Whispers of Fate: The Mistresses of Fate, Book Two

by Deirdre Dore

  Dixie barked again, and Tavey heard the usual chorus of howls from the kennels, which were down a path on the right side of the garage. Her three beagles started howling from inside the house, and Tavey felt a smile kick up one corner of her mouth. The best thing about dogs—they were always happy to see her.

  Using the button on her key fob, she popped open the back of the Range Rover and pulled out the custom ramp she’d had installed to let the dogs run from the ground up into the crates. Dixie ran down and shook herself violently when she reached the bottom.

  “All right, girl, let’s go see Atohi.”

  Tavey was never completely alone despite all her family being gone. The staff that Tavey considered family stayed in the west wing of the house, had since before her grandmother had died when Tavey was sixteen. The housekeeper, Mrs. Pascal, was Chris’s mother; the seamstress and laundrywoman, Mrs. Weaver, was her friend Raquel’s grandmother; and Atohi, the old man who helped her keep and train the hounds, had been a friend of her grandfather. All the servants had worked for Tavey’s family since before she was born, and had helped raise her.

  Tavey followed Dixie down the flagstone path toward the kennels, which was lined with fruit trees, mostly peaches and pears, which would soon bear fruit. Every year she canned the majority of the fruit and sold it in the dog-grooming salon and pet store in town.

  The path curved up a short slope that had been expertly leveled. A double ring of eight-foot-high wrought iron fences enclosed a small village of buildings she’d had designed and constructed two years earlier. Built with renewable materials and designed to be as efficient as possible, the small doggie hotels housed more than fifty dogs. Each building had a specific purpose. One housed the dogs Tavey used for trailing and tracking, one housed the rescue animals with behavior issues that she and her trainers worked to rehabilitate and train, one housed large rescue dogs, and another was built for human habitation, for when she held training camps. A small trailer had been outfitted as a veterinary surgical facility as well. All the buildings were air conditioned, automated, and designed with dogs in mind.

  Inside the circle made by the small buildings, she’d put in an agility course and a doggie pool. It was everything she’d dreamed of as a girl.

  Tavey didn’t know why, but she’d never wanted to breed show dogs like her grandfather. They were beautiful, but she’d always had an affection for the stray dogs she’d seen in the streets of Fate. She’d asked her grandfather to save them, to pick them up, but he’d always refused. When she and her friends Summer and Chris and Raquel played together after church on Sundays, Tavey would get them to help her feed the stray dogs by the railroad tracks.

  When Summer had disappeared, her goal of starting a dog rescue shifted a little. Instead of just rescuing strays, she’d wanted to make the best tracking dogs in the world. When she’d inherited her grandfather’s estate, her first task had been to change the breeding program of the hounds. She wanted them bred to be sturdy, affectionate, and good trackers. She wanted to help find people because she hadn’t been able to find Summer. Now, after nearly twenty years of hard work, she had some of the best tracking hounds in the country. She and Atohi also conducted training programs for others who were interested in search and rescue.

  She’d never stopped wanting to help the dogs no one else wanted, though.

  Dixie ran to the gate and jumped up, tongue lolling out. The dogs who had been playing on the agility course were already waiting at the gate to greet their friend. They were the rescue dogs, mostly big dogs of all breeds and colors, and when they saw Tavey and Dixie, several of them threw back their heads and howled in delight. Atohi quickly moved to shoo them away from the gate so Tavey could enter relatively unmolested. The only dogs who were never allowed to gather in large groups or hang out at the gate were the rehabilitation animals—fights tended to break out.

  Tavey opened the first gate, allowing Dixie to enter ahead of her. She closed and latched it securely behind her before moving to the next and nudging Dixie out of the way so she could open it.

  “Hey, Atohi,” she greeted the elderly man. He had a tall, slightly stooped frame, closely cut gray hair, skin the color of burnt apricots, the high cheekbones typical of the Cherokee, and a proud forehead. He’d seemed ancient when she was a girl and now he seemed almost timeless, as if he were as much a part of her home as the land itself.

  As old as he was, he still woke at five a.m. and took the tracking hounds through the trails in the woods on a practice run, then worked all day tending the dogs until it was time for dinner.

  “Miss Tavey,” he greeted her as he had when she was a child, his face grave, but humor floated behind his dark eyes.

  “How is everyone today?” Tavey held out her hands for the eager dogs to sniff, patting soft heads, scratching behind an ear, until all the dogs had greeted her. They walked together in a big herd back to the agility course.

  “Doin’ fine. You find that girl?”

  “Yes, sir, we did. Dehydrated and shocked, but otherwise okay.”

  “That’s good news, then.”

  “Yes, it is. Always a relief to find them alive.” She changed the subject. “What about that shepherd that was brought in a week ago. Still won’t let you pet him?”

  “He and I are still getting to know each other, but I think he’s coming around.”

  Tavey nodded. “All right. I’ll just put Dixie away and head to the house. Come by when you get a chance; I picked up some more books from the library yesterday.”

  A small smile tickled the corner of his mouth. “That Mrs. Cooley still there?”

  Tavey rolled her eyes. “She is.”

  “She sure does dislike you girls.”

  You girls. That’s what he’d called Tavey and her friends Chris, Raquel, and Summer when they were children—what he still called them, even without Summer.

  The fall that Summer disappeared, he’d been in the kennels when Chris and Summer had decided to take a trip into the woods. She knew it tore him up that he hadn’t stopped them, that he hadn’t been able to find Summer when Chris came stumbling out of the woods alone, shaken.

  “She sure does,” Tavey agreed. “You coming in for dinner?”

  “What’s that boy cooking tonight?”

  Tavey’s lips twitched, but she answered without laughing. “I’m not sure. I haven’t been home since yesterday.”

  “Well, we’ll see, then. I might stop by.”

  The “boy,” Thomas, was an exchange student from France. He attended classes at the nearby college to help with his English, but he really wanted to be a chef. He used the fresh herbs and vegetables grown on the estate as well as the chickens and turkeys. Tavey didn’t keep cattle, but one of the neighbors did, and they often ate freshly butchered beef. She rarely had a full-time chef on staff, preferring to take turns cooking with whoever on staff was hungry, or offering college students and visiting chefs the chance to cook in the country for a season. And this summer, it was Thomas.

  Tavey put Dixie away and headed back to the house; she wanted to clean up and take care of some paperwork. Tomorrow she had church in the morning and her weekly meeting with her best friends after that. If she was lucky, no one would call in sick to the grooming salon and she’d be able to work on more paperwork in the afternoon.

  She had scheduled another search-and-rescue training camp for June and was woefully unprepared for it. She’d also just completed her purchase of the land surrounding the abandoned Cherokee Paper Mill, which abutted the northern border of her own land. She’d had to wait until the FBI’s ongoing investigation of Joe Sherman, the serial killer who’d captured Chris and Tavey’s three teenage neighbors, had concluded. While collecting evidence, the FBI and the GBI—Georgia Bureau of Investigation—had dredged the millpond and found several bodies, some of which had yet to be identified. They’d also found a book with Summer’
s name written inside. Tavey intended to search the property with her dogs, just in case the FBI wasn’t as thorough as her hounds.

  She opened the back door to her house, laughing as she was immediately assaulted by her three beagles, who acted as if she’d returned after being gone for several years.

  “Hi, guys. Hi, babies. I missed you, too.” She laughed and bent down to hug them. She couldn’t help but think of Tyler, of what it had been like to be held by him, just for a brief moment—which was ridiculous.

  “I’m ridiculous,” she told her beagles, who agreed with wagging tails.

  It was time she let go of her ridiculous obsession with him. Long past time.

  5

  TYLER DROVE THE ten miles from Canton back to Fate with a sour taste in his mouth. He didn’t want to think about Tavey Collins anymore, but it was difficult not to think of her when driving on Main Street into the town of Fate. Everywhere he looked he could see the mark of Tavey or her grandparents. The library at the high school was named after her family. The fountain in the center of the main circle of town had been donated by Tavey when she was still in her twenties. Several of the college’s buildings were named after her, and recently she’d had the old graveyard by the railroad tracks restored—some of the residents had been there since the Civil War.

  He was probably the only person in town who didn’t kiss her ass, and now Christie wanted to get her help training that stupid dog.

  He’d intended to drive straight home, clean up, and grab a beer, but the thought of heading to the small, empty house he’d rented after his divorce didn’t appeal to him. Instead of continuing through town, he looped around the circle in the center of Main Street and parked in one of the open spots in front of the redbrick building that housed a small satellite office of the Cherokee County Sheriff’s Office.

  He got out of his truck, nodded a greeting to Mr. Ward, who looked beleaguered as usual. The poor old guy was covered in sweat and wearing loose-fitting pants and carrying a yoga mat. He must’ve just finished class. Tyler glanced across the circle at another old brick building, at the dog-grooming place with the yoga studio upstairs. One of Tavey’s best friends, Chris Pascal, taught at the yoga studio during the week, but the dog-grooming store belonged to Tavey. She’d named it Dog with Two Bones. He’d always wondered why she’d chosen that name considering the parable was a lesson in greed. He thought it might have something to do with the rumors that surrounded her father before his death, rumors of gambling debts and arrests for drugs.

  After the uproar that had occurred the previous fall when reporters had swarmed the town hungering for news of the serial killer, the town felt quiet—but not peaceful. It was almost as if the town was waiting, just waiting for something else to happen. Even the people sitting on the benches in the circle seemed hesitant, casting looks over their shoulders. He’d found himself driving the narrow streets more often and had even set up a desk in the Fate office, which was used only on weekdays by two patrol officers. Evenings and weekends, all calls were routed to the main offices in Canton.

  Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he located the one to the front door. He released the two dead bolts and opened the glass door, punching in the code to turn off the alarm. He closed and relocked the door and walked down the black-and-white-tile entryway to the door for the police station. Switchback stairs led to the second and third floors, which housed the offices of the few city officials and the school district’s officers.

  He used a second key to unlock the door to the tiny sheriff’s office and disabled the alarm there as well. The main desk faced the door and was painted with the symbol of the Cherokee County Sheriff’s Office on the front of the ancient wood. Two more desks were on the other side of a small partition. He’d made one of the desks his own—unofficially, of course, but no one minded, least of all his boss, Captain Davies.

  The derelict blue office chair he’d appropriated had seen better days. One arm was missing and duct tape covered both corners. It squealed in protest as he collapsed into it. He relaxed for a moment, sinking into the quiet. He lifted his head a little so he could see over the partition to the window. The blinds were closed. He knew that if he looked, he would see the citizens of Fate as they walked around the circle, eating ice-cream cones and strolling around the fountain. Fate was a tiny town, and most of the residents lived near the center or at the nearby college. Even in summer, when the majority of the students returned to their homes, the town was always filled with people milling about. There were church fairs, summer movie festivals at the restored theater, the weekly farmers’ market, and of course the midsummer celebration held by Circe and some of the other witches.

  He shook his head, hoping that there wasn’t going to be a lot of press surrounding the celebration this year. The events of the previous fall had put their small town in the national spotlight, and in Tyler’s humble opinion, press coverage brought out the nut bags in bulk.

  Not that the midsummer celebration was ever without controversy. Ever since the Haven family had opened that witchcraft store and launched the tradition a little over a decade ago, a few of the local church leaders had taken it upon themselves to hold protests. Tyler tended to side with the Havens even though he thought they were mostly insane. When he’d been growing up and getting the shit kicked out of him by his father, the local churches hadn’t done anything to help, even when he’d passed out on their doorstep when he was twelve.

  Tavey’s family had helped, though, he acknowledged with grim recollection. Her grandmother had taken him in on one memorable occasion, Tavey a pale ghost watching him, her eyes fastened on him, unblinking and solemn.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face and straightened in his seat. He used yet another key to open the bottom right drawer of the desk. He pulled out a thick reddish-brown file stuffed with documents and held together with a rubber band. It contained the main pieces of evidence and his notes about the disappearance of Summer Breen Haven.

  He’d been working on the cold case—on and off—over the past five years or so after inheriting it from the original investigator, Jimmy Daughtrey, his mentor. He’d been tracking down whispers mostly, hoping that something would break in the case, something that would clear his uncle, who had grown increasingly agitated as Tavey continued to wage her campaign against him.

  Tyler curled the thick file almost into a C, his knuckles white. If she wasn’t after his uncle, he’d be impressed by her decades-long dedication to finding her friend.

  Sighing, he uncurled the file and tugged off the rubber band.

  He pulled out a sheaf of freshly printed pages, conspicuous in comparison to the yellowed edges and colorful triplicates of the old files. Removing the jaw clip, he folded aside the first page, which was a copy of the email Ryan Helmer, the FBI agent who had worked the serial killer case last fall, had sent with the files.

  The second page of the document was the cover page of a report, describing the evidence gathered at the old paper mill when the girls and Chris had been rescued. He flipped past it, not wanting to read the descriptions of the human remains that were found at the bottom of the old millpond. Most had been young women, but several men had also been found, one of whom had been the father of the serial killer who’d kidnapped the girls.

  He skipped pages until he was nearly to the end of the stack, where incidental findings were detailed. He pulled out the photographs and pieces of the report that dealt with a small leather-bound book that had been found. Though degraded and badly damaged by being exposed to the elements, the book had survived. In the inside cover, written in crooked, heavily slanted letters, in what looked like red crayon, was the name Summer.

  Below that, in a stiff, formal cursive, was the quote that Tavey was convinced his uncle had written:

  But in a story, which is a kind of dreaming, the dead sometimes smile and sit up and return to the world.

  Tyler’s hands,
which had been stroking the file, paused. He’d been there when they’d questioned his uncle about the book. His uncle had said no, that it wasn’t his. Tyler had tried to talk to him about it as well, but Abraham had gotten pissed off and asked him to leave. Tyler wanted to believe him; his uncle certainly seemed to be telling the truth, but he wasn’t sure the old man knew what was true anymore—he lived inside his head, inside the memories of a war that wouldn’t leave him. Tim O’Brien was his uncle’s favorite author—said he was the only one who wrote what it really had been like. The book could have been his, but Tyler didn’t know why he’d give it to a blind girl, or help her write her name in it. It didn’t make any sense.

  Stroking his lower lip, Tyler thought of Tavey’s face when he’d confronted her this morning, her brown eyes flashing, cheeks red. She was the loveliest woman he’d ever met, old-fashioned lovely, like a cameo or a black-and-white photograph. Today, when he’d seen her petting her dog, her white teeth flashing as she smiled, he’d thought about the one time he’d kissed her. He’d been angry—frustrated—but he’d never forgotten the taste of her—peaches and coffee. That’s what he remembered. Of course, then he’d thought about her voice mail, about the tirade he’d had to listen to from his captain after he’d arrested her for trespassing, and he’d snapped. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. Even though he always did, he never meant to.

  Tyler dropped the file and stood, walking over to the window and tilting down one of the slats in the blinds. The sun was setting and the town was quieting down for the night—only the theater remained busy. Even the local pub seemed mellow, with only one couple sitting out on the patio.

  He went back to the file and opened it to the beginning. He hadn’t read it cover to cover in a while—there could be something he’d missed. He thought of Tavey’s face when he’d told her his uncle was dying. He thought of how she’d looked when she’d saved his life all those years ago. He could talk to his uncle again, he decided. Early in the morning. Sometimes Abraham felt better in the morning, and Tavey would be in church, not knocking on his uncle’s door asking questions.