Sinister Secrets

by Colleen Gleason

  No one seemed to care about the aesthetics of the joint, however, for the place was packed and loud. An acoustic guitar player sat in the corner, but Leslie couldn’t even tell what song he was playing it was so loud inside.

  She’d just ordered one of B-Cubed’s beers when her cell phone lit up with a text from Cherry, wondering what she was doing for dinner. Fifteen minutes later, her aunt, Orbra, and Iva had joined Leslie and Gilda at the sticky, wobbly table in the quietest corner (which wasn’t saying much) of the bar.

  “Everything go all right last night?” Cherry asked as soon as they’d ordered drinks. She looked at Gilda. “Did you hear Leslie had a break-in?”

  This blithe statement launched the conversation into a long explanation, culminating with Leslie making a gross error.

  “If the ghost had made an appearance earlier, maybe whoever broke in would have been scared away,” she ended…then realized what she’d said.

  Everyone froze, and Iva turned slowly to look at her. “An appearance earlier?”

  So the cat was out of the bag, and Leslie had to field even more questions about the supernatural activity in her house. Fortunately, their waitress was on her game, and she brought a second beer just as soon as Leslie finished her first. She needed the lubrication.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Leslie and her companions looked up to see John Fischer standing there. His dark hair was charmingly disheveled, and the design on his bronze and blue plaid shirt looked less lumberjacky and more trendy than previous ones he’d worn.

  “Yes, of course,” Cherry said, shoving Orbra’s chair aside—or at least attempting to—in order to make room for a sixth person between herself and Leslie. “Have a seat. Les was just telling us about her ghost.”

  “So who do you think it is?” Iva asked. She was the one who kept bringing the conversation back to specifics, and Leslie felt a little like an insect being pinned to a board when the older woman fixed her with those bright blue eyes. “The ghost, I mean. Why is it haunting the place? What does it want? Did you find anything in your research?”

  “Not really. Nothing obvious, anyway. From what I can tell, she—it—looks like she’s wearing a flapper’s dress: it’s straight and ends well above the ankles. I mean, it’s definitely not Victorian clothing, and it’s too long to be forties or fifties. I suppose it could be a nightgown.” Leslie’s cheeks warmed as she felt John Fischer’s regard settle on her with interest.

  She felt ridiculous describing the clothing—or what appeared to be clothing—on a phantom. It might not be a dress at all—just a figment of her imagination, or the way the edges of the figure flowed.

  Nevertheless, Leslie continued, sharing what she’d learned during her marathon research session in the early hours of the morning. “The only thing of interest I came across was there was a young woman who went missing in 1926 by the name of Dorothy Duchene. She was never found, dead or alive. She was a housemaid who’d worked for Red Eye Sal, so there’s a connection there with Shenstone House. But the conclusion was drawn that she’d run off with her young man.”

  “Duchene?” John said, his brow furrowing. “Why do I know that name?” He sat back in his seat and frowned more deeply. His lips pursed behind the neat mustache and beard.

  “So it’s definitely a young woman,” said Iva. Her eyes were sparkling as if she’d just won a million dollars. “Any other details?”

  Leslie hesitated, then plunged on in. Why not? “Both times I’ve heard music—yes,” she added, glaring at Cherry. “There was one time before.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” Iva cried, forgetting herself and slamming her hand on a naked part of the table. “I knew I felt something when we were there. Didn’t I tell you, Mr. Fischer? I told you I felt some presence.”

  He nodded absently, for he was absorbed with tapping on his phone.

  “The music sounds a little familiar to me, but I can’t quite place it,” Leslie went on. “And the first time, there was a noise—it sounded like something was falling down the stairs. Or someone. But it was sort of amplified. The sound filled the room—almost what you imagine that big rolling stone in Raiders of the Lost Ark would sound like if it were coming after you.”

  “It’s the supernatural element,” Iva said wisely. “Everything is bigger, louder, scarier—”

  “Ah! I knew it!” John bolted upright in his seat, brandishing his phone. “I knew I knew that name. Duchene, Freddy Duchene, was an infamous gambler from Chicago in the late twenties. But more interestingly, he was accused of fleecing an elderly woman out of her fortune. Maybe,” he said, his eyes sparkling in the same way Iva’s had, “Dorothy was his sister…or his wife. And maybe they set up a heist to steal Red Eye Sal’s jewels. And that’s why she disappeared without a trace.”

  “So they somehow stole the jewels and escaped,” Leslie said. “I don’t remember reading anything about Freddy Duchene—but then again, if he was from Chicago, I wouldn’t have found anything in my initial search.”

  “Or,” Iva said, leaning forward on the table, heedless of her cashmere sweater brushing against the sticky wood, “what if…what if that was the plan, for her and Freddy to steal the jewels—but what if they got caught! Red Eye Sal caught them—no, he caught her—yes, that makes more sense. Freddy Duchene set up his wife or sister with references so she could get a job at Shenstone House, and the plan was for her to lift the jewels—or to let him in so he could steal them. Working there, she’d be able to learn where Sal hid them and how to find them.

  “But something went wrong, and she was caught, and Sal—well, there aren’t a lot of nice things to be said about him. He was a gangster and a bootlegger. He might have murdered her right then and there, and then hid the body so she’d never be found.” Iva was breathless, and everyone else around the table was listening with interest.

  “That’s a pretty good story,” said John with a wry smile. “You ever thought about writing a book?”

  “Well, I— No, not really.” Iva settled back in her seat looking very pleased with herself.

  “What if he didn’t exactly murder her in cold blood?” Leslie said slowly. “What if…what if there was a struggle and she fell down the steps? And broke her neck, and that’s why she’s haunting the stairway?” Now she felt a rush of excitement. “That could explain that loud rolling sound—she made it both times I saw her. And tonight, she was halfway down the stairs, and she pointed. I thought she was pointing at me, but now that I think about it—I was a little disoriented—maybe she was pointing down the stairs, as if to indicate what happened. I asked her what she wanted. Maybe she was answering me.”

  “You asked her?” Cherry said from the other side of John. “You mean you actually spoke to it?”

  “Yes. Well, why not? Obviously the ghost wants something. I wanted her—it—to know I was willing to help.” Leslie lifted up her beer and took a long drink, then set it back down, shaking her head. “I cannot believe I’m having this conversation.”

  Iva patted her hand. “It’s all right. The first time is always strange. But after a while, you get used to it. Unless you’re Hollis,” she added with a roll of her eyes. “He doesn’t quite get my interest in the metaphysical. It’s a good thing he’s at the football game in East Lansing tonight. He’d be bored silly listening to this.”

  Their food arrived at that moment, and conversation was suspended while the plates were distributed. Apparently Leslie wasn’t the only one uncomfortable with the topic in front of anyone outside their group.

  “Hi there, Baxter,” said Orbra, looking up suddenly.

  The good-looking brewmaster and journalist paused at their table to say hi. He was a little younger than Leslie; probably just around thirty. He kept his afro very short, buzzed almost to his dark scalp, and he had a neat mustache and beard. He was dressed in expensive jeans that fit perfectly and a white shirt shot with metallic blue threads.

  “Hey, Leslie. What do you think of that one?” he ge
stured to the B-Cubed longneck she had in her hand.

  Leslie—who by now was nearly finished with her second beer and realized she wasn’t going to be driving home tonight—smiled. “I really like it, and I’m not usually a fan of IPAs,” she told him. “Want to join us?”

  “Naw, that’s all right. I’m meeting a friend. Just wanted to say hi and let you know the tea was a big hit at the game last night, Orbra. You might be giving me a run for my money when it comes to supplying locally brewed libation.”

  Everyone laughed, and he went on. “Did you all see the segment on Channel Four last night? With Marcus Levin? He was here for the game, and interviewed some of the players—and also some of the football alum who were in for Homecoming. Including Bill Gary, Declan Zyler—and yours truly.”

  “I missed it,” Cherry said. “But I bet it’s online.”

  “Yes—I’m going to ask him when he gets here. We’re supposed to be meeting at eight. He’s going to sample some of my beer, and I’m hoping for an endorsement.” He glanced at the wall clock, which showed seven fifty-five. “He’s coming from dinner with the Underwhites, and you know Aaron. He must be talking his ear off.”

  Leslie paused with her burger in hand, halfway to her mouth. “I just saw Regina Underwhite and she said they’d had dinner with Marcus Levin last night. After the game.”

  Baxter frowned. “Huh. Well, maybe Trib got his info mixed up—that’s what he told me. Or maybe he’s being wined and dined two nights in a row. Levin might be an arrogant ass, but he’s well known in Chicago as well as Grand Rapids. A good word from him could send a lot of tourists our way. And a lot of beer distributors.” He grinned.

  “Hmm. Maybe I ought to try and hook up with Marcus Levin, then,” Orbra said, drawing another round of laughter.

  “Have a seat till he comes in, anyway,” Cherry said. “Leslie was just telling us about her ghost. And she’s probably not going to eat all those fries.”

  “Oh yes I will,” Leslie retorted, but smiled at Baxter anyway. “But I’ll share, since you did such a great article about Shenstone House.”

  He laughed. “That sounds like a great deal to me.” He lifted his beer and they clinked bottles…then he dug in.

  Declan took a swig of beer—Baxter’s latest test brew.

  The guy was trying for something with cherries, since Traverse City, the Cherry Capital of the World, was only a couple hours north. Dec wasn’t sold on it—a good beer didn’t need frou-frou stuff like cherries or maple syrup (another of Baxter’s great ideas that, fortunately, didn’t make it).

  It was Sunday evening—soon to be too late for him to be out with it being a school night and having to get up at six a.m., but when a friend needed you to test out a new brew, you went.

  “You met up with Marcus Levin again last night?”

  “Yep. He wanted to try some of my stuff. I’m hoping if he likes it enough, I’ll get an endorsement out of him.” Baxter took a sip of beer, swished it around in his mouth, closed his eyes, then swallowed. And sighed as if a woman was going down on him.

  Declan shook his head, smiling. It was a blessing when a man loved his work that much. Fortunately, he could relate.

  When Baxter opened his eyes, he said, “Leslie Nakano was there last night too—at the Roost. I sat down with her and Cherry and Orbra. Yeah, I was thinking I might see if Leslie wanted to have dinner some time or at least meet for a drink—she said she liked my IPA—but she was there with someone. So I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t step in that.”

  Declan almost choked on his beer. Leslie was there with a guy? He blinked to make sure he’d heard that right. Well, damn. That pretty much sucked. He swallowed a large mouthful too fast and too hard, and barely managed to keep from choking on it.

  “What, you don’t like it?” Baxter said, looking at him askance. “I thought it turned out pretty good.”

  “I don’t think it needs the cherry flavor,” Dec replied. His voice was rough from the beer. “Unless you’re trying to attract more women to drink it, then maybe.”

  Declan frowned, still thinking about Leslie. Well, what the hell. That was not cool. Hadn’t she been the one to grab him when they got inside her kitchen Friday night?

  “Did you have a good time last night? Weren’t you out with Emily Delton?” Baxter pulled him out of his unpleasant thoughts.

  “I wasn’t out with her, per se…I was just sitting next to her. A bunch of us parents went out to eat after the kids left for the dance.”

  “Well, when I walked by and saw you two in the front window, you looked pretty cozy to me.” Baxter raised his glass in a toast. “Nice going. She’s been running around as the most eligible single woman in town for about two years now, refusing to date anyone here. You move back, and two months later, bam! She’s hooked.”

  “We’re not going out,” Declan told him firmly. “Our daughters are friends. So we do some carpooling and stuff.”

  “Well, she was practically in your lap the way I saw it, dude. Just saying. If you aren’t seeing her, you sure could be.”

  Declan didn’t want to hear any more. He was still mulling over the fact that Leslie had been out with a guy last night. Who the hell was it? That high-powered lawyer, Yarborough? Come in a few days early for whatever Wednesday-with-the-heart was? He realized he was gripping the beer glass tightly enough that his fingers were aching.

  “So when do you think Levin will get back to you?” he said to change the subject back.

  “He’ll be back in town later this week, he said—for all the events around the big reunion. I’ll corner him then,” Baxter said.

  Declan’s phone pinged with a text notification, and he dragged it out of his jeans pocket. It wasn’t from Leslie.

  Well, why would it be from her? Just because they’d done a little blow-your-mind tongue-tangling on Friday night didn’t mean he expected to hear from her every day. She was a client, after all. He was only her hired hand.

  Hell…

  The thought struck him with an unpleasant, ugly force. What if she’d just been sort of going along with him because she didn’t want to piss off one of her workers? Maybe she thought if she declined his advances he’d walk away from the job and leave her hanging.

  After all, there were contractors who would do that. He’d known a few, as a matter of fact.

  No, that was silly. Leslie Nakano was a ball-buster. She wouldn’t take that crap from anyone, and she sure as hell wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want to do.

  Still…it was an unsettling feeling knowing that the woman he’d been really getting into seemed to be…not so much interested. After all, he hadn’t heard from her at all yesterday or today, and it was Sunday night.

  He glanced at the text and actually read it this time. It was from Emily Delton. Stephanie said tomorrow’s good for lasagna. 6:00? I’ll bring it over with a nice bottle of red so you don’t have to stop work early. She ended with a smiley.

  He shoved the phone back in his pocket without replying.

  Because apparently Emily Delton’s car had gotten fixed already.

  Even on a Sunday.

  Thirteen

  “I really appreciate it, Ms. Nakano,” said Stephanie as she buckled her seatbelt.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to have you bike home in this downpour,” Leslie said as she started the car. “Besides, I’ve got a few errands to run in town, so I don’t mind at all. Thanks for helping me get Rufus into the cat carrier. I’m hoping Doc Horner will fix him up—at least his tail. And check if he has fleas.”

  “I’m sure he will. He takes good care of Genny’s cat—that’s why I thought he’d be a good person to call.” She patted the cat carrier, which she’d insisted on holding on her lap, as if Rufus could feel it. “He’s a sweetie, and I bet he’ll be a really good pet.”

  Pet? Leslie’s brows lifted. Well, she guessed that was the obvious next step—as long as the beast was de-flea-ed. She glanced over at Rufus, who was watching her with green
eyes not unlike Declan’s. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem too unhappy about being in the carrier.

  “Anyway, I really appreciate the ride,” Stephanie chattered on, “because we’re having some friends over for dinner tonight, and I’m sure Dad’s busy getting ready. Otherwise I’d call him to pick me up. Though there’s lots of times he doesn’t hear the phone when he’s working in his workshop.”

  “It’s probably pretty loud in there,” Leslie said, immediately shoving away the image of a shirtless Declan, sweaty and muscular, pounding away on an iron rod. Muscles bulging and sliding, smooth and slick and shiny. It made her mouth water just to think about it—which was not a good idea.

  There’d been silence from him since he left Friday night, and in light of what she’d seen at Trib’s Saturday evening, Leslie hadn’t been moved to contact him. She didn’t have the time or mental energy for drama or uncertainty or any sort of games right now. It was Monday, and Wednesday the 15th loomed like an ugly green ogre in the center of her week.

  I’ll be glad when I’m past that day.

  It’ll have to get easier then—a whole year would have gone by. All the “firsts” would be over with.

  But even now, already, she was finding it difficult to keep from falling back into the memory of where she’d been a year ago as the leaves were falling and Halloween was on deck. She’d just been starting to wear maternity clothes. And thinking about and planning for a nursery. Pinterest had been her friend, and she’d toted around a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting in her briefcase.

  She’d been carrying a blessed burden of a baby, along with a less pleasant one: the truth about its parentage.