Original Secrets

by Shawn McGuire

  I sat at my desk, picking at my mushroom and swiss burger and continually checking that the Internet connection was still good. When it was finally time to make the call, the connection wouldn’t go through. My heart fell to my feet as I tried again and again. Persistence paid off, and suddenly I was staring at my dad’s face. Just that fast, my throat clenched, tears stung my eyes, and every ounce of missing him slammed into me.

  Weathered, deeply tanned skin with happy crinkles around his ice-blue eyes . . . my ice-blue eyes. Equal amounts of black and gray in his short hair.

  He looked healthy and happy, and I couldn’t help but wish he could look that way when he was here.

  “Look at my girl.” His deep voice was slightly dusty. “Look at how beautiful you are. I like the new haircut.”

  The chin-length bob wasn’t new. I changed it a month or two before coming here, but it was new to him.

  “Thanks, Dad. You’re looking good, too. Desert life clearly agrees with you.”

  He flinched the slightest bit, and even though I hadn’t meant it as a dig, I felt like a shmuck.

  “Where’s my grand-dog?”

  I pushed the chair back from the desk and patted my lap. Meeka jumped up and inspected the face on the screen. Flat faces confused her, but the wagging of her tail said she recognized the voice.

  “I don’t know how good the connection is here,” he cautioned. “As much as I would love to sit and talk with you all night, let’s get right to whatever is bothering you.”

  I was about to object that there was nothing bothering me, but I had said this was an urgent call. There was no time for candy coating.

  As simply and efficiently as I could, for what felt like the hundredth time, I revisited the night that Priscilla died.

  “It was ultimately an accident,” I concluded, “but Flavia instigated everything. If this was an open case, I’d accuse her of something. Aiding and abetting . . . or, better still, a higher-class felony.”

  “And I’m sure you would enjoy every moment of it.”

  “Won’t argue that.” I smiled at him, and my nerves kicked in. Time to answer one of those two questions. I gripped Meeka’s silky coat for comfort. “Look, Dad, there are a couple things missing in all of this, and I feel like if I can answer them, I’ll be able to figure out who killed Gran.”

  “Killed her?” He sat straight. “Why do you think someone killed her?”

  The further into the contents of Gran’s autopsy report I went, the more he slumped back into his chair.

  “It wasn’t an accident, Dad. Someone killed her. I don’t know why, but I’m sure these two deaths are related.”

  He squared his shoulders as though preparing for battle. “What are your missing pieces?”

  “Flavia told me I should ask you who the father of Priscilla’s baby was.”

  From almost 7000 miles away, I watched the tan drain from my father’s face.

  “Priscilla was going to reveal the truth that night.” He looked to the side as his voice broke. He cleared his throat and looked back at me. “We had talked about it the day before the gathering, and I was prepared to stand by her side.”

  Already knowing the answer to the question I hadn’t yet asked, I pulled Meeka in closer to my chest. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that I am the baby’s father.” He said this evenly, his voice solid now. “I liked Priscilla, but I can’t say that I loved her. I had plans to go off to school, maybe see the world, and she didn’t want to leave Whispering Pines. I would have done what I could to support the baby. But she didn’t want me involved.”

  Meeka squirmed and broke free from my grasp. Guess I held on too tightly. “Who didn’t want you involved? Priscilla? Her mother?”

  “No, your grandmother. She was obsessively concerned with status and appearances then. Everyone treated her like royalty, and it went to her head. Priscilla and I told our parents what had happened and what we wanted to do. Velma was more forgiving and willing to help us come up with a plan. My mother forbade us from telling the truth.”

  “Does Mom know?”

  Deep sorrow joined the weathered lines on his face. “Do you remember the last time we were in Whispering Pines as a family? You were twelve, I believe, and Rosalyn was eight.”

  I couldn’t help but laughing at the irony of that question. Since I’d arrived here, few days had passed that I hadn’t thought of that visit.

  “I remember, very well. That was the weekend Rosalyn and I figured out that Gran was Wiccan, although we didn’t realize that was the right label at the time. We walked in on her doing a ritual in the room over the garage. Rosalyn told Mom about Gran in her beautiful robe the next morning. Then we left so fast we didn’t get to finish eating our waffles. I figured that was what sparked the feud but never understood exactly why.”

  Dad’s head bobbed up and down in a nod. “Your Gran had an awakening of sorts by that time. I think it was age and the fact that Gramps wasn’t doing very well. She realized she had fewer years ahead of her than behind. Basically, the guilt of everything she had done surrounding that incident—accusing Flavia, forcing Rae and Gabe to leave, denying me my son—all caught up with her. She told your mother, against my wishes, what had happened.”

  The twists just kept coming. “Gran told Mom about the baby? Without your permission?”

  “If I would’ve told your mom from the start, that might have made a difference. By that point, it didn’t matter that it was Gran who told her and not me. Georgia couldn’t get past the fact that I’d kept that secret from her all those years. I never could forgive your grandmother for what she’d done.” He grew quiet and stared into the distance. “If I had to guess, Gran was doing a healing ritual that night. Probably asking the moon to protect her children.”

  “The Goddess Hecate,” I mumbled, recalling some of Gran’s words from that night. “Is that why you’re always overseas? Because things got too stressful between you and Mom?”

  “I suppose that’s part of it.”

  “And because you didn’t save Priscilla?”

  He rubbed his hands over his face. “To this day, I have nightmares about that moment. I vividly remember standing there telling myself to do something, to move. Guess it was because I never for one second thought anything like that was going to happen to her.”

  “That’s how I felt in the moments before Frisky died. I could have saved her, but I didn’t believe Randy would really pull the trigger.”

  This time, fatherly concern showed on his face. “Sounds like the next time I’m stateside, you and I need to have a heart-to-heart discussion.”

  “I’d like that. A lot.”

  “Did I answer your question?”

  “You did. I still don’t know who murdered Gran.”

  “I’m sure you’ll keep digging.”

  “Did you ever have any contact with your son?” I stumbled over the word, hardly believing that I had a brother. That kind of blew my mind.

  “My understanding was that he grew up with Velma’s niece. I never met him, but I heard that he got to spend time in Whispering Pines with his grandmother as a child.”

  In that instant, the last piece presented itself. It hovered in front of me, ready to fall into place. In my mind, I held my hand beneath that spinning piece, keeping it from completing the puzzle. I had one more question to ask, and the last thing I wanted was to hear the answer. I set daughter Jayne aside and summoned cop Jayne; she could handle this.

  “Dad, do you know the baby’s name?”

  “I do. Priscilla named him Donovan.”

  Chapter 29

  On my way over to Quin’s clothing shop, Lily Grace’s vision became clear to me. A porcelain baby doll. The old-fashioned kind with those dead-looking eyes that open and close. If I blended all the facts in that vision together—that Donovan made porcelain dolls, that he was the baby I’d been wondering about, and that his mother was dead—Lily Grace was spot on again.

  I
entered the shop, took one look at Donovan behind the counter, and almost threw up my mushroom swiss. Honestly? He was my brother? If I had to have a secret sibling, couldn’t I get a cool one? I mean, I’d already suffered twenty-two years with Rosalyn.

  He saw me from across the shop and gave me his typical bored eye roll. He must have sensed a different vibe coming off me this time because he looked again and straightened a little. I waited patiently while he finished with his customer and then went over to him.

  “We need to have a little talk, Donovan.”

  “No time. I’m busy as you can clearly see.”

  “This is official business,” I said evenly. “I need you to come with me.”

  “And I told you to go away.”

  “I’ll give you one more chance.”

  He turned his back on me, so I removed the handcuffs from the cargo pocket on my right thigh, grabbed his right arm, and pulled it behind him. Gasps and expressions of shock rose from his customers. It had been a while since I’d cuffed anyone, so the application wasn’t as smooth as I would have liked, but after a momentary fumbling, I had both cuffs on him. For a split second, I realized his hands looked like Dad’s and my stomach roiled again.

  “Don’t make me pull out my Glock,” I demanded. “I really don’t want to do that with all these people around, so just come with me now.”

  At my feet, Meeka growled. If he was smart, Donovan wouldn’t put the sharpness of her tiny teeth to the test.

  He walked in silence as I led him out of the shop and the quarter mile to the station where Reed was on guard in case Donovan caused any problems. I directed Donovan through the station to the interview room and to a simple metal chair.

  “If I take the cuffs off, will there be a problem?” I asked as I set my voice recorder on the table pushed up against the outside wall. “Because I can leave you cuffed.”

  He said, “No problem,” and nothing else.

  Reed motioned me over to the doorway. “Are you sure you can do this?”

  I was too close, I knew that, but Reed didn’t know how to interview. There was no way I could risk letting this part get messed up.

  “Yeah, I’m good.” Before he walked away, I added, “Stand in the doorway here and observe, would you?”

  He paused, analyzing my motive. “You need a witness?”

  “Best to cover all the bases on this one.”

  The details of Donovan’s mother’s death weren’t pertinent, so I didn’t rehash the events at the Meditation Circle again. I did tell him about the conversation I’d just had with Dad.

  “How long have you known that he was your father?” I asked.

  “About seven months,” Donovan replied.

  “Who told you?”

  “My grandmother. She obviously knew from the start. Wait”—he held up a hand—"I should specify, my grandma Velma told me. Grandma Lucy never once made contact with me.”

  Just when I thought I couldn’t get sicker, he reminded me that Gran was his grandmother. It was hard enough to share her with Rosalyn.

  “Seven months ago? That’s when you moved here. Is that why you moved here? To connect with the O’Shea branch?”

  He scowled and shook his head in tiny, crisp movements. “Good Goddess, no. I moved here because my grandmother had died and left the store and her house to me.” He paused and gave me a sinister smile. “As you well know, when you go through someone’s house, you can come across interesting items. One of the things I came across was a letter addressed to me.”

  He must’ve known this day would come because he didn’t fight telling his story at all. In fact, he seemed to revel in doing so. Or, more likely, he was simply eager to rub it all in my face.

  “What the letter said, in a nutshell, was that it was time for me to know the truth about my lineage. Lucy had forced Grandma to remain silent for years. She threatened her with kicking her out of the village if she ever said a word about Dillon being my father.”

  “Weren’t you worried about her doing the same to you?”

  “I had a home which I’ve held on to. I had a job which I took a leave of absence from. I could easily go back to both should the need arise. When I got here, though, I quickly became friends with Flavia and shared the letter with her.”

  “Amazing how scum attracts more scum.” I paused for a nanosecond, remembering that Reed was standing in the doorway. Just that fast, I dismissed the concern; Reed seemed to understand the truth about his mother. “Did Flavia know? Did Priscilla ever tell her the truth about who the baby’s daddy was?”

  “Turns out my mother loved my grandmother dearly and would’ve done anything to protect her. The only person Priscilla told was Velma.”

  He was basking in this moment. Screw that. Time to get right to the important part.

  “You killed Lucy O’Shea, didn’t you?”

  While inspecting his fingernails, he said, “Yes, I was responsible for Grandma Lucy’s death. Want to know how?”

  The fact that he didn’t hesitate to spout the truth astounded me. I crossed the room to double check that my recorder was recording, and to quash the fury rising in my chest, before saying, “I already know how she died. I just didn’t know who did it or why. You hit her on the head, specifically the left side of her forehead. There were no other marks on her body, so the impact was hard enough to kill her. Then you placed her in the bathtub to make it look like she drowned, but you hadn’t anticipated Dr. Bundy. Actually, not to knock Dr. Bundy’s skills, but a first-year student could have figured this one out. There was no water in her lungs, she couldn’t have drowned.”

  “And still, no one caught me.”

  “Wrong. I caught you. Underestimated your little sis, didn’t you?”

  This time, his smug smile faltered for a beat.

  “Okay, we know how,” I said. “Why did you do it?”

  “You’re close but off just a bit on your theory, Sis.” Donovan held his thumb and forefinger a half inch apart. “Let’s back up a little so you fully understand. This all started because I wanted Lucy to finally claim me.”

  “Oh!” I placed one hand over my heart and wiped away a nonexistent tear with the other. “Poor little Donovan. Just wanted someone to love you?”

  He arched an eyebrow and stared blankly at me, making me feel like a bratty little sister. Regular Jayne poked Cop Jayne and told her to get back to work.

  “I admit it,” he said without apology, “I was a wounded little boy. I grew up knowing that my father’s family wouldn’t claim me and that my mother’s family had passed me off like a box of hand-me-down outfits. I wanted the satisfaction of hearing the O’Sheas admit I was blood.”

  I knew what it was like to grow up with my father being absent. Still, I knew he loved me even though he wasn’t around much. I couldn’t imagine the pain of feeling unloved.

  “I figured Grandma Lucy would insist on proof of paternity,” Donovan continued, “so I entered the house one time when I knew she wasn’t there. No, I didn’t break in, she never locked her doors.”

  I hated that he knew that about her.

  “I searched the house until I found the room that was obviously dear old Dad’s, found an old hat with strands of his hair stuck inside, and sent it off for DNA testing.” He leaned back, appearing totally at ease. “Did you know that you can get results from a paternity test in as little as twelve hours? I didn’t pay for the express results. It’s not like I was going anywhere, and I didn’t expect Lucy was either. Five days later, I had proof that Dillon O’Shea was my father.”

  “Then what?” I asked. “You went over to the house with your paternity claim check in hand? What did you expect Gran would do? Fall to her knees or wrap you in a hug, proclaim the error of her ways, and welcome her long-lost grandson into the family fold?”

  “Don’t be dramatic, Jayne.” Donovan rolled his eyes, bored with me again. “I fully expected that she’d kick me out of the house. Quite possibly, she’d call the sheriff to have
me arrested. I told her, all I wanted was for her to admit the truth, and I’d leave.”

  “And then what? You’d sue the family for rights to the village?”

  His face brightened. “What a great idea. Believe it or not, I’d never thought of that. Two thousand acres divided by three would be”—he glanced up at the ceiling, calculating—"666 acres per heir. Unless there are more of us out there, of course.”

  I glared at him and refused to acknowledge the crass statement. “You had your DNA results, you had your truth. Why kill her?”

  He leaned forward and said, “Here’s where your theory goes off-track. You see, I didn’t hit her.” He sat back again. “I have to say, Lucy was one feisty little lady. Those little blue fingernails of hers were mighty sharp. She got me right here.”

  He indicated three faint scar lines on his left cheek. I’d noticed them before but thought nothing of them. Now, I loved them.

  “You say you didn’t hit her, so what happened? You knocked a seventy-some-year-old woman to the ground?”

  “I’m not a heathen, Jayne. She charged at me, and I defended myself. She’d already gotten my left cheek, I wasn’t going to let her get the right as well. For all I knew, she’d try to gouge my eyes out next. All I did was hold up an arm to keep her from attacking me again. The impact of running into me caused her to fall and hit her head against that gorgeous antique tub.”

  The irony of Gran dying in basically the same way Priscilla had didn’t escape me. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him that, though.

  I needed a moment before asking my next question. “Did she die instantly?”

  “No, but I thought she had. Turned out she’d only lost consciousness for a few minutes. When she came to, she had an awful headache. She threw up a number of times.” He tapped the base of his nose. “Liquid of some kind was draining from her nose.”

  The autopsy indicated one of her pupils was dilated, indicating a traumatic brain injury.