The Book Club Murders (9 page)

“But not impossible,” Marc said. “We don't abandon basic investigative procedure. If motive doesn't lead us to the killer, then we examine means and opportunity.”

“But it could be anyone with access to our reading list,” Charley protested.

“Who does have access to the list?”

Charley opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Crap.
“Almost no one outside our group. Most book clubs order their books through a local bookstore. Members stop in and pay for them when they're ready, but that wasn't good enough for Midge. She used one of her connections to order everything directly from the various publishers.” She sighed. “My books were delivered directly to my house. We all knew what books we'd chosen, but as far as I know, that list doesn't physically exist anywhere outside the typed copies we were handed at the September meeting.”

“No one posts it online?” Marc pursued. “On Facebook, Pinterest, any other social media?”

Charley almost laughed. “Have you met the Agathas? I'm not sure Midge even has an email account.”

“So, by your own admission, your book list didn't become available until mid-September. That's barely nine weeks ago,” Zehring said. “Can we agree these killings were carefully, even meticulously planned?”

Paul nodded. “I'd say that's a given.”

“Well, then, unless one of the members distributed copies for some reason, the time line dramatically increases the likelihood that a member of your club is behind these killings,” Zehring concluded flatly.

Marc sighed. “I'm afraid I can't disagree. We'll have to interview all the, uh, Agathas, to determine if any of them have alibis for either murder.”

“Whoa, hold up there, Casey Jones,” Paul said in alarm. “We can't just go barreling into some of the most prominent households in this city and ask if we can see their Taser collection. If word gets out that we think one of these ladies is a serial killer…”

“Wait a minute.” Charley struggled to gather her wits. “Detective Brixton's right. Five minutes after you question the first Agatha, half the people in Oakwood will know every single word you said.”

“The way I see it, we have a big advantage right now. We've made the connection, but the killer doesn't know that.” Paul shrugged. “Maybe we should keep it that way.”

“Investigate without questioning our prime suspects? How do you propose we do that?” Marc asked.

“Ms. Carpenter makes an excellent point.” Zehring's tone was grudging. “We will temporarily suppress the connection, particularly from the press. Will Dr. Krugh cooperate?”

“I'll handle Sharon,” Marc said, a bit too eagerly for Charley's taste. “She doesn't know anything about the books, only that a stunner was used on both victims.”

“Very well.” Zehring sat forward. “Your best guess. Is our killer from this city?”

Marc didn't hesitate. “Yes, sir. Someone lured Serena across that parking lot. She knew her killer. And it's highly unlikely that somebody from outside this social circle just happened to know Lisa was alone and returned to kill her before she'd locked up and left.”

Paul said, “Even if the killer is disabling her victims first, she still has to get close enough to zap them. Get them to turn their backs for a second. That definitely spells acquaintance.”

An Agatha,
Charley thought, sickened again.

“How do you intend to proceed?”

Marc was ready for the question. “I need subpoenas, quick and quiet, for the telephone and financial records of the Agathas and their husbands. Domestic staff, live-in and day laborers. Dog sitters, nannies, gardeners, everyone with access. Can we establish a direct go-to with someone in the Montgomery County Prosecutor's Office, someone who knows how to keep his mouth shut?”

Zehring nodded. “Herbert Lawson owes me one; I'll take care of it. Ms. Carpenter, how many women are involved in this group?”

“Aside from myself, Frankie, and Lindy? Five.” She held up a hand. “I know, I know. Everyone's a suspect until they're not. But if Frankie killed someone, then I'm the Prince of Wales. John Bright will alibi her for both murders. If you don't trust him, then check my phone.
Game of Thrones
was on the night Serena died. We text one another almost nonstop during every episode. It's equally inconceivable that Lindy murdered her own sister. They were devoted to one another.”

Paul flipped pages in a small notebook. “Evan Taylor's preliminary statement puts his wife and him home together all evening the night of Serena's murder. Alibi from a spouse isn't ironclad, but I'd have to agree she's not top of our list either.”

“We'll need to confirm alibis for everyone.” Marc steepled his fingers. “I'd like to put it out that Lisa's death was an accident. The officers on the canvass aren't telling people anything beyond the fact that someone died Friday night. We question the party guests, saying we need to clarify the circumstances in the absence of witnesses, for insurance purposes.”

“Lame.”

“Excuse me?”

Charley blushed and then shrugged. “No one is going to believe that for a second. Look, this is the twenty-first century. Everyone watches
CSI
and
Law & Order
or whatever. If you start asking questions about who left when, and did you notice anyone acting suspiciously, how long do you think it's going to take before people figure out what you're really up to?” All three men frowned at her. “I'm sure you guys are good. Great, even. But this group, they're not a bunch of stupid criminals. These are smart, sophisticated women, and men, if you talk to the husbands. You won't get past ‘Good morning' with these people before they call their lawyers.”

There was silence. Marc finally said, “And just what do you propose?”

“Let me talk to them.” She rushed on before he could say no. “I'm going to be seeing and talking to all of them anyway. In fact, they'll probably seek me out.” She related the story of how four Agathas had come into Old Hat, ostensibly to shop, but clearly with a hidden agenda as well. “Everyone knows we're…acquainted, or—” She blushed again. “Anyway, they all assume we're talking about the case. All I need to do is encourage a little gossip, act like I've got the scoop, but, sorry, girls, I really can't tell you anything. They'll spill like they're being paid to.”

“I like it,” Paul said brightly. “She can sort of sound them out, see if anyone knows more than they should. She puts her ear to the ground while we investigate from our end. What have we got to lose?”

“And if she finds herself sitting across the tea cart from our killer?” Marc asked.

“Give me some credit,” Charley said impatiently. She had more or less recovered from her initial shock. “I'm not going to tell anyone about the crime scenes. I'll be asking them what they know. Mostly, I'll be listening. And if I find out anything, I'll call you right away, I swear. Please, Marc? Please let me help.” She thought of Serena, and of young Lisa Summerfield. “I need to help.”

Marc hesitated, and then said slowly, “You can talk to them. Period. But only if they come to you in your shop. That should be safe enough.”

“Thank you.” Charley beamed.

Zehring frowned. “This is highly irregular. Ms. Carpenter is a civilian. Involving her in an active investigation…”

“Think of her as a confidential informant,” Paul suggested. “When we're lucky enough to find someone with a direct line inside a case, we never hesitate to tap the source. How is this any different?” Zehring still clearly had misgivings, but he said no more.

“There's one other condition, and this is nonnegotiable.” Marc pointed at her. “You cannot tell anyone, including Frankie. I don't trust her to keep a lid on this like I trust you.”

“Deal,” she said promptly, oddly pleased by his faith in her. But even as she agreed, Charley envisioned her friend's wrath when she found out she'd been stiffed on a real live murder investigation.

She'd just have to worry about that later.

“Can you run down all the Agathas?” Paul asked. “Bank statements are all well and good, but nothing beats an eyewitness.”

“I guess so.” She paused to organize her thoughts. “First is Midge Crawford. Husband Kenneth's a big-time shrink. She's about sixty and bossy as hell. Runs everything and everyone, but she's extremely good at it. Most of the others are scared of her,” she added, remembering Lindy's remark about armor. “Then there's Kitty Sizemore. Tall, gorgeous, groomed to the hilt. Her husband owns Irving Avenue Veterinary Clinic. She likes to flaunt their money: fancy clothes, shopping trips to New York and Paris, expensive cars. She's probably the smartest of the group—too bad she uses her intelligence like a weapon instead of doing something constructive with it. She's nosy and has a knack of finding out things you'd rather she didn't.”

“Husband's a vet, eh?” Marc glanced at Paul, who made a note.

“Veronica—Ronnie—Bailey is loud and pushy. She loves drama, especially when she cooks it up. Never misses a party or a book club meeting, but she never seems to enjoy herself. I think she's developing an eating disorder,” Charley continued. “Her husband's a family doctor, so you'd think she'd know better. She's mean like Kitty, but not clever or subtle about it. Ronnie's best friends with Jelly Markes, which proves the old adage about opposites attracting, because Jelly is the sweetest creature. Loves to gossip, but she's never cruel. I once saw her burst into tears after hitting a squirrel with her car.”

“Any relation to Eric Markes at Channel 7?” Zehring asked sourly. “The last thing we need is direct conflict with a media executive.”

“That's her husband,” Charley confirmed. “Then there's Frankie Bright, who is funny and tough and amazing and not a killer.” She glared, and Paul made a placating gesture. “Lindy Taylor is one of the gentlest, most generous women I know. She devotes most of her free time to the arts. She's devastated by her sister's death. Last is Wilson Delaney.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Wilson is…She laughs a lot, but there's no humor in it, if you follow me. She seems afraid of her own shadow one minute, then she's blurting out an outrageous statement the next. I don't actually know her very well,” she ended lamely, feeling that she hadn't done justice to five women whom she'd considered, on some level, to be her friends. Although, as she gazed around the table, she found all three men, even Marc, regarding her with new respect.

“An excellent summary, just the kind of detail we can't find in a suspect's DMV or financial files,” Paul praised her. “We rely on character analysis to figure out motives and probabilities. Or we do when we can get it.” He winked at her. “You'd make a good cop, young lady.” When she saw Marc scowl at that assessment, Charley decided it was a compliment.

The meeting broke up with Zehring reluctantly heading back to deflect the media and Charley eager to get started.

“Keep this young woman in the loop for her own safety,” Zehring commanded as he left the murder room, “but she is to provide background information only. Absolutely no direct action on the case. Do I make myself clear?”

In the silence following the Chief's departure, Charley avoided eye contact with either detective.

“You're not going to stay out of the investigation, are you?” Marc asked suddenly. “Never mind,” he sighed when she opened her mouth to plead her case, “I'm not an idiot. I can't stop you, so we might as well work together.” Paul was grinning from ear to ear.

“I promise—” she began, but Marc waved it away.

“Since you're on the team,” he continued with asperity, “a fact that will probably get me fired, give us an hour to get an official statement from Wilson Delaney. As the last person to see Lisa alive, it would be strange if we didn't question her. Then”—he sighed again—“you can call her or stop by and see what she has to say.”

“Really?” Charley asked in delight.

“Yes, really, damn it.” He frowned. “Stop acting like I'm doing you a favor.”

Charley wiped the smile off her face and decided to make tracks before Marc changed his mind. “It was nice meeting you,” she said to Paul. “Officially, I mean.” She shook his hand.

“Be very careful, young lady.” As Marc walked her out, Paul murmured to himself, “Issues, Grasshopper.”

“Pssst!”

Charley walked slowly across Park Avenue toward Old Hat, thinking about murder. An Agatha killing other women? It was like some sick nightmare from which she couldn't wake up.

And then there was Marc. What was she going to do about Marc? One minute she wanted to kill the condescending bastard, and the next…They'd hardly spoken in the three years since their big fight. She'd glimpsed him only a handful of times in the years since. But working on this case together meant they would see each other often, and that was a problem.

She should hate Marcus Trenault. She wanted to hate him. Instead she was forced to admit, through brutally honest self-examination, that she was still deeply attracted to him. Damn him to hell. Every time he walked into the room her stomach did a backflip. She had to fight the urge to touch him. She longed to run her hands over the hard muscles of his chest, to tangle her fingers in his wavy dark hair. It was starting to wear on her.

“Pssssst!”
There it was again. She halted, senses on alert. Was someone hissing at
her
? She craned around, searching for the source of that urgent whisper. Seeing no one, she decided it had been the product of her overstimulated brain. Murder could do that to a girl.

She hastened her approach toward her beloved green door, considering how best to start investigating the Agathas. Should she start calling them? What kind of believable excuse could she manufacture? With two murders rocking the gossip superhighway, would she even need a pretext? As she mounted the first step and reached for the gleaming brass handle, she saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye.

Someone seized her arm in an iron grip. She drew breath to scream, and a hand clamped over her mouth. Charley's feet nearly left the pavement as she was yanked around the corner into the alley. Her attacker released her mouth but wrapped muscular arms around her torso. He half-dragged, half-carried her down the alley at a fast jog, squeezing and shaking her breathless, then turned a hard right toward the back door of Slash, where he dumped her on her feet. She whirled around, hands braced into claws, ready to gouge out the eyes of her attacker—

And found herself face-to-face with Dmitri.

“St. James, you
ass
!” Charley punched him in the chest with the heels of both hands. She was furious. “You scared me to death, goddammit! That stunt took ten years off my life. What in the hell are you playing at?”

“Sorry, sweetie.” He didn't look sorry at all. “I had to get you away from your shop before they saw you!” His head swiveled, checking the entire parking lot. “And keep your voice down! In here, hurry!” He pulled open the steel door and reached out to grab her arm again, but she danced out of reach.

“Not until you tell me what's going on. Before
who
sees me? Who are we hiding from?”

“The lynch mob that's lying in wait for you. If those bitches aren't out for a pound of your flesh, then I'm Oprah Winfrey.”

“What lynch mob? I haven't done anything. You are making zero sense.”

“Can we puh
leeze
discuss this indoors?” Dmitri was the picture of anxiety. Exquisite in cocoa brown suede pants and an olive green T-shirt tight enough to showcase his impressive physique, he hopped from foot to foot like his shoes were on fire. As much as he loved drama, Dmitri rarely overreacted, and he always had her back. It was better to be safe than sorry, she decided, at least until she got some answers.

As she slipped into Slash's storage room, she was struck by a thought. Did this—whatever it was—have something to do with the murders?

“Dmitri,” she began, “you've got to tell me who—”

“Shhhh!” Dmitri waved her down, glancing nervously toward the front of the salon. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I don't want anyone to hear us back here. They've got spies everywhere.”

“Your storeroom's not soundproofed?” Charley said in a whisper matching his. She felt like an idiot. “Mine is. Previous tenant ran power tools or something.”

“Well, goodie for him.” Dmitri eased the door to the office closed.

Charley folded her arms. “I'm here, I'm whispering—now spill. Who's out for my blood?”

“The Agathas.” Dmitri scowled. “Midge was in for the royal manicure, and Jelly-filled and Skeletor Ronnie were up front browsing through hair products. Then Kitty came slithering in here, all smiles and air-kissy-kissy, in her four-inch Jimmy Choos and enough diamonds to finance a third world country, you know how she—”

“Slow down.” Charley held up a hand. “Kitty came into the salon. So what? Didn't she have an appointment?”

“No appointment, but she was definitely on a mission. She started whispering to Ronnie and Jelly and the three of them were acting all secretive, so of course I found an urgent reason to go to the front desk and check the appointment book.”

“Of course you did.”

“Don't be judgy. You'll thank your stars your good buddy is a world-class snoop.” Dmitri wasn't the least bit apologetic. “First, I hear Kitty say ‘
Charley'
as plain as day. Then Admiral Crawford waves them over, very imperious, very Midge. She would've snapped her fingers, except she'd just had her nails done. Anyway, the four of them put their heads together, all frowny-faced, and there's more whispering, most of it Midge, and Jelly keeps looking around like she thinks someone is going to overhear what they're saying. The next thing you know, they're hustling out of here. And
then
”—dramatic pause—“they make a killer beeline into Old Hat!”

Charley stared. “That's it?”

“Isn't that enough?” His eyes widened. “They're hunting for you, Charley, and they mean you no good. The question is,
why
?”

“How the hell should I…” She trailed off. “Well, shit.”

Charley whirled around. Before Dmitri could stop her, she had the door open and was sprinting through the salon toward the front entrance.

She was too late.

Standing in the wide window of the reception area, she watched helplessly as Midge's Mercedes backed out of a spot in front of Slash. Jelly was in the passenger seat, holding one of Old Hat's bright green bags on her lap. Across the street, Ronnie's SUV pulled away from the curb as Kitty's Lexus roared to life. She executed a perfect—and highly illegal—U-turn directly in front of the police station and took off in Midge's wake. Had to give her points for style.

There they went, four golden opportunities to do exactly what she'd begged Marc to let her do, what she'd vowed to do, what she'd been trying to figure out how to do not five minutes ago, which was interact with and subtly question Agathas who wanted to gossip about the murders.

Charley could think of no other reason why the entire group would give her the full-court press. No doubt the news of Lisa Summerfield's murder had flashed through Oakwood like sheet lightning. If they'd left the Safety Building immediately after their meeting, it was quite possible Detectives Trenault and Brixton were questioning Wilson Delaney at this very moment. No doubt Kitty, who lived three doors down from the Delaneys, had heard the news, possibly seen the detectives or their car, and put two and two together.

As Charley had pointed out to Marc, these women were smart.

And she'd let them slip through her fingers.

She couldn't very well chase their vehicles down Park Avenue and strike up a casual chat at the next traffic light. What if she called them, perhaps to apologize for missing them at Old Hat, inquire if there wasn't something more she could help with, vintage accessories or handbags for the Reunion…?

No. That was almost as lame as Marc's accident story. Too artificial. Besides, none of these smart ladies would reveal anything incriminating in a phone call. Not to mention the fact that Shop Owner Charley didn't have a casual, phone-call-type relationship with these Agathas.

Four of the biggest, most well-connected gossips in the entire city had waltzed right into her shop, primed and ready, and she'd missed them. She stamped in frustration. While she'd correctly anticipated that the Agathas would seek her out, she'd never dreamed they would move so fast.

“Charley?” Dmitri was at her shoulder. “What's going on? Why is the brute squad on your trail?”

“Because of the murders, Einstein. Why else?” she snapped, disappointment and residual shock sharpening her tongue.

He drew back, confused. “Murders?”

Her big mouth. Yanking the door open, she glanced automatically toward her shop—and spotted yet another Agatha. Wilson Delaney had just helped her mother-in-law into a brown sedan at the curb. Mrs. Delaney Senior was over eighty and so frail she supported herself with a walker. Wilson was wound tighter than Charley had ever seen her, twitching, hovering nervously, her hands perpetually jerky as she stowed two of the ubiquitous green bags in the backseat.

Perhaps all was not lost. She'd been intending to head over to Wilson's as soon as Marc gave her the all clear. Maybe she could save herself a trip
and
beat Oakwood's Finest to the punch.

Charley trotted over. “Wilson! Let me help you with that.”

Wilson spun around with a hunted expression, oval face pale, wispy blond hair escaping from a silver clip that looked familiar. “Charley!” she gasped. Then her eyes took on a crafty gleam as she straightened. “There you are, at last.”

“Allow me.” Dmitri reached out and took the walker from her.

Wilson flinched and shied as if he'd moved to strike her. “Oh, no! Please, I don't…”

“Are you all right?” Charley asked with real concern. Dmitri quickly folded the walker and stowed it in the backseat. Wilson followed his every move with fearful eyes and fluttering hands, anxiety pumping from her in waves.

“Of course. It's just that Robert…he's very concerned that I close the walker properly. And I mustn't scratch the car, or—”

“All set,” Dmitri said gallantly, closing the door.

“Looks like you did some shopping,” Charley said brightly, indicating the bags in the car. Might as well try to salvage something from this train wreck. “I'm sorry I missed you. I hope Deirdre took good care of you?”

“She was adequate, in your absence.” Annoyance flickered across her face, quickly replaced with a brittle, social smile. “She showed us some lovely things. This hair clip and an evening bag…” Wilson glanced nervously at her watch, then at her mother-in-law. “Afraid we must be going. Mother Delaney's eye appointment—I mustn't be late.” She started edging around the hood.

“I understand. Only…”
What have I got to lose?
“Do you happen to know what Midge wanted? Deirdre…uh, called my cell and…told me she'd come in asking for me. I must've just missed her.” She ignored Dmitri's stunned expression as she unloaded that whopper.

Wilson halted abruptly. All trace of twitchiness disappeared.

“Oh, I nearly forgot. Have you heard the news?” Her voice sounded oddly mechanical, as if she were reading from a cue card. “Lisa from the Community Center fell down some steps after my party and broke her neck.” The craftiness was back. “She's quite dead, I'm afraid.”

Dmitri gasped softly. Charley was so startled by this performance she stood speechless as Wilson opened the driver's door.
Broke her neck?

“Two deaths just three blocks apart,” Wilson continued, still in that strange, stilted cadence. “What's this city coming to?” She smiled widely, slipped into the car, and closed the door.

As the sedan pulled away, Dmitri grabbed Charley's arm. Anger and worry struggled for supremacy on his beautiful face.

“That's frigging it, Charley. You just lied to Little Miss Space Cadet, the Agathas are after you, and are you seriously telling me Lisa Summerfield
died?”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “Christ on a cracker, we just saw her last Friday at Wilson's party.”

“I know. It's awful.”

He lowered his voice. “I get the sense you're in some sort of trouble. Won't you let me help?”

Charley fought down the sudden lump in her throat. “It's nothing.”
Nothing I can tell you about.

“Then why are the hounds in full cry? Does it have to do with Lisa? And Serena?”

Charley bit her lip. Dmitri was no fool. She needed to tell him something, enough to throw him off the trail. Choosing her words carefully, she said, “Marc Trenault was the detective who came to Midge's house to tell Lindy about Serena. It was pretty clear we, uh, know each other. Some of the Agathas drilled me for insider info the next day. Now that there's been another death…I guess they're just trying again.” She shrugged, cursing the blush that stole into her cheeks.

Dmitri narrowed his eyes. “I thought you two hardly spoke. Why would they think you'd have access to info from a man you don't even like? Or from any of the police, for that matter? I mean, you've never even—”

He stopped dead, and then slowly swiveled to stare at the Safety Building. He turned back to her, eyes widening with comprehension.

“What?”
Oh, no.

“Earlier, when I was waiting for you, you came floating out of the cop shop.”

“I was not floating.”

“I said ‘floating,' and I know what I'm talking about, cupcake. I can spot the signs from outer space. Cheeks pink, all breathy and starry-eyed, like you were…But you wouldn't, not with just any…” He trailed off. Then, “Holy guacamole, Charley,” he breathed. “Detective Marcus Trenault?”

Her flush deepened. “What about him?”

He grinned wickedly.

Charley folded her arms. “You, sir, are nuts.”

“You have the hots for your archnemesis, and
I'm
nuts? That's rich.”