The Book Club Murders (24 page)

As Kitty raised the gun, Charley pushed off hard and propelled herself forward, aiming her head at her would-be killer's center of gravity. The air rushed out of Kitty's lungs in a whoosh as the two women traveled backward into the counter. Searing pain shot through Charley's shoulder at the moment of impact, and she felt something give way. She cried out as she collapsed to the concrete floor, unable to break her fall since she was still securely duct-taped to the chair.

Pain blurred her vision, and she thought she must be hallucinating as the door to the storeroom burst open. The sound of the emergency siren flooded the soundproofed space, pummeling her senses, adding to her disorientation. Kitty staggered, trying to aim the gun at her, as Dmitri—could it be?—came barreling through the door, roaring like a madman, his face twisted with fury. Kitty swung around, and Charley heard a gunshot as Dmitri plowed into Kitty, carrying her across the room and into the solid steel of the back door with enough force to knock most grown men out cold.

“Charley! My God, are you all right?” Suddenly, Marc was there in her hallucination, hands racing over her, checking for injuries, oblivious to the battle raging a few feet away. Charley tried to speak, gasping in pain as Dmitri and Kitty struggled for the gun. The deafening moan of the siren began to subside. Charley's ears were ringing and her head pounded as, helpless and horrified, she watched the desperate contest, both combatants grimly silent.

Kitty fought like a tiger. Dmitri had her right wrist pinned against the door. The gun went off again, bringing down a shower of pulverized acoustic ceiling tile. His right forearm pressed across her windpipe, and her left arm was pinned between their bodies. Kitty gave a sudden, violent twist, pulling her arm free. Reaching up, she grabbed a handful of Dmitri's hair and yanked down hard, forcing his head back. Without hesitation, he hauled back and smashed his fist into her face. Blood spurted; cartilage crunched. Kitty's eyes rolled up and she went limp. As her body slid to the floor, Dmitri took the gun from her hand and turned, staggering slightly.

Charley stared up at him from where she knelt on the floor, Marc's arms around her. Frankie came skidding into the storeroom and stopped dead, her face white with terror. Dmitri offered the gun, but slowly, as though his arm were unnaturally heavy.

Then he followed their frightened stares, looking down at the hole in the expensive leather, the spreading stain.

“That little bitch,” he said, his voice faint. “This was a brand-new coat.”

He took a step toward Charley, but his knees gave way, even as Marc and Frankie moved to break his fall.

At a few minutes past noon on Christmas Day, Charley lounged on the front porch glider, sipping coffee and enjoying the mild sunshine. In one of the freakish twists that kept Midwestern weather anchors on their toes, the temperatures had risen steadily since the big snow, with highs expected in the mid-sixties. Perfect weather for her father's Christmas surprise. Considering his condition, the best gifts were…experiential. She could hardly wait to see his face.

She sighed, relishing the quiet. The past few weeks had been crazy busy. Yesterday she hadn't shooed the last customer out of Old Hat until seven, closing the books on a huge holiday season. She knew that much of the traffic after she'd reopened had been a result of the ghoul factor; people were drawn to crime scenes they saw on TV like moths to a flame. However, since most of them had felt compelled to purchase a souvenir of their visit, you wouldn't catch Charley complaining.

Much of that hellish day was still a blur, partially fear-induced, although the massive dose of painkillers was a contributing factor. If she'd thought being zapped with a stunner was transcendent agony, having a dislocated shoulder reset was a revelation. That injury, along with a hairline fracture of the collarbone, were her rewards for launching herself into Kitty's midsection as she'd been about to pull the trigger. It had been the equivalent of head-butting a wall.

Marc had charmed an ER nurse into finding her a bright green sling, after which he'd taken Charley upstairs to wait for news. Others had come: Frankie had refused to leave her, of course, and then John, Heddy, Lawrence, and Bobby, and even Chief Zehring had all kept vigil while a total stranger rooted around her beloved Dmitri's guts in search of Kitty's bullet. Her father had been speechless, gripping her good hand with his, despite her groggy assurances that she was fine.

“How did you know?” she'd asked that day, her head snuggled into Marc's shoulder, Frankie glued to her other side.

“Remember those illegally obtained soil samples you two collected? The results came back this morning. Turns out the lab couldn't differentiate the soil from the trail to anyone's wagon. However, they did find traces of Serena's blood. Only it wasn't from Wilson's wagon, it was from—”

“Kitty's.” Charley closed her eyes. “She bashed Serena on the head with that gun. It's why you never found any blood at the scene.”

“Inadmissible or not, that result threw Kitty's tidy little alibi into question. With a single call, I confirmed she wasn't on that Wednesday morning flight.” Marc shook his head. “We never bothered to pull the passenger manifest. There was so much paper, and with Zehring's deadline…Well. No excuses. She hand-fed us an alibi and I swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker. An amateur mistake that almost got you killed.” He gently stroked her hair. “Can you forgive me?”

“We'll put it on your tab,” she said, and he chuckled.

“Don't be too hard on yourself,” Frankie admonished. She sat quietly, her usual ebullient energy subdued, face still drawn and pale. “You had the correct theory of the crime, just the wrong woman scorned. Besides, you were up against a highly organized adversary. That clothing drive? Kitty started promoting it
last May.
”

“She made up those flyers and just kept sticking them on my windshield until I went to The Spare Closet and found Serena's purse. Poor Wilson,” Charley murmured sadly. “We should've known it was a frame-up. Lucy would never have left damning evidence in her own garage.”

“
I
should've known,” Marc said bitterly. “Wilson simply wasn't strong enough, mentally or physically, to plan and commit three murders. For one thing, I could never really buy that she had the guts to leave that gym after Robert told her to stay put—he had her completely under his thumb. But Lucy—Kitty—was all about control. She was strong as steel, planning it all, manipulating the Agathas, pulling strings like a puppet master. All of it in pursuit of a single goal: the murder of her husband.”

“She couldn't control us,” Charley said sleepily as the painkillers began pulling her down. “We made a good team.”

“The best.” He kissed her temple.

“And yet, she almost got away with it,” Frankie said in a low voice. Her expression turned fierce. “Charlotte Elizabeth Carpenter, if you
ever
—” She broke off, unable to continue. The two friends gazed at each other in a moment of silent communication that said everything.

“You can thank Dmitri for saving your life,” Marc said quietly. “I certainly intend to. We'd just gotten labs back on your soil samples and realized Kitty was Lucy. When Frankie called, I knew you were in danger. By the time I got to Old Hat, Dmitri was already trying to get in. He'd taken one look at the mess in your display window and known you were in serious trouble. He insisted you'd never have willingly left it that way.”

“How did you know I was inside?” Charley asked.

“Footprints in the snow,” Marc said. “Someone's high-heeled bootprints stopped at the display window and then led into Old Hat, but no prints led away from either entrance. When I couldn't shoot out the locks on that massive walnut door of yours, Dmitri actually threw a metal chair from Slash through the window. Then he charged in there like…” He shook his head. “He's one crazy, brave son of a bitch.”

Paul Brixton came stumping down the hall, expression cheerful.

“I just had the pleasure of accompanying our friendly neighborhood psycho killer downtown. She's been Mirandized six ways to Sunday, and she's still singing like a bird. Proud of herself. She's a real picture, too. Your buddy has a wicked right. Nose broken and two of the biggest shiners I've ever seen. That's gonna be a mug shot for my scrapbook.”

In spite of everything, Charley grinned.

Turning to Marc and Zehring, he said, “It's like we figured. Kitty Sizemore's been scheming since last January, trying to pull off the perfect murder.”

“One worthy of an Agatha mystery story,” Charley mused.

“Goddamn books,” Marc said with feeling. “Mystery writers are a menace.”

The sound of a car engine shattered the quiet, ending her reverie. Charley sat up as she recognized its throaty growl.

“Lawrence!” she called. “They're here.”

Two cars approached slowly up the quiet street, Dmitri's silent white Prius followed by a midnight blue Mustang, convertible top down. The driver wore a tight black T-shirt, Dayton Dragons baseball cap, and wraparound sunglasses. When he caught sight of her on the steps, Marc slipped the car into neutral and gunned it a little. The roar filled the air. They'd probably have the entire neighborhood out here in a minute, she thought. Even better.

As the two cars pulled up to the curb, the screen door opened behind her. Lawrence had dressed the Coach warmly, despite the mild temperature, in a pullover sweater, corduroy slacks, and a down vest. Bobby grumbled about all the layers on such a lovely day, but Lawrence just hummed and smiled.

John Bright rounded the Prius's hood as Frankie popped from the passenger seat. “Sorry we're late.”

“The star attraction is never late.”

Charley and Frankie both started for the rear door, but Lawrence beat them to it, sliding an arm behind Dmitri's shoulders, helping him to swing his legs out of the car. Dmitri caught Charley's eye and pulled a face.

“You people will have me in diapers next,” he said, but he was grinning.

“Crazy boy.” Lawrence smiled affectionately. “Thinks he's the Bionic Man.”

“Lee Majors, yuck.”

Leaning heavily on a cane, Dmitri stood. He was pale, but steady on his feet. Charley thought he looked amazing. His black hair, well past his shoulders now, was pulled back, healthy and shining, into a tail at his nape. His dark eyes were clear. Although he'd lost weight, his color was remarkable for someone who had nearly bled out in front of her three short weeks ago.

“Merry Christmas, handsome.” She reached up to kiss his cheek, but he tilted his head and smacked her full on the mouth.

“Nice rocks. Somebody must've been
verrrry
good this year.”

“They were Evelyn's,” she said. “And no, I'm not going to tell you how I thanked him.”

Marc had had his mother's Christmas emeralds reset for her, the screw posts replaced by delicate gold wires. The thoughtfulness of the gift had blown her away. Last night she, Bobby, and Marc had capped their Christmas Eve together with a toast to Evie's memory.

She needn't have worried about her father's reaction to their affair. A man of few words, he just nodded and smiled his lopsided smile, clearly content to see his beloved daughter with a man he liked and respected. As to the potential shock value of such news, even as she'd gently explained their status change, Charley had the sneaking suspicion Bobby Carpenter wasn't the least bit surprised.

Marc cut the Mustang's engine. The sudden silence was deafening. Parking his superior ass on the doorframe, he performed a perfect half-turn, landing on the balls of his feet. In four bounds he was at her side, grinning like a little kid and knuckle-bumping Dmitri.

“What a badass,” she deadpanned, her pulse tripping a little.

“Chicks dig muscle cars,” Marc affirmed. “I got three offers on the way over here.” Pulling off the sunglasses, he brushed his lips over hers, then turned to Dmitri. “That”—he cocked his thumb at the Mustang—“is a car.
That
”—indicating the Prius—“is a parade float. Where's your self-respect?”

“I'm walking with a cane and I need help taking a leak. Self-respect is pretty low on the list just now.”

Marc glanced toward the porch, then at Charley. “Did you tell him yet?”

“And spoil the surprise?”

Lawrence rumbled impatiently. “Lord almighty, let the poor man up to the house.” He turned to Frankie. “I got some homemade lasagna and fresh bread all wrapped up for when you take that boy home later. Plus, I expect we'll have plenty of leftovers….”

As she and John were led away, Frankie rolled her eyes at Charley.

Dmitri clutched her arm. “Charley, you have to make him stop. It's like
Tuesdays with Morrie
at my place. I can't even close the refrigerator door!”

Marc and Charley burst out laughing. “Sorry, Galahad,” she said when she could speak. “You're on your own.”

“Ingrate.”

“Showboat.”

“Traitor.”

“Target practice.”

“Fine,” he said in mock disgust. “Abuse the invalid.”

A very impatient Coach Carpenter had been staring at Dmitri since he'd emerged from the car. Now he smiled his lopsided smile at the man who had taken a bullet for his little girl.

“Come sit.” Dmitri slowly climbed the steps and shook the proffered hand gently.

“Thanks for having me today. Sorry to say, one of us won't be sitting on his tush all afternoon, watching the turkey bake.”

Charley knelt down beside her father. “How about it, Daddy? Feel like hitting the road?” She pointed at the Mustang. Bobby stared from the car to her, then to Marc.

“Here's the deal.” Marc jiggled the keys. “Roads are largely empty today. We're cleared to travel Far Hills Avenue and adjacent major arteries to the county line at whatever speed we deem appropriate. Lights and siren. That's a lot of miles, sir.” He grinned. “Let's see what she can do.”

Lawrence lifted Bobby and carried him to the Mustang. He settled him in the passenger seat and began buckling him in. Bobby pumped his good fist in the air.

“Let's…see!”

Charley's eyes filled. “He's so excited. Look at him.”

“I'll show you excited.” Marc pulled her close. “One for the road.” Dipping her low, he claimed her mouth, kissing her thoroughly, leaving her flushed and breathless.

“Get a room, people.”

“Quiet, crazy boy.”

He set her back on her feet and she swayed, gripping his biceps. Marc smiled a slow, sexy smile full of promise.

“Hold that thought, babe.” He ran down the steps, leaped into the driver's seat, and started the engine, revving it hard. Bobby's eyes went wide. Reaching into the backseat, Marc came up with a small cherry top light, stuck it on the dash, and threw the Mustang into gear. They peeled out, siren wailing, red strobe flashing, taillights disappearing in a cloud of exhaust. Several neighbors stood on their porches, gaping. So much for peace on earth.

Lawrence's expression was a perfect mixture of amusement and terror. Charley took one enormous hand and tugged.

“Come on, big guy,” she coaxed, her heart light. She inhaled deeply, savoring fresh air as she strolled along a sidewalk that led to the most beloved place in the world. “Marc will keep him safe. Besides, this is Oakwood. What could possibly happen?”