by Kelty Kells
“What about the enamel ones?”
He tips them out of the baggy and we lean in to look.
Turns out, no, they don’t. Just the one of the gold cufflinks.
“So strange,” I mumble. “Maybe it has something to do with whoever’s been spiking my drinks.”
“Maybe.” He doesn’t seem all that convinced, though. At last, he scoops the cufflinks into individual evidence bags and tucks the two them away. “I need you to tell me where you think these are coming from. You’re not stupid, and neither am I. I know you have at least some idea of who’s giving these things to you.”
“I’d argue that I can be pretty dumb.”
Paul’s glare doesn’t let up. “This isn’t funny, Karen.”
I wince at how sharp his tone is. The fact that he used my first name like that stings more than an angry wasp. “No, and I didn’t say it is. Look, you’ve talked to everyone at Mocha Amore, right?”
“Right.”
“Then I don’t know what to tell you.” Aside from Cole’s odd behavior this morning, I don’t have any proof that he’s involved in any of this. Saying that he is, pointing my finger at him, it just doesn’t seem right. He’s been nothing but helpful in the past, and sure, maybe he’s a bit strange, but so am I. “I’ll keep an eye out and tell you if I come across anything.”
“Fine. Whatever.” He shakes his head. “Stay in town.”
With that, he sweeps from the shop, the door shutting firmly behind him. The little bell over the door jingles happily, but to me, it almost sounds like a death knell.
Great. Now I’m a suspect again. Honestly, I probably have been all along and Paul has just been waiting for something more concrete to bring me into the station.
Well, it might not be long before he has what he needs.
Not a good feeling. Not one bit.
Chapter 6
By the time six rolls around and I pull up outside my parents’ house, I have more than a small list of questions to ask my uncle. Most of them aren’t even about what happened. They’re about the cufflinks and how they ended up in my drink. Yeah, perhaps he won’t know the answers, but it won’t hurt to ask and see what he does know.
I take a few minutes to write them all down on my little notepad. That way, I can keep track of what I need answers to and what I’ve already asked. Lately, I’ve been so scatterbrained that it’s hard to keep tabs on everything.
So many questions. I rub my gloved hands over my face. But he knows something. Maybe not about the cufflinks specifically, but . . . I should be able to get answers to at least some of these.
I reread the questions, and once I’m satisfied with my list, I slip out of my truck. Once again, I want to make sure I don’t sound as though I’m accusing him of something or angry with him. My great uncle is easily one of my best friends, and I don’t want to lose that. Aside from being close, he has been absolutely indispensable these past few months. His knowledge is the only reason I’ve been able to solve three murders, and I suspect I’m probably going to be able to raise that number to four before long.
I star the top five I want to ask while trudging up the driveway toward the front door. My parents live out in the seventies-style suburb near the coast, just west of the Vics. They’ve lived here since the seventies, have owned the same home my entire life. Everything from the cracks in the sidewalk to the color of the brick reminds me of long summers spent out in the enormous front yard and playing with other kids whose parents had moved to the same area of town.
This neighborhood used to bustle with kids in just about every house. Now, it’s essentially a retirement community. Most of the people I grew up with left town a while ago to pursue bigger and better careers in the city. While Mooring Cove still has its fair share of residents, it’s not nearly as big a town as it used to be.
So long has passed since my childhood, and for a few seconds, I pause to stare around the neighborhood. Nostalgia fills me. I feel my age in that moment, deeply and unyieldingly. Out here, I grew up without the Internet until the late nineties. Cartoons were reserved for weekend mornings; cable TV was rare. Life had a slower pace. I didn’t even get my first cellphone until I was eighteen. There was no need for one until I left for college.
I can’t explain it, how hard that moment strikes me. It makes me pause and rethink my approach to questioning my uncle. I need answers, yes, but I also can’t just forget all those years we spent together: The fishing trips, the weekends over at his place with him and Great Aunt Abbie, the visits to my relatives in other parts of Oregon and Washington state.
Yes, of course I need answers. I have to figure out what’s going on and why. Not just regarding the latest mystery, but everything that’s been happening these last few months.
But . . . pulling out a notebook and quizzing my uncle like he’s a suspect?
That’s not the right way to handle this.
I tuck the notebook away. First, I want to just talk with him. Like we used to, before all these murders started, before he and I shared this secret. If we can just go back, just have things like they used to be, I bet I’ll get those answers—and all without accidentally hurting him or making him feel like I’m just using him to solve these crimes.
He deserves better than that.
I turn away from the lamp-lit street, shoulders hunched against a sudden chill washing in from the west. Ocean breezes are always absolutely freezing in winter. They dig through your coat and clothes like icy knives. As January draws closer, the gales have been growing worse and worse. Soon, going outside for pleasure will be reduced to the few, brave souls who like the cold.
I shuffle toward the front door, burying my nose into the top of my soft scarf.
My gloved finger hits the doorbell as fast as humanly possible once, twice, three times. It’s getting colder by the second, the gale roaring through the suburb. We’re so close to the ocean that I’m being hit pretty much full-on.
“Come on, come on.” I shiver and stomp my feet from side to side to keep my legs warm. Another blast of air has goose bumps rolling up my spine, sharp and sudden.
Maybe it’s not the wind, some part of my mind whispers. Maybe you’re feeling a ghost.
Oh, no way. Nope. Nuh-uh.
I don’t even want to consider the possibility.
I swear, now that I know ghosts are real, I can’t stop thinking of the ones probably surrounding me. That only makes the cold night scarier. A fresh wave of goose bumps rolls over my arms. They don’t have much to do with the icy wind this time.
Just the thought of ghosts prowling around me . . .
No. Stop it. No one’s haunting you, okay?
The front door finally opens. My mom smiles out at me. “Well, you’re just on time for a change. Get in here. Dinner’s just about ready.”
I follow her inside, stomping my feet again to get rid of the salt and ice clinging to the bottom of my boots and to warm up faster. As I shed my coat, I ask, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Not at all! Table’s already set and everything. So glad you wanted to come over.” My mom waves me into the kitchen.
“Yeah, no problem.” I might be in my early thirties, but I’ll never pass up a free meal, especially not one that’s home cooked! “Thanks for having me.”
She hums, and the second I turn the corner into the kitchen and see none other than Cole at the breakfast bar, I almost swallow my tongue. Oh.
Wait, why is he here? What’s going on?
My first assumption is that my mom’s trying to set us up still. This isn’t the first time she’s invited him over, but it is the first time she’s done so without asking me to do the whole inviting part. It’s still odd to see him here, though.
He seems oddly relaxed, as if this is just as much his home as it is mine. He’s casually leaning on the counter, chowing down on some baby carrots and child shrimp while chatting with my dad.
Their conversation stops as I step into the kitchen.
“Yeah, you too.” He smiles, and it actually seems to be something natural and comfortable. Almost is the key word there, though. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and his lips twitch downward in question.
I get the feeling that he’s not entirely sure why he’s here.
Join the club. “So, what’s for dinner?” I ask, turning to my mom and glaring at her, giving her the full-on, Why did you invite him for dinner again? look. Of course, I don’t know for sure that she did, but . . . knowing her? Yup. My money’s definitely on her.
Holding my gaze and smirking, she replies, “So glad you could make it over tonight, Cole.”
Oh god, she’s on a first-name basis with him!
“Yeah. Thanks for the invite.”
“Oh, it was no trouble. Angus was very intent on having you over tonight, and things just worked out!”
Wait, what?
So Angus invited him, not my mom? Why?
Speaking of Uncle Angus, I don’t see him anywhere. He’s not in the kitchen, not at the dining table, and it doesn’t look like he’s out back. That only leaves the den or his bedroom.
“Excuse me for a second.” I slip out of the kitchen and make my way into the garden-level den.
A quick glance around the corner tells me that, nope, Uncle Angus isn’t here. My gaze lingers on the wooden box next to his chair. It’s the very same one Shannon and I used for a séance.
Something about the void the stones within the box carry makes me uncomfortable. They don’t have memories like every other object I’ve ever come into contact with, and something about that is utterly terrifying. I shudder, my fingertips gripping the edge of the wall. The shorthairs on the back of my neck prickle to attention, and that cold feeling creeps back up my spine. It’s almost like something’s trying to reach out to me, like it’s trying to say something.
And then, as quickly as it showed up, the chill vanishes.
I inhale a slow breath. “He’s not here. Okay.”
Hearing my own voice helps chase away the heebie-jeebies that a ghost was just prowling around behind me.
Not a ghost. Not a ghost. If I repeat that to myself often enough, maybe it’ll be true.
I turn around and head back upstairs to check his bedroom.
The door’s locked, which screams strange. I knock lightly on the wood and lean in. “Uncle Angus? You in there? It’s me.”
Nothing.
I wait a few seconds longer, hopeful that maybe he’ll show up and open the door. With a confused frown, I finally return to the kitchen. “Hey, where’s Uncle Angus?”
My mom frowns as she stirs whatever she’s got cooking on the stove. “He had to get something out of the shed, I think.”
“Oh. I’ll . . . I’ll go give him a hand. Excuse me.”
After grabbing my coat and boots from the front entryway, I head out back to help him out—and to actually have a few minutes alone with him.
No wonder I didn’t see him from inside. Normally, I can see part of his arm if he’s in his porch chair smoking his pipe. The shed is across the yard, and a narrow path cuts cleanly across the grass. Most of the snow from the most recent storm is gone, but a few deeper piles patch the yard in white and gray.
I shiver against the darkness and cold as I rush across the yard toward the shed. Another gale blasts through town, making the trees sing an eerie tune. Golden light spills out into the night from within the shed, a stark beacon in the winter darkness.
“Uncle Angus?” I call. I tap on the door, and it squeals as it swings inward. “Hello?”
For a second, I don’t see or hear anything. The shed seems to be empty.
Then my uncle shuffles forward from near the back of the shed, and I jump. I rest my hand over my heart.
Holy moly, he scared me. Maybe I need to start taking something for my anxiety.
“Yeah, I’m in here.” He sets down a small box, frowning. “Can’t quite recalls where I put it, though.”
“Put what?” I ask, slipping inside and shutting the door to cut off the cold wind. It’s not much warmer inside the shed, but at least I’m not being pounded by the gales coming in from the ocean. “What’re you doing out here?”
“Well, since you called earlier askin’ about them guns and talkin’ about cufflinks, I figured I’d come out here and get some of my things for you, but for the life of me, I can’t recalls where it is.”
“What is it?” Please not a gun. Literally, that’s the last thing I want right now.
He opens the box he just set down and rifles through it. “A album.”
“Like the ones inside?” I think back to when Shannon saw a picture of their grandmother inside one of Uncle Angus’s many, many photo albums.
“No, not quite. There’s notes and other stuff in it.”
“Oh.”
That’s . . . odd. Great Aunt Abbie used to be the one to always scrapbook and keep photo albums, but I don’t recall any notes in any of them. She kept diaries for those sorts of things.
“Is it one of Aunt Abbie’s?”
“No, no. Were my pa’s, you see.” He shuts the box he was looking through with an annoyed huff.
Before he can move it aside, I lift it and set it on the floor for him.
“Thank you.”
“Why don’t you sit down and just point me to the next box?” I ask, dragging an old stool over for him to rest on.
He hobbles to it and settles down, gesturing toward the back of the shed. “I think it’s back there, if I recall correctly. Little box. Should have Christmas or Halloween across it. Might be scratched out.”
That’s not unusual for my family. Most of the boxes stored out here don’t actually have anything in them that matches their labels. Everything perishable or affected by weather—like old photographs—should be inside, so I can’t fathom what sort of photo album he’d have left out here.
I sort through the boxes before finally coming across one on the top shelf. The old rickety step ladder is my only way up, and I drag it over to reach the box. “This one says New Year's Eve.”
“Hm. That might be it.”
I shuffle the box into my arms and ease my way down the ladder. The box is surprisingly heavy, and I’m admittedly not sure how helpful an old photo album is going to be since I called asking about guns and about him shooting someone. Then again, I suppose the photo book he showed Shannon ended up telling me more than I thought it would.
With a grunt, I set the box on the old, three-legged chair he’d been using as a makeshift table. I pop the lid open and tilt the box so he can see inside. “You see it?”
“No . . . wait, what’s that under—yeah, them frames?”
I shuffle some old, empty photograph frames aside. Beneath them is an ancient black-paper photo booklet. It’s not at all like the ones you see today. For one, this is all soft, old construction paper. I’m shocked the paper’s in such good condition, considering where it’s been stored. There’s no real cover, and the whole thing is sewn together with a scrap of what probably used to be white ribbon.
On what passes for a cover is a single black-and-white photograph with another piece of paper taped across the top. Written on it in old, blocky calligraphy is Mooring Cove, 1889.
My heart thumps into my stomach. As a restoration specialist, seeing this treasure stored outside has me wanting to rip my hair out and scream. I’m also completely enamored by the photograph, which has begun to sepia from age.
In my hands is a real piece of my family’s history, and memories swim forth from the paper, dim and soft. Being kept outside has quieted a lot of the soul the booklet has, and all I catch are glimpses of rough hands and scissors.
I swallow. “Okay. This is it?”
“Aye, looks to be.”
The photo on the cover is of two people—I assume my great grandfather and his wi
fe—standing on one of the outcroppings north of town overlooking the ocean. The woman is wearing a white, ankle-length summer dress with very little lace and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Next to her, the man is dressed in a worn suit. The trousers don’t match the jacket, though.
“Is that your mom and dad?” I ask, handing the booklet over.
My uncle hums, thumbing across the photograph. “That’s them. Handsome, wasn’t they?”
“Very.” I’m actually a little surprised how much my great grandmother looks like me. She has the same dark, unruly hair, the same round face. The only difference is that she’s a heck of a lot skinnier than I’ll ever be. All in all, she’s a stunning woman.
“What did you want to show me?” This is definitely a far cry from anything to do with guns. I’m glad for it, too.
“Well, first thing’s first, these look like the cufflinks you found?” He flips to a page and holds the booklet up for me. A photograph of my great grandfather shows him in a suit jacket, the cuffs of his button-down shirt just barely visible. On the wrist facing the camera is none other than one of the gold cufflinks. The image itself is faded, black and white with that ugly sepia staining. The cufflink is a little difficult to make out, and I have to squint and lean in close to see the diamond in the center.
But there it is. Plain as day, there’s my great grandfather, wearing one of the cufflinks I found this morning.
“They were your dad’s,” I whisper, pulling back.
My uncle lowers the book onto his lap and gazes at the old picture. “Thought that might be them, ’specially when you was talking about gunshots.”
“What happened?” The words barely come as a breath. This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting all afternoon to ask. What do you know?
“That’s what I called Cole over for.” He lifts his tired eyes to me and says, “I didn’t kill no body, no matter what anyone says, but Stefan? Now, Stefan killed his fair share back in the day, long a’fore you was born.”
Stefan . . . The name sounds familiar, and it takes me a few seconds to remember that Stefan is Cole’s dad’s name.