The Book Club Murders (17 page)

“How many inches off the pavement would you say my ass is right now?”

“About twelve.” Marc grinned. He looked so young and carefree, Charley thought. A far cry from the grim cop of last night. “Don't worry, we won't do any off-roading between here and the Safety Building.”

Charley ran a hand over leather upholstery the color of warm butterscotch. It matched the ragtop and complemented perfectly the midnight blue paint job, set off with whitewall tires, spoke wheels, and acres of gleaming chrome.

Marc patted the console. “She's a 1967 Ford Mustang Shelby GT500. Restored her myself.”

“ ‘She'?”

“Beautiful, powerful, and just high-maintenance enough to be interesting.” His grin went wicked. “Definitely a female.”

Charley half-turned in the soft leather seat, enjoying the rumble of the powerful engine. She loved watching Marc drive; it was a task he performed with the same intensity and focus that he brought to his lovemaking. His strong hands caressed the mahogany steering wheel and then took command of the gearshift, putting his beloved Mustang through her paces.

Charley certainly knew what that felt like.

Bobby had always blamed his daughter's reckless streak on her red hair. Well, she had set a new standard for reckless last night. She felt Marc's eyes on her and sent him a swift smile. No regrets. This had been her move to make. And when it all went to shit? She would deal with the fallout, head held high. Not that she cared one shake about gossip. What she chose to do was nobody's goddamned business but her own.

And yet, the idea that people would be talking about her personal business behind her back made her itchy under the collar. Because they would talk. The news that she was seeing Oakwood's most eligible bachelor would roar through this town like a locomotive. The two of them would be a nine-day wonder, possibly eclipsing even talk of the murders.

With a sudden spurt of anxiety she wondered how her father would react when he found out. He was fond of Marc, but this was uncharted territory. Oh, Lord, what would Frankie say? That thought made her laugh aloud, and Marc smiled and squeezed her knee. Nope, she knew exactly what Frankie would say.

Grief and anger over Jelly's murder were just below the surface. She'd deal with them later. For now, she wanted to enjoy the golden warmth of contentment that flowed from her center, rippling out through her fingers and toes, at being with this man. She'd wanted him for so long, over half her life. She refused to feel guilty.

Still, it was time to get back to work.

“You seem pretty chipper, considering we're no closer to Lucy than we were yesterday.”

“I wouldn't say that.”

“But all eight Agathas were at the Reunion,” Charley protested. “Without Jelly, you've still got six suspects. If you eliminate me, that is, which you'd better, unless it's time to commence with the ass-kicking.”

“Six?” He smirked at her. “How about three?”

Marc screeched into the police lot, grabbed her hand, and practically dragged her past the startled desk sergeant. They burst into the murder room to find the others slumped tiredly around the table, drinking coffee in silence. Paul raised a hand in mute greeting.

“Listen up, people. The Chief's on his way in for an update, so let's get busy.”

“Who put the quarter in
his
slot this morning?” Paul muttered. His hooded eyes slanted toward Charley. When she blushed, he nodded once, apparently satisfied.

“We're whittling down the suspect list.” Marc brandished an eraser. “There is no question that our killer was one of the guests last night.” Everyone remained silent as he erased Jelly Markes from the board. “I am personally vouching for Charley, as well as for John and Frankie Bright, all three of whom have solid alibis for Jelly's time of death.”

“About time,” Charley muttered, and Marc shot her a fake stern look that didn't fool her for a moment.

“Until last night, alibis for the husbands have been as nonexistent as those for the Agathas. However, multiple witness statements place Ted Sizemore, Kenneth Crawford, and Robert Delaney on the walkway during the critical time frame. We've also confirmed Eric Markes was drinking beer with a small group at the sock hop.” Marc erased the names.

“I never really liked any of them for these killings,” Paul said. “I'm glad we can rule them out for good.”

“That leaves us with five possible suspects.” Marc indicated the names: Midge Crawford, Kitty Sizemore, Ronnie Bailey, Lindy Taylor, and Wilson Delaney. “Evan and Lindy were together the entire hour from dinner until the discovery of the body. Additionally, Evan provides her with an alibi for her sister's murder. Unless anyone here believes those two are working together to commit these crimes?”

No one spoke. He erased Lindy's name.

“One of the café bartenders described Kitty,” Camille said. “Shiny blue dress, plenty of jewels. He remembers her because she was the first person through the door, and they were standing there, waiting for the onslaught. Then he got slammed, and it was a blur of tuxedos and drink orders. He doesn't remember seeing her after that.”

“Kitty has a solid alibi for Serena's murder,” Charley reminded them. “Unless we think we've got more than one killer, I'd say she's out of the running.”

“Agreed.” Marc erased her name. “That leaves us with three: Midge, Ronnie, and Wilson. Not one of them has an alibi for any of the murders. One of them has got to be Lucy.”

“How do we figure out which one?” Mitch asked. “We've got no evidence, no witnesses, nothing but these darn books.”

“But we do have evidence,” Marc countered. “We have three murder weapons.”

Paul sat up straight. “Now you're talking.”

“Serena was killed by a lethal injection of pentobarbital,” Marc continued. “Camille and I came up empty, I'm afraid.” He reviewed their fruitless visit to the hospital. “Paul, do you mind summarizing the results of your field trip?”

“Cooper and I made two stops,” Paul began. “Jim Bailey's family practice is a small, one-man setup. Like I told you Friday, the Doc doesn't prescribe pentobarbital. But I wouldn't say our visit was a total waste. We managed to cozy up to a couple of nurses outside on their smoke breaks.”

“The receptionist told me she's pretty sure one of Bailey's prescription pads was swiped recently,” Mitch added. “Doctor was yelling, tearing up the office. Then, nothing. He just shut up about it. She thinks maybe he realized his wife took it. Ronnie's in there a couple of times a week. She brings him lunch and helps answer phones when they're short-staffed. They've all noticed the change in her behavior lately.”

“You got that on a smoke break?” Marc was impressed. “Nice job, Cooper.”

Mitch blushed. “Well, I had to talk to her long enough that I could ask her for her phone number.”

“Not cocaine,” Camille mused. “She's into some kind of prescription meds. Something she pays cash for, or we'd have picked it up in her bank records.”

“She
has
changed,” Charley agreed. “I told you about her drinking, but it's more than that. At the dance she was totally wired. Talking loudly, hanging all over strange men. That's not like— Oh, crap!” She clapped a hand to her forehead. “I never called you! Jelly told me—” She stopped, swallowing hard. “Sorry. Jelly told me that Ronnie and her husband had a huge screaming match the night of Lisa's murder. Their neighbor says it's not the first time, either. They've been sleeping in separate bedrooms for months.”

Marc stared. “Could the neighbor tell what they were fighting about?”

“Jim has quite a gambling problem. He likes to hit the tables when he travels to medical conventions. As a matter of fact, he blew off the Reunion to go to one. Ronnie was royally pissed.”

“Could go to motive.” Marc smiled warmly. “Great job, babe.” She colored as Mitch and Camille exchanged glances.

Paul cleared his throat. “Which brings us to the Irving Avenue Veterinary Clinic. We know the practice routinely uses pentobarbital to euthanize animals. But you can forget about drug-theft records. The place is a mess. Looks to me like Sizemore runs the business by the seat of his pants.”

“Do any of our three suspects have cats or dogs?” Marc asked. “Any reason to visit that clinic, maybe help themselves to a syringe while they waited for Doctor Ted?”

“The Baileys had a golden retriever,” Charley said slowly. “It died last winter, maybe ten months ago? Robert would never let Wilson have anything as messy as a house pet. Midge doesn't have a dog, but I suppose she might have a cat. I didn't see one at Book Club, though.”

“It may not have a bearing on the case,” Paul continued, “but Teddy's girls have got big issues with their boss. Seems he's got a couch in his back office, and he's not too good at keeping his hands to himself. Likes little blondes.”

“I, uh, noticed all three nurses we met were the same basic physical type,” Mitch murmured, ears still pink. “Slender, fair-haired.”

“Philandering is a potential stressor, like the Baileys' marital difficulties and Ronnie's possible drug use. In a perfect world I'd run all of it down, but we don't have any goddamned time.” Marc paced, clearly frustrated. “Let's set all that aside for the moment. Murder weapon number two,” he continued. “Camille, you have a report on the strychnine that killed Lisa?”

“Labs came back late Friday. Cheap commercial grade, lots of impurities. Looks like common rat poison diluted in water. Half the garages and cellars in Oakwood probably have old containers of rat poison sitting forgotten on a shelf. If we ever get a warrant, and if we find the right box, the lab can match it to the poison that killed Lisa.”

“So it's a dead end,” Mitch concluded glumly.

“Maybe I could—” Charley began.

“No. No way.” Marc was emphatic. “I mean it, Charley. The situation has gotten far too dangerous for you to risk running into Lucy in her own basement.” His eyes held hers. “Promise me you won't do any more solo sleuthing?”

She hesitated, and then nodded.

“Which brings us to the third murder weapon,” Paul said, turning to Charley. “Do you have any idea when it might've been lifted?”

“I think—”

“What on God's green acre is she doing here?” Charley jumped as Zehring suddenly loomed in the doorway.

“I brought her in to consult on the case,” Marc replied calmly.

“She's not a member of this department. Although she has…contributed to a minor extent in her recent role as a confidential informant, her presence at a briefing concerning an ongoing investigation is unacceptable.”

“Since you've found my entire handling of this case unacceptable, what does one more poor decision matter?” Marc faced his commanding officer squarely. “You gave me until tomorrow. So unless you intend to can my ass right now, I've got a killer to catch. Charley? How about that letter opener?”

The room was deathly silent as the two men stared at each other.

After an eternity, Zehring snorted and dropped into a seat. Charley heard Mitch let out a long breath.

Marc turned to her. “Charley?”

In the center of the table were several photos of Jelly's crime scene. Until that moment, Charley had avoided looking at them. Now she dragged the stack toward her, shuffling quickly until she found a close-up of the letter opener. She examined the photo, remembering the feel of the handle, the weight in her hand.

She tapped the photo. “Last time I'm
positive
I saw it? Sunday, the day before you found Lisa
.
I'm usually closed Mondays, but I decided to open because of the Reunion. Midge, Kitty, Ronnie, and Jelly were in that morning, but they were looking for me. Wilson and her mother-in-law came in, too. Mrs. Delaney wanted to buy Wilson a present, so Deirdre showed her all sorts of things. She left half my stock in a jumble. It could've gone missing then.”

“Wilson. You really think so?” Marc asked.

“Everything was such a mess, and we were busy all day. I never got a chance to reorganize. Then I went to Wilson's house. That night, when I inventoried those trays, it was gone.”

Marc wrote
stole letter opener?
under Wilson's name. Charley recalled Wilson's strange performance at the curb, seeing it now through different eyes. What if she weren't delivering someone else's message? What if
she'd
been the one to start that rumor about a broken neck?

“Why Jelly?” Paul asked suddenly. “What did she do to get on the hit list? How is Lucy selecting her victims?”

An idea had been rolling around, half formed, in the back of Charley's mind. She'd continued pondering the events of last night, replaying everything, looking for some clue to Lucy's identity. At Paul's “What did she do,” the idea suddenly took on shape and definition.

“Holy shit.”

Everyone stared.

“Young lady—” Zehring began, frowning.

She ignored him. “Marc, we need to figure out what Jelly did at the Reunion that got her killed.”

He nearly choked on his coffee. “Did you say what Jelly did
at the Reunion
?”

“Think about it.” She stood and started pacing around the table. “Lucy goes to the high school prepared to kill. She has all the stuff she needs: letter opener, playing card, scarf, book.”

Marc nodded slowly. “She's got the front door rigged so she can come and go.”

“Maybe she has some of the props stashed in advance….”

“Or maybe she's carrying everything with her.”

Charley tapped her skull. “If Lucy is being her typical, anal-retentive self, she has the murder all planned out. There are a dozen secluded spots in that high school where she could take her time and kill someone with zero risk of being caught.”