The Book Club Murders (16 page)

Throughout this recital, Wilson tittered and fussed in a nervous halo around her husband. She never quite touched him, instead creating a shell of energy and motion that did nothing to enliven Robert Delaney. Charley wondered if anything could.

“Okay, she's just wacko enough to be Lucy,” Paul said when they were gone. “Ronnie's hype is chemical, but this one is…How does her husband stand it?”

“You were right about these evening purses.” Marc glanced briefly at Charley, eyes cool. Her heart sank. “That little gold thing she carried is barely big enough for the playing card, much less the book and letter opener.”

“Wilson says Robert had a smoke before he
came back in.
And Robert says he
‘rejoined
his wife' and then they danced to the last song. That means they were definitely apart. If Robert headed outside right after dinner, then Wilson was on her own for the better part of an hour.” Paul tapped his notebook. “I'd say Wilson's alibi went up in smoke with Robert's cigar.”

Lindy Taylor was pale, her eyes red-rimmed, but she was holding it together. “I'm not sure why we came,” she said wearily. “I'm still not convinced Midge's insistence on going ahead with this event wasn't in the worst possible taste. But we haven't been out since…”

Marc kept his voice gentle. “What did you do after dinner? Did you go outside with the others?”

“Evan doesn't smoke, thank God.” She gazed into the distance. “We took a stroll around the school. I wanted to find our senior-class composite photos. They're hung chronologically, so Serena's and ours are side by side.” She smiled wistfully at Marc. “You had the silliest long hair, it was practically a mullet. What were you thinking?”

Marc returned her smile. “Did you walk through the senior hall, where the photographers were set up?”

“Yes. All the classes from the nineties are down at the far end. After we saw the pictures, we went down those stairs and ended up at the West Gym. I was more in the mood for an orchestra than a DJ. We saw you dancing with Charley. You two look good together.”

Marc sat up. “What time was this? When you were in the hallway?”

“After dinner, nine or nine-fifteen. Why?”

Evan corroborated Lindy's time line. The Taylors had walked through the hallway just minutes before the murder. He estimated that they were up there no more than ten minutes. Still, the sheer chance of the thing—the odds that no other alum would have the same idea—was astounding.

“How could no one be up in that hall at the critical moment?” Charley wondered in frustration. “Is Lucy invisible?”

Marc deliberately left Midge Crawford for last. She sat across from him, dry-eyed and composed, a tiny beaded evening bag on her lap. She took the news of Jelly's murder without batting an eyelash.

“A senseless tragedy,” she said. “Why would anyone kill such a harmless woman? And she has two young children. A shame.”

“Can you tell me who was on your planning committee?”

Midge appeared surprised by the question. “Well, Jelly was, poor thing. Ronnie was my cochair. And Kitty, of course. She's actually very handy. Wilson helped on the decorations subcommittee.” She named several other women who had helped to produce this monumental achievement that had ended so badly.

Kenneth kept his arm firmly around his wife. Silver-haired and distinguished, he seemed calm but wary. He'd gone directly out onto the walkway after dinner, where he had smoked a cigar with Robert Delaney. Midge had, quite naturally, been waylaid by dozens of people wanting to congratulate her. She joined him eventually, and they were together when the police arrived.

“This has been a terrible disappointment for Midge after all her hard work.”

“The funds for the Education Foundation were secured before the first guest arrived.” She patted his hand. “What's important now is Eric and those children.”

“You're right, my dear, as always.”

Nothing seemed to faze her, Charley thought, not for the first time. Women like Midge, she reflected, wealthy, educated, and accustomed to getting their own way, sailed through life as if an ordered universe were their due.
Must be nice.

“Anyone on one of those committees could have rigged the door and hidden the props earlier that day,” she mused after vacating the inner office for the last time. “And it's Saturday. The building was virtually deserted. Nobody would question their presence anywhere around the school.”

“The husband seems pretty whipped. Of course, shrinks don't act like regular folks. It's all going on behind the mask with those guys.” Paul gave a mock shudder. “They give me the willies.”

“Everyone keeps calling Jelly ‘harmless,' ” Frankie murmured. “If she was so harmless, why is she dead?”

Charley frowned as a thought, elusive as smoke, teased the edge of her consciousness. Before she could pin it down, Chief Zehring filled the doorway. Both Marc and Paul leaped to their feet.

“Goddamn press. This world would be—” He stopped, scowling as he noticed Charley and Frankie. “Detectives? Haven't you finished your interviews yet? I thought I had impressed upon you both the urgency of our situation.”

“Yes, sir. Just wrapping up now.” Marc's eyes met Charley's, but flicked away yet again. “You two can run along. I'm sure your dad will be worried, Charley. Thank you for your help.” He was already flipping through his notes, the dismissal clear.

Charley stared in disbelief. Run
along
? She opened her mouth, and then abruptly changed her mind. Screw it. She stalked out, Frankie on her heels.

“What the hell?” Frankie caught up with her as she slammed out the heavy exit door. Charley glanced around, relieved to see the media had finally surrendered the field. She kicked off her shoes and started walking fast. “Charley, what's going on with Marc?”

“Nothing.”

Frankie blocked her path, hands on hips, five feet of steely determination in hot pink taffeta. “Don't give me that. Dmitri told me about that clutch on the dance floor. He claims he couldn't have wedged a credit card between you two. After fifteen years, I hoped we finally had some progress.”

“You mean with my
boss,
the big-shot detective?” Charley snorted. “You saw him. He dismissed me like I was just another underling.”

“The man I saw charging into that school was on a mission. And the mission was
not
filling out your W-2s.”

Charley turned to gaze at the high school, every window blazing with light. “When we were dancing, it did seem as if…But what if he was just looking for some…human contact? He's so lonely, Frankie.”

“We've had a third murder since then. Give the guy a break.”

“Whatever.” Charley turned her back to the light and stared down at her bare feet. A fat lot of help she'd been to Marc's investigation, with her big ideas and false bravado. She sighed. Who was she kidding? “Told you I was jinxed.”

“And you're just going to accept that?” Frankie demanded. “The girl who single-handedly convinced the principal to overturn the ban on same-sex couples at prom? Half the intrepid duo”—she gestured between the two of them—“who lobbied our school board and got vegan cafeteria menu options
and
all the soda machines in the district switched over to juice and water? The same amazing woman who ignored Wall Street and opened her own business during a recession, and still managed to turn a profit after less than two years? You disappoint me, girlfriend.”

Charley didn't reply. To her mind, it had been a disappointing evening all around.

As he climbed into his car, Marc considered the word everyone seemed to use to describe Jelly:
harmless.
Lucy hadn't thought so. What had Jelly done that made her such a threat? What button had she pushed to make Lucy risk everything, to kill her in such an exposed location? Did she see something? Hear something?

Had she discovered who Lucy was?

His stomach clenched with fear. He was such an idiot. Here he'd been, using Charley to poke around in the private lives of the Agathas,
knowing
that one of them was a killer. What if Lucy decided that Charley knew too much? Would she become the next target?

He stepped on the gas.

Why had he blown her off like that? She'd been pissed when she left. When he'd
dismissed
her. Jesus, he'd practically patted her on the head. He went to that stupid dance tonight to tell her how he felt about her. Instead, he'd second-guessed himself—no, call it what it was: He'd chickened out, using Zehring's presence as an excuse to dodge the possibility that she might still reject him. Despite the shock of Jelly's murder, she'd been eager to stay, he recalled. Yet he couldn't push her out the door fast enough. What a fucking coward. Why couldn't he get anything right?

Marc cruised through sleeping neighborhoods of tidy suburban homes, all the houses dark, feeling more alone than he'd ever felt in his life. There was a time when he'd known who lived in most of those houses. Not anymore.

Hawthorn Boulevard was quiet. Streetlamps cast a soft yellow glow that diffused and broke through the spreading oak trees in the Carpenters' front yard. A single light burned in a downstairs window. Charley's windows were dark. Not surprising, he thought glumly, preparing to drive on. Then he stopped, his eyes probing the shadows beneath the white wooden portico beside the house. There was the family sedan, but where was
her
car?

Moments later, as he hurriedly made the turn onto his own silent street, his headlights flashed over a familiar shape. Huddled at the curb was a battered orange VW.

Charley stood on Marc's porch. She tried to calm her racing pulse as she shivered slightly in the chill breeze. She had changed into dark slacks and a loose, long-sleeved top, slipped to one side so that one of her shoulders was bare. All of Dmitri's fancy pins were gone, leaving her hair soft and loose.

She managed to hold her ground as she watched him hurry toward her. He leaped up the first two steps and stopped. His eyes were fixed on hers like a predator contemplating his next meal. She felt a momentary flutter of fear, even as she lifted one hand to halt his forward motion.

“You owe me an apology.”

He hesitated with his foot on the next step. “Yes, I do.”

“You're arrogant.”

“True.” He climbed another step.

“And bossy.”

“Takes one to know one.”

She let her hand fall. “This is probably a huge mistake.”

“Now, that,” he breathed, “is where you're wrong.”

For an endless moment, the cosmos trembled. Then he took the last two steps in one bound as she leaped forward. They collided, coming together so easily at last, meshing perfectly.

And, oh God, he was kissing her, his hands tangled in her hair. She clung to him, molding the taut muscles of his shoulders, filling her hands with him, pulling him closer. For fifteen years she had dreamed of touching him like this, but the reality of Marc shook her to her core. He kissed her and his mouth was so hot, so sweet, she felt as if she'd never been kissed before. And she hadn't. Not like this.

He pulled back, his breath ragged, his eyes burning with blue fire. Her heart thundered so loudly, she thought he must be able to hear it.

“Charley?” he whispered.

No more questions. She grabbed the lapels of his tuxedo jacket and pressed her body hard against his.

“Yes.”

A half-moon rode the dark and tangled in the trees. Shredded clouds, running ahead of the rain, dragged across the sky.

They had only made it as far as the deep leather sofa in the living room. Clothing lay where it had fallen in their haste. They were locked together, hearts pounding. He held her tightly, the fingers of one hand wound in her hair, the other hand against the small of her back, pinning her against him. He had one leg wrapped around both of hers. His lips were pressed against the slowing pulse in her throat, his face buried in her hair.

Charley lay quietly, one hand stroking slowly up and down his back. She shifted, fitting her body more closely to his, certain she'd never be close enough.

“Nice sofa.”

“After tonight, I'm having it bronzed.”

He tilted his head and trailed kisses along her neck, making her jump.

“That tickles.”

“It's supposed to.” He hit the sensitive spot just beneath her ear, teasing it with his tongue. When she responded he threw it in reverse, working his way back down her throat toward her shoulder. He grazed her skin with his teeth, and her whole body quivered.

“You seem a little tense, Ms. Carpenter.” He continued his progress downward, inch by delicious inch; she gasped and sighed.

“You are…the world's worst detective, Detective.” She slid her fingers into his hair and tugged until he was looking up at her. “I am as far from tense as it's possible to be, thank you.”

“Put it on my tab.”

“Oh, are we starting a tab?”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

He propped himself on an elbow and just drank her in. She lay there, reveling in his hungry gaze, unabashed.

“All these years, and you were right here. I really am the world's worst detective.”

She ran a fingertip through the matting of dark hair on his chest. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Why did you move back here?”

Marc spoke slowly, brow furrowing, as though putting his thoughts into words for the first time.

“My father introduced me to Mayor Hyatt at Mom's funeral. About the only person the great Warren Trenault deigned to speak to. I didn't act much better.” He shifted, but she stilled him with a gentle touch. “Three weeks later the mayor emailed me out of the blue, telling me about this job opening. I was just coming out of this fog, or depression, maybe—I don't remember a lot about the weeks following my mother's death. I took compassionate leave, and I ran a lot, and slept. I'm not sure, exactly. Got drunk a few times. I couldn't face work, I know that. This job seemed like, I don't know, a lifeline, a way to connect with her, to try to make amends. Is that crazy?”

Charley shook her head, heart too full for speech.

“Crazy or not, I took the job. Just turned in my shield in Chicago, packed up my shit, and bought the first house I saw here. Not the actions of a rational man.” He shrugged. “Mostly it's been okay. Boring as hell, of course, until lately. Paul's been a godsend.” He brushed his thumb across her lower lip. “And you…”

“Glad I could help break up the monotony.”

As her words registered, she watched a change come over his face. “That's not what I…Charley, we…”

“Shhh.” Wrapping herself around him, she arched, then rolled until he lay beneath her. “Is this the secret of your success, that you talk all your suspects to death?” She leaned over him, hair spilling in a fiery curtain around them both. She lowered her head to silence him with a kiss, but he laid a finger on her lips.

“Charley, listen to me. We need to ta—ahhh.” His breath left him in a rush as she slid down his body.

“Don't,” she begged, as she nipped his lower lip. Whatever he was about to say, experience had taught her it wasn't something she wanted to hear. “I've read this plotline enough times. The adrenaline rush of a big case, two people thrown together, bonding through danger and tragedy.” She began moving her mouth over his chest, kissing and biting. “We'll never tell anyone. But don't spoil it, please? Just let me have tonight.” She brushed her lips over his stomach, making his muscles jump. He closed his eyes and—

“Wait. What?” He sat up so suddenly that he dumped Charley onto the floor, landing her on her butt.

“Ooof. Geez, Romeo, you want to watch what—”

“Sorry, babe.” He grinned as he reached for her hand. “Come back here.”

“You say that like it was my idea to leave.” She scowled, rubbing her hip. “Sure it's safe? You're not going to have another seizure?”

“Promise.” He pulled her onto his lap. “Better? All comfy? Because you're going to shut up and listen to me now.”

She eyed him warily. “Marc, I'm serious. I don't expect—”

“No.” Marc took her face in his hands. “I know what you're doing, and you need to stop.”

She tried to pull away, but he slid his fingers into her hair and held her in place, forcing her to meet his gaze. “And what am I doing?” she asked.

“Exactly what I was doing. Playing it safe, pushing me away, pretending this is nothing more than some emotional rebound from Jelly's death. Maybe that's what finally got us here tonight, but you and me? This means more than that, and you know it.”

All at once Charley found it difficult to catch her breath. “Maybe tonight is all I want.”

“That is bullshit.” Marc's eyes flashed, angry shards of blue, and she couldn't look away now even if she wanted to. “And say I believed you, believed this was just drive-by sex for you, and tomorrow we…what? Pretend it never happened? Tough luck, beautiful. That is not good enough for me.” He tucked a curl behind her ear. “Or you. Charley,” he murmured, his voice full of entreaty, “I'm scared, too. And with the awful things I've said and done, I've given you little enough reason to trust me. But you can, I promise. Won't you give us a chance?”

His face was so earnest, so full of hope. Maybe it was time to trust, she thought. The stakes had never been higher, but maybe this time, with this man, everything would be different. She took a deep breath. “Two things, Trenault. First of all, if you break my heart, I will kick your ass.”

He laughed with relief. “Yes, ma'am. And the second thing?”

She slid her arms around his neck, pushing him back down against the cushions. “No bronze. This sofa stays just the way it is.”