The Book Club Murders (12 page)

“Whiner.”

“Groupie.”

“Jealous.”

Frankie smirked. “Crime junkie.”

“Size Zero. Oh, wait, that's your IQ.”

“Are we going to tell Dmitri?”

“Not a chance.” Charley described yesterday's attempted ambush and Wilson's strange behavior. “Most of the Agathas are in and out of Slash, and I love him dearly, but that boy's got the world's worst poker face.”

“He's going to be pissed,” Frankie warned.

“He'll just have to suck it up.”

“Works for me.” Frankie bounced with excitement. “What do we do first?”

Her friend's moods were as changeable as spring weather, Charley thought fondly. She felt so relieved to have someone to share her secret with. This had been the longest twenty-four hours of her life.

“We've got to move fast. Once this cat is out of the bag, no one will say squat about anybody else. It's still possible that the murderer is a total stranger. Marc's determined to keep an open mind, but I don't buy it. It's one of us, Frankie. And since the cops don't have any physical evidence yet, their only hope is to figure out the motive. That's where we come in.”

“Where, exactly?”

“My theory—and incidentally, Marc agreed with me—is that one of the Agathas is harboring some deep, dark secret that's driving her to kill.”

“And we're hoping that, whatever this terrible secret is, at least one other Agatha knows about it?”

“Like Ronnie's drinking. That's exactly the sort of thing people will stay mum about if they think it might implicate a friend.” Charley hesitated, remembering Kitty's distress. “But we've got to be careful, too. The last thing I want is to injure an innocent party. I think we should start by making a list, lay it all out like they do in this office at the Safety Building they call the murder room. Paul Brixton was showing me—” She stopped suddenly, this morning vivid in her mind. “I know I'm right, damn it.” She dug in her bag for her cellphone. “And I can prove it!”

“What? What?” Frankie asked frantically.

Charley pulled up the web browser and typed in
plastic wagon
. From the list of choices, she selected one at random. After a quick glance she rejected that one, selected another, and studied it. She swiped the screen, enlarging the shiny black plastic wheel. “I knew it!”

“Knew what? Come on, Charley, I'm dying over here!”

“Look at this.” Charley passed the phone across the table. Frankie peered closely at the screen.

“You were messing with one of these before Pilates.”

“There's an exhibit in the murder room, a plaster cast of a tire tread from the trail near Serena's body. Paul told me they hadn't had any luck tracking it down in any of their fancy databases.” Charley took back her phone. “I think I just found out why. You can't tell very well from this picture, but Frankie, that plaster cast is shaped exactly like the plastic wheels on the wagon I saw.”

Frankie sucked in a breath. “We have one of those. John and I use it to drag mulch around the backyard.”

They stared at each other. Charley thought about Marc's attempt to curb her involvement in the case.
Screw that.
She smiled slowly.

“How about you and I find out who else has one?”

Charley sat in her car and examined her list. Two down, one to go.

After her discovery of the possible tire tread match, she and Frankie raced back to her house to strategize. Together they drafted an
Agathas Who Dun It List.
A caffeine-fueled brainstorming session dredged up choice items on most of the members, facts or half-remembered tidbits of gossip that might qualify as, or lead to, secrets of the deep-and-dark variety.

Then they concocted a plan.

They divided the list of names in half. Each of them would visit their Agathas with the intention of discovering whether or not there was a plastic wagon on the premises. If they found one, they would try to get a sample of any dirt stuck in the treads or on the bottom. Both of them armed themselves with Ziploc baggies, a permanent marker, and some cotton swabs.

“Just like CSI,” Frankie declared, trying—and failing—to look like she wasn't having fun. Then she sobered. “For Serena.”

“For Serena,” Charley agreed, needing no reminder that this wasn't a game.

Since they couldn't just waltz around on private property helping themselves, they cooked up what Charley considered to be a fairly clever cover story. She glanced at the plain white serving platter on her passenger seat. Frankie had another, equally nondescript piece in her car. If either of them was caught snooping, the story was that she was returning this platter, that she'd accidentally brought it home from a Book Club meeting, not sure when, not sure whose, blah di blah, and she'd thought, with Thanksgiving right around the corner, the owner must surely want it back. It was the sort of thing that happened all the time.

So far, it had worked like a dream. Armed with her platter, pockets filled with supplies, Charley had marched up the driveways of the Crawfords and Sizemores. She walked into their backyards, stuck her head inside their garages, all the time “Yoo- hooing” her head off, until she spotted their wagons. Neither of them was home, so she snooped to her heart's content.

Both of her stops produced a candidate. Midge's wagon was tucked—hidden?—behind a row of garbage cans beside her garage. Charley noted excitedly that the wheels were caked with mud. Kitty had her wagon filled with tubs of annuals and parked on her patio.
Very Martha Stewart,
Charley thought. She rubbed cotton swabs over the tires of each wagon. She used more swabs on the undersides and insides, reaching between Midge's garbage cans, shifting Kitty's plants to scoop brown muck from the pebbled plastic floor, then dropping her samples into baggies that she carefully sealed and labeled.

She checked her watch. Two o'clock. Time to hit Wilson Delaney.

The factory-fresh driveway at Wilson and Robert's house led to a detached two-car garage. Cruising slowly by, Charley detected no signs of life. Perfect. She parked at the curb, grabbed her platter, and climbed out of the car.

She fixed an expectant smile on her face and hurried toward the garage. The side door was unlocked, the knob turning easily under her hand.

Charley slipped in and closed the door, waiting for her eyes to adjust. She gazed around what was without doubt the cleanest garage she had ever seen. Tools hung on pegs against the back wall, each peg neatly labeled. A set of tidy metal shelves glowed from a recent scrubbing. A brown sedan—Wilson's car—occupied the far side of the garage. Charley's pulse accelerated. Was Wilson home after all? If she'd seen Charley enter the garage, the platter story was hardly going to cut it. Better run around back and check the patio before she was spotted, she decided.

Turning to leave, she noticed two large cardboard boxes. The front bumper of Wilson's car nearly touched them. Charley recognized them as the boxes Midge had put out for the clothing drive. What were they doing in here? She stepped closer for a better look and saw, tucked in the corner beyond the farther box, almost hidden by the front end of the car, a blue plastic utility wagon.

Just then she heard the sound of a car engine. She realized with horror that someone was pulling into the Delaneys' driveway. Had Robert come home early? She stood in the gloom, trapped, dreading the sound of the automatic door opener engaging. After another moment she heard car doors opening and closing, then women's voices, two or three people, indistinct through the closed garage door.

Charley recognized Wilson's high, nervous giggle, and then Kitty Sizemore spoke right outside the side door, not two feet away.

“—else would be driving an orange Volkswagen? Perhaps she's around back, Wilson dear.”

Her car, Charley wailed silently, and wanted to kick herself. She had parked in full view, when the smart move would have been to leave her distinctive ride around the corner and slip back unseen. Some detective she'd turned out to be.

Maybe they'd go inside and she could still slip away, she prayed desperately. If Wilson ever mentioned it, she could pretend she'd been visiting someone else on the block. Not that she knew anyone else on the block, but it was all she could think of under the circumstances.

Holding her breath, clutching the cursed platter to her chest, she listened to footsteps and voices receding, presumably heading toward the back patio. She pictured the layout, mentally counting steps, and thought she would just have time to get away if she moved fast. She counted one heartbeat, then another. Silence. Time to book it.

Charley turned the knob and pulled the door open a crack. She glanced both ways, saw no one, and stepped into full sunlight. She was blinded for a moment as she turned to hurry around the corner of the garage toward the driveway—

—and ran full tilt into Ronnie Bailey, nearly knocking her to the ground. The platter slipped from Charley's hands and hit the blacktop, shards of white porcelain exploding over their feet in a burst of noise and debris.

“Charley!” Ronnie exclaimed angrily. “What the hell are you doing?”

At the same time, Charley gasped, “Oh, Ronnie, I'm so sorry! Did anything cut you? Are you all right?”

The clamor brought Wilson and Kitty hurrying around the garage. After more exclamations of surprise, dismay, and reassurances of mutual okay-ness, Wilson took off to retrieve her “outdoor broom and dustpan.” Given her dismayed reaction to the mess, Charley half-expected to see her return with a wet vac.

She and Ronnie carefully brushed tiny fragments from their pant legs and tapped out their shoes. Charley glanced up and saw Kitty watching her. She wondered how to extricate herself without giving the game away.

“What on earth were you doing, Charley?” Kitty asked, her voice coolly amused. She glanced toward the garage, then back at Charley.
She knows I was in there,
Charley thought.
Now what?
Wilson came flying up and began frantically sweeping the mess into a pile.

“Let me—” Charley began, reaching for the pan.

“NO!”
Wilson shouted, and then gave one of her nervous laughs. “No, thank you,” she amended. “I'll do it. Oh, and it looked like such a nice platter, too. Were you bringing something?”

“I'm so sorry,” Charley apologized. “I think it is, or was, your nice platter, Wilson.” She launched into her story, laying it on thick and praying for a terrorist attack to create a diversion.

“I don't think so,” Wilson said hesitantly. She stared at the pile of broken pieces, hands twisting and untwisting. “I would know if any of my serving pieces were missing. I'm very organized.” Chortle.

“That's funny.” Ronnie's face was flushed and slightly puffy, as if she'd been asleep. She wore a short blond wig several shades lighter than her own medium brown. She scowled and folded her thin arms. “Jelly called me an hour ago and said Frankie stopped by with a platter, thinking it was hers. It wasn't, so Jelly wondered if I was missing one.” The three women stared at her. Charley stood stock-still, her mind an utter blank.

“I imagine it's the same platter, isn't it, Charley?” Kitty said at last. “You two girls, always thick as thieves. Very nice of you to help her track down the owner.” She winked. “My goodness, I don't suppose we'll ever know now, will we?”

Wilson tittered, and Charley joined in weakly as Ronnie continued to stare at her with suspicion. Super. At least two Agathas now thought she was a liar. Charley felt uncomfortably like a rabbit that had escaped the trap but lost a great deal of fur in the process.

She hovered nervously in the hallway, uncertain of the reception awaiting her inside the murder room. She'd dressed carefully for her little presentation: a soft clingy dress in muted gold that she'd decided made her look more sophisticated, hair down and held back from her face with a simple band of braided leather, four-inch heels. She clutched a plastic shopping bag in one hand and stowed her other “exhibit” behind the door. As Charley drew a breath and prepared to enter, she heard Paul Brixton speak.

“I had such a brilliant idea in the shower this morning.”

“Did it involve solving two homicides?” Marc sounded tired, she thought.

“I think we should name our unsub.”

Marc snorted. “
Name
her. That's your brilliant idea.”

Paul continued, undeterred. “Think of a female with a hidden agenda, someone with a cruel streak who lives to torment everyone around her. This babe looks innocent on the outside, but on the inside, she's calculating, domineering, and determined to be the star of the show. Lucy van Pelt, the football-yanking, bullying bane of Charlie Brown's existence. ‘
Charlie'
Brown? That's what made me think of it.” Charley swallowed a gasp of laughter.

“Christ on a raft,” Marc growled. “Fine. Lucy. Whatever. Can we do some actual police work now?”

Charley stepped into the doorway and cleared her throat. Four heads turned in unison to stare at her. Marc's expression was thunderous as he took in her appearance. She blushed, then remembered their fight and stared right back. She had valuable evidence, and she intended to help with this case whether he liked it or not. She took another step into the room and glanced toward the murder board. When she saw Serena's and Lisa's crime photos, she paled, then swallowed hard and lifted her chin.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Charley set her shopping bag in front of Paul. “I found the tire tread from Serena's crime scene. It was made by a First School brand plastic utility wagon.” She stepped out into the hallway and returned, pulling the handle of the blue plastic wagon she'd borrowed from Frankie.

Marc stared at the wagon in disbelief. Paul had already grabbed the plaster cast and was on his knees, comparing it with one of the wheels.

“A perfect match.” He grinned up at Charley. “Nice going, Nancy Drew.”

“How did you—”

“I've also compiled a list of which Agathas own this model,” she interrupted. She handed a sheet of notepaper to an ecstatic Paul.

“An
‘Agathas Who Dun It List'
? How did you get all this? You make me so proud.”

“Good question,” Marc said pointedly, snatching the list from Paul. “You didn't call them all and ask, did you?”

“Frankie and I did it,” she said smugly. She related, to Marc's apparent amazement and mounting fury, the highlights of their “platterfest” adventure. “They all have one, although a couple were the wrong brand,” she finished, then indicated the shopping bag. “Soil samples from the tires. I figured maybe your lab guys could match the soil from the trail. Charley Carpenter,” she said, extending her hand to the two uniformed officers at the table, who were watching this exchange with evident enjoyment.

“Camille Bronsen.” A tall, broad-shouldered woman about her own age gripped her hand with enthusiasm. She had short, choppy brown hair, Slavic cheekbones, and light green eyes that sparkled with mischief. “Mr. Talkative here is Mitch Cooper.”

A lanky young man with a freckled baby face, brutal buzz cut, and prominent ears that were currently turning bright red stammered a hello.

“ ‘Frankie and I'? Charley,” Marc said dangerously, “did you tell Frankie about this investigation?” When she said nothing, he shouted, “She's a
suspect,
Charley! And you promised.”

At a sign from Paul, Mitch and Camille began pulling out Charley's neatly labeled Ziploc baggies and arranging them on the table.

“If Frankie is a suspect, then so am I.” Charley folded her arms. “You checked my cellphone. Unless you think we fabricated over an hour of texting? And that would make me an accomplice.” She and Marc glared at each other. He was the first to break eye contact.

“You promised,” he muttered.

“There's no sample for Wilson Delaney,” Mitch remarked.

“Yeah, a little problem there,” Charley said casually. “I'll have to go back to Wilson's another time.”

Before Marc could lodge a protest, Paul said thoughtfully, “We've wondered how the killer got Serena from the parking lot all the way down to the underpass without any sign of a struggle. What if Lucy zaps her, then dumps her—or more likely just lets her collapse into one of these babies? The trail is flat. Serena weighed what, one-ten, maybe one-fifteen? Even a smaller woman could do it.”

Charley studied the board. “Are you going to try tracing the books?”

Marc stared at her, then abruptly dropped into a chair. “Since you're determined to horn in on my meeting, you might as well sit. Who knows? Maybe a fresh perspective will shake something loose.” He swiveled toward the board. “Why do you ask about the books?”

“Well,” she said, secretly thrilled as she took the proffered chair, “we all read our copies, and then bring them to Book Club. Some members even write on theirs. Everyone had their copy of
Rattlesnake Crossing
with them at Midge's house; it's kind of a ritual. Remember, Midge bought all those. That means the killer would need to buy a second book.”

“Excellent point,” he conceded. “Camille, Mitch, search for purchases of an additional copy of either book.”

“Is that what all this paper is? Financial records?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Mitch said eagerly.

“What kind of stuff are you looking for?” she asked.

“Anything that establishes means, motive, or opportunity for either murder.” Marc smiled grimly. “We'll know it when we find it. Usually.”

“You should've asked me and saved yourselves some time.” Charley cocked her thumb at the list Marc had dropped onto the conference table. “You want means? Midge and Wilson both own stunners. Midge has had hers for ages, but Wilson got hers last year.”

After a moment of searching, Mitch held aloft a credit card statement. “A handheld ‘mock cellphone' stun gun, ordered online from Taser Incorporated last January.” Paul grabbed a marker and wrote “owns stunner” under Midge's and Wilson's names.

“You should be able to use that stuff to establish an alibi for Serena's murder for one of the Agathas,” Charley continued. “Kitty Sizemore was in New York. She didn't fly home until the morning the body was discovered.” Camille started shuffling paper. “She usually stays at the Plaza.”

“Here we go.” Camille emerged triumphant. “We've got credit card charges at upscale clothing stores and exclusive restaurants, including a large dinner check just after ten the night of Serena's murder. Two nights at the Plaza Hotel.”

“We'd have found that eventually,” Marc muttered. His expression indicated he was impressed in spite of himself.

“I'm sure you would have.” Charley smiled sweetly and pointed at the board again. “What about the door-to-door thing you were doing? I can't believe no one saw anything.”

“People saw plenty,” he contradicted. He patted a stack of typed statements. “We've got witnesses who saw suspicious vehicles, suspicious strangers, the neighbor's dog peeing on their azaleas, Elvis, the Great Pumpkin, you name it. A whole lot of things got seen that night, and almost all of it worthless.”

“It's not exactly what we were looking for,” Mitch began, “but I think I just found proof that Ted Sizemore was cheating on his wife. Charges for a single night at out-of-the-way inns on a dozen different statements spanning the last eighteen months. Plus”—he pulled another document—“we've got a number of sizeable lingerie purchases, all size four, from, uh, the Hustler Hollywood,” he said, naming a notorious local adult boutique.

“They could've been for Kitty,” Paul observed.

“She's not a size four, she's an eight,” Camille contradicted, holding up a Macy's bill in Kitty's name.

“Midge Crawford's a four,” Charley said. “Frankie and I are pretty sure Ted Sizemore had something going with Midge last year. He's always lurking when Kitty hosts Book Club. And he propositions anything with a pulse, me included.” She shuddered.

“He hit on you?” Marc scowled.

“A dirty old man,” she said dismissively. “But if he's hitting on me, he may be hitting and getting on base somewhere else.”

Paul said gently, “There are probably thousands of women in the Miami Valley who wear a size four.”

“Probably,” Marc said, keeping his gaze on Charley. She flushed slightly, but didn't look away. “I'm not going to waste resources on Ted Sizemore's marital infidelities without proof that it has some bearing on the case. Cheating on your wife might be stupid, but it isn't a crime.”

“Detective?” Mitch raised his hand tentatively.

Marc sighed. “Officer?”

“Well. Ah. I just thought: two books, two murders.” He cleared his throat, ears glowing pink. “This killer is telegraphing a very specific pattern. Shouldn't we check out the other titles and see what we're facing? Assuming the worst: that Lucy isn't done yet.”

Again, four pairs of eyes turned to Charley. She considered a moment. “There're two more books on the fall calendar. One victim gets tied up and strangled. Another is stabbed in the heart through a playing card. The Queen of Clubs, to be precise.”

Marc said pleasantly, “I guess we should be grateful neither one's a bombing.”

Charley indicated her list. “We've come up with a few other facts that you need to put up on your board.”

“By all means,” Paul said gallantly. He brandished his marker. “Shoot.”

“First of all, Ronnie Bailey is an alcoholic. It's been getting worse in recent months. Apparently her husband, Jim, is really stressed.” Paul began writing under Ronnie's name.

“Second, I think Wilson Delaney might be OCD or something.” Charley described her observations of the Delaney residence and Wilson's escalating twitchiness. “We already talked about Ted Sizemore's sleeping around. Kitty never says a word, so maybe she doesn't care.

“Last is Kenneth Crawford. I don't think his psychiatry practice is doing very well. The Crawfords usually spend August renting a house in northern Michigan on some private lake, but they didn't go this year. Frankie heard they couldn't afford to. Of course, Midge would rather die than admit that to anyone.”

The room was silent. Marc watched Charley's lovely face, her eyes alight with determination. He decided he liked having her here. A lot. He liked the way she interacted with his team, the way she held her own and spoke her mind. He liked the way she seemed to understand exactly what he was thinking. It dawned on him, with something of a shock, that he really liked
her.

He made up his mind, then and there, that he was going to turn over a new leaf with this girl. No more arguing, no more name-calling. No more guilt. It was more than time to put the past behind him. Behind
them.

And while he was at it, he would lay to rest this…inappropriate physical preoccupation with her. She was part of his investigation, for Christ's sake. It had begun interfering with his ability to concentrate. Or sleep.

He would confront his attraction to Charley and dismiss it. Mind over matter. How hard could it be?

All at once, he couldn't wait to get her alone.

Charley stirred in her chair. “I don't know if any of that stuff is motive for murder, but, remember what we talked about? How a secret stressor is what's pushed, uh, Lucy to the breaking point?”

Marc said quietly, “I remember.”

She indicated the whiteboard. “Maybe something up there was someone's final straw.” She stood. “I should go.”

“I'll walk you out.”

“See you around, Nancy Drew.” Paul winked at her, and she sent him a brilliant smile. Marc felt a stab of jealousy. She never smiled at
him
that way.

As they headed down the hall, he touched her elbow. “Charley, may I speak with you privately?” He indicated an empty office.

She seemed about to refuse, but then shrugged. She preceded him into the room and turned, arms tightly folded. He shut the door and faced her.

“I want to apologize for last night.” She started to speak, but he held up a hand. “Please, let me clear the air, now that you're my partner's favorite junior detective.” He smiled tentatively; her expression remained wary.
She's not going to make this easy.
He took a deep breath. “I'm an arrogant jerk.”

That startled a short laugh out of her. “You got that right.”

“Look.” He raked a hand through his hair. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to open his heart to this girl. Everything he'd been holding on to for so long tumbled out in a rush.

“What I said to you last night? That was me. I was the one who never thought about anyone but himself. Growing up, my folks treated me like I was the center of the universe, and I was only too glad to believe it. When they split up, my mom bent over backward to make sure I didn't blame myself the way so many kids do. It worked. Instead, like the self-centered idiot I was, I dumped all the blame for their divorce on her.”

He laughed bitterly. “I couldn't wait to move to Chicago. It didn't take long before I discovered the truth about Warren Trenault. He's—well. Let's just say my blame was entirely misplaced. Still, I made her suffer. Never called, ignored her emails, treated every visit home like I was having a root canal, all because I was too bullheaded to admit I'd been wrong. I treated my own mother like I
hated
her. By the time I got over myself, it was too late.”