The Advice Column Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  So, what about herself? Was Charley Carpenter bound by duty? Or was she free to follow her heart?

  And just like that, it hit her. This wasn’t a choice, either one or the other. Making a life of her own—a happy, adult life—was her duty. Her dad had worked hard to raise her well, and he deserved to see the payoff for his efforts. She wasn’t abandoning Bobby. He wanted her to leave.

  With that revelation, her mind cleared and her heart quieted. Her father was only doing what any good parent did—he was kicking her out of the nest.

  Perhaps, she decided, it was about time she let him.

  Idling at a stop sign, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, slowly becoming aware of her location. Through some unthinking impulse, she had ended up at Orchardly Park. Despite the early hour, it already had a few visitors. A teenage boy sat in the picnic shelter with three smaller kids. Two of them had bottles and wands and were blowing soap bubbles. The third child, a small girl, sat on the bench while the older boy sat on the table behind her, braiding her hair. He said something and the little girl laughed in delight. Charley sniffed and smiled at the scene of innocent fun.

  Looking more closely, she recognized the teenager. It was Danny Howard. Long and lanky with light brown hair mostly hidden by a knitted cap, he had a delicate face with a mobile, expressive mouth. His eyes were hidden behind green-tinted glasses with round lenses. Guess they weren’t just for Halloween, Charley thought absently, recalling Rachel’s mention of health and vision problems related to a premature birth. A car pulled up behind her and tooted the horn, and she started to drive through the intersection. Then, on a whim, she quickly pulled around the corner and parked. She considered a moment, then climbed out of the van.

  “Hello,” she called as she approached. “Are you Danny?”

  The boy glanced up. “Sure am.” He completed what Charley now saw was an intricate split French braid, secured it with a small hair tie, and patted its owner on the head. “All set, Anna.” As the little girl joined the others, he glanced behind Charley, clearly puzzled. “I’ve seen your van around town. The Mystery Machine, right? So cool. Are you here to drop off your child?”

  “Thank you, and I don’t have any kids. My name is Charley Carpenter. I live next door to your aunt Judith and uncle Paxton.” She added, “I’m very sorry about your cousin Sarah.” She decided to say nothing about Judith’s murder for the moment, not knowing how this young person might react to such shocking news.

  He dropped his gaze. “Yeah. I never actually met her.” He glanced at the younger children at play, then back at her, as if to remind her not to say anything alarming. This was a polite and thoughtful young man, she thought, and she was glad she’d held her tongue about Judith.

  “Do you work at your mom’s daycare, Danny?” She indicated his pint-sized posse.

  “Kinda. I help out after school sometimes, or early, like now. I like kids, especially at this age.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “No attitude yet.”

  She nodded agreement. “Four is a great age. Like Hank and Pippo. They’re, what? Your second cousins?”

  “I guess so. Aunt Judith never brings them here. She’s super protective, my mom says.”

  “And your uncle Paxton?” She watched his face carefully. “Is he overly protective, too?”

  Danny’s smile disappeared. “He’s strict. Not mean,” he amended hastily. “I think maybe he doesn’t like kids.” He reddened, as if regretting such an honest appraisal of a family member to a virtual stranger. “He’s a good guy, ma’am. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “You haven’t said anything wrong,” she reassured him. It was an astute observation, actually. Did Paxton genuinely dislike children? He wasn’t warm and fuzzy with Brandon or the twins, but so what? Not everyone parented the same way. Still, she wondered.

  “How about Brandon? Is he a good guy?”

  Danny shrugged. “I don’t know. My mom says I met him when I was little, but I don’t remember him at all.”

  “That’s too bad,” she said. “An older cousin might be fun.”

  His expression became guarded. “Yeah, well, my mom doesn’t really like Brandon too much. I’m not sure she’d let us hang out.”

  Not surprising, she thought, recalling Rachel’s story of a sullen boy spoiling Thanksgiving dinner. Charley glanced across the street toward The Crayon Club, wondering if she should go over there and tell Rachel her cousin Judith was dead. No, she decided. She hardly knew Rachel. It was the duty of family to deliver such terrible news. Unless the media dropped the bomb first, she thought grimly. Given the mutual dislike, it seemed unlikely Paxton would bother to call his wife’s cousin. Just one more dysfunction in a family full of them.

  A sudden movement caught her attention. Jenny, the ever-smiling assistant, stood framed in the front doorway, her hand shielding her eyes as she stared toward the park with a most uncharacteristic scowl on her face. When she caught sight of Charley, she slipped back inside and slammed the door, the sound echoing distantly across the empty street.

  “Jenny seems nice,” she remarked. “Very capable. And pretty.” Danny shifted, frowning and muttering something Charley didn’t quite catch. “Excuse me? I thought you liked her.”

  He flicked a glance toward the house. “She’s okay, I guess. A little clingy, you know?” He blushed again. “It’s one of the reasons I hang out over here until it’s time to leave. She sort of…follows me around, asking me questions, trying to get me to meet her for ice cream or coffee after school. I never know what to say. My mom would go ballistic if she knew, so I just, you know, avoid her.”

  “Awkward,” Charley murmured sympathetically. And pretty much the exact opposite of how Jenny had described the situation. “If Jenny ever does anything that makes you uncomfortable, and you don’t feel like you can tell your mom, you can talk to me, Danny. About her or anything else that worries you.”

  “Really?” He gazed at her shyly, eyes large behind his green-tinted lenses. “Some of the kids at school say how they hang at your shop sometimes.”

  “They speak the truth. I’m reopening in a few weeks. You’re welcome anytime.”

  Charley leaned against the picnic table and watched the children at play, picturing another young man sitting in a jail cell. The clock was ticking for Oliver, who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time yet again. Charley believed he was innocent, but how to prove it?

  Based on the victims’ relationship, as well as the murder weapon found at the second scene, it seemed beyond question that the same person had murdered both women. Paxton and Brandon remained her favored suspects for Sarah’s murder. With Brandon still AWOL and Paxton reportedly lying on a couch just inside the house, both men also had opportunity to kill Judith, she realized. The question remained: Why?

  She thought she could guess the motive for the second murder. Judith knew, or at least suspected, who had killed Sarah. That person found out and killed Judith before she could reveal what she knew.

  Possible reasons for someone’s killing Sarah remained numerous but speculative. Last night’s research had generated even more questions. Charley had thought to get at least some of her answers from Judith, but that was no longer possible. Who else might have the information she so desperately needed?

  “Danny,” she began, keeping her voice casual. “Can I ask you something?”

  He smiled. “I guess so.”

  As he told her what she wanted to know, her cellphone rang. She glanced at it, surprised to see Vanessa’s name.

  “Charley? You need to get over here right away.”

  “Over where? To the condo? Is Dmitri all right?” Charley’s stomach dropped. “Did someone find out he’s Jackie?”

  “Nothing like that, and I’m not at home.” Vanessa voice sounded tight with worry. “I’m at Old Hat.”

  Chapter 18


  As Charley steered the Mystery Machine onto Park Avenue, she saw two Oakwood EMTs maneuvering a stretcher through the door and down the front steps of Old Hat. An ambulance sat at the curb, rear doors standing open. Her heart in her throat, she double-parked her van in front of Ashley’s Bakery, leaped to the curb, and raced up the sidewalk, pushing through a growing circle of onlookers.

  Dale Penwater lay on the stretcher white-faced but conscious, lips pressed into a tight line of pain. A padded brace held his head and neck immobile. One work-roughened hand clutched the edge of a thin blanket. The other was being held tightly by Heddy Jones, who was scolding the EMTs in a frantic tone Charley had never heard her use before.

  “Careful, young man! This isn’t the demolition derby!”

  “Heddy? What’s happened?” Charley read the worry and affection in Heddy’s eyes as she gazed down at Dale, and the answer to one small recent mystery was revealed. Heddy and Dale? How charming, and how utterly right, she thought, the idea warming her heart despite the circumstances.

  “I’m not sure!” Heddy appeared to be on the verge of tears. “When Vanessa found him, he was unconscious!”

  “Hold up there, sonny. I promise not to die in the next five minutes.” Dale’s voice was weaker than usual, but the EMTs paused near the rear of the ambulance. He turned his eyes toward Charley and winced. “God damn. Got the mother of all headaches. Excuse the language, ladies.”

  Charley moved quickly into his line of sight. “Dale, what on earth happened? Did you fall off a ladder?”

  Dale snorted, then winced again. “Not in this lifetime. Guess you were right about the sabotage, Ms. Carpenter. I was running out for milk last night. Been thinking about our conversation, so I swung by here to check on things, make sure the site was secure. Sure enough, the back door was wide open. The new one, not your steel door.”

  “The lock’s been forced.” Kyle Cutter appeared from the alley beside the shop. “Sir, since you’re conscious, could you tell me if you saw who attacked you?”

  “Wish I had,” Dale grumbled. “I saw the open door, went in, and got coshed on the back of the head. Next thing I know, one of these fellas is sticking ammonia up my nose. Stuff’d wake the dead, I can tell you.”

  The EMTs grinned. “Smelling salts,” one confirmed. “We need to go now, ma’am. Mr. Penwater’s loss of consciousness is concerning. He’s probably got a concussion, if not a skull fracture.”

  Heddy gasped. “Oh, dear! May I ride with Dale?”

  “Are you family?”

  “Yes,” Dale said firmly when Heddy hesitated. “She’s my…fiancée.”

  As she watched the ambulance pull away with lights flashing and sirens blaring, Charley couldn’t help feeling that this was at least partly her fault. Even though she now knew Oliver had been the original saboteur, if she had reported her suspicions and asked for those extra patrols days ago, perhaps Dale wouldn’t be headed to the hospital right now.

  “Charley?” Vanessa stood in the doorway of Old Hat with a troubled expression. She gestured toward the interior. “You’d better come see this.”

  Charley mounted the steps with trepidation, not certain she wanted to see whatever awaited her. Vanessa led the way inside, where they found Paul and Dmitri standing beneath the graceful double archway, their backs to the two women. Charley’s mouth fell open when she saw what they were looking at.

  Across the recently cleaned back wall, someone had written a message in peach paint:

  ALL THE BITCHES ARE GOING TO PAY—OD

  On the floor near the wall sat an open can containing a brush, business end up, handle immersed in several inches of paint. So much for fingerprints, Charley thought.

  “ ‘OD,’ as in Oliver Duncan?” Dmitri barked a laugh. “Like, the guy’s going to sign his work?”

  Paul nodded agreement. “A blatant, and frankly clumsy, attempt to frame Duncan for yet another crime.”

  “The rage feels real enough,” Charley murmured. The paint had been applied with sharp, angry strokes. Gobs of thick peach liquid had been flung onto the wall and surrounding floor. “Whoever did this walked out of here spattered with custom-tinted paint. When I saw Oliver last night, his clothing didn’t have any paint on it.”

  “We heard about Judith, and about Oliver’s arrest.” Vanessa touched her shoulder. “You okay?”

  Charley nodded, grateful for the presence of friends at yet another crime scene. What was happening to her quiet hometown? Two murders right next door, and now this. Was no area of her life safe from violence?

  “Speaking of clumsy, Detective?” Kyle had followed them inside. He stood a few feet away, pointing at a peach-colored boot print on the otherwise clean concrete floor.

  Paul crouched down and examined the print. “Distinctive tread, like some combat boots I’ve seen. Maybe a size nine or ten.”

  “Oliver wears at least a thirteen,” Charley offered. “I think Brandon Sharpe wears a ten, and he had on combat boots the other day.”

  Paul grinned up at her. “Leave it to you to note everyone’s shoe size.”

  “Is this enough to get Oliver out of jail?” she asked hopefully.

  His expression darkened. “This doesn’t look too good for Brandon, but there’s no real proof this incident is connected to the murders.”

  “Remember how pissed Brandon was when he took off last night?” Dmitri asked suddenly. “Whoever painted this was not a happy camper.”

  “Plus,” Charley said thoughtfully, “it’s pretty juvenile. It seems like something he’d do. I can’t see Paxton defacing a wall, no matter how drunk he was.” A sudden thought caused her hopes to rise again. “Which raises the question of opportunity. Could Dale remember what time he was attacked?”

  She held her breath as Kyle checked a small notebook. “Mr. Penwater claims he entered the shop about eleven-thirty.”

  “Oliver was arrested just after midnight,” Charley said, deflated. “Rats. The saboteur could’ve broken in, painted this message and attacked Dale, then killed Judith. Old Hat is only a ten-minute walk from Hawthorn Boulevard.”

  “So Oliver’s not off the hook,” Dmitri concluded. “Too bad, but neither is Brandon. What about Paxton? Wasn’t he passed out by then?”

  Charley huffed in frustration. “Maybe. He could’ve been faking. Lawrence was more concerned with the twins’ safety than establishing Paxton’s alibi.”

  Vanessa pointed at the message. “ ‘All the bitches’?” she asked. “What does that mean?”

  “If the, um, artist is trying to frame Oliver Duncan, I expect it’s a reference to the two murder victims,” Kyle offered. He ran a hand over his short ginger hair and smiled shyly at Vanessa. “Kyle Cutter, ma’am.”

  Vanessa barely acknowledged his greeting. “Wouldn’t he say ‘both’ the bitches?” she demanded. “ ‘All’ implies there’s at least one more female on his mind.” She met Charley’s gaze. “Like you, maybe.”

  Dmitri sucked in a breath. “Or you, Vanni, or even Heddy.” He turned to Paul. “With all due respect, Detective Brixton, where the hell is your partner? We need all hands on deck here.”

  Paul straightened and brushed off his trousers. “Detective Trenault is currently under suspension.” Vanessa and Dmitri gasped. “The rest of us will do our best to muddle along in his absence. But you make a fair point, Mr. St. James. Everyone should keep their wits about them until this case is resolved.”

  Charley hadn’t needed Paul’s reminder; the memory of Marc’s work situation and her fight with Bobby crouched in the back of her mind like a gargoyle with acid reflux, just waiting to spew. Had Marc met with Chief Zehring yet? She’d been checking her phone every five minutes, hoping for a text. She glanced at it now, then shoved it into her pocket, resolving to deal with her personal problems later. Besides, something about the scene before her was tugging at
her subconscious. What was she missing?

  She massaged her temples and stared at the graffiti. Paint again. Was it the paint? The wording? If, as she suspected, this was Brandon’s handiwork, what was his angle? If he was the killer, hadn’t he already framed Oliver in a multitude of ways? And if he wasn’t the killer and someone else was building that frame, why go to all this trouble? Breaking into her shop couldn’t have been easy. What would make him choose this method of—

  She snapped her fingers. “That’s it!” Everyone stared. “The clue is in the method. Whoever did this must have known about the previous sabotage, the paint spill Oliver engineered the night Sarah was killed. But how could he know? Neither Dale nor I ever officially reported it. But more than that. He had to know that Oliver was the original saboteur. That’s what makes it such an effective frame. Or it would if we were gullible idiots.” She turned to Paul. “Oliver confessed to the sabotage right before Sergeant Drummond chased him away. I’d been meaning to report the incidents and ask for more police patrols, but I never got around to it. Then I learned it had been Oliver all along, but I still never told anyone except Marc and you and the people around my dinner table last night. And even then, I didn’t describe Oliver’s stunt with the paint specifically, just generally that he’d been the one delaying the project.”

  “Hold up there,” Paul objected. “Just because somebody used the same paint? It could just be—”

  “A coincidence?” she finished, and Paul fell silent. “Same paint, same wall, and signed ‘OD,’ the initials of the same man, a man who is already being framed for murder? Yeah, sorry, but we’ve already had this conversation. Coincidence in a murder case happens, but this is just too much.”

  “Cooper wasn’t exaggerating,” Kyle murmured. “She’s unbelievable.”

  Vanessa grinned. “Just wait until she really gets rolling.”