“You heading to work?” Oren shook his head when I said I was, his hair bouncing in the opposite direction of each shake. “You’re gonna be smelling wet dog all day.”
He took a wide stance and held out his arm to help me stand. Like a little girl hanging on her father’s strong arm, I pulled myself up.
“Tell me about it.” I sighed, watching Meeka snapping at the foam on the little whitecaps floating past her. “Can you keep an eye on my kayak for me today?”
“Sure. I’ll put it on the rack inside. Otherwise, someone might assume it’s available for rent.”
“Perfect. Give me a minute before you take it, I need to change clothes.”
I unlatched the cover of the cargo well, took a minute to rewind and return the paracord I used to tow Barry, then pulled out my dry bag and whistled for Meeka. She took four or five steps onto the beach and shook wildly, spraying water everywhere. She trotted over to me, and I removed her harness so both she and it could dry. The moment she was free of it, she shook again, this time spraying Oren and me.
“Sorry. I should’ve known she’d do that.”
“No worries.” Oren pointed at his soggy and now sand-covered feet. “I spend half the day wet anyway.”
On one side of the building were two changing huts, too small for me to stretch my arms out wide but big enough to change in. I stepped inside one of them to take off my athletic shorts and tank top and put on my uniform. A couple weeks ago, I got a box from my mother that was filled with beauty supplies from her salon in Madison. Honestly, I couldn’t care less about the beauty supplies, but she insisted on sending them. What I did care about were my tactical cargo pants and shorts that were also in the box.
The roomy, pocket-covered shorts were much more comfortable and practical than jeans. The best thing was, I could carry everything I needed for the day in the pockets. A loaded Sam Browne belt weighed in at ten pounds or more. It got heavy and was always in my way and my arms got chafed within ten seconds of putting it on. One of the best things about moving from patrol officer to detective when I worked for the Madison Police Department was not having to wear that belt. Now, the only thing strapped to my body was a shoulder holster with my station issued 9mm Glock on my left side and a pouch big enough for two extra magazines on my right. I only carried one extra magazine and even that seemed excessive in Whispering Pines.
“All set,” I told Oren as I placed the dry bag and my water shoes back into the cargo well of the kayak next to the life jacket.
“We’re open until seven,” Oren reminded me. “Do you think you’ll be back by then? If not, I’ll give you the combo for the lock.”
“I’d love to say that I’ll be back by seven, but I should plan ahead. I wouldn’t want to bother you or your dad. What’s the combination?”
Oren showed me how to operate the high-tech keypad lock on the cottage door. “We change the combo every day, so if you don’t pick up your ride tonight, it’ll be different tomorrow.”
I jotted down the combination in the notetaking app on my phone and thanked him for the help. “Hopefully we’ll both have non-crazy days and will see each other again well before seven.”
From the marina, Meeka and I headed northwest toward the village commons. The quaint, part Renaissance, part medieval England village had a quiet, sleepy feel to it this morning. At this time of day, there were primarily older couples and the occasional toddler leading a parent in a game of chase around the pentacle garden. The garden, as the name implied, was shaped like a giant pentacle, encompassing the equivalent of a standard city block. Pea gravel pathways made up the lines of the pentacle while dozens of varieties of flowers and plants, herbs and vegetables filled the triangular sections. At the very center was a gleaming white marble well, which the villagers called the negativity well. Instead of wishes, you threw in negative thoughts and feelings in the hopes they would leave you alone.
“Good morning, Sheriff,” a grandfatherly man greeted, his voice shaking with age. “We going to have a good day?”
An innocent question, but his tone implied he was hoping for something more . . . exciting. Word had spread that the quirky little Wiccan village of Whispering Pines, Wisconsin, had murderers running around the woods. As far as I knew, that wasn’t true, but a trickle of thrill seekers had made the pilgrimage to the Northwoods in hopes of being able to “help” or simply be here for the excitement.
“Isn’t it always a good day here?” I joked, dismissing his vigilante dreams.
“Meh. We’ll be here for another day or two.” He indicated the woman next to him. Wife? Sister? Fellow ambulance chaser?
What, were they expecting I’d stage a murder for them to solve if a body didn’t show up soon? Actually, murder mystery dinner theater type events at the B&B might be something fun for Tripp and I to plan.
Meeka and I wished the couple a good day and continued our trek around the garden, greeting shopkeepers who were getting ready for the crowds. Without even having to lead her, Meeka headed straight toward Ye Olde Bean Grinder, the village coffee shop. Inside, we found that all the café tables and each of the four cozy lounge chairs surrounding the unlit stone fireplace were full.
“Looks like people are getting their fill of hot drinks while the weather is still cool,” I told Basil, the man behind the counter.
“Iced beverages will be in demand in a couple hours.” Basil had been focused on a sleeve of paper cups and looked at me then. His face lit up with a cheerful smile. “Ah, good morning, Sheriff. Your regular today?”
“Yes, please.”
“Jayne’s here?” a woman’s voice floated out of the back room. Five-foot-tall Violet, the shop owner, appeared and made a beeline to my side. She took my hand, pulled me down so my ear was close to her mouth, and said, “What happened at the lake?”
How did she know these things? Both Violet and Basil were green witches, meaning they had special skills with plants. In Violet’s case, her plant of choice was coffee. The woman could blend beans like no one else on the planet. As talented as the violet-eyed woman was with her witchy ways, she seemed to be part psychic as well. If you believed in that sort of thing. Which I didn’t.
“Everything’s fine.” I looked pointedly at the customers in the sitting area. Another death or near-death of any kind wasn’t what the village needed right now. “A man was struggling in a weedy patch, but I was able to help him. He’s okay.”
“Thank the Goddess.” Violet sniffed, made a face, and looked down at Meeka. “Someone’s been swimming in the lake this morning, hasn’t she?”
“Sorry, I forgot. Meeka, outside.” I pointed to the open door and the little Westie slunk away. “I told you not to swim, didn’t I?” I turned back to Violet, expecting her to grill me more about what had happened with Barry, but she had slipped away to clean off the tables and collect empty mugs.
“Extra-large mocha, double-pump vanilla, and extra whip,” Basil called.
As always, along with my drink, a small waxed paper bag filled with biscuits for Meeka waited for me at the counter. Good thing she was such a hyper little dog or she’d weigh fifty pounds by now. Every shop we went to had biscuits for her.
“Thanks, Basil. I’ll see you later.”
Looking like a traditional Bavarian beer girl, but holding coffee cups instead of steins, Violet scooted past me with four mugs in each hand and a towel over her arm. “Have a great day, Sheriff.”
Out on the shop’s front porch, I found Meeka sitting facing the corner. Apparently, she had put herself in timeout.
I knelt down next to her and offered her a biscuit. “I’m sorry you had to come outside, but nobody wants to smell wet dog, especially when they’re eating or drinking.”
She licked my hand before taking the biscuit, and we continued along the red brick pathway around the pentacle garden.
Outside Shoppe Mystique, the little cottage next door, a woman dressed in a short black A-line tank dress and strappy black platform sandals
was tending the mass of flowers overflowing the pots on the porch. No one in the village had flowers like Morgan Barlow.
“Blessed be, Jayne.” It took half a second for her to add, “What’s the matter? What happened?”
Morgan was not only the most powerful green witch in Whispering Pines, rumor had it she was the most powerful in the entire Midwest. Possibly in all of North America. Probably the world.
She had quickly become my best friend. I met her the day after arriving in the village. Well, technically, that was the day I re-met her. My sister Rosalyn and I met Morgan when we were little girls, here visiting Gran and Gramps. Every time we came into the village, we found Morgan in the pentacle garden, talking to the plants. Or maybe she was talking to the fairies that she claimed lived among the plants. At the time, we thought she was a weird little girl. Honestly, when I re-met her two months ago, my first thought was that she was a weird woman. Now, she was like a sister. Better even. Rosalyn was a pain in my backside.
In answer to her question, I told her what had happened with Barry.
She descended the porch stairs and came to my side. “Is he all right?”
I nodded. “If I would’ve come straight to the village—”
“But you didn’t, thank the Goddess. The universe guides us sometimes, and it seems that this morning you were listening. You saved his life?”
“I did. He would have drowned otherwise.”
She wrapped me in a hug and scratched her long matte-black nails over my back. The sensation was comforting and reminded me of when I was little, and Rosalyn and I would take turns scratching each other’s backs before going to sleep at night. I guess Rozzie hadn’t always been a pain.
Once Morgan released me, I said, “I stopped by for a reason other than to say hi. Would you happen to have anything to wash a smelly dog with?” I looked down at the guilty terrier. “Someone decided to swim into work today. She’s going to stink up the station if I don’t do something about it.”
“One moment, I have just the thing.”
A few minutes later, we met Morgan behind the shop where she handed me a small apothecary bottle filled with purple liquid.
“Let me guess, it’s your own special blend?”
“Indeed, it is,” she confirmed. “A combination of castile soap, coconut oil, and lavender and lemongrass essential oils. Not only will your pup be squeaky clean and moisturized, the lemongrass will keep fleas away while the lavender relaxes her.”
I cast a skeptical look at her. “Relax her? You have met Meeka, right?”
I handed Morgan my mocha and Meeka’s treat bag in exchange for the bottle of doggie shampoo.
“You may want to stand back,” I cautioned. “She gets water everywhere, and I don’t think you want to start out your day soggy. With as humid as it’s been, you’ll be lucky to dry by quitting time.”
Morgan smiled down at Meeka. “You won’t splash me, will you?”
Meeka gave a small, agreeable ruff and moved to a patch of grass ten feet away.
“What, did you put some kind of hex on her?”
“I would never put a hex on an animal.” Morgan winked while taking a sip of my coffee.
A few minutes later, my squeaky clean, fresh smelling dog and I said goodbye to Morgan and followed the Fairy Path until it came to a Y with the sheriff’s station straight ahead. Inside, I went right to work while Meeka crawled beneath a cot bolted to the wall in one of the two holding cells. She liked curling up in the corner on the cool concrete. In a few months, when the winter winds blew through, she’d surely change her mind. I’d have to bring in a doggie cushion for her.
Telephone interviews with potential deputy candidates kept me busy all morning. Unfortunately, none of them were going to work out. One was far too military and wouldn’t be a good fit for laid-back Whispering Pines. One was interested in the position, but only if I provided housing and nearly double the salary I was willing to pay. The third would have been a perfect fit, but her husband wasn’t interested in moving somewhere so remote. They also had little kids so Whispering Pines’ ever-growing reputation as being a hotspot for murderers didn’t help.
At the end of my list with no prospects, I picked up the phone and dialed the number for my former captain at the Madison PD.
“Sheriff O’Shea,” Captain Russ Grier said in lieu of a more formal greeting. “Did you get the list I sent you?”
“That’s why I’m calling, sir. I spoke with four of them yesterday and three this morning and none of them will work. Well, one of them would be perfect, but she declined for family reasons.”
“This surprises you? You’re up there in the middle of nowhere, Jayne. How long has it been since you experienced a Northwoods winter?”
I had to laugh at that. “Never. My family only came in the summer.”
“Think there might be a reason for that?”
He was right. Gran used to tell me about the howling winds and bone-chilling below-zero temperatures. Guess it did take an especially hardy constitution to live here. Tripp and I were already contemplating flannel sheets and electric blankets on every bed in the B&B. Honestly, though, I was excited for the experience.
“There’s one guy I talked to two days ago. He was promising, but I haven’t heard back from him. I’m assuming he’s a no. That means I’m out of candidates. Do you have anyone else I could talk to?”
We spent the next ten or fifteen minutes discussing not only a few people from his current crew but also a few trainees that could be ready for assignment in a month or two. That was too long.
Shortly after I had agreed to take on the responsibilities of sheriff of Whispering Pines, my mother informed Tripp and I that we could go ahead with our plans to open Pine Time, our bed-and-breakfast. Tripp was skeptical about me being able to pull off both sheriff and B&B responsibilities, even though I insisted I’d be fine. Of course, I’d been counting on a deputy’s assistance. I survived my first three weeks in office, but that meant putting in twelve hours during the day to keep the station staffed and then being on call at night. Fortunately, the tourists had been behaving themselves for the most part, but I didn’t have much time to dedicate to the house renovations. I couldn’t keep up this pace for long, I needed somebody in the deputy position sooner than later.
“Tell you what,” Captain Grier said, “I’ll expand my search. I’ve got some contacts over in Milwaukee. I’ll see if they have anyone who might be interested in reassignment.”
My hopes sunk. What I’d likely end up doing was lowering my standards to get someone in the position. Something I had passionately criticized former Sheriff Karl Brighton for doing. Lesson learned. Until having worked someone’s job, criticism, constructive or otherwise, couldn’t be offered.
The man on duty when I first got here, Martin Reed, had been a subpar deputy. He had the desire, but nowhere near the skill. His mother, Flavia, told me every chance she got that he was ready to come back to work. At least with him I wouldn’t have to give a tour of the station.
“Let me know if you come up with anyone, Captain, but I have an idea. Thanks again for your help.”
I was debating the positives and negatives of bringing Reed back on staff when a woman burst through the station’s front door.
“Are you the Sheriff? I need help.”
I studied the woman for a second; she looked familiar. Five foot four, short dark-blonde ponytail, squared shoulders.
“I recognize you. You were on the pontoon, right? What’s going on?
“It’s Barry. You remember Barry? You saved him this morning? He’s dead.”
Chapter 3
The woman looked at me like I was insane when I asked how she knew that Barry really was dead. A seemingly unnecessary question, but when I left the pontoon this morning, everyone on it seemed to be either still inebriated or heavily hungover from the partying they’d done all night. Before I called the medical examiner to drive an hour to look at another body in Whispering Pines, I wa
nted to be sure that Barry wasn’t simply passed out.
“I was the designated driver,” she explained. “Since it was my responsibility to drive the boat, I had one hard cider at the beginning of the night and nothing but iced tea or Mountain Dew after that. I’m not drunk now and wasn’t at any time during the night.” She shrugged. “You get to watch the show and learn things when you’re the sober one.”
Very true. “What’s your name?”
“Lori Ashley.”
“I’m sure you can understand why I might assume otherwise, Ms. Ashley.” I capped my gel pen and shut off my desk lamp, preparing to leave the station. Whatever had happened to Barry, I was going to have to go check it out.
“I understand,” Lori assured, “but I checked Barry myself. I was a nursing student for two semesters.” She shivered as an apparent memory struck her. “Body fluids are way more disgusting than I thought they’d be. Anyway, I know how to check vitals. I didn’t feel a pulse, and he wasn’t breathing. I figured that was a pretty good indication. And there’s his eyes.”
“What’s wrong with his eyes?”
“They’re stuck half open.” She placed her index fingers to her eyelids and dragged them downward, manually closing them.
“Some people sleep that way, with their eyes partially open,” I informed. “It’s a condition called nocturnal lagophthalmos.”
She looked at me like I was a freak. “How do you know that?”
“Because one night when I was on patrol, a woman called 9-1-1 hysterical, convinced her boyfriend was dead in bed. I responded to the call. Turned out they’d only been dating a few weeks, so this was the first time she’d witnessed his odd way of sleeping.”
Lori blinked.
“So, you couldn’t get a pulse on Barry. Did you do CPR?”
“I did. Never dreamt I’d need to put that skill to use in everyday life.” She stared into the distance for a moment. “I’m going to renew my certification when I get home.”
“All right. Give me a minute to call the medical examiner.”
Original Secrets: A Whispering Pines Mystery, Book 3 Page 2