Siren's Secret

by Debbie Herbert

  “I need to get back.” He moved toward the door. “Another time?”

  “Sure.” Shelly touched his arm. “I hope this has nothing to do with Jet. She doesn’t exactly have good social skills.”

  He laughed. “I’m used to dealing with people not well-versed in social skills. No sweat.”

  Tillman lowered his head and gave her a brief, hard kiss on the mouth. “Later,” he whispered in her ear. “This isn’t how I wanted our date to end,” he added in a deep, sexy baritone. A flush of heat ignited her skin as she responded to his voice as naturally as she did the ocean’s echo.

  “Next time, it’s my cabin.”

  Shelly raised her fingers to her lips as she watched him leave. Until now she hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been these past few years, shut up in a house out in the bayou. As long as she was careful, she could have Tillman as a lover. Lily managed affairs constantly.

  But Lily never falls in love. You might. She stifled the cautionary voice in her head. She knew only too well there was little chance of a future between them after being raised in a house full of strife and unhappiness.

  Shelly climbed the stairs to her room and threw herself on the bed. This was not how she’d wanted the night to end. She sighed and turned her head to look at the framed photograph of her mother on the bedside table. Picking it up, she traced a finger over Mom’s mouth, which turned up at the corners, but the smile wasn’t in her eyes.

  When Shelly had turned fourteen, Mom had stood up to her husband for one of the few times Shelly could remember. Dad hadn’t wanted his daughter to leave landlocked Indiana and visit his wife’s “wild” family in—as he called it—the Alabama swamp hellhole.

  “She’s going,” Mom had announced in a firm voice that wasn’t aggressive but brooked no argument in the matter. “Shelly needs to meet her extended family, needs to discover who she really is.”

  “Our daughter is an outcast there,” Dad said. “She’s safer here with us.”

  Shelly had flattened against the hallway wall. Shouting matches between her parents were common, but she normally wasn’t the cause of friction. Or so she thought. Her heart pounded wildly at hearing she was an outcast. Warring emotions of anticipation and fear rooted her feet to the floor.

  “My sister and nieces will protect her. They’d never allow her to be exposed to danger or name-calling,” Mom insisted. “We can’t hide the truth from her forever. She already knows she can hold her breath underwater longer than a human should.”

  “She doesn’t have to know.” Dad’s voice dropped a notch and Shelly strained to make out the words. “We’ll just keep her from the damn beach.”

  “She’s a teenager. You can’t control her life forever.” The implication of like you did mine hung in the air. “Shelly’s a young woman now. I’ve watched her at the full moon. Even here, hundreds of miles from the ocean, the sea calls her and she doesn’t understand what her body craves.”

  Shelly frowned. Cravings? The only thing she suffered every month were cramps and PMS.

  “If she goes back to Alabama your people will shun her.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Hardly anyone shows up at the old place anymore.”

  “They’ll be back. And they’ve never forgiven you for marrying a dirt dweller. I absolutely forbid it.”

  “Tough shit—”

  Shelly cringed at the curse words. Mom must be really mad.

  “—I’m taking her to Alabama. This is about Shelly and what’s best for her. She’s a mermaid and it’s time she learned the truth.”

  Holy crap. Shelly’s knees buckled and she sank down onto the hardwood floor. The bedroom door had suddenly swung open and she’d been caught eavesdropping. Which turned out to be the least of her worries.

  Had her mother known just how much Shelly would later need her cousins? Seven years later, Mom and Dad had died together in a car accident. And even though she’d been in college by that time, knowing her family down South had made Shelly feel she had some mooring in her life. Jet and Lily were all she had now.

  Jet. She needed to talk to her cousin, find out why she’d acted so obnoxious tonight, well, more obnoxious than usual. As Shelly returned the photograph to the table she suddenly realized that the black pearl necklace, a gift from Mom and normally draped over the frame, was missing. She jumped off the bed and scanned the floor, having dropped it there many times before. Not seeing it, Shelly went to her knees and lifted the bed skirt. Nothing but dust bunnies.

  No. No. No. Shelly’s hunt became increasingly frantic as she searched behind furniture, opened drawers and started to remove the bedding. She had to find it. Mom had given it to her on her fourteenth birthday, not long after Shelly discovered they were mermaids. It was one of her most cherished possessions, a memento. When Mom had given her the gift, she had tried to explain the beauty and freedom of ocean swims, the hidden, wonderful aspects of a mermaid’s life.

  Her eyes caught a scrap of red at the foot of the aquamarine bedspread. A slip of cheap red satin material—a pair of women’s bikini panties.

  Not mine.

  Certainly not Jet’s, who stuck strictly to boyfriend briefs. And not the expensive, lacy concoctions in pastel colors that Lily always wore.

  Maybe they’d gotten these for her as a joke. If so, it wasn’t funny. Shelly stepped closer to the panties, observed the sleazy fibers of the slippery fabric. She bent over the bed, closer, and then recoiled in horror and disgust.

  They were wrinkled and...soiled.

  Chapter 5

  Footprints in the sand

  Returning to the sea

  Who do they belong to?

  How did this come to be?

  “Run a background check on Jet Bosarge,” Tillman instructed the deputy working the night shift. “Check for any previous arrests, legal residences and history.”

  That out of the way, Tillman called home. Mom answered after the fifth ring. “I’m on my way. Should be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  Eddie’s screams almost drowned out her voice. “Thanks, son, my nerves are kinda shot.”

  Shit. Not what he’d been expecting tonight. First, Shelly’s cousin acts like a moron, he finds their house loaded with priceless artifacts and his brother picks tonight to have a temper tantrum on an epic scale. If he were a cynical man, he’d think the universe was out to screw him.

  And what was up with those women? When he’d run his hands through the contents of that vase, he’d seen valuable coins. Jet wasn’t the only collector in town. He knew enough about coins to recognize several pieces of eight, old Spanish metal coins that could be broken into eight pieces to make change. When Jet and Shelly had left him alone in the room, he’d taken several pictures of the coins and baubles with his cell phone. Maybe later tonight, if Eddie calmed down, he’d have a chance to identify some of them.

  The only good thing tonight had been the feel of Shelly in his arms on the beach. Something about her was peaceful and calming, the same feeling he usually only got deep-sea fishing. He should have asked her out long ago, but he didn’t want any emotional entanglements, particularly with a woman who worked with Eddie. If they broke up, it would be awkward to keep running into her. He didn’t need to jeopardize Shelly turning against Eddie when his brother enjoyed the swim therapy.

  The woman was damn exciting. But how could he ask her for only a physical liaison with no strings attached? Somehow, he would work it out. At the rush of heat in his body, Tillman banged his fist on the steering wheel. Living with his mother was hell on his love life but he couldn’t see moving out anytime soon. Resentment roiled in his stomach as he thought longingly of his old apartment in Mobile. At least he had the fish cabin, primitive as it was.

  Finally, he pulled in the driveway and raced into the house. The sound of shattered glass drew him into the kitchen.

  “Oh, Eddie, look what you’ve done,” his mom wailed. “Is that you, Tillman?”

  Entering the kitchen, he took in the br
oken glass on the floor, the orange juice splattered on cabinets and the sticky puddles on the tiles. Eddie’s face was red, hands clenched at his sides.

  “Leave the room, Mom. You upset him when you yell.”

  “Fine. You deal with it.” She huffed out with as much relief as indignation.

  He and Eddie faced each other. Tillman spoke slow and even. “If you didn’t want any orange juice, all you had to do was say so.”

  Eddie looked around for something else to throw.

  “Whoa.” Tillman wrapped his arms around his brother. “Can’t let you do that.”

  Eddie struggled and pushed. Tillman stood a good four inches taller, but when Eddie got like this, his strength was a match for anybody. Tillman maneuvered his brother away from the glass, fearing Eddie would step on it with his bare feet and get hurt. He knew to watch for a sudden head butt, too. Those hurt like hell.

  “What say we get a bath, Eddie?” Tillman carefully eased his hold, forcing himself to keep his voice conversational. “You’ve got yourself all worked up and in a lather. Look, you’ve got juice all over your legs.”

  Eddie reached a hand down and swiped at the sugary goo matting his leg hairs. “Yuck,” he said. “Get off.”

  “That’s right.” Tillman led him down a hallway to the bathroom, still careful to keep Eddie at arm’s length. “A nice hot bath, and we’ll get you all cleaned up.”

  Eddie screeched a few times in protest, but appeared to have let off most of his steam. Tillman ran the water, checked the temperature and then dumped in half a bottle of Mr. Bubble.

  Tillman relaxed and stretched out his feet. Eddie was calming down in the tub. It hadn’t been too bad tonight. After the bath, he’d give Eddie his night meds in a plastic cup (no glass—just in case), fix a bowl of popcorn for himself, a bowl of Cap’n Crunch for Eddie and watch SpongeBob reruns on television until his brother fell asleep.

  Not the way he’d originally planned to spend his evening.

  Portia knocked. “Everything all right now?” she asked. Tillman opened the door where she hovered, clutching a faded pink Calvin Klein bathrobe. Her fingers fastened and unfastened the knot on its sash.

  “Crisis averted.”

  “Oh, good.” She breathed out a gush of expelled air.

  “What set him off?” he asked.

  “I’ve no idea. Maybe because you weren’t home at supper.” Her note held the faintest note of displeasure. How often she’d used that same tone with Dad.

  Tillman fought for patience. “I can’t be here every night.”

  “Did you have a date?”

  “Yeah.” He volunteered no more information.

  “Who with?”

  “Shelly Connors.”

  Portia crinkled her nose. “The pool girl? Really?”

  “She’s an aquatic therapist. And yeah, really.”

  Portia frowned. “Don’t know much about her, other than she lives with her cousins. Lily Bosarge does my hair sometimes, if I don’t feel like driving all the way to Mobile.”

  “What do you know about them?”

  “Lily has quite the reputation, let me tell you. The Bosarge name is a respected one in the bayou—some of the founding fathers were Bosarges. But she is a discredit to their legacy.” She narrowed her eyes. “I hope her cousin isn’t so tawdry.”

  “Tawdry? You sound like an outraged spinster from Victorian England or something.”

  Portia lifted her chin. “In my day, Southern girls were raised to be ladies.”

  Tillman refrained from rolling his eyes. Barely. “Know anything about the other Bosarge girl—Jet?”

  “Not much. She keeps to herself and doesn’t even try to act social. Why, in my day, gracious Southern manners meant something.”

  Portia blew a kiss to Eddie and left, leaving Tillman to get him ready for bed.

  Once Eddie got to his room he pointed to the photograph on his bedside table. The picture was from the summer of 1988, taken by the shore. Dad was helping him erect a sand castle while Eddie was frozen in time, watching sand dribble downward from his fist. He could do that for hours. Tillman speculated each new handful of sand contained some slightly different composition of ground shells and rocks that when released in a cascade reflected subtle differences in color. Or it could be Eddie was merely entranced with the sensation of the warm sand slipping from his grasp in swirling patterns. He never really knew what went on in Eddie’s mind; his brother existed on an isolated island of autism. Barely visible in the photograph, at its outermost border, Mom sat under an umbrella wearing dark glasses, a drink in hand.

  Eddie placed his index finger on the image of their Dad—caught in a relaxed, happy moment away from work.

  “All gone,” he said.

  The words always sent a pang through Tillman. He’d been closer to his dad than anybody. And, if he was completely honest, angry that Dad left him to shoulder everything alone. The anger made him feel guilty as hell.

  Eddie shot him an impatient look. “All gone,” he repeated louder.

  This was Tillman’s cue. He had to repeat Eddie’s words before he would be satisfied and move on to the next step in his bedtime routine.

  “All gone,” Tillman parroted.

  Bored, Tillman mentally replayed Mom’s words about Shelly as he went about the nightly routine.

  No one measured up to Portia LeBlanc Angier’s standards. Portia had married beneath herself when she ended up with Frank Angier, a policeman. A fact she never let her husband forget. Disgusted with the direction of his thoughts, Tillman absently picked up Eddie’s sketch pad and rifled through it, surprised to discover Eddie occasionally drew people. There was Mom, her nose slightly tilted in the air; there was himself unsmiling, the badge on his uniform etched in perfect detail. But the picture that surprised him the most was one of a mermaid. Eddie must have switched from SpongeBob to The Little Mermaid movie one night last week.

  He startled when his phone went off. He’d forgotten all about it in the home minicrisis.

  Tillman listened thoughtfully as his deputy filled him in on the background check for Jet Bosarge. Sounded like a dead end until Carl mentioned Jet’s association with known felon Perry Hammonds, currently serving a ten-year sentence in a Chilean jail for robbery and attempt to defraud the Chilean government.

  Interesting.

  * * *

  It was only later that night, after Shelly had grabbed a Ziploc baggie, gone upstairs and sealed the vile evidence inside it that she lay in the bathtub wondering how the killer had managed to find her. The warm water soothed her tense muscles and she allowed herself to relax in its liquid caress. It was almost as good as a midnight swim in the salty sea. Shelly submerged her entire body, head and all, in the large Victorian claw-foot tub and stayed underwater, letting the pressure in her ears create a cocoon of comfort. Funny how she never knew she could do that until her fourteenth summer, when she’d finally found out her true nature. Even the few times she’d played in the pool as a kid and discovered her lungs were different, she hadn’t tested the full extent of her freakiness. All she’d wanted to do was blend in with the vanilla-ness of everyone else. Lifting her head out of the water, Shelly pushed tendrils of long hair away from her face. At the loud ring of the landline telephone, she rushed out, put on a robe and hurried across the bedroom. Maybe Tillman wanted to whisper sweet nothings in her ear about their date.

  “Hello?”

  Static crackled in the silence.

  Shelly frowned and said louder, “Hello.”

  “Did you like my presents?” came a raspy voice, slow and menacing.

  Presents? Oh, my God. The semen on the panties. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest, her vocal cords locked up, as if a hand was clamped on them, squeezing.

  She straightened her spine and forced a deep breath. Play along. “The panties. Yes, I found them. Who are you?” she whispered.

  “You know.” A deep chuckle. “Wish you’d been home earlier when I visited.”<
br />
  “What do you want?”

  “You know that, too.” The playful note vanished, replaced by what she recognized as an intense, barely controlled fury. “I want my knife.”

  Her eyes traveled involuntarily to the top shelf of her closet, where she’d buried the knife in the folds of extra blankets and linens. So he hadn’t found it.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shelly lied. Maybe she could convince him he had the wrong person. How in the hell did he find her?

  “Bitch!” The tightly coiled fury in his voice erupted. “Don’t lie to me unless you want me to burn down your house with everyone inside.”

  The phone almost fell out of her hands from her sudden trembling. “Please,” she begged. “Okay, I admit I’ve got your knife. I’ll give it back. Promise.”

  The static crackled between them again and the killer laughed. “So it was you that saw me get rid of that whore.”

  She’d been tricked. He hadn’t been sure she was the witness until she’d cracked under pressure. He was smart; she’d have to be very, very careful. “When do you want to meet?”

  “There’s not going to be a meeting, bitch. What you’re going to do is bring the knife where I tell you. Ever hear of Happy Hollows?”

  Shelly’s mind raced. “On the south side of town—off County Road 143.”

  “Go 5.3 miles past the welcome sign. You’ll come to a dip in the road. On your right I’ll have a piece of red string tied to a branch of an oak tree. Under that tree will be an empty plastic container. Put the knife inside the bottle and then untie the red string. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do it before seven in the morning.”

  “Do you promise to leave me and my family alone if I return your knife?”

  “That’s all I want.”

  Liar. Shelly didn’t believe him. But she’d have to play along for now.

  The scared-witless part was true enough. “Okay. You won’t hurt us then?”