by Leslie Nagel
Heddy’s answering smile was wicked. Wearing her usual assortment of swirling black skirts and scarves, and with a generous amount of gray threaded through her wispy blond hair, Heddy Jones was often dismissed by the uninitiated as a weak, dotty septuagenarian. Anyone foolish enough to tangle with her soon discovered that her air of vague New Age dishevelment disguised a sharp business mind and an iron will equal to Charley’s own.
“Good morning, Charlotte.” Heddy was the only person on the planet who used Charley’s real first name; no one else dared. Flapping the newspaper she’d been reading, she added, “We’re just enjoying the latest installment of ‘Ask Jackie.’ It’s especially juicy today.”
“Ask Jackie” was an irreverent advice column that had begun appearing in the Oakwood Register a couple of months ago. Nobody seemed to know who Jackie was. Between that mystery and the writer’s hilarious but deadly accurate analysis of the human condition, the weekly feature had swiftly become the talk of the town.
“Let’s hear it.” Charley deposited the cookies on the table, poured herself coffee, and dropped into a chair. “I could use a laugh.”
“What’s wrong?” Vanessa sat forward, frowning. “Is it Bobby? He seems fine today. Great, in fact.”
“Nothing like that.” Charley sighed. “We’ve had trouble at the jobsite.”
Heddy tensed. “Was…anyone hurt?”
“Nothing like that, either.” Charley described the paint spill and Dale Penwater’s estimate of the damages. “I’m afraid that it’s…”
She hesitated. Should she share her suspicions about the sabotage? What good would that do, aside from causing her friends more worry? None, she decided.
“I think we might need to postpone the grand opening,” she concluded instead. “Three weeks from now was already an aggressive goal. I don’t want Penwater and his crew rushing the finish work to meet some artificial deadline.”
Silence greeted this statement. No one was earning a salary while the shop was closed, herself included. How long could she expect these two to wait around before they were compelled to find jobs that actually produced a paycheck?
“What did Dale—Mr. Penwater say?” Heddy asked at last, blushing lightly.
Charley sipped her coffee. “I didn’t press him. To be honest, I didn’t want to hear the answer.” She sighed again. “Let’s see where we are after he and Duncan finish today. Tomorrow morning we’ll review the revised work schedule and I’ll make a decision.” She shifted her gaze from Heddy to Vanessa. “If either of you need to make other arrangements, I’ll understand.”
Heddy patted her hand. “Don’t you worry about me. Goodness, your aura is practically gone. Cheer up.”
Vanessa grinned. “And I’m sponging off my brother, so no worries here. We’ve got your back, Charley. Hey, girl.” She extended a boot-clad foot and nudged Heddy’s elbow. Despite the fifty-year age difference, she and Heddy had grown extremely close. “Boss Lady needs cheering up. Read the letter, already.”
“Yeah, girl,” Charley managed to say with a laugh as she blinked back tears. How had she gotten so lucky? “Read, already.”
Heddy cleared her throat. “ ‘Dear Jackie,’ ” she began. “ ‘Oakwood used to be a nice, respectable town, where family values meant something. Six months ago two men bought the house across the street. They haven’t even had the decency to pretend they’re not a couple. These deviants are wrecking our property values. How can we improve the quality of life in our neighborhood?’ Signed, Indignant.”
“ ‘Dear Indignant’ ”—Heddy winked at Charley over her paper—“ ‘You could move.’ ”
After a stunned beat, all three women burst out laughing.
“Marvelous!” Charley gasped. “That’s her best yet.”
Vanessa hooted, “More! More!”
“ ‘Dear Jackie,’ ” Heddy obliged. “ ‘I caught my husband cheating on me. He swears it was a terrible mistake and he’ll never do it again. I know I should forgive him, but I’m tempted to get even. There’s a hot young intern at work who’s made it clear he’s available and willing to perform any tasks I demand of him. Can two wrongs make a right?’ Signed, Conflicted.”
“ ‘Dear Conflicted,’ ” Heddy continued. “ ‘Two wrongs may not make a right, but they make one hell of a good excuse. Cheaters cheat, cupcake. It’s not a mistake; it’s a choice. Ride that hottie and get your revenge. Then get yourself a good lawyer.’ ”
More laughter, and Charley already felt one hundred percent better. “One more, then we really need to get some work done,” she chuckled.
“Last one,” Heddy agreed. Her face grew serious. “Oh, dear. Listen to this.
“ ‘Dear Jackie: If I discover a terrible secret, and yet I do nothing, does this not make me equally guilty in the eyes of God? Do we not have a sacred duty to protect all children, whatever the cost to ourselves? Years go by, and the sin is compounding. I know I should speak, yet I am not without sin. How may I stand in judgment of another? Please tell me what it is I must do!’ Signed, A Tortured Soul.”
“ ‘Dear Tortured, This is not about you. When a child’s welfare is at stake, nothing else matters. Get your head out of your ass and go to the police. Do it now. If anything else happens to that child, it’s on you.’ ”
The three women stared at one another in consternation.
After a long silence, Charley stirred. “That sounds like suspected child abuse, God forbid.”
Vanessa commented, “What strange language. ‘Does this not’ and ‘Do we not.’ Who talks like that anymore?”
Heddy folded the paper. “I never considered it before, but an advice column is a serious responsibility. I hope this Jackie person realizes that.”
Charley considered Vanessa’s observation. That arcane, old- fashioned language could provide a clue to the identity of “A Tortured Soul.” If someone was inclined to investigate the matter, that is.
She shifted in her seat. Not her problem, at least not today. Right now she was up to her neck in problems of her own. “We should probably get some work done, team. Where do we want to start? Staffing or inventory?”
After finalizing plans for a buying trip the following week, the women headed upstairs to lunch. Lawrence had everything set up on the backyard deck, and Charley found Bobby already outside, his wheelchair positioned in the best spot for maximum sun and minimum wind. He scowled as she kissed his cheek.
“He’s got me wearing enough clothes for an Arctic expedition. How’s a man supposed to breathe?”
Charley laughed. “A sweater and down vest are hardly gearing up for the Iditarod. He just wants to keep you healthy.”
Lawrence appeared in the doorway, his massive six-foot, nine-inch frame swathed in a pink and blue striped apron, bearing a tray loaded with cold cuts, vegetables, hummus, and fresh fruit. His expression was placid as he began arranging plates and cutlery.
“Chip, don’t you listen to him.” Lawrence’s favorite nickname for her referenced his fond opinion that she was a chip off the old block. Charley considered it a huge compliment. “Coach was chilled this morning, as he said himself. The vest stays on.”
“Ooh, very strict.” An arm slid around Lawrence’s rock-hard midriff. Afiya Vickerson rested her chin on his shoulder, one of the few women on earth tall enough to do so. Clad in her usual attire of flowing dashiki and matching head wrap, this one in a shimmering ice blue that lay cool against her café au lait skin, she and Lawrence made a striking couple. “Maybe I should misbehave more often.”
Lawrence rumbled, “Control yourself, woman.” But Charley could tell he was delighted. Afiya laughed and kissed him on the cheek as she placed a basket of rolls on the table. It was all very domestic, and Charley’s heart gave a little twist.
Lunch was a leisurely affair as everyone exchanged news and enj
oyed the rare treat of an al fresco meal. Charley and her team provided updates on the renovation project, although in her father’s presence she withheld mention of the paint spill and her suspicions about sabotage.
Afiya owned Slash, the hair salon next door to Old Hat and Dmitri’s place of employment. She and Charley had bonded early over the travails of the female small-business owner, so the planned expansion, practically on her doorstep, was of great interest to her. As the women discussed the grand opening event, Afiya broached the possibility of involving Slash in some way. Vanessa was immediately enthusiastic.
“Why stop there? What about a full-blown street market?” she suggested, her boundless enthusiasm and creativity taking flight with the idea. “You know Ashley’s Bakery would love some exposure. We could bring in a couple of buskers, get a few food trucks, maybe a DJ—”
“Stop!” Charley held up her hands in protest. “That sounds like a ton of work. And money.”
“Leave it to us,” Heddy said, eyes twinkling. “Vanessa and I will handle everything.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Vanessa and Heddy helped Charley clear away the lunch things, leaving Lawrence, Afiya, and Bobby to enjoy the last hour of warmth before the air became too chilly to stay out. Her father was amusing himself by pitching bits of bread over the deck rail to a trio of greedy finches. Lawrence and Afiya sat, fingers entwined, saying nothing and everything as they gazed at each other. Charley wondered with a touch of melancholy if she’d be shopping for a new caregiver before the summer was out.
She walked her staff out to their respective vehicles and then, as the fading roar of Vanessa’s motorcycle gave way to birdsong and the rustle of new spring leaves, she dropped down onto her front steps. Only three o’clock, and she had nothing else on her to-do list. She wasn’t used to having so much free time. When you lived in a quiet place like Oakwood, you had to make your own action.
She glanced next door. The Sharpes’ was the only property on the street without any flowers. Of course, you couldn’t expect renters to plant bulbs, Charley conceded. She imagined four-year-old twins kept Judith hopping. And with both a daughter and a stepson adding to the general household chores, it seemed unlikely they’d see such frivolous improvements anytime soon.
She poked halfheartedly at one of Lawrence’s pansy pots and attempted to diagnose the source of her low spirits. The simple answer was that she was bored. What she wouldn’t give for a nice, complicated police investigation. Maybe she’d call Safety Officer Camille Bronsen, another of those connections Dale Penwater had mentioned, and see if there was anything interesting going on that might benefit from her…unofficial assistance. Aside from a rash of car break-ins last month that Charley had tracked back to the scumbag perpetrators in less than a week, Oakwood life had been typically uneventful.
But it wasn’t just boredom. Despite being surrounded by people all day, Charley was lonely. Marc was in Chicago, attending a weeklong law enforcement seminar as well as visiting his father—an attempt to mend some fences—and wouldn’t return until Thursday, two whole days from now. She hadn’t expected to miss him so badly. Skyping and texting were poor substitutes for the real thing.
An image of Marcus Trenault filled her mind, dark-haired, blue-eyed, smoking hot. And just a bit dangerous. A complicated man. Her man, she thought again, if she could avoid screwing things up.
She pulled out her cellphone. Nothing too personal, she decided, as she composed a quick text: CATCH ALL THE BAD GUYS YET? She hit SEND, then stared at the screen expectantly. Even if he was in a session, Marc usually managed to shoot back a short response. When her cellphone remained silent, she shoved it back into her pocket, disgusted by her unwarranted degree of disappointment.
“You’re pathetic, Carpenter,” she murmured.
Her other friends had such full lives. Frankie Bright’s morning sickness had left her best friend sapped and tapped. She spent most of her time lately on the couch with a stack of pregnancy books and a gallon of ginger ale. Dmitri was mostly AWOL lately, totally engrossed in his new romance with Assistant County Prosecutor Trent Logan. According to Vanessa, her big brother spent almost no time at the Oakwood Manor condo the siblings now shared.
“Even when he’s not working, which he usually is, I never see him,” she’d complained.
And now Charley had Lawrence and Afiya to consider. Things were getting very serious in that quarter. When had that happened, exactly?
Charley certainly didn’t begrudge any of them their happiness.
Nevertheless.
Marc had made it clear from the first that he wanted more than a casual relationship. She knew he was confused by the way she continued to hold back. Not physically—she was currently enjoying the best sex of her life, thank you very much. Not in most other areas of their relationship, either. The man challenged, intrigued, and excited her. He was caring. Interested. Present. The truth was, he’d never given her the slightest indication that his interest was waning.
And yet, a part of her kept waiting for him to break it off, as if that were inevitable. After crushing on him for fifteen years—over half her life—the fact that they’d finally gotten together still felt too good to be true.
What if Marc’s visit to Chicago was a pretext to getting his old job back, one he’d been offered more than once? Ever since solving the series of murders involving the Agathas Book Club last fall, he’d had an open invitation to reclaim his old desk at Chicago PD’s Homicide Division. He hadn’t asked her to accompany him on this trip—though why should he? Meeting the parent? A big step. They’d made no promises, and that was the way she wanted it. Absolutely. The less she invested, the less she had to lose when it ended.
She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to miss him, to feel his absence like a lead weight that she had to drag through each lusterless day. Discovering that she could no longer get a decent night’s sleep without spending at least part of it in Marc’s bed—well, it had been a
wake-up call, no pun intended. Lawrence’s and Bobby’s snarky laughter this morning indicated that they were aware of her feelings. How humiliating. And how perilous. She’d set herself up for a broken heart, and she had no idea what to do about it. Maybe she should—
Charley straightened abruptly, again feeling that prickle over her scalp from earlier this morning, that thread of discord. She gazed out at the familiar streetscape, her sharp eyes searching again for the source of her disquiet.
She stood and slowly descended the front steps. She tested the air, but she could no longer detect the rotten smell from this morning. School hadn’t let out yet, so the only sounds were the wind, birds, and the occasional bark of a dog.
Her attention was drawn by a blue minivan pulling into the Sharpes’ driveway. Judith hopped down from the driver’s seat as the lift gate opened to reveal half a dozen bulging grocery bags. She helped two young boys out of their car seats and handed each of them a bag. Charley could hear her admonishing them to be careful as she led the way up the front steps.
She watched idly as Judith unlocked the door and ushered the twins inside. Sarah must take after her father, Charley thought—Judith was short and stocky, with coarse black hair pulled into a severe bun. She returned to the van and collected the rest of her shopping. As she closed the lift gate, she glanced to her left and spotted Charley watching her. Before Charley could call a greeting or even lift her hand to wave, Judith scuttled up the steps and slammed the front door.
“How neighborly,” Charley said drily to the empty street. She felt a twinge of pity for those twins. They were so cute. They deserved a happy home, one that didn’t include a shouty father and a dour, unsmiling mother.
Charley shivered as the sun slipped behind a cloud. They had observed the first official day of spring barely three weeks ago, and the nights were still chilly. All at once the pleasant scene felt gra
y and foreboding. She strode up her driveway, intending to suggest that it was time to bring Bobby inside.
“Hey, you slugs,” she called as she approached the deck steps. “Everyone asleep back here? I think we—”
A scream, high and sharp and abruptly cut off, tore through the peaceful afternoon. Charley halted, body tensed, poised for fight or flight. Where had that come from? Was it a cry of alarm or just some kids playing?
“What in the Sea of Galilee—” Lawrence began, as another scream, this one long and ragged and full of anguish, filled the air.
That was no kid, Charley decided. “Next door,” she said tersely. “Lawrence? With me?”
“Stay with Coach,” Lawrence muttered to Afiya. Then they were off the deck and running fast.
Charley led the way, sprinting along the side of the house and then angling left toward the Sharpes’. Nothing separated the two driveways except a two-foot-high row of neatly trimmed boxwoods. She leaped the low barrier and barreled up the front steps, Lawrence right behind her.
“Hello? Does anyone need help?” She knocked and rang the bell, but there was no response. She tried the latch: locked.
“Side door,” she commanded. As they ran back down the steps and cut right, a terrible wailing began, rising and falling, laced with unintelligible words. Charley followed the sound to its source. It was coming from beyond the Sharpes’ open side door. She reached for the screen door handle, locking eyes with Lawrence. “I’m going in.”
