The Book Club Murders (2 page)

“I'm sorry, son.”

“We'll start with next of kin.” Marc turned his back on the corpse as two coroner's orderlies muscled a stretcher over the guardrail and started down the muddy slope to the trail. “Serena's separated from her husband.
Was
separated. He's an asswipe anyway, so we'll track down her sister first. Her name is Lindy Taylor.”

After squeezing her VW onto the shoulder of the brick-paved street between a silver Lexus and a white Hummer, Charley grabbed her cookies and hurried up the long driveway. Judging from the line of vehicles, she was one of the last to arrive.

“Charley.” Slender and stylish, impeccably dressed in an ecru silk shantung pantsuit, Midge Crawford met her in a spacious high-ceilinged foyer, all pale pink marble and fluted white columns that supported nothing. She bussed Charley's cheek in a practiced maneuver, the perfect hostess. “At last. And you brought…” Her brows rose as Charley proffered the crumpled bag. “Cookies. How…individual.”

“They're sand tarts.” Charley made herself breathe, determined not to go on the defensive. “They, ah, evoke this month's book.
Rattlesnake Crossing
? Joanna Brady riding the range in her dusty pickup truck? Like a theme.”

“A theme.” Midge's hostess smile solidified slightly. “They'll look lovely next to Jelly's homemade German chocolate torte. I'll just…get a tray. Oh, and you may put your donations for the clothing drive in one of those boxes.”

Charley closed her eyes briefly. She'd forgotten all about Midge's latest pet project. Or was it Kitty Sizemore's? These women all seemed so desperate to find a thousand ways to fill their time.
Try running a business
.

She made a beeline for the dining room, where Frankie delivered a glass of chilled white wine to her grateful hand.

“Hope you brought enough.”

“I brought two bottles of pinot grigio and Kitty brought two chardonnays and a couple of something red. Six bottles for eight women?”

“It'll be close.” She hip-checked her best friend, who grinned and bumped her right back.

Charley glanced around the room, taking in the diamonds, the smooth golf or tennis tans, silk slacks, designer tops, and—was Ronnie Bailey wearing Manolo Blahniks? And Dmitri wondered why Charley stressed before these meetings.

She'd chosen to wear something from her own vintage shop, as she often did: a dark green linen dress that brought out the green flecks in her gray eyes. Originally designed for someone considerably more flat-chested, she'd expertly altered it herself, the result an effective mix of sexiness and severity. Still, after ten minutes with these women, she felt like a rag picker.

Thank the gods for Frankie. She and Charley were closer than sisters, in some ways closer than husband and wife. You shared things with a girlfriend, Charley reflected, that you wouldn't tell a husband for a million bucks.

From the first day of seventh grade Charley and Frankie had been inseparable, lockers side by side, seated alphabetically in homeroom, huddled together in a mixture of horror and hilarity for the girls-only human sexuality movies. Charley didn't have a single significant memory from those years that failed to include Frankie.

Except one.

Midge reappeared, carrying a bottle of chardonnay in one hand and a half-full glass in the other. Nearing sixty but still carrying herself with ease and confidence, soft wings of silvery blond hair framing a square, handsome face, she commanded any room she entered without effort; women unconsciously stepped aside to make room for her to pass. “May I freshen that for you?”

“Thank you.” Charley smiled, trying to relax. She supposed she liked Midge well enough. She came into Old Hat once in a while and usually bought something. Last spring she'd dropped a bundle on a houndstooth car coat. Midge treated Charley with the expected degree of condescension in those situations, but she was cordial enough at Book Club. Some of these women simply couldn't help themselves. Charley was an Oakwood native, born and raised, but even within this wealthy, insular suburb, there were strata. If it weren't for her membership in the same Book Club, these women wouldn't have a thing to say to Charley Carpenter, Shop Owner.

Unless it was: “Ring it up.”

To be fair, Charley had joined this group with an ulterior motive. She'd hoped that establishing a social connection with the city's wealthy elite would result in more business for Old Hat. Amazingly, it was working. For a solid bottom line, Charley was willing to put up with anything. Well, almost anything.

She'd feel like more of a hypocrite if they hadn't been desperate for a new member. The original Agathas had numbered thirteen, the number deliberately symbolic. Membership had rather dwindled of late, until now there were only eight. Charley suspected the falloff might have something to do with Midge's autocratic manner, or maybe Ronnie's underfed bitchiness. Charley had learned quickly to keep her manners and conversation at Book Club pleasant and superficial.

She fit right in.

“How's your father?” Midge swept a glance around her party with an expert eye. The sounds of feminine voices and laughter mingled with the clink of glassware. “I hear every time he comes into the rehab center, it takes the nurses a week to recover. He's a terrible flirt.”

Charley grinned. “I'd wager it's Lawrence that gets them ruffled. Have you met my father's caregiver?”

“Lawrence? Big, black, and gorgeous?” Ronnie Bailey's painfully thin frame was draped across the table. She leaned on bony elbows, short brown bob falling over restless green eyes too large for her thin face, examining a mini-quiche as if it were an exotic archaeological specimen. She dropped it back onto its tray and smirked. “His butt should be illegal.”

“Now, Veronica,” Midge murmured, her voice deceptively mild, but with an unmistakable edge just below the surface. “No need to be vulgar.”

Ronnie flushed and straightened, scowling, clearly annoyed by Midge's high-handed assumption that correcting everyone's manners was within her purview. Charley recognized Ronnie's designer blouse, but seemed to recall that the last time she'd worn it, the expensive garment hadn't hung on her like it was two sizes too big. How much weight had Ronnie lost? Charley wondered suddenly if she was ill. Wasn't her husband, Jim, a doctor?

Kitty Sizemore strolled over, tall, graceful, and classically beautiful, with pale skin, wide brown eyes, and a suspiciously perfect nose. Her glossy dark hair, untouched by gray, was twisted into an elaborate chignon. Kitty had flown in that morning from a shopping jag to New York, yet she was perfectly groomed, expensively chic as always in a dark red shirtdress Charley recognized from last month's
Vogue.

“Good of you to make it back in time for our meeting,” Midge said coolly.

Ignoring Midge, Kitty caught sight of Charley's cookies. Her lip curled as she touched expertly feathered bangs with a manicured hand. “Sometimes a girl just needs the
real
Park Avenue, darling!” Her affected manner of speech was always more pronounced after one of her trips “back East,” reminding Charley of Katharine Hepburn in
The Philadelphia Story.
She winked at Charley. “What a lovely frock. You can hardly tell it's not new.”

“Why, thank you.” Charley smiled stiffly and turned to hide her flaming cheeks. Had she really just been thinking that she'd put up with almost anything? She was tempted to leave, but what would that accomplish? These women probably wouldn't even notice.

“She's just jealous because that overpriced rag makes her look like a Twizzler,” Frankie whispered furiously. “Want me to punch her lights out?”

“Better not. She's almost a foot taller than you.”

“The bitchier they are, the harder they fall, Carpo.” Frankie bared her teeth.

And just like that, Charley wanted to laugh. Good old Frankie.

“I think your dress is just lovely.” A nervous titter at her elbow made Charley jump. Wilson Delaney had drifted up behind her like smoke. She was easy to overlook, a nervous, mousy woman who punctuated every statement with laughter, no matter how inappropriate. The verbal tic matched her clothing, which tended to be both overly revealing and unsuitably youthful for a woman nearing fifty. Today's outfit featured a snug black cashmere sweater with a plunging neckline paired with a pleated black skirt that stopped several inches above her knees. Her ash blond hair was dragged back from a pleasant but rather overly made-up face into a wispy fall around her shoulders. Wilson smiled a bit too widely at Charley and Frankie, hands fluttering. “You young girls always look so pretty and fresh.” Giggle.

“Thank you, Wilson.” Charley smiled warmly in return, thinking she ought to make a better effort to get to know this woman. “This style would suit you, I think. Why not come by Old Hat this week and do some exploring with me? It'll be fun.”

“Oh! I…well, perhaps.” Wilson's brittle smile relaxed fractionally. Then her eyes darted nervously past Charley's shoulder. “That is, I'm not sure….”

“Not sure old Robert would approve, eh, Wilson?” Ronnie's sneering tone held an undercurrent of meaning Charley didn't understand. Apparently Wilson did, as her cheeks flushed, then washed paler than ever.

“—about the
murder!
” Conversations abruptly ceased. All heads turned toward the speaker. Jelly looked like her name, round and dumpling soft—“pleasingly plump,” as Charley's father would say. Jelly wore her not-quite-naturally golden blond hair in a short, softly curling style that framed and flattered her dimpled face. While she was not, as Ronnie's cruel tongue had styled her more than once, the sharpest knife in the drawer, Jelly's enthusiasm for life had an undeniable appeal. Charley genuinely liked this Agatha. She stood smiling happily, bouncing on her toes, well aware that the entire group hung on her every word.

“Spill, already!” Ronnie urged. A babble of assent rose from around the room.

Midge asked crisply, “Have they identified the victim?”

“Do the police have any suspects?” Kitty drawled. She sipped her wine, affecting disinterest, but Charley caught the avid gleam in her eye.

In fact, most of the Agathas seemed to be enjoying themselves, as if the poor woman had been killed for their entertainment.
Be honest, Carpenter
.
You're just as curious as the rest of them
.

Jelly continued, reveling in the spotlight.

“Well,
” she began, “Eric sent the
news
chopper to the scene, but they couldn't really
see
anything because of all the
trees,
but the Montgomery County
Coroner
was there.” Her voice dropped dramatically. “They're trying to identify the
victim
as we speak.”

Everyone started talking at once, rumors and amateur theories flying thick and fast.

Marc will be identifying…her, Charley thought suddenly. How awful. Until that moment, she'd never given much thought to his job, the terrible things he must have seen and done. She shifted. Her usual thoughts about him were much less sympathetic. They revolved around his big, fat ego, his selfishness, his shocking behavior toward his late mother, his—

“Ladies,” Midge called over the babble, “luncheon is served. Murder or no, we have a schedule to keep. Plates at that end, thank you, Jelly.”

Women began queuing for lunch. Charley found herself in line with Lindy Taylor. The only other Agatha under the age of forty, she'd graduated from Oakwood High School four years ahead of her and Frankie, in Marc's class. The Taylors had been social acquaintances of Charley's father. That connection, plus Charley's friendship with the wife of John Bright, successful defense attorney, had helped secure her membership in the Agathas. Dmitri's assessment of this group's predatory proclivities certainly didn't extend to Lindy, Charley thought fondly. Dressed in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, with her fair hair worn in thick waves around her shoulders, simple jewelry, and almost no makeup, Lindy certainly didn't seem intimidated. Charley wondered, with a touch of envy, whether she'd ever achieve the same level of self-confidence.

“How have you been?” Charley asked. “I don't think I've seen you since last month's meeting.” Lindy didn't reply, apparently absorbed with scrolling through her messages. “Earth to Lindy,” she teased. “You're holding up the line, young lady.”

Lindy started, blushing lightly and pocketing her phone. “Sorry.”

“Something on your mind?” Charley lowered her voice. “Don't tell me you failed to complete your reading assignment.”

Lindy grinned. “God forbid. Just waiting on a text from my sister.”

Serena, Lindy's older sister, was famously separated from Bradley T. Wyndham, the biggest criminal defense attorney in Dayton. Serena had been staying with Lindy and her husband, apparently unwilling to spend one more night under the same roof with Bradley. Everyone was salivating for the divorce of the century.

Charley picked up a hand-painted plate from Portugal. “How's she holding up?”

“Fine. Better than fine, actually.” Lindy dug into a cut-crystal bowl of curried chicken salad. “She had a date last night, drinks at Carmel's.”

“Good for her. Anyone we know?”

“She didn't say, and I didn't want to ask. She's an adult, after all. I just thought I'd have heard from her by now.”

“Maybe she got lucky.” Charley selected a sand tart. Jelly's torte could go screw itself.

“Maybe.”

As both women giggled, Charley glanced past Lindy and noted that Kitty was standing practically on top of her. She was clearly eavesdropping. Caught in the act, Kitty merely laughed.

“Lindy, dear, don't you look lovely. So natural, almost as if you didn't make any effort at all.”

“Thank you, Kitty.” Lindy grinned, more than ready to play this game.

“Evan is well? The world of high finance not too taxing?” Kitty probed.

“He's very well. How's Ted? I imagine a veterinarian never has a slow season, does he?”

Kitty's smile faded abruptly. “So true.” She opened her mouth to ask a question about Serena, Charley was certain of it, but Lindy just smiled pleasantly and stepped past her.