The Codebook Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  Everyone hurried outside. Heddy and Vanessa piled into the ancient station wagon and pulled away with a wave and a chug of exhaust. Marc walked Charley to her new car and opened the driver’s door.

  “You stay in this car. You don’t take any risks. No dark alleys. No shadowy underworld lairs. No confrontations with armed suspects. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Charley,” he warned.

  “I will be careful,” she relented, and kissed him. “Same goes, hotshot.”

  As she climbed behind the wheel, he pulled out his cellphone and punched a number. “I’m taking Vance. In my view he’s the most likely to do violence to a kid, whether it’s today or forty years ago…Paul? Any way we can get access to the high school and elementary buildings?”

  He climbed into his Mustang, still talking, trying to muster a team of off-duty officers to do a sweep of the three schools. Everyone in the Oakwood Safety Department was a trusted friend, a former comrade in arms. If anyone could make it happen, and happen fast, Charley thought with pride and affection, it would be Marcus Trenault.

  She fired up her birthday present, taking a moment to revel in the feeling of power at her fingertips. She plugged in her cellphone, waved to Afiya and Lawrence as they stood arm in arm on the Carpenter front porch, then headed down Hawthorn Boulevard.

  At the second corner she hung a left onto Shafor Boulevard. A few blocks farther south she turned right onto Aberdeen Avenue. She was just in time to see several dozen teenagers gathered on the lawn behind Wright Library. As she watched, they broke into groups of two or three and headed off in every direction. They seemed well organized, she decided, as three boys crossed the street and headed into an alley behind a row of houses. Those kids would fan out across Oakwood, running down alleys and through backyards, peeking into garages, banging on doors and talking to anyone who might know something.

  Despite her guilt and anxiety, she felt another surge of pride. These kids cared deeply about one another, and about justice. It was the main reason they’d become part of her Park Avenue Irregulars, helping her to identify petty criminals, or coming to her for advice about friends in trouble. Of course, some were in it for the thrill, and that was fine, too.

  But more important, they saw this city of less than ten thousand souls as their place. It was their home. Anyone messing with Oakwood was messing with them. They would stand together to defend the community they loved.

  Charley understood exactly how they felt. Even so, she knew in her bones that this case was going to be the end of the Irregulars. As PJ’s abduction proved, involving kids in her investigations was both selfish and irresponsible.

  She stopped at the red light at Far Hills Avenue and considered her next move. As Afiya had pointed out, PJ had to be somewhere. Marc was checking the schools, convinced Merritt Vance was their man. Like her, Marc had spent many hours, years in fact, walking those halls. Despite the many nooks and crannies, the thousand and one possible hiding places, if PJ was being held anywhere in one of those old buildings, Marc would find him.

  Next she pictured Harding Knox’s tiny house and yard, hemmed in by neighbors on all sides. Vanessa and Heddy would bully their way inside. If Harding was their man, he would have nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide PJ.

  So, where should she look? Charley had taken the Magellans for herself, but did that mean going to their house? Although she’d never been there, she knew approximately where it was. Like most of the homes in West Oakwood, the house wasn’t visible from the road, was instead set well back, hidden behind a thick screen of trees and shrubs. The Magellan property was certainly isolated, but unlike Harding’s, three people lived there. Surely, she thought, if one of them had a kidnap victim to hide, they couldn’t possibly—

  The answer came the next moment, and she drew in a sharp breath. Hadn’t Kendall mentioned that Carter used an outbuilding as a metalworking studio? And that, in order to appease the neighbors, they’d had it soundproofed?

  Chapter 20

  Charley cruised slowly down a curving street of hand-laid bricks, the careful rows and recessed storm gutters set in place by German craftsmen a century ago. As a rule she paused to admire this vintage architectural treasure. However, this afternoon the brick surface was no more than a bumpy impediment to efficient forward motion. Despite the long days of high summer, shadows already hung across the tree-lined road, obscuring the wooded yards and private drives. The topography of West Oakwood, as it dipped down into a miniature valley along Houk Stream, had spared these trees from the devastating effects of the tornado. Discreet mailboxes indicated the presence of houses, but they didn’t identify the residents.

  “My kingdom for a navigation app,” she muttered. Her cellphone showed the symbol that indicated it was charging, but she couldn’t get it to turn on yet. Would she have to head down one of these long private-access roads and ring the doorbell? Wouldn’t that be fun. She could picture the reception she’d receive when she asked an annoyed homeowner for directions to the house of their notorious neighbor.

  Off to her right, something pale caught her eye. Charley spied a figure standing just inside the tree line; it was a man, tall with longish, pure white hair. She pulled over and rolled down the passenger window.

  “Mr. Magellan?” she called. “Sawyer?” The figure turned and slipped into the trees. Charley hesitated, then switched off the engine and jumped out. So much for staying in the car.

  She hurried to the spot where the figure had disappeared and found herself at the end of a long asphalt driveway that hadn’t been visible from the road. Huge oaks and sycamores met high overhead, blocking out almost all light. Twisting trees and shaggy, overgrown shrubs crowded close on both sides. They formed a tunnel, a dark cathedral of green that dripped with moisture in the humid air. Charley’s skin prickled with warning.

  “Hello? Sawyer Magellan? I need to talk to you, sir. It’s extremely important.”

  She started walking. With every step the light grew dimmer, and her sense of being watched grew stronger. She lifted her chin and marched onward. She’d gone about ten yards, and the outline of a large white frame house had just become visible through the trees, when she heard what sounded like fifty dogs barreling down the driveway, baying furiously.

  Charley didn’t hesitate. She turned, ran to the nearest tree, and jumped. She grabbed a low branch, kicking and swinging her legs. Just as one of the dogs reached her, she managed to hook a foot and haul herself up. Two huge gray Weimaraners leaped, snarling and snapping, while she clung to the branch just beyond their reach. She gasped for breath as she stared down into about a mile of razor-sharp teeth.

  Once her pounding heart was under control, Charley began to assess her situation. Almost immediately she realized she’d left her charging cellphone in her car. Unless help arrived or those dogs found something more interesting to do, she was stranded.

  As she held on, catching her breath while her unwelcoming committee made enough noise to raise the dead, Charley became aware that the light had faded even more. Overcast skies meant that nightfall would come early, especially in these deep woods. What time must it be by now? She fought down a rising panic. There was a missing boy out there, and she didn’t have time to waste, stuck up a tree like a scared housecat.

  “Hello?” When there was no answer, she began shouting, wondering if anyone would hear her over the cacophony of barking. “Help! Somebody, help!”

  “Caesar!” a voice boomed. “Othello! Down and guard!”

  The dogs immediately backed off and sat. They still stared, growling low in their throats, but at least they’d stopped trying to actively climb up after her. A man appeared out of the gloom, the man Charley had seen a moment before. He was tall and well built, dressed in a plaid work shirt and jeans, with long white hair that reached well past his shoulders.

  “Mr. Magellan,” she called
. “Could you call off your dogs, please?”

  “You’re trespassing.”

  He stopped a dozen feet away. His eyes, set deep beneath heavy black brows, glittered like glowing coals in a face etched by sorrow. It was a haughty face, one better described, Charley thought, as “arresting” than “handsome.” Broad shoulders and chest tapered to a torso thickened a bit in middle age. Despite the changes wrought by forty years, Charley recognized this man from the newspaper photographs, a person central to her investigation, yet someone she had been reluctant to question. There was no mistaking the sharp nose, the high forehead, the full-lipped mouth with its ironic tilt, all so very like his sister Kendall.

  “Hello, Carter.” Despite her racing pulse Charley managed to keep her voice even. “I came here to see you.”

  He bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “Came to see the killer, eh? Well, I’m not a sideshow. Maybe I’ll leave you up there awhile.” He turned and started walking away.

  “I know you didn’t kill Regan Fletcher.”

  Silence. Carter stood with his back to her. “People say that, but they don’t mean it.”

  “I’ve got proof.”

  His tone became wary. “What kind of proof?”

  “A time-stamped photograph showing you at the football game after ten o’clock.”

  Carter whirled, and Charley could see from his expression that she didn’t have to explain the significance of such an item.

  “Where,” he growled, “is this photograph?”

  “It’s safe,” she assured him. “Harding Knox had the picture in a box of Regan’s things.”

  Carter grunted in dismissal. “That pathetic douche bag, always panting after Regan. He disgusted her. Any pictures he had are probably fakes.”

  “How tall are you, sir?”

  The abrupt change of subject seemed to catch him by surprise. “I’m six foot one,” he blurted, then scowled. “Why?”

  Charley pressed on. “And Sawyer? How tall is he?”

  “My father? Why?” he demanded again. “No more answers until you tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “A crime scene reenactment has demonstrated that Regan’s killer was approximately five foot ten.”

  “How can that be,” Carter scoffed, “when an entire team of fancy lawyers couldn’t prove it?”

  “I swear to you,” Charley said, striving to put every ounce of conviction she possessed into her words. “It’s the truth. Between that and the photograph, we can prove you didn’t kill Regan.”

  Carter stared at her, aghast, as the sincerity in her voice registered. Then he threw back his head and screamed. Charley’s blood ran cold. It was a howl ripped from the depths of a man’s soul, born from forty years of grief, of rage and frustration, of humiliation and despair. Both dogs went bananas, leaping and barking with renewed ferocity. In her surprise at the triple outburst, Charley almost lost her grip on the branch. Rough bark scraped her arms and legs as she struggled to maintain her precarious balance.

  “Please,” she begged, “will you call off your dogs?”

  Carter seemed not to have heard. He stood with his head back, eyes closed, arms slack at his sides, as the echoes of his scream died away. Nearly a full minute passed. Abruptly his head snapped forward and he focused on Charley again, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  “Why did you ask about my father? You think he killed Regan?” His voice changed as he spoke her name. Even after all these years, Charley realized, Carter still loved her. “That’s ridiculous. What possible reason could he have? Why are you really here? You’re another reporter, aren’t you? Why can’t you people leave me alone?”

  Charley considered the wisdom of antagonizing a man while trapped by his vicious dogs. Then she thought: What the hell.

  “Regan was blackmailing Sawyer about the embezzlement of school funds.” Carter’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “I believe Regan is the one who forced your father to call off his senate campaign. He did it, but she could still have revealed the truth at any time. The scandal would have destroyed his standing in the Oakwood community. For a man like Sawyer, that would be reason enough to want her out of the way. If you want a second reason, you can add the enmity between your parents and the Fletchers. If Sawyer had learned you two were still romantically involved—”

  “How do you know all of this?” Carter now sounded both angry and bewildered. “Who are you?”

  Charley adjusted her grip on the branch. “I will explain everything. But please, may I get down?”

  Carter hesitated, then issued a sharp command. The dogs slunk to his side and sat, yawning and looking bored. Charley slithered to the ground and brushed herself off.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, what’s this all about?” he demanded. He looked her up and down, a slender young woman in T-shirt and shorts, arms and legs scratched and filthy, the tangled red hair escaping from its ponytail. “If you’re not a reporter, who are you?”

  “My name is Charley Carpenter. I, uh, consult with the police on occasion.” At his skeptical expression, she asked, “Don’t you ever read The Oakwood Register?”

  “Never.” In that single, dismissive word, Carter expressed a lifetime of rejection and bitter resentment. The town had turned its back on him; he had done the same to it.

  Charley wondered how she could convince this man to trust her. Then she decided she didn’t have time to pussyfoot around. She thought of PJ—terrified, perhaps injured—and her stomach clenched.

  “I found Regan’s journal,” she said bluntly. “It’s got a cloth cover printed with sunflowers.” At Carter’s gasp of recognition, she asked, “Does that sound familiar?”

  “No, but…” He swallowed. “Sunflowers were her favorite. Could I…see it?”

  Charley felt a stab of pity at the longing in his voice. “I don’t have it with me. And it’s in code.”

  “We wrote coded messages after—after her father caught us in bed together. We hid them in a hollow tree a short distance from here, or between the pages of a library book. We had no email or texting in those days, and I couldn’t call her house in case one of her folks answered. In some ways Regan was like a child. She was fascinated with codes and mysteries, wanted to be Nancy Drew. Everything was an adventure.” Carter paused. “You think she was blackmailing my father?”

  “I know she was, and not just him. She was also blackmailing fellow students and staff members at the school.” At his look of shocked disbelief, she added gently, “Her journal is filled with details.”

  Carter closed his eyes, and his shoulders slumped.

  “I’m sorry to lay all this on you,” Charley said with genuine sympathy. “I know you didn’t kill Regan, but someone did, and they’re still hurting people. The same person, or someone helping that person, killed a reporter named Berkeley Dye.”

  His eyes snapped open. “Dye’s dead? When? How?”

  “It happened about three hours ago, less than a ten-minute walk from this spot.”

  In a few terse sentences Charley explained about Berkeley Dye’s theft of the journal and his subsequent loan of the investigation records for her examination. She briefly described the break-in at her home, the reenactment at Smith Gardens and its startling revelations about Regan’s killer, and finally, Berkeley’s murder.

  “Had he been in touch with you since he got into town?” she asked.

  “I haven’t spoken to him in months. What does it all mean?” Carter sounded frightened and confused. All traces of anger were gone.

  “It means that the murderer is still out there, actively trying to shut down my investigation.” Charley folded her arms. “Where were you yesterday afternoon?”

  He blinked. “Here. I was here. I never leave our property.”

  “And your father? Your sis
ter?”

  Carter dragged a hand through his white hair. “Father can drive, though Kendall usually has the car. He walks around our property and the neighborhood quite a bit. Smith Gardens is about a five-minute walk from here; I know he goes there. I can’t say where he was yesterday. Kendall practically lives up at the high school, even in summer. She’s been busy working on a student play. Costumes, sets—it’s always something. I spent the day in my studio, like most days. I lose track of time.”

  “And today?” she pressed. “Do you have any idea where either of them has been during the past few hours?”

  “I haven’t seen them since breakfast. You need to leave now.” He shifted, and something in his tone put the dogs back on alert. They whined and shivered, though they remained crouched at Carter’s feet.

  “What? No, please!” she protested. “I need your help. A boy has been kidnapped, probably taken by the same person who killed Berkeley.”

  “Kidnapped?” Carter gaped. “First a murder—and now you claim some kid is missing?” He frowned. “I told you, I never leave our land. None of this is my concern.”

  “That ‘kid’ is a wonderful boy named PJ. It concerns you because he’s been decoding Regan’s journal in an effort to prove your innocence.” She met his gaze. “I’d like to check your studio.”

  “Why?” he asked, but his expression told her he knew the answer.

  “He’s got to be someplace, and Kendall told me it was soundproofed.”

  “You still think it’s one of us.” His words were edged with renewed anger. “Fine. I’ll show you. Then you are leaving.”

  He issued another command, and the dogs took off down the driveway. Rather than heading to an outbuilding, Carter stalked toward the main house. Charley glanced around with interest as she hurried to keep up. The overgrown yard had led her to expect something ramshackle. Instead, the large two-story house appeared to be in excellent repair. She climbed immaculate brick steps to a front door sporting a fresh coat of dark green paint. White clapboard siding also looked freshly painted, as did the black plantation shutters. The porch and walk were swept clean, and even in the growing dusk she could see that the windows had been recently washed.