Family Secrets

by Shawn McGuire

  I scooted to the edge of the loveseat and pushed myself up to stand. As Morgan followed me to the front of the shop, we walked past a table with a sign that read Amulets, Talismans, and Charms.

  “What are these?”

  Morgan ran a finger across a stand of necklaces. “Amulets are worn for protection and to ward off negative energy.” She plucked a stone with a symbol carved into it from a basket. “Talismans bring power and positive energy.” She returned the stone and reached into another basket for a small glass vial with a four-leaf clover inside. “Charms are more of a superstition item. They offer mental assurance more than magical protection.”

  Closer to the door, I noticed a two-shelf case hanging on the wall next to the long wood table that served as the checkout counter. A spinner rack covered with handmade wreaths, both round and pentacle shaped, stood in front of the case, making it hard to get to. The shelves were filled with jars of plants, like those on the larger shelves I had inspected when I first came in.

  “Why aren’t those herbs with the others?” I assumed they were rare or expensive.

  “Those,” Morgan said, “are the dangerous plants. I like to keep an eye on them.”

  I was about to ask more about these dangerous plants when a trio of women walked in, squealing over the lovely shop.

  “Let me know if you’d like me to help you pick out an amulet or talisman,” Morgan offered.

  I looked quizzically at her, biting back a laugh. “You think I need mystical help?”

  “People require assistance for many different ailments. Some ailments are medical as in an illness. Some are physical as in an assailant.” Morgan held my gaze with a look of compassion laced with concern. “Some ailments come from within, demons that won’t leave us alone.” She touched my shoulder lightly. “Blessed be, Jayne.”

  Chapter 18

  It was very kind of Morgan to offer an amulet to protect me from my own brain, but I didn’t believe in any of that. The atmosphere and the aromas swirling around Shoppe Mystique, along with Morgan’s confident, calm disposition, had lowered my defenses. The further I got from Shoppe Mystique, the more my logic returned.

  Morgan wasn’t joining forces with the universe to make positive, or negative, things happen. She didn’t make magical necklaces that could save you from your personal boogeyman. What she did was blend plants. Like she had said, herbal medications had been used for centuries. Basically, she drugged me with tea and a soothing voice.

  Morgan’s collection of dangerous plants was quite large. Did Keko know about them? Did her desire to learn black magic include a spell to repel? As in repel Yasmine from this life by using a deadly blend of plants? I had many more questions for Morgan; I’d have to go back. Right now, though, I had to meet Tripp.

  By the time I got to the house, I was almost fifteen minutes late. Tripp was there, comfortably lounging in one of the Adirondack chairs on the front porch. His hands were propped behind his head, eyes closed, looking like he hadn’t a care in the world. I couldn’t find a single thing that classified him as a misfit, yet he still seemed to fit perfectly with the Whispering Pines easy-going mentality. No wonder he wanted to ‘put down a root’ here.

  I hurried up the boathouse steps to let Meeka out and returned to Tripp on the porch.

  “All that time with the sheriff?” he asked as I got closer, eyes still closed.

  “Not all of it.” I sat in a chair next to him and mimicked him by leaning my head back, closing my eyes, and taking a moment to breathe in the pine-scented air. “I had a few questions for the local green witch.”

  “Morgan Barlow?”

  I spun to look at him. “You know about the witch stuff?”

  Tripp laughed, a comforting baritone sound from deep in his chest. “Spend more than a couple days here and you’re sure to hear about the witches.”

  Witches. As in more than one of them in Whispering Pines. Seemed Morgan was being honest about the coven. Could I believe her about the rest? At the moment, my instincts were stuck in neutral regarding her. I had research to do on Wicca, among other things. My internet couldn’t get turned on soon enough.

  “This stop to visit Morgan,” Tripp began, “is it pure coincidence that it ties to your conversation with Keko Shen this morning?”

  “I’ll be living here for a while, it’s only neighborly of me to patronize the village shops. Is it my fault the conversation turned to witchcraft?” I paused, waiting for him to respond. He didn’t. “I think she drugged me with tea.”

  Tripp shook his head, not buying a word of it.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “the sheriff isn’t doing enough. In my opinion.”

  “You’ll need to get used to that. People here work on Pine time.” He settled into the chair again. “My term, not theirs. And, this isn’t your problem. Right?”

  As we sat on the porch, listening to the wind through the trees, I thought more about Keko. Which made me think of Yasmine. Which made me realize I hadn’t asked Sheriff Brighton why he hadn’t been out to investigate her tent and collect her possessions. I hadn’t found anything odd, except for that harlequin doll, so the collection of her items wasn’t the issue here. The issue was why, after so many days, hadn’t he been out there to collect them?

  Maybe he hadn’t realized there was a tent to check out. Except, the aunt had stopped by the station yesterday. Regarding her niece’s death, he said. Surely, he would have found out about Yasmine living at the campground from her then. Was that why Flavia was unhappy? Because the sheriff wasn’t investigating?

  Morgan had also accused him of not investigating during their argument along the Fairy Path. You’re not even going to try, are you? In her case, he wasn’t looking for the bean thief.

  “Stop it,” Tripp said.

  “Stop what?”

  “Whatever you’re debating about.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Your leg is bouncing. You’re debating.”

  I stared at him for a moment. “You’d make a good detective.”

  He was right, though. I was hired as a deputy, not a detective. I got up and unlocked the front door.

  “Shall we?”

  Tripp slapped his hands down on the arms of the chair and pushed himself up. “Let’s do this.”

  This was the third time I had seen the destruction inside, and it wasn’t any easier. Even though Gran had never been one to get attached to material possessions, this would have upset her greatly. Until Gramps had died, nearly ten years ago, they had traveled the world. Many of the bits and pieces and shards littering the floor had been souvenirs from those trips. Even the once-beautiful blue damask sofa in the sitting room, where Gran had read bedtime stories to me and Rosalyn, had been acquired on a trip.

  “I saw it in the window of this little shop in Ireland and had to have it,” Gran said anytime someone commented on it.

  Gramps would roll his eyes. “Cost more to ship it here than the thing is worth.” But Gramps never denied her a thing. Not even her desire to turn their stunning two-thousand lakeside acres into a Wiccan village.

  Tripp followed me in, his eyes scanning the damage. He went into the dining room first, not saying a thing until he had visually inspected everything. “A little wood putty and some new hinges and the doors on the china cabinet will be fine. It’s pretty beat up so it’ll need refinishing.” He laid a hand on the dining table. “This, too. Luckily, it only got scratched.”

  “That’s good news,” I said. “At least they aren’t a total loss.”

  “Everything’s dusty and full of debris right now. Things will look better once we’ve got that much cleaned up.” He followed me across the hall to the sitting room and motioned at the beloved sofa. “The fabric is a loss, but it can be recovered.”

  We wandered through the rest of the house, assessing damage. While Tripp formulated a cleanup plan, I took pictures of everything with my phone’s camera—the broken things, the scratched floors, the graffiti on the walls.


  “This is a great house,” he said when we got to the fifth of seven bedrooms. “You’re really going to sell it?”

  “Not my choice. My parents want to get rid of it.” I studied his expression a little more closely. “What are you thinking?”

  “That this would make a great bed-and-breakfast. Sure, all the bedrooms and bathrooms need updating, but you said you planned to do that anyway.”

  I could see what he meant. There were tons of little nooks around the house where comfy chairs could be set for reading or quiet conversation. The dining room was big enough to seat at least a dozen people. The great room, which ran almost the full length of the house, had three couches—two of which needed repairing—and a half-dozen chairs scattered about. Plenty of room for guests to spread out.

  Tripp looked at me and nodded. “You see it, too, don’t you?”

  I shrugged, not willing to wish for anything regarding this house. It wasn’t mine to wish on.

  “With this location,” he continued, “you could get top-dollar listing this place as a rental. Or, like I said, turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. I mean, look at this view.”

  He spread his arms wide in front of the spectacular wall of windows that looked out at the lake. It was breathtaking. Even in the winter, when the lake froze over and covered with snow, it was beautiful.

  My mind started spinning along with his. My parents would have no desire to run a B&B, but did I? That would mean I’d have to buy the place from them. I didn’t have that kind of money. Or a job that made enough to secure a loan that big. Mom was a business woman, though. A good one. Maybe I could convince her this was a good investment and work out a deal. As I stood there, I could picture guests milling around, kids playing in the yard . . .

  What was I doing? Why was I even thinking about this?

  “So,” I said, “now that you’ve seen the project, are you still interested?”

  “Is that a formal offer?”

  I’d spent five years in law enforcement reading people, deciding if they were being truthful or trying to pull something over on me. I didn’t sense anything but sincerity from Tripp.

  We negotiated an hourly wage and shook on it. Tripp, grateful to be earning a paycheck again, gave me a low, flourishing bow.

  “I promise, milady, to treat your home as if it were my own.”

  “Speaking of your home, feel free to move your camper over here. Unless you want to keep staying at the campground.”

  “I’ll move it,” he said immediately. “The campground is going to fill with tourists in three days. Music playing all night, listening to other people snore and . . . doing other things, isn’t my idea of pleasant living conditions.”

  “I’m staying in the boathouse,” I said. “Feel free to use one of the bathrooms in here. And the kitchen. Other than needing cleaning and minor repair, it’s usable.”

  “I’ll move my home down here tonight.”

  I gestured for him to follow me. “Let’s go to the boathouse and have a beer to celebrate your new job.”

  I hadn’t realized how late it was getting. We’d been wandering the house discussing cleanup and renovation ideas for nearly two hours.

  “Burger?” I asked.

  “I could eat a burger,” Tripp said.

  After I gave Meeka a scoop of kibble, I fired up the gas grill, took out some burger meat, and grabbed two New Glarus Spotted Cow ales from the little kitchenette fridge. By the time the burgers were ready, the sun was low on the horizon and a cool wind was blowing in off the lake. I turned on the portable deck heater and flicked on the gas flames of the tabletop fire pit.

  “You sure know how to throw a party,” Tripp said and tapped the neck of his beer to mine.

  I stared out at the reflection of the trees and the pink and orange shades of sunset on the softly rippling water. It was perfectly peaceful. As if on cue, a loon sang out, giving me goosebumps. Emotion snuck up on me, stealing my voice.

  When I could speak again, I said, “I think I understand why my grandparents loved it here.”

  “You’re starting to see why I want to stay?”

  “I am.” I took a slow pull of my ale.

  “You’ve been feeding me a lot,” Tripp said, “and I appreciate that. Soon as I get my first paycheck, I’ll buy groceries and stock the refrigerator in the house. Anything in particular you like?”

  I was already so comfortable in the little boathouse apartment, I hadn’t even thought of using the house’s kitchen. With just myself to cook for, there was no reason to. I enjoyed Tripp’s company and would be happy to have dinner with him every night. Stocking the bigger refrigerator was a good idea.

  “Usually, I open a can or warm up something from a box.” I was supposed to be reinventing Jayne O’Shea, though. No reason that couldn’t extend to the kitchen. “I like grilling. I can handle simple things with just a few ingredients.”

  “I have to say,” he held up his burger, “you’re good at grilling.”

  My face flushed with warmth. Time to turn the conversation to a new topic. “I told you my story. Where’d you come from, Tripper Bennett?”

  I’d been curious about his story since he first told me he’d been here for a month. It felt like too personal a question at the time. Now, I figured it was okay to ask.

  He took another bite of his burger, followed by a half-dozen potato chips and a few baby carrots, then a long drink of his beer. He was stalling. Maybe it wasn’t okay to ask. I remained quiet, letting him decide what to say and when. If he wanted to tell me anything at all. He certainly didn’t have to.

  “I’ll need another beer for this,” he finally said. “Want one?”

  “Yes, please.” I watched as he went inside to my tiny refrigerator and pulled out two more Spotted Cows. As he handed one to me, Meeka climbed onto the oversized lounge chair next to me and rested her chin between her paws.

  After a sip and a resigned sigh, he said, “I moved in with my aunt and uncle in California when I was thirteen. Within the year, I started running. Every other week, give or take.”

  Him being on the track and field team was my first thought. Then I got it. “You mean you ran away?”

  “I ran away,” he confirmed. “One night my uncle came into my bedroom and told me that if I stayed put until my eighteenth birthday, they’d give me a thousand dollars in cash, the keys to that old red truck, and their blessings.”

  A hundred questions were already swirling in my head. Why did he live with his aunt and uncle? What happened to his parents? The military? Death? Prison? Why did he keep trying to run? I forced my patient side into play and waited to see what more he’d reveal.

  “My birthday, coincidentally, was the day after high school graduation,” Tripp continued. “That meant not only would I be eighteen and a legal adult, I’d have a high school diploma, too. No matter how badly I wanted to leave, even I saw the intelligence in that plan.” He shrugged, scratching his chest beneath his black-and-white checked flannel shirt. “So, I stayed.”

  I filled my mouth with burger to stop from asking the questions on the tip of my tongue.

  “Why did I live with them?” he asked. “That’s what you’re wondering. Right?”

  I smiled around my mouthful. “Mm-hmm.”

  He sighed and chugged half of his beer. This was tough for him. “My mom took off for ‘a chance’ when I was thirteen.”

  “A chance?”

  “A guy with a job offer. A chance, she claimed, she couldn’t pass up because it was going to make all the difference for us.” Tripp stared into the fire pit, his light hazel eyes sparkling from the flames. “My dad took off soon as he found out Mom was pregnant. She never heard from him again. Her employment skills involved waitressing and an occasional modeling gig.” He smiled at the fire. “My mom was real pretty.”

  I propped my feet on the fire pit table and knocked one against his. He shifted his eyes to me, and I gave an encouraging grin, silently letting him know that his story
was safe with me.

  “Last time we heard from her was New Year’s Eve when I was sixteen. She was in Seattle, or thereabouts, and swore that was the year. ‘I’ve got a tryout for this bigtime modeling gig tomorrow, baby,’” Tripp said in a falsetto and blinked. “She was so happy that night. ‘I’ll send for you when I get that job. You can ride in an airplane, and I’ll pick you up at the airport.’ Like I was a little kid.” He paused, obviously reliving the call. “She gave us all these details about the job and the agency. I believed her. Hell, my aunt . . . her sister even believed her, and my aunt never believed anyone about anything.” He shook his head. “We never heard from her again.”

  I felt bad for him, for the kid he was then as well as the abandoned and still-hurting son he was now.

  “When you ran,” I asked while scratching Meeka’s ears, “you were going to find her yourself.”

  He popped the last bite of his burger in his mouth, nodding as he chewed.

  “You headed to Seattle with your thousand dollars and your truck?”

  “I had four thousand dollars by that time,” he reported proudly. “I worked all the time, saving because I knew I’d need it. I was determined to find either her or a trail that would lead to her.”

  “How did you know where to start?”

  “I went to the modeling agency where she said she had that tryout. It was a legitimate place. She didn’t get that bigtime job, but some little clothing boutique in Spokane liked her look. They said she went to Spokane.”

  “And you did, too.”

  “Yep.” Another swig of beer. “Spokane to Walla Walla and then Portland. Portland to Casper to Denver to Omaha.”

  “Were those all modeling jobs?” I shifted in my seat, rousting Meeka who jumped down with a scowl.

  His eyes hardened a little. “Men. One after another.”