Page 8 of The Murder Club

“Do any of them live in Pike?”

“I doubt it.” His expression made it clear that was a stupid question. “These sorts of clubs have people from all over the world.”

“Okay.”

Bailey turned to leave. There was no point worrying about who sent the text. Or how they’d gotten her number. If they continued to be a pest, she would simply block them. Problem solved.

At least one problem.

Now she had to find out why she’d been commanded to make an appearance in the pit of doom.

She’d reached the door when Eric suddenly called out, “Hey, Bailey. Sorry I couldn’t help.”

“No problem.”

“I play lots of other games,” he continued. “You know . . . if you’re interested.”

She paused to glance over her shoulder. “I think I’m done with online games.”

He flushed, as if embarrassed he’d asked. “Yeah. Gotcha.”

Feeling a pang of guilt, Bailey left the break room and headed to the office at the end of the hall. She hadn’t meant to hurt Eric’s feelings, but she had to know if he’d been the one harassing her.

Dismissing the strange text from her mind, she tapped on the closed door, waiting for a woman’s voice to call out for her to enter before pushing it open and stepping inside the room.

It was nicer than the rest of the nursing home. The desk and high-back leather chairs were worn, but they were obviously well-built, and there was a new gray carpet on the floor that matched the drapes. The walls were painted a sterile white with framed oil paintings that were created by local artists with more enthusiasm than skill and a couple floor lamps added a much needed warmth.

It wasn’t fancy, but this was Pike, and people would be suspicious of anything too flashy.

“Good morning, Ms. Donaldson,” Bailey said, her gaze landing on the short, rail-thin woman who approached her with the crisp confidence of an army general.

Her face was long, giving her the unfortunate appearance of a horse, and her hair was dyed a dark red and sprayed into the shape of a helmet. She was wearing one of her favorite power suits in a bright green that matched her eyes and she wore a cross hanging on a gold chain.

Lorene Donaldson was a formidable woman who treated her employees like trash and refused to pay one penny above minimum wage. She did, however, have the redeeming quality of actually caring about the elderly residents who were in the home.

“It’s about time,” the older woman snapped.

Bailey resisted the urge to look at her watch. She knew she wasn’t late.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

The woman’s lips pursed into a tight circle. “That has yet to be determined.”

Bailey frowned. It wasn’t unusual for Lorene to call her into the office to lodge some complaint. Any problem with the nursing staff or aides was somehow Bailey’s fault, regardless, whether she was on duty or not. But she wasn’t usually vague about her chastisement.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll let Mr. Bennett explain.” Lorene’s lips remained pursed. Like she was about to whistle for a dog.

It wasn’t a dog, however, who rose from one of the chairs facing the desk. Instead it was Ward Bennett, a large, barrel-chested man with thinning black hair and shrewd brown eyes. He was wearing a suit with a crisp white shirt and a tie that was so tight it looked like it was about to choke him.

On cue, he cleared his throat.

“Forgive me, Bailey,” Ward murmured, moving toward her to shake her hand. “I intended to conduct this meeting in my office later this afternoon.”

Bailey’s state of confusion deepened. Ward Bennett was a local lawyer, but Bailey had never used his services. Mostly because she’d never needed a lawyer. She’d been hoping to continue that trend.

“What meeting?” she demanded.

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