The Antique House Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  “The rich always find a way to win,” Vanessa philosophized.

  “What’s happening?” Afiya pointed. “They’re not actually putting that crazy boy in the game, are they?”

  Down on the sidelines, Mitch was lowering himself gingerly onto the bench, leg extended. The figure in the purple tracksuit stood, stretched like a cat, and strolled lazily onto the field.

  “You’re not serious?” The opposing coach, a heavyset man with a handlebar mustache, laughed as Mitch’s replacement took his position at the far end of the offensive line. “Why not concede now, Whittman?”

  “That is not polite,” Lawrence boomed.

  Trent clucked his tongue. “A shame to sustain an injury to a key player.”

  Charley watched intently. “You haven’t met him, but Dmitri’s not exactly a consolation prize. He was All-State his junior year.” All at once the nickel dropped, and she laughed. “Of course, nobody on the other team knows that.”

  “Play clock running,” Paul shouted. “Thirty seconds, line up!”

  John Bright dropped into his stance, ball at the ready. Marc took the quarterback’s position behind him and prepared to receive the snap. He crouched down, and then, just before he called the play, he turned his head toward the bleachers and stared directly at Charley. As their eyes met, he sent her a gorgeous, dazzling smile. Her heart nearly stopped. The next moment he was barking numbers, John was snapping the ball, and everyone began to move.

  The enemy was fast, and they’d been paying attention. Marc stood in the pocket formed by Lawrence, Hobbs, and Landry while defensive players cut off all his open receivers. All except one.

  No one had been assigned to cover Dmitri. Down at the far end, he’d slouched, playing with his hair and looking bored, while defenders lined up against worthier targets. But the moment John snapped the ball, Dmitri took flight. He ran like a deer, long legs eating up the turf in smooth, powerful strides, until he was twenty yards beyond his nearest opponent. By the time any of them noticed him, it was too late.

  Marc cocked his arm and threw a perfect spiral. The ball arched high overhead, seeming to hang in the air forever.

  “Oh, no!” Charley exclaimed, leaping to her feet. “Overthrown!”

  Even as she spoke, Dmitri glanced over his shoulder. Effortlessly, it seemed, he increased his already remarkable speed, timing it perfectly. The ball dropped into his upraised hands. With nothing but daylight between him and the end zone, he crossed the goal line, then pirouetted in place, grasped the ball in one hand, and executed a deep, sweeping bow.

  Everyone went bananas. Marc led his team in a screaming, whooping mob downfield, where they threw Dmitri up onto their shoulders. Handlebar and his crew stood, scratching their heads and muttering in disgust.

  Charley laughed again. “I knew those rascals were up to something. They—”

  She heard a gasp, and turned sharply. Trent Logan was staring toward the crowd on the field, light brown eyes wide, mouth hanging open. He looked like he’d been poleaxed.

  “Are you okay?” she asked in alarm.

  “Who…is that?” he breathed.

  She glanced back to the celebration on the field, where two dozen men were slapping backs and shaking hands. Lawrence and Hobbs still held Dmitri aloft as he accepted the praise of his adoring public with suitable humility. Marc had Bobby’s wheelchair out on the track, tilted back and doing doughnut turns while Bobby cheered and hollered with the rest.

  “Who are you—” she began, but Trent was already moving down the steps like a sleepwalker on a mission. She hurried to follow, worried that he’d trip over his feet and break his neck. What was the matter with the man? They reached the field just as the party arrived at the sidelines.

  “Victory!” Dmitri crowed as Lawrence set him on his feet. “The twelfth man strikes again! Charley, my lady love, it was amazing. They never had a—Ohhh.” Dmitri came face-to-face with Trent and stopped dead. “Oh, my.”

  “Trent Logan? This is Dmitri St. James,” Charley began. “Um, Dmitri, this is—”

  Marc grabbed her hand. “I don’t think they’re listening,” he said. “Counselor.” He punched Trent’s shoulder. “Logan? Keys?” Never breaking eye contact with Dmitri, Trent silently extended his hand and dropped a set of keys into Marc’s palm. “Come with me,” Marc commanded, and began pulling Charley toward the stadium gate. Lawrence followed, pushing Bobby’s chair, with Afiya, John, Frankie, Paul, Vanessa, and a miraculously uninjured Mitch Cooper falling in behind.

  Charley glanced back. The two men hadn’t moved. A shy smile was slowly spreading across Dmitri’s beautiful face. Neither of them appeared to be saying much of anything, and she wondered if Trent had resumed breathing yet. They just stood, gazing at one another, oblivious of the celebration swirling around them.

  “Now I know what love at first sight looks like,” she murmured. She felt a bittersweet pang at the thought, remembering herself at thirteen, seeing Marcus Trenault for the first time.

  Once they emerged from the stadium, all thoughts of her friend vanished. Parked at the curb was a brand-new panel van. In bright red-orange lettering across the side, it read old hat vintage fashions.

  “What the hell?” Charley gaped in confusion, first at the van, then at Marc, then at her father and Lawrence. All three men looked like the cats who’d eaten an entire flock of canaries. “Where did this come from?”

  Marc cleared his throat. “Insurance payout from Holland Mulbridge for your VW,” he said as he exchanged glances with Lawrence and Bobby. “They, uh, won’t actually cut a check for weeks yet, but I figured you needed transportation now. I know a guy, and your dad thought—”

  “But…” She circled the van, taking in the gleaming paint job, hardly able to believe her eyes. It was a familiar scheme, bold blue swirls framing a field of bright green, dotted with big red daisies. “This is the Mystery Machine from Scooby-Doo!” She turned to Marc, realization dawning. “You did this?” And in that moment, her eyes filling with tears, she understood what he was saying to her with this van, painted in this way. Forgiven. And based on this amazing gift—and she was certain it was mostly Marc’s doing—she had not a doubt, future collaborators in crime detection as well.

  He frowned. “Don’t you like it? We can change it if you—Ooff!”

  Charley threw her arms around him, almost knocking them both to the ground. She breathed him in, her heart full to bursting, as he pressed his face into her hair.

  “When you called him,” he murmured, “because I was too stiff-necked to—” He tightened his hold. “Tell me how to make it up to you, and I’ll do it.”

  This had definite possibilities. “I’ll deal with you later,” she whispered, and felt him smile against her cheek.

  Then she bounced away, squealing. “Like it? I love it! Frankie, check it out!” She popped open the cargo doors and nearly fainted at the sight of hanging racks, wire shelving, and a bright green dolly cart. “It’s perfect! Daddy, look at the shelves!”

  “Hold up there, Daphne.” Marc tossed her the keys. “I’d tell you to drive safely, but I think I’d be wasting my breath.”

  God, she’d missed that smile. She felt like dancing, like singing, like—hitting the road.

  “Shotgun,” Frankie announced, already climbing into the passenger seat. “C’mon, Carpo. What are we waiting for?”

  “Baby on board!” John proclaimed proudly, and everyone laughed.

  Charley blew her father a kiss and took her place behind the wheel. The engine came to life with a throaty purr that had her shivering with delight. She snapped on her seatbelt and revved the engine, provoking a round of applause.

  “Where to?” she asked. “Never mind. I know just the place.”

  Author’s Note

  Oakwood is a real place. While many of the locations and institutions mentioned in this book exist, others do not. In particular, I have taken substantial liberties with the geography of west Oakwood. Any resemblance of charac
ters in this book to the remarkable people of this city is purely coincidental.

  For my parents, Charles and Ann Simms:

  Through word and deed, you taught me that it takes

  more than a house

  to make a home.

  Acknowledgments

  I am humbled by the outpouring of encouragement and praise I’ve received while laboring to bring the Oakwood Mystery Series to life. First, many thanks to Oakwood mayor Bill Duncan. Despite the fact that I’ve “killed off a lot of registered voters,” he has generously supported and promoted this series through both official and personal channels.

  A word about the Oakwood Safety Department: Oakwood boasts a fully integrated team of dedicated professionals, where every single officer is cross-trained in police, fire, and EMT duties. One of only a few dozen such integrated units in the country, our Safety Department’s response time to any 911 call is about one minute. Seriously. Any deviation within these pages from the realities of their methods, equipment, or places of work is my own invention. I am grateful for the stellar service these amazing women and men provide to our city every single day.

  City Manager Norbert Klopsch and City Councilwoman Anne Shank Hilton supplied me with detailed information about the inner workings of the Oakwood Planning Commission and Zoning Board of Appeals.

  In a former life, Charlie Simms tutored me in the possibilities and perils of easements and their power to impact real estate development. Lively discussions centered around the officious nature of regional utility companies and their annoying tendency to choose the path of greatest profit—often at the expense of individual property owners.

  A belated but desperately sincere thank-you to Liz Huelsman for the name Old Hat.

  Virtual hugs for all the fabulous citizens of Oakwood who have embraced this series—and continue to provide me with an astonishing list of potential crime scenes for future books. Who knew?

  Many thanks to Junessa Viloria and the Random House Alibi team for their expertise and guidance. You made this a better book.

  To Curtis Russell, Amanda Schiffmann, and the entire PS Literary family: I still have so much to learn. Luckily for me, you are all such patient and generous teachers. I couldn’t do any of this without you.

  As always, love and gratitude to my daughter, Maddy, for reading the good, the bad, and the ugly, and to my son, Jeff, and husband, Bruce, for putting up with all of it. You are forever my biggest fans, as I remain yours.

  BY LESLIE NAGEL

  The Book Club Murders

  The Antique House Murders

  PHOTO: AMANDA R. MILLER

  LESLIE NAGEL is the author of The Book Club Murders, the first novel in the Oakwood Mystery series. She lives in the real city of Oakwood, Ohio, where she teaches writing at a local community college. After the written word, her passions include her husband, her son and daughter, hiking, tennis, and strong black coffee, not necessarily in that order.

  Want more from Leslie Nagel?

  leslienagel.com

  Facebook.com/​LeslieNagelAuthor

  Twitter: @leslie_nagel

  Instagram: @leslie_nagel

  Read on for a sneak peek of the next book in

  The Oakwood Mystery Series

  The Advice Column Murders

  by Leslie Nagel

  Coming soon from Alibi

  Chapter 1

  Charley Carpenter stood in the pretty green and white bedroom of her home on Hawthorn Avenue, eyes closed, willing the pain relievers she’d just taken to start tackling her insomnia-induced headache. Yet another night of tossing and turning had left her dry-eyed and exhausted. She was currently nursing a pounding head and a sour mood.

  Part of her wanted nothing more than to crawl back under the covers and let this day muddle along without her. If she hadn’t felt certain she’d have no more luck falling asleep with daylight streaming in her windows than she had during the cool, soft night, she might have succumbed to temptation. But with two business meetings this morning, lollygagging was not an option, no matter how crappy she felt. Suck it up, Carpenter.

  With a sigh of resignation, she reached for her vintage seventies patchwork leather jacket, only to discover it had become oddly dense since she’d laid it on the window seat. She tugged gently on the sleeve, and the jacket shifted with a life of its own.

  “You little stinker. Are you trying to play stowaway?” Charley reached inside and pulled out a silver tabby kitten. It tried valiantly to hang on to its hiding place, burying needle-sharp claws into the satin lining. She unhooked them one at a time, then cuddled the tiny warm body against her chest. Mission accomplished, the kitten immediately snuggled in, gazing up at her with huge green eyes and purring with a volume totally out of proportion to its size.

  The Carpenters’ newest family member had been rescued from beneath a dumpster by one of Frankie Cartolano Bright’s six older brothers. Apparently all the Cartolanos were dog people, so out went the call to adopt. Her best friend since seventh grade, Frankie knew Charley’s weaknesses all too well. One purr and she had been toast.

  “Sorry, Hercules,” she said to the creature she’d named after her favorite fictional detective, Hercule Poirot. “No car rides today.”

  As she gathered up her jacket and prepared to head downstairs, the sound of shouting had her turning back to the window.

  “Not again.” Frowning, she gazed out and to her left toward the house next door, where Dr. Eugene Sharpe strode, red-faced, across his front lawn. He climbed into a late-model Mercedes, started the engine with an unnecessary amount of revving, then peeled backward out of his driveway at a shallow angle that had the rear left tire striking the curb of the grassy boulevard that bisected their quiet street. Charley’s frown deepened as Sharpe slammed the car into drive and roared off.

  “We’ve got children on this street, asshole,” she muttered at his dissipating exhaust cloud. “Two of them are yours.”

  When old Mr. Schmidt fell and broke his hip last summer and moved into assisted living, everyone had expected to see a FOR SALE sign appear in the front yard of the white house with blue shutters where he and his late wife had lived for more than forty years. After sitting empty for several months, the house had finally been occupied—but as a rental. Just before Christmas, Sharpe, his wife, Judith, and their five-year-old twins, Henry and Phillip, had moved in.

  Charley’s father, Bobby, had been sad to see one of his last contemporaries from the neighborhood moving away. Still, they had all looked forward to having a new family right next door. Unfortunately, the Sharpes had demonstrated exactly zero interest in establishing friendly relations with anyone. Lawrence Whittman, Bobby’s live-in caregiver and the unofficial mayor of Hawthorn Boulevard, had wasted no time in running over with baked goods and an invitation to dinner. Judith had accepted the cookies with minimal civility but declined the invitation. The platter had appeared the next day on the Carpenter’s front porch, unwashed, with no note.

  As the young daughter of a single father, Charley had eaten a lot of cookies at the Schmidts’ over the years, doing her homework and watching Mrs. Schmidt make homemade raisin kugel, while Charley’s widowed dad was busy coaching UD Flyer football. She’d always believed that this was one of the best things about living in Oakwood, the way neighbors befriended and helped one another. Apparently, the Sharpes didn’t appreciate that sense of community.

  They also didn’t seem to appreciate that population density meant everyone could hear you when you screamed at one another, Charley reflected ruefully. Thanks to the current spell of warm weather, she’d been sleeping—or rather, trying to sleep—with her windows open. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard Eugene unloading on his poor wife and kids. Yesterday he’d come home after ten p.m. and started bitching about a cold dinner and toys underfoot. This morning’s tirade had sounded like a money dispute. Not that Charley was trying to eavesdrop, but it was difficult to ignore an argument practically right outside your window.

/>   Lawrence had managed to glean from another neighbor that Dr. Sharpe was actually Lieutenant Colonel Sharpe. He was a thoracic surgeon stationed at nearby Wright Patterson Air Force Base. He’d served two tours in the Middle East, patching up the wounded and training local medical personnel on the latest innovations in Western surgical techniques. Charley had read about veterans returning home and struggling with PTSD. Perhaps, she thought, allowances needed to be made. She only hoped Eugene was getting the help he needed, for the twins’ sakes, if not his own.

  She carried the kitten downstairs and into the kitchen, where Lawrence and Bobby were drinking coffee and devouring a freshly baked apple crumb cake. She kissed her father’s cheek and placed Hercules in his lap. No stranger to this location, the kitten promptly curled up and fell asleep.

  “My girl looks tired. No sleep again?” Bobby asked. Bright blue eyes alive with love and intelligence searched her face. Despite the three strokes that had confined him to a wheelchair, the man missed very little, particularly when it came to his only daughter.

  Charley pulled a travel coffee mug out of a cupboard and filled it to the brim. “I think it’s the change of season. It’ll pass.” Lawrence snorted and mumbled something, and Bobby chuckled. She turned and glared at them. “Something on your mind, gentlemen?”

  “Nope.” Lawrence popped a forkful of cake into his mouth. “I’m sure you’re right. Couple of days, you’ll be right as rain. Say, by Thursday? Friday, latest.” Both men sported huge grins, one lopsided due to stroke damage, one blinding white in a handsome face the color of polished walnut. Partners in crime, she thought with a mixture of fondness and irritation. Knowing better than to encourage these two scoundrels, Charley decided not to dignify Lawrence’s opinion with a response.