“I’m sorry?”
She swatted a hand at me. “Whatever.”
“Do you want to tell me what you saw? Or do you think maybe it was a fluke. Want to give it another try?” I held out my hands.
Lily Grace considered this. “Yeah, maybe it was a fluke.” But a minute after she took my hands again, she moaned like Rosalyn and I used to when we ate too many of Gran’s turtle brownies. Her voice dropped an octave and took on a monotone. “Your future here is not what you planned.”
Really? That was her big vision? It wasn’t a secret to anyone in the village that I was here to fix up the house. And the badge pinned to my shirt hadn’t been in the car on my drive up from Madison.
“I see,” Lily Grace continued and then made a face, like she felt nauseated, and moved a hand to her belly. “I see beans.”
“Beans?” I asked. “Beans as in zero, zilch, nothing? Or beans as in the vegetable?”
She considered this. “More like a legume.” After another few seconds, she opened her eyes. “That’s it.”
“Glad I didn’t pay for that.”
“It doesn’t mean anything to you?” Lily Grace asked hopefully. “It would be kind of cool if my first ever legitimate reading actually meant something.” She gasped. “I wonder if this is going to happen all the time now. Geeze, just when I’d accepted my title as Queen of the Misfits. Now I’m just like every other freak in this village.”
“What kind of beans? Did you actually see them? What did they look like?”
“I don’t know.” Lily Grace sighed, distracted by her own problems now. She put her fingers to her forehead as though trying to recall the image. “A pinto bean maybe?”
“I do like Mexican food,” I joked then a thought struck me. “Did you by any chance hear that Shoppe Mystique had a break-in?”
“Nope. That sucks. Did anything get stolen?”
“Castor beans.”
For a second, her eyes lit up excitedly. “Freaky.”
“Indeed.” I stood and brushed dirt off my butt. “Sorry for traumatizing you. Maybe your gift is a one-and-done and it will go away again?”
Lily Grace made a little snort of disgust. “I wish.”
“I’m off to make the rounds and meet people. See you.”
Meeka and I wandered in and out of the shops surrounding the pentacle gardens. Then down to the marina where I said hi to Oren and met his dad Gill, the marina owner. They were busy doing final checks on all their equipment in preparation for the summer season.
I’d never been a beat cop before. There wasn’t a lot for me to do, since the tourist crowd was still fairly light, but I got a lot of steps in and learned where everything was. I met all of the shopkeepers, one or two gave me the kind of enthusiastic welcome Violet, Honey, and Sugar had. Most were neutral about me being in town, relative of The Original or not. They all loved Meeka, though. I’d never seen her eat so many biscuits. By the end of my first shift, I felt confident I’d be able to direct people anywhere they wanted to go . . . in the commons area, at least.
The path back to the sheriff’s station took me past Quin’s. I wanted to ask Donovan about the harlequin I found in Yasmine’s tent so took a left into his shop.
“Ms. O’Shea, how nice to see you again,” Donovan greeted in his cool, in-control way, but nowhere near as friendly as the first time I’d entered. His gaze traveled up and down my body. “In a deputy’s uniform this time.”
Had to admit it, the Glock strapped to my hip comforted me. “I’ll be helping out Sheriff Brighton during the tourist season.”
“I feel safer already.” The words were genuine, but the turn of his mouth and roll of his eyes revealed a good dose of sarcasm. “Only during the season?”
“That’s what we agreed to.” I pulled out my phone and flipped to the picture of the doll in Yasmine’s tent. “When I was here yesterday we talked about your harlequins.”
“I recall.”
I held the picture out to him. “Did you happen to make this one?”
His cheerful expression clouded over. “It looks like one of mine.”
Not the response I expected. “You don’t know?”
He sighed, as though he didn’t have time for my questions. Then he glanced around the shop and checked the dressing rooms, presumably looking for customers. Finding no one, he returned to me.
“I don’t like for the tourists to know this. It either makes them nervous or they treat me like one of the fortune tellers.” If the crinkling of his nose meant anything, he didn’t care for the fortune tellers any more than he did me. “I’m a psychic as well as a practicing Wiccan.”
He held up his wrist with the Triple Moon Goddess tattoo as though it offered proof of some kind.
“Anyone can get a tattoo, Donovan.”
“Anyone who lives in the village, however, knows that only coven members may wear the Triple Moon Goddess symbol, whether in tattoo form or jewelry or what have you.”
“What happens if a non-coven member disobeys that directive? Tar and feathering? Sandwich boarding? Or maybe you put them in stocks next to the negativity well?”
He shook his head. “It simply isn’t done.”
“If the Triple Moon symbol is supposed to be your members-only gang tag, why is it on display all around the village like a logo?”
He glared at me. Didn’t like me dissing their moons, apparently.
“The Triple Moon symbol,” Donovan said, his voice tight, “acts to protect us and honor the Goddess.”
More witchcraft mumbo-jumbo. I wiggled my phone at him. “What does that have to do with this harlequin?”
“May I ask, where did you find it?”
“Do you know a young woman named Yasmine Long?”
Understanding immediately showed on his face. “It was with her belongings.”
“How do you know that?”
“I, most likely, put it there.”
“Are you purposely trying to confuse me? You ‘most likely’ put it there? Care to explain that?”
He walked over to the shelf loaded with harlequin dolls beside his checkout stand and held a hand out to them like a Price is Right model. “I told you that these were for sale.”
“You did. And that you give away others.”
He nodded at my phone. “The doll in that photograph is one of the latter.”
I glanced at the image of the empty eye sockets and dehydrated appearance. “Because it’s so creepy-looking you wouldn’t be able to sell it?”
He stood tall and pushed his wide shoulders back. “My gift is that I know when death is coming. When the visions come to me, I go into a trance state.”
Sounded like an excuse for trying to get away with murder to me. “That’s a gift?”
“A gift is not always a positive or pleasant thing, Deputy O’Shea. ‘Psychic’ is a loose term for me. I can’t foretell events, as our clairvoyant friends in The Triangle can. I can’t bring on my visions, they just happen. When they do, I know who will die but not exactly when. Usually, it’s within a few days. When the vision comes, I go into the trance and end up in my art studio where I create a doll. Then I deliver the doll to the person.”
“This doll,” I held up the picture, “it gives the appearance of dehydration and illness.”
“Correct. Once complete, the doll will resemble the person in death. As I understand, Miss Long died from poisoning.”
Poisoning. Not food poisoning.
“Where did you hear that?”
He turned his attention to tidying a rack of men’s shirts. “Around.”
Did the whispering trees share that tidbit? Couldn’t imagine Sheriff Brighton had, especially since he didn’t seem to believe Yasmine had been poisoned. Who else knew? Keko and her gang. Tripp. Deputy Reed? The medical examiner?
“You’re telling me,” I began, “that you create dolls that resemble the victim’s death and then deliver them all while in some sort of trance?”
“That is what
I’m telling you.” He gestured at the village in general. “Ask anyone who lives here. It’s common knowledge.”
“Will an impending natural death also put you into one of these trances? Or does it only happen when a person is murdered?”
“Miss Long was murdered?” His surprise felt forced.
“I have reason to believe it’s a possibility.”
He was silent for a minute, but rather than offering a respectful moment for the deceased he appeared to be analyzing this information.
“To my knowledge,” Donovan said, “there’s never been a murder in Whispering Pines. It’s rather unsettling to think one has happened.”
“It is. How long have you been here? Your whole life?”
“No, I’m not one of the fortunate souls born here. I moved to the village about six months ago.”
Not that it mattered, but how extensive could his knowledge of Whispering Pines’ history be after only six months?
He crossed to the accessories table to untangle some necklaces. “Was there anything else, Deputy? I have no knowledge of what happened to the young woman. Only that she died. I have no idea who did it.”
To me, he sounded like suspect number one. But if the entire village would back him up, and I was sure they would, there was no reason to keep him on my list. At least I knew where the doll came from.
“That’s all I came in for,” I said, “to find out about the doll’s origins. Whether it was purchased or a present.”
“Not sure anyone would consider my dolls to be a gift. Except for old Mrs. Kaczynski. She was one-hundred and six and beyond ready to meet her maker. The day she received my doll, she invited everyone to her home for a pot luck. Died peacefully in her sleep that night.” Donovan smiled. “It was lovely.”
Whispering Pines was such a weird place.
“Thanks for answering my questions.”
“Of course. Stop back next Sunday. I’ll be putting all remaining spring clothing on sale.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I walked to the door, then stopped and turned back. “My credit card.”
“What about it?” Donovan asked.
“That’s how you knew my name that day.”
“That confirmed it,” he admitted and let that slow smile turn his lips. “But I do see a lot of Lucy in you.”
I held his gaze while fighting off a shiver—the guy creeped me out—then gave a nod and left the shop.
Officially done with our shift, Meeka and I returned to my vehicle. I thought of Lily Grace’s vision as I got into the Cherokee.
“Did she see pinto beans or could they have been castor beans?”
I didn’t believe in any of this mumbo-jumbo. But the villagers did. Someone steals Morgan’s beans and then Lily Grace’s gift turns on so she can give me a message about beans? Somehow, it was all connected. It had to be. I sure hoped the internet guy came today, because I had a lot of research to do.
Chapter 22
Back at the house, I found a dusty, sweaty Tripp in the front yard hauling a wheelbarrow full of debris out to the container.
“How’s it going?” I asked from the driver’s seat of the Cherokee.
“I should have the dining room and living room cleared out by the end of the day. I’m setting aside anything unbroken or fixable. How was your first day on the job?”
“Compared to Madison? This is like a day at the lake.” I gave him a big cheesy grin and pointed to the lake. “Get it?”
Tripp groaned and turned his back on me.
“Do you know if the internet guy came yet?” I asked.
“Yep, he finished about an hour ago. He left his card on your table and said you should call if there are any problems.”
“Perfect. Can I interest you in barbecued chicken for dinner?”
“If you insist,” Tripp deadpanned.
Sappy as it sounded, I was really grateful that I’d met him. I didn’t believe in the witchcraft woo-woo around here, but I was pretty sure that sometimes in life you got exactly what you needed. I didn’t know what that meant regarding Tripp, but I was glad to have him around.
Meeka, happy to be off her leash after four hours, raced around the backyard then ran to the front where she barked, playfully, presumably at Tripp.
Inside, I pulled off my uniform shirt and hung it on the portable clothes rack. The boathouse was plenty big enough for me and Meeka. I didn’t have a lot of possessions, even back in Madison I lived light, so the sleeping area, kitchenette, and living area provided more than enough space. The hanging rack, though, wasn’t very big. Maybe there was an armoire in the main house I could move over here. Or, Tripp could install some cabinets.
I pulled on my favorite ratty T-shirt—with Harry, Hermione, and Ron on the front—and then glanced at the clothes I bought at Quin’s yesterday. To me, the tunics were fancy. Mom and Rosalyn would have pulled on any one of them just to run to the grocery store.
It was a shame to let them hang there. What the heck. Tripp was coming for dinner. Wouldn’t hurt to look a little more like a girl now and then. I’d just need to be careful to not get barbecue sauce all over it while I made the chicken. I pulled off the T-shirt and my hiking boots and slipped on the light blue tunic with fluttery sleeves and the flipflops with the multicolored crystal butterfly at the toe that Rosalyn gave me. She called them my dress up shoes. Had to admit, I instantly felt swanky.
The internet guy had left all the router info on the table with his card. While my five-year-old laptop powered up, I grabbed a Spotted Cow from the mini-fridge and a couple of minutes later, I was reading emails. One from Mom explaining that she had set up a line of credit for repairs to the house. A box with a checkbook, credit card, and salon supplies should arrive via UPS tomorrow. One from Dr. Maddox wondering how things were going up here. And one from Jonah.
I hadn’t spoken to him since the morning I moved out of our apartment.
Hey Jay,
Jay. His shortened version of my name stopped me cold and brought a flood of memories. Years of holidays and birthdays. Great weekends spent with friends. His insistence that I didn’t have to work if I didn’t want to, especially as a cop. The phony people he started hanging around with because they could ‘catapult’ his political career to the next level. The phony significant others of the catapultiers he wanted me to hang around with, because government was a tight-knit group.
Our excitement over planning our future. It really had looked bright. Jonah was brilliant.
The surprise trip to Paris four months ago; his way of helping me get past the shooting. It had been a perfect trip, I’d loved every minute of it. Until the last night when, at the top of the Eiffel Tower, he pulled out a ring. As I stared at the spectacular diamond encrusted band, all I could think was that I’d been making very bad decisions lately. I had loved him fiercely for years. My mother did, too. Especially the fact that, “He comes from such a good family!” As time ticked on, and he refused to support the career I was passionate about, my love started to fade. I couldn’t imagine not being a cop any more than I could imagine being a politician’s wife. So, I said no.
Hey Jay,
I’m going down to Chicago with some of the guys this weekend. I’m looking for my Cubs hat. You know the one? I got it that time we went down for the weekend and stayed at The Ritz-Carlton off Michigan Avenue. That was the best weekend, wasn’t it? Anyway, do you have any idea where that hat might be?
What a jackass. Trying to butter me up with a good times memory. Going ‘with some of the guys’? Right. He was probably going with that gorgeous new accountant in finance. I hit reply.
Sorry. No clue.
“Find your own damn hat!” I yelled at the screen.
I added that he should look in the old trunk in the storage locker, deleted the words, and was about to hit send when a realization struck. I broke his heart. He didn’t do anything to me. He proposed to me, and I said no. The devastation on his face . . . I’d remember it forever.
> Hey Jonah,
Sorry, I’m not sure where your hat is. Did you check in that old trunk in the storage locker? Have a good time in Chi-town.
Jay
I pushed away from the laptop, grabbed a package of chocolate cookies from the cupboard, and stomped out onto the sundeck. I had devoured six cookies in ninety seconds before I caught myself. If I’d learned one thing in the last six months, it was that self-medicating with food would not take away the pain of Jonah. Or Frisky. Not permanently, at least. The instant gratification was always obliterated by crushing guilt and shame afterwards.
Glints of sun sparkled off the soft ripples on the water. A breeze blew up and rustled through the pines. With my eyes closed, I breathed in the smell of the lake. I listened to the tree branches rustle together.
A few deep breaths later, I was back to normal. Well, normal for me. This—listening to nature, feeling the breeze on my face, and breathing it into my lungs—was a much better way of dealing with stress. By the water, far away from all the pressures in my life, was exactly where I needed to be. Or did I specifically need to be in Whispering Pines? As in not just for a month or the summer, but permanently.
Another gust of wind rushed through, and I shivered, but not from cold. The temperature was perfect today.
A scolding bark from below made my eyes snap open. Meeka was on the pier below, looking up at me.
“Yes, I know. I’m supposed to be researching.”
After one more restorative breath, I went back inside. I shoved the package of cookies to the back of the top shelf of the cupboard and returned to the laptop. After first deleting Jonah’s email, I closed the program and opened a browser.
“Castor beans,” I mumbled as I typed.
Five minutes later, I knew that the castor plant was a distinctive, slightly tropical-looking reddish plant that produced puffy red flowers. Castor oil, expressed from the seeds, had numerous medical and cosmetic uses. The seeds themselves produced . . . Whoa. I sat up and paid closer attention. The seeds produced ricin, a highly toxic poison.
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