Family Secrets

by Shawn McGuire

  Once I’d collected all the visible food containers, I checked inside the two backpacks. The first, a small red hydration pack, the kind with a drinking tube connected to a water bladder inside, had nothing food related or smelly. The second, a larger orange nylon pack, had toiletries. Tripp said those should go. City girl learned a nature lesson today. I placed those items in a separate bag.

  “I think we’ve got all of the smelly stuff,” I said. “I’ll leave the rest for the sheriff. I just need to check underneath the sleeping pad.”

  I pushed it up and found a small harlequin doll, like the kind I saw at Quin’s. There was nothing at all charming about this one. Like the deformed dolls at the shop, this one was dark and scary, but even more so. The clothing was the traditional pants and tunic of the harlequin, but solid black except for the shoes which were red. The doll had a black hat, like a swim cap, covering its head. The face was painted more like a skull than a mischievous jester. It had empty black sockets instead of eyes. The cheekbones jutted out severely as did the chin.

  “That’s creepy as hell,” Tripp commented. “It looks dehydrated, like a shrunken head or one of those apple head dolls my grandma used to make and sell at craft fairs.”

  “That’s what I was just thinking, that it looks dehydrated.” I took a picture of the doll where I found it and then pulled it closer to the tent door. I snapped more pictures, front and back and close-ups of that face. What were the chances that Yasmine would own a harlequin doll that just happened to resemble the way she looked when she died? Right down to her red Converse sneakers. Another visit to Quin’s felt in order.

  I pulled the tent’s zipper back down, and grabbed the bags. Tripp held his hand out to take them for me.

  “Thanks,” I said of his chivalry, “but chain of custody dictates that I not let these bags out of my possession until I hand them off to the sheriff. I’m going to run them over to him right now. Should I swing by to pick you up afterwards? We can check out the house then."

  “No need to pick me up. Do your thing. I’ll meet you at the house in an hour.”

  Chapter 16

  A small four-stall parking lot behind the sheriff’s station was, according to the sign, for “Employees Only”. Since I was one now, I took advantage of the perk and pulled in next to the station’s van instead of walking the three-quarters of a mile from the lot by the creek. With garbage bags in hand, I entered through the back door and found Deputy Reed at his desk as usual. He glared at me. As usual.

  My immediate reaction was to confront him on his statement about not knowing Yasmine Long. Just as I opened my mouth to do so, I decided to keep this tidbit to myself for a while. If he was lying, there was a reason for it, and lies had a way of rising to the surface without prompting. Curiosity might be one of my flaws, but patience was one of my strengths.

  “What’re you doing here?” Martin greeted with a snarl.

  “Work here now.” I wouldn’t let him get to me. “Is the boss in? Never mind, saw his car in the back.”

  Sheriff Brighton was in his office on the phone. He held up a finger for me to wait and pointed at the chair across from his desk. I sat, waiting while he finished his call, and noted that his office was sparsely decorated. The only accessories were a large framed map of Whispering Pines, a framed print of a sunrise over a lake, and another of a lush garden. There was nothing else of a personal nature, no family pictures on the credenza behind him, no doodles from a grandchild, no ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug with dried drips of coffee running down the side.

  “What’s that?” The sheriff hung up the phone and nodded at the bags on the floor next to me.

  “Food containers and toiletries from Yasmine Long’s tent.”

  He fixed a stare on me. “And why do you have them?”

  “I stopped by the campground to let Tripp Bennett know the insurance company says we’re free to begin working on the house. He’ll be helping me with cleanup and repairs. While I was there, I started up a conversation with a young woman named Keko Shen. One topic led to another and she mentioned that no one had been out there to investigate Yasmine’s tent.”

  “And you took it upon yourself to do so? I remember stating, pretty clearly, that your job was to patrol the village and be among the tourists. Not investigate crimes.”

  “Ms. Shen and the rest of her group are tourists, sir. Keko has been staying at the campground for a number of weeks. Turned out she knew Yasmine . . . sort of. She told me how Yasmine had been raising eyebrows around the village.”

  The sheriff’s jaw clenched. “That she did. We like to keep things wholesome around here, innocent fun. First and foremost, Whispering Pines is a family community. Tourists enjoy visiting, but this is home for the rest of us. Parents don’t want to see the kind of display Miss Long was putting on around young eyes.”

  “Keko also told me that Yasmine was here to visit her aunt. A woman named Flavia?”

  Sheriff Brighton put a hand to his forehead, as though just the mention of this woman’s name stressed him.

  “Same person we talked about yesterday. You crossed paths with her at the front door. Remember?”

  “I remember. It seems she and Yasmine had a falling out.”

  The sheriff pursed his lips and shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. A ‘falling out’ doesn’t fall under legal problems.”

  “Unless things turn deadly because of it.”

  He rubbed his bad hip but said nothing.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “sad how Yasmine got sick so suddenly.”

  Did Aunt Flavia have anything to do with that? It could be coincidence, although I didn’t believe that. Not when the coincidence involved death. Yasmine’s ‘illness’ seemed to come on and progress quickly after she left her aunt’s place. Maybe the food poisoning had nothing to do with the food at The Inn. Maybe the aunt had slipped her something.

  “Miss Long had been sick?” the sheriff asked.

  “According to the group at the campground, she’d been very sick. I assume the ME will be testing for poisoning during the autopsy?”

  “Poisoning?” Sheriff Brighton sat back, surprised. “You think she was poisoned?”

  “Keko Shen thinks Yasmine had food poisoning. That’s not likely, though. There would be more than just one case. Do you know of any other reports of foodborne illnesses in the last week?”

  “No, none. If you don’t really believe that’s what it was, why do you think Dr. Bundy should test for it?”

  I shrugged. “Because she got so sick so quickly, it could be some other kind of poisoning. No harm in testing, right?”

  Sheriff Brighton stared at me, as though deciding if my concern had any merit. “All right. I’ll ask him to include a tox panel.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.” I stood, the garbage bags still clutched in my hand. “Where would you like me to put these?”

  The sheriff motioned to the bolted down, floor-to-ceiling cage that lined the far wall of the room. “Set them by the cage. I’ll take care of logging everything. The bags have been with you the whole time?”

  “Haven't left my sight for even a minute.”

  “Very good.” Before I could cross the room, he called me back. “Ms. O’Shea, we had a nice little chat here. I appreciate you taking an interest in the Long case, but don’t misinterpret my willingness to listen to your thoughts as encouragement. Leave the investigation work to me. In four days, possibly sooner, Whispering Pines is going to be full of tourists. I need to know that you’ll be doing the job I hired you to do.”

  I looked shamefully down at the floor. “I apologize for stepping out of line. I’ll spend more time in the village meeting the tourists and locals. It’s just, I understand bears might be attracted to the food containers and toiletries. I was concerned and assumed you wouldn’t want anything to happen to the other campers. Or for possible crucial evidence to be destroyed.”

  Once again, the sheriff studied me with his well-trained eye.

  “Yo
u were clearly on track to be a fine detective, Deputy O’Shea. I understand it’s hard to turn off training.”

  His use of my new title caught me off guard. A reminder of what was expected of me.

  “Yes, sir.” I nodded and left his office.

  “Messin’ around in business that ain’t yours, hey?” Deputy Reed asked and popped a handful of trail mix into his mouth.

  “Just trying to be as much help as I can be.” I forced myself not to confront him on Yasmine Long.

  “Sheriff don’t like people sticking their noses where they don’t belong.”

  “I take it eavesdropping on conversations with other employees isn’t included in that directive?”

  Reed’s face flushed red. Angry, not embarrassed. “I suggest you watch yourself, O’Shea.”

  I strode toward the back door, but couldn’t hold back any longer. I didn’t take well to threats. “I almost forgot. I wanted to verify something I asked you about earlier. You said you didn’t know who Yasmine Long was, correct?”

  Martin’s jaw worked and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall that. I do recall you asking if I ever saw her before. I recall answering that I supposed it was possible.”

  Shrewd. Maybe Deputy Reed wasn’t as clueless as I thought.

  Chapter 17

  After leaving the sheriff’s office, I still had more than thirty minutes before I needed to meet Tripp at the house. I’d been to many of the little shops in the village but not Morgan Barlow’s Shoppe Mystique. This felt like the perfect time to pay a visit. Perhaps I’d learn more about green witches and black magic while I was there.

  Shoppe Mystique resembled the other cottages in the village with its dark-stained wood and single-story stature. Unlike the others, it was surrounded by a garden that was already lush and full, even though the temperatures had only recently warmed enough to not require a jacket during the day. The front porch, with its pots overflowing with plants and flowers, practically beckoned people to come and poke around inside, or simply relax outside on one of the rocking chairs.

  Inside, the first thing I noticed were dozens of bundles of drying herbs and flowers hanging from the rafters. I expected to be suffocated by scent, but instead I felt wrapped in fragrance so warm and welcoming, I wanted to stay and explore every corner.

  “Blessed be,” Morgan greeted from behind an old waist-high wooden table to the right of the door. She smiled as though my appearance in her shop was the best thing that had happened to her all day.

  “Why am I not overwhelmed with the smell of plants?”

  Morgan held her hands up in a beats me gesture. “Sometimes a thing on its own stands out far more than when within a group.”

  Couldn’t argue with that. Flavors mingled to form the perfect meal. Individuals got lost in crowds.

  “Please, look around.” Morgan swept a hand across the shop.

  I had already crossed from the door to the left side of the shop. Two massive bookcases stood in the corner, one along each wall. Apothecary-style glass bottles, the old-fashioned kinds with cork plugs, filled every shelf. Each bottle had a tea-stained label indicating the contents. Wandering clockwise around the space, I came to a three-foot square wooden table loaded with bottles and jars filled with creams and cosmetics and a basket of handmade soaps. A sign hanging on the front of the table read “Lotions and Potions.” As I made my way around the perimeter, I came to more tables and free-standing shelves with candles of all shapes and sizes, crystals and stones, oils and incense. More filled baskets were tucked beneath tables. Strings of lights twinkled like fireflies in the rafters above the bundles of drying plants. Everywhere I looked, I found something else charming.

  In the far right corner from the front door, I came to a table stocked with earthenware mugs, a rack of loose-leaf tea, a carafe with hot water, and a covered plate of scones.

  “Help yourself,” Morgan encouraged and pointed to the little room next to the tea table. “Take a seat and I’ll join you.”

  I sniffed the different teas, settled on one labeled “Clarity,” and took my steaming mug into the little room. One wall held a case full of books about the Wiccan religion, witchcraft, and topics such as how to use crystals and plants for healing. On the wall opposite the bookcase was a large stone fireplace. Cozy wingback chairs and a worn velvet loveseat invited the reader to grab a book and stay for as long as they wanted.

  “What do you think?” Morgan asked cheerily.

  “Of Shoppe Mystique?” I settled at one end of the loveseat and sipped the tea. Just that fast, my stress dropped another level. First being near the lake relaxed me and now a mug of tea? At this rate, I’d be mellow as a yogi within a week. “It’s the most welcoming place I’ve ever been. I feel like I’ve been hugged.”

  “That’s exactly what I strive for.” Morgan joined me on the loveseat, lowering gracefully onto it like she had the chair at Treat Me Sweetly, her folded hands resting on her lap. “What questions do you have for me?”

  How did she know I had questions?

  “Do you know a young woman named Keko Shen?”

  Morgan sighed, indicating that she did know Keko and was exhausted by her. “She comes in every day.”

  “She told me she wants to learn witchcraft from you.”

  I’d issued the statement as a challenge, a how crazy is that joke, but Morgan didn’t flinch.

  “Keko is a follower of Wicca,” Morgan said. “She’s been studying for a few months and says she’s ready to commit herself to it. However, she’s hoping there’s a fast track for everything. In particular, to becoming a green witch.”

  “That’s what you are? That’s what she wants to learn from you?”

  Morgan nodded.

  “What exactly does being a green witch mean?” I bit back the cynicism trying to burst free, reminding myself that this was Morgan’s religion. “Do you perform witchcraft?”

  “Not the kind you’re envisioning.” Morgan’s smile was knowing. She was used to skeptics like me, which was why she lived here in the middle of nowhere. “It’s not like what you’ve seen in movies and on television. I use the gifts that nature and the universe provide and combine them to bring out their medicinal properties for healing or self-care.” She waved a long-fingered hand at her shop. “All of my lotions and creams, my candles, my oils . . . I infuse them all with herbs, plants, or flowers of some kind. This is nothing radical. Long before pharmaceuticals were created, plants were our medicine.”

  I sat straighter on the loveseat. Like everything else in this shop, including its proprietress with her hypnotic disposition, the loveseat soothed me. If I got any more comfortable, I’d never make it to the house to meet Tripp in time.

  “A green witch provides medicine and cosmetics,” I confirmed and scolded myself for the slight emphasis I’d placed on witch.

  “That’s right.”

  “So, you don’t perform magic?”

  “Of course I do,” Morgan said as though it should be obvious. “Again, not the kind the entertainment industry would lead you to believe. I can’t move things across a room with the power of my mind. I can’t transform a person into a toad. I can use elements from nature to bring about what a person needs. It’s no surprise to me that you chose the tea you did. Clarity is my own blend of passionflower, chamomile, and valerian root. You’re feeling calm and more centered, less anxious. Aren’t you?”

  “I am,” I admitted.

  “Some might call that magic.”

  I studied Morgan for a moment. “Keko says you ‘can fix just about anything with the right blend.’”

  Morgan didn’t miss a beat. “Just about.”

  “She also says you can unfix things. That you perform black magic.” I leveled a stare on her over the tea mug. “That true?”

  Morgan released a displeased sigh. “Magic doesn’t have a color. Witches, at least those with whom I’m familiar, use what nature provides to practice their craft. As a green witch, I combine plant life for medical
purposes. A traditional witch works with the cycles of the moon and the spirit world. A water witch, as the distinction implies, gets her or his power from water. These are all elementary definitions, of course. A full understanding of each type of witch would take a very long time.”

  I shifted positions to sit sideways and face her. “What’s your definition of black magic?”

  “As I said, magic doesn’t have a color. We do sometimes refer to magic as light or dark. You could directly substitute the words ‘positive’ or ‘negative.’ The end result of any casting comes from the witch’s intent. I, for example, perform my magic with a positive intent. I intend only to help others.”

  She was avoiding the question. “Are you capable of performing negative magic?”

  A slow smile turned Morgan’s mouth. “Now you’re asking the right question. However, there are two things you need to understand. First, the prime rule, so to speak, of Wicca is to do no harm. That’s why most of us work with positive intent. Second, the magic a witch performs comes back to her or him. If I were to perform negative magic, I would attract negativity and become negative myself.”

  “Sounds like karma,” I mused.

  “Exactly. What you put out into the world comes back to you.”

  A small clock on the mantel over the fireplace chimed twice.

  “I need to get going.” I set my nearly empty mug on the small square wood table in front of the loveseat. “One last question. What do you think Keko meant by unfixing?”

  “First, understand that unfixing doesn’t necessarily mean something negative. It simply implies a reversal from a current state. Second, you’re asking me about Keko, but you really want to know about Yasmine Long.”

  I hesitated before nodding.

  “Yes, by ‘black’ magic Keko could mean murder. Although, Goddess willing, I hope not.”

  The entire time we had spoken, Keko gave me mixed messages. She claimed to not know Yasmine well, but had a lot of answers to my questions about her. She responded with angry emotion to Duane’s comment about Yasmine having men in her tent. She was not happy about Yasmine going to dinner with Deputy Reed. That was a lot of emotion for someone she claimed to barely know. Combined with what Morgan had just confirmed, Keko Shen was firmly on my suspect list.