by Leslie Nagel
Chapter 5
Charley hurried inside and found Bobby and Lawrence sitting amid the wreckage of their family room. Everything had been pulled from the bookcases and dumped or thrown onto the floor. Sofa cushions and framed photographs lay everywhere. Lamps had been knocked over. Broken glass crunched beneath her shoes. Lawrence was taking Bobby’s blood pressure with a grave face.
“Daddy!” She crouched beside his wheelchair. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Bobby lifted his crippled right hand a few inches and let it drop. “Just mother hen here, overreacting as usual.”
Charley decided her father’s dusky coloring and bloodshot eyes were anything but fine. She exchanged a worried glance with Lawrence, who shook his head. “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Lawrence removed the pressure cuff from Bobby’s arm. So thin, Charley thought with a spurt of anxiety.
“After we dropped Fee at her place, we came home from lunch and found it like this,” he said. “Kitchen looks like an almighty bomb went off. What kind of fool burglar dumps out a bag of flour?”
“They kicked in the side door. Guess it’s lucky we weren’t here.” Bobby’s voice sounded weak and tremulous.
Charley squeezed his fingers, furious at whoever had invaded their lives and terrified a helpless man in a wheelchair. Then she stood and crossed swiftly to the small hallway connecting the family room to the side entrance. When she rounded the corner, she stopped dead, appalled.
The wooden door frame was splintered and broken. Where the strike plate for the dead bolt had once been, there was now a gap at least two feet long and three inches wide. Chunks of wood mixed with plaster dust coated the landing. The solid wood door showed similar signs of damage. It stood open, revealing the oddly intact screen door. A dozen yards away Charley could see her and Marc’s partly renovated house, currently empty of occupants, workers…or witnesses. Her shock turned to outrage. She started to descend the three steps, hand outstretched.
“Stop!” She turned to find Marc scowling at the scene. “Don’t touch anything, sweetheart. Paul’s called for an officer and a field kit. Maybe we can get prints. They can get them,” he corrected himself.
“This can’t be a coincidence.” She leaned into him, suddenly exhausted as the adrenaline drained from her body. “Better get Paul back in here.”
“Why?” His voice rose with alarm. “What can’t be a coincidence?”
“Remember that journal? Somebody sneaked into Old Hat and stole it.”
They moved to the living room, where the signs of intrusion were limited to tossed sofa cushions and an overturned chair. With Paul’s permission, Marc and Charley straightened the room so they could all sit.
“Let’s make this quick.” Lawrence’s tone brooked no contradiction. “The Coach needs rest.”
There was a knock at the front door. Charley rose and opened it to find Mitch Cooper, his ten-speed parked near the porch steps.
“Hello, again.” Mitch hefted a field kit. “When this call came in, I took it right away. Paul said everyone’s okay, but I wanted to see for myself.”
Charley felt a rush of gratitude. “That’s very sweet.”
She stepped back to allow him entry. As she did so, a black Mercedes convertible pulled up to the curb, a handsome man with Asian features at the wheel. A tiny woman with a mop of long brown curls carefully extricated herself from the passenger side, her progress hampered by her considerable girth, most of which was out front and center. Pregnancy was no minor detail for a woman whose normal size was five feet nothing and ninety-nine pounds soaking wet. Francesca Maria Angelica Cartolano Bright leaned in and spoke briefly to her husband, John, who waved at Charley before driving off.
“Why are the police here? What’s happened?” Frankie fairly flew up the front walk, her land speed unaffected by her temporary weight gain. In a hot pink maternity top over pink-and-white-striped leggings, she managed to look both adorable and ferocious as she mounted the porch steps.
Charley wrapped her arms around her tiny friend. “I am so glad you’re here.”
The women held on as if for dear life, soaking up reassurance and comfort from one another. After a long moment Charley stepped back, feeling much calmer.
“You want to see the wreckage? Check out our side entry. That’s why Mitch and Paul are here.”
“Hi, Frankie.” Mitch smiled. “You look great.”
“Thank you, Detective.” Frankie winked. “Nice shorts.”
As she headed inside, Mitch glanced toward the front door. “Is, um, anyone else joining us?”
Charley folded her arms. “Like, Vanessa?”
“No! I just, uh…” When Charley remained silent, Mitch reddened. “Okay, yes.” He sighed. “Every time I see her, I act like a total idiot. Not that it matters. She and Kyle…”
Charley had not had a good day thus far, and she was in no mood for middle school mind games. “It’s none of my business, but you brought it up, and this pretending is ridiculous. Vanessa is not interested in Kyle. She’s interested in you.”
“She is?” Mitch’s expression morphed from dejected to hopeful in an instant. Then his face fell again. “Not for long, if I can’t even talk to her.”
Charley strove for patience. “Well, maybe don’t talk.”
“What do you mean?” Mitch asked, confused.
“That’s up to you. But with a girl like Vanessa?” She turned and headed for the living room. “Actions speak louder than words.”
Once Frankie and Mitch had inspected the ruined side door and returned, wide-eyed, to join the group, Charley described the theft of the journal. Her hands were fisted so tightly, she could feel her nails digging into her palms.
“My house. My family’s home.” She controlled her voice with an effort as she watched Bobby with anxious eyes. “If this brings on another stroke, I will personally castrate this loser with the rustiest knife I can find.”
“Violence is not the answer,” Frankie said primly. Then she whispered, “You go, girl.”
Paul scribbled in a small notebook. “What makes you certain it was a man?”
“The smell of cigar smoke, coupled with the violence back there?” Charley waved to indicate the side door. “The two events must be connected. Whoever broke in here was looking for the journal. When he didn’t find it, he swiped it from my shop.”
Paul glanced up from his notes. “That’s a leap, Nancy Drew.”
“Do you have a better explanation?” she snapped, then lifted a hand in apology. “Sorry, it’s been a difficult day.”
“Common areas were searched pretty thoroughly. Nothing obvious is missing, and upstairs only Charley’s bed and sitting rooms were tossed.” Marc’s jaw tightened. “I think you’re right, babe. But who even knew you had the damned thing?”
“Let’s back up,” Paul suggested. “I’d say the door was forced open with a crowbar. That took a few minutes, and it made plenty of noise. They must’ve watched and waited until no one was home. What time did you leave?”
“Twelve-fifteen,” Lawrence replied. “We dropped off a cooler at Old Hat, went to lunch, ran an errand or two, and got back home around two-thirty.”
Charley said, “We closed the shop when the power went out again at two-thirty, so I guess I smelled the cigar smoke and noticed the journal was missing just before three o’clock.”
Marc added, “I pulled in about the same time as Lawrence and Bobby. I heard Lawrence shouting and ran over. He and I checked the house to make certain the intruder wasn’t still inside. Then I called you.”
“The time line’s more than generous enough for a single perpetrator,” Paul conceded. “If he watched you leave, he had almost two hours to search this house before heading to Old Hat.” He turned to Charley. “What’s this journal you keep mentioning?”
“Maybe I should begin at the beginning.” Charley took a deep breath. “Have you ever heard of Regan Fletcher?”
Mitch shifted as he reacted to the name. Paul’s heavy brows rose higher and higher as Charley described her flight from the tornado, her unexpected trip through the forgotten tunnel, her discovery of the coded journal, and their suspicions about the book’s ownership. By the time she finished, Frankie’s jaw was on the floor.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” she squealed. “That is the coolest thing I ever heard! Is she the ghost that haunts the high school?”
“If by ‘haunt’ you mean committing a series of petty thefts over the last ten years,” Paul said drily, “then I’d have to say probably not. We’ve long suspected a gang of former students, but so far they’ve slipped through our fingers.”
Marc grunted. “Try collecting physical evidence in a school building.”
“The Fletcher murder isn’t considered a cold case, since Carter Magellan was convicted. Still”—Paul glanced at Mitch—“it’s studied as a standard part of training new personnel. It’s the most famous case in Oakwood history.” He smiled at Charley. “Excepting some of your recent exploits, of course.”
Mitch had listened to all of this without comment. His first words demonstrated that he’d grasped the essentials. “Setting aside the open question of ownership, how’d anyone even know you had the journal?” he asked, echoing Marc’s earlier question. “Determining that might help narrow the field of suspects.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” Charley turned to Marc. “My cellphone’s still buried in rice. May I borrow yours?”
She checked Katie O’Malley’s Instagram thread from the day before and, with a sinking heart, found her suspicions confirmed. Sure enough, this afternoon at twelve fifty-three, Katie had posted again, adding a couple of selfies of her and PJ with the journal, as well as the Regan Fletcher theory.
“She must’ve googled it after I mentioned Regan’s name. She even says they’re working in my storeroom, and she hashtagged Regan Fletcher and Old Hat, for pity’s sake.” Charley groaned. “I guess the answer to your question about a suspect list, Detective Cooper, is the planet Earth.”
“It might be anyone obsessed with that old case,” Marc said grimly.
Mitch frowned. “Like, a memorabilia hunter? That’s pretty sick.”
Frankie stirred but said nothing, the skepticism in her blue eyes telling Charley that she and her friend were thinking the same thing.
“Well, it’s moot now, since the journal’s gone,” Paul remarked. “We’ll follow up, of course, but without any physical evidence…”
“Are you kidding?” Charley was incredulous. “Someone places my father at risk? Invades our home? I’m not just letting this go.”
“That possibility never crossed my mind.” Paul sent Marc his jack-o’-lantern grin. “Good news for you. I’ll bet you’re raring to get back in the saddle. Hope you haven’t gone soft, buddy.”
Marc’s eyes narrowed, but his voice was pleasant enough. “It’s only been a couple of months.”
“Whatever you say.” Paul slapped his knees and stood. “C’mon, Coop. Let’s process the crime scene and get out of these people’s hair.” He and Mitch headed back to gather what evidence they could.
Lawrence rose. “Nap time.” The gentle giant lifted Bobby effortlessly, the love he felt for his charge evident in every look and gesture. At that moment, there was an audible click and clunk as the power came back on. Cool air immediately began flowing from the registers. “That is the best thing to happen all day,” he announced.
“Where’s the cat?” Bobby asked querulously. His face was drawn with fatigue. “Do you think the burglar hurt him?”
As she watched them ascend the stairs, Lawrence murmuring calm assurances, Charley’s eyes flooded with tears. She pressed her face into Marc’s shoulder, succumbing for a moment to all her fear, grief, and anger, drawing strength from his strength as he stroked her hair. She loved that he didn’t waste time on platitudes or empty assurances. The tension in his body told her Marc was every bit as furious as she was.
She sat up after a moment, wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “I’m okay. Go help Paul and Mitch.” She managed a smile. “I know you’re dying to.”
Marc regarded her doubtfully. “If you’re sure? I do want to get Dale over here to measure for a new door as soon as possible.”
“Go.” Frankie made shooing motions with her fingers. “I’ve got this.” The moment Marc was out of earshot, she turned to Charley. “Memorabilia hunter, my left foot. Somebody’s worried about what this Regan Fletcher chick wrote in her journal.”
“That’s what I think, too.” Charley sniffled, feeling better by the minute. Good old Frankie, always on her wavelength. “That means we need to know what she wrote, assuming she’s the one who wrote it.”
“Too bad you don’t have the ding-danged thing. But on the plus side,” Frankie mused, “unless the thief is a code expert, they’ll be frustrated, too.”
“Interesting that you’d mention code experts.” Charley helped herself to Frankie’s cellphone and dialed a number from memory. “I’ve already got—hello, PJ?”
“Charley? Hi.” She could hear voices and laughter in the background. “Whose number is this?” PJ asked.
“Sorry. I’m borrowing my friend Frankie’s phone, and I’ve got you on speaker. Listen, I’ve got some bad news.” Charley told him about the theft of the journal.
“Wow, that’s seriously messed up. I’m glad you’re okay. The thing is,” he continued, “I took pictures of almost every single page, so it’s kinda like we still have it.”
Charley and Frankie exchanged triumphant smiles. “Have you decoded any of it yet?”
Silence. “Actually,” he began, sounding sheepish, “Katie wanted to go swimming, so we left Old Hat and came straight to Gardner Pool. She’s—um, I was going to start on it tonight. Sorry, but it’s super hot in my house, and I think the decoding is going to be harder than I thought.”
“No need to apologize for having fun on summer vacation,” she assured him, trying to hide her disappointment.
“If it’s a simple substitution code, and I could crack even a letter or two, I’d be off to the races.” PJ’s voice became animated as he elaborated on one of his favorite topics. “The letter ‘e’ is the most common one in English—thirteen percent of all letters. Also, ‘the’ is a super-common three-letter word. Frequency analysis is usually a great way to get a toehold, so if I can—”
Charley interrupted as his words prompted an idea. “Do the pages you photographed include the ‘Property of’ page?”
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Why?”
“Remember the girl I told you about?” she asked, guessing that the thought of Katie O’Malley in a swimsuit had driven everything else from the boy’s mind. “Try using ‘Regan Fletcher’ for the name on the front page. There’s three ‘e’s in that.”
Another silence. Then: “I’m a dummy. I’ll tag you when I have something.”
“Major brain wave for you, Carpo,” Frankie said with approval as Charley ended the call. “I’m having another one, but mine’s about flushing out the thief.”
“Do tell.”
“He learned about the journal from Instagram, right?”
“Almost definitely,” Charley agreed. “And?”
“And we’ve established that he’s pretty desperate to possess it,” Frankie continued, “probably because of whatever it says. Why else take such risks to get his hands on it? He could’ve simply come into Old Hat and asked to see it. Why didn’t he? Plus, this loser has now committed a crime. That means anything anybody posts about this, he’s going to be reading it. How could he not? So, what you do is—”
Charley snapped her fingers. “What I do is post something
about having the key to the code, hashtag Regan’s name like Katie did. I’ll say I’ve read some of it, and it’s, wow, the most amazing thing since, since…” She flapped a hand.
“Pickled pig’s feet,” Frankie supplied.
“Eww.”
“Pregnancy cravings. Sometimes I even gross myself out.” Frankie made a face. “Anyway, this goon already committed one home invasion. I bet he won’t hesitate to do it again.”
“Especially if we provide a scenario he can’t refuse.” Charley stood, the prospect of action restoring her spirits. “Come on, Shorty. My laptop’s next door, and I can’t do this caper justice on a tiny screen.” With a last glance up the stairs where her father lay resting, she led the way outside.
Marc stood in the driveway, talking on his cellphone and frowning at the Carpenters’ damaged side entrance, while Paul made notes and Mitch ran a small brush over the handle and doorjamb. As she and Frankie crossed both drives and mounted the house’s front steps, Charley crooked a finger. Marc held up a hand in a “just a second” gesture.
They walked through empty rooms, across solid oak floors stripped of finish, into the space that would become the kitchen. Frankie took in the copper pipes and wiring, the exposed studs, the newly installed windows, and the sliding glass doors leading onto the deck. “Are you guys staying here?” She nudged the rolled-up camp bedding with her toe.
Charley set her laptop on a worktable and plugged it into a brand-new grounded outlet. She breathed a sigh of relief when it flickered to life. “Not really. The upstairs plumbing works, if you need to pee.”
“My constant refrain. Back in a flash.”
As Charley waited for her machine to reconnect to the wireless router, she heard a muffled “Holy guacamole!” from upstairs. A moment later Frankie reappeared. “That shower is bigger than my first apartment!”
Charley waggled her eyebrows. “Plenty of room for two.”
“You crazy lovebirds. Speaking of,” Frankie continued, easing down onto a folding chair, “what’s up with Mitch Cooper? I caught a word or two of your confab, and he had the air of a most unhappy camper.”