Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  He shrugged, accepting my answer. “If that’s the case, we’ll figure out who did it. Don't worry.”

  His cavalier dismissal made me angry all over again. “Are you guys even capable of investigating a murder? When was the last time there was a homicide in Sycamore Springs? And what if a witch was involved? Last time I checked, Sheriff Black still hadn’t hired anyone with magic experience.”

  “It’ll be okay. You and Charlie are the only witches for miles. She wasn’t a local. It sounds like a classic body dump. We get those a lot. People traveling from Indianapolis or Chicago dispose of bodies all along the I-65 corridor. If that’s what happened, it will be moved to another jurisdiction and out of our hands.”

  Somehow that didn’t make me feel any better. We rode in silence until we reached the house. I stared out the window, watching the trees slide past as he wound his way through the dark woods. By the time he pulled up outside the front door, I was ready for bed. I grabbed my stuff and hopped out of the car.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said before closing the door.

  He turned off the car and got out. I hoped he didn’t think I had changed my mind about the sex just because I let him drive me home. I shot him a confused look over the hood, and he looked equally puzzled.

  “I’ve got an early morning, so drive safe,” I said and headed toward the house.

  “Olivia?”

  This time I could tell he was confused. “What, Brad?”

  He looked from me to the house and back. “I’m sorry.”

  I tilted my head a little, trying to understand his point. “Sorry for what?” I wasn’t trying to be flippant. He had so many things to be sorry for, I honestly needed clarification.

  “I’m sorry I was an ass earlier. Why don’t I come in, and we can have a drink or something."

  I smiled, realizing he was trying to be charming again, but I wasn’t biting. “Don’t worry about it, Brad. We just need to figure out how to work with one another.” And then, because I just couldn’t help getting one more jab in I added, “It will help if I remember that asshole is your natural state.”

  I turned on my heels and walked up the path to the house. It might have been petty of me, but it felt good to put him in his place.

  TWO

  November fifth

  There was a cold bite to the morning air when I stepped out the front door to start my run. Fall had taken root in a big way, and I zipped my jacket all the way up to ward off the predawn chill.

  Yet again I contemplated the wisdom of running the trail during the winter months as I headed into the forest surrounding my house, shrouded in darkness. I had been hitting the trail every morning at five since this summer. It had become a routine, and I felt more balanced when I kept to it.

  The whole running thing had started as an attempt to fill my life with something other than work. Charlie had threatened an intervention if I didn’t start taking time for myself. Running seemed like an easy answer.

  I told myself it was to stay in shape. At thirty, I knew if I didn’t stay active it was just a matter of time before my full curves turned into fat rolls. What I didn’t expect, however, was the cathartic nature of running. My mind could blank out and let me forget about work and my personal problems.

  Not that I had much of a personal life. Work was the only thing I had going for me right now. I poured all my energy into Armstrong’s Funeral Home, and for the first time in almost a year we were in the black. I was just starting to feel like things were turning around; maybe I could focus some of my energy on the wreck I called my social life.

  After twenty minutes of running at a brisk pace, I reached the shore of the lake that bordered the back of my property. A low, heavy fog swirled around the water’s surface and spilled onto the shore, giving the trail an other-worldly feel. My skin pricked as I approached the water and noticed a strange rowboat tied to my private dock.

  Because my property backed up to a state park, an occasional tourist or local fisherman would stop to use the bathroom in my boathouse. I always left the little shack unlocked. There was nothing in there to steal, and it was far enough away from the house that I didn’t worry about strangers.

  I slowed my pace to a trot and looked around for the boat’s owner, but I didn’t notice anyone, so I jogged onto the dock to get a better look at it. Before I was close enough to see inside, I already had my phone out, dialing. The familiar smell of decay hung in the air.

  “Sycamore Springs Sheriff’s Department.” A chipper voice greeted me.

  “Jenny, this is Olivia Harmon. I’ve discovered a body at my boat house. Can you send someone out?”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath from the other end, followed by the staccato click of keys. “I’ve dispatched someone to your location,” she said. “Do you know who it is?”

  I looked into the boat at the end of the dock. Wrapped in plastic sheeting was the body of a boy. There were signs of animal activity, and even from here I could smell the decay. His bluish skin was distended and shiny, but my trained eye could look past the death to what he used to be. I didn’t recognize him.

  “It’s not anyone I know. Could you contact Ian, too? I know I’m on call today, but I don’t think I should process this body since it’s on my property.”

  “I sure will. Someone should be there soon,” she said and disconnected the call.

  I slid my phone into my jacket and examined the scene. The boat hadn’t just washed ashore; it had been tied to the end of the dock. The only explanation was that someone had left this body here for me to find. But why?

  I lived on the outskirts of the county so it would be at least twenty minutes before anyone showed up. I knew once they did I wouldn’t get the opportunity to do a reading. I looked around one more time, making sure no one was lurking. The sun was just starting to rise, burning off the morning fog. The brilliant hues of the sunrise blending into the fall foliage presented the ideal postcard snapshot of the lake in autumn. The soft lapping of the water against the dock provided the soundtrack.

  It was tranquil. Most mornings the solitude would have been soothing, but not today. I tried to ignore the fact that another person had been here sometime in the past twenty-four hours.

  I crouched down on the dock to pull the boat closer. Even in this cold weather the smell was strong, and I guessed the boy had been dead for a few weeks now. Carefully, I peeled back an edge of the sheeting, placed a hand on his neck, and closed my eyes. I pulled power through the caduceus tattoo on my wrist. A barrage of images flooded my mind, followed by a sour presence that tingled up my arm. I yanked back, recognizing it immediately. That sour, oily psychic film was exactly like what I had felt on the girl we had pulled out of the lake this summer.

  I took a deep breath to calm my racing heart and touched him again, focusing my power on the moment of his death. The images popped into my mind, and my stomach turned.

  Arms tied with plastic zip-ties. A dirty, flowered rug. A table with a brass lamp. Three flat stones being placed on his chest.

  The images stopped abruptly.

  A sick feeling came over me as I recalled the death last summer. The authorities had eventually ruled that girl’s death a homicide, but with no identification and no hints to how she ended up in Sycamore Springs, the case fell cold. That case had stayed with me long after I’d written up my final report and handed it over to the sheriff’s office. And now I was face to face with another young kid who shared the same final moments and the same dark power signature. It wasn’t a coincidence.

  I jumped to my feet and put as much distance between myself and the boat as I could while still keeping it in sight. There was going to be another investigation. I hoped that because this victim hadn’t been dumped in the water there’d be enough evidence to catch someone.

  I pulled out my phone and checked the time. It was past six, and while Charlie wouldn’t be at the office yet, I knew she’d be up. I punched in her cell and started to make a list of things I�
��d need to reschedule.

  Before I was even off the phone, the place was swarming with activity. Sheriff Mike Black himself showed up to supervise the scene. It was odd being on this side of the crime tape. Technicians and cops scurried about like insects devouring a discarded crumb of food, and I had to resist the urge to ask what they’d found. I sat under a small stand of trees, watching the bustle with a morbid fascination, and wondered if this was how other people saw me when I was working.

  They went over the dock and boat with a fine-toothed comb, looking for any evidence. There wasn’t so much as a boot print. A sour knot of worry pooled in my stomach, because it looked like this death could well end up right alongside the other in the cold case file.

  It was noon before they finished. As the work started to wrap up, Sheriff Black and Ian McCarty strolled over to where I was waiting, discussing the case as they walked.

  “I’m glad you’re still here. There are just a few more things I want to go over with you.” Sheriff Black started going through the usual instructions witnesses were given. Don’t cross the tape. Don’t leave town. If you remember anything else, be sure and call the station.

  Ian waited for him to finish, picking invisible specks off his stiff black blazer, obviously bored. I felt the same way. It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard this speech a thousand times. When Black started going over the rights and responsibilities the police had in cases like these, I felt my eyes start to glaze over.

  “Don’t think you can start poking your nose in this investigation. This isn’t one of your cases,” he said, as though I was a child being chastised for breaking a rule.

  I suppressed the urge to snap back with a snarky comment and simply nodded my understanding. The sheriff and I had never gotten along. Arguing would only add to the tension between us.

  Two years ago Black had moved to Sycamore Springs and joined the department. He had been appointed after the last sheriff suddenly died of a heart attack. It came as a surprise to many, seeing as he’d just joined the department, but with his family ties to the area it didn’t take long before he’d won the town over. But that’s a small town for you. They embraced anyone with a hometown connection as one of their own. Over the years, we’d managed to maintain a somewhat amiable relationship, but after I stopped dating Brad, he had barely stayed civil.

  “Am I a suspect?” Seeing as he was treating me like one, I thought it was a fair question.

  “You’re automatically a suspect since you found the body and it’s on your property. And because of that, I don’t want to hear that you tried to discuss the case with any of the officers.” He said it like I was just another civilian, and not someone he worked with on a regular basis.

  “Of course, I’m not an idiot, Sheriff.” I understood he had to rule me out, but I honestly thought that would be more of a formality. I looked over to Ian, who was suddenly interested in our conversation, and decided to play nice. With a smile that I was sure looked more like a grimace plastered on my face, I said in a pleasant tone, “I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the case.”

  “I don’t want you talking to Ian, either,” he added and stared pointedly in his direction.

  This seemed to jolt Ian out of his indifference. “Mike, she’s one of us, not some suspect,” he said, patting my back. “I’m not sure how they did things where you were before, but here we don’t treat our colleagues like common criminals.”

  The sheriff hitched his pants up in an effort to keep them from sliding off his rotund midsection, and eyed me as if it were my fault Ian was coming to my defense. Turning back to Ian, face pressed in a sour squint, Black talked as if I wasn’t standing right there. “So, you expect me to give a homicide suspect special treatment because she works with you?“

  Ian was unfazed. “Pull your head out of your ass, Mike.” I wanted to hug him. He was as straight-laced as they came, and I’d never heard him argue with the sheriff. “This is Olivia we’re talking about, not some stranger. Her family has lived here for as long as there’s been a Sycamore Springs. She has roots here. You know as well as I do that this is probably just a body dump. Why don’t you focus your attention on finding the killer instead of being a jackass.”

  Mike seemed genuinely surprised that Ian took such a hard stand against him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and finally said, “You’re right of course. But we don’t want to make it look like we’re giving her special treatment. I’d advise you to put her on suspension until the case is closed.”

  “I will do no such thing.” Ian dismissed the idea out of hand. “If you’re finished, I need to talk to Olivia about the on-call schedule for the rest of the week.”

  Without waiting for Mike to respond, he turned around and walked to his car, taking me with him. “I’ll drive you back to your house, so we can chat,” he said, and we got in his car, leaving Sheriff Black standing there dumbfounded.

  After Ian pulled onto the service trail, he said, “You’ve had a long day. Why don’t I cover call for the next couple of days? But I expect you to handle the entire weekend.”

  I blinked, not quite sure how to process the last few minutes. I shook my head, clearing the fog, and managed to find my voice. “I appreciate what you said back there.”

  “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. You have to understand, Mike means well. He’s been really good for the town. Crime is down and the department runs better. People like him. I don’t know what the problem is between you and Mike, but I won’t have it to affect how I do my job.” He shook his head and sighed. “You know, he argued with me for days after I offered you the assistant position. I was friends with Terry Armstrong, and Terry adored you. I knew you’d be a good fit, no matter what Mike thought.”

  Ian wasn’t the warm and fuzzy type, and this was the nicest thing he’d ever said to me. “I appreciate it. You didn’t have to stand up for me.”

  “Yes, I did. I saw where that was headed the moment he started. That’s why I stuck around. I knew he was going to try to suspend you without asking me. I’m too busy to lose your help.”

  Ah. That was the Ian I knew. Practical. I simply nodded and let the subject drop.

  When he pulled up to my front door, he said, “If Mike starts making waves, let me know. It’s not up to him how I handle my employees. And my decision shouldn’t impact your work at the coroner's office. If he has a problem with it he needs to take it up with me.”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that,” I said, trying to soothe his discomfort, even though knowing Mike I was sure he would find some way to make my job more difficult. I smiled back at Ian and got out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”

  It was two in the afternoon before I made it into town with the hopes of salvaging some of the day. As I drove up Main Street, I enjoyed the brilliant leaves streaking either side of the quiet thoroughfare that was the heart of Sycamore Springs, Indiana.

  Armstrong’s Funeral Home sat just off the town square, making it part of the town’s picturesque landscape. The sprawling manor was nestled between a row of antebellum brick storefronts and charming multi-family apartments. It harkened back to a time when generations of families ran the funeral industry. My mentor, Terry Armstrong, had been the last in his family to live in and run this establishment. When he died last year, he left me the business. I had been honored to continue his family’s legacy.

  Now it was just Charlie and me, but we were making things work. Charlie was an excellent office manager; without her, I wouldn’t have been able to keep the doors open.

  She was waiting for me with a stack of messages when I arrived. While I sorted through bills and junk mail, Charlie stood, leaning against the door frame, going over the appointments she’d rearranged.

  We were polar opposites, she and I, in everything from organizational skills and taste in music to our mannerisms and sexual orientation. Even our physical appearances were remarkably different. Where I was tall and curvy, Charlie was petite with a boyish
figure. She always kept her hair short and brightly colored (purple this month), while I preferred to keep mine long and natural. But despite all our differences—or perhaps because of them—we fit together.

  She was more than a friend; she had become part of my family when she just showed up at my house, suitcase in hand, looking for a mentor when she was barely fourteen. She’d moved in with us and trained with my grandmother, the local healer.

  Every day since then, I knew how lucky I was to have her in my life. I often wondered why she gave up healing to work with me in the funeral home, but she seemed to make it work for her.

  Today, her perfectly pressed skirt and jacket painted a picture of propriety and decorum, making her the ideal public face for Armstrong's. Outside of the hair, you’d never know that under those pearls she was more the punk rock princess than the church secretary.

  “I’ve prioritized the messages for you,” Charlie said. “The first one is from Green Haven. They called around eight this morning for a pickup. I called the body movers to handle it. Linda Hart is downstairs, and I have a file started on her. Her daughter has already called three times.”

  I cringed. The worst thing a funeral director could do was keep a grieving family waiting. “I’ll call her right now.”

  “Well,” Charlie said, shrinking back a little. “You might want to call Mrs. Wagner first. They’re taking her husband off the ventilator this afternoon after their kids arrive. She’s desperate to talk with you. She wants to make arrangements for him now, so they won’t have to worry about it after.”

  I flipped through the messages and growled in frustration. “I’ll call Mrs. Wagner, but can you contact Linda’s daughter and see if she can come to the office”—I looked up at my clock—“in about an hour? If I need to send the transport guys to the Wagners’, I will.”

  “Liv,” she chided, using her pet name for me, “you’re doing too much. You can’t keep running Armstrong’s all by yourself and being the assistant coroner. I’m worried about you. You’re always working. When was the last time you had a day off? You know how you get when you can’t decompress.”