Undisclosed Page 14

  “Yes. I suppose I do.”

  “Who?” Dad asked again. “I have no idea who we’re talking about.”

  Maxine twisted in her seat. “Ms. DeMuir was a lady of the night, Bobby.”

  “A lady—” Dad tapped the back of my head. “How did you hear about her? From Sarah or from Jason Sterling?”

  “From Cornelius Suitor,” I answered.

  “Who? Who’s he?”

  Maxine again shifted in her seat and that time identified Cornelius for my father.

  “You’ve been talking to retired cops?” he scolded me.

  I rolled my eyes and continued concentrating on Maxine, and asked why no one was willing to talk about Olivia DeMuir. “Not even Hollis and Chester.”

  “Hollis and Chester!?” My father, of course. “Who haven’t you spoken to today?”

  “I’m about to stop speaking to you, old man! Be quiet and listen.”

  Here’s a shocker. It worked. Bobby was quiet, and my sixty-something neighbor told me Olivia DeMuir had always been a taboo subject when she was a “youngster.” Maxine sighed. “People of my generation know very little, and what with the passing of time and several generations.”

  “The passing of time,” the peanut gallery in the back seat piped in and reminded me we needn’t worry about the ancient history of Fox Cove. “Didn’t we decide to listen to Captain Sterling, Cassie? And didn’t he decide Mr. X’s remains aren’t that old?”

  “And didn’t we decide you were going to be quiet?” I asked. I told Maxine to ignore him, but she again twisted around to glimpse my father.

  “I could never ignore you, Bobby,” she said.

  I grinned and winked into the rearview mirror.

  “Something in your eye, girl?”

  ***

  We climbed out of my car, and I glanced around the parking area. “He’s not here yet.”

  “She’s talking about Joe,” Dad told Maxine.

  “I am talking about Truman.” I waved to a couple local teenagers who were gathering wood to stoke the stove in Town Hall. “It’s crowded tonight,” I observed, and my father actually agreed with me.

  “With the holiday fast approaching, I expected about half the usual crowd,” he said.

  “Not me.” Maxine nodded in my direction. “Folks have come out to hear about the skull you found.”

  “Truman found it,” I reminded her and led the way inside, where Mimi Gallipeau was greeting the crowd. For the record, Lake Bess Bingo is a purely volunteer operation. Mimi collects the dollar entrance fees at the door, Dot Stewart hands out Bingo cards at three for a dollar, Maurice Gallipeau is our Bingo emcee, and I’m the Bingo caller.

  Mimi patted my shoulder as I slipped past her. “Cassie Baxter, super sleuth, strikes again.”

  “Truman found it,” I told her. I left my father and Maxine to find their seats, while I wove my way through the crowd toward the stage. Easier said than done, but I dodged all questions about Mr. X and his skull with a vague, “No news yet,” and finally made it onto the stage with Maurice.

  Maurice, by the way, is by far the most important Bingo volunteer. A natural ham, Maurice the amateur acrobat-clown-singer-comedian keeps Lake Bess Bingo entertaining. No small feat, since we’re talking about a Bingo game where the average prize is a homemade pie from Mimi, or a cheap toy from the discount bin at Xavier’s.

  That night, he was dressed up as an elf. “Should I mention the skull?” he asked me without taking his eyes from the jingle bells he was juggling.

  I told him there wasn’t any need. “Everyone’s talking about it anyway, and an elf talking about skulls just doesn’t seem—seasonal.”

  He nodded as he caught the last jingle bell. Then he reached into his bag of tricks and produced a Santa hat for me. “Whatever Ms. Santa says.”

  He placed the thing on my head, and while I took my seat at the Bingo-ball machine, Maurice began the festivities with one of his usual terrible jokes involving a Vermont farmer and a tourist. The tourist visiting our fair state in that evening’s joke was Santa Claus himself, and Maurice was delivering the punch line, “A red-nosed reindeer!” when Joe, Paige, and Truman walked in.

  The Wylies sat down with my father and Maxine, but my sweet son shouted a very loud “Momma Cass!” and rushed to the stage for a hug. “Paige is here!” he screamed in my unsuspecting ear. Then he scooted away to find a seat between the two Wylies, both of whom were watching me.

  “Let’s get going,” I said under my breath, and Maurice informed the crowd our first game for the evening would be “Straight! Line! Bingo!”

  ***

  In case you’re just dying to know, Dee Goldstein won one of Mimi’s apple pies, and Prissy Ott chose a red and green dress for one of her dolls when she won a game, and soon it was time for intermission. Half the crowd headed across the parking lot to the Lake Store for a take-out cup of Oliver Earle’s ‘world-famous’ hot chocolate. But the other half lingered behind and descended upon poor Truman.

  Poor Truman? Who am I kidding. The child loved the attention.

  My father must have also decided Truman was in no way traumatized by discussion of the skull, and as I stepped off the stage, I noticed him escorting Maxine and Paige out the door.

  Joe, however.

  He stepped away from Truman’s audience as I approached. “You worried about this?”

  “What harm can it do?” I asked. “He’s enjoying himself, and no real information is being exchanged.” I glanced up. “How did it go today?”

  “Truman had fun. We all did.” Joe tried a smile. “How was your day?”

  “Oh, just dandy,” I said. “For instance, I just loved seeing that surprise “For Sale” sign at my neighbor’s house. Made. My day.”

  He lost the smile. “Would you like an explanation?”

  “Oh, heck no. Why would I want one of those?” I offered my most withering glare. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Okay, how about Jason Sterling?”

  “What about Jason Sterling?” I snapped.

  “Have you two made any progress with Mr. X?” He raised an eyebrow. “Since I’m sure you’ve been in touch.”

  I made sure my most withering glare got wither-ier and informed Dr. Wylie that Jason and I were making quite a bit of progress. “In fact,” I said. “Your name has come up.”

  “I can’t wait to hear how.”

  “At the Fox Cove.”

  He skipped a beat. “What about the Fox Cove?”

  I told him I had spoken to the Pearson sisters about Mr. X. “Would you like to hear what Arlene suggested?”

  “Not especially.”

  “She suggested Jason get DNA samples from you and Oliver Earle.”

  He shook his head. “What are you talking about, Cassie?”

  “I am talking about you and Oliver. And today was even more enlightening,” I said. “Because today I learned about Olivia DeMuir.”

  Ohhh, boy. Joe jumped about ten feet.

  I waited patiently for him to land and continued, “You’re a lifelong Elizabethan.” I frowned. “A lifelong Elizabethan who’s willing to give it up at a moment’s notice, but nevertheless. Sooo?” I said. “What can you tell me about Olivia DeMuir? She worked at the Fox Cove Inn.” I raised an eyebrow. “Which clearly, you already kno—”

  “Hey, Dad!” Paige came up from behind, and Joe glanced over.

  “Huh? What?”

  She held up her to-go cup of cocoa. “Want some hot chocolate?”

  He stared at the cup and eventually shook his head. “No thanks.”

  She turned to me, and I made a point of welcoming her home. “I can’t believe you chose Bingo for your first night back in town.”

  “Bingo’s the place to be,” she said. “And this might be my last chance, if Dad sells his place.”

  Ho hum. I kept my big mouth shut, for a nice change of pace, and Paige and I both stared at Joe. But the homeowner in question also seemed unwilling to speak.

/>   Paige nudged me. “You’re in vacation now also, am I right?”

  I nodded.

  “Well then, let’s do lunch tomorrow. Maybe at the Village Skillet in Hilleville? What do you say, Cassie?”

  I didn’t have a chance to say anything before Joe finally found his voice. “Cassie probably already has a lunch date,” he told his daughter. He frowned at me. “She usually does.”

  I frowned back and turned to Paige. “What time?”

  Chapter 26

  ‘Twas the season for having trouble with bath time and bedtime. Other mothers might have been more insistent on a tight schedule, but Truman and I hadn’t talked much since that morning. We had a lot to catch up on.

  “How was your day?” he asked politely as I helped him into the bathtub. “Did you find Mr. X’s loved ones?”

  “Not yet,” I answered.

  “I can help you tomorrow.” The kid nodded confidently. “No school.”

  No school.

  How was I ever going to learn more about Olivia DeMuir with a five year old in tow? Even more crucial—how was Santa Claus going to get her shopping done? I cringed at Charlie, who likes to sit close by during bath time.

  “Momma Cass, you’re not listening.”

  “Who? What?”

  “I’m telling you about show and tell.” Truman pointed toward Joe’s house, and I realized the FN451z was serenading us from across the driveway. “She was a big hit.” The little guy flung his arms wide and some bubbles from the tub landed on my nose.

  I brushed them away. “I forgot to thank Joe for helping you with show and tell,” I said.

  “That’s okay. I thanked him very much.”

  “Good job!” I said, and Charlie and I listened politely as Truman tried to explain what he and his classmates had learned about the FN451z. It wasn’t the first time the contraption has been explained to me, but trust me, I still understood absolutely nothing. Charlie, on the other hand, seemed to catch on just fine, and soon we had the little guy toweled off and in his pajamas.

  Bedtime was devoted to Paige Wylie, Paige Wylie, and Paige Wylie. Charlie, Notz, Cosmic Cow, and I listened politely while we learned what Paige likes to eat—pepperoni pizza. Where she lives—Boston. And who her friends are—a long list, including both Boston friends, and a few old friends here in Hanahan County.

  “Paige goes to MIT, just like Uncle Joe did.”

  I nodded.

  “She’s an engineer, just like Uncle Joe.”

  Not quite the same type of engineering, but I nodded again while Truman gave a thorough explanation of Paige Wylie’s doctoral dissertation. For all I knew, his understanding was perfectly accurate. Whatever project Paige was working on in graduate school was just as baffling to me as the inner workings of her father’s FN451z. What the saying? Like father, like daughter.

  Eventually we got back to something even I could comprehend—Paige had won the grand prize at Bingo that night. But don’t get too excited by the word ‘grand.’ Every week we finish up the Lake Bess Bingo festivities with a card coverall, and the winner gets a twenty-five dollar gift certificate to Xavier’s department store.

  “Paige says you guys are gonna eat lunch together tomorrow. Then she’s going Christmas shopping.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you like Paige?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Although I don’t know her very well.”

  “How about Uncle Joe? Do you still like him?”

  “Let’s not talk about Uncle Joe.”

  “Why’s he selling his house?”

  I blinked and took a deep breath. “I was kind of hoping he told you why.”

  The crew cut rocked back and forth on the pillow, and Truman held on tight to Cosmic Cow. “I don’t want Uncle Joe to move away. Do you want him to move away?”

  I used my I am your mother voice and suggested we talk about something else.

  “Is Uncle Joe still your boyfriend?”

  “We’re not talking about Uncle Joe,” I repeated.

  “Why are you mad at him.”

  “We are talking about something else,” I said firmly. “How about Grandpa Bobby,” I suggested. “Let’s talk about his girlfriend.”

  The little guy squinted. “Grandpa Bobby doesn’t have a girlfriend.” He smiled impishly. “But Aunt Maxine wishes she was his girlfriend.”

  Okay! Now we were getting somewhere. “Did she tell you that?” I asked. “Did Grandpa Bobby say that?”

  “No, but I can tell.”

  “You’re very observant.” I had to define the word, but the child agreed he was. “Sooo?” I asked him. “Who do you think Grandpa Bobby would like to have as his girlfriend?”

  “Some lady.”

  “Yes, but what lady?”

  “I don’t know.” Another sly smile. “We should find out, Momma Cass.”

  “But how?” I asked. “Grandpa Bobby won’t tell me.”

  Truman stared at his ceiling and gave it some serious thought, as did the pets, and Cosmic Cow. I waited patiently.

  Cosmic Cow sprang up and jiggled in front of me. “I know!” she said.

  “How?” I asked her.

  “Moo! The secrets key. Unlock his lips!”

  ***

  I marched straight at him with the pretend key, but he caught on way too quickly and pushed my hand away.

  “Your love life, old man.” I jiggled the key. “I have the secrets key.”

  Dad pushed my hand away again. “That works on five year olds, but not on old men.”

  “Come on, Da-aad. The secrets key knows no age limit.”

  He rolled his eyes, and I plopped into a rocking chair. “Well, it should work,” I mumbled.

  “Let’s talk about your love life instead.”

  That time I rolled my eyes. “We talk about my love life, like, all the time.”

  “Because you’re the one who needs advice, like, all the time. You need to talk to Joe, Cassie. You need to kiss and make up.”

  I stood up, and Bobby clapped. “Don’t tell me you’re actually taking my advice?” he asked. “You’re going to go talk to him?”

  “Oh, heck no,” I said and made a show of stomping over to the stairs and starting upward.

  “You’ll wake Truman,” Dad whispered from below.

  I stopped and whispered back that Truman could sleep through an avalanche. Which was about what it would take for me to go next door with that stupid “For Sale” sign blocking the way.

  But stupid me. Once I got up to my turret, I kept the lights off and stared down at the stupid sign. The thing pretty much glowed in some newly fallen snow, and the FN was still in serenading mode, happily beeping, burping and chirping away. While I was listening, Joe entered that room and turned on the lights.

  “He’s putting the FN to sleep for the night,” I told the cat, who had crept up the spiral stairs to join me.

  Notz meowed.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I shouldn’t be thinking about Joe Wylie. Instead I’ll think about—” I blinked.

  Then I lunged for the light switch.

  Then I found a paper and pen.

  Chapter 27

  “Evadeen Deyo has surprised me yet again,” my father announced.

  And no, I was not surprised he was waking me up before the crack of dawn, on my first day of vacation, to tell me about it.

  “She is acting completely out of character,” Mr. Sci Fi Author continued, and acting completely in character, I sat up, waved a good morning to the little guy, and got the pets into position. Then we all sat back to hear the completely convoluted story of Evadeen Deyo’s change of character. It started back with that sensational dress.

  “The one with the celestial splurge sequins?” Truman asked, and my father sighed.

  “Evadeen simply adores that ball gown,” he said. “But she’s a practical sort, and thus began her day—Yayla Eve, that is—with one mission in mind. She set out to return her ballgown to Faylian Formals B
outique.”

  The little guy nodded to me. “Because she’s not going to the Gala anymore.”

  “That’s right,” Dad said.

  “No, that’s wrong,” I said. Not that I’m an expert on ballgowns, but I informed the old man party dresses are non-returnable.

  Dad nodded and told me I had hit the nail on the head, but Truman didn’t get it. Grandpa Bobby explained, “Some unscrupulous people—” He defined the term “—have been known to purchase entire outfits for fancy Faylian events, only to return them afterwards for a full refund. The Faylian fashion franchise has finally put its foot down about this.”

  “Because it’s unscrupinous,” Truman said.

  “U-lous,” I corrected and turned to my father. “No wonder Evadeen is frustrated. She hasn’t worn that dress—she’s not unscrupinous.”

  “U-lous,” Truman told me.

  “Indeed,” Dad said, and reported that after failing at Faylian Formals, Evadeen had gone down to the beach to let off some steam.

  “Did she go swimming, Grandpa Bobby?”

  “Yes, and then she took a long walk along the purple polka dot sands, and there the poor girl got the surprise of her life. She saw Chance Dooley walking merrily along with another woman!”

  “What!?” I said indignantly. “Hunky-boo or not, Chance Dooley wouldn’t find a new girlfriend that quickly. He’s not that shallow.”

  “He loves Evadeen,” Truman added.

  I frowned at the pets. “Who is this other woman?” I demanded.

  “Daphne DeMuir.”

  “Who?” Truman asked, and Dad told us Daphne was the woman in charge of organizing the Fayla Yayla Gala.

  “Daphne’s the person who gave Chance those Gala tickets to begin with,” he said.

  The little guy scowled. “That wasn’t her name before. She was Daphne Klondike.”

  Wow. I had forgotten that little detail, but in case you haven’t noticed, my son pays attention to details.

  Sure enough, Dad informed us he had changed that particular character’s name. “We authors can do that.” He stared at me. “I heard the name yesterday, and DeMuir certainly does fit Daphne.”

  “Why?” Truman asked. “What’s it mean?”