Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  “Ha,” Martha Woden cackled, “he just said that to you so’s you don't bother him anymore.” She took a ladylike sip of her own brew and looked smugly at Helen. Having one-upped her friend at last, she smiled brightly at Diana and offered her another sugar cookie.

  Diana heard the faint tinkle of the bell hung over the door of the shop, and moments later, Betsy came to the back, a sparkle in her eyes and an unusual flush to her cheeks. “Dr. Reardon is here,” she announced, gesturing for the gentleman in question to precede her into the back room.

  Helen struggled to her feet and grabbed the ever-present cane to aid in hasty steps to his side. “Well, come in, now Doctor. It's too bad that Pauline here was so quick to tidy up, else there’d been some tea left for you.” She shot a withering look at her friend, who was in the process of removing the cups from the table by now.

  “Now, Dr. Reardon, don’t fret,” Pauline said in her motherly way. “We can put on another pot of tea, unless you’d rather have coffee?”

  “Why thank you,” he replied easily, settling into one of the chairs. “Coffee, if it wouldn’t be any trouble, would be great. Hello Diana. Welcome back to Damariscotta.”

  “Hello, Marc. How are you? How’s business going as the summer’s winding down? Pretty soon all the tourists will be gone.”

  “Quite well, actually.” He reached for a scone, pulling back his pressed shirt sleeve so that the cuff wouldn't brush the plate. “The tourist season certainly helps business—poison ivy, swimmer’s itch, sprained ankles—you know, the minor things that have to be treated on one’s vacation. And I’m the one always paged when there’s an emergency—the EMTs are twenty miles away. But I confess, I won’t be sorry to see things slow up a bit in September. But, I should be asking: how are you? I heard that Belinda’s death was not as it seemed.”

  Diana nodded, not at all surprised he knew. After all, everyone must know by now. “Yes, that’s true. Joe Tettmueller is investigating.”

  “No more...er, incidents up at the house?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No. Everything’s been quiet. The contractor finished repainting the siding where all the spray paint was, and the broken windows, and I came up to check out the job.” And to see Ethan again—but he was back in Princeton for another three days, and she thought it was best if their visits didn’t exactly overlap. Helen Galliday was much too clever to let something like that pass as coincidence.

  She turned, wanting to change the subject, and took another of the delightfully fattening blueberry scones. “These are incredible, Betsy. You’ll have to share your recipe with me.”

  “The secret is Maine blueberries, picked right off the bushes and popped in the batter,” Betsy told her with a smile. “Your aunt has quite a nice-sized patch up there to the house. They’re just finishing their season, so next year, I’ll show you the tricks.”

  Conversation scattered from that point to stories of other recipes and Maine traditions, and soon after, Diana took the opportunity to slip from the table. She had the urge to take another look at that Crazy Quilt and see the last block her aunt had been working on.

  Rose Bettinger left the others and joined her at the quilting table. “The other day, we found those old notes of your aunt’s I told you about. She was writing them just before she...well, when she was working on the last block for the Crazy Quilt. I don’t know what Helen did with them, but I’ll ask. They weren’t much besides a couple names. Margie something was one of them. And Cameron. But I’m sure you’d like to see them. And, anyway, I wanted to show you—see here, I finished blocking Bee's last piece and added it right in. Just last week, it was.”

  Diana had seen it just before Rose pointed it out to her. She maneuvered the large blanket so the piece was in front of her, and she squinted down at the block. Once again she recognized a pair of small fish in one corner, and brushed her fingertip over it. The snake entwined in the tree caught her attention then, and Diana scrutinized the intricate black stitches, suddenly unconvinced that it was indeed a snake in a tree. She touched that image too, and closed her eyes for a moment, and felt as if there was something just at the edge of her mind...something she should know.

  A shiver scuttled down her spine. What was it about this small, six-by-six-inch piece of handiwork that stuck in her mind like a hook? Diana opened her eyes and looked again at the sun and moon and stars appliquéd and embroidered throughout the block. She knew there was something her subconscious was trying to tell her. Staring at it, she allowed her eyesight to blur as she tried to open her mind to the secrets there.

  “Beautiful handiwork,” Marc’s smooth voice wafted near her ear. He stood very near behind her, gazing over her shoulder. “What’s so interesting about this piece?”

  Startled out of her reverie, Diana took a sidestep away, turning slightly to look up at him. “Nothing in particular,” she said. “It was the last piece my aunt was working on before she died, and I thought...I thought it was interesting. It’s such a conglomeration of things, it doesn't seem to have any rhyme or reason.”

  Marc looked down at the quilt, staring at the section she still held between her fingers. “Your aunt was psychic, or so she said. You don’t think she meant anything by those symbols on this quilt, did she?”

  Diana shrugged, surprised that he would put her own thoughts into words so easily. “I don’t know what she would have had on her mind that could come out in this piece of material. After all, she had a journal—if there was something bothering her, she would most likely have written about it rather than done some cryptic symbolism in a piece of quilt.”

  Marc sighed. “I suppose. But it was such a romantic idea, you know.” He beamed down at her and, to her surprise, brushed a manicured fingernail lightly along her cheek. “Damariscotta has been quite boring since you left, Ms. Iverson.”

  “I thought you said you’d been quite busy,” Diana stammered, taken off-guard by his pointed comment. Since their conversation at his barbeque, she assumed he’d lost any interest he might have had in her. Either that, or the quilting ladies had made certain he knew she and Jonathan were over. Oh. They must have arranged for Marc to stop by today while she was there.

  “I have been...as far as work is concerned. But on the other hand, my social life has been quite dull. I—”

  “What are you two chatting about so cozily over here?” screeched Helen, pushing her way to their sides. “I saw your two heads together, as if you’re plotting something without including the rest of us.” Her eyes gleamed with a pleased light, and that clinched it for Diana. The old bat was definitely trying to match-make her with Marc. Well, at least that took the pressure off her trying to hide her involvement with Ethan.

  “We were just chatting about all the hours of handiwork you ladies have put into this quilt,” Marc lied smoothly, stepping a bit further away from Diana. “When do you think it will be done?”

  His question, as it was likely intended to do so, sent Helen off on a different tangent about the trials and tribulations of arthritic fingers and cataracted eyes working on such minute stitchery. Soon, the other ladies were crowded around as well, adding their own complaints masqueraded as anecdotes.

  This left Diana the opportunity to once more contemplate Aunt Belinda’s last bit of quilting work. She couldn’t help but remember her dreams from last night—so different from the smothering, darkling ones she’d first had upon arriving in Damariscotta. In fact, she hadn’t had the dream of being smothered since receiving the results of the autopsy report. Since confirming that her dream was, in fact, real.

  But last night, Diana had nocturnal visions of a quilt. She'd seen it quite clearly—wrapping around her arms and legs, smothering her and then being pulled away. And there was a snake in a tree, hissing at her, and a fish flopping helplessly at her feet...and then there were Tarot cards, scattered on the ground, blowing into her face from a big wind...and the tattered pages of an old book.

  Even as she stared down at the fabri
c block, she couldn’t peel through the murky memories and draw out whatever it was her subconscious was trying to tell her. Instead, the familiar tom-tom of an encroaching migraine began to throb in her temples and at the back of her skull.

  Just what she needed to have happen here, in the midst of these busybodies.

  As if honed in on their guest’s very existence, Rose Bettinger asked, “Are you feeling all right, Diana? You’re looking pale now.”

  “I'm starting to develop a terrible headache,” Diana told her, “and I've found the best way to handle it is to lie down in the dark after popping a few aspirin.”

  “A migraine?” Marc asked, looking at her with concern.

  “Likely. I have a history of them.” She scanned the group, seeing Helen's pointed face sharpen as her excuses were made, and Martha Woden leaning over to Pauline, who was whispering in her ear—no doubt repeating the entire conversation for the hard-of-hearing woman.

  “Let me give you a ride home,” said Marc. “Migraines can be debilitating, and you don’t want to be behind the wheel if that happens.”

  “No, thank you—I don't have far to go, and it’s just beginning. I’ll have plenty of time to get home and lie down.”

  “Are you certain?” asked Marc, suddenly behind her. “My office is closer. You could lie down there in a dark room until it passes. And I might have something stronger than what you’re used to taking.”

  Diana picked up her pocketbook and forced a smile onto him. “Thank you for your concern, but this doesn't seem to be anything more debilitating than a regular, need-to-rest, throbbing headache. But I do appreciate your help.”

  “I’d feel better if you’d stop in for an exam,” Marc insisted. “Some time. Any time—I’ll fit you in. There are many new drugs on the market that might help.”

  She agreed to do so and made her escape, as she’d come to think of it, then got behind the wheel of her Lexus to drive back to Aunt Belinda’s house. Popping two pills and slugging them down with a big coffee—a habit she had yet to fully break, even here in Damariscotta—she drove off through the small town to the winding, country roads that would take her home, hoping she would get to the house before the flashes of light and shadow obscured her eyesight. Her cell phone dinged and chimed, announcing text messages and voice mails that had obviously been saved up until she was in range of a tower, but she couldn’t check them now.

  Diana drove up the drive to the clapboard house in the nick of time, and had to fairly feel her way through the front door. The pills had kept the nausea at bay, but her head pounded and her vision was becoming increasingly shattered. The settee in the den was the closest horizontal place to rest, and she sank onto it gratefully.

  Sometime later, she was awakened by something soft kneading her belly. Opening her eyes cautiously, she found herself face to face with Motto, who’d obviously decided that Diana’s midriff was a good place to take a nap.

  The migraine was gone, and Diana sat up gingerly, taking care not to displace the aloof feline. Doc Horner had been kind enough to keep the cats while their new mistress was in Boston, but since she’d returned, both Motto and Arty had seemed pleased to see her. At least, they’d actually made appearances when she fed them, and once Motto had actually come when Diana called.

  Just then she realized someone was knocking at the front door. Can’t be Ethan. He’d just walk in, she thought with a rush of affection and a secret smile. And besides...he wasn’t due back to Damariscotta for another few days.

  It could be Marc, checking up on her, she thought with a bump of irritation.

  When she tried to pick up Motto to carry him with her to answer the knocking, the cat would have none of it and jumped out of her arms. As Diana came out of the den, she saw the murky impression of a man’s figure through the frosted glass of the door and stopped in shock.

  It looked like Jonathan. It couldn’t be Jonathan.

  Why would he be here in Damariscotta? And in the middle of the week?

  But it was Jonathan. Diana couldn’t have been more surprised when she flung open the door and found him standing on Aunt Belinda’s porch. “Hi, Jonathan...what are you doing here?”

  His face was weary and strained, his eyes bloodshot. There were deep grooves in his cheeks and around the nose. He looked terrible. “I tried to call you. Text you. You’ve been ignoring me.”

  Diana couldn’t deny that. “So you came up from Boston to Maine because I wasn’t taking your calls?” A flash of nervousness rushed through her. Was he stalking her? Erm, yes, a man who drove five hours to see a woman who was ignoring him could certainly be considered stalking her. Her insides shifted in alarm.

  “I need you, Di,” he said. “I needed to see you. I want you back. And I thought I’d better bring this to you.” He produced a manila envelope.

  She took it, aware that her body was thrumming with apprehension and anticipation, but her nervousness eased. “A letter...from Aunt Belinda?” How could a dead woman send a letter?

  “I found this behind the desk in the den. I was cleaning out...after you left. It must have gotten mixed up with some junk mail, and then slid down behind the desk.”

  “It’s postmarked the day after she died,” Diana said, staring at it. The hair over her entire body seemed to be standing on end, and her nerve endings sizzled.

  “I noticed that. She must have mailed it on Sunday, because she died that night,” Jonathan pointed out.

  “I can't believe it. But you didn't have to drive this all the way up here, Jonathan.”

  “I just thought you'd want it right away, since it is the last thing you have from your aunt—except for her money, of course.” Jonathan's voice held a twinge of something unlikable woven in it. “And...I wanted to see you. Won’t you let me come in?” He started toward the door, but she didn’t move out of his way. “So we can talk?”

  “Jonathan, I told you. It’s over. There’s no chance of us getting back together. I’m seeing someone else,” she added.

  He stepped back as if stung. “You’re—you are?” His expression turned hard. “You don’t need to lie about it, Diana.”

  “I’m not lying,” she replied, wondering why it was so unbelievable to him that she’d found someone else. Just because she hadn’t dated in years before meeting Jonathan didn’t mean she was unattractive to men. It didn’t.

  “But...what about us?” he asked. “We were going to get married. I want to marry you, Diana. Please let me come in.” He put his hand on the door and she felt him pushing on it.

  “Jonathan,” she said firmly, a little frisson of nervousness jittering through her, “you need to leave. Thank you for bringing me this letter, but you need to leave now.”

  “Diana, you’re being ridiculous.” Jonathan's voice was short and abrupt. “Why don't we go in and talk about this. You’re a wealthy woman now, you know, and that makes you easy prey for a man. I already loved you and wanted to marry you before your aunt died,” he said. “I love you, not your money.”

  Despite the discomfort his words caused, she was firm. “You aren't listening to me. I don't want you to—”

  Her words were cut off by his sharp voice. “Diana, I didn't come all the way up here to drive back to Boston tonight. Now, please. I'm your fiancé and I have a right to be here if I want to be.” He gave the door a little push and the force caused her to stagger a bit.

  She gave a surprised cry. “You aren’t my fiancé, and I’m telling you to leave. Now.” Already, she was calculating which was closer: Uncle Tracer’s rifle or the pepper spray in her purse. Just in case.

  Just then, Diana caught a movement from the woods at the edge of the property. The next thing she knew, a streak of black bolted from the tall grass and bounded across the lawn. And all at once, Cady was there, on the porch, growl-barking at Jonathan.

  She didn’t look pleased.

  Diana’s heart gave a delicious little thump and she looked over, expecting Ethan to come striding out of the woods tha
t divided their properties. But it wasn’t Ethan. It was Joe Cap who came ambling into view, as if he had all the time in the world.

  “Hello Cady,” Diana said, crouching to greet the black lab. She did it before she realized she was actually face to face with the massive beast, close enough to those big wicked teeth that she could be grabbed by the throat with them. But Diana was so glad to see Cady that she hardly flinched when the big pink tongue swiped her across the cheek.

  Once having properly greeted Diana, the dog was back on duty, sneering up at Jonathan, who’d backed away as soon as the lab clattered onto the porch. “Who’s this?” he managed to say over Cady’s barking. “Nice doggie.”

  “Hiya there Diana,” said Joe Cap as he approached. His gaze went from Diana to Jonathan and back again, curious and observant. “Nice to see you back in town. Everything okay here?”

  “Everything’s just fine,” she said, absently patting the lab on her head. “Jonathan delivered something for me, and he was just leaving.”

  To her relief, Jonathan took the cue and turned away. “Goodbye, Diana,” he said, walking off the porch to his car.

  She and Joe watched as he got in and drove away, then she said, “Any news?”

  “Nope,” he replied. “Sorry to interrupt,” he added, glancing at her, then at the empty drive down which Jonathan had just disappeared, and then to Cady. “I took her over to Ethan’s place to check up on it and she got away from me.”

  “You didn’t interrupt,” she told him, looking down at the manila envelope. A spike of nerves and excitement mixed with fear had her sounding distracted. She had to read this letter, and she wanted to read it without any further delay. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to take care of this,” she said, flapping the envelope at him. “It’s...important.” Her insides were all aflutter.