Family Secrets: A Whispering Pines Mystery

by Shawn McGuire

  “I told you,” Tripp objected, “the sheriff asked me to stay in case he had questions for me.”

  “Right, that’s what you told me. But your demeanor while the sheriff investigated the scene told me something different. You were sitting with your shoulders hunched forward, your hands folded in your lap. The look on your face was not oh, what a shame, someone died it was wow, I’m shocked, what happened to her?”

  “Okay fine, I knew her,” Tripp blurted. “Well, I didn’t know her.”

  “What do you mean?” I sipped my water.

  “You saw her.” His hands were positioned in front of his own chest as though holding ample breasts. He dropped them into his lap. “Sorry. No disrespect intended. She’s pretty. I notice pretty women. She showed up in the campground a week or so after me.”

  “As a tourist?”

  “I’m not entirely sure what her story is. I heard from people at the campground that she was visiting an aunt who lives here. Guess they had a falling out or something. That’s all secondhand. I never actually talked to her.”

  “But you noticed her?” I shook my head. Typical male.

  He snorted. “Everyone noticed Yasmine Long. Men and women. Rumor was after her aunt kicked her out, she didn’t have enough money to get back to wherever she came from so was trying to earn some.”

  A bad feeling crawled under my skin, and I thought of teen runaways who’d turned to prostitution to survive. An image of Frisky popped into my mind. She’d been busted a little more than a year ago on a solicitation and minor drug charge. In lieu of jail time, she vowed to get clean and then became an informant. Frisky, Mama Frisky to those in her neighborhood, saw everything—burglary, vandalism, girls who were heading for trouble. When she saw something going down, or about to, she’d call me. My partner and I would go and either break things up or haul away the offenders. The three of us were really making a difference.

  I pushed the image away and returned my attention to Tripp. “I almost hate to ask, but how was she trying to earn money?”

  “Washing cars.”

  “Excuse me?” Not the answer I expected.

  Our server placed two big steins of beer and a board with a loaf of rustic bread and cheese in front of us. “Your dinners will be up shortly.”

  “Thanks.” My stomach growled embarrassingly loud. I knew I should have stopped in Wausau for lunch, but I just wanted to get here. Tripp was right, the witch’s brew was good. Paired perfectly with the bread.

  “Yasmine strutted around town,” Tripp explained, “with a wash bucket, wearing nothing but a bikini and sandals, and offered to wash cars. Or motorcycles. Or bicycles. A woman at the campground helped her one time, but usually it was just her.” He laughed. “Guess she even washed a dog once.”

  Numerous music videos featuring barely-clad women with sponges and hoses skittered through my mind. Soap accidentally ending up everywhere but on the item in need of washing. The women then rinsing off, the cold water causing erect nipples beneath see-through fabric. Men standing stupidly by with their mouths hanging open and crotches bulging as they watched the whole spectacle.

  “It was pretty much what you’re imagining,” Tripp confirmed.

  “How do you know what I’m imagining?”

  “I know the look women get when they disapprove of another woman.”

  Was that what I was doing? Disapproving of a woman I didn’t even know based on appearance and hearsay?

  Tripp glanced cautiously at me, as though worried about causing further irritation. “Anyway, she was popular around the village, if you know what I mean.”

  “With men?”

  He inhaled deeply. “Let’s just say there’s a reason the other residents of the campground asked her to move her tent to the farthest end. The noises coming out of it were—”

  “I get it.” I held up a hand. “Another source of income?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  Popular girl, for the wrong reasons, attracts the attention of men and entertains them in her tent. Maybe some of these men were here with wives or girlfriends who weren’t too happy with Ms. Long’s antics. Or maybe someone, man or woman, became jealous over the attention Yasmine gave to others. Or became jealous over the attention she got from others. Sounded like possible motive for murder to me. I’d have to ask around, starting with Yasmine’s friend at the campground.

  No. No I wouldn’t. It wasn’t my job.

  “The friend who helped her with the washing that time,” Tripp continued, “she’s part of the group at the campground Yasmine latched on to. They’re all in their twenties. All seem to be having a good time.”

  “Partying?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah. From what I saw, there didn’t seem to be much Yasmine wouldn’t try.”

  I looked pointedly at him. “This from personal experience with her?”

  He didn’t flinch. “Told you, I never even talked to her. I passed the partying stage long ago. Guess you could call me a loner, just trying to live my life. You know what I mean? I’m looking for a place to settle and put down a root or two.” He shuddered. “Never thought I’d hear myself say that. Not at twenty-eight.”

  “No?”

  “Long story.”

  The server arrived with our dinners and after she’d set everything in front of us asked, “Everything look okay?”

  “Perfect as always, Sylvie.” Tripp flashed a charming smile that made Sylvie blush and spin away.

  “Mine looks good, too,” I called at her retreating back. When I looked back at him, color had risen on Tripp’s cheeks.

  “We had a night. She brought me one too many beers and we . . . never mind. Nothing going on now, though.”

  “I don’t recall asking.”

  I turned my attention to the chicken pot pie in front of me. It was good. No, not good, amazing and not just because I was so hungry. At least the first few bites were amazing; I ate so fast I barely tasted any of it. Not even five minutes later, I was chasing the last bites of my pot pie around the ramekin and only had a few deep-fried cheese curds left. My embarrassment doubled when I noticed that Tripp wasn’t even half done with his pot roast.

  “I haven’t eaten since this morning,” I explained. “It’s been a stressful day. I eat fast when I’m stressed.”

  Tripp shrugged. “Didn’t really notice.”

  But Sylvie returned then to check on us. “How is every—” She stopped mid-question when she realized my plate was almost clean. “Oh. Are you ready for your cobbler?”

  “Would you box it for me, please? I’ll take it to go.” I wouldn’t risk embarrassing myself, and repulsing my dinner companion, by inhaling anything else tonight.

  About two hours into the drive today, I realized that one of the benefits to taking responsibility for packing up the house was that I’d have time alone to get my head on straight. My plan was to learn to be more in-the-moment. I had developed a habit of going through my day without really paying attention to anything. My habit of eating before the food could cool was a big one to break. Maybe I’d try a cleanse. Hell, I’d try yoga or meditate or whatever other mumbo-jumbo the New Age gurus suggested if it would help get me out of my funk.

  I forced a peppier disposition. “So tell me, what brought you to Whispering Pines.”

  “The town where ‘All are welcome and those in need may stay.’”

  “Sounds like you’re quoting an advertisement.”

  “It’s the village motto or something.” He frowned and took a long chug of his beer. “They must have come up with it before it became a tourist destination.”

  “Why do you say that?” I tried to be more ladylike, more mindful or whatever the term was, and slowly placed one of the few remaining spoonsful of pot pie into my mouth instead of shoveling it in like a glutton after a forced three-day fast.

  Tripp leaned back in his chair, a bitter edge to his voice as he explained, “I’ve been here for about a month. Been trying to get a job somewhere since day on
e, but the council won’t approve me.”

  Council? Approve? I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “The good village folk of Whispering Pines, Wisconsin are very choosey about who they let stay here permanently.”

  “How can they stop you?” I felt myself getting worked up, like I did anytime I heard about an injustice. “You have the right to live here if you want.”

  “Sure I do,” Tripp agreed. “If I want to live at the campground. No one will rent me a place to live if I don’t have a job here.”

  “Don’t care much for outsiders, hey?” That surprised me. I always felt comfortable here. Of course, I was only a kid then and my grandparents owned the land the village sat on. Guess my dad owned it now. What would he do with it?

  “Depends. Tourists are welcome to visit and spend boat loads of money but . . .” Tripp inhaled deeply while rubbing his hands over his face. “Sorry. I’m just a little frustrated. I finally find a place where I want to stay . . . Maybe it’s best if I just go.” He took another long drink from his stein and sighed. “So. How long are you gonna be here?”

  “Originally a week. Long enough to pack up the house and hire a crew to load everything onto a truck. I’m supposed to ship anything my family might want, sell what can be sold, and donate or dispose of whatever is left.”

  “But?”

  “But someone broke in and trashed the place.”

  “Bastards,” he hissed immediately.

  I couldn’t help but smile at the way he came to my defense.

  “Now I’ve got to order a trash bin and do a mass cleanup before I can even get to the salvageable bits. And if the rest of the house is as bad as the two rooms I saw, I’ll need more than one bin.”

  “I can help,” Tripp offered a little too eagerly. “Since you’re willing to hire a crew. I’m sort of desperate for money.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I had to admit, I could think of worse things than seeing Tripp Bennett every day. He had this sort of hipster-lumberjack thing going on that was kind of appealing. Not that I was in the market for anything other than a friend. I noticed good-looking people, too, and he definitely fit that bill.

  We sat in easy silence. As he finished his dinner, I stared around at the empty tables—some small and round, some larger and rectangular—or out the window next to us into the nighttime darkness. For as much as I didn’t want to have to pack up Gran’s house, I had been quietly anxious to return to this village of supposed misfits. Now that I was here, I sort of felt like Whispering Pines and its population of odd, quirky residents might be exactly what I needed. I’d never in my life felt as odd as I had lately.

  “You okay?” Tripp asked.

  How long had he been staring at me?

  “Yeah.” I gave a little shrug and echoed him. “Long story.”

  “I’ve got time.” He scraped the last of his pot roast into a little pile and pushing it onto his spoon with his final bite of rustic bread.

  “Thanks. Really, I’m just wiped out. I need to get some sleep.”

  When Sylvie brought our separate checks, I grabbed both of them. “It’s the least I can do for making you deal with a dead person.”

  Tripp, clearly a man comfortable with himself, sat back. “Not going to object. I’m seriously almost broke and meant what I said about helping.” He held his beer stein out to me. “Thanks for dinner.”

  We left The Inn and started down the same path back to the parking lot, my unease over walking in the dark with a stranger all but gone. I prided myself on my instincts, and they were telling me that Tripp Bennett was okay. I made a detour through the pentacle garden. A visit to the pristine, white marble well at the center of the pentacle had been a requirement for Rosalyn and me every time we came here. Like everything, except Gran’s house, the well seemed much smaller. My dad always had to boost me up. Now, I could look over the side without problem.

  “Do you know what this is?” I asked.

  “A well,” Tripp guessed sarcastically.

  I shook my head.

  “A wishing well?”

  “It’s a negativity well. You whisper any negative thoughts or frustrations into your hands.”

  I demonstrated by cupping my hands next to my mouth. With my eyes closed, I thought about the events of the last six months. The tragedy of Frisky’s death. My agonizing breakup with Jonah, my almost fiancé. The fact that every decision I made lately seemed to be wrong. I just wanted to move past it all and get my life back on track. I whispered all of that into my hands and then, as though holding a bubble full of wishes that might leak out, sealed my hands tight.

  “Then you throw them into the well.”

  I reached as far down as I could and pushed my hands down toward the water. I stood there, half expecting to hear a splash. When I glanced over my shoulder, Tripp had an expression that said this was not at all a strange thing to do. In Whispering Pines, it wasn’t.

  We followed the pea gravel pathway out of the pentacle and then took the red brick sidewalk to the parking lot. Between my full belly and the silence of the night, I felt relaxed and content, despite the day’s earlier traumas.

  Tripp paused by my car and opened the door for me.

  “Thanks again for your help today,” I said.

  “Anytime. See you soon, Jayne O’Shea.”

  See me soon? Nice to know that neither being subjected to a dead body nor being forced to witness my born-in-a-barn eating habits had scared him off.

  Chapter 5

  For seven years, Jonah and I had lived in an apartment on a busy street in the University area of Madison. After we broke up, I moved to my parents’ house in a quiet suburban neighborhood. That had been a hard transition. Mostly because of the breakup, but also because of the lack of street noise. Four months later, I still had a hard time falling asleep when it was too quiet. The lack of noise was even worse in Whispering Pines. At least by my parents' house there was the occasional barking dog or car with a loud muffler cruising by. Here, the silence was overwhelming.

  After half an hour of tossing and turning, I opened the French doors that led out to the sundeck. That helped. The sound of the water washing in and out of the boat area below offered something to focus on. A gentle breeze blew across my face. The fresh air, fragrant with lake water and pine, combined with the sloshing sound was surprisingly relaxing.

  My body had just become heavy with sleep when I heard something outside. Voices. Someone was out there. Silently, I crept out of bed and over to Meeka. I had woken her when I got up to open the door, but she was once again sound asleep on her pillow. I roused her with a sharply whispered, “Meeka.”

  She jerked her head up and ruffed at me.

  “Quiet, girl. No barking.” Whoever was out there, I didn’t want her scaring them away. Especially if it was the vandals, I wanted to get a look at them if possible.

  Meeka yawned and stretched but didn’t seem at all concerned about possible intruders.

  “Come,” I commanded, and we tiptoed onto the sundeck. A soft beam shone down from the crescent moon and shimmered on the water. I knelt next to my dog and softly asked, “Is anyone out there, girl?”

  Curious, Meeka tilted her head, stuck her nose through the slats in the railing, and sniffed. Then she sat and wagged her tail across the deck’s floor, clearing a fan shape in the accumulated dirt and pine needles. If someone had been out there, Meeka would have alerted me. Then I’d give her the signal, and she’d take off in a white blur, barking when she got to the intruder’s location, just like she had with Yasmine’s body.

  Despite the fact that I was positive I’d heard someone, I couldn’t see anyone either.

  “All right. Let’s go back to bed.”

  Just as I stood, a puff of wind blew in off the lake, and I thought I heard the sound again. A moment later, a stronger gust blew through, and this time I was positive.

  Whoosh. Shush.

  “It’s t
he trees.”

  Intrigued, I leaned on the rail and listened. As the wind blew through, the fifty-foot pines swayed this way and that. The needles and twigs of the branches tangled and brushed together creating the whoosing, shushing sounds, the bigger branches creaking with the gusts. It almost sounded like the trees were talking to each other. Or me.

  “The pines really do whisper here.”

  With Meeka back on her pillow, I crawled under the covers and lay there, listening to the trees’ conversation. It was comforting. Almost as if they were watching over me. And just as I was slipping from awake to unconscious, I swear I heard them say O’Shea.

  ~~~

  I woke with a start, no idea where I was. After a long moment of panic and a glance out the open French doors, it all came back. The boat house. Right, I was in Whispering Pines to pack up Gran’s house . . . except the house was trashed. I needed to let Mom know. I needed to call the insurance folks. And I needed to have the sheriff view the damage as well. I also had to report to the sheriff’s station this morning to give a formal statement on poor Yasmine Long. No time for relaxing.

  A glance at my phone told me it was already nine o’clock. It was almost eleven when I finally fell asleep last night. Ten hours? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept that hard. Maybe the sound of city noise wasn’t as relaxing as I thought. And maybe getting away from the chaos of my life—namely my mom, sister, and Jonah—was the best thing I’d done for myself in a long while.

  I let Meeka out to do her doggie thing while I showered and dressed. My stomach grumbled. How could I possibly be hungry after that huge chicken pot pie and small mountain of cheese curds last night? I mentally added a grocery store visit to my already long to-do list for the morning, then grabbed the Styrofoam container of cherry cobbler from the little refrigerator in the kitchenette. I spooned the first bite of the dessert into my mouth and had reloaded the spoon before I’d even chewed twice. I stopped, with the spoon halfway to my mouth. I was supposed to eat mindfully so slowed down and paid attention. The cobbler exploded in my mouth—sweet, tart, buttery, flaky, and fabulous. Slow was good.