Original Secrets: A Whispering Pines Mystery, Book 3

by Shawn McGuire

  “No. It’ll be around ten grand. More if the tank needs replacing, too.”

  I cringed, already imagining Mom’s reaction. She hated everything about this place—the house, the village, and the people living here. If I called to let her know the house had burned to the ground, she’d probably throw a party to celebrate.

  “Okay,” I said. “It is what it is. We can’t rent rooms in a house that smells like a sewer.”

  He turned off his flashlight and leaned back in his chair. “What did you learn from the journals today?”

  I gave him the edited version of how Lucy met Dulcie. “Dulcie is just about to arrive here. Gran is so excited.”

  “And I assume, by the fact that you’re bouncing in your seat, that you want to go read more.”

  “Do you mind?”

  He paused before answering. “Why would I mind? Besides, I just started a new series about this chemistry teacher who finds out he’s dying and decides to sell meth to make money for his family. Have you heard of it?”

  “Heard of it. Watched it. You’re going to love it. Go, watch your show.”

  Halfway back to the boathouse, I thought again about how it had been a while since Tripp and I had sat out on the deck at the end of the day. He said that he didn’t mind if I went to read, but he paused before answering and his voice was flat when he did. I stood next to the garage, watched the light go out in his popup, and silently vowed to make dinner on the sundeck a priority for tomorrow night.

  A few minutes later, I settled onto the loveseat in my apartment with the next two years’ worth of journals. The coffee table in front of me was loaded with chips and guacamole, cheese sticks, chocolate covered peanuts, and a Sprecher Irish Stout, my favorite of their beers. Not only was the flavor great, it made me think of Milwaukee’s Irish Fest, a celebration my family used to attend every summer when Rosalyn and I were little. We stopped attending the fest around the same time we stopped coming to visit Gran and Gramps.

  I thought of other happy times with my family, ironically becoming sadder by the second, so I opened a journal and slipped even further into the past.

  Dulcie and Briar arrived yesterday afternoon. I can’t begin to express how wonderful it is to see her again. Dillon and Briar fit like two snug little bugs into his temporary bedroom. Fortunately, Dulcie is a trooper and is happy to camp out on the sofa. I wish I had somewhere nicer for her to stay.

  For the rest of that journal, Gran explained in painstaking detail the process she and Dulcie went through to create the gardens around the house. There were dozens of sketches among the entries that detailed their plans. While they were doing the actual work, the entries became shorter, just a few sentences about their progress for the day and the mischief Dad and Briar got into. By the time the landscaping was wrapping up, Dulcie was regretting the fact that they had to go back home.

  I should have put this past Keven first, but I asked Dulcie to move here. Once finished, the house will be more than big enough for her and Briar to stay. They can each have their own bedroom and bathroom. She immediately said yes but then backtracked, saying she needed to think it through first. What would she do up here, she wanted to know. How would she make money? Before I could say anything, she insisted that they would not sponge off Keven and me. She also insisted I put this past Keven first.

  A few days later, she wrote:

  Keven got home from the job site today. The first thing he saw was the new landscaping; it couldn’t be missed. Once all those perennials fill in, the gardens will be amazing.

  They had been showstoppers. Now, they needed attention. I’d have to hire someone to come over and revive the beds. My green thumb was wilted.

  The second thing he saw was how happy I was. I’d barely gotten halfway through my planned pitch regarding Dulcie and Briar when he said yes. “I’m gone a lot in the summer. I don’t want you to be alone all that time. It will ease my mind to have her here with you.”

  It’s late, but I couldn’t wait until the morning. I just called Dulcie to tell her the good news. She says they’ll be here in two weeks!

  The rest of the journals for that second year were filled with entries about life for the two women and their kids. They taught Dad and Briar not only the standard reading, writing, and arithmetic, but they also delved deeply into gardening.

  Dillon loves to dig the holes. He pulls the dirt out and Briar puts the pretty flowers in.

  That must have been the start of Dad’s archaeology obsession. Give a kid a shovel when he’s five and he’ll keep digging stuff up for the rest of his life.

  As much fun as it was to read about the beginnings of Whispering Pines, there was nothing in these first years that gave any indication of an impending murder. Would this really get me to the truth about Gran’s death, or was I wasting my time with these journals? The only way to answer that question was to keep reading.

  Chapter 16

  I woke up on my loveseat—one journal next to me, others on the floor, still more cluttering the coffee table—to the beeping sound of trucks backing up. Considering the crew showed up every morning at seven o’clock, it was a safe bet that was the time.

  I got up, let Meeka out to do her business, and jumped in the shower. Crossing the yard, with still-wet hair, I found the crew laying heavy tarps in a line across the yard while a backhoe dug a narrow trench, depositing scoops of dirt on the tarps.

  “Not going in to work today?” Tripp tugged on strands of my wet hair and indicated my shorts and T-shirt ensemble.

  “I know the station is only ten minutes away, but I figured I should be here just in case.”

  “And it gives you an excuse to keep reading?”

  “Can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

  He winked. A gesture that sent a shiver up my spine. “I made pancakes, they’re in the fridge.”

  I ran inside, warmed up a stack of blueberry-almond pancakes, slathered them with honey butter and maple syrup, then brought my plate to the front porch to observe the process. I was halfway done when Mr. Powell pulled into the driveway.

  First, he went over to inspect the digging and promptly fell into the trench. Two of the crew helped pull him out and pointed him in my direction. I couldn’t hear them but imagined they said something like, Why don’t you go talk with the customer? That way you can’t hurt yourself. That would be optimistic. There was almost no situation that couldn’t result in Mr. Powell hurting himself or needing rescue. Violet had told me that one morning he knocked his alarm clock off the nightstand. It skittered beneath his bed, and somehow he ended up getting stuck beneath the bed when he tried to retrieve it.

  “Good morning, Mr. Powell.”

  “Good morning, Jayne.” He gave me a little salute and put a scratch across his forehead with his thumbnail. “Quite a job they have to do for you.”

  “I’m just glad this happened before we opened the B&B and were full of guests.”

  “Nice way to put a silver lining on that dark cloud.” He dabbed a tissue over the little droplets of blood seeping from the scratch.

  “Here, let me help.” I took the tissue and wiped away the droplets as well as the tiny pieces of tissue now stuck to his eyebrow. “Tripp tells me this should run about ten grand?”

  “That’s about right. Little more, little less, depending on what they find.”

  I chatted with him for a few more minutes then went inside to call my mother with the report. First, I picked up the walkie-talkie.

  “Deputy Reed, pick up, please.” I waited a few seconds and tried again. “Deputy Reed?”

  “This is Flavia Reed, who is this?”

  Great. Just the way I wanted to start my day, talking to Flavia. “It’s Jayne. I need to speak with Martin, please.”

  “We do have a telephone, you know. This is rather invasive, don’t you think?”

  “You’re right, Flavia.” Sometimes it was easier to take the blame and move along. “I’ll use the telephone next time. Would you hand
me over to Martin, please?”

  A grumble and a short wait later and Martin’s voice came over the device. “This is Deputy Reed. Is there an emergency, Sheriff? Over.”

  “Not as far as Whispering Pines is concerned. I’m having a bit of an issue at my house, however.”

  “Anything requiring my assistance? Over.”

  He sounded so eager to help. And so formal. Must be trying to impress his mother.

  “No, thanks, though. I’m going to stay here for the day. If there are any problems, give me a buzz and I’ll be right there.”

  “Will do. Over and—”

  “One thing, what’s your phone number? No need for me to contact you this way when you’re at home.”

  The biggest reason not to use the walkie-talkies at home? Flavia could hear everything I was saying. She now knew there was something going on over here. Who knew what rumor she would have circulating around the village by lunchtime.

  Reed gave me his number and took mine for the boathouse. “Got it. Over and out.”

  When I’d finished giggling over Reed’s military-style walkie-talkie protocol, I called the day spa.

  “Melt Your Cares, this is Tiffany, how can I help make your day beautiful?”

  “Good morning Tiffany. This is Jayne. Is my mother available?”

  “She’s in her office,” the receptionist replied. Then, in a whisper, “She’s in a mood today.”

  Great. “This is important. I need to speak with her regardless of mood.”

  “Alrighty.” Which was a nicer way of saying, you asked for it. “I’ll put you through.”

  A few seconds later: “This is Georgia.”

  Oh boy. Tiffany was right. I could hear the mood in those three words.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Jayne, I’m at work. “

  “I know. That’s the number I dialed.”

  “Call me back at home tonight.”

  “This is kind of important. There’s a problem with the house.”

  A clattering, like she had dropped the phone onto her desk, sounded in my ear. I could picture her, elbows perched on the desk, hands to her head with her index and middle fingers pressing on her temples. Next came a humming sound that meant she was attempting to vibrate away a sudden, oncoming headache. Best for me to give her a minute.

  Finally, “What happened?”

  I told her what I knew. “Fortunately, it will only take a day or two to fix so it won’t interrupt our construction schedule. However—”

  “How much will it cost?” The question came out as an impatient hiss.

  “Approximately ten thousand.” A squeak sounded over the line this time. In preventative defense of the Pine Time bed-and-breakfast, I quickly added, “This would’ve been caught in the inspection if we’d put the house up for sale. At least this way we stand a chance of making that money back through rentals.”

  She blew out a slow breath that sounded like it came from her toes. “Fine. Contact the insurance company and see if it’s covered. In the meantime, I’ll transfer more money into the fund to pay for this.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Trust me, this is the last thing we wanted to deal with. We’re so close to being able to take reservations.”

  “After you have an answer from the insurance people,” she said as though I hadn’t spoken, “send your father an email. Like Jonah from the whale, he has emerged from the desert for two weeks.”

  A bible reference from my agnostic mother? My familiarity with the story consisted only of hearing it referred to in passing, but I was pretty sure it didn’t apply to Dad the way she wanted it to.

  “Not your Jonah, of course,” she added.

  “He’s not my Jonah anymore.”

  “At any rate,” her voice rose with irritation, “if there’s anything you need to speak with him about, now is the time. He’s likely to disappear into the sand again without notice.”

  Good idea. Maybe Dad could tell me about the village’s history. Sending that kind of information in an email could be a hassle, and there was always a significant chance of misinterpretation. A phone call to Egypt, or wherever, would be far too expensive. Could we video chat?

  “Jayne!”

  I snapped to attention. “Present.” How long had she been trying to get my attention?

  “I’ve got work to do. Is there anything else you need?”

  For half a second, I thought about asking her how she was. How Rosalyn was doing with her summer internship. Just . . . chatting with my mom. But she was at work. “Nope. That’s about it.”

  “Very good.”

  “Wait.” Could she tell me anything about the village’s history?

  “What is it, Jayne?”

  She sounded as though continuing this conversation was the last thing she wanted to do. Well, since I’d already annoyed her . . .

  “I found a bunch of Gran’s journals when I was going through the attic. She started keeping them when they moved here. They’re really interesting. Do you know anything about Whispering Pines’ history?”

  “Far more than I care to.”

  “There’s a reason I’m asking, not just because I’m curious. Gran was murdered.”

  “Not every death is a murder, Jayne.”

  “No, Mom, I’ve got her file here and—"

  “I understand you calling to tell me about the house, but the last thing I wish to discuss while at work is anything relating to your grandmother’s death. In fact, I don’t ever care to discuss your grandmother. Or anything relating to that village. You know how I feel about it.”

  I thought I did. I called it a feud, but I thought it was just hurt feelings or a nasty disagreement. Maybe it was more. Right now, it seemed her feelings toward Gran bordered on hatred.

  “It’s really that hard for you?”

  Quietly and with great sorrow, she said, “It’s that hard.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I wouldn’t have asked if I’d understood that.” I waited for a response of some kind but got nothing. “Okay, well, if you can transfer the money into the account, I’ll take care of everything else.”

  “Very well. Have a pleasant day.”

  I found myself standing in my little kitchenette, shaking with emotion that I couldn’t label. I was somewhere between extreme sadness and extreme anger. I mean, I knew my mother could be stubborn, but hatred of a sweet old woman?

  Staring at my two kitchenette cabinets, I tried to remember if there was anything in there to eat. Specifically, something chocolate. Then I remembered a package of cookies I’d shoved up on the top shelf. Standing on a chair, I found the cookies at the very back. I’d inhaled three of the chocolate discs and was devouring a fourth before realizing they were stale, as in, no longer even a little bit crisp. How long had they been up there? I spit out the cookie in my mouth and looked down to see Meeka looking up at me with sad eyes.

  “I haven’t done that in months.” I brushed crumbs off my hands into the sink and swallowed the sour lump that had formed in my throat. “Seems the less contact I have with my family, my mother in particular, the better off I am.”

  Meeka took a few steps toward me and pressed her little head against my leg.

  “This much anger toward Gran can’t possibly be because of the Wicca thing. What could Gran possibly have done?”

  I shoved the package of cookies into the garbage can and found the contact information for the insurance company. The very polite woman on the other end of the call informed me that no, the septic system was not covered under our homeowner’s insurance. Basically, these things wear out, and it’s up to the owner to replace them.

  “Like any other appliance,” she said.

  Not sure a septic system should be placed in the same category as a refrigerator, in any possible situation, but there it was.

  Sitting at the little dinette table, I passed that information, along with an update on the status of the renovations, to my dad via an email. Then I told him about Tripp and how I’d been named
sheriff of Whispering Pines. I told him about my friendship with Morgan and gave him a quick update on the other villagers he likely knew. I had no idea if he cared any more than Mom did, but I felt like he should know. Then I told him about the journals and how I was learning about his life as a child here. By the time I was done, I’d composed what would be five pages if he printed it. I read it over one more time, deleting comments and then putting them back, and finally hitting send before I changed my mind on everything but the house stuff.

  Since I was staying home from work for a reason, I decided I should probably keep an eye on what was happening out front. So I gathered together the next two journals and headed to the house’s front porch.

  “Come on, Meeka. We get to watch a show today.”

  She was excited until she saw what “a show” meant. Quickly bored with just watching, the little Westie decided to entertain herself by taking running leaps back and forth over the trench. After I had scolded her for the third time, one of the men told me not to worry about her. I got the feeling they were waiting for her to miss and fall in and give them a show. Not going to happen; Meeka never made a misstep.

  Satisfied that my dog wouldn’t be in the way, I slipped back into the journals. As I had expected, nothing of any importance pertaining to a murder, either Gran’s or the mysterious first one, happened during those initial years. By the end of that second summer, Dulcie had asked Gran if her friend Fern and Fern’s daughter could come up.

  I met Fern at a gardening workshop I attended with Dulcie one time. She’s a lovely lady and her little Laurel is adorable. I told Dulcie it was fine for them to come. We have plenty of room in the house now that the second floor is finished. I need to stay in control of this, though. If I open to a few, how many more will come?

  “Oh, Gran. If you had any idea . . .”

  I knew that Laurel was an Original, but I didn’t realize she was one of the first to come here. As I read further, I became so involved in these stories I didn’t even notice the equipment in the yard next to me.