by Leslie Nagel
“Vanessa trouble, as usual.” Charley related that morning’s encounter as she watched a tiny hourglass spinning on her screen. “They’re both so invested in this mutual pretense of disinterest that they can’t seem to have an authentic conversation. Okay, I’ve got Internet.”
“Love triangles.” Frankie clucked her tongue. “What a waste of time and energy.”
“I warned her about pitting those two guys against one another. Jealousy has sparked more than its share of violence over the centuries, both real and fictional.”
“Why does love make people act so nutty? It should make everything perfect, like with John and me, or you and Marc.” Frankie sighed. “It just struck me how amazing it is that you’re going to be living together.” She laid a hand on her rounding tummy. “Everything’s changing, my friend.”
“You know what’s not changing?” Charley tapped at her keyboard. “My refusal to be bested by some low-life thief. Let’s do this.” She quickly composed her message:
SUCCESS! I’VE MANAGED TO DECODE SEVERAL FRAGMENTS OF TEXT FROM THE “MYSTERY JOURNAL.” FASCINATING READING. REGAN SURE DIDN’T PULL ANY PUNCHES. NOW THAT I HAVE THE METHOD, I SHOULD BE ABLE TO DECODE THE REST. BUSHED AND READY TO CALL IT A DAY. GLAD WE’VE GOT HOT WATER AT OUR NEW PLACE, EVEN IF WE CAN’T STAY HERE OVERNIGHT. AN EMPTY HOUSE MAKES A GREAT WORK SPACE! #OLDHAT #REGANFLETCHER #SMITHGARDENS.
“Perfect,” Frankie declared. “Just the right touch of ditzy.”
The slider opened and Marc stepped inside. “What are you two up to?” He came around the table to read the words on the laptop screen. “What is this?”
“We’re laying a trap for the journal thief.” Charley explained her plan, trying to ignore Marc’s deepening scowl. As he opened his mouth to utter what would certainly be a protest, she laid a palm on his chest. “Someone robbed me. They burgled my home and placed my father’s health at risk.” She lifted her chin. “I will fight back.”
“I get it, and I’m with you there. But why the subterfuge, the midnight rendezvous?” he asked. “Why not call the guy out, tell him the journal’s worthless without the key and ask him to contact you?”
“Don’t you think I thought of that?” She shook her head. “If this guy was aboveboard, he would’ve called or come into Old Hat and asked to see the journal, instead of stealing it. Now that he’s committed a crime, he’s even less likely to play it straight.”
Marc gazed at her for several moments, then huffed out a breath. “Well,” he said flatly, “you’re sure as hell not doing this without me.”
She kissed him as Frankie grinned. “That’s what I’m counting on. Now, may I borrow one of your cellphones one more time? I need to sweeten that post with a few pictures.”
Frankie extended hers. “You need to get yours back, pronto. How did anyone ever solve a mystery without one?”
“Pictures of what?” Marc asked.
Charley walked to the sliding glass doors, studying the new house’s deck and barren interior areas with a critical eye. “However this thing plays out, I don’t want it anywhere near my dad. This time, I’m going to lure the thief inside on my own terms.”
Chapter 6
The second house from the corner lay in almost total darkness, an expected state of affairs at ten minutes past midnight for a dwelling that was as yet unoccupied.
The only illumination came from a construction light on a tripod. It was positioned between the future kitchen and the makeshift worktable near the sliding doors, the lamp pointed down onto the notebooks and loose papers like a spotlight, leaving the kitchen area in deep shadow.
About an hour before, Charley and Marc had been sitting at the decrepit picnic table, chatting and enjoying the soft evening by candlelight. They weren’t yelling, but they didn’t exactly keep their voices down, either. The coded journal was a major topic of conversation. The names Carter Magellan and Regan Fletcher were mentioned several times.
Finally, Charley announced she was ready to call it a night. They made a show of blowing out candles and turning off lights. Marc declared he wanted to leave a few windows open to keep air circulating in newly painted spaces. Charley trotted next door and emerged minutes later with a small overnight bag. They locked the front door, climbed into Marc’s Mustang, and drove off.
Leaving the screen door to the deck closed, but the sliding glass door half open.
Five minutes later, having parked two blocks away, they crept along the alley, entered the fenced backyard through the high wooden gate—which they’d left a few inches ajar—and slipped silently across the deck and inside through the screen door.
Now, dressed in dark clothing and seated in the kitchen on comfortable canvas umbrella chairs Charley had arranged for the purpose, they waited. Marc had checked earlier—the angle of the light created a black hole of perfect concealment from anyone standing on the deck. At the same time, their positions provided an excellent view of the open slider and the deck beyond, as well as the papers on the table. She’d posted a photo of those papers earlier, tantalizingly blurred, as well as one that showed the table with the slider and deck in the background, so there’d be no question about the easiest point of entry. No value in having their side door jimmied or a window broken if they could avoid it.
Neither spoke. They sat in companionable silence, having already worked out the details of how long they’d wait and what they’d do if someone actually sprang their trap. If no one showed up by three a.m., they would—
Charley reached out and touched Marc’s wrist. A shadow moved on the deck just outside the circle of light. As Marc braced, ready to make his move, an urgent whisper came through the screen.
“Charley? You guys in here?”
“For cripes’ sake,” Charley muttered. “It’s PJ!”
Marc opened the screen door, yanked PJ inside, and dumped him none too gently into his chair. “Explain yourself,” he demanded. “And keep your voice down. We might still be able to salvage this operation.”
“Sorry, but I was too excited to stay away,” PJ confessed. “I used your suggestion about the “Property of” page, and it’s definite, Charley. The journal belonged to Regan Fletcher!”
Charley stared, unable to speak as the reality sank in. Even though she’d felt certain she was right, the confirmation of her suspicions sent a rush through her body.
“So, this girl Regan,” PJ continued in a half whisper, “she started using the journal in January of 1974. In the first half, the entries are written in a simple substitution code. Check this out.”
PJ pulled a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Charley. In neat block printing, he had written out the alphabet. Underneath was written a row of numbers, one number for each letter, beginning with “4” for the letter “A,” then “8” for “B,” with every other even number assigned a letter up through “104” for the letter “Z.”
A 4 B 8 C 12 D 16 E 20 F 24 G 28 H 32 I 36 J 40 K 44 L 48 M 52 N 56 O 60 P 64 Q 68 R 72 S 76 T 80 U 84 V 88 W 92 X 96 Y 100 Z 104
“You’re looking at a basic substitution cipher. Each letter of the alphabet is substituted for a number. Literally ‘Code Breaking 101,’ ” he said, making air quotes with his fingers. “Once I had the letters of her name from that first page, other simple words using those letters fell into place. I started filling in the blanks, used a little trial and error, and figured out the number sequence she was using.”
He flipped the paper over to reveal more strings of numbers with their solutions. Tilting the page to catch the glow from the construction lamp, Charley scanned them, fascinated.
722028456/2448208012322072
REGAN FLETCHER
36/16201236162016/8060/8072100/608480/246072/12322020724820416365628!
I DECIDED TO TRY OUT FOR CHEERLEADING!
526052/3676/2860365628/8060/3248820/4/126092/88480/36/1
6605680/1247220.
MOM IS GOING TO HAVE A COW BUT I DON’T CARE.
76322076/72841232/4/836801232.
SHE’S SUCH A BITCH.
“This is outstanding,” Charley murmured, and PJ puffed like a peacock at her praise. “Is it common to use a pattern of numbers like this? It seems as if that would make the code easier to crack.”
“Most people use something easy to remember, like a multiple, that they can reproduce at will when they want to code or decode a message. Otherwise you’d have to memorize a random string,” he explained.
She handed the paper to Marc. “How much of the journal have you decoded?” she asked.
“Only three or four pages,” PJ confessed. “We ordered pizza and hung out, so I didn’t get home until nine. I just cracked the sequence an hour ago. I’ve got the decoded stuff saved on my computer, but I only brought that worksheet, since I didn’t know if I’d see you guys.”
Marc handed the paper back. “Sounds like she hated her mother.”
“Every fourteen-year-old girl hates her mother,” Charley informed him.
PJ’s smile gleamed white in the dark. “That’s what Katie says. Most of what I’ve cracked is more of the same: boring stuff about homework, teachers she hates, how strict her parents are.”
“Anything about Carter?” Charley asked.
“I’m not sure.” PJ shrugged. “I skipped ahead to see if it got any juicier, and I found a couple of entries where she refers to Bess, George, and Ned. Even I know those are Nancy Drew’s famous friends. They’ve gotta be aliases.”
Marc looked puzzled. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“They’re almost as famous as Holmes and Watson, if you were a teenage girl born in the US after 1930.” Charley smiled. “I read every one of those mysteries a dozen times growing up. They even had a TV show around the time Regan wrote this journal. She must’ve seen herself as Nancy, with her red hair and code writing. Bess was the chubby blonde, George was the tomboy, and Ned was Nancy’s boyfriend.”
“I’ll bet that’s Carter!” PJ exclaimed, provoking a “Shhh” from Marc. “So who are Bess and George? Girls she hung out with?” They were all silent, contemplating this enigma. “Well,” PJ said at last, “maybe she reveals their identities at some point. There are hundreds of entries. It’s going to take time to decipher it all.”
“You said the first half used this code,” Charley reminded him. “What about the second half?”
PJ frowned. “It’s all good until March of ’78. Something must’ve happened that spring to make Regan decide her simple code was too simple. She’s switched codes entirely. I have some theories, but—”
Before he could continue, Marc shushed them both. He’d moved to stand near the kitchen window. Now he pointed, indicating that someone was coming through the backyard toward the deck. He hurried to press himself against the wall beside the sliding door. All three froze, motionless, holding their breath.
A new shadow, this one large and lumbering, appeared. The wooden steps creaked. Marc held up a hand, signaling the others to wait for the opportune moment. The figure hesitated, then the screen began to slide open with a slithering rasp.
As the intruder stepped into the room, PJ leaped to his feet. He flipped on his cellphone light and shoved it into the man’s face. “Gotcha!”
The intruder stumbled back, falling through the opening and landing heavily on the deck. With a muffled curse, Marc scrambled after him. There was a brief sound of struggle. Charley switched on lights to reveal Marc with his hands firmly clamped on the collar and twisted arm of a man she had never seen before.
The stranger appeared to be in his late forties, tall and broad-shouldered but with a body running to fat. Graying blond hair parted in the middle hung in frizzy waves down to his shoulders in a style that said “aging surfer.” His square face had the doughy paleness of someone unaccustomed to healthy food or exercise, much less surfing, but the light green eyes taking in the surroundings were clear and sharp with intelligence. He wore baggy tan shorts, black rubber clogs, and a hideous Hawaiian shirt that strained across his middle-aged spread, aqua with neon orange and blue parrots. A man with a sedentary lifestyle, Charley deduced, and a cigar smoker. She recognized the same sweet, smoky reek that had clung to the air in her storeroom. Private investigator? Or perhaps a memorabilia hunter, as Mitch had suggested?
At an inquiring glance from Marc, she nodded once. “That’s him.”
“Start talking, friend,” Marc said sternly, “or we invite the authorities to this party.”
The man held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “My name is Berkeley Dye. I’m a journalist.”
“A reporter?” Charley’s mind whirled with possibilities. “Mind explaining why you’re breaking into my house in the middle of the night?”
Dye tore his gaze away from the papers on the table and smiled winningly. “I’m doing the same thing you are, Charley Carpenter.”
She folded her arms. “And what is that?”
“Trying to find out who really killed Regan Fletcher.”
Chapter 7
For the second time that night, Charley was rendered speechless.
“You’d better sit,” she said at last.
“Gladly.” Dye made a show of flexing his shoulder and tugging down his shirt as Marc released him. “May I?” He reached for the papers on the table.
“They’re fakes,” Marc said brusquely. He pointed at a folding chair. “Time to chat.”
With a sigh of disappointment, Dye eased his butt onto the small seat and extended his hand to PJ. “Mr. Konduru, it’s a pleasure.”
PJ’s mouth fell open. “You know my name?”
“He’s been stalking our Instagram posts.” Charley couldn’t keep the note of accusation out of her voice, even though she’d hoped for exactly that outcome.
“I have indeed.” Dye’s smile became wry. “I might’ve known it was a setup. No way would the famous team of Carpenter and Trenault do anything as ham-fisted as that post. And leaving the door open? I must be slipping.”
“So now we’re famous?” Marc muttered. “Peachy.”
Charley had managed to gather her scattered wits enough to draw another conclusion. “You’re the reporter who found the real killer—that is, the man who confessed and got Carter Magellan out of jail. That was you.”
Dye looked pleased. “Sounds as if you already know the story.”
“I don’t,” PJ piped up.
“And we don’t know any of the details,” Charley admitted, “just that this man confessed, and then he took it all back before he died.”
“That’s only the tip of the iceberg.” Dye rubbed his hands together. “Would you like to hear the rest?”
“I suppose that’s what we’re here for.” Marc crossed an ankle over one knee. “This had better be good, or you’re spending the night in a cell.”
“Believe me, it is. Twenty years ago,” Dye began, “I was freelancing for half a dozen papers across Ohio. Freelancing is a romantic way of saying ‘unemployed,’ by the way. I was almost thirty, tired of writing up human-interest pieces and rehashing national stories with tenuous connections to local markets, tired of living paycheck to paycheck. In truth, I was one rejection slip away from living in my van.
“One night I saw a story on the news about this kid who’d been in prison for nineteen years. It was October 1999, coming up on the twentieth anniversary of Regan Fletcher’s murder, and her boyfriend, Carter Magellan, was still proclaiming his innocence. He was due to go before the parole board, but without expressing remorse, the consensus was that he had a better chance of winning the Miss America pageant than getting early release. They showed a photo of the girl, a real knockout. Then they showed pictures of Carter from the day he’d been sentenced.” Dye gazed into the shadows on the deck. “Ther
e was something about his expression, I don’t know what exactly, but I thought: That poor sap is innocent. Beautiful dead girl, star-crossed lovers? Somebody should write a book about it. And then it hit me.” He slapped his hands on his knees. “I should write a book about it! This story could be the break I’d been searching for.
“The next day I called the prison and applied for a visitor permit. When Carter heard I wanted to do a story about Regan, he agreed to see me right away. Poor bastard poured his heart out, begging me to find the truth, if it was still possible to do so.” Dye shook his head. “I’ve talked to a lot of people in my line of work, many of them criminals. They all say they’re innocent, but I can usually smell a liar.”
Marc nodded. “I know what you mean. Liars have a certain stink.”
“This guy passed the smell test. Carter Magellan wasn’t lying.” Dye’s voice rang with conviction. “He didn’t kill that girl.”
“We know. Another man confessed,” Charley said impatiently.
Dye held up a finger. “Hold your horses, my dear. I’m getting to that.”
Charley realized that this was a man desperate to tell his story, a story he’d waited twenty years to tell, and he would do so in his own way. Hurrying him would only prolong it. She gestured for him to continue.
“So, I’m smelling a true-crime bestseller here. I wrote up a contract, Carter signed, then he called his lawyer and instructed him to hand over copies of all of the trial transcripts, photos, everything he’d produced, and everything the prosecution had produced.”
“That’s a lot of paper,” Marc commented. Charley could tell that he was becoming interested despite himself.
Dye smirked. “Lawyers get paid by the page, my friends. Next, I tried to interview anyone associated with the crime, which, after twenty years, wasn’t so easy. Douglas Fletcher had committed suicide, and Pansy Magellan—Carter’s mom—had died of cancer. Carter’s father and sister, Sawyer and Kendall Magellan, both refused to talk to me, despite Carter’s pleas. They were totally against the project. But then I got a break.”
