The Book Club Murders (14 page)

Marcus Trenault had built his life on the pursuit of facts and evidence. He never shied away from the truth, no matter how difficult or unpleasant. In that spirit, he sat alone in the squad room on Saturday evening and stared dead-on at three incontrovertible realities.

Fact One: He was forty-eight hours away from getting kicked off the Lucy case. Someone had talked to the press, and Zehring had gone nuclear. Marc was barely in the door Friday when the Chief hauled him into his office.

“It's been a week, Detective—a week in which you haven't questioned a single viable suspect. And now I'm forced to contend with this.” He produced that morning's newspaper:

OAKWOOD FORCE CONCEALS CONNECTION BETWEEN BRUTAL KILLINGS

The article was a scathing summary that made it sound like the city was hip-deep in dead bodies. Bradley Wyndham was quoted, calling the Safety Department “woefully ineffective” and demanding to know why County Prosecutor Herbert Lawson hadn't taken over both investigations. His comments about “small-town cops ill-equipped to deal with even one homicide” had Marc tempted to believe his own bad press. The article also quoted an “inside source” who confirmed that the Oakwood Safety Department had known about the connection since the second murder.

“How did they get this?”

“Some slippery reporter buttonholed Officer Hennepin in a bar, drinking too much, as usual, and talking too much, also as usual. Apparently he was miffed at being passed over for your murder team in favor of Officer Cooper.” Zehring's jaw bulged. “He's on suspension, but he's not the only one in hot water. The mayor threatened to ask for my resignation. In lieu of that, I agreed to hand this case over to Lawson's office.”

“Sir, please. Give me more time. The weekend.” Marc spoke calmly, but he was dangerously close to begging. “I'll find something. I'll start questioning the Agathas Monday.”

Zehring jabbed a finger. “Monday
morning,
Detective. Identify a suspect by then, or I call Lawson.”

Marc knew in his gut it would be an exercise in futility, a parade of indignant wives with their husbands and lawyers. He didn't have a single solid lead to follow up on with any of them. All he would accomplish, besides confirming that the two murders were connected to each other—and to the Agathas—was to show his woefully empty hand to Lucy.

Fact Two: His last lead based on physical evidence actually held a thread of promise, but because of Zehring's deadline, Marc would be forced to turn it over to someone else. Yesterday he'd sent Paul and Mitch to Ted Sizemore's veterinary clinic and Jim Bailey's family practice to try and get a line on the pentobarbital Lucy had used on Serena. Meanwhile he and Camille had hit Miami Valley Hospital, where Midge Crawford's husband, Kenneth, practiced. The RN in charge proudly walked them through the elaborate computerized procedures regulating all pharmaceuticals flowing in and out of the hospital. The system appeared watertight.

Paul reported that Bailey's practice never used pentobarbital, not surprising for a general practitioner. His second visit provided the potential lead. But while the Irving Avenue Veterinary Clinic in fact used pentobarbital routinely, they'd need a miracle to trace any potential thefts or misplaced drugs. According to Paul—and more or less verified by the harried receptionist—Sizemore's record-keeping was a shambles. In order to follow up, Marc would need a warrant, which he could probably get Monday—and time. Which was exactly what he was running out of.

He sat at his desk, the squad room nearly deserted at this hour. He couldn't face the murder room tonight, with its photos of the victims watching him, begging him to find them justice. He knew there must be something in all the data they'd collected, some nugget that he could use to catch Lucy, but he seemed incapable of finding it. For the last four days, he'd been incapable of doing much of anything. The reason was no mystery.

Fact Three: It might be the most unprofessional move of his career, but in the case of a certain irresistible redhead, he was ready to throw in the towel.

He still wasn't certain how Sharon had maneuvered him into asking her to dinner, an awkward episode during which she'd flashed more signals than a highway roadblock. By dessert he'd realized he couldn't wait for their date to end.

That night he'd lain awake, wondering why the hell he hadn't acted on her obvious willingness to warm his bed. He hadn't been with anyone in over two years, since before his mother's death. In the past he'd found that sexual release cleared both mind and body, sharpening his focus, helping him unravel knotty problems and close cases. Christ knew he could use some focus right about now. So what the hell was
his
problem?

He woke up Wednesday with the answer. It was so simple. It was as natural as breathing. In sleep, his defenses down, he had lost the battle. All his resistance, his stubborn resolve to remain professional, to keep Charley safely and firmly at arm's length as a player in the investigation, nothing more than an old acquaintance who'd offered to assist the police, all of it had melted away. He just gave in.

He wanted her. He wanted to hold her, to bury his hands in all that amazing red hair, to find out if she tasted as good as she smelled. He wanted to claim that luscious mouth, to make love to her, to explore every voluptuous inch of her body, to find out every secret thing about her. He had so many things he wanted to tell her, to show her, to do with her.

But this was Charley. He knew she was attracted to him, too, that she'd been fighting it and pretending, just like him. She was stubborn and strong, two of her most intriguing qualities. Qualities, he realized, that required a precise plan of attack.

For the past few days he had studiously avoided her. He knew that if he saw her, he wouldn't be able to stop himself. God, he wanted to kiss her, to crush her against him, to make her say there would be no other kisses, no other men but him. But while he thought he understood her, he couldn't be certain how she'd react. He'd treated her so badly so many times. She had no reason to trust him now. Would she welcome his advances, or would she push him away?

All of this brought him back to Fact One: He had a killer to catch, and the clock was ticking.

He stood by the window, lost in thoughts of her, his forehead pressed against the cool glass. He needed Charley, needed to talk with her about the Agathas. He knew they should be able to eliminate more of them as suspects than just Frankie, Lindy, and Kitty, but he couldn't do it without Charley. And truthfully, he didn't want to.

Then there was the fact that, after her preposterous stunt with the wagons, Lucy most likely knew Charley was poking around in the case. She might be in real danger.

All at once he couldn't wait another moment to be with her. He had to know she was safe. He reached for his keys, determined to track her down regardless of where she was or what she was doing. No time for finesse. He would make her listen, it was as simple as—

He stopped. The corner of a stiff white card, trimmed in blue and gold, peeked out of the mountain of paper on his desk. He pulled it free.

The Oakwood Education Foundation

cordially invites you…

Marc drove like a madman.

Two wheels on the curb, three minutes inside his house to change, then he was roaring toward the high school. The lot was full, so he parked in front of a hydrant, sticking his official police placard on the dash.

He passed a startled teen dozing behind the registration table and found himself facing a solid wall of people. Retracing his steps, he approached the girl.

“Is there another way in?”

“Uh, sure, the locker room is open for the cigar-and-brandy café. You can cut—”

But he was already gone, skirting around the building to a colonnaded walkway filled with people in evening dress. Cigar smoke threaded the cool night air. Recognizing no one, he hurried through the locker room, ignoring the cigar vendor on one side and the portable bar on the other.

A DJ played “Fantasy” by Earth, Wind & Fire. Light split and swirled off a mirror ball suspended from the ceiling. The gym pulsed with dancing couples, impossible to identify in the crazily spinning light. He paused, letting his eyes adjust. How in the hell was he supposed to find—thank God. There were Frankie and John Bright, executing a flawless disco dance routine in the middle of the floor.

The moment she saw him, Frankie stopped dead, eyes wide with excitement. “Marc! Are you here for Charley?”

“Where is she?”

John shouted over the music. “Try the other gym. We haven't seen her since dinner.”

“Thanks. Nice tux.”

“You too, man.” John grinned and punched his arm, then swept Frankie around in a swirl of hot pink satin.

Marc left the gym and hit the mass of bodies once again. He tapped a man on the shoulder.

“Which way is the bar?”

The man jerked a thumb to his left, where the crowd was thickest. Marc headed right. Within a few yards the crowd thinned and he began to run, heading down a connecting hallway that housed the science labs, then past the library, strings of little white lights everywhere. He was nervous now, afraid he was too late, that he wouldn't be able to find her. What if she had gone home? What if he found her dancing with someone else?

What if she tells you to go to hell?

He skidded around the last corner and slowed, trying to quiet his racing heart. There were people here, too, this crowd older and more sedate. A few tables were set up in the hallway. Marc scanned the seated couples for a heart-shaped face, a tumble of red hair. No Charley.

He entered the gym in time to hear an orchestra somewhere above him strike up “
String of Pearls
.” Men and women turned gracefully around the floor, obscuring his view. Then the crowd parted.

She stood on the far side of the room, watching the dancers and frowning slightly. She was alone. Marc caught his breath. God, she was spectacular. Her dress glowed like fire, catching every particle of light and casting it back in a soft, alluring rainbow. Her glorious hair was swept up, leaving her long neck bare. She carried herself like a queen, he thought, graceful and strong, yet somehow vulnerable, the combination intensely compelling.

He started toward her.

Charley tried to lose herself in the music, but it only deepened her melancholy. Suddenly she stiffened. Someone was watching her—she could feel it. Her gaze swept the room: the dancing couples, the shadowed space behind the orchestra. Then she turned toward the door, and her heart stopped.

There stood Marcus Trenault, devastating in a beautifully cut black tuxedo. He kept his eyes locked on hers as he strode across the floor. She felt rooted, incapable of moving, pinned by that cobalt stare.

“Marc Trenault, is that you? Geez, old buddy, I didn't know you'd be…”

“Hello.” Marc tossed the single word over his shoulder, not breaking stride or even glancing at the man who'd spoken. In another few steps he was at her side. Before she could speak, he grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the dance floor. He spun her around until she was flushed and breathless.

“You dance?” she managed. She could hardly hear herself speak over the pounding of her heart.

“You'd better hope so.” He grinned, and she grinned back.

The orchestra downshifted, and he moved easily with the music, drawing her close. She went willingly, inhaling his scent: coffee and soap, a hint of sandalwood. When his left hand encountered the bare skin of her back, he stilled for a long moment. Warm fingers lightly caressed her skin, sending waves of heat through her body.

She searched his face, hardly daring to believe he was here. “I didn't think you were coming tonight.”

His brows rose. “Want me to leave?”

She blushed. “You know I don't.”

“I love it when you blush. It's like a window into your secrets.”

“I hate it.”

His grin turned wicked. “Of course you do.”

She laughed, then sobered. She had to know the worst. “I saw Friday's paper. How much trouble are you in?”

“A little,” he admitted, “but I'm not giving up. I promised Lindy I'd catch the person who killed her sister. I intend to keep that promise.”

She hesitated. “So, you're not quitting your job?”

“Of course not.”

“You're not leaving.” She sagged with relief.

“Leaving? You thought I would leave?”

She nodded.

“I'm not going anywhere.” His warm gaze went hot.

Her breath caught. His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she knew what he was thinking because she was thinking it, too. The urge to kiss this man was almost more than she could bear.

He pulled her closer, tight against him. She slid her fingers into his soft hair, molding her body to his. He groaned softly.

“Charley…”

The first scream was faint, echoing in the hallway outside the gym. It blended with the sounds of revelry and was lost. It was quickly followed by more screams, mixed with shouts and moans.

They froze, staring at each other. The horrifying sounds continued, and worried murmurs rippled through the crowd. When someone shouted, “Call nine-one-one,” Marc snapped into action.

“Stay here.”

“My ass.”

Cursing, he started to move, Charley dogging his heels. He pushed through the dancers and out into the hallway, where people stood confused and frightened. The two of them headed toward the screams, which echoed down a wide, shallow flight of stairs.

As Marc and Charley headed up the last few steps, they could hear a woman sobbing.

“Police. Everyone, please, stand back.”

A knot of revelers in tuxedos and evening gowns clustered around the photographer's setup. Holding up his detective shield like a battering ram, Marc shouldered his way through, keeping a tight grip on Charley's hand. As the last man stepped back, she gasped.

A small white wrought-iron bench had been placed in front of a canvas backdrop. On it sat Jelly Markes, a look of surprise on her soft, round face. Her yellow skirt fanned around her, almost covering the book lying under her upturned left hand. A bright blue sash had been tucked clumsily around her waist. One high-heeled foot stuck out from the sateen at an unladylike angle.

She would have appeared quite natural, ready for the photographer's command to smile, if it hadn't been for the silver handle studded with rubies that protruded from her breast, just above her heart. It had been thrust through a playing card, which Charley could see was the Queen of Clubs.