All The Deadly Secrets Read online

  “If someone dares to park in the alley behind your store, call the police right away. Those spots are reserved for shop owners, and it’s the one time you need to get tough with the customer base. ’Cause if someone takes your spot, you’re outta luck.”

  He also invited me into what I thought of as his Alleton inner circle, several local merchants who formed something of a loose-knit family. Sarah and Bernice were part of the group, which may explain why I had been included. After all, I was the town newbie and had done nothing to earn a place in the circle. But if Frank gave his approval, that appeared to be all that was needed. So instead of lots of lonely nights, I had a set of friends, or, if they weren’t true friends yet, at least friendly acquaintances, to spend time with.

  Frank didn’t ask a lot of personal questions, didn’t want to know my life story or the reason I would want to move a thousand miles to set up shop in a Midwestern coastal town. He accepted the brief history I had prepared for those who asked. My husband had died unexpectedly about two years ago, I needed a fresh start, I was looking for franchise opportunities when a Florida snowbird had told me about a store for sale in the Michigan arts colony, and I craved work that would feed my entrepreneurial soul.

  What I didn’t share was that my parents, my brother, Greg, and my aunt Raelynn convinced me that leaving Florida and the nasty swirl of unfounded rumors about my involvement in Drew’s death might be the best thing I could do for my mental health. And there was one other secret I never shared with anyone.

  “Oh, sweet pea,” Aunt Raelynn had said through tears as we sat in her beauty salon a few months earlier, “I don’t want you to go, but you don’t deserve this. Thirty is too young to live under such a dark cloud. And I’ll come visit and be only a phone call away.”

  She had given me a long, critical look. “And while you’re here, how about I give you a new look first — I always thought you’d look great as an auburn-haired vixen. Offset your pale skin and deep brown eyes.” That was Aunt Raelynn, offering positive suggestions to counteract negative events. She had been a life-saving crutch for me when Drew died, always there to listen, to hug me when I cried, to convince me that life was still worth living.

  “So, you need to talk to the police again,” Frank said, interrupting my wandering thoughts. Even though he hadn’t pressed me for details about my life in Florida, he wasn’t going to give me a pass on my first-person view of the death of an Alleton business owner. That was sure to be a prime topic of conversation around town.

  “Just to sign a witness statement,” I said between bites of doughnut. “I can’t add much, and they don’t want to hear about how scary that evening was for me. Alone in a big house on a dark and cold night and thinking Freddy Krueger or some other movie nightmare was going to jump out from a closet and then finding poor Bernice …” I shuddered.

  Frank pulled a folded paper out of his shirt pocket. “Okay, let’s talk about something less scary. This how the artist plans to update the Bathing Beauty sign, bring it into the 21st century. Check it out.”

  I reached over and traced the colored pencil sketch with my index finger but couldn’t get my mind on business. “I wonder if Sarah would be in the mood to talk to you about this in a few days. She has a better sense of this place than I do.”

  “Maybe,” Frank said. “You’ll have to wait and see.” He held a finger to his lips. “Keep in mind what I said. Now that her mom is dead, Sarah might be even angrier about not getting the shop. She might not be a friend of yours.”

  About 10 minutes after Frank left, the shop door opened again, letting in a blast of cold wind and the sound of a revving car.

  “Hey,” said Kylie Herron, the town’s social media expert and youngest entrepreneur, “you need to lock this, or strange people looking to sell you their services might intrude.” Evie, her niece, followed, looking cute in a bunny-eared hat.

  Without asking whether I had time to talk, Kylie pulled off her coat and dumped it on a side counter, then helped Evie with her jacket. She settled Evie on a low counter, pulled a book out of her laptop bag, and handed her the paperback Dr. Seuss. Evie pointed at the doughnuts farther down on the counter.

  Kylie’s eyes lit up at Evie’s discovery. “Frank’s famous potato doughnuts? Are you sharing?”

  I nodded. “Better someone else eats a few, otherwise I’ll finish the entire batch.”

  “Don’t tell your mom about this,” Kylie whispered to Evie as she handed her niece one small bite of the treat. Evie, looking serious, nodded her head in agreement. The two shared black hair, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Kylie’s pixie cut accentuated hazel eyes and an olive complexion, while Evie’s long swoop framed her light golden skin and dark eyes. Of Chinese descent, Evie had been adopted as an infant, and Kylie frequently was her babysitter. Evie, as usual, looked wan; I had heard the four-year-old was undergoing treatment for some type of blood disorder.

  I wasn’t getting a lot of work done but was happy with the interruption. Kylie, with her exuberance, and Evie, with her childish wonder, might, like Frank, help brush away some of the previous evening’s darker memories. Besides, so many of the shop owners I had met were in their late 40s and 50s, and it was nice to talk with someone closer to my age. In fact, the raven-haired doll with the interesting style choices — I had heard that Kylie liked to shop at an upscale boutique in Chicago that featured vintage clothes, but today she had paired jeans with a cardigan embroidered with what looked to be either misshapen zucchini or pickles — was still in her 20s. She was a good example of a successful millennial.

  “I heard about Bernice, but I’m not here to bring that up,” Kylie announced, then took a good look around. “You got any tea here? Even coffee? Organic hot chocolate? That’d be good for Evie. If not, you need a Keurig or a Ninja, I like that one because of the name, but Keurig is really the better choice. I can get you a fabulous wholesale deal on one, even better than the online price.” She wrinkled her nose. “Just one of my many side jobs.”

  I laughed and realized I hadn’t been doing much of that lately. “You have a sale there, Kylie. I’ve just been stopping at the coffee shop down the street for a chai latte, but a ready-set-go hot beverage machine sounds like a good addition to this place.”

  “Speaking of,” Kylie said, “what I really want to sell you is my expertise. I checked online, and this place has zero presence. None. Nada. Zippo. What’s with that?”

  I cut her off before Kylie could launch into her sales pitch. “I’m holding off on all that until the logo is finished. And I still need to decide on some new product lines. Those are on my list of things to talk about with Sarah, and I don’t know when that will happen.”

  “Cutting it close, aren’t you? Can you open in early February?” Kylie wiggled her fingers at me. “Okay, I get the message. No sale today. But I’ll go ahead and work up a possible website home page, gratis. You and Sarah can decide what you think and only pay if you use it.”

  She gave me a sharp look. “One other thing. What gives with you, Lauren? No Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Instagram, blah blah blah. Do you even exist? Are you in witness protection?”

  I stood up straighter, hoping my face hadn’t revealed my dismay. Before I could respond, however, she shrugged and said, “Well, we all have our secrets.”

  Then the cheerleader was back, bouncing up to put on her coat, outfitting Evie again in her jacket and bunny hat. At the door, she turned, bent down, and whispered to Evie, who offered a shy “Bye-bye.”

  “Bye, sweetie,” I said, then blinked when I saw Kylie lift her cell phone, aim it my way, and take a quick photo.

  “I’ll work up a killer online presence for you,” Kylie said. “Again, no charge unless you decide you want to use it. Ta-ta!” And away she went, leaving me speechless and a little afraid.

  4

  The two-story county police station was a no-frills place. The brick exterior at least gave it some warmth, but no attempt had been made to dress up
the windows or doors. Then again, the all-business look was probably exactly what the cops wanted.

  I walked in to the smell of burnt coffee and sound of the clicking of a computer keyboard and random bits of static from a police scanner. Detective Maccini came around the counter, wearing the warm, happy-to-see-you, how-can-I-help look I remembered from our Sunday night meeting. However, his standard police apparel of a long-sleeved navy shirt with black tie, navy pants, black shoes, and the requisite holster, gun, and handcuffs shouted “official business.” He gave me a firm handshake then led the way to a bare-bones interview room. It was furnished with a metal table, a recorder sitting off to one side, a couple of ugly plastic chairs. The obligatory two-way mirror covered one wall. I wondered who might be watching on the other side.

  “Thanks for coming by today. Can I get you a coffee?” he asked. “I’m having one, but I can’t guarantee the quality.” I demurred. Just entering the building had made me nervous, and I didn’t need caffeine to add to my shakes.

  “This will be easy,” he told me as we took our places on the hard, plastic seats. “I’ll turn on the recorder, ask you some questions about Sunday night, and when it’s all done it will be typed up and you can sign it. But first, how are you feeling? That was a bad scare you had.”

  “I’m feeling mostly okay,” I told him. “Talked to some friends, they made me feel better.”

  Maccini nodded. “Best thing. Talk it out. Glad to hear it.”

  “Before we start, can you tell me about Sarah? I haven’t heard from her yet, don’t know what to do.”

  The detective glanced at the closed file he’d placed on the table. “She drove back from Tennessee yesterday. She was pretty broken up, no surprise, but had a church friend come with her to the morgue last night. Same as you, probably needs some folks around. But really,” he added, “not for me to say what you should do. So let’s get on with your statement.”

  I could tell that he was more comfortable in his role as a cop than as a counselor but was sorry to see Maccini switch to a just-the-facts guy. Memories of the seemingly endless interrogation I went through in Tampa following Drew’s death still had the power to anger me, although the bit of rationality I possessed in my grief-stricken haze reminded me that the police were only doing their job. And they weren’t responsible for the Armageddon that resulted, much as I wanted to blame them. Today, sitting in a different interview room but surrounded by the same dirty industrial green walls that offered no promise of peace, I craved the understanding that was not forthcoming.

  Detective Maccini turned on the recorder, intoned the time, date, his name and mine, and started by asking me to take him through what I had done on Sunday. I skipped telling him about the time I spent meditating, a helpful exercise I’d learned from my grief counselor in Florida. My recitation of an hour spent exercising to a fitness video and then working on an Excel spreadsheet until I left for Waves End around 6 p.m. was met with a blank stare.

  “Bernice went to church Sunday morning,” he said. “So 11 a.m. to late afternoon is what most interests me.”

  I fidgeted in the uncomfortable chair. I had no witnesses who could prove I was close to home in the afternoon and not committing a nefarious deed at Bernice’s house. But I didn’t understand what might have happened, what led Bernice in her slippers into the freezing weather. Could she have been looking for the cat? When I asked if the police had any more information, Maccini simply said, “Can’t discuss that,” and switched to asking what I noticed about the house, garage, and shed. He seemed particularly interested in what I had seen in the kitchen.

  “You dropped off a plate of appetizers,” he said, glancing at some notes, “but do you remember what else was on the counter?”

  I closed my eyes, trying to bring back a picture of what I’d seen, but instead got a vision of Bernice, frail and cold and alone. “Sorry,” I said. “I remember what wasn’t there, Eliot, the cat, but a lot of the early stuff is mostly a blur.” I also couldn’t recall much of what I had said to him that terrible night and don’t think I added anything of more interest, but Maccini seemed okay with the meager results.

  “That’s it,” he said, as he disconnected the recorder. “Let me get this to the typist, won’t take her long, then you can read it and sign. And are you sure about that coffee? We got cream, that helps.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m not a big coffee drinker, but something warm before my drive back would be nice.”

  Maccini beamed, apparently happy I had accepted his cure-all.

  An hour later, bad coffee drank, statement closely read and signed, I handed the paperwork back to Maccini.

  “Did Eliot ever show up?” I asked, crossing my fingers in a childlike wish for luck.

  “Nope. No sign yet of the darn cat. Poor Sarah, she needed some better news.” He led the way back to the station’s front door. “We should be all set,” he said, “but if anything else comes up, I’ll be back in touch. And oh, the autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “Autopsy?” I was taken aback. “I thought it was pretty clear how she died.”

  “To you and me, yeah. Poor dear froze to death. But she was only 75 years old, had no history of major health problems. The medical examiner wants to know more. Frankly, so do I. What led her to go outside in that weather? Who let the cat out? Ya gotta wonder.”

  5

  Watching the hardy souls power walk near the icy edge of the Lake Michigan shoreline below my second-floor rented condo had quickly become part of my morning “mindful meditations.” I was beginning to appreciate the beauty of the frozen north, even though my own occasional morning strolls on the yellow sand always left me chilled to the bone. How did people up here survive this winter stuff?

  The condo didn’t do a lot to warm me either. The owner, a professor away on sabbatical, went with black and white as his color scheme. I saw the hand of a high-end decorator at work, but the stark rooms didn’t shout “welcome home” to me. I wondered if I would ever feel welcome anywhere again.

  The buzz of my cell phone interrupted my early Wednesday morning reverie. I glanced at the caller ID and my heart did a little flip. It was Sarah. “It’s so good to hear from you. How are you?” I held my breath. Would Sarah be angry with me for not calling her Sunday night, even though the police told me not to?

  “Oh, Lauren, I’m so, so sorry about what you went through. The cops told me you were, that you found Mom. I can’t, I can’t begin to imagine how bad that was. Are you okay? Are, are you …” Sarah’s voice broke, and I heard muffled crying.

  “Do you need a visitor? Can I come see you? I can bring some breakfast and help with whatever you need.”

  “Would you? Do you mind? That would be so nice. I just, I really, I don’t know, there’s so much to do and the police are doing an autopsy today and I, I don’t think I can stand the thought of that and, and …”

  I spoke through the sound of Sarah’s sobs. “I’m on my way.”

  * * *

  In the light of day, the farmhouse appeared decrepit, not spooky. The paint was fading, the front porch steps were rotting, and a window shutter was missing, giving the old homestead the air of a listing drunk. As I once again parked against the garage door, the sight of the backyard shed gave me a chill that had nothing to do with the day’s icy drizzle. It was probably for the best, I thought, that I was the one who found Bernice. If it had been Sarah, how could she possibly continue to live in this lonely, sagging, country dwelling? Even now, it had to be rough.

  Sarah met me at the kitchen door, her eyes red from weeping. Still no Eliot. I didn’t ask, just hugged her.

  “Let’s go upstairs to my apartment,” Sarah said as she tried to get her sniffles under control. “Downstairs just reminds me of Mom and me lounging around playing cards and, and watching TV. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to sit down here now.”

  Sarah, a tissue wadded in her left hand, led the way, and I followed with the bag of bagels I’d brought.
I had never seen this part of the house before and was happy to have my curiosity satisfied. The top of the stairs gave way to a short hallway, with three doors on the left and only one to the right. Sarah opened the door on the right, walked into the room, and motioned for me to enter.

  I almost gasped at the sight. The large room, probably originally intended to serve as an attic, was furnished in what my limited knowledge of decor could only call country chic. A brown leather sofa and two plaid wingback chairs held pride of place in a conversation grouping, and a huge flat screen TV hung on the wall. The airy room, with its cute country accessories, sisal carpet, and muted earth tone walls looked inviting — and expensive.

  Sarah gave me a rueful smile. “Different, huh? Mom didn’t want to spend the money to, to update the downstairs, but genteel poverty is not the look I want. I do have my pride. And, and speaking of, I need to change. Can’t talk to the funeral home people in these old sweats.”

  Against her “old sweats,” my typical casual winter outfit of jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and an oversized sweater made me look like her poor second cousin. I had yet to figure out how to look stylish while staying warm.

  When Sarah left, I wandered around the space. This was another view of the person I had come to know only as a shop assistant, a divorced, childless, 50-something, slightly pudgy woman with lightly frosted hair who dressed in classic clothes and was always pleasant to be around. Her verbal tic of repeating words tended to get worse when she was nervous, but I barely paid attention to it anymore.

  Some sort of mechanical bank sitting on top of a pine desk that overflowed with envelopes and papers caught my eye. While not my style of household accessories, I was taken by the cast iron pig sitting on a barrel, ready to accept a coin in the platter on his lap. I picked it up, trying to figure out how the pig accepted a coin. Maybe Sarah would demonstrate the trick.