The Book Club Murders (20 page)

Charley slumped behind the wheel, trying to muster some enthusiasm for this outing. Visiting used-clothing stores was part of her job. When people dumped their castoffs, they often had no idea what they were giving away. The occasional gem went out with the trash. Lucky for her, most thrift store operators couldn't tell the difference.

She glanced again at the cheap purple flyer that had been stuck on her windshield, the third one she'd received in as many days.

Grand Opening! Pre-Thanksgiving Sale!!

Seventy Percent Off!!

The Spare Closet was a relatively new consignment shop specializing in upscale professional wear. Charley wondered if the owner would be knowledgeable enough to spot anything really vintage. They were certainly savvy enough to promote themselves. Although in her opinion this sale reeked of desperation.

There was plenty of that going around today.

She drove the few blocks to Frankie's, contemplating this morning's massive fail. Zehring's deadline was upon them. Marc and his team had no choice but to box up all their files and evidence for transport downtown.

She wanted to weep with frustration. Instead, here she was, going shopping. She sighed. Well, she did have a business to run. Post-Reunion, Old Hat was pretty much cleaned out. And it was a better alternative than sitting home brooding about Lucy. She would bury her disappointment in work.

She'd barely pulled up to the curb when her car door exploded outward. “Crappy weather,” Frankie observed, shaking rain from her hair.

“You don't have to do this,” Charley said for the tenth time.

“Nonsense. I love Dumpster diving. Besides, it's a perfect excuse to go for coffee after.”

“You buying?”

“Are you kidding? After the way you stiffed me on the action this morning, you should be buying me dinner.”

The Spare Closet was located in a strip mall, squeezed between a tanning salon and a sandwich shop. Charley checked out the front window display, a rather unimaginative arrangement of mannequins in sparkly holiday sweaters. Not everyone was lucky enough to have killer giraffes.

Once inside, she and Frankie split up. She had trained her friend well; those tiny Italian fingers could scope out quality fabrics almost as unerringly as Charley could. She worked her way around the racks, starting with the dresses along the side wall. Odd, she thought, that such a big sale hadn't attracted more shoppers. A perky woman in her forties—owner?—asked if she was looking for anything special. What a stupid question. In a place like this, everything was unique.

She pulled out a gray wool dress, noted the worn elbows, and put it back. As she turned to start on a display of skirts, Charley noticed the back wall. It had been fitted with cubbies made of aluminum mesh; track lighting sparkled and gleamed. Each cube contained a handbag or a hat. The arrangement of colors and shapes was appealing; it was definitely the most attractive area of the shop. She wandered back to check it out.

“Carpo!”

Charley glanced over to see Frankie's hand sticking up from the racks like a periscope, holding aloft several wide leather belts in various colors.

“Yes,” she affirmed, then turned back to the purses. Nothing beaded? Too bad—those were so timeless. She liked the straw; a shame it had someone's initials on it. Those felt hats were very Jackie; maybe she could get the price down if she took all three. Were the toggles on that plum bag real ivory? She wondered if the owner—

She froze. Turning slowly, she ran her gaze back along the aluminum shelving. There. The black straw purse was in the fourth row, second from the left. Shaped like a trapezoid, it had a wide base tapering to a smoothly curved top. It fastened with a flap of black leather about four inches wide that folded over and secured with a gold-tone toggle; the mid-length straps were made of the same supple, high-quality leather.

Affixed to the front of the flap, in ornate gold-tone letters, were the initials of the original owner:
SRW.

Serena Radcliff Wyndham.

Marc had the murder room to himself. Everyone else was lying low as he angrily stuffed case notes into boxes. Investigators from the County Prosecutor's Office would be here within the hour. Christ. When a ping signaled an incoming text with a photo, he stared at the tiny image, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing. A moment later his cell rang.

“Is it hers?”

“Charley, where the hell are you?” He tore through the squad, shouting for Paul, a dozen officers and admins gaping at him.

Nine minutes later, he screeched to a stop in front of the Spare Closet.

Charley watched him burst through the door, his cop's eyes sweeping the space, probing for threats. He hurried to where she leaned against the counter and pulled her into his arms.

“Are you okay?”

She smiled ruefully. “It's a purse, Marc, not a nuclear warhead. Sorry I sounded so freaked.”

He held her close, just for a moment, touching his forehead to hers. She breathed him in.

“Show me.”

She led him to the back wall, where Frankie stood guard. Miss Perky hovered unhappily. Marc nodded at Frankie, who stepped aside, shooting a triumphant glance at the other woman.

“We certainly don't deal in stolen merchandise here!” The woman wrung her hands. “This is a respectable establishment!”

“Are you the owner?” Marc asked her.

“No,” she wailed. “God, she'll probably fire me!”

“You haven't done anything wrong.” Marc flashed his knockout smile, displaying his shield. “My name is Detective Trenault. What's yours?”

The woman glanced up at him, really seeing him for the first time. She flushed and smiled dazedly. Charley rolled her eyes.

“Wanda. I'm Wanda Smithe.” She smiled again. “With an e.”

“Ms. Smithe, I need to know where this purse came from.”

“Oh, dear, I'm not sure!”

Charley interrupted impatiently, “This is a consignment shop. That means when something sells, the original owner gets a cut. Every vendor—no donors here—has a vendor number. It'll be on the price tag. Name, contact information, list of all items on consignment, and the dates they were brought in. Everything is listed by that number. When something sells, they make a record of it so the vendor can be paid.”

The shop door opened to admit Paul Brixton and Lindy Taylor. Her expression reflected a mixture of fear and resolve as she approached the black straw purse on its aluminum wire shelf. Then she nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “It's Serena's.”

“No reason to worry about fingerprints at this point.” Marc took down the purse and opened it. Empty, except for a small blue tag affixed to the black silk lining with a safety pin. In black ink was the price, $79.00. On the back of the tag was a second number, also handwritten: thirty-seven.

He turned to Wanda Smithe. “Who's vendor number thirty-seven?”

Calmer now, Wanda disappeared into the back office to search for the file in question. They used the time to search the racks and display cases for anything else of Serena's from the night she was killed: white silk T-shirt, black jeans, black sandals, gold-star necklace. No luck.

Wanda emerged with a manila folder. “Vendor thirty-seven,” she announced, handing the file to Marc with a flourish. Charley leaned in as he opened it.

Inside were two sheets of carbonless paper in the same pale blue as the price tag. About a dozen items were listed, with columns for the date of consignment, item description, asking price, and date sold. The black straw purse was seventh on the list. Marc indicated the page heading, which showed the vendor name and contact information. Charley read:
Wilson Delaney, Shafor Boulevard, Oakwood.

She held her breath as he flipped to the second page. There at the bottom, in blue ink, was an original signature acknowledging the transaction. Wilson Delaney had signed and dated the form on November 15, four days after Serena's murder.

He closed the file, handing it silently to Paul. Then he grinned, and Charley read her own feelings, the sheer, ridiculous, amazing thrill of the moment. He grabbed her and swung her around, kissing her soundly.

“Well?” Frankie demanded. “Is it her?”

“It's her.” Marc turned to Wanda. “We need to take the file and purse into evidence. Paul?”

His partner examined the file, grinning like a jack-o'-lantern. “I got it,
mon capitan.
You call Logan.”

Marc already had his phone out. “Counselor? How fast can you get in to see Judge Harrell?”

Wilson Delaney opened her front door a tiny crack, safety chain on. Her eyes widened in alarm at the sight of Charley, Marc, Paul, Camille, and Mitch. Three police vehicles, lights flashing, were ranged along the curb.

“Mrs. Delaney?” Marc held up the papers with Judge Harrell's signature. “We have a warrant to search the premises. Please open the door.”

“But Robert…he wouldn't like me to…”

“Wilson,” Charley said gently. She'd lobbied hard to be present, knowing Wilson would need some special handling. “The police are coming in, right now. You have the right to be present while they conduct the search. Please don't make them force their way in.”

Wilson stared at the paper in dismay. Reluctantly, she shut the door, undid the chain, then opened the door all the way. She trembled from head to toe, eyes wheeling, her hands dry-washing at top speed.

“Cooper, take the garage,” Marc directed. “Paul, upstairs. Bronsen, you're with me.” He nodded at Charley, then headed down the hall.

More to prevent interference than provide support, Charley steered Wilson into an immaculate kitchen reeking of pine cleaner. Marc had already found a laptop computer, along with a neat filing system of plastic trays, on a side counter. Wilson trembled like a leaf as he flipped quickly through the papers. Almost immediately, he discovered the yellow carbonless copies of the vendor record from the Spare Closet. He slid them into a plastic evidence bag.

Camille popped her head in. “Nothing on the ground floor. I've been in motel lobbies with more personality. I'm heading downstairs.”

From a file marked
agathas
, Marc produced a printout listing each month's book title, presenter, and hostess. Charley had one like it, but on Wilson's copy, August, September, and November had each been crossed out with red pen. He bagged it, ignoring Wilson's squeaks of protest. After searching cabinets, drawers, and even the freezer, he headed toward the front of the house. Camille emerged from a side door as Paul descended the stairs.

“That is without a doubt the cleanest cellar I've ever seen.”

“Upstairs is the same.” Paul grimaced. “Does anybody actually live here?”

Mitch came in the front door. “Nothing in the garage.”

Charley followed Marc's gaze as he took in the sterile living room. His façade of professional calm barely hid a growing fury.

“Are you telling me we've got
nothing
?” His voice rose on the last word. He whirled toward Wilson, who shrank against Charley. “Where is your stunner?” he demanded. “Where is the rat poison you used to kill Lisa Summerfield?”

With that, Charley was struck by the memory of a previous visit to this soulless property, a question asked but never answered, one that had been buried by subsequent events.

“Follow me.” She led the way outside.

“But, I searched already,” Mitch protested as the six of them crowded into the garage. Robert's car was gone, but Wilson's brown sedan occupied its assigned spot. “There's no rat poison in here.”

“That's not what I'm…Oh, thank heaven. They're still here.” Charley indicated the cardboard boxes, still partially hidden by Wilson's car, labeled clothing drive in black marker. “Something's not right. Every inch of this house is neat to the point of obsession. No old magazines, no partially read newspapers. Whose kitchen doesn't have a little cache of coupons or recipes, or even a partially used notepad? I think she runs her recyclables through the dishwasher, for pity's sake.

“The OCD theme continues out here.” She turned in a slow circle. “Every item in this garage is sitting or hanging on its very own labeled shelf or hook. No trash—not so much as an old rag. So, why are these boxes still here?”

Mitch looked to Marc, who flapped a hand. “You heard the lady. Search those boxes.”

With gloved hands, Mitch slid out the first box. He pulled off precisely positioned strips of duct tape and began removing items, laying them on a shelf. A half-dozen crumpled shirts and blouses soon formed a pathetic pyramid. In the act of reaching, he stopped and drew back.

Lying on top of more old clothing was a pair of black leather sandals, held together with a rubber band. Marc lifted them out with a ballpoint pen.

“These match Lindy's description. We'll have to confirm.” Camille produced a large paper bag, and Marc dropped them in.

Charley leaned forward to peer inside the box and gasped. “Marc?” she called faintly.

“What is it? Do you recognize something of Serena's?” he asked.

“No.” She swallowed hard, pointing. “Something of Lucy's.” Protruding from under a pair of yellow shorts was what looked like a tuft of hair. Carefully, Marc moved the shorts to reveal a shoulder-length, straight brown wig. Again using his pen, he lifted it slowly out of the box. Something twinkled in the light from the overhead bulb.

Dangling from the wig lining and snagged by the clasp was a gold necklace, the pendant shaped like an open star.

Marc slid the wig, necklace and all, into yet another bag. Then he turned to Wilson, who had been watching the proceedings with a white face, her body shaking and twitching alarmingly.

“Wilson Delaney? You are under arrest for the murder of Serena Wyndham.”