The lost girl king, p.1
Wayward Secrets, page 1
WAYWARD SECRETS
A Whispering Pines Mystery, Book 13
Shawn McGuire
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Afterword
Also by Shawn McGuire
About the Author
Chapter One
The sun had made a full trip around the earth. The moon had gone from new to full twelve times. Or was it thirteen? Regardless, tourist season would officially be underway in the village tomorrow. That meant my life as sheriff and co-owner of Pine Time Bed-and-Breakfast was going to kick into high gear. Although, I’d learned over the past fifty-some weeks that things never stopped in Whispering Pines, Wisconsin. Life slowed a bit in February—more akin to my beloved old Cherokee with its balding tires trying to get out of an unplowed parking lot than a racecar zipping at full speed around a track—but there was always something.
In preparation for the next round of excitement sure to wash into the village with the flood of tourists scheduled to arrive over the next twenty-four hours, my sister and I went for a hike.
“This is a great way to start the day,” Rosalyn chirped as we entered the Meditation Circle. “Why don’t we do this more often?”
“The real question,” I amended, “is why haven’t we ever done this?” I’d started a few summer days with a morning paddle around the lake in a kayak, but never going for a hike. “Maybe because I spend most of my days walking around the village. I really should track how many miles I cover in a day sometime.”
“This isn’t walking. It’s communing with nature.” She spread her arms wide and tilted her face to the sky. “It’s time for yourself. Time to clear your head and prepare for the day to come.”
“Think I need silence for that to happen.”
She gave me her not amused face. “If you wanted silence, you shouldn’t have invited me.”
“Obviously.” We’d just entered the Meditation Circle area, and my gaze landed on the stones surrounding the fire pit. Specifically, a spot where a stone should be. One was missing. “Who would steal a rock? Is this seriously how the summer season is going to start? With a theft?”
Rosalyn gave me about three seconds to ponder this, then spun me toward an opening in the brush to the north of the circle. “Hike now, theft later.”
She was right. I was entitled to a couple hours of communing. I looked around and whistled for my dog. “Meeka?”
About ten yards ahead of us, a fluffy white head popped up above the foliage. She ruffed as though to say, “Keep up!”
“Don’t lose us,” I warned. Thankfully the weeds weren’t even knee high yet. In a few weeks, the plant life around here would soar along with the temperatures.
The Westie replied by diving into the closest bush.
“Do you know where we’re going?” Rosalyn asked.
I patted my pocket. “I have Briar’s map. It looks easy enough to find.”
I knew Whispering Pines had a graveyard and thought about visiting it for the first anniversary of Gran’s death, but that was in February, and the snow had been three feet deep in places. I hadn’t thought of it again until Briar mentioned it in conversation when Tripp and I were over to visit, aka play with the babies, a few nights ago. When Gran died, our parents refused to come to the funeral and basically forbade Rosalyn and me from doing so. I could have, should have come on my own. I deeply regretted that now.
As for finding the cemetery, I knew how to get to Blind Willie’s cabin. The cemetery was south and a little east of his home. It would take us a good half hour to get to our first landmark, a circular clearing ringed by pine trees. To get there, we’d follow a fairly well-worn pathway due north. Rosalyn grew quiet, following me as I led us due north using my compass.
Communing with nature did allow my head to clear for a while. But after ten minutes, thoughts and fears for the summer season moved in. Over the past year, there hadn’t been a single month without some kind of drama. The current month, May, for example, should have been relatively quiet but busy as the village prepared for the tourists. But three weeks ago, my parents put the village up for sale. River Carr worked a deal to buy it while Morgan put the final touches on their surprise handfasting ceremony. While all that was going on, I’d been searching for a firebug determined to burn our little hamlet to the ground.
Ten days ago, I discovered that our resident bad girl, Flavia Reed, was trying to kill her sister, Reeva Long, via poison herbs mixed into her loose leaf tea.
Nine days ago, Morgan gave birth to twins. A girl and a boy at that. The villagers nearly lost their minds over that.
“It’s never happened before,” they said. “Barlows only have girls.”
“What does it mean?” they asked.
“Only the Goddess knows,” Morgan replied with a sparkle in her eye.
Granted, some of that was good, but the bad around here was always an eight or nine on a ten-point scale. Flavia was the epicenter for much of the problems lately. I needed to lock her up. To do that, I needed charges that would stick, and Flavia knew exactly how to commit her crimes without leaving so much as a trace of her involvement behind.
My mind shifted from what had happened to what could happen. Around here, that meant literally anything. How was I supposed to prepare for anything?
Bob and weave, Jayne in my head said. Be ready to course correct at a moment’s notice.
That was a given for police work, so not all that helpful.
I must have been deep in thought because the next thing I knew, we were at the clearing. How nice would it be to focus on the moment instead of being stuck in one’s head all the time? I’d appreciated very little of our nature walk thus far. And I’d lost track of my dog again.
“Where’s Meeka?”
No sooner had I asked the question than she peeked at me from the far side of a tree.
“This is cool,” Rosalyn said of the ring of trees. “Almost like someone planted them this way.”
I looked way up into the treetops and smiled at the way the branches reached out to each other, forming a sort of ceiling over the clearing. “These trees are old. Hundreds of years. Maybe indigenous people had a hand in it, but more likely it’s part of the magic of the area.”
My sister smiled at that thought and patted the trunk of the closest pine. “Okay, where to now?”
I pulled out my compass and Briar’s instructions, which were, to say the least, unique.
Step one: From the clearing, head northeast until you find the tree that looks like a dancing naked woman.
Five minutes later, Rosalyn declared, “There she is. Oh, wow, not much left to the imagination there.”
The trunk looked like a woman’s torso, complete with generous breasts and curvy hips. Armlike branches stretched skyward. She did appear to be dancing or praying to the heavens.
As though we were in an art gallery, Rosalyn circled the tree, appreciating nature’s creation, and then asked, “What’s next?”
Referring to the paper, I reported, “Continue north-northeast until you find a pine stump, three feet tall and three feet in diameter, with a sleeping face.”
Briar insisted her landmarks were easy to find and four to six minutes apart depending on how fast we walked. With my eyes on the compass, and Rosalyn searching for the stump, we pressed on. When more than five minutes had passed, I was about to declare we’d taken a wrong turn and that we should go back and try again.
“Found it,” Roz announced. She squatted and tilted her head. “Looks like our neighbor in Madison.”
I crouched next to her. Knots and lumps formed a face. “You’re right. When he’d fall asleep in his rocker on the front porch with his mouth hanging open.”
She giggled. “Are we almost there?”
“We should be. Stay northeast and start looking for the obelisks.”
Throughout the village, huge upright pine tree trunks with horizontal trunks lashed to the tops marked the entrances to various places. The parking lots at the east and west ends. The circus grounds in the northeast quadrant. Smaller versions served as thresholds to pathways that led through the woods. The pine structures were beautiful and impressive but would be practically invisible in the middle of the pine forest.
“I think I see one.” Rosalyn pointed ahead and a little to the right.
As we approached the five-foot-tall, weathered brownstone obelisk, a Triple Moon Goddess symbol etched near its peak became clear.
“If you were to look from overhead,” Briar had explained, “you would find five tall obelisks standing equidistant from each other in a circle. Five smaller pillars, also equidistant from each other, are set directly between and in from the large ones. Pea gravel pathways connect t
She waited for me to connect the dots, or obelisks in this case. “It all forms a pentacle.”
She smiled. “Very good, Jayne. A gap in the wall straight down from the top or spirit point allows us access to our loved ones. It also allows their spirits to exit the graveyard and walk among us when they choose to.”
I laid a hand on one of the tall obelisks. “Briar’s right. These are beautiful.”
She had explained that nearly five decades ago, after a villager’s health scare, Gran chose this spot in the northwest quadrant of the property to serve as a cemetery. It was a quiet final resting place, set away from everyone’s homes. Blind Willie’s log cabin was the closest. Gran had let the eccentric but harmless man settle on a couple of acres in this area and promised he’d never have anyone nearby to bother him. Because of her generosity, he agreed to take care of the approximate four-acre plot when Gran told him her plans.
“I don’t always get along with the living,” he’d reportedly told her, “but I’ve got no beef with the dead. They tend to be good neighbors.”
What had this area looked like before the pillars and curving walls were installed? Before anyone ever thought that someone might die here. Just like any other spot in the forest, I’m sure. As with the village that had slowly sprouted over the years, it was the people who made it special.
Having no idea what Willie’s gardening skills were, I had prepared myself for a site that was tidy but in need of some green-witch attention. When we passed through the gates, I immediately scolded myself for doubting him. The grass between and around the plots was thick, green, and perfectly manicured. Flowers along the perimeter were growing nicely and were ready to become lush and colorful as soon as Mother Nature helped out with warmer days and less chilly nights. Wrought-iron garden benches, also with Triple Moon Goddess symbols worked into the scrolling metal, were placed randomly about. Little spots to sit and be with a loved one.
“This is so pretty,” Rosalyn said with a happy sigh. “And peaceful.”
“It really is.”
We walked among the gravesites, recognizing some of the names but unfamiliar with others. Meeka trotted along next to us. Now and then she’d stop, tilt her head in confusion, and sniff at a small statue that stood in for some headstones. Currently, she was staring at a marble cat.
At the center of the graveyard, I touched my sister’s arm. “Rozzie, look.”
I nodded at a twelve-foot-square mausoleum with a peaked roof. It was made of the same beautiful brownstone as the obelisks. The two sides and the back were plain, but two thick pillars adorned the front, one on each side of the wide door. O’Shea was etched into the stone above the door.
Rosalyn stared, open-mouthed, as she stepped closer. “I can’t decide if it’s beautiful or imposing.”
“A bit of both,” I replied. “Just like Gran.”
Roz slid off her backpack and pulled out a bouquet of flowers. “I brought these to put on Gran’s and Gramps’s graves.”
I pulled a coordinating bouquet out of mine. “Morgan must have made these at the same time.”
We held the two together, and Rosalyn noted, “She’s pretty good at flower arranging. They should sell flowers at Shoppe Mystique.”
“They do.” I winked and thought of the dozens and dozens of apothecary jars in their case. “They’re just in the dehydrated form.”
From the far side of the small building, someone cleared their throat, and Roz let out a little shriek. A moment later, Rae Crain appeared around the corner. Meeka went to her side, hoping for a pat on the head.
“Sorry.” Rae offered her a weak smile. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Rosalyn waved off the apology. “We didn’t think anyone else would be here.”
“Monday is Memorial Day,” Rae said in explanation. “Since tourist season starts tomorrow, I thought I’d pay my respects now while it’s still relatively quiet.”
“Tourists visit our graveyard?” Rosalyn asked.
Rae nodded and bent to scratch behind Meeka’s ears. “According to Willie, a few find their way here while hiking around. He keeps a close eye on them and makes sure they’re being respectful.”
“He doesn’t stand guard here, does he?” I asked. Even for Willie, that would be taking things a bit far.
“Oh, no.” Rae pointed to an owl perched on a high branch. “Looks real, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not?” Rosalyn squinted at the bird.
“It’s a statue.” Rae gestured at other random areas around the perimeter. “He’s got different versions placed all around. There are cameras in the eyes that feed to his computer.”
This made me remember my very first encounter with “Blind” Willie Haggerty. He had been standing on the front porch of Grapes, Grains, and Grub, and a crowd had gathered around to listen to him go on about how the government stole pigeon eggs once they were laid. Then, he claimed, they implanted tiny cameras into the birds’ eyes so they could spy on us. He backed up his claim with a simple question that left us all mute.
“Have you ever seen a baby pigeon?”
Willie could see just fine. Folks called him Blind Willie because he was blind to the truth behind conspiracy theories. Did he truly believe his own words? Or was he fully in control of his mental state and was simply messing with the rest of us? Of course, the reason he wanted to stay in Whispering Pines was to have solitude while still being somewhat close to others. Maybe the crazy act ensured folks would leave him alone. And maybe that speech on Triple G’s porch was a cryptic warning to those gathered to watch themselves while wandering the village’s two thousand acres.
“Is Willie here?” I asked, chuckling to myself. “Are the cameras working now?”
“They’re working,” Rae stated. “I haven’t seen Willie today but did last time I was here.”
Last time? “How often do you come?”
She shrugged and looked over her shoulder at a site in the back right corner of the graveyard. “I doubt anyone else comes to see her.”
“Who?” I asked, and she led us to a simple but pretty white-marble headstone. The name etched there practically pulsed before my eyes and sent a shiver up my spine. Priscilla Page.
Rae offered a pained smile. “All things considered, visiting is the least I can do.” She paused and then softly said, “I talk to her and tell her how sorry I am about what happened.”
Everyone knew Priscilla’s death was an accident. Rae had defended herself when Priscilla came at her, ready to attack. Despite all her friends assuring her that she’d done nothing wrong, Rae had never forgiven herself and suffered over that moment every day of her life since. I felt so bad for this woman. How I wished she could find some peace.
I placed a hand on Rae’s shoulder and gave it a little rub. “That’s really nice, Rae.”
She stared with haunted eyes at the headstone. Probably replaying the fateful events of that night for the ten-millionth time. Then she inhaled, blew out a hard breath, and swiped at a tear trickling down her cheek.
“I was just leaving,” she explained. “I’ll let you two visit on your own.”
Without another word, Rae left the graveyard. A few seconds later, she had disappeared, swallowed by the forest.
Chapter Two
With Meeka at my side and my heart heavy, I knelt next to Priscilla’s headstone and traced my fingers over the 1961-1979 dates beneath her name. What appeared to be a trio of paint brushes were etched at the bottom of the stone. Both her mother and her son, my imprisoned illegitimate half-brother, were talented ceramists. Priscilla must have had an artistic side too.
Her death had changed everything in this village. Everything. Instead of calling the police that night, Gran decided on the punishment and forced Rae to leave the village and never return. She then forbade the villagers from ever talking about the situation. Remove those involved, except for the instigator Flavia Reed, and make the whole thing go away.
