by Leslie Nagel
Charley sat bolt upright in bed. Her eyes felt red and scratchy as she blinked against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. A quick glance at her alarm clock confirmed that it was six-forty; she’d slept less than three hours. She groaned, her head throbbing in a familiar, painful rhythm. She contemplated spending the day in her pajamas—until the events of yesterday came crashing back into her consciousness.
Sarah Weller had been murdered less than fifty yards from this spot, a mere stone’s throw from her father’s bedroom window. And unless the irksome Sergeant Drummond had managed to perform a miracle overnight, the killer was still out there.
Charley wished fervently that Marc were leading this investigation. She’d feel a lot better entrusting her family’s safety to him than to George Drummond, a man she’d instinctively disliked on first sight. Some of her gloom lifted at the recollection that Marc had come home at last, that he’d returned early just to surprise her.
She hadn’t felt she could ask him to stay last night. He’d never stepped foot in this bedroom, come to think of it, not with her father sleeping across the hall, an arrangement made possible by Lawrence’s ridiculous physical strength: he simply carried his beloved Coach up and down the stairs as easily as if he were transporting a toddler. Marc had asked her to come home with him, a whispered entreaty over hot, sweet, good night kisses in the darkened kitchen, bodies pressed against the wall, Marc’s mouth and hands working her over with an urgency that had strained her willpower to the breaking point. Yet she hadn’t felt she could leave, either, despite her longing to be with him. She sighed. They’d carve out some private time soon, she promised herself. Tonight, if things settled down around here.
Charley climbed out of bed and pulled on jeans and a hoodie. A cautious peek out her window confirmed that the press had vacated the premises, thank heaven. Twisting her red curls into a bun and desperate for coffee, she headed downstairs at a trot. Delicious smells emanated from the kitchen, but as she reached the hall, someone tapped lightly on the front door. She frowned. It was far too early for a social call. Had a reporter been skulking on their porch, out of sight, waiting to pounce?
Another quick peek through the curtained sidelight revealed the identity of their early-morning visitor. Paxton Sharpe wore a neatly pressed suit and crisp white dress shirt. His tie was carefully knotted, his hair combed, his face freshly shaved. Charley’s first thought was that, for a man whose home had become a crime scene and whose wife had spent the night in the hospital, Sharpe seemed remarkably unaffected. On second glance, she observed the slumped shoulders and bleak, hollow-eyed expression. Like herself, she imagined, he looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink.
As she reached for the knob, she hesitated. If her deductions of last night were correct, this man could be a murderer. Charley took a deep breath and opened the door. “Dr. Sharpe. Please come in.”
“I’m sorry to bother you so early,” he began, but she waved this away.
“Of course you want to see your children. They might still be asleep.” She paused. “I was just about to get some coffee. Would you like some?”
“You have no idea.”
Charley led the way back to the kitchen, where Lawrence and Bobby sat over the remains of breakfast. There was no sign of Afiya or the twins. “Dr. Sharpe, this is my father, Bobby Carpenter. I think you’ve met Lawrence Whittman.”
Bobby reached out with his good left hand. “We’re so very sorry for your loss.”
Sharpe’s face went blank, then he seemed to recall. “Sarah. Yes. Well, I hadn’t seen her in years. She ran away a few months after Judith and I married, about fifteen years ago.”
“Wasn’t she in touch with her mother?” Charley asked in surprise.
“No, she wasn’t.” His expression darkened. “She only visited Judith once that I know of since she ran off, and that was a couple of years ago. It was during my second deployment, when Judith and the twins were still living in officers’ quarters on the base. I don’t think the visit went well. Frankly, I’m not sure why she came this time.”
The unspoken “good riddance” was unmistakable. Charley recalled Sarah’s own harsh words about her stepfather. Paxton is no friend of mine. She groped for a way to fill the awkward silence. “Maybe Sarah missed her mother, or she wanted to see the boys?” she ventured.
“Perhaps,” he said vaguely. “She was good with them, actually, especially Pippo. He adored her, and he doesn’t trust many people. This will be hard on them,” he murmured, as if this idea had just occurred to him.
Lawrence pushed two mugs of coffee across the island. “Can I interest you in an egg white omelet, sir?”
“Thank you.” Sharpe reached for the coffee like a drowning man. “But I can’t stay. That’s actually why I’m here so early.” He drank deeply, then sighed. “If you’ve ever tasted hospital coffee, you know how much I needed that.”
“How is Judith?” Charley asked, claiming her mug.
“They’ve ruled out stroke and heart attack,” he replied dully. “The attending physician thinks it was a seizure. Judith has borderline diabetes, and she’s prone to fainting episodes in situations of extreme stress. She had the boys out at the Boonshoft Discovery Museum all morning, so she probably skipped lunch. Hank loves feeding those otters in the Wild Ohio exhibit. Thank God they weren’t home when…” His mouth worked. “Sarah must’ve already been dead when they…”
Charley said gently, “They did see Sarah’s body, Dr. Sharpe. It wasn’t something children should see. At some point, they’ll need to talk about it with someone.”
He paled. “Thank you for telling me. We’ll discuss it, of course. They want to keep Judith until all her test results are in.” His shoulders sagged. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a doctor and feel helpless to do anything for your own wife?”
Charley felt a throb of pity, thinking she ought to revise her assessment that this poor man was nothing but a loud, arrogant jackass.
“How about your other son, Brandon?” Bobby asked suddenly. “Is he all right?”
Sharpe waved a hand. “He’s fine. He says he slept through the entire thing. You know teenage boys—they always have those headphones on.”
“ ‘He says’?” Charley asked quickly. “So, you found Brandon?”
“Found him?” His eyes narrowed. “Who said he was missing?”
Charley hesitated. She knew she had no business questioning him like this, especially with his wife’s health at risk, but unless Paxton Sharpe had an alibi for last night, the man was a prime suspect. No one could fault her for being a teensy bit curious.
“He wasn’t in the house when Judith and I found Sarah,” she said at last. “Didn’t you know the police put out an APB to find him?”
Sharpe’s pale cheeks flushed. “Typical,” he said with derision. “Wasting resources instead of protecting private citizens. Well, he’s home now, and he doesn’t know anything. Honestly, I expected more from the famous Oakwood Safety Department. We moved here for the excellent schools, but I’m rethinking that decision. What kind of place is it where some lunatic can just walk into a man’s home and commit murder?”
So much for that reassessment, she thought, temper flaring at the insult to their local police, and tempted to point out that it was Drummond who’d issued that APB. Her reluctance to question a man in his hour of need evaporated. “So, you think it was a stranger?” she probed.
“Of course it was a stranger!” he snapped.
Charley pressed on, “She didn’t know anyone else in the area? Someone she might’ve invited over without your knowledge?”
Sharpe scowled. “As I said, she hadn’t been around in years. Who would she know?”
“Did the intruder come upstairs? Was anything else disturbed or stolen?”
He stared at her. “I have no idea. It’s all in the hands of the Sheriff
’s Department at this point. I have every confidence in Sergeant Drummond.”
Sharpe’s words rang with finality, his patience seemingly at an end. Charley could hardly ask him point-blank where Brandon had gone, or what Drummond had asked him last night, or whether he himself had an alibi, but she decided to risk one more question.
“How about the smell? It was quite horrific, and probably what drew Judith down there in the first place.”
“I’ve opened every window.” His scowl deepened. “That girl was always complaining about being too cold. She ran that space heater day and night. I’ll have one hell of a utility bill this month.”
Bobby made a sound of disgust, and Charley knew her face betrayed her shock at the callousness of this remark, but Sharpe didn’t seem to notice. Fortunately Afiya chose that moment to appear.
“Dr. Sharpe, may I introduce Afiya Vickerson.” Lawrence’s deep, measured voice seemed calculated to calm the escalating tension in the room. “She’s been looking after your boys.”
Sharpe ignored Afiya’s outstretched hand, taking her in with a single, dismissive nod. “I have a medical delegation from South Korea arriving in less than an hour,” he said, addressing Charley and Bobby. “It took months to arrange. Our surgical field training program is the main reason they included the base hospital on their junket. They’re only available for a few hours this morning before they depart. As the head of thoracic surgery, I simply cannot cancel. And with Judith in the hospital…” He produced a charming smile that didn’t fool Charley for a minute. This man was a world-class manipulator. “Could you keep the boys until lunchtime?”
“Certainly.” Afiya gestured toward the family room. “They’re sound asleep, but I can get them for you if you’d like to say hello.”
“No, no, let them sleep. Portia—my aide—will be here to pick me up in a few minutes.”
Having obtained what he came for, Paxton turned to leave, but Afiya continued firmly, “They’re already a bit grubby. May I come next door and get a few things? I’d like to give them a bath, perhaps take them to the park later.”
His eyes flickered with impatience. “Very well. The police are still crawling all over my basement, but I’m permitted to use the front door and access the upstairs. Come,” he commanded. “We need to make this quick.”
As Charley escorted them out, she found yet another visitor standing on her welcome mat.
“Frankie! Am I glad to see you.” Charley wrapped her friend in a gigantic hug that was enthusiastically returned. Afiya greeted the new arrival warmly before following Sharpe next door. Charley frowned after them. “That man is the limit. He took one look at Fee and assumed she’s an employee. How racist is that?”
“Very.” Frankie indicated two CSIs loading equipment into a van with MONTGOMERY COUNTY CRIME LAB stenciled on the side. “Looks like they’re packing up.”
“The sooner the better.”
As Charley turned to lead the way inside, a beige sedan with government plates pulled into the Sharpes’ driveway. The woman she’d seen before—Portia, Paxton had called her—stepped out, trim and immaculate, pale blue blouse tucked tightly into her navy pencil skirt, low-heeled navy pumps polished to a gleam. She wore her mouse-brown hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her body was angular, her face thin with sharp features that looked unused to smiling. Light makeup, no jewelry except for a stainless-steel wristwatch that Charley guessed would turn out to be air force–issue.
She threw the van a speculative glance before walking briskly across the Carpenters’ front lawn, checking her stride only briefly when she noted the two women watching her. She marched up the steps, hand extended.
“Master Sergeant Portia Delgado.” She delivered each word with precision but a bit too loudly, like someone used to issuing commands out of doors. “I’m here for Colonel Sharpe. He indicated he would be at this residence, as the police are currently conducting operations inside his own.”
“Charley Carpenter.” Charley took the proffered hand and found her own squeezed in a strong grip that was just this side of painful. “My associate, Francesca Bright.”
“Charmed.” Frankie shook hands with enthusiasm, just managing to keep a straight face.
Charley eyed the new arrival curiously. She was having trouble guessing her age. Mid- thirties, perhaps forty? “You’re Dr., uh, Colonel Sharpe’s personal aide?”
“That is correct. Could you please inform the Colonel that I’m here?”
Charley smiled. “He’s organizing some things for his little boys, but he’ll be out in a moment.” Frankie’s brows rose at the misdirection, but she knew how to hold her tongue. Charley continued, “This has been very upsetting for the family. You’ve met the twins? The Colonel is such a devoted father.”
“He is a great man.” Delgado’s gaze became distant. “I have a daughter.” Her eyes widened, as if she’d surprised herself by speaking the words aloud.
“Then you know how it is. Have you served with the Colonel a long time?”
Delgado straightened. “Seventeen years,” she stated proudly. “Two tours in the Middle East, and three deployments stateside.”
“Wow.” Frankie cocked her head. “Isn’t that unusual? To stay with one officer for such a long time?”
“When a unit develops a highly efficient working relationship, it makes no sense to break it up.”
“So Colonel Sharpe requested to keep you by his side,” Charley summarized. “For seventeen years. How…efficient.”
Delgado’s mouth tightened. “I will wait for the Colonel in the car. Have a good day.” She trotted down the steps, crossed the lawn, and climbed behind the wheel without a backward glance.
“That was fun. Think they’re sleeping together?” Frankie asked.
“Yep. Or at least, she wishes they were.” Charley tapped her chin. “Did you see her face when she called him a ‘great man’?”
Frankie nodded knowingly. “Got all breathy and dreamy-eyed.”
“Practically drooled on her shoes,” Charley agreed. “I bet they’ve had sex at least once, maybe before he and Judith were married. Now Portia hangs around like a loyal dog, ready and waiting whenever the great Colonel Sharpe has an itch that requires her highly efficient scratch. You don’t leave a daughter to follow a man around for seventeen years without good reason. Almost twenty years in the air force, and she’s only a master sergeant? No wedding ring, so she’s a single mother. She’s probably turned down stateside postings, possibly even promotions, to stay with Paxton.”
“There’s no accounting for taste.” Frankie led the way inside. “Got anything to eat around here?”
Charley’s BFF since forever was entering her fourth month of pregnancy and had turned eating into a competitive sport. The women found Lawrence already piling a plate with muffins and sliced melon. Bobby held out his arms for a hug.
“Hi, Coach!” Frankie gave him a squeeze. “Staying out of trouble?”
Bobby grinned his lopsided grin. Frankie had always been a favorite of his. “You look radiant, dear.” Charley couldn’t have agreed more. While her tiny five-foot frame had yet to develop a baby bump, Frankie’s pixie face glowed with health and happiness, and her thick shoulder-length brown curls bounced and shone. “So,” he said, turning to Charley. “Do you think Sharpe’s the killer?”
“Daddy!” Charley gasped, but Frankie only laughed.
“Don’t ‘Daddy’ me,” he retorted. “I heard you and Marc talking, and I can put two and two together. If it’s not him, it’s the wife or that son he’s obviously shielding. Did you hear him tap-dance around our questions? I’d like to know where the kid was last night.”
Charley struggled for words as the others grinned.
“You’ve created a monster,” Frankie decided as she examined the muffins with interest. “Having him help you on cases could only e
nd one way.”
“Of course,” Bobby continued thoughtfully, “he said Sarah was always cold. I doubt she’d have left the side door open, but an intruder in a hurry would have.”
Charley sighed and shook her head, resigned to the inevitable. Her father was at least as stubborn as she was, if not more so. “You doubt that, do you? Well, Sherlock, did it occur to you that any one of the three could have left the side door open to make it appear that an intruder killed Sarah?”
“My point exactly,” Bobby replied with satisfaction. “It’s one of them, no question. Lawrence identified that Bible quote Judith was spouting, all those dark warnings about punishing the children for the sins of the parents. Sounds like she’s feeling guilty about something, wouldn’t you say?”
“Book of Exodus, chapter thirty-four, verse seven,” Lawrence confirmed. “If that’s important.”
Frankie had called Charley last night after seeing the story on the eleven o’clock news, so she was up to speed. Plus, she’d been Charley’s partner in crime on more escapades than she could count. But instead of chiming in with her own theories, she shot Charley a glance filled with meaning.
“Thanks for the chow, Lawrence; I’m all about fresh fruit these days. Hey, Charley, I’ve got some, um, nursery wallpaper samples on my phone. What do you say we take this up to your room and you can help me decide?” She waggled her brows at Charley behind Bobby’s back as Lawrence retrieved napkins and pulled bottles of sweet tea from the refrigerator.
Message sent and received. “Sounds like fun,” Charley said easily. “Tell Afiya I’m available to help with the twins, if she wants a break.” She and Frankie scooped up their provisions and skedaddled before Bobby or Lawrence could smell a rat.
“You’ve still got those boys over here?” The girls sat cross-legged on one of Charley’s twin beds, the plate of food between them, snacking and scheming as they’d done so many times over the years. “Think they know anything about the murder?”
Charley closed her eyes briefly. “Heaven forbid. I cannot imagine Drummond questioning two little kids. Seeing Sarah’s body was trauma enough for any child.”
