Undisclosed
by
Cindy Blackburn
A Cassie Baxter Mystery
Book Three
Undisclosed
Copyright © 2019 by Cindy Blackburn
Published by Cindy Blackburn
www.cbmysteries.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
ASIN(Kindle):
ISBN-13:
ISBN-10:
For Kathy and Warren
Vermonters who run a little store, beside a little lake, next to a little town hall, and across the street from a little school. Thanks for creating a little slice of heaven.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Why, yes! There is more. Thanks for asking!
Unbelievable – Sneak Peek
Unexpected – Sneak Peek
Still curious?
The Cue Ball Mysteries
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1
“Can I help?” Truman asked.
“May I help, and yes, you may.” I pulled down the ladder leading to the crawl space above his bedroom, and the kid scurried up and disappeared.
I glanced down at the dog. “Having a five year old around sure comes in handy,” I said, and Charlie wagged his tail in agreement. But me, Cassie Baxter, with a five year old? Who would have thunk it? Certainly not I, not even a few months earlier, but times change and —
The first box of Christmas decorations toppled down.
“Be careful,” I hollered. I set the box on the floor. “And warn me next ti—”
“Here’s another one!”
I caught the next box, swayed back and forth with it over my head, and managed to get it to the floor before box number three came tumbling down. “Do you think Santa Claus will like our tree, Momma Cass?”
Momma Cass—that’s me. Rock and roll legend notwithstanding, that’s what Truman calls me now that I’m his moth—
Another box dropped my way, and I promised the kid Santa would love our tree. “But he’s not due for a week, so take your ti—”
Box number four.
Okay, so what can I say? Even though we’re not biologically related, Truman has still managed to inherit his patience quota—or impatience quota—from me. I set that box aside and caught the last. “That’s everything,” I called overhead. “Come on down.”
“But I’m treasure hunting,” he answered, and I heard some shuffling from way back under the eaves.
Did I say having a five year old comes in handy? I take it back. Sometimes it’s completely exasperating.
I rolled my eyes at the dog and climbed a few rungs of the ladder. “There’s nothing else up here, Sweetie.” I poked my head through the opening. “Truman?” I squinted into the darkness. “Where are you?”
“I found a treasure!”
“Come here,” I ordered. I used the I am your mother voice I’d been trying to perfect. “You’ll get hurt, and I won’t be able to reach you.”
Well, it was half-true. I doubted he could get hurt, but I am teeny-tiny, and probably could venture into the depths of that crawl space, if I had to.
“I’m getting impatient,” I sang.
“I’m coming,” he sang back. “But I don’t want to break it.”He crawled into view, struggling to hold onto something. “It’s a treasure,” he told me.
It looked more like a deflated soccer ball, but whatever it was, I hoped it wasn’t too gross. For the record, Truman and I have way different perspectives on gross. I think it’s a bad thing. But Truman? The kid lives for gross.
I braced myself and reached out.
I gasped, but I didn’t drop it.
I did not drop it.
“It’s a treasure, Momma Cass!”
***
Did I say gross? Try ghastly.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the ghastly object in my lap, and Truman grabbed at it. “Stop!” I snapped. I shook myself and apologized, and asked him to please be careful. “It’s not a toy, okay?”
“What is it?”
Yeah. I thought that question might come up. And as mentioned, I was new to the parenting thing. But even I had learned one handy skill—a matter-of-fact approach to awkward questions works pretty well.
“What is it?” he repeated.
“It’s a skull,” I answered matter-of-factly. “It’s from a skeleton. You know what a skeleton is.”
“Bones!” The child clapped gleefully. “Is it a dinosaur skull, Momma Cass? From a brontosaurus?”
“Nooo,” I said. “Too small.
He thought a second. “Maybe it’s a reindeer skull!”
I shook my head. “Wrong shape.”
He looked at Charlie. “Is it a dog skull?”
“Too big.”
“So it’s not a cat skull, like Notz?”
Charlie’s our black lab, and Notz is our black cat, and I agreed the skull was too big for a cat.
“I know!” Truman tore his big blue eyes from his treasure to look at me. “Is it a person skull?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes,” I said matter-of-factly. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
***
The three of us—four, if you count the skull—descended the stairs, and my father stood up from watering the Christmas tree. “Girl, what took you so lon—”
Dad stared aghast.
“It’s a treasure!” Truman exclaimed, and Charlie, who hardly ever barks, barked.
“Truman found it in the crawl space,” I added as I tripped over Notz to reach the coffee table. The cat, being his usual helpful self, was performing several figure eights around my ankles as I stumbled along.
I put the you know what down while the child continued to elaborate. “It’s a person skull, Grandpa Bobby.”
Dad whimpered. “Grandpa Bobby needs to sit down,” he said and grabbed the back of one of our many rocking chairs for support. He took a step and repeated the process a few more times on his way to the couch.
Meanwhile I hust
led Truman into the downstairs bathroom, and we washed our hands once, twice –
“Three times!” the kid protested.
“Three,” I said in my I am your mother voice, and eventually we rejoined my father in the living room.
Truman fell to the floor and scooted himself to the coffee table to be nose to nose—make that, nose to nose-socket—with the skull.
I asked him to move back, and he leaned about an inch away, just as Notz hopped up to take a closer look. A black cat sniffing around a skull? I told him it wasn’t Halloween, pried him off the coffee table, and ordered Charlie to “Sit!” before he also got any bright ideas.
The dog sat next to Truman, and I carried the cat to the nearest rocking chair, where we stared out at the frozen lake. Lake Elizabeth, that is. Known as Lake Bess, to us locals—
“I need to call Jason Sterling,” I mumbled.
“The Vermont policeman?” Truman asked. “Why?”
“Why?” Dad asked.
Really? I mean, maybe I expected that question from the five year old, but from the seventy-three year old?
“Earth to Bobby Baxter.” I pointed to the obvious. “We have human remains in our living room.” I glanced at Truman and lost the sarcasm. “Captain Jason needs know about this, Sweetie.”
“Will he take it away?”
Boy, I sure did hope so. “Yes,” I said matter-of-factly.
“But I found it! Finders keepers.”
I silently appealed to my father, but Dad argued for a third option and suggested we call the local authorities instead of the state trooper in Montpelier. “I know you have Captain Sterling’s number on speed dial, girl. However.”
I smirked. “Very funny, old man.”
“Sheriff Hawthorn is just a few miles away in Hilleville. He’ll get here faster.”
“Is there a big hurry?” I again pointed to the skull and again stated the obvious—that fifteen or twenty minutes wouldn’t matter much. And ignoring all protests from the peanut gallery, I walked back upstairs to make the call in private.
Oh, and FYI, my father was right about one thing. I do have Captain Jason Sterling’s phone number on speed dial. Let’s just say, it’s a long story.
***
“Something’s come up,” I said after the usual pleasantries. “Truman found something—unusual.”
“In addition to you?” Jason asked. “Did Santa bring him an early Christmas present?”
I stared out the window of my turret and counted the ice fishing shacks below. “You kind of have to see it to believe it.”
“News from you is usually like that. What did Santa bring him?”
“It wasn’t Santa.” I began pacing the octagon. “And for Pete’s sake, when you get here do not mention Santa. Truman’s excited enough.” I heard a squeal of delight from below and stopped short. “You should probably bring one of those bags with you.”
Jason skipped a beat. “Bags?”
“You know. Those police bags. The kind you put evidence in.”
Another prolonged pause, and Jason asked me what size. “Is this supposed evidence bigger than a breadbox?”
I told him a breadbox-sized bag would probably work. “Bring that,” I said. “But don’t—do not—arrive in a patrol car.”
Jason said something about arriving in a sleigh.
“Very funny. Just drive your regular ordinary civilian car, okay? Are you in uniform right now?”
“No red Santa suit.”
“Jason! Are you off duty?”
“I was,” he said.
“Well, stay that way,” I told him. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. For once, let’s try to keep this, and me, out of the spotlight.”
“Spotlight on what, Cassie? What are we talking about?”
I sighed at the frozen lake below. “You kind of have to see it to believe it.”
Chapter 2
“No Santa suit?” I asked as Jason climbed out of his non-patrol car.
“No coat?” He pointed to my raggedy turtleneck. “It’s cold out here, Cassie.”
“Well then, come on.” I grabbed his hand and led him along the shoveled path toward the house. But I stopped when we reached the porch and pointed to the living room window. “Truman and Dad are in there,” I whispered. “Brace yourself.”
“I always do when I’m with you.”
I smirked and pushed him forward, and he peeked inside. He stood up, blinked at the porch ceiling, then took another look.
“I told you to brace yourself,” I said.
“It’s a skull, Cassie!”
“Whisper,” I sang.
“Is it real?” he whispered.
“What do you think?” I took another peek in the window, and what a shocker, Jason asked me to explain.
Let’s just say, I did my best.
Meanwhile, Mr. State Trooper shook his head. “You found a skeleton in your closet?” he asked.
“Crawl space,” I corrected. “And Truman found it, not me, and it’s not a whole skeleton, just the head. Which makes this way different than that whole body I found last summer, right?”
Jason blinked.
“Right?” I repeated.
He blinked again and pointed to the window. “Why is your father tapping on it with a wooden spoon?”
“It’s a science lesson,” I said. “You know how Bobby loves science.”
“Your father’s a retired English teacher, Cassie.”
Well. Yeah. “But teacher is the key word,” I insisted. “Dad decided a biology lesson was a good way to pass the time until you arrived.”
Jason groaned this special groan I think he reserves only for me.
“It was better than Truman’s idea,” I told him.
“Which was?”
I pointed to the lake. “The little guy wanted to play ice hockey with it.”
***
“Look who’s here!” I said, and my father abandoned his wooden spoon to shake hands. He offered Jason a seat, but Truman wasn’t so hospitable.
“Finders keepers!” he announced.
Jason glanced at me, and I used my authoritative I am you mother voice to tell the kid to go play outside.
For the record, my authoritative voice—my authoritative anything—is a joke. At five feet one and a half inches tall, and a whopping ninety-three pounds, I’m not exactly an imposing presence. My big brown eyes and curly blond hair don’t help much either. I am, as everyone on Planet Earth has been telling me for forty-five years, cute as a button.
But lucky for me, Truman’s actually smaller than I, and the kid actually listens to me. Almost always. He pouted, but he put on his boots and held out his arms obediently as I wrestled him into his jacket.
“Play only with Charlie,” I said as I zipped him up. Charlie wagged his tail and stood ready at the door.
“And no talking to anyone,” Jason ordered from the sidelines.
I wrapped a scarf around Truman’s neck and positioned a pom-pommed toque on top of his blond crew cut. “Captain Jason’s right,” I said. “This skull is our little secret.” I pretended to lock his lips, then tossed the pretend key to my father. And as I found a pair of mittens, I reminded the child of the most important rule of all—no walking out on the ice without an adult. Although, why I had this rule is beyond me. At that time of year an elephant could have walked onto Lake Bess and not fallen in.
“And stay in this yard only,” Jason added.
“But no throwing snowballs at the house,” Dad chimed in.
“I’m hot, Momma Cass!”
The poor kid.
I kissed the only exposed skin available—the tip of his nose—and opened the door. Charlie escaped first, and Truman hollered another “Finders keepers!” before taking off.
I stood still and scanned the lake. No skaters, snowshoers, or ice fishermen anywhere within chatting distance. I turned around and smiled. “My day is looking up.”
“Oh, really?” Jason frowned and reminded me I h
ad human remains on my coffee table.
Well. Yeah.
***
“Fetch Captain Sterling some pencils,” Dad told me. Every so often the old man actually does make sense, and he knows Jason Sterling’s signature quirk—the guy breaks pencils whenever he’s perplexed. And in case you haven’t quite caught on, Jason is often perplexed around me.
I found a few strays in a kitchen drawer, placed them next to the you know what, and took a seat at the window where I could keep an eye on you know who.
“I suppose you want to talk about that?” Dad pointed to the skull, but Jason started with our house instead.
“You’re the owner?” he asked my father. “Who sold you this house?”
Dad named the previous owner, Sally Tumbleton. “Her great, great grandfather designed and built this place,” he explained. “Locals—Elizabethans, that is—still call it the old Tumbleton place.”
“Yet Ms. Tumbleton sold it to you,” Jason said.
“When she took a new job in Burlington.” I pointed out the window to the little town center of Lake Elizabeth on the opposite shore. “Oliver Earle was her realtor.”
Jason scowled. “The proprietor of the Lake Store?”
“Oliver wears many hats,” my father answered, and that is an understatement. Oliver Earle, the owner of the general store at the heart of Lake Bess, is also our postmaster, fire warden, high bailiff, Avon lady, and yes, realtor.
“Oliver and my realtor, Paula Erikson, worked together to settle all the paperwork.” Dad cringed and pointed to the skull. “But trust me, Captain. That was undisclosed.”
***
Eventually, the three of us managed to stop grimacing at the skull. “When was this?” Jason asked my father. “And when did your daughter move in?” he added as he broke the first pencil.
“What was that for?” I asked indignantly.
“Pays to plan ahead,” he answered.
What. Ever. I turned away to watch Truman toss snowballs to Charlie, while my father explained the basic chronology. He purchased our house two years earlier, but I hadn’t moved in until the previous spring.
“It took me a while to convince Cassie to move here,” Dad said. “This is all her fault.”
“My fault?” I turned around. “Old man! I didn’t put this skull—”
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