by Leslie Nagel
“Thank you for not killing off my best salesperson.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Heddy muttered.
Vanessa glanced around. “Glad to see they’ve tidied up out here. That will save us the trouble.”
Charley pointed at the roofline of their Williamsburg-style building. “We’ve lost a few pieces of siding. They’re probably blown halfway to Cleveland, which fortunately is a problem for my landlord, not me.”
They moved inside and were pleased to discover a dry and secure interior. Charley laid the plastic bag containing the coded journal on her desk. “I’d say we got off easy.”
“Indeed.” Heddy smiled. “Now, what’s the plan for today? We can’t ring up sales in the usual way.”
Charley considered their options. “You know what would be fun?”
The women propped open the front door and moved two tables and a hanging rack out onto the sidewalk. They chose from the shop’s most colorful, summery things, mixing vintage items with new arrivals from Old Hat’s recently added selection of special-occasion dresses and gift items. In minutes they’d created an appealing display. Charley added a small sign: TORNADO OF SAVINGS/EVERYTHING 30% OFF. A handful of other merchants on Park Avenue followed suit, and they enjoyed some modest foot traffic. No one was buying much, but everyone took pleasure in the almost holiday atmosphere, a celebration of blessed normality after their mutual brush with disaster.
During a lull, Charley retrieved her feather duster and began giving her spotless shelves and display cases a once-over. While the polished oak floors were equally immaculate, glowing in the reflected warmth of peach-painted walls and gilt-framed mirrors, she decided a dry mop around the traffic areas wouldn’t be wasted effort.
As she worked, Charley noticed the space becoming uncomfortably warm and stuffy. She propped open the rear storeroom door to generate a little cross-breeze. On her way back through the shop, she caught sight of the plastic bag on her desk. She pulled out the journal; she’d nearly forgotten about it in the bustle of activity. It still felt a bit damp, and she laid it out to finish drying before she returned to her dusting.
Shortly past noon, Lawrence pulled up to the curb with a coolerful of Popsicles and cold-cut sandwiches nestled in the last of their ice.
“Off in search of a hot lunch in a cool dining room,” he announced. Bobby waved from the air- cooled comfort of the family sedan. “North of town mostly has power, and I want the Coach out of this heat as much as possible. Then there will be napping.”
Afiya stepped out of the car and took a brief inspection tour of her building. “I will text everyone with the good news,” she said with a smile. “We will reopen next week on schedule.”
“Dmitri will be relieved,” Vanessa said. Her older brother was Afiya’s assistant manager. “Thanks for the provisions, big guy!” She and Heddy hefted the cooler and carried it into the shop.
As the sedan drove off, a young man dressed in the uniform of the Oakwood Bike Patrol swooped up on a black and silver ten-speed.
“Hello, Charley.” Mitch Cooper pulled off a racing helmet and mopped his damp forehead with his sleeve. Since his promotion, he’d grown out his habitual buzz cut somewhat, and he raked thick brown hair back with gloved fingers. “Glad to see you’re okay. Any damage inside or at home?”
“We’re good. You?”
“My apartment building lost the front awning, but that’s it.” He cocked a thumb across the street at the Safety Building. “That old place will be here on Judgment Day.”
Charley chuckled at the truth of this remark. “You’re off the detective desk?”
“A temporary reassignment,” he explained. “We’re stretched thin with nine-one-one calls due to the storm, and with so many trees down, anyone with bike patrol experience is working the city on two wheels.” He indicated the panniers on the back of his ride. “I’ve got gear in here to respond to most calls, but so far it’s been—” Mitch abruptly fell silent as Vanessa emerged from the alley, pushing her motorcycle.
“Hello, Detective.” She took in his tall, slender form at a glance, dwelling for an extra moment on the form-fitting spandex shorts that displayed Mitch’s well-muscled thighs.
“Hi,” he managed.
“Nice bike.” She swung onto the cycle’s leather seat. “What kind of mileage do you get?”
Charley sighed inwardly. These two were exhausting. The first time they’d met, Mitch had tackled Vanessa to the ground and accused her of theft. Subsequent encounters hadn’t gone much better, and this one appeared to be no exception.
Despite Mitch’s longer hair, the blushing ears that telegraphed his discomfiture, or excitement, were still on prominent display. At her teasing remark those ears blazed scarlet and his spine went ramrod-stiff. Vanessa seemed not to notice as she continued. “Say, Charley, mind if I get out of here by four? Kyle promised to get me onto the shooting range at Kettering Police HQ.”
Kyle Cutter, another Oakwood safety officer, was Mitch’s very good friend. Charley had observed firsthand that the young ginger-haired cop was also smitten with Vanessa, who flirted with him whenever Mitch was around.
At the mention of Kyle’s name, Mitch’s youthful face hardened. The radio mounted on his shoulder crackled. “I’d better get going.” He donned his helmet and pushed off without another word, sailing down the concrete alley and out of sight.
Vanessa watched him go, dismayed. “Why do I do that?”
“What would you rather do?” Charley asked mildly.
“Not scare him away or piss him off. It’s like I can’t help myself.” Vanessa tugged fretfully at the hem of her shirt. “I open my mouth and stupid comes out.”
Charley hesitated, then decided that a little advice wouldn’t violate her personal rule against meddling in affairs of the heart. “You like Mitch,” she said finally, “and I’d say the feeling’s mutual.”
Vanessa glanced up quickly. “You don’t think I’ve blown it?”
“Not yet, but I’d also say there’s a limit. Mitch and Kyle are buddies. They work together within a relatively small, tight-knit team. Aside from the fact that this empty flirtation isn’t fair to Kyle, if you force either one into a choice that destroys their friendship, it might ruin any chance you have of finding something special with Mitch.” Charley smiled to soften her message. “You should also consider that Mitch is intimidated by you.”
Vanessa frowned. “I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not.”
But that’s exactly what you’re doing, Charley thought in exasperation. After a moment she said, “Maybe you could…meet him halfway?”
“How do I do that?” Vanessa wondered.
“You’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”
Charley’s office had a line of sight to the sidewalk and was out of the blazing sun, so they retreated indoors for their picnic. Vanessa and Heddy pulled folding chairs up to Charley’s desk.
“What’s this?” Vanessa picked up the journal.
“Good question.” As they ate, Charley related her adventure of yesterday and shared her father’s theory about the journal’s owner.
“I remember the story,” Heddy said softly. “Her mother was heartbroken. Do you think this could truly be Regan’s?”
Charley shrugged. “There’s no way to tell without decoding it. A friend of Katie’s is going to try, but it’s a long shot.”
Vanessa looked thoughtful. “You could show it to the boyfriend, Carter Magellan. Maybe he’d recognize it.”
Charley was startled by this idea. “Oh, no. I don’t think so.” Even as she spoke, she wondered why this plan hadn’t occurred to her earlier.
“Why not?” Vanessa seemed genuinely puzzled.
“Well,” Charley said slowly, “it might bring back terrible memories.”
“Or it might give the poor man closu
re,” Heddy countered in her gentle way.
Charley still demurred. “I’ll stick to the decoding plan and see where that goes.”
But as they gathered up their lunch things, Charley gazed at the journal’s yellow sunflowers, turning over the idea in her mind. The thought of meeting Carter Magellan, of asking him about the mystery surrounding Regan’s murder, was tantalizing. And yet, with all she’d learned about the poor man’s life, it did seem intrusive, perhaps even cruel, to dredge it all up again.
With a start she realized there was someone else she could ask—her former teacher Kendall Magellan. Carter’s younger sister and Regan were about the same age. Had she known her brother’s secret lover? If so, would Kendall recognize the journal?
“Hello! Anybody home?”
Charley craned her neck toward the door of her office. PJ stood peering uncertainly into the dim interior of the shop, Katie O’Malley right behind him. “We’re back here,” she called.
“Hey, Charley. Hi, Miss Heddy. Hi, Vanessa!” Katie cocked her thumb. “Everybody, this is PJ.”
Neither teen appeared to be suffering any ill effects from the events of yesterday. PJ was dressed neatly in forest green linen shorts and a white polo shirt, stainless steel cellphone case clipped securely to his braided rattan belt. Katie’s purple hair was restored to its full spiky glory. She wore faded cutoff shorts and a Daisy Duck T-shirt that had seen better days.
“Hello, Katherine. Nice to meet you, PJ.” Heddy smiled. “How was summer school?”
“They canceled everything because of the power being out,” PJ said. “Which is kind of a bummer—”
“Try a major bummer,” Katie interjected. “Ms. Magellan was supposed to announce the cast list today—”
“And Mr. Gleason was going to start us on shark dissection in bio lab,” PJ put in.
“Still gross,” Katie pronounced. PJ rolled his eyes and laughed.
Charley grinned. She knew these two weren’t dating, but as she watched them together, outwardly so different but with minds in perfect sync, she guessed it was only a matter of time.
Heddy patted Katie’s shoulder. “You must tell me how you achieve such a vivid shade of violet, my dear.”
Katie lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Add purple Kool-Aid to the hair dye.”
“How innovative.” Heddy was delighted.
“We’ve got customers!” Vanessa announced. “Heddy and I will mind the store while you and your code experts confer over Regan’s journal.” She turned in the doorway with a grin. “And if these two strike out, maybe our book club can take a crack at it.” She and Heddy left the office and began chatting up a pair of young women examining a selection of vintage purses.
PJ beamed. “Code expert? Cool.”
“Who’s Regan?” Katie asked.
Charley hesitated, wishing briefly that Vanessa had been more circumspect. The fact that Katie was taking a drama class with Kendall Magellan hadn’t escaped her notice. Well, she thought, what did that matter? The point was to determine ownership of the journal. If it did belong to Regan, that fact would become common knowledge soon enough.
As to the idea that the Oakwood Mystery Club might “take a crack” at decoding the mysterious journal…Charley decided to put a pin in that, at least for now.
“We think the journal may have belonged to a girl named Regan Fletcher.” When neither teen reacted, Charley elaborated briefly. “She was an Oakwood student who died a long time ago.”
“Died?” Katie looked aghast. “Did she die in that tunnel we were crawling through? Is that why her book was down there?”
“No, no,” Charley assured her hastily. “She…drowned in the lily pond at Smith Gardens.”
“Nobody could drown in that thing,” PJ scoffed. “It’s, like, three feet deep. You just stand up. Duh.”
“Unless you were drunk, or high on something,” Katie said speculatively. “If you passed out, you could get caught under all those huge lily pads. Was this chick drunk?”
Charley sighed, wondering why she’d felt the need to protect these two from the harsh realities of life. They could probably teach her things that would straighten her hair. “She was not drunk. Regan Fletcher was murdered.”
There was absolute silence. Both teens stared at her in motionless disbelief.
PJ was the first to recover. “Murdered? Seriously? That…that is so—”
“Mind-blowing!” Katie squealed.
“Totally frigid!” PJ concurred. The two gazed at each other happily.
Charley shook her head, imagining Marc’s reaction to this episode. “Bad influence” barely covered it, she thought wryly.
Katie reached for the journal. “A murder mystery for real! Is that why her book’s in code?” she asked excitedly. “I’ll bet it is. I’ll bet she was a secret informant or something.”
“I’m going to decode this thing,” PJ said with determination. “Then we’ll probably all have to testify, or go into witness protection. How sweet would that be?”
Charley chuckled. “I doubt it will come to that. Regan died forty years ago.” She stood and led them to the storeroom. “You can work back here. With the door open, there’s light and it’s a lot cooler.” As the two settled on stools at the work counter, she added, “I can’t let you take it home, I’m afraid.” She didn’t mention her possible visit to Carter or Kendall Magellan.
“That’s cool.” PJ pulled out his cellphone. “I’ll take pictures.”
Katie said, “Let me, Pig-Pen. Your hands are filthy.”
PJ elbowed Katie, she returned the favor, and Charley left them to it, Katie flipping each page with a plastic ruler as PJ busily snapped away.
Just after two o’clock, the power suddenly came back on. Up and down Park Avenue, everyone cheered.
“Thank heaven,” called the owner of the needlepoint shop two doors down. “I can’t wait to plug in my dead phone!”
“Wish I had mine,” Charley moped with a laugh. She brightened as the shop’s air-conditioning began blowing blessed, cool air. “Let’s break camp, ladies.”
While Heddy entered the day’s few purchases into the register, Charley and Vanessa lugged the two folding tables back inside and restored merchandise to various shelves and racks inside Old Hat.
“A respectable day of trade,” Heddy announced, “all things considered.”
Before Charley could reply, the power abruptly went out again.
“Well, isn’t that super.” She checked her watch. “It’s almost three; guess we might as well close for the day. Hopefully we’ll be back on tomorrow.”
The door to the shop opened, and a burly man in a hard hat stuck his head in. “Transformer caught fire. We’re asking all tenants to evacuate, please.”
Vanessa gasped. “Are we in danger?”
“No danger,” the man said, “but this side of the street won’t have power back for at least three days, maybe longer. We’ve got equipment overloading and frying all over the grid.”
“I guess that answers the question of tomorrow.” Charley sighed. “With Slash closed and Dmitri gone, it’s been pretty dull around here anyway. We might as well enjoy a little holiday, too.”
Vanessa hip-checked Heddy. “Okay, sister. Ready to saddle up?”
Heddy paled. “Goddess help me.”
The red motorcycle roared off, Heddy clinging to Vanessa’s waist for dear life. Charley locked the front door, then hefted the two folding tables and carried them through her office to the storeroom. PJ and Katie were nowhere to be seen, having presumably finished their picture-taking long ago. As she moved to secure the back door, she was hit by a strong odor of cigar smoke. How odd. She was confident neither of the teens smoked anything.
Even as she had this thought, the hairs on the backs of her arms rose. Charley sud
denly knew, without question, that someone else had been inside her storeroom, possibly within the last few seconds. She stepped outside and glanced around the mostly empty parking lot. She saw a young man pushing a stroller, a woman loading shopping bags into the back of a minivan, and a flock of pigeons policing the asphalt around the Dumpster. What she did not see was anyone who struck her as a cigar- smoking intruder. She closed and locked the door, making certain the dead bolt was engaged.
As she did so, she noticed the plastic ruler Katie had been using to flip the pages of the journal. She stopped. Where was the journal? Had the kids taken it, after she’d specifically told them not to?
It was then she spotted the note, scribbled on an old take-out napkin tucked under the ruler. She read: CHARLEY, TOOK TONS OF PIX, BUT I MIGHT NEED TO SEE IT AGAIN LATER. HANDLE WITH CARE—A FEW PAGES ARE REALLY LOOSE. PJ.
It sure sounded like the kids had done as she’d asked and left the journal here. Charley searched the storeroom, and then her office. No journal. So, if PJ and Katie hadn’t taken it, who had?
She stared at the back door with dismay. If she was right that someone had just been in here without permission—and she knew she was—there was really only one logical conclusion.
She had been robbed.
Charley ran home, her temper mounting with every step. As she rounded the corner onto Hawthorn Boulevard, she saw a short man in a rumpled tan suit standing in her driveway. He had a barrel chest, stiff black hair, deep-set black eyes, and a pronounced five o’clock shadow. The man spoke tersely into his cellphone while staring at something beyond her line of sight.
When he saw her approach, Detective Paul Brixton ended his call. Charley’s steps faltered at his grim expression.
“Paul? What are you doing here?”
“Your father is fine,” he said immediately. “Lawrence has him calmed down.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded, a cold wave of fear dousing her anger. “What happened to my father?”
“Not to him.” Paul’s voice went hard as iron. “Somebody broke into your house.”
