The Codebook Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  “If this is her journal,” Lawrence wondered, “what’s with the code?”

  “That’s no mystery. Regan was a teenage girl,” Charley said. “Her parents were adamantly against her seeing her lover. Of course she didn’t want them to read it.”

  “While she was still missing, and Carter was cooperating with the cops—he was frantic, remember—he described their system of leaving coded notes for one another in a series of dead letter boxes,” Bobby explained. “Bear in mind nobody had cellphones and texting back then, so when he’d come home from college, that was how they hooked up without alerting her parents. Carter also confessed to their having a trysting place, in case she’d gone there instead of meeting him at Smith Gardens. The Magellans have a big house on a heavily wooded acre in West Oakwood. The lovers met in the apartment over the detached garage. The police checked it all but of course found nothing.”

  “If this boy was innocent,” Afiya asked, “how did he end up in prison?”

  “Happens more often than you’d think,” Marc said. “But in this case, the police had some forensic evidence.” At a nod from Bobby, he took up the narrative.

  “Three longish black hairs were found tangled in the clasp of Regan’s charm bracelet. It was the seventies; like a lot of guys, Carter wore his hair pretty long, past his shoulders. DNA testing wasn’t as sophisticated back then, and the defense pointed out the hairs were a bit longer than Carter’s, but they looked enough like Carter’s to presume a match.” Marc’s tone made it clear what he thought of that conclusion. “Eyewitnesses testified to seeing a figure with dark hair hurrying from the Gardens just before ten o’clock. There’s a springhouse in the Gardens, and Carter’s fingerprints were on the doorknob. Footprints matching his were found near the pond. A convincing enough mixture of physical and circumstantial evidence, plus the lack of a credible alternate suspect, and Carter Magellan went down for murder.”

  “The thing is,” Bobby resumed the story, “Carter never denied going to Smith Gardens. But he insisted he didn’t arrive until after ten. He’d been in the stands at the big game. He saw Regan slip away about nine-thirty as planned, but they’d agreed he should wait to avoid suspicion. When Oakwood won with a last-second field goal, everyone went nuts. He claims he was swept onto the field with the crowd, and it took him at least ten or fifteen minutes to get away, get to his car, and drive to the rendezvous. Regan never showed, and he eventually gave up waiting and headed back to Ohio State, assuming that Regan’s parents had discovered their plan and kept her from leaving. The prosecution’s version was that the lovers met that night as planned, but that Regan had changed her mind about running away, and, in a rage, Carter bashed her head in.”

  After a silence, Charley shifted in her seat. “It sounds to me like Carter Magellan was railroaded.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Bobby agreed. “Douglas Fletcher used the power of the press, as well as every ounce of influence he had, to ensure a guilty verdict. The defense did a good job of breaking down the witnesses who’d seen the dark-haired mystery person. In the dark, from behind at fifty yards? They couldn’t swear it was Carter. Frankly, they couldn’t even swear it was a man. Still, the damage was done. Also, they couldn’t produce a single person willing to swear that Carter had been at that game after nine forty-five. But the coup de grace was the missing necklace.”

  “What necklace?” Charley, Afiya, and Lawrence asked in unison.

  “Shortly after Regan disappeared, Doris Fletcher announced that a valuable family heirloom, a sapphire and diamond necklace handed down from mother to daughter, was missing from a locked jewelry box. Fletcher made sure the papers played it up.” Bobby snorted. “It sure made a great headline. The prosecution claimed Carter had urged Regan to steal it, that he planned to use it to finance their flight. When she tried to back out, he saw all that money slipping through his fingers. He supposedly stole the necklace and disposed of her backpack on his way back to Columbus.”

  “How much was it worth?” Lawrence asked.

  “Back then? Fifty thousand dollars, so they said. Today, who knows?” Bobby shrugged. “It took the jury less than an hour to return a guilty verdict. Carter Magellan received a twenty-to-life sentence without possibility of parole. When they interviewed jurors after the trial, the few who couldn’t believe that a young man would kill for love did believe that he’d kill for fifty grand.”

  “And yet, they were all proved wrong when Carter was released after someone else confessed,” Marc pointed out.

  Bobby nodded. “A reporter was doing a story on true crime or something. He interviewed an inmate in an Indiana prison who confessed to the murder. The inmate described Smith Gardens, what Regan was wearing that night, and how he’d killed her.”

  Charley frowned. “That sounds almost as suspect as Carter’s original conviction. Most of that must’ve been in the papers. Why did anyone believe this guy? And how did the reporter even find him?”

  “I don’t know how he turned up. But remember,” Bobby said, “this was now the nineties—DNA analysis had come a long way in twenty years. Turns out those three black hairs were a match for…” He waved his good hand. “The guy had a foreign name; I don’t remember it. But here’s the kicker: three years after Carter was released, this other guy recanted his confession. He died the next day.”

  Everyone stared. “You’re kidding,” Charley managed.

  “Nope.” Bobby grinned. “Knew my girl would like that part. One last fact, then this cat and I are going to bed. The inmate denied knowing anything about the missing necklace, and there was no sign that he’d pawned it or had any access to the kind of cash it would have generated.”

  “This is what I’m saying.” Charley leaned forward. “If that man really killed Regan, why did he recant? What happened to the necklace? And if this is Regan’s journal, how did it end up in that tunnel in someone else’s backpack? How could a student gain access to the tunnel in the first place? And what about those dead letter boxes? Could that missing necklace be lying at the bottom of one?”

  Everyone laughed, and Charley blushed.

  “I can see the investigative fever starting to burn.” Marc tucked a red curl behind her ear. “Maybe you should look into it, babe.”

  “Maybe I will,” Charley replied loftily. She picked up the journal. “Starting with this.”

  * * *

  —

  Marc had rigged a big squashy camp bed on the bare floor by his sliding door. They spent every night together now, usually at his old house, but more and more often enjoying a no-frills overnight in the new place. Their place, Charley thought with a little thrill. Once the hardwood floors upstairs were refinished, Marc had promised to set up his enormous four-poster without delay. She could hardly wait.

  Dressed in a thin tank and lacy boy shorts, she sat on his deck at a crumbling picnic table abandoned by the previous owners. Beyond the circle of light cast by the requisite citronella candles, she sensed more than heard the rustling presence of people in the neighboring houses, everyone trying to settle down, their windows open to catch the night breeze. Without all the light pollution, the clear night sky glittered with countless stars against a backdrop of velvet black, a slender crescent moon visible through branches stripped of leaves.

  Modern man lived so shut up and sealed off, she thought. One hundred years ago, humanity was much more in touch, both with the environment and with one another. Tonight had been an example of that community connection. Everyone had been involved, pitching in and pooling scarce resources. Despite the inconvenience of a power outage, she’d enjoyed the spirit of shared responsibility, of fellowship. She hoped people would make the effort to maintain that spirit after the lights came back on.

  Her laptop battery still had some juice, and she logged on to Instagram to see how friends had fared during the storm. Miraculously, it seemed that no one had been serio
usly hurt, although photos of broken windows and hail damage abounded.

  Marc came up behind her, tugged the tie from her hair, and began working a brush carefully through the red tangle.

  She sighed. “You’re getting very good at that.”

  He planted a kiss on her neck, making her shiver. “Your servant, milady.”

  Charley saw that she’d been tagged in an Instagram post by Katie O’Malley. Her young friend had uploaded the pictures of the half-buried Mystery Machine. Marc’s hands stilled as he stared at the image, and she felt his body tense.

  “I’m fine, babe.”

  “I know, but—” He released a long breath. “Let’s try to keep Bobby from seeing that one.”

  “Agreed. I took it for the insurance report. It never occurred to me my dad might see it.”

  She scrolled down, and together they read Katie’s highly dramatic tale of danger, near death, rescue, shadowy tunnels, and a real live mystery in the form of a coded journal.

  Marc chuckled. “You’re such a bad influence.”

  “You didn’t say much tonight.” Charley switched off her laptop to preserve the battery. No telling when they’d get the power back on.

  “What do you mean?” Marc had set aside the brush and was now massaging her neck and shoulders, finding and working out kinks she hadn’t known she had.

  “Umm…” She focused with an effort. “About the Fletcher case, or whether that journal might be Regan’s. Did you ever look into the case when you were with the department?” His lips began trailing along her shoulder and up her neck. She shivered again as his tongue teased the sensitive spot just below her ear. “It’s, ah, it seems to have some open, ah, questions.”

  “I glanced through the files, as I said, but that’s all.” He straightened, and she immediately missed his mouth on her skin, though his large hands continued their gentle massage. “If you’re going to poke into that old case, then I suppose I am, too.”

  “Good,” she said promptly. After a moment, she added, “Do you miss it? Investigating?”

  “Of course I do,” he said easily. “It’s who I am.” He started kissing the other side of her neck.

  “That’s what I mean,” she continued. “You’ve got to follow your passion, to live it. I know the Oakwood thing ran its course, that resigning was the right move. But”—she twisted on her bench seat so they were facing each other—“this is a professional crossroads for you. You could do big things. You’re capable of so much.”

  Marc placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face to his. “My crossroads was when I quit law school to attend the police academy. I’ve never regretted that decision. You’re right, in that I want to stay on that path in some capacity. When the next right thing comes along, I’ll know it. I’m in no rush.”

  “Yes, but—”

  His eyes flashed in the candlelight. “I know where you’re headed with this, sweetheart. I am not restless, I am not bored, I am not going to disappear into the great blue yonder chasing some big job offer. If I haven’t made it clear, let me do so now.” He released her chin and cupped her face in both hands. “I love you, Charley Carpenter. I’m in love with you. That’s forever. And whatever road I’m on, career or personal, it will always lead me back to you.”

  Well. There was really only one response to a statement like that. Charley rose, took Marc by the hand, and led him inside.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, Charley checked her Instagram account again and saw dozens of comments on Katie’s post, many from other members of the Park Avenue Irregulars. No one had mentioned Regan Fletcher’s name; she supposed these kids were too young to remember the story.

  Recalling her promise to PJ and noticing that he was online, Charley sent him a private message letting him know she’d have the journal at Old Hat if he wanted to stop by and take a crack at it. He replied immediately that he’d see her at one p.m., as soon as summer school dismissed. If they had school, which was far from certain, since power was still out across much of the city.

  And with that, her laptop died. She sighed. “No laptop, no cellphone. Definitely going retro today.”

  Marc chuckled. “How will you survive?”

  “Maybe I won’t,” she said morosely. She watched him lace up his work boots. The man really knew how to rock the hot-construction-worker look. “What can you accomplish today without electricity?”

  “I’m accepting delivery of the granite we chose for our kitchen countertops. Each piece is unique, so—” He paused in the act of grabbing his keys. “I’m a jerk. Would you like to come with me? You should come with me. This is your kitchen, too.”

  “Can’t. I’m meeting Heddy and Vanessa at Old Hat. With any luck, we’ll be open for business. With no luck, we’ll be mopping floors.” She pouted. “Your day’s going to be more fun than mine.”

  “Well then.” Marc pulled her to her feet and kissed her. “We’ll have to make up for that discrepancy later tonight.”

  After seeing her man on his way, Charley wandered next door in search of caffeine.

  “Coffee’s instant, breakfast is cereal,” Lawrence announced when she entered the kitchen. He had managed to boil water on a propane burner. “Got to use up the milk before it starts fighting back.”

  “Coffee?” Charley kissed her father’s cheek. “You are a prince among men.”

  Lawrence slid over a mug. “So they say.”

  She studied her father’s face and decided she liked neither the pallor nor the deep circles. “How are you feeling? Did you get any sleep?”

  Bobby shifted irritably. “Don’t you start. He’s been fussing enough for one day.”

  “It was hot,” Lawrence said quietly. “I had to leave his door open.”

  “And the damned cat thinks my bladder is his personal trampoline.”

  Bobby’s expression was so childishly grumpy, Charley had to laugh. “Work a nap into your schedule today, all right?”

  “Count on it,” Lawrence promised, as Bobby harrumphed.

  After breakfast, she slid the coded journal into a plastic carrier bag. No point in taking her laptop, she thought philosophically as she waved goodbye to her family and headed out the door. She normally enjoyed the dozen-block walk as a chance to get in some cardio, but the sun was already beating down, and it promised to be another muggy scorcher. The white sundress she wore had been a smart choice, as had the ultra-sunscreen and wide-brimmed powder blue straw hat, a vintage treasure from the fifties she hadn’t been able to resist, claiming it for herself rather than selling it.

  Every person Charley encountered spoke of nothing but the storm. The metallic buzz of chain saws echoed through the streets and alleys as homeowners, contractors, and the utility company all labored to clear rights-of-way and free downed power lines as a necessary step to restoring service. Charley figured everyone would be listening to that sound for days to come.

  When she crossed Far Hills and turned onto Park Avenue, she received a pleasant surprise. First, the street and sidewalks were completely cleared of storm debris. Second, select occupants of this microscopic business district already had electricity.

  The north side of the two-block street was lined with small businesses in a charming

  hodgepodge of converted houses and newer office flats. These buildings, which included Old Hat, were still off the grid. Charley glanced wistfully at the darkened windows of Ashley’s Bakery. No sand tart cookies today.

  However, the primary occupant of the south side of Park was the Oakwood Safety Building, and it was up and running. Windows along the French-chȃteau frontage blazed with light. All three of the firehouse bay doors stood open, revealing a bustle of uniformed personnel maintaining the city’s fleet of emergency vehicles under the glare of fluorescent lights. Charley heard the muted squawk of official radio traffic. She imagined t
hat restoring power to Oakwood’s uniquely integrated fire, police, and EMT services had been a priority for the utility company and the city. While she didn’t begrudge the cop shop its place at the front of the queue, she did hope the renewed flow of juice would make the jump across the street sooner rather than later.

  As she approached Old Hat’s bright green door, a red motorcycle bearing two helmeted passengers turned down the concrete alley leading to the municipal parking lot. Charley followed, taking the opportunity to inspect the exterior of her building for damage. She also checked out the neighboring structure. In addition to Ashley’s, the tiny copper-roofed cottage across the alley housed Slash. Afiya closed her popular salon for two weeks each July to provide herself and her staff with a much-needed holiday. While the power outage wouldn’t affect her business, Charley knew Afiya would be happy to learn that her place was undamaged.

  “Hello, Charlotte, dear.”

  Heddy Jones, the only person who dared call Charley by her given name, climbed stiffly from the back of the motorcycle and shook out the folds of her habitual weedy black skirt. Despite the heat, she wore a sparkly purple scarf that matched her striped knee socks and the purple streaks she’d recently added to her wispy gray tresses. Heddy’s fashion brand could best be described as Hippie Grandma Funk.

  “A fallen tree is blocking my driveway, so I had to hitch a ride.” She closed her eyes. “Never. Again.”

  “You just need some leathers.” Vanessa pulled off her helmet, releasing a cascade of glossy black hair that framed the face of a classic Greek beauty. Her own outfit of baggy black T-shirt, shredded jeans, and scuffed boots did nothing to diminish her stunning looks. Vanessa worked hard at projecting an air of street-tough indifference, but Charley knew the bad-girl image was a careful façade erected to protect a tender heart.