Mourning Moon (A Guinan Jones Paranormal Mystery #2)

by Callista Foley

  "Well, sometimes Tamzen Parker goes over to..." He stopped abruptly.

  My stomach dropped. My mouth was dry. "Tamzen?"

  He rubbed his chin. "She's helping out, you know." When I didn't respond, he added, "I don't think there's anything going on between them."

  I gave him a weary gaze.

  His cheeks reddened. "Yeah, well. It doesn't matter."

  I wanted to clear the air, contaminated with the hint that Zeke and Tamzen had gotten back together, but my thoughts jumbled. I wanted to cry, scream, and laugh at the same time. Instead, I kissed my grandfather on the cheek and excused myself. I trudged upstairs to my room.

  In spite of my nonchalant attitude, the tears came. I didn't try to stop them. I closed the door and the drapes, and I slunk down on the bed. I closed my eyes and remembered the feel of Zeke's mouth on mine, his hands around my waist.

  Your eyes remind me of cinnamon. Did I ever tell you that?

  I was out of the picture. History. Old news. Old love. Zeke and Tamzen were back together, her cheating with Eric Rodman apparently forgotten.

  The kiss between us forgotten, too.

  Chapter Six

  I awoke to the smell of bacon, slow-baking turkey, and coffee. I squinted at the clock. A little after eight in the morning. I gasped, sprinted to the bathroom, and jumped in the shower. I was drying off before I realized today was a holiday. I gazed at myself in the mirror. I looked like a whole person—chestnut hair that fell past my shoulders, the widow's peak, hazel eyes like Granddad's, heart-shaped face. But I felt hollow, like my gut had a gaping hole in it.

  Desmond Drake was dead.

  Zeke and Tamzen were back together.

  Guinan, you are the stupidest...

  I wanted to smack my own face. How could I put these things on the same level? I sat down at my desk and kept my head in my hands for a long time. I eventually dressed and went downstairs. Before I entered the kitchen, I knew what I'd find: Granddad at the stove making eggs. I was surprised to see my father sitting at the table in front of his laptop.

  "What are you doing up so early?" he said, sipping coffee.

  "I could ask you the same." I sat down across from him. "You're not going to work on Thanksgiving, are you?"

  "No," he said, closing the laptop lid. "I awoke at my usual time and decided to get up. Those eggs ready yet, Isaac?"

  "Coming right up."

  My mother came down, and the four of us made small talk while we ate. I looked at my family and wondered how Desmond's parents were coping. Thanksgiving Day, and their son, their only child, was dead. I lost my appetite halfway through the meal.

  Afterward, when my parents left the kitchen, Granddad and I cleaned up. He peered into the hall to make sure my parents were out of earshot. "Were you and that boy close?"

  "Not really," I said. "I'd known him only since September."

  "You know what I mean."

  I gaped. "What? No, we weren't...involved."

  The pressure of the silence swelled between us.

  He stopped loading the dishwasher and glanced at the door. "You know, I hate the feeling I'm sneaking around, doing something wrong. Your parents, especially your mother, wouldn't appreciate this conversation. But I'm going to talk to them. They need to do better by you. Did you, uh—"

  "Read him?" I said. I nodded. "One part I remember exactly. He was thinking, 'I don't want to leave you.'"

  "Who?"

  I shrugged. "Obviously someone he cared about. I thought maybe his parents. A girlfriend. An ex-girlfriend."

  "Anything else?"

  "Something about wanting this person to know him and to make up for something."

  "Your mother gave me the gist of what happened. He went into severe anaphylactic shock after eating peanuts and died quickly. No doubt they'll test some of the food." He bit his lip. "Ah, well. It's a shame."

  "He was a genuinely nice person," I said. "I hate that this happened to him."

  Granddad furrowed his brow. "Yeah, that's tough going. But I was talking about you."

  "Huh?"

  The sympathy in his eyes rippled through me. "It's a shame that you have to deal with death again so soon."

  ***

  Death again so soon.

  Was I destined to have death follow me from city to city, like some teenage Jessica Fletcher? Maybe I'd find answers in the pages of my grandmother's journals. They remained in my parents' bedroom on their closet shelf. Tilda Jepson died when I was twelve, and I was attempting to honor her wishes and not read them until I was eighteen. I had no idea—couldn't even guess—why she wanted it that way.

  During Thanksgiving dinner, I tried my best to be cheerful as we ate our way through two helpings of everything. My father had opened a bottle of wine, and the three adults were indeed cheerful. If it weren't for Desmond's death, I'd want to stretch this exact moment into a week.

  My cell phone buzzed in my back pocket. My father hated cell phones at the table, although he didn't have a problem with computers. He didn't so much as glance my way. Instead, he made a toast and kissed my mother.

  I removed the phone and looked at the screen, expecting to see Embry's number. It was one I didn't recognize. I turned away from the table and whispered. "Hello?"

  "Jones? It's Luke."

  "How did you get my—"

  "Are you kidding? Listen, can you get away right now?"

  My parents and grandfather seemed deep in conversation. I used this moment to slip away from the table.

  "Get away where?" I said, heading upstairs to my room.

  "There's something you need to see. It's very important."

  Luke Chapman wanted me to come to his house on Thanksgiving. "What is it?"

  He sighed. "I don't want to do this over the phone."

  "Luke, it's Thanksgiving. I can't hop in my car and come to your house. My parents will—"

  "I live down the street."

  My jaw dropped. "What?"

  "The white house on the corner with the pale green shingles?"

  "I had no idea. You never mentioned—"

  "I know," he said. "I didn't think it was important enough to mention. Will you come or not? It has to do with Drake."

  I glanced at the digital clock on my nightstand. Almost six o'clock. I sighed. "Okay."

  Wondering if I'd end up regretting it, I put on my shoes and coat. I resisted the impulse to walk straight out the door without telling my parents where I was going. I'd learned my lesson about slipping away without notice.

  "I'm going out for a bit," I said, trying to sound casual. "A friend from school lives down the street."

  My mother stopped smiling and looked toward the window. "It's getting dark."

  Oh, boy. "I'm only going down the street, Mom. It's Luke Chapman, Desmond's best friend."

  My father cleared his throat. "Saundra, I think she'll be all right."

  "From the looks of it," Granddad said, "this is a pretty decent neighborhood."

  "I don't know."

  He stood. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll wait on the sidewalk and make sure she gets there in one piece."

  My mother nodded, but still looked skeptical.

  "Parents worry," Granddad said, as he shut the door behind us. "Wait till you get your own. By the way, what does he want?"

  "He said it has to do with Desmond."

  He grunted. "That so? Be careful."

  I felt silly with my grandfather watching me walk down the sidewalk. When I reached Luke's house, I gave Granddad a wave. He returned it and headed back to the house. I reached for the doorbell. Before I even made contact with it, the door flew open.

  Luke loomed in the doorway wearing a T-shirt with a tear at the bottom and wrinkled cargo shorts. He was barefoot. He watched me with red-rimmed eyes. I had a strong desire to touch his cheek.

  "Thanks for coming," he said. "I thought I was going to have to bribe you."

  "I assume it must be very important."

  "Mind-blow
ing. Come on in."

  I was taken aback by the living room's decor. A small lamp illuminated the high-ceiling room. Dark, heavy drapes cascaded down two, wide windows. An ornate, glass coffee table decorated with candles and thick books flanked a black, L-shaped couch. Two dark and imposing chairs were positioned on the other side of the table. It was the sort of room I envisioned when I read about vampires.

  "My father's wife was a Goth in high school back in the eighties," Luke said, ushering me toward the stairs. "She's still a Goth at heart."

  His stepmother's influence hadn't touched his room. A color combination of light-blue and cream gave it a simple and welcoming air. A spicy potpourri scent lingered in the air. A print of "The Scream" hung above an oak desk.

  "Where are your parents?" I said, sniffing the air for turkey.

  "My father and his wife are with friends," he said. "They half-heartedly invited me, but I didn't feel like going."

  Observing Luke's gruff demeanor, I wondered if he really wanted to go but sensed their reluctance to bring him. "What about your mother?"

  "Not around," he said, dropping his gaze. "Take off your coat. Make yourself comfortable."

  I removed it and tossed it on the bed. The dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises.

  "Have you slept at all?"

  "Not much." He ruffled his hair. "I don't sleep that well, anyway."

  I folded my arms and gazed around the room.

  "You nervous, Jones?"

  "Why should I be?" I pulled out my cell and texted Granddad to let him know I was okay. He replied in seconds. When I put the phone away and looked at Luke, his shock was barely contained.

  "Did you just text your parents?"

  "I—"

  "I suppose it's understandable." He stroked his stubbly jaw line. "Considering that someone tried to kill you a few months ago."

  My cheeks burned, and I felt a coughing fit coming on. I cleared my throat. "What do you want to show me?"

  His eyes lingered on my face for a few beats, then he pointed at his desk, where several small, clear plastic containers with colored tops stood grouped together. An inch-square of blue cloth lay among the bottles. His school tie, missing a section, lay near the edge of the desk.

  Luke sniffed and pulled out the chair. He motioned for me to sit. "I went to Desmond's house yesterday. I knew his parents had a peanut testing kit."

  I sank onto the cold leather and studied the containers. "Why did you want it?"

  "I needed to test something, obviously."

  I rolled my eyes. "You know what I mean. What did you want to test?"

  He cracked his knuckles and sat on the edge of his bed. His Adam's apple bobbed. After a deep breath, he continued. "I took a sample of that canola oil. I had a gut feeling."

  "I thought that's what you were doing," I said. The evidence was definitely tainted now.

  "That cop saw us in there. I'm sure he'll mention it in his report."

  "What were you thinking? You must have known the police would get to the pantry eventually."

  "Do you want to hear this or not?"

  I nodded and looked at the testing kit.

  "I was hoping I was wrong," he said. He stood and walked to the desk. "There are traces of peanuts in the canola oil."

  I gaped at him. "No way."

  He gave me a weak smile. "I thought that would be your reaction. That's why I asked you to come over to see for yourself."

  He showed me the indicator for traces of peanuts. "I poured some of the oil on my tie and tested it."

  I stared at the material. "Is it the same oil from school?"

  He narrowed his eyes.

  "What I mean is—"

  "You think I'm lying, trying to set up Brennan. Why the hell would I do that? To get you to come to my house? Besides, you were standing there with me."

  Yeah, but my back was turned. "I'm a lot things, Luke, but I'm not presumptuous. I just know how upset you are."

  That seemed to calm him.

  "You still have to tell the police."

  He bit his lip. "I will."

  "Wait a second," I said. "Do a search for canola oil ingredients. It might contain—"

  "Already did it. No peanuts."

  He cut another small section of the tie and repeated what he'd apparently done before I arrived. I watched the peanut indicator change colors. He and I stared at the kit.

  "Why did that bottle of oil have traces of peanuts in it?" I said.

  He exhaled loudly. "It looks like somebody tampered with the bottle."

  I studied the hardwood floor. Memories from that night at Jepson's Point flooded my mind, making me dizzy. "If somebody put peanut oil in that container, and they knew Desmond couldn't resist Mrs. Brennan's desserts..." I didn't want to go on.

  Luke slowly lifted his head and gazed at me. His anger was palpable. "That means someone either wanted to make him sick or—"

  "Or kill him."

  Chapter Seven

  "I don't believe it," Embry said, shaking his head. "Who'd be so cruel, so cold?"

  The five of us sat huddled at a table outside a cafe nursing cappuccinos. The chilly air heightened my senses. When I explained to Embry, Ione, and Sinder that somebody either meant to make Desmond sick or kill him, my tone was clinical and careful. I succeeded in separating fact from emotion. I had to. I was afraid my anger over what happened to Desmond might boil over and cause me to start making accusations.

  Beside me, Luke hadn't said a word.

  "It's undeniable," I said. "Someone tampered with that canola oil bottle."

  Embry leaned forward and placed his arms on the table. "Aren't the police going to discount this? Luke admitted touching the evidence. Won't they figure he's trying to set Brennan up?"

  "I didn't set her up," Luke said calmly. "I just wanted to make sure I got something before they took it."

  "But why?" Sinder said, removing her dark glasses. "The police know how to do their jobs."

  When I looked into her eyes, my detachment faltered. They were red and swollen. "Sinder, I'm so sorry—"

  "I wanted to satisfy my own curiosity, okay?" Luke said, cutting across me. "I knew Drake's parents had the allergy testing kit, and I did my own investigating."

  A vein throbbed in Embry's forehead. "But you might have compromised whatever—"

  "Look," Luke said, holding up his hands, "I'll call that cop who questioned us, okay?"

  No one said anything for several seconds.

  "Maybe Desmond wasn't the target," Ione said. She was the only one at the table who seemed cold. She'd zipped her jacket up to her neck and leaned into Embry's warmth. "It could have been meant for someone else at the school." She picked up her cup with a shaky hand.

  "That still leaves us with a problem," I said. "Whoever did it tried to hurt or kill someone."

  "I think Desmond was the target," Sinder said. "Somebody meant to kill him."

  An irritable expression crossed Ione's face just for a instant. "How do you know?"

  Sinder peered around the group. "His EpiPens were nowhere to be found. Besides, he did a lot of bad stuff back in the day." She looked at Embry. His cheeks reddened.

  "Like what?" I said.

  Sinder's eyes lingered on Embry. "He was just...mean. He'd bully people for the heck of it."

  Luke cleared his throat. It got everyone's attention. We waited to see if he'd speak, as if his words carried great importance. "Sully was one of Drake's favorite targets."

  All eyes shifted to Embry, who let out a sigh of impatience. "It wasn't that big a deal. I certainly wouldn't kill him over it."

  Ione gasped. "Nobody is accusing you of that."

  "Sully used to be a runt," Luke continued as if Embry hadn't spoken. "And Drake would come up behind him in the hallway and shove him."

  "Like I said, no big deal. I was skinny and awkward looking until I was a sophomore. I grew four inches and put on about fifteen pounds, and Desmond left me alone after that."
/>   The only person I knew who might qualify as a bully was Adam Carver back in Ridge Grove. He was the leader of the "Guinan is a witch" pack.

  "I'd never defend what Drake used to do," Luke said. "But he'd done a one-eighty almost overnight. He started making amends, defended bullied kids, and stopped flirting with other guys' girlfriends."

  Other guys' girlfriends. I looked at Ione. "You and Desmond dated, right?"

  She shrugged. "Everybody knows that. The summer between sophomore and junior year."

  "Is that why you spent your junior year abroad?" I said, ignoring her discomfort. "Bad break-up?"

  She squared her shoulders. "People seemed to think so. But the break-up had nothing to do with it. I'd always wanted to study in France. An opportunity presented itself, and I took it."

  "Moving on to relevant matters," Embry said, "Anybody Desmond picked on or screwed over could have killed him."

  "Not necessarily," I said, thinking like the granddaughter of a cop. "It's theoretically true, but anybody investigating the case would start with us, not a random person bullied years ago."

  "Investigating what?" Embry said. "I still think it was an accident."

  "Despite traces of peanuts in a bottle of canola oil?" Luke said, his voice rising.

  Embry scoffed. "That's just your word."

  "It doesn't matter what we believe," I said, running interference. "If it wasn't an accident, the police will determine that."

  Those were Granddad's words. He said the same to me after I told him about the allergy testing kit. From the corner of my eye, I saw Luke watching me. Several seconds of silence passed before anyone spoke.

  "So you're saying one of us killed him?" Sinder said. She shook her head and crumpled her napkin.

  I looked around the table. Everybody's eyes were on me except Ione's. "Not necessarily. An accident or a prank gone wrong. I don't know."

  Sinder dabbed her eyes, but her voice was steady. "Why don't you read us? See which one has something to hide."

  "Everyone has something to hide," I said. "I can't sense what a person is being deceptive about. Just because someone is lying doesn't mean he or she is a killer."

  "What can it hurt?" Embry said. "I mean, we're here. Why not get a sense of...whatever?"