Donn's Hill

by Caryn Larrinaga

  “My dear, you look exhausted,” he said. His brows sat unusually still, knitted in an expression of concern. “Long day in the iron mines?”

  “The longest ever. To be honest, I don’t think I have the energy to stay long.” Visions of my claw-foot bathtub danced in my head.

  “Ah. Well, wait until you hear this nugget of intrigue.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice and raising his eyebrows. “They found a body in Lake Anam!”

  “I know.” I slumped forward. All my energy was escaping out of me like air from a punctured balloon. “I’m the one who found it.”

  “Oh. Really?” Phillip sat back in his chair, looking surprised and a little disappointed. After a heartbeat, his eyes widened again and he grabbed my hand. “Wait a minute! You must tell me everything. I’m sure you know all the gory details.”

  “Yeah, I wish I didn’t, but I do.” I stood up from the table. “Sorry, Phillip. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m beat. I’ll see you around, okay?”

  He waved me off, his eyes disappointed once more. I forged a path back through the press of bodies to the counter, preferring to stand in relative peace to wait for my chai. I found a space at the end of the dessert case, where I could lean against the chilled glass and watch Brian and his pre-teen assistant buzz around behind the counter. The voices around me faded into an indistinct hum, which seemed a fitting soundtrack for the baristas’ frantic dance. Espresso was poured, milk was steamed, lattes were delivered. Rinse and repeat.

  The hypnotic rhythm of their work was broken by the shrill ringing of a telephone beside the register. The young girl answered it, then covered the mouthpiece with her hand and shouted above the din. “Dad!”

  Brian dried his hands off on a towel, tossed the white cloth over his shoulder, and picked up the phone. He faced away from me, but after a moment he twisted to glance at me over his shoulder. His skin drained of all color before he turned away again and hung up the phone. After saying something to his daughter that was impossible to hear over the noise of the crowd, he waved me over.

  I skirted the dessert case and followed him into a small kitchen area behind the coffee bar. When he closed the door, I was startled by the sudden near-silence. I’d grown used to the chattering crowd.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “You were just out at Lake Anam, right?”

  “Yeah. Why, what’s wrong?”

  His eyes were filling with tears. It was several moments before he spoke again.

  “That was Penelope Bishop. She asked me to come with her… to identify… the body.” His voice cracked on the last word, and his shoulders shook as he covered his mouth with both hands. “Oh, God. They think it’s Tom.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I can’t believe he’s dead.” Kit inspected a long piece of chocolate biscotti before dunking it into her coffee the next morning. “I really thought he skipped town.”

  “Mek-eh-eh-eh-eh,” contributed Striker. She was sitting on my lap, watching a group of finches through the window of the communal kitchen. Her round eyes were glued to the birds. The streaks of honey brown and cream that slanted down across her cheeks glowed in the sunlight.

  I reached for a second piece of biscotti. My first one had disappeared too quickly. “Do you think it was an accident? Could he have fallen out of a fishing boat or something?”

  Graham nudged his glasses back into place with one hand. “I talked to my mother. She’s been helping Penelope and her mom with the arrangements. The police said it was definitely foul play.”

  Foul play. I’ve always disliked that expression. It makes it seem as if life is just a game and murder is just a way players can cheat to gain an advantage. But who are the players? Are we all playing together on one gigantic board, or are most of us just pawns, being pushed around by criminals and cops?

  Kit sighed, interrupting my musings. “Well, that’s just great. That means the cabin is a crime scene. Who knows when we’ll be able to get back there to finish filming the episode?”

  Graham frowned at her. “Geez, Kit, a little sympathy might be in order.”

  Kit rolled her eyes. “Don’t pretend like you cared about Tom Bishop. You told me yourself he was a cheater and a crook.”

  “I meant sympathy for Mac.” Graham gestured toward me with his coffee cup. “Maybe she’s not in such a hurry to get back there after what happened yesterday.”

  Kit’s round face flushed. “Sorry, Mac.” She leaned over and squeezed my shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

  I shrugged. “Tired mostly.”

  The night before had been rough. Exhausted from the events at the cabin and the coffee shop, I’d fallen asleep quickly, but my dreams kept turning sour. They’d started out in my mother’s backyard, where I’d been playing on the swing set or drinking a cup of tea at her little café table. I’d felt happy and peaceful. But inevitably Tom Bishop’s rotting face had shown up in a window of the house or in my cup, and I’d woken up in a cold sweat. I’d eventually given up on sleep entirely and kept myself awake by reading an old mystery novel—one of the books that had come with the apartment. It was one I’d read before, but I didn’t mind already knowing who the culprit was. I had enough unanswered questions in my own life.

  Kit shifted in her seat. “Finding that body must’ve been awful for you.”

  I shrugged again. It hadn’t been the first dead body I’d seen, though it definitely won the “Most Gruesome” award. Oddly, I thought I would have been relatively undisturbed about finding the corpse if I hadn’t recognized it. Most shocking was the realization—and the complete certainty—that the body belonged to the man who had appeared in my bathroom mirror.

  Ever since my brain had made that connection, the world had come into clearer focus. Whatever little bit of doubt I had about my state of mind had been erased. I no longer worried that I was losing my grip or hallucinating from stress. Tom Bishop had been haunting me, I was sure. I didn’t know why his spirit had latched on to me, but I knew it was real.

  Despite my newfound confidence in my sanity, I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it. I hadn’t told Kit or anyone else that I recognized the body I’d found. It might have been more than 150 years since Alastar Driscoll was locked away for claiming he could speak to the dead, but not much had really changed. Not for law enforcement, anyway. Maybe the Soul Searchers would have believed me, but the sheriff’s deputies would have thought I’d lost my mind—or worse. They might have taken it as some kind of evidence, linking me to the crime.

  “… shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Graham was saying.

  I shook my head to clear it of the thoughts about Tom Bishop’s ghost and forced myself to pay attention to the conversation.

  “I hate that crap.” Kit leaned forward. “If you’re a good person in life, then I’m all in favor of saying good things about you after you die.” She emphasized her words by jabbing her index finger into the table. “But if somebody is a piece of garbage their whole life, why should anyone pretend they were an angel just because they’re dead? What good does it do?”

  “Well, there should be a certain respect—”

  “That’s just it, though!” Kit cut in. “Did they do something in life to earn my respect? Did they make a positive impact on the world around them or, at the very least, manage to not be an asshole? Then yes, I’ll show them respect.”

  “I’m not saying Tom’s death erases the mistakes he made in life,” Graham said. His narrow face was starting to redden. “You’re right. He was a terrible husband, and he never showed Penny any respect. Plus, my dad said Tom was selling drugs and who knows what else out of that diner. I never trusted him.” He took a deep breath. “I do think she’s better off without him.”

  “See?” Kit’s voice was triumphant. “Doesn’t it feel better to be honest? You don’t have to say that stuff to Penelope—or anyone else for that matter. But let’s not put Tom on some sort of pedestal. Otherwise, we’re just lying to ourse
lves.”

  “So does that mean you’re not going to the funeral?” Graham asked.

  Kit’s eyes widened. “What, miss the social event of the year just because I didn’t like the guy? Never. He was a Bishop, man. Not showing up for that funeral would be a black mark in your book that this little town would never forget.”

  Oh, crap. “So I guess I’d better go too then?”

  Graham and Kit looked at me as though they’d forgotten I was there.

  “Oh.” Kit bit her lip. “Well, it’s up to you. If it’ll be too hard for you, skip it.”

  “It’ll be closed casket. You won’t have to see the body again,” Graham said. “And if you want, you can go with me.”

  “When is it?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. It feels weird to talk about a person this way, but apparently Tom’s body is ‘police evidence,’ so it might not be released for a while.”

  “I’m sure the Bishop family will lean on the county coroner to rush the autopsy,” Kit said.

  “I don’t think that would be a bad thing,” Graham said. “My dad is hoping the funeral can be held this week, before the festival starts.”

  “Well, I’ll think about it.” I stood up and stretched, dispossessing Striker of my lap. “Thanks for breakfast, you guys.”

  I padded into the foyer and unlocked my mailbox. I was surprised to find an envelope with my name and address handwritten on it. So far, as I’d predicted, every piece of mail I’d received had been lovingly addressed to “Resident.” I flipped the envelope over and saw that it had come from the office of the deputy mayor.

  My heart sank. Did Penelope write to thank me for finding her husband’s body or something? Or maybe it was a piece of hate mail. Whatever I’d done to make her dislike me before couldn’t possibly compare to finding Tom floating in the lake. Maybe she was shooting the messenger and blaming me for his death. I ripped the envelope open before dread could overtake me and make me do something like throw the letter away.

  Inside was a single piece of heavy, cream-colored paper. I unfolded it and sighed in relief. It was a form letter with a computer-printed signature at the bottom. The date in the corner revealed it was mailed on Friday, the day before I’d gone to the cabin with the Soul Searchers.

  Of course. It was Sunday. Penelope couldn’t have possibly mailed me anything since I’d found the body.

  I skimmed the letter and became convinced that Penelope had drafted it herself. It was full of the same pompous language as her speech at the volunteer meeting. The letter covered the details of the Afterlife Festival and informed me that I’d been assigned the task of “runner,” which meant taking extra pamphlets to the visitor center or running walkie-talkie batteries around. Volunteer orientation would be on Friday, and my team lead would show me the ropes.

  “That’s not so bad,” I told Striker.

  I stuffed the letter back into the envelope and headed up to my apartment. Climbing a few flights of stairs had never seemed difficult before I got a cat, but now that I lived with Striker, I wasn’t just going up the stairs: it was a game… a dangerous one.

  I climbed to the first bend and looked back. Striker sat on the hardwood floor, staring up at me. Her eyes were slightly crossed, making her appear a little goofy. I knew the truth, though. This cat was pure focus, determined to beat me up to our apartment.

  Not this time. I’ve got a plan.

  “Oops, forgot something in the kitchen,” I said in a loud voice.

  I turned slightly, as though I was heading back down the stairs. Then I took off running for the second floor, pounding up the treads and leaning my torso forward, ready to claw my way up the carpet if needed. I heard tiny, light footsteps behind me. My pulse quickened; she was gaining on me. I passed the second-floor landing and continued upward, clearing the corner. One more bend to go. I could see the top! And then my vision was filled with black fur. Somehow Striker had swooped under my body and flown right past my face. Her sudden appearance startled me, and I lost my rhythm, stumbling up the last few stairs and landing on all fours with an “Ooomph!”

  Striker sat inches from my face, calmly licking her paw and passing it over her eyebrows. It was the feline equivalent of dusting your knuckles off on your shirt. She’d beaten me yet again, and she made it look as though she didn’t even need to try.

  I stood up and looked around to make sure no one had seen my graceless defeat. “Next time, little girl,” I told her. “Victory will be mine!”

  She trotted along beside me to our apartment door and followed me inside. I flounced back onto my bed and rolled onto my stomach, resting my chin on my hands. After taking a few bites of kibble and drinking some water, Striker joined me on the bed, arranging herself like a loaf of bread and staring me in the face.

  “You know, lots of people talk about how cats are aloof and selfish. They say dogs are better company. I don’t think they ever met a cat like you.” I reached out a hand to scratch her chin, and she squeezed her eyes closed. She looked blissful.

  The feeling was mutual. I was happier than I’d been in years. It felt strange, in light of everything that had happened over the past weeks. But despite my father’s death and dealing with Tom Bishop’s ghost, I still felt happy. Tired, but happy.

  “Not even tired, really,” I told Striker with a yawn. “Sleepy is a better word.”

  I’d always been tired before. I got tired of fighting Josh about everything, so I just gave in and let him run the show. I got tired of hating my job and felt too exhausted to find a new one, so I shut down and went through the motions, a passionless robot in knock-off designer clothes.

  Designer clothes. I frowned and sat up. Penelope was always dressed as if she’d just left a catalog photo shoot. Her hair was always perfectly done, and even her nail polish coordinated with her accessories. Everything about her screamed, “I’m in control.” But Kit and Graham had said Tom Bishop was a big-time womanizer. Penelope didn’t seem like the kind of woman who would take that lightly.

  I saw it all play out in my mind. Penelope could have found out that Tom was having yet another affair and snapped. She could have killed him—the classic crime of passion—and then driven him out to the lake to dump his body. She was a smart, organized woman. She’d know how to cover her tracks and get rid of the evidence.

  How can I prove it? I drummed my fingers on the bed frame.

  Striker stood up and head butted my hand. She trilled, but it was an irritated sound.

  “Oops, sorry.” I moved my hand back and continued scratching her face. I sighed. You’re getting carried away. You didn’t get enough sleep last night.

  I lay back down on the bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. As I drifted off to sleep, I told myself I’d lay off the mystery novels for a while and leave the crime solving to the professionals. But one tiny voice in the back of my head piped up, When I’m at the funeral, I’ll see if Penelope looks like a grieving widow or a murderer.

  Chapter Twenty

  On Monday morning, Kit told me the cabin was still cordoned off by the Driscoll County Sheriff’s Department, so filming would definitely be delayed. I felt relieved; I wasn’t ready to go back there. At the same time, a worry grew in the back of my mind. It wasn’t big enough to gnaw at me, but it nibbled at the edges of my thoughts. I only got paid on days when the Soul Searchers were actually out in the field, and so far, I’d had many more days off than on. I might need to get another job soon to make sure I didn’t dig into my savings too deeply.

  Ugh. I don’t even want to think about that today.

  Luckily, my growling stomach distracted me. And soon after, a chai latte entered my mind, becoming a lure that was impossible to resist. I gave Striker a few farewell strokes and headed out the door toward The Astral Bean.

  Spring was giving way to an early summer in Donn’s Hill. The temperature was rising, and the green thumbs on my street were already digging away in their front gardens. My toes felt claustrophobic in my shoes. S
andal weather had arrived, and my narrow little piggies knew it.

  I pulled open the door to The Astral Bean and immediately knew I’d made the right decision. The aromas of freshly ground coffee beans and gooey baked goods promised that the day was about to become a great one… until I saw Brian’s face. Behind the counter, his shoulders slumped and he had large, puffy bags beneath his eyes.

  “You and I have something in common,” he said as he rang up my order.

  “We’re both hopelessly addicted to your homemade chai?” I joked, fumbling my attempt to cheer him up.

  He pursed his mouth and stretched it into an odd, lipless smile. “Nothing so cheerful as that. You and I share the dubious honor of being among the few to see Tom Bishop after his disappearance two weeks ago. Never seen a dead body before yesterday.” He shuddered. “I wish I hadn’t seen him that way. I’d rather remember him how he was, before.”

  I swallowed, willing my mind to shut out the image of my father lying motionless in his hospital bed.

  Brian steamed my drink behind the counter. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody you’re the one who found him. Since word got out that I helped identify his body, I’ve been getting a lot of questions from the morbidly curious. I figure you don’t need the same kind of attention.”

  “Thanks, Brian. I appreciate that. But you know how it is… I’m sure it’s all over town by now.”

  “You’re probably right.” He paused and looked around the shop. A young couple was sitting at a table in the corner, holding hands and kissing over steaming cups of coffee. Brian leaned toward me, his voice growing lower. “It was a grisly sight though, wasn’t it? I think I’ll see it every time I close my eyes for the rest of my life.”