by Leslie Nagel
Marcus Trenault had arranged the purchase and outfitting of the van, surprising her with its iconic Scooby-Doo motif, a touching show of support by her sweet and sexy detective for her amateur sleuthing. But the plan was to reimburse him the moment Charley received the insurance payout. It had been over sixty days. Shouldn’t she have seen that check by now? She promised herself she’d look into it this afternoon, filing the thought away as she continued trying to identify the source of her apprehension.
She sniffed the air, remembering a story about a late-night house fire that had been discovered in the nick of time by a sleepless neighbor with a sharp nose. No smoke, but…There was a hint of something on the breeze, a tinge of rot, of sweet decay that might’ve been a ripe garbage can, or perhaps an animal that hadn’t survived the winter and now lay decomposing under someone’s porch, existence revealed by the first thaw of the season. Not pleasant, but hardly toxic. She sniffed again. The odor had already dissipated, gone without a trace. It might’ve been anything. Probably just someone getting a jump on mulching their flower beds, she decided.
Shrugging off her disquiet as the product of a week’s worth of sleep deprivation, she crossed the yard and headed up the street. Charley had elected to walk the dozen blocks to Old Hat this morning. Anticipation put a spring in her step as she strode along the familiar sidewalks in her jeans and light jacket, waving to neighbors and soaking up the pale sunshine like a slender flower emerging from a long winter. This first meeting was a highlight of her day, one she had no intention of missing.
The fiery destruction of Mulbridge House and the murder of her friend Calvin this past February had taken their toll. In the wake of that terrible investigation and its shocking conclusion, Charley had decided life was too precious and too damned uncertain to allow a single “what-if” to slip through her fingers. Bolstered by numerous reassurances from friends and family that she wasn’t out of her mind, she’d temporarily shuttered her vintage clothing business and begun massive renovations to expand her retail offerings to include upscale wedding and baby gifts and apparel. She’d already settled on the perfect name for her newly imagined venture: Old Hat New Beginnings. The name felt like a promise. Day by day, tackling fresh challenges obliged Charley to move past the horrors of a friend’s violent death and focus with optimism on the future.
She’d established a delightful early-morning routine of meeting with Dale Penwater, her general contractor. They would tour the project together, assessing the previous day’s progress, dealing with the questions, problems, and surprises inherent in ripping into an old building, and discussing plans for the day ahead.
This day, however, had plans of its own. The sight that greeted her as she stepped through her shop’s bright green door had all of her good feelings draining away like a tubful of dirty dishwater. As she surveyed the carnage, Charley Carpenter understood for the first time how someone could contemplate murder.
A temporary worktable constructed of plywood and sawhorses had apparently collapsed overnight, dumping several buckets of paint onto the concrete subfloor. At least four of the buckets had burst open on impact, geysering gallons of viscous peach-colored liquid over bare, unprimed drywall. A collection of cardboard crates containing ceramic floor tiles had been generously splashed with paint, as had the pile of long wooden trim pieces stacked in a corner, awaiting installation around baseboards and doorways.
“What the hell happened?” Charley knew her tone sounded accusatory, but at the moment she didn’t really give a damn. The headache that had begun to recede during her walk came roaring back.
Dale Penwater was several inches shorter than Charley, compact and wiry in the manner of men whose lives have been spent on hard work and few luxuries. His was one of those ageless faces, weathered and creased, with bright blue eyes under bushy gray eyebrows, eyes that saw everything and gave little away. He had a habit of pausing before responding to any question. When he finally spoke, each word was well chosen and to the point. Busy men, he seemed to imply, had no time for idle chitchat.
Charley had never seen him lose his temper, but she could tell Penwater was angry now. He stood with arms tightly folded, steel-toed boots planted wide, strong jaw flexing. As usual, he skipped the obvious and cut to the chase.
“Lost over five hundred dollars of custom-tinted paint,” he said shortly. “Tile in those boxes is mostly undamaged. We’ll need to scrape the subfloor, clean and seal that wall before we can prime. Same with the trim.”
Time and money, she thought grimly. “How long will this set us back?”
Penwater grunted. “A day, maybe two.” He glanced at her sideways. “This time.”
And there it was. The same suspicion Charley had been flirting with for weeks but hadn’t yet dared to put into words.
This was no accident.
Her project had been plagued by a series of “mishaps” almost from the very beginning. Lost equipment turning up days later, materials delivered to the wrong address, a mysterious electrical outage that shut down the job for two days, the discovery of a live corn snake inside one of the demolished walls—that last one had required a costly visit from a specialty exterminator. The idea that she’d been cohabiting with a snake for the last three years still gave Charley the heebie-jeebies.
“You think it was deliberate.” She spoke softly, though none of Penwater’s work crew were in sight at the moment. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. All the delays, the accidents? I mean, no one’s luck is this bad.”
“Mine surely isn’t,” Penwater said sourly. “In thirty-nine years, I’ve never…” He scowled. “I run a safe jobsite, Miss Carpenter. Always have. I send my men home, then I personally make sure the site is cleaned up and squared away. Equipment powered off, materials secured.”
“No sign of a break-in?” she asked.
“This is a construction site, not Fort Knox. You’ve got four points of entry now, and I haven’t installed any of the upgraded hardware yet.” He waved a hand, taking in the arched opening to their left.
As a key part of her ambitious expansion, Charley had leased the vacant shop next door, doubling her retail space. The departure of the former tenant just after the New Year had been an added impetus to her plans. It meant more financial risk, but also more potential reward. It also meant she now had to secure two front doors as well as two rear exits. Penwater concluded, “Nothing was forced open, at least as far as I can tell. But if a bunch of damned kids want inside a place, they’ll figure out how to weasel their way in.”
Charley was shaking her head even before he stopped speaking. “I don’t think kids are doing this, Dale. Paint? What teenager could have resisted the urge to write something in all that? We haven’t got so much as a smiley face.”
“Maybe they were interrupted and took off before they could finish what they started.”
“Maybe.”
She’d been reluctant to voice the idea of sabotage, as if putting it into words would make it true. Now that the idea was out there, she felt an odd sense of relief, as though acknowledging the possibility finally gave her permission to tackle the situation head-on. She was also royally pissed. Someone was screwing with her, and she intended to find out who. And why.
For the first time, Charley assessed the space like a crime scene. It was a skill she’d had reason to cultivate in recent months. She glanced around, noting the expensive power equipment set up against one wall. “It’s pretty clear theft isn’t the motive,” she began. “Nothing’s ever been stolen, and there’s plenty in here worth taking. For that matter, none of the damage has actually been that serious. Mostly, it’s just cost us time. It’s almost as if…” She paused, startled at this new idea. “It’s as if someone wants this project to drag on without actually halting the work. Who would benefit from that?”
“Benefit?” Penwater removed one of his vast collection of John Deere caps
and smoothed neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper hair as he considered her question. After the requisite pause he said slowly, “The client—you—puts down a third in cash up front for materials. But I don’t get paid in full until the job’s complete.” He resettled his hat. “That means neither do my men, beyond a basic draw for living expenses. It’s not like I’m paying them by the hour.”
“So, none of your people,” Charley agreed. Her mind sorted through possibilities. “How about enemies? Competitors? Anyone like that?”
Before he could respond, they were joined by a young man entering through the archway. He wheeled a large trash bin filled with equipment. Parking it well clear of the now mostly dried lake of spilled paint, he began unloading supplies that included rags, scrapers, cleaning fluid, and a squeegee.
“Duncan and I will handle the cleanup. If we hit it hard, we’ll be able to apply sealer today so it can dry overnight. The fumes are pretty strong, so once we—” Penwater’s cellphone rang. “Flooring crew. Got to tell them not to bother coming by.” As he stepped away to take the call, Charley turned toward the new arrival.
“Good morning, Duncan. Looks like you’re stuck with another rescue mission.”
He glanced up, dreamy brown eyes widening in surprise. “Rescue mission? I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t—”
Charley grinned. “Relax. It’s a compliment.” She indicated the graceful archway that would connect the two halves of her new business. “You’re kind of my hero.”
“I’m no hero.” He stood in plaid work shirt and faded jeans, gazing at the fourteen-foot opening with shy pride. “But yeah, she turned out real good, didn’t she?”
Duncan had shown up at the jobsite on the first day, looking for work. He was a few years older than Charley, from the Dayton area although not from Oakwood. Tall and gangly, with a short, soft beard and long brown hair pulled back into a neat tail under the ubiquitous ball cap, he’d quickly graduated from sweeping floors to assisting subcontractors with a variety of tasks, demonstrating a surprisingly broad skill set. When Penwater’s regular carpenter balked at Charley’s request for the custom archway, Duncan had waited until everyone went to lunch. Then he’d simply begun framing it in on his own. Dale had taken one look at the work and fired his carpenter on the spot, hiring Duncan full-time.
“You gave me exactly what I wanted. That’s a rare talent.” Charley’s smile turned rueful as she indicated the spilled paint. “I’d better leave you to it.”
As she prepared to retreat, he cleared his throat. “Ma’am? This is for you.”
He dropped a small object into her palm, and Charley gasped with pleasure. “You made this?” In her hand lay a carved wooden giraffe, about four inches long, perfect in every detail. The finely grained wood had been rubbed with oil until it gleamed, highlighting an impish grin that was most ungiraffelike. “Duncan, it’s wonderful! How did you know I love giraffes?”
He lifted a shoulder, indicating the rear storeroom. “You’ve got those four big toy ones all Bubble Wrapped and stashed on the highest shelf, like they’re real important to you.”
“So I do, and so they are.” Since she’d found the papier-mâché quartet at an estate sale two years ago, Harpo, Chico, Groucho, and Zeppo had become so much more than the foundation of her distinctive window displays. To Charley, they symbolized both her unique business vision and her independent spirit. She touched Duncan’s sleeve. “Thank you.”
His face lit with a smile that transformed every feature. It occurred to her that this was the first time she’d ever seen him smile. In fact, she noted, the normally taciturn young man was practically glowing this morning. “You’re surely welcome.” He hesitated. “Ma’am, I wanted to ask if you know—”
Charley’s cellphone blared, an obnoxious three-tone combo that signaled an imminent appointment. “Excuse me a sec.” She yanked it from her hip pocket and checked the display. “I’ve got to bounce. It’s bad form for the boss to be late.” She tucked the phone away. “You were saying?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Duncan’s smile faded as he took up the squeegee. “Have a good day.”
Charley frowned at the peach-colored mess. Her head throbbed. “I think that ship has sailed,” she muttered.
Penwater waited for her by the door. He jerked his chin to indicate the spilled paint. “You going to call the cops? I hear you have some connections over there.”
“A few.” Charley glanced across Park Avenue toward the French provincial façade of the Oakwood Safety Building. Her gaze rested on a pair of second-story windows that housed the detective section, temporarily down a man. Her man, she thought with a pang, wishing Marcus Trenault were here with her now, instead of doing God knew what in Chicago. “Not much point in having them examine the scene, but a few stepped-up patrols wouldn’t hurt.” Anger flared anew at the necessity. “Whoever’s doing this—if there is a someone—they’re sneaking in at night. They’d better hope I don’t catch them.”
Penwater held the door, a not-so-subtle hint that it was time to get back to work. “See you tomorrow.”
As he ushered her outside into the sunshine, Charley cast a final backward glance into her beloved shop. Even in its present disarray, the potential was obvious. Her hand closed around Duncan’s gift.
Was this sabotage? If so, what was the motive? Did someone have something against small businesses in general? Unlikely, since nobody else on this charming street of shops and offices had been targeted.
Perhaps their theoretical saboteur’s grudge was personal. Charley didn’t exactly keep her head down, but she couldn’t think of anyone who wished her harm. No one who wasn’t behind bars, that is.
She decided that as soon as Marc got back from Chicago she’d tell him about the sabotage and ask him to arrange those extra patrols. She’d let the police do what they did best. And she’d do what she did best. She’d keep one ear to the ground and both eyes wide open.
As she headed back up Park Avenue, she reflected that there was a bright side. After the morning she’d had, this day couldn’t get any worse.
Chapter 2
Charley retraced her route, covering the dozen blocks between work and home at a rapid pace that verged on a jog. She was determined to recapture her earlier good spirits. Turning the corner onto Hawthorn Boulevard, she smiled when she spied the shiny red motorcycle and ancient wood-paneled station wagon that were now parked at the curb. Let the meeting come to order.
Since she was running late, Charley bypassed the front steps and headed for the side entrance. Baking smells beckoned from within. She walked beneath a white wooden portico and pulled open the storm door, its top half newly fitted with a screen panel to admit fresh air when the inner door was propped open. As she did so, she noticed that its twin across the driveway also stood open, access to the shadowy interior similarly blocked by a screen door. It appeared the Sharpes were taking full advantage of the spring weather, too.
She could hear pots banging around in the kitchen, up a short flight of steps and to her right.
“It’s me!” she called. “Heading down to the Bat Cave.”
Lawrence stuck his head around the doorjamb. “Take these with you. Brain food.” He winked and handed her a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
“At the rate you’re spoiling me and my staff, I might never be able to move my office back to the shop,” she declared.
“Fine by me,” he quipped as he disappeared. “Lunch at noon sharp. I’ve already invited the ladies.”
Of course he had.
Charley followed the sound of feminine laughter down the steep wooden steps that led into the basement. “Better late than never, people. And I come bearing gifts.”
Maintaining wheelchair access for her father meant the Carpenter family home needed to stay as clutter-free as possible. Bobby didn’t mind a mess, but Lawrence had much stri
cter standards. Charley hadn’t fully anticipated the scope of work required to reinvent and relaunch her business. Her office at Old Hat was unusable for the duration, so as the catalogs, employment resumes, purchase orders, and other assorted paper associated with the renovation began to bury the dining room table, an alternative space had been urgently required.
It was Heddy Jones, Old Hat’s second in command, who suggested repurposing the Carpenters’ unfinished lower level. She had anticipated what was needed and, aided by Charley’s other employee, Vanessa St. James, helped her boss to set things up and keep the project organized and on schedule. Heddy was amazing. Had it not been for her loyal support these past three years, Charley reflected, it was doubtful whether Old Hat would have survived.
She found Heddy and Vanessa drinking coffee and looking quite cozy together. Her new “office” had been furnished with odds and ends encountered at various estate and garage sales. Charley attended these in pursuit of vintage clothing and accessories, but sometimes you stumbled on a treasure that just grabbed you and wouldn’t let go.
The space held an elaborately carved desk, a square worktable painted green and surrounded by four mismatched wooden chairs, a sagging but sinfully comfortable armchair, and a bronze floor lamp shaped like a mermaid. A trio of utility lights clamped to exposed ceiling joists compensated for the lack of natural daylight. Charley had covered the whitewashed cement walls with diagrams and sketches showing proposed traffic flows and interior arrangements for the new shop. A wrought-iron plant stand held a printer, office supplies, and a coffeemaker. With a whiteboard containing an ever-evolving to-do list, plus the piles of books and papers marching in neat stacks across both desk and table, the Bat Cave had developed a war room feel Charley loved.
“You’re just in time, boss.”
Vanessa lounged in the armchair, long legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. Her older brother Dmitri was one of Charley’s closest friends, and since moving to town a few months ago, this eighteen-year-old force of nature had fit into Charley’s circle of intimates like a hand into a calfskin glove. It often seemed to Charley that Vanessa deliberately avoided drawing attention to her stunning looks, and today was no exception. Baggy dark green trousers and an ancient long-sleeved T-shirt camouflaged the lithe frame of a long-distance runner. Thick glossy black hair had been carelessly braided. She had the flawless olive complexion and regal bone structure of a Mediterranean princess, her beautiful face free of any trace of makeup. Vanessa grinned at Heddy, huge, liquid brown eyes full of mischief. “Read that letter again.”