TELL ME NO SECRETS, page 1
Praise for the Ava Logan Mystery Series
“Well-drawn characters, a dash of romance, and enough logically constructed red herrings to keep the reader guessing right up to the end distinguish this tightly woven tale.”
– Publishers Weekly
“The first in Willis’ planned series mixes murder and romance with enough suspects to keep you guessing.”
– Kirkus Reviews
“As a reader who loves intricate mysteries that are filled to the brim with investigations, I’m grateful there will be more to come.”
– Suspense Magazine
“A well-wrought tale of the secrets concealed beneath the surface of small-town Appalachia...Willis is a seasoned professional who gives us just enough red herrings to keep us guessing to the end.”
— Margaret Maron,
New York Times Bestselling Author of Long Upon the Land
“A page-turning balance of small-town life and an unsolvable mystery with characters we wish we knew for real. Tell Me No Lies is a mystery that will not disappoint.”
– C. Hope Clark,
Author of Echoes of Edisto
“Willis brings to life not only the beauty of the Appalachia, but also the crippling poverty that can and does cause people to resort to terrible things.”
– For the Love of Books
“Lynn Chandler Willis writes with a voice as big as the Appalachians. Tell Me No Lies is a compelling mystery and a spot-on depiction of newspapering in a small town. I’m already looking forward to more from Ava Logan.”
– Brad Parks,
Shamus, Nero, and Lefty Award-Winning Author of Say Nothing
“A pulse-pounding treat with a coiling plot. This one provides intelligent and intriguing thrills about love, loyalty, and courage. Way ahead of the pack.”
– Steve Berry,
New York Times #1 and International Bestselling Author
“Tell Me No Secrets has it all—strong, unforgettable characters, a beautiful setting, dark secrets, and a haunting story that rises like a deadly storm out of the turbulent borderland between love and faith, the modern world, and traditional Appalachian culture.”
— Roger Johns,
Award-Winning Author of the Wallace Hartman Mysteries
“Willis weaves a gripping and lush tale of big city crime colliding with backwoods folklore where the secrets are as dark and mysterious as the Appalachian Mountains. Ava Logan is the kind of sympathetic but strong heroine who juggles a demanding job with the struggles of family life...someone we can all relate to and cheer for. I was drawn in from the very first page, desperately wanted to find out what happened, but hated to see it come to an end.”
— Annette Dashofy,
USA Today Bestselling Author of the Zoe Chambers Mystery Series
The Ava Logan Mystery Series
by Lynn Chandler Willis
TELL ME NO LIES (#1)
TELL ME NO SECRETS (#2)
TELL ME YOU LOVE ME (#3)
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Copyright
TELL ME NO SECRETS
An Ava Logan Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | June 2019
Henery Press, LLC
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2019 by Lynn Chandler Willis
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-519-2
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-520-8
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-521-5
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-522-2
Printed in the United States of America
For my granddaughter, Paisley.
I love you more.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My unyielding gratitude goes to Karen Fritz, Micki Bare, and Julie Bates for helping me craft this idea into an actual story. Thank you for the brainstorming sessions and the multiple cups of coffee. Thank you, Cindy Cipriano Bullard, for keeping me on track and pushing me forward. Thank you to Agnes Alexander (Lynette Hall Hampton) for being my mentor, teacher, and friend. A huge thank you to my sister, Rae Chandler, for the road trips we called research and for being okay with turning down all those little mountain roads.
And to the people of Appalachia, thank you for your openness and warm welcome. I hope I did good in this portrayal.
CHAPTER 1
People don’t just disappear. Unless they do.
To begin with, Scott Curry’s no-show for work Thursday more than worried me. In the three years he’d been delivering the Jackson Creek Chronicle, he’d never skipped work. But when he didn’t show or call this past delivery day, his absence at first created more of an inconvenience than concern. As publisher of the town’s only newspaper, I had no choice but deliver the papers myself.
That was three days ago. The mild concern had grown into serious worry. No calls, no emails, no texts combined with a gnawing feeling something’s wrong. Jackson County Sheriff Grayson Ridge chewed on the end of a shank of grass plucked from the river bank, slowly twirling the other end between his thumb and index finger while I expressed my concern. He ditched the grass then tucked a wayward strand of auburn hair behind my ear. His way of showing me he was at least listening.
His other arm rested at my waist, his fingers laced through the belt loops of my capris. We sat with my son Cole and my two-year-old adopted daughter Ivy on a blanket spread over a patch of grass about thirty feet from the river’s edge, watching a baptism. My twelve-year-old daughter, Emma, along with other believers were making their faith public today. I, myself, was a more private believer.
I pushed the thoughts of bad things and Scott Curry out of my head and tried to escape into the jovial mood, into the beauty of the surrounding mountains, but came up short. Although a pleasant seventy-eight degrees, seeing the line of believers standing in that cold river made me shiver. I studied the scene a moment, wondering where they found the courage to do it. To allow the chilled water to swirl around them. To profess their faith.
Waist-deep in the muddy water of Jackson Creek, Reverend Doretha Andrews lifted her arms toward the heavens shouting praise in a language I didn’t understand. Latin? Or maybe Hebrew. From a cloudless, Carolina blue sky, the sun illuminated her face, tears glistening against her ebony skin. Tears of joy? Had to be. She loved saving souls and the fact one of those souls belonged to my daughter–an added bonus.
The water ebbed and flowed around the reverend, lifting her baptismal robe. The purple garment swirled with the current, splaying on the surface, Doretha anchoring it in place.
She’d been my anchor the better part of twenty-seven years. When I was eight, my mother blasted my father to hell with a shotgun and became a resident at the North Carolina Women’s Prison in Raleigh so Doretha took me in to the All Faith Missionary foster home. A big bosomed lady with swinging braids, Doretha preached the gospel with a soft voice and gentle manner…except when it came to baptizing new believers. She then became so engulfed with the spirit you’d fully expect Jesus Christ himself to open the heavens, swoop down to the river and hug her.
Now, with the church’s band and choir making a joyful noise on the bank of Jackson Creek, Emma waited to be dipped along with six others. Each of those waiting in line swayed hypnotically to the thumping of the bongo as the water swirled around them. Any other day, my own shoulders would have moved involuntarily to the rhythm of the fiddle, the twang of the banjo. But not today. Not when my instincts whispered something was wrong. It wasn’t like Scott to miss work.
“He has a sister in Ohio,” I said in a hushed tone. “Maybe we can check with her.”
Grayson glanced in my direction, the exact destination of his line of sight skewed by his Oakleys. “I’ve got a call in to his parents. Hopefully we’ll hear something tomorrow.”
Cole huffed, the universal sign of teenage boredom. “Mom, I told you—school’s been out three weeks. He’s at the beach partying.”
Maybe he was right. Being the middle of May, the grade schools still had a few weeks left, but Brighton College had closed its doors for the summer. Although late spring in the North Carolina high country competed in beauty with the autumn, college kids found more joy in hot sand, waves and endless beer on the other side of the state than in the flowering rhododendron and mountain laurel of home. Aside from being a college kid, Scott was also an avid hiker and backpacker. Even if he didn’t go to the beach, he could be on a trail somewhere, off the grid for a few days. But surely he would have carried his cell. If he was somewhere he couldn’t get a signal out, he’d have let someone
With Emma still in line, I looked away from the baptism, glancing around the hollow. Clusters of wildflowers surrounded our spot at the river, giving the gentle slope a splash of color and sweet aroma. Though the water from the creek emanated a musty smell, it was home. It was roots and family.
About forty of us—Doretha’s past and present foster kids—gathered every year in late spring at this same spot for a reunion and baptism service. Those with partners or spouses or kids brought them along to share in the occasion, strengthening the ties that made us family.
Those waiting in line to be baptized, like Emma, pulled at their robes, clutching them at their sides to keep the material from floating to the top of the water. Some of the children giggled as they let their frocks rise only to tug them back down to their sides.
My red-headed Emma fidgeted with her gown as well. She was a good kid, more mature than her twelve years. She’d taken on the role of big sister naturally last fall when I’d adopted Ivy after her own mother died.
From the distance, I saw Emma studying the brownish-orange mud line marring her white robe. I wanted to tell her it would be alright. Like the supposed sin she felt she’d accumulated in her twelve short years, the stain would wash away.
She’d convinced me to let her be baptized. Not that I opposed it; I just wasn’t convinced a pre-teen could comprehend the true meaning. I wasn’t even sure I understood it. Perhaps Emma had fallen more under Doretha’s preaching than I had.
As I watched the water flow downstream, my thoughts flowed back to Scott. If he had a reason to want to disappear, I didn’t know it. I saw him every Thursday at the office when we transferred the bundles of papers from the printer’s van to his beat-up SUV. We chatted about the weather and about school. A junior at Brighton, the next step was Wake Forest law school. He had plans.
Cole sighed again then tickled Ivy, pinching at her chubby thighs. “How long do we have to stay? I’m supposed to meet Paisley later.”
Apparently Scott wasn’t the only one who had alternative plans. “We’re staying until it’s over.”
Ivy’s giggle turned into an unfiltered laugh, drawing attention to our spot. Even Doretha looked at us from her location in the river. She smiled and lifted her arms in praise, for the children, the laughter, or the spirit moving her. Who knew? It was just a part of who she was.
Cole ducked the attention and lay back on the blanket. He shielded his eyes from the blaring sun with his forearm. “Why doesn’t Doretha baptize people in one of those little pool things like other churches?”
I dug a bag of fruit snacks from Ivy’s diaper bag, handing them to her in hopes she’d settle back down. “They’re called baptismal pools, and All Faith Missionary Church doesn’t have one. Besides, there’s something very symbolic about being baptized in a river.”
“Were you baptized in a river?”
“No,” I said, probably too quickly. As the water pushed over an outcrop of tree roots. Pudge Collins’ beagles howled up the river a way, the mournful cry echoing off the rocks.
Cole watched me, waiting for me to elaborate. When I didn’t, his interest returned to his teenage hormones. “So what am I supposed to tell Paisley?”
“You can tell her you’ll see her at school tomorrow.”
I swear he growled then turned to Grayson, his male ally. “Help me out here.”
Grayson snickered, his fingers pulling tighter around my waist. “You’re on your own with this one. You know how she is.”
Square-jawed, with rich chocolate-colored hair, broad shoulders on a solid frame, Cole resembled his late father more every day. But I wouldn’t hold that against him. While my dead husband had pretended to protect and serve, behind closed doors he beat me black and blue to match his uniform. When a bullet shredded his aorta ten years ago during a routine call, I mourned for my two small children and I mourned for the happily-ever-after life I’d always wanted. But I didn’t mourn for Tommy.
A roar of laughter erupted from the river, spreading up to the crowd on the bank. The sound jerked my focus back to the baptism where I’d already missed the joke.
“Earth to Ava Logan,” Grayson said, his voice low, his gaze penetrating even through his sunglasses. “You okay?”
I answered with the truth. “No. I’m really worried about Scott. It’s so out of character.”
He playfully nudged my shoulder. “You’re just mad because you had to deliver the papers.”
There might have been a smidgen of truth in that statement. As the founder of the Jackson Creek Chronicle, I’d spent my time delivering. I climbed in and out of a vehicle more on delivery day than I did an entire year. Once the paper could afford a small staff, I hired a delivery driver first. Scott Curry wasn’t my original driver, but he was the best.
Cole pointed at Doretha and the baptism party. “Looks like Emma’s after the next girl. Can we leave after that?”
Grayson turned away to hide his grin while I shot my son a momma look. “We’re not leaving, Cole.”
I forced Scott from my mind, giving my full attention to the service. Doretha placed one hand behind the head of a young man, the other hand on his chest. “Jesus answered, truly, truly, I say to you, except a man be born of water and of the spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God.”
With help from Elder Jeremiah Carson, she lowered the boy into the muddy water, framing his upper body with her arms.
He came up sputtering a little, a broad smile spreading across his face. “Praise God!” he shouted, giving a fist pump high in the air.
Doretha laughed from her belly, a comforting sound, that always made me smile no matter the situation.
“Bet that water’s cold.” Cole dug at the soft earth with a stick.
Even in mid-summer when the air temperature reached nineties, the river water in the North Carolina mountains usually missed the memo. “I imagine it’s very cold,” I said.
“Frigid is more like it,” Grayson added.
The next girl stepped up to Doretha. She folded her arms across her chest, visibly shaking. Probably more from the cool water than nerves. Emma moved up in line. In my lap, Ivy pointed a chubby finger toward Emma, calling her “Emem.”
Emma wiggled her fingers in a tiny wave at us. But when she turned back toward Doretha, her gaze stopped up river, brows knitted. A frown pulled at her lips. I followed her gaze, focusing on something floating downstream to where they stood. Emma turned back to us, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. Whatever floated in the water had lost its appeal to my daughter. But not to me. Too wide to be a snake. An injured beaver or otter? A turtle maybe? Whatever it was, it was headed straight for my daughter.
With growing concern, I handed Ivy off to Grayson and slowly stood to get a better look.
Emma shook her head in my direction, a silent plea to not embarrass her. My heart rate increased the closer I stepped toward the water. A green and black backpack rose and fell like a fishing bobber on the move. A backpack just like Scott’s.
I skittered down the riverbank, a clumsy splash screaming my plunge into the river. My breath hitched as ice cold water pierced my capris, stabbing my legs like needles as I struggled against the current. The bongo player stopped tapping out a beat. The fiddle player brought his bow to a screeching halt.
“Mom, what are you doing?” Emma yelled.
I lunged for the backpack before it drifted farther downstream, covered to my waist in the freezing water.
“Ava!” Doretha shouted.
Adrenaline rushed through my blood like the river rushing over the rocks. My heart raced with fear of what I’d found. I couldn’t stop my body from shaking as I towed the bag toward the shore.
