Family Secrets

by Shawn McGuire

  “And you were able to track them all down?”

  “If not them, someone who knew my mom. It wasn’t always quick or easy, but I’m persistent and determined. She’s my mom. What else was I supposed to do?”

  “You’ve been searching for ten years?”

  “Nah. I searched for five, letting my aunt and uncle know where I was every step of the way. I know how hard it is to wonder where someone you love might be. I couldn’t do that to them. I drifted from place to place, picking up odd jobs wherever I could find them. I stayed for a whole year in Fargo, North Dakota. Liked it there.” He let out a chuckle. “My aunt called me her Wayfaring Stranger after some old Johnny Cash song. Since I seemed to fit in anywhere and nowhere, I couldn’t help but head toward this place called Whispering Pines when I heard about it. ‘You’d fit perfectly there,’ this one old guy told me. So, here I am. Trying to fit in.”

  “You never heard anything more from your mom?” I asked.

  “Not a word.” He got quiet and cleared his throat. “I just wish I knew. I don’t need her to take care of me anymore, but if she needed me I’d sure like to be there for her.” He stared at the flames again and softly repeated, “Just wish I knew.”

  We chatted about a variety of topics after that, nothing nearly as deep as the conversation about his mom, and time got away from us. It was around one in the morning when I drove him back to his camper. Tripp complained the whole way that he could walk up the driveway.

  “I’ll move my camper over in the morning and get right to work on the house,” he promised as he got out of the Cherokee.

  “No worries,” I said with a wink. “We can work on Pine time, too.”

  As I tucked into bed a few minutes later, I looked across the room to Meeka on her pillow.

  “I think I could get used to life here.”

  Meeka responded with a sleepy little ruff.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so at ease. It was partly the beer and partly being around Tripp. A lot of it was being by the water. I’d never realized how much it soothed me. The gentle sound of it sloshing up on shore. The smooth-as-glass surface when nothing disturbed it. The intrigue of what lay beneath.

  I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the pines whispering to each other as I fell asleep.

  Chapter 19

  I woke, after nowhere near enough sleep, to a beeping sound. After quickly pulling on some clothes, I went out onto the sundeck to see what was going on. A flatbed truck, with an enormous, rusty red garbage bin on the back, was in the driveway. When Mr. Powell said early, he meant early; it wasn’t even eight o’clock. I padded barefoot down the boathouse stairs and across the yard to the truck.

  “Where do you want it?” the driver called from the cab.

  The circular driveway made a loop in front of the house and garage before meeting itself back at the main drive. I pointed to the area closest to the house’s front door. “There, I guess.”

  Clearly a pro, the driver spun the truck around and had the huge bin in place in no time. “That good?”

  “As a yard ornament, not so much. As a refuse collector, it’s perfect.”

  “Sign this, please.” He chuckled and handed me a clipboard with a multi-part invoice attached. He tore off the bottom copy and handed it to me. “Give a call when you’re ready for me to come get it.”

  I had gotten halfway to the boathouse when Sheriff Brighton’s Tahoe pulled up. I figured Pine time meant slow and late, not whenever they were ready even if that meant the crack of dawn.

  “Y’all sure are early birds around here,” I called out as I crossed the yard again. “Haven’t even had my first cup of coffee and you’re my second visitor.”

  Sheriff Brighton got out of his truck and pulled a cardboard box out of the back.

  “These were delivered late yesterday. I ordered two uniform shirts for you. Thought I’d drop them off on my way to the office.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a badge with a gold star, and placed it on top of the box. “Welcome to our little station. Glad to have you.”

  My emotions unexpectedly got the best of me. I blinked and cleared my throat. “Thank you, sir. Happy to be here.”

  “The number of tourists is starting to rise.” Sheriff Brighton said this with the same tone he’d likely use if concerned about the body count at a massacre. “Start patrolling the village today. The sooner you make your appearance known, the sooner we’ll keep the stupid stuff under control.” He stuck his right leg in his truck, winced as he pulled it out again, and rubbed his hip.

  “Sheriff? Are you okay?”

  “Had this bum leg my whole life,” he explained. “My left leg is a little shorter, a little weaker. The right one has had to compensate for fifty-seven years. It’s been complaining for the last five.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe Morgan has an herb blend for you.”

  “Oh, Morgan’s got about a dozen remedies for me. I’ve tried a few and they help a little, but nothing takes it away completely.” Slower this time, he lifted his right leg into his truck. “Stop by the station later to pick up your belt and service weapon.”

  I flinched internally. Was I ready to carry again? Would I ever be able to draw a weapon without thinking of Frisky and my partner Randy? Thankfully, Dr. Maddox’s office number was in my phone in case of a setback. She had told me coming here would be a good test, but neither of us had ever considered the possibility that the test would involve employment and a service weapon.

  “I’ll send Martin to have a set of building keys made for you first thing this morning as well.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

  Sheriff Brighton gave a crisp nod, eased himself the rest of the way into his truck, and drove away.

  As I showered, I warned myself to follow the sheriff’s directives. I was a patrol officer. My assignment was to keep the citizens and visitors of the village of Whispering Pines safe and out of trouble. My job was not to worry about Yasmine Long.

  Except, as I dried off—with a wonderfully fluffy towel, thank you, Gran—I couldn’t stop thoughts of Morgan and Keko . . . and Deputy Reed from tumbling through my mind. It seemed a safe bet to me that Yasmine had been poisoned, whether via food or some other means. Did Keko know how to combine plants into a poisonous concoction? Had she poisoned Yasmine? Morgan surely knew how. Had she poisoned Yasmine? Then there was Deputy Reed. How did he tie into this? He could have slipped something into Yasmine’s food at dinner that night.

  Deputy Reed had opportunity, but I didn’t know if he had means or motive. Morgan had means, but I didn’t know if she had motive or opportunity.

  As a suspect, Keko checked all three boxes. She seemed jealous of Yasmine. Her emotions flared when I mentioned the men Yasmine had in her tent. That seemed like motive to me. She had means by being in Shoppe Mystique so often, although Morgan didn’t mention if she’d purchased anything during her visits. Finally, staying in the campground with Yasmine provided Keko with plenty of opportunity to slip something to her.

  My brain buzzed with trying to keep this all straight.

  Investigating Yasmine’s death wasn’t part of my job, and I knew that, but I also knew I wouldn’t be able to leave it alone. There was nothing preventing me from developing my own personal conclusions. To do that, and to help quiet the buzzing in my head, I needed a suspect board. A mobile white board like we had at the station in Madison would be best. I didn’t have access to one of those, but the wall over the table here in the apartment would work.

  In the mirror, I saw Meeka watching me from her cushion. Disapproving. Almost like she could see the thoughts spinning in my head.

  “I need to write this stuff down,” I said partly to Meeka, but mostly to myself as I pulled on my T-shirt and jeans again. “That way I can stop thinking about it while we patrol the village today.”

  There should be paper in Gran’s office. I grabbed the ring of house keys from the litt
le kitchen table. The moment I opened the door, Meeka raced down the boathouse stairs ahead of me and tore around the yard, burning off energy. I smiled, thinking of how much fun the little terrier would have on patrol today, meeting people and exploring the village. Like me, that’s what she liked best about the job, being with the public. She hadn’t liked searching for drugs and finding cadavers seemed to depress her, so she was retired after only three years of service.

  I’d been thrilled to adopt her; a decision Jonah wasn’t even a little happy about. He complained constantly about having dog hair all over the house, even though Westies don’t shed that much. This only cemented my love for Meeka. Despite my heartache at our breakup, I was sure I ended up with the right companion.

  “Do your thing,” I told her now as she snapped at bugs. “I’m going into the house for supplies.”

  I entered through the French doors at the back of the house this time and was immediately assaulted by the graffiti painted all over the walls. At first glance, they looked like some sort of gang symbols. But I’d seen plenty of gang tags over the years and these didn’t look like any I’d seen. A few looked familiar, like items on that amulet table in Shoppe Mystique. Were they Wiccan symbols? Was there a Wiccan gang running around Whispering Pines? More likely it was the bored rich kids Sheriff Brighton mentioned.

  Regardless of who had done it, I just wanted to paint over the markings, sand and re-stain the hardwood floors, and repair the furniture. I pictured people sitting on cozy newly-covered sofas, gathered by the fireplace to read or simply be together to talk and laugh.

  Tripp’s bed-and-breakfast idea was infiltrating my thoughts again. I pushed it away. Other matters required my attention right now. Besides, Dad wanted the house sold, gone forever from the family. Gran’s heart would break to hear him say that.

  A little room . . . correction, a tiny room off the kitchen served as Gran’s office. It must have originally been a pantry. Seriously, there were closets in the upstairs bedrooms that were bigger. Somehow this room had escaped the vandals. It’s sliding pocket door was closed so maybe they thought it was a closet and passed it by. Gran’s newer, touchscreen laptop still sat on the built-in desk. A blinking light on the printer indicated it was still powered up and waiting for the next job request.

  My vision blurred with tears as I wondered when the last time was that Gran had sat here. To say we were shocked when word of her death came didn’t begin to describe it. Even Mom, who hadn’t seen or spoken to Gran in years, had shown emotion. The conclusion from Sheriff Brighton was that Gran had died while getting ready for a bath one night.

  Gran loved her baths. She’d get a glass of Chardonnay, light candles, and sprinkle lavender-infused sea salt in the water . . . which she probably got from Morgan. On the night in question, she either slipped on some water on the floor, tripped over the floor mat, got tangled in her bathrobe belt, or who knew what. However it happened, she hit her head, lost consciousness, and fell into the prepared bath where she drowned. A freak accident.

  As I stood there, sniffling, I thought of how she and I had stayed in touch. We didn’t talk on the phone often, but Gran had developed a fondness for emailing, the reason for the high-tech laptop. With my crazy work schedule, I was never home or available when she wanted to chat, so we emailed. Gran always talked about the weather up here and would end each email with a few words about the lake’s mood that day—the lake is peaceful and smooth . . . moody with little whitecaps . . . angry with pounding waves . . . I’d laugh at how she personified the lake, but now that I’d been here for a few days, I was starting to understand.

  I never told anyone about the emails, not even Jonah. It was possible Gran had been emailing Rosalyn, too, but I liked to think that Gran liked me best. I touched the edge of the laptop, envisioning her furiously typing away, her beautifully manicured pale blue fingernails clacking on the keys. I choked back a sob. Never again would I find a message from Lucy O’Shea waiting in my inbox.

  A gust of wind outside made the house creak, startling me from my memories. I needed to get what I came for so yanked open the overhead cupboard doors. Behind the first, I found papers and manila envelopes piled in messy stacks. The next cupboard, just as cluttered as the first, was stuffed with office supplies. That’s what I’d come for. I grabbed a mostly-full ream of paper from the top shelf, pulling down an envelope stained with coffee mug rings along with it. I had to laugh at the coffee rings. They were all over the desk, too. My sweet, sloppy grandmother.

  I tossed the envelope back into the cupboard and poked around for tape, highlighters, scissors, and anything else that seemed useful. During my excavation, I unearthed a small cast iron cauldron with a faint tri moon symbol etched on the front and two votive candles, one white and one purple. The cauldron was filled with sand and held long incense sticks. A strong sense of déjà vu struck me. Something about the cauldron was familiar. I spent a minute trying to force the hidden memory to the surface, but it stayed stubbornly in the shadows of my mind.

  From a third cupboard, I found an empty printer paper box. I unplugged the printer and piled it along with the rest of my bounty, including that intriguing little cauldron, into the box.

  I had just opened the French doors, ready to leave, when the wind gusted again. At that moment, I swear I heard a whisper. It came from behind me, from inside the house. I spun, expecting to find someone standing there. Of course, no one was. It had to be the wind. Or maybe . . .

  “Gran?”

  No response. Of course, there was no response. I knew she was gone, I had accepted that. Still, a part of me had been hoping to find her standing there.

  Angry, embarrassed, and if I was being honest, disappointed, I scolded myself. “It was the wind. You did not hear your grandmother’s voice. Quit being stupid.”

  Outside on the covered patio, I leaned against the house and pulled myself together. It was the little cauldron. The déjà vu feeling gave me the heebie-jeebies. It was probably that I had seen one like it in Shoppe Mystique. Nothing magical. No woo-woo. Just a tourist’s souvenir.

  The real problem was, I was still mourning Gran’s death. If I didn’t get a handle on my emotions, I’d never be able to pack up this house.

  “Ten minutes,” I called out to Meeka, who stood on the end of the pier, barking at something in the water. Fish, I assumed from the playful tone of the yaps, and not a dead body.

  Why was my first thought always a dead body? Lord, I was so morbid.

  Inside my apartment, I set the boxful of office supplies on the sofa. As much as I was itching to put my thoughts together on a suspect board, I was equally eager to get to work in the village.

  Eager, until I opened the box Sheriff Brighton had dropped off. One glimpse at the black T-shirts and black uniform tops and I broke out in a sweat. I mopped the rivulet running down the center of my back with a bathroom towel, then reached out shaking hands and took one of the black T-shirts from the box. Slipping it on was fine. I could be anyone in jeans and a T-shirt. But the uniform shirt, with the patches on the shoulders and over the breast pockets brought back a flood of memories.

  Like a slide show, images flipped through my mind. The way Randy and Frisky were both so out of control that day. The look on Frisky’s face when she realized she’d been shot. Standing in my captain’s office to report Randy. The anger on my fellow officers’ faces when they learned what I’d done.

  After laying the uniform shirt down on the bed, I backed away, like it was a bomb ready to explode. I paced the apartment, from bedroom to living room, and then stepped into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror.

  “You can do this.” I stared into the mirror, talking to my reflection as though it was me. “Frisky’s death was not your fault. Yes, you should have reported Randy sooner. That was a horrible lack of judgement, but you’re a good cop. You won’t let that kind of thing happen again.” I stared at myself until my dark bobbed hair and ice-blue eyes blurred. I repeated the words, �
��you’re a good cop,’ again and again until I stopped shaking and started believing it. “All you’ll be doing today is walking around talking to people. The same thing you’ve been doing for the last four days.”

  Reflection Jayne nodded, ready to try again.

  I picked up the shirt from the bed and stood in front of the mirror, watching reflection Jayne put first one arm and then the other into the sleeves. I watched her button each button, silently reassuring her that this was okay, this was good. By the time the last button was buttoned and the shirt tucked into her jeans, reflection Jayne looked like a cop. Or a sheriff’s deputy, as the case would be. The color of the uniform, black instead of MPD blue, helped. I had come away from the shooting and the resulting fallout a different person. It seemed right that I looked different now, too.

  Meeka came running into the apartment, slid to a stop on the wood floor, and looked up at me. Her tail started wagging at top speed, and she gave a short, happy yip as though sensing I needed someone’s approval. Then she sat, awaiting assignment.

  “To the car, sidekick,” I ordered in my Batman-to-Robin voice. But since I was in uniform, Meeka had gone into K-9 mode. She went to the door, sat, and looked up at her leash. She was right; we needed to play our roles now. Meeka was clearly able. Was I?

  Chapter 20

  I pulled into the campground and over to Tripp’s popup. A few more tents had moved in since yesterday, but most sites were still empty. I let Meeka out but instructed her to stay by the Cherokee. She crawled underneath it.

  “Tripp?” I called softly as I rapped on the camper door. There was no answer, so I tried again. “Tripp? It’s Jayne.”

  “I thought we were running on Pine time,” came a muffled response. “It’s only eight-thirty. Is this the kind of boss you’re gonna be?”

  “I don’t care when you get to work,” I responded with a laugh. “And it’s after nine. I just wanted to let you know I won’t be around until later this afternoon.”