The Secrets of Sinclair Lodge

by Lucia N Davis

  Resting her forehead against the glass, Sara notices that the lower edge of the curtain isn’t closed all the way, leaving a gap of a few inches. She drops to her stomach and presses her face to the glass, wetness seeping into her shirt from the balcony. She peers through the crack.

  Lauren is sitting behind the desk again, stony-faced. Standing next to her is the black-gloved individual, but she can’t tell who it is or whether it’s a man or a woman. The curtains are coming together at just the right height, obstructing Sara’s view and concealing the person’s face. Half a black jacket, black pants, and something black inside one of the black, gloved hands. Sara gasps.

  The black gun moves to Lauren’s temple. Pleadingly, Lauren looks up at its owner. Sara pounds on the door. Why doesn’t Lauren scream? Why doesn’t she fight back?

  Sara’s pounding makes no noise—the scene before her unfolds as if she isn’t there. A gunshot rings out. It’s loud, even through the glass. Sara flips onto her back, pressing her hands against her mouth to hold in the scream that’s fighting to escape. Concentrating on her breathing, she looks up at the sky. It’s a moonless night, nothing but empty darkness staring back at her. She could keep lying here until she wakes up, but what good would that do? She forces herself to turn back to the window.

  Lauren’s body is limp, her head slumped forward onto the desk behind the bottle of wine, sparing Sara from having to see the damage. The gloved hand puts the gun inside Lauren’s hand and fires another shot downward, then lets her arm fall onto the desk, knocking over the wine bottle.

  The black pants walk away, out of her view. Hyperventilating, Sara forces herself to move closer to the glass. Lauren’s body remains still—almost as if she’s fallen asleep. Wine drips from the desk onto the carpet, forming a red stain, slowly spreading…

  Chapter 14

  The scream finally found a way out; even stifled into the pillow, it woke Sara up. She turned on the bedside lamp while trying to calm her ragged breathing. She fell back onto her pillow. Her cheeks were wet, as was her pillowcase.

  Panting softly, she moaned. Did she just witness a murder? No, not witness, she thought, not technically. It wasn’t anything that would stand up in court—it was just a dream. Except it wasn’t just a dream. This had really happened. Someone killed Lauren. Bailey was right—her mother didn’t shoot herself. So who had pulled the trigger?

  With trembling legs, she got out of bed and exchanged her sweaty nightshirt for a fresh one. It would have been easier had she been in the same room as Lauren and not stuck on that stupid balcony. But maybe she was safer not knowing the killer’s identity. Not to mention having to see all the gruesome details up close. She shivered. The person who killed Lauren was cold-blooded and dangerous.

  She tucked herself deeper under the covers, soothed by the soft light of the lamp on the nightstand. The house was quiet. Almost too quiet. Her brain was in complete mayhem. Agitated, she grabbed her cell phone and googled Lauren Sinclair. An abundance of information took over her screen.

  Lauren had been a highly successful businesswoman. As the CEO of a software start-up company that was eventually bought by a bigger competitor, she had earned a small fortune. Afterward, as an investor, she had profited from the dot-com boom, adding to her already substantial wealth. Lauren Sinclair had been a wealthy woman indeed.

  She had been featured in several business magazines. The appeal was obvious; Lauren was a rising star, and on top of that young and female—an inspiration for the next generation. Multiple news articles following her suicide mostly spewed suspicious theories about Preston Sinclair, who was the only one at home the night Lauren died. That, and the fact he was her soon-to-be ex-husband, had put him under investigation. According to the news article Sara read, Preston had been working out in the couple’s in-home gym at time of Lauren’s death. He claimed not to have heard the gunshot, as he was listening to loud music on his earphones while running on the treadmill. The gym was also on the opposite side of the house, making his denial plausible enough. After his workout, he had come up to talk to her and discovered her body.

  It all sounded rather convenient in Sara’s opinion. From what she had witnessed of the Sinclairs’ marriage, Lauren wouldn’t have been inclined to say much to Preston by that point. But the article stated that, although they were going through a divorce, they had remained amicable, with Preston living predominantly in the guest quarters. Evidently, his coming up to her study for a chat was nothing out of the ordinary. Preston was cleared due to lack of evidence, while forensics pointed toward suicide. The case was closed.

  Sara put her phone away. If only she had some proof, even if just for herself—she sometimes doubted her sanity. But she had danced this dance before, and her dreams had never been wrong. She would have to tread carefully now. Whoever killed Lauren wouldn’t hesitate to kill again. And as much as she’d prefer not to get involved, she knew Lauren wouldn’t let her off easy. She was caught between a ghost and a killer—truth be told, she preferred not to face either of them. In any case, she would keep a close eye on Preston. He seemed to have gained the most from his wife’s death, and he had plenty of opportunity to make it happen.

  Against all expectations, Sara did fall asleep again, waking up later that morning. It was Cassie’s day off, but just like the week before, she found Nick in the kitchen, sporting Cassie’s cheerful apron and taking care of breakfast for Bailey and her—this time he was making pancakes. He seemed comfortable in the kitchen, Sara observed. She glanced wearily at the bulge underneath his apron—guns had always frightened her, but now more than ever.

  Preston rolled in around noon; the roads had been cleared. Ruth, his faithful shadow, followed him inside. As soon as they were home, Sara took off, desperate for some time away. Lauren’s face—with that last pleading look she had given the killer—was haunting her.

  On her way to see David, she made a quick stop at the local supermarket, where she noticed Jerry, the policeman, across the parking lot. She waved, and he walked up to her.

  “Hi Jerry. How’s your wife?”

  He grimaced. “About to burst. She has to take it easy, but she won’t listen. How are you holding up at the Sinclair Lodge? David told me it’s an unusual household.”

  Sara shrugged. “Yeah—you could say that.” An idea hit her. She lowered her voice. “Hey, Jerry, I have a bit of a sensitive question for you. Bailey, the girl I’m taking care of, keeps telling me that she’s convinced her mother didn’t commit suicide. It’s not that I necessarily believe her, but I looked at the news reports, and I saw that her father was a suspect for a while. I have to admit, staying at the lodge with him there… it’s a bit unsettling. Is there any way you could get some information from the police report—you know, as a reassurance? I don’t want to put you in a difficult position, but I thought it was worth asking.”

  Jerry smiled. “I understand what you’re saying. I know some people in Seattle. I can give them a call. No guarantees, though.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “No worries. Say hi to David for me.”

  David was in a grumpy mood when Sara arrived. He had a cold with a slight fever and complained bitterly about not being able to go skiing. Sara gave him some Tylenol, made him soup, and tucked him back into bed. While he ate his soup, he complained some more, this time about the male “friend” his mother was planning to visit in Rome. “Everyone is leaving. Pops died. You’re living with a bunch of strangers and I never see you. And now Mom’s going on a date—for two weeks—with a man I’ve never met!”

  “Your mother is an adult. She has her own life,” Sara reminded him.

  “When she talked about a friend I knew something was off. They reconnected online, on some dating site! Mothers don’t do that, do they? What if he’s some kind of creep?” he said, blowing his nose.

  “I don’t know what mothers do these days.”

  A little abashed, he said, “Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m only wat
ching out for her. She’s no spring chicken.”

  Sara picked up his soup bowl.

  “Hey, I wasn’t done with that,” he protested.

  Her face was stern. “David, your mother’s quite capable of looking after herself. She took care of your grandfather for years. Now that he’s gone, she needs to find a new purpose. Maybe it’s her time to have some fun. Let her. You’re a grown man yourself. I think she assumes she can leave you alone for a while to sort out your own life. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “Ouch. Have some pity. I’m very sick.” He blew his nose again.

  She handed him his soup bowl back. “You have a cold. You’ll be fine. And for the record, I haven’t left you. I’m earning some money so I can support myself.”

  “I know. I just miss you is all.” He sneezed.

  A warm wave of happiness rushed through her. “I miss you too.”

  “If I wasn’t sick…” He looked at her longingly, with watery eyes, which didn’t quite have the effect he was aiming for.

  She was torn between the urge to kiss him and the urge to laugh. “I’m sure your cold won’t last forever…” She let the innuendo sink in.

  “I hope so. It feels like my brain has liquefied.” He buried the subject of his discomfort deep into his pillow. “I keep thinking about our conversation the other night. I’ve totally been neglecting you since Pops died. I’m sorry. Dragging you up the hills to ski—I know you don’t like it as much as I do. But I keep thinking you might enjoy it more once you get better at it.”

  “Perhaps. It’s all okay, David. You had things on your mind after Pops died. That’s normal. I’m still here.” She crawled into the warm bed beside him.

  “That’s not a good idea—as much as I like it. I don’t want to get you sick.”

  “Yes, please don’t. I have a job to go back to.”

  They talked for a little while longer, until David fell asleep. Sara didn’t tell him about her last dream or her conversation with Jerry; she didn’t want to rile him up. Besides, he would just tell her to quit her job. She couldn’t now, even if she wanted to. To get to the bottom of this, she needed access to the lodge.

  She left later that afternoon, satisfied that David was well taken care of. Outside the apartment building, she automatically turned left to the spot where she normally parked her car. It was getting dark, and it was only when she had zigzagged her way through the first row of parked cars that she remembered she had parked more toward the middle of the parking lot this time. The two heavy grocery bags had compelled her to pick a spot closer to the entrance of the building. A little annoyed with herself, she realized she had walked too far to the left. She turned around, briskly walking in the other direction. She grumbled a soft “thank you” when the parking lot lights came on. She slowed her brisk walk down a little and came to a full stop.

  From the next row of cars, the back of a black Jaguar peeked out at her. A black Jaguar with tinted windows. She clenched the straps of her purse. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a Jaguar parked here—but maybe she just hadn’t noticed it before? She glanced at the license plate, memorizing it. Then she trotted off toward her own vehicle, rushing inside and locking the doors.

  Back at the lodge, she parked her car in the garage next to one black Jaguar. The other was gone. When she entered the kitchen, they seemed to be finishing up an almost normal family dinner. Preston and Ruth were both there, but Nick was nowhere to be seen. A little uneasy, Sara joined the group. Bailey was sincerely happy her father was home, and Sara could see she was trying her best to be cheerful. The girl was even polite to Ruth.

  On her way up, Sara grabbed the picture of Lauren and the other girl from the living room and brought it along, in the hope that she could discover something she’d missed the first time. She would put it back before anyone could miss it, although she doubted anyone would.

  Shaking off the eyes that seemed to be burning holes in the back of her sweater, she jogged up the stairs to her room. Out of breath, she sank down on her bed, holding the faded picture in trembling hands. She would never get used to that part of the house; it was about as welcoming as a graveyard at midnight.

  Carefully, she examined the picture, flipping the frame over and over. Not finding any new clues, she loosened the back of the frame and took the picture out. There was some writing on the back.

  Summer 1994

  Bummed out, she put the frame together again. The thought of having to go down and place it back in the living room made the hair on her arms stand on end. Someone knocked on her door and her heart skipped a beat.

  “Hold on.” Quickly she placed one of the red throw pillows over the frame. “Yes?”

  The door opened and Bailey walked in. “Hey. I was wondering if you’d like to watch a movie with me? Dad has to work. Besides, he doesn’t like my taste in movies. And I don’t want to watch with Ruth.” She stuck out her tongue.

  Sara’s mouth twitched, wondering if Bailey realized she had essentially just told her that her company was a last resort.

  “Yeah, sure,” she said. “What were you thinking of watching?”

  “Don’t know yet. I figured we could find something on demand. What do you like?” Bailey plopped down on the bed. Her weight shifted the pillow, and the frame poked out from underneath it.

  Sara moved her hand to cover it up again, but Bailey was nothing if not observant.

  “What’s this?” She pulled the frame out.

  Crap, Sara thought, racking her brain for a good excuse.

  Bailey observed the photo with some surprise. “Why do you have this picture up here? I thought this one belongs down in the living room.”

  “Yes. That’s where I found it. But it was tipped over, and the picture had moved inside the frame, so I took it up to fix it.” The lie came easily. She added, “I don’t like the living room much.”

  “Yeah, I understand. I think part of the house is sad my mom’s gone… Is that silly?”

  “No. Not silly at all, actually.”

  Bailey produced a brave smile. “Don’t worry, we can watch the movie in my room. Nick promised to make cookies. It could be like a girls’ night, don’t you think?”

  So Nick had returned. Sara didn’t answer, thinking it was best not to say what she thought of Nick or his cookies.

  Still staring at the picture, Bailey said, “My mom was pretty as a girl…” She placed her finger over Lauren’s image and caressed it gently.

  “She was.” Sara had to swallow a few times to get rid of the lump in her throat. “Who’s the girl next to her, do you know?”

  Bailey looked up. “That’s Summer. My mom’s best friend. My godmother, actually. But I don’t remember her.”

  Sara’s mouth fell open. Summer was a person! “Really?” She quickly checked her enthusiasm. “You say it like she’s not around anymore. Did she, uh, go somewhere?”

  Bailey shrugged. “Apparently. I don’t know when. I was four, maybe? But she packed up her things and left. Just like that. Uncle Ryan was devastated. It took him a long time to get over her. I’m glad he met Dawn. I mean, I know she’s a lot younger, although not nearly as young as she pretends to be. She’s at least thirty!”

  Sara winced. Apparently the teenager thought thirty was close to nursing home material. “She looks a lot younger…”

  “Botox. And she has a plastic surgeon on speed dial—at least, according to my dad. But I don’t care. Uncle Ryan deserves someone who loves him, and I think she does.”

  Sara still wasn’t quite following how Ryan and Summer were connected. “You said Summer left your uncle?”

  “They were married, him and Summer. Uncle Ryan is my godfather.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, let’s put this back.” Bailey jumped off the bed.

  “Wait, she left? Your godmother? And you haven’t heard from her? What about your mother?”

  “I don’t think so. She was sad about it, and worried, and angry. Maybe they had
a falling out? I really don’t know the details. All I know is, she packed up her stuff, left in her car, and that was that.” Bailey was standing by the door already. “Do you like superhero movies? I heard the new Thor movie is pretty good.”

  “Sure, Thor sounds lovely,” Sara murmured absently, following Bailey out of her room.

  Later that night, Sara lay in her bed, sleep reluctant to come. The movie had been entertaining and a great idea on Bailey’s part. With the two of them wrapped in blankets on a pile of pillows, it had turned into exactly the girls’ night she had envisioned. Who would have thought that all it took to bond with a teenager was a mutual adoration for a strong man wielding a charged hammer? The cookies had been the finishing touch. Even though she had planned not to touch them, they were too yummy to resist. Nick had missed his calling—the man was a true kitchen wizard—and if he was as good with a gun as he was with a spatula, they were golden. If he was actually around when they needed him, that is. He seemed to spend a lot of time elsewhere. The black Jaguar from the afternoon still bothered her; she made a mental note to check the license plate in the garage when she got a chance.

  Her mind strayed to the mysterious blonde girl in the faded picture. The one who had left.

  “Summer… where did you go?” she whispered. “What are you trying to tell me, Lauren? What does Summer have to do with all this?”

  The darkness returned only silence. Sara’s questions bounced around the room until their echoes ran out of steam, and all that could be heard was her soft, regular breathing as she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 15

  The next few days were draining. Every morning Sara woke up screaming into her pillow, her head filled with images of guns, blood-stained rugs, and menacing black gloves. Teaching was exhausting—Sara was tired and jumpy, Bailey impatient and surly. The weather had been good, so the girl was far more interested in skiing than doing homework. Despite their fun girls’ night over the weekend, Bailey was as fickle as ever, and her mood swings could hit a home run. Occasional gestures of kindness eased most of Sara’s irritation, but the stolen hours of sleep caused a grinding headache that even multiple ibuprofen couldn’t suppress.