Sinister Secrets

by Colleen Gleason

  She decided that if something like I Am Legend ever happened, she’d definitely take up residence in a library.

  In hopes of ensuring the sanding guys would be gone by the time she got home, Leslie wandered through the children’s books section and found many of her childhood favorites. And then, because she was really feeling down and more than a little sadistic, she searched out the old historical romance novel about the blacksmith she’d read to pieces over the years.

  Whether it was fate or just good luck, she didn’t know—but not only did the library have the book, it was for sale in the used book section. The paperback—titled Love’s Forbidden Caress, by Theodora MacKenzie—was just waiting for her, with its aged taupe pages, bent cover in lurid pinks, golds, and oranges, and creased binding. Leslie snatched it up and enthusiastically paid a dollar for it at the library counter.

  That would be one way to mourn the loss of her true-life blacksmith tonight.

  Then, finally, she went to the newspaper archives to do some real work.

  Everything was on microfilm, so it was easy to ask for May through June of 1985—the year Kristen van Gerste had been killed. Then it just took a little time skimming through the daily papers until she found the right one. Prom would have been on a Friday or Saturday, she reasoned, so the photos would have been on Saturday or Sunday.

  She was just getting into the hang of loading the microfilm into the viewing machine and skimming through it with a smooth, satisfactory whir when she found it.

  The headline leaped out at her: Prom Queen Found Dead. She shuddered; that sounded like something out of a Stephen King novel.

  A large photo of Kristen van Gerste was there on the front page, and the moment she saw it, Leslie gasped audibly. There was no doubt. It had to be Kristen who was haunting Shenstone House—for in the photo, which was in color, the lovely young woman was wearing the legendary topazes, long white gloves…and a thick pink wrap that looked like velvet.

  She’d found her ghost.

  And, quite possibly, had uncovered a lot more questions about the murder from thirty years ago.

  And now—

  “Well, hello, Leslie.”

  She jolted, looking up to find John Fischer standing there. He was holding a box of microfilm rolls as well.

  “Doing some research?” he asked, glancing toward the screen.

  “Yes. You too?”

  “As a matter of fact I am.” He smiled and gestured with the small cardboard box. The rolls shuffled inside. “Just finishing up, actually. And I’m so happy to have run into you. Because I happened to be doing some research about old houses—for my project, you know—and I came across some interesting information about houses built in the same era as Shenstone. They built expertly hidden cabinets to hide liquor from the fuzz—as they called them,” he added with a grin, “and this article had some mention of the ways they’d mask them from the authorities, who were pretty good about finding hidden caches. I noticed something at Shenstone when you were showing me and Mrs. Bergstrom around the other day that could possibly be one of those well-hidden cabinets…I was wondering if you’d let me come by and show you sometime.”

  Leslie had turned off the microfilm reader and removed the roll. She’d found what she needed; now she just had to figure out what to do next to put Kristen’s ghost to rest—a necessity before the inn could be opened for business.

  But John’s idea sounded just as intriguing. She’d pretty much exhausted all of her own ideas for where the gems might be hidden; she was open to hearing others. “Sure. I was just getting ready to head back home now, and I don’t have any other plans tonight.”

  Unfortunately.

  “As a matter of fact, neither do I—other than taking all my research back to the inn and typing it up. Which is just as boring as it sounds.” He smiled behind his beard.

  Just then, a well-modulated female voice came over the loudspeaker. “Attention, library patrons: the library will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please bring your selections to the circulation desk as soon as possible. Please return any checked-out reference materials to the appropriate desk.”

  “Oh, wow,” Leslie said, shoving the roll of microfilm into its box. “I had no idea it was almost six o’clock.” She stood. “I guess I’d better return these to the desk… So, anyway, John—I should be home and have all my stuff put away by seven-thirty or so. I was in Grand Rapids most of the day while they were sanding my floors, and the workers should be gone by now. Is sometime around eight tonight a good time for you to come by?”

  John smiled with delight. “Absolutely. I’ll be there at eight. How about I bring a bottle of wine?”

  “Thanks for coming over, Dec,” Baxter said as he opened the door to what he called his “tasting room.” Really, it was just an excuse for a tricked-out man cave that he could write off as a business expense, for the walkout basement part of his house was licensed as a commercial kitchen. This brewing and bottling area was set off from the “tasting area” by a half-wall and chrome counter.

  “No problem, bud. You sounded pretty upset.”

  And besides, what else would Declan be doing on a Friday night? Stephanie was at an away football game and was spending the night at a friend’s house after. Which should have been a boon for Declan—except that things had gone to shit last night at Leslie’s house, and now he didn’t have anything else to do but sit around and brood. Hanging out with Bax was far better than that, and marginally better than working at his forge on a project for the woman with whom he should have been hanging out.

  Somehow he’d lost his mojo when it came to wanting to work on those sexy spiral iron bars. The thought of making them just right, of coaxing those babies into the perfect curve, wasn’t as much of a pleasure anymore.

  Yet another reason not to get involved with a client: it put a damper on finishing the project.

  However, Declan was glad Steph’s game was away, for otherwise he might have found himself face to face with—or, even more awkward, sitting next to—Emily Delton.

  He sank down in one of the dark brown club chairs in front of the biggest wall-sized TV he’d ever seen. Weighed at least two hundred pounds. He knew this for a fact because he and Ethan Murphy had helped to move the mother down the hill and into the walkout basement a few months ago. He told Baxter the only way the damned thing was going back out was in pieces.

  Strangely enough, Baxter looked about as tense and unhappy as Declan himself felt. He handed him a dark brown bottle. “You got here in good time. I just got home from the police station.”

  “The police station?” Declan froze from reaching for a bottle opener. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “You know I was supposed to meet Marcus Levin the other night—last night, it was. He’d agreed to give me an endorsement for the Wicks Hollow Straw Lager, and I was going to get it on video, and buy him dinner, and all that.”

  “Right. And congrats, by the way. That’s really going to help the stuff sell even better than before.”

  “Yeah, well…it’s not quite going to work out that way.” Baxter looked at the beer he’d opened but hadn’t touched, as if he’d never seen it before, then put it aside. Declan thought he was looking a little gray under his dark skin. “He called to reschedule and we set it up for tonight instead.”

  “So what happened? He stand you up? Change his mind?”

  “No. I found him. With his head bashed in.”

  Declan gaped, setting his bottle on the table next to him without even looking. “Are you telling me you found Marcus Levin’s dead body and he was murdered?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. With a five iron. His five iron, I suppose.”

  “Where? Where did you find him?” And Declan thought he was having a bad day. “When?”

  “At the high school, up by the football stadium. We were going to meet there so I could do the video in the press box, you know, with the football field down below—for atmosphere. Like he was casting
a game, but instead he was talking about Wicks Hollow Straw. Man, you gotta wonder if it coulda been me too if I’d been with him.” Baxter shuddered.

  “You mean he was killed at the high school?” Declan went cold and still. Stephanie had been there just a few hours earlier. “Where? When? Weren’t there people around?”

  Stephanie had been on the same grounds as a murderer.

  That realization was sinking in like a heavy lead ball melting into his consciousness. He stood, his fingers shaking a little, and pulled the phone out of his pocket. He’d text her to make sure she was all right.

  “It was in the back behind the bleachers—in the coaches’ parking lot up near the locker room. Not a well-traveled area on a night when there’s no football game. I doubt anyone was around, and one of the floodlights was out too.”

  Declan had calmed down slightly by now. After all, Stephanie had been with the entire pom team, plus the football team, the cheerleaders and the marching band, boarding buses for the away game by four-thirty…and surely if something had happened to anyone, he’d know by now. It was after ten o’clock, so the game they were at was probably in the fourth quarter, if not already over.

  “When did you find him?” he asked again, still watching the phone for a text from his daughter. Or anyone else who might care to contact him. Not that he was expecting or wanting anyone to.

  Declan went a little colder. Leslie’s house wasn’t that far from the high school. Just through the woods and up the hill… He swallowed hard. Good God, I hope she remembered to lock the door like I told her.

  He looked at his phone. Maybe he should text and see if she was all right. Let her know. He hesitated, and realized Baxter was still speaking.

  “Eight-thirty. A little before eight-thirty I found him. Looked like he hadn’t been there all that long, either. I mean…I went over to him and touched his hand—you know, just to make sure—and it was warm. And…and the blood was still—” Baxter’s expression changed and he gave a weird swallow—like he’d thrown up a little in his mouth.

  “Christ,” Declan said, shaking his head. “Who’d have wanted to do something like that? I mean, was it random or was it because he was Marcus Levin? Did the police say anything? Did it look like he’d been robbed or carjacked?”

  “No. His car was there, and so were the golf clubs in the back seat. And you know Joe Cap—always pretty solid but keeps it close to the vest. I mean, Helga van Hest was the one who came out when I called it in—let me tell you, it wasn’t pretty knowing I’d just puked in the bushes, and then here comes that Dutch Amazon, standing there with her handcuffs and sidearm looking at me like I was a pathetic fool.” Bax laughed uneasily. “First dead body I ever saw. And there was a lot of blood. Plus his skull was…crunched.” He shuddered and looked at his beer as if deciding whether he was brave enough to take a swig.

  Apparently he wasn’t, because he kept talking instead. “Anyhow, Joe Cap showed up not long after and took over, of course—and he wasn’t going to tell me much, though he asked a lot of questions. As for whether it was random or not…I dunno. Levin’s kind of—or was kind of—a celebrity, being a news anchor and all, but he’s—was—pretty much a real prick. Real full of himself because he played for the NFL till he torqued up his knee. Now he’s on TV. Could be anyone who got tired of his bullshit, you know?”

  “Right. Wow. I can’t believe we were just sitting in the press box with him at the game the other night, and now he’s murdered.” Declan sobered even more. He’d never known anyone, even distantly, who’d been killed. It kind of put life into perspective with a large, sharp jolt.

  “I know.” Baxter looked at his untouched beer and let it be. He clearly wasn’t in the mood to taste it. “I called the editor of the paper and told him I’d get him the story by midnight. Talk about an eyewitness. It sure as hell won’t take me long to write it—I don’t have to interview anyone about the crime scene.” He laughed hollowly. “Lucky me. I think that image’s gonna be haunting my nightmares for a while.”

  Declan grimaced, then sipped his beer. It didn’t taste very good to him either, so he set it down. Just then, his phone lit up and began to ring.

  Not who he was expecting, or even hoping for. “Sorry, bud, but I’m going to take this—it’s my cousin Teddy finally calling me back.” He answered, “Geez, nice of you to find the time for the little people, Teddy.”

  Teddy Mack, aka New York Times and international mega-bestselling author T. J. Mack, laughed over the line. “Sorry, Dec—I was in Frankfurt and London, and it’s ridiculous to call back home on my cell. I tried to text you but I don’t think it went through. But I’m back Stateside now.”

  “London, huh? What were you doing there? Book tour?”

  “Meeting with my UK publisher, and before that I was in Frankfurt for the big book fair.”

  “What a life,” Declan said, sinking back into his club chair and not feeling one iota of envy. Not even a twinge, except… “How’s it going with that guy you were seeing?” Last he’d heard, things had been very hot and heavy—and very happy—for his cousin.

  “Things aren’t going much at all with him anymore.” She sighed. “He’s a nice guy—a really nice guy—but…well, it’s a long story. Maybe someday I’ll tell you about it. The next time you come visit me in New York…?” she said suggestively. “You could write it off—I’ve got some iron scrollwork that needs to be done for my new brownstone. You’ve been putting me off for months now, Dec.”

  “That would be great.” Maybe he’d even do that sooner rather than later—get out of town for a while and clear his head. Of course, now that he had Stephanie…he couldn’t just up and go.

  Damn.

  “Any time between now and January—that’s when I start my next book. So, what were you calling about? What’s up?” Teddy asked.

  “Besides wanting to catch up with my favorite cousin,” he said, smiling and imagining Teddy rolling her eyes, “I wanted to ask you about Jeremy Fischer. Do you know him? Have you met him?”

  “Yes,” she said cautiously. “I’ve met Jeremy Fischer a number of times. We happen to have the same agent, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh, great, because…he’s here in Wicks Hollow. And I just wanted to get any dirt—uh, I mean—any information on him you might have. He’s—uh—getting kind of friendly with one of the local women here, and, well…I wouldn’t want her to get hurt or anything.”

  Lie, lie, lie…and maybe it didn’t matter anymore, now that he and Leslie were…whatever they were. But there was something about the Fischer guy that’d bothered him when they met at Orbra’s the other day. Something about him didn’t sit right. Something was off.

  “You said Jeremy Fischer. You’re saying the author Jeremy Fischer is in Wicks Hollow?”

  “Yes, that’s right. He’s staying at an inn, supposedly working on his new project, but he’s not really telling anyone it’s him—”

  “That’s because it’s not him.”

  Declan sat up straight. “What do you mean? How do you know? Was he at the book fair with you?”

  “No, no, Jeremy Fischer is utterly reclusive and never goes to anything like that. Never even does book tours—smart decision, I have to say. That’s because it’s a closely guarded secret that Jeremy Fischer—the author of the Bruno Tablenture books—is a little old lady of about sixty years old. Never held a gun in her life.”

  Eighteen

  I hope I’m doing the right thing, Declan thought as he once more drove up the driveway to Shenstone House, uninvited.

  Of course he was doing the right thing.

  Even if he and Leslie were…whatever they were—or weren’t—anymore, it was the right thing to do. The safest, smartest, most caring thing to do—and he’d be doing it for any person he knew.

  Especially since someone had just had their head bashed in less than a mile away from Leslie’s house.

  He gripped the steering wheel tightly and took slow, deep breaths. There
was no reason to think that John Fischer—if that was even his real name—intended Leslie any harm.

  What reason would he have to hurt her?

  What reason would he have to lie about who he was?

  Declan looked at his phone. He really should call Joe Cap and tell him what was going on. Just in case.

  Instead of barreling up the driveway and showing up, with figurative guns blasting like a hero, maybe he should at least let the cops know. After all, they were in the middle of a murder investigation.

  He stopped the car halfway up the drive, out of sight from the house, and called Joe Cap’s personal cell phone number, which he had because they’d become fishing buddies out on Wicks Lake last summer, with Ethan and Bax.

  “It’s Declan—I know you’re busy. But I think you should know something.”

  “You talked to Baxter, then?”

  “Yes, I just left his house. He told me everything. Listen,” he said, “I just found out that the man who everyone thinks is Jeremy Fischer—”

  “The big celebrity author?”

  “Yeah, him. Well, I just found out from my cousin, who knows Jeremy Fischer, that the man who is here in town calling himself John Fischer and pretending to be the author isn’t Jeremy Fischer. I thought under the circumstances, with a murder investigation, you’d want to know.”

  “Are you certain about this?” Declan could tell he had the police chief’s full attention now.

  “Absolutely. My cousin knows Jeremy Fischer personally.” That was all he needed to say. “Trust me. It can’t be him. And here’s the other thing…the reason I’m calling right now. I just found this out, and I tried to contact Leslie Nakano to let her know, because she and Fischer were somewhat friendly and I found out through Cherry that Fischer was coming over to her house tonight. I never heard back from Leslie, I mean, so I contacted Cherry. So that worries me a lot.”