Sinister Secrets

by Colleen Gleason

  Ugh.

  “Do you think it’s safe for me to stay here tonight?” Leslie asked, rising to open the door for the new arrivals.

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  The first answer was from Declan, the second the police chief.

  “Not alone, anyway,” Declan said flatly.

  Longbow glanced at him, pursed his lips thoughtfully, then said, “They’re gone now. If they’d intended any harm, the intruder or intruders would either have stayed hidden—and not otherwise advertised their presence by creating such a disturbance—or have made their move by now. Now, I’m not trying to trivialize the break-in, but I’m leaning toward it being a couple of teenagers messing around, since nothing of value seems to have been taken.”

  “Even though more than half the town and pretty much all of the school was just at the football game?” Declan asked coolly. “Teenagers?”

  Longbow pursed his lips, gave his skepticism an acknowledging nod, then said, “Truthfully, that’s all the more reason to take the opportunity, since no one would be home. Honestly, Ms. Nakano, teenagers have been breaking into this house for as long as I can remember. Even I did it. There’s something about the place that draws the interest.”

  “Well, don’t forget, Diana Iverson had all that trouble over the summer when she came up to stay in her aunt’s house—after her aunt died. That wasn’t teenagers then,” Declan replied.

  “No,” Longbow replied coolly. “It sure wasn’t. There was a murder involved. And we took that investigation just as seriously as I’ll take this one, Declan. You’ll have to trust me on that. But all things considered, at this time my professional opinion is that someone was just doing what teenagers have done for decades. That doesn’t mean I won’t look at all angles.”

  Declan’s lips had firmed, but he gave a nod of acknowledgment.

  Cherry and Orbra had entered the kitchen without speaking so as not to interrupt the conversation, though both of their faces held strains of worry. Leslie smiled up at her aunt when she patted her shoulder then took a seat at the table.

  Just then, the sounds of Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl” bubbled up into the room. Leslie looked over as Declan, whose cheeks were a little ruddier, snatched up his phone.

  “Joe Cap—you better be taking this seriously,” Cherry said. “This is my niece we’re talking about here, living out of town all by herself like this.” Worry made her voice tense and sharp.

  “Now, Cherry, when have I not taken every bit of law breaking seriously? You know me better’n that,” he replied mildly. “And so does Helga. I’ll put her on it too, all right, then? We know which kids are generally troublemakers.”

  He glanced at Orbra, which reminded Leslie that Officer Helga van Hest was Orbra’s granddaughter. She’d met her one summer over the July 4th holidays when they were both teenagers, and they’d had a great weekend. From what she remembered, Helga was a smart, determined, and assertive person—good makings for a cop.

  Leslie bid Captain Longbow goodbye, and agreed to come to the station to fill out paperwork and make her official report the next day. “I hope you’re right that it was just a couple of teenagers,” she said, walking him to the door.

  “Let me know if something else turns up missing. Other than that, we’ll go with that assumption. Good night, Ms. Nakano. Cherry. Orbra.”

  By the time Leslie returned to the table, Declan had hung up his phone. “That was Stephanie. She’s spending the night at a friend’s house tonight.” His words were casual, so surely Leslie was the only one who noticed the disappointment in his tones.

  Their eyes met briefly, then he eased his chair from the table and stood. “Well, I guess I’ll hit the road—if you’re sure you’re all right here?”

  “I’ve got my chaperones,” Leslie replied brightly. But she’d chosen the word purposely to express her own disappointment at the situation—if Stephanie had only called thirty minutes earlier!—and he recognized it, rolling his eyes in agreement. “See you later. Thanks for the ride home. Oh, and watch for the butterscotch cat.”

  By the time she’d walked him to the door—chancing only a brief, subtle brush of fingers to express their mutual sentiment—Leslie turned to find Orbra and Cherry were fluttering around the kitchen—the former making tea (more tea? She’d be up all night!) and the latter digging through the fridge (“Don’t you have anything in here for green smoothies? No kale? You could use a burst of energy, Les”).

  But as soon as the door was closed and locked and Leslie pushed none too gently into her chair, they were on her. And the first question out of Cherry’s mouth, of course, was: “Are you having sex with that man? Because if you aren’t, there is something very wrong with you, Leslie Annette!”

  “But more importantly,” Orbra said, fairly slamming a mug onto the table in front of her, “why the hell did you send him home?”

  Eleven

  Declan was hot, sweaty, and his eyeballs were dry and burning behind their protective guard. His bandanna was soaked, his leather gloves suffocating, his ears ringing with the metallic clank of metal on metal.

  But he loved every minute of it: the rhythmic clang-clang-clang whenever he was hammering on a piece of iron, the way its fired end glowed like an asteroid, the way it made such a satisfactory zip-like sizzling sound whenever he plunged it into a tub of water.

  He didn’t mind that he tasted salt whenever he paused to think and plan the angle of the next blow, and how many more strikes until the curve would be just right. He didn’t mind the smell of his sweat—the clean scent of good, hard work—for it was the sign of a job in process. Of creation.

  And the heat…well, he didn’t mind that either, because pretty much everywhere else on earth was cooler than his workshop, so the minute he stepped out of the place, it was a relief. Sure, the occasional sears he got when he wasn’t paying attention, or the random sparks that flew and landed on, say, the side of his neck or chin—the only parts that were really exposed—were an annoyance. But even with the familiar scent of singed flesh, blacksmithing was a great occupation.

  He got to take out any aggressions he might have—and there were days when he had many—on whatever iron bar he was forcing into shape. And then there were days like today, Saturday, when he was in a great mood and the rhythm of his hammer striking the heated iron bar fell in blows that matched whatever song was in his head.

  Literal heavy metal music.

  He grinned to himself at the old blacksmith’s joke and slid back into AC/DC’s classic “You Shook Me All (strike!) Night (strike!) Long (strike, strike, strike!).”

  For some reason, that tune brought to mind Leslie Nakano: celebrity CEO, cat lover, wordsmith, and ghost hunter. And magnificent kisser. Oh, indeed.

  He pretty much hadn’t stopped thinking about those few moments of bliss, with her legs wrapped around his waist as she perched on the counter in her kitchen and gave it back as good as she got. Hoo boy. He was hoping to finish this piece of the railing so he could have a reason to stop by and show—

  “Dad!”

  Declan abruptly returned to the moment, his goofy grin fading when he realized Stephanie had been standing there, trying to get his attention, for quite some time. He’d warned her not to startle him when he was working, and had shown her where in the workshop was the safe area in which she could stand.

  He lifted the hand holding his hammer in a “wait a sec” gesture, then gave one final clang and nodded with satisfaction at the nice curve that was taking shape. Then he shoved it back into the brick-oven forge for a few.

  Turning back around, he stripped off his goggles and, stepping away from the work area, pulled off his heavy gloves and the heavy canvas work apron, hanging them in their places. Immediately, he was cooler—for beneath he was only wearing one of his old tees that had the sleeves torn off and most of the sides as well, for ventilation.

  He snagged a towel and mopped off his face—and that was when he realized two of Ste
phanie’s friends were with her. They (not his daughter, thank God) were staring at him with, he suspected, the same sort of goofy expression he’d just had thinking about Leslie Nakano’s sweet ass settling on the granite while he kissed the life out of her.

  He paused from mopping the sweat off his face, and realized one of the girls was Emily Delton’s daughter Brooklyn. She was ogling his sweaty biceps like she wanted to dry them off herself.

  Good Lord. He sure as hell hoped he was mistaken about that.

  “What’s up?” He spun, walking over to turn down the volume of Back in Black, one of his favorite albums to crank up while he was working—and to put some space between him and the groupies.

  “Here, Dad,” Stephanie said, and shoved a button-down shirt at him. Christ, was she embarrassed too? But he could relate. It must be like the time she was walking toward him on the beach in one of those damn little bikinis the girls all seemed to wear now and he got to watch how all the young men noticed her—no, ogled, slathered, drooled—as she strolled by.

  Mortifying.

  “Thanks. What’s up?” he asked again, acutely aware of the blushes—yet avid looks—that had colored the faces of his daughter’s friends. Awk-ward, as Steph would say. He began to struggle into the shirt—which was easier said than done, considering how damp and sweaty he was.

  “We’re leaving, Dad! I just came to let you know. You’ll be at Paul Hammady’s house by six, right?”

  He realized for the first time that his daughter’s hair was twisted up in a fancy style for which he’d paid an unreal amount of money, and that she was holding a garment bag and a pair of impossibly high-heeled shoes.

  You’re going to break your neck walking in those, he wanted to say. Forget about dancing. But he didn’t. He was still feeling his way around as the new dad, and wasn’t completely certain what his boundaries were—both in general, and in front of her friends.

  God help him if she ever got a boyfriend.

  Which…would be over his dead body. At least until she was thirty.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have an official date for tonight’s dance. It was just a group of friends—both guys and gals—eating dinner, then going together. He heartily approved.

  “Right. I’ll be there. Six o’clock at Hammadys’ house. You left me the address?”

  “I texted it to you yesterday, Dad.”

  “Right. Thanks. Okay, I’ll see you then.”

  “I guess all the parents are going out for dinner after,” Stephanie added with a sly look after her friends had stepped out of earshot. “I told Brooklyn’s mom you’d definitely want to go.”

  “All right. Thanks,” he said, then, despite the stinky sweatiness of himself, gave her a good smacking kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you there. You look great so far. I can’t wait to see you in your dress.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” she said, smiling. “And by the way,” she said, leaning toward him with a furtive glance toward her friends’ backs, her brow furrowing with disgust, “you should know they were creeping pics of you on their cell phones while you were working. I just hope they don’t tag me when they post them online.”

  What? Holy crap—post them online? What the hell?

  But Declan couldn’t even get the words out—he didn’t even know where to begin—before Stephanie was gone.

  How did this happen to me? he wondered, turning around aimlessly. How did I get to be the father of a teenager whose friends take pictures of me on their cell phones?

  His face was hot and flaming now, and it had nothing to do with the furnace or his work. Sonofabitch, if Baxter or Ethan ever heard about this, he was never going to live it down. If Emily Delton found out… Good God. Or Leslie…

  Jesus. I need a damned beer.

  But the forge was calling him, and if he got back to it, he could finish the main curve of that piece before he had to get in the shower and make himself presentable for the Homecoming Dance picture fest. As that might take some time, he mused, he figured he’d better get back to work.

  By the time Declan emerged from his work, it was almost five. He swore when he saw the time—and the number of texts and voice mails that had come through while he was jamming to AC/DC and Nirvana.

  At first, his heart leaped into his throat when he saw all of them from Stephanie, and a few calls and texts from a number that was familiar but he didn’t recognize. What had happened?

  But he calmed down after he realized if something was really wrong, someone would have come pounding on the door of the workshop…and then he smiled. The familiar number might be Leslie Nakano’s. It probably was, after all, checking in after last night…

  Like a responsible father, though, he read the six texts from Stephanie first.

  Mrs. Delton’s car won’t start. She really wants to be here for the pics. I told her you’d pick her up. Okay, Dad? Followed by winky face and laughing face.

  The rest of the texts were along the same line: Dad? Can you please get back to her? I told her you’d pick her up.

  Where are you????????? You get mad if I don’t answer YOUR texts right away!

  And so on.

  And the semi-familiar number…not Leslie Nakano, but Emily Delton.

  With a sigh, Declan responded to Emily’s text. Sure. I’ll be there at 5:50 to pick you up. Sorry for delay. Was working.

  Emily responded immediately with her thanks, and that she’d see him then.

  Dec managed to put away his work, shower, shave, pick out something decent to wear, and get out the door just in time. It was only then he realized he hadn’t eaten since the coffee and peanut-butter-slathered toast he’d had at eight that morning. A two-dollar granola bar would be pretty good about now—but he’d left without snagging one. If there were even any left.

  And he was almost to Emily’s when he remembered he hadn’t brought the piece he’d been working on that he wanted to show Leslie.

  “Thank you so much for picking me up!” Emily said breathlessly as she climbed into his truck in a waft of perfume. She smiled at him as she buckled the seatbelt around a trim waist below great tits showcased in a black V-neck tee. She wore a black leather jacket too—for, of course, Michigan had shifted her mood from bitterly cold to pleasantly cool since last night. “Brooklyn would have been so disappointed if I wasn’t there to take pictures. You know how they are about things like this.”

  Right. The girls who had cell phone cameras attached to their hands like another appendage and took photos of everything would have been traumatized if their parents missed the chance to take even more pictures of them…

  But Declan didn’t say a thing. He was happy to go and take pictures of Stephanie and her friends tonight—and even more happy that she’d asked him to. He just found it amusing that anyone would think the moment would be lost if one parent missed the photo-taking opportunity.

  “What’s wrong with your car?” he asked.

  “I’m not really sure,” she said. “It wouldn’t start, and then it kind of did and then sounded really rough…I thought it might be better if I didn’t try and drive it tonight. Just in case I couldn’t get it started when it was time to go home after dinner. You don’t mind driving me back after, do you?”

  Uh. “Sure. No problem,” he said before he realized what he’d just committed to. “We’ll get you home,” he added vaguely.

  Hell, he hadn’t even planned to go to dinner with the other parents after the picture taking…but then again, it would be a good idea to get to know the parents of the kids his daughter was hanging around with. And, of course, he was a small business owner, and you never knew where your next job was going to come from. And he hadn’t eaten, so he’d be ravenous by then (how long did these picture-taking events take, anyway?).

  Still…Declan had an uneasy sense that he’d just been neatly manipulated into a situation he didn’t really want to be in.

  He just hoped he’d have the chance to see Leslie as soon as he could escape from the clutches of teen
ager fatherhood.

  Leslie clawed herself out of a deep sleep and looked groggily at the clock. Six.

  She blinked, combing through the heavy shroud of sleep with effort. It took her more than a moment to assimilate that it was six p.m., not six a.m.

  No, she’d already seen six a.m. today, unfortunately. She’d been more wide awake then than now.

  Leslie sagged back onto her pillow, trying to work the sleep from her eyes and clear her thoughts. That was what happened when you took a three-hour nap late in the day—it didn’t want to let you go because it thought you wanted to sleep for a full seven or eight.

  Nevertheless, five minutes later, she was in the shower and fully awake. And her mind was filled with thoughts of the events of yesterday and today.

  She’d sent Orbra and Cherry home last night after one o’clock. “There’s no need for you to stay here. Joe Cap—why do you call him that?—said he didn’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

  “But the broken window!”

  “You can help me tape it up and then go on home. I’m going to lock everything up, set the exterior lights to stay on, put in earplugs, and have a good shot of bourbon. I’ll sleep like a baby.”

  The two older ladies grumbled and argued, and didn’t agree to leave until Leslie faked them out by looking at her cell phone and pretending to have a text from Declan on it. She let them draw their own conclusions, but noticed it was a lot easier to get them to leave after that.

  Then she did as she told them she would: fixed the lights to stay on, locked up tightly, installed earplugs and put on a sleep mask—and even turned on some white noise on her computer monitor. This was going to be her first night in the house since the ghost’s appearance Wednesday, and Leslie was completely fine if she slept through any supernatural activity.