Undisclosed Read online

  “Cassie, wait. Where are you going?”

  “Out,” I said. “Someone else has some explaining to do.”

  ***

  I told Hollis to man the cash register, grabbed Oliver by the arm, and dragged him into the stockroom. Well, sort of. He followed me almost willingly, since dragging anyone—especially someone Oliver’s size—isn’t within my ninety-three pound skill set.

  “I take it you’ve seen the sign at Joe’s house?” he asked as I pretended to back him up against the shelves of canned goods.

  “Yes, I’ve seen the sign! That’s what he was doing down here so early this morning. You two are in cahoots!”

  Oliver shook his head. “Not really. Cassie. Joe wasn’t even sure he’d put up that sign. Not when he left here, he wasn’t.”

  I flapped my arms. “Well, he put it up!”

  “I think I’m catching on to that.”

  I dropped my arms. “How could you, Oliver?”

  “Because he asked me for the sign. I’m a realtor. It’s my job.”

  “Maybe.” I blinked. “But even so, you didn’t have to actually list the property. That’s how I found out, you know. Paula Erikson saw the listing and called me.”

  “Paula’s keeping tabs on us?”

  I flapped my arms again. “Somebody has to!”

  Oliver cleared his throat, caught one of my hands, and waved me toward a couple empty milk crates. “Let’s sit,” he suggested.

  Okay, so we sat.

  And I took a few deep breaths. And eventually, he tapped my knee, and I tore my gaze from the canned tomatoes. “If it makes you feel better, Paula’s probably the only one who noticed that listing,” he said.

  “Nice try, Oliver. It’s a beautiful house, and it’s lakefront property.”

  “Frozen lakefront,” he emphasized. “Frozen and in northern Vermont, in the dead of winter. And it’s the holiday season.”

  I thought about it. “Not prime house-selling season?”

  “Not hardly.” He assured me no one was house hunting that week. “The only people who’ll see that “For Sale” sign are your family and Maxine.”

  I thought some more. “Did he tell you why he’s selling?” I asked, but Oliver absolutely refused to answer that question.

  “Because of me,” I whispered. I continued staring at the canned goods and decided to change the subject. I mentioned Maxine’s Lake Bess Lore column. “What have your customers been saying?”

  Oh goody. Now Oliver was the one staring at the canned goods.

  I tapped his knee. “What have people been saying about the Fox Cove?” I asked. “About Mr. X and his loved ones?”

  He tore his eyes from the green beans, stood up, and headed toward the doorway. “I’m busy,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Oliver, wait.” I jumped up also. “What’s wrong?”

  The door swung closed, and I snarled at the green beans.

  ***

  FYI, Hollis and Chester were way less reticent to discuss Maxine’s column, but one look at Oliver, and I decided not to overstay my welcome. However, I also refused to go straight home to face that stupid “For Sale” sign.

  “I refuse to think about it,” I told my steering wheel and headed into Hilleville. To Cornelius Suitor’s to be exact. Kind of shocking, but I had yet to talk to the retired cop.

  Fanny had mentioned Park Street, and sure enough, her friend’s house was exactly as she described. And Mr. Suitor was as jovial and welcoming as Fanny had predicted.

  “Any friend of Fanny’s is a friend of mine,” he told me as he took my coat. He clicked his TV set to mute and encouraged me to sit anywhere.

  I took a corner of the couch, and Mr. Suitor settled into what was clearly his chair—a well-worn Laz-Y-Boy. I apologized for not calling ahead of time. “But Fanny warned you about me?” I asked.

  The old guy smiled. “As did Captain Jason Sterling.”

  Why was I surprised? Of course Jason would have paid a visit to the one person Sarah mentioned—when was it—way back on Sunday? “What did Captain Sterling say about me?” I had to ask.

  “Nothing I didn’t already know from reading the Hanahan Herald on a regular basis.” Mr. Suitor smiled. “You’re reputation precedes you, Cassie Baxter. You’re one smart cookie.”

  I scowled. “Jason Sterling called me a smart cookie?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  No kidding. I moved on and asked Mr. Suitor if we could talk about the Fox Cove Inn, and the old guy was ready and willing. “But like I told Captain Sterling, I was already retired from the police force when that poor woman found the headless skeleton.”

  “But even so, you have quite a reputation also, Mr. Suitor.” I smiled. “I hear you know a lot about a lot.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I do know some things.” He got serious. “But I warn you, I will not conjecture on police matters. I like facts, and facts only, if you please.”

  Fair enough. “No legends, lore, or rumors, and we might be finish this conversation before the new year,” I said. “But the bordello was a fact, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that fact confuses me, Mr. Suitor—”

  “Cornelius, please.”

  “Why wasn’t the bordello closed down before the 1970’s, Cornelius?”

  The retired cop suggested I “ponder” just how rural Hanahan County is, and how rural the county would have been, decades and decades earlier. He also reminded me the Hilleville police force has never had jurisdiction at Lake Elizabeth. “That’s the sheriff’s territory,” he said. “And Sheriff McGuckin, and Sheriff Foster before him, never were very concerned. Business as usual, they used to say.”

  “Poisonings were considered business as usual?”

  “All unproven,” Cornelius insisted. “Remember we’re sticking to the facts, and the fact is a man got shot and killed out there. That’s when Sheriff McGuckin couldn’t turn a blind eye.”

  “Nate Wylie,” I said.

  “I understand his son still lives at the lake.”

  “For the time being,” I mumbled.

  ***

  “I was there.”

  I looked up. “Excuse me?”

  “The night Nathan Wylie was killed.” Cornelius explained that Sheriff McGuckin had requested back-up from the Hilleville police. “Common practice fifty years ago,” he continued. “I’d been on the force for a while by then, but I’ll never forget the horrified look on that lady’s face.”

  “Lady?” I asked.

  “Lady of the night, I should say.” Cornelius nodded. “He was killed outside of Olivia DeMuir’s cottage.”

  I sat up straight. “Are you telling me Nate Wylie was with this woman, Olivia DeMuir, the night he died?”

  Cornelius held up both hands. “I won’t say for sure, but he was shot outside her cottage.”

  “Her cottage?” I shook my head. “Olivia DeMuir, umm, worked in the Honeymoon Cottage?”

  “I’m a tad uncomfortable discussing this with you,” the old guy said, “but that is the fact of the matter. Miss DeMuir was the most popular, how shall I say, employee of the Fox Cove. She occupied her own private building.”

  Holy moly.

  “How have I missed this crucial detail?” I asked. “I’ve never even heard of Olivia DeMuir until now.”

  Cornelius shrugged. “I suppose folks don’t talk about her because she’s not a ghost, nor a legend. Olivia DeMuir was real.” He gave me a meaningful look and even spelled out the name. “Sound familiar?”

  I shook my head.

  He told me to think about it. “You’re a smart cookie. You’ll figure it out.”

  What? Figure out what?

  He slapped his knees, and I looked up. “Let’s talk about something less uncomfortable,” he suggested and reminded me the Fox Cove had become a legitimate inn after Nate Wylie’s death. “Though I don’t believe business ever boomed,” he added.

  “That’s w
hen Pru and Arlene Pearson’s grandparents ran the place,” I said.

  “Samuel and Rebecca Pearson. Things out there were quiet for a time.” Cornelius sighed. “But then another tragic death.”

  “Rebecca Pearson killed her husband,” I said. “Samuel is one of the ghost-guys.”

  Cornelius reminded me we were sticking to facts only, but did admit Mr. Pearson’s death had been suspicious. Suspicious enough, in fact, that Samuel and Rebecca’s teenage son Arnie ran away to Boston soon afterward.

  According to the retired cop, the next few years at the Fox Cove were uneventful. Rebecca Pearson lived out her days alone at the inn, and when she passed away, Sheriff McGuckin boarded up the place.

  “After we helped him with that, the Fox Cove remained unoccupied until those two girls arrived from Boston.”

  “Arlene and Pru.” I sat forward. “But back up, sir. You just said ‘we’ helped. Were you actually there when the Fox Cove got boarded up?”

  “I was. Sheriff McGuckin was always so understaffed. Several of us on the Hilleville police force helped out.”

  I winced. “The sheriff actually gave you guys hammers and nails? Like, on purpose?”

  Cornelius slapped his knees and let out a hearty laugh. “You can only imagine the blood and gore!”

  Well, I could try. The Hilleville police are an exceedingly clumsy bunch. Accidents happen. A lot of accidents happen. A lot.

  Cornelius kept smiling but held up his very crooked left thumb. “I broke it boarding up the cottage that day. Smarted like the dickens.”

  “You mean the Honeymoon Cottage,” I said. “You didn’t happen to see Mr. X there?”

  The old guy’s face dropped, and he lost all levity. “That’s wrong,” he said, and he was right, of course.

  I apologized for being so flippant. “I know this is serious,” I said. “And I know Mr. X hadn’t even been put there yet.”

  Cornelius stared at me. “What’s wrong is that you know that detail, Cassie.”

  “The chronology?” I reminded him I had spent the last several days trying to understand the basic timeline of the Fox Cove.

  “Nooo.” He shook his head. “I meant about where the skeleton was found. That type of information is usually kept under wraps.”

  I thought about it and remembered Oden had let it slip. But when I promised not to mention it to anyone else, good old Cornelius recovered his jovial mood.

  “You’re a smart cookie,” he said and again held up his left thumb for inspection.

  Chapter 23

  Jovial, for the record, is not Sarah Bliss’s go-to mood. But when I entered the sheriff’s office a few minutes later, she looked up from her phone and flashed me an altogether un-Sarah-like smile.

  “Yes,” she chirped in an altogether un-Sarah-like tone, “I’ll be sure to give Sheriff Hawthorn that message.” Pause. “Yes, I’m sure he will find it useful.” Pause. “Yes, it is an interesting story. Good-b—” Pause. “Good-bye now!” She hung up, and the smile evaporated instantly.

  And there was the standard Sarah-Bliss snarl. “This.” She flicked an irritated hand at her phone. “Is all your fault.”

  “I love you, too,” I told her. I hung my jacket on the hook provided and stepped to the counter, which, FYI, is ridiculously high. This used to intimidate me, but let’s just say, I’ve gotten used to the sheriff’s office. “You’ve been getting calls about Mr. X and the Fox Cove?” I asked Sarah. “Maxine’s column is working?”

  “If the goal is to drive me nuts, it is.”

  “Sooo? What have you learned? Anything useful?”

  Sarah told me to keep dreaming and pointed to her phone. “That last call was about some poor Pearson who got himself poisoned circa 1950.”

  “So nothing at all?” I slumped, but evidently Sheriff Hawthorn was more optimistic.

  “He and P.T. are both out, following up on a few leads,” Sarah said. “And who have you been talking to?”

  “Cornelius Suitor.”

  “Finally. Anything useful?”

  I shrugged. “He wanted to help, but he refused to discuss anything that wasn’t a bona fide fact.”

  “Bona fide facts and the Fox Cove? That’s a new one.” Sarah tapped her notepad and told me she had heard at least a dozen versions of at least a dozen legends, involving at least a dozen different Pearsons.

  “Any non-Pearsons?” I reached up, and she handed down her notes, and I began flipping through the pages. “Cornelius mentioned a couple other names.”

  “Let me guess. Nate Wylie.”

  “Him, and someone named Olivia DeMuir.”

  “Who?”

  I looked up and repeated the name, but Sarah shook her head. “Never heard of her.”

  “Come on.” I jabbed at her notes. “You have a whole legal pad of names here.”

  “All Pearsons, with the occasional mention of Nate Wylie. Give me a break, babe.”

  Instead, I gave her the facts about Olivia DeMuir.

  “Never heard of her.”

  I sighed impatiently. “How about this then?” I went back to skimming through her scribbles. “I’ve also heard that old Mr. Tumbleton built the Fox Cove Inn, and my house. Did anyone mention that?”

  “No, but everyone thinks it’s fitting that Miss Looney Tunes found the skull there.”

  “Truman found the—”

  The phone rang, and she held up an index finger to me. “Fox Cove Inn Hotline,” she answered. “No legends, lore, rumor, or inuendo too trivial for us!”

  Her face dropped. “Umm. Good afternoon, Captain Sterling.”

  Sterling? Excellent! I tossed the legal pad back at her and mouthed, “Speaker phone! Speaker phone!” and Sarah got the hint.

  Meanwhile, Jason Sterling was asking to speak to the sheriff.

  “He and Deputy Dent are both out.” She stared at me. “No one’s here but me.”

  “Well then take a message,” Jason told her. “I have news.”

  “News?” I mouthed.

  “News?” Sarah asked, and he told us—I mean, he told Sarah—that he had the updated forensics report from the skull in front of him.

  “The remains aren’t that old,” he said.

  “Who? What?” I mouthed.

  “What?” Sarah asked.

  “Mr. X,” Jason answered. “He can’t be one of those Pearson men who died fifty or a hundred years. His remains are much more recent.”

  “How recent?” I mouthed, and Sarah asked.

  “Twenty years tops,” Jason answered. “There’s a crown on one of his molars made out of a material that didn’t exist before then.”

  Sarah and I scowled at each other. “Dental work?” I mouthed.

  “Dental work?” she asked.

  “That’s right. There’s a—” He stopped, and we could hear papers shuffling. “There’s an Emax porcelain crown on his number nineteen. That’s a lower left molar.”

  “That’s great!” I blurted out. “Dental records!” I kept blurting. “So now we can identify Mr. X!”

  “Cassie?”

  Sarah stared aghast, and I mouthed an “Oops!”

  “Cassie Baxter is that you!?”

  “Oops!” I said out loud.

  ***

  “Ms. Bliss!” Jason snapped.

  “Here,” she replied in an altogether un-Sarah-like squeak. “Umm. Did I forget to mention Cassie’s here, too?”

  Jason skipped a beat. “Give me a minute,” he said, and we heard some rustling in the background.

  “Pencils,” I whispered to Sarah as we heard one snap.

  “I have a perfectly legitimate reason to be here.” I spoke up, and while Sarah rolled her eyes, I mentioned the toys in the trunk of my car. “I’m delivering them,” I said. “Sarah’s sons are doing a good deed this holiday seaso—”

  “Nice try, Cassie,” Jason interrupted. “Do a good deed for me and stop sleuthing.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Cassie! I mean it. This latest
news means those loved ones you’re so gung ho about could be alive and kicking.”

  “The killer, too,” Sarah said, and I thanked her for pointing that out.

  “Sarah’s right,” Jason said and insisted things had just gotten a lot more dangerous.

  “Nooo.” I shook my head. “Things just got easier, you guys. I’ve seen this on TV.”

  “Say what?” Sarah asked. “Excuse me?” Jason added.

  “You guys! The forensics experts just need to compare Mr. X’s dental work to his dental records, and poof! They can identify—” I stopped and slumped. “I’m thinking backwards. There are no dental records.”

  “You’re brilliant, babe,” Sarah said, but Jason was a little less sarcastic. He agreed that Mr. X, whoever he was, probably did leave dental records somewhere. But where was the key question.

  “Dental records are used to confirm identity. Confirm,” he repeated. “But any dentist, anywhere, might have put that crown on molar number nineteen.”

  I sighed. “So now what?” I asked, and Sarah mentioned missing person’s records.

  “I can check the county records for anyone who was reported missing twenty years ago,” she suggested, and Jason agreed that was an excellent plan.

  “I’ve got my staff looking at state and national records also,” he said. “And be sure to tell Sheriff Hawthorn this latest news. Tell him we can rule out any ancient legends and lore.”

  “So we’re back to square one?” I whined.

  “Affirmative,” Jason said and hung up.

  ***

  “Square one.” Sarah snarled and tossed her notepad over her shoulder.

  “At least there’s one piece of good news,” I told her. “I really do have toys in my trunk.”

  She asked that I load them in her car while she got back to manning her phone. I stood on tippy toes and peeked at the phone, and sure enough, the sheriff’s office had received four non-emergency calls while we were talking to Jason.

  “Even if all their info is useless, I still have to call these people back.” Sarah tossed me her car keys. “Check the back seat,” she said. “There’s a gift for Truman.”

  “Oh, Sarah!” I smiled broadly, but she ordered me not to get ‘all gooey’ on her.

  “It’s an ice hockey jersey like the ones my sons wear.”