Sinister Secrets

by Colleen Gleason

  “Going to have to hire a good snow-removal service,” she said aloud. Yet another thing to add to her—

  An odd movement among the trees brought her up short, and Leslie slammed on the brakes. Her tires ground sharply on the stony drive and she jerked a little behind the seatbelt. What was that?

  Her heart thudded and she peered into the darkness, but the trees and brush were too thick, growing halfway over the opening so that they almost made a canopy and cutting out the moon and stars above. She could hardly make out anything but dark shapes among more dark shapes.

  Leslie frowned, watching for a long while, then finally began to make her way down the hill. Whatever she’d seen could just as easily have been a deer as anything else. A shifting of a sapling, even. A dog. A person.

  Then she let out a sigh of relief. It was probably Declan. He said he’d walked. It was a lot more of a direct route, cutting through the woods rather than going down the curving driveway. Maybe he’d gotten another phone call and didn’t leave right away.

  Or maybe it had just been an animal. There were lots of deer around here. Most likely of all, it had been a trick of the eye—for she’d seen the movement in her peripheral vision.

  Leslie put the thought out of her mind. She had news—big news—to share with Aunt Cherry, and she couldn’t wait.

  The best eatery in town was called Trib’s, and it was packed with locals on this Thursday night. Delicious smells along with the sound of live acoustic guitar, underscored by conversation, burst through the door as soon as Leslie opened it.

  Though Trib’s was considered a pub, its ambience was about as far from the quintessential English public house as Wicks Hollow was from Philadelphia. Inside, the walls were exposed brick behind artfully “torn” wallpapered plasterboard, the ceiling was high, and it was lined with industrial pipes and tiny hanging crystal lights. The art was loud, colorful, and exclusively Andy Warhol.

  Leslie found Aunt Cherry—along with Orbra, Iva Bergstrom, and a distinguished-looking man who must be the infamous Hollis Nath—sitting at a round table beneath a four-foot-square print of Warhol’s tomato soup can piece. There were several empty chairs at the table, and for a moment, Leslie feared they were to be joined by Maxine Took, her peremptory cane, and her squabbling companion Juanita.

  Her apprehension must have been written on her face, for Cherry laughed and pointed to an empty seat. “Don’t worry—Maxine already ate. She and Juanita have been staking out the Sunflower House, in hopes of capturing—I mean catching—John Fischer. Neither of them will be here tonight. Sit! We’ve been waiting to order till you got here.”

  “I’m so sorry! We lost track of time, and—” Leslie clamped her lips together and picked up the menu to scrutinize its extensive beer list. “Are there any good wheat beers on here?”

  “We?” Cherry jumped on the pronoun as Leslie had known she would. Meddling auntie. “Who’s we?”

  Damn. “Declan Zyler stopped by. So, what do you think of this beer Soft Parade? Is it any good?”

  “Declan was over? And you lost track of time?” Orbra pounced before her partner in crime even had the chance. Her eyes were narrow with delight. “Well, well, well—”

  “It was nothing like that,” Leslie said with exasperation. “He just came over to check on something with the railing, and—”

  “If Declan Zyler came over to my house, not only would we lose track of time, he wouldn’t be leaving until the sun came up,” Cherry said with a wicked grin. “At least if you’re not interested in him, will you put in a good word for your cougarly aunt?”

  “Is cougarly even a word?”

  “Oh, so now we’re the grammar police.”

  “Oh, Leslie’s interested in Declan, all right,” Orbra interjected. “Look at her cheeks! They’re turning pink.”

  Leslie rolled her eyes. “That pink you see is nothing more than shame over my aunt’s desperate ways.” Geesh. She hadn’t felt this awkward about her relationship with a man—or lack thereof—since high school.

  Determined to put space between herself and her aunt’s highly charged interest, she turned to greet the older man sitting two seats away from her. Though he was at least seventy, he had a full head of pure white hair and was dressed in a suit and tie despite the informal occasion. “I’m Leslie Nakano. You must be Hollis Nath. I know you’ve met her before, but I’ll apologize in advance for my aunt. She’s…different. Too many failed yoga headstands, I suspect. Her arms just gave out, and clunk—onto her head.”

  Hollis chuckled and shook the hand she extended in greeting. “I confess, I’d rather drive to Chicago with your aunt Cherry than Maxine and Juanita again,” he joked. “At least I was in the front seat and could pretend not to hear them when they tried to get me to take sides.”

  “Now, Hollis, darling,” Iva said with a mock frown. “You know Maxine and Juanita are good people. Loud and argumentative, but good—and smart. After all, they did help to catch that murderer right here in Wicks Hollow last summer. I only wish I’d been there to help!”

  “Well, I, for one, am glad you weren’t tangling with a murderer.”

  “That’s because she was tangling with you instead,” Cherry muttered.

  Leslie smothered a chuckle. Iva and Hollis were an adorable couple: he with his tall frame, thick white hair, and distinguished air, and Iva with her short, perfectly plump figure, round apple cheeks, and bright, sparkling blue eyes.

  Hollis was smiling down at her and Leslie was struck by the naked adoration in his eyes. “When are you going to agree to marry me, Iva, darling?” he said, taking up her hand and bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss.

  “Oh, not that again, Hollis! Why would you want to ruin a perfectly good affair by putting a ring on it?” Iva shook her head, but there was affection in her expression as well.

  “Well, I’d say the question of ruination would depend on the ring,” Orbra muttered.

  “I don’t care what they say—size does matter,” Cherry replied, and they giggled together like two middle school girls.

  “Well, now, you can’t blame a guy for asking, darling. Again.” Hollis laughed and leaned forward to kiss his lady on the cheek, but Leslie thought she saw real sadness lingering in his expression. He really does love her.

  Iva didn’t seem to notice, for she turned to Leslie. “I do hope you’re going to let me come and check out your house. I’m certain I’ll be able to sense whether it’s haunted.”

  Leslie was saved from having to reply by the arrival of the waiter—who turned out to be none other than Trib himself.

  The proprietor was tall and slender, pushing fifty, and had a bleached buzzcut that was just long enough on top to be rakish. He wore a yellow flowered bowtie, sleek rimless eyeglasses that probably cost four figures, and a turquoise polka dot shirt. He looked as if he’d just stepped off a page of Vogue or The Advocate.

  “So at last I get to actually meet the new owner of Shenstone House,” he said with a subtle pout. “I saw the article in the paper today, and am desperate to stop by and see what you’ve done to the inside. Is this your first time here at Trib’s?”

  “Not at all. But usually you’re busy when I’ve come in,” Leslie told him. “A pleasure to finally meet you. I have to say, you’ve got the best pizza I’ve ever had. The Wise Guy—the one with sausage…oh my God, it’s amazing. And there’s something about the sauce…I think you must have laced it with crack or something.”

  “That’s right, sweetie,” Trib said with a pleased nod, as if the compliment was nothing more than his due. “I’m glad you’re back. And with these two ruffians.” He winked broadly at Cherry and Orbra, who were only half listening, as they had their heads together. “What can I get you all?”

  They’d just finished placing their order when the door swept open and two men came in.

  “Oh no. Maxine’s going to have a fit,” Orbra muttered to Iva and Cherry. “We’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Why? W
hat’s— oh, is that the writer?” Leslie was only able to get a glance at the newcomers without rudely craning her head to look.

  “Hell, for all we know he made his escape from her at Sunflower House and that’s why he’s here,” Cherry said with a husky laugh.

  “Is that the mayor with him?” asked Iva, peering through her reading glasses, which she seemed to have forgotten she was wearing. She had turned in her chair, but this left her facing her date, so it wasn’t as obvious she was gawking.

  But no one needed to reply, for the two men had been seen by Trib and he beckoned them over. “There’s no room at the inn but here at this table.” He looked around the crowded restaurant with satisfaction. “And it’s not even high season. Mayor Underwhite, you don’t mind sitting here with these lovely ladies—and a very special gentleman, I might add,” he said with a warm look that was (probably for the best) lost on Hollis Nath.

  “I’d never say no to sitting at a table with such lovely companions,” said Aaron Underwhite. “I hope you don’t mind, Jer—er, John. There doesn’t seem to be anywhere else to sit.”

  “Not at all.” The alleged famous writer directed a smile at the table in general as they chose two of the three open seats. “John Fischer,” he said, shaking everyone’s hand in turn just before taking his seat.

  Until now, Leslie had no idea what the author Jeremy Fischer looked like—his photo didn’t appear on any of his book covers, or even on his website. She guessed it was because of privacy, rather than because of his appearance—for the good-looking man who sat down across from her had no reason to be shy in that area.

  He had soft gray eyes, a broad, square jaw, and a slender nose. His thick coffee-colored hair was worn short and brushed forward on top, as if to hide a receding hairline. It was threaded with gray, especially at the sideburns, and sported a bit of curl at the ends. His beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, and rather than looking like an unkempt vagabond, he simply looked collegiate. The round glasses perched on his nose gave him an air of absentmindedness and studiousness—as if he were mentally focused on whatever book he might be writing, despite sitting in a crowded restaurant.

  “John’s in town working on a project,” said Underwhite with a barely concealed sense of pride. “He needed a quiet place to hole himself up.”

  Jeremy—or John, as he was calling himself—made no comment. Instead, he gave a brief smile then turned to pore over the menu, leaving his companions to wonder about his “project” and whether the rumors were true.

  “Where’s Regina?” asked Orbra. “Should we pull up a chair for her too?”

  “She’ll be here in a few,” replied the mayor. He was about the same age as Fischer and Trib, and he had very short hair that was thinning on top. Underwhite wore a smartly cut, very expensive suit that seemed like overkill in a small town like Wicks Hollow, especially after business hours. He was short and stocky, with ruddy cheeks and soft hands, and exuded an underlying air of importance laced with gregariousness.

  As soon as he ordered a beer, Underwhite turned his attention to Leslie. He flashed perfect white teeth and said, “Pleasure to finally meet you, young lady. Sorry I haven’t been by to give you an official welcome—been very busy with all the big Fall Colors tours. Want to keep those seniors and lovebirds coming back every fall, so I have to be visible as possible. Very pleased to hear things are coming along so well at Shenstone House. Nice article in the Gazette yesterday—Baxter James always does a good job.”

  Young lady? Leslie hadn’t been called “young lady” since she was just out of college. She was barely twenty years younger than the mayor, if that, and she’d dealt with men his age and older for years in the corporate world. She was just about to make a cool retort that might have included the words “older man” when Cherry moved next to her, and there was an instant, sharp pain in her ankle.

  “Oh, did I kick you?” her aunt asked innocently—but there was a flash of warning in her eyes. Be nice.

  Whatever. “Baxter spent a lot of time at the house, looking at all the things I’ve been having done,” Leslie replied briskly. “He took a lot of photos too; said he was going to write an article and submit it to Midwest Living, as well as the Grand Rapids and Chicago papers. Some sort of pre-publicity press.”

  “That’s excellent news,” Underwhite said with a smile. “Baxter knows what he’s doing when it comes to publicity—look at what he’s done with B-Cubed.”

  “B-Cubed?”

  “Baxter’s Beatnik Brews—B-Cubed Beer. His IPA is our most popular local beer, and it’s made right here in Wicks Hollow. Anything that helps a local business, like yours or his, helps Wicks Hollow—and vice versa. I sure hope we’ll see you at the Chamber of Commerce and Business District meetings in the near future.” The mild rebuke—she hadn’t yet been to either one—was such that Leslie couldn’t take offense. Underwhite was right: as a business owner, she would want to be involved in those meetings.

  “As soon as things settle down with the main contract work, you can bet I’ll be there,” she replied.

  “We’ll look forward to it.”

  It was on the tip of Leslie’s tongue to tell Cherry and Orbra that she and Declan had discovered a hidden speakeasy when a waiter arrived with their beer—including one by B-Cubed.

  Conversation turned, not so accidentally, to books—with Cherry and Orbra doing their best to draw John Fischer into conversation about his suspected contemporaries.

  Cherry started it by casually mentioning that she’d just picked up the latest J. D. Robb from the library. Orbra latched on, and was off and running.

  “T. J. Mack is one of my favorites, of course, being as the author’s pretty close to being a Wicks Hollow native,” she said, looking around the table—but pitching her words to make certain Fischer could hear. “I have all the Sargent Blue books on my shelf. They’re just so funny, but they’re suspenseful, too—grab you by the throat and don’t let go the minute you start reading. I also love the Jack Reachers, and those other ones by Harlan Coben—but the Bruno Tablenture books—those are definite auto-buys for me. In hardcover.”

  Wow. Orbra was really buttering up Fischer if she was buying his books in print. Or at least claiming to. Leslie hid a smile as she glanced at the writer. To her surprise, he caught her gaze with his. Humor flashed therein as he winked, then tilted his head to sip from a B-Cubed longneck.

  “So guess what I found,” Leslie said in a low voice to Cherry as the books conversation trundled to a halt. “Or, I should say, we found, today.”

  “What?” Her aunt, more slender and toned at sixty-five than most women were at thirty, had settled in her seat and was eyeing John Fischer speculatively from across the table. “He might be able to keep up with me,” she muttered. “And I’ve never minded a guy with a beard. Not at all. William Reckless had a very sexy one.” She sighed with what sounded like regret. “Too bad he ran off to the monks in Tibet.”

  Leslie shook her head. Cherry had never been married, but she’d had her share of boyfriends over the years—and a wide variety of them. And since she’d grown up during the days of Woodstock, free love, and communes, it was to be expected she’d known many men with beards and long hair.

  “You’ve never dated a novelist, have you?” Leslie asked in an undertone. “A guitar player—two of them, right? A chef, a baseball player, a poli-sci professor—and God knows who else.”

  Cherry grinned and ran a hand through her short, sassy platinum hair. “I’ve done a poet and a self-help author, so I think it’s about time I tried out a fiction writer, don’t you? Unless you’re interested—and he does seem to be checking you out. Although, if you are, then you have to back off on Declan. No fair for you to be hoarding all the foxy men.”

  Leslie’s eyes widened and her cheeks warmed. “Keep your voice down,” she muttered, looking around to make sure no one had heard. “And don’t you want to hear what I found?”

  “Oh, right. Do tell! Orbry, lean in—Leslie�
��s got news.”

  But before she could begin to tell her tale, a smartly dressed woman approached the table.

  “Ah, Regina’s here,” said Underwhite, standing to greet his wife.

  Leslie had to agree with Maxine’s previous comment: the two made an unusual couple—at least visually. Though they both seemed to be the same age, Mrs. Regina Clemons Underwhite was much more slender than he—nearly as toned and fit as Cherry, but taller. Almost six feet, Leslie guessed, which put her five or six inches above her husband. She dressed as expensively as he did, however, in a tailored shift of Kelly green trimmed with black embroidery at the hem and ends of its long sleeves. Her hair was an unnatural blue-black without a hint of gray, and she looked as if she’d just left the salon.

  As it turned out, she had. “So sorry I’m late,” she said, glancing around the table. “Emily was running behind, and I was her last cut tonight. But I don’t trust my hair to anyone else, you know.” She turned to Leslie. “Emily Delton, at the Beau Monde Salon—best stylist and colorist in the county, if you’re looking for someone. Worth waiting for, even if she’s running late. You’re Leslie Nakano, aren’t you? The new owner at Shenstone? I’m so sorry we haven’t met before now—but better late than never. Regina Underwhite.” She smiled pleasantly, her teeth as perfect as her husband’s, which caused Leslie to wonder if they’d used the same orthodontist.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” she said, shaking Regina’s offered hand. “Thanks for the recommendation—I do need to find a new salon and stylist now that I’ve moved to the area, so I’ll give them a call.”

  “Emily books up months in advance, but if you tell them I sent you, I’m sure they’ll fit you in. She always keeps a bit of padding for emergencies.” Regina looked around the table and laughed lightly. “Well, now that we’ve got that settled—I’m sorry I’m late, darling,” she said again. This time, she leaned toward her husband, who’d risen to pull out her chair, and gave him a warm kiss on the lips.