The Book Club Murders (26 page)

“Yes, yes, we've been through all that.” Calvin had his arm around Millie's shoulders, steering her toward the enormous double front doors. “We've searched everything, just as I told you we would. We've found nothing, my word of honor.”

“But she promised.
You
promised!” Millie's voice dropped to a furious whisper. “We trusted you. You told us we could trust you.”

Charley strained to hear. What promise? What had Calvin been searching for?

“I understand. Very distressing. What I recommend is a nice cup of tea, perhaps a hot bath. And tomorrow, when you're feeling calmer…” Calvin's final words were lost as he opened one of the front doors.

Shooting Holland a final look of pure hatred, Millie allowed Calvin to maneuver her outside. Shutting the door firmly, he turned with a sigh of relief and spotted Charley.

“Charley, my dear. All set, are we?”

She descended the last few steps, trying not to look guilty of first-degree eavesdropping. “Ready when you are.”

“Who the hell is this?” Holland glared at her.

“Holland, may I introduce Miss Charlotte Carpenter? She is the proprietor of Old Hat, the vintage clothier located just a few doors down from my own establishment. Charley, Holland Mulbridge.”

Holland ignored Charley's outstretched hand, dismissing her with a glance. Charley could almost hear her thinking:
Shopkeeper.
She was suddenly acutely aware of her faded jeans, ancient sweatshirt, and the hair she hadn't bothered to brush out that morning, instead raking it into a violent red topknot, tendrils drifting loose around her face. Despite her tussle with Millie, Holland's smooth golden tresses looked as if she'd just stepped out of a salon.

“Mr. Prescott, I demand to know what on earth that interfering old woman was talking about. What promise? What are you searching for?” Holland's tone rang with command, the voice of a woman used to getting her way.

Calvin waved dismissively. “Just some ridiculous nonsense about a new will.”

Holland's jaw dropped. “A new
will
? She thinks my mother…what? Left everything to her? She's out of her mind.”

“Not to her, personally.” Calvin sighed. “She's under the impression that your mother intended leaving the estate in trust to SOAP. We've found nothing, and so there's nothing for you to be concerned with, as I said. Now, Charley, if you'll come with me…”

Pamela shook her head in disgust and headed off on a mission of her own, as Calvin disappeared back through the double doors on their left. After a moment's stunned hesitation, both women hurried after him. Charley found herself in a huge, high-ceilinged room. Rows of chairs faced a small stage with a podium and display table draped in black. A pair of workers arranged framed paintings on a series of easels against the far wall. This was the formal living room, actually a small ballroom, the setting for tomorrow's auction. After that little one-act drama, Charley couldn't wait. It looked like things might get interesting.

Holland spoke, breaking the silence that had followed Calvin's casually dropped bombshell.

“That old vulture has been hanging around for months. She drove my mother crazy.”

“Why?” Charley asked. “Weren't they friends?”

Holland sniffed. “They were contemporaries. Both widowed young. Millie had no children, but she raised a nephew—I don't recall his name. He was in Cub Scouts with Jamie. Not precisely Mother's cup of tea, but there were ceremonies, car pools, that sort of thing.”

Charley nodded.
That sort of thing
was the lifeblood of a small community like Oakwood. Even a woman as insulated by wealth as Augusta Mulbridge hadn't been immune.

“Benjy Wycoff. I remember him. He was two years ahead of me at Oakwood. But I don't think I remember your brother.”

“Jamie entered St. John's in eighth grade.”

Well, duh, Charley thought. Jameson Mulbridge, Jr., had attended an exclusive prep school, as had Holland. No mere public school education would do for the elite, not even Oakwood, one of the top-rated school districts in the state.

“Mother knew everyone in town, regardless of their ages. That's how she was. Involved. Caring.” A shadow flitted across Holland's face, a momentary tightness, then it was gone. “A few years ago, dear old Millie took up this new hobby, forming that preservationist club and making a nuisance of herself with estate owners and the City Council. Talk about the devil and idle hands.” Her short laugh was devoid of humor. “Now I know what she was angling for. She was trying to get Mother to change her will and turn the house into some sort of museum. Can you imagine?”

Charley could not. This place was so sunk into decay, it would take far more money to restore it than the house was probably worth. She doubted SOAP and its membership had pockets that deep. But what did she know?

Since Holland was being so chatty, she decided to probe a little.

“Are you sure she didn't?” Holland stared at her. Charley shrugged apologetically, aware of how little she really knew about the Mulbridge family. Just gossip and what she'd read in the papers. “You knew your own mother best. But Millie certainly seems convinced. She must have had some reason to think your mother was at least considering it. Those SOAP fanatics have been after me to join since I opened Old Hat, and let me tell you, they're relentless. Is it possible your mother might have said something to…string her along?”

“Why on earth would she do that?”

Maybe because she was bored and lonely,
Charley thought. She glanced up at the water-stained plaster rosettes decorating the ballroom ceiling. How had Holland and her brother allowed their home, their mother's home, to spiral down into such a sorry state? Were Millie's accusations of neglect true? Maybe Augusta had wanted to ensure that the only visitor she had would keep coming around. Or maybe, just maybe, she really did have a change of heart. It happened.

Holland seemed to read something of Charley's thoughts in her expression. “Please don't believe Millie's lies about Mother. The three of us discussed it. She knew Jamie and I were going to tear the place down. We agreed it would be foolish to waste time and money on—”

Holland's cellphone rang. She frowned at the display and turned away to answer.

Well, well. That little speech had smacked of excuses and ass-covering. She watched Holland pacing, whispering furiously into her phone. Her voice rose briefly, and Charley heard a snatch of conversation.

“—never should have told him, Cecil! This is unacceptable. Your job is to make sure he doesn't…” and her voice dropped again. Then: “You have no idea what I'm forced to contend with here! On top of everything else…”

Somebody was getting reamed, Charley thought with amusement. She imagined Princess Holland was a stern taskmaster, accustomed to being obeyed, not much caring which hapless minion got trampled in the process.

Why would such a woman bother to justify her actions to a mere shopkeeper? Would a powerful shipping magnate give a damn about public sentiment? She might, Charley decided, if she were worried about getting her project approvals from the city. Rumor had it that the Planning Commission was dragging its feet, still divided over whether to grant authorization for the teardown and redevelopment of the property. Like it or not, public sentiment meant a great deal in a place like Oakwood. As if the protests of a handful of wealthy, influential neighbors and assorted SOAP members weren't contentious enough, a third group had recently entered the fray.

A University of Dayton doctoral candidate had announced discovery of what he claimed was a brand-new species of butterfly. The only known colony in existence was situated in a small glade less than an eighth of a mile from the house. While the land itself wasn't part of the Mulbridge estate, and thus under no immediate threat of development, Gregory Scales had written a passionate letter to the
Oakwood Register
expressing his concerns about the negative effects of construction noise and debris on the butterfly colony. Holland had been quoted, a terse assurance that all necessary precautions would be taken to minimize any potential impacts on all their neighbors, both human and insect.

After two delays on flimsy pretexts had produced threats of legal action from the Mulbridge family's army of lawyers, the Planning Commission would finally convene in special session next Friday, just eight days from now. If the vote went against Holland and her brother, Charley imagined they would stand to lose a lot of money. Millions, according to the
OR
. In her experience, people with money and power always wanted more of both. The more they had, the hungrier they were. And more often than not, they did whatever it took to get their hands on the biggest share.

Charley approached the exquisite Louis XV escritoire that Calvin had appropriated for the duration of the sale. Perched on a matching chair, he rubbed his hands, blue eyes twinkling. “You found the things I set aside? What did you think?”

“You know exactly what I thought, you rascal.” She dropped into a folding chair. “I want it all. But honestly, Calvin, you must think I was born yesterday.” She pulled out his inventories and laid them on the desk. “Do you want to see me go bankrupt?”

After a highly gratifying thirty minutes, Charley rose, her ownership of Augusta Mulbridge's vintage treasures secured. Best of all, she'd managed to wrangle Calvin's original estimates down nearly twenty percent. In all fairness, he'd seemed to enjoy the negotiations every bit as much as she had.

“Thanks for holding everything until Monday. I'll figure something out over the weekend.”

Old Hat couldn't afford a truck. And her ancient orange VW Beetle wouldn't hold even one of those precious garment bags without crushing its contents. This issue with transporting estate-sale finds had been a problem since she'd started her business. Up until now, whenever she planned a road trip that promised to bear bulkier fruit, she managed to beg, borrow, or steal vans or pickup trucks from various friends and acquaintances to haul home her purchases. This time, maybe because the sale was here in Oakwood, she'd procrastinated, then struck out with all her usual victims.

“Charley, I've just had the most marvelous idea,” Calvin began as he walked her out. Holland was nowhere to be seen. “There are several out-of-town dealers for whom I'll be holding larger items. What if I had my movers bring your things to my shop on Monday afternoon? I've already paid them to transport everything else. That way you could simply pop down the street and carry it all back to your place. Although I must say, it's high time you got yourself a van.”

“Maybe if the new eveningwear line takes off, I can finally afford one. Thanks for this; you're the best!” Charley planted a kiss on his cheek. He pinked with pleasure. “Good luck with the auction, sweetie. I'll be the sassy redhead in the back row.”

As she stepped through the heavy double doors, she inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of the surrounding pines, cleansing the stench of mold from her lungs. She tried to imagine a dozen or so new homes where these woods now stood. That wasn't really so many, was it? She knew several of the neighbors in opposition: the Greenes, the Englands, the Patels. Wealthy, yes, but at the end of the day, they were honest, hardworking families like any others. She knew their concerns included the safety of their children traveling to school along the narrow, winding roads of west Oakwood. It wasn't just about privacy, or appraised values, or perceived quality of life. The question of a missing will was intriguing, she thought, but ultimately it was people that mattered.

“You're not fooling anyone, you know.”

Charley almost jumped out of her skin. She whirled to find Pamela leaning against a pillar, a sour look on her face. “Excuse me?”

Pamela gestured toward the house. “Calvin doesn't need another protégé. He's already got me. So you can take your damsel-in-distress act and shove it.”

And with a final sneer, she stalked inside and shut the door. Charley stared at the ornate laurel wreath door knockers in disbelief.
Damsel-in-distress act?
Pamela suspected she was, what? Pretending to be hard-up financially so Calvin would…She shook her head. The idea was too preposterous. Yes, she and Calvin were very close, but she'd never realized Pamela might be threatened by their relationship, that she might be jealous of Charley. Yet clearly that was the case.

She descended the steps and headed to her car, wondering what she could do to dispel Pamela's suspicions. Well, what could she do? They were totally groundless. She wasn't going to pretend to be something she was not, and she wouldn't give up her friendship with Calvin. It was a shame, really. She and Pamela had always had a cordial relationship. The woman was a bit high-strung, but Charley had never pegged her as paranoid.

“It just goes to show,” she remarked to a bright red cardinal on a nearby branch. “You never really know about people.”

Every great mystery needs an Alibi

eOriginal mystery and suspense from Random House

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