I let Meeka out to do her doggie thing while I showered and dressed. My stomach grumbled. How could I possibly be hungry after that huge chicken pot pie and small mountain of cheese curds last night? I mentally added a grocery store visit to my already long to-do list for the morning, then grabbed the Styrofoam container of cherry cobbler from the little refrigerator in the kitchenette. I spooned the first bite of the dessert into my mouth and had reloaded the spoon before I’d even chewed twice. I stopped, with the spoon halfway to my mouth. I was supposed to eat mindfully so slowed down and paid attention. The cobbler exploded in my mouth—sweet, tart, buttery, flaky, and fabulous. Slow was good.
I took the container out onto the sundeck and found Meeka at the water’s edge. She was chasing the waves as they went out, then spun and ran like crazy when they crashed back in.
“Come on in, girl. We’ve got an appointment this morning.”
The little white terrier looked up at me, gave a final warning yap at the waves, and ran up the stairs. Meeka ate her kibble while I finished the cobbler, then sat by the door to wait for me.
I grabbed her leash and a couple of poo bags, and we headed for the Cherokee. One problem. I had no idea where the sheriff’s station was. Problem number two: coffee. I could function well enough on cherry cobbler but not without coffee. We’d stop for a mega-cup in the village and ask directions. I’d seen a sign hanging from one of the scary witch buildings while walking with Tripp last night. ‘Ye Olde Bean Grinder’ sounded like a coffee shop to me. Fifteen minutes later, we confirmed that’s exactly what it was.
“Are dogs welcome?” I asked before entering.
“Will your dog leave a mess?” the busy barista asked.
I looked at Meeka. “No mess. Right?” She gave a little half-bark. “Nope, no mess.”
She waved us into the shop that was even more charming on the inside than it was on the outside. Cozy café tables dotted the sitting area, a stone fireplace sat tucked into the far corner. I silently wished for a good book and a dreary afternoon because this would be the perfect place to spend it.
While the barista prepared my favorite extra-large mocha with a double-pump of vanilla and extra whipped cream, I found myself staring at a covered dish of scones. My stomach rumbled again, and I mentally shushed it. Not only was I supposed to be working on eating more mindfully, I really should eat better, too. Cherry cobbler and scones weren’t anywhere on a better menu.
“Could you point me toward the sheriff’s station?” I asked as Violet, the barista—early-twenties, five foot even, light-brown skin, long straight black hair, violet eyes—set my drink on the counter along with a biscuit for Meeka.
“It isn’t far,” she said. “Hope you don’t have a problem.”
I took the first sip from my paper cup. This was quite possibly the best coffee I’d ever had. What was it about the food around here?
“Nope, no problem,” I said.
“That’s good. Because I heard there was some trouble over by the campground last night.”
I added nosey to her description, but in a friendly, not annoying, way. Violet’s statement was as loaded as a fishing hook with a fat worm. She was looking for information, but it wasn’t my place to supply it. Word would spread soon enough.
“You staying at the campground by any chance?” she asked.
That I could answer. “No, I’m Jayne O’Shea—”
“Oh! You’re Lucy’s granddaughter.”
“You knew my grandmother?”
Violet’s smile melted my heart. “Everyone knew Lucy. She was The Original, after all.”
I swallowed my mocha wrong and coughed. I’d heard Gran called many things, mostly by my parents, but that was a first.
“She was the what?”
“The Original,” Violet said dreamily, as though my grandmother was a movie star. “Whispering Pines wouldn’t exist if not for Lucy O’Shea letting people live on her land.” Violet dug in her cash drawer and then slid my five dollars back to me. “Coffee’s on the house. Any day. Any time. Always.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Seriously, your money is no good here.”
There was no point in arguing, I knew a determined look when I saw one. My sister Rosalyn wore one like a fashion accessory. “Thank you, Violet. That’s nice of you.”
Violet smiled.
“So?” I prompted. “The sheriff’s station?”
“Oh, sure.” Violet pointed east. “Go past Shoppe Mystique next door. If you’re looking for herbs, candles, crystals, or oils that’s the place to go. Anyway, keep going and take a left past Treat Me Sweetly, the village bakery.” Violet nodded at the scones. “I supply coffee for her, she supplies scones for me. Help yourself. The lemon-lavender are out of this world.”
Not wanting to seem rude, I chose a scone. “Let me guess. She gets the lavender from Shoppe Mystique?”
“Where else?” Violet looked at me as though I hadn’t been paying attention.
The scone practically melted in my mouth. The lemon invigorated while the lavender soothed.
“Oh my god.” I held my hand in front of my mouth as I spoke. “So, magic of some kind is one of the ingredients?”
I was joking, but the hint of a smile on Violet’s lips caught me off guard.
“Just past the bakery,” Violet continued, “you’ll find the Fairy Path. Follow that and you’ll run right into the sheriff. Well, his building. And not literally, of course, unless you don’t stop.”
“I’m sorry?” I leaned in to be sure I’d heard properly. “The Fairy Path?”
Violet swatted the air. “That’s our little joke because mushrooms tend to grow in circles along there. The actual fairies hang out on the other side of the creek near The Meditation Circle.”
I blinked and decided it was time to move along. “Two shops down, take a left. Got it.” I held up the coffee. “Thanks again.”
A meditation circle? Fairies? Magical scones? Had the village been this quirky when I was little? There weren’t as many tourists then, but now that I thought about it, it always seemed like a fairytale land to me.
Just past the bakery, I spotted a hand-carved wooden sign, about a foot-and-a-half tall and a foot wide, at the start of a path that led through a thick grove of trees. ‘Fairy Path’ was carved into the sign with a fanciful font. About ten feet away, on the other side of the path, was a matching sign that read ‘Sheriff – 0.5 mile,’ an arrow indicated that through the grove was the proper direction. I started down the path, not at all surprised to find more signs advertising other locations: library, lower school, upper school, yoga studio, healing center.
“Suppose a healing center is like a clinic?” I asked Meeka who had stopped to investigate the mushrooms that really did grow in circles. Dozens of little houses, the size of shoeboxes, circled the bases of trees. Very cute. Another touch for the tourists, or did the villagers really believe in fairies? Did they employ a medical doctor in their healing center, or would I find a shaman if I walked in?
The path came to a fork. One sign pointed left toward the healing center and yoga studio, another pointed right to the schools and library. Dead ahead was a simple single-story square building, painfully utilitarian compared to the charming witch cottages surrounding the pentacle garden. A sign that read ‘Whispering Pines Sheriff Station” hanging next to the door told me I was at the right place.
Chapter 6
Meeka and I entered the sheriff’s station and found a large open space that was as no-frills at the outside of the building. Two jail cells took up the far left wall. Two rooms, one labeled ‘Sheriff’ and the other unmarked, with a small bathroom in between, occupied the wall to the right. Straight across from the front door at the far side of the room sat a single desk. If the name plate on the front edge of the desk was accurate, the desk belonged to Deputy Martin Reed. I had seen the man sitting there last night. He had come to my house to help investigate the crime scene, but I hadn’t met him perso
nally.
He looked up from his paperwork. “No dogs allowed.”
“She’s a service dog.”
He narrowed his eyes at me and Meeka, then took a handful of trail mix from a plastic zip-top bag. “We figured you forgot you were supposed to come.”
“I don’t recall a time being set. I slept in.” My tone held no apology, but I did my best to stay cordial. “All the driving I did yesterday must have tired me out more than I realized.”
I guessed Deputy Reed to be younger than me—early-twenties, thinning dirty-blonde hair, the bony frame of someone who either used illegal substances or was suffering from a chronic disease. He made my instincts prickle, and I never questioned my instincts. What were they trying to tell me about the good deputy?
“Sheriff’s in the interview room.” Deputy Reed pointed to the door directly to his left. “Been waiting for you.”
For whatever reason, he was trying to intimidate me. Good luck with that. I didn’t intimidate easily. Also, I hadn’t done anything wrong, unless sleeping in was an offence of some kind in Whispering Pines.
“Glad you could make it.” Sheriff Brighton said and pointed at the empty chair across the simple wood table from him. “Have a seat.”
On guard now, thanks to the deputy, I was prepared to be treated as a hostile witness, so to speak. I took the chair, immediately uncomfortable with my back to the door.
Sheriff Brighton made a show of placing his voice recorder in front of me. The only other items on the table were a file folder, open to reveal both handwritten and computer printed notes, and a pad of paper. He switched on the recorder.
“Let’s talk about the victim found on your property yesterday.”
“Yasmine Long.”
The Sheriff looked up, eyebrows arched. He seemed surprised by my knowledge. “How did you know the victim?”
“I didn’t, but her name is written on your folder’s tab. And Tripp Bennett, the man who came to get you—”
“I know who Mr. Bennett is.”
Sheriff Brighton sat straight and tall in his chair, an obvious attempt to be in control by making himself seem as physically imposing as possible. Whatever. I was well aware of police interview tactics.
“Tripp went to dinner with me last night,” I said.
“You discussed the investigation?” This displeased Sheriff Brighton, if the furrow at the center of his forehead and the accusatory tone meant anything.
“I didn’t know there was a reason we shouldn’t. We were both a little upset by the woman’s death and the topic naturally came up. It’s not like I revealed anything new to him. Tripp saw everything I saw. He volunteered her name and stated that Ms. Long had been staying at the same campground he is.”
“Did you and Tripp know each other before yesterday?”
The sheriff put an emphasis on Tripp’s name that I couldn’t decipher. It didn’t imply that Tripp had done anything wrong, but there was a definite vibe that indicated the sheriff didn’t like him. Maybe it was because Tripp had stayed even though the village council hadn’t approved him getting a job or a place to rent. Guess they really didn’t like outsiders here.
“I thought you brought me in to discuss Ms. Long,” I said.
Sheriff Brighton held my gaze longer than was necessary. “Yes. Miss Long. Give me the timeline of your day yesterday.”
“You mean since I arrived at my grandparents’ house?”
The sheriff lifted a shoulder. “Why not your whole day? It seems you’ll be in Whispering Pines for a while. I like to know the residents of my village.”
The hair on my arms stood up as Tripp’s words about ‘those who weren’t approved couldn’t stay’ sounded like an alarm in my head. My family owned every square foot of the land beneath this village. They couldn’t do a thing about me staying.
“Well,” I sat straight in the chair, “I got up at about seven-thirty and peed. Then I took my dog outside so she could pee.”
“Miss O’Shea,” the sheriff interrupted, “is this a joke to you for some reason?”
“Sheriff Brighton, a girl died on my property. Or she died elsewhere and someone dumped her body there. I take that very seriously. You, however, seem more concerned with learning about me and my relationship with Tripp Bennett, of which there isn’t one, than you do with the facts surrounding the deceased woman. If you’d like to chat,” —I held up my half-full paper cup— “Ye Olde Bean Grinder makes great coffee. I’d be happy to sit and get to know you, and any of my fellow villagers, there.”
He squirmed slightly my use of the phrase ‘my fellow villagers.’ He really didn’t like outsiders.
Beneath the table, Meeka leaned against my legs, sensing my irritation.
“Miss O’Shea—”
“Ms. O’Shea.”
We locked eyes, Sheriff Brighton looking away first. He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat.
“All right. Why don’t you tell me what happened from the time you entered Lucy’s property?”
Lucy’s property. Making sure I understood that it was my grandmother’s and not mine?
“You knew my grandmother?” Of course he did. Like Violet at Ye Olde Bean Grinder had said, everyone in Whispering Pines knew Lucy O’Shea.
His stern expression softened slightly. “I knew her quite well. Lucy was a wonderful woman.”
I softened a little myself at his reaction. I’d been stressed and exhausted for months. The sheriff was just doing his job. Right now, my job was to let him.
“I left Madison a little after eleven yesterday morning.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“My mother can.”
“When did you get here?”
“A little before five.”
He nodded and jotted the fact on his notepad. “Then what happened?”
“Shortly after we arrived, Meeka started barking at something at the perimeter of the yard. When I got closer, I saw the body. For the record, I’m confident she didn’t touch the victim. She’s trained to alert me and only attack if I’m in physical danger.”
“Your dog is how big?” He checked beneath the table and held his hand about a foot off the floor.
I smiled at his implication. “Have you ever been bitten in the ankle or calf, Sheriff?”
He chuckled from deep in his belly. “Can’t say as I have, Miss . . . Ms. O’Shea. Please, continue.”
“As I stated last night, I called out to the victim but she was unresponsive. I checked for a pulse and found none.” I took a drink of my mocha, giving myself a moment as an image of Frisky flashed before my eyes. “At that time, I knew I needed to contact your office and secure the scene.”
“You sent Mr. Bennett for me.”
“Yes, sir. My cell phone gets no reception here.”
“No one’s does,” the sheriff said.
“I went inside the house to use the phone there.”
I explained, in detail, the condition of the entryway, dining room, and sitting room. The broken furniture, destroyed items, and graffiti on the walls. Not pertinent to Yasmine’s case, but I wanted to be sure my break-in was on the sheriff’s radar.
“Is that all the farther you went?” Sheriff Brighton asked, noting these details on a separate sheet of paper. “Only into the entryway? Did you look in any other rooms?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t want to contaminate the scene. You will only find my footprints in the grime on the floor. I didn’t touch anything, not even the front door since the broken pane of glass alerted me to a break-in.”
Sheriff Brighton glanced up from scribbling notes. His eyes narrowed and he studied me for a beat. “And then what happened?”
“I went to use the telephone in the sitting room; you will find my fingerprints there. The line was dead. Whoever broke in, yanked the cord from the wall. I went back outside and that’s when I saw Mr. Bennett kayaking past the property. I called him over and asked him to get in touch with you.”
“Why di
d you ask him to go? Why didn’t you come get me yourself?”
“I wanted to secure the scene and guard the body from predators or the killer if he or she was to return. If she was murdered. We can’t know that until the autopsy results come back, can we?”
The sheriff bristled visibly. “You chose to stay with the body so you could ‘secure the scene.’”
“Yes, sir.” I stared at my coffee cup on the table while the sheriff flipped through his notes in the folder.
“What is your timeframe for staying in Whispering Pines?” It was a standard question, but I couldn’t help but think he wanted me out of here sooner than later.
I explained how it was originally going to be a week. “With the state of the house, that’s kind of up in the air now.”
Sheriff Brighton tapped his pen on the notepad, studying me as he did. “Ms. O’Shea, you seem to know a lot about police procedures. In fact, you sound like a cop.”
He waited for me to respond, but since he hadn’t asked a question, I stayed mute.
He chuckled softly. “I knew someone from your family would be coming to take care of the house. As I said before, I like to know the residents of my village. I did a little research. Your mom owns a spa. Dad is an archeologist. Your sister Rosalyn is a student at UW Madison.” He looked up. “You worked for the Madison PD for nearly five years.”
I didn’t know how to react to that. “Got a lot of free time on your hands during the off season, do you, Sheriff?”
“Are you a cop, Ms. O’Shea?”
Damn. This wasn’t supposed to come up. I didn’t know anyone here, my plan was to be off the grid and incognito for a week. Enjoy a little solo time. I sighed.
“Until six months ago, yes, sir, I was a cop.”
He nodded, confirming the facts. “What happened six months ago?”
“I stopped being a cop.” What were the chances he’d let this subject go with that?
“Why? Were you terminated?”
I sat straight, clammy hands resting on my thighs. Meeka shifted and pressed even harder against me.
Family Secrets Page 4
