by Leslie Nagel
But they would have to do this eventually, in order to obtain an official birth certificate, the magic paper that permitted US citizens to register with Social Security and hold a job, to get a driver’s license, register to vote, join the military, travel abroad. Once the CLB was recorded, the baby’s family had to appear in probate court with two witnesses who could swear to the identity of the parents, the date and circumstances of the birth, and so on. Documentation of some sort was also required—doctor records, photos, even a family Bible were sometimes acceptable in the absence of other records. The probate judge, once satisfied, signed an affidavit and forwarded it to the state, which then issued the official birth certificate.
Charley thought back to her conversations with Judith and with Rachel Howard. She navigated to the website for the Mercer County Clerk of Courts, which directed her to the Office of Vital Statistics. Clicking on the link for birth records, she was quickly stymied by the lack of available information. The site didn’t list names, only statistics about numbers of births, whether the mother was a smoker, and other census information she didn’t need. In order to get an official certificate she would need official documentation that she had a right to the information. In a post-9/11 world, such information was guarded as never before.
Perhaps what she needed was a different database. A few clicks soon uncovered a dozen or more sites designed to fuel the ancestry craze, promising (for a membership fee) to track down birth records. None of those, however, contained records more recent than fifty years old. The disclaimer for one explained that this restriction existed to preserve privacy and protect national security. Charley understood, but it was still frustrating as hell. Well, she thought, if she couldn’t find those records, then neither could Sarah.
She tried to imagine that long-ago sequence of events. Catholic Social Services was a huge, international organization. It would have obeyed the law and applied for the birth certificate, right? It wasn’t like Mary or Judith left Sarah’s baby in a basket on the doorstep. But wouldn’t CSS have insisted on a CLB? Yes, of course it would have.
Charley wondered about those two required witnesses. One certainly would’ve been Mary, an established midwife. Her word would hold weight with the court. Who else? Mary’s husband, Richard Weller? Or had it been Judith? Lying to a judge in open court seemed like something she’d be pretty good at, Charley thought sourly.
A quick Google search turned up an obituary for Richard Weller, dated two years earlier. She found nothing for Mary Weller. The Mercer County Auditor’s website revealed an address for Richard and Mary Weller, a rural route number she assumed was the family farm. She clicked another link and saw that the property had changed hands two years ago, shortly after Richard’s death. There was no address listing under Mary’s name, but that just meant she didn’t currently own a deeded property, at least not in Mercer County. She could be renting or living in a retirement home.
It was a safe bet Charley wouldn’t find confidential probate court documents through a Google search, so that was a dead end. She needed to talk to Judith again, she decided. She stifled a yawn as the print started swimming, all the CSSs and CLBs blurring together. She rubbed her eyes, checking the time. Nearly midnight. God, she needed sleep.
She wandered into her private bathroom and splashed her face, then stared in the mirror. A pale girl with troubled gray eyes gazed back. Something was tugging at her memory. Was it something she’d just read? Something Judith had said? Or someone at tonight’s dinner? An inconsistency existed, two facts that didn’t jibe and were rubbing against her subconscious like a pebble in her shoe. Whatever it was, she had a feeling it was very important.
First thing tomorrow, she vowed to her reflection, she would march next door and demand answers from Judith. That woman, liar though she was, held the key. She’d kept her shameful secrets long enough and—
Secrets. Charley squeezed her eyes shut. That word. It was nudging at that blessed pebble, trying to dislodge it. Dmitri had said something at dinner about two secrets, one old and one new. But what else had he said?
Her eyes flew open. From behind her came a rattling, followed by the sound of wood slithering against wood. She stared into the mirror, where, to her horror, she could see one of her bedroom windows slowly sliding up. She’d closed all three, but, as her room faced the street, she hadn’t felt the need to lock them.
Immediately she thought of Oliver and Brandon out there in the dark. Had one of them decided her interference in Sarah’s investigation had gone far enough? And then, with a fresh rush of fear, she thought again of that random stranger.
Moving silently, she slid around the bathroom door and into her closet. Groping for something to use as a weapon, her fingers encountered first a tennis shoe, then a ball cap. Worthless. Where was an aluminum baseball bat when you really needed one? Her bathrobe brushed against her face, and she contemplated for a brief instant simply burrowing into her clothing and hiding from the intruder. Then she thought of Bobby, and of Sarah. Her fists clenched. If this asshole was the killer, then she intended to bring him down.
Hanging from a hook on the back of the door were a leather belt with a fairly scary buckle, and a travel umbrella. Not lethal, but you went with what you had. She grabbed the umbrella, extended the handle, and then, gripping it like that bat she didn’t have, stepped swiftly into the room. The bottom sash of the nearest window was now wide open, and a head of wavy brown hair was just crawling into view, followed by a darkly clad arm and shoulder.
Putting all she had into it, she brought the umbrella down on the back of the bastard’s head. With a grunt of surprise and pain, he pitched forward, falling the rest of the way inside. As he rolled upright she readied her umbrella for another swing—and found herself staring into the wounded blue eyes of Marcus Trenault.
She supposed she should be furious, but instead she burst out laughing. He was just so ridiculous, sitting on her floor in jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt, rubbing his head and looking sheepish.
“Oh, my God, Marc,” she giggled. “What the hell?” She tried to get herself under control, but it wasn’t easy. Her door was open a few inches and, mindful of Lawrence and her father, she pushed it shut.
Marc peered up at her, chagrined. “Guess I should’ve called first.”
“You think?” She was still laughing as she brandished her now L-shaped umbrella. “Casualty of war.” Tossing it into a corner, she held out a hand to haul him to his feet. “Sorry about cracking your skull, but I thought maybe you were the murderer.”
He probed the back of his head and winced. “And you were going to stop him with that?”
“My katana’s in the shop.” She folded her arms, still chuckling. “What on earth were you thinking?”
He abandoned the inspection of his head wound and grinned at her. “I was thinking it’s too late to ring your doorbell, and I really, really wanted to see you.”
She nodded sagely. “Yes, it’s much more reasonable to get arrested for breaking and entering.”
“You’re worth the risk.” In a flash his mouth was on hers, an arm around her waist, pulling her tightly against him, his other hand tugging impatiently at her hair tie until he freed the heavy mass to hang down her back. “Nice room,” he murmured as his lips nibbled a trail down her throat. “Nice outfit.”
Heart suddenly racing, she tried to answer but found herself unable to produce anything resembling speech. God, she loved when he did that. “We…ah,” she managed, her mind and body swamped in delicious sensation. “We need to be quiet.”
“We do?” His smile was wicked. “You know how much I love a challenge.”
His mouth claimed hers again as the clever hand at her waist slid under her tank top and skimmed up her ribs, stealing her breath. Taking his cue, she slipped her hands under his shirt, reveling in the feel of smooth skin and hard, flat muscles. She tried to l
ift the hem, but forward progress was stymied by the closeness of their embrace. Marc released her and whipped off his shirt in one swift motion before pulling her back in.
“Lemons.” He nuzzled the sensitive spot beneath her ear, nipping lightly at the lobe. “Jesus, woman, you smell fantastic.”
She grazed her fingers up his arms and into his hair, tilting her head back to give him better access. “Glad you like it. You always smell like—SHIT!”
“Say what?” Marc’s head jerked up, but Charley was already squirming out of his hold. Over his shoulder she just caught a glimpse of the back half of a silver tabby cat disappearing out her open window.
“Damn it! Hercules, come back here!” she hissed, berating herself for that open bedroom door. Normally she slept with her door closed for privacy. She figured Bobby’s kitten must’ve abandoned his master’s bed when he heard the commotion and come to investigate.
“What are you doing?” Marc asked in astonishment. “Wait a sec— Charley, hold up! It’s not safe!”
But Charley was already crawling out the window and onto the front porch roof.
“I used to do this all the time with Frankie.” She balanced easily on the slanting surface, her bare feet finding traction on the asphalt shingles as her eyes probed the shadows. “Besides, you came in this way. Get me a towel from the bathroom, will you? And keep your voice
down…There you are, you little menace.”
Two eyes gleamed at her from the far end of the porch. A piteous cry suggested that Hercules was reconsidering the wisdom of this field trip. He hunkered, terrified, his ears back, tail tucked tightly against his tiny body.
Marc disappeared, returning with a large bath towel. He tossed it to her and she held it loosely by the corners as she eased along the roof. “Hey, little guy,” she cooed. “Let’s go back inside now, okay?” Hercules yowled again, but mercifully stayed put as she drew closer. She dropped the towel over him and scooped him up, towel and all, cradling him against her chest as she padded carefully back to the window.
“Come to Papa,” Marc murmured as she passed the meowing cat bundle to him. “Let me put him out in the hall and close the door before you come in. No use risking a repeat.”
“Good idea.” Charley stood in the mild evening air, enjoying the unusual bird’s-eye view. The spreading oak tree growing close to the porch had provided handy access for climbers both coming and going for many years. It had been a long time since the days when she and Frankie had sneaked out to explore the silent nighttime streets and alleys of Oakwood. They never got up to any real mischief—the forbidden thrill of being out after curfew was its own reward. They’d lie on the football field, heads pillowed on the soft grass, counting the stars and speculating about Frankie’s brothers’ sex lives. Or they’d decorate the paths in front of the junior high with sidewalk chalk, drawing fantastic beasts and plants, suppressing giggles at the comments and conjectures of their classmates before school the next day.
“All right, Spider-Woman,” Marc murmured. “Get back in here.”
As she turned, Charley automatically glanced toward the robins’ nest she’d been watching. Something caught her eye. Something long and pale lay in the boulevard near the hawthorn tree. It looked like—was that a person? She stared, and sure enough, the shape resolved itself into a body lying on the ground, with another person kneeling over it.
“Hey!” she shouted, any thought of keeping her voice down abandoned. “What are you doing there?” At her shout, the kneeling figure leaped up and began to run.
“What’s wrong?” Marc asked, already halfway out the window. “What’s going on, Charley?”
“Someone’s in trouble,” she began, and then turned and saw what he was doing. She held up her hands. “Not out this way. It’s too slow. Hurry, you’ve got to catch him!”
Without waiting for further details, Marc disappeared inside again. Moments later he burst through the front door and bounded, shirtless, down the porch steps and into the street.
“Which way?” he called. Charley pointed to her left, and Marc took off. She ran to the tree and skimmed down the trunk, landing on both feet just as Lawrence raced outside.
“Ran into Marc on the stairs, and he told me to call nine-one-one.” He loomed over her, searching for threats or injury. “You all right, Chip?”
“It’s not for me.” Charley sprinted across the street to the boulevard, Lawrence on her heels. As they ducked under the low branches of the hawthorn tree, the object that had been visible from above came into view, hidden from sight at street level by a barrier of tulips and daffodils, many of the stems now broken, the delicate flower heads trampled into the mulch.
“Lord have mercy,” he whispered. “Not again.”
Judith Sharpe lay on her back, eyes open in a mockery of surprise, arms flung outward, legs crumpled beneath her. She wore yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt. The upper left of the shirt was stained with blood around a jagged vertical slit that was all too familiar. She was braless, her thick hair neatly braided. She’s dressed for bed, Charley thought. She felt oddly detached as she knelt and touched Judith’s neck; there was no pulse. The skin was cool but not yet cold. Charley guessed that she probably hadn’t been dead very long.
“Stabbed.” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, distant and hollow. “Like Sarah.” A squad car with lights and sirens raced past, stopping halfway down the block. She turned to Lawrence. “Stay with her.”
Not waiting for an answer, she ran after the squad car. As she approached she saw two figures illuminated in the headlights. Marc held another man firmly by the arm as he marched him back up the street. With a sinking heart, she recognized the other man as Oliver Duncan.
“Police! Stop right th— Detective Trenault?” Safety Officer Kyle Cutter had taken shelter behind the open door of the squad car. Tall and broad, with short ginger hair and freckles, Kyle was in his early twenties, like Mitch Cooper. They were two of the youngest in the department and were also good friends. He kept his hand on his holstered sidearm, expression confused and wary. “Sir? What’s going on?”
“We’ve got another homicide.” Marc pointed past Charley to where Lawrence stood guard over Judith’s body. “Take Mr. Duncan into custody, Cutter. Then call it in. I’ll help you secure the scene until backup arrives.”
“I didn’t kill her!” Oliver’s face was ghastly pale in the flickering wash of red and blue light. His long hair was disheveled, and a rip in one knee of his jeans revealed a bloody scrape. He turned to Charley as Kyle cuffed his hands behind his back. “I was coming to see you. I was getting up my nerve to knock when I…found her. Oh, my God.”
“Don’t say another word,” Charley commanded as Kyle secured Oliver in the backseat of his squad car. She felt sick with shock and disappointment. Had her faith in Oliver been misplaced after all?
Marc led the way back to the body. “She’s definitely gone?”
“I checked for a pulse,” Charley murmured, knowing she’d left fingerprints on Judith’s neck. She stared down at her neighbor, an unhappy woman whose lies, it seemed, had finally caught up to her. “It looks like the same weapon used to murder Sarah. Where is Paxton? He could’ve done this.” Her eyes widened. “Lawrence, the children.”
“On my way.” Lawrence headed toward the Sharpe house at a run.
Marc touched her arm. “You should get inside, sweetheart.”
Following his gaze, she saw with a start that a sizable crowd had already gathered, drawn by the shouts and flashing lights. Most stared at the dead body with a mixture of shock and fascination, murmuring or uttering low cries of distress as they held one another. Judith hadn’t been popular, but she’d been a neighbor.
However, several people, particularly the men, were gaping, not at the dead body but at her. A couple of wives were surreptitiously checking Marc out as well. She was su
ddenly acutely aware of his shirtlessness and of her own skimpy attire. Mrs. Bretcher, the neighborhood busybody, clutched a quilted bathrobe to her neck as she peered down her nose with blatant disapproval. Charley stared back, defiant, even as she felt the traitorous blush crawl up her neck and face. Mrs. Bretcher was the first to look away.
A second squad car roared up and screeched to a halt, this one sporting the red, blue, and gold star of the Sheriff’s Department. Charley could see Deputy Franklin behind the wheel, talking into a radio handset. Sergeant George Drummond emerged, uniform rumpled as if donned in a hurry, his triumphant expression that of a law officer who finally has his man. He threw a glance at the corpse before settling his hat on his head and strutting toward Kyle’s squad car. They spoke in low tones, Kyle nodding and murmuring into his shoulder radio as Drummond stared fixedly into the backseat at Oliver.
Deputy Franklin produced a roll of yellow tape and began cordoning off the area around Judith’s body, directing onlookers to retreat to the far sidewalk. Oakwood’s EMT vehicle arrived in a blaze of lights and sirens. Under Franklin’s direction, Mitch Cooper and another officer began setting up plastic drapes in a large rectangle around the body, shielding it from view. Marc and Charley stepped back onto the street in front of her house but remained close enough to observe everything. She watched the macabre scene unfold, her quiet street awash once again in emergency lights, the lurid colors and bustle of law enforcement transforming it all into a dangerous and alien landscape.
Drummond issued some final command and turned back toward the crime scene. He’d taken only a few steps when he registered Marc’s presence. An unpleasant smirk played over his lips.
