by Leslie Nagel
Limping heavily, Charley headed straight into the trees. Thanks to a steady breeze, the air became relatively smoke-free after only a few yards. To avoid triggering another coughing jag, she took tiny sips of fresh air that did little to ease her aching lungs. The noise remained deafening with the roar of flames and the crash of collapsing timbers. Dimly she heard more sirens approach. She was behind the house, she realized, figuring the fire department must be gathering out in front, on the other side of the inferno.
She worked her way laboriously east and then south, giving the fire a wide berth. Glowing embers drifted and swirled around her, and twice she had to slap out her singeing hair. She finally emerged from the tree cover onto the gravel driveway. The sight that met her eyes stopped her dead in her tracks.
Mulbridge House was fully engulfed. Flames leapt from every window, and most of the roof had already been consumed. The fire towered at least thirty feet into the air. As she watched, a section of gable over the main entrance collapsed into the interior with a boom that shook the ground, sending sparks and thick smoke billowing skyward. The awesome sight was both terrifying and exhilarating. Firefighters were spraying down the surrounding trees, presumably to keep the fire from spreading. The structure itself was a total loss.
At least forty people had slipped through the woods to watch Mulbridge House burn. They gathered along the edge of the driveway where the heat was just tolerable, pointing, filming with their cellphones, and ignoring the attempts of several determined safety officers to herd them back to a more prudent distance. Charley limped closer, searching for a familiar face. She thought she recognized Frankie and Dmitri in the dancing orange light, but before she could approach them, she spotted Marc.
He stood beside the koi pond, scanning the crowd with a worried frown. As she watched, Paul grabbed his sleeve, directing Marc’s attention to their left. She saw immediately what Paul was pointing at. Near the west end of the house, parked against a row of shrubs that burned like a pack of matches, sat her orange VW.
“Charley!!!” Marc’s cry pierced through the din, his voice filled with an absolute terror she’d never heard from him before. Despite the crippling heat, he started running toward the house. Paul tackled him to the ground, shouting for help as Marc fought like a madman to get away. Burning debris rained down around them. Dmitri appeared and wrapped his powerful arms around Marc’s chest, holding him back as Marc screamed her name over and over.
“You can’t!” Dmitri bellowed. “Marc, stop!”
Charley began limping forward again, but an EMT had spotted her. He restrained her even as Marc got an arm free and landed a punch on the side of Dmitri’s head. Her friend shook his head like a dog but never loosened his grip. Paul grabbed Marc’s flailing arm, and together he and Dmitri began dragging Marc away from the danger zone.
“Let me go, damn you!” he yelled. “She’s in there!”
Charley tried to call out, but her voice was gone. The EMT was attempting to place an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose even as she struggled to get to Marc. Just then the west wall trembled, shuddering and swaying in slow motion. The firefighters shouted and scrambled to safety as two tons of bluestone collapsed outward, crashing to the ground with a sound like thunder, bouncing, shattering, crushing her tiny car as if it were made of tin.
Marc stopped fighting. Charley saw him fall to his knees with a look of total anguish. He stared at the ruins of Mulbridge House, and then bowed his head to the ground, despair visible in every line of his body.
With an effort, Charley broke away from the well-meaning EMT. She burst through the line of spectators, filthy, half-dressed, and hacking like a coal miner. People pointed and cried out in alarm. When Dmitri glanced up from where he stood protectively over Marc, his face blanked with shock.
“Charley?” he exclaimed. “Oh, thank the gods! Marc, look! It’s her!”
Marc’s head jerked up, and she saw that his face was streaked with tears. He stared, seemingly unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. She reached out and tried to call his name but was racked by more coughing, even as the EMT tried to take her arm again. Marc staggered to his feet, his expression one of pure joy as he started toward her. And then all at once he was furious.
“What in the hell were you thinking?” he hollered, striding across the gravel, fire and ruin all around them. She welcomed his fury, yearned for him to take her in his arms, even if he was yelling at her while he did it. She needed to apologize, to tell him all that had happened. She needed to warn everyone.
Before he could reach her, a movement caused her to glance over his shoulder. What she saw filled her with such rage and fear that Marc stopped and turned to follow her gaze. Amid a crowd of anxious spectators lining the driveway, she saw Frankie and Vanessa. And standing between them, his face a mask of concern, was Sean Ambrose.
Marc went rigid. The two men locked gazes, and Charley realized that Marc already knew Sean was the enemy. Sean’s expression changed with the same sure knowledge. Concern was instantly replaced by a cold calculation, his eyes flat and expressionless as a shark’s, the transformation swift and complete. How had Charley ever thought this monster was her friend?
Marc pulled his weapon and pointed it at Sean. Beside him, Paul pulled his as well. The two detectives advanced, shoulder to shoulder.
“It’s over, Ambrose!” Marc shouted. “Hands where I can see them. Do it NOW!”
With casual insolence, Sean started to raise his hands. Then, without warning, he grabbed Frankie, hauling her against his chest with an arm around her neck and a gun pressed to her temple. People scattered and dove for cover. Charley lunged forward, but the EMT held her back.
Marc stopped ten paces away. “Give it up, Sean.”
“Afraid I can’t do that,” Sean called pleasantly. “I walk away, or Little Miss Sunshine here gets a bullet.”
There was a moment of agonizing stasis that felt to Charley like ten lifetimes. Marc didn’t move a muscle, his eyes boring into Sean’s, waiting for the other man to give him an opening.
Suddenly Frankie grimaced. Her pallid face turned gray, then green. Her tiny body stiffened as she clutched her belly. Then she choked, gagged, and threw up, a thick stream of vomit gushing copiously over Sean’s arm and down his leg. With a cry of disgust, Sean jumped backward, involuntarily releasing her.
It was all the opening Marc needed. In two strides he was airborne, taking Sean down with a flying tackle to his midsection. Sean grunted and his gun clattered to the ground as Marc landed on his chest, then pounded his fists into that handsome face, hitting it again and again.
“Marc!” Paul shouted. “Don’t kill him!”
Marc stopped pummeling. “He should be so lucky. You are under arrest, old buddy.” He hauled Sean roughly to his feet. “You have the right to remain silent.” He cuffed Ambrose and handed him over to Camille and Landry amid a scattering of applause from the onlookers, most of whom were still filming with their cellphones.
Marc turned eagerly toward Charley, and then froze. As he took in her appearance, his expression changed. Relief, anger, fear, and something that looked a great deal like guilt flashed across his face in rapid succession. More than anything, Charley thought he seemed…lost. Even if she’d had a voice, she wouldn’t have known what to say. Abruptly and without uttering a word, he wheeled and walked off down the driveway. Charley watched him go, too weak from smoke inhalation to follow. She doubled over with another coughing fit, swayed, and would have fallen if Dmitri hadn’t scooped her up.
“Can’t you see this woman needs medical attention?” he demanded indignantly. The long-suffering EMT sighed and stepped forward with the oxygen mask.
Paul turned to Frankie. “Are you all right, young lady? That was quite the Technicolor display, and perfectly timed, too.”
“I feel great, actually.” Frankie impatiently batted away the attempts of another EMT to drape a blanket around her shoulders. “I always do after I throw up. Of course, now
I’m starving.” She beamed. “Turns out I’m pregnant.”
Epilogue
Charley perched on the hard metal bleacher, oblivious to the cold as she watched the action with a practiced eye. Because touch football prohibited tackling, Lawrence’s enormous size hadn’t proven to be much of an asset today. She glanced to her left, where Paul Brixton manned a portable score/time keeper they’d borrowed from Oakwood’s peewee football program. Eleven seconds remained in the second half; the score was 12–12, with their team in possession. If they scored on this drive, they won. If not, the game went into sudden death, with the enemy getting the ball first.
The coach sat in his wheelchair near the home bench. He had his ball cap turned sideways, playbook open on his work tray as he directed the efforts of his team. Beside him the bench was empty save for a lone figure in an oversized purple tracksuit and a long black ponytail. He sat with his back to the bleachers, legs crossed, playing with his cellphone, apparently oblivious to the game.
“Time!” Bobby hollered. Marc glanced up from midfield, where he’d been conferring with Lawrence, John, and Mitch. He dutifully began heading over, leading a protesting but badly limping Mitch.
Vanessa half rose, then dropped back onto the bench. “I didn’t see him get hurt.”
“And since he’s the only player you’ve been watching, you’d know.” Charley grinned, and Vanessa’s answering smile was impish. “How’s that going, by the way?”
“The word ‘going’ implies progress.”
“Be patient,” Charley advised. “You witnessed him getting suspended. He feels humiliated.”
Vanessa laughed. “I think he was more upset about using a bad word in front of a girl. Still,” she said, turning thoughtful, “I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be worth it.”
Patience. Maybe she should take her own advice, Charley thought morosely, as she watched her dad conferring with his quarterback and star wide receiver, the latter now flexing his gimpy leg and grimacing. Marc hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words to her since the fire. Her croaked attempts at apology and explanation—when she could get him to listen at all—had been met with silence. Charley jammed her hands in the pockets of her down vest and hunched against the chill breeze. He was still furious with her, and it was all her fault. Would he ever get over it?
Twice she’d failed to tell him what she was up to—lied, in fact—and twice she’d nearly been killed. She’d been determined to prove she could investigate on her own; instead, she’d only reinforced Marc’s opinion that she was unfit to take part in police business. He’d never utter a peep about any of his cases again, that was certain. God, she already missed the thrill of the hunt, the way their minds meshed so perfectly, the deep satisfaction of working together, of solving a case together.
But that loss was nothing compared with the hole in her heart.
He stood with her father, wearing faded jeans and a University of Chicago sweatshirt with the sleeves cut away, tousled and sweaty despite the cold. He’d finally let Dmitri trim his hair, she noticed. She liked it longer, but had to admit he looked smoking hot. Tall and strong, capable, driven to succeed. Stubborn. Unyielding. Just like her. The only man she’d ever met who could take everything she dished out and come back for more. She sat there, desperate to patch things up but utterly at a loss to find the key to unlock his forgiveness.
“Speaking of needs,” Vanessa continued, eyes still fixed on Mitch. “I’ve been thinking about ways to make Old Hat more profitable. Women already have so many options for evening wear, it’s difficult to differentiate in any meaningful way.”
“Girl’s got a point.” Afiya, resplendent in a dark green dashiki and matching head wrap, waved a hand. “You’ve got at least three dress shops up on Far Hills Avenue, and that’s just within Oakwood.”
Charley nodded. “I don’t disagree. What’s your idea?”
“A combination no one’s offering, at least that I’ve seen, and one perfectly suited to Oakwood: bridal wear and upscale baby clothes and gifts.” Vanessa indicated Frankie. “This one gave me the idea.”
Wrapped head to toe in enough outerwear to cross Siberia, Frankie was working her way steadily through an enormous bag of kettle corn. Dark ringlets escaped from a white knitted cap. Her pixie face glowed with health, and her huge blue eyes sparkled.
“Want some?” She offered the bag.
“And risk losing a finger?” Charley asked. Vanessa and Afiya laughed.
“I’m not that bad,” Frankie protested. “Wait. Am I?”
Charley kissed her cheek. “You are perfect, little momma. And I love your idea,” she said to Vanessa, her mind already racing through the possibilities. “All those mothers of the bride, already dreaming of their first grandchild. It’s genius!”
Frankie’s pregnancy was the one happy element in this whole sorry episode. Well, there had been one other bright note.
She’d lain in a hospital bed for two days, chest and throat raw, head throbbing, a cannula around her neck delivering oxygen into her nostrils, her ankle taped, and every muscle in her body aching. Marc and Paul had stopped in briefly, but only to take her laboriously handwritten statement. Marc had barely made eye contact, leaving after just a few minutes. She’d blinked back tears as she watched him go.
Paul had patted her hand, and said kindly, “He’s working through some things. A man doesn’t get over a scare like that in a hurry.”
Later that day Dmitri, Lawrence, and Bobby arrived, bearing gifts.
“Jamocha shake,” her father announced. She smiled her thanks and took a sip. The cold did wonders for her throat. Bobby pointed at a promising hamper in Lawrence’s massive hands. “Decent meal for my girl. And the things you asked for.” Charley reached eagerly for the black canvas bag Bobby held in his lap.
“Are you going to tell us why you wanted this stuff?” Dmitri asked. “Pamela Tate didn’t have a clue.”
Charley pulled out the first item, a glossy photograph of the Music Room from Mulbridge House. “Exhibit A,” she croaked, tapping the wall grouping she’d examined with Pamela. Had it only been two days ago?
“That’s my clarinet,” Dmitri confirmed as Charley pulled the item in question from the bag. “Okay, Augusta hung it on the wall. I’m sure we’re all fascinated.” He paused, indicating the photograph. “What are those weird carvings on either side?”
Charley began examining the clarinet, pressing the keys one at a time, then in various combinations. “Lions rampant,” she whispered. “Old English custom, symbols of courage and strength.” She gazed at each of the men in turn. “Don’t you see?” she rasped. “The clarinet is a reed instrument. It’s a ‘reed between the lions,’ just like Gussie told Millie.”
She tugged at the mouthpiece, then twisted the horn-shaped piece at the bottom. It came off in her hand. She shook the clarinet, and a tightly rolled scrap of paper fell into her lap. Her men leaned in to read over her shoulder.
“The last will and testament of Augusta Mulbridge.” Lawrence laughed. “What the hell? She really did it?”
“But it’s not signed,” Dmitri contradicted. He pointed to the bottom of the single page, which stated in a few spidery handwritten lines that, being of sound mind and body, Augusta Mulbridge bequeathed Mulbridge House and all its contents to Sustain Oakwood’s Architectural Past. At the bottom several blank lines awaited signatures from Augusta and two witnesses. “Or dated. It’s worthless.” His confusion mirrored Lawrence’s. “What does it mean?”
Charley met Bobby’s eyes, and he nodded. “This was her final j…joke. If Millie could solve the riddle—”
“Augusta would’ve signed this,” Charley whispered. “Or not. Who knows? How many times did they sit in that room while poor Millie tried to coax the secret out of that cruel, lonely woman?”
Dmitri shook his head. “And all the while it was hanging a few feet away. Old Gussie really was a wicked old witch.” He took the food hamper from Lawrence and opened the lid with a flo
urish. “This closes the books on another case, Daphne. Time for a Scooby Snack!”
Charley glanced over as a slender man with wavy brown hair began climbing the bleachers toward them, stylish as ever in forest green designer jeans and a burgundy leather jacket. “ACP Logan,” she said with genuine pleasure. “Are you a football fan?”
“Merely running an errand for Detective Trenault.” He kissed Frankie’s cheek and shook hands with Vanessa and Afiya in turn. “Trent Logan.” Vanessa scooted over, and he settled himself beside Charley.
“Thank you for what you did for Corey Reynolds,” she murmured.
Trent waved this off. “John Bright drives a hard bargain. Besides, Corey’s testimony helped us put away a major drug supplier. And considering his activities took place prior to his eighteenth birthday, probation was the just course. Have you seen this?”
He handed her a Sunday edition of the Dayton Daily News. The headline read: grassroots group moves to preserve local landmark. “A cadre of concerned home owners, led by Ellen Meade and with the cooperation of the Oakwood City Council, has filed a petition with the Fish and Wildlife Service to have the entire Gallagher tract declared a nature preserve,” he summarized. “The story’s hit the national wire. With all the publicity, Holland Mulbridge has announced she’s modifying her own plans. To ease the traffic impact, she’s adding green space and reducing Oak Bridge Estates from fourteen new homes to only nine.”
Charley smiled sadly, thinking of Calvin. “I think nine new families will be wonderful for Oakwood. Imagine, living right next door to a nature preserve. Those remaining lots will probably be worth even more.”