Sinister Secrets

by Colleen Gleason

Joe swore, short and loud. “Probably worth checking out, I’d say. I’ll get over there—”

  “I’m already here. At Shenstone House. But since I don’t know what he’s up to—if anything, and I’m not packing—I thought you should know. There could be a perfectly innocent reason, and, hell, I could be interrupting a romantic dinner,” Declan said very lightly and humorously, “but something about it doesn’t sit right. I’m afraid Leslie might be in danger. And I’m already here.”

  “Wait for us to get there,” Joe said. “Helga’s off tonight, wouldn’t you know, so I’ll have to call in Pretzel.” His hesitation was understandable, as Officer Fred Pressel, aka Pretzel, was about as thin and salty as his nickname, and pushing sixty years old on top of it.

  Declan’s mouth turned grim. Well, at least Joe knew what he was doing. “I’m pulling up the driveway now. I won’t knock or do anything until you get here.” Maybe.

  “All right. On my way.”

  “No sirens or lights,” Declan added quickly. “In case—”

  “I’ll make that call. Don’t do anything stupid, Zyler. This isn’t like the movies.”

  Declan hung up and continued up the driveway with his headlights turned off. He thought it might be best if he arrived unnoticed, for several reasons—one of which being, if he was terribly wrong and interrupting something innocent, that he didn’t want to announce his mistake. He could just slink off home. In light of this decision, he parked as far away from the house as possible, out of easy sight from the windows.

  What a creeper you are.

  Well, hell, it’s for a good reason.

  The motion-activated lights came on, however, illuminating two cars: Leslie’s and, presumably, Fischer’s.

  Lights were on in the kitchen, but Declan couldn’t see any movement inside. There didn’t seem to be any lamps on in her suite. He wasn’t certain whether that was good or bad.

  Unable to wait, his nerves jumping and thoughts popping, he climbed out of the car and closed the door quietly. Then he slunk up to the house, feeling like nothing more than a burglar himself.

  If Leslie sees me, it’s over.

  But when he got to the kitchen door and saw the scene inside, his heart dropped to his feet and he no longer cared about being circumspect.

  For there, slumped over the table and unmoving, was Leslie. There was a dark puddle of blood on the table…and John Fischer was nowhere to be seen.

  Nineteen

  Leslie heard a voice from far away. It dug into her mind and pulled, dragging her from the depths of darkness.

  “Leslie! Leslie, wake up! Are you all right?”

  Something pulled at her, touched her, bothered her. She fought it for as long as she could, but finally she opened her eyes. She had no choice. She opened them, blinked, focused—all with great effort.

  “Declan?” she whispered.

  “Oh, thank God,” he said. His face was tight and white beneath its tan. His hands were on her shoulders, turning her to look up at him.

  “What—what are you doing here?” She blinked, sifting through the tangle of her mind. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Declan was speaking to her, but he was looking around the room with an arrested expression, as if he was expecting to see something dangerous.

  She looked around too, and pieces of her memory began to clunk into place when she saw the two wine glasses and the half-empty bottle on the table. “The last thing I remember…I was sitting here with—John! John Fischer—he’s here. Or he was here—”

  “His car is outside. He’s still here,” Declan said grimly. She realized with a start that he was holding one of the iron bars he used in his trade, and that her kitchen door was open. The window—smashed, and glass all over.

  “Sorry about that,” he said in a low voice, still looking around, still brandishing the iron bar. “I saw you on the table like that, lying in a pool of blood, and I didn’t…” His voice stretched tight and he let it cease.

  “Blood? Not from me…I don’t think.” Leslie touched the back of her head, which was pounding as if she had a migraine—not as if she’d been hit in the back of the skull.

  “It’s red wine. But from the window—I thought it was blood.”

  “That’s right—he drugged the wine. We were sitting here chatting, drinking the wine, and then I started to feel very strange…I think I realized what he’d done just before I lost consciousness.” She stood, gripping the edge of the table when her knees wobbled. “But why? What would he— Oh. I know.”

  “Leslie,” Declan said, grabbing her arm when she took two unsteady steps toward the hall. “Where are you going? What if he has a gun or some other weapon? The police are on their way—”

  “They are? But surely he doesn’t have a gun. If he did, wouldn’t he have used it instead of drugging me?” Her head was still muzzy, but she grabbed on to coherent thoughts and forced out the words. She thought they made sense.

  “Probably.” Declan’s expression changed from intense to pleased, and he hefted the iron bar in his hand.

  Leslie took his arm. “He’s down in the speakeasy, I think. He’s looking for the gems. He wanted to come over because he thinks he knows where—”

  “So he can’t hear us, can he? Down there? Good.” Declan suddenly looked very determined. His jaw set, shifting slightly. “Let’s go have a chat with Mr. John Fischer, who, by the way, isn’t the author Jeremy Fischer at all.”

  “I think I figured that out by now,” Leslie said wryly. Her head was pounding as if she’d had too many margaritas the night before, but she went over to her purse and pulled out her pepper spray.

  Declan gave her a brief grin when she showed it to him, then sobered. “Maybe you should stay here. You don’t look too steady on your feet—”

  “Hell no,” she said, and started off without waiting for him. But, fortunately, Declan was right behind her, and his comforting hand steadied her as they made their way quietly to the speakeasy entrance.

  They found John Fischer—or whoever he was—kneeling on the floor in the speakeasy with tools and measuring equipment all around him. He barely had time to scramble to his feet before Declan swung himself down the center of the spiral staircase, ignoring the actual steps. He landed in front of Fischer and brandished the iron bar.

  “I’m not going to be shy about using this,” Declan said. “And I suspect Leslie won’t hesitate to blast you with pepper spray. So I suggest you take a seat right there on that sofa until the police get here.”

  “The police?” Fischer’s face fell behind its beard as he moved to follow Declan’s orders. “What do we need the police for? I’ll leave, I swear. I just wanted… I was sure I knew where the gems were. I just needed more time. I didn’t hurt anyone. I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “You call drugging me not hurting anyone?” Leslie had managed to make her way down the stairs on her still-unsteady knees, and now she stood in front of the sofa, aiming her pepper pray at Fischer.

  “It was just a little sleep aid mixed in with your drink,” he whined. “Just to knock you out for a bit so I could— Aw, damn.”

  He looked up at the ceiling, for the sounds of footsteps above, and shouts of “Police! Show yourselves!” echoed through the house.

  “Did you really have to call the police?”

  “Considering the fact that someone’s head was bashed in less than a mile away from here earlier tonight, yes,” Declan said as Leslie spun toward him in shock.

  “What?” Now her head was pounding even harder.

  “I’ll tell you about it in a while—as soon as this is taken care of,” he said, gesturing at Fischer with the iron bar. “What’s your real name, anyway? And how do you get off on pretending to be Jeremy Fischer?”

  “My name really is John Fischer. And I never said I was Jeremy Fischer,” the man sneered. “You all just thought I was. Especially once I dropped a few hints to that old bat with the damned cane. What a loon.”

  “S
o you admit you led everyone to believe you were Jeremy Fischer?” said a new voice.

  Leslie turned to see Joe Longbow easing his way down the spiral stairs. Behind him followed two very skinny legs in baggy uniform pants that turned out to belong to a slight man who looked like he’d seen better days—four decades ago.

  “Hey, there’s no crime in people misunderstanding things I said,” replied Fischer. “I never claimed to be anyone I wasn’t.”

  “Which is…who? Or what? Wait a minute…John Fischer? I know that name.” Longbow’s eyes narrowed and he looked at Fischer more closely. “You’re that treasure hunter, aren’t you? I remember—was it two years ago?—you were sniffing around trying to get inside the house here under the guise of wanting to buy it. You didn’t have a beard then.”

  “No crime in growing a beard,” Fischer retorted.

  “Well, I can’t argue with that. So let’s go down to the station and talk about what crimes there are at stake here. I’m going to take Ms. Nakano’s statement, and then we’ll see what sort of excuses you can dredge up to try and wiggle out of a jail cell.”

  “I’m feeling much better,” Leslie said from her position on the sectional. Rufus was in her lap, and she was petting him as if he’d been the one who’d been drugged. “There’s no need for me to go to the hospital. I’m fine.”

  She looked from Declan’s stubborn expression to Cherry’s exasperated one, to Orbra’s steely blue eyes.

  “Damned lucky I wasn’t here,” said Orbra. “I’d have taken a frying pan to that man! Why, you could have died if he’d given you too much of that sleeping pill! And mixed with alcohol?”

  “That’s why she should be checked out,” Declan said. For about the tenth time.

  “I’m fine. My head’s not even pounding anymore. I’ve got my spiced warm almond milk—thanks, auntie—and he’s gone and I feel fine. No residuals. So what’s this about a murder?” she said, abruptly steering the conversation away from herself.

  “A murder?” Cherry looked from one to the other. “What are you talking about?”

  Declan had no choice but to acquiesce—on all counts. “Marcus Levin’s body was found with his head bashed in at the high school.”

  “At the high school? That’s only—that’s only a short way away from here!” Cherry exclaimed. Her platinum-blond hair was spiked up all over the place, as if to punctuate her shock.

  “Which is why I was a little concerned when Leslie wasn’t answering her cell phone,” Declan said.

  She felt a little shiver of warmth at the concern in his voice. Maybe all was not lost.

  “I was trying to let her know John Fischer wasn’t who he’d led everyone to believe, and when she didn’t answer and I learned he was coming here, and that there’d been a murder—well—”

  “Well, obviously you came over here.” Cherry was looking at him like he was a hero, and Leslie—though she felt a little awkward, considering how they’d left things last night—was growing some very soft, very fuzzy feelings herself.

  “Thank you,” she said, and reached for his hand. To her relief—for she saw Cherry’s and Orbra’s eyes follow her movement—he curled his big fingers around hers and squeezed.

  We need to talk, was the message in the squeeze.

  Yes, she squeezed back.

  “That’s very…coincidental,” Leslie said, casually releasing his hand.

  “What do you mean?” Declan asked.

  “That Marcus Levin should be murdered. Because, well, Cherry and I just figured out earlier today—or, I guess, yesterday,” she added, realizing it was well past midnight now, “that the ghost isn’t Dorothy Duchene. It’s Kristen van Gerste.”

  As she said those words aloud, Leslie waited and listened…and yes, there was the faintest—oh, the very faintest—movement in the air. A shifting. A sigh from the depths of the house. Rufus’s eyes bolted open, and he lifted his head warily.

  “Kristen van Gerste? She’s the prom queen who was murdered on prom night—what, thirty years ago? Her body was found in the…woods…” Declan’s voice trailed off as he put the same two and two together.

  “She was wearing a pink velvet stole and long white gloves that night,” Leslie said, stroking Rufus gently. He relaxed back into her lap. “Kristen was only found wearing her dress. The topazes were stolen and her wrap and gloves were missing—though that wasn’t ever made a big deal about. It was the missing gems that were all over the news.”

  “And how is Marcus Levin involved?”

  “He was her date to the prom. They had a big row in the middle of—wait for it—‘Waiting for a Girl Like You’—”

  Declan’s eyes widened. “Wait. The music! I knew I recognized that song…I just couldn’t place it. That’s the music that’s been playing while the ghost appears.”

  His comment had both Cherry and Orbra looking at him sharply. “So you’ve seen the ghost yourself?” Orbra asked.

  “Not really seen…but felt her,” Declan admitted. “Really felt her.”

  Leslie explained about the gale-force winds inside the foyer, and their conclusion about the hollow beneath one of the stairs being related to the murder. “I think Kristen was killed here, and the murderer hid her stole and gloves in the house, and then took her body and left it in the woods to make it look like it was a robbery over the topazes.”

  “That makes perfect sense,” Declan said. “Although…why not leave the stole and gloves with her body? That doesn’t really make sense to keep them separate.”

  “Unless there is or was something on them that would identify the murderer—blood, maybe? DNA?” Leslie said. She tried to remember whether she’d seen anything like that on the clothing. “Did they even have those capabilities thirty years ago?” she asked.

  “Hmm. I don’t know. But either way, the prime suspect would have been Marcus Levin—the guy she fought with.”

  “But now he’s dead,” Cherry said. “And is that a coincidence or a conspiracy?”

  “If he did kill her, we’ll probably never know.”

  “But if he wasn’t the one who killed her—maybe he knows something about what happened. And that’s why he was killed. You know, everyone’s coming back to town for that reunion on Sunday. Maybe that’s dredging up a lot of this…stuff.”

  Everyone looked at Orbra in surprise, and she shrugged. “Hey, I read a lot of murder mysteries—and you know I’ve just been bingeing on Agatha Christie’s Poirot. I love me some of those old-fashioned murder mysteries.”

  “You mean where the butler did it?” Cherry teased.

  Orbra huffed. “There’s never been one where the butler did it, I’ll have you know. Though there was one time when the housekeeper did it, but it was really the mistress of the house pretending to be the temporary housekeep—”

  “All right, Miss Marple,” Cherry said with a laugh. Her expression turned sober. “Either way, we know two things for sure: One, there’s a murderer on the loose, and it’s not John Fischer. Two, the ghost is Kristen van Gerste, and until we figure out who killed her and why, she’s going to be haunting this place and throwing all sorts of tantrums and—”

  The lights flickered violently…and then went out with a sharp pop. Rufus bolted off Leslie’s lap, heedless of where his claws dug in the process. Ungrateful beast.

  “Great, Cherry,” Orbra grumbled in the pitch dark after a moment of stunned silence. “Now look at what you’ve done.”

  “Now wait a second, you don’t really think—” Cherry stopped as a definite chill invaded the room, as sudden as the lights had gone black.

  “I’m pretty sure you’ve offended someone,” Leslie said, choking on a laugh. Her thighs were stinging from Rufus’s hasty exit.

  “All right, all right—they’re not tantrums,” Cherry said, raising her voice to the level of the supernatural. “I didn’t mean it was a tantrum. Kristen has the perfect right to have her killer brought to justice. And I want to do whatever I can to help.”

 
; Leslie held her breath as the lights flickered, then slowly came back on. The room went back to a normal temperature just as quickly. “Now you’re just showing off, aren’t you, Kristen?” she said on a relieved chuckle.

  Orbra laughed nervously when the lights flickered again, but this time they stayed on.

  Leslie looked around at everyone. “Now…I think it’s time for me to get some rest. Anyone who wants to stay is welcome—but I’m going to bed.”

  She got up, surprised at how wobbly she felt, and went into her bedroom. With a last glance at Declan, who was studiously not looking at her, she closed the door and sought her bed.

  Declan opened his eyes to something that smelled heavenly.

  Not as heavenly as Leslie’s hair, but delicious enough that he was wide awake in an instant.

  Coffee. And something cooking…bacon, maybe. Whatever it was, he had to investigate.

  He slid off the sectional in Leslie’s living room/office, where he’d remained even after Cherry and Orbra left for the night, and padded out to the kitchen in his bare feet.

  “You must be feeling much better,” he said, taking in the sight of her in those very flattering yoga pants and a hot-pink t-shirt. She’d clipped up her inky hair into some sort of twist, and one thick lock fell in a gentle S-curve down the back of her neck. His mouth watered at the sight of that slender, elegant neck. It sure had tasted sweet and warm, and smelled oh so good when he’d kissed her there the other day…

  Damn. Regret pinged in him, then simply ebbed away. Maybe things didn’t have to be so…black and white.

  “I am feeling better,” Leslie said from the stove. “Thank you so much for staying last night—I’m sure it wasn’t convenient for you having to figure out what to do with Stephanie, but I really appreciate it. Are you hungry?”

  He cautiously took a seat at the table, aware of the achingly formal tone of her voice and the nonchalant words—while he, on the other hand, was thinking about anything but formalities and the distance such implied. “Yes, thank you, I’m starving. Whatever it is, it smells good. Uh—can I do anything to help?” He made to push his chair back from the table to do so, but she was already walking toward him with a plate.