The Book Club Murders (23 page)

“You were in New York when Serena was killed.”

“Well, I was”—Kitty's look was coy—“and I wasn't. Darling, I certainly hope your young man is better in bed than he is at investigating. A seasoned detective would have checked those credit card charges, made sure I was actually present at that Manhattan restaurant, that I was on that Wednesday morning flight. I stood up some very good friends of mine for dinner, a shocking breach of manners. I made up for it by leaving my credit card number and signature with Alain the maitre d'. A lovely man, totally trustworthy. I've known him for years.”

Charley recalled the flood of financial records Mitch and Camille had struggled to sort through. She, Charley, had handed them Kitty's alibi on a silver platter. Under pressure from Zehring's deadline, they'd gratefully accepted it at face value.
I'm to blame.
“You flew back Tuesday instead of Wednesday?”

“The commuter special, nonstop to Cincinnati, paid for in cash. I rented a car—cash again—and drove up to Dayton in plenty of time to arrange things. Afterward I paid cash for a room at the most revolting little motel on the freeway. Wednesday morning I simply returned the rental car and took a taxi home, just as if I'd come from the airport.”

“How did you know where she'd be that night?”

“I lured her there. One day at the country club I got her talking. After a cocktail or two, Serena always became quite chatty. Perhaps she was just a teensy bit guilty about having slept with my husband, but I doubt it.” A slight flush stained her pale cheeks. “She was only too glad to blab about her separation. She wasn't sure how to get the goods on Bradley. I told her I knew the perfect private investigator. An out-of-towner, and very discreet. No emails or phone calls, I said, and don't tell a soul: Bradley is far too smart! Let me handle everything, I told her. Serena fell for it completely.”

Kitty sighed. “So simple. All I had to do was wait until she got out of her car and call her over. Simple,” she said again, with a touch of wonder. “I was quite nervous, but in the end, there was really nothing to it.”

Nothing to it.

She reached into the tote one more time. The item she retrieved caused Charley to freeze, her heart stuttering in terror. It was a small, black handgun.

“It belonged to my uncle. Unregistered, untraceable, and very handy. After I shocked her, one good knock sent dear Serena straight to dreamland for the duration of our little wagon ride. Oh, relax,” she soothed. “It's not time yet.” She laid the gun on the counter with the robe and wig.

Charley couldn't stand it. “Time for
what
?” She struggled wildly for a moment, her chair rocking dangerously onto two legs before slamming back down to the concrete floor.

“Don't you know what day this is? Why, it's Monday, December first.” Kitty gazed at her expectantly. “The first Monday of the month, darling. Soundproofing is one thing, but I don't have a silencer for my little friend here. We
are
right across the street from the police station. You'll appreciate the dramatic touch.” Her smile was radiant. “At high noon, that atrocious warning siren is going to go off. And that's when I'm going to shoot you. Isn't that clever of me?”

“We digress.” Kitty's tone was brisk. She lit yet another cigarette, inhaling deeply, her movements quick and nervous. “Aren't you going to ask me about Serena's things?”

Charley dragged her eyes away from the gun. Seeing it had scared her, but that jolt of fear only served to shake her. Hard. To fan the embers of her faltering rage, she stared at Kitty, imagining herself free, her unbound fist smashing into that elegant face.

Kitty stirred impatiently. “Fine. I'll explain everything, and you can ask questions. All right?” She didn't wait for an answer. “First of all, that purse. I was beginning to wonder if I'd have to send an engraved invitation to get you over there, darling. The clothing drive was my idea, not that anyone would remember who suggested it originally. Wilson, bless her, was always so happy to help. Anything that might give her an excuse to call or come over. Always a chance Ted might answer.” She shook her head. “So pathetically suggestible. She loved my suggestion to select a dozen of the nicest things for consignment, if it meant a few more dollars for charity. When I said to leave the boxes, Ted will be along to get them next week, or the next…Such a simpleton. She looked up to me. I always tried to be supportive, you know. Her husband is a monster.” She made this pronouncement without a trace of irony.

“Lisa Summerfield,” Charley prompted. “Why her?”

Kitty snorted. “That little minx? She's—she was—barely two years older than Edward Junior. Everyone knew about her and Ted. Every time I attended a class…” She scowled. “I knew I was a laughingstock, but I never let on. I'd laid my plans long before that night. And there was Lisa, strutting around at that party, lording it, so fresh and perky, making it even easier to stomach. Easier than Serena.”

“And Jelly?” Charley asked softly. “Was that easy, too?”

The hand holding the cigarette trembled again. “A piece of cake.” She blew a stream of smoke directly at Charley.

“But, why Jelly? What happened at the Reunion?” Charley could feel precious minutes ticking by, slipping through her fingers. What would Jane Marple do? She fought down a wild impulse to laugh.

“I'd planned to kill again that night, I didn't much care who. Thanks to Ted's…diligent adulterizing,” Kitty shifted, “I had several candidates to choose from. But there sat Jelly, blathering on and on about
The ABC Murders
at the top of her lungs. I couldn't have that, could I? Ever since Lisa, she'd been regarding me quite oddly. I think she'd begun to suspect the truth. Smarter than she looked, our Jelly.” Again, something like regret flickered.

“How did you do it?” Charley asked, curious despite her desperate circumstances. “All those people.”

Kitty waved a hand. “It was simply a matter of braving it out. I didn't have to do it that night. Right up until the moment I stabbed her, I could have walked away, saved it for another time. Do you know, I think the Fates wanted me to succeed. I whispered to Jelly that I had discovered the most amazing secret, something shocking, but that I could only show her. She was quite tipsy and absolutely thrilled to be part of a real live mystery! Just like Wilson and Serena, she believed every word.”

“But you, how did you—”

“I walked with Ted and the others through the gym and into the café area. Rather than waiting with Ted while he bought his cigar, I kept right on walking. I was the first person out of the building. I turned right, and in two steps I was in total darkness. I ran around and there was Jelly, waiting just as I'd instructed. She'd slipped out a side entrance, swore no one saw her. We peeked in through the doors, just in time to see Evan and Lindy Taylor walk by. We ducked out of sight. How we giggled!”

Kitty smiled at the memory. Charley shuddered, shocked at the depths of her captor's depravity.

“As soon as the coast was clear, we slipped inside the door I'd rigged. I led Jelly over to the photographer's bench and told her to—you'll love this, Charley—I told her to
close her eyes.
She actually did it. Can you believe that?”

“No.”

“It's true. After she was dead, it only took a moment to grab the book and sash from under the trophy case. I left the way I came in and ran back around. Ted was just coming outside with two brandies. I took mine and we chatted with friends until the police broke up the party.”

“My letter opener?”

“The Fates again. The morning they found poor Lisa, your clerk had trays of goodies laid out for Wilson and her mother-in-law. And there it was, ripe for the picking. I had just planted that broken-neck rumor in Wilson's highly suggestible ear—a little nudge toward establishing her as a suspect—when Midge got it into her head that associating with you might do her precious reputation more harm than good. With everyone scrambling to leave, no one paid any attention to little old me.”

Kitty huffed. “That woman is an insufferable bully. Imagine, calling the Agathas, issuing instructions about not taking your calls. I'd be doing this town a favor if I took Miss High and Mighty out of the social equation permanently, don't you think?”

Charley's revulsion must have shown on her face, because Kitty laughed, high and shrill. “Don't be a hypocrite, darling. Besides, what do you care? You'll be dead.”

Charley swallowed hard as she watched Kitty prowl around the storeroom. How had she managed to fool everyone? Marc, the Agathas, even her own husband and son. Months of playing the happy housewife, chatting over dinner, attending social functions, shopping, and all the while planning the perfect murders.
Mrs. White in the conservatory with a goddamned candlestick.

Was there anything she could do to save herself? Charley pictured the parking lot, empty of cars on this snowy Monday. Dmitri was probably long gone by now, his appointment either finished or a no-show. If he'd noticed anything awry, he'd have been here by now to check on her. She was on her own.

She could scream until her throat bled, but there was no one to hear her. No one would hear the shot. There would be no last-minute rescue, because no one knew she needed rescuing. Kitty had planned well. Choosing just the right time, posing as a big client, booking the appointment by email, using a fake name—

That name!
“Una Owen,” Charley gasped, the sudden realization like a bucket of cold water over her head, “that's one of the names Justice Wargrave uses to lure his victims to the island. U. N. Owen.
Unknown.
Jesus, it was right in front of me. All I had to do was read.”

“Ironic, no?”

“How did you lure Wilson to the clinic? The police impounded their computers, so you couldn't have used email.”

Kitty paused in the act of pawing through a carton of scarves. “I helped myself to Ted's cellphone and sent her a text message. ‘Ted' was simply ‘
desperate'
to see her!” Leaving her exploration of the shelves, Kitty wandered back to the counter. She picked up the wig, examined it briefly, and let it drop.

“Wilson, that pitiable creature, just wouldn't let him go. She kept coming around, wandering past our house at all hours. She nearly caught me sneaking back home after I killed Lisa—thank God I was wearing black. I intercepted a few of her more desperate texts to Ted's phone. ‘Teddy-Bear,' she called him.” She blinked. “I used it. I knew she'd believe it, because she wanted to believe. Her sanity was slipping; her marriage was a nightmare. Wilson had nothing left except her sad little obsession with my husband.”

Kitty picked up the gun, turning it in her hands as if she'd never seen it before. She stared at Charley with an unreadable expression. “Look at you. So young and lovely, with everything to live for. I am fifty, Charley. Do you have any idea what that means in a place like Oakwood? A new wrinkle every day, my friends laughing and whispering, my own son treating me like an inconvenience. My husband hasn't touched me in months. I have nothing left but being Mrs. Edward Sizemore, and that bastard turned our marriage into the biggest joke in town, with me as the punch line. I loved him, I stood by him, and he was
killing me
!”

Kitty shrieked the last two words, her face flaming. Without warning, she swung the gun around, pressing the barrel hard into the center of Charley's forehead. Charley squeezed her eyes shut. For several long moments, neither of them moved. Then Kitty withdrew the gun, her face devoid of emotion.

“Mustn't be hasty. That would spoil all my hard work.”

“Kitty, please.” Charley groped for the right words. “I can help you. We're friends, I can—”

“Of course we are, dear girl. Now, don't you worry.” Kitty patted her cheek, and Charley flinched. “I won't let you suffer. I never let any of them suffer….” Then she laughed, a bright, quick, artificial burst of sound that belied her vacant stare.

And in that moment, all hope died. Kitty Sizemore wasn't just a deeply unhappy woman—she was mad as a hatter. She
would
point that gun at Charley and pull the trigger. There would be no eleventh-hour change of heart. Charley couldn't escape. She couldn't even move. She—

But she
could
move. She could
move.
Hadn't she almost tipped her chair a minute ago? Kitty was obsessed with re-creating those scenes down to the letter. If Charley could manage to screw her up, make it impossible for her to—oh, sweet Jesus—
shoot
her precisely in the center of her forehead, delay her just long enough. She needed only sixty seconds. If Kitty couldn't shoot under cover of the siren, would she still go through with it?

It wasn't as if she had a lot of options. At least she would go down fighting. She had the fleeting thought that, if this were happening in one of their murder mysteries, Frankie would have loved it. Taking a deep breath, she planted her feet and waited.

Kitty cocked her head, then checked her watch. Her face blossomed into a flawless, radiant, insane smile. “And there we are. It's time at last, darling Charley. Are you ready to die?”

Dmitri stared unseeing into the storm. Except for the parked SUV belonging to his final client of the day, Park Avenue was deserted. The familiar scene had been transformed into something alien, yet starkly beautiful. Snowflakes spun and swarmed in the light from Slash's front window. Frowning, he hit redial for the third time.

“Charley, what the hell is taking so long? Call me when you're almost ready, sweetie. It's going to take a while to clean off my car.”

He slowly closed his phone. Why was he so uneasy? It defied rational explanation, but an oppressive weight of anxiety and urgency had been building steadily for the last half hour. After leaving two texts and a voicemail for Frankie, he had called Marc, getting kicked to yet another voicemail. Where the hell was everyone? He checked his watch, then tried Charley again on both her cell and business lines. No answer.

At first Dmitri assumed Charley was with her new customer, except it didn't look like the woman had ever showed. No car out front that Dmitri could see, and no tire tracks in the snow to indicate she'd been there. Wouldn't a woman with twelve pairs of slacks park right by the entrance? But if Charley wasn't with her appointment, why wasn't she answering?

Dmitri slapped his forehead. Satan's comb-over, he was a dunce. Old Hat had a second entrance, just like Slash. He dashed down the length of the salon into the storeroom, throwing Mrs. Jeffers a reassuring smile as she glanced up from her magazine. Thank God she was almost finished. Ten more minutes and he could get the hell out of here. He was itching to run next door and check on Charley. She might be hurt, or sick, or worse.

When he cracked open the back door, a gust of wind slapped snow into his face. Charley's Beetle sat next to his Prius, a white mound under a good four inches of snow.

There were no other cars in the lot.

Dmitri tried to swallow the sudden panic that squeezed his throat at the sight. He yanked on his long leather coat. Client or no client, he was going over there. He'd break down the goddamned door if he had to.

When his cell rang, he almost dropped it. “Charley!”

“It's Frankie, doofus. What's so freaking urgent? I was showering when you—”

“Do you know where Charley is?” He quickly outlined the situation.

“I suppose she could've left on foot,” Frankie said doubtfully. “What makes you think she's still inside?”

“I don't know,” he admitted, “it's just a feeling. She had that appointment, but I never saw anyone go in, and I never saw her leave. I mean, if Mrs. Owen had all those slacks and skirts, wouldn't she park right in front of—”

“
Who
did you say?” Frankie interrupted him sharply.

“Mrs. Owen, the client she was meeting. Why? Is that someone you know?”

“Dmitri.” Frankie's voice lashed like a whip. “What was her first name? Did Charley mention her first name?”

He racked his brain. “I think so. It was odd, unusual. She was all hyped about how this woman had found her on the Inter—”

“Was it something starting with the letter U? Like Una or Ursula?”

Dmitri blinked. “Una. Her name was Una. How did you know that? Frankie, who the hell is Una Owen?”

Marc reached for his cell, noting he had a new voicemail, grateful for the distraction. The snow had effectively shut down the city. It was pretty, but it left him with no excuse to avoid the ever-present mountain of paperwork.

As he listened to Dmitri's worried message, a thread of unease started weaving through his gut. It was probably just the storm, but his new friend's anxiety was contagious. Marc punched number one on his speed dial.

“Hey, beautiful. Call me as soon as you get this, okay?” He disconnected and started to call Dispatch. No need to panic, he decided, at least not yet. He'd have a patrol swing by her shop. No doubt she was back in that soundproofed storage room of hers. All this snow had Dmitri seeing ghosts.

He halted in the act of dialing, startled by the sound of someone shouting his name.

“Detective?” Mitch Cooper skidded around the corner, gripping a file. His face was pale. “We've got a problem.”

“Spit it out, Officer. I've got problems of my—” As Marc reached for the file, his cell rang. He grabbed it up, expecting to see Charley's name on the display. He scowled at the screen. “Frankie, is Charley with you?”

“No, she's not. But—”

“Okay, well, I can't talk right—” He started to cut her off.

“SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME!” Frankie's desperate command, screamed through the tiny speaker, was audible down the length of the squad room. Marc stared at his cell in surprise. Then he raised it to his ear, and his face drained of color.