The Advice Column Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  “Tell me again why Marc’s not running the show instead of this Drummond character?” Frankie’s tone was indignant.

  Charley’s own ire stirred anew. “Don’t get me started.” She pointed at her friend. “You’ve got something on your mind. Spill, Short One.”

  “With pleasure.” Frankie gave a little bounce. “My sister-in-law Cecilia—she’s married to Dominic. You remember her? Straight hair, big boobs, kind of a chatterbox?” Dominic was the youngest of Frankie’s six brothers, just two years older than Frankie and Charley. “She saw the story on the news last night. I mean, who didn’t? It’s a miracle my mother didn’t run over here first thing with a pot of chicken soup. Anyway,” she continued, “Cecilia knows plenty about Sarah Weller. They went to Fairborn High School together. That is, Cecilia was one year younger, but she knew Sarah. They even had a couple of classes together when Cecilia was a junior.”

  Charley’s mouth dropped open. “Judith and Sarah lived around here? I assumed they moved to Dayton with Paxton on one of his military transfers.”

  “Guess not.” Frankie sipped her tea and belched delicately. “Wright-Pat is basically in Fairborn,” she pointed out. “That must be how he met Judith.”

  “Maybe doctors don’t get shunted around as often as regular military personnel, particularly when they serve overseas. Paxton’s been deployed twice.” Charley munched a slice of melon, considering. From beyond her closed bedroom door came sounds of a boy’s excited voice raised in a question, and Afiya’s low, gentle response. “Fairborn’s only twenty minutes from Oakwood. If Sarah grew up there, she could still have friends in the area, friends Paxton doesn’t know anything about.”

  “According to Cecilia, Sarah didn’t have many friends,” Frankie said. “She didn’t join any clubs or do sports. She wore long, homemade dresses, no makeup, never cut her hair, stuff like that. She was always going to church, one of those strict fundamentalist ones with Bible study two or three evenings a week. That’s why it was such a scandal when she disappeared her senior year. After the holiday break she just never came back. Rumor had it she was pregnant.”

  Charley sat up. “Pregnant? Who was the father supposed to be?”

  “Cecilia says that if Sarah was seeing someone—and that’s a big fat ‘if,’ ” Frankie cautioned, “it must have been someone from her church. There was a boy, she thinks, but she can’t remember his name. She’s pretty sure Sarah mentioned that he gave her rides from Bible study a couple of times. Definitely a ‘don’t tell my mother’ vibe.”

  “That’s pretty thin.” Charley shook her head. “You know how high school kids are. A secret pregnancy is pretty much the go-to rumor for any girl with issues. And if Sarah was that friendless, she could have simply wanted an exciting secret to share. She wouldn’t be the first wallflower to invent a boyfriend.”

  “It’s thin,” Frankie conceded, “but there might be a way to flesh out the story. Cecilia knows of someone else who knew Sarah, knew her pretty well, in fact. Judith’s cousin Rachel runs a daycare and preschool here in Oakwood. Apparently, Judith and Rachel were super close. Sarah talked about her aunt Rachel all the time. Gia—she’s my brother Angel’s wife—she has two of my nephews enrolled in the preschool right now. And Bella—she’s married to Dante—she’s used the daycare off and on for all five of their kids.”

  Charley blinked, a bit lost among Frankie’s numerous brothers, wives, and flock of adorable dark-haired children, but with a growing suspicion of where this convoluted tale was going. “Why do I get the feeling the other shoe is about to drop?”

  “Because it is,” Frankie said firmly. “Here’s the plan: Cecilia’s daughter is three years old, and with another baby due in two months, she’s exhausted. She’s been thinking of checking out Rachel’s place. There’s an opening, but spots go quickly, so she’s heading over there today. She said we could go with her. I’ll say I’m shopping daycares for Obi-Wan here.” She patted her flat belly.

  “Obi-Wan?” Charley chuckled. “And what makes you and Cecilia think I want to talk to Judith’s cousin Rachel?”

  Frankie snorted. “A woman is murdered next door and you’re not investigating? Give me a break, Carpo.”

  “No wonder you didn’t want to say anything in front of my father.”

  Charley had to admit it was tempting. Here was a line of inquiry that George Drummond probably didn’t know existed, at least not yet. Marc’s noninvolvement made the prospect of investigating even more enticing. Still, she demurred. “Frankie, this Rachel person just lost a family member. Sarah’s death is none of my business. We can’t just barge in and start asking questions.”

  “I thought you said Sarah asked you for help.”

  Charley frowned. “She did, sort of. But aside from that, if I’m caught meddling in this case and it gets back to Chief Zehring, it could land Marc in trouble. Drummond might assume he put me up to it. That guy definitely knew who I was, and let’s just say he’s not a fan. He’d probably see anything I did as a maneuver in this stupid turf war he’s got going on with Marc.”

  “Not if he doesn’t find out.” Frankie’s chin took on a determined tilt. “No one’s heard from Sarah Weller in fifteen years. She’s not on Facebook, she hasn’t been to a class reunion, there’s been nothing but that one visit to her mother two years ago. But maybe she did reach out to her dear aunt Rachel. Where has Sarah been all this time? Why did she run away? Most importantly, why did she come back, and is that the reason she was killed? Come on,” she wheedled. “You admit you feel some responsibility here. This is your chance to make it up to Sarah.”

  “I do, but…” Charley pictured again that depressing basement apartment with its collection of cast-off furniture, the few items of drab clothing, everything old and shabby. Everything except— She was struck by a sudden memory. Something Judith had said and something she’d seen in that basement had sparked an idea, a fascinating possibility that subsequent events had driven clear out of her head. “Frankie, did you happen to read ‘Ask Jackie’ yesterday?”

  “Excuse me?” Frankie blinked in confusion at the non-sequitur. “What does an advice column have to do with Sarah Weller’s murder?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that third letter, the oddly worded one. Do you remember it?”

  “It reminded me of Sister Agnes, my third-grade teacher at Ascension Primary.” Frankie squirmed. “She used to sound just like that, especially when she was preparing to whip us girls for one unforgiveable sin or other.”

  “Vanessa pointed out that nobody speaks like that anymore. But Judith used that same stilted syntax when we were down in the basement together.”

  Frankie’s eyes grew round. “You think Judith wrote that letter?”

  “Not Judith,” Charley corrected. “Sarah.” She described how she’d “accidentally” seen the empty recycle bin icon on Sarah’s laptop. “Sarah told me she had a subscription to the Oakwood Register. What if she wrote to ‘Ask Jackie’? If her mother uses that archaic speech pattern in times of stress, then maybe Sarah did, too. It’s so unusual; I have literally never heard anyone speak like that, unless it was in an old movie. Have you? It’s just too weird to be a coincidence. And you know what else I’m wondering about? The timing. The letter’s appearance the very day Sarah was murdered suggests at least the possibility of a link between the two events. Sarah was killed just hours after this week’s Oakwood Register hit porches all over town.”

  “What do you think it’s all about?”

  Charley said slowly, “The letter writer was clearly concerned about the welfare of a child. Something about it being everyone’s sacred duty to protect children, and a sin compounding over a period of years. What if Sarah knew of a child in an abusive situation and wrote to Jackie for advice? If I recognized that strange speech pattern, maybe someone else did, too. Someone,” she concluded grimly, “who’s been secretly ab
using a child for years. He saw that letter and realized it meant Sarah was onto him, so he killed her before she could tell anyone else what he was doing. Then he deleted the letter and dumped the recycle bin to obscure his motive for the crime.”

  “That,” Frankie said solemnly, “is a boatload of conjecture without a sliver of proof.”

  “No kidding.” Charley distractedly shredded a muffin. “Without proof Sarah wrote that letter, it’s just a theory.”

  “How do we get proof?”

  “We can’t. Not without access to Sarah’s laptop. But whoever the writer is, I feel more and more certain that somewhere out there, a child is in danger.”

  “But what child?” Frankie unconsciously laid a hand over her tummy. “And what danger?”

  There was a light tapping on the bedroom door, and Afiya stepped in. “Excuse the interruption, but I need to talk to you. I went to put those boys in the tub, and…” She paused, her habitually serene expression now clouded with confusion.

  “Afiya, what’s wrong?” Charley thought instantly of the mysterious letter and its sinister implication. “Have the children been abused in some way?”

  Afiya gave a small laugh. “I don’t know if I’d call it abuse, exactly. But Phillip? The one that doesn’t talk?” She hesitated again.

  “What about him?” Charley asked with growing alarm. “Fee, what’s the matter with Phillip?”

  “He,” Afiya said simply, “is a she.”

  Chapter 7

  The three women peered into the kitchen, where the children sat with damp hair and clean clothes on stools at the island, happily eating pancakes with Lawrence and Bobby. Pippo still clutched his—her?—floppy toy dragon under one arm, gazing with rapt attention at Lawrence as he lofted the skillet, flipping two cakes into the air and catching them as they fell. Hank laughed aloud, but Pippo merely smiled, a shy, sweet smile that nearly broke Charley’s heart.

  Upon close observation, Charley could see that Pippo was the same height and build as Hank, perhaps a bit more slender. Her face still retained a baby roundness, with no indication yet of feminine delicacy. Both children had their mother’s curly dark brown hair, cut very short. Honestly, at this young age it was hard to determine a child’s gender just by looking at him or her. Charley considered how many gender cues people took for granted, such as clothing, hairstyles, and names. Put a toddler in a pink dress and call him Sally, and who wouldn’t assume they were looking at a girl?

  The three women withdrew. Frankie started to ask a question, but Charley put a finger to her lips. She led the way out the front door and onto the porch. Then, checking that the door was securely closed, she seated herself on the broad brick porch railing as Afiya and Frankie dropped into wicker chairs. For several moments no one spoke. At last Frankie broke the silence.

  “I’m a big proponent of gender-neutral toys and clothing for little kids, but we’re talking about a complete gender swap. What the hell are Judith and Paxton Sharpe up to? Is this some kind of sick prank?”

  Charley frowned. “I don’t think it’s a prank. And I’m not so sure Paxton knows about this. He speaks so naturally of his two boys. But there’s no question that Judith knows the gender of her own children.”

  “In other words,” Afiya said in dismay, “she’s been concealing the truth from her husband for almost five years. How on earth could that be accomplished?”

  “Perhaps they were born while Paxton was overseas,” Charley began thoughtfully. “He came home from his second deployment when they were around two, I think. If Judith had them toilet-trained, and if she was determined to keep him in the dark, it could be done. He works a lot of crazy hours. And if he’s the kind of dad I think he is, a very ‘man’s-work-woman’s-work’ kind of guy, then I could see him happily accepting Judith’s willingness to assume all bathing and dressing chores.”

  Frankie demanded, “But she can’t believe she can maintain this charade forever, can she? Once they start school, won’t that be it? You have to submit complete medical information to enroll a child in public school. Not to mention the fact they’ll be using public bathrooms, participating in gym class, and all the rest.”

  “Unless Judith planned to homeschool them forever,” Afiya suggested.

  Charley shook her head. “Paxton said they moved to Oakwood for the excellent schools. He, at least, intends to enroll the twins in kindergarten starting this fall, which makes me even more certain he doesn’t know the truth. The district kindergarten screening notice has been running in the Oakwood Register for the last few issues…” Her voice trailed off as she was struck by another thought.

  “Carpo?” Frankie squinted at her. “I know that look. What’s on your mind?”

  Charley turned it over in her mind for another moment before she spoke. “Sarah Weller had an online subscription to the OR,” she said at last. “Maybe she saw the kindergarten notices, and that’s why she came back. Maybe when she was home two years ago, she found out her little half-brother is actually a half-sister. Paxton said the visit didn’t go well. What if Sarah begged her mother to come clean to Paxton, and Judith refused? They quarreled, Sarah left, and they haven’t spoken since.”

  “Until now,” Afiya concluded, “because Sarah realized her mother would be forced into admitting the truth at last.”

  “Paxton has a wicked temper,” Charley murmured. “Maybe Sarah was worried he’d hurt Judith. Or even Pippo.”

  Frankie whispered, “Maybe he hurt Sarah instead.”

  Once again, silence fell as the women considered the implications of this statement.

  The sound of a door slamming had all three heads swiveling toward the Sharpes’ house. A young man stood on the front porch, yawning hugely and scratching a flabby stomach that strained against a wrinkled T-shirt. Except for a scant brown brush across the top, his block-shaped head was shaved nearly bald. Before he could disappear back inside, Charley spun around on her butt, dropped from the porch railing into the flower bed, and hurried across her yard.

  “Brandon?” she called. “Hello, there!” She was up the steps and extending her hand before the boy could react. “You are Brandon Sharpe, aren’t you? I’m Charley Carpenter from next door.” She sensed Frankie and Afiya gaping in surprise, but she kept her eyes on her quarry.

  Brandon regarded her with an unfriendly expression. He was an overweight and unattractive nineteen-year-old with large, slightly protuberant brown eyes that rarely blinked. Those eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and Charley wondered if it was from lack of sleep or whether Brandon might have been crying. He had Paxton’s square jaw, but his facial features lacked his father’s handsome symmetry. His nose had a telltale bump indicating it had been broken at least once. Acne flared in angry patches across his forehead, chin, and neck. Out of place was the sensitive mouth with full lips that Charley imagined could smile and be quite charming. However, no smile was in evidence as he gave her a penetrating once-over, took her proffered hand reluctantly in a soft, sweaty grip, then released it. She resisted the urge to wipe her palm on her jeans.

  “Hello.” His voice was sullen and rough from sleep, and Charley was hit with a blast of foul breath. Brandon fished a crumpled pack from a hip pocket, extracted a cigarette, and lit it. He turned away slightly, gazing out at the sun-dappled boulevard as he exhaled a stream of smoke.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss. Were you and your half-sister close?” she asked gently.

  His reddened eyes flicked to hers, and something deep and dark moved behind them, gone before she could identify it. Then he returned his gaze to the middle distance. “I met her for the first time a few days ago.” The words were flat and emotionless, as if they were discussing the weather. Despite this, Charley sensed a deep well of emotion, barely held in check. Was it rage? Grief? Fear?

  “That’s right,” she said easily, “you’re home on spring break from milit
ary school. Are you a senior?”

  Brandon shrugged and took another drag. “Blakefield Academy’s got an extension program for losers who tank their high school GPA. I’m taking an extra prep year before I start college. No mere community college will do for Paxton Sharpe’s eldest son.” His tone was bitter.

  “High school’s not for everybody.” She smiled sympathetically. “Your dad’s strict, huh?”

  Brandon glared at her. “My father is awesome,” he snapped. “It’s not his fault I didn’t make the cut for the Air Force Academy. Or for much else,” he muttered, almost to himself.

  She sensed worlds of hurt here, but decided this was not the time to explore Brandon’s daddy issues. “How about your stepmother? Do you and Judith get along?”

  He flicked his smoke over the railing and immediately lit another, his momentary burst of temper apparently forgotten. “She’s a bitch, but she stays out of my way. Keeps the rug rats off my back, so she’s not totally worthless.”

  “You mean Hank and Pippo?” Charley watched his face carefully. “They seem pretty chill for little boys. I’d think having a couple of younger brothers to hero-worship you might be fun.”

  The ghost of a smile played across Brandon’s mouth. “I guess they’re okay. Like I said, the bitch hardly lets me near them. Probably thinks I’ll corrupt them or something.”

  Charley filed that comment away for future consideration as she wondered how to find out what she wanted to know. Did she dare ask him outright where he’d been at the time of Sarah’s murder, and again when her body was discovered?

  “Have you been to Oakwood before?” she ventured. “What do you think of it?”

  “I helped my dad with the move here over Christmas break.” He scowled at the scenery, at the charming sunlit street lined with neatly kept homes, flower beds bursting with color. “I don’t know anyone here, I don’t have a car, and there is exactly nothing to do in this pathetic burg. I hate it, since you ask.”