by Carol Schaal
All the Deadly Secrets
Carol Schaal
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either drawn from the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All the Deadly Secrets
Copyright © 2019 by Carol Schaal
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-7940-5040-2
Cover design by Kerry Prugh
In memory of my mom, Gert, who loved mysteries and always asked, “What shall I read next?”
And to Jim, my ever-fixed mark.
1
White holiday lights still glittered like shards of ice along Alleton’s main street, and the Lake Michigan coastal village’s many cute shops looked pinched. It was as if the buildings were clenching their steel joints together, trying to keep out the evening’s piercing cold. I could relate.
As I often did, I wondered what Drew would have made of my new place, of the quaint Michigan town I’d fled to from Florida after his death made my life a hellish disaster. But I forced myself to dismiss those thoughts. I did not want to go to the party looking sad and lonely, although that is precisely what I am.
The Waves End sign said the art gallery was closed, but the side door was unlocked for the shop owners attending the January Doldrums gatherings, a Sunday night event. In the gallery’s foyer I gazed at the tall metal sculpture of a young person of indeterminate gender, who was reaching for something unseen with fingernails of decorated upholstery nails. “Chill,” I told the statue, whose steely resolve I always found disturbing. Then I headed up the stairs to the apartment where the gallery’s owners, Frank Severino and Justin Noah lived. The smell of fresh-baked cookies welcomed me as I opened the door, beating out Frank’s greeting by a good two seconds.
“Lauren! The angel of mercy arrives! Are you dumping the Dragon Lady for us?” Frank, standing tall by the kitchen’s large stainless-steel stove, wore an apron announcing, “Hot Stuff Coming Through.” He twirled the spatula he held and bowed grandly.
“I’ve only come to grab some food for her. Maybe that will dampen her fearsome flames,” I said. “That broken arm is making life hard for her.”
Frank shook his head, shaved bald to hide the sign of a disappearing hairline, a look of aging the 40-something despised. “Too bad it wasn’t a broken nose. Bernice sticks that in everybody’s affairs.”
He grabbed a paper plate and began to put together a serving of appetizers and cookies. “Was this part of the deal? She sold you the shop in exchange for cold hard cash and a weekly homage? If so, you got cheated. She should pay you for hazardous duty.”
“Nah, I promised Sarah, who desperately needed a vacation. She agreed to continue working for me at the shop if I’d look in on her mother while she’s gone.”
“Some promises are stupid. And if I were you, I’d look for a knife in Sarah’s hand. She must be furious that her mom sold the shop to you.” Frank shrugged, then shooed me toward the apartment’s main living area. “Poke your sweet self in there and tell everyone hello,” he ordered. “Otherwise they’ll think you’re ignoring them. Of course, I’d ignore ’em too if they weren’t my guests.”
“Oh, now, what would you do for an audience?” I asked, then scurried away before Frank could swipe at me with the spatula.
When I turned the corner into the arched passageway, I heard the distinct growl of Dennis Tomlinson’s voice. I had been in Alleton for only 10 weeks but already I knew that Dennis was constantly giving his wife, Tami, a hard time about, well, just about everything.
“Yeah, so getting the new inventory software right before Christmas was stupid. Yeah, it took too long to set up. But you just wait and see. It’ll save us time soon.”
Tami’s response was soft, but standing around the corner, hidden from view, I could picture her chubby face red with embarrassment. “Den, it’s okay. We can straighten it out. We had a good season, why don’t we celebrate that?”
The Tomlinsons owned a toy and game store, one of the most charming shops in southwest Michigan’s popular lakeside art colony. The Wooden Block had passed to Dennis following his parents’ death in a car accident a decade ago, but everyone knew Tami did most of the work, and everyone felt sorry for her.
I peeked around the side of the open entry and saw eight or nine people standing near the apartment’s custom half-circle bar, looking uncomfortable. I heard the low undertone of Justin, co-owner of the gallery, whose quiet demeanor offered a nice contrast to Frank’s outsized personality, trying to guide the conversation to a lighter subject. I stepped back from the corner and returned to the kitchen.
“Bernice will be better company tonight,” I told Frank. “I’m staying out of there. The Tomlinsons are at it again.”
“Ah, yes, the joys of marriage,” Frank said, then held out the foil-wrapped package. “Maybe this will help sweeten Bernice’s disposition.”
“Someone needs to sweeten Dennis’s,” I said as I took the plate. “And you are a sweetheart for putting this together. I owe you one. And don’t tell anyone I was here. They’ll wonder why I didn’t say hello.”
* * *
A couple miles from Bernice and her daughter Sarah’s house, sleet was spitting at my SUV’s windshield. I clutched the steering wheel, my shoulders tight. Florida born and raised, I was still tense about winter driving. When I finally pulled into the long driveway leading to the ramshackle farmhouse, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The aroma of Frank’s chicken satay and artichoke dip had dissipated, leaving only a chill in the car’s cabin.
Strange, just a dim light showed from the kitchen. I grabbed the foil package of goodies, walked to the side door, and knocked. After waiting a couple minutes, I fished out the key Sarah had given me.
I stepped into the kitchen, lit by the oven hood’s dome light, and automatically glanced down, expecting to be greeted by Eliot, the big tabby. On my previous visits, he had welcomed me at the door, but now he was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Bernice. I plunked the food package down next to a plate of thumbprint cookies and a tea cup sitting on a nearby counter and called out. “Bernice? Mrs. Mullins? It’s Lauren Andrews. Hello?” No response.
I walked across the oak flooring of the kitchen and peeked into a utility room that held a washer and dryer. A furnace hulked in the corner. No one there. I turned to the living room, then checked the nearby bathroom and downstairs bedroom. Empty. The door that opened on the stairway leading up to Sarah’s household quarters was locked, but when I pressed my ear against the wood surface, I heard no movement above. The house felt empty and was starting to creep me out. Bernice knew I was coming, and the woman who let me know at our first meeting that she would not put up with latecomers, and thank goodness I hadn’t been late, was not one to miss an appointment.
Taking deep breaths, trying to control my panic, I did another circuit of the downstairs. I threw back the bathtub’s shower curtain, opened the bedroom’s closet door, peered under the bed. The only sign of Eliot was a worn chew toy on the floor, and the only sign of Bernice was her oversized black vinyl purse on top of a tall dresser.
The abandoned purse was not a good sign. Bernice carried it everywhere. But maybe, I thought, maybe Bernice had to make a quick run to the store or maybe a friend had picked her up and maybe Bernice had only needed her small coin purse. Only one way to find out. I hesitated, then decided it was okay to snoop given the circumstances. I opened the purse, first glancing warily around as if Bernice might suddenly appear to give me hell for violating her privacy, and saw a Kleenex package, lip balm, comb, an empty prescription bottle, two pens, a business card, a small notebook. And the c
oin purse.
I pulled my jacket close, even though the house was warm, and returned to the kitchen. One other door there caught my eye. Oh no, the basement. Visions from horror movies danced in my head — don’t go in the basement! — so I flipped a light switch at the top of the stairs and went down only the first two steps. From there, I could see it was just a small room with a chest-high shelf running around the walls, stocked with canned goods. It had a dirt floor and odd, musty smell, but otherwise the dim, dusty space was empty.
I walked back to the kitchen and hesitated at the door leading outside. The house had no nearby neighbors, and the isolation and winter’s early darkness were getting to me. Sarah had told me cell phone service was nonexistent in the area, which meant I couldn’t call for help while in the backyard if a man or beast attacked me. “Stop imagining monsters,” I told myself. The pep talk wasn’t much help. It wasn’t monsters I feared, but a real live person, hiding in the dark, knife or gun in hand.
Inhaling deeply, I finally was hit by the one possibility that galvanized me into action. Bernice might need me. Not giving myself any more time to think, I turned on my phone’s flashlight app and headed outside. I walked quickly on hard-frozen mud to the garage and pulled on the small entry door. The sight of Bernice’s rusty old Chevy wagon, sitting there silent and unhelpful, almost made me cry. “Okay,” I whispered to myself, “so she didn’t take the car. That doesn’t mean anything.” I stepped into the garage, looked inside the car. Empty. I looked underneath. No Eliot.
Turning to go back to the house, I spotted the listing wooden shed sitting several yards behind the farmhouse. Small indentations showed on the lawn. Footsteps? The new snowfall made it hard to tell. It took every ounce of courage I possessed to walk across the backyard, circling around a massive oak tree whose few remaining leaves rustled menacingly in the light wind, and approach the outbuilding.
The door was ajar, and although a crescent moon helped illuminate the area, I couldn’t see much inside. I edged the door open farther with my foot. Still standing outside, I shined my cell phone flashlight around the small interior, which smelled like rotting mulch, hoping to spot Eliot curled up on the dirt floor.
I shrieked when I saw a pair of glowing eyes peeking out from a pile of rusted machinery, then the creature skittered away. “Just a mouse,” I told myself, fighting to control my breathing, and continued to sweep the light around the shed.
I caught sight of something, but it took a couple seconds for the message to get to my brain. That bunch of rags I saw in the corner was not an errant pile of laundry.
It was Bernice.
Tears stung my eyes, and I rushed over and kneeled by the cold, cold bed of the Dragon Lady, who would terrorize the town no more. She was wearing clothes I had seen her in before, a dark cardigan over a white blouse, a cast peeking out on her right arm, black skirt, and a pair of dirty slippers on her feet.
I gently touched her shoulder, sending a prayer out for her safe passage.
Back in the house, I reached for the landline phone on the kitchen wall, my hand trembling, my mind flashing back to that horrible day when I found the body of my dear Drew. Bernice’s worldly troubles were at an end, but I knew my troubles might just be beginning. The police would have lots of questions, and experience had taught me that even the innocent would know no rest.
2
The paramedic, her brown hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun, sat near me on an old overstuffed chair in Bernice’s living room. I huddled in the matching chair, my black wool coat hugged tightly to my body. A man who had earlier introduced himself as Detective Maccini returned from his squad car, carrying an oversized thermal bag. He called it his “emergency kit.” He pulled Styrofoam cups and a large thermos jug from the bag, poured three cups of coffee, and set two of them on the stand between me and the watchful medic.
“Are you sure you don’t want AnnMarie to take you to the hospital?” he asked again, peering down at me through unfashionable bifocals. “You’re probably suffering from shock. We can have someone drive your car back to town.”
I reached out a shaky hand and picked up the coffee, appreciating the heat of the cup, then shook my head no. “Thanks for this,” I said. “I’ll be okay. I just need to get warm. And figure out how to tell Sarah her mom is dead. And her cat is missing.” I tried to blink away another round of tears, then decided it might be best to just go ahead and cry. The police like signs of grief.
“A cat? Indoor cat? Huh. What’s it look like?” Maccini asked.
“Eliot, he’s pretty big. And yes, an indoor cat with black and brown markings. His collar has a bell on it.”
Maccini nodded, got up, and walked into the kitchen, where I could hear people moving around, opening cupboard doors and drawers. Someone had managed to unlock the door leading to Sarah’s apartment, and footsteps sounded overhead. The detective held a murmured conversation with someone, then returned, settling on one end of a dark green sofa. He sipped his coffee, and lights from an ambulance and another county cop car parked outside splashed his face with color. In his heavy corduroys and flannel shirt, he looked more like a stressed out, overworked farmer than a police officer, and he sounded more like a concerned grandfather.
“We’ll try to reach her soon,” Maccini said. “This is going to be hard on her, she’s lived with her mom for years. I hate these calls.”
He leaned forward and softened his voice even more, as if this were a chummy conversation between friends. “I know this is difficult,” he said, “but can you think of any reason Bernice would wander out in this weather? Was it common for the cat to go outside? Would Bernice go hunting for it, especially without her shoes? And was she taking any medicine that would leave her foggy? Was she depressed about anything?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I didn’t really know her that well, it was all a business relationship …” I trailed off, exhaustion and cold and the whole weight of the evening’s horror hitting me hard.
I saw AnnMarie glance over at Maccini, who apparently got the unspoken message. “I think we’re done here for now,” he said. “You need to get home and get some sleep if you can. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, and on Tuesday you can come by headquarters and we’ll prepare your statement: when you saw or talked to Bernice last, what you did tonight, that type of thing. Might help if you write some things down while they’re still fresh in your mind.”
He swallowed a final slug of coffee. “We’ll take care of the rest. And don’t worry, we’ll keep looking for the cat.”
3
Some Alleton shop owners, including Waves End owners Frank and Justin, took Monday as their day of rest, so downtown was on the quiet side when I finally made it there after a few hours of fitful sleep. I walked around my shop, trailing my fingers over half-empty shelves, picking up and putting down papers, longing for work to keep me busy. I desperately wanted to call Raelynn, my beloved aunt who had seen me through many of life’s bumps, both molehills and mountains, but she was with her husband and their twin granddaughters on a Disney cruise and wouldn’t be back until Saturday.
My store was called Bathing Beauty, the name doing double duty because the business I’d bought from Bernice in October offered hats, flip flops, sunscreen, and other handy items for beachgoers in late spring and all through summer, and lush body care products for use in the bath and shower all year round, plus a few fun items to capture the tourists’ fancy. It needed some upgrades, generally with its product line and online presence.
Bernice and Sarah ran the store through Christmas, offering major close-out deals. I worked at the store during the holiday rush, learning the ins and outs of retailing, and took possession at the end of the year. The grand re-opening was set for early February, and things so far were moving smoothly.
“You can do it,” I thought, channeling Aunt Raelynn’s go-getter, no-excuses attitude. But I wasn’t sure. There was so much I didn’t know about running a store. Sarah was going to stay on as assistant
manager, but now she had a funeral to plan and who knew how much work to do settling her mom’s estate.
I kicked aside an empty box and was startled by a knock at the shop’s door. I lifted the shade covering the front door’s window and saw Frank, bundled in a warm fleece jacket and holding a paper bag and cardboard coffee caddy. “Lauren, Lauren,” he said as he entered, setting the breakfast items on an empty counter and passing over the tea he’d brought for me. “I am so sorry. Heard the news about Bernice. How are you? Have you talked to Sarah yet? Are you okay? What did the police say? What can I do?”
Apparently, news does travel fast in small towns. That shouldn’t have surprised me. Frank was the leader of the town’s small business association and seemed to know everyone. He and Justin had owned Waves End for almost 15 years, specializing in photographic watercolors, funky modern sculpture, and all types of wall art. Or what Frank like to call “cool art for cold cash.”
“This,” I said, pointing to the homemade potato doughnuts he pulled from the sack. “And make sure the painter you selected finishes the outside sign in time. And no, I haven’t talked to Sarah yet and I don’t know if she’s returned from Tennessee and I don’t really know what to do or say to her and I have no idea what the police are saying but I have to go to the station to meet with Detective Maccini tomorrow and …,” I ran out of breath and threw my arms around Frank for a hug.
We had become almost instant friends last October, when I made the rounds of the town’s many shops and galleries, talking to owners and trying to decide whether to put in a bid on Bernice’s store. “A Florida girl!” Frank said when I introduced myself. “In need of winter’s cleansing cold. I like it.” He treated me to lunch several times when I came back to town to sign paperwork after Bernice accepted my bid, filling me in on Alleton’s history and popular hangouts and political issues, such as the continuing battle over assigned parking spaces, and giving me a sense of what to expect when summer arrived and tourists overran the town and jammed the nearby beach.
