The Book Club Murders (5 page)

He stared at her in disbelief. “Her car. How do you know where her car is? And how did you know Serena went to Carmel's?”

“Lindy told me at Book Club. Not about the car. I, uh, drove through the lot on my way here,” she said stiffly. “It's on the way.”

Marc took a slow breath, wind whipping hair into his eyes, and he dragged it back with impatient fingers. Scraps of trash fled before the storm like flocks of tattered birds, swirling around the parking lot before being flung skyward. Charley stood silent, waiting for his reply, ignoring the wisps of red hair flying around her face.

“I'll look into it,” he said at last. “Anything else I should know?”

She squared her shoulders, resolved to get this over with. “My father wants to see you. He's upset, as I said. I would like to ask you,” she said through gritted teeth, “please, to try to find a few minutes to visit him. Soon.”

She glared at him as surprise, then guilt, crossed his face.
Well, he should feel guilty, damn him.
She braced herself for a refusal, prepared to do battle for her father's sake.

“I'll come by this week.”

“You
will
?” She shot him a brilliant smile that had his eyes widening in surprise once again. Undoubtedly, this was the first time she'd ever smiled at him. “I'll tell him. He'll be so happy to see you.” Before he could change his mind, she hopped back into her car and slammed the door. Without another glance, she revved the engine, flipped on her headlights, and zoomed out of the parking lot.

Charley pulled into the driveway of the neat, red-brick house on Hawthorn Boulevard. The rain had driven all her neighbors indoors. Lined with charming homes in the mix of architectural styles that was one of Oakwood's hallmarks, the broad street lay quiet, the deep porches and tidy front yards were deserted, and the sidewalks were gleaming wet. Immaculate lawns and spreading shade trees, mostly bare of leaves this late in the year, dripped and glittered under streetlamps that were coming to early life in response to the premature twilight of the storm.

She rolled under the wide two-car portico, switched off the engine, and simply sat, staring sightlessly toward the backyard. Her encounter with Marc had left her trembling with spent adrenaline. She'd been braced for a confrontation, and when he hadn't given her one she'd deflated like a week-old party balloon.

Not to mention the fact that he looked pretty damn hot: tearing around the corner, his gorgeous hair tousled by the wind, those killer blue eyes intense with worry, just because she'd called him. Potent stuff.

Stop lying to yourself
.

She leaned back, eyes closed. God, she missed Evelyn. What she wouldn't give for a little motherly advice right now.

Eight years ago, after Bobby suffered his first stroke, Charley and her dad were alone in the world. Despite his protests, she dropped out of the University of Dayton halfway through her junior year to assist with his recovery. She was determined to do it on her own, resolved to provide her father with everything he needed. She managed reasonably well, cooking and cleaning, ferrying Bobby to doctor's appointments and therapy sessions. When Frankie's mother stopped in one day with a casserole, she was shocked at how exhausted Charley looked. Mrs. Cartolano wasted no time putting the word out. Soon a steady stream of ladies began arriving, bearing gifts of food, doing quick loads of laundry, or whisking through the Carpenter house with dusters and vacuum cleaners. Charley hadn't realized how desperately she needed help until she began to receive it. And then one day, Evelyn Trenault walked through their front door.

Evie was well-to-do, the socially prominent ex-wife of a socially prominent corporate attorney, a feisty, athletic woman with a huge heart. She drove a stick shift, played tennis and golf, and loved to shop. She was also nearly as lonely as Bobby was. As the weeks turned into months, Evie's visits became more frequent. She and Charley developed a deep attachment to each other, finding they had much in common beyond their affection for Charley's dad.

Bobby and Evie had been teenage pals back in the day, and the rekindling of that old friendship provided him with something else Charley hadn't realized was missing: mature adult companionship. The three of them spent many happy hours talking and laughing, preparing and sharing meals, shouting out answers during
Jeopardy!,
putting up Christmas decorations, Valentine's Day decorations, an Easter egg tree. After Bobby suffered his second stroke, the one that confined him to a wheelchair, it was Evie who found Lawrence Whittman. Then there were four of them around the Carpenter dinner table.

Naturally, Charley was wildly curious about Marc, and she eventually got up the nerve to ask Evie about him. She'd heard the gossip: After high school graduation Marc immediately fled to Chicago, where he moved in with his father. Charley was furious to discover the reason for Evie's loneliness, that Marc only returned for a day or two twice a year, at Christmas and for his mother's birthday. Evie refused to say anything negative about her son, but Charley could read between the lines. Marc was clearly as egotistical and selfish as an adult as he'd been in high school. She felt terrible for this sweet, generous woman whom she'd grown to love.

On one of these rare visits, Evie coaxed Marc into meeting her good friends the Carpenters. He made a show of manners, smiling and listening patiently to Bobby. Her father was pathetically thrilled by the attention, but Charley saw through the façade of charm: Marc despised them and their modest home and couldn't wait to make his escape.

One day, about three weeks after Bobby's third stroke, Marc appeared without warning, tall and dark and handsome as ever, exuding power and more than a hint of violence as he paced the length of their front porch, dressed in snug jeans and a faded Oakwood sweatshirt. He'd let his hair grow, and it curled over his collar in a way Charley found sexy beyond belief.

He was curt and impatient with her, demanding to know where his mother was, acting extremely put out when she told him, her own temper rising, that Evie had run to the store to pick up a few things for dinner, as had become their easy habit several times a week. Evie found it preferable to eating alone, Charley explained, and her tone of voice left no doubt as to her meaning.

“Did you call your mother to let her know you were coming?” Charley asked, unable to hide her contempt. “Since your visits are such a rare phenomenon?”

Marc's eyes blazed at her. “What I say to my mother is none of your business,” he snapped. “What the hell is going on here, anyway? You've got her running errands for you now? Cooking your meals?”

Charley lifted her chin. “Evie is our friend. No,” she corrected coldly, “she's family. Which is more than I can say for you.”

“What. Did. You. Say.” Marc ground out each word through clenched teeth.

“You heard me. You're a selfish bastard, and you know it.” Charley stepped onto the porch and pulled the door shut, unwilling to have her father upset. Bobby's latest stroke had been quite severe, resulting in Lawrence's moving in with them full-time. The strain of the last few weeks had worn down her defenses, and all at once she was spoiling for a fight. “Evie misses you terribly. She talks about you all the time, but you don't have the decency to call her even once a week. She's your mother, for God's sake, and you—”

“You don't know anything about me.”

“I know plenty.” Charley squared off, hands fisting at her sides. “I know you were an arrogant ass in high school, and you haven't changed a bit.”

“And so you're…what? Stepping in? Playing daughter? Preying on a foolish old woman?” He was shouting now as they stood toe to toe, fury matching fury.

“Look.” Charley tried to calm herself. “I only care about Evie. If you'd simply have the decency to—”

“I'm not going to stand here and take advice from a college dropout.” He turned to leave as Charley gasped at the injustice of such a low blow.

“At least I had a reason. I am taking care of my father,” she retorted, all attempts at calm abandoned. “What's your excuse, Mr. Law School Dropout?”

“That was your choice,” Marc shot back, ignoring her last remark, “and now you've sucked my mother into this emotional sinkhole. You're taking advantage of a rich, lonely woman who—”

“How dare you.” Charley's heart pounded as she stepped into his face, so close she caught a whiff of his scent: sandalwood and coffee. “How dare you imply that I have some kind of ulterior motive. I love Evie. Do you even know what that means?”

“I know that most people are out for whatever they can get. You and that old man are no exception.”

“You're a heartless cynic.”

“And you're nothing but a—”

“Marcus.”

They turned to see Evie standing on the front walk, a brown paper sack cradled in one arm. Her expression was terrible to behold as she stared at her son, aghast.

Marc's face drained of color. Without another word, he rushed down the steps, past his mother and out to a car parked at the curb. He roared off down the street without a backward glance.

Four months later, Evelyn Trenault swayed, stumbled, then sank into an armchair in the Carpenters' family room and just…slipped away, her sudden heart attack a cruel irony for such a vibrant, active woman. That day on the porch had been the last contact between mother and son.

Why, Charley asked herself wearily, did he have to move back here anyway? And why had he moved back
after
his mother died? She thought she sensed a change in his attitude toward her, and wondered if Evie's death was the cause. Gone was the anger, the constant chip on his shoulder. He seemed unsure of himself, and deeply lonely. That vulnerability was, to Charley's dismay, very appealing.

She gave herself a mental bitch slap.
This is the man who froze out his own mother,
she reminded herself.
Leopards don't change their spots.

The only reason she'd asked him here was to make her dad happy. Well, and to try to pick his brain about Serena's murder. But those were absolutely the only reasons. Frankie was really going to owe her one.

The rain finally let up enough to contemplate flight. Charley grabbed her purse and nipped in the side door without getting too wet.

“Chip? That you?” Lawrence's voice boomed.

Charley slipped out of her damp boots and stepped into the kitchen. She was immediately bathed in light and warmth.

“Something smells fantastic.” She stood on tiptoe to peck the cheek of the enormous man filling the space between the range and the kitchen island. Lawrence Whittman, six foot nine, two hundred sixty-one pounds, had a frilly green apron tucked into the front of his jeans. Biceps the size of first graders bulged as he slid a broiling pan from the oven.

“Roast turkey breast, basted in its own juice.” He gave her a stern look. “Did you eat any real food today? I know you didn't have breakfast, so do not pretend that you did.”

“Oh, Lawrence,” she begged, “please don't yell at me, not today.”

He clucked his tongue. “I forgot about your friend.” He patted her shoulder with a massive hand. Without warning, and to her horror, her eyes filled with tears.

“Whoa, now,” Lawrence said in alarm. He gathered her into his vast embrace. She burrowed into a chest that felt like a cinder-block wall and tried to swallow the sudden lump in her throat. For the second time that day, she found herself feeling vulnerable and leaning on a man for strength. What was the matter with her?

In her defense, it wasn't every day someone you knew was brutally murdered. Add sexual attraction to an old enemy, and it was no wonder she was off balance.

“You're home now, little girl,” Lawrence said gently. “You gonna be okay?” She nodded, sniffing. He handed her a tissue. “Good, 'cause your daddy doesn't need to see you crying. I told him who the dead lady was. Took it real well.” His voice rang with pride. “He was hollering about something a bit ago. I tried to settle him down, but he swatted at me like a mosquito.”

“Now what?” Her stomach curled with anxiety.

“You go on in. I'll yell when it's ready.” He turned to a pot on the stovetop that was emitting a cloud of fragrant steam.

She found her father in the den, sitting at his computer. She wrapped her arms around him from behind and kissed him on the cheek. He was freshly shaved, and his thinning hair, more gray than red now, smelled like strawberry shampoo. Lawrence cared for Bobby with a loving tenderness that amazed her.

Although three strokes had caused her father significant paralysis and slurring of speech, he hadn't let his affliction get him down. Therapy had done wonders and, by the use of a soft prop bar next to the keyboard, he was still able to type. He simply compensated for his uncooperative right hand with his left. Bobby Carpenter now explored the world as he had never had time to during his working life. He was a voracious reader, a patient researcher, and he had nothing but time.

“Watcha doing, handsome?” What was he watching? Was that…? With a sinking heart, Charley recognized Marc, standing among a group of people, Detective Paul Brixton beside him. Red and blue lights flashed. This must be the footage from the news that had so distressed her father earlier. Trust Bobby to find it online.

“My girl.” It came out “mah gore.” He patted her arm with his good hand. He maneuvered the mouse and clicked again.

“I know, Daddy, it's awful.” She perched on the arm of the love seat and linked her fingers with his. She searched his face anxiously. He didn't need this kind of upset. His right side drooped slightly, giving him a perpetual expression of sadness that belied his vitality and optimism. “I spoke to Marcus today. He promised to come by soon. Isn't that great?”

Bobby didn't appear to have heard her as he stared intently at the screen. “This, this.” He indicated the monitor.

Charley sighed and leaned over. Then she realized that he'd cued up a different video. Shaky and amateurish like a lot of YouTube clips, it appeared to have been shot with a cellphone. The shot started out with the group on the bridge—but from the opposite side, Charley noted with a start. Whoever shot this hadn't been standing with the rest of the media. In fact, it appeared to have been filmed from the trees, just below the guardrail. As she watched, the picture panned crazily down over the opening of a big tunnel covered with graffiti.

Charley gasped.

The cameraman seemed to be crouching behind a shrub above and to one side of the tunnel. Despite the poor video quality, the object at the bottom of the slope was clearly identifiable. She saw a mattress and…the naked torso and legs of a woman. Charley felt sick. She knew she was looking at Serena Wyndham's dead body.

“Sorry, my…girl.” Bobby stared up at her in obvious worry. “No.
No.
Call…Marc.”

“I did call him, Daddy. He promised to—”

“
NO
. Call Marc. This”—he indicated the screen—“out. Police…take it out.”

Then Charley understood. Bobby wanted her to tell the police about the video post. They would undoubtedly move swiftly to remove it from the site. Too bad that genie was already out of the bottle. According to the screen, the video had been viewed 236 times already, but it was still a good idea. Lindy and her husband certainly didn't need to have someone send them a link to this awful thing.