Secrets Don't Sink, page 1
K. B. Jackson
SECRETS DON’T SINK
A Chattertowne Mystery
First published by Level Best Books 2023
Copyright © 2023 by K. B. Jackson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
K. B. Jackson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Author Photo Credit: Didi Miles, Natural Approach Photography
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-68512-390-1
Cover art by Level Best Designs
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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For Jeffy J, my cohort in life’s shenanigans and rigamarole
Chapter One
My resolve weakened with one brackish whiff of the river. Pressed against the Chattertowne City Hall building, I clutched my satchel to my body and cursed my boss under my breath.
“I could live on canned soup and boxed macaroni if I had to,” I mumbled to myself. “No job is worth this kind of stress.”
I’d circled the block three times in search of a parking space before I’d finally spotted reverse lights. On my approach, an old red truck with white-walled tires and a classic rounded frame had emerged from an alley and cut me off. The driver had thrown the brake, jumped out, and slammed the door behind him. As he’d stormed across the street, I’d readied my hand to lay on the horn, but the glower he’d thrown in my direction had stopped me cold.
Now, the mere thought of walking around the corner to the marina spiked my anxiety even further. I’d been frozen there for at least twenty minutes already, trying to psych myself for the daunting task ahead. Having aquaphobia while growing up in a riverfront town had never been easy, but for the most part, I’d managed to avoid getting too close. Sure, I’d missed out on summer rafting trips and pool parties, but that was preferable to having a panic attack in front of all my friends.
My phone buzzed with a call from my sister Vivienne.
“You must have a sixth sense.”
“How so?”
“I’ve been trying to decide if I’m going into the marina office to pay Mr. Anderson’s overdue rent on his boat slip or if I’m quitting my job instead. Thoughts?”
Employed part-time at the Chattertowne Coastal Current newspaper to create content for the around-town section of the generously called Events and Lifestyles, typical topics of my pieces included things like Zeb Brandt’s antique tractor collection and Jennifer Rohrbach’s prizewinning dahlias.
“Audrey, when you finally decide to get therapy, be sure to start with your poor work boundaries and quarter-century-long overreaction to my unexpected little swim.”
“You nearly drowned.”
My mind flashed to a faded memory of my baby sister being pulled from the water. I could still visualize my mother’s angry expression as she scolded me for letting her out of my sight.
Viv made a dismissive cluck. “But I didn’t, and I haven’t let fear keep me from living my best life. You shouldn’t either.”
I stopped myself from challenging her definition. Getting fired for sleeping with her married boss didn’t sound like her best life.
“Anyway, I’m calling to find out what happened when you got in to work today,” Viv said. “Did anyone give you a hard time about Tasha’s party?”
Earlier that morning, I’d snuck into the office hoping to avoid any co-workers who’d witnessed me uncharacteristically let loose at our receptionist Tasha’s birthday party over the weekend. After belting out a slightly tipsy and mostly inaccurate rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” Sandros, the IT guy with a unibrow and a penchant for frou-frou drinks, had cornered me for an unwanted kiss that left me with an aftertaste of appletini and regret.
“Tasha wasn’t at her desk when I got in, so I left a peace offering of maple bars at her desk and scuttled into my office. Unfortunately, Darren sauntered in right behind me and dropped a couple snarky comments before chuckling all the way back to his office.”
Darren Benson, the Current’s newest—and only—Business and Finance reporter, had cunning blue eyes and plump pink lips, which he kept perpetually formed into a smug smile. He liked to pair his signature Burberry plaid scarf with casual condescension.
My irrational attraction to him fit the same predictable pattern as most of my previous disastrous entanglements, where I found myself drawn toward a man despite knowing his good looks would never be enough to offset his arrogance.
“I don’t like that guy,” Viv said, not for the first time.
“I’m well aware.”
I waved at Ms. Truman, one of my mom’s good friends, as she passed. She gave me an odd look in return.
“Darren stopped me in the hallway after our morning meeting and asked me to lunch,” I said.
“Audrey.” Viv’s disapproval dripped through the phone. “You’re not going, are you?”
“I told him I can’t today, but I probably could tomorrow.”
She made a sound akin to a cat coughing up a furball. “I’d rather go to the dentist.”
“That reminds me. You need to reschedule your dentist appointment to get that filling done. You don’t want your teeth to rot out of your head. Oh, and take your car in for an oil change before your engine seizes up.”
“Oops, sorry, gotta go!”
“Viv–”
Click.
I squinted at the phone and sighed. I didn’t mean to be an overbearing nag, as Viv sometimes called me, but her laissez-faire attitude hadn’t served her well. I’d even moved home from Portland to help her put the pieces back together following her latest romantic scandal.
I slipped my phone into my jacket pocket. Across the street at one of Chattertowne’s ubiquitous antique stores, a woman monitored me from the window. Apparently, shimmying along the building with my back practically suctioned to the brick wall was suspicious behavior.
“Audrey?”
Chattertowne’s city manager Holden Villalobos squinted at me as he held open the door to City Hall with his broad shoulders. As a teenager, Holden had been scrawny, but maturity had turned him into an attractive mix of The Rock and Cristiano Ronaldo.
He wore black nylon jogging pants and a white T-shirt. Both the shirt and the man were covered in perspiration.
“Hey!”
I went to hug him, but he stopped and held up his hands.
“Trust me. You want no part of this right now.” He laughed and took a step back, shifting the gym bag strap that hung at an angle across his chest.
“What…why…what happened to you?” My voice trailed off like the beads of sweat currently rolling down his swollen biceps.
“You caught me at the end of my lunch workout. Normally, I don’t meet with constituents in my gym clothes. What are you doing here? You’re not actually going near the water, are you?”
“I’m still trying to decide. When I applied for this job, I knew it was for a puff piece reporter, but I had no idea I was also going to be Anderson’s errand girl. He asked me to make a payment on his boat slip rental.”
Holden gave me an appraising look. “I can take it down there if it’s going to give you a panic attack.”
I shrugged. “If I don’t look directly at the river, I’ll probably be okay. Thanks, though.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, but if I don’t get a text from you in an hour, I’ll come looking for you. Oh, shoot, I just got a new phone. Let me give you the number.”
He dropped his gym bag onto the sidewalk and squatted to rifle through it. He shifted a pair of khakis and a navy polo shirt to the side.
“Going on a trip?”
“Nope. Just my work clothes. I didn’t want to get them sweaty. I’ll change back into them once I get to my office.” He stopped digging through his bag. “You’re a reporter. You got paper and something to write with in your purse?”
“It’s a satchel, not a purse.”
He blinked at me.
I reached into my bag, retrieved a yellow Post-it notepad and a pen, and handed them to him. He was still squatting as he scribbled his number on the pad. My quads ached on his behalf. When he finished writing, he stood, ripped off the top sheet, slapped it against my upper arm, and handed me the pad and pen.
“Thanks.” I peeled the sticky note off my sleeve.
Holden’s cell phone rang. He picked it up and frowned at the screen, hesitating before answering. “Yeah.” His brows furrowed deeper, and his gaze darted around like a pinball. He pointed at the phone as if to say, “I gotta take this,” gave a head nod and backed away.
I waved, but he’d already turned toward City Hall. I stared at the paper with his number and then at his broad retreating frame. I shoved the notepad, pen, and sticky note into the front pouch of my bag.
I couldn’t help but wonder what the call was about, but I had bigger issues to consider, like whether I could get myself all the way to the marina office without somehow plunging into the water.
I took a deep breath and slithered ar
“People go near water every day and live to tell the tale.”
I rolled my shoulders back, lifted my chin, sucked in some air, and took one cautious step.
“I’ll survive,” I whispered.
Step. Deep breath.
I hummed the disco classic “I Will Survive.”
Step. Deep breath.
The heavy breathing made me lightheaded and blurred my vision.
My humming intensified with each step.
The scene came back into focus just as the scowling man who’d stolen my parking spot thundered in my direction, nearly plowing through me as if I were invisible.
Stocky and about sixty, he was fair-skinned with a dark bushy mustache, a ring of brown hair circling a bald crown, hunched-up shoulders, and hairy balled fists.
He didn’t say excuse me or in any way acknowledge my presence.
Cursing my boss again, I surveyed the docks for any other potential obstacles. My shaking hand shielded my eyes from the sun, trying to eke its way through the clouds.
About thirty yards ahead, the sign for the marina office shone like a beacon. Beyond that was the Port Authority building, and from there, the pier branched into a maze of boat moorages, or what I liked to call no man’s land.
Vessels ranged in size from dinghies in small slips to cabin cruisers in medium berths to cargo ships nestled against the outer rim of the docks. There were two enclosed docks, but most of the boats were out in the elements with only their canvas covers to protect them.
Positioned along the banks of the Jeannetta River, which funneled into Puget Sound about twenty miles west, Chattertowne was close enough to the Pacific Ocean to be a busy access point for fishing and transport. It was also near enough to smell like brine and have a boardwalk splattered by shorebirds.
Taking another deep breath, I willed my feet to move, carefully navigating through the gauntlet of droppings until I vaulted myself through the door of the marina office like at the finish line of a marathon.
Inside, the lobby was lined with several chairs, but only one was occupied. A young woman with long black lashes, a turned-up nose, and braided bun atop her head greeted me from behind the counter with a smile. She wore a red-and-brown wool patchwork poncho.
“How can I help you?”
“Hi, my name is Audrey O’Connell. My boss, Nicholas Anderson, asked me to make his rental payment for his boat slip.” I handed her the check. “I guess it’s a bit late, and he’s worried about penalty fees.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Do you need a receipt for him?”
“Yes, he insisted, actually. Thanks.”
“Gimme a sec. I’m already working on something for her.” She indicated the visibly pregnant woman waiting in the lobby. “It’ll be a few minutes before I can get the payment entered and print out the receipt. I’ll see if I can override any late fees which have been assessed.” She headed into the back with the check.
The hard-plastic gray chairs were reminiscent of my elementary school days. I’d expected the marina office to be more nautical, maybe have some rope art or one of those tripod spyglass lamps. Instead, stained utilitarian carpet met with dingy gray walls. A corkboard held advertisements for marine services, boats for sale, and slip sublets. It was more DMV, less yacht club.
I turned to the pregnant woman. “Have you been waiting long? These chairs can’t be comfortable for you.”
The woman snickered. “Honey, I’m having twins. I haven’t been comfortable in six months.” She stretched her legs in front of her, revealing she wore pink slippers.
The clerk returned to the counter and nodded at the woman next to me. “Mrs. Faulkner?”
The pregnant woman attempted to hoist herself out of the chair. When she failed to get enough leverage, I offered my hand in assistance.
She blushed and smiled at me. “Thanks. Last week I made the mistake of testing out one of those giant bean bags, and it took three salespeople to pull me out of it.”
She waddled up to the counter, where the clerk handed her a paper.
“Lance said he’ll give you a call as soon as a covered berth becomes available. In the meantime, check out these thirty-foot uncovered slips and see if any of them will work temporarily. Here’s a map of the marina, with all the slips numbered.”
Mrs. Faulkner nodded and thanked her. She waved an exhausted goodbye to me as she schlepped her giant belly out the door.
“I haven’t forgotten about you,” the clerk said to me. “I’ll have your receipt ready in a moment.”
“No problem.”
After about fifteen minutes, she came around the corner waving an envelope. “Here you go! Sorry for the delay. Our computers are running slow. My boss says we can waive the late fees just this once.”
I took the receipt. “Thanks so much. I know my boss will appreciate it.”
I stepped into the chilly air and scanned the boardwalk. A small crowd had gathered just beyond the Port Authority building. I couldn’t see much from my vantage point, but it looked like someone was lying on the ground.
I groaned. On the one hand, it was my job to investigate the goings-on in Chattertowne. On the other hand…water.
I blew a resigned sigh.
Shimmying along the building to gain a better view, my initial thought was it was it must be a CPR training doll, but as I edged closer, there was no mistaking the long-legged figure for a mannequin. Kelp vines snaked around wet jeans, and bruised hairy ankles protruded from scuffed black leather work boots.
I counted to three and lunged for one of the support beams, clinging to it like I’d done with Mama on my first day of kindergarten. A woman standing nearby jumped at my sudden intrusion and glared at me.
“Is that person okay?” I asked in an exaggerated whisper.
“No.” She pulled her tan trench tighter and pursed her lips. “He’s not okay.”
“Do you know what happened?”
She grimaced. “They pulled the guy out of the river. What he was doing in there, I have no idea.”
I hugged the post and tried to calculate how close I’d need to get for a better look while still keeping a safe enough distance from the edge of the dock. It was important to factor the sturdiness of each of the looky-loos into the equation. One klutz with flailing arms was all it would take to send me into the river. Not only didn’t I know how to swim, but as soon as I hit the water, I’d have a panic attack and sink straight to the bottom.
A Port Authority officer attempted to control the crowd, but they’d encroached, disregarding his attempt at a perimeter.
I glanced at the woman in the trench coat. “Could you do me a favor?”
She eyed me with a narrow gaze. “Depends.”
“I’m a reporter for the Coastal Current. Any chance you’d be willing to take my phone and snap a photo of the victim?”
“Why can’t you? It’s your job.”
“I have a slight fear of water. More than slight. Debilitating would be more accurate.”
She pursed her lips. “Do I get credit if you print it?”
“Sure.”
I had no intention of submitting the picture to my boss. I only wanted to be able to write an accurate story.
I watched as the woman dodged a rotund man as he swayed back and forth, and a little boy darting around like a pinball. She stood on her tiptoes and held my phone aloft to get a better view of the scene.
After a few minutes, she returned and handed the phone to me.
“I took video instead.”
“Thanks so much.”
“Caroline Gates.” She pointed at the phone. “Caroline with a C.”
I nodded and pressed play on the video.
As I watched the camera zoom in on the face of the man lying on the docks, a tidal wave of grief crested over me. My lungs struggled to catch a breath, and I felt like I was drowning myself. A strangled cry lodged in my throat. I stumbled backward and fell onto the splintered planks.
The woman rushed over to me. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head.
“Did you know him?”
I nodded. I tried to swallow but gurgled instead.
Time might change a person, but familiarity always remained.
“Marcus. His name is—was—Marcus.”
