Author’s Note:
Congratulations! You’ve found the Lost Prologue to THE CODEBOOK MURDERS, Book Four in The Oakwood Book Club Mystery Series.
Because this prologue did not make the final version of the novel, it became necessary for me to execute a small revision to the published book. In an early scene where Bobby Carpenter relates the story of Regan Fletcher and Carter Magellan, Charley has never heard of these people or their tragic tale of love, death, and imprisonment.
However, in a sleepy suburb like Oakwood, Ohio, what are the chances that such a story, lush with drama and unanswered questions, would not have been told and retold over the years, again and again? Or that a budding young sleuth wouldn’t have devoured every single detail, turning them over in her mind as she pondered how much of this “true story” was factual, and how much was just a fairy tale?
In my expert opinion, those chances are slim to none.
Welcome to Oakwood, dear reader; I hope you enjoy your stay. Just remember: Suburbia can be murder.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           --Leslie Nagel
 

Fifteen Years Ago

​“Listen up, chickadees. It’s time for murder and mayhem!”
This pronouncement produced groans of protest and squeals of anticipatory fright in equal measure. What was a slumber party without scary stories?
One attendee in particular, a skinny girl with gray eyes and thick red braids, sat up straight, her curiosity piqued.
Finally.
Charley Carpenter had been sitting quietly, arms wrapped around her pajama clad knees, slightly removed from the circle of chattering thirteen-year-old girls as they’d gossiped and giggled about boys, clothes, boys, makeup tips and, of course, boys.
Bo-ring. How anyone with half a brain could consider any boy in their eighth grade class worth a second glance was beyond comprehension. A bunch of smelly, noisy babies, she thought with disdain. Not like--
Her cheeks flushed hotly, and she was grateful for the dim lighting. What was the matter with her? Charley couldn’t even think about the senior boy she’d met last week without her tummy doing back flips. Well, “met” might be a stretch.
She’d actually tripped and landed at his feet. He’d glanced down at her as she’d stared up at him, transfixed: tall and lean, mussy dark brown hair curling over the collar of his letterman jacket, with a full mouth that looked like a movie poster and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, blue as the ocean and fringed with thick black lashes. Marcus, another boy had called him. Later she’d made a point of learning his last name. Marcus Trenault had made some crack about unattended children and sauntered off with his buddies.
One glance, that was all. But with that glance her world view had forever changed.
“Charley! Hey, you awake over there? I nominate you to judge the ghost stories.” Frankie cocked her curly head as she regarded her friend, her own big blue eyes oddly knowing.
The speaker was Frankie Cartolano: Birthday Girl, Guest of Honor, Sleepover Hostess, and Mistress of Ceremonies. She was also Charley’s BFF, Best Friend Forever, and had been since they’d met eighteen months ago at the start of seventh grade. Carpenter and Cartolano, side by side for locker assignments, homeroom, and all the drama junior high could dish out. As the only child of a single father, Charley loved immersing herself in the noise and laughter of this large, loving Italian family who treated her like one of their own.
“What’s the judging criteria?” she asked with interest. “Body count? Plot structure? Believability?”
“Yes! True crime!” a girl with brown pigtails cried. “We’ve heard all the dumb axe killer ones a jillion times.”
“Agreed,” Frankie said promptly. “And since it’s my fourteenth birthday, I go first.”
She switched off the lamp, plunging the basement rec room into darkness. Then she flicked on a flashlight and held it below her chin. The beam turned her pixie face into a skeletal death mask. The girls shifted uneasily, drawing the circle tighter.
“Listen as I tell the tragic tale of beautiful Regan Fletcher and handsome Carter Magellan, star crossed lovers,” Frankie began, her voice pitched low.
“Oh, goodie,” someone whispered.
“Quiet,” Frankie commanded, then resumed her story voice. “Carter was a high school senior, and Regan was a freshman, innocent and pure. Despite the age gap, their love was true.
“The Magellans were a rich, proud family who claimed descent from Moorish kings. Carter was tall with long, shining black hair, a star running back for the Oakwood Lumberjacks football team. The Fletcher family were equally proud, descended (they claimed) from Scottish nobility. Regan was very beautiful, with her father’s red hair and a temper to match.”
“Just like Charley,” giggled Pigtails.
Frankie glared. “Are you going to let me tell it or not?”
The girl held up both hands. “Sorry. Geez-Louise,” she muttered. “Not like it isn’t true.” Charley grinned in the dark, perfectly at ease with her ferocious reputation.
“Naturally,” Frankie went on, “the proud Magellans and the equally proud Fletchers hated each other, and neither pair was too thrilled to see their children dating. Still, they figured the romance would die a natural death when Carter went off to Ohio State and left Regan behind at Oakwood. But instead of fizzling,” she murmured, “it flamed. Carter was totally smitten. He kept sneaking back from college to see his true love. When Regan’s parents caught them together, there was a terrible scene with tons of yelling and stuff. The lovers were forbidden to see one another ever again.”
The girls had all just read Romeo and Juliet for eighth grade English. Charley leaned forward, drawn into this real life tale of thwarted passion. Frankie was a pretty good storyteller, she decided.
“The lovers planned to run away together. But that very night, the night of the big Homecoming football game," Frankie paused dramatically, "Regan disappeared. The only clue? Her backpack and some of her clothes were also gone, leading the police to dismiss her as just another runaway teenager. Carter was distraught, believing Regan was in danger, while the Fletchers told everyone who would listen that the son of their mortal enemies was a heartless schemer, only pretending not to know where their darling Regan was.
“A few days later, they found her poor body, drowned in the pond at Smith Gardens.” Delighted gasps rippled around the circle. “Carter was accused of murder,” Frankie continued, “convicted and sent to prison for life. Throughout his trial, his hair had been steadily threading with gray. As he stood and heard the verdict, his long hair lay pure white on his shoulders, which many said was proof of his guilt.
“Nineteen years later, another man confessed to murdering Regan, and Carter went free, emerging from his long imprisonment a broken man.” Frankie finished the tale with relish. “Regan’s ghost still haunts the high school, wailing and crying out for her long lost love.”
“Can a ghost haunt more than one place?” someone asked. “I mean, shouldn’t she be haunting Smith Gardens?”
“Maybe she is . . .” Frankie began in a creepy voice, when a loud “BOO!” made them all jump and scream.
Valentino, one of Frankie’s practical joking older brothers, plopped down between Charley and Frankie, wiggling his butt and making both girls scoot away in disgust. “What’re we doing, ladies? Playing truth or dare?”
“Leave, Tino, or I’m telling Mama.”
“No can do, Squirt. You’ve got all the good snacks down here.” Tino reached out and grabbed two slices of pizza, promptly shoving half a slice into his mouth.
Frankie sighed in resignation and flipped on the lamp. “Where’s your twin?”
“Tony’s out with yet another lovely, while I’m grounded. Again.”
“What’s that’s stuff on your nose?” Charley asked. She was immune to the supposed charms of the universally adored Cartolano boys. The other girls, however, were all mooning and giggling and batting their eyes. Gross.
Tino swiped at a brown streak. “Clay. I’m taking advantage of my enforced house arrest to finish my honors project for art class. What’re you ladies talking about?”
“The murder of Regan Fletcher.”
 “Sweet.” He wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “Very gory, especially the way the killer bashed her head in before he dumped her in the pond.”
“I never heard that part,” Frankie admitted, as the other girls exclaimed in horrified delight.
“It was in the papers a few years ago, when that other guy confessed.” Tino leaned forward, making eye contact with each of the girls. Pigtails nearly fainted. “Carter Magellan is a recluse, living in the Magellan family mansion with his sister Kendall and a pack of vicious dogs. The ex-convict spends all his time in a secret laboratory on the grounds, doing horrible experiments on neighborhood pets.”
“Total lie,” Charley scoffed.
“Maybe.” Tino shrugged. “Carter is strange, and that’s a fact. Some of the guys have dared each other to sneak through the woods and peek into his garage to see what he’s doing in there. It’s always padlocked. That’s suspicious, right?”
Charley rolled her eyes. “Maybe he padlocks it because jerks like you try to break in.”
“Ms. Magellan seems so sweet. Pretty, too, with her white hair,” a girl said wistfully.
“I had her for freshman English.” Tino took an enormous swig of cola, then belched prodigiously. “She’s cool. Directs the fall play, advisor for the creative writing club, does after-school jewelry making workshops and stuff. Kind of obsessed with Shakespeare, but everyone likes her.”
Charley asked, “Did she ever mention Regan or her brother Carter?”
 “Nope.”
“But how about that guy who confessed?” she pressed. “Do you think he really did it?”
Tino stared. “He said so, didn’t he?”
“But what did he have to lose, if he was already in prison? Maybe the Magellans paid him to confess so Carter could go free.” Now everyone was staring at her, but Charley didn’t care. This was a mystery, and mysteries should make sense.
 “Say, are you some kind of detective now, like Sherlock Holmes?” Tino teased.
Charley blushed, mortified as always when she did so. “No. I just . . . wonder, that’s all. It seems, you know, convenient.”
Later that night, while the other girls whispered and giggled, shhhing each other, Charley lay in the dark and stared up at the ceiling.
And she wondered.