The Codebook Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  “No bodies today, at least none that I know of.” Charley indicated her carryall. “But I may have a little mystery to solve.”

  “Why am I not surprised? I want to hear the entire story.” Marc glanced over his shoulder. “Later. I should get back.”

  “The story can keep,” she promised him.

  Marc pointed at Bobby. “No telling without me,” he commanded with mock severity. He kissed her again, collected his ballcap and work gloves, and headed back down the street.

  “Charley? Thank goodness!”

  Afiya ran down the front steps, her pale gray dashiki fluttering behind her like the soft wings of a bird. The women embraced. “Your father was so distressed,” she whispered before stepping back. “I am very glad to see you safe.”

  “Just a bit grubby.” Charley’s smile was rueful. “My quick trip to pick up wine for tonight turned out to be not so quick.”

  Afiya’s large brown eyes filled with disappointment. “I suppose we must cancel our meeting. A shame, as I so enjoyed the book. The counterfeit trail of the stolen necklace fooled me completely.”

  “Postponed only,” Charley assured her. “And I loved it, too, especially the way the killer maintained a false front all those months. What a scheme!”

  For their first read, Frankie had put forth a classic by Dame Agatha Christie, Death on the Nile. The plot contained plenty of red herrings, but ultimately turned on a devious love triangle—always a recipe for murderous passions, in Charley’s experience.

  “We must call the others when telephone service has been restored,” Afiya said, “but that is a task that can wait. I will stay with Bobby while you clean up.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” he grumbled, and both women laughed.

  “More like a chaperone,” Charley teased. “We’ll have half the eligible women on this block down here if we aren’t careful.”

  When she wasn’t busy running her own successful business, Afiya was involved in an increasingly serious romance with Lawrence. She’d become a welcome fixture in the Carpenter household, a situation that suited everyone perfectly. When Charley made a permanent move into the house next door, she suspected her large bedroom, with its sitting area and en suite bath, wouldn’t remain unoccupied for long.

  Charley went inside and changed into clean dry clothes. She laid the mysterious coded journal on top of the washing machine to dry out, buried her cellphone in a dish of uncooked rice, and hoped for the best on both counts.

  She and Afiya joined several other neighbors in distributing cool drinks to those who labored. Before accepting his cup, Lawrence enfolded Charley in a massive embrace that nearly cracked her ribs. After exchanging relieved greetings and commiserations with several neighbors, the women sat on the low step at Bobby’s feet and kept him company while they watched Lawrence, Marc, and their impromptu chain-saw gang work their way down the block, clearing sidewalks and stacking debris on the boulevard for later removal by the city.

  As she enjoyed the cool breeze and listened with half an ear to her father’s running commentary on the storm damage and various projects under way, Charley considered Marc’s casual offer to replace her van. He’d said it as if it was no big deal. She supposed it wasn’t, at least to him.

  In addition to virtually unlimited spending power, for the first time in years Marc had plenty of free time as well. He’d recently quit his job with the Oakwood Safety Department because of irreconcilable differences with the former director. Chief Zehring was gone now—resigned, in fact, over blowback from his mishandling of the homicide case the press had dubbed “The Advice Column Murders.” Good riddance, Charley thought, not for the first time.

  Zehring had been replaced with the levelheaded Barbara Prince, an experienced officer who was both liked and highly respected within the department. Chief Prince had a surprising sense of humor as well as a much more open attitude about the use of “civilian consultants” than that of her grumpy predecessor. This was good news, given Charley’s penchant for tripping over dead bodies and becoming embroiled in the ensuing investigations.

  As for Marc, since his resignation he’d consulted on a handful of cases with the two-man detective section, assisting his old partner Paul Brixton in training young Mitch Cooper as Oakwood’s newest detective and Marc’s replacement. Mitch had taken to the investigative role like a duck to water, but he was always eager to learn from his hero. Marc had told Charley in no uncertain terms he wasn’t interested in getting his old job back. Still, it was obvious he enjoyed keeping his hand in.

  Charley had been watching Marc like a hawk, looking for signs of restlessness. So far, so good, not that the house project left him much time to brood. And yet, she’d caught him watching her when he thought she was busy, the expression on his beautiful, angular face difficult to identify. Speculative, with an undercurrent of…worry? About what? She had no idea. Things were better than good between them. They’d certainly survived some major drama in the eight months they’d been together, including physical danger and solving several murders. In the scheme of things, she thought, a tornado was chump change.

  Afiya stirred. “Time to rest,” she murmured with a glance at Bobby.

  When her father didn’t protest, Charley took it as proof that he’d had enough excitement for one day. She helped Afiya move him inside and settle him into his recliner. Then Charley retrieved a rake from the garage and began the tragic process of clearing leaves and blooms from their flower beds and lawn.

  As she was hosing off the back deck, Lawrence appeared in the driveway, looking beat. His clothes were filthy, and his mahogany skin gleamed with sweat.

  “We’ve finally got service again,” he announced. “According to the almighty Internet, a tornado passed directly over Oakwood, as if we didn’t know. It did touch down in Centerville.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” Charley said yet another silent prayer for their own deliverance.

  Lawrence shook his head as he held out his cellphone. “Destroyed a mini-mall and a pizza joint, but not a single fatality. It’s a miracle, and that’s no mistake. You better call Frankie, Chip. She left a couple of messages, and she doesn’t sound happy.”

  “Crap. I forgot my cellphone’s dead! She probably thinks I am, too.” Charley’s best friend in the world was seven months pregnant with her first child. Stress and trauma were things to be avoided, and Charley kicked herself for being an inadvertent source of either.

  “You boys knocking off?” she asked, shutting the faucet and accepting the phone.

  Lawrence nodded. “Gonna get cleaned up, then a bunch of us are dragging our propane grills to the street. With the power still out, everyone’s food is going to start spoiling fast, so we’re having a barbecue. Use it or lose it,” he concluded grimly as he headed back down the driveway.

  Charley punched in a number from memory. The call connected almost instantly. “I’ve been calling you for hours!” Frankie sounded angry. “John wouldn’t let me leave the house. Lawrence says everyone is okay, but I needed to hear your voice, Carpo.”

  “I’m fine,” Charley assured her friend. “And John was perfectly right. You couldn’t drive a block with the streets full of branches, anyway.”

  Silence. “I was worried,” Frankie said finally, and now Charley heard tears beneath the surface. “I was scared. John was at work, and the sirens had every dog on the street howling, and I can hardly get down the basement steps anymore, and it got so dark and loud, and—”

  “Oh, Frankie.” Charley pictured the pixie face and big blue eyes of this tiny woman who was dearer to her than any sister. The line hummed as the two friends shared their distress and affection without saying a word. “Want me to come over?” she offered at last. “I’m canceling book club, under the circumstances.”

  “I figured as much. John’s here now, and we’re heading to my parents’ for dinne
r.” Frankie sniffled, sounding more cheerful. “Tomorrow morning I’ve got my two millionth doctor’s appointment. Ugh. But tomorrow afternoon, definitely.”

  “It’s a date. Love you, Shorty.”

  “Love you more.”

  Charley left a voice mail for her other BFF, Dmitri St. James, letting him know that all in Oakwood were safe and well, and that her cellphone was out of commission until further notice. Dmitri and his boyfriend, Trent Logan, were touring the wine country in upstate New York, but she assumed they’d hear about the tornado from Dmitri’s sister Vanessa, if they hadn’t already. She pictured her tall, handsome friend, his dark eyes dancing with fun, always ready with a joke, but when the chips were down, never hesitating to step up and take care of business. They could have used a solid dose of Dmitri today, she decided.

  Charley’s next calls were to her small staff. After confirming that Vanessa and Heddy had each weathered the storm without incident, Charley told them book club was canceled. They arranged to meet at the shop at ten a.m. the following morning to see if repairs or cleanup were needed, and to determine if they could open for business. She next left a voice mail for Sharon expressing concern for her well-being and confirming that book club would not be taking place.

  Marc appeared as she clicked off. If possible he was even filthier and sweatier than Lawrence, but Charley thought he looked good enough to eat. Without warning he tossed her over his shoulder and strode across their parallel driveways to his house, ignoring her squealed protests and commands to put her down. He kicked the side door shut and headed up the steps.

  “Water heater runs on natural gas,” he observed, “which is unaffected by the blackout.” He reached the second floor and made a beeline for the master bath and its enormous two-person shower. “Glad I let Dale Penwater talk me into moving up the tile installation in here. We can’t turn on lights, but we can shower. Time to take this baby for a test drive.”

  Charley giggled at the image of Dale, taciturn general contractor and Heddy’s beau, if he should ever learn about his handiwork’s maiden voyage. “Remind me to thank him.”

  “All things considered,” Marc concluded as he set her on her feet, “I figure we should conserve water. Just in case.”

  As they stripped off one another’s sweaty clothes and availed themselves of the promised hot water, Charley decided that perhaps even a power outage had its upside.

  Chapter 3

  Later that evening five people sat on the Carpenters’ deck enjoying the peace of a soft summer night. A silver tabby with green eyes purred in Bobby’s lap. Hercules had been glued to the back wall behind Lawrence’s bed since the hailstorm began. When he’d finally emerged an hour ago, everyone had fussed over him, stroking his fur and praising his bravery as if he’d survived several rounds with a dragon. In the time-honored tradition of a true hero of the people, he’d humbly accepted the adulation before attaching himself to his favorite human like a furry barnacle.

  As crickets chirped and fireflies danced, Charley related the full story of her earlier adventure. She went inside to retrieve the journal. Its cloth cover was faded and water-stained, but the sunflowers still glowed golden yellow in the candlelight. Marc, Bobby, Afiya, and Lawrence passed it from hand to hand, each studying it with interest.

  “Notice the first page?” Charley asked. “Katie’s friend PJ believes that’s a date, not code. If he’s right, then the owner began keeping this journal on January first, 1974.”

  “Such a pretty thing,” Afiya murmured. “A young girl’s Christmas present, perhaps. Lost for over forty years.”

  With those words, Bobby stiffened, a strange expression on his face.

  “Daddy?” Charley turned in alarm. “Are you okay?”

  “You said you found this in a student backpack?” he asked. “In that old tunnel?”

  “Yes. Why? Does that mean something to you?”

  “Hold on a second.” He was scowling, staring into the shadowed yard as if searching for something. Abruptly, he turned to Lawrence. “Could you fetch my tablet, please? I need to check something.”

  Lawrence stood and went inside. He returned a moment later with a silver iPad. He set it in a custom holder in front of Bobby, who immediately powered it up and began tapping at the screen with his good hand.

  “What on earth?” Charley asked.

  “Humor an old man.” Bobby continued working for a few moments as the others glanced at one another, mystified. At last, he grunted with satisfaction. He twirled the tablet around so they could see the screen. “I think I might know who this thing belonged to.”

  Bobby had pulled up the image of a newspaper article, dated October 18, 1979. Charley and the others leaned in to read the headline: BODY OF MISSING TEEN FOUND IN SMITH GARDENS.

  “Body?” Charley’s mouth dropped open. “When we were kids, we used to tell ghost stories about a dead girl roaming Smith Gardens. You’re telling me someone actually died?”

  Bobby said quietly, “Her name was Regan Fletcher.”

  “And she didn’t just die. She was murdered,” Marc added, regarding the journal with renewed interest. “I reviewed the police file when I first joined the department. It’s one of the most notorious cases in Oakwood history, but I didn’t make the connection. What made you think of her, sir?”

  Bobby shrugged. “When you put that tunnel, a forty-year-old backpack, and Merritt Vance into the same sentence, it sparked my memory.”

  “Regan Fletcher.” Charley quickly scanned the brief article. “She was eighteen. Did you know her, Daddy?”

  “It was the girl’s father, Douglas Fletcher, that I knew. I worked for him briefly, selling refrigerators.” Bobby smiled his lopsided smile. “This was before I landed my first coaching gig at University of Toledo. Fletcher had a chain of those rent-to-own-appliance places, a big new thing back in the seventies. I saw Regan a few times, though I only spoke to her once. Stunning girl, with long red hair, popular and outgoing, but secretly dating an older boy named Carter Magellan. He was a star quarterback who’d graduated three years before. I was eight years ahead of Carter at Oakwood, but I knew the boy by reputation. Once a Lumberjack…”

  When Bobby fell silent, Afiya touched his shoulder. “Will you tell us her story? Or as much as you recall.”

  “It was forty years ago, but I remember it as if it were yesterday.” They drew their chairs in closer to the ring of candlelight. Marc reached for Charley’s hand, and Lawrence circled a massive arm around Afiya, as Bobby began his tale.

  “Regan Fletcher’s murder was a national sensation, even bigger in its day than your book club murder case. It was on the evening news every night, and the papers were full of it. And Fletcher—oh my Lord.” Bobby shook his head. “He was rarely sober, raging about Carter, slamming doors, making all sorts of threats. It started affecting the business. You see, the Fletchers and Magellans had some kind of feud going, and the Fletchers had forbidden their daughter to see Carter.” He sighed. “Hatred and grief destroyed the man. I got the job at UT a few months after that, and I was out of there.”

  “Can’t say I blame you,” Marc murmured.

  Bobby gazed into the darkened yard as he stroked the cat. “I remember a picture of that kid in handcuffs, being shoved into a police car. Carter Magellan was skewered in the press, fueled in part by Fletcher’s constant comments. Carter’s lawyer tried to get the trial moved, but the judge ruled against that, as well as anything else that might’ve helped. And in the end, it turned out he was innocent after all.

  “The night Regan disappeared, Oakwood was hosting the Homecoming football game against their archrivals from Valley View High. Carter was twenty and a junior at Ohio State. Regan had just turned eighteen. They intended to run away together, to drive nonstop to Vegas and get married. They knew the Fletchers would try to stop them, so they needed a head start. The lovers planned
for Regan to use the crowds and excitement as cover—she would slip into the old tunnel from the gatehouse into the school, then come out again on the Far Hills Avenue side. Carter would pick her up at Smith Gardens, just a few blocks away.

  “On Saturday, when Regan never came home from ‘a sleepover with friends,’ the Fletchers searched her room and discovered her backpack and some clothes were missing. They immediately suspected Carter. He’d headed back to college without her, and when Columbus detectives showed up at his dorm, asking hard questions, he was understandably worried.” Bobby’s crooked smile was tinged with sadness. “Stupid kid never even thought to ask for a lawyer, just confessed every detail of their plans. The cops checked the tunnel but found nothing.”

  “The backpack was stuffed in a drain hole and covered with leaves,” Charley murmured. “It was well hidden. I only found it because I practically fell on it.”

  “And,” Marc added, “they were looking for a presumed runaway, not a backpack. What no one knew was that Regan was already at the bottom of the Smith Gardens lily pond. Cause of death was massive blunt-force trauma to her skull. When her body was discovered a few days later, Carter was arrested.”

  “So, the backpack you found is hers,” Lawrence concluded. “Meaning this book is hers, too.”

  “I don’t know.” Bobby frowned. “According to her mother, Regan’s missing backpack was bright yellow.”

  Charley said, “The one I found was dark blue.” But all of them gazed at the yellow sunflower cover of the journal, thinking the same thing.

  “Why did hearing about Merritt Vance spark your memory?” Afiya asked.

  “Because the defense put him up as an alternate suspect.”

  “Mr. Vance?” Charley recalled the old janitor’s suspicious behavior. Perhaps her instinct to conceal the journal had been right on target. “Why was he suspected?”

  “Vance was seen arguing with Regan a few days before she disappeared,” Bobby replied. “He claimed he was chiding her for dumping trash in the cafeteria. The defense tried using him to create reasonable doubt, but they could never come up with anything to disprove his story.”