The Book Club Murders (11 page)

Dragging herself inside on legs that felt like lead, Charley dumped her purse in the kitchen and made a beeline for the family room and the sound of male voices.

She stopped dead when she saw Marcus Trenault lolling on the family room sofa. Taking in the ball game on television, she sent him a quick, grateful smile. She dropped to her knees beside the recliner and put her arms around Bobby's waist. “Hi, Daddy. Hey, Lawrence.”

Bobby tore his eyes from the screen to smile at his daughter, laying his good hand on her hair. “Charley. Got…company.”

“So I see.”

“Glad you're home, my girl. Tired?”

“Exhausted.” Leaning back against the recliner and kicking off her shoes, she rolled her head in Marc's direction. “Hello.”

He gazed at her intently, and she felt the blush rise on her cheeks. “Are you okay?”

“Just tired. Inventory.” She cut her eyes toward her father.

“Dinner's keeping warm on the stove, Chip.”

“Thanks, big guy.” She rose gracefully. “I'll leave you boys in peace.”

Marc got quickly to his feet. “I'll, uh, keep you company. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Charley led the way to the kitchen. “I need a drink.” She pulled a bottle of white wine out of the fridge and retrieved two glasses from a cabinet. Without asking, she poured two generous measures, pushed one toward him, and hitched up onto the counter. She took a long pull and sighed. “What the doctor ordered.”

She watched Marc survey the immaculate kitchen, with its pale oak cabinets, walls painted sunny yellow, and light blue countertops. Charley wondered if he knew how much Evie had loved cooking in this kitchen. She started to ask, then thought better of it.

“So, Detective. You here to check up on me?”

“Perish the thought, Ms. Carpenter.” He sampled his wine. “I'm checking
in with
you. Totally different thing.”

“Uh-huh.” She noticed him examining a stiff white card, trimmed in blue and gold, stuck to the refrigerator with a Bullwinkle magnet. “Planning on going?”

“To a multiclass reunion? Not really my speed. You?”

“Whether I want to or not. Midge booked two tables for the Agathas and their husbands. Who knows? Maybe it won't suck.”

He regarded her for a moment. “Something's wrong. What's happened?”

“Nothing to do with the case.” She grimaced. “While I was doing inventory, I discovered I've been robbed. Or at least, something was shoplifted. It's a very valuable piece, a silver letter opener set with rubies. I had it priced to sell with a matching inkwell for six hundred thirty dollars. Here's the thing: If I file an insurance claim, my deductible will go up.” She slumped, feeling beat. “I don't know if it's worth it.”

“Have you had thefts before this?”

“Never. We've been pretty lucky. Like I was telling Randy Hennepin, that sort of thing has pretty much passed us by on Park Avenue. It probably helps that we're right across the street from the police station.” She checked abruptly as he stiffened. “What? What'd I say?”

Marc growled, “How well do you know Hennepin?”

“How
well
? I just met him today.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

He shifted on his stool, jaw clenched, and it was clear he had something to say.

“Out with it, Trenault.”

Marc blurted, “He's a womanizing SOB. Heavy on the testosterone, on the prowl twenty-four seven. That's the last thing you need.”

Charley's hackles rose. “My needs are none of your goddamned business. You're running this investigation, Detective, not my personal life.”

His face flushed. In a tight voice, he said, “Forget I said anything. How'd it go with Wilson?”

Arrogant jerk.
Charley stared at him for a long moment before deciding to let it go.
Egotistical know-it-all.
“She's obsessing over being the last person to see Lisa alive. And she says you implied there was something fishy about Lisa's death.”

“I did not.”

“I told you these women were smart.”

His lips twitched, but all he said was, “Lisa's autopsy confirmed she had at least one mojito.”

“I knew Wilson was hiding something.” Charley raised her glass. “Somebody slipped drinks to the staff. Probably Ronnie; she was tending bar most of the night. Wilson lied about it. There's no way she didn't know.”

“Could be she was just protecting a friend.”

“She can't believe she's fooling anyone. I'm sure half the people at that party saw Ronnie do it, and then they told the other half. Between Jelly and Kitty, you couldn't switch lipstick shades in this town without everyone knowing about it.”

Marc smiled briefly, then sobered. “Trent Logan, one of Herbert Lawson's best assistant prosecutors, is getting the subpoenas I asked for.”

“What did Chief Zehring tell him?”

“That our investigations of the Wyndham and Summerfield cases have…intersected. And that due to the prominent players involved, discretion is essential.”

Charley watched his face. “What's wrong?”

He sighed. “My boss believes it's past time we brought the Prosecutor's Office in on the investigation. With felony murder, Lawson would be within his rights to take over this investigation right now. The Chief went out on a limb when he decided to keep control of the case.”

“Why did he?”

“I, uh, have a pretty big rep in this town, apparently. Still, Zehring made it clear that I either produce results fast or he's handing over the case to Lawson's investigative division.”

“Well, then,” she said firmly, “we'll just have to work faster.”

“Zehring's not the only one putting on the pressure. The media are pushing hard. They're desperate to connect the two deaths, make a bigger story. Vultures.” He drank half his wine in one swig. “Luckily, my boss doesn't feel we owe the media anything. But it's only a matter of time before everyone knows we've got a serial killer running around Oakwood.”

“Jelly,” Charley decided. “She tells Eric everything, whether it's true or not. The Agathas smell a rat. Or maybe they just want to, which amounts to the same thing.” She stared down at her stockinged feet. “This feels weird.”

“Sitting on the counter?”

“No, wiseass. Evaluating my friends' murder potential feels weird. I've been thinking about the Agathas all day. Who's strong enough? Mean enough?” She waved a hand. “Unhappy enough? If it's really one of them, she's not doing this because she's bored and wants to play copycat with those books. She's got to have some kind of secret problem, something awful. Find that, we find the killer.”

“A problem.” Marc rubbed his jaw, raspy with stubble at this late hour. “I agree. It's certainly more likely than a housewife suddenly embarking on a killing spree for the fun of it.”

Charley shuddered. “Nothing fun about two murders. But if one of the Agathas is harboring a secret that deep and dark, she probably hasn't told her girlfriends. And she sure as hell isn't going to tell you.” She smirked at him. “Goes to show how much you need me on this case.”

Something flickered in Marc's eyes. “I've been thinking,” he began carefully. “Maybe you should stay away from the Agathas until we—”

“Are you kidding?” She lowered her voice, glancing toward the family room. “Forget it, Marc. I'm in, whether you like it or not. I had all five Agathas in my shop today, just as I predicted. I, uh, didn't really get much out of the first group, but Wilson Delaney delivered a very clear message, possibly on instructions from someone, probably Midge. They know the deaths are linked. And somebody started that broken neck rumor. I'll keep trying to find out who.”

“Be careful, for Christ's sake.” He stared at his empty glass as if wishing for something stronger.

“Frankie called while I was at Wilson's.” She dropped her gaze. “I may have made it sound like I know more than I'm telling. I figured that might shake things up a little. Flush out the killer.”

He gaped at her. “Flush out the
killer
? Charley, this is not one of your mystery novels. A real person is killing real women.” He ran both hands through his hair, tugging at it in frustration. “And really, what the hell are you doing, talking about murder like it's some sort of game? A freaking
murder
club.
Don't you have any other hobbies, anything more…more…”

“More what?” Charley asked tightly. “Ladylike? Pedestrian? Domestic?”

“I never said—” he began hotly, but she cut him off.

“Spare me.” She hopped down from the counter, cheeks flushed with anger. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I don't always like to play it safe? That sometimes this town feels like…like one big, flat sidewalk, lined with casseroles and predictability, and meaningless rules of conduct? That sometimes I feel as if it's not enough, that I don't really fit in here, no matter how hard I try? Of course it hasn't,” she said bitterly. “You escaped to Chicago, but some of us don't have that luxury. You are so damn patronizing. It's just a stupid book club, Detective. I wish you'd stop treating me like—” She drained her wine, fighting the urge to throw her empty glass at the wall. “I don't know why I'm wasting my time justifying my conduct to you. I can do what I want.”

Marc stood and began pacing, his frustration and mounting temper evident. “Listen to you. So you're bored, huh? Your life isn't going exactly the way you planned? Believe me, babe, I wrote that book. There are plenty of people who don't get what they want. But they don't blame it on other people, and they don't go looking for trouble to prove what a badass they are.” He stopped in front of her and pointed. “You know what your problem is? You do things without considering the consequences. That's not edgy, Charley. It's childish and irresponsible.”

Her eyes flashed. “You don't get to talk to me that way. I don't answer to you.”

His control snapped, and he grabbed her upper arms, jerking her toward him. “I think that's your problem, baby. You don't answer to anyone.”

She gasped as she stared up at him, her breathing shallow. Their mouths were inches apart as cobalt blue eyes filled her vision, the scent of sandalwood filling her head, muddling her thoughts. His hands slid up to her shoulders, his own breathing anything but normal.

“Irresponsible…” he stammered. She trembled as he tightened his fingers around her shoulders. Suddenly, his eyes refocused and he released her, pushing her away so that she stumbled back against the counter. “Childish,” he rasped hoarsely, and she flinched. “Headstrong and immature,” he continued recklessly, hardly seeming aware of what he was saying. “You don't think about anybody but yourself. You do whatever you want, and the hell with the rest of us. Maybe you should've listened to your parents more when you were growing…”

Charley felt as if he'd kicked her in the stomach. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and he seemed to realize at last that he'd gone too far.

“How dare you,” she whispered, choking back a sob. “You self-righteous bastard. I would give anything—
anything
—to have my father lecture me. Or to talk to Evie for five minutes.”

She swept her glass into the sink, where it shattered. Dashing tears from her cheeks, she hurried out of the kitchen. A minute later Marc heard a door on the second floor slam shut.

He sank onto a barstool and dropped his head into his hands. In the silence of the kitchen, she filled his mind's eye: legs a mile long in tight, faded jeans, her hair a corona of living red gold and smelling of lemons, those gray eyes flashing with anger, and her mouth—he squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn't help.

You don't get to think about her like that. She's sure not thinking that way about you.

Charley awoke, still furious and disappointed. She'd actually thought she and Marc were making progress, that he was growing to respect her, maybe even like her. But no; clearly, he still considered her a child.

She flushed as she recalled their argument. Those things she'd said about wanting to get out of Oakwood, about not fitting in—she didn't really feel that way. Did she? She thought of her father and squirmed uncomfortably, guilty over her brief moment of disloyalty. She'd said those things only because Marcus Trenault made her so damn mad.

And frustrated. God, he was gorgeous when he was angry. Her ability to resist him was wearing thin. When he'd grabbed her…If he hadn't insulted her and she hadn't stormed out…Lucky for her he was such a jerk.

She sighed.
Lucky.

She was more determined than ever to continue investigating.
You're not the boss of me,
she thought, then chuckled. She did sound a bit bratty. Well, so be it. She had big plans today. It was time to stop moping and start kicking some ass.

She'd show Marcus Trenault who was childish.

At seven-twenty she was dressed in loose workout clothing, tooting her horn outside the Brights' snug Cape Cod. The front door popped open to launch Frankie. She came flying down the walk carrying a big straw tote.

“What's in the bag?”

“Pilates mat.” She laughed at Charley's expression. “Don't worry, slacker. I got one for you, too.” Growing serious, Frankie added, “I'm shocked they didn't cancel class, considering.”

Charley smiled grimly. “What do you want to bet there's a record turnout?”

The time had come to take her inquiries into the field. She'd been racking her brains last night, casting about for the best way to encounter various Agathas in a natural way, when presto: Frankie had called and reminded her that she already had the perfect solution.

One of the other OCC instructors was starting a Pilates class to inaugurate the newly revamped Community Center. The initial class would be free of charge, to let people check it out and see if they liked it. When Frankie had first mentioned it a few weeks ago, Charley had been lukewarm on the idea. Then, on the phone last night, when her friend surmised that most of the Book Club would be there, she'd promptly changed her mind.

As they hurried up the walk to the entrance of the OCC, they found themselves joining a bottleneck of latecomers. An oblivious woman with a toddler on her hip bumped into Charley, sending her sideways into a clutch of strollers and plastic play wagons parked beside the walkway. As she struggled to regain her footing, she glanced down—and stopped dead, staring in disbelief.

Dropping to one knee, she ran her fingers over the molded plastic wheels of the little blue wagon that had nearly brought her down. They were shaped suspiciously like something she'd seen recently. In fact, they were almost a perfect match with—

“Hurry up, slowpoke! They're about to start.” Frankie held the door open, toe tapping with impatience. Charley rose reluctantly, vowing to examine the wagon more closely after their class.

They hurried inside and into the main activity room, where people stood in small groups, chatting and admiring one another's Pilates chic. Nearly forty women filled the space to capacity. Charley noted that the door to the closet was closed. A small table held a boom box. The instructor fiddled with the CD player, greeting arrivals distractedly. It couldn't be easy, knowing you were replacing someone who'd been murdered six feet from where you were standing.

Kitty, Ronnie, and Jelly were busy staking out places in the front row, each one dressed in blatantly brand-new workout clothing and unrolling equally mint-condition Pilates mats.

She cringed as she assessed Ronnie's increasingly unhealthy weight, fully revealed today by her sports bra and snug workout pants. Her collarbones and hipbones jutted, and the ridges of her spine were clearly outlined beneath the skin of her back. Charley could count every vertebra as Ronnie bent to touch her toes, shaking her short brown bob into her face, then laughing loudly as she straightened, staggering slightly, to blow her bangs out of her eyes.

Wilson stood alone to one side, fit and toned in a midriff-baring ensemble she definitely had the body for, her blond ponytail twitching as she took refuge behind a pillar, shoulders hunched, arms crossed as if to cover herself. She caught Charley's eye and smiled brightly, dropping her arms to her sides self-consciously.
I bet Robert makes you stand up straight,
Charley thought sourly.

Midge was holding court just inside the door, surrounded by several women who hung on her every word. She managed to look professional and commanding even at an exercise class, in a loose black tunic and matching yoga pants, short silvery hair immaculate, posture erect. She nodded briefly as they passed, her frown of disapproval at their tight-fitting outfits evident.

Frankie nudged Charley with an elbow. “Back row?”

“Damn skippy.”

As they moved through the room, greeting friends and acquaintances, a small commotion erupted near the side entrance. Kitty now stood whispering with Ronnie, who had a very odd expression on her face. The two women appeared to be—were they fighting? That couldn't be right.

Charley touched Frankie's shoulder and indicated the scene as Midge and Jelly hurried over. Together, the three women literally swept Ronnie out the side door. A few other women noticed, and the buzz of conversation swelled. Two minutes passed before Kitty reappeared, entering hurriedly through the main entrance. Where were the others? The instructor clapped her hands for attention, and a hush fell.

“Ladies, ladies, sorry for the late start. Let's begin, shall we?”

Charley's detective radar was blaring. This was what she had come here for. Ronnie had a secret, and Charley was determined to get to the bottom of it.

An endless hour later, Charley joined the group surrounding the instructor and asking questions about Pilates and the schedule of future classes. She waited patiently, chugging bottled water and listening to the conversations around her.

“That was awful, wasn't it?” Kitty stood beside her, a towel around her neck, her own water bottle in hand.

“Not if you're into voluntary torture,” Charley replied. “My quads are screaming.”

“Not the class, darling.
Ronnie.
We practically had to carry her out of here.” She shook her head. “I've never seen her that bad, and in public. Poor Jim.”

Charley came to attention. “Kitty, what are you talking about? What's wrong with Ronnie?”

Kitty leaned closer, lowering her voice. “She was drunk. I thought you knew. Poor Ronnie's got something of a drinking problem. Among other things.”

Charley gaped at her. “You're joking. I've never seen her drunk. And God knows we've knocked back a few together at Book Club more than once. In fact,” she reflected, “she's usually one of the more restrained members, comparatively speaking.”

“That's what alcoholics do, Charley dear. They hide it.” Kitty sighed, her face etched with worry. “It's been getting worse, and today, showing up intoxicated at seven-thirty in the morning? If Jim can't convince her to go into rehab, Midge has talked about staging an intervention.”

“This is terrible.” Charley recalled that Ronnie had insisted on tending bar at the mojito party. A ruse to cover her own drinking? Poor Jim, indeed. She remembered how tense and angry he'd seemed at the party, how he'd stayed glued to Ronnie's side. It now made perfect, tragic sense.

Kitty laid a hand on her shoulder. “May I count on your discretion, Charley? Ronnie's little problem is not common knowledge beyond our group. She needs our support now. Discovering she'd become the subject of malicious gossip would devastate her, and…” Kitty's wide brown eyes filled with sudden tears as she gasped and bit her lip, clearly unable to continue.

On impulse, Charley threw her arms around the other woman. She'd always found Kitty intimidating, but just now, in the face of shared troubles, she sensed that her fellow Agatha could use a friend. Kitty stiffened, then she wrapped her arms around Charley in a fierce hug and clung to her for several moments before stepping back. With a most uncharacteristically inelegant snuffle, Kitty wiped her damp cheeks, gave Charley a brilliant, watery smile, grabbed her things, and hurried out the door.

Charley headed toward the ladies' room, her heart heavy. She needed to think. Damn, this wasn't what she'd had in mind when she decided to dig for hidden problems among the Agathas.

She found Frankie at the sink, splashing her face.

“Killer workout. You have time for coffee?”

“Silly girl. There's always time for coffee.”

As they headed down the front steps, Charley stared with dismay at the impromptu young mothers' parking lot. The wagon, along with most of the strollers, was already gone.

“Rats.”

“Lose something?”

“Not exactly.” She'd wanted a closer look at those plastic wheels. Well, she supposed she'd just have to lay her hands on a wagon somewhere. How hard could that be?

Ensconced with her BFF at their favorite window table at Ground Zero, Charley took a deep breath. “Frankie, we need to talk.”

“This sounds serious.” Frankie raised her eyebrows. “What's on your mind?”

You cannot tell Frankie.
Crap. Big Dog Trenault and his rules. Stalling for time, she blurted, “Did you know Ronnie was an alcoholic?” Wow. She'd kept that secret for almost an entire hour.

“Oh, was that it? I've had a feeling about her for a while now. Underneath all that model makeup, her skin looks awful.” Frankie sipped her coffee. “Midge told me once that Ronnie gave up a chance at a big New York modeling career when she married Jim. I wonder if she's ever regretted it.”

“Dr. Jim Bailey, handsome doctor? He's not exactly a consolation prize.”

“I agree. Very yummy. But you read about famous people, how it's like a drug. Once they get a taste of the spotlight, they never get over it. Look at the way she's stayed so thin. It's not the least bit attractive. And those wigs she wears?”

Charley pointed with her spoon. “Maybe she wears them if she's too drunk or hungover to fix her hair.”

“Could be.”

“Kitty was really torn up about it.”

“The Queen of Mean?” Frankie snorted.

“She's not so bad,” Charley protested. “I think she might be lonely, actually.” Everyone had problems, she thought, especially the ones who pretended the hardest that their lives were perfect.

“If you say so.” Frankie paused. “But that's not what you wanted to talk about, is it? You've been kind of weird the last day or so, girlfriend. Is everything okay?”

How much could she tell? It was killing her to keep secrets from Frankie, especially something of this magnitude. Would she put the case in jeopardy if she let Frankie in on what she was doing?

She came to a decision. It meant breaking her promise to Marc, but she needed help. And they might not want to admit it, but Marc and Paul Brixton needed help, too.

“Frankie, I'm going to tell you something, something bigger and more unbelievable and, well, awful, than you could ever imagine. But you have to
swear
you won't tell anyone, not even John.” She leaned across the table, planting her elbow and extending the little finger on her right hand. “Pinkie swear.”

Frankie blinked in surprise, and then laughed nervously. “Cripes, Charley, what'd you do, kill somebody?” Charley waited. “Okay, okay. Pinkie swear.” She hooked her little finger with Charley's. “Now give. What's so awful?”

Charley spoke in a low voice, relating everything that had happened the day before. She told Frankie about overhearing Marc and the coroner, and how she had figured out the connection to
Mallets Aforethought
. She described her meeting with Marc, Paul, and Chief Zehring. Frankie's face slowly drained of color. When she heard about the bag and belt on Serena's body, she shrieked,
“No freaking WAY!”

The other patrons in the café gaped. The barista shot them a dirty look.

“That's not the worst part.” Charley explained how Mikey Pringle's observation had led them to discover that new copies of the two books had been planted at the scenes. By a woman.

“The killer is very likely one of us. Someone in the Agathas, or very close to the group.”

“But why”—Frankie swallowed—“why aren't they trying to…” She stared at her friend. “Oh. They don't want people to know it's—wait a minute.” She sat up straighter, a little pink returning to her cheeks. “They're trying to investigate us secretly, aren't they? And Marc Trenault has you acting as his mole. I'm right, aren't I? That's how you know all this inside stuff about the case. You're
investigating the Agathas.
” Her eyes widened. “Holy Mother, Saint Teresa, and Saint Bernadette. I cannot believe this.”

“Shhhh,” Charley said, glancing around. “If anybody finds out, it'll be all over town in two seconds flat. Once the killer knows the police are onto her, we'll lose the element of surprise.”

“But didn't you say she planted the books? It sounds like she wants the police to know what she's doing.” Frankie had recovered with remarkable speed. Her face now wore a look of intense concentration.

“That's what Marc thinks, too. She actually dog-eared the crime scene pages.”

“That's what Marc thinks, huh? Sounds like you two had quite a cozy chat.” Frankie narrowed her eyes. “Anything
else
you want to tell me?”

Charley's cheeks felt hot. “As if. Last night he tried to cut me out, but I'm not going.” She gave her friend an edited version of the previous evening's argument. Then: “Are you in?”

“Am I in? Try keeping me out. And by the way, I cannot believe you didn't tell me first thing.”