The Book Club Murders (18 page)

“Bathrooms on every floor, an empty classroom, the library loft—”

“Any one of those choices is safer than the one she selects.”

“So why does she take such a terrible risk?”

“Two possibilities.” Charley ticked them off on her fingers. “One: She's showing off. She plants those books; she wants us to know how smart she is.”

“She's
very
smart, but would the showing off be important enough to risk getting nailed?” Marc shook his head. “No way.”

“I agree. So, something happens
at the Reunion
to make her change her plans. Something that involves Jelly.” She indicated the new time line Marc had started on the whiteboard. “The order of events is critical. We all checked in, then got funneled upstairs to have a stupid portrait made—twenty-five bucks, can you believe Midge?—and then back downstairs to one of the bars. That was all a lot of standing in line. We were more or less with the same people in front of and behind us through that whole process. Jelly and Eric arrived late. They didn't go through any of that with the main Agatha group. So, whatever it was, it must have happened during dinner or immediately after. I vote for during dinner, because once we stood up, Lucy had almost no time to get Jelly away from Eric.”

“Makes sense.”

Paul, Zehring, Mitch, and Camille gaped at the two of them, but Charley continued to ignore the others, ideas tumbling fast, she and Marc syncing effortlessly. “I'm betting Jelly says something during dinner that Lucy hears and interprets as a threat. Such a big threat, in fact, that she decides she can't wait.”

“She has to act.”

“And act fast. She can't afford to take her time, to lure her victim to wherever she'd originally planned for the kill. Hell, for all we know, Jelly might not even have been Lucy's original target.”

“But what was it?” Marc asked. “What did Jelly say?”

She batted her lashes. “Lucky for you, I remember exactly what she was talking about.”

“Of course you do.”

“She was bending John's ear about presenting
The ABC Murders
at Book Club last Christmas. It's a Christie classic. You ever read it?”

“Nope.”

“Alice Ascher, Betty Barnard, and Sir Carmichael Clarke are murdered one by one. Everyone thinks there's this homicidal maniac running around, killing people with double initials. Scotland Yard investigates, the newspapers start warning people whose initials are D. D.; it's a big panic. They call in the great Hercule Poirot, who, of course, figures it out. The murderer is Franklin Clarke, brother of the third victim. He kills the others to divert suspicion away from himself. He just wants to bump off Carmichael and inherit his fortune.”

Marc cocked his head. “And you think Lucy is…what? Diverting suspicion from her true motive by killing extra women? Charley, that sounds—”

“Crazy?” Paul asked. They turned, suddenly remembering they weren't alone. “Over the top? Bonkers? Sounds like Lucy to me.” He smiled broadly at Charley. Mitch and Camille both appeared hugely entertained. They'd been following the discussion as if it were a tennis match, heads swiveling back and forth.

“I'm calling John Bright.” Marc pulled out his cell. “Jelly might have said something else significant. If so, John was in the best position to hear it.”

“Does it matter?” Zehring asked abruptly. He did not appear entertained in the slightest. “You're wasting time on a ridiculous theory without a shred of support. We need facts and evidence, not fantasies.”

“I agree it's thin. But any possible window into Lucy's motive has value,” Marc countered evenly. “If we can figure out
why,
then we'll know
who.
”

Zehring stood. “You're no closer to identifying a suspect than you were three days ago.” He threw a copy of Sunday's paper onto the conference table. Charley read the enormous headline from across the room:

DEATH STALKS AFFLUENT BEDROOM COMMUNITY

Marc quickly scanned the article. “They've got the details about the playing card and silver knife, but nothing on the book angle. A rehash of the first two killings. Continued speculation—and that's all it is—about a single perpetrator.”

Zehring glowered. “This situation has clearly—”

“They're guessing,” Marc hurried on. “They don't know about the Agathas, and you know the media always go for the most lurid—”

“Three murdered women? With or without this book nonsense, a child could see they're connected,” Zehring snapped. “We've got a serial killer and we've known it for days. That fact will leak within hours. When it does, if we haven't brought in the prosecutor's team, we'll all be out of a job. Worse, we'll have a citywide panic. At this point it wouldn't surprise me if Lawson called in the Feds. Time's up, Detective. You're turning over the case tomorrow morning.”

The silence following Zehring's departure was deafening. Charley stared helplessly at Marc, then at the board: all the photos, the notes, the highlights from laborious hours of research. Zilch. There was nothing up there that Marc's team hadn't squeezed to death.

“Tomorrow is the thirteenth day since Serena was murdered. Thirteen. My goddamn lucky number,” Marc said bitterly. “Three crime scenes, three victims, and we still have nothing substantive, nothing I can use as leverage.”

“Are we giving up?” Mitch asked, and reddened when Marc glared at him.

“No, Officer. We are not. I'm going to bring them in for questioning, tonight or first thing tomorrow, before Lawson's people get here. We'll hit them hard.” He sighed. “But it's going to be a waste of time. They'll all parade in here with lawyers, and the husbands and wives will alibi one another. We will accomplish nothing except to show Lucy exactly how little we have.”

“What you need is a confession.”

“Yeah, that would be—” He turned sharply. “No, Charley. Absolutely
no.
”

“Why not?” She met his hot gaze coolly. “You said yourself it's going to be a waste of time to do this the regular way.”

“It's too dangerous.”

“Not if we do it right.” They both turned to stare at Paul. “She could wear a wire, Grasshopper. We'd be right outside. What's Lucy going to do, kill her at her own kitchen table?”

“She might. It's risky and unnecessary. I'll come up with something I can use. There has to be
something
!” Marc punched the wall, rattling the whiteboard. “Some pattern, a recurring element, a glitch in the damned time line. Lucy must have made a mistake at some point, and we're going to find it.”

As he turned away and began ordering Camille and Mitch to start going back through all those paper records, his voice edged with desperation, Charley paced slowly along the display of evidence. Marc's words echoed in her head.
Some pattern, a recurring element. A recurring element
…She stopped abruptly, eyes riveted on the board.

On the photos.

She spoke without turning around. “Mitch. You said those nurses at Ted's office were all the same basic physical type. Like his womanizing follows a pattern?”

After a startled silence, Mitch replied slowly, “You could say that.”

“How many of them, would you say, are a size four?”

“All of them,” Paul answered. “Or pretty damn close. Why? I know you're the fashion expert, but what does dress size have to do with—”

Marc was staring at her with dawning comprehension. He stabbed his finger at the pile of financial records. “Ted bought a ton of goodies from Hustler over the last eighteen months. All of it size four. All of it.”

Charley smiled. “Exactly. But he's not the monogamous type. I guarantee you he's cheating with lots of different women.”

She tried to contain a rising excitement. She gazed at Marc's murder board, with its photos of the three Agathas and the three victims.
But what if one of them hadn't been the intended victim after all?

“Who sees anybody else up here who fits Ted Sizemore's profile of the perfect side piece?”

Silence.

“Lisa,” Camille whispered.

“Midge,” Paul murmured.

“Serena,” Mitch said, awestruck.

“And Wilson Delaney. Even Ronnie fits, if you take her habit of wearing wigs into account.” Marc whistled. “I'll be damned. It's a pattern, I grant you. But how does it point us to Lucy?”

“So glad you asked.” Charley grabbed a marker. “Wilson buys a stunner fourteen months ago. That's one.” She circled it on the board. “Deirdre shows the third murder weapon to Wilson and her mother-in-law. A few hours later, it turns up missing.” She circled
stole letter opener?
“That's two.”

“Wait up,” Camille protested. “Jelly Markes doesn't fit at all. She was—what, a size sixteen at least? She blows your pattern, Charley.”

“She doesn't,” Charley said in triumph, “if she wasn't supposed to be the third victim. Lucy went to the Reunion to kill—well, we don't know who. Maybe somebody else that Ted was, or had been, sleeping with. But I think Jelly says something at dinner that makes Lucy change her mind and
kill Jelly instead.
”

Paul shook his head. “Grasshopper, we have got to put her on the freaking payroll. End of discussion.”

Charley's pulse was racing. She could hardly believe it. It was coming together, a possible motive at last, something that explained this whole crazy case.

“There's one more thing. Wilson doesn't just fit Ted Sizemore's profile for his extramarital interests.” She described the pathetic scene she'd witnessed at the Reunion. “I'd never seen them interact before, but now I'm positive that she and Ted had an affair. And
that
is number three.” She threw her marker on the table.

Marc's eyes burned with excitement. “Sounds like it ended badly. She has an obsessive personality. Like you said, she might even be OCD. Ted dumps her, and she starts obsessing over him.”

“I don't know that he's a big improvement over Robert Delaney, but at least he shows signs of life.”

“So, she decides to start eliminating the competition?” Mitch was skeptical. “How is that like your
ABC
story? I see how it could explain why Lucy picked Jelly. But according to you, the victims she's choosing are a distraction from her real motive.”

“Not the victims,” Charley corrected. “The crime scenes.”

There was silence as everyone studied the crime scene photos: Serena posed and bagged on a mattress, Lisa beside a plastic mummy in a flapper dress, Jelly's heart pierced through with a Queen of Clubs.

“I've gotta admit,” Paul murmured, “none of those setups says ‘love affair' to me. If Lucy wanted to distract us, it worked like a charm.”

Charley nodded. “Lucy—Wilson, if I'm right—doesn't want anyone connecting any of this to Ted. She creates these elaborate scenes to make everyone think it's about the books, but that's not what's really driving her. All of these murders are a message from her to the man who spurned her.”

“All of this only makes sense if you're right about jealousy being the motive,” Mitch persisted. “We don't even know if Sizemore had affairs with Serena or Lisa, much less Wilson.”

“I know how we can maybe find out,” Paul said suddenly. “In the words of the immortal Sherlock Holmes,
Cherchez la femme
.”

“Meaning?” Marc asked.

“He didn't do all his noogie in the back office, did he? We've got credit card statements that show he was taking at least some of his women to hotels.”

“But not really hotels,” Camille said excitedly. “These are small, exclusive, destination inns in tiny towns. I've hit all their websites, and some of them only have a dozen rooms.”

“How many inns are we talking about?”

Camille tapped her laptop. “He's stayed in eight different inns since last February, some more than once.”

Marc began working his favorite strip of carpet. “We've got digital photos of Serena, Lisa, Midge, Wilson—hell, all the Agathas, right? Camille, email the owners of those inns, and find out who he took where, and when. We don't have photos of every blonde Ted has ever met, but all that matters is proving whether he slept with our first two victims and Wilson.”

“It's Sunday afternoon,” Camille reminded him. “We might not hear back from anyone until tomorrow.”

“What if you do find proof they had an affair?” Charley asked. “That still doesn't prove Wilson is Lucy. You could show her a signed hotel register, make her confess to the affair, whatever. Then what? You said it yourself: Cheating may be stupid, but it isn't a crime.”

“She's got a point, pard.”

“The answer is no.”

“Marc, please.” Charley laid a hand on his arm. “I'm your last, best shot, and you know it. I'll tell each of them you grilled me, that you think she's your prime suspect. I'll say I'm pissed at you, and I want to help keep her out of trouble. The Agathas know you and I have some bad history, so my doing an angry end run around the police is completely credible. Please,” she said quietly. “Let me help one more time. We've got your leverage now, but you can't use it like I can. Not before Zehring pulls the plug.”

“I agree,” Camille said suddenly. Charley sent her a grateful smile.

“Me too,” Mitch said. “I vote for Charley.”

“This is a murder investigation, not a goddamn democracy!” Marc glared at her, then whirled on Paul. “This is all your fault. You're always encouraging her.”

“That's because she produces results.”

Shortly before seven the next morning, Charley stood in the ladies' room at the Safety Building while a technician from the County Prosecutor's criminal investigations team made the final adjustments to a tiny microphone affixed to her bra strap. A wire no thicker than a human hair was taped to the curve of her breast. That was the antenna, she'd been told, range almost a quarter mile.

“But we'll be right down the street,” Marc assured her for the umpteenth time. He was currently a most unhappy camper, struggling with the idea of Charley going head-to-head with three murder suspects. It wouldn't have been happening at all, except that Paul had goaded him into calling Trent Logan to see if they could even get a warrant for the wire.

“Fine.” Marc punched in the number, scowling. “Judge Harrell will laugh in our faces. Then we can all forget this harebrained—hello, Logan? Hate to waste your time on a Sunday, Counselor, but…”

To Marc's dismay, Trent called back in twenty minutes with their warrant. From that point, there was no turning back.

“Turns out Her Honor is a big Agatha Christie fan.” Trent chuckled. “I'll see you all bright and early. I cannot wait to meet this girl.”

They spent the rest of that afternoon and evening mapping out their strategy. Charley tentatively suggested bringing Frankie with her, but Marc shot that down.

“We are way off the reservation with this little caper as it is,” he said firmly. “Sorry, sweetheart, but since I essentially dared my boss to fire me yesterday, I should limit the number of civilians I put in harm's way. Zehring's going to split a seam as it is.” Worry flickered in his eyes, and Charley touched his cheek.

“I'll be fine,” she promised. “And so will your boss, once I get that confession. Frankie will be furious, but you're right, it's probably best if I do this alone. We're going for true-confession time. Girl to girl, heart to heart, tears, guilt, and in the end, the bitch card.” She sighed. “When this is over, they're all going to hate my guts.”

The technician nodded, and Charley quickly buttoned her blouse. Out in the hallway, Marc was prowling like a caged panther. Trent Logan, a slim, attractive man in his late twenties with lively brown eyes and a mop of light brown hair, leaned casually against the wall. In his designer jeans and cable knit sweater, Charley thought he looked more like a college student than a highly successful assistant prosecutor. He nodded his approval.

“Just the right amount of cleavage. Of course, if we decide to unleash you on any of their husbands, we can always—”

“Won't be happening.” Marc took her hand. “It's not too late to change your mind.”

“Stop.” Charley gave him a soft kiss. He started to put his arms around her, but she stepped back. “People listening, remember?”

Logan grinned. “And they are
really
good at identifying random rustling noises. Let's test the equipment and get this show on the road.”

“I'm ready. The sooner we—” Charley pulled up short. She grabbed the lapel of Marc's suit jacket and lifted it away from his body. “You're wearing your gun. I can't remember the last time I saw you…Why are you wearing it now?”

Marc gently tugged the fabric from her fingers. The jacket's beautiful cut perfectly concealed the black leather holster nestled under his left armpit.

“I carried all the time in Chicago. Never walked out my front door without my Glock. After I took the job here, Paul kept calling me Dirty Harry. You can imagine how fast that got old. Except for range time, it's been locked in my desk.” He smiled faintly. “Feels good to have it back where it belongs.”

“But, why now?” she insisted. “With you listening in, I'll be safe enough, won't I?”

“Call it a feeling.”

At eight sharp, Charley stood on the front steps of Ronnie and Jim Bailey's house. Jim's car had pulled out a few minutes after seven-thirty; their two teenage children had left for school ten minutes ago. Ronnie was alone.

The plan was to hit all three of their suspects early, in rapid succession. Marc wanted to catch them with their guard down, before they had time to call one another and compare notes. Wilson was their prime suspect, so she would be last. After some debate, they determined Charley would tackle Ronnie first. If they were right about the drugs, she would be vulnerable, and they might learn something they could use with the other two.

Unless she turned out to be Lucy.

Charley glanced toward the nondescript panel van parked halfway down the block. Marc, Trent, Paul, and the sound technician were in there, listening and recording. If she got anything good, the lawyer had their favorite judge on speed dial. Mitch and Camille maintained radio contact a street away, their squad cars safely out of sight.

Charley's little stowaway was a transmitter, strictly one-way. Trent had floated the idea of an earpiece so they could feed her suggestions while she wheedled information from their suspects. Charley had demurred, fearing it would be too distracting.

“Showtime,” she murmured at the sound of approaching footsteps. The door opened, and Ronnie stared at her blankly.

Charley was shocked at the change in her appearance since Saturday night. Ronnie's brown hair was flat and dull, as if she hadn't bothered to wash it. Her eyes were sunken and red from crying. She looked pale and exhausted in sweatpants and a wrinkled shirt that hung on her thin frame.

Jelly had been Ronnie's best friend. As bad as she felt about that, Charley couldn't afford to go easy on her. She launched into her spiel before Ronnie had time to react.

“Thank God I caught you! Ronnie, it's really bad. I've got to tell you….” She stepped forward. Ronnie's innate manners caused her to allow Charley in. She made a beeline for the living room, plopping down on one end of the sofa and holding out her hands. As she'd hoped, Ronnie sat beside her. Every word she said would be clearly audible to the listeners in the van.

Charley pulled her in for a swift hug. “I'm so, so sorry about Jelly.” She didn't need to fake the tears that suddenly threatened. “I've hardly slept since we found her body.”

Ronnie jerked. “
You
found…?”

Charley nodded weakly. “It was horrible, Ronnie. I've never seen…And we were all together at dinner just a few minutes before. She looked so pretty, chatting away—and the way she was killed! That knife and playing card? Just like
Murder, She Meowed
.”

Ronnie hesitated. “Did she…suffer, do you think?”

I am going to hell,
Charley thought. “The coroner says she lingered for several minutes while she bled to death.” Ronnie gasped, and Charley squeezed her hands. “But that's not why I'm here. That's not the worst part. Because of the props, Marcus Trenault is convinced someone from the Agathas must be involved. And, Ronnie, the police know about your drug use. The prescription pads you stole from Jim, all the money he's been losing at those casinos, the fighting? Marc is looking for someone with a motive. That's why I came over. He says you're his prime suspect! I told him he's way off base, but he won't listen.”

Ronnie reared back, eyes wide. “They know about the drugs? How—” She stopped abruptly and seemed to gather her wits. “They can't believe I killed her. She was my best friend!”

“Marc says you seemed pretty cavalier about her death Saturday night.”

“Oh, my God.” Ronnie closed her eyes briefly. “That was the speed. No point in denying it. I suppose it will be all over town by dinnertime, if Midge hasn't already taken out a full-page ad. I was so angry at Jim. The lies, the gambling…and it's been getting worse. A lot worse. It's all he thinks about, except work. I've tried to stop drinking, I cut way back, but he didn't even notice. I was helping in his office one day, and I…”

“Someone told them you and Jim are occupying separate bedrooms.” Charley pressed on, not giving Ronnie time to think. “That means you don't have an alibi for the nights of Serena's or Lisa's murders. According to Marc, you don't have a solid alibi for when Jelly was killed, either.”

“Serena and Lisa,” Ronnie moaned. “They think one of us is responsible for—and now Jelly, too. And it's true: I don't have an alibi for any of them.”

“Did you…kill those women?” Charley held her breath.

Ronnie's lip trembled. “How can you ask me that, Charley?”

“The police are going to ask you, Ronnie. How are you going to prove you didn't do it?”

“I'm telling you, I didn't kill her!” Ronnie was beginning to lose her temper. “Charley, you have to believe me!”

Charley asked harshly, “Then who did?”

“I don't know!” Ronnie snapped. “Maybe…maybe Jelly found out who the real killer is.”

“Think, Ronnie! There has to be something else we can give the police. Do you want to be arrested?”

“Of course not!”

“Then help me help you. When you and Jelly talked, did she have any idea who was responsible for the other two murders?”

“We must have asked ourselves that a thousand times after they found Serena. And then, when Lisa died, and the police tried to pass off some ridiculous story about an accident?” Ronnie pressed trembling fingertips to her eyes. “We theorized for hours: They were spies, they were members of an underground sex ring—Jelly's idea—they both witnessed a crime, you name it. We dredged up every plot of every murder mystery either of us had ever read. The problem was Serena had no connection to Lisa that we could figure. I doubt if they ever even met—the great Bradley Wyndham wouldn't be caught dead at the Community Center. He and Serena were strictly country clubbers.”

“What about at the Reunion? Do you remember what Jelly talked about at dinner?”

“I took two Dexedrine, and by the time they served…I got pretty loud. You saw me.” Ronnie rubbed her temples. “God. The whole town saw me acting like an ass.”

“Did Wilson care how you acted?” Charley asked carefully. “Did she say anything?”

“With Robert there, I doubt she even noticed. Why?” Ronnie narrowed her eyes. “What does any of this have to do with—”

“How about at the other table?” Charley watched her face as she listed the names. “The Crawfords, the Taylors, the Sizemores—” She picked up a reaction and stopped. “What? Something about Kitty and Ted?”

“Ted.”
The single syllable was loaded. “He was
well
acquainted with several women at that party, other than his wife.”

“Like who? I've heard rumors….”

“Wilson definitely, probably Midge. That one wouldn't surprise me in the slightest. God knows who else. What a lecher.”

“Wilson hardly seems the type. Are you sure about her?”

“Are you kidding?” Ronnie warmed to her theme. “That one went on for weeks. I think it was more her than him—prolonging it, I mean. Ted's more of a one-night-stand type. Bores easily. The worst of it was, they didn't even try to be discreet. Last spring, when Kitty was hosting, Ted hung around the house, making eyes at Wilson whenever Kitty's back was turned. I can't believe you didn't notice, Charley.”

“What happened? Why did it end?”

Ronnie lifted her bony shoulders in a faint shrug. “He dumped her for someone new; I have no idea who. Did you hear how he snubbed her at the Reunion? Ted humiliated Wilson in front of everyone. I was too high to notice, but Jelly told me about it just before dinner.” She blinked back a few tears. “That was the last time I ever spoke to her, poor thing.”

As Charley climbed back into the van, Paul was jubilant.

“It's official,” he crowed. “Ted dumped Wilson, and she's still not over it.”

“She had to know he was sleeping with other women,” Marc said. “He obviously didn't dump her because he suddenly got a case of the faithfuls.”

Charley remained silent, dissatisfied with the results of her covert mission. Ronnie's grief over Jelly's death felt a bit forced, given their close friendship. And when pressed, Ronnie had seemed more interested in bad-mouthing the other Agathas than in establishing her own innocence. Perhaps it was the drugs, she thought, compounded by shock and fear. Who acted normally under such circumstances?

Marc had ignored incoming calls while Charley questioned Ronnie. He now keyed a handheld radio. “Camille, what've you got?”

Camille was continually monitoring her email for responses from the inns on Ted's adultery hit parade. “Got one.” Her voice vibrated with excitement. “Maceyville, Indiana, about ninety minutes from Dayton. Ted brought Serena there in March.”

Marc's eyes widened. “Are they certain?”

“They're putting it in writing. Charley was right.”

Unbelievable. Charley thought of Lindy, who had already endured so much. Maybe she'd never have to know.

“Talk about calling it,” Paul marveled. “Young lady, you are a treasure.”

“Get on the horn, and light a fire under those other owners,” Marc ordered, checking his watch. “We're almost out of time and we still have no proof. We need to know where Ted took Wilson.”