Family Secrets

by Shawn McGuire

  “Thirteen members on a council? Sounds like a coven.”

  I was joking and, quite honestly, losing patience with this whole discussion. The head-to-toe black clothing. The jewelry with the moons and pentacles. The goddess-blessed herbs and flowers delivered ceremonially to Sugar and Honey. Morgan certainly played the role of witch, or whatever, well. She’d have to work a lot harder to convince me, though. I had seen plenty of strange things during my time as a police officer. I’d walked into homes where whole rooms were devoted to an altar set up with daggers, candles, incense, containers of salt, and small cast iron cauldrons, whatever those were for. I understood that followers of Wicca truly believed they were casting spells of some kind, but I did not for one second believe in witchcraft. And after talking with Morgan, I couldn’t help but wonder if my grandparents had gotten swindled out of nearly two thousand pristine lakeside acres.

  Morgan’s eyes glittered as she acknowledged, “We do have a coven.”

  Of course they did.

  “It’s for the Wiccans who live here,” she continued. “We gather together for rituals and celebrations. Not all Wiccans choose to be in the coven. Many are solitary practitioners. You’ll be here for a while, you’ll come to understand.”

  “What’s the council?” The one that refused to let Tripp rent a place to live.

  “The council rules over the village. Most of the council members are business owners and have a direct interest in the goings on here. You’ve already met five of the thirteen—myself, Violet, Honey, Sugar, and Sheriff Brighton.”

  A village council to create rules and regulations made sense, but my head was spinning over the rest of what she said. I understood that Wicca was a recognized religion, and I was trying to remain respectful of that, but was she serious? Covens? Rituals? Discriminating against perfectly decent, normal people? Was this how her grandmother got Gran to let her live here? Smoke and mirrors and confusion? And how did she know I’d met Violet and the sheriff?

  “You’re staring at me,” Morgan pointed out.

  I was. Throughout our discussion, a sense of déjà vu hovered around me, growing stronger and stronger. “You seem familiar to me.”

  “We’ve known each other for a long time.”

  At first, I figured this was more of her spiritual, moons and pentacles talk. That we were neighbors in a past life or something like that. Then a memory flashed in my mind. Rosalyn and I in the pentacle garden playing with a little girl with long black hair.

  We would always find her there, tending the plants or weaving herbs into long necklaces. She talked about the phases of the moon and the best times to harvest crops. We thought she was so weird.

  “Oh my god. You’re that Morgan.”

  “I am.”

  “You had a rooster. A solid black rooster.”

  She grinned. “I still do. Pitch is in my garden right now. He is excellent at keeping the soil loose and richly fertilized.”

  Great. Now I was imagining rooster poop in the flower on that sugar cookie.

  “Wait. You can’t mean he’s the same rooster. That was nearly twenty years ago.”

  “The same rooster,” Morgan said. “Looks like we’re at your car.”

  I blinked, surprised to find we were in fact standing behind the Cherokee.

  “How did you know this is my car?”

  Morgan looked skyward then laughed and gave me a wink. “I have my ways. We’ll see one another again soon, Jayne O’Shea. Blessed be.”

  I was halfway to the grocery store before I realized Morgan never did tell me how she knew Yasmine.

  Chapter 10

  Sundry, Whispering Pines’ general store, sold pretty much anything that wasn’t available in the main village: groceries, office supplies, hardware and tools, medications not of a holistic nature. . . Equally charming with its cottage-style exterior and sit-and-stay-awhile interior, it fit perfectly into this old-world environment.

  On the way home with my groceries, I passed a twin of the massive “Welcome to Whispering Pines” sign. It even had an identical ‘Blessed Be’ plaque hanging at the bottom. Out of nowhere, I was bombarded by memories of Mom mumbling, “Tree huggers,” or something similar every time we came to visit.

  “That’s not what Wicca is,” Dad would object.

  “What’s a tree hugger?” Rosalyn asked.

  “It’s someone who hugs trees, silly,” I answered with total sincerity.

  What did I know? I was only eight at the time, Rosalyn four.

  “A tree hugger,” Dad had explained, “is an environmentalist, someone who cares a lot about nature. Wiccans do worship nature and often synchronize their rituals with the phases of the moon.” He waved his hand as though wiping words from a whiteboard. “That’s a very basic definition. A detailed explanation would take a great deal of time. My point is, tree huggers are environmentalists and Wicca is a religion.”

  “They think they can perform magic,” Mom said. “It’s complete lunacy.”

  “Who’s to say they can’t?” Dad glanced at her and grinned. “Point of information: the word lunacy comes from the word lunatic, which holds the root word luna, which means moon. Long ago it was thought that people went temporarily insane based on the phases of the moon.”

  “Oh god,” Mom groaned.

  “Like werewolves?” I had asked, bouncing in my seat. “Are there werewolves in Whispering Pines?”

  “I’ve never seen one,” Dad said. “And to my knowledge no one ever has.”

  That didn’t stop me from hoping. If we ever visited during a full moon, I’d sneak outside in the middle of the night and listen for howls. One time I heard some, but Gran said that was a gray wolf that prowled the area, not a werewolf.

  Dad had loved Whispering Pines. He acted like an excited kid every time we planned a visit. Mom, on the other hand, was as averse to the village of tree huggers as it was possible to be. She was averse to anything that wasn’t middle-of-the-road or generally accepted by society. Maybe that was the reason for the feud. Maybe my grandparents had practiced Wicca. That, as far as Mom would be concerned, would place them far from the middle. If that was it, why had it taken until I was ten years old to boil over?

  I shook my head, scattering the thoughts, and pulled to a stop in front of the garage. I let Meeka out of her crate and stood there and stared at the lake. It was so peaceful. A dozen or so boats zipped across the vast blue surface. A week from now, the lake would be crammed with boats and jet skis. The atmosphere in the village would be different, too. It would be noisier and crowded with people, some doing stupid things—happy, laid-back vacation stupid things, but still stupid.

  After not even twenty-four hours, I felt more relaxed, far less stressed. Was being in Whispering Pines specifically the reason? Or was it because I was on my own and I’d feel this way regardless of location? Tomorrow, I would set up my easel and try to paint. Or maybe I’d sit in the sun and soak up some vitamin D while reading a book. Until the insurance people came, then I’d have to get busy on the house.

  I was also supposed to let Sheriff Brighton know my decision about the job tomorrow. I’d said I wasn’t interested, but it was an honest offer that deserved honest consideration. After talking with Morgan and others around the village today, I had a new understanding of how much Gran meant to the place and its people. I almost felt responsible to them now, like a family member should be here to fill Gran’s role. Accepting the sheriff’s offer would allow me to stick around. That was crazy, though. Sure, they gave me free coffee and ice cream, but only because I was Lucy O’Shea’s granddaughter. No one really cared if I stayed here or not.

  The thing was, until the day Frisky died, I had loved every aspect of being a cop. Quitting had been a reaction to my fellow officers harassing me, not because I didn’t enjoy the work. Being a deputy in this tiny town would be a quiet way to return to law enforcement.

  Except, I was here to pack up the house.

  I couldn’t make this decis
ion right now. It was a beautiful day and it felt good to be in the sunshine. I had until tomorrow to give the sheriff an answer. No need to stress about it right now.

  After running the groceries up to the apartment, I whistled for Meeka. Her furry head poked out from around a corner of the boathouse.

  “Let’s go for a walk.”

  She looked at her leash in my hand and took off in a white blur.

  “Fine,” I called after her, “but you’re on the leash at the end of the driveway.”

  I swear she understood more English than just dog commands. When I got to the end, she was sitting there waiting for me. I praised her and after I’d clipped on her leash, she tugged me toward the campground. Didn’t matter to me where we walked, so I let her take the lead.

  We wandered along the one-way road, circling to the south side of the grounds first where we found a few RVs docked on the pads. At the north side, a handful of tents had been setup. When we were almost back to the entrance, we came to an old red pickup next to a popup trailer. Tripp had mentioned he had a truck. He hadn’t described it, but I knew this thirty-year-old F-350 had to be his. Far from swanky, it had a homey feel that seemed to fit the man I’d gotten to know a little last night.

  He’d been so easy to talk to. Maybe he could help me with this job decision. I looked down at Meeka. “What do you think? Should we see if Tripp is home?”

  She wagged her tail double time.

  I stepped under the awning hanging off the side of the popup and around a picnic table beneath it. “Tripp? Are you in there?”

  An instant later, Tripp’s face appeared on the other side of the screen. The second I saw him, I wondered if just showing up this way was okay. Maybe he had company.

  “Jayne.” He gave a big grin that made a dimple appear in his left cheek. “What’s up? Come on in.”

  I almost objected and said we should sit outside, but considering half of his home was mesh, it was practically the same thing.

  The inside of the popup was much nicer than the outside. It was old, yes, but clean and bright. All of the wood cabinets were covered in a coat of crisp white paint. The floor was faux-bamboo linoleum. The cushions on the bench seats were covered with chocolate-brown upholstery. Red, yellow, and brown plaid curtains hung randomly around the mesh perimeter. Everything appeared to be new or newer.

  “Impressed?” he asked with a grin. “Amazing what stuff off of the closeout shelf and a gallon of paint can do, hey?”

  “This is really nice. You did all this yourself?”

  “Can’t sew. Had to have someone else do the curtains and cushions. A lady with a sewing machine needed her garage painted, so we swapped. But yeah, I did the rest. Rewired and re-plumbed the whole thing.” He shrugged. “Nothing fancy, but it works for me. Now that you see what I’m capable of, maybe you’ll let me help with your house?”

  He really was desperate for a job.

  I didn’t commit to anything but didn’t say no either. “The insurance people are coming tomorrow. I’ll know more after that.”

  “So, what’re you doing here?” He ran a hand through his blonde curls and gave that dimpled grin again.

  He was sweet, but this was stupid. What made me think stopping here was a good idea? If I needed help with a decision, I should call my best friend, Taryn. She was currently in Mexico with her boyfriend, though.

  “We were just out walking,” I said. “I’m trying to make a decision and needed to clear my head.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  He held a hand out to the bench seats with their newly-covered cushions. I sat, Meeka dropped to the floor next to me, and Tripp took the other bench. I offered him an awkward smile and all I could think was that I should leave. He barely knew me. How was he going to help?

  “What’re you struggling with?” Tripp twirled a finger near his head. “I can see your wheels spinning.”

  All right. I was here, might as well give it a go.

  “I went to see Sheriff Brighton this morning. You know, to give him my statement about Yasmine? He ended up offering me a job.”

  The moment the words were out of my mouth, I thought of how Tripp had been trying to get a job here for nearly a month. The look on his face said he thought the same thing. Damn.

  “I’m sorry.” I slid to the end of the bench. “I should go.”

  “Jayne, it’s okay. Tell me about it.”

  I inhaled and blurted, “I’m a cop.”

  Tripp didn’t flinch. At least I could be reasonably confident he didn’t have any outstanding warrants for his arrest. Those who did tended to bolt when I told them that. They’d either rush away or pretend their phone was ringing and then announce that they needed to leave.

  “I was a cop.” I dismissed that part with the wave of a hand. “Long story. Anyway, the sheriff needs help keeping the tourists in line and asked if I was interested in temporary work.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  For the second time that day, I told the story of Frisky’s death and the fallout I suffered because of it.

  “That sucks,” Tripp said when I was done.

  None of the “It wasn’t your fault” or “You have nothing to feel guilty about” responses I got from family or friends. I appreciated that. I had accepted my role in what happened long ago and didn’t want to brush aside the importance of it.

  “Again, I ask,” Tripp said, “what’s stopping you from accepting the offer?”

  I rubbed my hands up and down my thighs. “It feels like every decision I’ve made lately has ended in disaster. Guess I’m afraid of another disaster.”

  “Don’t you think that doing normal stuff will help you get past this? Or heal. Or whatever the right term is.”

  After a moment of consideration, I agreed, “Accepting the job would be a step back toward normal life. It would only be until I’m done with the house and ready to go back to Madison. And if it turns out I can’t handle it, I can step down.”

  He was staring at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I think you have a plan.”

  “I think I like this plan. Why are you still staring at me?”

  “You’re a cop.” He gave a half-grin. “That’s kinda hot.”

  “That’s exactly why I chose the profession,” I said, not missing a beat. “So guys would think I’m sexy.”

  He blushed and started to apologize, but I waved it off.

  “Why did you choose it?” he asked.

  “It just kind of fell into place for me. During my freshman year in college, I got to be involved with an FBI kidnapping investigation.”

  “Wow. Someone you knew?”

  I nodded, but didn’t want to go into the details. “It’s a long story, but boils down to the fact that I was so impressed with how the FBI followed the clues and found the girl, I declared criminal justice as my major.”

  “Is that what you want to do? Find kidnap victims?”

  “No, that’s too close for me. I’ve tracked down kids that wander off or run away, but the ones that are taken? Not sure I could do that day in and day out. Becoming a detective hit my radar right away. To dig in and track down the truth behind crimes, I knew that’s what I wanted to do.”

  He smiled, but only with his mouth. “I envy people who know where their place in the world is.”

  Once again, I felt like I’d said the wrong thing. Time to lighten the mood.

  “I picked up groceries today. Got some bratwurst and coleslaw and stuff.” I didn’t want this to sound like a date request. That’s not what I wanted. Tripp was friendly and easy to be with. That’s exactly what I needed in my life right now. An easy-to-be-with friend. “Interested?”

  “I’d love a brat.” Tripp held the door open for me and then locked it behind us. “Don’t know why I bother with that. The walls are made of netting. Not too hard for someone to get in if they wanted to. Besides, the only thing I own worth stealing are my tools, and those are locked up tight in my
truck.”

  “It’s your home. Whether it’s a popup or a mansion, you don’t want anyone violating your space. Wait ‘til you see what they did to my grandparents’ house. Talk about being violated.”

  As we headed down the driveway toward the boathouse, Tripp gave me a playful shoulder bump. “This makes two nights in a row. Careful. I’m going to get used to your company.”

  Chapter 11

  The next morning, I woke with a sense of purpose that I hadn’t felt in six months. Instead of driving the two miles to the village, I pulled one of the kayaks and a paddle off the wall in the boathouse garage. It was only three or four hundred yards across the bay. A snap even for out-of-shape me.

  “Want to ride with me?” I asked Meeka.

  She jumped into the kayak and waited with tail wagging.

  As I pulled on a life vest, I thought of the many days I had pulled on a bullet resistant vest. This wasn’t at all the same, but a little sense of excited longing tugged at me. Maybe I really was ready to go back to work.

  While I paddled, Meeka sat in the well between my legs, her front paws on the edge so she could look over the side. Every few minutes she barked at something.

  “What do you see? Fish or your own reflection?”

  Without warning, she dove in.

  “Silly dog. You’re not getting back in here now.”

  Of course, I kept an eagle eye on her the whole way. I’d yank her back in the boat in a blink if she struggled even a little.

  As I got closer to the marina, a small beach area came into view. That looked like the best place to attempt getting out of the kayak. As I came to shore, a boy—seventeen or eighteen, five-nine, kinky afro, medium-brown skin, blindingly white teeth—came out of the shack that served as the marina office. He took a couple of steps into the water, pulled the boat the rest of the way to shore, and helped me out.

  “Thanks,” I said. “There’s no graceful way to get out of one of these things.”

  “Not going to argue that. I’m Oren. I work here at the marina.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Jayne.”