by Leslie Nagel
Charley shook her head. “Not since we saw you at the school.”
“I’ve texted him, like, fifty times.” Katie tugged at a purple hair spike with a worried frown. “He’s probably fallen down the rabbit hole researching something on the Net. That boy totally checks out when he’s in the zone. Anyway, I couldn’t find anything that might have been a hidey-hole. For what it’s worth, I took a ton of pictures.” She handed Charley her cellphone. “I love that place.”
As Charley swiped through photos, Katie prattled on. “There’s a bunch of furniture from the thirties, very cool carved stuff, but it’s been moved and cleaned a million times, of course. People were sitting at the tables, so I couldn’t exactly crawl underneath and search for hidden compartments. Honestly, if I was passing notes to a secret boyfriend, I’d just hide them in a book. I’ll bet that’s what Regan and Carter did.”
“You’re probably right.” Charley hid her disappointment with a smile. “Good work, Katie.”
“Can I see?” Vanessa asked.
Charley passed her the cellphone and glanced around the living room. “I’m guessing all these books came from the library?”
“I didn’t want to come away empty-handed,” Katie said, “and since we’re also searching for the book key, I thought, why not get a ton of books? The library maintains lists of titles that have been on the high school reading lists going back, like, forever. I grabbed any editions before 1979. I got three huge tubfuls.”
“She called the house,” Lawrence said, “and Afiya and I drove over and picked her up.”
Charley saw several familiar titles: Lord of the Flies, Crime and Punishment, and Catcher in the Rye, as well as many others by Dickens, Brontë, Faulkner, Austen, Cather, and, of course, Shakespeare. “This reminds me of an episode of Sherlock, the one based on ‘The Adventure of the Dancing Men’ by Conan Doyle.”
“Oh, yeah!” Vanessa passed the cellphone of library pictures to Frankie. “I remember Freeman and Cumberbatch digging through hundreds of books, trying to crack a code. It took them ages.”
Katie gazed around at the mountains of print. “It’s a long shot, but I figured we had to start somewhere, right?”
“We are working with a picture of a journal page that PJ sent to Katie.” Afiya replaced a copy of The Hobbit on a stack by her feet and pointed at the row of number pairs on the whiteboard. “We have tested many books already, but without success.”
Bobby’s expression turned glum. “It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.”
“Well, I think it’s brilliant,” Heddy said gamely. “Let’s all help.”
As everyone selected a book and began searching for the page and word numbers on the whiteboard, hoping they’d spell out a comprehensible message, Charley opened the memorial box and pulled out Regan’s copy of The Acorn.
“I’m pretty sure this is the book from Berkeley’s drawing,” she said. “Book in a box? Four digits down the spine?”
“Did the killer sign it, by any chance?” Vanessa asked.
Charley smirked. “Sadly, no. But it’s more proof that many of her classmates didn’t like her very much.” She read a few of the veiled slams aloud. “See what I mean?”
“Never mind that.” Frankie handed her Katie’s cellphone. “Check this out.”
Charley peered at the image of a book stand with an ornately carved pedestal and base. Three deep shelves held oversized books that appeared to be world atlases from various time periods. The top surface was tilted with a deep ledge. On it sat a huge volume, at least eight inches thick. Charley couldn’t read the faded title on the worn burgundy cloth cover, but the right side was clearly visible. Every quarter inch or so the pages were carved out with half-moon indentations, the crescents spaced and arranged in a neat diagonal pattern that descended along the edge.
“You know what that is?” Frankie’s voice was taut with excitement. “That’s an old dictionary. Those holes are labeled with letters of the alphabet.”
Silence.
“In that episode of Sherlock,” Katie ventured slowly, “didn’t the book key turn out to be a reference book?”
“The A-Z London Street Atlas. A book so common it wouldn’t even be noticed.” Charley stood and began to pace. “Vanessa, you said that a teenage girl who needed to hide two books from her parents wouldn’t want to make things too complicated. What if one of them, the book key, was hidden in plain sight?”
“What if, indeed?” Vanessa’s eyes sparkled. “And remember what PJ said? To be effective, a book key needs to be something with tons of words, all the words you’d need to code your messages.”
Charley stepped over to the memorial box and pulled out the stack of photos. She shuffled through until she found the one she was looking for. “Where’s my magnifying glass?”
Afiya retrieved it from the mantelpiece. Charley took it and the photo to the window and examined the image closely. This shot, one of the ones taken through Regan’s bedroom window, showed the girl lying on her bed, chin resting on one hand as she flipped through a magazine. Against the wall behind her was a white-painted bookcase. And on the top shelf, nestled between copies of Silas Marner and The Sun Also Rises, sat a thick book with a brown cover. Heart pounding, Charley angled her glass and read the words stamped on the spine in gold: THE NEW WEBSTER ENCYCLOPEDIC DICTIONARY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.
Frankie’s cellphone buzzed with an incoming text. “Sharon says, ‘My mascara’s melting. Where are you guys?’ ” She stood. “Let’s not keep the coroner waiting, ladies.”
Afiya rose as well. “I believe I will come along this time. I quite regret missing all the earlier excitement.”
Charley thrust the photo at Katie. “New mission, if you choose to accept it. I think we’ve identified our book key!”
Chapter 15
As the five women descended the porch steps, a black Mercedes convertible pulled up to the curb. The top was down, and John Bright wore the half-sheepish, half-excited expression of a kid cutting school.
“Going my way, gorgeous?”
“Hiya, handsome!” Frankie skipped down the walk. “If your way includes tromping around a forty-year-old crime scene looking for clues, the answer is ‘Yes’!”
“The power went out in my building. We have no phones, no computers—no elevators, for that matter.” John grinned. “That means I get an afternoon off to see my favorite sleuths in action.”
“Glad to have you along, John.” Charley surveyed her little posse. “And not just because we need a second car. I have got to organize some transportation, pronto.”
They made the short trip to Smith Gardens and found Sharon Krugh’s lipstick red sports car parked out front. As they climbed from their vehicles, the carillon of nearby St. Paul’s Episcopal Church tolled the hour.
“Three on the dot.” Frankie held up her cellphone. “That’s how everyone kept time before they could check it on demand. Unless you wore a watch, which I never do in hot weather.”
“I love those bells,” Charley murmured, as the round, full tones faded away. “I can hear them at Old Hat. Knowing everyone else can hear them, too, makes me feel connected to the entire city.”
As she spoke, an errant thought tickled the back of her brain. But before she could pursue it, one of the city’s unmarked vehicles cruised up beside her, Paul Brixton at the wheel.
“This is quite a gathering,” he said. “Do I need to call out the riot squad?”
Charley laughed. “Not quite. We are reenacting Regan Fletcher’s murder.”
“Is that a fact?” Paul’s heavy black brows almost disappeared into his hairline. “After forty years, what do you hope to find?”
“When I find it,” she said, “I will let you know.”
Vanessa had hurried to the passenger side. She straightened, looking disappointed. “No sidekick tod
ay?”
“If you’re referring to Detective Cooper,” Paul said with a twinkle, “he is still on alternate duty.” The dash radio squawked. “Speak of the devil. Brixton here, over.”
Mitch’s voice announced, “Dispatch to Detective Brixton. Code Thirty-four B, Park Road at Ridgeway Road. What’s your twenty? Over.”
Paul’s eyes widened. “Thirty-four B? You sure, kid? Over.”
“I know the radio codes, Paul.” Mitch sounded annoyed, and Charley and Vanessa exchanged amused glances. “Units Four and Sixteen are securing the scene. Our ambulance unit is on its way.” There was a brief silence. “Want me to meet you there? Over.”
Paul considered a moment. “Sounds like we’ve got plenty of manpower, Coop. On my way, Brixton over and out.”
“Code Thirty-four B?” Charley asked. “What’s that?”vcc
“Auto accident with fatality,” Vanessa said promptly, then blushed. “Sorry. I’ve been studying up before classes start next month.”
“You’re quite right, young lady.” Paul frowned. “With traffic lights on the blink, we’ve had a fair amount of fender benders. But there’re no lights on that stretch.”
“It’s right by Houk Stream Park, isn’t it?” Charley pictured the lonely curve of road, the wooded public park on one side, thick trees screening the neighboring houses from view on the other. She stepped back. “You should get going.”
“First responders will have it handled. A detective on scene is just a formality for the insurance company report. Speaking of reports,” Paul went on, “my former partner tagged me about a certain reporter burgling your shop. It’s your business if you don’t want to press charges”—his tone reflected deep disapproval—“but I ran him through the system like Marcus asked. It turns out Berkeley Dye has a sheet. B and E at a factory, apparently trying to get evidence for some whistle-blower pollution story. Charges were dropped. A second arrest for violating a restraining order. He’d been stalking a witness for another story.”
“So he’s aggressive and none too picky about how he gets his information,” Vanessa muttered.
“Be careful around that character, that’s all I’m saying.” Paul saluted and drove off.
“Are you certain this reporter wasn’t your house burglar, too?” John asked. “Knowing Dye has priors definitely paints the guy in a much dimmer light.”
Charley shook her head. “He wasn’t lying about that. No, someone else broke into our house.”
“Where is Mr. Dye?” Afiya asked. “I thought he wished to help you to investigate.”
“Good question. He texted Marc over an hour ago,” Charley said. “Otherwise, Berkeley’s been AWOL since he called Harding around twelve-thirty.” She grimaced. “I hope he’s staying out of trouble.”
They stood before a black wrought iron gate mounted between two white stucco columns topped with miniature roofs made of orange Spanish tiles. A weathered bronze plaque read: SMITH MEMORIAL GARDENS/ALL ARE WELCOME/DAYLIGHT HOURS.
Three women in workout gear jogged past, chatting animatedly. A man in overalls emerged from a nearby driveway, dropped the tailgate on a pickup truck with a loud clang, and began unloading equipment, whistling as he worked. A trio of dogs in the yard across the street raced to the curb and stopped dead, barking furiously.
“Thank heaven for electronic fences,” John remarked. He unlatched the gate and stepped back. “After you, ladies.”
They passed through the gate and onto a brick path lined with a border of pink begonias. Pavers were inscribed with the names of donors to a recent fund drive. Lush plantings grew tall in ascending ranks, forming a fragrant green tunnel. The pathway jogged left, ascended two shallow steps, and then they were stepping inside a hidden gem of emerald lawns, spreading trees, and sparkling water.
“Beautiful,” Vanessa breathed. “I was expecting, like, a playground. What is this place?”
“Carlton and Jeanette Smith lived over there.” Charley pointed across the street to where a massive orange tile roof was visible above the tree line. “But they also owned this property. They started creating this garden in the 1920s. During the depths of the Depression, the Smiths invited friends and neighbors to visit and enjoy it, a real gift to the community when money for outings was scarce. They hosted picnics and musicales, and they kept expanding—collecting exotic plants, adding the pond, building the springhouse. Upon his death, Carlton gifted it to the city.”
Heddy held out her arms. “The Gardens are constantly changing, with different plants coming to flower each month. I visit as often as I can.”
“We must bring your father here, Charley,” Afiya said. She trailed a finger over the waxy white petals of an enormous daylily. “I, too, was unaware of this place. How wonderful.”
“This is where I proposed. It was the best day of my life. So far.” John laid a gentle hand on Frankie’s tummy as he kissed her, and she blinked away tears.
As they moved farther inside, Charley paused in surprise.
“Do you hear that?” At everyone’s blank expressions, she pointed back toward the entrance. “Those dogs. You can’t hear them in here. In fact, you can’t hear any neighborhood noises at all. It’s like there’s a cone of silence over the Gardens. I never noticed it before.”
“That is weird.” With a thoughtful expression, Vanessa turned in a circle. “We’re surrounded by trees. The land slopes down toward Houk Stream all along this part of West Oakwood. And it feels a lot more humid, as if the air is trapped. That could explain the odd sound-dampening effect.”
“It just adds to the magic of this place.” Heddy sighed with happiness.
The day was overcast and muggy, with yet another afternoon rainstorm in the forecast. Charley slipped off her shoes and reveled in the feel of soft grass beneath her bare feet. The sculpted beds were in full bloom, the air redolent with the scent of roses and lilacs. A few lazy white butterflies danced among a stand of purple phlox. An older woman held a young child by the hand, walking along the curving beds and patiently naming all the plants and flowers.
A small watercourse fashioned from rough stones meandered through the half-acre space. Cool, clear water gurgled and flowed, dropping down a series of small falls before spilling into a large pond, the focal point of the garden. Pink and white water lilies bobbed on its placid surface. On the far side stood a white stucco building about the size of a two-car garage, the wood window and door frames painted dark green, the roof covered with the same orange tiles as the main house and entry columns.
Beside the pond stood a petite woman in a sleeveless red linen dress. Her feet were also bare; red flats lay discarded on the lawn nearby. Thick honey blond hair hung loose around her shoulders, framing an intelligent face with large brown eyes, a pert nose, and a chin that hinted at the stubborn nature of its owner. Her generous mouth was outlined in lipstick the same fire engine shade as the dress and the sports car out front.
Sharon Krugh scowled at the sheaf of papers in her manicured hands. As the newcomers approached she glanced up, the scowl turning into a smile of pleasure and surprise.
“You brought out the cavalry, Charley. We’ve got the whole Mystery Club together after all.”
They exchanged greetings, and Frankie introduced John.
“Counselor.” As they shook hands, Sharon took in his compact, powerful frame and attractive features with evident approval. “Frankie says so many fabulous things about you, we were beginning to wonder if she was making you up.”
“Your reputation precedes you as well, Dr. Krugh.” John smiled. “Did the Crime Lab Building lose power, too?”
“No, thank the goddess. We’re on an independent power grid. Can you imagine a morgue without AC?” Apparently they all could, and at their expressions Sharon hurried on. “Well. In any case, I was glad for an excuse to skip out early. I can’t remember the last time I played ho
oky.”
Charley indicated the papers. “Is that Regan Fletcher’s autopsy report?”
“It is,” Sharon said, “as well as the relevant pages from the police report. Marc is certainly thorough. You’ve trained him well, girlfriend.”
“You don’t seem happy,” Heddy observed.
Sharon pursed her lips. “I just started reading, and already I’ve got problems.”
“Problems?” Frankie asked. “What’s wrong?”
“In a nutshell?” Sharon rattled the pages. “I cannot believe Carter Magellan was convicted based on this. Those hairs they found tangled in the victim’s bracelet? They didn’t have any root ends, so they couldn’t do a DNA match to Carter. ‘Consistent with the suspect’?” She blew a raspberry. “ ‘Class evidence’ means something is consistent, like dirt from a similar road, or hairs that look and feel the same. That’s as opposed to ‘individuating evidence,’ which is shown, either chemically, physically, or biologically, to be from precisely the same source.”
“Is that an important distinction?” Afiya asked.
“It sure is.” John frowned. “That difference can make or break a case when it comes to trial.”
Sharon nodded agreement. “In the seventies, forensics was a less precise discipline. Nowadays we can profile DNA without a root end, which is how they confirmed the guilt of that prisoner who confessed twenty years ago, Yousef McSomebody or other. But for the first trial, the prosecution stretched this hair evidence to the breaking point.”