Only fair.
My nose leads the way, pulling me in, devouring the vanilla and cinnamon scent hanging in the air, the same way Frank devours his chocolate donuts. My mouth salivates, greedy for another kiss. If he caught me touching his clothes, licking the rim of his beer bottle … God, I’ve never been a stalker girl. It feels wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But the restless energy rolling off my body hampers those feelings.
I can’t help but smile. A slow forming, wicked smile. I love being bad. Love it!
I flop on his bed and kick my feet, flip on my back and snort his pillow like it’s a drug. With the pillow held to my chest, I roll back and forth, still high from last night’s sex.
“God, I can’t wait for us to fuck again.”
“Salem?” Frank knocks on the doorjamb.
“Ah!” I jump up, toss the pillow toward the headboard and straighten the comforter.
“Oh, Lordy. Never mind!”
“No. No.” I walk up to him, and he steps back. “I’m just cleaning the rooms.”
“Call it what you want.”
“Frank, wait.”
“Sorry ’bout that.” He hurries down the stairs. “Might wanna close the door before you … before you do that solo female pampering. That’s what my wife tells our daughter.”
“I wasn’t … it’s not … don’t think that I was …” Dammit. I set my hands on the railing. “Frank, what did you need?”
“All good.” He waves a hand. “I’m just fine.”
“Ugh.” I look down and away, then cover my face with my hands. Somehow I make it back to Nate’s room, sit on the edge of his bed with my fingers wedged between my legs, heart racing. Bad karma. That’s what I get for coming in here. Bad, bad karma. Now Frank thinks I’m a pillow sex enthusiast.
“Frank, I wasn’t making out with the pillow!”
“Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I swear!”
I force myself to breath steady, toughen up, pretend I don’t look and sound pathetic. But my reflection in the mirror over the dresser shows the truth—face red-hot, eyes mortified—I may die of embarrassment. I’m acting too young for my age, like a callow teen experiencing puppy love for the first time.
“Let me know if you need anything, Frank.” I try to sound calm.
“All good.”
I take a few drawn-out breaths and pick lint off my sweatpants, kindling a memory of my mom. I have a heavy heart for her today. And the lint doesn’t help; it’s always a trigger for my dad and Connor’s wake. The day my red sweater shed on everyone who offered condolences. The hugs transferred from me to my mom, and the lint passed to her black dress. She picked off each piece one by one, a way for her to disengage, to stay in denial a little longer. It got her through until the lint was gone and she resorted to picking fuzzy pieces off my sweater. A red pile grew on the carpet of the funeral home, resembling an erupting volcano. Like then, this is turning out to be one of those sludgy days. Gloomy and lethargic with lasting burdens worse than bubblegum stuck in my hair. Sour cops, vanishing guests, tense friends, a wounded home. A slap across the face or a kick to the shin would be a welcome distraction.
My phone lights up my hoodie pocket. I take it out and see Brad’s number on the screen.
“Brad, where are they?”
“Officer Brenn—”
“Knock it off. Are they at the station?”
“Took ’em to Hell. All of ’em.” His excitement flips a switch inside me. My hand curls into a white-knuckled fist.
“Does that mean Jim’s in jail? And Nate? What about Joss?”
He laughs.
“This isn’t funny. It’s not funny, Brad. Your little scheme isn’t working.”
“What scheme?”
“To get me to doubt Nate. I’m not falling for it. Now stop it and tell me where they are.”
“Hang easy. They’re fine. I drove Jim past the station a handful of times, purposely stalling out by the front door to hear the wimp apologize. Then I dropped him off at the diner. Joss and Harlow tailed me the whole way.”
“They’re at the diner?”
“Everyone’s happy eating Simon’s daily special. Meatloaf today. Want me to bring you a plate?”
“What the fuck? No. So you didn’t arrest him?”
He laughs again, a belly laugh, callous and unpleasant. “I scared the shit out of him is what I did. Showed him who’s boss around here.”
I roll my eyes. “And who would that be? Chief?”
The loud squeak of Styrofoam rubbing together makes me cringe. Must be his takeout box.
A sniff. A suggestive moan. “Uh, smells sooo good.”
“Brad.”
He blows on his food and takes a bite. With a sharp intake of breath, he says, “Hh-h-hot.”
“Brad.”
“What?” He exhales and slurps his drink.
“Jim’s not the type to apologize.”
“Like you know him so well.”
“Better than you. I doubt you let him go just like that.”
“Told you, I was showing him who’s boss.” He blows on his food for several seconds, chews, takes another swig of his drink to wash it down.
“Bullshit. Tell me what happened.”
“Can’t, I made a deal. It’s null and void if anyone finds out.”
“What deal?”
“None of your business.”
“Is money involved?”
“Can’t say.”
“Jesus, it is, isn’t it? Did you take a bribe?” He blows on his food. “Brad, you’re the one who’ll end up in jail.”
“Now that’s bullshit. I haven’t been in trouble a day in my life.” He talks with a mouthful of food. “The other party is the one who’d go down for this, not me.”
“You think?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve never done anything wrong. Ever?”
“That’s right.”
“Then what happened between you and Connor? Why’d he hit you?” His line falls silent. I look in the mirror and see myself biting my nail. My hand drops to my side. Outside Nate’s window, the snow is heavy, descending over the yard, entombing Annabelle the hippo. I watch her disappear, waiting for Brad to talk. “Connor didn’t get into fistfights. You did something wrong. What was it?” I push.
He swallows. “Who told you he hit me?”
“My granddad.” I hold the cell away from my ear, flinching from another round of abrasive laughter. “It was in a letter, jackass. I know you think I’m losing it, but my granddad doesn’t talk to me from the dead.”
“Sure, Salem. This time I’m calling the loony bin to pick you up. No joke.”
“Brad, he wrote about it. It was in a letter he sent to Grady Murphy.”
The laughter stops. “What did it say?”
“That Connor knocked out your tooth, but neither of you would say why.”
“My lips are sealed. Let it rest.”
“I won’t. Start talking.”
“I don’t have to tell you jack shit.”
“Of course you do.”
“Says who? Look, before Connor died, he asked me to watch over you if he got into college, and that’s what I’m doing. That’s all I’m doing, Salem. It’s what I’ve always done, check in on you to make sure you’re okay.”
“That’s the only reason you’ve kept in touch with me?”
“And just so you know, those phony private detectives are nothing but trouble.”
He snubs my question. I figure he’s tugging at his collar to get more air.
“Nate’s not phony. And don’t you dare change the subject. What did you do to rile Connor? He never hit anyone. You must’ve hit him first.”
“Go fuck yourself.” He hangs up.
Brad and I argue like brother and sister, but the tension between us has spiked since Nate and Jim arrived. It’s something I’m on edge about. I put my cell
back in my hoodie, fuming over this. If I could get a good look at Brad’s face, I might be able to figure out how he feels about the fight. See if his eyes show remorse or if he’s still harboring rage. Maybe I’ll be able to hear it in his voice. I pull out my cell and call him back.
“What?” he answers.
“Don’t avoid this conversation and don’t hang up on me.”
“Salem, what happened between Connor and me was between us. We worked it out. That’s it.”
“It must still upset you, or you’d talk about it.”
“Nope.”
“Then what’s the big secret? I won’t let up until you tell me. I’ll keep calling.”
“I won’t answer.”
“I’ll come to your house.”
“The only time you leave the lodge is to get groceries or to walk your fat dog.”
“Ollie’s not fat. He’s big boned!” I slam my palm on the bed several times. “Don’t talk about him that way.”
A painfully long pause. “Sorry.” This time I hear the regret in his voice. He knows better than to say anything bad about Olls, especially since he’s overweight himself. “This is getting out of hand,” he says.
“I know it is.” I lower my voice. “Think we can have a conversation like two civilized adults?”
“All right, look … I threatened Connor once when we were kids. I was gonna rat him out for something, but he made sure I walked the threat back and didn’t tell a soul.”
“He made sure by knocking out your tooth?”
“He didn’t plan on that happening.”
“Why’d you threaten him?”
“Because I wasn’t prepared for what I saw…”
He hesitates like a little boy too scared to ride his bike over the crest of a steep hill. I have a sneaking suspicion the fight had something to do with Eli or the key. My mind can’t piece together any other possibilities.
My eyes comb through Nate’s room as I wait, stopping on the stack of papers on his dresser—my original reason for coming in here. “You gonna talk, Brad?”
“I’m thinking.”
I get up and flip through the stack. Medical bills, some from twenty years ago, addressed to Gertrude Murphy. Gert. She was sick for years. Bills like these are familiar to me. My mom’s cancer meds cost over ten grand a month. The chemo and other treatments emptied her retirement savings, along with all the money she got after my dad died. On a janitor’s salary, Grady and Gert must’ve been broke. I’m surprised a few of these were paid in one chunk. A check sent for twenty grand, another for ten. Where’d they get the money?
“You still waiting for me to say something?” he asks.
“What do you think?”
“Salem?” Frank calls up the stairs.
“Who’s that?” Brad asks.
“Frank Ennis. He’s doing an inspection.” I leave Nate’s room and look over the railing. “Yeah, Frank?”
“Can I get into your private quarters?”
I walk down the stairs. “Is that what you needed earlier? You should’ve just asked.”
“I was about to.” He blushes, chocolate on his chin. I give him a big smile to let him know I’ve moved on from the humiliation. He swipes his forehead with the back of his hand in good fun, saying, “Phew.”
“Brad, hold on a sec.”
“Brad Brenner?” Frank asks.
“Yeah.”
“Shit,” Brad grumbles. “Don’t tell him it’s me.”
Frank grabs my cell. “Brenner? Kayla said you asked her out to dinner.” His voice hardens. “She’s just a kid, you hear me? A kid!” He points to the cell. I nod to go ahead and use it. He takes it into my quarters as he works, but I can still hear the yelling from out here. It’s not uncommon for lonely Tilford Lake men to ask out high school girls. But Brad’s a cop. His reputation is quickly spiraling the drain.
I look out the front window at Virginia’s snow-veiled car, the last few days of warm weather proving to be a tease.
I imagine Virginia’s walking through the forest in her robe and slippers, her gray hair iced, her nose sore and red. By the time I notice Frank handing me my cell, I sense the severity of the situation. If someone didn’t pick Virginia up this morning, then she’s out in this weather, and she’s certainly not dressed for it. Plus that note, that note she handed me. I’m not sorry. Were those meant to be her last words?
“Brad.”
“I gotta go, Salem.”
“Wait, I need you to come out here. I think one of my guests is missing.”
“For fuck’s sake, they’re at the diner.”
“No, an older woman who was staying here for a funeral. She left this morning, but her car’s still here.”
“A funeral? There haven’t been any funerals in Tilford Lake this week.”
“You sure?” I walk into the sitting room and sort through the pile of papers, turning to the obituaries.
“I’m positive. We get notices at the station when there’s a funeral.”
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
I stare at the paper from two days ago, my head ducking closer and closer to the page. The front door chime sings as I read the name.
“Fixed it,” Frank says. “The battery was just about dead.”
I can’t comprehend what Frank said. The chime sings and fades, sings and fades.
“Oh my God.”
“You just said that. What is it?”
I thought of Virginia Pullman as wise and kindhearted, reminding me of my grandparents. I was convinced she was the sanest person at the lodge, here for a family member’s funeral, a funeral she attended two days ago. But with the obituary listed in the paper, an obituary for Virginia Pullman, I now know that she’s unsound, the one who’s most flawed … and quite possibly, the most cunning one of us all.
seventeen
Late afternoon brings thickening darkness of snow clouds and moisture. I sit in Casper’s Funeral Home, waiting for Wayland Casper to finish brewing a pot of tea. When we were kids, Joss and I made fun of the unfortunate name of his business, believing it was home of the cartoon character Casper the Friendly Ghost. Joss even dressed like Casper one Halloween, stood in the front yard of the funeral home, waving to passing cars. Her dad grounded her for a week, disrespecting the dead and all. Then the place became too real, the name Casper no longer friendly, more of a dreaded nightmare, coming here for funeral after funeral.
“How you been, Salem?” Wayland sets the tea tray on his desk and pours two cups. “Sugar?”
“No, thank you.” He hands me mine and I take a sip: citrus-flavored, orange and lemongrass, a sweet licorice aftertaste. “I’ve been okay. Busy.”
“Not here.” He smiles. One of his top, front teeth has a small chip in it. “It’s a blessing when I can say work has been slow.”
I unzip my coat and force a polite smile, taking a whiff of the stale air. The funeral home has an odor that will impregnate my clothing and hair, an aromatic mix of Frankincense and rose incense, combined with the musty scent of old books. It’s similar to the smell of a church, and inside Casper’s, the odor clings to the vintage wooden chairs, dark green carpeting, and velvet brocade drapes. I may need to shower a second time today to wash away the memories that shadow the scents.
“Good tea.” I raise the cup to thank him before placing it on the saucer on his desk. It’s been a year since I’ve seen Wayland. Last time was at the bank. His hair is grayer, crow’s feet more developed, and sweater vest much tighter around his ribs. The inevitable signs of aging have arrived. In common with Nate and Frank, he has a friendly and robust voice, only more distinguished. It’s perfect for an NPR-like radio station, fitting his Subaru and gourmet tea personality. He also appreciates face-to-face conversations, mentioning how important eye contact and body language are in his line of work. More personal. Less cold and distant than when families prefer to make online arrangements. And not unl
ike the lodge, Wayland has multiple visitors each week with little or no chance of forming friendships or long-term relationships. Another example of a “revolving door” life, fresh faces that come and go, no way to stop the spin.
“You said business has been slow, but Virginia Pullman was here this week. Right?”
“Correct.” His perfectly groomed brows and hazel eyes lift with excitement. He leans forward and spreads his fingers on the desk. “Look at me. My fingers are shaking because of her. Strangest experience I’ve had in my twenty years of running the family business. Peculiar woman. Too eccentric to have grown up in Tilford Lake, as she said.”
“She grew up here?”
“As she said. Her parents lived in that stately Queen Anne next to the courthouse. After they passed, Dr. Abrams bought it.”
“Wow, the gigantic green beast? The one with six bedrooms?”
“That’s the one. But Virginia didn’t live there long. She moved to California after high school and got a degree in Mathematics. She had a job as a human-computer until the seventies. Then she taught at a university out west.”
“Human-computer? Wait, I’m confused. She told me she was a live model in New York City.”
Wayland rocks in his high-back chair, holding his index fingers in a steeple formation. “Well … I didn’t believe most of what she said, especially after she explained why she was here. It was unorthodox. I was waiting for her to say she had been to Mars.”
“She said she was in town for a funeral. She went to it two days ago, but this morning I found her obituary and funeral arrangements in the paper. Was that a mistake? Was it for a family member with the same name?”
“No, no mistake.”
I wring my hands, my nerves nearly shot. “You’re saying Virginia had a funeral for herself?”
He nods. “A living funeral. I’ve read about them, but never thought someone would ask to have one here.”
“That’s crazy. She’s crazy.”
“I’d call her … quirky.” He tilts his head with a smile, raising a finger. “A complex personality you can never decode. More of a genius than a nut.”
The Release of Secrets_Littlest Sparrow Gone Page 14
