The Book Club Murders (7 page)

It was beginning to look like they'd gotten away with it.

Charley was engaging in her favorite—well, second-favorite—cure for stress: cleaning. Hunkered in her display window, she wielded a feather duster and considered the view of the Safety Building through glass that had been polished to manic perfection.

The big bay doors for the fire engines were almost directly across from Old Hat. When somebody called 911 and those sirens cranked up, normal speech became impossible, even with the shop door closed.

Worse, by far, was the emergency notification siren. About the size of a refrigerator, the siren was mounted on a 360-degree swivel platform on the roof of the Safety Building. This device, reserved for tornado warnings, air raids, alien invasions, or, rumor had it, if the Browns ever made it to a Super Bowl, was tested at high noon on the first Monday of every month. It was only a sixty-second test, but to anyone in close proximity it seemed much, much, much longer. Dogs howled. Children buried their heads in their mothers' laps. Being closed on Mondays allowed Charley to dodge the worst of this invasive experience. But even a quarter-mile away on Hawthorn, it was loud enough to wake the dead.

In the two hours she'd been semi-spying, she'd seen no dark blue Fords containing detectives of her acquaintance arriving or leaving. Conclusion? Marc remained blissfully unaware of their little field trip to the scene of Serena's murder. If Mikey had blown the whistle on them, Marc would've wasted no time busting her chops. And he'd have done it in person.

As she watched, a gleaming late-model SUV pulled up to the curb. Four doors popped open and out climbed what might have been a delegation from the Agathas Book Club: Ronnie Bailey, Kitty Sizemore, Jelly Markes, and, surprisingly, Wilson Delaney. Odd, she thought, that Wilson would be included in this foursome. Well, perhaps Midge didn't play tennis. All four women were talking at once. As they approached Old Hat, Jelly saw her and pointed. They immediately fell silent.
Hmmm.
Charley gave a little salute and backed butt-first into the shop.

“I'm glad to see everyone.” She held the door as they filed in. “I've left messages for Lindy. She must be devastated. How are you all holding up?”

The women glanced at each other. Despite the fact that they were all wearing designer tennis clothes and had presumably just finished a round of doubles, all four wore full makeup and quite a bit of jewelry. She put Kitty's diamond earrings at a carat each. Hair was carefully coiffed. A clingy black Serena Williams microfiber dress did nothing to soften Ronnie's skeletal thinness. In a white outfit that drained the color from her wan complexion, ash blond hair braided and pinned within an inch of its life, Wilson managed to look the most capable of the four, with impressive biceps and muscled calves. Jelly had on matching socks, wristbands, and tennis visor, all with the distinctive purple Wimbledon crest. Her two-piece ensemble flattered her chubby figure, a level of fashion artistry Charley knew didn't come cheap.

All in all, they appeared to be holding up remarkably well.

“We're all terribly upset, of course,” Ronnie said at last, sounding anything but. “I'm dropping a casserole off at the Taylors' this afternoon. We can put you on the rotation if you like.” Her tone implied she'd be doing Charley a huge favor.

“Rotation?” Charley had no idea what she was talking about.

“Casserole rotation,” Wilson giggled, hands fluttering. “Supporting dear Lindy and Evan in this time of trial.” She stopped speaking abruptly, glancing nervously between Ronnie and Kitty, as if seeking their approval.

“Oh. Right.” Charley smiled brightly. “Absolutely. Put me on the, uh, rotation.”
Casserole rotation?
It was always something with these women. Charley sighed inwardly, wondering if she'd ever stop feeling as if she were playing catch-up. Maybe she could get Lawrence to whip up a dish.

Kitty drawled, “Actually, I'm here for a miracle, Charley. Time grows short, and I had absolutely no luck in New York. Imagine, thinking I could find vintage couture on Fifth Avenue!”

“And
I
thought I could take a peek at my dress, just to see how the
alterations
are coming?” Jelly looked hopeful.

“Of course you can.” Charley smiled as Jelly jumped up and down, her short blond curls bouncing around her plump cheeks, clapping her hands like a child on her birthday. Jelly really was a sweetheart.

As Kitty had pointed out, time grew short, indeed. The event in question, the Oakwood Decades Reunion, was next Saturday night, just over a week away. A fundraiser to benefit the school district, it was also benefiting Old Hat big-time.

“It's a costume party,” Kitty had explained when Charley first learned about the scheme at the September meeting of the Agathas. “Another of Midge's brainstorms. She's chairing, naturally. Everyone comes dressed from a past decade in homage to the illustrious history of the school.”

“You're going to be mobbed,” Ronnie had predicted with her habitual smirk. “They're expecting over three hundred people at this thing. The older generation will probably just dust off something from their closet, but anyone who graduated after 1970 will be beating down your door.” Her expression made it clear she would not be one of them. Honestly, Ronnie was so skinny, Charley doubted whether she had anything in her entire shop that would fit without requiring massive alterations.

“Well,” she'd said, choosing her words with care, “that sounds…like a lot of fun.”

Privately, Charley thought a multiclass reunion sounded like Dante's fourth circle of hell. She'd skipped her five-year reunion. Not interested, thank you. Frankie went and pronounced it a drag. Everyone was fat, boring, and as stuck-up as ever. But for this much business, Charley was more than willing to drum up a little school pride.

And she had indeed been mobbed. In fact, the Decades Reunion had already made her year, knocking all her past sales records out of the water. Since September, Oakwood alumni from eighteen to eighty had bought out inventory she thought she'd never unload.

“So, Charley. Did you happen to see that ghastly video clip of Serena Wyndham?” Kitty's voice remained even, but her glance was sharp as she admired the blue taffeta cocktail dress displayed on the dressing room door. The other three moved through the shop, fingering purses and hats, peering into the display cases and oohing over the jewelry. “It's rather making the rounds, you know.”

“I saw it,” Charley admitted. “I called Marc—one of the detectives on the case. He promised to get it removed from YouTube.”

“That would be Marcus Trenault?” Kitty purred. “I believe you two have a…personal relationship?” Ronnie halted in the act of fitting a tiara over her brown bob and stared openly at Charley and Kitty.

“Our parents were good friends.”

Kitty didn't seem to have heard. “He was the man who picked Lindy up off Midge's floor. Quite a looker.” She lifted the hanger, held the blue dress in front of her long, elegant body, and examined the effect in one of the full-length mirrors. “That must be so exciting, having access to a real murder investigation. I suppose he's told you all about it.”

“No, he hasn't. And I haven't asked.” Charley felt her color rise. Cripes, she used to be a better liar.

“What a pity. I think I'll try this one on. I have a set of sapphires exactly this color.”

The others drew closer. “You really haven't discussed it at all?” Ronnie tried to sound casual as she dropped the tiara on the counter and began jerking scarf after scarf from a hanging display, leaving them in an untidy pile after barely a glance.

“Really haven't, sorry.” Well, well. There was definitely more on their minds than shopping today. Charley could just imagine the courtside conversation.
Let's go see if Charley knows anything!
She wondered sourly whether morbid curiosity wasn't the real motive behind the “rotation.”

“And I didn't get to give my presentation,” Jelly pouted, only half-joking. “I really liked
Rattlesnake Crossing,
didn't you? The part where that poor woman
jumps
on her naked dead husband and the whole bed goes
crashing
through the
floor
? What a creepy scene!”

“But so amusing.” Wilson tittered faintly, sounding anything but amused.

“If discovering your husband's dead body is your idea of a good time,” Ronnie said caustically. Her grin was malicious as Wilson flinched. Wilson had been one of the few at Midge's who hadn't seemed entertained by chitchat about the murder. In fact, Charley had thought then that she seemed twitchier than normal, pale eyes wide and frightened in her thin face.

“It's a shame you didn't get a chance to present, Jelly,” Charley said sympathetically. “You always put a lot of work into your books.”

“
Thank
you, Charley,” Jelly said, pleased. “I try. It's
easy
when you have a
juicy
one. Jance really makes you
see
her murders. A disintegrating shack up in the
hills
, that old prospector lying there
naked
with a plastic bag on his head, a nasty old
mattress
…”

The shop fell silent. Charley knew they were all thinking of the same thing: that video clip, that terrible scene, but this one real, not fiction. Poor Serena, lying naked on another filthy mattress, not half a mile from this very spot. Standing there this morning had done little to erase the horror of that image.

She'd put it out of her mind, she decided. Let the police handle it. Marc certainly didn't need her two cents' worth. If they didn't announce an arrest by Monday, she'd call. Casually mention Mikey Pringle and the woman in Serena's car. She still found it wildly improbable that she knew anything of value the police hadn't already discovered for themselves. Besides, she had a business to run, and she was going to be swamped all weekend.

“Oakwood may be Ted's alma mater rather than mine, but that's no reason for me not to look fabulous.” Kitty emerged from the dressing room, breathtaking in shimmering taffeta, her glossy spill of brunette hair over one shoulder as she twirled and posed. “What do you think?”

As she drove up Patterson Road over the place where Serena's body was found, Charley suppressed a shiver. Would she ever be able to pass here again without flashing to that image from YouTube?

She wondered if the police—Marc—had made any progress on the case. For the thousandth time since Thursday, she debated calling him about the woman in Serena's car. And again decided no. For all she knew, they were ready to make an arrest. Of course, she'd probably be the last person in Oakwood to find out about it.

Stewing over the injustice, she noticed flashing red lights ahead. Was that a police car? Just as it had been a few days ago, Patterson Road was blockaded, this time at the corner adjacent to Shafor Park. She could see a fire truck and ambulance parked in front of the Oakwood Community Center.

A safety officer stood by the barricade, talking into a lapel radio. Charley pulled up and rolled down her window. He approached her car, smiling. “May I help you, ma'am?” Wow, this guy was gorgeous: big muscles, dark blond crew cut, blinding white smile. He removed a pair of mirrored sunglasses to reveal very sexy, green eyes. She noted the name tag: Hennepin.

“Hi, Officer Hennepin. Is someone hurt?”
Big smile, bat the eyes.

He smiled back. “I'm afraid so, ma'am. Patterson is closed to traffic for now. You'll have to go around and cut up either Dixon Avenue to the south or Woodburn to the north. Are you familiar with the neighborhood?”

Charley smiled. Officer Hennepin smiled.

“Yes, I am.” Dimples away. “Perhaps you know my shop, Old Hat? It's right across from the Safety Building where you work. Charley Carpenter.” She stuck her hand out the window.

“Very nice meeting you.” He held on to her hand for several moments longer than necessary.

“I'm a lifelong resident of Oakwood.” Charley smiled. Officer Hennepin smiled. “Gosh, I hope it's no one I know?”

Officer Hennepin frowned and straightened.
Damn.

“You'll have to continue on around now, ma'am—Ms. Carpenter. Drive carefully.” He blasted her with one more dazzling grin before slipping the shades on and walking back to his car. Charley sighed, beyond frustrated. Why would nobody tell her anything? In a perfect world, she could call her old high school chum, the big detective, and simply ask him what was going on.
Hey, bro, saw the big emergency pileup at the OCC today. What gives?

But she couldn't call. She'd already tried that tactic, and it had produced absolutely nothing. He hadn't even made his promised visit to her dad yet. No big surprise, she supposed, given the fact he was investigating a murder.

She suddenly found herself wishing things were different between them. Cordial. Friendly, even. She conjured a picture of Marc sitting in the family room on Hawthorn Boulevard, smiling at her with those dark blue eyes. Mmm. Yes, she could definitely find it in her heart to tolerate Marc Trenault on her sofa. For her father's sake, of course.

She put the VW in gear and swung onto Shafor. As she skirted the park, she could see a second safety officer standing at the side entrance. She made a left, then turned left again. As she approached Patterson, she saw a tall man with dark hair in need of a trim walking swiftly in the same direction she was going. She acted before she had time to talk herself out of it, slamming on the brakes.

“Marc!”

He glanced up, startled. When he recognized her, he changed direction and made a beeline for her car. She didn't like his expression. Whatever was going on inside the OCC must be pretty bad. She wondered if the smiling-and-eyelash-batting routine would work better on him than it had on the hunky Officer Hennepin. Somehow, she doubted it.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. He was practically inside the car. She could smell his scent: soap and coffee, a hint of sandalwood. She tried to ignore the fact that her pulse rate had shot up about twenty points.

“I'm on my way to work. What's going on?” She hesitated. “Are you all right?”

“Me?” He frowned, confused. “I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't look fine. What's happened? Is someone…” She trailed off. It was there, in his eyes, the same set of his jaw she'd seen at Midge's house. “Oh, my holy rolling grandmother. There's somebody dead, isn't there?” His eyes flickered. “And you're here, so…”

A young woman in a white lab coat came hurrying up the sidewalk, calling Marc's name and carrying a plastic Ziploc bag.

“Marc! I'm glad I caught you. One of my techs just found this in the victim's pocket. The lab needs to process it, but I figured you'd want to see it immediately.”

The woman handed him the baggie. As he began examining its contents, Lab Coat watched his face. She stood very close, Charley noted, maybe a little closer than strictly necessary.

Early thirties, attractive, with long honey blond hair. The lab coat did little to disguise a killer body dressed in black slacks and a snug gray turtleneck. No name tag.
One of my techs.
If someone had died, this woman must be a coroner. The coroner-person spoke in a low voice. They were only about ten feet away, but with her engine running, Charley couldn't hear the conversation. She was getting really tired of not knowing what was going on. Something big was happening practically under her nose. Enough was enough.

She put the VW in neutral, set the brake, and carefully eased out the driver's door. Both Marc and the woman faced the OCC, their backs toward her. She quietly crossed the street until she stood right behind them. Because they were on the curb and she stood in the road, she couldn't quite peek over Marc's shoulder to see what was in the baggie. She held her breath and listened.

“—dinary notebook paper. Looks like somebody might be sending a message.”

“What's she supposed to be guilty of?”

“That's your job. Assuming it's connected, of course.” The woman suddenly noticed Charley.

“Hi.” Charley stuck out her hand. Geez, she was racking up the acquaintances today. “Charley Carpenter. Are you a coroner?”

“Charley, you can't—”

The woman cut Marc off by courteously extending her hand and shaking firmly. “Dr. Sharon Krugh. How do you do?” She smiled, teeth white and even in a pretty face, large brown eyes intelligent and assessing.

The two women sized each other up, as women do when in the presence of an eligible, unattached male. Despite the fact that Charley was still in the road, their eyes were almost at a level. Charley gazed at her steadily. Sharon turned back to Marc, touching his sleeve.

“I need to get back to oversee transport.”
Of the body?
“I'll have prelims posted by noon. Call me, Detective. It was nice meeting you,” she added to Charley.

As Sharon headed back up the sidewalk, Marc whirled to face Charley. “What the hell was that?” he demanded.

She bristled. “I'm standing in a public street, Marcus. I have a right to be here. Who died?”

He didn't answer, but she saw his jaw muscles tighten.

“Somebody's dead, or she wouldn't be here and neither would you.” He started to walk away. “But it might be someone I know.”

He stopped and turned back, frowning. “You sell vintage costumes, right? Like from the Roaring Twenties?”

The question was so unexpected, Charley forgot her curiosity about the possible dead body. “Costumes? Vintage clothing, yes. You know I do. Why?”

“Have any dresses like that gone missing lately?”

“Not that I know of. Why?” she demanded again.

“Were you at the Community Center party last Friday night?” The questions were coming fast, Marc in full cop mode.

“Yes.” She stepped up on the curb so he didn't tower over her so alarmingly. “Marc, what's happened? Did someone at the party die? Those people are my friends. Well, some of them are. Sort of. Can't you please at least tell me who it is? It'll be on the news in a few hours anyway.” She tried to sound reasonable and hoped she hadn't slid into whiny.

“That's not…” He stopped, an odd look on his face. “Your friends, you say? As in, your friends from Midge Crawford's house that day? Like Frankie Bright and Wilson Delaney?”

“Well, yes, they're a part of my Book Club. Friday night we sort of celebrated having a week's break from classes—the activity programs were suspended while they did some renovations. Actually, I think the entire Community Center has been closed all week.” Even as she spoke, Charley got the impression she wasn't telling Marc anything he didn't already know. “Anyway, Wilson organized it: mojitos, food, the works. All the Agathas take exercise classes here, so we were all there. All except Lindy, that is.”

“Who in heck are the Agathas?”

“That's our name. The Agathas Book Club. After Agatha Christie, the mystery writer?”

She felt like an idiot explaining this in the middle of the street. Behind them, her engine was still running. Other cars, rerouted due to the roadblock, were skirting around the VW, drivers shooting annoyed glances their way.

“Why did you ask about Midge?” She had an awful thought. “Oh, no, it's not her, is it?”

“Charley.” Marc seemed to come to a decision. “I will tell you, but please do not tell anyone else. I have to notify her family first.”

She nodded.

“Her name is Lisa Summerfield. She was a staffer at the OCC, so I imagine you knew her.”

Charley gasped. “Oh, my God! She's just a kid, Marc. Her poor parents. She taught our exercise class; I spoke to her at the party Friday night, She was the sweetest—” She stopped abruptly, brain kicking into mystery mode. “Hold on. Her body's been in there all week? How did she die? Was it an accident, or—”

Marc stared at her in consternation. “I can't discuss that with you.” She opened her mouth to protest, and he held up his hand. “Okay. The circumstances are suspicious. But I
cannot
tell you anything more. I mean it, Charley. I'll need to question you because you were at the party, and because of…But not now.” He frowned. “I don't like that this has come so close to you again.”

“What do you mean, ‘again'?” Charley exclaimed. “Question me because of what? Marc, what is going on?”

“Go to work, Charley.” He headed toward his car. “I'll be in touch.” He jumped in, gunned the engine, and drove off.

Well, that was just typical. Here she was, on the verge of something major, a suspicious death, no less, and Marc just took off. To be fair, she had actually found out quite a bit. She sighed. Of course, all of it was shocking and horrible. Poor Lisa.

She climbed back into her VW and headed toward Old Hat, her mind racing.

Why had he asked about her Book Club?

I don't like that this has come so close to you again.
What had come close to her? Death, that's what. She had known Serena, and now someone else she knew had died. Was that all there was to it? Concern over a tragic coincidence?

Not a chance, Charley decided, as she swung down the alley and parked behind her shop. Marc said the circumstances were suspicious. That could mean murder. And there was something else, something she couldn't put her finger on. What had that coroner, Sharon Whatsit, said? Something about paper in the victim's pocket. A message of some kind?

She shook her head. Too much information and not enough caffeine. She'd wait until Marc called her for an interview, then she'd pull a Frankie special and worm some more details out of him. If she was involved in something, even coincidentally, then, by God, she intended to find out what it was.

She moved quickly around Old Hat, flipping on lights and unlocking the front door. Disgruntled about having to work on a Monday, Deirdre slouched in, hungover and wearing last night's eyeliner. Charley sighed. The girl could just suck it up. With the Reunion only six days away, they couldn't afford to miss a single sale.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and picked up her mail, uncovering her copy of
Rattlesnake Crossing.
She tucked it onto a shelf above her desk. Lined up neatly were copies of the other four books the Agathas were reading this fall. She stared at the titles, her encounter with Marc replaying in her head.

As her gaze settled on their August selection,
Mallets Aforethought
by Sarah Graves, something niggled. She reached up and pulled it off the shelf. Flipping pages, not sure what she was looking for, she recalled how much she'd enjoyed this story. A hidden room concealed not one body, but two, one of which had been mummified over sixty years before. She'd taken particular pleasure in that little plot detail, since the mummy had been dressed in a—

Charley froze. Images and words from multiple directions began crashing together in her brain. It felt like she was having an out-of-body experience, not that she'd ever had one before. She sat at her desk, but she also stood inside the novel, picturing, as the author had intended, the discovery of the two bodies—the first a mummified corpse wearing a flapper dress.

Now she stood on the street, Marc peppering her with questions.
You sell vintage costumes, right? Like from the Roaring Twenties?
And then he'd asked her if any dresses like that had gone missing lately.

Charley flipped back to the beginning, quickly locating the passage she wanted on page 1.

…seated on a low wooden chair in the tiny room…slumped over a table, one arm outstretched, the body wore a sequined chemise whose silver hem-fringe crossed its mummified thigh…A candle…stood in an ornate holder by the body's arm. A tiara-like headpiece with a glass jewel in its bezel had fallen to the floor.

She gripped the book, thinking hard. There was more, something about the paper in the victim's pocket, and a message. What else had Marc and the coroner said?