The Book Club Murders (3 page)

“Better grab a seat or we'll be sitting cross-legged on the floor, Charley.”

“You're a lot braver than I am,” Charley muttered as they moved off.

Lindy shook her head. “Don't be fooled by the expensive armor. Most of these women are scared to death, usually of one another.”

Could that be true? If so, Charley thought, it might be one of the saddest things she'd ever heard.

Arranged around the elegant living room, plates balanced on their laps, the eight Agathas chatted animatedly, the murdered victim the topic of choice. Copies of
Rattlesnake Crossing
lay here and there. Jelly glanced through a stack of note cards, her lunch plate already clean as a whistle. Charley sat on a long sofa covered in pale yellow watered silk, Frankie on her left, Lindy in a matching side chair to her right. Light flooded into the room from an enormous picture window overlooking the circular drive.

The Agathas Book Club ran on a fairly standard format: drinks, lunch, a brief presentation on that month's book, discussion, and questions. The best presenters, Charley and Frankie agreed, kept their comments short. Based on the size of that stack of note cards, Jelly would not fall into this category. Luckily, or unluckily, depending on one's point of view, they weren't destined to find out.

As Charley turned to ask her a question, Lindy gasped and went rigid. She lurched to her feet, face ashen, lunch forgotten, food sliding to the floor. Curried chicken and tomato aspic dumped onto the oriental carpet.

“Oh, God. Oh, no.”

Staring out the window, Frankie said, “Hey, isn't that—” Her question was cut off as Lindy cried out.

“Lindy, for God's sakes! What are you doing?” Midge stared, appalled.

Lindy's wineglass lay on its side on the antique end table, spilled liquid running across its polished surface, as she began moving jerkily toward the front door.

The doorbell rang.

The long, circular drive led to a massive Georgian of rose-colored brick, fronted with half an acre of professional landscaping. Marc recognized a battered orange VW Beetle, out of place among all this late-model horsepower. He felt a flicker of irritation. What was Charley Carpenter doing here? Paul maneuvered carefully past the line of cars, then parked before a large picture window. As Marc extricated his long legs and prepared to stand, he glanced up—and straight into the frightened, instantly comprehending eyes of Lindy Taylor.

Paul rang the bell. A moment later, the door flew open as if it were spring-loaded. The two detectives confronted a spacious hallway crowded with women. Startled at this unexpected show of force, Paul hesitated, temporarily robbed of speech.

“Detectives Trenault and Brixton,” Marc said smoothly, holding up his detective shield. He addressed a scowling blonde in her late fifties who appeared to lead the pack. “Mrs. Crawford?”

“The police? What's the meaning of this?” Her knuckles, gripped around the doorframe, were white with tension. “I certainly didn't summon a policeman.”

Paul recovered swiftly. “Sorry to disturb your party, ma'am. May we come in?”

“Do I have a choice?” Her grudging attempt to step aside and allow them entry was blocked by a solid wall of gaping women. She frowned, the crowd shifted—and Marc saw her.

Red hair all swept back and twisted up, one of her old-fashioned dresses, wide, gray eyes steady on his. Charley Carpenter looked very…grown-up, and very pissed off. Well, what else was new? He felt something in his chest tighten. She stood with Lindy in the center of the foyer. Lindy's gaze was also locked on his, her breathing shallow, her face white.

“Hello, Lindy.” He paused. “Charley.”

Charley firmed her grip around Lindy's waist. Aware of the avid stares of the other women, she found herself furious with Marc for creating this scene. She was terribly afraid she knew why he was here. Somehow, Lindy had known it too, the moment she'd glimpsed Marc in the driveway.

A part of Charley blamed him for what he had come to say. She wanted to shield her friend, turn away the words that were coming, stop Marc from replacing hope with shock and grief.

The other detective cleared his throat. “Mrs. Crawford, ma'am, we need to speak with Mrs. Lindy Taylor.”

As he spoke her name, Lindy finally fainted, dragging Charley to the floor with her. The universal gasp sounded like a dozen pairs of air brakes. Before anyone could move, Marc went down on one knee, smoothly scooping Lindy off the floor and out of Charley's grasp. Their eyes met for one long beat, cobalt blue to startled gray. All the air left Charley's lungs. Then he stood effortlessly, Lindy in his arms, and strode through a doorway that led to the den. Left to fend for himself, Brixton headed off the developing stampede.

“Ladies, please.” He held up one hand like a traffic cop. The voices died away quickly, only Jelly's excited whisper of “Call Eric right
away
!” cutting the silence. “Mrs. Taylor is fine, but we do need to speak with her privately, if we may?”

“Of course.” Midge resumed control. “Agathas, I believe that concludes Book Club for today.” She cut off the protests with a single look. “Take your time, Detective.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” He followed Marc into the den and closed the door.

Frankie offered Charley a hand, hauling her to her feet with surprising strength for her tiny size. “Oh my God, Charley. Do you think…?”

Charley drew in a deep breath, trying to steady her racing pulse. “What else would he be doing here, talking to Lindy?”

The two friends stared at the closed door, then at each other, in dismay.

Twenty minutes later, Charley sat at their favorite window table in Ground Zero, a funky coffee bar in the Shops of Oakwood. Frankie and Charley routinely came here after Book Club to perform postmortems on the food, conversation, and attire of their fellow Agathas. Occupying three long blocks along Far Hills Avenue, Oakwood's main drag, the Shops boasted numerous upscale boutiques, several bank branches, offices for a handful of tasteful, discreet medical specialties, and a three-star restaurant. While this second, much larger business district offered many more retail options than Charley's beloved Park Avenue, the Shops were far more modern and less individualistically styled. To Charley's way of thinking, their uniform brickwork and mainstream sameness lacked soul.

She stared glumly out the window at passing foot and motor traffic. Lowering clouds had rolled in, purple and black, casting a twilight shade. Thunder rumbled, promising rain.

Frankie set down two huge ceramic mugs, a mound of whipped cream with chocolate sprinkles floating on each like a miniature atoll, and dropped into the chair opposite. Charley eyed the unaccustomed toppings with a raised eyebrow.

“Medicinal,” Frankie explained. She tucked a long brown curl behind one ear. “How badly did that suck?”

Charley contemplated her drink, chin resting on her hand. It seemed inconceivable that the murdered woman was Lindy's sister. Unfortunately, Midge had kicked everyone out before they could learn what went on behind that closed door. Charley hadn't known Serena well, and she wasn't exactly sure how she should be feeling. Sad? Scared? She sighed, spooned some whipped cream, and ate it. Actually, it kind of helped.

“So, what now?”

Charley glanced up in surprise. “What do you mean, ‘what now?' ”

Frankie leaned in conspiratorially, eyes wide. “We want to know what gives, right?”

“Right,” Charley agreed cautiously. She knew that look, and it usually meant trouble.

“And someone at this table just
happens
to be intimately connected with a detective on the case, right?”

Charley gaped at her. “First of all, let's examine the word ‘intimate.' Not appropriate to this situation,” she said firmly. “And second, he's not going to tell us anything. Think about the mysteries we've read for Book Club. The police, or detectives, or whoever never talk to civilians about ongoing investigations. You know how this works as well as I do.”

The Agathas Book Club was strictly devoted to the reading and dissecting of murder mysteries, female authors only. Like all the Agathas, Charley and Frankie were well versed in the three vital elements of the ultimate crime: means, motive, and opportunity. Each month the assigned presenter diagrammed the clues planted for readers to detect the guilty. Even their name paid homage to that Dame of Death, the one who'd inspired so many others: Agatha Christie. Many happy hours were spent debating the best means of dispatch for an inconvenient spouse or unpleasant neighbor. A little twisted, but Charley loved it.

“You're right—only the amateurs like Jane Marple go around blabbing and speculating,” Frankie admitted. “And I don't mean to make light of this. Anything but. I've actually gotten to know Serena lately. We've hung out at a few Bar Association shindigs. Lindy and I have been working on getting her to join the Agathas, and I think I'd convinced her to attend next month at my house. She's actually a lot of fun….She
was
fun.” Frankie's eyes threatened tears. “And someone killed her. My God, I cannot believe I was lying on the sofa watching television while—”

“Oh, Frankie.”

She sniffed furiously and straightened. “We need to find out what happened. And here you have this
intimate—
”

“
Not
intimate.”

“—personal relationship with the detective on the case,” Frankie plowed ahead. “Not to mention the fact that the detective in question is hot as hell and was totally checking you out at Midge's.”

Charley opened and closed her mouth twice before she found her voice. “You are…He…Stop treating this like one of our Book Club reads. The hot detective—”

“So, you admit he's hot!” Frankie gave a little bounce. “You are so overdue for some steamy romance. And please spare me that tired line about being jinxed. Just because your last relationship ended badly—”

Charley snorted. “I'd say catching him in bed with his sister-in-law qualifies as ending badly. Of course, before him we had the closet drinker, and before that the ass hat that talked to my father like he was mentally deficient—”

“—doesn't mean all men are dogs,” Frankie continued. “If you ask me, Marcus Trenault is exactly what you need.”

“Frankie, damn it, stop. Just, stop.” This conversation was making Charley very uncomfortable.

She remembered with crystal clarity the first time she ever saw Marcus Trenault. He'd been striding across the lawn behind the high school with a group of other seniors. Charley had stopped dead, transfixed, and he had, quite literally, tripped over her big feet. She was all braces, freckles, orange braids, and gawky limbs, a very awkward thirteen to Marc's seventeen. He was already six foot four, all lean muscle and thick, wavy brown hair. And those eyes! Dark blue and fringed with thick black lashes any girl would kill for, they could immobilize her with one hostile stare. His stare that day had certainly been a killer as he'd regained his balance, muttering something about “unattended children” as his buddies laughed.

It was love at first sight. Or, if not love, then a devastating crush unlike anything she'd felt before. She'd been both thrilled and shamed by her illicit thoughts about this virtual stranger. She'd confessed all to her best friend, of course, who'd concurred enthusiastically over Marc's unparalleled hunkiness. Young Charley nurtured a secret flame for Marcus Trenault for years, although they never spoke and never even saw each other after he graduated.

Until the day they did, a fiery encounter that left her shaken and trembling with rage. If mutual verbal evisceration defined an intimate relationship, then perhaps Frankie was right.

Her pulse skipped again as she recalled him kneeling to take Lindy in his arms, their lean strength evident through his elegant suit, his movements graceful, confident. And those eyes still had the power to pin her to the floor.

She shook her head. Three long years had passed since the day they'd said such terrible things to one another, things they could never take back. She didn't see him again until his mother Evelyn's funeral a few months later. He'd avoided her and her father, refusing even to accept their condolences, rushing from the cemetery into a black stretch limo with his equally cold and arrogant father.

She sighed. Evie was gone now; what did any of it matter? She and Marc were nothing to each other. So why couldn't she quite bring herself to admit that her attraction burned as hot as ever? Did the fact that she'd spent these last three years stumbling through one disastrous relationship after another have anything to do with it?

“The only relationship between Detective Trenault and me is a hostile one.”

“At the moment. And that's better than nothing.”

Charley narrowed her eyes. “Let's drop it, okay?”

“Fine.” Frankie's lower lip jutted out in a way Charley knew all too well.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Don't sulk.”

“I'm not sulking.”

“You're sulking.”

Frankie made an elaborate show of stirring her coffee, slurping noisily. “
Mmmm,
what a delicious beverage. We must come here again.”

“You are such a child.” Charley glared, then sat back with a huff. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”

“Call him,” Frankie answered promptly.

“Yeah, he's dying to take my calls. So, I say what, exactly?”

“Tell him you have information about the case.”

“But I don't have—”

“
Au contraire,
Pierre. I ran into Serena last week, and she told me she was hiring a private detective to help her get the goods on Bradley for the divorce.”

“Seriously?” Charley stared. “How come you never mentioned it?”

Frankie's eyes flashed. “Did I know she was going to get herself murdered? I did not.”

“Still, that's pretty—hey!” Charley sat up. “Lindy told me Serena was meeting someone last night. ‘Drinks at Carmel's at eight.' What if she went there to meet a private eye?”

“Hot damn! We've practically solved the case. It's your civic duty to call Marc and offer your expert assistance.”

“Tell me again why
you
aren't calling him?”

“Because,” Frankie said with the air of someone instructing a backward child, “he hardly knows me. You've got a much better chance of getting him to spill.”

“He doesn't even like me. Why would he tell me anything?”

“You two have history. Good or bad doesn't matter. All that matters is that when you get in his face, he won't be able to ignore you.”

Charley wasn't too sure about that, but she felt herself weakening. “I'll think about it.”

“That's all I ask.”

“But only because the whining is making my teeth ache.” Despite her show of reluctance, Charley felt a secret thrill. Poking into a real live murder case? Who could say no to that? And she wanted to help catch this killer, whoever he was. Murder in Oakwood? Not okay. She refused to acknowledge that any of her excitement stemmed from knowing she'd be talking to Marc.

“Serena was my friend.” Frankie's voice rang with quiet intensity. “And her sister's been a good friend to you, Carpo. We owe it to Lindy to try and help.”

“Agreed.” Charley sighed elaborately, lightening the mood. “You are so manipulative, and I let you walk all over me. I don't know how John stands it.”

“It's my innate Italian charm.” Frankie saluted with her mug.