by Leslie Nagel
“The prospect of you two teaming up feels both terrifying and strangely…inevitable. Moving on.”
Charley felt a wave of relief so strong, she almost lost her balance. She and Marc had worked at cross-purposes on the Prescott case, and the ensuing quarrel had nearly ended their relationship—and cost her her life. Since then, Marc had dedicated himself to winning back her trust—not that he’d ever really lost it in the first place. He’d come a long way toward accepting her sleuthing as part of the Charley Carpenter package. She knew it went against his training. She also knew he would never have bent this far for anyone else.
She was a lucky, lucky girl.
“I agree Sharpe’s the most likely suspect,” Marc continued, “but nothing you’ve told me does anything to prove or disprove his guilt.”
She sighed. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“However,” he continued, surprising her yet again, “I’ve learned to ignore you and your theories at my peril.” When she beamed at him, he held up a cautionary hand. “For the moment, let’s set aside the murder case I’m barred from touching, and focus on the here and now. You believe the advice column is the reason for the burglary of the Oakwood Register. While that belief is based purely on this hypothetical you’ve constructed, it’s as likely a theory as any other. You know I don’t usually work backward from motive, but in the absence of any physical evidence, I’m willing to listen.”
“That’s all I ask.” She began pacing along the sidewalk beside his sedan, organizing her thoughts as she spoke. “Let’s assume I’m right and the burglar is searching for the identity of the mysterious Jackie. As Lillian said, there’s not really any other information in those files that hasn’t been printed in the paper.” She held up two fingers. “Two possibilities. First, the burglar wants Jackie for an unrelated reason. That seems like a stretch to me, because I happen to believe in my hypothetical, and I am as deeply suspicious of coincidence as you are. Of course, I will concede that I have zero proof of anything.” Zero proof YET, she thought with a little thrill, but didn’t say aloud. “Second possibility: I am right about all of it.”
Marc chuckled, and she pulled a face at him before continuing.
“I submit that Sarah did write that letter. In a town this size, with a newspaper that only boasts a few thousand readers? What are the odds of a murdered letter writer to said newspaper not being the reason for a break-in less than forty-eight hours later? I’d say those odds are vanishingly small. Thus, they are connected. I further submit that the burglar wasn’t just trying to identify Jackie; he was also eliminating the possibility that a physical copy of the letter existed, either an original or a printout, that would prove Sarah was the author. The only reason to do that,” she concluded, “would be if the contents point to a motive for her murder, and thus to the identity of her killer.”
“Let’s say you are correct,” Marc said. “You realize that means the burglar and Sarah’s killer are likely one and the same person.”
“I do.” Charley felt another rush of gratitude and affection for this man whose mind always meshed so effortlessly with her own. She pulled out her cellphone, tapped out a text, and hit send. “And that means the elusive Jackie could be in danger.”
“How do you figure?”
“Whether the burglar found a copy of the letter or not, Jackie still knows who sent it,” Charley pointed out. “The killer might decide he can’t afford to leave such a dangerous loose end.”
“There’s only one problem.” Marc scowled. “We can’t prove your theory without access to Sarah’s laptop, which we absolutely cannot get.”
“You’re forgetting that the sender isn’t the only one who would have a copy of that letter. The recipient would have one, too.” When her cellphone pinged, she scanned the incoming text, then opened the passenger door of Marc’s sedan. “We need to hurry. I’ve got places to be.”
“The recipient? How does that help us?” he asked as he climbed behind the wheel. “You heard Lillian. Nobody has any idea who this Jackie is. And where are we going?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say ‘nobody.’ ” Charley settled herself in the passenger seat. “And I hope we’re going to get that proof. Right now.”
Chapter 11
“You two have a lot of explaining to do.”
Charley stood with her arms folded, pinning the unhappy objects of her inquisition with her sternest glare. Marc and Vanessa perched on a pair of gilt chairs, watching the proceedings with interest. On the ornately carved red velvet sofa in front of Charley, Dmitri St. James and Trent Logan sat side by side, looking as guilty as two little boys caught painting the cat. “An advice column? Seriously? What the hell were you thinking?”
Dmitri shifted uncomfortably. “It started out as a lark, just a joke. We never meant to hurt anyone.”
“It was my idea,” Trent put in. He reached over and clasped Dmitri’s hand in his. Charley started to smile at the intimate gesture, but she quickly resumed her best scolding face. “We were at the Carillon Brewery, and we saw this couple having a massive fight; it was something to do with the woman’s mother. The guy kept putting his foot in his mouth, and finally the woman told him to go to hell, that their engagement was off. When she literally threw a ring in his face and stormed out, and the guy started sobbing into his ale, Ann Landers over here began coming up with all the things the poor bastard should’ve said.” He sent Dmitri a swift smile. “Really funny, but brilliant, too. Hell, even I would’ve forgiven that idiot.”
“Years of listening to clients’ tales of woe,” Dmitri murmured.
“Then I said something like, you should share your expertise with the world. And
then…” Trent shook his head. “I feel like such a fool. Doing what I do? I should’ve known better than to meddle in people’s lives. I never dreamed this might provoke a crime.”
Charley had explained her theory about the connection between the “Ask Jackie” column and the murder of Sarah Weller. Dmitri and Trent had listened, aghast, as she connected the dots.
“We don’t know that it’s provoked anything,” Marc cautioned. “But if Charley’s right and an arrest results from this, it will be a matter for the Montgomery County Prosecutor’s Office. You’ll have to recuse yourself, Counselor.”
Trent groaned. “God, that’ll be an embarrassing conversation.”
Dmitri looked thoroughly contrite. “I’m sorry, baby.”
Charley gazed at the two men, most of her annoyance ebbing away. She recalled the day Dmitri and Trent had first laid eyes on each other. Their instant attraction had evolved over the past few months into a serious relationship. Dmitri’s upbeat outlook on life had always been tempered by an undercurrent of loneliness and loss. Not surprising, given that his father had disowned him, a betrayal of trust that left an emptiness not even the most loving friendship could fill. She, Bobby, and Lawrence had immediately welcomed him into their family circle, as had Frankie and John Bright. Reuniting with his little sister Vanessa had also gone a long way toward repairing the hole in his heart. But this was different. She’d never seen Dmitri so happy. Of course, neither man looked too happy at the moment.
“So, now what?” Vanessa asked. “If I know you, Charley, you didn’t show up here without a plan of action.”
Charley straightened, recalling the secondary, more critical, purpose of the visit. “Marc doesn’t have official access to Sarah’s electronics, so we can’t confirm any of this from that end.” She took a deep breath, mentally crossing her fingers. “Did you happen to save the original email from ‘A Tortured Soul’?”
“Of course.” Trent stood, shaking out the razor-sharp creases of his crisp khaki slacks. Even casually dressed, the slender man was immaculately groomed, the cuffs of his chambray shirt neatly turned back, not one wavy lock of his light brown hair out of place. “I’m an attorney. We save every
thing.”
Charley let out the breath she’d been holding with a whoosh. As Trent left the room, Dmitri gazed after him with total devotion. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
“He is indeed.” Charley dropped down onto the sofa and snuggled against his broad chest. “I’ve missed you. Between your new romance and Old Hat being closed, I never see you anymore.” He kissed the top of her head, and she sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were Jackie?”
He snorted. “Why bother? You figured it out on your own just fine. Speaking of, how did you know it was me?”
It was her turn to snicker. “I didn’t know, but I’ve had my suspicions. Who else would advise a seventy-year-old woman to spice up her wedding anniversary with body shots and edible massage oils?”
“She wrote me back.” Dmitri waggled his brows. “They had an amazing time.”
Charley poked him in the ribs. “You know you’ll have to stop writing the column now.”
“I figured as much. Don’t worry, princess. Jackie has officially left the building.”
Marc had been strolling around the room. “Interesting place you’ve got here. I’ve only been inside a couple of the ground-floor Oakwood Manor units.”
He gazed up at the peaked ceiling, with its exposed beams and mullioned dormer windows. The room was crammed with overstuffed furniture covered in silks and velvets in a riot of colors. Heavy maroon drapes trimmed with gold brocade covered the tall windows. The polished wood floors were heaped with Persian rugs. Piecrust tables held crystal and cloisonné lamps topped with fringed silk shades. Every inch of wall space displayed ornately framed oil paintings, original lithographs, and colorful tribal masks from Africa, Australia, and South America.
“This condo literally saved my life.” Dmitri’s face grew taut with repressed emotion. “I was only eighteen when dear old Dad kicked me out. I might’ve ended up on the street like so many kids do, but my great-aunt Athena took me in.”
“I barely remember her,” Vanessa murmured. “I don’t think Papa approved of her much.”
“Of course he didn’t.” Dmitri’s tense expression relaxed. “The old girl was an absolute pistol. She flew single-engine planes, played competitive high-stakes poker, spoke six languages, and swore like a sailor in all six. We only had a few years together, but, Lord, did we have fun. Athena put me through cosmetology school, bless her heart. When she died, she left me everything, including a home.” He gazed around the room, his dark eyes misting with tears. “It looks like a Singapore whorehouse, but I haven’t had the heart to redecorate.”
“I love it,” Charley said loyally. “Don’t change a thing.”
Dmitri winked at her. “Spoken like a true vintage diva.”
Trent returned, carrying a laptop. He placed it on the dining room table, took a seat, and fired up the machine. Everyone moved to stand behind him and get a view of the screen.
Charley’s heart was pounding furiously as Trent’s slender fingers worked the keyboard. Would her theories finally be confirmed with actual, quantifiable proof?
“Any letters Jackie replies to are organized by the date of the response.” Trent clicked through a series of folders and subfolders. “We’ve only run the column for a couple of months, but the letters simply flooded in.”
Dmitri pointed at the screen. “There are hundreds of others that we decided weren’t interesting enough, but Trent says we should save everything.”
“Never know when someone might try to sue your ass.” Trent double-clicked a file. “Here we are. We responded to ‘A Tortured Soul’ in this week’s edition. The sender’s email address is…” He clicked again as Charley nearly exploded from the suspense. “Well, what do you know? The sender is [email protected].”
“Wow.” Marc turned to Charley, his expression a mixture of surprise and respect. “It really was from her. You were right, sweetheart.”
Charley sank into a chair. She felt winded, as if she’d just run a dozen flights of stairs. While she’d been confident that she was on the right track, this was different. This was knowing.
“What does this mean for the investigation?” Vanessa asked. “It proves Sarah wrote that letter. But does it prove Paxton Sharpe is the killer?”
“Not quite,” Marc replied. “What it does is provide George Drummond something solid to use in an interrogation.”
“Drummond?” Charley stared at him in dismay. “You’re just going to hand this over? The burglary is your case, not his.”
“I have no choice.” Marc smiled at her obvious indignation. “This is a definitive link between my break-in and his murder case. They took her laptop, and I assume they’ve been processing it, but no one knows the significance of that letter, if it’s even still on there. This information changes that. Murder trumps burglary, Charley. Drummond will want to follow up.”
Charley huffed. After a moment she said slyly, “He’s going to love Lillian.”
Marc grinned. “Especially when she informs him you’re already handling her case.”
“What about the little girl?” Trent asked suddenly. “Even suspected child abuse is grounds to bring in County Social Services. Will you inform Sergeant Drummond about what her mother’s been doing? As officers of the court, both he and I have an obligation to report any child at risk.” He grimaced. “I’ve already compromised my career enough over this mess.”
Marc hesitated. His gaze met Charley’s, and she gave a tiny shake of her head, sending a silent plea behind Trent’s back. He nodded and said firmly, “I will handle it, Counselor. Charley assures me the child is in no immediate danger.”
“Speaking of danger.” Dmitri laid his hands on Trent’s shoulders. “Do we need police protection?” At this, Vanessa perked up, looking hopeful.
Marc cocked a brow. “Jackie’s identity is still a secret. As long as you don’t tell anyone, you should be fine. Besides,” he added meaningfully to Vanessa as he and Charley prepared to leave, “Cooper is on EMT rotation.” The eighteen-year-old blushed to the roots of her hair as Dmitri’s laughter followed them out the door.
As they stepped off the elevator, Charley practically sprinted for Marc’s sedan. “What’s your hurry?” he asked, jogging to keep up.
“Judith will be home soon, and I need to be there.”
“Why do you need to be there?” He frowned. “Charley, you cannot involve yourself directly in a murder inquiry. I cannot protect you on this one. Questioning Judith Sharpe is—”
“Something only I can do effectively.” She touched his arm. “I’m already involved, Marc. Besides, I don’t think I’ll have to do much except listen. I accept that you have to notify Drummond about the letter. But please, just hold off on telling him about Pippo. We don’t know it’s relevant to Sarah’s murder.”
“Except, according to you, it is.” He scowled. “The most likely scenario is that the killer is a member of the Sharpe household. That means Judith is still a suspect.”
“I’ll be in no danger,” she insisted. “Judith wouldn’t hurt me, not in front of her boys, and not with Lawrence right there. Once she knows the cat is out of the bag, she’ll have time to figure out a story about why she’s been lying. If you’re there, or if Drummond just asks her point-blank about Pippo, we’ll never get the real truth, especially not if it involves Paxton. I’ve got the element of surprise. And as a woman, and not one of the official team treating her husband as a suspect, she’s much more likely to open up to me.” Marc appeared to be wavering, so she pressed on. “And as for the rest of what I’ve learned, it’s probably irrelevant, just background on Sarah that Drummond can easily verify himself. I proved what I set out to prove. As of this moment, I’m stepping away from the murder aspect of this case.”
“That’ll be the day.”
She ignored this. “All I care about now is Pippo. Please, Marc. Just give me a couple of
hours. If nothing else, Judith deserves the opportunity to tell her husband the truth face-to-face.”
She recognized the precise moment she won the argument. Marc had been staring daggers at a clump of yellow tulips, the internal debate clear to see on his face. He finally blew out a long breath.
“Fine. One conversation with Judith Sharpe, in your home, with Lawrence present. But I want a call the instant you’re finished. And bear in mind that I could lose my job if Zehring even suspects I’m permitting, not to mention encouraging, you to question a murder suspect.” As he opened the car door for her, Charley heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like “for the best.”
“If I learn anything of significance, I’ll call Drummond directly and leave you out of it. How’s that?” She fastened her seatbelt. “He already has issues with me, so why not give the guy a real cause to hate my guts?”
They made the drive to her home in silence. A quick text to Lawrence confirmed that no one had as yet arrived to claim the twins, nor had Judith returned home from the hospital. As Marc pulled up to the curb, Charley turned to face him.
“It means the world that you’re trusting me to do this.”
“Yeah, well, being with you doesn’t exactly encourage by-the-book behavior.” Marc’s expression turned fierce. “If anything happened to you—” He pulled her in and kissed her, hard and swift. “One conversation, then you’re done. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Chapter 12
Charley stood at her living room window, watching with interest as Judith Sharpe scrambled out of a taxi. She seemed quite recovered from her collapse the day before. It wasn’t even one o’clock. Had she deliberately ditched Paxton and Brandon at the hospital? Charley imagined that Judith must be frantic by now. It made sense that she wouldn’t want them present for the coming encounter, just in case her big secret was revealed.
And it IS going to be revealed, if I have any say in the matter.
