“Goofy dog. Do you see fairies?”
I laughed and tugged on her leash, gently as opposed to her attempt to dislocate my arm. Most likely she was detecting decomp from a dead animal. She knew not to alert me, by sitting and barking, if it was anything other than human remains. She’d been well trained. Or rather, the Madison PD had paid a lot of money to train her. The problem was, Meeka operated on her own schedule. Her rogue behavior meant she couldn’t be trusted as either a narcotics or cadaver dog, even though when cooperating she could detect both as well as any K-9.
After another minute of her resisting the leash tugs, I issued the command, “Working.”
She stopped snuffling at whatever had so captivated her and looked up at me, tail waving excitedly. By the time we got to the station, she had figured out we weren’t really working and turned her back to me.
“Sorry, but there wasn’t anything there.”
To make amends, I held out a bit of my maple bacon brown sugar scone. A sniff, a chomp, and a wagging tail later told me I was forgiven.
“Good girl. You can play in the woods all you want when we get home.”
We were fifteen or twenty paces from the station when I heard voices through an open window. Angry voices.
“I’ve never seen such sloppy work,” a woman said, her words crisp and clipped, her tone demanding.
“Don’t worry. I’m taking care of things,” the sheriff said, as soothing as the woman was angry.
“Are you? From where I stand, things are completely out of control here. First Morgan and now the girl. That’s how you ‘take care of things’? Are either of you capable of doing your jobs?”
A male voice murmured something I couldn’t make out. I also couldn’t tell if it was the sheriff or Deputy Reed. Whatever was said, it had calmed the woman enough that I assumed it was safe for me to go in now. Just as I reached for the handle, the door flew open, making me wonder if I had latent witchy abilities that were just waking up. Or maybe I could use The Force and never knew it. I chuckled at my own wit and looked up to see the woman who was so blatantly displeased with Whispering Pines’ law enforcement officials.
Five-six, strawberry-blonde hair twisted into a tight bun, body size hard to determine due to her formless shin-length dress. She was still facing inside with her hand on the door.
“Take care of this, Sheriff. I don’t want to hear any more grapevine gossip.”
Her deceptively soft voice had a razor-sharp edge. She spun to leave and nearly collided with me.
“Pardon me.” Her words were a command rather than a courtesy.
“Not at all.” I stepped aside and swept my hand forward, as if laying out an invisible path for her to follow.
She closed the gap between us to half a foot, stared down her narrow ski slope nose, and pierced me with her sharp blue eyes. A tight smile altered her stern, scrubbed clean pale face, but that didn’t help with the friendly factor at all.
“Tourist?” she asked with a hiss.
Why did she care? “Visitor. I’m here to take care of my grandparents’ property.”
Her eyes narrowed and through pursed, disapproving lips she said, “O’Shea.”
She sniffed, glared down at Meeka who had huddled close to my legs, and then spun so quickly her slipstream almost pulled us along. I watched her and after a few seconds my body released a massive shiver. Who was this woman?
“Another satisfied customer?” I quipped as I walked inside.
Deputy Reed looked up from his desk, sighed, and looked away again. “What do you want?”
“Service with a smile would be nice.” He ignored my snark. “I’m here to see the sheriff.”
Sheriff Brighton came out of his office. “Did you think of something to add to your statement? Or do you have some good news for me?” He looked skyward briefly. “Please, let it be good news.”
“I’d like to accept your offer of a temporary position,” I said, standing at attention. “There are a lot of things I need to take care of while I’m here, so part-time is all I can manage. Any hours are fine. Let me know which days and times are most crucial for you and that’s what I’ll do. Does that work?”
The sheriff’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “I’ll take whatever you can offer.”
“You’re sure you only want me to patrol?” Seemed like a wasted resource to me. “I can help with the Long investigation.”
The sheriff shook his head. “I’ve got that pretty well under control, and I can’t let you investigate your own house. Patrol is where I need help.”
We shook to seal the deal, and he led me into his office where we took care of paperwork. I would officially be on the payroll starting tomorrow. He didn’t keep uniform shirts stocked so would order a couple for me. They would arrive in a day or two. As a detective, working in civvies was standard for me. Wearing a uniform again would be strange.
“That woman,” I said as I signed the last form, “the one leaving as I arrived, she seemed upset. Anything I should be aware of?”
“No, nothing for you to worry about.” Sheriff Brighton placed my paperwork in a file folder and wrote my name on the tab in precise block letters. “She’s Yasmine Long’s aunt. Stopped in to see where we were in the investigation.”
Had she been looking for information? Cause of death maybe? The preliminary autopsy reports should be in soon. Would he tell her what those findings were or wait for the final report, which would likely take a week or two. Maybe that was it, she wanted information now and the sheriff was making her wait. Except her words echoed in my ears: First Morgan and now the girl. That’s how you take care of things? I knew who Morgan was, did ‘the girl’ refer to her niece Yasmine? Seemed like a cold way to talk about a deceased family member. Maybe something else had her upset.
As Meeka and I left, I couldn’t help but notice that Deputy Reed’s jaw was tensed and his nostrils flared, but for the first time his attention wasn’t on us. In fact, he’d barely acknowledged us at all. What was going on around here?
Chapter 12
Since I would be staying longer than originally planned, I needed more clothes. The insurance people would be at the house in about an hour, so I didn’t have a lot of time. A woman, who introduced herself as Ruby, was tending the flowers outside a little craft shop across the Fairy Path from the sheriff’s station. She recommended Quin’s, a few dozen yards away.
“He’s got an eclectic line of clothes there,” Ruby said, giving my jeans and T-shirt outfit a onceover. “But what else would you expect in Whispering Pines?”
I thanked her and continued along the path toward the pentacle gardens. I noticed the sign before but hadn’t realize Quin’s was a clothing shop. A peek in the front window revealed a riot of color and patterns from racks of dresses, shirts, and pants. Sweaters filled freestanding shelves. Not a T-shirt or sweatshirt in sight.
A sign on the door instructed customers to, “Please leave your pets on the porch.”
“Stay, Meeka. I won’t be long,” I promised as I hooked the handle of her leash into a clip bolted to the front of the building.
“Welcome. Women’s items are on the right, men’s on the left,” a man greeted from behind the counter at the back. Six foot even, slightly heavy build, silver-gray ponytail hanging just below his collar. He wore a shirt with a solid red front and right sleeve, a solid black back and left sleeve, and contrasting red or black triangles running down the center of each arm. Using a handheld steamer, he removed wrinkles from a pair of flowing pants printed with stars and moons.
As I flipped through a rack of dresses, I was sure I wouldn’t find anything in this shop that would fit with my normal wardrobe. Although . . .
“This is pretty.” I held up a peasant-style dress. White with blue peacock feathers printed around the collar and along the bottom of both the skirt and elbow-length sleeves. Where would I even wear a dress? When not patrolling the village, I’d be packing the house. A dress wouldn’t be appropriate for either
activity. “It’s not really my style, though.”
“No, that will look fabulous on you. The blue in the feathers matches your eyes perfectly,” the man said from behind me. He nodded toward one of two fitting rooms. “Give it a try.”
I held the dress up and looked in a mirror. He was right, the icy blue shade did match my eyes. There was no harm in trying it on. A Jayne O’Shea revamp was part of the plan while here, after all. I stepped into the changing room, slid off my clothes, and slipped the dress over my head. The peasant top fit snuggly across my bust, but the skirt disguised my belly, which had gotten softer and rounder over the last six months.
“What do you think?” the man called from the other side of the fitting room curtain.
“I think . . .” I bit my lip. Did I? Should I? Maybe I’d wear it to that circus Morgan mention. It looked okay on me. Feminine but not frilly. And the cool, airy fabric would be nice on humid summer days. “I think I like it.”
I held the curtain aside for his opinion, and he gave an appreciative nod.
“Wonderful.” The man’s already low voice held a bit of a sexy growl that made me flush. “I knew you would like it. I’ve gathered a few other pieces for you to try as well.”
He handed me a couple more dresses, a half-dozen fluttery tunic shirts, and the pair of pajama-style pants he’d finished steaming. The guy had a gift for picking the right clothes. He’d seen me for all of sixty seconds and chose not only the right styles and colors, but the correct sizes, too. I couldn’t stop myself, nor did I want to, and told him I’d take the peacock dress and three of the tunic shirts.
“Matching jewelry?” He held up earrings with one hand and a necklace with the other. The already delicate items seemed even more so in his thick hands.
“I’ll stop with the clothes for today.” Airy, flowing clothing was one thing, jewelry would push me into a girly world I’d never been in.
While he rang up my order and placed the items in a simple cloth sack, I gazed at a display of harlequin dolls on a shelf next to the counter. They all had porcelain faces painted stark white, but otherwise each was completely different from the next. One was dressed in traditional harlequin garb with a half-red, half-black pointed jester’s hat. Another doll wore all black, except for one pant leg covered in black-and-white triangles. A third had the traditional harlequin triangle pattern on his pants and tunic, but instead of the face being painted with makeup, he held a black mask in front of his eyes.
“This must be where the name Quin’s comes from,” I said. “Harlequin?”
“Most don’t catch on that fast,” he complimented.
“They’re great.” But a step closer altered my opinion. The traditional red and black doll had only nostrils and no nose. The all-in-black was missing a hand. I suspected that the harlequin holding the mask had no eyes. Misfit dolls sold in a village full of misfits? “Unusual, aren’t they? How long have you been collecting?”
“I don’t collect.” He took my credit card and plugged it into his reader. “I make them.”
“You made these? Like in a kiln?”
With his flamboyant clothing choices, for both himself and his shop, and his affinity for making deformed dolls, this man was a living example of misfit.
I mentally scolded myself. Maybe he was close to someone who suffered with a physical disability and was honoring them through his creations. Artists had a different way of looking at the world. Did that mean they all qualified for misfit status?
“I do have a kiln,” he confirmed. “It’s in my studio at home. I give classes twice weekly, Wednesdays and Saturdays during the tourist season, only Saturdays once the season ends. You should come. If you buy a ten-class punch card, the first class is free.” His low voice was soothing. “It’s quite cathartic. At times, I go into a trance, almost like I am the conduit and the dolls are making themselves.”
Maybe he could give me pointers when I broke out my watercolors. Or I could try sculpting, that might be fun.
“Do you only instruct on how to make dolls?”
“My students are free to create whatever they choose. I, however, make only harlequins. I’ve been fascinated with them since I saw one in a play when I was a boy. My grandmother had a talent for making the most beautiful porcelain baby dolls. Whenever possible, I sat with her and tried to mimic her style. Turned out I’m not good at copying and my style . . .” He gestured at his display, letting me fill in the blank.
Is to make misfit jesters? Had his creations always had something not quite right about them?
“Are they for sale?” I asked to fill the gap in conversation as we waited for my credit card to process, not that I had any desire to buy one. China dolls freaked me out, and clowns were flat out creepy. Harlequins were the lovechildren of the two and took the creep factor to a whole other level.
“These are for sale. Others I give away.”
His demeanor seemed to darken with that last statement. It was slight, but it was there. His eyes took on a vacant gaze. A slight, sinister smile turned his lips. I didn’t need a cop’s instincts to tell me something was off about this guy. Uncomfortable and ready to leave, I reached for my bag.
“You’re sure that’s all I can help you with?” He pulled the bag back, holding it just out of reach.
“I’m sure.” I leaned over the counter and snatched it from him.
“You know where I am. Stop back if you decide you want more.” He extended his hand out to me. “I’m Donovan, by the way. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Ms. O’Shea.”
I froze, my hand locked into and dwarfed by his. On the inside of his right wrist, Donovan had a small tattoo. The same Triple Moon Goddess symbol as on the village’s welcome sign, scattered throughout the village, and the pendant on Morgan Barlow’s necklace. On anyone else, it would be an innocent tattoo. On Donovan, my instinct said it meant something more.
“You know who I am?” I asked, my mouth drying.
“Word travels quickly here.” Donovan tightened his grip on my hand. “It took me a few minutes, but now I see a lot of Lucy in you.”
Donovan’s acknowledgment that I was Lucy O’Shea’s granddaughter was nothing like the warm welcome the others in town gave me. His suddenly tight, icy smile and squinting, blank eyes were the opposite of warm. For whatever reason, he did not like my grandmother, or me by association. I tried to pull free from his grip but couldn’t. After another uncomfortable second or two, he released me and the smile and friendly disposition from when I first entered the shop returned. It was like watching fog evaporate from a window to let the sun shine through.
“Welcome to Whispering Pines, Ms. O’Shea.”
I swallowed and held up the bag. “Thanks for your help.”
As I backed toward the door, a sudden urge to strap on my service pistol hit me. It was the first time, literally, that I had even thought of my 9mm in months. I left my Sig Sauer subcompact in my bedroom closet in Madison. Before Frisky’s shooting, I carried all the time, my service Glock while on duty and my Sig when not.
I dropped to the porch floor and clutched Meeka to my chest, my heart hammering. My own voice in my head scolded me: Bad decision. Yet another bad decision. You’re all alone up here. You should’ve brought your weapon.
Meeka squirmed at first and then realized I needed her comfort. She nuzzled her nose into the crook of my neck and went limp, letting me hold her until I’d calmed again.
“It’s no big deal,” I said, my fingers entwined with her fur. “Not everyone here is going to like us.” I pulled her away and looked into her furry face. “Right?”
She wagged her tail and licked my cheek until I laughed. God, I loved this dog.
With Meeka’s leash in my shaking hand, we walked along the Fairy Path toward the lake to retrieve the kayak and go home. We had just come to the fork in the path by the sheriff’s station when I heard a familiar voice.
“How hard can this be to figure out?”
I stopped walking a
nd peeked around a large maple tree to find Morgan Barlow and Sheriff Brighton in a heated discussion.
“The break-in happened more than a week ago,” Morgan said, “and you still have no suspects?”
“Even on a slow week, a hundred people go through your shop.” The sheriff gestured up into the trees. “It’s not like we have cameras posted to record the comings and goings.”
She glared at him. “You’re not even going to try, are you?”
“They’re beans, Morgan. A handful of beans.”
“I gathered those beans during the harvest festival,” Morgan said. “I have a supply at home, but I was going to plant those beneath the new moon in a few nights. I’ll have to bring some to the shop. My stock will be greatly diminished this season.”
“Can’t you just order more?” He shrunk from the withering look she leveled on him. “I’ll keep searching, but don’t get your hopes up. I really don’t think we’ll be able to figure this one out.”
“You understand that it’s not just about the beans. It’s that someone broke into my shop. There were very few tourists that day which means it might well be one of our own.”
“I understand that,” Sheriff Brighton said with more compassion. “You feel violated. I would, too.”
“Thank you for understanding.” The acidic edge in Morgan’s voice softened but hadn’t disappeared completely.
The sheriff went inside the station, and Morgan started up the Fairy Path toward the village center. There was no way for me to avoid her.
“Jayne,” she greeted with a smile. “Blessed be.”
“I couldn’t help overhearing.” Better to confess than get caught hiding information. “Your shop had a burglary?”
“I can hardly believe it. Everyone in the village knows that if they have a true need and no means to pay, I’ll share my stock freely. There’s no need to steal from me.” Morgan sighed and shook her head. “It used to be that we never even had to lock our doors. Now, I’m tempted to put bars on the windows and install one of those cameras the sheriff is so quick to say we don’t need.”
Family Secrets: A Whispering Pines Mystery Page 8