All the Secret Places

by Anna Carlisle

  Gin washed her face and arranged her hair under a narrow pale-pink headband. She put on jeans and a peach-colored cardigan over a lacy camisole, took a chance on wearing suede boots, and headed out the door.

  She was doing errands for dinner, that was all. And if she found herself near the shop, well, it wouldn’t hurt to stick her head in the door.

  * * *

  Tarryville was known for its annual holiday decorations, and when Gin pulled up in front of the old-fashioned apothecary—it still boasted malts, shakes, and counter service—she sat in her car for a moment, enjoying the sight of a young couple working together to hang long swaths of greens over the door of a pet shop. The young man kept moving the ends, and the young woman kept changing her mind, until finally the young man got down off the ladder and pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  It was a scene that could have come out of a Norman Rockwell illustration, and Gin felt a pang of longing watching it. Why couldn’t she and Jake have that kind of uncomplicated love, soaking up the simple joys of just being together? Why couldn’t they settle into quiet lives together without tragedy and drama hounding their every turn?

  It was a pointless train of thought, and Gin gathered up her purse and got out of the car. She walked slowly down the main street of town, browsing in the windows. She stopped to listen to an a capella group of carolers performing for the lunchtime shoppers and admired a pair of earrings in a jewelry store. Finally she came to the end of the street, where a row of half a dozen colorful, gleaming scooters, several with big red bows on the handlebars, were parked in front of Mike’s Bikes.

  Inside, a man with a strawberry-blond braid down his back and enormous holes in his earlobes fitted with onyx rings was showing a huge, powerful-looking motorcycle to a short, broad middle-aged man who looked like he would have trouble even getting up on the seat.

  “Excuse me,” Gin said. “Is Griffin working today?”

  The salesman looked up and smiled.

  “Today, tomorrow, every day. Go on in back, through that door.”

  Gin threaded her way through the rows of motorcycles and racks of accessories and into a large workshop that smelled pleasantly of rubber, tobacco, and coffee. Griffin Rudkin was seated on a stool in front of a workbench, eating a sandwich and tapping at a tablet. When he saw her, he hastily turned off the screen.

  “Hey,” he said, swallowing his bite of sandwich and chasing it with a sip from a big water bottle. “Just give me a second here.”

  He had cut his hair since the photo had been taken, and it was now very short, almost shaved, except for a fringe along the top. He wore rows of what looked like rivets in both ears, and he was wearing a black Henley shirt over heavy engineer jeans and black boots. He’d lost weight too, and the skin under his eyes was pouched and sallow. As if to underscore his pallor, he coughed, a long series of hacking coughs that made Gin back up.

  “Sorry. Getting over something. Okay, what can I do for you?”

  “My name’s Brynn Walker,” Gin said, using the name she’d come up with earlier while researching the Rudkin family. Using a combination of web searching and Facebook, she had discovered that all three boys attended the same private school in Pittsburgh. One of the elder brothers now served on its board, and his Facebook page featured lots of photos of him at various fund raisers and alumni events. Griffin hadn’t been in any of them. “I’m with Pittsburgh magazine, and I’m doing a feature on Marshall Academy for Boys. It’s kind of a nostalgic, ‘where-are-they-now’ piece we’ll run the week before Christmas, and—”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Gin paused. “Excuse me?”

  “Lady, you might be writing an article, and it may even be about me, but I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with the Marshall Academy.”

  “I—I’m not sure what you mean,” Gin stammered. “I don’t—”

  “Look, let’s just drop the ruse, okay? Ask what you want to ask. I probably won’t answer, but go ahead and give it your best shot.” He took another drink of water, setting the bottle down unnecessarily hard. “I would have thought the story would have died down by now, though. I mean, it’s done. The vultures have picked over the bones. Let it go, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Vultures?” The reference to bones had caught her attention.

  “You social media people and reporters and whatever you are. It’s like you’ve got some sort of sick fascination with dysfunction. But like I’ve told all the other people who want to talk about my family, we were just like everyone else. Fucked up. I mean, the whole institution . . . shit.” He got up off the stool and began pacing, stabbing the air with his finger to make his points. “I knew my mom had written me out of the will for years, so all this about me losing my shit about it, uh . . . no. I hadn’t spoken to her in almost three years when she died, so how could we have had these big fights everyone seems to think we had? And that thing with Keith . . . I mean, in the first place, no one ever pressed charges. And in the second place, I mean, come on. I’m doing fine. I have everything I need. There’s nothing—believe me, nothing—that my brother has that I want, and I only went there that day to talk to him.”

  “Listen, whatever you think I—I’m not here to write a negative piece about you,” Gin said, scrambling to switch gears. She obviously hadn’t searched deep enough to discover the family discord. “Wouldn’t you like a chance to tell your side?”

  Griffin laughed bitterly. “My side? Well, that would be a little tough. See, when my brothers brought me their bucket of blood money, they had this fancy little document their lawyers drew up. I’m not allowed to say anything about that.” He made a gesture to simulate zipping his lips, then throwing the key away.

  “You . . . signed a nondisclosure?”

  “They didn’t want negative publicity. Randy’s going through a divorce, and his wife’s got her eye on his inheritance. Which is kind of fucking huge, considering they only had to split it two ways.”

  “But they paid you something . . .”

  “I used the money to buy this place,” Griffin said flatly. “And look, I’m not complaining, but it wouldn’t even be a pimple on the ass of what my brothers have in the bank.”

  “But they didn’t inherit everything,” Gin said. “Some of the land was sold off.”

  “My land,” Griffin said. “My tract. It was the smallest one, but I never minded that. I used to go up there to fly kites. You can get them flying out over the point, with the river below—most beautiful sight you’d ever see. Look. I don’t even care that she didn’t leave it to me. I’ve got a life here—I’ve got no need to go back to Trumbull. But to sell it to some developer who’s just going to put up cheap houses, I mean . . . shit.”

  Gin felt defensive of Jake even as she weighed Griffin’s obvious resentment. But she didn’t disagree with him. “That must have been difficult.”

  “Difficult? Oh, no, no. She was making a point. My mother was vindictive. You won’t read that in the papers, but it’s true. When I had some trouble a few years ago, I just needed a little to tide me over, and she . . . she wouldn’t give me anything. So I was like, I did what I had to do, you know, I was mostly couch-surfing. But in between, I was living in my car. I was homeless, man. So you know what she did with the money from the sale of the land?”

  “No . . .”

  “It all went to her favorite charity. It’s this foundation that lobbies to get antivagrancy measures passed. Antihomeless, is what it is, but they don’t come out and say it. It was my mom’s way of trying to clean up trash. Because that’s what she thinks I am.” As he spoke, he got more agitated, seemingly not even aware that he’d switched to speaking of his mother in the present. “Okay, so now you know. You got what you came for. But I need to get back to work now. Bikes don’t fix themselves, you know?”

  “Okay . . . sure.” Gin couldn’t leave without trying to find out how deep Griffin’s obvious anger at his family went—was it enough to propel him to sabotage J
ake’s project? And with his deep connection to the land, could he be connected in some way to the body found there? “I just have to ask, though. Do you get up there much?”

  He watched her for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. “If you’re asking did I go up and torch the place, you know, I kind of wish I had. But no. I was at home, minding my own business that night. Reading Tolkien, if I remember right. Look, I don’t know who you really work for or what your angle is. But there isn’t any story here. All I want from my family is for them to leave me alone. And that goes for you too.”

  He turned away and picked up a wrench. As Gin turned to leave, however, he didn’t move, just watched her go with the heavy tool in his hand.

  * * *

  Gin spent too long trying to find the ingredients for the salad she’d hoped to make. The first place she tried didn’t have chicory, so she took a detour on the way home to an organic market and then got caught in rush-hour traffic. There was an accident that closed all the lanes but one, and so by the time she arrived home, it was already after six—and their guests were expected at 6:30.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she said, coming through the door. Jett wagged her tail and struggled to get up to greet her. “I just need to wash these greens, and I can throw together the rest when we’re ready to eat.”

  “Where were you?” Jake asked.

  “Long story. I’ll tell you later, okay?”

  She’d been looking forward to a long, hot shower and time to blow-dry her hair and iron it flat. It had been a while since she’d really taken the time to look her best, and tonight had seemed like the perfect opportunity. Instead she was going to have to rush just to make herself decent.

  “You look fine,” Jake said, reading her thoughts as he stirred a pot on the stove. “Gus and his wife are really down to earth, you don’t need to dress up for them. Look, I just needed a chance to talk to him—away from the cops and the reporters and everything. Besides, it’s only a matter of time before they bring him in for questioning too.”

  “But neither of you did anything,” Gin protested. “So you have nothing to worry about.”

  “I wish I had your confidence in the justice system,” Jake said. “But Stillman’s already decided to go after me, for no good reason other than he couldn’t pin anything on me last time. And Baxter’s got it in for the county—he’s dangerous because he’s flying under their radar. Cutting corners and trying to go around the system—it’s going to be way too easy for Gus and me to get caught in the crossfire. And when that happens, the simple fact that we’re innocent isn’t going to mean a whole lot.”

  “All right,” Gin said, gritting her teeth. She didn’t have time to argue this with him now. “I’m just going to rinse off and change clothes, and I’ll be back down.”

  “Look, it’ll be a nice evening,” Jake said, softening. “We should be celebrating. They’ve got a baby on the way. Gus has been waiting a long time for this—his wife has had a lot of trouble getting pregnant, and at their age, this might be their last chance.”

  Gin bit back her annoyance. “All right,” she said. “But you’re going to have to entertain them until I get back.”

  * * *

  By the time Gin came back downstairs, she was feeling more presentable, if not more sociable. Her jade-green blouse and tight-fitting jeans were recent purchases made on the shopping outing with her mother; Madeleine had an eye for color and a fondness for fashion, and the outfit complemented Gin’s coloring and figure. She’d tamed her hair as well as she could with a few swipes of her flatiron and dabbed on some makeup, and when she walked into the kitchen, she was able to conjure a warm smile.

  “There’s my girl,” Jake said, hooking her belt loop and pulling her close beside him. “Gin, you’ve met Gus, right? And this is Marlene.”

  Marlene Sykes was a petite blonde with a full, curvy figure. Gin guessed she was close to forty, but she had the ombre dye job and fastidious makeup of a younger woman. She wore high-heeled boots and an arm full of bangles that jingled when she shook Gin’s hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Gin,” she said softly, handing her a pan still warm from the oven. “I made you some banana bread.”

  “It looks delicious. That will be perfect for breakfast.”

  “You’ve got such a beautiful home.”

  “Oh, it’s not—I didn’t have anything to do with this,” Gin said, wondering what Jake had told his foreman about her. He’d hired Gus Sykes on the recommendation of a former employee who’d worked with him in the past; for their part, Gus and Marlene had moved to the area so Gus could get a better job. Jake paid his employees well—it was, in his estimation, the best way to keep good staff—and he believed it had paid off, since his workers were fiercely loyal.

  Being out-of-towners made the Sykes the rare Trumbull citizens who might never have heard of Gin’s family or the misfortune that had plagued their lives—or the very unorthodox path her relationship with Jake had taken. Which felt oddly freeing.

  “I only moved in with Jake recently,” she explained. “He’s been a bachelor for a long time—long enough to decorate this place all by himself.”

  “You did good, man,” Gus said, laying a palm flat on the paneled wall, admiring the grain and finish. Gin could tell that was a high compliment, but she also guessed it had more to do with workmanship and little to do with aesthetics.

  Jake set out plates of crostini and roasted peppers and almonds, and Gin, who hadn’t eaten since a piece of toast early in the morning, found that a little food restored some of her energy and allowed her to enjoy herself. She helped Jake serve dinner, setting out bowls of buttered haricots and mashed potatoes while he brought in the ribs that had been smoking all day.

  The meal was a success, the pile of ribs transformed into a stack of bones and nearly all of the side dishes gone too. Gus spoke easily, laughing often and making a point to include Gin in the conversation. By contrast, Marlene barely said a word and mostly pushed her food around on her plate. Whenever Gin directed a comment or question her way, she seemed almost startled, and occasionally, she glanced at her husband with what looked like apprehension. All in all, it added an unsettling element to the dinner.

  When the dishes were cleared and Jake had served up big bowls of peach ice cream over homemade brownies, talk turned to the topic they’d seemingly been avoiding all night.

  “Detective Witt called me today,” Gus said, almost apologetically. “I basically repeated everything I told the responding officers the other day. That I headed to work early because of all the copper thefts they’ve been having in the city.”

  Gin looked at Jake sharply. “What copper thefts?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing much; it happens everywhere,” Jake said, giving her an uneasy glance.

  “Not like this, it doesn’t,” Gus said. “I mean, copper’s attractive to thieves, but what’s going on in the city—it’s organized and systematic. It’s almost like they’ve made an industry of it. They get in and clean out a site, and it’s been hard to catch them because they’re so organized and because they’re smart.”

  “You have to know what you’re doing,” Jake said. “Ideally you’d want to get it before it’s installed, obviously.”

  “I knew it was just a matter of time before they start going farther afield once the easy pickings were gone up in Pittsburgh, and sure enough, they hit a place up outside Donora last week. They like to hit these places early in the morning because the odds of a random sighting are lower. Statistically, there are fewer people on the street between two and five than any other time.”

  “What is it even worth?” Gin asked. “I mean, how much could you make from raiding a site?”

  “In the thousands, for sure,” Gus said. “And that’s a back-room deal. You’d have to have someone set up to take it off your hands. That’s another reason it’s gotten so organized. So anyway, I was up—I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately, I’m getting old—and I figured I’d park my truck dow
n on the road, sit up there in the house. I had a thermos of coffee and my iPad loaded up with audiobooks.”

  Gin looked to Marlene. “Is that hard?” she asked sympathetically. “Having him out of the house so much?”

  “What? Oh—no, of course not,” Marlene stammered. “I know it’s important for him to do a good job at work.”

  Gus gave her a curious look, one eyebrow raised. There was definitely a strange current between them. “Anyway,” he finally continued, “so that night, or I guess I should say morning, the minute I started up the hill, I knew something was wrong. I could smell the smoke before I saw it, but I still don’t understand how no one had called it in yet.”

  “My best guess is winds were heading northeast,” Jake said. “That would have blown the smoke over the ridge, toward the estate.”

  “And there’s no one living there right now?” Gin asked.

  “Might be a caretaker,” Jake said. “And it ought to be easy enough to check what the winds were doing that morning with the weather service. Too bad the cops all have their thumbs up their asses.”

  “Jake,” Gin cautioned.

  “Sorry.” Jake had had a fair amount of wine with dinner, and the glance he gave her was a little bleary and faintly belligerent. She didn’t often see him like this—Jake wasn’t much of a drinker—and she didn’t like it. “But it’s true. County’s just covering their asses. Wheeler’s got her eye on the election. And Baxter? Shit, he’s got some sort of personal grudge.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Gus asked, interested. “Like what? Didn’t he just get the job?”

  “You could ask Gin’s mom,” Jake said, not looking at her. “She’s the one who hired him.”

  “My mother did not hire him. She served on the committee.” Gin rose, stacking dessert plates a little too carelessly, fueled by her irritation, so that they clattered against each other. “But sure, let’s go ahead and blame her.”