The Advice Column Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  “I don’t have a drum set, but I hope my guitar won’t be too annoying.” Marc’s voice was casual.

  Charley blinked at him. “Your guitar?”

  “Yep.” He surveyed the house with a satisfied expression. “I signed the papers last night. Since I’m paying cash and waiving inspections, we close in ten days.”

  “You bought it? You bought the Schmidt house. Bought. It.” Charley kept repeating the words in the hope they’d start making sense, but it wasn’t working. “What on earth for?”

  “Well,” he replied, “to live in. Of course, it’s going to need extensive renovation. I was thinking I’d hire Heddy’s new boyfriend? Penwater does great work.”

  “But you already have a house,” Charley protested weakly.

  Marc snorted. “That place is a shit box, and you know it. Still, maybe I’ll hang on to it and rent it out. Haven’t decided.”

  She struggled for comprehension as Marc opened the passenger door of the Mystery Machine and began arranging her bags of candy in between the front seats.

  “Wait. Marc, why did you buy the house next door?”

  “Why?” He turned and took her hands in his. Those cobalt blue eyes met hers, glowing with a heat she felt all the way to her toes. “Because, Charley Carpenter, I want to be with you. I want you in my life. I know you’re torn, feeling like it’s a choice between Bobby and me. But I don’t see it that way, and neither does your dad.” He touched his forehead to hers. “It’s about family, Charley, just like you said. I get that. I always have. Still, I don’t want you to feel as if you have to choose. I figured, this way, you don’t have to. Sweetheart, I—”

  It seemed for a moment that he would say more, but instead he simply smiled and squeezed her fingers. “Of course, if you won’t move in with me, I’ll just have to keep crawling in your window.”

  That made her laugh. “You want me to live with you, so you bought the house next door. You don’t do anything by halves, do you, Trenault? Why didn’t you just ask me?”

  He handed her up into the passenger seat and closed the door. “Honestly? I was terrified you’d turn me down.”

  She considered that statement. “Well, I haven’t said yes…yet.”

  “You will.” He grinned. “Plus, think about how much privacy this will create for Lawrence and Afiya. That big front bedroom and private bath?”

  She did think about it. And as she did, the full scope of what he was offering, what he was saying to her, settled into her heart and burned there, warm and steady. He had chosen her over his job. And now…

  “Yes,” she murmured happily. “They’ll like that.”

  Marc checked his watch. “We need to shake a leg or they’ll stick us behind the fourth-grade recorder ensemble.” They both shuddered, then laughed together as he fired up the Mystery Machine and headed toward the parade route.

  As they turned onto Delaine, something else occurred to her. “Hold up. You bought that house, but you haven’t sold your current home? How on earth could you afford to own two houses? And did you say you paid cash?”

  Charley recalled her niggle about this van, the fact that she’d never seen the supposed insurance payout that paid for it. For the first time, she stopped and really examined the implications of Marc’s custom-made shirts, the elegantly tailored suits he wore, the many small but expensive gifts he loved surprising her with. Why had she never…With growing suspicion, she recalled his comment the day he’d quit his job, that he didn’t need the money. In the press to catch a killer, she’d forgotten all about it.

  “Marcus. How much money do you have, exactly?”

  “Exactly?” Marc shifted. “It’s difficult to say, exactly. With earnings and compound interest, the total’s kind of a moving target.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Estimate for me. Please.”

  “Hmm.” He seemed to mull over his answer. Or maybe he was stalling. “About twelve five, I’d say. Maybe a little more.”

  “What does that mean?” Charley frowned. “Twelve thousand?”

  “Twelve-point-five million.” He slid his eyes toward her. “Give or take.”

  “Give.” Charley felt as though all the air had been sucked from her lungs. “Or take.”

  He shrugged. “I was my mother’s only heir. Evie came from old money, and her father was a lawyer, so she had a rock-solid prenup. When Warren divorced her, he couldn’t touch a penny of her fortune. After she died, I just left it all with an investment firm. I didn’t need it, except when I bought the Mustang. Now I’m thinking I might take a little sabbatical. Spend some quality time on a few of my pet projects.”

  He waggled his eyebrows at her, and she laughed again. This man. Would he ever stop surprising her? She kind of hoped he wouldn’t.

  The parade staging area was a scene of controlled chaos. Every club, organization, and business in Oakwood participated, provoking the annual query of who was left to watch the procession. The high school marching band warmed up in the Dorothy Lane Market parking lot, as harried volunteers checked off arrivals and issued instructions. Amid the swirling crowds, Charley spotted Vanessa waving from an open spot in the seven-block lineup of fire engines, police cars, sports teams and cheerleaders piled into convertibles and pickup trucks, Boy and Girl Scout troops, and homemade floats of every description. Enthroned in the rumble seat of a gleaming black 1929 Packard, Lillian Vardonis caught Charley’s eye and sent her a sharp salute. Like Old Hat, virtually every merchant in town would be parading in some sort of vehicle, logo proudly displayed. Of course, none of them had a Mystery Machine, she thought with satisfaction.

  Marc maneuvered the van into the gap behind a chattering group of girls wearing matching purple tutus and bright orange high-tops. Vanessa made a convincing and very sexy argument for the relevance of vintage fashion, wearing a full-skirted tea gown in shocking pink with a snug, low-cut bodice, matching parasol, wide straw hat perched on glossy black hair teased into sausage curls, and…Rollerblades. She carved a graceful figure eight around the dancers before gliding up to Charley’s open window.

  “Everything’s set,” she announced. “Zombie Dogz confirmed this morning, so we’ll have five food trucks, plus the craft beer ladies, the DJ, and that balloon guy on stilts. Dmitri’s got the staffers from Slash doing free hair wraps and updos, and the other shops all put out decent sidewalk displays. Heddy did ours and it looks totally frosty, of course. She and our two new hires will supervise the action until we—” Her eyes widened as she stared past Marc. Charley followed her gaze and gave a little gasp of delight.

  Mitch Cooper, dressed in a navy sport coat, gray slacks, crisp white shirt, and blue and gold striped tie, was weaving through the crowds toward the Old Hat van. “Marc!” he called. “Got a minute?” As he reached Marc’s open window, he glanced across the vehicle and spied Vanessa standing on the opposite side. His eyes widened in turn as he took in her appearance. “You’re wearing a dress!” he blurted. His ears turned bright red. “I mean, you look very pretty, Miss, er, Vanessa.”

  “You look like you’re heading to a funeral.” Vanessa tossed her curls over one shoulder. “I’m wearing a vintage gown for the parade. What’s your excuse?”

  Mitch’s jaw clenched. “I’m in plainclothes. I’ve been promoted to detective.”

  “We heard.” Charley smiled warmly. “Congratulations, Mitch. It’s well deserved.”

  Marc shook his hand. “Paul tells me it was practically Barbara Prince’s first official act as the new director of public safety. I expect Zehring’s sudden retirement has caused plenty of reshuffling.”

  “It has,” Mitch confirmed. “A few days after Rachel Howard’s arrest, Chief Zehring marched into the squad, announced Lieutenant Prince would be taking over, effective immediately, and just…walked out. Nobody had a clue.”

  “According to Camille, the mayor called him b
efore a special session of City Council and reamed him for his handling of the Weller case.” Charley patted Marc’s shoulder. “He also took plenty of heat for letting Oakwood’s star detective slip through his fingers.”

  Without another word, Vanessa skated off. Mitch watched her go, his face unreadable, before turning back to Marc. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Paul’s got me going through some cold cases as part of my training, and I think I’ve found something. Chief Prince suggested I invite you in to consult.” He paused, expression turning hopeful. “If you’re interested, that is.”

  Charley recalled Lieutenant Barbara Prince—well, it was Chief Prince now, wasn’t it?—from the Mulbridge case. She’d struck Charley as tough but fair, with a genuine concern for the officers under her command. Apparently, she also had quite a different attitude toward accepting help from civilians than the one held by her predecessor.

  “The Chief suggested?” Marc winked at Charley. “I don’t know, Detective. I’m going to be pretty busy.”

  “He’ll be in Monday morning.” She handed Mitch a butterscotch. “Stop by the new shop sometime. We’re right across the street. One of us will be happy to give you a tour.”

  Mitch glanced past the dancers toward where Vanessa stood talking and laughing with Kyle Cutter, resplendent in his full dress-blue uniform. She twirled her parasol as Kyle gazed down at her, evidently fascinated. Mitch scowled. “I think I’ll be pretty busy, too. See you Monday, sir, and thanks.” He spun on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Civilian consultant, hmm?” Charley tapped her chin. “Think the new chief would let me—”

  Marc leaned over and silenced her with a long, steamy kiss. “Don’t you ever give up?” he murmured when he finally let her up for air.

  “Would you want me to?” she countered. They grinned at each other.

  Someone let loose with a long blast from an air horn. The marching band, now ranged at the front of the assembly, started playing Oakwood’s fight song, “Stand Up and Cheer.” The parade was officially under way. Fears about a lack of attendees had been, of course, groundless. Hundreds of people, standing or perched on lawn chairs, lined both sides of Shafor Boulevard, waving American flags and cheering. Several dozen Cartolanos, aged zero to eighty, packed the entire block between Wiltshire and Corona. A dramatically slimmed-down Cecilia whistled and held aloft a newborn baby for Charley’s inspection, à la the opening from The Lion King. John Bright stood behind Frankie, his arms gently cradling her rounding tummy as she beamed and gave the Old Hat contingent two thumbs up. Marc cruised along, clearly enjoying himself, while Vanessa spun and skated around the Mystery Machine, urging folks to stop by the Park Avenue event.

  Charley threw candy as tradition demanded, waving and calling greetings, especially when they crossed Hawthorn and spotted Bobby’s wheelchair parked right up front, Lawrence and Afiya hand in hand beside him. Charley aimed a root beer barrel at her dad, who reached out, caught it with his good left hand, and popped it in his mouth.

  As the band swung into a toe-tapping rendition of “Shake It Off” by Taylor Swift, a young man with a long brown ponytail loped over to the van and began keeping pace.

  “Hey, Ms. Carpenter! Mr. Trenault.” Oliver Duncan smiled his gentle smile. “We probably won’t have a chance to talk at the street fair, and I need to thank you for what you did. If it weren’t for you, I’d be in jail.” His smile widened. “And I’d never have known my son. He is the most amazing kid. I still can’t believe it.”

  Charley returned his smile. “How is Danny?”

  “Shattered, like you’d expect, but doing better. He stayed with distant cousins in Mercer County for a few days while Social Services cleared a friend’s family here in Oakwood who volunteered to keep him through the end of the school year. Incredible people in this town. After that?” He shrugged. “We’ve talked a few times, grabbed lunch. Nothing heavy. He knows I want to be in his life. But I’m not going to push.”

  “He’s lost the only mother he’s ever known.” Charley touched the hand that rested on her door frame. “Give him time. I think you two will be good for each other.”

  “I hope so.” He stepped back. “Miss Heddy’s got me serving lemonade, and Mr. Penwater made it clear I’d better not disappoint his lady. See you in a few!” He touched a finger to the brim of his ball cap and trotted off.

  “Speaking of fulfilling the expectations of one’s lady,” Marc began as he navigated the final turn. “How late do you think this shindig’s going to run?”

  Charley flung the last of her candy toward a trio of elderly women, who scooped it up with whoops of delight. Shafor Park’s green space teemed with color and activity. The band had retired to enjoy a well-earned picnic lunch, and the air was filled with the sounds of laughter, barkers calling out games of chance, and an excitable emcee over a crackling loudspeaker announcing the celebrity lineup at the dunking booth.

  “The food trucks and DJ are booked until four-thirty. By the time we break it all down and set up for opening tomorrow…About six, I guess?” She turned in her seat, fingering her jade pendant and batting her lashes. “Why do you ask? Did you have anything particular in mind, good sir?”

  “As it happens, I do.” As Marc described, in vivid detail, precisely what he had in mind, Charley blushed and her pulse kicked up at least twenty beats per minute.

  “Upon, ah, reflection,” she managed when he finished speaking, “supervising the cleanup will be excellent experience for Vanessa.”

  “Good call.”

  She reached over and linked her fingers with his. Then, together, they headed to Park Avenue for the grand reopening of Old Hat, and all their new beginnings.

  In Memoriam

  Nancy Johnson Pinard

  1951–2017

  Writer, teacher, mentor, friend

  To my sister Elizabeth, whose brilliant career as a prosecutor, defense attorney, and municipal court judge has taught her a thing or two about giving advice.

  Acknowledgments

  No book comes to life without plenty of help, some of it from unexpected sources.

  First and foremost, I owe a massive debt of gratitude to the dedicated staff of the Oakwood Register. It’s one thing to mention the local newspaper’s existence in a novel. It’s quite another to make it a major plot point in a fictional murder case. I’ve wanted to tell this story for some time, but it didn’t seem quite right to proceed without asking permission. Not only did editor Brian Barr and publisher Dana W. Steinke embrace the concept without hesitation, but Brian came up with the idea to actually run the column in the paper.

  So we did. If you enjoyed “Ask Jackie,” zip on over to Oakwoodregister.com and check out the archives. You’ll find several weeks of Jackie’s unique and irreverent brand of advice in the March 2018 issues, as well as the “big reveal” in the April 3 issue. Needless to say, the local populace was crestfallen to discover that Jackie was a hoax.

  Charley, Marc, and I owe our thanks to many others who supplied us with inspiration and practical knowledge for this book:

  To Jeff Nagel, Maddy Nagel, and Kelly Williams for schooling me in “text speak,” often without being aware you were doing it. Talk about a moving target, yo.

  To Bruce Nagel, my hand tool guru, for helping me find the perfect murder weapon while successfully creeping out other hardware store patrons. And for so much more, including giving me the space and freedom to write.

  To Chris Vradelis, my belated gratitude for vetting all the Greek spellings, grammar, and pronunciations for both the last book and this one. Sas krató stin kardiá mou, Fíle.

  To my dad, Charles Simms, who took on the challenge of writing offbeat letters to Jackie like he’d been waiting for the opportunity his entire life. I think it’s clear where my sense of humor comes from.

  I will always take a moment
to praise our unparalleled Oakwood Safety Department: Oakwood boasts a fully integrated team of dedicated professionals, where every officer is cross-trained in police, fire, and EMT duties. Any deviation within these pages from the realities of their methods, equipment, or places of work is my own invention. I am grateful for the stellar service these amazing women and men provide our city every single day.

  My thanks to editor Junessa Viloria and the RH Alibi team for their expertise and guidance. Any success my books enjoy is a result of your many efforts on my behalf.

  To agent-extraordinaire Curtis Russell, media maven Amanda Schiffmann, and everyone in the PS Literary family: Your faith in me and my writing keeps me going. I am a lucky, lucky girl.

  BY LESLIE NAGEL

  The Oakwood Mystery series

  The Book Club Murders

  The Antique House Murders

  The Advice Column Murders

  PHOTO: AMANDA R. MILLER

  LESLIE NAGEL is the USA Today bestselling author of The Book Club Murders and The Antique House Murders, the first two novels in the Oakwood Mystery series. She lives in the real city of Oakwood, Ohio, where she teaches writing at a local community college. After the written word, her passions include her husband, her son and daughter, hiking, tennis, and strong black coffee, not necessarily in that order.

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