by Leslie Nagel
Charley stepped inside the front room. She glanced around but saw no immediate sign of a break-in. The reception desk just inside the front door was unmanned, its surface tidy.
“She discovered the break-in when she arrived about eight this morning,” Marc said, interpreting her gaze. “She called the staff and told them to stay home.”
Charley followed him down a narrow hallway lined with framed clippings from past issues of the Register. Her own face smiled down from a front-page article about the Book Club Murders last November, a story that had also hit the national wire. Lillian had pulled the photo from Charley’s Facebook page; there certainly hadn’t been anything to smile about during the grim aftermath of that terrible episode.
She glanced into a series of rooms as she passed: office, copy room, conference room, a powder room. Most appeared reasonably orderly—at least by OR standards. With its slanting floors, cramped spaces, and narrow hallways, this old frame house rang with noise and activity six days a week. Clutter and chaos reigned, a state of affairs the loyal staff seemed to thrive on.
As Charley reached the final door on her right, she drew in a sharp breath. This was clearly the file room, with a dozen or more cabinets lining each of the four walls. Several drawers stood open. The floor was awash in paper and manila folders in a rainbow of colors, almost as if someone had yanked handfuls of files out of the drawers and simply thrown them into the air. The single window, an old-fashioned double-hung type, had been opened as well, the bottom half pushed all the way up until it aligned with the top. The bottom pane had been smashed. Shards of glass littered the floor, mixing with the sea of paper.
An Oakwood safety officer wearing booties, face mask, hair covering, and latex gloves was dusting the window frame with fingerprint powder. A large field kit partially blocked the doorway. Its open lid revealed a camera and assorted tools of forensic science. Next to the kit lay a large plastic evidence bag containing a rock the approximate size and shape of a grapefruit. Charley recognized it as matching several others lining the front walk.
“She came in, saw this, and called nine-one-one.” Marc indicated the window. “Presumably the intruder’s point of entry.”
Charley stared at the mess in dismay. “Poor Lillian. What’s missing?”
“Impossible to say until everything is sorted,” Marc answered.
“No prints on that rock, Detective.” The officer turned, and Charley recognized Camille Bronsen. “Hey, Charley. Wondered when you’d be showing up.”
Charley knew that, for minor property damage cases, the Oakwood Safety Department processed the scene themselves, rather than calling in techs from the County Crime Lab, saving both time and money. She grinned. “Hey, yourself. I thought you were on EMT rotation with Mitch. Isn’t this a bit out of your current job description?”
“My job is whatever the good detective says it is. Not that I’m complaining. CSI work is pretty interesting. You should’ve seen Cooper’s face when Marc tapped me for this call instead of him.” Camille gestured toward the evidence bag. “That thing is smooth and clean and should take a print just fine, so I’m guessing the perp wore gloves. Meaning all these prints I’m lifting are going to belong to employees.”
Marc nodded in resignation. “I’ll start bringing in the staff to collect elimination prints this afternoon. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he got sloppy on his way out.”
“The Police Blotter content is public record, Mrs. Bell.” A woman’s voice, gravelly in the way of the habitual smoker, boomed from the last doorway on the left. Charley poked her head inside Lillian Vardonis’s cluttered corner office. “Those records include the ages of all parties involved in any—well, if you don’t want your age printed in the paper, may I suggest you refrain from speeding within the city limits?” The owner of the voice slammed a handset onto the cradle of an ancient desk extension with considerable force. “Honestly. Why do I even answer the phone?” She glanced up and spotted her two visitors. “Charley! I thought you’d never get here.”
Lillian fluttered toward her, reminding Charley of a colorful, tropical bird. Tall and thin, with sharp green eyes and pointed features, she wore an orange striped caftan that flapped around her as she moved. Glasses with electric blue frames dangled from a beaded chain around her neck. Thinning gray hair had been permed into tiny ringlets, exposing patches of pink scalp, legacy of a recent bout with cancer.
Skinny arms enfolded Charley in a viselike hug. “Maybe now we’ll get to the bottom of this. I just know you’ll find out who’s responsible.” Over her shoulder, Charley saw Marc roll his eyes.
“Lillian, are you all right?” She stepped back and took Lillian’s thin hands in hers. Despite the bustle of movement and stream of chatter, Charley detected a tremor in that normally powerful voice, and the hands she held shook slightly.
“Me? Never better, except for the fact that I’m furious. Thank goodness no one was here. The thieves—well, are they thieves if they didn’t steal anything? The bastards made a damned mess in the file room. They also broke my computer monitor, and we really can’t afford to replace it.”
She pointed to the floor beside her massive oak desk, and Charley now saw that a computer monitor and keyboard had been knocked to the floor. The monitor’s screen was
spiderwebbed with cracks. Pieces of a ceramic bowl lay scattered on the floor, along with a sprinkling of rubber bands and paper clips.
“My granddaughter made that bowl.” Lillian’s lower lip trembled briefly, then she squared her shoulders. “These drawers were open, but nothing else in here has been disturbed or taken. I don’t really keep much in here except personal correspondence.”
Charley glanced around curiously. Her previous visits had been confined to the front rooms and the conference room. Lillian’s office was packed with a hodgepodge of mismatched furniture, including bookcases crammed with reference volumes, regional histories, and novels by local authors. She spotted a well-thumbed copy of M.C. Higgins, The Great, for which Dayton author Virginia Hamilton had been the first African-American author ever to receive the Newberry Award. Pictures of Lillian with famous Daytonians, including Erma Bombeck, Baseball Hall of Famer Mike Schmidt, Martin Sheen, Rob Lowe, Jonathan Winters, and Oakwood’s own Allison Janney, covered every inch of wall space. Charley grinned at a framed shot of a younger Lillian in a leopard-print cat suit, posing on stage with the members of the Ohio Players band. Aside from a legal pad, a few framed photos, and a mugful of pens, all of which were grouped on the desk’s right-hand side, its scarred surface was surprisingly free of clutter. As she stepped around the debris, Charley noted that both desk drawers gaped open.
“If the goal had simply been to cause damage, you’d expect everything on your desk to have been swept onto the floor,” Charley remarked. “Where on the desk were the monitor and bowl positioned?”
Lillian pointed. “I’m nearsighted, so I keep the monitor pushed back as far as possible. The bowl was on the back left corner, out of the way of my crazy sleeves.”
“The corner you have to walk around to get from your desk chair to the door,” Charley observed. “Possibly those two items were knocked to the floor by accident as the intruder fled.”
Marc asked, “Aside from the damaged computer and the files we saw, was anything else disturbed?” He pulled out his blue leather notebook and prepared to take notes.
“It doesn’t appear so.” Lillian addressed Charley. “Don’t you want to search the file room for clues?”
Charley repressed the urge to smile as Marc’s jaw tightened. “The police are still working in there, but yes, I will take a look at whatever you want to show me.”
Marc tried again. “Is anything of value missing?”
Lillian snorted. “There isn’t anything of value here, period. Except for a collection of aging office equipment, none of which was taken, this building contains nothing wo
rth stealing.” Her blue-veined hands gripped each other tightly. “This is a newspaper office, not a gift shop. We have a circulation of about sixty-five hundred issues a week. I employ a full-time staff of five people including myself, plus eight or nine part-time paper carriers. As you know, the paper is free to city residents. Advertisers and corporate subscribers pay electronically. Payroll is processed off-site and delivered here every other week. Other than that,” she concluded, “the only currency in and out of this old place is information. Information that I print for public consumption, I might add. No need to break in here and steal it.”
“Katie O’Malley told me she was picking up her paycheck today,” Charley put in. “Could someone have been after the payroll?”
Lillian smirked. “It was delivered at ten o’clock this morning. If they wanted to steal it, the idiots were a day early. Not to mention the fact that everyone snags their check the day they’re delivered. By five p.m., all those checks are heading home in purses and bags. I’m telling you, there’s nothing here to steal.”
“And yet, someone broke in here and conducted a fairly thorough search,” Marc countered. “Can you think of anything in your files that someone might want?”
“A search?” Lillian’s eyes widened. “That’s crazy. As I said, everything in my files has been printed in the paper at some point.”
Charley’s eyes met Marc’s in mutual comprehension. “Perhaps not so crazy,” she said. “I noticed that only certain of those file drawers had been opened. Let’s go take a look.” She led Lillian into the hallway, stopping at the door to the file room. “We won’t touch anything,” she assured Camille. “I just want to know what’s in the drawers that were opened. Maybe we can figure out what the intruder was after.” Charley had a strong suspicion of what that was, but she refused to leap to conclusions until she had the facts.
“Sleuth away,” Camille invited. She placed several small evidence envelopes into her field kit and stripped off her gloves and face mask. “I’m done here.”
Lillian pressed a hand to her mouth as she surveyed the damage. “Why would someone do this? We serve the public, for pity’s sake.”
“If this is too upsetting…” Charley began gently.
Lillian’s spine straightened and her chin went up. “Young lady, I covered the US withdrawal from Saigon. Before that, when I was younger than you are now, I stood on Dealey Plaza and watched Jack Kennedy take a bullet to the head. That day was the definition of upsetting. This is…well. It’s not nothing, but I’ll survive. I always do.” She surveyed the room, then she pointed. “Those drawers contain Accounts Payable records. I suppose, technically, that’s information that hasn’t been published.”
Marc stepped into the room and peered at the drawer fronts. “Files are organized alphabetically. The two open drawers hold accounts ‘A’ through ‘D’ and ‘H’ through ‘K.’.” He crouched, studying the folders underfoot. “Those files are in blue folders. It appears only the first and third drawers have been searched and partially emptied onto the floor.” He stood and jotted in his notebook. “How about those drawers over there?” He pointed across the room, where a block of six drawers, three across and two high, stood open. Charley saw both pink and yellow folders inside, the two most common file colors currently decorating the floor. All six of those drawers had been almost completely emptied.
“That’s where we keep artifacts from our community news and special features.” At Charley’s questioning expression, Lillian elaborated. “We retain any photos, letters, copies of stories from college newspapers, any primary source documents we receive. Most things are electronic now, but sometimes people drop things off here for us to print or reprint. Those files include engagement and wedding announcements, birth announcements, student and alumni achievements, and so on.”
Here we go, Charley thought. She took a deep breath. “How about letters to ‘Ask Jackie’?”
Lillian nodded. “Why, yes. For the most part, that column is all done by email. But some people drop off letters for her here.”
“Her?” Charley asked sharply. “You know who Jackie is?” Were Charley’s own suspicions about the columnist’s identity about to be confirmed—or proved wrong?
“Oh.” Lillian looked startled. “No, actually, I have no idea. I’ve always just assumed it was a she.”
“Excuse me.” Marc frowned, glancing between them. “Who or what is the ‘Ask Jackie’ column?”
Camille chuckled. “You don’t know about the hottest mystery in Oakwood? For shame, Detective.”
His frown deepened. “Perhaps someone could enlighten me?”
For the first time since they’d arrived, Lillian smiled. “It’s an advice column. About two months ago, I received the first column with instructions that, if I liked it, the writer would consider becoming a regular contributor. Pay as you go, standard freelance fee.” She shrugged. “It was funny and fresh, and I thought, why not? It’s turned out to be wildly popular. We have to empty that basket out front every day.”
Charley’s mind, still full of all she’d learned and theorized about Sarah Weller’s murder, catalogued the probabilities. “Tell me again which drawers of the Accounts Payables were ransacked?”
“The first and third: Accounts ‘A’ through ‘D’ and ‘H’ through ‘K.’ ” Lillian’s green eyes sharpened. The Oakwood Register might have been a small-town paper, but its editor still possessed the instincts and tenacity of a big-city reporter. “Which is where one might search for anything filed under ‘Ask’ or ‘Jackie.’ You think someone broke in here in an attempt to discover Jackie’s identity.”
“That’s exactly what I think.”
“But why?” Lillian’s voice rose on the question. “What on earth about that silly column could possibly be so important?”
Charley opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again with a snap. She was brimming with what she wanted to say, but better judgment prevailed—barely. Everything she believed about the column’s connection to Sarah’s murder was pure speculation. Her frustration hit a new high with this latest tantalizing development. Once again events suggested a link, and yet she still had no concrete proof. Would blurting out her theories to a newspaperwoman, not to mention a police detective, help with the case? Or would it be the height of irresponsibility? My kingdom for a single scrap of quantifiable evidence, she thought as the others watched her, waiting for her answer.
And as that thought crossed her mind, she accepted that she had the means to find more than a scrap—had had it for some time, in fact. Freedom of the press might be sacred, but the time for secrets was over.
Marc broke the silence, his eyes searching her face as if he could read the conflict in her mind. “Ms. Vardonis, I will keep you apprised of any developments. Please contact your staff and have them come in so Officer Bronsen can take their prints. Ms. Carpenter, a word in private?”
“I’ll be in touch,” Charley called to Lillian as Marc hustled her down the hall.
Outside, he rounded on her. “I can practically hear the wheels turning, Charley. It’s obvious you know something about this. Out with it.”
She knotted her fingers at her waist. “You’re not going to like it.”
He surprised her by laughing. “When do I ever?”
Charley took a deep breath, and then, step by step, she related all she’d learned—and guessed—since Sarah’s death, excluding her weird encounter with Sharon Krugh, as well as the fact that the dead woman had given birth at some point in the past. She suspected Marc’s sense of humor wouldn’t extend to her having searched Sharon’s bag and read a confidential report, no matter how implicit the coroner’s invitation might have been to help herself. Slowly and in detail, Charley described her conversations with Paxton, Brandon, and Rachel. She explained the theory she and Frankie had constructed. She stepped into the screened porch, retrieved
the current edition of the OR, and handed it to Marc to read.
He had remained silent through her telling. As he scanned the letter, she refrained from sharing her suspicions about Jackie just yet, preferring to lay out her evidence step by step, knowing that this was the best way to win over her methodical detective to her way of thinking. She half expected him to dismiss her theories as the unfounded speculation they undoubtedly were, but he surprised her yet again.
“ ‘Do we not have a sacred duty to protect all children? Years go by, and the sin is compounding.’ ” Marc looked up from the paper. “This little girl. You’re certain she’s in no immediate danger?”
“I am.” Charley bit her lip. “Marc, Pippo’s the reason I’m pushing on this. Drummond has already questioned Sharpe at least twice, so he’s clearly a prime suspect. I know how you feel about motive, but if Drummond can’t find any physical evidence to prove Sharpe’s guilt, then demonstrating his motive might be the only way to nail him. At the same time, we might be saving a little girl from possible abuse.”
“How do you know?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
Marc leveled her with The Stare. “How do you know Drummond has questioned Paxton Sharpe twice? With Zehring keeping me off the case, even I didn’t know that.”
Here we go. Charley had been enjoying the sensation of Marc treating her like an investigative equal. She hoped what she said next didn’t spoil it.
“Sharon Krugh overheard Drummond discussing the investigation.” She lifted her chin. “She mentioned it to me when we were having coffee earlier.”
It was difficult to render Marcus Trenault speechless, but this announcement left him at a loss for words. A range of emotions played across his handsome face in rapid succession. At last he blew out a long breath, dragging his fingers through his hair.
