by Kelty Kells
“Cole’s dad.”
“Aye, him and Leon both. Got my pa into some real tight spots, too. Figured maybe if you got these,” he raps one gnarled finger against the photo for emphasis, “that might explain some of them gunshots you heard.”
“Wait. Who’s Leon?”
“That’d be Cole’s granddaddy.”
A shiver rolls up my spine. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, trying not to think about ghosts and murderers and how Cole might actually be more involved in whatever happened than he’s admitting. “How did you know about the gunshots?” This time, I do whisper. I hadn’t said anything about them that I remembered, just asked if he owned a gun.
“Well, ya axed me about whether I owned me a gun, and I does. When you talked about them cufflinks, though, I realized you maybe got my pa’s. They been missing for near forty years.”
“But . . . the gunshots?”
“See, that’s the thing. I were there that night. So, I know them gunshots. I know them well.”
Chapter 7
He knows the gunshots I heard.
Not because he’s guessing, but because he was there.
I drop against the nearest shelf, my legs weak and my mind racing. “You’re . . . you’re admitting you were there? When . . . wait, what happened, though?”
“Well, I s’ppose that’s something I should have Cole around for, too. ’Sides, it’s pure Baltic out.”
That’s his way of saying it’s colder than cold. He’s not wrong. Wind cuts through the cracks around the shed’s doors, digging its teeth into us. The sooner we get back inside, the better. I shut the box up and put it away.
“Want me to carry that inside for you?” I nod at the booklet in his hand, half wondering if there’s more in there I should know about.
“Naw, I got it.”
The trek across the backyard is surprisingly quiet. Mostly, I just don’t know what to say at this point. The fact that he’s been hiding this from everyone for years has me anxious. Cole’s dad . . . hearing that he was involved in killing people has me shaking. Here I’ve been solving murders for the last few months, and the very person I suspect of giving me the keys to solving them is himself the son of a killer.
That’s not a pleasant thought at all.
Neither is Uncle Angus hiding his own grisly past.
Then again, maybe he hasn’t been hiding it. Maybe it—whatever it was—was resolved long before I was even born. There’s just no way of telling. Hopefully, this thing I’ve stumbled into doesn’t actually impact him now. Uncle Angus wouldn’t last long in prison, and I can’t bear the thought of him being taken away.
Even if the visions were of someone shooting a gun, I don’t believe for a second that Uncle Angus was the one pulling the trigger. He wouldn’t harm anyone. He’s just not that kind of person.
We slip into the house, and I sniff away the cold dampness. Thank god for indoor heat. We shuck our coats and boots in the mudroom, and I head into the kitchen, determined to get a cup of something hot in my hands. Maybe it’ll stop them from shaking so badly. I somehow doubt Uncle Angus is gonna wanna talk about all this with my parents around, anyway. As far as I know, he still doesn’t talk much about his dad’s powers in front of my folks. Typically, when he does talk about his childhood, it’s about living in Mooring Cove with so many siblings and growing up with next to nothing.
My mom knows he believes his father had powers, but beyond that, she pretends anything occult or psychic isn’t real. I can’t say I blame her. Pretending makes life easier for sure.
He sets the old photo book down on a hall table, confirming my suspicions. This won’t be a discussion that takes place anytime soon. With any luck, we’ll get a chance to chat tonight. That all depends on what my parents end up doing and how late dinner runs, though.
Cole grins when I come in. His wide eyes and strained smile scream, Help me.
Oh, shoot. I shouldn’t have left him alone like that. “Whatever my mom’s told you, it’s a lie.” The words pop out before I can stop them.
His laugh is good-natured for the most part. “Well, she didn’t tell me much.” He rubs the back of his neck, relaxing back onto the barstool. “Aside from the fact you’re single, I mean. I think she mentioned that about a dozen times.”
“Mom!” Heat flushes my cheeks. I whirl around and glare at her. “That’s not an appropriate dinner topic!” Especially considering I suspect Cole of spiking my drinks! Yeah, sure, we’re friendly. Maybe a bit too friendly, sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I want my mom trying to set me up with him! I don’t want him thinking that I have feelings for him. Yes, he’s cute, but I barely know the guy!
My mom shrugs and brushes past me. “No need to make a riot out of it.”
“Cole, I’m really sorry for anything my mom said.” I scowl after her. “She’s just nosey.”
He stands up and reaches for a warm dish my father’s handing over. “It’s fine, really.”
I doubt that’s the case, but arguing about it right now just seems like a bad idea. Really, I shouldn’t have made a scene, but come on. I’m old enough to figure this sort of thing out on my own! If I wanted to be in a relationship, I would be. Besides, dinner was already going to be awkward enough. Now I have to try to navigate friendly conversation without making a (bigger) fool out of myself.
Calm down, Karen. This isn’t high school. So what if he’s cute and Mom’s being a busybody? Just . . . play it cool. You don’t need to make a scene out of it.
Right.
Wish I’d told myself that, like, three minutes ago.
With a heavy sigh, I help finish carrying food into the dining room. My parents went all out, just like always. A basket of warm dinner rolls is the last thing to be added to the spread. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s Thanksgiving. Mom cooked a ten-pound turkey, some sweet potato casserole with a crumble on top, and a spinach quiche. A full dinner salad rounds everything out, and my dad pops the cork off a bottle of red wine.
The spread alone almost makes me forget my mom nosing into my personal life. Almost.
Once the table’s set and dinner’s put out, we sit down to enjoy the meal.
“How’d the bake sale go?” I ask, spooning some mashed potatoes onto my plate before passing the bowl along.
The last time my mom had Cole over for dinner, it was to plan a church bake sale and work with Mocha Amore to spread the word about it. They did a second one not too long ago to raise money for the homeless shelter up in Salem. I stopped by for about five minutes before I had to get back to work, but from what I saw, it went well.
“Oh, it was so lovely!” my mom chirps, taking the potato casserole from Cole. “We had such a great turn out, and the variety was fantastic. You know, Mrs. Anderson baked a whole thirteen Dutch babies! I couldn’t believe it myself.”
“Haven’t had me a Dutch baby in years,” my great uncle says. He scoops the remaining casserole onto his plate and sets the empty bowl in the center of the table.
My dad keeps hunched down over his full plate while we talk. I’ve never known him to be much of a conversationalist when it comes to meals. He tends to do better speaking with others one-on-one. Besides, I sort of doubt that bake sales are his thing. The last time I saw him eat something sweet, I was about four and a half.
Cole reaches for the salt. “Did you get a chance to try Mrs. Anderson’s?”
“Ellie brought me home some,” he replies. “Was a might good. Took me way back.”
As we eat, silverware clinks against china. People ask for seconds of what’s left, and we fall into easy conversation about the town’s upcoming Christmas holiday and the festival. Everyone’s excited, which helps distract me from more harrowing thoughts. From the sounds of it, old Mr. McCrae is going to be dressed up as Santa. He’s been working with the local church to collect donated gifts for the local kids and will be handing them out. Sometimes we have kiddie train rides through downtown if the weather’s nice, and o
ther years, we do shows and carols down by the docks so people can watch the parade of lights.
It’s a lovely time, honestly. Even the cold can’t make me a Grinch.
This year, it’s supposed to be below zero and snowy, so I doubt we’ll have the train ride, but people should still be out exchanging their gifts and spreading holiday cheer. I’m really looking forward to it. It’ll be nice to see friends and catch up over steaming cocoa while people sing and play games.
As I scrape up the last of my meal, my mom stands to collect plates. “Coffee, anyone?”
“Decaf, please,” Cole replies. “I won’t be able to stay much later, though. I start work early.”
“Oh, that’s right.” My mom sighs as she collects his dishes. “Well, that’s a shame, but I’ll put a quick pot on.”
Uncle Angus shakes his head. “Afore you go, we need to have a chat, you and me.”
Cole shifts in his seat uncomfortably. “About what, exactly?”
My dad shakes his head. Unlike the rest of us, he’s still eating. “Now, don’t go upsetting the poor kid, Angus. He’s been polite enough not to lose his patience over Ellie’s prattling and prying.”
“My what?” my mom calls from the kitchen. “Say it again!”
My dad chuckles under his breath. “Nothing, dearest.” At last, he finishes his meal and rises to gather some of the dishes as well.
Normally I’d help, but this seems like the perfect excuse to get some answers from Uncle Angus.
“Want me to get the photo book?” I’m already halfway to my feet.
He nods. “Might be a good idea.”
My mom and dad bustle around the kitchen, going between the sink and the stove to clean up dishes and put away the few leftovers we have. While they work, they fall into an easy, familiar pattern.
They’ll be preoccupied for about five minutes, maybe ten.
We don’t have much time.
I snag the little booklet off the hall table and scuttle back into the dining room, handing it off to my uncle before taking my seat.
“What’s this all about?” Cole asks.
“Well, seein’ as your granddaddy’s murder come back up again, I think we aughtta have a chat about it.”
Cole’s back goes rigid, his eyes wide. “Uh . . . what?”
I echo the sentiment. “What? His murder?”
“Hush yourself,” Angus says, frowning over my shoulder. “Don’t want Ellie hearin’ this, since she already gone through it enough.”
I swallow the tight lump in my throat. “Okay. Sorry. But . . . what? You never said anything about Cole’s grandfather being killed.”
The blood has completely gone from Cole’s cheeks. He’s paler than a bed sheet, his gray eyes wide. “How . . . do you know about that?”
The question comes out slow, as if he’s trying to calculate how best to ask.
“My pa’s cufflinks showed up in Karen’s drink this morning, from what I gather.” He tilts his head toward me. “These ones, right here.” Uncle Angus flips to the same photo he showed me out in the shed.
Taking the hint, and doing my best not to freak out over the new information, I pull my phone out and open my photo app to show him better pictures of the cufflinks. “As you know,” and I keep my voice low so my parents won’t overhear—and to keep it from shaking, “things have been showing up in my coffee lately. Well, this morning, I got two pairs of cufflinks in my drink.”
“That’s definitely odd.”
“Sure is.” I give him a fierce, knowing glare. Time’s up, buttercup. I have to confront him. No more games. “And I know you’re the one giving them to me. Stop pretending.”
Somehow, having Uncle Angus with me makes me bold. I don’t mind confronting Cole with him at my side. Maybe it’s because I know he’ll stick with me no matter what.
Cole swallows, thumbs twiddling in his lap. “I don’t know what you mean.” His gaze darts away.
“Oh, enough of that nonsense,” says Uncle Angus. “This time, it’s more n’ just some stranger’s life on the line. My pa and your family go way back, and I ain’t goin’ down for what happened that night. You know somethin’, and it’s time you tell us what it is.”
The way his gray gaze darts between us and the direction of the front door has me grabbing onto his sleeve.
“Cole, if you know something . . . I just need some direction. And I need to know why you keep giving me these things.” If he knows about my powers, now’s the time to fess up. “I just . . . need to know that I can trust you. That’s all. I don’t want to have to turn you over to the police. Please. Just be straight with me.” Just this once.
The deputies probably won’t be as understanding as me, anyway. If he doesn’t admit to it, then I’ll have to take the next step. I’ll have to turn him in, and I really, really don’t want to do that.
Panic shines in his eyes. His lips part, then shut, then part again, like he’s trying to say something but just can’t get it out. “Okay,” he says at last. “Okay, we’ll talk, but not now. Not . . . not here.”
Uncle Angus leans forward, pushing the booklet across the table and flipping to a new set of photographs. “Just tell me the truth. Do you know what this is?” He taps a gnarled finger on the picture.
I lean over to examine the photo. It’s one I’ve never seen before. A group of about fifteen people, men and women alike, all dressed in Victorian clothing, are standing in front of what used to be the bed and breakfast down on Main Street before it burned down.
My stomach clenches at the sight.
Something about it hits me hard, and my eyes widen. I release Cole’s sleeve to touch the picture, and the briefest flash comes to mind. It’s nothing intense, just a sense of liquid and chemicals. Probably just the photo developing process.
Beyond it are more memories, but they aren’t from the photo itself. They’re from me, from almost losing a friend when the town lost one of its few remaining heritage sites.
The sense of loss is oddly profound.
Cole, though, has gone pale. “Where did you get that?”
“It were my pa’s. Now, you can either be honest with me, or I can make a scene. Up to you. I’m pretty darn good at making scenes.”
He holds his hands up. They’re shaking. “Yeah. Look, I get it.” Gray eyes dart to the photo again before he looks away. His shoulders are shaking. Maybe he wasn’t expecting to be confronted like this, but considering the cufflinks apparently have something to do with his grandfather’s murder, maybe he should have been.
In the kitchen, the coffee maker beeps, signaling the pot is ready.
Our time’s just about up.
“I know . . . I know about the photo, and I’ll . . . I’ll explain everything. But not here, and not tonight.”
“When?” Uncle Angus presses, leaning forward. Something about the urgency in his voice has me wondering just how long he has wanted answers, too.
This is just as much a mystery to him as it is to me. Now I’m glad I didn’t start demanding answers from him like some cop. It’s very likely Uncle Angus wouldn’t have known what to say, anyway.
“Tomorrow. Karen, your boss leaves in the afternoon, right?”
I peel my attention away from the photograph. “He’s usually gone by three, yeah. We might be busy with the festival coming up, though.” Odd that you know that, but okay. Mooring Cove is a small town, after all. Maybe it’s in the rumor mill or something.
“I’ll come and pick you up around three thirty, Angus, and then we can meet at the Readery. I’ll explain everything then.”
Just as he pushes the photo book across the table, back to Uncle Angus, my mom comes in with five empty mugs and the pot of decaf. “Who wants cream? Sugar?”
“Yes, please.” Cole smiles up at her, and the shift in his personality is so smooth and rapid that, if not for Uncle Angus tucking the photo book away, I’d have almost thought I imagined the whole conversation.
Tomorrow afternoon can�
�t come soon enough.
Chapter 8
Cole leaves dinner early enough for me to have some one-on-one time with Uncle Angus. As we sit in the den, I wait for him to explain a few things. Namely, I’d like to know exactly how Cole’s grandfather died and what role my uncle played in his death.
The silence eventually becomes too much. It’s clear Uncle Angus isn’t going to say anything without at least some prompting on my part.
“So . . . wanna tell me what happened that night?” I ask finally.
He shakes his head slowly, but I can tell he’s considering his words rather than evading the question this time. At last, he says, “’Bout forty years ago, my pa were involved with Cole’s folks and a few others ’round town. Had some name for themselves, but can’t recalls ever being told what it were. Figured Cole might know, since he’s back in town and all.”
“Why would he know, though? He didn’t grow up here.”
“S’ppose that’s true. Well, he did live with Stefan and his pa, so I figured they maybe said something to him about it. Looks like that might be the case after all.”
Huh. Go figure. “So . . . let me get this straight. Your dad was part of a secret order or something? Like a club?”
“Musta been. All I knows were he left every week, twice a week, to go do things with these people. Ma never talked about it much, just said he had to earn us money and that he were working hard to do it. Didn’t want us kids askin’ questions about it.”
I glance at the booklet next to him. I’m honestly dying to know what’s inside, what secrets it holds. There might be more in that little album for me to gain than from every book in Elea’s Restoration & Readery. “Shannon’s grandmother . . . was she part of this order, too?”
“Not as I can recall. I think her ma wanted her to be, though, and that’s why she left.” He reaches for the booklet and thumbs it open with a shaking hand. Between the late hour and everything that’s happened today, he must be exhausted. “Think that’s why Cole and his pa left town, too. I expect it’s why a lot of them did.”
