The Book Club Murders (21 page)

When Marc's cell rang on Wednesday at six fifty-one a.m., Charley knew it was bad news.

His eyes never left hers as he listened, asking only a few terse questions. He clicked off. “Wilson Delaney is missing. Robert called nine-one-one thirty minutes ago. They're currently sleeping in separate bedrooms, so he has no idea when she left the house. Her car is gone, as is her purse with her wallet.”

“How does he know she's missing? Couldn't she be out getting a gallon of milk?” Even as Charley asked the question, she knew there was no way Wilson would just run to the store. Not without telling Robert what she was doing.

“According to Cooper, Robert says she was under strict orders not to leave the house without his
permission,
” Marc said. He swung his legs out of bed and began pacing, completely naked, as he punched numbers on his cellphone.

Charley lay back against the pillows in Marc's enormous four-poster. She admired the view, even as her mind raced. “I can't see her running,” she said. “She wouldn't have the guts.”

“Paul?” Marc held up a finger. “Yeah, just got the call.” He listened a moment, then cocked a brow at her. “Yes, she's here.” Charley blushed scarlet. “She disagrees, thinks Wilson doesn't have it in her to run. I tend to agree with Charley. Damn it, after Delaney posted bond, I knew we should've insisted on twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

“There's only one thing that would tempt her enough to risk the wrath of Robert,” Charley said firmly. “Ted Sizemore.”

“You heard that? Call Cooper, tell him to get a squad car over to the Sizemore residence. We'll meet you there in ten minutes.” He clicked off.

“We?” Charley sat up straight.

“After all you've contributed to this investigation, how could I cut you out now?” Marc grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Besides,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck, his hand cupping her bare behind, “I'm getting used to having you around.”

They had just pulled out of the driveway when Marc's cell rang yet again. He put the caller on speaker. “Update,” he commanded.

“Ted Sizemore didn't sleep in his bed last night,” came the voice of Mitch Cooper. “His car is gone. His wife says she retired early and has no idea when he may have left the house.”

“Another couple sleeping in separate rooms,” Charley murmured.

“I asked Kitty to call his cell. It went straight to voicemail. She claims she has no clue where he might be.”

“What about Wilson's car?”

“Haven't spotted it yet, sir.”

“Has anyone checked his clinic?” Charley asked.

There was a short silence. “Is that, uh, Ms. Carpenter? Yes, ma'am, uh, Officer Bronsen headed over there a few minutes ago, ma'am.” Charley could almost hear his ears turning red.

“We're going there now,” Marc told him, as he swung the wheel and changed direction. “Notify—hold on. Bronsen's calling in.” He clicked to accept the new call. “Is she there?”

Camille's voice was grim. “You need to get over here. Right now.”

Ted Sizemore's nurses called it a couch, but “daybed” was a better name for it. From the doorway Charley took in the narrow mattress, spread with a colorful quilt and surrounded by decorative brass rails. Mounds of pillows in varying sizes, colors, and shapes were arranged along the rails. A number of these had been knocked to the floor.

The bodies occupied most of the space now.

Ted lay on his back, spread-eagled, naked. His wrists and ankles were tied to the brass end rails with four lengths of soft black rope, velour or velvet. A fifth rope was looped around his neck, the ends threaded through the rails and pulled so tightly that his head was lifted a few inches off the mattress. From his appearance, Charley guessed cause of death would be strangulation.

Lying diagonally across his body, facedown, Wilson was fully dressed but just as dead. Her arms were flung out, as though trying to embrace the man beneath her. Charley noticed a hypodermic syringe on the floor near the foot of the bed.

“Back door was open,” Camille said quietly. “And there's a note.” She indicated a desk where a small lamp burned. Ted's computer was on, a text document open. Centered on the screen were just two words:

Forgive me.

Sharon Krugh knelt by the bed. “Preliminary TOD between midnight and two. That's her. He's a little earlier. Could be as early as ten, as late as one a.m. You know the drill. I'll narrow it down on the table.” She sniffed the syringe before bagging it. “Pentobarbital. There's a fresh injection mark on her left arm. She euthanized herself.”

The coroner had taken in Charley's presence with elevated brows and a smirk, but had said nothing. Sharon now addressed her, with excruciating politeness, to inquire if she would be so kind as to step aside to make way for her field assistants. Charley started to back out, but Marc waved her into the room.

“Paul could use a hand,” he said, indicating floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with volumes. “You know what we're looking for better than we do.”

All too aware of the presence of violent death, she crossed the room carefully and joined Paul as he stood, hands on hips, surveying the chaos.

“This setup's too whacked not to be from a book,” he remarked, handing her a pair of latex gloves.

“You're right.” She rolled her shoulders, tuning out the activity behind her with an effort and focusing on the task at hand. “It's called
Strangers in Death
. We read it in October; I was the presenter, in fact. I've been wondering why Wilson hadn't copied it.” She shook her head. “I suppose now I know.”

The crime scene techs transferred Wilson's body to a plastic sheet and carried it to one of the examining rooms, allowing Sharon room to work on Ted. She lifted Ted's shoulder and shone a penlight on the back of his neck. “Stunner burns. This was no suicide pact.”

“Stunner in her purse,” Marc announced. He removed it with gloved fingers. “Brand and model match the one she bought online a year ago. I assume she brought the cords with her. Paul, do you remember seeing those when you searched the house?”

“I don't remember
not
seeing them.” Paul scratched his head. “We didn't do a complete inventory. We were looking for evidence related to the crimes we had, not one she hadn't committed yet.”

“Found it,” Charley announced. She pulled a brand-new copy of
Strangers in Death
by J. D. Robb from a shelf just behind Ted's desk chair. Everyone paused as she opened the book to the place where the corner of a single page had been folded down. Taking a deep breath, she read:

…The headboard gleamed brass too—all of its sleek, shiny rungs. Black velvet ropes tied Anders' wrists to two of them, while two more ropes bound his ankles by a length to the footboard. The four matching ropes were joined by the fifth that wrapped around Anders' throat, pulling his head off the pillows. His eyes were wide, and his mouth hung open as if he was very surprised to find himself in his current position.

“So much death,” Camille murmured, “and for what? Do you think Wilson even stopped to consider all the lives she ruined?”

Charley said quietly, “At the end, I think the only thing she could see was Ted.” She met Marc's gaze across the room, her heart heavy with pity and anger. “If you ask me, both Ted and Robert share a big piece of the blame.”

“You won't get any argument from me.”

Charley decided she was thoroughly sick of funerals. She'd dressed conservatively today, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, in a slimly tailored black suit, her hair twisted into a demure roll at her nape. Somehow, all that red hair seemed a bit too exuberant for the occasion.

The sanctuary was packed to the rafters. The Brights had saved them two places, and she and Marc slipped into their seats as a soloist began singing a heartrending ballad.

Frankie leaned in. “Wait'll you see the wreath the Crawfords sent,” she whispered. “Humongo. And it looks like Ronnie's the only Agatha who's not here. Of course, there's not many of us left, are there?”

The Baileys had both been arrested on drug charges. Jim would very likely lose his license to practice, and Ronnie, at a minimum, was looking at court-ordered rehab. They'd been released on bail, but when Charley had stopped by to check on Ronnie in the wake of Wilson's death, an extremely hostile Jim had refused her entry. He claimed his wife was ill and not seeing anyone. Charley knew that she'd made two serious enemies. She couldn't help the twinge of guilt, even knowing they'd brought it on themselves.

She was surprised and pleased when Dmitri slipped into the end of their row, looking like a
GQ
cover in black Armani. Considering his low opinion of the deceased, she hadn't expected him to make the effort.

Afterward, when she and Marc joined the receiving line, there was a comic scramble as Midge and Kenneth tripped over themselves to steer clear of her. Dmitri swept into the void, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, confident that everyone there was thrilled to see him.

“Charley.” Dmitri hugged her tightly, then shook Marc's hand. “What is Midge's problem? Did you pee in her chardonnay?”

“I feel like she caught me smoking in the ladies' room,” Charley muttered. During the service, Midge and Kenneth had both glared at her before abruptly turning away.

“Screw her,” Frankie said dismissively. “Midge has a stick up her butt the size of a Volvo. Four-door,” she added primly.

John gazed at her fondly. “Is it any wonder I love this woman?”

“Frankie thinks she feels humiliated,” Charley told Dmitri, “and betrayed, because I helped the police. Still, it's ironic that
she's
pissed, when you consider she pulled a knife on me the last time we talked.”

“Some people simply have no conception of how to behave in public.” To illustrate his point, he cupped his left hand around his right, leaned past Marc, and flipped Frankie the bird. She stuck her tongue out at him.

Charley shook her head, still baffled by the wildly unpredictable behavior of the social elite.
Midge was so angry. Then she told me: “Lisa broke her neck. Be sure Charley knows”
Her final conversation with Wilson still haunted her. Why
had
Midge started that rumor? None of it made any sense.

As they moved through the crowd of familiar faces, Charley felt the stares, heard the whispers. If Marc noticed or cared, he gave no sign. And yet, he never broke physical contact with her—always a touch at her elbow, a hand on the small of her back, a whisper against her hair. The message was clear:
mine.
She tried to relax and simply enjoy it. Easier said than done, particularly today.

Although it was not quite up to her usual feline perfection, professional hair and makeup, plus a chic designer mourning suit, had restored a measure of Kitty's self-confidence.

“Charley, my young friend,” she murmured. She clasped her hand gently. “You were so good to come. And here's your handsome detective. My, my,” she said softy, taking in Marc's possessive hand on Charley's waist, “what have we here?”

“Kitty, I am so very sorry. I feel responsible for what happened to Ted.” The burden of guilt Charley had felt earlier lay even heavier upon her as she faced her friend, now a widow because of her own failure to find the truth.

“Ridiculous,” Kitty said with a touch of her old élan. “Certainly,
you
have nothing to answer for, whatever others may believe.”

“But I was one of the last people to talk to Wilson,” Charley said in a low voice. “I keep playing it over and over in my head. If only I'd handled it differently, asked better questions, pushed harder—but then Robert burst in, and Wilson just…crumbled. I know there was more she wanted to say.”

“She was deeply disturbed,” Marc murmured. “No one could have predicted how she would react.”

“Listen to your young man,” Kitty admonished her gently. “And you”—she turned to Marc—“seem to me to be just the right sort of detective. The kind who solves the mystery in the end.” Her eyes went dark with emotion.

“I did my best,” Marc said quietly. “I am very sorry for your loss.”

Without warning, Kitty threw her arms around Charley. “I am happy for you,” she whispered. “Be happy while you can.”

“I will.” Charley blinked back tears. She'd made enemies during the investigation, true enough, but perhaps she'd also found a new friend.

As they turned away, Charley stopped dead in her tracks. “I'm an idiot. It had to be
Wilson
who started that broken neck rumor. Marc, we talked about it. You heard us. She was opening up to me, but I let it go. If I'd asked her point blank, or if I'd asked Midge—”

“Stop.” Marc placed a finger on her lips. “None of this is your fault. You know that, Charley.”

Did she?

Frankie beckoned urgently from a corner. “Ready for a bombshell?” She paused dramatically. “Midge has disbanded the Agathas. Kaput.” She threw out her arms to simulate an explosion.

“Can she do that?” Charley asked in surprise.

“Honey, she's the chairwoman of Planet Crawford. She can do whatever she wants. Who's going to challenge her?”

“Once was enough for me, thank you.”

“I thought so. Besides, Lindy already resigned, and so has Kitty, of course. The Agathas Book Club is DOA. Somebody just needed to pronounce it.”

“I guess Midge saved me the trouble of quitting, too.” Charley sighed. Then she glanced anxiously at her best friend. “You all right with this?”

“Oh, please. I was going to make you bail with me, if you had any thoughts of trying to stick it out.” Frankie hip-checked her. “I ask you: Do we need permission from a bunch of dysfunctional housewives to enjoy our monthly murder mystery quota? I think not.”