The Release of Secrets_Littlest Sparrow Gone

by Megan Maguire

  Following a cup of tea and two games of solitaire, I recline in the leather chair with my legs over the armrest. Every fifteen minutes my body flips to find a more comfortable spot. Sleep reaches me in short waves.

  I know staying in my feather bed isn’t an option. Too many memories of my family are stirring because of the key. And the rooms in the private quarters seem to be occupied by spirits of my past.

  When I was married, my husband and I rented a house close to the local grocery store where he was the produce manager. I worked at the lodge during the day, and my mom took over at night. She would say her home once was filled with a loving family, but now is just a house full of strangers and ghosts. I get that. I feel the same way she did. But I also can’t imagine what life would be like without these strangers … and the ghosts. My life, the lodge, these guests that pass through, it’s a love-hate relationship.

  Thankfully, more love than hate.

  • • •

  “Salem, wake up, Ollie’s barking outside my window.” Joss nudges my arm.

  “What?” I’m groggy as she leads me out of sleep. “You sure?” I sit up. My legs are snarled in a fleece blanket.

  “Yeah, it’s his little yip.”

  “How’d he get out?”

  “Beats me.”

  I escape the blanket, put on my boots, and grab a flashlight from behind the desk. We race out the front door, Joss in only a thin pair of socks.

  “Get your boots,” I tell her.

  “There’s no time. If he’s barking at those men, I wanna see.”

  “Ollie! Come here, buddy.”

  We run to the side of the lodge and round the corner to the back. Lit by the moon, the landscape is cast in blue and crisscrossed with boot tracks. I see Ollie staring fixedly into the darkness of the pine forest. He growls when a branch snaps, then whines and paces along the edge of the trees.

  “Fuck, I hope that’s not a bear,” Joss says.

  “Bears aren’t out this time of the year. Ollie, get over here!”

  She looks down. “Those are bootprints.”

  “I know. NOW, Ollie!” Free of his leash, he’s having the time of his life. “Come here!” I start in his direction, and he immediately runs to my side. “How’d you get out?” He rolls on his back, his stumpers kicking up snow, head rocking back and forth with excitement. I shine the flashlight toward the forest, not a thing is out there but pines that rise to the moon and dead branches on the ground, flecked with snow.

  “Is that blood?” Joss asks.

  “Where?”

  “On his leg.”

  I bend down and part his fur to check his skin. “There’s no cut. It’s not blood.” I sniff my hand. “Smells like ketchup.”

  “Pizza sauce?”

  “No. Ketchup.”

  I shine the light across the yard, over the fiberglass hippo that now rests on its side, past the drained pool, and to the back of the lodge, checking to see if footprints go to any of the windows.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  The back door is slightly open. Two sets of tracks climbed the steps and went inside. I push through the bushes, pick up a dog-devoured fast food bag, then follow a trail of melting snow and burger wrappers, coming face to face with the two detectives in the lobby. Jim is warming his hands by the fire, while Nate leans alongside the reception desk. Both men drop black travel bags on the floor when they see me.

  “Hey, beautiful. Think I can get a room now?” Nate asks.

  Joss comes in with Ollie in tow. She hits the brakes, slapped with disbelief. A soft whisper, “Holy shit … men,” as she attempts to finger tame her curly black hair.

  “Nice,” Jim hisses. “Two of ’em.” He takes off his knit hat, licks his palm, and slicks his hair to the side. “I get the short one with the luscious ass.”

  Joss flings her hair off her shoulder and sallies back. “I’ll reject the short one who’s oblivious and doesn’t stand a chance.”

  The guys laugh too loud and for way too long. Nate steadies himself against the desk, the smell of alcohol thick in the air. They’re wasted. And I’m livid.

  I walk past them and stand behind the desk, using it as a barrier. “Give it.” I hold out my hand. “Give me the key to that door right now.”

  Joss bends over and takes off her socks, a flirty way to flash her cleavage toward Jim. His eyelids turn heavy, thrilled with the show.

  “Give it.” I prod Nate’s chest.

  “The door was open from when we came in earlier,” he says.

  “No, it wasn’t. You must’ve made a copy of Eli’s key. Now give it to me, or I’m calling the cops.”

  “Who? Bradley Brenner?” He smirks.

  “I’m serious. I’ll have you arrested for breaking and entering, trespassing, driving drunk, and—”

  “We didn’t break in. We have a key.”

  “Good. Give it to me. And I want to see your badges. Then you’re going to tell me everything you know about Eli.”

  Nate’s head dips until it lands on the desk. He stays there, arms dangling low enough for Ollie to lick his fingers, probably salty from French fries.

  “Where’s your imaginary husband?” he asks. “Is he still going to shoot us?”

  “Who told you I wasn’t married?” A pause. No response. Must’ve been Brad.

  His breathing slows and alters into a fake, subdued snore.

  “Wake up.” I dope slap the top of his head, getting a laugh in return.

  “Get him a room before he passes out,” Jim says.

  “How the hell did you guys drive out here without ending up in a ditch?” Joss asks.

  Nate straightens up. “I’m not drunk.” His blue eyes sparkle and a handsome dimple in his left cheek flares to life. He tips to the right and grabs hold of the desk to steady himself. “What do you guys put in the liquor up this way?”

  “I bet they went to Martin’s Bar,” Joss says.

  “It’s the elevation, you idiot,” Jim tells Nate. “Said it would do you in, but you never listen to your big brother.”

  “Brother? Are you friends, brothers, detectives, which is it?” I ask.

  “Maybe,” Jim replies.

  “What kind of answer is that?” My mouth stays open, encouraging him to speak. “Forget it. I’ve had enough. Front and center, both of you.” I tap the desk. “First, give me whatever keys you have to the lodge. No more fucking around.” I hold out my hand. They look at one another and nod in agreement, digging in their coat pockets, dropping two keys in my hand. “Now, show me your badges.”

  They laugh. Jim elbows Nate and looks down. Again, they nod in agreement, this time unbuttoning their jeans to strip.

  “That’s not what I meant by badges!”

  Joss, tough-as-nails Joss, is always prepared to step in. She kicks Jim in the back of the knee, positions her feet—one behind his ankle and the other behind his knee—and pulls his body down. He lands on his back, wide-eyed in awe.

  “When my friend asks you to do something, you better fucking do it,” she says.

  That’s one reason I wanted her here. She’s great at defending me while flirting at the same time. “Thanks, Joss.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Jim gets off the floor, using Nate as a crutch. He glares at Joss. She beams back.

  “What?” she says with attitude, putting a hand on her hip, throwing her weight to one side. “I said, what?”

  He gets in her face, slicking his hair into place. “If you’re like that in bed, I’ll make you my wife.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “I can make all your dreams come true, brown eyes.”

  “Show her your badge, or you’ll be flat on your ass again.”

  “What badge?” Nate asks. He puts his elbows on the desk and presses his temples. “I’m not a cop.”

  “You told Brad you were detectives,” I say.

  “Private detectives. We
don’t have badges.”

  “Private? Who hired you? Why are you here?”

  “Can I just get a fucking room and go to bed? These log walls are closing in on me.”

  Joss gives me a slight headshake. I copy the action. It’s obvious I’m not getting a word out of them tonight.

  “Here’s the deal. I can’t kick you guys out because you’ll end up killing someone or yourselves on the road. I can call a cop to pick you up to take you to the station to sleep this off. But then I don’t know when I’ll be able to talk to you about my brother … or if you’ll even come back, so I’d prefer to keep you where I can see you. But I’m charging double for the rooms.” Jim yawns and stares into space. “Pay attention.” I smack the counter. “You guys let my dog out, you let him eat fast food, and you broke in here, twice.”

  “It’s not breaking in when you have a key,” Nate repeats, likely not remembering he tried that one on me already.

  “Save it.” My voice is stern. “Give me your IDs and your credit cards before I change my mind.”

  Jim elbows Nate. “We’ve got cash.”

  They slide their driver’s licenses across the desk, and Nate drops a wad of money in front of me. “That’s three grand for the week. Since this is your off-season, it should be plenty.”

  “A week?” My jaw hits the floor.

  “Maybe longer.”

  I pick up their IDs, my fingers turning wobbly. “Jim Gaines, twenty-eight. Nathan Harlow, also twenty-eight.” I hold up the cards and compare their faces to the photos. Both are from Vinland Falls, NY, but with different street addresses. Brad said they were from New York City. Either he’s the worst cop ever, or these guys are lying through their teeth about every damn thing.

  I type in their information and hand them their IDs, along with keys to their rooms.

  “You’re upstairs in the back, above the sitting area. Be quiet when you go up the stairs so you don’t disturb my other guests. I’ll have coffee and tea out in the morning from six to ten, along with two newspapers.” Ollie waddles over and nudges my leg, warning me not to do this. “Check-in is from four to eleven each night, not three in the morning. If you’re staying the week and are out past eleven, the door will be locked when you get here. You won’t get in past that time. It’s for the safety of my guests and so I can get some sleep.” Jim cocks his head and fingers the inside of his ear, the earwax more important than what I’m saying. “And just so you know, we have a lot to talk about in the morning.” I point at Nate. “If you’re not up by nine, I’ll be pounding on your door until your ass is out of bed. Got it?”

  Nate, puffy-eyed from booze, leans in and places his hand over mine. Our pale complexions are a perfect match, his touch comforting until his fingers clamp down on my wrist.

  “Salem, keep cool. We have an entire week together. Don’t ruin everything by rushing it.” His hand slips away.

  “How do you know my name?”

  They stagger upstairs with their bags, Jim giving his finger a sniff, Nate mumbling about being drunk. Two doors open and close, a TV turns on in one room, water runs in the other.

  Joss and I stare at the balcony and wait. What for, I don’t know. We just wait. I didn’t tell Nate my name, but if he had Eli’s key, he must know something about my family.

  After a long silence, and when our necks ache from gazing upward, Joss says, “Fuck, they’re gorgeous. Jim looks like Jake Gyllenhaal, except his hair is black, and his eyes are brown, and he’s shorter.”

  “Then he doesn’t look like him at all.”

  “He sort of does.”

  “Aren’t you just a little bit afraid of them?”

  “Pfft.” She flaps a hand in dismissal. “I think we can take ’em.”

  “Okay, maybe afraid was the wrong word. Troubled? Bothered? Bothered is a better word. They keep dodging my questions. Besides, I’m not looking for a date. I wanna know how they got the key.”

  “But hooking up would be a bonus. And you know, you don’t have to date a guy to fuck him.”

  “Duh. I know.”

  “But you won’t do it.”

  I shrug.

  She cups my cheeks, her hands lightly scented with a flowery lotion. “Get with it, babe. What Tilford Lake woman wouldn’t jump at the chance of having one of those guys on top of her. It’s time to get back in the game.”

  I bite my bottom lip to stop a smile. It would be nice, but I haven’t had a one-night stand since high school, since before I got married. Joss is the expert at casual sex, not me. She still dates and fucks like she’s seventeen. It’s been years since I’ve done anything like that, and it was never as easy for me to kiss and let go.

  Jim’s door opens. He walks out and looks down at us from the balcony, bare-chested, torso teeming with vintage-style tats: roses, skulls, an anchor, and a pirate ship with a sea serpent coiled amid the hull.

  “Just checking,” he says, his voice smug. A smile curls as he walks back to his room.

  “Hell,” I whisper.

  “Holy hell. Did you see his abs under all those tats?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Salem, you got an extra bed for the week?”

  “Always, Joss. Always.”

  five

  My alarm is set to go off at five-thirty every morning. That gives me enough time to freshen up and get the sitting room ready for six o’clock coffee and tea. I usually get plenty of sleep. Guests rarely check in after ten at night. But this morning I’m sluggish from the overnight madness.

  I rub my eyes and wait for the two coffee pots to fill, badly needing a cup before I have to put on a cheery face for the next five hours. Jim said I must have empty rooms because it’s March, the off-season. But I’m never on vacation. There’s always something to do.

  “Mornin’.” Jim’s gruff voice makes me jump. He leans alongside the doorjamb of the sitting room, still shirtless, still creepy.

  “Can you please put on some clothes before my other guests wake up?”

  “Why?” He raises his arms and holds the top of the doorframe, leaning forward to show off his tats and abs.

  “Because I’m not running a brothel.” I’m short with him, checking the clock to see that it’s almost six.

  He walks over and pours a cup of coffee, sniffing it before he takes a sip. “Sugar?”

  “Cream and sugar are on the side table by the newspapers.”

  He puts two heaping spoonfuls in his cup and gives it a whirl. “Go easy on Nate,” he says.

  “What does that mean?” I pour myself a cup and follow him to the lobby. He heads upstairs without answering. “Wait. Where you going?”

  He thumbs his chest. “Not a brothel, right? Gotta get a shirt.” He continues up the steps.

  “Tell me what you meant by that.”

  “About Nate?”

  “Who do you think I’m talking about?”

  He stops on the landing, turns, takes a sip of coffee, and licks his lips.

  “Talk,” I insist.

  “Mellow out,” he says. “Give me a chance to answer.” He drinks again, and again.

  “Come on.”

  He smiles. “All right. Nate’s a good guy, but he’s also turning into a drunk because of this case. Stop with the barrage of questions. He’ll talk to you when he’s ready.”

  “No, we’re gonna talk as soon as you guys get down here.”

  “I said he’ll talk to you when he’s ready. Leave it at that.”

  “Well, why can’t you talk to me?”

  “I’m just here for mortal support.”

  “Moral?”

  “Huh?”

  “Moral support.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Yeah, no,” I retort. “Tell me how you got my brother’s key. Do you know where he—”

  Jim cuts me off, holds up a hand. “See, there you go again. Take it easy.”

  “Oh, for Chrissake.” I blow m
y bangs off my forehead. “I won’t take it easy.”

  “You’ll learn.” He retreats to his room.

  I’ll learn? That’s what my ex-husband always said. Salem, are you kidding me? A tasteless salad for dinner? You’ll learn to eat what I eat. Now order us some pizza and wings.

  What did I ever see in Steven?

  You’ll learn to enjoy throwing money away on a rental house. You’ll learn to like my TV shows, my immature friends, my new motorcycle, and taking care of my nephew every Friday night. You’ll learn.

  Hell, you know what, Steven? NO, I won’t!

  Like many women, I married a guy who I thought I loved, but later realized I settled out of fear of being alone. Ignorant and all too common a response, I’m surprised Joss never fell into that trap.

  I knock the sitting room chairs against the tables as tiny rivulets of sweat form in my armpits. I’m trying to keep my cool, but that Jim guy really ticks me off.

  “Foggy.” The gentle voice of an older woman startles me.

  “Hmm?” I turn.

  Her yellow-gray hair is in a long, thick braid down her back. A wrinkled pinkie finger lifts as she sips her tea.

  “It’s foggy this morning,” she says. “Typical, isn’t it? Never have I buried a loved one without rain or fog.”

  Sympathetic, I tell her that I’m sorry.

  My parents taught me not to ask people why they’re in town, precisely for this reason. It’s a giveaway when guests walk in with winter gear or get dressed up for a wedding. Other times, I don’t know unless they offer more information. This woman, Virginia Pullman, has been here for two days. She’s quiet, friendly, and polite, but I wouldn’t have guessed she was here for a funeral.

  “I haven’t noticed the fog,” I say. “It’s still dark outside.”

  She stands in front of the oversized window and wipes away the condensation on the glass. “Look closely. It’s a dense cover, suffocating the trees and strangling the life out of the light.”

  I put my hand on the window next to hers. Her manicured fingernails, painted light blue, are a clear juxtaposition to her wrinkly skin freckled with age spots.