Family Secrets

by Shawn McGuire

  “Yes, thank you. Is the sheriff still here?”

  “No, he’s off investigating a murder.” He looked at me like I was dense or that Yasmine’s death was somehow my fault because the body was found on my property.

  My cop’s eye turned on, and I stood back to study him. When he wasn’t glaring, he was fidgeting.

  “Something wrong, Deputy Reed? You seem upset.”

  “Someone died.” Now he wouldn’t look at me at all. “We don’t get a lot of that around here. Maybe an accidental drowning every few years but never a murder. Is that reason enough for you?”

  “Sure it is.” I offered a moment of silence for Yasmine. “Don’t recall it being labeled a murder, though. That’s not a word the sheriff used with me.”

  Reed didn’t respond.

  “Do you have any idea what might have happened? Tripp Bennett told me Yasmine had been in the area for a few weeks. Did you know her?”

  “Why would I know her?” He snapped and crammed more trail mix from the now nearly-empty bag into his mouth.

  “Sheriff Brighton told me that one of your responsibilities is patrolling the village. Is that true?”

  “Yeah.” He sat a little straighter and pushed his shoulders back.

  “I just wondered if you ever saw Yasmine while you were out and about.”

  He took time brushing trail mix crumbs from his hands. “Possible, I suppose.”

  Everyone noticed her, Tripp had said of Yasmine. Deputy Reed seemed like a healthy, surely-hormonal young man. If his job was to patrol the village, there was no way he would have missed the sudsy girl in the yellow bikini.

  “What difference would it make if I did?” He turned his glare back on, his voice growing louder and increasingly defensive. “Why do you care anyway?”

  “Yasmine died on my property,” I stated calmly. “Other than the fact that she’s a human being, isn’t that reason enough?”

  He flinched a little every time I said Yasmine’s name. Instinct told me that Deputy Reed was hiding something. Or he was flat-out lying.

  “See you around,” I promised. “Turns out I’ll be here for longer than I’d planned.”

  He grunted and I felt his eyes boring a hole between my shoulder blades as I left the station.

  Chapter 9

  Treat Me Sweetly was one part old world bakery, one part vintage ice cream shop, and one part Willy Wonka candy store. The interior was bright and cheery while being warm and cozy at the same time. It was also far busier than I’d expected. Yes, it was a Sunday, but the official start of summer was still a week away. All six of the shop’s café tables were occupied as were the two picnic tables and three benches outside. The employees were scurrying around like chipmunks, scooping ice cream on one side of the store, boxing up pastries or bagging candies on the other. What must it be like during peak season?

  “What can I get for you?” The woman behind the counter asked. Mid-forties, round face, reddish hair, slightly overweight.

  “It’s busy,” I said dumbly.

  “Isn’t it great?” She smiled with genuine happiness, as a shopkeeper should when business was good. “The villagers are getting their fill before the tourists arrive. There will be a constant line then, and we won’t slow down until after the autumnal equinox.”

  “The autumn what?”

  “Autumnal equinox. It falls around September twenty-second, depending on the sun, and marks the start of autumn. Things will die down and then we’ll get a little activity during winter solstice.” She laughed. “I could go on all afternoon about this, but as you can see, I’ve got customers. What can I get you, sweetie?”

  Ice cream. I had to go grocery shopping, but if I went when I was hungry, I’d get nothing but junk food. I stared into the freezer case, like everyone before me had, and analyzed every container carefully. This decision could make or break my afternoon, after all.

  “I’ll have a double with strawberry ripple and lemon basil.” There. Fruit. And there was some sort of nutritional value in basil. I read that somewhere.

  “Are you visiting or passing through?” the woman asked as she scooped.

  “Visiting, in a way. I’d planned to only be here a week, but it’s going to be longer.”

  She laughed. “You make it sound like a business trip. Who comes to Whispering Pines for business?”

  “It’s kind of like business, I guess. I’m here to pack up my grandmother’s house.”

  The woman stood straight up, nearly bumping her head on the freezer door as she did. “Lucy O’Shea’s house?”

  She wore the same giddy, slightly-awed expression as Violet over at Ye Olde Bean Grinder.

  “I’m Jayne, Lucy’s granddaughter.”

  The woman sighed and placed a hand to her heart. “Your grandma talked about you and your sister all the time. What’s her name?”

  “Rosalyn.”

  She pointed the ice cream scoop at me in confirmation. “Rosalyn. She adored you girls.”

  A wave of warmth washed over me at the proclamation.

  “It’s lovely to meet you, Jayne.” The woman finished adding lemon-basil on top of the strawberry ripple. “I’m Honey. That’s my sister.” She indicated the woman across the store at the bakery counter. Mid- to late-forties, round face, blonde hair with a touch of red, five-six. “Sugar, this is Lucy’s granddaughter Jayne.”

  There was that same expression again. The one that said she’d just met someone important. I knew Gran had been a sort of celebrity around here, being the village founder and all, but I hadn’t expected that to rub off onto me.

  “Your names are Honey and Sugar?” I confirmed, amused.

  “Running a sweet shop seemed like the obvious choice.” Honey handed me a cup filled with four, generous scoops of ice cream, not two like I’d expected.

  “I only wanted a double,” I objected, but not too strenuously.

  “Around here,” Honey said, “we fill the cup. So a single cup fits two scoops, a double fits four. She reached for my cup. “If you’d like me to take some away—”

  “No-no.” I held it away. “This is fine. I’ll remember for next time. How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. On the house.”

  Sugar appeared next to me and tucked a small cookie along the edge of my cup. A tiny purple flower was visible beneath a glittering coating of sugar.

  “No charge for Lucy’s family,” Sugar explained, leaving no room for argument. “Biscuit for your pup?”

  “She’ll love you forever,” I said and accepted the treat for Meeka. “Thank you, both.”

  As I turned away from the counter, one of the pink metal café tables was being vacated. Meeka lay beneath my chair, contently nibbling her biscuit, and I forced myself to eat slowly while looking around the shop. Warm brown wooden shelves loaded with old-fashioned candy jars lined the wall next to me, each jar stuffed full with brightly-colored candy—taffy and toffee, candy necklaces and buttons, root beer barrels and lemon drops, jaw breakers . . . What a fun place to work.

  I’d made it to the last spoonful of lemon basil and was about to start the strawberry ripple when the shop door opened. The most striking woman I’d ever seen walked in. I stared at her with the spoon suspended halfway to my mouth. Late-twenties, five-five, wavy raven-black hair that hung to her elbows, ivory skin. A wicker basket hung from her arm, overflowing with small plant bundles.

  “Blessed be, ladies,” the woman chirped.

  The woman wore short black shorts and a black corset vest beneath a long sheer black overdress, and black booties. A flowing jacket, in a beautiful olive-green chiffon embroidered all over with flowers and plants, fell past her knees and completed her outfit. Stunning. She was absolutely stunning.

  “Good morning, Morgan,” Sugar said. “I hope you’ve got some pansies in there for me.”

  Morgan reached into her basket, the numerous bracelets encircling her wrists jangling with her every move, and plucked out a small bundle of flowers.

>   “I remembered. I’ve got a bounty of other flowers and herbs for you today as well. The Goddess has already blessed my garden, and there are still five weeks until summer solstice.” She placed the pansies and the rest of the basket’s contents on a stainless steel table behind the serving counters. “Does the arrival of pansies mean you’ll have fresh sugar cookies soon?”

  “I plan to start them as soon as we get a break,” Sugar said. “Your delivery is just in time. Jayne here got the last pansy cookie.”

  Morgan spun to face me, her chiffon jacket billowing around her, just as I inserted the last bite of cookie into my mouth.

  “Guilty as charged,” I mumbled around the pastry.

  “Morgan,” Honey lowered her voice as though she had a secret to spill, “this is Jayne O’Shea.”

  Morgan closed the distance between us in two confident strides. She pulled out the chair across from me and in a smooth, fluid motion, lowered into it. I prepared for the same starstruck treatment I’d gotten from everyone else that morning. Except the sheriff and his deputy, of course.

  “Jayne O’Shea.” She placed her hands palms together near her heart, her reaction more one of relief than being in awe of my presence. “So glad you arrived safely.”

  Glad I arrived safely? She said it like she’d known I was coming. She couldn’t though. Neither my mother nor Rosalyn had told anyone. We just got the email from Dad with the go-ahead two days ago.

  “I hear you had a little trouble out at your place last night,” Morgan said.

  “Trouble?” Sugar asked.

  “What trouble?” Honey added.

  Morgan narrowed her heavily-lined and shadowed eyes at the women and then rose from her chair as gracefully as she’d lowered onto it. She held up a hand, flicked her fingers in a follow me motion, and floated out of the shop. On the other side of the threshold, she paused and looked over her shoulder at Honey and Sugar.

  “Blessed be.”

  Feeling almost compelled to trail after her, I shoveled the remaining strawberry ripple into my mouth and stood after the brain freeze faded.

  “Thank you, ladies. The ice cream and cookie were wonderful.”

  “We’ll see you again?” Honey asked.

  “Oh, yes. I’ll be back,” I promised and tossed the empty container into the receptacle by the door. I paused to attach Meeka’s leash and hurried to catch up with Morgan.

  “What an adorable creature.”

  Morgan bent and offered the back of her hand to Meeka who sniffed it, wagged her tail, and looked to me for approval. It was a good sign whenever my dog trusted someone.

  “Friend,” I gave the command letting her know it was okay to interact with this stranger. “This is Meeka.”

  Meeka immediately shoved her head under Morgan’s hand, hoping for an ear scratch from nails coated with lacquer as black as Morgan’s hair.

  “We hardly had a proper introduction.” Morgan straightened and held a thin hand out to me. She wore rings on each of her long fingers—all were silver, many looked like twined vines, a few held small crystals. “Morgan Barlow. I’m delighted that you’re here.”

  I accepted her hand. “Jayne O’Shea. You act as though you’ve been expecting me.”

  Morgan tucked her hand beneath my upper arm like we were long-lost, reuniting friends.

  “You have a lot of questions about many things.” Morgan led me south around the pentacle garden toward a path that ran alongside the lake. “Let’s walk. I’ll try to ease your mind of some of them.”

  Assuming that she meant she had information about Yasmine Long’s death—that had been the topic that propelled us from the sweet shop, after all—I went with her.

  “So, you knew Yasmine Long?” I asked.

  “Yasmine? Oh, yes. I was familiar with her.” She paused. “Being an Original can be a bit overwhelming. There’s a level of responsibility that comes with it.”

  Confused, it took me a moment to realize she had switched topics. “I have no idea what ‘being an Original’ means.”

  She gave me a look of pity. “They haven’t told you anything, have they? Let me help you understand.”

  They who? Haven’t told me anything about what? I felt like a coma patient who had just come to and found that years had passed while I was out.

  “Understanding sounds like a good idea,” I agreed, switching to fact-gathering cop mode.

  “An Original,” Morgan began, “is what we call the first settlers of Whispering Pines. Family members of the first settlers also qualify. Your beloved grandmother was The Original, our founder. Your grandfather obviously supported her decision, but we didn’t see much of him.”

  Gramps traveled a lot with his job in land development or general contracting . . . something like that. Gran hated city life and convinced him to buy the land Whispering Pines occupied. But moving all the way up here, alone in that big house on two thousand acres? She must have been lonely. Maybe she’d hoped for more children, but my dad was their only child. No wonder she agreed to let people live here.

  “What do you know about the village’s founding?” Morgan asked.

  “Not a lot.” The sun’s glare off the lake blinded me, so I slid my sunglasses off the top of my head into place. “I know that my grandparents purchased the land in the early-sixties. I know that they designated the ten-acre thumb of land jutting into the lake as private for themselves. In the mid-sixties, The Inn was the first building built on the remaining acreage and others soon followed.” I glanced at Morgan and found an expectant look. “That’s it, that’s all I know. And that the village primarily follows the Wiccan religion, but I don’t know why because my grandparents weren’t Wiccan.”

  Morgan smiled, as though she had a secret. Had my grandparents been Wiccan? Why would they hide that?

  “Your knowledge is indeed limited,” Morgan agreed. “The first thing to clear up is that my home, my grandparents’ home actually, was the first structure built.” Morgan gestured to our right. “It’s almost directly north of this spot, just across the creek. Our grandmothers met in the early-sixties at a gardening show. They hit it off immediately and the more they talked, the more truths they revealed to each other. My grandmother was one of the few followers of Wicca in this country at that time.”

  “You’re saying Wicca is a relatively new religion?”

  “There have always been nature-oriented or Pagan religions. And by Pagan, I mean a religion other than Judaism, Islam, or Christianity. Wicca became popular in England in the 1950s and spread to America about a decade later.”

  “So why form a community in nowhere northern Wisconsin? It’s so secluded.”

  “Wiccans tend to be very private.” Morgan frowned. “People don’t understand us. Most think that we worship the devil, perform human sacrifices, and dance naked in the moonlight. That’s not at all true. Well, some dance naked but that’s entirely personal preference. If a comparison helps, Wicca is similar to Native American spirituality in that both revere nature and its gifts. That’s a very simplistic explanation, but this was the discussion our grandmothers had. Your grandmother couldn’t tolerate that mine might be discriminated against because of her beliefs.”

  I smiled, remembering some of the spirited ‘discussions’ Gran and Dad used to have. “Yeah, my grandmother was a big believer in speaking your truth.”

  Morgan placed a hand over her heart. “Which is one of the many reasons why we miss her so very much.”

  I gave a nod of thanks as a little jolt of jealousy stabbed me. It wasn’t fair that strangers knew my grandmother so well while Rosalyn and I barely saw her. Because of some stupid family feud, our time together became limited to short visits when Gran and Gramps came down to Madison. We’d have dinner somewhere or spend a rare overnight at a hotel where we could swim and Gran would tuck us in with bedtime stories.

  “After my grandparents moved here,” Morgan explained, “word started to spread. Followers of Wicca heard about a place where they could
live without fear of persecution and made pilgrimages here. Lucy didn’t turn them away, but she couldn’t let everyone stay in the house. That’s when The Inn was built, so people had somewhere to live while their homes were constructed.”

  “But more than just Wiccans live here.”

  Morgan nodded. “In the mid- to late-1800s the Spiritualist movement, psychics and mediums holding séances to communicate with the dead, was all the rage. There are still many who believe in Spiritualism and feel just as ostracized as Wiccans. They found their way here as well.”

  The fortune tellers over in The Triangle.

  “You’re saying Whispering Pines is a community of different religions,” I said as I stepped out of the way of a biker coming toward us on the path.

  “At first. Then the carnies found their way here. Few are as harassed as the freak show folks.” She smiled. “They have a lovely little circus setup in a clearing in the northeast forest. Very popular evening entertainment with the tourists.”

  A night circus? That sounded like fun. I’d have to check it out.

  “Really,” Morgan continued, “anyone who doesn’t fit in elsewhere is welcome in Whispering Pines.”

  “Then why can’t Tripp Bennett get a job here?”

  She gave a small smile. “Because Tripp could fit in anywhere. Just because someone wants to stay, and plenty do, doesn’t mean they belong. We want to keep it a safe place for those who need it.”

  “Sounds like reverse discrimination.” My ire, as Gran would call it, was rising.

  “I understand why you would think that. Remember your grandmother’s intensions, though. If we fill up with everyone who wants to stay, where will those with a true need go?”

  I needed time to digest that thought.

  “You’ll come to understand.” Morgan’s words sounded more like an expectation of assimilation than an explanation. “This is why I said, being an Original comes with responsibility.”

  “Are there others?”

  “Originals? Of course. The thirteen of us who sit on the village council all descend from the first families. Some are Wiccan. Some Spiritualist. Some Carnies . . .”