Chasing Secrets: A YA mystery thriller (Gregory Academy Mysteries Book 1)

by Jill Cooper

  I stare at him.

  I just found that little girl’s bones.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sinclair Mansion, Bay Harbor

  Jessica: September 9th, 2020

  Winfred was right about finding her house, though it’s more of a mansion. It’s locked behind an iron gate with a golden crest in the center. I pull the car up and roll down the window as I come to a video monitor. “Hello, miss,” the man on the screen asks. “State your business.” It’s an order, but his tone is kind, and I’m grateful for that much at least.

  “I’m doing a school paper with Winfred. She asked me to meet her here.”

  “Ahh, young Jessica. I’ll buzz you in. Drive up to the house and park in front of the steps. Butler Franklin will be happy to meet you and fetch some refreshments while you wait for Ms. Winfred to get back from her tennis lesson.”

  A butler and tennis lessons, how quaint.

  I thank him. The iron gates swing open, and I slowly pull the car forward. There must be ten acres of land on either side of me with lush flowers and pristine trees. As I drive, I pass the tennis courts and a swimming pool with a private pool house. The house reminds me of the house from the Bates Motel with its large lit windows and winding stone steps. The Sinclair’s house is only larger and not as creepy—at least not from the outside.

  I drive on up the steep, curved driveway and park in front of the marble front steps. I stare up at the second and third floor, slinging my backpack over one shoulder. Wind blows past me, and I notice the curtains moving on the third floor. With a deep breath, I climb the steps and feel like I’m on my way into the lion’s den.

  The door opens before I knock, and I put on a brave smile as the grave-looking butler greets me. “Miss Jessica, I presume.”

  “That’s me.” I step inside the entryway. It’s like stepping through the pages of a gothic novel with the hall’s dark paneling and intricate stairwell. There’s a corridor to the left and right of me. The doors to the study are open, and I catch sight of a woman pacing in an elegant pantsuit and a long jacket while holding a phone to her ear.

  For a split second, she glances at me. Her eyes widen with shock, and a moment later, she pushes the door closed.

  It must be Winfred’s mother, Carolyn. She doesn’t look much different than her pictures from seventeen years ago. I wonder what kind of painful reminder I must be of her old friend. If only I could find a way to ask her about it. It’d be easy if she hadn’t slammed the door shut.

  Upstairs, I hear the sound of children playing and a cheerful giggle. It must be Winfred’s sister and brother. I glance up and see a frail older woman gripping the banister—Penelope Sinclair. She wears all black in a high collared dress with a fitted waist. Her silver hair is done up in a bun that’s more elegant than anything I could manage. As she regards me, her mouth pinches together.

  “Hello,” I say timidly and await a response.

  Her only response is to make a hmm sound. Then she quickly turns away. Cane in hand, she marches back down the hall. I feel like she came to check me out, and I can only imagine what Winfred had told her about me.

  “Everyone is very busy on Saturday mornings,” the butler says as he leads me into the sitting room. It’s an excuse, but I appreciate the effort he’s made. The sofas are beyond the starkest white I’ve ever seen against the dark wood backdrop of bookcases and a lit fireplace. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll return with tea and scones. Or would you prefer coffee?”

  “Oh, whatever you want is fine.” I place my bookbag on the sofa.

  He stares at me, unmoving, and I realize he probably needs me to decide. “Oh, tea, I guess. Yes, tea’s fine.”

  “Milk and sugar.”

  “Sure.”

  His shoulders relax, and I suspect he’s happy with my answer. I watch him leave through a side door next to a corner bookcase and finally feel like I can really look around. There’s a giant bay window overlooking the gardens, and it’s framed by green drapes. Beside the window is a desk, and I make my way over to it.

  There’s a collection of photos through the ages lined up on it. I suspect no actual work gets done here. I see photos of a little girl who must be Winfred and a wedding photo of Jackson and his wife. She’s smiling, and in her elaborate gown looks like a princess. Her short blonde hair is curled with a tiara perched on top. Jackson, however regal and handsome he is, looks like he’d rather be somewhere else. There’s no smile and no excitement in his eyes.

  Though I might be projecting.

  I run my fingers along the top of the desk and slide open the middle desk drawer. There’s a hardcover day planner inside, some pens, a baby pacifier, and a silver key. Nothing out of the ordinary—I slide the drawer shut again.

  “Making yourself at home?”

  I jump as I turn around. Jackson stands in the entryway with his hand in his pocket. His intense gaze startles me, and he doesn’t break eye contact as he enters the room. Lucky for me, he stops several yards away. “I—Well—”

  He holds up a hand. “I’d be interested in us, too, if I were you. We haven’t officially met yet. Jackson Sinclair.” He offers me his hand.

  I take it and shake. “Jessica Chase.”

  He smiles slightly. “I owe you an apology for the other night. A big one. I have no excuse other than it was dark and…I was drunk. My wife’s always on me to cut back.”

  His voice is softer than I expect, and he wears heavy lines around his eyes. “It’s…I’m sure it was a shock for you.”

  “For you, too. I’m guessing by now everyone’s told you who you look like.”

  I nod. “Amber.”

  “Amber.” He raises his eyebrows. “I haven’t said her name in forever, and you do look like her. Though now I see a few differences. But you were there and moved like her. Or at least I thought so at the time. In any case, I’m really sorry. I’m firm in reality now. I know you’re not…her.”

  He whispers the last part, and I wonder if he really understands. Does he see me as his dead girlfriend even in the daylight?

  “I’m not, but I’d love to hear about her. What she was like before…before things changed.”

  “So you heard about the controversy surrounding her.” Jackson’s eyebrows rise. “Before things changed, she was full of light. Of love. Bubbly and passionate about everything. She loved to have fun, and her parents gave her everything she wanted. Given what happened to their first child, I guess it was only natural they tried to make up for it.”

  I nod along.

  The more he talks about Amber, the more he relaxes. He smiles as he pictures her, and he looks younger. His eyes happier. I wonder if he’s been happy at all since her death.

  “She loved mac and cheese, and corn dogs, despite what her parents thought. What everyone thought. She and I were inseparable most of our lives. Really, I fell hard for her. Turns out, she fell hard for me, too. I wasn’t always sure. There was the business with Martin…” Jackson’s face darkens. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Martin Alistair? Ryan’s father? I heard—”

  His face goes dark, and he narrows his eyes. “Be best if you stay away from both of them. They’ll bring you nothing but trouble.”

  My eyebrows pinch together. “I thought your family was in favor of Ryan and Winfred…”

  He shakes his head. “That’s my wife and mother’s doing. Not mine. If it were up to me, Winnie wouldn’t be allowed within twenty yards of anyone by that name.”

  I wonder why he hates them so much. I haven’t seen anything in any newspaper or article I’ve read that implied something negative about Martin. Could a seventeen-year-old love triangle make you that bitter?

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Jackson holds up his hand. “I shouldn’t get so wound up. It was a long time ago. Some grudges are hard to bury. Just don’t trust Ryan. And never be alone with him. He’s too much like his father.”

  Martin must’ve d
one something horrible. I feel a rush of cold wash over me. “Mr. Sinclair—"

  “Jackson, dear,” Carolyn steps into the living room, her hand on her hip. “We need to go, or we’ll be late. Say good-bye.”

  He gazes over his shoulder. “I’ll be right there. I don’t want to be rude to our guest.”

  “I’m sure she’ll understand. Well, do hurry. We have obligations.” She steps away, and I detect a big sigh in her voice.

  “Obligations are all we have,” Jackson mutters under his breath, but he covers it up with a smile. “I’m sorry to cut this short, Jessica. Have a good time working on your project with Winnie, and don’t let her scare you away. She’s a good kid.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  The butler enters with a tray of tea and scones. As he begins to step to the table, Jackson steps back. “You’re welcome anytime, Jessica. Have a nice day.” He heads off toward the front door before I can say goodbye or anything else.

  It’s obvious to see he’s not happy. I haven’t asked him anything specific about Amber, not like I wanted. Now I feel like if I did, it might upset him too much. I’m not sure if I still think he killed Amber. I can’t see how he’d do it on purpose, but he’s clearly haunted and upset about something.

  I’d love to talk to his wife, if I can catch up with her, but she seemed to go out of her way to ignore me. Most people seem to really dislike the reminder of Amber Chetwood, and I feel great remorse for her. From how Jackson talked about her, she sounded really great.

  “Thank you,” I say to the butler and sit on the sofa beside my backpack. The elderly man pours tea into a delicate cup. His hands shake, and it rattles the cup as he hands it to me.

  “You are very welcome, Miss Jessica.” For a moment, he pats my hand. “You do look so much like her. Even I feel like I’ve laid eyes on her again.” Sadly, he grins and tears form in the corner of his eyes. “It’s like the past coming to life right before my eyes.”

  “You knew her,” I whisper.

  He nods. “I’ve worked for this family since I was eighteen years old. The things I’ve seen over the years… Well, when I first met Amber, and I saw her with Mr. Jackson. I thought—”

  “There you are.” Winfred snarls as she steps into the living room and swings her tennis racket at her side. “Franklin, bring that tray up to my room. We have work to do.” Hotly, Winfred does an about-face and her shiny brown ponytail swings as she makes her retreat for the stairs.

  I stand up and put my backpack over my shoulder. “I’ll bring the tray up.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that for me, Miss. What Winnie wants, she gets.”

  I let out a long sigh. I know the type of girl Winfred is, and I can’t say I want anything to do with her. “All right, well, I hope maybe we can talk another time. I’d love to know more about Amber. Considering…” I touch my cheek without meaning to do it.

  Franklin nods. “I would love to. It would give me a chance to remember her again. Because here,” he leans forward and whispers, “we only pretend. Pretend she never existed.” He picks up the tray and continues along ahead of me.

  And me? I guess I’m a constant reminder that she did exist, and maybe this family isn’t ready to deal with that. We climb the stairs, and I walk several paces behind the kindly butler. My hand runs along the banister as we climb. Pictures line the wall from decades past. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention, and a dark shadow travels up the wall darkening all the pictures.

  Amber. She’s here.

  I pause at the top of the stairs. I wait for the shadow to stop above a doorway. The wallpaper seems to grow, a face and hands pushing out from the paper. Long hair, knotted and damp, grows down, but her face is still hidden as she screams.

  I’m frozen in place, my mouth hangs open, and the door to the room swings open. I slowly approach, one foot in front of the other and reach the door frame. “Hello?”

  “Not that room, Ms. Chase,” Franklin tries to get between me and the door, but I’ve already stepped inside.

  And the older woman from the stairwell stands in the center of her sitting room. She stares at me with rage and indignation. “Remove her from my sight,” she orders. There’s no hint of kindness, regret, or understanding.

  It sweeps a cold chill through me more than the ghost, Amber, ever has. Behind her, Amber reappears. She’s waterlogged, and her homecoming dress is stained with blood and seaweed. She places her bloated hands around the woman’s neck and disappears.

  The old woman just stares at me as I rush from the room. It’s clear how Amber feels about the Sinclairs. About this woman.

  Maybe it wasn’t Jackson who killed Amber Chetwood, maybe it was his mother.

  Chapter Twenty

  Winfred’s room feels more like a suite at some fancy Hilton than it does a teenager’s bedroom. With her awards and certificates lining the walls, it’s a shrine to all things Winnie. She sits at her white desk on her laptop, and I sit on the floor in front of her bed. The bedspread, in all its satin glory, looks too expensive to sit on. What if it got a wrinkle? Winfred’s old grandmother might head right in and whack me over the head with her cane.

  Which was probably expensive, too.

  We talk about the assignment, and I take notes. Winnie issues orders on what I’ll write, how I’ll write it, and when it’ll be done by. I don’t bother arguing with her, and instead, I just agree. If she’s out to ruin me at school, I want to nip that in the bud right away. Besides, then I can ask her questions: Are your parents happy? Are there any dead bodies in the basement? Also, a long-dead girlfriend is haunting your hallway.

  Good times.

  “Guess we’re done for today.” Winfred doesn’t look happy about it as she rips off the corner of the last scone and pops it in her mouth.

  “I can stay longer if you want.”

  She levels me with an icy stare. “I don’t think so.”

  I try to think of something to say as I sip my cold tea. “Maybe we could go for pizza or something. Sometime. Not today. Or if you’re not busy—” I stop talking as Winny’s face scrunches up like she’s smelled something foul.

  “Why would we do that?”

  “So we could get to know each other?”

  “One, I don’t like being interrogated. So if you think you’re going to find out what makes me tick, it’s not going to happen. Two, I don’t eat gluten.” Winfred sneers and swivels back to her computer.

  “What about that scone you just ate?”

  “Gluten free flour, nosey pants. The household knows not to mess with me. Got it?”

  Okay, well, that went bad. I said exactly the wrong thing. I pack up my backpack and stand. “I thought maybe you could use a friend. I know I can. No one’s life is perfect, you know? I thought I had everything until my dad walked out, and I haven’t seen him since. He left us for…a stewardess.”

  Slowly, Winfred turns her chair toward me. “A stewardess? How cliché.”

  I nod. “It’s horrible, and it’s true. So don’t feel like I don’t get it. Because I do.”

  “Well, my life is better than that. I have everything I’ve ever wanted. If I ask for it, I get it. And I have tons of friends.”

  Why was she so miserable? Why did she look at me like I wanted to steal everything she had?

  I nod. “It must be awesome being you.” I march out of the room and partially expect Winfred to chase after me, but she doesn’t. I’m halfway down the stairs before I see Winfred’s grandmother again waiting in the entryway. Her eyes are the coldest I’ve ever seen. “Good afternoon,” I say to her and hurry past.

  She sticks her cane out in front of me and blocks access to the door. If I kept going, I might knock her off balance, and that’s the last thing I need. Not only do I look like the dead, but I go around knocking down little old ladies.

  She studies my face and grabs my chin, turning my head. Her eyes study every inch, line, and pore on my face. The more time that passes, the deeper her
scowl grows. “Who are you to be snooping around my house?” she finally demands in a voice stronger than I expect.

  “Jessica. Chase. I’m new in town.”

  She pushes my face away like I disgust her. “You’ll bring nothing but ruin to my family.” She sneers with what might be disappointment. Or maybe it’s fear. In either case, I’m tired of my face getting so much rejection and causing hurt wherever I go. It’s not like I meant to have any of this happen. This is the way I look, and I certainly won’t apologize for it.

  But maybe I can start to use it.

  It’s nearly lunchtime, and I’m starving. I stop at a small donut shop downtown and jot down my bucket list for the day:

  1) Talk to Martin Alistair

  2) Talk to Carolyn Sinclair

  I doubt talking to Carolyn is possible, at least not without Jackson around. But how do I find Martin? The only way I can, I guess—use Ryan. I feel pretty bad about that, so I delay by searching for Martin on my cellphone. Low and behold, looks like he has a public event going on at a local golf course. Scratch that, his family owns it.

  And he’ll be shaking hands at a fundraising event for the Mayor, Rebecca Hale.

  There’s no time like the present to make an entrance. I stuff the rest of the donut in my mouth and wipe my sugary fingers on my jeans.

  “Mom,” I say once I put the phone to my ear, “Can I borrow the car?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The pristine golf course and country club aren’t far from the Princeton Boat House. It’s picturesque, overlooking the ocean with its field of green grass. There’s a cool breeze blowing off the water, and I slip in through the back door of the country club. I enter through the back of the bar where waitstaff ready drinks and put them onto trays.

  I probably should’ve changed out of my jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt and into something more suitable. Especially if I planned to impersonate a server. Not much I can do about it now.