“A warm front must be moving in over the cold water. We get a lot of fog in the spring with the lake being so close.” I pause, seeing the first light of day. I can sense the weight of the humidity in the air, and the fresh scent of rain is pleasant after such a long winter. “It’ll be pretty once the sun comes up.”
She drinks her tea and makes an effort to smile, but a tear drops down her timeworn face. She removes a used tissue from her navy cardigan to dry her cheek.
“Dear. If the moonlight can’t penetrate what crawled in while we slept, the daylight won’t either. There’ll be no sunshine today. I guarantee it.”
She sounds educated, maybe a former college professor, frail in her old age, but sharp. This time she tries a broader smile, keeping her thin lips tight. It’s hard to know what to say in these situations. I don’t want to come across as heartless by changing the subject. And I can’t apologize again for her loss. I remember how that constant apology felt coming from Joss after my mom had passed. The repetition of her words offered no comfort after the fifth, sixth, seventh time.
“I think you can feel the warmth of the sun even when it’s not out,” I reply. She laughs, and I can’t help but laugh with her. “I’m just saying that you can put a positive spin on it. It’s all up to you.”
“I see.” She sets her tea and tissue on the windowsill, then takes my hand, turning it palm up. “What’s your name, dear?”
“Salem.”
“How unique. After the city or the cigarette?”
That’s a new one. No one’s ever mentioned the cigarette before. “The city. My parents visited Massachusetts the year I was born.” I take a second to think. “What about you? The city, the state, or the cigarette?”
She smiles. “Virginia is a family name.” Her hands are freezing. It’s like they’ve been in ice buckets. “Do you have any siblings, Salem?”
“Yes. Connor and Eli, but they’re no longer here.”
She frowns and looks away. I’m glad she doesn’t ask where they are. For that and other motherly reasons, I genuinely dig her. But like all my guests, she’ll come and go in a matter of days.
“You must’ve dealt with many heartbreaks to become such an optimist. Suffering either makes you emotionally stronger or turns you numb.” She traces the lines on my palm then feels a deep line at the base of my ring finger. “You have a good friend?”
“Yes.”
“For years?”
“My whole life.”
“Good.” She bends my fingers into a firm ball and squeezes my hand. “Don’t lose her.”
“Lose her … to anything specific?” I ask since she’s shrewdly observant.
She releases my hand to drink her tea, having no response. At least not in words, but her eyes move like she’s following something outside, directing me to an answer.
I squint through the window, catching a glimpse of a dark figure on the rusted remains of the playground.
Nate Harlow.
Damn, these men.
six
Under the shade of sky-high pines is the old playground where I spent most of my childhood. Connor and I wasted entire days here, racing up and down the metal slide and in competition over who had the longest jump off the swings. He’d try to distract me with a hardy laugh, but when I released my grip and rocketed through the air, my feet sank into the sun-warmed sand a safe foot or two past his leap. He said he let me win because I was younger than him … and a girl. I remember. It was when bullshit became the trending word in my vocabulary. Bullshit, Connor. That’s bullshit.
But this time it’s not Connor taunting me on the old swing set—it’s Nate.
He’s using the top bar to do pull-ups.
“Working out?” I ask.
My hands ball inside the front pocket of my hoodie. The cuffs of my jeans soak up the spring earth. I wait, but he gives me the cold shoulder. Either he’s still drunk, or he’s out of his mind. It’s too early and too dark to be outside exercising on an old metal bar that could easily break from his weight. On top of that, he stole one of my Sparrow Lodge hoodies. I keep a stack of them on the built-in shelves behind the lobby desk, along with a pile of Sparrow sweaters, T-shirts, baseball caps, and a bunch of other stuff I rarely sell. Nate, the shifty thief, took the most expensive item.
“You have to pay for that.”
He stops. The rusted bar is stressed by his weight. A smile leaks as his eyes rake across my outfit, his teeth straight and white, dimple wide-awake. We match.
Sparrow Lodge clothing makes up the majority of my wardrobe. Every top I own has the heart and sparrow logo over the left breast, always over my own heart. Yesterday I wore my favorite black sweatshirt. Today it’s my black hoodie. Did Nate see what I had on before he took one for himself?
He continues exercising. Between short breaths, he counts, “Ninety-seven … ninety-eight … ninety-nine.”
“Hey, I’m talking to you.”
He tucks his legs into his chest then brings them over the bar, dangling upside down by the backs of his knees. With his arms crossed, he begins a set of sit-ups. “One … two … three.” He has bedhead and stubble. “Four … five … six.” Gray boxers inch out of his sweatpants. “Seven … eight.”
The top bar creaks and starts to bend like a string of taffy. Rust flakes off as he repositions his legs. He shimmies out of the middle and over to the side to steady the equipment. “Nine … ten … eleven.”
“Dammit.” I kick a clump of slushy snow in his direction, but the wet pieces merely roll along the ground. Doubt he even noticed. What a pain. It’s too damn early for this. “Stop ignoring me!”
He does a flip off the bar and uses the hoodie to mop sweat off his forehead. His toothy smile is short-lived, replaced by a brief headshake as he crosses to where I stand.
I step back. “Don’t come any closer.” But he does anyway. The guy doesn’t listen.
I bump the teeter-totter and lose my balance, my arms circling like a windmill. On instinct, I arch my back and lower my hands to meet the ground, forming a bridge pose. With the playground upside down, pines replacing the sky, I find myself suspended in midair. Nate has a solid grip on the waist of my jeans to keep me from landing on my head.
“Women are so impatient,” he says, his voice flat.
“And men are so self-centered.” I spin my arms. “Pull me up.”
He brings me to his chest, smelling of stale beer, day-old cologne, and after an extended breath, peppermint toothpaste. His embrace feels familiar as if he’s held me for years. I try to picture him as a child, possibly with a crew cut and less muscle, a scrawny preteen, but nothing clicks.
“Have we met?” I ask.
I wouldn’t remember if we had. Kids came and went through the lodge so often they became a blur. Two hundred or more a year, some stayed a few days, others for just a night. John and Randy. Emily and Kate. Tom, Kevin, Anna, Laura, and Bethany. Tara, Ashley, and Noah. Then another John and another Emily. I didn’t always ask for a name. Why bother? My dad called them revolving-door friends, in and out of the lodge without ever leaving an impression. Like me, my dad grew up at the lodge. He knew what it was like.
“Have we?” I ask again.
“No. But you might remember my granddad, Grady Murphy.”
The taste of death penetrates my mouth. I twist to the left, but he has a firm hold. “Madman Murphy?” I whisper.
The insulting nickname causes him to wince. “I heard that people called him that. Were you one of the kids who threw rocks at his head?”
Panicked, I drive my fist into his chest and break free. I sprint to the front porch, fly inside and up the stairs to Joss’s room. After two mountainous lungsful of air to calm my nerves, I look to see if he’s coming and utter a yelp when the chime announces that he is.
“Joss, wake up,” I whisper, not wanting to disturb the other guests. “Get up. Get up.” I knock.
We had numerous nick
names for Grady Murphy, the old man with bad teeth and bulging, misaligned eyes. Beast, mutant, ghoul, ogre, and monster were some. Gruesome Grady and Goblin Grady were others. But Connor—after seeing him prowling on our property with a knife taped to a stick in one hand, lugging a dead raccoon in the other—started calling him Madman Murphy. “Don’t go in the forest, Salem,” Connor would say. “Madman Murphy is gonna getcha.”
I listened to Connor. I was terrified. Grady’s house was on the north side of our five acres of pines, and although he’s gone, the thought of him so close still gives me the creeps.
“Joss, wake up.” I fumble in my pocket for my keys.
Grady was the head janitor at Tilford Lake High School, but because he lived behind us, I knew about him long before most of my friends. My parents said he had a genetic disorder called Crouzon syndrome. That explained his features. I shouldn’t have been afraid of him, and at times, I felt for the guy. Later I was disappointed in my lack of compassion. My witch nickname was nothing compared to the assault and harsh words Grady endured. Even I called him names to fit in with the kids at school.
Joss swings the door open just as I turn the key.
“Huh?” Her hair looks like she stuck her finger in a light socket. I push my way inside and lock us in.
“That Nate guy is Madman Murphy’s grandson,” I spit out.
The name is like putting smelling salts under her nose. Her eyes pop wide open. She grabs her clothes off the floor and dresses like she’s missing an all-you-can-eat pancake special at the diner.
“Don’t go out there,” I tell her.
“Why? This is way cool.”
“What is?”
“Grady. He was legendary. We can finally find out if the rumors were true. Like if he ate opossum, or if his giant eyes were made out of glass.”
She bops my nose, not one bit serious. Joss is good at mocking my irrational behavior to keep me from slipping over the edge.
“I can’t help it if I lose it sometimes. You’d understand better if someone in your family disappeared.”
“Salem, Eli disappeared years before Grady took off. He wasn’t a suspect. The two aren’t related.”
“But Nate and Jim had Eli’s key. Why? We’ve only had two big crimes in this town, Joss. Two. Eli and Grady. What’s going on?”
She sighs. “Madman Murphy moving away wasn’t a crime.”
“He vanished one night and no one knows what happened to him, same as Eli. That’s a crime. And now these guys show up with Eli’s key. And one of them just happens to be Grady Murphy’s grandson? What the fuck?”
“Okay, that is a bit fishy.” She crosses her arms, stares at the door.
“For all we know, Grady could’ve been murdered. His body might be at the bottom of Tilford Lake.”
She sighs again. “Salem, that didn’t happen to Eli.”
“I know it didn’t. I’m just saying it’s not a coincidence.”
“No one thought it was a big deal when Grady left, at least not that I remember. Did anyone look for him?”
“No one looked because everyone was glad he was gone.”
“Babe”—she comes closer—“we were teenagers, everything we heard was gossip. We don’t know what happened.” Her hand squeezes my shoulder. “Maybe the cops searched for him.”
“We would’ve heard about that in this small town.”
“And you remember his wife died, right?”
“So what?”
“So, I know this is hard for you to believe, but some people move out of their homes when someone dies. People even move to a new town to escape the past. I bet Grady was like that. Why would he stay?”
“His wife wasn’t real. No one ever saw her.”
“Oh my God.” She raises her hands at my craziness. “We never saw her. We didn’t, Salem. We. That doesn’t mean a thing. She was real. Your dad went to school with their daughter.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, sucking in a shuddering breath. Everything’s coming at me so fast that I’ve forgotten the facts, the conversations with my parents, and how confusing life was after Grady disappeared. My family thought there was a connection, that another missing person might lead to more clues, more answers. But hope dried up quickly. The fact is: Grady was born with a defect. He was married, and he and his wife adopted a daughter. She moved away after high school. Grady’s wife died. Then Grady probably left to live with his daughter. There’s nothing more to it than that.
“You can’t hide out in this room all day. Or all week,” Joss says.
Our heads turn toward the door. There’s a faint noise coming from the other side. Nate’s out there, sneaking.
Joss pads over, listens.
“You think I’m embarrassing myself, don’t you?” I ask.
She makes a teensy space between her thumb and forefinger. “Tiny bit.” She smiles. “It is freaky that Grady’s grandson had Eli’s key, but you’re not going to find out a damn thing by camping out in this room.”
“Always my faithful voice of reason.” I check my cell. It’s seven. I have to get back to work. I think for a second, touching Eli’s key in my pocket. “I should call Brad.”
“Brad?” Her voice is hard. “For what?”
I find the number for the station in my contacts and place the call. “For everything.”
“Tilford Lake Police Department.”
“Doreen, it’s Salem Whitfield over at Sparrow Lodge. Can you connect me with Brad, please?”
“Bradley?”
“Yes, Brad.”
“Just a minute.”
The floor outside the room creaks. That has to be him. He’s out there. Just like when I was hiding from him in the bathroom, his shadow is lurking under the door.
“Salem?”
“Brad.”
“Call me Officer Brenner.”
“No.”
“And if this is an emergency, you should be calling 9-1-1, not me. I’m still at home.”
“Oh, I guess I should’ve called your cell.”
“This early? No, don’t. What do you want?”
I take Eli’s key out of my pocket and thumb his initials. “It’s Jim Gaines and Nate Harlow, those private detectives that you met.”
“What about ’em?”
“Did you know Nate is Grady Murphy’s grandson?”
“So?” He chews something crunchy. Toast. Maybe cereal.
“They had a key to the lodge, and like I said, Nate’s Madman Murphy’s grandson.”
“So?” More crunching. “It’s not a crime to be related to someone.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Salem, can I eat my fucking breakfast? Give it a rest.”
“Don’t talk to me that way.” I put my hand on my hip as if he can see me.
“Why? I’m not on duty.” He mumbles something about Doreen contacting him at home.
There’re reasons why Brad is short with me. I called the station a zillion times when I first started running the lodge without my mom. Calls about creaky doors, windows found open, scratching atop the roof, which thankfully turned out to be a tree branch and not an intruder. I can’t remember hearing any noises when the private quarters were buzzing with my family, or later when it was just my mom. It’s unsettling that there’s never silence when I’m here alone. It seems like that’s when the lodge groans the loudest.
“Just hang up on that prick,” Joss says, ear pressed to the door. She waves me over to listen.
Screw this. I toss my cell on the bed and stride to the door, unlock it, and pull it open.
The hallway is empty.
“I swear I heard breathing a second ago.” Her voice lowers to a stage whisper. “Someone was just here.”
Nate and Jim’s doors are closed.
I look at the other end of the hall and hear a click as a door lock latches. It’s the room above my bedroom, Virginia Pullman’s room.
“Did you
see someone?” Joss asks.
“No one.”
“I don’t see the guys. Who was out here?”
“I don’t know, Joss. No one?”
“Then what was that?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Just the wind … nothing but the wind, I guess.”
seven
Nate and Jim deactivated the chime on the front door. I’m blaming them because no one else staying here would do such a thing. But why they did it is another mystery. I noticed it wasn’t working when Virginia Pullman walked out like an apparition, the door mute, not a sound as she wandered away.
The other guests have checked out, leaving the four of us. Us, as if it’s fine to group Nate and Jim with Joss and me, that somehow we’re all good friends. Although, Joss did decide to shower at the same time as Jim, which is so her. She believes she has the magical power to place herself inside a man’s head by copying his routine. And after dealing with her countless boyfriends over the years, the longest lasting eight months, I know her flirting ways will get her what she wants. When Jim leaves his room, she’ll follow him to the lobby and point out that they both have damp hair, then she’ll twirl a strand around her finger. Sometimes I’m jealous of how easy it is for her to seduce men, except for now, since I have no desire to seduce Nathan Harlow. In truth, I want to smack the guy. I might just do so before he travels deep into the forest, which is my best guess as to where he’s headed.
From this distance, he looks like he’s waiting for something, back turned, feet apart, hands in his pockets. I move from the side of the lodge and proceed carefully through the slippery yard. The fog has thinned and lifted high into the trees, the boot prints from last night now icy oval blemishes amid tiny Ollie prints, a reminder that I had to lock my poor Ollie in the private quarters after his late-night escape. He’s an unhappy pooch that he didn’t get to say good morning to everyone, but a safe pooch, nonetheless.
I stop next to the overturned fiberglass hippo, given the name Annabelle by my dad. It’s an excellent spot to watch Nate from new ground, the same spot I’d scan the yard for Connor when we played hide-and-seek. As I observe Nate standing as still as the pines, I can’t help but fantasize that it’s him, Connor. He’d wait for me in plain sight alongside a tree trunk and hold his breath, his face painted with green and brown camouflage paint, black hair merging with the dark forest. I’d pass right by him as a kid but would notice him today. He wouldn’t be able to disappear on me like he once did. And now Nate standing in that same spot makes it hard to shake my memories of him.
The Release of Secrets_Littlest Sparrow Gone Page 4
