Family Secrets Read online

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bennett—”

  “Tripp. And you are?”

  “Jayne O’Shea. Look, Tripp, I’ve got a bit of a problem.”

  That’s when Tripp looked past me toward the body at the edge of the lawn.

  “I think I can guess what the problem is.” He grimaced and respectfully removed his olive-green knit hat, releasing a mass of wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair. Casting a suspicious glance at me he asked, “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. My dog just found the body.” I motioned toward the house. “I’m here to get the place ready to sell.” I was blabbering, shaken up by both the dead woman and the scene inside the house. I needed to get control of myself in order to be in control of the situation. “My cell phone has no reception and the house phone isn’t working. I need you to call the police while I secure the crime scene.”

  Tripp arched an eyebrow. “Secure the crime scene? Are you a cop?”

  “Please.” I slowly blew out a breath of frustration, the pressure in my chest releasing as I did. “Would you call the police for me?”

  “I don’t have a cell phone. Not that they work here anyway.” Tripp pointed past the boathouse to the buildings on the far side of the bay, three or four football field lengths away. “Village is over there. It’ll be faster for me to paddle than to go back to my campsite for my truck. I was on the way to return the kayak to the marina anyway. I’ll get someone here as fast as I can.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Thank you.”

  As Tripp paddled toward the village of Whispering Pines, I went into cop mode, scanning the area and taking in every detail. The lawn showed no signs of clues, at least nothing immediately visible. A careful grid search would need to be conducted.

  I walked along the water’s edge, getting the lay of the land . . . or the lake in this case. There was no beach to speak of, just a four-foot-wide rocky expanse—small stones, not boulders—that ran between the water’s edge and the tree line. Did the victim walk along these stones to get here? Had she been with someone, a boyfriend maybe? Maybe they argued. Perhaps things got physical. Or maybe she’d been with a group. Had this woman been one of the vandals involved with the destruction of the house? Maybe she and her friends broke in to party or do drugs, or both, and things not only got out of control inside, they turned deadly outside.

  It took all of my willpower to keep my curiosity in check and wait for the police to come and conduct an in-depth investigation. I felt helpless. I couldn’t just stand there, I needed to do something. Pictures. I could photograph the scene while I waited without disturbing any evidence. Photos would be helpful for the police, too, although they’d surely take their own. Other than that, all I could do was stand guard and insure that nothing else happened to this young woman today. I took pictures with my phone—mostly of the body and the area immediately surrounding the body—and was back to standing guard when Meeka started barking.

  Chapter 3

  A white SUV with a star insignia on the front quarter panel pulled in and parked next to my Cherokee. The words ‘Sheriff’ and ‘Whispering Pines, Wisconsin’ ran down the side in bold black and gold lettering. A middle-aged man—five foot seven, slight paunch, salt-and-pepper hair cropped close—got out of the truck. Instead of a full official uniform, he wore an official shirt with jeans. That would never happen in Madison. Clearly, things were more laid-back here.

  He made his way slowly across the lawn. Not as though unconcerned, the sheriff had a limp. Had he been in an accident? Shot in the line of duty? Born with a disability? It wasn’t just his physical issue, though. The sheriff’s attitude was slow as well. He simply wasn’t too concerned about the woman on my property. I could almost hear this man saying, “Body’s not likely to get up and walk away now, is it?”

  Meeka continued to bark, her intruder warning.

  “Meeka,” I called. “Friend.”

  She barked pointedly at the man once more and then lay down between two bushes next to the garage.

  When the man got close, his eyes shot past me to the body in the woods. He frowned and looked down respectfully for a moment. Then he turned his attention to me.

  “I’m Sheriff Karl Brighton. You must be the O’Shea girl.”

  I cringed at the word ‘girl.’ It was this damned new haircut. I thought the sleek, chin-length bob would make me appear sophisticated. Instead, it made me look sixteen rather than twenty-six. Being only five foot four didn’t help.

  It didn’t help that lately I had been suffering from an almost paralyzing lack of self-confidence. It started with me not reporting my partner’s personal problems, which resulted in Frisky’s death. Then I quit my job without giving notice. I refused my boyfriend’s proposal of marriage. I moved back in with my mother. What other horrible decisions could I add to the mix?

  Then again, maybe his reaction had nothing to do with my appearance. Maybe the good sheriff was simply a misogynist.

  “Yes, sir, I’m Jayne O’Shea. You knew I was coming?”

  “We’ve been waiting for someone from your family to show up,” Sheriff Brighton informed with disdain. “Your grandmother died three months ago. We figured one of you would have been here to take care of things before now.”

  He made it sound like Gran’s body was still in the house waiting for someone to claim it. All of her things were in there, but I vividly remember the day her ashes were delivered to my parents’ house. One of the worst days of my life. I wasn’t going to let the sheriff’s comment or his attitude get to me.

  “We had to work out some details first.” Tracking down my father in the middle of some godforsaken desert, for example, so we could ask what he wanted to do with the property. That was about as challenging a task as one would think. His was the only name on the will so we had to wait for his go-ahead. “I was inside the house earlier. Someone broke in and trashed the place. I’ll need to file a report.”

  Sheriff Brighton gave me a blank look. “First things first, Miss O’Shea. Tripper Bennett tells me you’ve got some trouble out here as well.” His gaze darted toward the victim again.

  Great, now not only did he think we didn’t care about the property, he thought I’d just ranked a vandalized house as more important than the death of a young woman. That wasn’t the case at all. I knew things were about to get crazy and simply wanted to note the break-in before the sheriff got involved with his investigation.

  He pulled a voice recorder from his pocket and clicked it on. I spent the next five minutes giving a statement, succinctly reporting everything I’d observed and done from the moment I arrived.

  “I haven’t touched anything except to see if she had a pulse. She didn’t. Oh, I took pictures of the scene if you’d like them.”

  Sheriff Brighton nodded, seeming impressed with my report. “Good details. Appreciate that. I’m going to ask you to step aside now while I do my own investigating.” He looked at the rapidly-setting sun. “If you would, I could use some light.”

  Lights. I glanced around, pausing on the boathouse thirty yards away. Specifically, the flood lights on the outside. Gramps had a habit of staying out on the lake for too long when the fishing was good. Rather than fret about him returning safely, Gran had lights installed and would turn them on if he wasn’t back by the time dusk was becoming darkness.

  “I’ll go turn on the boathouse lights,” I said. “I can also see if there are any portable lights on the property if that would be helpful.”

  “Flood lights are enough,” the sheriff said, limping toward the body. “My deputy will be arriving shortly. We have all we need in the van.”

  After finding the right key for the boathouse door, I quickly found the light switches. The floodlights lit up the backyard and lake area around the building nicely.

  Fortunately, it didn’t seem like the vandals had disturbed anything here. I glanced out at the water. The boathouse was visible from both the village across the bay and the lake itself, which almost
always had a boater, jet skier, kayaker, wind surfer, or swimmer traffic. The chance of being seen was much greater here than at the secluded front door of the house, the apparent point of entry for the vandals.

  Most of the ten-acre property was a thumb of land sticking out into the lake. The driveway entrance was marked with a ‘Private – Do Not Enter’ sign. Locals would know both of my grandparents had died now and would have no reason to come to the house. My understanding was that the majority of tourists stayed in the hotels and guest cottages on the far side of the village, unless they were staying at that campground. To me, the most likely vandal was one of the campers. I’d share that theory with the sheriff when the time came.

  Meanwhile, the collection of water toys dredged up distant memories of Rosalyn and I spinning on inner tubes and searching for minnows with the goggles and snorkels. Gramps used to set up cots for us in the loft area above the boats so we could sleep out here. That was an option now, since I couldn’t stay in the house until after the police and insurance folks checked it out. I could always try to get a room in the village for a few nights. But as long as the loft wasn’t full of spiders or rats, I’d be fine there, especially for tonight. I was so tired I’d sleep in my car or on one of the lounge chairs on the patio if necessary.

  Upstairs, I found that a lot had changed since Rosalyn and I slept out here. The unfinished loft was now a full studio apartment. A kitchenette with a small round table and two chairs and a small bathroom took up the center of the rectangular space. On the lake side was a living room with a sofa, end table, and a chair and ottoman set. On the yard side, a sleeping area with a queen bed, two bedside tables, a small dresser, and a freestanding clothes rack. This would be perfect.

  I hauled all my stuff in from the car and set up Meeka’s personalized doggie bed—monogrammed with her name surrounded by tiny dog bones. Rosalyn spoiled this dog so bad. I found some cleaning supplies beneath the kitchen sink and gave the place a quick cleanup. Must have been a long time since anyone had stayed here; it was quite dusty.

  When I’d finished, I stood out on the sundeck and watched Sheriff Brighton and his deputy investigate. About fifteen minutes later, someone I assumed to be the medical examiner arrived. The ME checked over the body and supervised the placement of it into a body bag. Once the body was gone, it looked like they were wrapping things up, so I went downstairs and crossed the yard to the patio at the back of the house. There, Tripp was sitting in an Adirondack chair, somberly watching the process.

  “You’re still here,” I said.

  “The sheriff asked me to stick around in case he had any questions for me. Don’t know why he would. I told him I never got closer to her than the pier.”

  A reasonable request. No witness should be disregarded. The most seemingly insignificant clue could crack a case.

  “All done?” I asked the sheriff as he came closer. They must have checked the woods and done a grid search of the yard while I was cleaning the apartment. Half-an-hour didn’t seem like enough time to do a thorough search, but if there was nothing to see, there was nothing to see.

  “We are,” Sheriff Brighton said. “I’ll need you to come down to the station to make a formal statement.”

  “No problem.” I’d expected that. “I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”

  “It would be better if you came now,” the sheriff pushed. “Your memories are fresh now.”

  “I’ve already told you everything I know. I’d only be repeating myself.”

  Sheriff Brighton leveled a gaze on me that was clearly meant to intimidate and remind me he was the one in charge.

  “Sir,” I started respectfully, “I’ve had a really long day. I was on the road for nearly six hours, haven’t had any dinner yet, and would like nothing more than to get some sleep. I assure you, I’ll be at your office in the morning.”

  After a long moment, the sheriff nodded. “First thing in the morning, but only because I’ve already got an informal statement from you.” He waggled the voice recorder in my face. “Remember, I know how to find you if you don’t show up.” He started for his SUV, stopped, and turned back. “Best place in town for dinner is The Inn.”

  Once the sheriff and his deputy had pulled away, I turned to Tripp. “Do you know where The Inn is?”

  He pushed himself up from the patio chair. “I could eat. Can I catch a ride with you?”

  “Sorry, I don’t give rides to strangers. No harm in eating together, though. How about I follow you?”

  Chapter 4

  A creek starting from somewhere up north wound its way around the village of Whispering Pines, cut between Gran’s property and the campground, and then emptied into the lake. The commercial part of the village lay south of the creek, north of it was the residential area and forest land. Just before the creek, as you drove in from the west on the two-lane highway, was a public parking lot.

  The entrance to the lot passed beneath two large pine trees, a hand-carved wooden sign hanging between them alerted drivers that motorized vehicles weren’t allowed in the main village. If you wanted to visit the shops and restaurants, you had to park and walk. That’s where I met Tripp, in the lot, and we walked the quarter mile or so to The Inn.

  Many things had changed in sixteen years, but the heart of the village, the area so many tourists flocked to, had not. A frozen-in-time feeling came over me the moment we passed by the Fortune Tellers’ Triangle, a cozy area nestled between the road to Gran’s house, the creek, and the highway. I felt like a kid again, or maybe a time traveler, when I saw the shadowy shapes of the wagons and tiny huts scattered around The Triangle. I wished it was daylight so I could see their bright colors and gingerbread trim. It was an attraction set up for the tourists, I understood that now, but as a kid I thought the fortune tellers, with their jangling jewelry, long flowing skirts, and crystal balls were magical. Visiting the exotic women had always been my favorite thing about coming to Whispering Pines. Other than seeing Gran and Gramps, of course.

  Heavy shadows darkened the red brick pathways thanks to the villagers’ preference to allow the night sky to remain as dark as possible. Small fixtures on the outside of cottages and a handful of pole lamps scattered randomly about cast only the dimmest light. When I was little, I was sure creatures of the night were hiding among the shadows, ready to pounce. I let myself think the same thing now and a thrill rushed through me.

  A pentacle-shaped garden, the size of a city block, served as the heart of the village. This was the oldest section of town and had the appearance of a Renaissance Faire, or like it had just been plucked from some medieval English countryside and plopped down in northern Wisconsin. Some of the small cottages surrounding the garden were stained so dark brown they were nearly black. I used to imagine that witches might pop out of the cottages to steal Rosalyn and me and bake us into pies. Despite the dark, scary parts, it was all very charming. Easy to see why it had become a mecca for tourists.

  The Inn, a crooked gothic-looking three-story building made of white stucco and dark brown timbers, sat between the pentacle garden and the lake. Tripp held the door open for me. The crooked outside appearance was echoed inside. We entered a cozy lobby where guests gathered by a floor-to-ceiling fieldstone fireplace or made inquiries at the front desk. A sign, propped in the arms of a suit of armor near the fireplace, indicated that the dining room was to our right.

  When the hostess led us to a small round table in the center of the dining room, I pointed to an identical table in the far corner next to a much bigger version of the fireplace in the lobby.

  “Could we have that one?”

  “Oh.” The request seemed to fluster her. “Sure.”

  Tripp held a chair out for me, but I’d already settled into the corner seat.

  I squinted in the dark dining room light at the simple menu. There were six choices. Four traditional comfort-food dinners—Shepherd’s pie, beef stew, clam chowder, and chicken pot pie—and as if to confirm that we were st
ill in Wisconsin and not medieval England, bratwurst with sauerkraut or fish fry with coleslaw and deep-fried cheese curds. My stomach rumbled. It all sounded delicious.

  The hostess was also our server. She had dark circles beneath tired blue eyes and wore an all-black uniform consisting of a short flouncy skirt, an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse, and knee-high black boots. She looked part Oktoberfest beer girl, part Wiccan high priestess.

  “What can I get for you two?” she asked as she set two glasses of water on the table.

  “Separate checks, please,” I said. “I’ll have the chicken pot pie, a side of curds, and I’d love some of the cherry cobbler afterwards.”

  “Pot roast and witch’s brew for me,” Tripp said.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Tripp leaned in. “It’s their homemade ale. They don’t put it on the menu so you’ve got to know to ask for it.”

  “Is it good?”

  He nodded. “Very.”

  I looked up at our server. “One of those for me, too, please.”

  Tripp turned to me as the priestess of beer walked away. “So, what do you think happened to the girl you found?”

  “I can’t tell for sure. Her clothing was relatively untouched, which tells me she hadn’t been there very long. Hard to know if it was natural causes or foul play. Won’t know until the autopsy report comes in.”

  I hadn’t detected a urine or feces odor. The bladder and bowel relax upon death and sometimes empty, so either that hadn’t happened with her or there was nothing inside her to evacuate.

  She could have died from exposure. The way she was dressed could have led to hypothermia, it still got chilly enough here at night for a jacket, but unless she’d been wandering the woods for many days, she should have been fine. Her clothes, other than those brownish-yellow stains on her sweatshirt, were clean, so my best guess was that she hadn’t been wandering. There were coyotes and other scavengers in the area, so the fact that the body was untouched told me she had been there less than a day. The fact that the entire body had appeared quite stiff when they placed her in the body bag indicated she had been dead for at least twelve hours, but less than thirty-six when rigor starts to dissipate.