by Leslie Nagel
Needing to change the subject, Charley took a calculated risk. “Do you remember a reporter named Berkeley Dye? He, um, called about the journal, but I haven’t called him back.”
Kendall scowled. “That vulture? First he went to the prison and got Carter’s hopes up. Then he harassed my father and me, questioning our friends and neighbors and invading our privacy. What an odious creature.”
Charley gave thanks for the instinct that had kept her from revealing her true relationship with Dye. “He did track down Yousef Alsayegh, which led to Carter’s release from prison,” she said reasonably.
Kendall’s scowl deepened. “I suppose he’s desperate to get his hands on Regan’s journal. Don’t you let him,” she said with sudden vehemence. “Don’t you talk to him! All he wants is to write a sleazy exposé and make a lot of money. He doesn’t care about justice, or about Regan’s memory. Promise me,” she said, gripping Charley’s hand.
Charley thought this was a bit over the top, but she didn’t want to make an enemy of this woman. “I won’t let him have her journal,” she said, choosing her words with care.
Silence. “Well, thank you for that.” Kendall released her hand. “My brother…I know you’re discreet, but that Dye person will create another uproar about the case, simply for the publicity. Carter never really got over her, you know. He truly loved Regan.”
“It’s such a shame,” Frankie said softly. “I mean, I know there was an age gap, but later, when she’d turned eighteen? Why were her parents still so set against her and Carter being together? Surely they could have just revealed their relationship. Maybe none of it would have happened.”
“Oh, but it wasn’t just the Fletchers that were against the match,” Kendall corrected. “Our parents were just as bad. The two couples couldn’t stand one another, had feuded for years.”
“The Montagues and the Capulets,” Charley murmured. “What was the feud about?”
Kendall cast her eyes to heaven. “It’s so stupid. It started with the most trivial incident, as these things so often do. My mother and Doris Fletcher showed up at the annual Art Ball in the same designer gown. Mother had bought hers at Gidding-Jenny in Cincinnati. It’s closed now, but it was very high-end, the kind of boutique where models came out wearing dresses for you to consider while you sipped tea. The sales staff kept a record of what gowns women bought for the big social events to avoid this exact situation. The Art Ball was as big a deal then as it is today, and Mother was convinced Doris had done it on purpose. Doris was an outrageous social climber, at least according to Mother and her friends. Doris wore the dress, but with twice the jewels, including that fabulous necklace that went missing. Doris had managed to one-up Pansy Magellan and, Lord above, we all listened to my mother complain about it for months.”
“Over a dress?” Frankie asked in disbelief.
Kendall waved a hand. “I told you it was silly. Mother got her revenge when Doris and Douglas threw a fancy holiday cocktail party at their home. She waited until the Fletchers’ invitation arrived, then she sent out invitations for an extravagant holiday tea dance earlier that same afternoon, complete with a live swing band, full buffet, the works. They booked the entire Moraine Country Club. By the time the Fletchers’ party started at seven, most of the guests were too drunk, tired, and stuffed with food to do more than make a token appearance. Those who did show up talked about how amazing the Magellans’ party was. Doris and Douglas had spent a fortune, and their party was basically a flop.
“The feud went on like that for years, the two men competing in the annual golf tourney each year, both trying to draft ringers for their foursomes. My father bought a brand-new Mercedes-Benz when I was about eleven, the latest model, shiny black.” Kendall shook her head. “He was prouder of that car than he was of his own family. A few weeks later, Douglas appeared around town driving the same car, only his was a bright red convertible model, with white walls and chrome spoke wheels. I thought Daddy was going to have a stroke.”
Charley found herself hugely entertained by this story. “Then what happened?”
“The women didn’t even try to pretend. They frosted one another in public, spread nasty gossip, some of it even true.” Kendall made a face. “Everyone in Oakwood knew about the bad blood. Anytime there was a social event that included them both, you could see the avid faces, people hoping for a catfight. You can see why the Fletchers were so ready to believe Carter was guilty.”
“But that was life-and-death,” Frankie protested. “All this other stuff seems so petty.”
“Not all of it. My father was a prominent businessman. He served on the boards of the Dayton Foundation, Miami Valley Hospital, the University of Dayton Alumni Foundation, and several other organizations. He was a Rotarian; he was elected to the Oakwood School Board. Sawyer was a very big fish in our small pond.” Kendall’s words rang with irony. “When I was fifteen, he was approached to run for the Ohio Senate. He and Mother were over the moon—they talked about it constantly. They started raising money, making plans—and then it all stopped. I asked why, and Mother said something lame about its being a long shot, that party leadership was exploring other options. I could tell she was lying.”
“What do you think really happened?” Charley asked.
“I never knew for certain, but—” Kendall bit her lip, then seemed to come to a decision. “One night, when Carter was already in prison, Mother had several glasses of wine at dinner. After my father had locked himself in his study as usual, she started rambling. She let it slip that the Fletchers had something on Daddy. He’d withdrawn his name from the race, rather than risk a scandal.”
“Scandal,” Frankie breathed. “Do you know what it was?”
“I assumed it was an affair, but I could never get my mother to talk about it again. I do know that the feuding turned into real hatred.” Kendall’s expression darkened. “I also know that if either of my parents had had an opportunity to hurt the Fletchers, they’d have taken it.”
Had that hatred, Charley wondered, that desire to inflict hurt, extended to murder? Aloud she asked, “Did your parents attend the game that night?”
“No.” Kendall bit off the word. “My father never missed a game when Carter was playing, but cheerleading wasn’t worthy of Sawyer Magellan’s attention.”
Charley absorbed this in silence. Here was a woman with definite daddy issues.
“It seems like yesterday when we were sitting in this auditorium, and you were our teacher.” Frankie heaved a mighty sigh. “We had our share of high school drama, but nothing like this. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to lose a friend so young.” She rolled her eyes at Charley.
“The entire school was devastated,” Kendall said quietly. “Everyone loved Regan. She was so beautiful, so smart. But she was also sweet and generous, lively and fun.”
This didn’t sound like the same girl Merritt Vance had described, Charley thought, but again she held her tongue.
“They held a memorial assembly for her right here,” Kendall went on. “They projected photos of her on a huge screen. All the girls were crying, and some of the boys, too. Student Council proposed a permanent memorial for her in one of the cases in the Senior Hall, with photos, trophies, a sketch she’d done in art class. We formed a committee and started collecting things….” She trailed off. “Nothing ever came of it.”
“Why not?” Charley and Frankie asked in unison.
“Why, I don’t know, girls. Other than the assembly and a memorial page in our senior yearbook, there was nothing else.”
“What happened to the things you collected?” Frankie asked.
“I have no idea. They were in a box in the yearbook workroom. I, uh, missed several weeks of school that spring.” Kendall’s cheeks flushed. “I had a bit of a breakdown, in fact, after my brother went to prison. When I returned to school, the box was gone an
d no one was talking about the memorial anymore.”
Charley kept her voice calm, but her pulse had picked up several points. “Who else was on the committee?”
“It was mostly the varsity cheerleaders, and of course the yearbook staff. A couple of girls went to the Fletchers and asked if they could have some of Regan’s things for the display. Mrs. Fletcher gave them her varsity jacket. I’m not sure exactly what else—perhaps some books and toys? I seem to recall the box got pretty full.” Kendall stared at her hands. “I wanted to help, but then Carter—it was too awkward, so I stayed away.”
Charley’s detective radar was blaring as Frankie mouthed “Books?” behind Kendall’s back, the two friends obviously on the exact same wavelength.
They needed to find that box.
Chapter 11
Charley and Frankie followed Kendall back into the Senior Hall. The long corridor was now deserted except for Heddy, who stood ten yards away, apparently transfixed by the contents of a trophy case, and Vanessa, who slouched near the Guidance Office door, playing with her long black braid and studying a fire safety poster.
Kendall locked up the auditorium. “You’ll keep me posted on your progress?” It was more of a statement than a question, a teacher to two students who owed her a late assignment.
“Yes, ma’am,” Frankie said meekly.
“If I find anything that proves Carter’s innocence,” Charley answered truthfully, “I will let you know.”
Kendall bade them farewell and headed down the nearer flight of stairs. The moment she was out of sight, Heddy abandoned the trophies and hurried forward.
“Brushing up on your local high school sports history?” Charley asked drily.
Heddy folded her arms. “I was the lookout.”
“And a fine one, too,” Vanessa affirmed. “However, there will be no reveal of our clandestine activities until we have been briefed. Or debriefed? Whichever one means you two tell us everything.”
Alarmed, Charley shifted her attention from Heddy to Vanessa. “ ‘Clandestine activities’? What have you two been up to?”
As Vanessa smirked and folded her arms in imitation of her coconspirator, Frankie chuckled. “You’ve unleashed the Mystery Club on a mystery, Carpo. Don’t try to control it. Just stand back and enjoy the ride.”
Charley expelled a long breath. “Just tell me this. Are we going to get arrested?”
“Not unless you blab, dear,” Heddy returned serenely.
That made Charley laugh. “Fine. You win.” As succinctly as possible, and with strategic additions from Frankie, she related their conversation with Kendall.
“She offered to pay you?” Vanessa frowned. “In crime novels, people do that if they want to keep tabs on an investigation.”
“Her concern for Carter felt genuine enough. I just figured it was a case of ‘like father, like daughter,’ ” Charley said, air-quoting. “Rich and powerful men like Sawyer Magellan get used to throwing money at situations to get what they want.”
“Speaking of daddy,” Frankie put in, “there’s something bizarre going on there. When you started asking about him, Kendall got a little weird.”
“That entire household strikes me as strange,” Heddy observed. “Two adult children living with an aging parent, the three of them trapped together by a misfortune they can’t seem to escape. It’s quite tragic.”
Vanessa stirred. “All very fascinating, I’m sure. But if you want to talk to this Harding Knox guy, I suggest we keep moving. Which brings us to…” She reached for the Guidance Office door, turned the knob, and pulled. “Voilà!”
Charley stared. “You unlocked this? How?”
“A little trick I picked up my last summer at church camp.” Vanessa grinned. “You should see me pickpocket a drunk counselor. Suffice to say, we had a lot of free time.”
“It’s a good thing for this city you’re heading to the police academy instead of a life of crime.” Frankie gestured. “Shall we?”
The four women filed inside the darkened office and Vanessa closed the door. The air felt stale and close. Charley flipped the wall switch, and fluorescent ceiling panels flickered to life. An L-shaped reception desk to their right partitioned off a third of the room. Its surface held a computer monitor and keyboard, as well as the standard office items of stapler, multiline phone, daily calendar, and a silk plant in a blue and gold Lumberjacks mug. The wall behind the desk was lined with gray metal filing cabinets. Above these hung a framed watercolor of Oakwood High School that Charley remembered from her student days. The artist, David L. Smith, was an Oakwoodite known for his delicately beautiful renditions of famous Dayton-area landmarks.
Frankie nudged the computer mouse, but the monitor remained dark. “Worth a try,” she muttered.
To their left was a round table with four blue plastic chairs. The wall beside the table was lined with floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves filled to overflowing with college catalogs.
Vanessa pointed toward a shadowy hallway lined with half a dozen closed doors. “Want me to…”
“Let’s avoid any further criminal activity, shall we?” Charley indicated the section of wall near the door. “This is what we came for.”
Dozens of books in varying shades of blue, green, maroon, and tan, all with years stamped on their spines, filled eight wooden shelves. In the center of the middle shelf stood a glass case containing a slender volume with a buff cover. Faded blue lettering read THE ACORN 1924, the year of the school’s first graduating class.
“If Regan used a yearbook for her book key, and Carter also used it to decode their love notes, it would have to be one they both owned, right?” Frankie examined the titles. “Let’s see. Carter’s senior year, when Regan was a freshman…that was 1977.” She walked to the end of the shelves, pulled a book, and began flipping pages.
“Or maybe the next year, 1978 or even ’79. My school always has a few extras for sale in the bookstore. If Oakwood sold extras forty years ago, Carter could easily have gotten another copy of any of those.” Vanessa took down two books and handed one to Heddy. Both women started thumbing.
On a whim, Charley picked up the desk extension. “Hey! A dial tone.” She called the Carpenter landline. “Hi, Lawrence. May I speak with Afiya? Hello, Fee? I’ve got a job for you.”
“You do?” Afiya sounded pleased. “I am happy to help.”
“I need you to dig into those boxes again. See if you can find a police file with statements from the teenagers who witnessed that argument between Regan and Merritt Vance,” Charley directed. “It’s going to be in with the official files Marc and I were reading.”
“Very well. What am I searching for?”
“I’m looking for a statement taken from a student named Harding Knox.” Charley spelled it out. “If you find it, please call me back on Frankie’s cellphone right away.”
“Have you discovered many clues?” Now Afiya sounded wistful.
“A few. I promise to fill you in this afternoon.” Charley hung up. “What a pain. How did anyone solve cases without cellphones?”
Heddy chuckled. “Shoe leather and perseverance.”
“And paper trails.” Frankie held up her book, opened to a page of photos. “Carter and Regan at the spring formal.” They stood together in a crowd of dancing teens. Regan’s arms were around Carter’s neck as he held her close, their eyes intent on each other. “I know that look. Underage or not, he wants her, and I’d say the feeling is mutual.”
Heddy made a small sound of pleasure. “I found Regan! She was a member of Junior Achievement, whatever that is.”
“Junior Achievement?” Frankie cocked her head. “It’s a club for budding entrepreneurs. Members write business plans, play the stock market with pretend money, run virtual companies, stuff like that. My brother Emilio was a member.”
“Got somethin
g here, too.” Vanessa held up her book. “Picture of the yearbook staff. See that chubby guy with the scraggly hair and the gigantic camera around his neck? That’s Harding Knox. Nice bow tie.”
“Harding was on the yearbook staff?” Frankie’s brows rose. “Odd that Kendall didn’t mention it.”
“Maybe he knows what happened to that box of Regan’s things for the memorial.” Charley pulled a volume with 1980 stamped into its maroon cover. She opened the book to the first page and held it up. “There sure isn’t much to this.”
At the top of the page were the words IN MEMORIAM in flowery script. Then came Regan’s class picture, a larger version of the one they’d seen that morning. The caption read FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS, and at the bottom of the page was a full-color photo of the varsity cheerleaders in a standing pyramid, Regan in the top spot, slender and petite, her face radiating triumph as she held her pom-poms high. Like the other girls, her hair was pulled back in a half ponytail, glossy auburn curls spilling over her shoulders, a blue and gold ribbon just visible at her crown.
“I wonder if that’s the ribbon, the one Yousef found,” Charley mused. “And there’s Kendall.” She pointed to a girl on the bottom row, her broad shoulders supporting two squad mates, the same blue-black hair as her brother and father pulled into the same half ponytail and topped with a matching ribbon.
Contemplating this glimpse into the past, Charley felt a wave of sadness. These girls were all so young and vital, so…well, perhaps not innocent, she allowed. These were high school girls, not nuns. But at the moment this image was taken, their lives were still free from the grief and horror to come.
As if reading her thoughts, Frankie said suddenly, “I wonder who Bess and George are. From the journal,” she clarified. “I was thinking about Kendall’s description of Regan: a popular girl who was beloved by all but apparently close with no one except Carter, her secret boyfriend. If that’s true, and if we assume ‘Ned’ is Carter, then who else was she writing about? PJ said he’s found the names in several entries.”
