“Or operate heavy machinery?” I felt instant gratitude as I took the first soothing sip. “Why is it that you always know just what I need?”
He didn’t respond, just locked eyes with me over his own steaming mug.
He quickly scrambled some eggs while I warmed up some blueberry muffins in the microwave—my preferred kitchen appliance—and we settled onto our bar stools.
“I never asked how your day went yesterday,” I said, embarrassed. “How are things coming?”
“Destruction goes a lot faster than reconstruction,” he explained. “We had a good day yesterday, but you wouldn’t notice much if you looked. We fixed lots of plumbing issues and should be able to start on the tiling soon. I’m going to interview tilers today.”
“You’re going to stay away from heavy machinery, too?”
“I got more sleep than you, but that’s probably a good idea.” He popped a piece of muffin in his mouth.
“When will we be able to start with the tiling, then? You know my mother likes to be updated on our progress.”
Tripp ran a hand through his curly hair and stretched, his T-shirt tugging tight against his chest as he did. “Mr. Powell assured me that the people he’s sending over are all very talented. I’ll make the decision based on design ideas. Did you want to see those before I choose someone?”
We’d gone back-and-forth with ideas for weeks and had looked at hundreds of pictures on the internet. Pinterest was my new favorite thing. “You know what I like. I trust you to make the right decision.”
He smiled, clearly pleased with my confidence in him. “Mr. Powell also assured me that we can get inventory quickly. He uses a place in Wausau, drives down there once or twice a week for small things. They deliver the big orders. I’m guessing we’ll be able to start with the tile next week.”
“That’s great. Looks like we’re staying right on schedule.”
“No. Don’t say that.” He held his hands out to me with two fingers crossed in an X.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I poked his crossed fingers. “Are you placing a hex on me?”
“You’ll jinx it. Never say anything about a schedule when it comes to construction work.”
I finished my eggs and glass of orange juice, dumped my remaining coffee into a travel mug and topped it off with more of Tripp’s extra strong brew. Still, I sensed at least one trip to Ye Olde Bean Grinder coming today.
“Sorry to keep you awake last night,” I said as I screwed on the lid, “but I’m glad to have had your company. Good luck today. I hope the schedule falls apart completely.”
He put his hands over his ears. “Stop talking about the schedule. Go, get out of here.”
He pointed in the direction of the garage, and I left before he physically removed me from the house.
I opened the back of the Cherokee and Meeka jumped in and crawled into her crate. I glanced up at the garage in front of me. In particular, at one of the windows in the loft area up top. While cleaning out the house to start on renovations, Tripp put some things up there for safekeeping during construction. That’s when he found Gran’s altar table, sitting in a little alcove beneath a window that overlooked the lake.
Meeka whined when I still hadn’t closed the crate’s door after nearly a minute. I looked down at her and scratched her neck beneath her collar.
The adults told Rosalyn and I that Gramps’ workshop was in the loft. They said it was full of dangerous tools that could hurt us, so we needed to stay out. Naturally, this meant we had to sneak up there and explore. Late one night sixteen years ago, that’s what we did and found Gran up there performing a Wiccan ritual. She let us watch, as long as we promised not to tell anyone what we saw. We agreed, but the next morning, Rosalyn told Mom everything. The little snitch. Minutes later, we left Whispering Pines, and I’d never been back until two months ago.
After we learned the truth, as much truth as a twelve- and eight-year-old could understand, Rosalyn started calling the loft Gran’s secret clubhouse. A club of one, unless Gramps had also been Wiccan.
“Clubhouse.”
Meeka gave another tiny whine and pawed at my arm, confused as to why we weren’t leaving.
People kept special things, secret things, in clubhouses. My instincts were telling me Gran had done the same thing.
“Come, Meeka. We need to go check this out.”
Gran’s car, a sporty baby-blue hardtop convertible Lexus, was still parked in the garage next to a more practical Subaru SUV for the winter months. Dad would need to decide what to do with them. Rosalyn would want the convertible, but I’d argue that it belonged to the estate and claim it as the B&B owner.
I flicked the switch at the bottom of the stairs and lights in the loft above turned on. Meeka raced ahead of me as we climbed up. Kitty corner from the top of the staircase, in the left-hand corner of the loft, was Gran’s altar table. It was still full, like it was the day Tripp found it, with Gran’s Wicca tools, or whatever they were called. A blue cloth with a silver pentagram covered the table. One purple and one silver taper candle along with a white pillar candle stood at the back of the table. A goblet, a small black cauldron, something that looked like a magic wand, a dagger, and an incense burner also lay where Gran last set them.
My gaze continued past the altar to the large antique armoire in the corner positioned. If Gran had kept anything personal up here, in there would be a safe bet. While I crossed to look through the armoire, Meeka trotted over to explore the corner with all the pictures and statues and other items Tripp brought up here for storage.
“Don’t break anything.”
She sneezed, but I was pretty sure it was because she’d gotten dust in her nose instead of being a response to my warning.
I stopped just outside a circle that had been either drawn on or burnt into the floor. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew it was a Wiccan thing. Was crossing into it like entering a church? Should I genuflect? Cross myself? I seriously had no idea what the protocol was. Or if it even mattered for a non-Wiccan.
Morgan had a small altar room hidden behind the bookcases in the reading room at Shoppe Mystique. I’d been in that little room twice, to provide Morgan with positive energy as she made spell bags. Morgan never made a big deal about entering the little room, and she never stopped me from just walking in. So, hopeful that lightning wouldn’t strike me, I breached the circle.
Inside the armoire, two beautiful velvet ritual robes were hanging in a skinny compartment that ran the length of the left side. On the right side were a set of shelves. The top shelf was loaded with candles of various colors and sizes. The next held boxes of incense and oils and other tools of the Wiccan trade. A third shelf held folded altar cloths, also in a variety of colors and designs.
Beneath the last shelf was what appeared to be a box. It looked like the woodworker had intended to put a fourth shelf there; the space was the exact height and width of the others, but for whatever reason it had been boxed off instead.
I backed up a few steps, to the middle of the circle, and took in the open armoire in its entirety. From this distance, I could tell that all the interior wood was different from the wood that had made up the rest of the cabinet. Or at least it was a different color. The main cabinet was a beautiful, gleaming—if not for the layer of dust—mahogany-brown. The shelves were a flat chocolate-brown. Gran had customized the interior. But why would she make a box at the bottom instead of a fourth shelf? Was something inside it? Maybe I could break through the wood and find out.
Meeka trotted past me to investigate the armoire. She stood on her back legs and sniffed the altar cloths. She sneezed again, this time her nose surely overwhelmed by the incense and oils that had permeated the fabric over the years. Then she dropped back down to the floor. As she did, I tracked her movement and noticed very faint scuff marks in the wood floor near the base of the armoire, only visible because the morning sun was shining in the windows. Any other time of day, between the layer
of dust and the simple dim lightbulbs, I wouldn’t be able to see the scratches.
I took hold of the back corner of the cabinet and pulled; much like Morgan when she pulled on a section of the built-in bookcases to reveal her hidden altar room.
Gran must have installed glides of some kind on the bottom of the cabinet because it pulled easily away from the wall. On the backside, in the same location of the box, was one of those finger-pull latches that folded flat into the wood. I stuck in my finger, pulled the latch, and found four journals inside the drawer. A peek inside one confirmed they were the missing year: 1979.
Chapter 12
Despite my fierce curiosity over why Gran had hidden those four books, I started with the first journal from 1966. Best to know everything from the start, or I’d likely miss something important and end up confused.
My grandparents had lived in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, a small town between Milwaukee and Madison, before moving to the Northwoods. It seemed that the move to the property on the water was a good thing for her.
Of all the two thousand acres we acquired, no other spot speaks more to us than this little ten-acre piece that juts out into the lake. If we position the house just right, I’ll be able to see water from every window. Naturally, all Keven can talk about is getting a fishing boat.
As much as I’ll miss my friends, I just can’t handle all the people anymore. Milwaukee has been expanding further and further westward. Oconomowoc is still small, but it’s only a matter of time. I don’t want Dillon to grow up with all that chaos and congestion. I want him to have the freedom to run and not worry about cars and neighbors and noise. Keven agreed to move as long as there was some place for him to fish. When he heard about this plot, we didn’t hesitate and bought it sight unseen. He’s so determined to get that boat, we’re building the boathouse first. Also, that will give us a place to live until the main house is ready. It’s going to be a big house, one we can fill with children and someday grandchildren.
I hadn’t realized the boathouse was built first. Gramps and his fishing. Every chance he got, he was out on the lake. I’m sure there were days when he didn’t even drop a line in the water, he just wanted to be out there. I also hadn’t realized my dad was born before the move. If I’d taken the time to do the math, I would have realized that in 1966, he would have been four or five years old.
The rest of the first journal was filled with the trials and tribulations of building a home in the middle of nowhere. The closest grocery store was a good thirty miles away. Clearing the trees off the “piece of land” took months. The driveway, from the country highway down to where the garage now stood, had to be laid. Electrical, sewer, and telephone lines had to be run; I couldn’t even imagine how expensive that must have been. When summer turned to fall, and the warm days turned to frigid nights, Gran took Dad back to Oconomowoc until the spring.
Construction hadn’t stopped over the winter, but it slowed drastically. By springtime, when they were ready to return, the house was still nowhere near finished.
Spending time with friends over the winter was nice, but we’ve been so anxious to return to our new home. Keven had warned me that only the first floor was usable. We have a kitchen and bathroom and rooms to sleep in so really that’s all we need. I could spend all day every day in that kitchen, it’s the one of my dreams. The bedroom and bathroom near the kitchen will suit Keven and I fine for now. A room at the other end of the house will eventually be Keven’s den, but it’s big enough for Dillon to use as a bedroom. And the living room! I’ve never seen a room so large. Dillon will be able to run around in it on days when he can’t be outside. It’s truly like a little piece of heaven here.
That explained the mystery of the one bedroom on the main level.
A few weeks after they had sold the house in Oconomowoc and were permanently in their new home, Gran made a less than shiny entry:
I hate to say it, I hate to even think it, so I will only mention it on this page. Now that we’re here, I worry about Dillon not having any other children to play with.
“Careful what you wish for, Gran,” I whispered.
“Jayne? What are you doing out here?”
I looked up from the journal in my lap to find Tripp standing next to the Cherokee. Why . . . What . . . Oh, yeah. After getting in the car, I picked up the first journal from the seat next to me. I’d only planned to read the first page or two. That was two journals ago.
“I came out to throw a load into the dumpster and saw your car still here.”
“I found the books from 1979. They were in the armoire upstairs.” I pointed to the upper level of the garage. “That bedroom on the first floor? That’s where Grams and Gramps stayed while the rest of the house was being built. My dad used the den for a bedroom.”
Tripp leaned into the open driver’s side window, the trace of a smile on his mouth. “Couldn’t help yourself, hey? Had to start reading.”
“Yeah. Guess I lost track of time.”
“Don’t you think you should go to work now?” He said this gently, as though speaking to a kid who had put off starting her homework for way too long.
I blinked. “What time is it?”
“Almost eleven.”
“Are you serious?” I tucked the ribbon secured to the back of the journal between the pages to mark my spot. “I had no idea. Yes, I need to get to work.” My mind transitioned to law enforcement as I set the journal on the passenger’s seat with the others. “Did I tell you that I hired Martin Reed yesterday?”
“As your deputy? Is that a good idea?”
“So far but ask me again in a day or two.”
~~~
I found my deputy sitting at his desk reading the online material I had assigned him. He looked up from his computer and gave me a nod. “Sheriff. Something going on you need my help with?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“Because it’s nearly lunchtime and this is the first I’ve seen you today.”
My first thought was to snap at him. I was the boss. What business was it of his when I got into the station? He was my deputy, though, and yesterday I had made a big deal about us needing to be able to trust each other.
“I got distracted with something at home,” I explained. “Normally, I’ll be here by eight. How’s the reading coming? Learn anything interesting?”
This led to a half hour discussion on crowd control followed by another on how to properly pull over and then approach a vehicle to ensure the safety of not only the officer, but also the driver and passengers in the vehicle.
“Have you heard of touch DNA?” he asked.
“I have.” His enthusiasm amused me. “What did you learn about it?”
Reed leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. “When you pull someone over and are approaching the vehicle from behind, you touch the back of the vehicle, preferably the trunk.”
“And why do you do this?” I hoped I’d come across as an instructor and not, as Rosalyn would have accused, like a condescending big sister.
“Couple reasons. First, if anyone is waiting in the trunk to ambush you, by pressing down on the trunk lid, or the tailgate of a larger vehicle I suppose, you’ll lock the person in.”
“And,” I added, “if you announce your presence to the driver while tapping on the lid, in the rare event that someone is being held captive in the trunk, they’ll hear you and make a noise of some kind, letting you know they’re in there.”
“Huh. Hadn’t thought of that.” He nodded his approval. “The other reason is to leave your prints or DNA on the car. That way if the vehicle leaves the scene, you can prove you had contact with the vehicle.”
“Fortunately,” I added, “we’ve got dashboard cams to back us up now as well. The touching thing is old-school, but some of the best techniques are the old ones.”
“I like knowing these things, even though I’ll probably never use ninety percent of these tactics around the village.”
; “Probably not, but if you ever decide to move away—”
“I’ll never leave the village,” he insisted while shaking his head.
That’s what he said now. I never thought I’d leave Madison. If things went well, maybe he could take classes in the off-season and then enroll at the academy. Maybe I’d be content running a B&B with Tripp, and Reed could step up here at the station. But I was getting ahead of things.
“Glad you’re finding the reading valuable.” I pointed at my office. “I’ll be doing some reading of my own. Feel free to take off for lunch if you’d like to. You can do a patrol of the area while you’re out there.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m just going to finish this chapter.”
I smiled as I settled into my office. From the start, I had the feeling that Reed was never encouraged to do much. He certainly hadn’t been well respected. I’ll never forget Sheriff Brighton’s description of him: The boy isn’t capable of investigating his way out of this building without a map. I’m basically a department of one. Shame he didn’t recognize “the boy’s” potential. No wonder Reed was so crabby when we first met.
There were only about fifty pages left in the journal I’d been reading when Tripp stopped me. I probably should have left it at home, but since Reed was going to patrol and it seemed like an otherwise quiet day, I didn’t see any harm in quickly finishing up those pages.
There’s not much I can do inside the house at this point. I’ve subscribed to a few decorating magazines and am collecting ideas from them, but until the second floor is done, there’s no sense even starting. What I can do is work on the landscaping around the house and boathouse.
That entry was written in early spring, shortly after they had moved into the house. A week or so later Gran wrote:
Original Secrets: A Whispering Pines Mystery, Book 3 Page 10