by Leslie Nagel
She’d never get a better opening than that, she decided. “Then where were you yesterday when Sarah’s body was discovered?”
He flinched. “I went for a walk. The house smelled like shit.” Once again she got the feeling of strong emotions barely under control.
“Did the police question you? They were looking for you yesterday evening.”
Brandon barked a laugh. “They found me. Two deputies grabbed me off the street like they’d just arrested Al Capone. What idiots. I was, like, four blocks from here. You’d have thought—” He stopped abruptly, turning those unblinking eyes toward her. “You ask a lot of questions. Sarah said you were some kind of private investigator. Are you…” He swallowed hard and his body went rigid, as if bracing for a blow. “Are you going to find out who…killed her?”
Is that what she was doing here? Charley returned Brandon’s stare, uncertain of her answer. Hadn’t she just finished telling Frankie she didn’t intend to investigate Sarah’s murder? And yet, the moment a suspect had appeared, she’d vaulted over here like an Olympic gymnast, firing off questions and evaluating the responses, both verbal and physical, on her internal guilt-innocence meter.
This was a bad idea. She shouldn’t get involved, for all the reasons she’d laid out to Frankie. Sure, the crime’s proximity to her own home was alarming, and yes, she felt some responsibility toward Sarah. But that didn’t mean…
Then she pictured Pippo: that sweet face, those brown eyes watching Lawrence with such trust. The smaller twin. The one who wouldn’t talk. Why was that? And her brother Hank, equally innocent, equally defenseless against whatever crazy crap was going on here, inside this house that looked as normal as any other on Hawthorn Boulevard from the outside, but which teemed on the inside with hostility, secrets, and now, violent death.
And with that thought, she made up her mind.
“I don’t work with the police,” she said at last. “I’m not a licensed investigator, either.”
“That’s not an answer,” he said bluntly.
Charley folded her arms. “Fine. Did you hear anything?” she asked, equally bluntly. “Night before last, when Sarah was killed?”
He grinned, if a baring of teeth could be called by that name. “So, you are investigating. Good to know. Well, I will tell you what I told the mighty Sergeant Drummond. I went to my room after dinner and didn’t come out until the next day around one. My dad makes me wear headphones when I play video games so I don’t wake up the rug rats, and I fell asleep listening to music, so I didn’t hear anything. Period.”
Charley decided to go for broke. “Who do you think killed her, Brandon?” When he didn’t reply, she pressed on. “Do you think a stranger walked into your home in the middle of an upscale residential neighborhood, stabbed Sarah, stole nothing, and then left without making a sound or leaving a trace?”
“How the hell should I know?” Despite the bravado of his words, Brandon’s mouth began to tremble. As he stood there, something seemed to shift and give way. His shoulders slumped and he seemed all at once much younger than nineteen. “The cops think I did it,” he whispered. “I could tell. Deputies tore my room apart, took my shoes, some of my clothes. That Drummond guy implied…things. Sick shit about Sarah. About me. That bastard! Sarah wasn’t like that. She was good and kind and beautiful. She—” His face reddened and twisted into tearful rage.
Suddenly she understood the source of at least some of Brandon’s distress. “You and Sarah became close?” she asked gently. “In the few days you knew her?”
“She listened,” he said, choking on a sob. “Sh-she was the only person who ever cared about what I h-had to say. But I never touched her! I would never, I swear. Drummond is a fucking pervert.”
So that was Drummond’s theory of the case, Charley thought. It was a common enough story. But was it the truth? Brandon had developed feelings for Sarah. Had this awkward, lonely youth attempted to act on his crush and been repulsed? A spurned lover, enraged, grabbing something sharp and piercing the heart of the woman he could never have? Somehow, Charley couldn’t picture Brandon in the role.
“Where did you two talk?” she asked. “Were you ever down in the basement together?”
Brandon’s eyes bugged out even more than usual, exaggerating his deer-in-the-headlights expression. “Yeah. It was private down there. I was raiding the fridge that first night, and she asked if I wanted to hang out. My dad and I had argued at dinner. It was pretty obvious I wasn’t happy about being stuck here over spring break. We talked until after two in the morning,” he murmured, staring at his shoes, lost in the memory. “That first night, and the next two nights, too. It was awesome. She, like, totally got me. I’ve never really…you know.” He flushed.
While she wasn’t convinced of his innocence, Charley’s heart still went out to this lonely young man. “The police will interview you again,” she warned. “They’ll analyze the physical evidence, check alibis, talk to neighbors and coworkers. You were down there, so chances are you left trace evidence behind, or carried trace from Sarah’s carpet or furniture away on your shoes or clothing. They will keep coming at you, over and over, hammering at everything you say, until they believe they have enough to make an arrest. If you know anything about what happened, if you heard or saw anything, you need to tell them.”
“I didn’t hear anything!” he cried, but his eyes skittered away from hers, his words sounding more like a plea than a declaration of fact. He sniffed loudly and wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I, um, I have stuff to do. My father wants me to meet him at the hospital at three o’clock.”
As he went back inside, Charley called softly, “You should hire a lawyer, Brandon.” He paused without turning around. “And I’d like to help, too. If you’ll let me.” The door closed with a soft click. She sighed and returned to her front porch.
“I take it we’re investigating now?” Frankie’s tone was mild.
“You heard all that?” Charley asked, reclaiming her perch on the railing.
“We heard. He knows something,” Frankie said decisively. “Not about Pippo, but about the night Sarah was killed. He’s afraid.”
Charley nodded in agreement. “He saw or heard something that night. I suppose it could be guilt we’re seeing, but why would he kill her? It sounds like he was falling in love with her.”
“If that’s so, wouldn’t he want Sarah’s killer to be caught?” Afiya reasoned.
“Not necessarily,” Charley countered. “Love is a powerful motivator. But there are different kinds of love.”
“Remember what we were saying before? About Paxton’s temper?” Frankie asked. “It sounded to me like Brandon worships his dad and feels crappy that he’s such a disappointment. What if he overheard an argument between Paxton and Sarah? If Brandon thought his father had committed the murder, would he stay silent to protect him?”
“Now who’s speculating without a sliver of proof?” Nevertheless, Charley pondered Frankie’s words carefully. “It comes back to motive. Why would Paxton kill Sarah? Brandon seemed pretty adamant that Drummond’s theory of a sexual motive was out of the question.”
“Perhaps he’s unwilling to believe such a thing about his father,” suggested Afiya. “Or about the woman he loved.”
Charley scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to stimulate her brain cells. “It’s all conjecture. The only things we know for certain are that Sarah is dead, and Pippo Sharpe is a girl. Without more information, I can’t do anything about the first one, so let’s focus on the second. We need to talk about what we’re going to do.”
“Hold on.” Frankie sat up. “We haven’t even asked the most important question, and that’s why. Why is Judith hiding Pippo’s gender?”
“I disagree.” Afiya shook her head. “The important question right now is whether we should tell the police.”
“It might not have any bearing on the murder,” Charley protested.
“You’ve got a huge secret brewing in the middle of that family, then someone is killed, and you think there is no connection?” Afiya asked in disbelief.
“I didn’t say that.” Charley bit her lip. “But it’s not that simple. Marc’s not allowed to touch this case, and Drummond? He’s not exactly brimming with bedside manner. If he barges into Judith’s hospital room asking about her children, do you think she’s going to tell him anything?”
“If it leads to Sarah’s killer, of course she will.” But Afiya had begun to sound doubtful.
“Or she might not, if it implicates herself in some way,” Frankie decided. “Like I said, we need to consider why Judith is doing this. Still, Charley makes a good point. What if we tell Drummond, then he spills the beans to Paxton? That’s a hell of a way for the man to find out his son is a daughter. As reprehensible as Judith’s conduct is, is this our secret to tell?”
Charley hopped down and began to pace, a mind-clearing trick she’d picked up from Marc. “The way I see it, there are three main points to consider. First, whether or not Paxton knows about Pippo, Judith certainly does, so she’s definitely a liar. Second, if Sarah wrote that ‘Ask Jackie’ letter, Pippo must be the endangered child.”
Afiya held up a hand. “What letter is this?”
Charley opened the front door, slipped inside, and plucked the Oakwood Register off the hall table, then quietly closed the door again. While Afiya scanned the column, Charley explained her theory about the possible connection between the letter from “A Tortured Soul” and Sarah’s murder. “That’s the third point,” she emphasized. “Considering she was murdered hours after this letter appeared, odds are strongly in favor of a connection. If she’s the author, that is.” She huffed in sudden frustration. “The thing is, the authorities will search her laptop and recover anything that was deleted, but they won’t know what is or isn’t significant.”
“Neither will we,” Frankie pointed out, “since Marc’s not on the case. Which is all the more reason why we should investigate.”
“I’m afraid I disagree.” Afiya folded the paper. “Nothing is more important than protecting that child. I think we should tell the police and let them handle it.”
“Handle what?” Frankie spread her hands. “Pippo’s in no immediate danger. We have no idea if this gender thing has anything to do with the murder. If it doesn’t, then it’s none of their business. What Judith’s doing is messed up, but technically, it’s not a crime.”
Charley was torn. If Marc were investigating, she would trust him to handle such a delicate issue properly. As Frankie and Afiya continued arguing, she considered this aspect of her dilemma. Her own personal feelings aside, she certainly didn’t owe George Drummond anything. And as Frankie pointed out, withholding a fact that might not be relevant—just for a few hours—wouldn’t make or break this case. With that thought, she came to a decision.
“Okay,” she announced. “How about this? Pippo and Hank are safe enough for the next few hours, unless Lawrence feeds them to death. When Judith gets home, we’ll have a little chat and see what she’s got to say for herself.”
Afiya’s brown eyes flashed. “The woman had better have a good explanation. But I agree with this plan. We stay quiet for now.”
“Meanwhile,” Charley continued as she saw Frankie winding up to protest, “we try to gather as much information as we can. Knowing more about the Sharpe family can only help Pippo, particularly if we figure out Judith’s reason for this masquerade. And if it’s all connected, it might shed light on Sarah’s murder, too.”
Frankie popped up from her chair, eyes alight with excitement. “Therefore?”
“Therefore”—Charley smiled fondly at her friend’s boundless enthusiasm—“we go where the information is. We talk to someone who probably knows quite a bit about Sarah, Judith and Paxton, and possibly the twins as well.”
Frankie whipped out her cellphone. “I’m calling Cecilia right now.”
“Tell her we’d like to speak with Judith’s cousin Rachel as soon as possible. Within the hour, if she’s available.” Charley frowned. “I need to get back home and confront Judith before she can barricade herself in her house again. That is a conversation I have no intention of missing.”
Chapter 8
“If you’re right about everyone seeing me on the news last night, then this Rachel person will probably recognize me and slam the door in our faces.”
Charley smoothed down the modest ivory satin blouse and navy wool skirt she’d changed into in an attempt to look a bit more matronly. As a disguise, it felt woefully inadequate. “Matronly” wasn’t a look she’d ever cultivated before, and a preschool was even further out of her comfort zone. Talk about uncharted territory. In fact, she was beginning to rethink the wisdom of this entire scheme.
Frankie waved away her concerns as she studied her cellphone. “Nah, I bet she’ll be glad to talk to you and find out what happened to her…niece? Second cousin? And her name is Rachel Howard, by the way.” She handed her phone to Charley. “Her website says The Crayon Club opened eighteen years ago and has perfect safety ratings with the Board of Health and the Better Business Bureau. Five stars on Yelp, which is extra impressive when you take into account that half those ratings are from Cartolanos. A pickier pack of mothers never lived, believe me.”
Charley swiped through a gallery of photos. Children laughed, played, finger-painted, and generally appeared happy as little clams. A few images included a dark-haired woman of about thirty. “Eighteen years? If that’s a recent picture of Rachel Howard, she must’ve been pretty young when she launched her business.”
“She was twenty,” Frankie replied. “Bella enrolled Dante Jr. the second year the school was open. Rachel had just found out she was pregnant, and her husband was overseas, so several of the moms got together and donated maternity clothes, baby clothes, all kinds of gear to help out.” Her expression turned grave. “Mike Howard was killed in Afghanistan shortly after she gave birth. He never got to see his son.”
Charley gasped. “That’s horrible!”
“Rachel closed the school for months, despite a ton of offers of help from the mothers of her students. She obviously bounced back, but it’s still an American tragedy,” Frankie murmured, “and some would say a senseless one, in the global scheme of things.”
As they contemplated this difficult truth, a dusty blue minivan pulled up to the curb. The passenger window rolled down, the driver already talking a mile a minute.
“Sorry that took so long; I had Elena in the tub when you called. Hi, Charley! Remember me? I’m Cecilia. Great to see you again. It’s been a couple of years. One of Mama Cartolano’s dinner mob scenes, I think?”
“Yes, we—” Charley began.
“Goodness, you’re more beautiful than ever, certainly more so than in your newspaper photos. And of course, last night on TV, well. The worst lighting ever, am I right? You’ll have to sit in back, Frankie, or Elena will scream bloody murder.”
Cecilia was just as Frankie had described: pretty and buxom, with straight black hair, blunt bangs, and a wide, sunny smile. As she chattered away, the rear passenger door slid open as if by magic. A little dark-haired girl with black eyes and rosy chipmunk cheeks was ensconced in a padded car seat. The moment she glimpsed Frankie, she squealed in delight and held out chubby arms. Frankie rolled her eyes at Charley in mute apology and climbed in back.
“Hey, punkin,” she chirped. “Aunt Frankie missed you.”
Cecilia laughed merrily as she swept the front passenger seat clear. Fast-food wrappers, stray French fries, a coloring book, a cup with a spouted lid, and assorted toys cascaded onto the floor, joining a sprinkling of Cheerios and other junk.
“This van is literally an extension of my kitchen,” she declared. “Climb aboard.
Oh, you might want to keep your purse on your lap. My husband was eating a salad in here last night, and he sort of lost track of its whereabouts. Ranch dressing, you know? I figure eventually the smell will lead me to it.”
Charley smiled bravely and took the proffered seat. She swung her legs inside the van and, grateful she’d opted against open-toed shoes, placed her sensibly shod feet gingerly on the pile of things on the floor. The moment she shut her door, Cecilia pulled away from the curb.
“We don’t exactly have an appointment, but I told Rachel’s helper we’d be there before eleven. That’s when she starts prepping the children’s lunch, so it’s awkward to arrive— Oh!” Cecilia exclaimed. “We should work out our cover story, right? I mean, this is a clandestine mission behind enemy lines.” She pulled up to the stop sign and turned to examine Charley with a critical eye. “Nobody’s going to mistake you for a nanny, so that idea’s out the window. I suppose we could always claim—”
Charley held up a hand to stem the flow. “I’m not going to lie,” she said firmly. “We’re going to let you do most of the talking. Frankie says you knew Sarah in high school.”
“I sure did.” The sun slipped behind a cloud. “It’s just so sad. I mean, I haven’t seen Sarah in years, but we were pretty friendly back then. She didn’t have anyone else to talk to, you know? I used to fix her hair, let her borrow my lipstick. I couldn’t do anything about those hideous, shapeless dresses, but we’d doll her up a little in the girls’ restroom before school.” The sunny smile returned. “Her mom would’ve had a cow! And I’m still trying to remember that boy’s name, the one I told you about, Frankie. Something to do with food, I think. Chip? Kale?”
“Meat Loaf?” Frankie deadpanned.
Cecilia giggled. “Now, that I would’ve remembered! No worries, it’ll come to me. Wait until your little one gets here, honey. You won’t be able to remember your own name.”