Wayward Secrets, page 3
“Expecting company?” I teased. “The Inn is full, and Laurel needs more beds?”
He spun around. “Hey, boss. Opening weekend usually means a few tourists imbibing a little too heavily. They can sleep it off here.”
While sometimes bordering on obsessive, his attention to detail and need to plan ahead made me smile.
“What’s that look for?” he asked.
“I was thinking about how a year ago, you didn’t like me.”
“I didn’t like anyone a year ago. Gotta admit, bringing you on as sheriff wasn’t the worst idea the village council ever had.”
“Thank you?”
He laughed. “A lot has changed because of you. You took a chance on me, even though you weren’t crazy about me either, and encouraged me to go to the police academy. You convinced your parents to let you open the B&B, which ultimately led to them selling the village to River.”
“And there’s my sister.”
He slapped his hands together and held them in front of his heart. “Thank the Goddess you two patched things up.”
I crossed my arms and leaned against his desk in the center of the room. “You’re awfully nostalgic today.”
He swatted a hand in the air. “Happens every opening day weekend. Uncle Karl . . . sorry, Sheriff Brighton would always sit me down on the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend and give me a pep talk to get me revved up for the new season. We’d talk about what went right and wrong the year before and tried to come up with a game plan for the upcoming one.”
“Not a bad habit. So what’s our plan for this year?”
“Be a presence,” he replied immediately. “Lock up the drunks before they cause problems.”
“I agree.” There were always exceptions, but if we were in uniform and visible, people behaved better. “Anything else?”
“Fewer deaths.”
“Let’s move that last one to the top of the list.”
Since I got here, there had been twelve deaths in the village, eleven of them murders. And technically, Yasmine Long, Reed’s half-sister, had died before I got here, but not by much. There had also been a stabbing. Thank the powers that be that Silence hadn’t died. So far, May had been death-free as well. Only a week to go.
I asked my deputy the same question I’d asked my boyfriend. “Are we ready for this?”
“I am,” Reed said with certainty. His gaze bored into me then. “Are you?”
Last year had been rough. Not just learning the village and the people here but also all the deaths, and getting my personal life straightened out. Checking off all the items on the Life To-Do list Morgan and Briar made me make last Samhain had been absolutely draining. Best thing I’d done to date, though. Other than letting Tripp into my world.
“I’m good.” I gestured toward the village. “I need to go make sure things are ready for the ceremony tomorrow and then check in with the shop owners.”
“I’ll do a patrol of the guest cottages and campground. Probably wander up to the circus. The Squad is all set, though.”
Reed’s pet project for the last few months had been organizing a squad of carnies to be on the lookout for problems. That way, we could focus on the village south of the highway where most of the tourists hung out.
“Let them be then,” I advised. “You trained them well, Deputy. Trust them to do what you asked them to do.”
A hint of a smile turned a corner of his mouth. One of the many things I liked about Martin Reed was that he didn’t have a big ego. He didn’t crave praise. Or if he did, he wasn’t obvious about it. That tiny smile told me he was swelling up with pride inside.
“Unless there’s something that needs attention,” I told him, “I probably won’t spend all day here. Tomorrow’s opening day for Pine Time too.”
“So as always, you’re spreading yourself thin.”
“It’s not as bad as last year,” I objected. “Thank heavens your girlfriend is here to help. And that we have Arden and Holly. We had no idea running a B&B would be so much work.”
“Wouldn’t be if you weren’t so popular.”
“A blessing and a curse.” I patted the walkie-talkie on my hip. “Contact me with problems. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter Four
Days like this one felt like little good job pats on the head from Mother Nature for surviving the Northwoods winter. The air was still a bit chilly, so I needed a jacket, but the sun was warm. As Meeka and I walked along the Fairy Path, I paused in a patch of sunlight now and then and let the warmth soak in.
“Nice, isn’t it?”
I’d stopped a few yards from Hearth & Cauldron and looked ahead to find Reeva sitting on her front steps, a smile brightening her face.
“It is. You’re looking good. Has Jola given you a clean bill of health yet?”
Reeva had recovered nicely from the poisoned tea incident. Fortunately, Flavia didn’t understand that while some of the dangerous herbs Briar and Morgan sold at Shoppe Mystique could be deadly, others only induced vomiting and other minor irritations. The poison Flavia had prepared made her sister very sick, but Reeva had purged most of it from her system before any lasting damage happened.
“I’m ready for bed by seven thirty every night,” Reeva complained, “but I saw Jola this morning and she says lack of stamina is all that’s wrong with me. Only time, good food, and plenty of rest will fix that. Thank the Goddess I’ve got Bee to help me here.”
“She’s part time, right? Will that be enough?”
I chuckled internally, thinking of how worried Reeva had been that her shop wouldn’t take off. It was crazy successful from the start, and she’d opened it during the off-season. The tourists were going to love the unique items she had in her retail side, and her afternoon cooking lessons were sure to be a huge hit.
“Maybe not,” Reeva confessed. “I might need to bring on one other helper. If anything positive came from this, all this resting has given me time to think of new ideas for the shop. The classes I already had planned will be great for those staying in the rental cottages. They can take their meals there to cook in their little kitchens. Folks staying at The Inn don’t have the option to cook their dinners right away, though, so I talked with Laurel, and she agreed to let those guests use the restaurant refrigerator or freezer to store their meals until they head home. I’ve got Bee reorganizing and clearing a shelf in one of ours as well.”
“Smart. Tripp loves bringing his creations home for Roz and me.” He and a few of the other villagers had been invaluable for Reeva over the winter months. They helped her fine-tune her instructions and figure out how much she could teach in two hours.
“I’m not done, though,” Reeva continued proudly. “I realized I offer nothing for those staying at the campground. So I’ve come up with tinfoil pouch meals they can take back to their campsite.” She pointed toward the back of her shop. “We’ll hold class around the firepit.”
“You’re definitely going to need another helper.”
“Spread the word, Sheriff. If you hear of anyone, send them my way. Cooking experience is preferred but not necessary. They can tend the retail side, stock inventory, and wash dishes.”
I gave her a salute and continued to the commons area. After a few steps, however, K-9’s leash grew taut in my hands. I looked back to see her firmly planted in the patch of sunlight.
“Come on, Meeka.”
She didn’t move.
I tugged on her leash, but she still wouldn’t budge.
While I understood the desire, it was time to be an officer. “Meeka, working.”
She hung her head as she plodded over to me. We were almost to the commons area, and Meeka broke into a run. I let out the leash quick before she jerked on my arm. The entire area was bathed in sunshine. It helped that there were no pines towering overhead here. Both sun and rain could fall down on the pentacle garden in abundance.
Meeka’s enthusiasm was spurred along by Blue the cat sitting at the tip of the pentacle point closest to the Fairy Path. We didn’t see much of Blue in the winter. Being a community cat, she made her rounds, staying indoors until she got bored with her current living conditions and then moving on to the next cottage. Any time I had seen her, she was usually sitting camouflaged against a snowbank with only her neon-blue eyes giving her away.
I unclasped the leash. “Don’t run off. We’re still working.”
Within seconds, the two pals were a tangle of white.
As I continued south toward the marina, I noted the flowers starting to appear around the shops. The beds around Shoppe Mystique were always the first to reach full bloom, like a preview of the riot of color that would soon take over the village. With a little help from the green witches, the pentacle garden was a close second. It had originally been a community garden that provided a few vegetables, a large variety of herbs, and many edible flowers.
Five of the eight Wiccan sabbats or holidays—Beltane, Litha, Lughnasadh, Mabon, and Samhain—happened during the tourist season, so the village held big celebrations. Since the opening weekend didn’t fall on one of those days and had nothing to do with Wicca, it was a fun event, but not one deserving a celebration. This year, however, we were going to open the season with a special dedication.
“Are you planning to give a speech?” Laurel asked as I passed in front of The Inn.
I was so used to her being right there in her favorite spot halfway between the door and the red brick pathway that encircled the pentacle garden, I didn’t even notice her. If her guests got to be a “little much,” as she often said, she’d stand in her spot, face turned toward the sun to soak in the warmth, and decompress. It was her version of meditating.
“We don’t really need to—”
“Of course we do.” She spoke with her eyes closed. “Whispering Pines has been here since 1966, and in all that time, no one ever thought to name the lake. A small bonfire and a glass of Maeve’s mead to toast the event with will make it even more memorable.” She opened her eyes and stared at me. “This is significant, Jayne. It should be celebrated.”
I couldn’t argue with her. “Do I have to speak for longer than thirty seconds?”
She smiled, shut her eyes again, and returned to the sun. “That should be fine.”
“Maeve makes mead?” A whole year and there was still so much I didn’t know about this place.
“She does. She’s been brewing a batch with mulberries she harvested last summer and Beckett’s honey. It should be just about ready. There might be a bit of cranberry left. It’s fantastic. In late July, she’ll make some with Door County cherries. That’s my favorite.”
“I assume you asked her to bring some tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am. Trust me, it’ll be perfect.”
I left her to her meditation and whistled for Meeka. She burst out of the pentacle garden, a layer of dirt covering her from head to toe, back to belly. “You were wrestling with Blue, weren’t you?”
She wagged her tail and seemed to smile in response.
“Did you mess up the plants?”
The tail-wagging paused for a moment, then picked up again, but much more slowly.
“The witches are going to be mad at you two. And now you need a bath.”
Her tail stopped altogether, and she trotted along next to me, subdued now.
We continued west along the brick path to the small beach area on the far side of The Inn. A boardwalk led to the marina and the boat docks. This was where we set up bonfires for various celebrations and was currently where Gil Bailey, Brady Higgins, and Rourke O’Connor were putting the finishing touches on a portable beam and set of stairs.
“Looking good,” I praised. “That’s going to hold the curtain?”
The plan was to hide the sign displaying the name of the lake. As I announced the name, I’d drop the curtain.
“We figured it would be better if you were elevated,” Brady explained. “That way, everyone can see you. So we built stairs. They’re sturdier than a ladder.”
They’d created a stairway three feet wide and six stairs tall with a handrail on each side and a beam extending out from the top.
“It’s not leaning,” I noted, inspecting the unit from all sides. It was common knowledge that while Brady could build pretty much anything, the results were rarely plumb or square.
“I helped,” Rourke volunteered, explaining all with two words.
“Great,” I praised. “How will this work?”
“Okay,” Brady began and hitched up his sagging jeans. “We’ll attach the curtain to a pole, tie a rope to each end of the pole, and run the ropes through those pulleys.” He pointed at the pulleys attached to both ends of the beam. “This cleat will hold the ropes in place.”
He mimed making a figure eight around the cleat with an invisible rope.
“So I climb the stairs”—I did so to give it a test run—“make the announcement, unwind the rope, and drop the curtain. Simple. I like it.”
Gil nodded his agreement. “Willie says he’ll bring the sign over later this afternoon. He’s putting the finishing touches on it.”
Over the last fifty years, Blind Willie had hand carved hundreds of signs for the village. The Welcome to Whispering Pines signs along the highway at each end of town. Some for each parking lot. Dozens of foot-tall ones along the Fairy Path pointing the way to various locations. Plaques hanging on the door of each rental cottage displayed the cottages’ names. He even made a vacancy sign for Pine Time that we set up on the highway at the turn to our driveway. And that was only a small percentage of them. Considering all that, no one else could have made this one.
I climbed down from the stairs and stood back to take in the scene. “The curtain will be wide enough to cover the sign?”
“The beam is ten feet long,” Brady explained. “The curtain is eight feet wide, and the sign is six feet wide.”
Rourke took hold of one of two logs sticking out of the ground and gave it a shake. “The uprights are secure. We cemented them in place last week, so there’s no danger of the sign tipping.”
Gil flung a hand toward a teepee of wood about the size of a picnic table. “Bonfire is ready too.”
“We’re good to go, then,” I confirmed. “Thanks for doing this, guys.”
“Can I bring a drum?” Brady asked as I turned to walk away.
Rourke laughed at him. “Can’t be near a bonfire without a drum, can you?”
This was turning into a celebration. Why wasn’t I surprised? Maybe not one of Samhain or Litha magnitude, but still a Whispering Pines event. We discussed this at the last council meeting. At first, all I was going to do was announce the name and pull a drape off the sign. Then Creed said I needed to be elevated so everyone could see me and suggested a simple step ladder would suffice.
“And don’t just pull the drape off.” They stood, and in full ringmaster flourish, pulled a rope to expose a sign. “Go big whenever possible, Sheriff.”
Now there was a mobile stairway and mulberry mead. And Brady was bringing his drum. Next, someone would set up a table and load it with food, because no Whispering Pines event was complete without food.
I laughed at the vision forming in my head. “Bring your drum, Brady. That’s fine.”
“And bring back my supplies,” Gil added. On his fingers, he ticked off, “I gave you five pulleys, three cleats, and a fifty-foot coil of rope. I need all of that for the docks.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get your stuff back,” Brady promised.
“Anyone know where Meeka went off to?” I looked around, ready to leave.
“She’s in the lake.” Rourke pointed at the little dog leaping over waves.
Great. My truck would smell like wet dog. “Meeka, get over here.”
She tilted her head curiously at the order, then stepped onto the beach and shook violently, water drops flying everywhere. Then she ran to me and sat at my feet, looking up with her waiting to get praised expression.
“Sorry, girl, but that doesn’t count as a bath.”
She stared at me and then dropped to her belly.
“Don’t you do it,” I warned.
Too late. She flipped over and rolled left and right in the sand, paying special attention to her back.
The guys burst out laughing.
“If she needed a bath anyway,” Rourke reasoned, “might as well get good and filthy.”
I didn’t find this anywhere near as funny as they did and scowled at her as I reattached her leash. “Now I’m going to have to vacuum sand out of my truck.”
The Westie looked smug as we finished the loop around the pentacle garden, greeting tourists who’d already arrived in the village as we did. We stopped at every shop, but no one wanted to chat. Instead, after a quick hello from each owner, I heard something like, “I’m not quite ready but will be tomorrow.” or “Yes, thanks, I’ll let you know if we need anything.”
When we got to Ye Olde Bean Grinder, Meeka pulled hard on her leash toward the door.
“Nope, you’re covered in sand,” I told her, as I had at every stop.
She looked from the coffee shop to me and back a few times.
“I know you want biscuits, but you can’t go in there. Violet will kick your furry butt if you get sand all over her floor.” The thing was, I wanted a mocha. And being a big softy, I couldn’t get a treat for myself without getting something for her. I shouldn’t reward her naughty behavior, though. “Tell you what, I’ll get you some biscuits, but you have to behave for the rest of the day and can’t have any until after your bath.”
She sneezed, as though agreeing with my demands. Sometimes, I was sure she really could understand me.
“Okay, stay here. I’ll be right back.”
While Meeka stood guard outside the shop, I went in.
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Violet chirped in her standard cheery way from behind the counter. “Your regular?”
“Sometimes when you greet me that way, I feel like I’m in the old west and bellying up to the bar.” I hooked my thumbs in my belt loops and walked bowlegged. “Yes, my regular please.”
