The Book Club Murders (19 page)

Charley prepared to beard the lioness in her den. Not that she was afraid of Midge, exactly. She assumed a suitably subordinate attitude, preparing to kiss ass, schmooze what Marc needed from Oakwood's premier control freak, and get the hell out, hopefully in one piece.

She lifted the heavy bronze lion's head—appropriate—and let it fall. A few moments later the door flew open. Midge frowned, and then let out a short laugh.

“You've got a nerve, showing up here, and at this ungodly hour.” She was immaculately dressed in a cinnamon business suit, not a hair out of place.

“Midge, thank heaven, the police are coming to question you, and I wanted to—”

“I know what you've been up to, you slut, so you can save the ‘precious miss' routine.”

“What are you talking about? I'm here to help—”

“Help yourself, you mean, as well as that keystone cop you've spread your legs for. He got you to spy on us, for all the good it did him. I expect he'll be out of a job after his failure to capture Serena's killer, and good riddance. The sheer incompetence.” Midge started to shut the door in her face.

Charley flushed with anger.
The hell with this.
“The police know you were screwing Ted Sizemore.” She could almost hear the collective gasp from the van.

The door slowly opened again. Midge had gone pale as milk, her eyes blazing. “What did you say?” she hissed.

“You want to discuss it out here in front of the neighbors?” Charley raised her voice. “I'm sure the Tisdales would be fascinated to hear all about—”

Midge grabbed Charley's arm in an iron grip and yanked her inside. Slamming the door, she whirled to face her. “I did not…
sleep
with that…that…” Two red spots rode high on her cheeks. She was breathing hard, working to clamp down on her rage. Charley had never seen Midge so close to losing it.

“Ted was screwing his way through the Agathas, and everyone knows it,” Charley said calmly. “He likes skinny blondes, Midge. You are
so
his type, and your reaction tells me he at least made a pass. Maybe more than one. And you know how people are—they believe what they want to believe. Is anyone really going to make a distinction between those who said ‘Yes' and those who didn't say ‘Yes'…yet?”

For a split second, Charley actually thought Midge was going to hit her.
Bring it, bitch.
She fisted her hands. Instead, Midge whirled on her heel and stalked down the hall. After a moment's hesitation, Charley followed.

Midge entered the kitchen and crossed to the refrigerator. She pulled out an open bottle of chardonnay, poured four inches into a wineglass that was already out on the counter, and drank deeply.
Well, well.

“Tell me why you're here. Then get out.”

Charley leaned against the counter and folded her arms. “The Agathas are your baby, and Ted is making you a laughingstock. Serena Wyndham, Ted's most flagrant conquest? Her husband is even more prominent than you are. Every ugly detail of their divorce, including her affair with Ted, was bound to end up in the papers. Once that happened, it was a short jump to his other acquisitions. Including you.”

“Ridiculous.” The hand holding the wineglass shook slightly.

“And how about Lisa Summerfield, a girl half his age and beloved by most of the families in Oakwood? Oh, yes, he screwed her, too, as if you didn't know. He's getting bolder, more reckless. It's all bound to come out, and when it does, you are looking at a shitstorm of humiliation. Or you were.” Charley's voice went soft. “Now that they're both dead, there's no reason for any of that to go public, is there?”

“You listen to me,” Midge seethed. “You tell that idiot cop of yours that if one word of this leaks to the press, I will sue him, the department, and the whole goddamned city into the Stone Age.”

Charley clucked her tongue. “Such temper, but I understand. You didn't deserve what was coming. It isn't fair, Midge.”

“You got that right.” Midge took another long drink.

“Is that why you killed Serena? Lisa? To scare Ted into stopping his party games and eliminate a scandal at the same time?”

Midge stared at her. “That's what the police think? That I murdered two people to avoid a scandal? And I suppose I killed Jelly as well?” She snorted into her wine. “Ted Sizemore is slime. Those stupid women got what they deserved, but not at my hand. And if you think that self-important snob would look twice at a dim-witted cow like Jelly—”

“Watch it, Midge.” Charley still spoke softly, but firmly. “I consider her my friend, not that I was a very good one while she was alive. I'm trying to be a better one now. I stand by my friends. I thought she was your friend, too, but I guess we never know about people, do we? And speaking of Jelly, how do you explain what happened to her? Over two hundred fifty people roaming all over that building. No one saw her, including, you claim, yourself. Yet somehow she and her killer managed to get into the senior hallway. How'd they get up there unnoticed?”

“How the hell should I know?” Midge drained her glass.

“I bet you were in and out of that old building more than the district superintendent during the month leading up to the party. It's like Hogwarts in there, all those twisting stairways and unused side entrances. I find it fascinating”—Charley's voice became conversational—“how every single janitor on staff said what a real nice lady you are. Very efficient, getting acquainted with every single janitor. Not your usual social milieu. Shows you were planning ahead, maybe. Did one of them help you out on the sly? Or…” Charley paused, struck by sudden inspiration. This was Midge Crawford, after all. “Or did you help yourself?”

Midge's eyes skittered away, and Charley felt a flare of triumph. “I'm right, aren't I? Somehow, you got your hands on a set of keys. You could have walked into a janitorial room and helped yourself at any time. It'd be simple to make copies. Having a master, that'd make your big, important chairman job so much easier. And why not? You were busy; no time to waste on underlings.”

“What if I did? It proves nothing.”

“It proves you had opportunity. You used those keys to get yourself and Jelly upstairs without being seen. So you could kill her.”

“You're out of your mind.”

“You had motive, too, for all you deny it. And that leaves means. Everyone's heard by now how the body was found. You were uniquely positioned to hide all that window dressing beforehand. The book, the blue sash, the playing card, the silver knife—”

In one smooth motion, Midge yanked a butcher knife from a wooden block near the sink. She held the blade in front of her, moving it back and forth like a metronome. “Speaking of that knife…” Midge took a step forward. Charley's mouth went dry. She slid sideways along the counter, eyes locked on the glittering blade. “How big was it?”

“About…that big.” Charley spoke carefully, acutely aware of the listeners in the van. The last thing she needed was a platoon of cops bursting in here with guns drawn. She had this under control. Midge took another step; Charley slid away again.
Definitely under control here.

“I think it's time for you to leave.” Midge gestured with the knife. “I need to make some calls, starting with my lawyer.” She flashed her best hostess smile. “So lovely you could stop by.”

“Is that the time?” When Midge glanced at the clock, Charley slid again and stumbled backward into thin air. She spun and ran, Midge's laughter following her out the door and across the lawn.

“We need to hurry,” she gasped as she flung herself into the van. “Midge is playing Queen of Shock and Outrage. After she calls her attorney she's going to start calling her subjects so she can control the gossip; she won't be able to help herself. She'll probably start with Kitty, but there's no telling how soon Wilson will get wind of what we're doing.” She turned to Marc. “I couldn't get her to confess, but it might be her. She admitted to copying a master key, and when she pulled that knife—”

“What??”
Four jaws dropped, and Marc grabbed her shoulders. “Goddammit, Charley! That's the point of wearing a wire, so you can call for help.”

“Lectures later. Right now, we need to go.” She spoke to Paul in the driver's seat. “Like, now.”

“Right you are, Nancy Drew.” He squealed away from the curb as Marc's cell chimed, signaling an incoming email.

She turned. “I know I went off script. I was supposed to work Wilson into the—”

Marc read the new message, and his scowl lifted. “I don't think that's going to matter. Guess what Camille just sent?”

Wilson Delaney looked as if a strong wind would knock her over. She was a jiggling, nervous mess, all fluttering hands and darting eyes. Her long blond hair was scraped back from her pale face, twisted into a severe bun from which several uncharacteristically disobedient strands had dared to escape.

She made a halfhearted attempt to deny Charley entry, murmuring something about Robert not liking her to have visitors. Charley gently pushed her way into the disturbingly immaculate living room. She sat on a love seat; Wilson perched stiffly on the edge of a chair, poised for flight. One sudden move, Charley thought, and this woman would launch through the ceiling.

“Wilson.” Her eyes darted to Charley's and skittered away again. “Has anyone called you this morning?”

“Called me? I don't…Robert says to let the answering machine do its job. So we have a record of our calls. Isn't that clever of him?”

More like controlling,
Charley thought darkly. “What else does Robert say? Has he talked to you about what happened to Jelly?”

“Poor Jelly. A terrible…Robert says we shouldn't talk about it.” Her voice was strained and brittle. No more laughter.

“Wilson, honey. I'm your friend. You believe that, don't you?”

“Why, yes.” Wilson smiled automatically, but her eyes were blank.

“I want to help you. Will you let me help you, Wilson?”

“Help…me? Do I need help?”

“You need my help.” Charley repeated the phrase, lulling Wilson, keeping her voice low and coaxing. “I'm here to help you with what happened to Jelly. The police are asking questions, and we have to be very careful. Do you understand?” Wilson paled, but remained silent. “Can we talk about the Reunion? You said Robert rejoined you after smoking his cigar. You danced to one song before the police came in at a few minutes before ten. Do you remember that?”

“That's what happened.”

“Several people saw your husband outside smoking and talking. But none of them saw you. In other words, you and Robert were apart for almost an hour. Where were you during that hour, Wilson? Can you tell me where you were?”

Wilson addressed a doily on the arm of her chair. “I'm not—on the dance floor, waiting for my husband?”

“The thing is, no one recalls seeing you around the dance floor. Did you go somewhere else? Did you go upstairs to the senior hallway? To meet Jelly?”

Wilson didn't answer. She began dry-washing her hands, rubbing them over and over. Charley noticed they looked red and chafed.
Obsessive-compulsive.

“This house is three blocks from the OCC. Do you ever walk there?”

“Certainly,” Wilson told the air near Charley's head.

“On the night Lisa Summerfield was killed, you walked back after the party was over, didn't you? Such a short trip, I'm sure Robert never noticed you were gone.”

“He likes to know where I am,” she whispered. “Why would I go out without telling him?”

“You did it so you could talk privately with Lisa. Was she alone when you got there?”

“Talk? No, I…Perhaps I did walk a little…a lovely evening. Not to the OCC,” she said hastily.

Charley changed tactics smoothly. “The day you came into Old Hat with your mother-in-law, where did you hide the letter opener you stole?”

“Stole the…hide the…letter opener?” The hand washing was going double time. “We…Mother Delaney bought me a lovely evening bag for the Reunion. A gift. And…let me see, we certainly admired…The girl showed us a number of…a hair clip, on a tray of…” Wilson's voice was pleading. “I saw it, but Midge…”

“Midge?” Charley stopped breathing. “Did Midge take it?”

“Midge was so angry. Then she told me: ‘Lisa broke her neck. Be sure Charley knows.' ” And Charley heard again the rehearsed quality of those words.

“Midge was angry?”

“Kitty said…” Wilson's lip trembled. “She said…But Jelly liked my gift….”

“Did Ted Sizemore ever give you a gift, Wilson?” Charley's voice remained soft. “Lingerie, maybe?”

Wilson gasped. Her eyes flew to Charley's and seemed to snag there, caught against their will.

“You and Ted, Wilson. December fourth.” Charley leaned forward. “The police have a witness.”

“The…police?” Wilson managed, sounding winded. The hand washing abruptly ceased.

“A hotel clerk saw you together,” Charlie told her, laying it on thick. “I have to admit, you had everyone fooled. Sweet, quiet Wilson, knocking boots with another woman's husband.” Wilson's face flushed red, then paled as she fought some sort of inward battle. “Then Ted dumped you for another woman. That must've hurt. How did you feel about that? Was it humiliating, knowing that he didn't want you anymore?”

“No. I would never…” She stared at Charley, body rigid, a classic deer in the headlights. For several long moments Wilson didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't blink. Then something flickered behind her eyes and she seemed to reach a decision. “Yes,” she admitted at last, and Charley fought to hide her elation, “Ted and I, we…Humiliating. It was over, and I tried to apologize….”

“You were obsessed with Ted, weren't you, Wilson? You knew about each and every affair he had after yours ended.” Charley pressed, wanting to exploit Wilson's admission, but afraid that if she pushed too hard, Wilson would crack and they would learn nothing of value. “You kept tabs on Ted—a natural thing for you to do, what with him living just a few doors down.” Somewhere in the house a phone began to ring.

“No. It was over.” A single tear rolled down Wilson's cheek.

“You found out about Ted's affair with Lisa last year. Something you saw or overheard?”

“Such a lovely girl.” The murmur of a woman's excited voice leaving a message floated out from the kitchen, the words unintelligible.

“And yet you hated Lisa, didn't you? You hated her because Ted had loved her once. Is that why you killed her, Wilson?”

“I didn't hate her.”

“But you killed her.”

“It was an accident.”

“You didn't mean to kill her?” Charley whispered, afraid of breaking the spell.

“No, I…she…” Wilson blinked. “She broke her neck. I told you, Charley.”

Charley strove for patience. “Yes, dear, you did. Can you also tell me what you said to Serena that night in the parking lot? Did you ask her for help? Pretend to be her friend?”

“I wasn't her friend.”

“Did you ever visit Ted at his vet clinic, Wilson? People will remember seeing you there.” Charley kept the questions coming fast. This was a critical point.

“I…may have been there. I think…once. Or two times.”

“And is that when you took the pentobarbital? Maybe you didn't know what you were going to do with it. You just picked it up. Maybe you didn't even know what it was.”

“I don't know what it is.”

“Where's your stunner, Wilson? You bought one last January. Where is it now?”

“I don't…I haven't seen it in…Robert made me buy that awful…”

“Why copy the books, Wilson?” Charley interjected a note of puzzlement into her voice. “Was it some kind of message to Ted? Something only he would understand? Ted followed the Agathas' reading list, didn't he?”

“The…books? Yes, he always seemed so interested, so charming, and I thought he…” Wilson's voice hitched. She swiped tears with the back of her hand. “It was all a mistake. I made a terrible mistake.” Her voice was heavy with despair. “It's over.”

“What's over, Wilson?” Charley pursued. “Serena, Lisa, Jelly. Has Ted learned his lesson? Did you make him pay for seducing and abandoning you, humiliating you, by killing his other women?” Her voice was hard now. “You killed three people for Ted Sizemore. Don't you think he should take some responsibility for that? Shouldn't he shoulder some of the blame?”

“Enough.” Robert Delaney's deep basso rang out, filling the room. Charley shot to her feet to face him. She'd been so engrossed she hadn't heard him come in.

He crossed to Wilson, hauling her to her feet. She gasped and flinched as though he'd struck her. “My wife had an affair. She had trouble getting over it. We're working through it, but whatever else she may be guilty of, it isn't murder.” His expression was devoid of tenderness. “Look at her.”

Wilson certainly didn't appear capable of murder at that moment. Eyes red, face pale and streaked with tears, she shrank under her husband's stare. She seemed terrified.

Charley wasn't ready to give up. “Wilson?” she said gently, trying to catch her eye. “Wilson, dear, is there anything you want to tell me? To help me understand the terrible mistake?”

She shook her head mutely, eyes fixed on the floor.

Robert jabbed a finger at Charley. “Since you're obviously here as an agent of the police, you can tell them that I was with Mrs. Delaney every minute after we returned home from the Community Center last Friday night. You took your best shot, Miss Carpenter. Unless the authorities produce physical evidence to connect her to these murders, they—and you—are done with her.”

He strode to the front door, practically dragging Wilson behind him, and flung it open. “Get out of my house.”

Back in the van, Charley leaned against Marc's shoulder. “Talk about a hidden problem that none of your friends suspect. That bastard is abusing Wilson—if not physically, then mentally and emotionally.” She felt ill. “I'll bet he's made her pay for Ted.”

“It bolsters her motive, too. Maybe Ted showed her a little genuine kindness, and maybe she couldn't bear to let it go. It's not classic battered wife, but nothing about that woman is textbook.” Paul made a circular motion next to his head with his index finger. “If you know what I mean.”

“Robert just provided Wilson with an alibi for the Summerfield murder,” Trent observed. “Not that I necessarily believe him. Still, does anyone think that poor woman could possibly be Lucy?”

Marc turned to Trent. “She admitted the affair. Admitted she was humiliated by the way it ended. She's got no real alibi for any of the murders.”

Trent began shaking his head; Marc talked faster. “No denial on the letter opener.” His phone chimed with an incoming text. Logan's phone signaled a moment later. “We have proof she owned a stunner. She admitted visiting Ted's clinic, which gives her access to pentobarbital.”

“I hear you, Detective, but without a physical link between Wilson and even one of the three victims, we can't charge her. I can't even get you a search warrant for their house.” Trent glanced down at his phone. “Oh, dear. Time's up, I'm afraid. My master is marshaling his troops as we speak.”

Charley stared, dismayed. “That's it? I failed?”

“No, sweetheart,” Marc said grimly. He showed her his own text, this one from Zehring.

Meet Lawson investigators my office one hour.

“That would be me.”