“I’m not talking about the skull, girl. I’m talking about Vermont.” Bobby nodded to Jason. “Cassie is why we Baxters are even in Vermont.”
Okay, so that was true. We Baxters are from Hoboken, but after graduate school at Rutgers, I landed a teaching job at Crabtree College in Montpelier. I packed up my PhD in ancient history and left New Jersey for the Vermont state capital. Much to my father’s chagrin.
Fifteen years later, he retired from his teaching job at Hoboken High, and much to my chagrin, decided to move north also. I’m his only child, and he raised me single-handedly after my mother died, so everyone keeps telling me this makes perfect sense.
“It’s worked out well, hasn’t it, girl?” Dad asked.
“Peachy,” I mumbled as the game outside changed to trying to balance snowballs on top of Charlie’s head.
“Why Lake Elizabeth and not Montpelier,” Jason asked.
I turned around again. “Because I threatened to quit my job, give up my tenure, and leave the state if he moved too close to me.”
“Cassie insisted on her privacy. She needs her supposed space.” My annoying father put that last word in air quotes and rolled his eyes at such a ludicrous notion. “Therefore, I told my realtor to find me a lake house,” he said. “Preferably a Victorian with a turret on top. I knew if I purchased her dream house, I could lure my daughter here eventually.”
Jason glanced at me, and I shrugged. “I like Victorians, turrets, and lakes. So sue me.”
He stared at our slightly askew fireplace. “You say this is a Victorian?”
“I say it’s a wannabe Victorian.”
Dad cleared his throat. “But even with this fine Victorian, Cassie still hesitated. She’s always been so skittish.”
“Skittish!? You drive me nuts, old man.”
The old man ignored me and jerked a thumb toward the slightly crooked window behind him. “She was afraid of what would happen if she lived next door to Joe Wy—”
“Da-aad!” I jumped, and Notz abandoned my lap. “Can we please change the subject?”
***
Jason broke a pencil, and I looked up. “Yes?”
“I’m changing the subject,” he said. “What else did Truman find in that crawl space?”
“Nothing unexpected,” I said and got up to find Truman. The snowball-balancing on top of Charlie’s head game had failed miserably, and dog and child had taken off around the side of the house. I checked the window overlooking the driveway.
No child, no dog.
I turned and pointed to the Christmas tree. “Truman’s crawl space is where we store our Christmas decorations.”
Jason’s face dropped. “There are others?”
“Many,” Dad answered. “Cubby holes, crawl spaces—our house is full of them.” He began pointing to three or four of my mother’s paintings, and Jason frowned again.
“You mean, there are doors behind all these crazy—I mean, colorful—paintings?”
“That’s what he means,” I said. “My mother’s masterpieces are perfect camouflage, no?”
A true diplomat, Jason didn’t answer that question. But Dad and I, and Truman, love my mother’s bright, cheery, and very amateur, pictures of flowers. She took up the hobby “to keep us Baxters smiling” during the last year of her life.
“Undisclosed.” Mr. State Trooper waved an index finger. “Have you checked all these storage spaces for remains?”
“As in human remains?” I shook my head. “Heck no. We called you.”
Speaking of checking for things, I skirted a couple of mismatched rocking chairs—my mother painted flowers, I paint chairs—and headed for the window beside the refrigerator.
No Truman. No Charl—
“Oh, nooo!” I jumped and turned, just as Maxine Tibbitts burst through the door.
Chapter 3
“Cassie, honey!” Maxine exclaimed. “You found the head!”
“Truman foun—”
She turned to Jason as he rose to his feet. “It’s nice to see you again, Captain. Remember me? I live next door. I helped Cassie during her dead redhead-pajama incident last summer. Remember?”
Jason blinked. “I take it, Truman told you about the skull?”
“He asked me to remind you finders keepers.”
“We told him not to talk to anyone.”
Truman, by the way, had not come inside. I stepped over Notz and made my way back to the window overlooking the driveway.
No Truman. No Charlie.
I shot a glance at Joe Wylie’s house, crossed my fingers, and defended my son. “He is only five,” I said.
“And he found a skull,” Dad added. “It’s too much to ask the child to keep that a secret.”
“And the little tyke had to tell me,” Maxine helped us out. “I have the secrets key.”
“But I tossed Bobby that key,” I said.
“Well then, there must be more than one. See?” Maxine was holding out her empty palm to demonstrate when Joe Wylie burst in.
“You found the head, Cassie?”
“Truman found it.”
Maxine shook her head. “Leave it to Cassie Baxter to find the head.”
“I didn’t find it. Truman found—”
“Stop!” That was Jason. “What do you mean, the head?” he asked Maxine, but my father was focusing on Joe.
“Do you have a secrets key, too?” he asked him.
Joe dangled the pretend key. “I can’t believe Truman found the head.”
Jason Sterling broke a pencil. “I can’t believe any of this.”
***
Things got even more unbelievable when Maxine held up her i-Tablet and started snapping photos. No, really. When our busybody neighbor isn’t busy being the librarian down in Hilleville, she’s busy being Lake Elizabeth’s official gossip. Maxine writes the Lake Bess Lore column for the county’s weekly newspaper, the Hanahan Herald. In a town of 600 residents, not counting pets and livestock, you wouldn’t think there would be much news, but trust me, Maxine makes do.
Our other neighbor on Leftside Lane also has an interesting career. Dr. Josiah Wylie is a mad scientist. No, really. Joe’s some sort of engineer and works from home on the invention he calls the FN451z. He swears the FN will someday provide better internet and cell phone service to the many remote towns of Vermont, but thus far all the thing does is make noise. Incessant. Noise.
I guess I should also mention that Joe and I are sort of, kind of, dating.
“My column this week will be so interesting!” Maxine continued snapping shots of the skull from every conceivable angle. “It always is when you’re involved, Cassie honey.” Snap, snap. She snapped a few dozen pictures of me—Lake Bess Lore’s star gossipee.
I was begging Maxine not to put the skull story in her column, when I noticed Joe and Jason in the midst of an intense stare-down.
“Everyone sit,” my father suggested.
Maxine found a spot on the couch, and Dad sat beside her, but Joe and Jason?
“Sit!” I repeated, and of course they chose seats opposite each other to continue with the staring and glaring.
I ignored them and headed to the door. “Truman?” I hollered out. He and the dog reappeared around the corner of the house. “Are you warm enough, Sweetie?”
“Yes, but I want to play with my skull.”
“Can you stay outside a few more minutes?”
“But I want to play with my skull.”
I told him patience is a virtue, and moved to close the door, but remembered something else. “Have you given anyone else a secrets key?” I asked.
He promised he hadn’t, and I closed the door and sat down in the rocking chair nearest the Christmas tree. “No more secrets keys,” I announced.
“I feel so much better now,” Jason said. And yes, I did notice the sarcasm.
***
Mr. State Trooper lost the sarcasm pretty quickly, however. “What head?” he asked the neighbors.
“The on
e that belongs to the skeleton Pru Pearson found a few years back,” Maxine answered.
“At the Fox Cove Inn,” Joe added.
“Does this have something to do with the ghost-guys?” I asked, and Jason broke his last pencil.
For the record, the Fox Cove Inn has probably put a lot of people in a pencil-breaking mood over the decades. Our local bed and breakfast operated as a bordello until the sheriff at the time finally closed it down. That wasn’t until the 1970’s. I’ll never understand what took him so long, considering several men were murdered there. Legend has it that their ghosts still haunt the hallways, guest rooms, and Honeymoon Cottage of the B and B.
Legend also has it that almost all the ghost-guys are, or were, Pearsons. The Pearson family has owned the Fox Cove since its conception, and according to legend, the Pearson women had a bad habit of killing off their husbands whenever the mood struck. Poison was their modus operandi, but the sole non-Pearson ghost-guy was shot to death. And that’s not legend, that’s fact. Joe Wylie’s father was killed in front of the Honeymoon Cottage when Joe was even younger than Truman. To this day, Joe hates guns.
The current proprietors of the B and B, the two surviving Pearson sisters, have tried to put the notorious history of the Fox Cove behind them. Even so, and even though I’m skeptical of ghosts, I’ve got to think it’s a good thing neither Pru nor Arlene are married.
“I assume the state police know about the ghosts?” Joe asked Jason.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Wylie?”
“It’s Doctor Wylie, and it’s Joe. And no, I don’t. But a lot of spooky stuff happens at the Fox Cove. That’s a fact.”
“Like Pru finding that headless skeleton,” Maxine said. “You’ve heard about that, Captain?”
Jason nodded.
“Say what?” I rocked forward and pointed. “You mean you already know who this is?”
No. He did not. But he did know an unidentified headless skeleton had been housed in cold storage at the state morgue for close to two decades. “No pun intended,” he said, “but Mr. X is what we call a cold case.”
“Mr. X?” Dad asked. “Is that his nickname?”
“Until he’s identified.”
“Mr. X was in all the papers at the time,” Maxine said. “You weren’t a Vermonter yet, Bobby.”
No, but I was, and I had no recollection of this bizarre story. Then again, I never really followed crime reports until my dead redhead-pajama incident. “Isn’t it ironic that teeny-tiny Lake Bess is this hotbed of crime?” I asked.
“You live in an odd town,” Jason agreed. “I’d forgotten Mr. X was discovered around here.”
I again pointed to the skull. “And we’re sure this is Mr. X?”
“It seems like a reasonable hypothesis,” Joe said, and Jason agreed it was.
Dad raised a hand. “Are we even sure he’s a he?”
“We are.” Jason suggested we look at the brow, which, for the record, was “prominent.”
“I wish I had pointed that out to Truman,” Dad was saying just as the little guy burst into the room.
“Momma Cass!” he said. “I have a great idea!”
Ohhh, that didn’t sound good. I braced myself and asked what idea.
“Let’s bring the skull to the Winter Carnival this afternoon!”
I blinked.
“To show Santa Claus!”
Chapter 4
Here’s a shocker. The Winter Carnival had completely slipped my mind.
While I helped Truman out of his winter gear, Dad dried off the dog and explained our original plan for the afternoon—to attend the Winter Carnival in Hilleville.
“To see Santa Claus,” Truman clarified.
Jason liked the plan, and in fact, suggested everyone go. “Everyone except Cassie, that is. She stays here.”
“Why?” Truman asked. “What are you guys gonna do?”
Joe stared at me. “I’m wondering that also.”
Okay. Me also. I asked Jason what he had in mind, and he mentioned the cubby holes. “You’re little, and we need to make a thorough search for other—” He stopped and glanced kid-ward.
“For other what?” Truman asked.
“For more bones,” I said matter-of-factly.
The kid gasped. “A whole skeleton!? Can I help?”
“May I help. And no, you may not.”
“But I’m little, too. Ple-eease?”
“No.” I used my I am your mother voice and told him he would go to the carnival.
“But I want to help.”
I appealed to my father, whose parenting skills leave mine in the dust, and he reminded the little guy about Santa Claus. “You’ve been looking forward to seeing him all week,” Dad said.
“All your friends will be there,” Joe added.
“Can I take my skull?”
“No!” several of us answered, and he spun around.
“Captain Jason!” he whined. “You’re gonna take it away, aren’t you?” He stomped his foot. “You can’t have it! Finders keepers.”
“Truman,” I said sternly, and that time Maxine helped me out. She told the little guy she was judging the snow sculpture contest that year.
“Perhaps you would care to help me?” she asked. “After your chat with Santa?”
The kid was thinking.
Dad sang something about Santa Claus coming to town, and evidently Santa, with a snow sculpture contest thrown in, trumps skull.
Truman grabbed the jacket I was still holding, and my father found his own in the closet. “I’ll drive,” he said and began ushering everyone to the door, but then Joe Wylie decided to be difficult.
“I stay with Cassie,” he said. Joe didn’t stomp his foot, but he came close.
“No need.” Jason didn’t stomp his foot, but he came close.
While I rolled my eyes, my father cleared his throat and suggested waiting at Maxine’s. Maxine said something about retrieving her coat and purse, and the two of them again steered Truman toward the door.
“No mention of this skull to anyone,” Jason told them.
Maxine and my father nodded, but the child wasn’t so compliant. “But I want to tell my friends.”
Of course he did. I thought fast and reminded him I had already locked his lips. And to be on the safe side, I knelt down and locked them again. “Right now we want to keep the skull a secret.” I gave him a hug. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
Okay? Was it really that easy?
“Santa Claus!” he hollered in my ear. My father opened the door, and the kid raced out.
***
I stood up, turned, and pointed. Not at the skull that time, but at Joe. “You,” I said, “need to go the carnival. And you.” I pointed to Jason. “Do you really expect me to crawl around looking for human remains?” I flapped my arms. “This is absurd.”
“Agreed,” Joe said. “Come with me, Cassie.”
“Cassie stays here,” Jason said.
“Why?” Joe demanded. “Can’t you find a smallish cop or state trooper to do your dirty work? This has to be highly irregular.”
Joe, as usual, was right. But Jason reminded me I was the one hoping for discretion. “You don’t want any more state troopers or cops involved. Am I right?”
I cringed. “But human remains?”
“You can do this,” he said. “I’ll be with you if you find anything.”
“But you won’t find anything,” Joe said, and Jason’s head snapped.
“How do you know that, Wylie?”
“It’s Dr. Wylie.” Joe made sure to frown. “Because you now have the entire skeleton.” He pointed to the skull. “Mr. X is complete, Captain Sterling.”
Or maybe not. Jason argued we wouldn’t know that for certain until forensics ran some tests. “And if there’s one skull, there may be—”
“More skulls?” That was me. And while I commenced hyperventilating, the two men continued bickering.
“Why wasn’t this fou
nd back in September?” Joe asked Jason. “You know, back when you searched this house for a bomb.”
A bomb.
Okay, so Joe was right yet again. Jason and some other state troopers had indeed searched the house for a bomb a few months earlier. Let’s just say, it’s a long story.
“Why didn’t you find this skull then?” Joe persisted. “Why did Truman have to find it? He’s five years old.”
Well. Yeah. But while I pointed out that the skull had caused the child zero trauma, Jason actually agreed with Joe. “This should have been found then,” he admitted. “But clearly we didn’t know about these cubby holes. Which is another reason I need the homeowner here. To point them all out.”
“Bobby’s the homeowner,” Joe said.
Right again. But call me nuts, I argued that I was the one who should help Jason. “It’s my house, too,” I said. “I know this place inside and out, and I’m smaller and more agile than my father.”
“Maybe,” Joe mumbled, and maybe he backed down just a little.
“Go to the carnival and help Dad?” I asked him. “Please?”
“Bobby is perfectly capable of getting Truman onto Santa’s lap, Cassie.”
“But is he capable of keeping him quiet about this skull?”
No answer.
“And think about Maxine,” I continued. “Ms. Lake Bess Lore needs way more supervision than Truman.”
Trust me, I made a good point. Joe stared at the front door. “Bobby will need help,” he said.
“So go help.” I smiled encouragement. “Go watch after Maxine and Truman.”
He glanced down and studied me. “Okay,” he said eventually. “But who’s going to watch after you?”
***
Jason looked up from “bagging and tagging” the skull. “I lied,” he said.
“No, you didn’t.” I wrinkled my nose. “It actually does look more gruesome now.”
“Not that, Cassie. But your boyfriend is right. Having you involved in the search is highly irregular.” He told me he needed to call the sheriff before beginning and asked to borrow the phone.
And no, that wasn’t highly irregular. Although I’m sure Jason had a cell phone with him, it wouldn’t have worked. In much of Vermont, even state troopers need a land line if they actually want to make contact. It has something to do with all our mountains.
Undisclosed Page 2