The Book Club Murders (22 page)

“I told you I'd arrive alive.”

Charley sighed with pleasure as Dmitri handed her a mug of fresh coffee. She cradled the hot beverage with chilled fingers, her cellphone wedged against her shoulder. “Don't worry—my car is invincible,” she said to the phone.

“As if.” Dmitri snagged her cell, pressed speaker, and laid it on the counter. He began toweling her damp hair.

“Your car is a piece of crap.” Frankie's voice emanated from the tiny speaker. “The weather gods are predicting eight to ten inches by nightfall. How are you going to get home? And tell me again why you're working on a Monday, and for some woman you've never met? She gave you, what? Two hours' notice? You work seven days a week, you're going to burn out, Charley.”

“Twelve pairs of slacks, plus some skirts and dresses? A client this good can name her day,” Charley told her firmly.

She'd been delighted to find the email in her in-box on this snowy morning. Mrs. Owen had lost over thirty pounds during a recent illness. She didn't live in Oakwood, but a friend had pointed her to the Decades Reunion Facebook page, where she read the glowing comments about Old Hat that continued to be posted there, despite Midge.

Midge's behavior at Ted's funeral yesterday had convinced Charley it was time to move on. No more gatherings of the Agathas Book Club, she thought.
Good riddance.

“Frankie's right about the storm.” Dmitri glanced out the front window of Slash at the whirling sea of white. Huge flakes came down in a fall so heavy, the Safety Building had been reduced to a formless shadow. Brightly lighted windows were just visible through the gloom. “I'll run Charley home, short stuff. My eleven o'clock's a quickie; we'll take off as soon as she's finished.”

Charley rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Mommy. Actually, I thought I'd run across the street and bother Marc. I doubt they've got much going on in this weather.”

Frankie sighed gustily. “Guess I'll just curl up by my roaring fire, drinking hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps, rereading my favorite murder mystery.” A pause. “I'll probably bake cookies.”

“We'll be there by noon,” Dmitri said promptly.

Charley laughed and ended the call. She drained her coffee. “Gotta bounce. Don't want to keep Una Owen waiting.”

Dmitri grabbed her and dipped her low. “Not just yet,” he said slyly. “I'm dying for an update on the Smoking-Hot Detective Channel.”

“Good-bye, Dmitri.”

“Aw, c'mon, princess. Just a few details. Like, what does he do when you—”

“Let me go, you perv.”

“Quaker.”

“Degenerate.”

“Morality play.”

“Enough!” Laughing as Dmitri set her on her feet, she blew him a kiss and headed into the storm.

Charley kicked off her boots inside the front door of Old Hat, where she'd had the foresight to place a new floor runner. It looked like hell, but she'd roll it back up as soon as the snow melted. Shoppers would just have to stomp off as best they could, hopefully without tracking too much muck across her beautiful floor.

She checked her watch. Five minutes after eleven: plenty of time to sneak in a little holiday merchandising. Scooping up a trio of blouses in shimmery jewel tones, she climbed into the display window. Laying the clothing to one side, she began rearranging purses and scarves.

Snow plopped softly against the glass. A snowplow, high beams on and yellow warning light rotating on its roof, scraped its way down Park Avenue. Within moments the snow began to reassert its supremacy. Across the street, the shrubs lining the walkway to the Safety Building had been reduced to smooth, white toadstools. It was eleven in the morning, yet the air was silver gray with shadow and thick, heavy flakes. She wondered if she should call Mrs. Owen and reschedule. After all, the poor woman had been ill.

Well, Charley thought suddenly, she couldn't call her, could she? All she had was her email address. No doubt she was already on her way. If she didn't arrive by quarter to twelve, Charley would check her email for a message. Meanwhile, she'd make good use of her time.

She worked quickly, arranging colors and shapes, using her giraffes to achieve height and depth, enjoying the design process as well as the rare moment of solitude. Between her dad, the Lucy killings, and her new love affair with Marc, it seemed she'd hardly had a chance to catch her breath. She reflected, not for the first time, that she was a lucky, lucky girl.

The heavy snowfall hung like a flowing curtain around her window, dampening all light and sound, trapping her in a silent glass cocoon. Charley shivered. The sense of isolation, heightened by the desolate landscape, was beginning to seep into her bones. Hurrying now, she leaned forward to adjust the drape of a sleeve and—

Charley screamed, jerking back from the glass. A face had appeared out of the swirling white, swathed in scarves, a white fur hat pulled down low, tinted glasses hiding the eyes. She gasped, pressing her hand to her heart. The figure waved briefly and headed for the door.

“Holy crap, Carpenter,” she said to herself, “get a grip.” This must be Mrs. Owen at last. Charley began backing carefully out of the window, maneuvering over the tumble of giraffes and merchandise. She heard the bell as the shop door opened and closed.

“Hello!” she called. “Mrs. Owen? I'm so glad you could make it.”

She got only one stockinged foot on the floor. As she turned, something pressed into the back of her neck, something that felt simultaneously cold and hot. Then her body was slammed with a jolt of the most unbelievable pain she had ever experienced, back arching, arms and legs rigid with agony. She screamed, but no sound emerged. The pain literally lifted her up to the balls of her feet. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Her muscles gave way, and she collapsed heavily to the floor, body jerking involuntarily. Unable to speak or move, she stared up at the woman hovering over her.

“Hello, Charley, dear. Ghastly weather today, isn't it?”

The killer known as Lucy flipped the locks on the front door. With ruthless economy of movement, she pulled a roll of duct tape out of a large canvas tote, quickly strapping Charley's wrists together. As soon as the stunner charge ceased, Charley started to recover. She mustered a half-groan, half-yell. Smiling sweetly, Lucy slapped a piece of tape over Charley's mouth.

“Now, now.” She wagged a finger. “Lots to do.”

She grasped Charley under her shoulders and dragged her across the shop, through the office, and into the back room. Leaving her on the floor, she disappeared. Charley rolled onto her side, zapped muscles screaming in protest. She slowly raised her hands and pulled at the tape covering her mouth. She gasped in pain as it ripped free. Her fingers felt clumsy. She tried to scream, but could produce only another weak yell. It was so hard to draw a full breath. She raised her wrists to her mouth and tried to bite through the tape binding them together.

Charley heard the step behind her an instant before she was crucified again. This time she screamed, long, high, primal, a scream forced out of her by indescribable, pure, absolute pain. Her body bowed back, muscles straining. When the pain stopped, she sobbed in relief, her aching chest heaving convulsively.

“Lord above, Charley, you are quite the fighter. Thank goodness this room is so nicely soundproofed.” Lucy held a small device in front of Charley's eyes. It looked like a cellphone, but the keypad was a fake. Two small silver nodes protruded from the top. “Isn't it adorable? Lisa actually asked me if I could send pictures.”

Dropping the stunner into the pocket of her full-length, white fox fur coat, Lucy dragged a chair up against the far wall. She crouched down, then lifted Charley bodily and dumped her onto the chair. Charley began to tip over. Lucy quickly ran a band of duct tape around Charley's ribs, then around the back of the chair. She produced a tiny pair of scissors and snipped the tape around her wrists. Two fresh loops of tape secured her wrists to the chair arms. Being careful to stay out of kicking range, she finished by taping Charley's ankles to the legs of the chair. She stepped back to survey her work. Satisfied, she smiled.

“I have looked forward to this for the longest time. You simply cannot imagine!”

Dragging a second chair out of the office, she pushed the storeroom door tightly closed and hung her coat carefully on a hook. As she settled herself, crossing long legs encased in expensive gray wool slacks and high-heeled black leather boots, Charley fought for control.

“Fah…huh.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows in inquiry.

Charley drew a shuddering breath, then another. She understood how her father must feel, struggling to form even simple words. Swallowing thickly, she tried again. “Fff…uck you.”

Kitty Sizemore burst out laughing, a long peal of genuine mirth. “Oh, dear,” she said finally, wiping her eyes. “Not at all what I expected. Of course”—she smiled slyly—“you've been full of surprises lately. Oakwood's most eligible police detective? I had no idea until I saw how cozy you two were at poor Ted's service. I can't say I blame you. He's a magnificent creature. I do love broad shoulders on a man, don't you?” Fishing into her tote, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“No…smoking. Ruins…the clothes.”

“Sorry, darling. I'm afraid it's become a bit of a habit.” She lit up and sent a stream of blue smoke toward the ceiling. “Rather like killing people.”

There was silence as Charley watched Kitty smoke and tried to gather her shattered wits. Then Kitty said, “I've been worried about you since that day you were snooping around Wilson's garage. It seemed safe to assume you'd searched all our garages, looking for clues. I disposed of the rat poison long before they found Lisa, but still, there was no telling how far you'd go. I thought to myself,
Kitty, she's a smart one. She'll never stop thinking and wondering, trying to please her man. Imagine the pillow talk!

“Still, I was reluctant. I've grown fond of you, Charley. I'd almost convinced myself it would be safe to let you live. But after I overheard you at poor Ted's funeral, well.” Kitty waved a hand. “Your detective
heard
you questioning Wilson? That could mean only one thing. It seems I underestimated your involvement, your commitment to the truth. It was clear to me then that you weren't satisfied and you never would be. I realized it was only a matter of time before you or Frankie mentioned that broken neck rumor to Midge or Ronnie. They were there that day at your shop. They both knew I started it, not Wilson.”

Midge was so angry. And then she told me: “Lisa broke her neck. Be sure Charley knows.”

What had Wilson said next?
Kitty said
…Kitty. Not Midge. Charley felt sick. She'd been so close to the truth. If only, as she'd suggested to Marc, she had pressed Wilson on that single point, it might have raised a red flag. With proof of Kitty's lying and manipulation, surely Marc would have examined her alibi more closely?

Kitty was watching her. “Eventually you were going to put it together, Charley dear, and that would have led to a most inconvenient conversation. Surely you must see that?”

Charley saw something flicker in Kitty's eyes. Anger? Regret? Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Kitty shrugged. “What with one thing and another, I haven't much choice. But there is a silver lining.” She dragged deeply on her cigarette. “I did so have my heart set on finishing the fall book list. One of the best things about
And Then There Were None
is the variety. Ten murders, and each one different! Some of them were completely out of the question, naturally. A hatchet murder? Too gruesome. Then there's a hanging, a lethal injection—already done twice, no challenge there. What else? Oh, one poor fellow gets a marble statue dropped on his head. Now, how on earth could I be expected to arrange something like that?” She looked at Charley with genuine curiosity. “Simply not feasible. In the end, the only way to do justice to Dame Agatha, and to do
you
justice, darling, was to imitate the death of…the Justice!”

Grinding out her cigarette on the concrete floor, Kitty reached into her tote. She pulled out a long red satin robe and held it up. “It's a choir robe. I pinched it from church.” Dipping into the tote again, she came out with a mass of woolly white curls. When she held this up with both hands, Charley could see it was a formal wig, such as English barristers and judges still wore.

Kitty smiled proudly. “Justice Wargrave, the master hand behind nine other murders in one of the most famous mystery stories ever written. I rather think I've given the old bird a run for her money, don't you?”

Once again into the tote, this time producing a book with a shiny paper cover. Flipping quickly through the stiff pages, Kitty read aloud:

Mr. Justice Wargrave was sitting in his high-backed chair at the end of the room. Two candles burnt on either side of him. But what shocked and startled the onlookers was the fact that he sat there robed in scarlet with a judge's wig upon his head. It fell to the floor, revealing the high bald forehead with, in the very middle, a round stained mark from which something had trickled….

“Kitty,” Charley said weakly, “you can't…won't…get away with…” Her eyes filled with angry tears. This simply could not be happening. To be duct-taped into a chair in her own goddamned shop, pinned like a butterfly on a collector's board? She struggled weakly, her muscles sluggish and sore.

Kitty dropped the book on the floor with a thump. “Won't I? I'm afraid I must disagree with you. I've murdered five people, darling, and your precious detective hasn't got a clue.”

“Then, why…kill me? You're risking—”

“I'm risking nothing,” Kitty snapped. “I've been outsmarting Oakwood's pathetic excuse for a police force from the beginning. They'll find a neat trail of bread crumbs leading right to Ronnie Bailey's front door. Marcus Trenault will be so grief-stricken at your untimely demise, what with blaming himself and all, he'll question his own judgment. He'll think Ronnie's guilty, because that's what I want him to believe. And with her drug habit and her anguish over Jim's shattered career—well, no one will be too surprised when Ronnie dies of a tragic overdose.” She sniffed. “We're having coffee at one.”

“Please…you don't need…”

“But I do need. I must. Surely you see that, Charley.” Kitty's smile was as brittle as the finest ice crystals, empty and cold. “No need to worry about Ronnie, darling. I won't let her suffer. I don't let any of them suffer….”

Her voice receded, hollowed, those final words echoing with so much pain and loss and loneliness, it would've broken Charley's heart if she weren't both furious with herself and terrified for her life. Here at last was Lucy, the serial killer who had committed five murders. She had taken Charley in completely, pretending to be normal, pretending to be her friend. Charley cursed herself for a fool.

Still, Kitty wasn't as clever as she thought. She apparently didn't know that Ronnie had suffered some sort of collapse. Marc and his team would know it was yet another setup, and they'd be onto Kitty as soon as they found—

She closed her eyes, fighting down a rising tide of panic. They'd catch Kitty, but she, Charley, would be dead.

Marc, she thought, despairing. Glorious man, somehow knowing to give her space, never pressing her for more than she was able to give. What a fool she'd been, thinking they had all the time in the world.

Suddenly she thought of her father. If she should die like this? The shock might bring on another stroke, perhaps a fatal one.

Her fury began to override the fear. This crazy, homicidal bitch intended to kill her, but Charley was damned if she would go out sniveling and begging for mercy.

Although her body still felt half asleep, her twice-baked brain started to function again.
Keep her talking.
Wasn't that what the imperiled hero always said? Maybe Marc or Dmitri would come looking for her before it was too late.
Where there's life, there's hope.
She opened her eyes.

“That stunner hurts like hell. Where'd you get it?”

Kitty blinked, the mask dropping back into place. “I stole it from Wilson. She was afraid to use it, and I thought it might come in handy.” She smiled. “I was right.”

“Why?” Charley asked simply. “Why kill all those people?”

“Oh, goodie.” Kitty gave a little wriggle of delight. “Let's have the big exposition. It's always my favorite part of the book. The author lays it out, tying up all those pesky loose ends. What shall we have? Chronological or thematic?” She dragged on a fresh cigarette, streamed more smoke. The air was turning blue. “Chronological, perhaps. Given the overall pattern of events.” She looked brightly at Charley. “What do you think?”

“I think you're certifiable.” The words were out before she could stop them.

Kitty stood, stepped toward her, and struck her hard across the face. Charley's head whipped around from the impact. She tasted blood.

“You might make an effort to be civil, my dear.” Kitty sat back down, crossed her legs, and continued smoking, though Charley noticed that her hand was trembling. “Where was I? Really, I need to start before the beginning. You want to know why? I can't believe you have to ask.”

Charley stared at Kitty as if seeing her for the first time: the designer clothes, the hair and makeup, the expensive jewelry—all of it just so much armor, a glittering façade to mask her inner desperation and humiliation.
A deep, dark secret, driving her to kill.
In the end, not so secret after all.

“You knew about Ted's infidelities. We all thought you didn't know, or maybe you didn't care.”

“I knew,” Kitty said conversationally, the pain safely back under wraps. “How could I not? Ted had been sleeping with his nurses since Edward Junior was born. He kept it all at work. It never touched my life here. I honestly didn't mind.” She shrugged. “But then he started with women of our acquaintance, women I saw every day. Serena Wyndham, always at the country club with her abominable husband. That little chit from the Community Center. Wilson.” Kitty closed her eyes briefly. “You must understand, Charley. When I married Ted, he planned to be a famous equine veterinarian. We'd move to New York, where he would consult for some of the finest horse breeders in the world. Instead, he bought a pathetic little cat and dog clinic in his pathetic little hometown. I had no choice but to come along. And I did make the best of it, you must give me that. For years, I played the happy Oakwood housewife.” She stared into space. “I was happy, for a while.”

“What changed?”

Kitty roused herself. “Do you honestly think I was unaware of the whispers, the pitying looks, the gossip? Poor Kitty, do you think she knows? Even at Ted's memorial, I could see it in their eyes. How many women in that receiving line had slept with the deceased? It was too much. He shouldn't have rubbed my nose in it. He really shouldn't have.” She smiled sadly.

“I decided to…rectify the situation. Divorce would have been even more degrading, so I opted for the ultimate solution. Ted, a few of his more…blatant transgressions, and problem solved. The Agathas were my inspiration, naturally. Month after month, we read books filled with all sorts of interesting ways to dispatch a husband. But none of them seemed quite right. And then, last Christmas, we read
The ABC Murders
, and I thought,
Kitty, darling, there you are!
” She checked her slim gold wristwatch. “Lovely. Plenty of time.”

Time for what?
What the hell was she waiting for? Not that Charley wanted to hurry things along. Every minute was a gift, a chance at life. She fought to hold on to her anger as a shield against the fear.
Keep her talking.