standing in the open door, staring after her.

It sounded like she wasn't the only one getting the silent treatment. Had someone decided to throw Wilson under the bus?

“The weirdest sight was Robert Delaney.” Frankie sorted carefully through a rack of skirts, making notations on a clipboard. “The way he slicks his hair back, and those rusty black suits, he reminds me of an undertaker. Compared to Wilson, who never stops moving, he's like one of those wooden cigar-store Indians. I don't know why he came. He didn't dance, eat, drink, or talk to anyone. He just stood in a corner and stared at her, like he was her security detail or something.”

“I think he keeps his wife on a pretty short leash.” Charley started pulling trays of jewelry and accessories from locked display cases, lining them up on the counter. Crap, they were all a mess. “Have you ever been inside their house? It's like an exhibit from
The Stepford Wives
.”

“She hosted Book Club one time before you joined.” Frankie shuddered. “She was such a nervous wreck, I couldn't swallow a bite.”

The Agathas hadn't gone silent on Frankie—at least not yet. She chatted away about the swirl of gossip around the murders, blissfully unaware her best friend was taking mental notes. Frankie had heard nothing new, and talk drifted to the mojito party. Charley had stayed only for an hour after the aerobics grand finale, indulging in a single cocktail. Ronnie was mixing drinks, and they were deadly. Charley recalled Wilson's uneasy insistence that Lisa hadn't had any alcohol before her “accident.” Had Ronnie slipped drinks to the staff?

There had been about thirty people on the exercise floor, twice the normal number. Several of the Agatha husbands were there. John Bright was such a good sport, following his beloved Frankie through a Zumba routine that had even the seasoned warriors gasping. Lisa's routines had been merciless—not that that justified her murder, Charley reflected morosely.

She'd liked Kenneth Crawford, whose open, friendly style served as perfect counterpoint to Midge's imperious manner. Conversely, she'd noted serious tension between Ronnie and Jim Bailey. Ronnie had seemed determined to ignore him, while he'd seemed equally bent on tracking her every move. Jim hadn't been pleased when she'd insisted on manning the bar. Troubled marriage? Not surprising, if Ronnie was as cutting and sarcastic with her husband as she'd been at Book Club lately.
Maybe if she ate something once in a while,
Charley mused.

She began counting jeweled hair combs. “Did Ted Sizemore hit on you?”

“Gross!” Frankie glanced up. Her mouth dropped open. “For real? He made a pass at you, with Kitty right there?”

“Never misses an opportunity.” Considering he was twenty-five years older than Charley, his cliché double entendres and obvious leer were more nauseating than annoying. “You were on his hit list, short one. I enjoyed watching John cut him off at the knees.” Charley had observed John Bright, eight inches shorter but twice the man Ted was, step into his face and speak very softly. Ted had blanched and hurried away.

“My hero,” Frankie giggled. Then she sobered. “I've heard rumors about him. He sleeps around and doesn't care who knows. Including Kitty.”

“What a worthless human being.” Charley hesitated. You never knew what might be relevant. “Rumors, huh? Anyone we know?”

“Weeell…” Frankie said, drawing out the syllable. “You understand this is totally unconfirmed and not to leave this room?” Charley nodded. “He's been chasing Midge, and I think maybe he finally caught her, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, my God.” Charley shook her head at the mental image of respectable, stuck-up Midge Crawford doing the nasty with another woman's husband. “Suddenly I'm glad I skipped dinner.”

Charley recalled speaking briefly to Lisa. She thought of her smile, brown eyes open and sincere. It seemed inconceivable that someone she knew had brutally snuffed all that life and promise. No one had that right, she thought, as anger began replacing horror and disbelief. What could make someone think they did? That was the critical question, and she intended to find the answer.

“Say, Frankie,” she started casually, then stopped. She frowned at her clipboard. “Now, where—stupid Deirdre, she's left everything mixed up.” Charley began methodically searching the trays.

“Problem?”

“You could say that,” Charley said after a moment, turning from the last tray and staring at her friend in dismay. “I've been robbed!”