The Codebook Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  “She’d slipped into the ticket booth with her master key, then down into the tunnel,” Charley murmured. “Why didn’t you tell any of this to the police?”

  Harding licked his lips. “It makes me sound like…a stalker.”

  “If the shoe fits,” Frankie muttered.

  “I went back inside just as the Lumberjacks lined up for that final field goal.” Harding stared at the wall, eyes unfocused, seeing a night forty years ago. “When the kick went through the uprights, the stands literally exploded. People lost their minds, screaming, hugging and kissing total strangers. It was like those pictures you see of V-E Day. Some kid was blasting an air horn, and people on the surrounding streets started honking their car horns in time: wah wah wah; wah wah wah.” He smiled faintly, lost in memory. “The band formed up and played the fight song, then the school song, then the fight song again. Everyone sang. It was so…” His face crumpled.

  “But Regan was gone.” Charley’s voice became harsh. “She used you, Harding. Over and over. It must’ve been humiliating, knowing that while you hung out alone somewhere all those nights, she was with Carter. She blackmailed you, manipulated you.” Harding’s expression morphed into something dark and furious. “Tell us again why you didn’t take any more pictures that night? Not a single photograph of the celebration? According to you, it was an epic display.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything,” he snarled.

  “I think you stopped because you never went back inside that stadium. Had Regan arranged for you to cover for her that night?” His eyes skittered away, and Charley knew she was right. “You didn’t just suspect something was up. Regan told you she was meeting Carter. Maybe she even mentioned Smith Gardens. You were supposed to take her to the Homecoming dance the next night, but you realized that wasn’t going to happen, didn’t you? I’ll bet that made you angry—all the lying, being her alibi, her patsy. Did you guess she was leaving for good this time? Or did she tell you she was?”

  “She loved throwing it in my face, how she couldn’t wait to dust Oakwood off her shoes, to dump all the high school bullshit. Like I was so beneath her.” His mouth twisted. “Regan Fletcher was a bitch! Everyone thought she was so sweet and perfect. But behind all that, she was selfish and cruel. She didn’t care whom she hurt, as long as she got what she wanted.”

  “So you followed her to Smith Gardens,” Charley said, “and you killed her.”

  “No! You have to believe me!” Harding begged, flinging his arms wide with an excess of drama. “By the time I got through the gate, she’d disappeared. Then I went back in, I swear to God. I was there for the end of the game, just like I said.” He hid his face in his hands. “I didn’t take any more pictures because, well, there didn’t seem to be any point anymore. Regan was gone. But I didn’t know where she was meeting Carter, so how could I have followed her?”

  The four friends exchanged glances.

  “Do we believe this weasel?” Frankie asked.

  “He could have heard about the singing and car horns from someone else,” Heddy observed. “Isn’t this a fairly famous story?”

  “Good point. His so-called memories of that final celebration don’t eliminate him as a suspect.” With a mixture of pity and distaste, Charley considered the man huddled on the bed. “He’s certainly got motive. Even if you set aside his jealous rage over Carter, with those photos on his record, he’d have had a hard time getting into college, much less landing a teaching job.”

  As Harding listened to this discussion of his character and likely guilt or innocence, he peered through his fingers, his expression now cunning, his apparent distress of a moment ago now gone. “I’m not the only person she was blackmailing. She knew about old Vance’s pot garden.”

  “How did you know about that?” Vanessa demanded.

  Harding sneered. “That old geezer was always leering at the girls, especially the cheerleaders in their short skirts. I was trying to get a photo of him in the act, and I caught him going into a utility closet. When he didn’t come out, I went in and discovered his little side project. I left before he saw me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Charley asked. When Harding’s eyes slid away, she gave a short laugh. “Because you figured on using it against him yourself, right?”

  He smirked. “Maybe. After Regan’s disappearance Vance cleaned out the courtyard. But Vance wasn’t her only victim. Plenty of other kids hated her guts. I don’t know what she had on anyone else, but I do know a lot of people were afraid of Regan Fletcher.”

  Charley thought again of the journal. All sorts of dirt. “You heard PJ talking about Regan’s journal. Did you know she kept one? That it was coded?”

  “No, but I’m not surprised,” he said bitterly. “Like I said, she collected ammunition on people.”

  “And you figured she might have written about you? That’s why you raced home and started going through her things. You were afraid she’d written about your sick photo project. Were you planning on getting rid of this stuff?” His expression told Charley she’d guessed rightly. She held her breath as she asked the next, critical question: “Do you have any idea what the book key is?”

  Harding shook his head. “Not unless it’s that yearbook. This stuff is all we had. I don’t know what happened to her other things—I assume the Fletcher family kept it. Regan had no sibs, and her parents are dead now. It’s probably all sold or in a landfill.” He paused. “Is that what that reporter is after?”

  Charley blinked. “Berkeley Dye? Did he call you?”

  “He left a voice mail about an hour ago. I couldn’t answer, because I was working in Rob Gleason’s lab.”

  “How did he get your number?”

  Harding shrugged. “I’ve had the same number for over twenty years. That guy badgered everyone connected with Regan’s case back then. I guess he kept good records.”

  “Who are Bess and George?” Heddy asked suddenly, startling everyone. Charley sent her a swift smile of approval.

  “You mean, from the Nancy Drew stories?” Harding looked mystified. “My students love those books. I have a complete set in my classroom.”

  Heddy waved this away. “Yes, yes, they’re wonderful. But do those names have any other meaning for you? Friends of Regan’s, perhaps? Nicknames?”

  “There was a George Zois two years ahead of us, but I don’t remember anyone called Bess,” Harding said. “A few girls named Elizabeth or Liz. Is that what you mean?”

  “Not really,” Heddy said with obvious disappointment. Vanessa patted her shoulder.

  Charley could think of nothing else to ask. What she wanted now, urgently, was to speak with Berkeley. She fumed as she considered the reporter, charming and persuasive, but a man with his own agenda, a real bull in a china shop. If that idiot was calling everyone connected to the case, he would ruin any chance they still had of keeping their activities undercover.

  She began collecting the photographs and placing them in the box. “We’re taking all of this.”

  “No!” Harding lunged forward, but Vanessa planted a hand on his chest and shoved him back onto the bed. He glared at the four women. “What are you going to do?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still a suspect.” Charley raised a brow. “And given your current career, you’d better hope I don’t need all these pictures.”

  “Don’t leave town,” Vanessa said grimly.

  “Where’s that rat?” Harding whined.

  “Don’t worry,” Frankie said. “I wouldn’t inflict you on him. By the way, mind if I use your bathroom?”

  Chapter 14

  They made a quick detour by the high school to return the borrowed safety gear to Robert Gleason’s biology class, with many thanks. Charley and Frankie’s former teacher listened to the tale of their adventure in appreciative silence, before
gravely pronouncing the outcome deserving of an “A Plus.”

  Frankie handed over Svengali’s cage with evident reluctance. “I’m gonna miss this little guy,” she declared. “He lent a certain presence to the proceedings.”

  On the drive home, Charley used Frankie’s cellphone to call Marc. He answered almost before the first ring.

  “You’re all right?” His voice carried an undercurrent of worry no amount of trust or respect would ever completely erase.

  “Everyone is amazing,” she assured him. “And you will be, too, when you hear all we found out today.”

  Knowing she would have the luxury of filling him in on the more entertaining details later, preferably in bed, Charley limited herself to relaying the highlights of their conversations with Merritt Vance, Kendall Magellan, and Harding Knox.

  “As in old Hard Knocks?” he asked in astonishment. “My fourth-grade teacher?”

  “None other.”

  “We teased the daylights out of that poor guy,” Marc admitted. “Now that I know he’s a pervert, not to mention a murder suspect, my ten-year-old self is officially creeped out.”

  “Have you heard from Berkeley, by any chance?”

  “I got a text from him about thirty minutes ago,” Marc said. “He was heading to a meeting. When I called him back, I got his voice mail.”

  “Could you try him again?” she asked. “Order him to stop alerting all my suspects? I doubt he’d listen to me.”

  Marc chuckled. “I can try. Speaking of suspects, congratulations on doing what no one else could. You found tangible proof of Carter Magellan’s innocence. As it’s not an open investigation, you’re not obligated to turn that photo over to the police. Are you going to give it to Kendall?”

  Charley had considered this question. “I will, of course. Her poor brother deserves to have his name cleared—but not until I know what’s in Regan’s journal.”

  “Spoken like a true investigator,” he said with approval. “Information is leverage. Never give it away.”

  “I learned from the best.” She felt a glow at his words of praise. “It’s a partial win, and that feels great, but there’s still so much we don’t—”

  Frankie’s cellphone beeped with an incoming text. LEAVING MORGUE NOW. C U IN 30.

  “Do you need to take that?” Marc asked.

  “It’s Sharon. The good doctor is meeting us at Smith Gardens.” Charley huffed out a breath. “What I need is to talk through all of this with you, to unravel the knots. You know we’re always better together. When will you be home?” During their conversation she’d heard intermittent voices, metallic and distorted, as if coming over a PA system into a large, echoing space. “What are you doing, anyway? Are you at the airport?”

  “Nope. Gotta go.” And he hung up.

  Frankie slid her cellphone into her pocket. “Is he meeting us at Smith Gardens?”

  Charley frowned, her earlier unease back in full force. “I have no idea.”

  They arrived at the Carpenter home to find Lawrence, Bobby, Afiya, and Katie seated in the living room. Stacks of books covered every surface, and the whiteboard now stood before the fireplace on its easel. A row of number pairs written in blue marker ran along the bottom. Otherwise, the board was wiped clean.

  “Lemonade?” Lawrence hefted a pitcher. “You four look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

  “And then some.” Frankie eased down into an armchair with a sigh.

  Charley set the memorial box on the floor and glanced around. “What’s all this?”

  “You first,” Bobby countered. “What’s in the box?”

  Before answering, Charley took a careful look at her father. While he seemed better this afternoon, more energetic and upbeat, the hand stroking the cat on his lap trembled, a sure sign of fatigue or stress. However, after a nod of reassurance from Lawrence, she recapped their conversations with Kendall and Merritt, as well as their visit to Harding’s, downplaying the sketchy nature of that particular transaction.

  She nudged the box with her toe. “There’s not much in here. It’s just so sad.”

  Frankie accepted a sweating glass of lemonade with a grateful smile. “We did confirm that Harding was: A: a pervert; B: obsessed with Regan; and C: a liar.”

  Vanessa passed around a plate of cookies, still warm from the oven. “He admitted that he’d known all along what Vance and Regan were arguing about that day. He’d been creeping around the school, semi-stalking Regan with his camera, and he stumbled on Vance’s side project. But that wasn’t Harding’s biggest lie.”

  Charley retrieved the time-stamped photo of the post-game celebration and handed it to Afiya. “This is proof that Carter was telling the truth. He was still at the stadium when those witnesses saw the mysterious dark-haired figure running from Smith Gardens. It’s not ironclad, but it would certainly have helped his case.”

  Afiya passed the photo to Lawrence, who showed it to Bobby. “You have found the proof you sought, Charley,” she said. “Does this mean the mystery is solved?”

  “One mystery is solved,” Heddy agreed. “We now know for certain that Carter didn’t kill Regan. But then who did?”

  “My money’s on Harding,” Vanessa said. “In addition to all his other whoppers, he admitted to knowing that Regan and Carter were running away that night. He also admitted seeing her leave the game, and that he followed her. He claims he didn’t know where the lovers were meeting up, but maybe that’s just one more lie.”

  “Harding concealed several critical facts from the original investigators,” Heddy added. “How can we believe anything the man says?”

  “She’s got a point,” Frankie said around a mouthful of cookie. “Those photos tell me he never went back inside the stadium. I think he ran to Smith Gardens, found Regan waiting for Carter, and killed her in a jealous rage. His conduct today proved he’s got a temper. And he might be balding now, but his hair is brown, and in that yearbook photo, it was pretty shaggy. He could have been the dark-haired figure those witnesses saw.”

  Afiya gazed at the box. “A shame that there was not a certain necklace hidden among Regan’s things.”

  Charley grinned. “You and that necklace, Fee. Didn’t Death on the Nile teach you how to spot a red herring?”

  “What’s this?” Lawrence asked, alarmed. “Who died on the Nile?”

  The members of the Oakwood Mystery Club burst out laughing. “It’s the title of the book I’ve been reading,” Afiya said with mock severity. “You should pay more attention to me, sir.”

  “Is it any good?” Bobby asked.

  “It’s wonderful!” Heddy exclaimed. “One of Agatha Christie’s best. A wealthy young woman lures her impoverished friend’s lover away and marries him. The jilted girlfriend, Jacqueline, stalks the newlyweds on their honeymoon—the jealous ex, spoiling their fun. When Linnet, the man-stealing bride, turns up murdered, everyone naturally suspects Jacqueline.”

  “Only she has an ironclad alibi.” Vanessa took up the tale. “And so does the new husband, Simon. They’re all trapped on a riverboat on the Nile, giving the reader a nice tidy circle of suspects. Too bad for the killer that one of the passengers is the famous detective Hercule Poirot.”

  “That’s you, pal.” Bobby stroked the cat, who slumbered on, happily indifferent to his famous namesake.

  “So someone murdered Linnet and stole her necklace?” Lawrence asked.

  “Another passenger stole the necklace,” Charley clarified, “but it had nothing to do with the murder. A red herring, as I said. The actual killer was Simon. His alibi was cleverly faked, with Jacqueline’s help.”

  “And that,” Heddy continued, “is the genius part of the novel. You believe you’re reading about this desperate love triangle that ends in murder. And you are, and it does, but it’s not the triangle you think. Jacqueline a
nd Simon planned the whole thing from the beginning. Simon pretends to fall in love with Linnet. He successfully woos and marries her. If she dies, he will inherit her millions, allowing him and the woman he truly loves to live happily, and wealthily, ever after.”

  “But only if neither of them hangs for murder. It’s just like Regan pretending to date Harding, when she was really in love with Carter. A masterpiece of misdirection, right down to the irrelevant necklace.” Frankie stopped with another cookie halfway to her mouth. “Whoa. Does this remind you of anything, Carpo? A murder case that resembles a mystery novel?”

  “Not that again!” Bobby moaned. Hercules leaped from his lap and scuttled under the sofa.

  “Now, Coach,” Lawrence admonished. “We had a deal. If you start getting upset, we’re heading upstairs.”

  “Daddy, please calm down. The situations are completely dissimilar.” Charley shot an exasperated glance at Frankie. “This is nothing like the Lucy case. We are not dealing with a serial killer.”

  Bobby held up his good hand. “Stand down, Lawrence. You, too, daughter. I know that for every real homicide case, somewhere there’s a fictional murder plot to match. I was making a joke. Even old men can crack wise, you know.”

  “That’s the spirit, Mr. C. I bet there are hundreds of stories with stolen jewels and dangerous love triangles.” Frankie was the picture of contrition.

  “No question about it,” Charley said firmly. “The parallels are just a coincidence.”

  She cringed slightly at that final word. Marc was always saying how good investigators hated coincidences, and it was a lesson she’d learned firsthand on several occasions. However, the best detectives also knew how to discern what was nothing more than a glittering distraction. There was no point, Charley told herself, in wasting another thought on any similarities, real or imagined, between Death on the Nile and Regan Fletcher’s murder.

  “Speaking of books.” Katie had been following the discussion with eager attention. She now sat forward. “I think it’s time for my report. I went to Wright Library like you asked, Charley. They’ve remodeled it a bunch of times since it was built in 1938, including an addition in ’83 and a major renovation a couple of years ago. So I focused on the original space. All the old walnut shelves are still there, the big deep window casements, the stained glass windows, and those glass display cases in the front entryway. I tapped and jiggled all around the place; the staff thought I was bonkers. It took ages, and PJ was supposed to meet me there to help, the slacker.” She paused for breath. “You haven’t heard from him, have you?”