The Book Club Murders (8 page)

—
dinary notebook paper. Looks like somebody might be sending a message.

What's she supposed to be guilty of?

With a growing sense of unreality
,
Charley flipped pages again, coming to a stop on page 43.

The paper inside had been torn from a lined notebook, the kind you could buy anywhere, marked with a heavy hand. Close up it was easy to read the single word block-printed on it: GUILTY.

What's she supposed to be guilty of?

Charley squeezed her eyes shut. What was she thinking here? Was she crazy?

Now she stood in her shop, and Jelly was speaking in her mind: …
lying there naked with a bag on his head, a nasty old mattress
…

And that hideous video clip from the Internet, with Serena's dead body on another mattress, her head not visible in the shot. Everyone thinking the same thing, how much Serena's murder was like
Rattlesnake Crossing.
Was it? Did Serena die with a bag over her head, too?

Had two women's murders mirrored books that she, Charley, had been reading? Books that the
Agathas
had been reading?

Charley realized she'd been holding her breath, and released it in a rush. She was probably out of her mind, but she knew one thing absolutely: If she didn't either confirm or dismiss these insane ideas, ideas that had come bubbling up unbidden from her subconscious, she really would go crazy. She stuffed both books into a carryall and hurried into the shop.

“Deirdre, I have to run out. You've got the helm.”

Her clerk looked up sleepily from an issue of
Cosmo.
“When will you…”

But Charley was already gone.

The carpeted lobby of the Safety Building was hushed. To her left she saw a long counter, where two women tapped at computer keyboards; another was on the phone. She cleared her throat.

“Excuse me, I'm looking for Marc—Detective Trenault.”

One of the tappers, a pleasant-faced woman of about sixty, glanced up. “One moment.” She picked up a phone and dialed. “Detective Brixton? Someone is here to see Detective Trenault.” She smiled at Charley. “Your name?”

Suddenly Charley felt foolish and about nine years old. What was she doing here? She was losing it; that was the only possible explanation. She was frustrated over never being able to find anything out, so she'd started seeing connections that didn't exist. And Marc, damn him, it was his fault, too. He was a source of frustration of a different kind. Every time he came near she had trouble thinking straight, and so she'd just—

The woman was looking at her expectantly. If she turned and ran out, would anyone even know she'd been here?

“Ms. Carpenter, hello again.” She whirled around, and there was Officer Hennepin, smiling his sexy smile. “Is everything all right, Rita?”

Rita hung up the phone. “She's here to see Detective Trenault, Randy. Can you walk her up to the squad room?”

“My pleasure.” He deposited a stack of file folders on the counter and winked at Rita, who blushed. “Shall we?”

Well, she was in it now. She followed Randy through a set of double doors. They started up a wide flight of steps.

“What brings you here? No trouble, I hope. There've been a lot of shoplifting complaints from Shops of Oakwood merchants in the last couple of weeks.”

“Nothing like that, thank heaven. So far that sort of thing has passed Park Avenue by. Knock wood.” God, she sounded like a dweeb. What would she say to Marc?

“So, Ms. Carpenter.”

“Please, call me Charley.”

“Charley. I like that.” He grinned at her. “Charley, what do you have in that shop of yours that a guy like me might be interested in? I've seen your window, the one with the giraffes, right? It looks like all ladies' stuff.”

“I'm sure you have a woman in your life who might enjoy something unique as a gift. Your wife, perhaps, or a girlfriend?”

They arrived at a second set of double doors. Frosted glass panes bore the words
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
in big black letters. Randy reached in front of her, swiped his ID through an electronic lock, and pulled one door open. She took a deep breath and walked through.

She found herself in a long, high-ceilinged room filled with desks. Tall windows ran along both sides, creating a surprisingly pleasant and airy feel, not what she'd been expecting. Various official notices hung on the walls between, alongside an assortment of scary mug shots. FBI's Most Wanted, she supposed. Unlike the lobby, this space hummed with noise and action. Half a dozen safety officers and three or four people in plainclothes spoke on telephones or worked at computers. She didn't see Marc.

Randy led her down an aisle between rows of desks. “No wife and no girlfriend. At the moment, that is.” He grinned again, fixing her with those bedroom eyes.

Before she could reply, Marc appeared from around a corner. The room was shaped like a big L, his workspace apparently tucked back in the short part at the end. He stood, hands on hips, surprise and irritation at war on his face. He had removed his jacket and loosened his tie. He looked…hot. Charley swallowed hard. She could feel herself blushing.

“Detective, this is Ms. Charley Carpenter.”

“Yes, I know.” Marc scowled as he glanced between her and Randy. “You're on the canvass with Bronsen. She's got your street assignment.”

“On my way.” He winked at her. “Good luck, Charley.”

“Thank you, Randy.” Charley gave him her best smile.
Bite me, Trenault.
“Be sure and come into Old Hat sometime. I'm sure we can find something to tempt you.” Lord, did she really just say that?

“This way.” Marc practically bit the words off. He turned and led her into the alcove, where two desks had been pushed together. A row of filing cabinets lined one wall. Two more windows at the far end flooded the space with light. Spartan, but survivable. She didn't have a window. Of course, she owned her own business. That was better than a window.

Marc indicated a chair. “Paul went to get coffee. Seemed to think it was appropriate for a social visit.” He frowned. “I'm extremely busy. If you're here out of curiosity…”

“Of course not.” She found herself wishing she hadn't come. She wished it a whole lot. She gripped the carryall in her lap, proximity to this man causing a flush to creep over her entire body. “I, uh, wanted to talk to you. In an official capacity. About the murders.”

“Murders?” Marc was still frowning. “What murders?”

“Serena, and, um, the one today.”

“Who said that was murder?” he asked sharply.

“Well, you did, sort of.” Charley lifted her chin, trying to conjure up the certainty she'd felt back in her office. It all seemed so ludicrous now. “I feel a bit foolish, actually. I was reading
Mallets Aforethought
for my Book Club, and it reminded me…Well, it's the other way around, isn't it? Lisa Summerfield's death reminded me of the book. And I thought, why would you ask me if I was missing a dress from the Roaring Twenties? And the coroner was there, and you looked so…so
crazed
for a minute. I thought, what if she was murdered, too, and dressed up after, like in the book?”

Marc blinked but said nothing, just kept staring at her. She pushed on resolutely. “And then she said maybe somebody was trying to send a message, and you said the message was ‘Guilty,' so I figured somebody put a note in her pocket, just like…”

“Stop.” Marc held up a hand. “Stop right there. How do you know about the note?”

“Oh, God,” she breathed. “There really
was
a note? Marc, this is what I—”

“Coffee, anyone?” Detective Brixton bore a plastic cafeteria tray with three steaming paper cups and an assortment of creamers and sweetener packets. He gave a little bow and offered her the tray. “Paul Brixton, at your service.”

“Hi, I'm Charley.”

“Delighted. What'd I miss?” Paul looked expectantly between the two.

“Nothing good.” Marc raked his fingers through his thick hair, leaving it messy. She fought an urge to reach over and smooth it down. “Charley came in here about the Summerfield murder. She knows about the note. And the dress.”

Charley gasped. “So it
was
murder!”

Marc sighed. “Yes, it was murder. Now you know. What I want to know
right this minute
is how you got your hands on details from a crime scene I haven't even had a chance to brief my boss about yet.”

“I, uh, overheard some of what you and that coroner were saying.” At Marc's scowl, she hurried on. “But I didn't actually know, until I realized that I already knew, because I'd already read it. In this!” She pulled out
Mallets Aforethought.
“The killer puts a note with the word ‘Guilty' in the first victim's pocket. The other body, the mummy, was the one wearing the flapper dress.”

Marc stared at the book. “That book…it's the same as—”

Paul's jaw was on the floor. “
Mummy?
Young lady, how did you know about that?”

The sense of unreality threatened to swamp her again. The note, the dress, the mummy—all of it was real. It couldn't be, but it was. One final detail. She took a deep breath. “Was Lisa poisoned with strychnine?” Both men looked shaken. “I'll take that as a yes.”

Paul said faintly, “We only got the preliminary autopsy results ten minutes ago. A massive dose injected behind the left knee.”

“Paul, we can't discuss—” Marc started to protest, but Charley pushed on.

“And Serena Wyndham. How did she die, exactly?”

Marc blinked. “Serena? I don't see what that has to do with—”

“Also poisonous injection,” Paul interrupted, “but with pentobarbital, like vets use to euthanize animals.” Paul shrugged at Marc's shocked expression. “She knew about the note, the dress, and the strychnine. A mummy, pard? Something's going on here.” Paul turned to Charley. “Is that in your book, too?”

“No, it's not.” She slumped, strangely disappointed. “And it would've been this other book,
Rattlesnake Crossing.
Somehow, I was sure Serena had been suffocated with a garbage bag and a belt.”

At that, all hell broke loose.

Charley followed Paul Brixton to a windowless office that he called the “murder room.” Paul had accompanied her here while Marc went to explain things to his boss, safety director Dwight Zehring, and with any luck not get laughed at. Or fired.

While Paul sat at the conference table and checked email on his smartphone, Charley took the opportunity to examine the various items on display. The first exhibit was a photo of the victim. Serena smiled radiantly from a formal portrait shot. For a long moment Charley stood, keeping silent vigil with the dead.

Next was a diagram of the Carmel's parking lot, labeled with information from witness statements. She read a typed list describing what Serena was wearing when she left that night: black jeans, white silk T-shirt, black sandals. Her diamond stud earrings and a gold star-shaped pendant necklace, both valuable, were missing. So was her purse, a black straw shoulder bag with her initials on the flap: SRW.

“What's this?” Charley inspected the contents of a plastic bag.

Paul tucked away his phone and joined her near a side counter containing various items, most of them bagged and labeled. “That's a plaster cast of a tire tread found next to the trail, about twenty yards from the body. We don't know yet if it's important.”

He indicated a photo enlargement. The tread itself was quite smooth, as if the tire was completely bald. The edges of the tread were little squared-off teeth, like castle crenellations. Charley thought it seemed familiar, but she couldn't put her finger on where she'd seen it before.

“It's too wide for a bicycle,” she decided. “And it's not an ATV. You could get an ATV down that trail, but those things have massive zigzag treads.”

“Exactly.” Paul shrugged. “For all we know, that tread is as relevant as the rest of the garbage they pulled out of there.”

“And this?” She stared at another photo with grim fascination.

“Twin burn marks on the back of her neck.” Paul cleared his throat. “Both, uh, victims, have these same stunner burns in the same location. More proof these two deaths are connected.”

Marc had started working on a time line, but she noted far too many blanks. Serena was last seen by Lindy and Evan Taylor around seven-thirty Tuesday night. Charley wondered how the police would fill in the gap until the next morning when Serena's body was discovered. She read
TOD 8-10
printed in Marc's neat hand. With a start, she recalled Mikey Pringle's sighting of a woman in Serena's car. Hadn't he seen her about nine-thirty?

Before she could say anything, she heard voices and quickly took a seat. Marc's boss was ex-Marines and looked it, right down to the graying high-and-tight crew cut and lethally sharp trouser creases. Charley sat up straighter. Marc radiated tension as he performed the introductions. From the two men's body language, she got the distinct impression Chief Zehring was opposed to her presence, but that Marc had insisted she remain. She decided to keep quiet. Maybe they'd forget she was there.

Marc ran down his notes on the Summerfield crime scene and Dr. Krugh's initial findings. Lisa was the last staffer present at the Oakwood Community Center the night of Wilson's party. Charley listened intently.

“That was Friday the seventh. Lisa planned to drive up to Columbus the next morning to stay with friends. She told her staff she wouldn't be back until last night. She has an apartment in Beavercreek, lives alone. That's why no one reported her missing. I'll head over later and check it out, though it seems obvious she never left the OCC.”

Zehring frowned. “How in the hell does a dead body go undiscovered in a public building for over a week?”

Marc tapped his notepad. “It's been closed since that night. Early Saturday morning workers came in and covered everything with plastic, then started sanding down the wood floor in the main activity room. By that afternoon they were putting down the first coat of sealant. The new finish is untouched, proving she was killed Friday night and locked in the adjacent storeroom. Between the chemical smell, the fans, and the fact that no one could walk on that floor, it's not surprising no one found her until today.”

“We've got eight uniforms conducting a door-to-door canvass,” Paul said. “Two-man teams. It's been ten days, but somebody might remember seeing someone sneaking out of the OCC after the party.”

“I'm assigning Cooper and Bronsen to this case full-time,” Zehring growled. “Make good use of them, Detectives.”

Paul and Marc exchanged pleased smiles. “Mitch Cooper and Camille Bronsen are two of the department's best and brightest,” Paul murmured to Charley. “You'll like them.” Marc scowled at this last comment.

The two books were passed around, with the critical passages carefully flagged by Charley. Zehring slipped on reading glasses and read aloud the pertinent lines by J. A. Jance:

…a male figure lay on an old-fashioned metal-framed bed with a sagging single mattress and no box springs. Just as she had predicted, the man was naked….A black plastic garbage bag covered his face and was fastened tightly around his neck with a belt.

He closed the book with a snap. “Detectives? Where does this leave us?”

“With a boatload of questions, sir. If I may?” Marc turned to Charley, shoving a Polaroid across the table. “Recognize this dress?”

Charley frowned at the photo. Propped on a folding chair was a life-sized mummy made of cheap plastic. Someone had draped the figure in a beaded dress from the Roaring Twenties. Fringe twinkled, dangling between the canted legs. A tiny green plastic table at the mummy's right “elbow” held a candle in a clear cut-glass holder and a book with a red and black paper cover. A feathered tiara, matching the dress, lay on the floor.

“This is incredible.” Charley examined the photo more closely. “Where was all this?”

“The mummy was staged inside a storage room off the main activity area,” Paul said. “Lisa's body was on the floor at the back, near shelves of games, books, and a stereo system.”

Charley shook her head in amazement. “Well, the dress is definitely one of mine. Or it was. A couple of times a year I donate damaged items or things that aren't selling to the high school drama department. This was with some things I got rid of last fall. These items circulate for years, getting reused and recycled.”

Paul groaned. “There's no telling how many hands that dress passed through. Plus, Cooper confirmed the mummy is from a box of Halloween decorations in the basement of the OCC. The box is just sitting in the hallway. Anyone could've grabbed it.”

Marc sighed. “How many people know about this book club of yours?”

“Besides the members?” Charley thought a moment. “A few people, I suppose. Husbands, friends, family. It's not exactly a secret.”

“Who chooses the books you read?”

”We all do. Everyone brings suggestions to the June meeting and we vote for our top ten.”

“Top ten?” This from Paul. “I thought you met monthly.”

“We do, except July. But December is always an Agatha Christie classic. Last year we read
The ABC Murders
. This year it's
And Then There Were None
. Everyone's read those so many times, we don't have a presentation. It's pretty much just a Christmas party.”

“Sounds like fun,” Paul said encouragingly.

“It sounds like a bunch of desperate housewives sitting around, talking about how to commit the perfect murder,” Marc said grimly.

“Now, wait just a minute,” Charley protested, horrified. “You don't think one of the Agathas is
involved
? That's ridiculous.”

“What's so ridiculous about it?” Marc spread his hands. “We've been assuming it's a man, but why assume that? Once the victims were stunned, they were essentially helpless. Yes, the Agathas are women, but they all had knowledge of these scenes. Hell, it sounds like your friends studied them in detail.”

She gaped at him. “It's simply not possible. I know these women. They're my…Okay, maybe they're not my friends, exactly, except for Frankie and Lindy. But I refuse to believe one of them could…They couldn't…kill someone.”

Paul patted her hand. “Doesn't mean it's one of them, young lady. But we have to think logically and take into account all available information, no matter how unpleasant. Nothing is ruled out until we rule it out.”

“I suppose.” She shifted uneasily. “This might be a good time to tell you something I, um, learned. Frankie happens to know the dishwasher at Carmel's, and we happened to run into him last Thursday, and he, uh, saw a woman. In Serena's car. Around nine thirty.”

Marc was incredulous, eyes blazing. “You…you…
happened
to…” His mouth opened and closed. Charley lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated.

“Nine-thirty, you say?” Paul pointed at the time line. “That fits with the time of death. Did you get a description? Could it be one of your Agathas?”

Think logically.
She drew a calming breath. “I don't think so. Mikey says she had shoulder-length brown hair with bangs. Nobody does a Cleopatra cut any—”

“Yes?” Paul prompted when Charley suddenly broke off. Marc was still down for the count, fuming with outraged temper. She kept her eyes on Paul.

“Only that Ronnie Bailey—she's an Agatha—wears wigs sometimes. Her hair's light brown, but I've seen her go brunette. It could've been a wig. Oh, and the woman was poking around in the glove box.”

“The glove box?” Marc almost shouted. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Stop yelling at me.”

“I am NOT—”

“I know why you're mad,” Charley hurried on, “but I didn't mean to conceal evidence. I would have told you sooner, but I didn't know it was important.”
And I knew you'd yell at me.

Marc glared. “I decide what's important.”

“Hang on a sec.” Paul opened a file and flipped some pages. “Here we go. An inventory of the contents of Serena's car. There wasn't much…” He fell silent, staring at the list. Wordlessly, he pushed it across the table to Marc. Charley and Zehring leaned in to read over his shoulder.

The fourth item on the list was a brand-new copy of
Rattlesnake Crossing
by J. A. Jance. A notation by the technician indicated that page twenty-six, the page containing their crime scene, had been folded down.

Charley's pulse picked up. “If this woman was planting a copy of that book in Serena's car…”

“Then she's probably the killer,” Marc finished. He was in full cop mode now, outrage temporarily in check. “And not only that. If she planted that book, she wanted us to find it. She wants us to know what she's doing.”

Both of these implications were so enormous, they took a few moments to absorb in silence. Their double murderer was almost certainly a woman, and she was taunting the police.

It could be one of us,
Charley thought, filled with dread.
Someone I know. Someone I've spoken to, shared a drink with, someone who invited Frankie and me into her home.
She felt sick.

She sat bolt upright, struck by a thought that swept her mind clear of dread and left her breathless. “Marc, if she flagged the crime scene in one book…”

He was already punching keys on his cellphone. “Cooper. You still at the scene? I need you to check a piece of evidence. It's a book. A novel called
Mallets Aforethought
. Dr. Krugh had it with the—I'll hold.”

He kept his eyes on Charley, his expression unreadable. She could feel herself blushing and cursed her redheaded complexion.

“You got it?” Marc glanced at Paul. “Glove up and check if any of the pages have been flagged. Corner folded down, bookmark, anything.” He listened for another moment. “No, I want it to go to the lab with everything else.” He closed his phone. “The corners of pages one
and
forty-three are folded down.”

“That clinches it,” Paul declared. “The killer is someone who knows about the Agathas, either a member or a husband, or—”

“Bradley?” Charley spoke up hopefully.

“We questioned him first thing. It pains me to say it, but his alibi is rock solid. I've spoken with three of his associates. Wyndham's working on closing arguments for a big trial, and he didn't spring them until after two a.m. The boss was there the whole time, running a strategy session. No quick trips out for coffee.” Paul looked wistful. “That would've been nice.” Marc and Zehring looked equally disappointed. It was evident that none of these men had any warm feelings for the most voracious defense attorney in the Miami Valley.

“I checked his financials personally,” Marc confirmed, “and there's no indication he contracted someone. Nor,” he added, glancing at Charley, “did I find any evidence Serena hired a private investigator.”

“So your killer is this mystery woman, someone preying on Ms. Carpenter's book group,” said Zehring.

“Preying? None of the Agathas have been harmed,” Marc pointed out. “Serena wasn't a member, and neither was Lisa. On the other hand, our two victims were known to most of the membership.”

“As well as to about a bajillion other people,” Charley said hotly. “This is Oakwood—everybody knows everybody. It almost sounds as if you
want
it to be one of the Agathas.” She narrowed her eyes. “Am I a suspect?”

He sighed. “Of course not. Let's stay focused. The central issue is still motive. Why were these women killed, and what's the reason for staging the crimes to look like your books?”

“Maybe the staging is the reason,” Paul mused. “Some crazy lady thinks she's the Zodiac Killer, and she just found her own personal list of MOs to follow in a nice, neatly typed list.”

“In which case,” Zehring said, “your job will be more difficult.”