The Book Club Murders (4 page)

The coming storm had drivers flipping on headlights to combat the gloom. If Charley hadn't taken that detour through the Carmel's parking lot, she'd have been back at her shop already.

She hadn't been able to resist taking a peek. When she pulled in, yellow crime scene tape already marked the entrance to the jogging trail on the southern edge of the lot. An Oakwood police cruiser, roof lights revolving slowly, was parked across the three closest spaces, effectively blocking access. How long would they maintain a presence here?

At this hour, the lot was mostly empty. Too late for lunch, too early for happy hour. Charley didn't stop as she slowly rolled past the cruiser and continued right, circling behind the restaurant.

And drove right past Serena's red Miata. Charley recognized it instantly; it was pretty hard to miss. She hesitated, wondering if she should stop and point it out to the safety officer guarding the trailhead. Well, they'd have a description of her car by now, wouldn't they? They could certainly find a red sports car in broad daylight.

It would make one more excellent reason to call Marc; of course, then he'd know she'd been here. She lifted her chin. This was public property. The cops hadn't closed off the entire parking lot. What could he say?

As her VW crawled through traffic on the drive back to her shop, Charley's cellphone rang. She checked the display and felt a stab of anxiety.
HOME.

“Lawrence? Is Dad okay?”

“Coach is fine, Chip. Relax.” Lawrence had nicknamed her Chip the first time they'd met in the rehab center at Kettering Hospital four years ago, just after Bobby's second stroke. He'd been interning to complete his sports medicine degree when he realized the new stroke patient was his beloved college football coach. A diminutive for Charlotte, the name was also his way of saying she was a lot like her old man.

Charley gripped the phone. She heard the edge in his tone despite his reassurance. Lawrence's voice usually calmed her; he had that effect on people. He was very popular, actually knowing most of their neighbors better than she did. The husbands were openly impressed with his almost-NFL career—cut short by a torn ACL during his first exhibition game with the Eagles—as well as his ability to fix anything. The wives were charmed by his smooth manners, gleaming good looks, and generous hand with recipes. Kids found him to be an excellent climbing surface, if they could catch him. After nearly three years of their living as a family, Charley couldn't imagine life without Lawrence.

She could never pay him what he was worth, not in a million years. She only hoped he never got a better offer.

As she parked behind her shop, there was a flash of lightning, and then a huge clap of thunder drowned out his next words. A single raindrop, fat as a grape tomato, squashed onto her windshield.

“—least he will be, but you've got to—”

Juggling purse, keys, and cellphone, she scrambled out of the car. With a wicked side kick, she slammed the door and made a run for the back entrance to Old Hat. The rain came down faster now, spotting the dark green fabric of her dress. Jamming her key into the lock, she fell inside, arriving frazzled and breathless to a tiny storeroom of crammed metal shelving.

Charley's office was little more than a short hallway between the storeroom and the shop itself. The only light came from a four-tube fluorescent fixture suspended from the ceiling by thin chains. Movie posters from the golden age of Hollywood covered the walls:
Charade
with Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn,
Top Hat
with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, William Powell and Myrna Loy in
The Thin Man
. A narrow, emerald green door led to a microscopic powder room. An old wooden rolltop desk sat against the left wall. Pigeonholes were stuffed with an assortment of papers. It was cramped, but cozy.

“Hold on, Lawrence.” Charley poked her head through to the shop. She grinned as she caught sight of Heddy Jones, her full-time employee. Today's outfit was a study in black, all wispy scarves and weedy taffeta; she looked like Stevie Nicks coming off a bender. Only Heddy could get away with something so haphazard. Despite the quirky personal dress code, she was honest, dependable, and a whiz-bang saleswoman. If not for her loyal dedication, Old Hat would never have survived its first year.

Besides, customers looked positively radiant by contrast.

Heddy was ringing up a sale, so Charley ducked back into the office. Her head was starting to ache. Dropping into her desk chair, she pulled open a drawer, extracted a small bottle of caplets, and dry-swallowed two. “Talk to me.”

“You know how the Coach likes to watch the noon news report on the TV? Well, guess who was on there, big as life?”

Charley didn't have to guess. “Marcus. Dad saw Marc on TV. How upset is he?” She could feel the resentment that had bloomed at Midge's house put out a few new leaves.

“A lot more agitated than I like to see him. Practically launched out of his chair. I got him calmed down, but…” Lawrence paused. “He'd like to see that boy.”

Fat chance, Charley thought sourly.

“The thing is”—he cleared his throat—“what I thought was, maybe if you were to call him, and if you asked him
nicely,
maybe he would find the time to come see the Coach?” His voice had been running up the scale during this speech, the last words ending somewhere near high C.

Lawrence knew how Charley felt about Marc's behavior toward his late mother, Evelyn. He'd even heard the story, in highly edited form, of their big fight. Still, the Coach's well-being was Lawrence's top priority. Marcus Trenault might be a world- class tool, but for some inexplicable reason, Bobby Carpenter had taken a fancy to him, no doubt because he was the son of his dearest friend. And what the Coach wanted, Lawrence moved heaven and earth to acquire.

“Ask him nicely? I'm always nice.” Charley rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Lawrence, I saw him today. It was terrible. The murdered woman? It's someone we know.” She explained about Book Club and Lindy Taylor, Marc's arrival, and the identity of the murder victim. She left out Frankie's evil plan to make her, Charley, grill the detective like a party kielbasa.

Lawrence listened patiently, as always. They agreed that he would tell Bobby about Serena before he heard her name on the news. But he practically commanded her to contact Marc without delay, for her father's sake.

That was just playing dirty.

It was yet another reason to call. At the rate she was going, she'd be on the phone with Mr. Hotshot for an hour.

Fresh air, she decided, and pushed up from her desk. Unpleasant tasks required a clear head. She retraced her steps through the storeroom, opened the back door, and stepped outside into the rear parking lot. The rain had stopped temporarily, but heavy clouds hung low and dark, gathering strength for a major downpour. She filled her lungs and immediately felt her headache begin to ease. She started to reenter her shop, then, struck by inspiration, she slammed the door, cut around the corner of her building, and walked swiftly up the alley. She glanced left toward Slash, tempted, but instead turned right, arriving at the front entrance of Old Hat Vintage Fashions.

The one-story building sported a fake colonial Williamsburg façade that appealed to her love of all things vintage or offbeat, or both. Park Avenue was housed in a charming variety of converted cottages and small, unique commercial buildings. Her shop shared frontage with an investment firm and a travel agency.

The Oakwood Safety Building occupied almost the entire south side of Park. Built to resemble a French provincial manor, it housed the integrated police and fire Safety Department, as well as offices for the mayor and her council, the city manager, various administrative departments, and the Oakwood traffic court.

Oh, and the Detective Section was in there somewhere, too. She glared at the historic structure, then turned her back.

Wind tugged at her skirt and freed strands of her hair from Dmitri's updo. She breathed deeply, putting thoughts of murder firmly out of her mind. Before heading back inside, she decided to indulge in some unabashed admiration of her beloved display window. Charley did the window personally, choosing items with an eye for color and shape.

Four papier-mâché giraffes in various poses were arranged on different-leveled platforms and covered in peach satin. Charley had stumbled across them at an estate sale and fallen in love. Groucho, Chico, Harpo, and Zeppo were now the centerpiece of all her displays. Scarves in peacock colors, shimmery necklaces, multihued belts, and a rainbow of beaded handbags draped the animals, catching the eye and promising more treasures within.

Satisfied, she mounted the three steps to the massive emerald green–painted door, grasped the ornate brass handle, and pushed inside. Delicate chimes announced her arrival.

Charley stopped again, just drinking it in. God, she loved this place. She still had moments of disbelief, hardly able to accept that all this was hers. Well, hers and the bank's, but no point in letting facts get in the way of a good ego buzz.

From hidden speakers, Frank Sinatra softly begged someone to fly him to the moon. Lighted glass cases displayed precious, beautiful objects on peach and dark blue velvet. Pale peach walls reflected a soft, flattering light. Racks and shelves filled with one-of-a-kind garments lined the other walls and filled the glowing hardwood floor space.

Heddy turned with a welcoming smile. “Oh! It's you, Charlotte dear. I thought you were in back.” Now that Evie Trenault, as beloved by Charley as by her dad, was gone from their lives, only Heddy called her Charlotte anymore. Hearing it always made her feel a bit wistful.

“Just getting some air before the heavens open.”

“How were the Murdering Marthas?”

“Agathas.” Charley grinned. “And we haven't actually murdered anyone in weeks.” She contemplated a sales floor devoid of customers. “You may as well head out,” she decided, peering out at the purpling sky. “I'm closing early. No one is going to be shopping in this weather.”

“I don't mind if I do, thank you, dear.” Heddy patted her arm. She quickly gathered her belongings and left.

Charley moved through the shop, locking the front door, turning off lights, straightening displays.

Stalling.

It wasn't like it would get less awkward the longer she waited. She secured the employee entrance, climbed into her VW, and stared out the windshield.
Crap
. Swallowing her reluctance, she dialed the Safety Department switchboard and asked for Detective Trenault. Before she could take a breath, the line clicked twice.

“Trenault.”

“Oh.” All of Charley's prepared words fled in an instant. “Marc? Hi, hello, it's—Charley. Carpenter.”

“Charley? What's wrong?” Marc's voice was sharp with surprise and alarm. She could hear Paul Brixton in the background.

“I'm bothering you. I'll just call later.”
Or not.

“It's okay.” Marc said something to the other detective, then continued in a calmer voice. “Tell me why you called.”

“It's my—” The tower clock that topped the Safety Building struck three o'clock, and Charley could hear it echo metallically through her cell.

“Charley, where are you?”

“I'm at work. That is, in my car behind work.”

“I'm across the street. Hang on, I'm walking over.” He clicked off.

Great,
she thought. As if talking to him wasn't awkward enough, she was going to have to face him. She climbed out of the car. The wind was much stronger now, and she took shelter behind the open car door as Marc rounded the back of Charley's building at a run and skidded to a stop.

She and Marc hadn't spoken at any length since before his mother's death two years ago. His gaze was wary, and she shifted uncomfortably, remembering heated words spoken in haste, and repented at leisure.

“I know you're busy with Serena's murder case, and that's part of the reason I called. That, and my dad. Besides…” She gripped the car door as a sudden, powerful gust threatened to close it on her. “I'm babbling. Sorry, but it's very distressing, and when my dad saw you on TV he got upset, and I thought…I wanted…” She was finding it difficult to concentrate, much less speak coherently.

“Bobby is upset about the murder. I heard it was all over the news.” Marc frowned as he dragged a hand through thick brown hair tousled by the wind. “Did he know Serena?”

“He knew her parents. They haven't released her name, so I wouldn't know who it was either, if you hadn't…” She broke off again, momentarily unable to continue.

“I didn't realize. I'm sorry.” Marc's expression conveyed both sympathy and sorrow, and she gasped, abashed.

“My God, you knew her better than I did! I'm sorry, too.”

“We weren't close.” His voice was low. “But it sucks.”

Charley shook her head. “She was so pretty, a lot like Lindy, with their blond hair and beautiful blue eyes. I was only in junior high, but I remember the Radcliff girls: cheerleaders, prom courts, student council, tennis team.”

“Lindy's and my junior year, when Serena was a senior, she turned down the second singles slot for the chance to play doubles with her younger sister.” He smiled sadly. “They were undefeated that year.”

They stood in silence, sharing a moment of pain and loss, the first moment they'd ever shared that wasn't rife with hostility. All at once Charley realized she was staring, and she blushed, dropping her gaze.

Marc cleared his throat. “I doubt you called me to commiserate,” he said drily. “Why don't you tell me what you want, Charley, so I can get back to investigating Serena's murder.”

That's the Marcus Trenault I know,
Charley thought,
arrogant and bossy
. She took a deep breath and blurted, “Serena was maybe thinking of hiring a PI so she could bury Bradley in the divorce. She was meeting someone for drinks last night. She had an appointment at Carmel's. It could be she was meeting a private detective. That would explain why she wouldn't tell Lindy who her date was with. And”—she lifted her chin—“her car is parked around back near the Dumpsters. At least, it was an hour ago. I thought you should know.” She flushed. “In case it helps with your investigation. Will it?”