The Book Club Murders (15 page)

Marc touched Jelly's neck. “Jesus, she's still warm.”

“Nine forty-four p.m.” With a trembling hand, Charley indicated the enormous walnut-cased wall clock that dominated the hallway. “The coroner will want to know.”

Nodding, Marc turned to face the knot of spectators. The sobbing woman had quieted, her face now buried in a man's shoulder.

“I need all of you to move out of this area
right now.
You”—he pointed at a man who appeared reasonably calm—“help me secure this hallway. No one comes up those stairs.”

As the man complied, shooing party guests away from the scene, Marc punched a number on his phone. “Dispatch, we have a DB, probable homicide, Oakwood High School. I want every available unit here now. We need to secure the entire building immediately. Contact Detective Brixton. Tell him to report to the senior high hallway. Notify the Chief. Have the County Coroner dispatch a unit ASAP. Request Dr. Krugh, if she's available.”

“It's Lucy.” Charley stared at Jelly, her stomach twisting with a mixture of horror and pity. “Marc, that's my letter opener, the one that was stolen.”

“I thought it might be.” He stepped over to her, took her hands in his. “I need to do my job now. Charley?” She tore her eyes away from what used to be Jelly. “I need to do this. Are you going to be okay?”

“I'll be fine.” She was pleased at how steady her voice sounded. “I'm fine.” She turned back to the vignette of death. “
Murder, She Meowed.
We read it in September. The knife, the playing card. And that blue sash—she didn't have it on before. It's just like the book.” Anger, cold and implacable, gripped her. “Goddamn Lucy.”

He shook his head. “You are something, you know that?”

“Detective?” Two safety officers, one of them Camille, came hurrying up the steps, hands on their holsters. Both stopped short when they saw the body. “Holy shit,” Camille said.

“No kidding.” Marc released Charley's hands. “You”—he pointed at the other officer—“tag every uniform you can find. Start rounding up party guests and moving them into the two gymnasiums. Sweep the entire building, inside and out. Nobody leaves. When Brixton gets here, send him up.”

The officer nodded mutely, eyes still on the body, as he backed toward the stairs.

“Camille, I want all the Agathas—” He turned to Charley. “Who've we got, exactly?”

“Everyone. Midge, Kitty, Ronnie, Lindy, Wilson, and Frankie,” she recited promptly. “And all their husbands, except Ronnie's.” She halted, stricken. “Oh, God, Eric Markes is down there, too.”

He hesitated. “Do you, uh, have a date?”

“Of course.” He scowled, and despite the circumstances, she smiled. “I came with my pal, Dmitri.”

“Good. That's…good.” He cleared his throat. “Okay, Camille. I want the entire Agatha group separated from the main herd. Put them in a classroom. Tell them”—he waved a hand—“anything. Think of something.”

“What about Charley?”

Oh, no.
She had no intention of allowing herself to be banished to the sidelines. Charley braced for an argument, but Marc surprised them both.

“Jelly was an Agatha. That means Lucy's crossed the line.” His gaze met hers in silent communication. He was grave, but there was heat in those blue eyes. Her heart leaped. “Charley stays with me.”

Marc stood over the body, making a series of short, intense phone calls. Charley prowled around the empty hallway, testing the locked classroom doors, peering under four massive freestanding wooden trophy cases, checking the exits and stairwells. She'd spent a lot of time here back in the day, but she'd never realized how creepy it became after dark—the ornately carved wall clock ticking relentlessly, the twelve-foot ceilings and walnut wainscoted walls filled with shadows and hidden corners.

Paul was the first to arrive. As he topped the steps and caught sight of the body, his face darkened with anger. “Well, hell.” He registered mild surprise at seeing Charley, but merely said, “If anybody still had doubts about Lucy being an Agatha, I'd say this tears it. Only a very close friend could've gotten face-to-face and done this.”

“Forgive the delay, Detectives. I was entertaining guests when I got your page.” Sharon Krugh's voice carried an unaccustomed note of cool reserve. But as she glanced from Marc to Charley, taking in their evening clothes, her expression became knowing. She placed her field kit on the floor, opened it, and began pulling on latex gloves.

Charley decided to ignore her. She was way past caring what Sharon Krugh thought. “Marc? Paul? I found something.”

Both men followed her to a row of six heavy wooden exterior doors, the main entrance to Oakwood High School. “All exits are locked from the outside, meaning the only way in tonight was through the east doors, or later, through the locker room where the cigar-and-brandy concession is set up. But one of these”—she crooked a finger—“didn't close all the way.”

The second door from the left was fractionally ajar. Pushing it open with her shoe, Charley pointed silently to the bottom hinge, where a twist of white paper had been jammed.

“It's possible she ran down to the other end of the hallway and took those stairs to the lower level.” She indicated a stairwell farther down. “But that would have put her too close to the West Gym. Midge had tables set up in full view of the stairs.”

Marc nodded. “If Lucy entered and left this way, she could have cut around the end of the building and rejoined the crowd in the outside café in minutes. When I got here a little past nine, there were over fifty people out there, and it's not well lit. As long as she stayed calm, she could have just blended back into the party.” He turned to Paul. “What's the situation downstairs?”

Paul scratched his head. “Eight uniforms securing the building and herding folks along. Building sweep is under way. Cooper's taken charge of assembling all guests and staff in the two gymnasiums. Kid's got a flair for command. He got the high schoolers to set up a bunch of chairs, so everyone's sitting tight for the moment. Eric Markes is in an empty office with Bronsen.”

Charley bit her lip. “He knows Jelly's dead?”

“The official word is an accident, but too many people saw the body. The buzz is spreading fast.” Paul indicated the scene. “You're going to have a tough time keeping the connection to the books under wraps after this little show-and-tell.”

Marc turned to Sharon. “Any stunner marks?”

“One quick stab to the heart. Death was almost instantaneous, so there's very little blood. No stunner burns. No other obvious trauma; no defensive wounds. She smells like a winery, which might mean slowed reflexes. We'll run a full tox screen. The playing card is a cute touch.” She picked up the book by one corner, gently riffling the pages. “Looks brand-new. Corner of page forty-seven is bent down.”

“May I?” Marc tugged on latex gloves and took the book from Sharon. He held it open, and Charley peered over his shoulder.

Nigel Danforth sat exactly as Fair Haristeen had found him: upright on a tack trunk, wearing his red silks with the blue sash. A knife was plunged through his heart. This one was a puzzle, especially since the knife had been plunged through a playing card, the Queen of Clubs, which was placed over Nigel's heart.

As Marc slid it into a plastic evidence bag, Charley murmured, “No way Lucy stuffed that thing into an evening purse. And my letter opener is fourteen inches long. No one has pockets or…” She glanced around the hallway, eyes lingering briefly on the corpse. A deep sadness lay heavy in her heart. Oddly, she felt no fear. Not anymore. “Lucy had to hide the props. She needed a place she could be sure they wouldn't be spotted by party guests or a custodian.”

“Under the trophy cases?”

“Maybe.” She considered. “Marc, she couldn't have done it tonight. This hallway was packed until they rang the dinner bell. Lucy had to have been in the school earlier today.”

Paul made a note. “It's something to check.”

Marc said slowly, “This murder isn't like the others. Premeditated, yes. She came here tonight with the murder weapon and the other props somewhere handy. She planned to kill, but it feels rushed. Her window of opportunity was razor-thin.”

“Anyone could've come up either stairway and seen her,” Charley agreed. “We were right downstairs, along with over two hundred other people. She must have been desperate to take such a chance.”

“Or nuts,” Paul muttered.

“Did you see Jelly with anyone?” Marc asked. “Arguing, or going off alone?”

Charley shook her head. “Not once dinner was over. I got separated from the group in the general stampede. After that…” She shrugged, frustrated.

They started down the steps. Paul said, “If Lucy is going to start knocking off Agathas, I'd say it's high time we got better acquainted with the membership.”

“Next order of business.” Marc touched her arm. “As my resident expert on the Agathas, I could use your help. Are you up for this?”

Charley thought of the dead woman upstairs, vibrant and laughing less than an hour ago, wife, mother, friend. “Do you even have to ask?”

They hit the ground floor to find the corridors eerily deserted. An officer stood near the West Gym doors, murmuring into a shoulder radio. Mitch Cooper came striding purposefully toward them from the direction of the East Gym.

“It's going to take at least two hours to get statements from everyone.” Mitch indicated his notebook. “My preliminary count is two hundred eighty-seven, including staff.” He checked as he saw Charley, his ears reddening. “Uh, two eighty-eight. Hi.”

“Then we'd better get started.” Marc turned to Paul. “What do you say you and I take the Agathas and their husbands? Leave Cooper here to direct the rest of it?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“They're all in a separate classroom, like you asked,” Mitch said, trying and failing to hide his pride in the assignment he'd been given. “Camille told them because they were at the party with the victim, Detectives Trenault and Brixton wanted to spare them the stress of being questioned by regular police.”

“Kitty and Midge will eat that up,” Charley said drily.

“Yeah, they all seem pretty…” Mitch hesitated. “Well, no one's crying. Mrs. Bright and Mr. St. James keep demanding to know where you are. They're very insistent. I don't know how much longer Camille can hold them without—”

“Detectives.” Everyone turned to see Chief Zehring barreling down the hallway. Charley felt Marc's tension level skyrocket.

“Sir, we—”

Zehring cut him off. “Is this another Lucy killing?”

“Yes, sir.”

Zehring glared at each of them in turn, ending with Charley. “Why is Ms. Carpenter present? Are you a witness, young lady?”

Charley lifted her chin. “Sort of. And I want to help.”

“Out of the question.”

“Sir,” Marc said firmly, “I requested Ms. Carpenter's assistance.”

“Haven't you wasted enough time, Detective?”

Charley could tell Marc was starting to lose his temper, but he said merely, “I know what I'm doing. Sir.”

“You intend to use her in some way?”

Marc reddened, and Charley felt herself flushing. “Yes, sir. When we question—”

His boss shot up a hand, cutting him off again. “Spare me the details. I've got the mayor and a platoon of press to deal with out there. Three dead women.” Zehring's voice was strained. “God help us. You have thirty-six hours, Detective. Catch this lunatic, or you're done.”

Twenty minutes later, Charley found herself sitting in semidarkness, her bugle bead–clad butt perched on a scarred wooden worktable, her shoulder against a steel filing cabinet. Frankie sat next to her in a metal folding chair. Marc had commandeered the cluttered office of the athletic director to conduct interviews. He'd chosen it because of this small inner room.

With Zehring's ultimatum Marc had shut down, at least as far as Charley was concerned. Gone were the warmth and intimacy of the dance floor. He barked orders, moving her around like a piece on a chessboard: a minor piece.

Ignore the hurt and focus on finding Lucy,
she told herself,
ignoring the hurt. That's all that matters.

Marc began by taking statements from her, Dmitri, and the Brights. When Frankie entered the office she launched herself at Charley, nearly knocking her down.

“They told us
someone
was dead, then that it was Jelly, and you didn't come back, and that policewoman wouldn't tell us diddly-squat!”

Dmitri wrapped his arms around both of them. “Charley. My God.”

The three friends stood in silence, taking a moment to mourn the dead.

John confirmed that he and Frankie had been dancing in the East Gym from eight forty-five until the music was shut down and the lights were turned on, just before ten.

Marc made a note. “Did you see Jelly, or any of the Agathas, cutting through the gym or out on the dance floor?”

“We saw most of them when we first got there,” Frankie said, “making tracks out to that cigar-and-brandy café. Ted Sizemore and Kenneth Crawford tried to get us to go out there, but I can't stand smoke. Makes your hair stinky.”

“I wasn't paying that much attention.” John's forehead creased in thought. “I don't recall seeing Jelly after dinner, but I can't be sure.”

“Mr. St. James.”

“Detective.” Dmitri had been observing Marc with interest, legs crossed, an arm draped over the back of Charley's chair. “I'm afraid I don't have much to add. I lost track of Ms. Carpenter after dinner. I was with the Brights in the hallway, and I saw Kenneth and Ted at the cigar-and-brandy bar. I bought two drinks and headed back to the West Gym to find my date. Unfortunately, somebody beat me to it.”

Marc's eyebrows rose, and Dmitri grinned at him.

“You were in the West Gym when the alarm sounded?”

“Charley appeared well taken care of, so I headed back. I was queuing for a cigar when the music stopped.”

“Any of our club acting strangely?” Paul asked. “Too upset, not upset enough?”

“No one looks ready to confess, if that's what you mean,” Frankie offered. “But, get this. They don't know she was stabbed. The first announcement, that there was an accident? That's all we heard before your lion tamer corralled us into that classroom.”

“Outstanding.” Paul rubbed his hands together. “We'll see how they take the news it was murder.”

“Thank you for your help, Mr. St. James, Mr. and Mrs. Bright. If you think of anything else that could be—”

“Hold it right there.” Frankie shot to her feet. “What about Charley? Isn't she getting the heave-ho?”

Charley had risen with the others. Now she turned to Marc, hope rekindling. “I'm not?”

Marc's voice was carefully professional. “You offered to help, remember? We've got no time to waste, and I could use your insights when we question the Agathas. They won't know you're here,” he said quickly, indicating the inner office.

“Of course she wants to help.” Frankie crossed her arms. “But if Charley stays, I'm staying.”

When he hesitated, Charley said flatly, “She knows the Agathas even better than I do.”

Marc glanced at John with a mixture of exasperation and appeal. John shook his head. “Don't fight it, Detective. These two are joined at the hip.”

Frankie's eyes never left Marc's as she held out her hand to John. He dropped a set of keys into her waiting palm. “Give me a lift?” he asked Dmitri with amused resignation.

So here they were, lurking in an office the size of a closet, peering through the partially open door like a pair of Peeping Toms, trying to help the police catch a serial killer who also happened to be a member of their Book Club. It wasn't the most preposterous thing the two of them had ever done, but it was close.

Once they were settled, Marc said, “We'll start with Eric Markes, so the poor bastard can go home and tell his kids their mom is gone.”

Eric had little to say. He and Jelly got separated in the crush immediately after dinner. He met up with a couple of high school buddies; they drank a few beers and watched the dancers from the stands above the gym floor. One of the buddies was driving him home. He sobbed as he left the office. The women slipped out of their hiding place.

“That poor man,” Charley murmured. “Think he'll handle covering this for his station?”

Frankie waggled her smartphone. “He won't have to. With a couple hundred cellphones in the building tonight, they've got plenty of details already.”

The office had a small television, and Marc clicked it on. The media hovered across the street from the school like sharks around a chum ball. All major news outlets were leading their eleven o'clock broadcasts with the murder, reporters doing stand-ups on the street, grabbing guests for live sound bites. In silence, they watched Zehring give a terse statement. He withheld Jelly's name, but that sliver of privacy wouldn't last long.

Paul switched off the set. “What a circus. Guess we should be grateful no one shot a video of this victim.”

Marc decided to start with Ronnie Bailey, since she'd come alone. She was definitely on something besides drink, Charley decided, noting the glassy eyes and the way she was nearly jumping out of her skin. She found the notion of a fifty-something housewife dabbling in illegal drugs depressing.

Ronnie took the news of Jelly's murder with cruel indifference. She'd been dancing with a guy named Brad, or maybe it was Dan, at the sock hop. She had been right next to the Brights. Did she remember a man in a tuxedo speaking to John and Frankie? No, she didn't think so. Was he a suspect?

Ignoring her question, Marc asked, “Did you carry a purse this evening, Mrs. Bailey?”

“A purse? I'm a woman, aren't I?” She laughed uproariously, Jelly's murder forgotten. “I'm not sure where I left it. It's a purple and yellow hobo bag, to go with the sixties outfit. If you see it, let me know, okay? I'm going to need my car keys!”

Marc called an officer to escort Mrs. Bailey to the East Gym for the purpose of locating her handbag, then said, “Isn't she a little old to be snorting coke before a high school dance?”

“You're as young as you feel,” Paul quipped.

“What the hell is a ‘hobo bag'?”

“It's plenty big enough for all the props, is what it is,” Charley said. “You're certain you didn't see her on the dance floor?”

Marc was emphatic. “I'd have remembered those purple hip-huggers, even next to John's pink tux. Ronnie Bailey just moved to the top of my list.”

Exquisitely dressed, perfectly coiffed, wearing several thousand dollars' worth of jewelry, Kitty Sizemore sat in the cheap plastic chair like it was a solid gold throne. And yet, her face looked tired and drawn under the careful makeup, shadowed eyes reflecting some deep unhappiness.

Crossing long, excellent legs, she tilted her head. “Detective, you look as if you were a guest here tonight. Or has the Oakwood police force upgraded its dress code?”

“I'm a graduate, just like Dr. Sizemore,” Marc said pleasantly. “I couldn't help admiring your handbag. Did you find that at Old Hat?”

The blue satin clutch that had once graced Charley's display window was approximately fourteen by nine inches. Big enough for the letter opener, but the book would be a stretch.

“Indeed,” she purred. “Where has our Charley got to, by the way? None of us have seen her since dinner.”

“You don't seem particularly upset by Jelly Markes's death, ma'am.”

“Call me Kitty. Heavens, ‘ma'am' makes me sound ancient.” She frowned. “Upset? Of course I'm upset. What happened, did she choke on a cocktail olive?”

“She was stabbed with a letter opener.”

Kitty bolted upright, her expression aghast. “Stabbed? You cannot be serious. If that is your sense of humor, Detective, it's grossly inappropriate.”

When Paul brought in Ted Sizemore, Kitty's demeanor changed subtly. She was still imperious, but the flirtatiousness was gone. When he sat down beside her, Kitty clutched at his sleeve. He patted her knee absentmindedly.

Charley felt an upwelling of pity for her friend. Ted had the build of a college athlete going to flab, with thinning blond hair and aristocratic features. He'd been extremely handsome once, and was still charismatic in an aging-playboy kind of way. But even in a tux, he was leagues below Kitty's class. Charley still found it astonishing that he would want to cheat on her.

Ted had made a beeline for the brandy and cigars. He vaguely recalled socializing with the Delaneys and the Crawfords, among others.

“Can't really say if all those people were out there the entire time,” he complained. “We
circulated,
Detective.”

“My husband is a prominent alumnus and member of this community.” Kitty's voice rang with a sort of desperate pride. Ted's indifference to this praise made Charley want to slug him.

“Wow,” was Paul's summary of Dr. and Mrs. Sizemore.

“Kitty's certainly intelligent enough. But I doubt she'd be willing to get her hands that dirty,” Marc decided. “It might be…inappropriate.”

Where Kitty had flashed attitude, Wilson Delaney was showy emotion. Eyes streaming, fingers knotting and unknotting in her lap, she managed to manufacture a watery smile.

“Jelly was the best! Completely harmless. So generous, and such a wonderful hostess!” A weak laugh. “What a tragedy for her family. What happened to the poor thing?”

“Did you see her after dinner, Mrs. Delaney?”

“Well, we were all rather swept along, weren't we? Midge simply insisted that we come and see her brainchild—one of her many.” Chortle. “Robert enjoys a cigar, but I really can't recall if Jelly…After his smoke, Robert came back in, and he and I took a turn around the floor.” Titter. “The next thing I knew, the lights came on and the police were— Is that when the accident happened? While we were all dancing?” Her eyes were in danger of overflowing again.

“It wasn't an accident, Mrs. Delaney. Jelly Markes was murdered.”

Paul left to find some smelling salts.

Robert Delaney was as different from his wife as…“black versus white” barely covered it. Wilson was blond, Robert dark. She was bright and nervous; his face was so expressionless, he made Chief Zehring look like Tickle Me Elmo. Wilson was perpetually in motion, with fluttering hands, batting eyelashes, and tapping feet. Her husband sat silent and immobile, speaking only when responding to a direct question.

“I'm always tempted to check for a pulse,” Frankie whispered.

Robert corroborated Wilson's statement. He'd smoked a cigar. He hadn't spoken to anyone in particular. He'd rejoined his wife. They'd danced to one song before the music was turned off. They'd followed the officer's instructions. Now he was here. Yes, he was shocked to learn Jelly had been murdered. No, he hadn't seen her after dinner that he could recall.