The Advice Column Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  Charley began pacing, careful to avoid the boot print. “How did our artist know about Oliver and the sabotage? He didn’t find out from me or Dale, nor from Marc or from you, Paul.”

  Dmitri said, “Oliver must’ve told someone else.”

  Charley frowned. “I don’t know. He seemed so shocked and ashamed when I guessed the truth. Even after he finally got up the nerve to approach Sarah, he wouldn’t have risked his job by telling any—” She stopped. “Well, duh. He told Sarah. Oliver said he confessed what he’d been doing to Sarah as part of his attempt to win her over.”

  “And then Sarah told her killer?” Paul asked dubiously. “They had a nice chat about Oliver before he stabbed her?”

  “Yeah. That does sound wrong.” Charley started pacing again, hoping physical motion might prod her weary brain cells into action. “Okay. It’s late at night. Oliver and Sarah are sitting and talking in the basement. He tells her what he’s been up to. He gives her the carved monkey. She tells him about their lost baby, the reason she ran away. Tears, a few kisses, and with a promise of seeing her tomorrow, Oliver exits, leaving the side door open. The killer overhears their conversation.”

  She hesitated. “I’m not sure about that part. There’s no cover next to the Sharpes’ side door, and the streetlight illuminates both our driveways, but he must have stood there for several minutes, listening. If I’d glanced out my window, or if anyone had been walking by…” She shook her head. “Anyway, the killer watches Oliver leave, then slips inside. Sarah hears him enter and meets him at the base of the steps. A quick stab, Sarah falls, and the killer leaves the way he came.”

  “But not before taking the monkey upstairs and leaving it for Pippo to find,” Vanessa reminded her.

  “Damn it, you’re right.” Charley tugged at her hair in frustration. She wished Marc were here. Bouncing around ideas and theories with him always helped her to clarify a case. Without him, this one kept throwing out mud clods. “That would mean the killer went upstairs. Or at least,” she amended, picturing those stairs, dark and shadowy at that hour, a mirror image of the ones in her own house, “he went up some of the stairs. What if he’d been hanging out at the top of the flight, out of sight around the turning? He could have overheard everything Oliver and Sarah were saying while he waited for Oliver to leave. That makes way more sense than a killer standing outside in full view.”

  Vanessa said, “Which brings us back to Brandon. He has to be the killer, right? Didn’t you say he had a crush on Sarah? He was probably heading downstairs for their nightly chitchat, overheard her and Oliver smooching, and stabbed her in a jealous rage.”

  “With a chisel from Oliver’s truck, a truck parked a block away, belonging to a guy he’d probably never even heard of until that moment?” Paul frowned. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but playing devil’s advocate here, that theory still has more holes than a donut shop.” He pulled out his cellphone. “I’ll call this in as potentially connected to the murder case, but I don’t hold out much hope Drummond will listen.”

  “If we can find Brandon and match that boot print, he’ll have to. That’s the best way to clear Oliver’s name. I need to—” Charley turned her back on the graffiti and stopped. She stared bleakly at a renovation that was still weeks away from completion. “Crap. I should stay here, try to keep the project going until Dale gets back.”

  “Nonsense,” Dmitri said briskly. “Little sister and I will clean this up.” He glanced at Kyle Cutter, who’d hardly taken his eyes off Vanessa. “You seem like a handy sort. Can you organize that broken back door?…Excellent. As for the remodel, I know Dale Penwater’s type; our boy will be back on-site in a day or so.”

  “That means we’ll also have Heddy.” Vanessa smirked. “Did you see those two? I cannot wait to grill her for all the juicy details.”

  “Are you sure?” Charley asked, desperate to leave but knowing her duty was here.

  Dmitri smiled. “Scram, Daphne. Go solve the mystery. When you do, Scooby snacks are on me.”

  Charley flung her arms around him, eyes prickling with tears. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” He kissed the top of her head. “And get some sleep. You look like hell.”

  Charley made a beeline for Hawthorn Boulevard. Paul wasn’t wrong—the case against Brandon had problems. Still, now that the son had replaced the father as her prime suspect, she knew exactly what her next move had to be.

  She parked in her driveway, but instead of going inside, she marched up the Sharpes’ front steps and pounded on the door. Hearing no answer, she tried the knob. Unlocked.

  “Hello?” Charley stepped inside and glanced around. It had been nearly a year since she’d been in here, the day poor Mr. Schmidt had broken his hip. Aside from the furnishings, little had changed. The layout was a mirror image of her home, although the general condition seemed much shabbier. Worn beige carpeting covered the floors and stairs. Scuffed walls and baseboards cried out for a fresh coat of paint. A brownish Texas-shaped blotch discolored one corner of the ceiling.

  While the house needed work, the furnishings within reflected the controlling nature of its master. A black vinyl couch and two matching armchairs were arranged at precise ninety-degree angles before the whitewashed brick fireplace. Framed photographs, mostly of the twins, marched across the carved mantelpiece in a perfect line. In a corner, a red and yellow plastic table with two tiny chairs held a neat stack of toys and games. Plain white curtains hung stiffly over spotlessly clean windows. Dust and clutter were nonexistent. Charley took a tentative sniff; the air smelled of nothing more sinister than floral air freshener. Mercifully, the terrible stench of a few days ago had dissipated.

  A snore broke the silence, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She leaned forward and saw Paxton lying motionless on the couch, eyes closed. She walked in front of him and crouched down.

  “Paxton?” When he didn’t move, she clapped her hands three times. “Hey! Rise and shine!”

  With a jerk, he awoke. After a moment he grunted and sat up, staring at her with bloodshot, bleary eyes. His cheeks were covered with stubble, his hair was sticking out in all directions, and the meticulous Dr. Sharpe’s clothes were crumpled and creased, the untucked dress shirt stained with grease and mustard. As he hunched forward, Charley caught a whiff and knew what Lawrence had been talking about. The man smelled like a distillery with terminal body odor.

  She stood, hands on hips, contemplating the human wreck before her. He’d just lost his wife, but Charley didn’t have the time or patience to pussyfoot around.

  “Dr. Sharpe, we’ve got a problem.”

  He stared up at her with a devastated expression. “I don’t even know how to talk to her. What the hell do I do now?” he moaned.

  Charley realized he was talking about Pippo. She was tempted to tell him to man up and be a father, but she wanted information, and pissing him off was not the way to get it. His wife had lied to him for years, a mammoth betrayal for such a proud, arrogant man. Would that have made him angry enough to commit murder? Charley didn’t think so anymore, but it was long past time to find out once and for all.

  “Where were you the night Sarah was killed?” she asked. “And save that crap you fed the police.”

  His eyes slid away. “That’s none of your business. Besides, the police have arrested the killer, practically in the act of stabbing—” He choked on a sob and buried his face in his hands.

  “I’m sorry about Judith,” Charley said in a milder tone. “But Oliver didn’t do it. Once they realize they have the wrong man, they’ll circle back to you, Paxton. Your alibi for Judith’s murder is that you were drunk on your sofa while she was stabbed not twenty yards away. That’s even worse than your forgotten-diner story.”

  “Why would I kill her?” he mumbled into his hands. “I loved Judith.”

  “Maybe because she’s been ly
ing to you about Pippo for four years? You must have felt like such a fool. The famous Dr. Sharpe, not knowing the difference between a boy and a girl. Don’t tell me you weren’t furious when you found out. Or maybe she realized you killed Sarah and threatened to expose the truth?” Charley clucked her tongue. “From where I’m sitting, you’re a fabulous murder suspect. Plenty of opportunity and motive.” When he remained silent, she played her ace. “Judith is dead. If you’re arrested, the twins will have no one.”

  It worked. Paxton straightened with an effort, running his hands through his hair. He blew out a long, foul-smelling breath and reluctantly met Charley’s eyes.

  “I’ve been having an affair with a member of my international surgical team.” With that admission, he seemed to relax, and the next words came more quickly, as if he were relieved to be telling the truth at last. “It began overseas, a product of the constant stress and danger of imminent death, I suppose. It was wrong, I know that, and I intended to break it off when we returned stateside, but Leigh wasn’t willing to give me up. I’ve been…weak.”

  He lifted a hand, let it fall. “The strain of hiding it has torn me up. That’s why I’ve been yelling at my family, staying out until all hours, coming home late or not at all. And all this drinking? I’ve never had a problem with alcohol. Judith knew something was up, but I’ve been avoiding her, avoiding that conversation. Frankly, I’d hardly spoken two words to Sarah since she’d arrived. I’d no reason to kill her. I was with my lover when she died.”

  Charley cocked her head, not quite convinced, somehow knowing there was more to it. “A secret affair is embarrassing, but hardly a crime. Why not provide Drummond with this alibi? Why risk arrest for murder?”

  “Because…” Paxton swallowed hard. “Because Dr. Leigh Rogers is…a man.” Charley’s eyes widened, but she remained silent as he continued. “Despite legal changes, such an affair would end both our careers, not to mention my marriage. Judith is a devout Christian. I don’t—didn’t—want to lose Judith or my children. I know I haven’t been acting like it lately, but I love my family. I’m innocent, and I assumed the police would catch the murderer quickly, ending my need for an alibi.”

  What a selfish asshole. Charley stifled her impatience, remembering the larger mission. “You need to call Drummond and clear your name,” she said flatly. “You lied during questioning, and these facts could be viewed as even more motive for murder.”

  “Do I have to?” he whined.

  “Yes. You do. For crying out loud.” She folded her arms. “Does anyone else know about the affair?”

  Paxton shook his head, then grimaced and pressed fingertips to his temples. “We were very discreet.”

  “How about your aide, Master Sergeant Delgado?” she asked. “She seems quite attentive. Devoted to your professional well-being and so forth.”

  “Portia?” His eyes darted around the room, as if searching for a way out. “She’s never said anything that suggests she knows.”

  “She wouldn’t.” Charley started pacing. Despite her dislike for this man, she sensed Paxton was finally telling the truth. Once he provided the police with the name of his lover, his alibi for Sarah’s murder could be proved. So, unless two different people murdered two different women with the same weapon in or near the same house, Paxton was off the hook.

  Or was he? Maybe this jerk was telling the truth, but only up to a point. He could still be banking on the fact that the cops had arrested someone else. Maybe he was just spinning this tale to get rid of Charley. Perhaps Dr. Rogers and the affair were real enough—that still didn’t mean he and Paxton were together during the critical time window.

  She stopped in front of him and asked abruptly, “Where is Brandon?”

  Paxton stared up at her with renewed fear. “Why?”

  “You know why.” Charley stared back, and after a long moment Paxton dropped his head.

  “I don’t know. He has no car, no cellphone, just an ATM card with a two-hundred-dollar limit.”

  Wow, Charley thought. He kept that kid on a short leash. More fuel for Brandon’s anger issues?

  “There’s more.” Paxton swallowed again. “He might have a gun.”

  Charley’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  He flapped a hand toward the stairs. “Last night, after he ran out of here, I discovered that my service pistol was missing. I kept it in a shoe box in my bedroom closet, and he’d left the box on the bed.”

  “A box?” Charley could hardly believe her ears. “You kept an unsecured weapon in the house with two small—” She held up a hand. “You know what? I don’t have time for this.” She pulled out her cellphone. “Get your shit together, Dr. Sharpe,” she commanded, “if you don’t want to lose what’s left of your family.”

  After shooting off a text to Marc and Paul informing them that Brandon should be considered armed and dangerous, she headed outside. She was still on the porch when a beige sedan with government plates pulled up to the curb.

  “Speak of the devil,” she murmured. Portia Delgado, looking crisp and professional as always in her uniform blouse and skirt, leaped from the car and came running up the front walk. She tried to mount the steps, but Charley blocked her path.

  “Let me pass,” Delgado demanded. “Colonel Sharpe isn’t answering his cellphone. He might require assistance!”

  Charley held her ground. “The only assistance the colonel requires is a good hangover cure,” she said drily. “The man just lost his wife. But then, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Charley noted the brief flicker of the eyelids, the minute pressing together of the lips. Master Sergeant Portia Delgado was working on her stone face, but she hadn’t perfected it yet.

  “Fine,” Charley said agreeably. “You followed him through two tours overseas out of a sense of patriotic duty. So tell me, why haven’t you come forward to provide Paxton with an alibi for Sarah’s murder? Is it because you knew he was with another man?” Delgado gasped, and Charley smiled. “Yep. Cat’s out of the bag, Portia. How long have you known about him and Dr. Rogers? Paxton’s a murder suspect. Full disclosure can only help him now.”

  Delgado stared rigidly ahead. After several beats of silence, she ground out, “Since Iraq. Second deployment.”

  “So you helped him keep his secret overseas, and you’re still doing it. I’m guessing here, but isn’t covering up a superior’s extramarital affair a bit out of the official air force job description?”

  “My duty is to protect Colonel Sharpe and to facilitate his ability to perform his own duties.” Delgado’s cheeks flushed. “He has an extremely important and difficult job, which he has carried out at considerable personal sacrifice for almost twenty years. There’s nothing irregular in that.”

  “Protect him, you say?” Charley indicated the boulevard where Judith had lain just hours ago. “The colonel’s family could have used some protection last night. I didn’t see you out here, but things got a little crazy, so maybe we missed each other.” She took a shot in the dark. “Unless you’d already left.” Portia’s flush deepened, her thin neck turning blotchy. Bull’s-eye. “How about following your boss during off-duty hours? Is that considered irregular?”

  “I don’t have to answer that. I don’t have to tell you anything.” Portia shoved past Charley and hurried into the house.

  “Portia Delgado, keeper of secrets,” Charley murmured thoughtfully to the slamming door. “How far would you go to protect your precious colonel? And how do you feel about the death of Paxton’s wife?” When the empty porch provided no answer, she shrugged and left to find Hank and Pippo Sharpe.

  Chapter 19

  Detective Marcus Trenault paused at the door to the Chief’s office. He adjusted the lay of his hand-painted Hermès tie; it was still perfectly knotted, the delicate iridescent design picking up the pale green strip
e in the navy wool of his custom-tailored double-breasted suit. He wasn’t particularly nervous about this meeting. It could end in only one of two ways, but the outcome wouldn’t be up to him.

  Although he always dressed well, today’s sartorial splendor was a departure. Marc had been careful to downplay his wardrobe since moving back to Oakwood. In a town like this, he’d observed more than once, people didn’t trust a cop who dressed better than they did. Admittedly, he’d also been trying not to aggravate his new boss.

  The hell with all that now.

  He rapped once. At the command to “Come!” he entered.

  Dwight Zehring sat behind a large desk, its surface bare except for a brass nameplate, a framed photo of himself and Mrs. Zehring on their wedding day, and the thick file he was reading. He didn’t glance up or acknowledge Marc’s presence. Marc stood, perfectly at ease, for four minutes and eleven seconds while Zehring ignored him.

  Wasting time on petty displays of authority, he thought with disappointment. What a cliché.

  When the Chief closed the folder, Marc saw with a start that it bore his name. His employment record, not the Weller case file? Well, that pretty much solved the mystery of how this meeting would go. Still, he intended to try to get this runaway train back on the rails if he could. He owed it to the victims.

  “Sit down.” Zehring indicated one of the two visitor’s chairs, deliberately selected for discomfort to keep visits short and visitors ill at ease.

  “I’ll stand, thank you, sir,” Marc said pleasantly.

  Frowning up at him, Zehring seemed to realize this placed him at a physical disadvantage. He stood, planted his hands on the desk, and leaned forward.

  “You struck a fellow police officer. In front of witnesses.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marc agreed. “That I did. Would you like to know why?”

  “I know why!” Zehring scowled. “You hit Sergeant Drummond because you think you’re better than anyone else in this town.”