Myth and Magic

by Mae Clair

  “That won’t be necessary,” Aren said.

  Veronica wasn’t so sure. The presence of an officer would provide an added measure of comfort to the guests, but the decision was up to Aren. Come morning, most would probably pack their bags and hightail it to the nearest exit anyway.

  “What about the phone call?” she asked Duke. “Are you suggesting I dreamt that up, too?”

  “We’re not suggesting you dreamt up anything, Veronica. It’s just…” Uneasily, he looked at Aren. “Based on our findings, there’s little we can do.”

  “Understood.” Aren offered his hand. “We appreciate your time, Sheriff.”

  Looking relieved to be off the hook, Duke shook Aren’s hand and departed with a quick nod.

  “The man is worthless,” Veronica mumbled in disgust.

  Aren chuckled. “You haven’t liked him since he sent you that valentine in the eighth grade and said it was from Caith.”

  Leave it to Aren to remember something as silly as the valentine. Duke had sent it to her and signed Caith’s name, thinking it a clever joke. To this day she wasn’t certain who’d been more mortified, she or Caith.

  She ignored the jibe, focusing on the problem. “We need to do something about damage control, Aren. After tonight, I wouldn’t expect much help from county services.” She hesitated, debating whether to broach an idea she’d entertained for the past week. With the police unwilling to help, there was only one alternative. “We need a private investigator.”

  Aren blinked. For a moment he appeared lost in thought, then a slow smile spread over his face. “That’s brilliant, Veronica!” He gripped her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. “This could all end up working out for the best. Excuse me. I’ve got phone calls to make.”

  Puzzled by his odd behavior, Veronica watched him dart away.

  Chapter 2

  Caithelden Lairen plucked the mail from the box at the end of his driveway and sorted through the letters. Two bills and a junk circular inviting him to take advantage of a twenty-percent markdown on costumes at the Halloween Emporium.

  Not likely. He hated the wretched holiday, though anyone who didn’t know him would find it hard to tell. His front porch was decorated with cornstalks and hay bales banked by bright orange pumpkins. A plump scarecrow with a floppy brimmed hat sat slumped in a wooden rocker. Despite his negative feelings, he did his best to make Halloween fun for his son, Derrick. Right now the kid was home from school with a cold, bored out of his mind, but not well enough to be out in the crisp autumn air. The tribulations of an eight-year-old.

  The wind shifted and he caught the scent of hollowed-out pumpkins and dry leaves, odors that kindled memories of his childhood in Coldcreek. His gut tightened in reaction and he shoved the association aside, heading up the crescent-shaped walkway to his house. Typical New England with white siding and black shutters, the pristine Colonial was nestled in an upscale Massachusetts suburb. Since striking out on his own, he’d done well for himself. Not bad for a guy who’d ditched the family name and business and chose to be a private investigator instead.

  He had his hand on the doorknob and was ready to enter when a gray sedan pulled into the driveway. The man in the passenger’s seat lifted a hand and waved.

  Aren?

  He hadn’t seen his older brother since Aren packed up his family and headed back to Coldcreek, leaving Breckwood Industries’ Boston office in the hands of an underling. He’d grown weary of city life and wanted to go back to small town living. Or so he had said.

  Dressed in a customary suit and tie, Aren stepped from the car. At thirty-eight, he wore his sandy hair longer than convention, the only edge to his appearance that didn’t scream corporate America. The man who stepped from the driver’s side was slightly shorter with neatly trimmed brown hair. Like Aren, he was dressed in a suit and tie.

  Galen.

  Caith couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen his oldest brother. Eight years ago when Derrick was born? That had to be it.

  Why would Galen show up now…and with Aren? Had something happened at home?

  He tried to quell the reactionary knot in his gut. More than likely, the brothers had merely been at BI’s Boston office for a meeting and decided to swing by. Interesting, given Aren must have coerced Galen into the visit.

  “Hey,” Caith said as the two approached. “What’s the occasion?” He tried to keep the anxiety from his voice. “It isn’t often I get the two of you together on my doorstep.”

  “Eight years was the last time.” Galen held out his hand and Caith shook it.

  Aren was more demonstrative, giving him a slap on the back with his handshake. When he’d lived in Boston, they’d connected frequently. Aren had been there for him when he’d struggled as a single parent with a newborn son. Later, his odd shifts as a cop on Boston’s police force meant he’d frequently had to leave Derrick in the care of Aren and his wife, Melanie.

  “Did something happen at home?” Caith was unable to get the thought out of his head.

  “Nothing like that,” Aren assured. “We were at the Boston office and wanted to run something by you. Can we talk inside?”

  Caith nodded, his natural curiosity piqued. Galen rarely left Coldcreek. He shoved the door wide. “Come on in.”

  He led them to the living room, knowing Derrick was bound to make an appearance once he heard voices. He wasn’t the greatest housekeeper but did his best to keep it clean and inviting for his son. He wondered what Galen thought of the potted plants in the foyer, the overstuffed rocker next to the fireplace, and brightly-colored rug on the hardwood floor—all things a bachelor usually wouldn’t consider necessary.

  Aren paused by the fireplace, his eyes skimming the framed photos Caith had placed on the mantle: Caith and Derrick on a fishing trip, grinning ear-to-ear; Derrick riding bicycles with Noah and Matt; Caith in uniform upon graduating Boston’s Police Academy; their mother Morgana Breckwood; and finally a very old, aged photograph of Caith as a child with Merlin, Veronica Kent, and Derrick Trask.

  Merlin was only a year older. They’d been inseparable in those days, but hadn’t spoken a word in twelve years. What would he do if something had happened to Merlin? Or his father? He was estranged from both. Had been since he’d left for college at eighteen. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Dad, I’m bored.” Derrick traipsed into the living room. Dressed in flannel pajamas, a brick-red robe, and unlaced sneakers, he looked like he should be in bed. His son was a mirror image of him with ink-black hair and winter blue eyes. But whereas Caith’s hair was straight and neatly trimmed, Derrick’s was a mass of unruly curls.

  “Wow, Uncle Aren!” Derrick’s eyes nearly popped from his head. With a cry of delight, he bounded across the room to hug his uncle and dance around him. “I can’t believe you’re here. Did Noah and Matt come with you?”

  “Sorry, no. They’re home in Coldcreek.” When Derrick’s face fell, Aren dropped a hand on his shoulder. “But maybe you’ll get to see them soon.”

  “Cool. When?”

  “That depends on your dad.”

  Derrick looked excitedly at Caith, then stilled when he spied Galen.

  “Hello, Derrick.” Galen smiled hesitantly. “You don’t remember me, but I came to see your father when you were born. I’m your Uncle Galen.”

  “Are you from Coldcreek, too?”

  “I am.”

  Derrick switched his attention to his father with an eager smile. “Dad, are we going somewhere?”

  “You’re going in the kitchen to finish lunch.” Caith shot Aren a silent rebuff before refocusing on his son. “You need to eat the soup I made for you. It’ll help with your cold.”

  “I feel okay.” Derrick scuffed the carpet with a sneakered foot. “And soup’s boring.”

  “So is staying in bed, but that’s where you’re going to end up if you don’t finish your lunch.” Dropping to an easy squat, Caith conversed w
ith his son at eye level. “I have to talk to Uncle Aren and Uncle Galen. When you finish lunch, you can watch TV in the family room. Deal?”

  Derrick nodded reluctantly. “Okay.”

  Caith ruffled his son’s curly hair before nudging him toward the kitchen.

  Behind him, Galen cleared his throat. “It’s not easy, is it?”

  Surprised, Caith turned. “What?”

  “Being a single father. Raising a son.” With a nod to the room and its comfortable, well-tailored furnishings, Galen sank into the nearest chair. “You’ve done well for yourself, even without the Breckwood name. I always wondered what made you pick Lairen.”

  Caith tamped down a slow burn of anger. He wouldn’t get sucked into an age-old argument over his family name. “I got it out of a phone book. Stopped at Ralph’s Subs on Fifteenth and Dock, had a few beers, and decided to change my name.”

  Aren stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Don’t be cynical, Caith. We know why you changed your name.” His gaze shifted to the mantle and the pictures of Derrick.

  Aren had always understood.

  So it won’t happen again. So no one close to me gets killed by mistake. So Derry never has to go through what I did.

  Caith shrugged, feigning indifference, and folded his arms over his chest. Perching on the arm of the couch, he braced one leg against the floor, the other swinging free, lightly tapping the hunter-green upholstery. “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on? I can’t remember the last time I had the family brigade in my living room. If Merlin were here, we’d be four brothers again.”

  “We never stopped being brothers.” Aren paced to the bow window, then paused to study the sprawling front porch sheltered by chestnut trees. “Galen and I have a proposal for you, but you need to listen with an open mind. Do you remember the old Barrister House?”

  Caught off guard by the change of topic, Caith frowned. “You mean that run-down place by Stone Willow Lake? We used to play there as kids. Wasn’t there some kind of sect connected to it?”

  Aren nodded. “Yeah, I think there are several Web sites devoted to its history, probably even some cult followers still around if you look hard enough. They don’t bother us, so I don’t pay attention.”

  “Us?”

  “Breckwood Industries bought the place six years ago,” Aren explained. “We renovated and turned it into an anti-stress retreat for top-level executives. We’re low scale, nothing like the big corporate getaways. We run one and two week programs for small groups of employees—BI personnel and any other company that’s inclined to have their workers attend. No cell phones, TVs, iPads, laptops, or newspapers. Sessions include relaxation, mental focusing, and a number of outdoor activities. There’s no alcohol and no outside contact of any kind.”

  “Sounds rigid.”

  “We’ve done enough corporate studies to realize people in high pressure positions need an outlet or they reach a breaking point,” Galen picked up. “The retreat’s been remarkably successful. The BI employees who’ve completed the program have increased productivity in their respective departments. Their overall health has improved, their outlook on life, and their concept of work in general. Healthy, happy employees, particularly in upper management, translate to greater efficiency, which in turn generates increased revenue.”

  “Yeah, I recall something about BI being interested in revenue.” Caith’s tone was pointedly flippant.

  Aren spoke quickly as if to forestall a rise of testiness from Galen. “The retreat is called Stone Willow Lodge, after the lake. We maintain a manager, caretaker, and a cook on site. Also a maintenance worker, guide, and some seasonal employees who drive from Coldcreek.”

  Caith arched a brow. “Guide?”

  “He handles hiking, boating, and horseback riding. We also have a BI staff member who leads instructional sessions. For the most part, it’s worked well. Until now.” Aren paused, looking ill-at-ease. “Lately there have been occurrences we can’t explain. Rumors are starting to circulate about the legend of Barrister House. Our guests have reported seeing strange lights in the woods, horses spooked for no reason, items missing from their rooms.”

  “Could be nothing more than a thief.”

  “It isn’t only that.” Aren stuffed his hands in his pockets and paced in front of the fireplace. “Things have gotten serious. It started with minor incidents, but has grown progressively worse. The mutilated carcass of a dog was left on a guest’s bed. Alma Kreider, one of our employees, claims she saw someone in the basement. The next day we found some of our food stores damaged. Two of the guests got sick and blamed it on food poisoning. There have been other incidents, too. Blood splattered in the kitchen, a normally gentle horse threw a guest, a missing fishing boat.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  Galen snorted. “Of course we did, but they can’t be there twenty-four-seven. They’re tired of us calling. The mess in the kitchen turned out to be red paint, and the horse was shoed improperly. My caretaker swears it was blood, and the guide insists he shoed the horse himself, something he’s been doing since he was a kid on his father’s farm. Last week, my manager claims she saw a severed hand in the fireplace. She called the police, but by the time they arrived, it was gone, and there was no evidence to indicate it was real. They wrote it off as night-time hysterics, but I know Veronica Kent, and I think you do, too. She isn’t given to theatrics.”

  Caith tensed, suppressing a reactionary jolt. “Ron’s your manager?”

  “Since we opened.” Galen tossed a suspicious glance in Aren’s direction. “You mean all the years you palled around with Aren, he never told you Veronica worked for BI, or that she and Merlin dated? Even when Aren was in Boston, he knew everything that went on back home.”

  Veronica and Merlin dated?

  Why not? Considering how he’d screwed up and hurt her. They’d all been close as kids. It was only natural her affection for Merlin would develop into something more.

  Aren swiped a thumb beneath his nose. “That’s irrelevant. And it’s not why we’re here.” He looked at Caith. “Bottom line is we don’t think Stone Willow is haunted, but something is going on. We need a private investigator.”

  Caith balked at the idea. “You’re joking.”

  “You know Barrister House and you know the area. And despite what your driver’s license says, you’re still a Breckwood.”

  “Screw that.” Incredulous, Caith paced behind the sofa. “You don’t seriously expect me to believe Dad condones this?”

  “He’s in Canada,” Galen supplied. “On vacation with Mom. They’re not due back until the end of the month.” He shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “In time for the annual Halloween party.”

  Caith frowned. He hated the lavish costume party his parents had thrown every year since he was a kid. Even the memory brought a tang of bitterness to his throat. “Hire a PI in Pennsylvania. I’m not licensed to practice there.”

  “We don’t want a PI in Pennsylvania,” Aren said firmly. “We want you. Someone who has BI’s interests at heart.”

  “What makes you think I give a rat’s ass about BI?”

  Aren scowled. “Maybe you don’t care about BI, but I think you still care about the people who run it and the people in Coldcreek. Your family needs you, Caith.”

  What a load of garbage! Merlin needed him? His father needed him? “Where was my family when I needed them?”

  Aren stepped forward until only the couch separated them. “Caithelden, I’ve never turned my back on you. From the time you left for college to your graduation from the police academy, and the mess you had juggling a newborn and a career, I’ve been there.”

  “I know that.”

  Aren had stood by him. At thirty, Caith was eight years younger, a gap that had seemed insurmountable in the days when football, girls, and cars had taken precedence, but they’d grown close as adults.

  “I appreciate it, but you and Mom
are the only ones.” Caith sent Galen a pointed glance, but the older man remained silent, unmoved by the criticism.

  “I need you in Coldcreek,” Aren pressed. “I need you to do this for me, Caith.”

  “Don’t manipulate me.”

  Galen shifted impatiently. “We’ll double your usual rate, whatever it is. What’s the matter, Caith? Are you still making the world a safe place to live or just shooting eight-by-ten glossies of cheating spouses?”

  Caith glared at his brother. “Sixty-five percent of my business is corporate. I wouldn’t be successful if it wasn’t.”

  “So you’re fighting white-collar criminals?”

  “It was a white-collar criminal who killed Derrick Trask.”

  Galen dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t come here to dredge up the past.”

  “Bullshit.” Caith paced to the fireplace, inserting distance between them to crush a spike of anger. “You expect me to go back to Coldcreek, a place I haven’t set foot in since I was eighteen. A place where my best friend was murdered and I spent three days held for ransom in a root cellar. Knowing all that, knowing I’d have to take my kid there, you’ve got the gall to say you didn’t come to dredge up the past?”

  “Wait a minute.” Aren raised both hands. “No one is saying this will be easy for you, but you can’t keep the truth from Derry forever. He’s got a right to know about his family. About what happened to you, and why he’s named after your childhood best friend.”

  “The hell he does.” Caith whirled on his brother. “He’s eight years old. He doesn’t need to know about the kind of monsters who kidnap and murder children. Not as it relates to me. I’m the single stable influence in his life and I intend to keep it that way.”

  “What about his family? His grandfather?”

  “His grandfather never once tried to see Derry. He’s never tried to see me.”

  “All right, forget it.” Aren quickly changed the subject. “I don’t want to dredge up old wounds either. The bottom line is BI is in trouble, and we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t value your skills as an investigator. With the exception of the last ten months, you and I have been together almost every day since you were twenty-two. I know the kind of work you’re capable of, and…” His voice trailed off as he shrugged. “I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t anything personal involved. Melanie and I have missed having you around, and I know Matt and Noah miss Derry.”