by Leslie Nagel
Mitch added, “Not to mention the fact that, as a material witness in a homicide investigation, you were attempting to flee the jurisdiction against Sergeant Drummond’s express orders.”
“Please.” Brandon sniffed loudly and sat up straight. “I can’t go to jail. My dad would kill—” He clamped his mouth shut as all the blood drained from his face.
“Interesting turn of phrase,” Charley decided. “Has your father taken up killing people lately?”
“No!” he wailed, but even he didn’t sound convinced. “I don’t know anything. But I know my dad didn’t kill Sarah.”
“That’s just it, Brandon.” Charley eased a hip onto the game table. “You know plenty, and if you want to help both yourself and your dad stay out of jail, you need to start talking. Let’s begin with that little paint job at Old Hat last night. That was you, correct?”
“I heard two deputies talking about how Duncan was looking good for the murder, but the victim’s stepfather was second on their list.” Brandon blinked back more tears. “I just wanted them to leave my dad alone.”
After sincere thanks and a promise from Charley that she’d explain everything soon, Allen and the other gamers had vamoosed. Vanessa had remained. She leaned against the door frame, arms tightly folded.
“He’s fine, in case you’re wondering.” Her voice cut like glass, and Brandon winced. “The man you attacked. Or do you even care?”
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “He came in just as I was leaving. I panicked.” Vanessa made a disgusted sound and glared until Brandon dropped his eyes to his shoes.
“How did you know painting graffiti inside my shop would incriminate Oliver?” Charley asked.
“I signed his initials,” Brandon mumbled. “He worked there. It wasn’t a stretch.”
“Maybe not, but of all the things you could’ve done, you chose that particular method.” Marc watched Brandon closely. “Did you think the police wouldn’t fall for another bogus anonymous tip?”
Brandon glanced up, startled. “What are you talking about? I never called in any tip. Like I said, I don’t know—”
“Cut the crap,” Charley snapped. “You overheard Oliver and Sarah talking the night she was stabbed, didn’t you? You were eavesdropping the entire time. It’s the only way you could’ve known about the paint.”
For a long moment it seemed that Brandon would deny it. He clenched his jaw as his eyes shifted between Charley, Marc, and Mitch. The three of them stared back, an implacable wall. At last he slumped in defeat.
“I was about to go down the stairs. Sarah and I had been talking every night. She and
I—” Brandon gulped air. “I heard voices, so I stopped and listened. Later I knew it would be the perfect way to frame that dickwad Duncan. I’d finally gotten up the nerve to tell her how I felt about her, when he showed up and ruined everything.”
Charley felt a surge of triumph. One piece of the puzzle slid into place.
“I understand.” Marc nodded sympathetically. “You heard Sarah confessing her love for another man. That must have been devastating. That’s why you wanted to point the finger at Oliver Duncan. Because Sarah loved him instead of you.” Brandon hung his head, his face red with shame. Marc continued, “And that’s why you killed her.”
“What?” Brandon’s eyes went wide with panic. “No!”
“Yes,” Marc insisted, any hint of sympathy long gone. “You were furious. You waited until Oliver left. Then, in a jealous rage, you stormed down those steps and stabbed the woman who had just rejected you.”
“Stop! That’s not what happened!”
Charley leaned in. “Then what did happen, Brandon? After having your heart ripped out, do you expect us to believe you just went back to bed?”
“I, um, yeah.” He flushed anew.
“Wow. So you left.” She took a deep breath. “Where was Pippo when you gave her the monkey? On the stairs? In the kitchen?”
He stared, mouth slack. “Monkey? Is this some kind of joke? I didn’t see any animals, or Pipsqueak, either. Judith puts the rug rats to bed really early.” Charley decided his words had the ring of truth. Temporarily stymied, she was groping for a follow-up question when his next statement nearly knocked her flat. “I waited until Duncan left. I thought about going down and trying to talk to Sarah anyway. But when the other person showed up, I gave up and went back to my room. I logged back into my game and zoned out.”
Marc jerked upright. “Other person? Male or female? Did you see them? Recognize the voice? Was it Paxton?” Brandon shrank back into the sofa as Marc peppered him with questions. “No more lies, Brandon. Two women are dead.”
Brandon cowered, terrified. “T-two women?”
“Your stepmother was stabbed last night,” Mitch stated, “shortly after you attacked Dale Penwater. I don’t suppose you have an alibi for the thirty or so minutes following your commission of felony assault and property damage?”
“Sweet Jesus.” Brandon wrung his hands. “I was so scared after I hurt that old man. I wandered around for hours, then crashed on somebody’s patio glider until dawn, a house on Dellwood, I think. Some kids were shooting baskets at Orchardly Park when I was out walking the other day. They mentioned this place, so I hung around until it opened at eleven. But my dad, he wouldn’t hurt Judith. He wouldn’t.” He met Marc’s gaze with bloodshot eyes. “I swear to you. I heard someone else go down the stairs, but it wasn’t my dad. He’s big, like me. I thought at first it was him. That’s why I went back upstairs. I ran away last night because I was freaking out that maybe he killed Sarah, but now I’m sure it wasn’t him. This person was smaller, they hardly made any noise, they—” His eyes bulged. “I just remembered! I was almost to the kitchen, and Sarah said something. She said, ‘What are you doing here?’ Just like that, like she was surprised to see the person. If it was my dad, she wouldn’t say it like that, would she?”
Shocked silence. After nearly half a minute, Charley managed, “Clearly, that was not Oliver returning.”
“Agreed. But if we believe this kid”—Marc eyed Brandon—“and God help me, but I actually do, it must’ve been Grand Central Station on those basement stairs and in that kitchen. First Oliver, then our buddy Brandon here, then this mystery person—who may or may not resemble a tree troll—then Pippo.”
“As improbable as that seems, it is possible, especially if I’m correct.” Although the more Charley learned, the less fantastic her new theory seemed. “Brandon’s statement will prove Sarah was alive when Oliver left her that night. Will Drummond listen?”
“He’d better.” Marc turned to Mitch. “I suggest you lock Brandon up, for his own protection. Also, you should call Zehring now. Let him contact Sergeant Drummond. Make sure the Chief understands the kid was trying to skip town.”
“I’ll leave your name out of it, shall I?”
“Good call. And good work, Coop.” Marc narrowed his eyes. “If a bit off the reservation. Don’t make a habit of it.”
Mitch glowed with pride. “Yes, sir. No, sir.”
As he led Brandon to the door, Vanessa stepped forward. “Nice work all around, am I right?” Her dark eyes sparkled. “I’d say we make a great team, Officer Cooper.”
Mitch stopped short. “Miss St. James, you say you want to be a police officer? You need to learn self-control. Your conduct today was reckless and unnecessary. I had this.”
Vanessa stiffened, the warmth in her eyes turning to ice. “Self-control? Is that all you have to say to me?” She shoved him hard in the center of his chest. “I’ll show you self-control, Mitch Cooper.” She spun on her heel and marched out, leaving Mitch standing flat-footed and openmouthed.
“Dude, even I know that was a massive fail,” Brandon muttered.
“Shut up.” Mitch gripped his arm and hustled him out the door.
Marc chuckled.
“That kid has a lot to learn.”
“Those two.” Charley shook her head. “Speaking of learning, I have one last interview to conduct. If it goes the way I think it will, I’ll finally have the proof we need to force a confession.”
“How long will that take?”
Charley blinked up at him. “How long? I suppose that depends on how persuasive I am.”
“Excellent.” Marc stepped closer. “Since you and I both know you can be very persuasive, that leaves most of the next four days until the Oakwood Register comes out.” He traced her bottom lip with his thumb, then twirled one of Charley’s thick red curls around his finger and tugged. Their eyes met, and her stomach filled with butterflies. “Your shop is closed, and I’m unemployed. What on earth are we going to do for the next four days?”
“What, indeed?” She linked her arms around his neck. “I’d better pack my hairbrush.” His brows rose, and she smiled.
Chapter 23
Dear Jackie: History is full of people who did the wrong thing—sometimes a truly terrible thing—for what they believed were the right reasons. The most common excuse? Duty. Unspeakable acts have been blamed on the call of duty: a duty to God, to country, to family.
Doing your duty is a fine thing, but is it the only thing? Do the ends justify the means? In a few rare cases, yes, they just might. But when those means to an end are the taking of innocent lives? What happens when the call of duty lures someone into doing the unspeakable? Can we turn our backs on justice? I say no. Murder is, and has always been, where I draw the line.
The dead deserve justice, and in the present circumstances, it’s looking like I may be the only person who can get it for them. I know the truth, and I’ve got proof, if I can get anyone to listen.
My question for you, Jackie, is this: Am I bound to reveal what I’ve learned in order to find justice for the dead, even if doing so destroys the security and happiness of a defenseless child? Does the end—justice for two dead women—justify those tragic means? Please answer soon; an innocent man’s life hangs in the balance. One way or another, I’ve got to act soon.
Signed, Another Tortured Soul
Dear Tortured: Duty is not a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card. If someone does the crime, regardless of their motives, they should do the time. As a rule I advocate steering clear of family drama, but occasionally exceptions must be made. Let your conscience be your guide, and good luck.
Chapter 24
A few minutes before midnight, Charley sat alone at the square worktable in her basement office. The only illumination came from the mermaid lamp in the corner and from a pillar candle near her elbow. It scented the air with vanilla and cast a golden light over her face and onto the papers she was examining, papers which included that afternoon’s edition of the Oakwood Register, folded open to the farewell installment of “Ask Jackie.” Otherwise the room lay in shadow, utterly dark except for a tiny red light blinking steadily from the blackness below the stairs. The inner side door stood open; a warm breeze drifted down the basement steps through the screen panel of the storm door, which was latched but not locked. No other lights burned in the Carpenter home this night, a sure sign that its other occupants were asleep.
The air stirred ever so slightly. The candle flame wavered as the storm door opened and closed noiselessly on newly oiled hinges. A shadowy figure, hooded and cloaked like a tree troll from a children’s story, crept silently down the wooden stairs. As small feet wearing soft-soled shoes reached the bottom tread, a knife flashed dully in the dim light. The figure hesitated, seemed to gather itself as if to spring, but then froze as Charley broke the silence.
“Fifteen years ago, two women stand before a probate judge,” she began in a conversational tone. “One is Mary Weller, a respected midwife who has stood witness for dozens of Certificates of Live Birth during her many years of practice. The other woman holds a tiny baby. She presents herself as the mother of the child, but this is a lie. Mary Weller is a party to the deception. In fact, she is the primary architect, acting from her own twisted sense of duty.”
The figure stirred and descended the final step, the deep hood keeping the face hidden. Charley selected one of the papers from the pile in front of her.
“Three days ago, I went to visit Mary Weller. Danny Howard told me the name of the nursing home his grandma moved to after her husband’s death. She confessed everything.” Charley held up the document. “This is a copy of the Certificate of Live Birth, showing the two witnesses required by law. The first is Mary Weller. The second witness is her daughter, Rachel Weller Howard.”
A long silence, marked only by the flickering candle flame. Then: “What of it?” The voice from beneath the hood was dismissive. “My son was born at home.”
“A fact,” Charley said, “that you neglected to mention. With your tale of woe about the supposed medical problems resulting from his premature birth, you strongly implied he’d been born in a hospital. But Judith told me ‘all the Weller children’ had home births. You didn’t want me connecting Danny’s birth with your mother. Also, you lied about the date. You told me Danny was born Christmas Eve. You gave birth that night, at your mother’s home, that’s true. But your baby girl was stillborn.”
The figure gasped, the sound full of a pain long carried, never forgotten, but Charley forced herself to press on.
“Because your husband was overseas in a combat zone, you decided to keep the terrible news a secret, to spare him grief that might distract him and place him in even more danger. Your mother agreed, somewhat reluctantly. She filled out a certificate”—Charley lifted another paper—“but never filed it with the court. She and your father buried that little girl on their farm in an unmarked grave. You came back home to Oakwood to grieve in private. Then, just a few days later, Sarah showed up, pregnant and afraid. Of course, Mary took her in. Judith was trying to get Sarah to give up her baby for adoption, but Sarah was waffling, unsure whether she should tell Oliver about the child he’d fathered and let him have a say in its fate. And then the unthinkable happened.” Charley touched another paper. “Four days after Sarah arrived at the farm, you received word that your husband had been killed in Afghanistan. In the span of a few weeks, you lost everything.”
“Everything. It wasn’t fair!” Rachel brandished the knife as she stepped to her right. Charley scrambled to her feet, speaking faster now, moving to keep the table between them.
“No, it wasn’t fair. You’d done nothing to deserve that double tragedy. You were Mary’s only child, and your baby girl would’ve been her first grandchild. She loved her grandniece Sarah, but she felt her first duty was to you, her own daughter, as well as to that unborn child. She’d presided over a lot of illegitimate births over the years, but here was a chance to create a happy ending. Who would make a better mother? Who deserved that opportunity more? Certainly not a shy, awkward girl who didn’t even have a high school diploma.”
“She wasn’t fit to be a mother. She hadn’t earned that right. We had a duty to the child.”
Charley shook her head. “That wasn’t your call to make. Nevertheless, the three of you made it. You hatched a plan. You waited, you watched, and then, after Sarah gave birth, Judith and Mary told her that her baby girl had died.”
Rachel lifted her head, allowing the hood to fall back, her eyes two black holes in a face jagged with shadow, the knife steady in her hand as she slowly circled the table.
“Sarah didn’t steal any money,” Charley continued, moving around the table in counterpoint. “The idea of her as a thief contradicted everything else I’d been told about her, but it was just one small lie among so many others. After Sarah recovered, Mary gave her that money, encouraging her to go away and start a new life. Sarah had to leave and she had to stay away, at least for a while, in order for your plan to work. You took that baby as your own.”
“She shouldn’t have
come back,” Rachel said flatly.
“You took that baby,” Charley repeated. “Sarah gave birth to a healthy boy in late May. You brought the baby home to Oakwood and kept a low profile. Frankie said your preschool stayed closed for months after you gave birth, despite all the offers of help.”
Rachel stepped to her right; Charley did the same. “I couldn’t let them see Danny. Those mothers, I couldn’t fool them all.”
“Then”—Charley’s voice was relentless—“it was time for the big performance. You headed back to Mercer County Probate Court and told the judge the baby in your arms had arrived prematurely, born in December, that it was seven months old. But Danny was only nine weeks old, a fat, healthy nine-week-old baby. All bundled up, the judge didn’t know the difference.”
Rachel began to weep, great silent tears that glittered in the candlelight. “I told them about Mike, that I’d been too upset to bring the baby to court earlier. I showed them the condolence letter from his commanding officer. That was all the judge needed to hear.”
“Mary produced some photographs of your pregnancy, pictures of you holding the newborn child—none that showed it was late spring instead of winter, of course,” Charley went on. “It was a risk, but a calculated one, and it worked. The judge had no reason to doubt Mary’s word. He issued the Certificate of Live Birth.” She dropped the documents onto the table. “Danny isn’t sixteen, he’s still fifteen. That boy is Sarah’s baby, not yours.”
“My miracle baby. Danny is mine!” Rachel leaped to her left, the knife flashing. Charley scrambled around the table, talking fast, heart pounding, knowing her time was running out. She needed Rachel to say the words that would free Oliver Duncan.