Nobody Knows Your Secret

by Green, Jeri

  “Maybe,” Hadley said, “Skip’s working on that old cabin his grandfather lived in. I don’t think it would be as bad as Eustian’s house, but I would imagine it could use some DIY magic. It wasn’t much, if I remember. Jubal lived a kind of primitive existence up there. Didn’t have running water or electricity. I’m sure the winters have done a number on the roof. There are all the outbuildings to consider, too. They must need repairing. Skip probably has more work up there than he can shake a stick at.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Maury. “Jubal’s place would take a lot of work. It wasn’t that great when the old man was alive. I don’t think he ever spent a dime on a can of paint. Weather-beaten gray was the only color Jubal knew. I can’t imagine what it looks like after all this time.”

  “You mentioned Eustian,” Hadley said. “That’s the real reason I called. I found a stack of court documents. One of them looked like it was about a case he had against Kyle Winthrop, and I wondered if Bill needed to look them.”

  “I’ll tell Bill when he comes home. At least, he does come home for supper on a semi-regular basis. I never know when he will get in, so I just fix his dinner and warm it up whenever he can leave the office.”

  “If he needs them, “tell him I’ll keep them here so they won’t get mixed up with the other stacks of court papers Beanie and I have been separating out from the dumpster fodder. I can drop them off anytime if he wants them.”

  “I will,” said Maury.

  “Look, Sis, don’t worry. Skip’s a good kid. Have some faith in the way you and Bill raised him. You’re both good parents.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Maury said.

  “You know I am,” Hadley said. “And besides, with an aunt like me, how could Skippy ever go wrong?”

  “Oh Hadley, I wished you hadn’t said that last sentence.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Hobie Stricker! It’s good to meet you, man,” the stranger said.

  Maury and Hadley were just joining the crowd at The Band-Aid. The weather was beautiful. It was a perfect day. The radio broadcast from last week was a success. The crowd gathered on Main by The Band-Aid’s front porch was double the usual one.

  “Hadley! Isn’t that the man we mistook for Teddy Croft standing beside Ruth Elliot?”

  “Yes, it is,” Hadley said. “I swear he could be Teddy’s brother. Don’t you think?”

  “I wonder who he is?” Maury asked.

  “We’ll never know if we don’t ask,” Hadley said, walking toward the couple.

  “Wait! You can’t just . . . Hadley! Wait for me!”

  Maury stumbled and bumped into Varn Rory.

  “Sorry, Varn,” Maury said. “Two left feet.”

  Maury ran to catch up.

  “Hadley,” Ruth was saying when Maury breathlessly reached her sister, “this is Dr. Declan Wilson, a friend of mine. Declan’s a fan of Hobie’s. Declan owns a veterinary clinic in the Hamptons. He’s a fan, and he’s flown down on vacation, rented a cabin, and a car just to hear Hobie. His plane is down at Stanley and Anna’s airstrip. I met him in town, and he volunteered to give me a hand at the shelter.”

  “Good thing,” Hadley said. “Ruth needs all hands on deck, but especially those who know what they are actually doing.”

  “I’m not a wildlife specialist,” Declan said, “but I couldn’t resist seeing the place. It’s quite a setting.”

  “You said it,” Hadley said. “An abandoned amusement park with at least one clown bigger than me.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Are you playing today?” Ruth asked.

  “Just lessons,” said Hadley. “Hobie’s going to teach us some more chords and how to start picking.”

  “I purchased one of those guitars he had for sale, last week,” Declan said. “It plays like a dream.”

  “Hobie’s the best,” said Hadley. “Well, nice meeting you, Doctor Wilson. I’ve got to get my chair and guitar out of the trunk.”

  “No more baby chairs, Hadley?” Ruth asked.

  “No. I gave those little squats up for Lent!” Hadley replied.

  “I’ll give you a hand,” said Maury. “Nice meeting you.”

  Maury and Hadley walked back to Hadley’s car.

  “Hadley!” Maury said. “I think Ruth’s sweet on that rich vet ‘froom theee Haaamp-tons!’”

  “Yeah,” Hadley said. “I think you’re right. Did you notice how close together they were standing? Couldn’t get a sheet of paper between them.”

  “I hope he’s a good man.”

  “Yeah. Ruth deserves it. After Bobbie Joe! Huh! What a winner he turned out to be! I never like Bobbie Joe, you know. I always thought there was something sneaky about his eyes. Beady or something. I never could quite put my finger on it. But it was something. Then, he proved me right.

  “Married all of six months and falls for a bimbo he meets in a bar. He was a scumbag to cheat on Ruth like that. She should get a handsome rich vet froom theee Haaamp-tooons after Bobbie Joe. Ain’t we wicked.”

  “As sin,” Maury said.

  Chapter Twenty

  The old narrow, twisting roads on the Whittaker land had never been surveyed or mapped, but Skip knew where each turn and switchback led. He had walked over these mountains so many times with his grandfather that he could not get lost. No GPS could keep track of his location any better than Skip.

  He drove his pickup into a stand of trees. The small, red tail lights glowed for an instant as he braked and cut off the ignition. He retrieved his 12-gauge from its rack over the back seat and eased out of the vehicle. His steps were purposeful. Steady. He walked deep into the trees as the forest canopy swallowed him up, and he disappeared from sight.

  He watched for the telltale flicker of a flash light beam. He listened for the hum of a four-wheeler. He waited and silently wandered up and down the slopes that belonged to him. The wind whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves of the oaks and poplars nearby. He thought of his grandfather. He thought he could just make out the ragged hoarse whisper of the old man.

  “Skippy,” Pappy said, “you got it easy. I remember summers so dry, the corn died on the stalk. Leaves curled up and shriveled to brown husks right before your eyes. Pitiful sad days, those were. We still had taters in the cellar, but they was tryin’ to sprout. All withered, but ’at’s all we had to keep us goin’. We et taters mawnin’, noon, and night. Biled ‘er roasted on coals. Stewed and fried in lard. Usually not enough on our plate to keep the hunger pangs chased off. But just enough to keep us alive. Wouldn’t ‘a surprised me none to hear a knockin’ on the door ’n’ find the Grim Reaper on the doorstep. No, sir.”

  Skip could the old voice droning on in his memory. In his mind, he saw the old figure of his grandfather. His big-knuckled finger pointing to the remains of an old poplar tree. A black scar ran up its craggy, rough bark.

  “See ’at black char?” Pappy asked. “Biggest bolt a lit’nin’ I ever seed struck right over thair. Boy, howdy! Cracked ’at thunder blast ’bout same time the lit’nin’ hit. Hardly a second in betwixt. No time to run ’n’ hide. No time to take kiver. Thought I was a fried pup, fer sure.

  “Jumped outta my skin. Felt the earth shake. Hair singed on my arms. Knew I was a goner. Thar I stood, shakin’ like a leaf.

  “Ole tree cotched fyar like ole Mose burning brash.

  “Mighty good thang I had all ’em acorns lined up on the winder sill. ’At bolt wudda struck the cabin fer sure. But it never wudda ’cause I had ’em acorns on the sill. Always pays to be cautious, son. Err on the side ‘a caution. Can’t hurt none. Careful is always best. Always. That’s why to this day, I make sure I line ’em acorns on that winder sill.”

  Skip smiled. It was a good memory. He continued walking and watching, waiting for any sight or sound of an intruder. Shotgun at his side, he silently crossed the leaf-covered ground.

  Mama wasn’t happy he spent so much time here. Skip felt his father didn’t care much one way o
r the other. His dad was too busy to notice. All it took was the killing of some no-account, drug-addicted thief like Kyle Winthrop to steal all his father’s time and energy away from his family. Not that it mattered. He was grown now.

  What did they know?

  Skip unconsciously gritted his teeth. Mama was old. She would never understand. Daddy was always roaming the county.

  Would it have been better if his father had been in some other line of work?

  Skip shook his head.

  A sheriff’s kid!

  Daddy might as well be a preacher!

  Kids made fun of him all the time when he was growing up.

  Kids his age thought hanging with the sheriff’s son was an automatic get-out-of-jail-free card if they got into trouble. Time and time again, they wanted to drag Skip into their escapades, thinking that if they got caught, the sheriff would turn a blind eye. Bill Whittaker would probably sweep it all under the rug if his son was implicated in any wrongdoing. Skip had never been fooled about the reasons behind his “popularity.”

  Yes, he thought, Daddy might as well be a preacher!

  And his teachers! They were just as bad. Those sharks were always waiting and watching for the sheriff’s kid to screw up. They wanted to see blood. Or worse, make friends so that if trouble came, Skippy’s dad would be willing to do them a favor. Let them slide on a parking ticket. Not write them that speeding ticket. It was crazy. It was stupid. Skip just kept to himself and tried to be invisible.

  But what could he do?

  How could he explain how he really had felt growing up?

  His dad would laugh. His mother would worry.

  They’d never understand. Skip unconsciously gritted his teeth.

  Mama was old. She would never get it. Daddy was always roaming the county. He’d side with Mama. He always had whenever the rubber met the road. He hadn’t had the easiest road. But they’d never see it like he did.

  There had been some good moments, though.

  As a very young boy, it had been fun to ride with Daddy in the patrol car. Blast the siren. Wear his daddy’s star. Not now, though. All that stuff which had made him so happy seemed so childish now.

  A branch broke. Skip’s senses heightened. He raised the shotgun. His finger ticked a nervous twitch as it brushed the trigger. The muscles clenched in his jaw. His breath came in short, uneven gasps. A bead of sweat broke on his forehead. He strained to hear a sound. Any sound. His eyes jerked left and right.

  A cottontail zigzagged in front of him.

  He smiled. The color came back to his cheeks. He lowered his gun and continued across the slope. Darkness swallowed him up as he disappeared over the next ridge. The rabbit hopped away into the night.

  * * *

  Candy was developing into quite a lollipop. Just eight years old, with the face of an angel and the hint of coming curves that made boys salivate. Willie Mae felt the first tinges of jealous anger flare. How could her own daughter do this to her? Candy was going to be twice as good looking as Willie Mae. She just knew it.

  The resentment grew in Willie Mae with each passing day. It was incredibly unfair. And then when Candy had the gall to accuse her father of trying things with her, well, that just popped the cherry off the ice cream sundae.

  It was ridiculous. It was preposterous. It was scandalous.

  Hardy was a hard-working man. A good man. A good husband. Willie Mae seethed whenever she thought about her daughter’s malicious falsehoods.

  “You lyin’ flirt!” Mama said. “You little hussy! How dare you! How gosh-darn dare you! Filthy-minded little tramp! You shut your wicked mouth, Candy Branwell! Just shut your mouth this instant!

  “Your daddy works hard to keep a roof over your head and that’s the thanks you give him! You ingrate! Don’t you ever let me hear you say anything like that again! You hear me! You hear me, Candy Branwell!”

  The side of Candy’s face burned hot. Mama’s small hand packed a wallop.

  “You stay out of trouble. Don’t sass your granny. I’ve got to go. I’m late for work. Dave has been lookin’ at me funny. I’ve been late twice already this week. At this rate, I’ll be sacked before the month’s out.”

  She brushed off a few stray hairs that had fallen onto her uniform.

  “I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you. But I’ll figure it out when I get home. It’s not bad enough that I have to stand on my feet all day talkin’ trash to the truckers at the truck stop. Slingin’ hash is hard work! Gosh, my life is miserable! And I gotta lyin’ slut for a daughter to boot.”

  Willie Mae grabbed Candy’s fat cheeks and squeezed them hard between her polished fingers.

  “Not one word,” Mama said, through her gritted teeth. “I better not catch wind you breathed one word of those lies to your granny or nobody else you know, you hear me? I won’t stand for such filth spread about your daddy! Where did you hear such? Television, probably. No more TV. If I ever hear you say anything like that again, you’ll be sorry. They could arrest your daddy! And all because you have such a filthy mind.”

  Candy went to school. She wanted to skip. Her stomach was in knots. She wanted to have the school nurse call Mama to come get her. But that was out of the question. Dave was looking at Mama funny. If Mama lost her job as a waitress at the truck stop because she had to leave work for a sick child, Candy knew there’d be heck to pay.

  So, she hid out in the bathroom during lunch. She threw up once and felt a little better. Somehow, vomiting relieved some of her stress. On the bus ride home, Candy made sure not to speak to one child. Mama had warned her not to breathe a word to anyone. Granny was making strawberry preserves. It was easy to remain quiet and keep her nose buried in her schoolbook.

  Not that one word registered in her mind in any logical way at all.

  Somehow, Candy made it through supper. She managed to swallow four or five bites from her plate. Granny was all excited that her preserves looked so pretty in their jars. She was rambling about entering some of them in the county fair. Granny watched the little girl walk the path to Hardy’s house. It wasn’t that far. Hardy insisted that Candy was old enough to sleep in her own bed, even if Willie Mae and Hardy were late coming home from work.

  Granny didn’t like the fact that an eight-year-old little girl was in that house alone. She thought Candy was too young. Anything could happen. The house could burn down. But Hardy put his foot down. He said he didn’t want Granny breaking a hip traipsing home in the dark after Hardy or Willie Mae got out of work.

  Candy opened the back door. It was never locked. The house seemed cold and empty, even though it was warm outside. She brushed her teeth and washed her face and got ready for bed. Soon, she was sound asleep.

  It was the squeaking hinge that always awakened her. Even from the deepest recesses of oblivion. That slow screech of metal against metal. Someone was opening her bedroom door to check on her.

  Candy lay very still, playing possum, hoping the intruder would just go away.

  She squeeze her eyes shut so tightly, her head began to hurt. She felt the sheet being peeled back.

  No! No! No, she screamed inside her head. Tiny tears traced down her cheek. Why was he doing this? What had she done to make him do this to her?

  Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

  The words battered her like a sledge hammer.

  Candy wanted to cry, but if she did, he became angry. It was worse. She held her breath.

  Your fault. Your fault.

  If only her tiny heart would stop this instant. If only she could die right now.

  If only.

  How long was he over her?

  An hour?

  A few minutes?

  She was so scared, time had no meaning.

  But whatever happened, whatever he did, she must keep it a secret. She must. She must. She must.

  Mommy had said she must.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Claire’s dead,” Maury said.

  “Merciful
heavens, no!” said Hadley. “This will absolutely crush Virgie!”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Maury. “But Claire was never the same after the accident.”

  “I know,” said Hadley. “Virgie said it took something out of her. I don’t mean physically. I know she got that flesh-eating bacteria from the cuts she’d gotten. It took drastic measures to save her life. But Virgie said Claire was broken inside, too.”

  “I don’t know how I’d have handled being chopped up so by the doctors. Mutilated, I’d call it. But still, they did save her life.”

  “I don’t think that child ever got over the psychological pain,” said Hadley. “I know Virgie and Cleve didn’t. Virgie said Cleve took to the bottle even more after that day.

  “Virgie said Claire was always complaining about being in so much pain after the coaster tragedy. We’d talk about it, sometimes. I just think Virgie needed someone to dump on. Anyway, she always said Claire took way too many pills. She’d try to tell Cleve that all that dope wasn’t good for Claire, but he’d turn a deaf ear. Virgie said she finally just gave up. Let Claire go to her doctors all over creation and left Cleve to his drinking. Cleve was probably eaten up with guilt.”

  “I know I would be,” said Maury.

  “Me, too,” said Hadley.

  “Bill said it was a mess. He said Claire had been partying with some of Kyle’s druggie friends. Some kind of a wake or something. They’re looking for the ones who were at the party. Tryin’ to get statements. Bill said they scattered like roaches when the light’s switched on.”

  “I’m sure dope is what got Kyle killed,” said Hadley. “And now, it’s taken Claire.”

  “Yeah. I want you to be careful, Hadley,” Maury said. “Time’s are changing. Even here. I know you. You are just as likely to go off on a gallivant with Beanie or something and leave your house wide open.”

  “Guilty as charged,” said Hadley. “I just don’t think about locking my doors. Half the time, the keys are in the house. I mean this is Hope Rock County, Maury. Nothing much ever happens in this backwater-no-where, except maybe every once in a hundred years.”