The Book Club Murders (25 page)

For Bruce, Jeff, and Maddy:

The best home team in this, or any, game.

Consider the author's paradox: While writing is a solitary endeavor, becoming a published author requires the best efforts of an entire team. I am fortunate to have the support of one of the best teams in the game. First and foremost, deepest love and gratitude to my gorgeous daughter, Maddy, who read numerous drafts, provided many valuable suggestions, and listened to a lot of whining; and to my husband, Bruce, and my son, Jeff, who cheerfully survived late dinners and alarming mood swings. The first page would never have materialized without the not-so-gentle encouragement of Constance Gardner; thank you for pushing me to just get on with it, already. Every conversation with Nancy Pinard was a master class in writing, querying, and getting published. Elizabeth Swank's early edit of the book helped me to find the tidy house within a very messy mansion. Thanks to Martha Wilson and Cindy Wagner for enduring an early draft and for their many words of encouragement. My appreciation to Junessa Viloria and the Random House Alibi team for bringing my first novel to the world. I am so grateful to everyone at PS Literary for providing me with support and guidance as I do everything for the very first time. Finally, I am indebted to Curtis Russell, Agent Extraordinaire. From the first, you understood and shared my vision for this book. To you, and to all my other family and friends who have put up with me for the last six years, I offer my sincerest thanks.

Brown, Rita Mae.
Murder, She Meowed
. Bantam Books, New York, 1996.

Christie, Agatha.
The ABC Murders
. Black Dog & Leventhal Publishers, New York, 1935.

Christie, Agatha.
And Then There Were None
. Buccaneer Books, Cutchogue, New York, 1939.

Graves, Sarah.
Mallets Aforethought.
Bantam Dell, New York, 2004.

Jance, J. A.
Rattlesnake Crossing.
Avon Books, New York, 1998.

Robb, J. D.
Strangers in Death
. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York, 2008.

PHOTO: AMANDA R. MILLER

L
ESLIE
N
AGEL
is the author of
The Book Club Murders,
the first novel in the Oakwood Mystery series. She lives in the real city of Oakwood, Ohio, where she teaches writing at a local community college. After the written word, her passions include her husband, her son and daughter, hiking, tennis, and strong black coffee, not necessarily in that order.

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The house reeked of death.

Charley picked her way carefully over and around the boxes, crates, and haphazard piles of debris that choked the upper gallery, breathing through her mouth in an attempt to avoid the worst of the smell. Geez, it stank even worse up here than it had in the main rooms downstairs. As she snagged her toe and nearly took a header into a stack of picture frames, she wondered if the heavy work boots and rugged jeans she'd worn were sufficient protection against contracting tetanus.

Her goal was a room at the end of the hall, the “Blue Room,” according to Calvin Prescott, the estate appraiser handling the Mulbridge family's auction and general sale. Mulbridge House itself was scheduled for the wrecking ball, just as soon as the eager heirs could liquidate the contents and obtain final approval from the Oakwood Planning Commission. She'd read the newspaper story with interest: complete demolition of the mansion and outbuildings, then a new street and subdivision of the land into a dozen generous wooded lots. Landlocked as this wealthy, insular suburb of Dayton, Ohio, was, those lots would be smoking hot commodities, with price tags to match. That is, they would be if the late Augusta Mulbridge's son and daughter could convince the city to approve their development plan. Not a slam dunk by any means, with neighbors, environmentalists, and preservationists all screaming bloody murder.

Arriving without further misadventure before a massive carved wood door, Charley trailed a finger over the tracery of leaves and flowers that decorated eight separate square panels, each one a different blossom. What a beautiful piece of workmanship. Too bad it was discolored by water damage. Everything in Mulbridge House was like that: heavy, ornate, the very best quality, but sinking into decay, from the fabulous bronze laurel wreath door knockers now green with neglect, to the crumbling plaster friezes in the upper gallery. Even the name of this house evoked a lost age of wealth and privilege, when massive estates on secluded roads were too isolated—and too exclusive—for a mere street address.

She pushed open the heavy door. Its hinges squealed as if they hadn't been oiled since the Truman administration. She shivered. This whole place was like a Hollywood horror-movie set, right down to the cobwebs and creaky floorboards.

It was more than just the smell, Charley decided. Mulbridge House exuded a palpable despair, as if the house yearned for better times still remembered. It was starting to get to her—a professional, a dealer in the old and discarded. Lord knew she'd waded through plenty of estate sales, digging through the leavings of the dead. Detachment was a necessary skill for a vintage-clothing dealer.

She considered herself more than half a treasure hunter, a bit like Indiana Jones, or maybe Lara Croft. She grinned. There was a Hollywood image for you. Charley Carpenter, red hair flying, slashing her way through a treacherous jungle of moldy castoffs, searching for the shining jewel, the golden idol, the key to the hidden vault. Maybe she should get a bullwhip.

Once inside the Blue Room, she was relieved to discover the overall creepiness factor reduced by the late-winter sunlight flooding through tall, deep-silled windows. Calvin's minions had finished in here. Other than a radiator and a remarkable ceiling fixture of cut blue glass, the room contained just three things. An aluminum rack on wheels held four white plastic garment bags, the rack's gleaming newness contrasting sharply with all this antiquity. Next to it was a large cardboard box, top flaps tucked shut. Two preprinted white labels, each bearing the “Prescott Auctions” logo, announced that the contents were
SHOES
and
HANDBAGS
. A second box bore a label declaring it contained
HATS
. Charley shivered again, this time in anticipation.

She slowly pulled down the first zipper, and then parted the sides to reveal the bag's contents.

“Oh, my giddy aunt.” Givenchy, Armani, Halston, Chanel, Yves St. Laurent, a dozen evening gowns spilled out, gorgeous fabrics flowing through her hands in a river of shimmering color. Calvin hadn't exaggerated.

She quickly opened the other bags and checked the contents. Suits, skirts, dresses, more eveningwear, two full-length furs, and everything in very good condition. Charley knew Augusta Mulbridge had been a virtual recluse before her death eighteen months ago. Most of these things had probably hung untouched in her wardrobe for decades. The midnight blue Chanel still had the original sales tags.
Imagine buying a Chanel and never having the occasion to wear it,
she thought.
How sad.

She checked the lists pinned to each zipper pull, Calvin's neat handwriting itemizing the contents and estimating their value. Well, there was going to be a conversation about pricing, that much was clear.

She knew she'd take the lot. And she knew Calvin knew it. It was one of the reasons he'd invited her to the dealer presale. There were plenty of bigger dealers he could have called in from Cincinnati or Columbus, online sellers with deep pockets who wouldn't need to dicker down. But as an old friend of her father's, Calvin always looked out for her. He'd literally watched her grow up. While the men drank homemade root beer and played dominoes in the tiny back office, a very young Charley had spent more than a few delightful afternoons exploring dusty treasures in the Prescott showroom. Somewhere around fourth grade she'd started coming on her own, knowing she'd always find a warm welcome, as well as access to Calvin's cookie stash. Those solo safaris marked the beginning of her fascination with vintage clothing. Since she'd opened Old Hat three years ago, Calvin Prescott had taken a fatherly interest in her and her tiny shop, giving her advice about pricing, sending a few choice clients her way, even clueing her in on his secret recipe for lifting the musty odor of age and neglect from fragile fabrics.

He was an occasional dinner guest at the Carpenter home on Hawthorn Boulevard, evenings that delighted her housebound father. Each time he popped into her shop in his bottle-green coat and polka-dot bow tie, offering advice or brimming with a juicy piece of industry gossip, her affection for their old friend grew. Despite the forty-year difference in their ages, Calvin Prescott was a true kindred spirit.

Charley pulled open the flaps on the first box. A dozen glittering evening bags formed a top layer over a number of lidded shoeboxes. She checked the bags and boxes quickly for damage. Everything looked perfect, many of the shoes unworn. Knowing Calvin, he'd already pulled any item less than top quality and consigned it to the general sale.

That's where all the crap she'd tripped over on her way up here was headed. The general public would never see the inside of the Blue Room, or indeed most of the rooms in Mulbridge House. Calvin always handled the big estates that way, with an invitation-only dealer sale on Thursday and Friday, an auction of selected items on Saturday, then the general sale on Sunday. Anything still unsold after all that was landfill.

Charley decided Calvin was unlikely to have hidden any dogs at the bottom, so she closed the flaps and turned to the final box. Hats.

This box was crammed full, and what a variety! Charley pulled out a green velvet Robin Hood cap and smoothed the shiny black feather tucked into the band. Had Augusta Mulbridge actually worn this? Straws, silks, veils, and fascinators, felt and wool, there was enough headgear to more than replenish her barren post-holiday shelves. She tossed the green cap back in and shut the lid. Another no-brainer. Of course she wanted them all. Every sequin, every bugle bead, every silk rose.

Now all she had to do was figure out how to pay for all of it. Sales had slowed lately, and cash flow was becoming a real concern. She'd been toying with the idea of expanding her inventory to include more modern eveningwear. In fact, today might be the perfect opportunity to get Calvin's input—and perhaps soften up some of his asking prices at the same time. Charley pocketed the inventories and prepared to head downstairs and open negotiations.

She emerged onto the upper gallery, a long, open landing that connected the two wings of Mulbridge House and overlooked the soaring entry. A massive crystal chandelier gleamed dully at eye level, hand-cut prisms clouded with grime. The curving sweep of the main staircase lay at the far end. As she passed along the carved balustrade, the sound of angry voices rose from below.

Three people stood arguing in the entry. At least two people were arguing. The third was watching the exchange with arms folded, expression cold.

The primary shouter was a short, stout woman of about sixty in a shapeless plum-colored coat. Frizzy orange hair poked from beneath an equally misshapen crocheted hat of black and purple squares. The broad jowly face, suffering under an overapplication of powder and rouge, had frown lines cutting deep around a mouth tight with fury. Charley recognized Millicent Peache, president of Sustain Oakwood's Architectural Past—SOAP, if you could believe it. Her sensibly shod feet were planted firmly on the black and white parquetry floor, as if daring the woman before her to try to get her to budge. Despite the fighting stance, her faded blue eyes reflected more desperation than anger. Pudgy veined hands trembled as she emphasized her words. Charley wondered if she was ill.

Her harassed-looking opponent was Pamela Tate, Calvin Prescott's chief assistant. She looked tired, dirty, and ready to do violence.

“Mrs. Peache. For the last time, you cannot just barge in here and—”

“Augusta Mulbridge would be twirling in her grave, positively twirling! If she could see what you're doing to her lovely home, this architectural
masterpiece
, this
monument
to gracious living—”

The third woman snorted. Millie rounded and jabbed a finger at her. “And you! Her own daughter. You ought to be ashamed. You know your mother never wanted this.” She waved her arms wildly, causing Pamela to take a cautionary step back. “She intended Mulbridge House and its contents to be preserved! It
must be
preserved intact, in all its glory, a shining example of Tudor revival at its finest.”

Charley suppressed a snort of her own. As if. The odor she'd identified upstairs was unmistakable to anyone familiar with old buildings. Mulbridge House was riddled with black mold, the structural kiss of death.

“And that,” said the woman in a voice edged with sarcasm, “is why Mother's will leaves the house and its contents to Jamie and me. She knew we had absolutely no intention of restoring it.”

Charley recognized the sarcastic woman, too. A picture of Holland Mulbridge had appeared in last week's
Oakwood Register,
next to an irate editorial on the historic significance of Mulbridge House and the immorality of the planned demolition. Holland and her younger brother, Jameson Mulbridge, Jr., were painted as the villains of the piece. No mystery where the
OR
's sympathies lay.

Holland was as tall and elegant as Millicent was dowdy, with long, ash-blond hair framing a pale, oval face, high cheekbones, and a suspiciously perfect nose. Her model-thin body was draped in couture that screamed Paris or Milan. According to the article, she was the CEO of Mulbridge Shipping, Ltd. A scary person to work for, Charley imagined, as Holland sneered down at Millie.

“How dare you presume to tell me what my mother did and did not want.”

Pamela turned, clearly at her wits' end. “I'm getting Calvin.”

“How dare
I
?” Millie's voice cracked as she took a step closer and pointed a shaking finger in Holland's face. “If anyone here is pathetic, it's you. A pathetic excuse for a daughter. Who was here day after day, month after month, through thick and thin? Who stood as a true friend to Gussie, providing support and companionship through her declining years? While you and that brother of yours were off heaven knows where, living the high life, turning your back on a glorious heritage, neglecting a dying woman in her final—”

It happened so fast, Charley almost missed it. One moment Millie was reading Holland the riot act, and the next she was sailing across the parquet on her ass, arms wide, mouth gaping open in an
O
of shock. Holland smiled tightly as she refolded her arms. Princess Elegant had actually shoved Millie in the chest, launching her across the foyer. Unbelievable. Charley was halfway down the stairs before she realized she was moving.

“What in heaven's name…?”

Calvin Prescott, looking dapper as ever in a neatly pressed olive green safari suit, hurried into the entry through a pair of pocket doors on the left, Pamela on his heels. He halted abruptly as Millie slid to a stop at his feet. Charley slowed her own descent a few steps from the bottom, ready to step in if fists began flying in earnest.

“Millicent.” He had an auctioneer's voice, deep and commanding. It always surprised people the first time they heard it issuing from such a little man. He lowered it even further, managing to sound both disapproving and sympathetic. “Ms. Mulbridge. Please.” He and Pamela hauled the older woman awkwardly to her feet.

“That little…hussy…attacked me!” Millie gasped for breath, struggling to straighten her clothing and slapping away Pamela's attempts to help.

“She practically spit in my face,” Holland said calmly. “I may have pushed her back a little.”

“I'll have you arrested for this!”

“If anyone gets arrested today, it's going to be you, you old bat,” Holland retorted. “Trespassing—this is still
my
house—attempted robbery, assault…”

“There's no need for the police.” Calvin gazed severely at Holland over tiny round spectacles, then turned to Millie. “I understand how upsetting this is. But you know perfectly well you cannot access the inventory until the auction. The rules apply to everyone.”

“But this is
wrong
!” Millie's voice rose to a wail. Her face reddened beneath the powder. “You know it is! Calvin,
you
know…Gussie didn't want…she was going to…she promised…”