Undisclosed Read online

  ***

  Two days before Christmas, and the Hilleville library was dead. In fact, Maxine was all alone. “Oh, good,” she said without looking up from her desk. “I was hoping I’d get at least one visitor before I close the doors for the holiday.”

  “Hello, Maxine.”

  She jumped. “Oh! Cassie! And Paige! What a nice surprise. And very serendipitous. Come!” Maxine waved a hand at the computer on her desk. “I’ve been doing some research.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Paige said. The two of us tossed our coats on the circulation desk and pulled up chairs to the tight quarters at Maxine computer.

  “I’m looking at some photos,” she told us.

  I blinked. “My father’s house?” I asked. “Somehow it doesn’t quite look right.”

  “That’s because it’s in black and white.” Paige was also staring at the picture on the screen. “But even in the black and white, I’m surprised that green didn’t show up.”

  I looked up. “Very funny,” I said, and meanwhile Maxine was also admiring the photo—in particular the clarity of the image.

  “This is from the Hanahan Herald digital archives,” she said proudly, and for the record, she had right to be proud. Maxine Tibbitts, librarian and Herald reporter, had taken on the huge project of putting the local paper’s archives—150 years’ worth—into digital format. After months of work, she had just recently finished the job.

  “It looks great,” I told her, and she told us converting the photographs to digital had been her last step.

  “But now everything is readily available,” she said. “You can simply search for the topic you’re interested in, and poof! Here we are.”

  Paige squinted at the pic. “We’re at the old Tumbleton place,” she said. “But what are we looking for?”

  “Similarities.” Maxine clicked her mouse a few times and several images of the Fox Cove Inn, its grounds, and the Honeymoon Cottage flashed on the screen. “Cassie thinks there might be a connection between her house and the Fox Cove.”

  Eventually, she stopped clicking and apologized to me. “I should have looked into this days ago,” she said. “But what with getting my Lake Bess Lore column submitted, and all the phone calls I received yesterday about Mr. X, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to check.”

  I looked at Paige. “We think both places were built by old Mr. Tumbleton.”

  Paige nodded at the screen. “They do look alike.”

  “Architectural marvels,” Maxine agreed and again clicked back and forth between the pictures. “Although the Fox Cove Inn is larger.” She cleared her throat. “For various reasons,” she added. “But I’m afraid I have found no specific connection, Cassie honey. No references whatsoever.”

  I told her to never mind about the houses. “That’s not why we’re here.”

  “Mr. X?” Maxine informed us she had been researching him also. “Especially in light of the news you gave me last night, Cassie.”

  Paige looked up from the computer screen. “News?”

  “Mr. X isn’t nearly as ancient as everyone’s been assuming,” I told her.

  “Wow! You really are a super sleuth. How did you figure that out?”

  “Jason Sterling told me.”

  Paige raised an eyebrow. “Of course he did,” she said, and Maxine coughed.

  “Let’s move on,” I suggested. I told Maxine, Ms. Librarian Extraordinaire, that we wanted to learn about Nate Wylie.

  “Nate!?” She jerked her hands from the keyboard and turned to Paige, but Paige assured her it was okay.

  “I want to know more about how my grandfather died,” she said.

  Maxine tilted her head. “Do we think there’s some connection between your grandfather and Mr. X?”

  Paige looked to me. “Do we, Cassie?”

  “Of course not.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. “We’re just curious, is all.”

  ***

  What a shocker, good old Maxine was game. “I was only twelve when it happened,” she said. “So I don’t believe I ever got the full story.” But reminding us that she’s both a librarian with “extensive research expertise,” and also the “official archivist” for the Hanahan Herald, she merrily delved in, clicking away.

  However, even the exceedingly nosey and capable Maxine Tibbitts came up short. She found only two articles on Nate’s death in the Herald, and just the briefest mention in the Montpelier and Burlington papers. She sighed. “There’s not much here, girls.”

  I leaned forward and pointed to a sentence in the most extensive article. “It says Nathan Wylie ‘died suddenly and unexpectedly’ at the Fox Cove Inn. That’s quite a euphemism for murder.”

  “But it wasn’t really murder,” Paige said. “My grandfather got shot in a drunken brawl. Wouldn’t that be manslaughter?”

  “I guess.” I pointed again. “And look here. It does mention the Honeymoon Cottage specifically.”

  “Is that significant?” Maxine asked.

  I waited to get a nod from Paige. “Go ahead,” she said. “You can tell Maxine.”

  Maxine’s ears almost visibly perked up. “Tell me what?”

  I told her what. Or at least I told her my theory—that Nate died at the Honeymoon Cottage because he was with Olivia DeMuir that night. “She worked at, or in, the Honeymoon Cottage.”

  “Is this why you mentioned her last night, Cassie?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t even have this theory yet.” I gave Maxine a meaningful look. “It is just a theory,” I said. “No need to spread—”

  She held up a hand to stop me and looked at Paige. “I will not gossip about this. I promise.”

  “Thank you,” Paige told her.

  Maxine waved a hand and then glanced back at the article on the screen. “I see no mention of Oliva DeMuir here,” she said.

  “And no mention of who actually shot Nate Wylie,” I added. “And nothing on this guy’s trial. Wouldn’t there have been a trial?”

  Maxine suggested that perhaps the person in question had pleaded guilty. “Then there wouldn’t be a trial, correct?”

  “But look, you guys.” Paige was pointing to something. “It says here the person who shot my grandfather was a juvenile. Wouldn’t that mean his identity wasn’t made public?”

  I snarled, despite the fact that I’m usually a big fan of civil rights. “So we’ll never know who killed Nate.” I nudged Maxine. “But you’re the research expert. Can’t you find out?”

  “I’m afraid not.” She shook her head and told me juvenile court records have always been locked from the general public.

  Paige waved to get my attention. “You can get the name, Cassie. You can flirt it out of your state trooper.”

  “Jason Sterling is not my state troo—”

  Maxine waved to get my attention.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “Is he important?” she asked me.

  “Who? Jason?”

  “Cassie, honey, I was referring to Nate Wylie’s killer. Is that important?”

  I blinked. “Paige and I are just curious, is all.”

  ***

  “Just curious, my foot,” Paige said as we headed back to my car.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Cassie, I see that look on your face.”

  “What look?” I played dumb.

  Paige shook her head. “How would my father put it? You have that cockamamie theory look in your eye. Dad’s told me about it. It means you’re thinking up something—cockamamie.”

  I shrugged and admitted cockamamie might as well be my middle name. “Me and my stupid theories.”

  “Theories that usually pan out,” Paige said as we climbed into my car. “So you have more theories? In addition to the one about my grandfather and Olivia DeMuir?”

  I shrugged again. “Let’s call that Cockamamie Theory A,” I said. “But I also have a Theory B.” I scowled. “And maybe a C.”

  “Wow! That
’s a lot of theories.”

  I nodded and pulled out of the parking space.

  “Well?” she asked. “Aren’t you going to tell me Theories B and C?”

  “No, I am not,” I answered and noticed a pout worthy of Truman from the corner of my eye. “Not yet,” I added and insisted I needed to check on a few things before actually saying my theories out loud. “Can you trust me on this?”

  The pout turned into a smile. “I do trust you, Cassie.”

  I smiled, too.

  “That’s what I’ll tell my father also,” she said. “That he should trust you. With Jason Sterling, especially.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She checked the clock on my dashboard and said something about the time. “I’m supposed to meet my friend Devon at Xavier’s this afternoon,” she told me and asked if I would drop her off. “If it’s not too far out of the way?”

  Hello. It was not out of the way. Downtown Hilleville isn’t exactly a sprawling metropolis. I started driving to Xavier’s while Paige explained that she and Devon Schwartz always get together when Paige is in town.

  “We were best friends in high school.”

  I again stopped at that one traffic light in town. “Girlfriends are nice.”

  “You’re welcome to come shopping with us.”

  Nice. And let’s face it, I should have taken her up on the offer. But when Paige promised me Devon would drive her back to Lake Bess, I begged off and reminded her of Theories B and C.

  “So you’ll be sleuthing.”

  “That, and I promised Truman we’d spend some more time together today.” I pulled into Xavier’s very crowded parking lot and pointed to the store. “If you see any good gift ideas for him, would you let me know? Santa Claus is completely stumped.”

  She grinned. “You mean, Santa’s not getting him a snowmobile?”

  “Oh!” I jumped. “But I bet you can help me.” I nodded to my passenger. “You used to help the little kids with their letters to Santa. At the Winter Carnival.”

  “In high school, I did. Yes.”

  “Sooo?” I asked. “So who keeps that mailbox to the North Pole between Carnivals?”

  She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  I slumped and sighed. “I really, really need Truman’s letter, Paige. I really, really need help,” I whined.

  She promised to be thinking of Santa ideas for me. “Meanwhile, what should I get him?”

  “You?” I sat up straight and told her she needn’t get him anything.

  “Why not?”

  Good question. As a doctoral candidate at MIT with a couple of lucrative engineering internships under her belt, Joe’s daughter probably earned double my own salary as a history professor. But still.

  “You insisted on paying for lunch,” she was saying. “And I won that gift certificate at Bingo, and it’s Truman’s first Christmas on Leftside Lane. I want to get him something.” She put her palms together and imitated the kid. “Ple-eease?”

  Okay, so I told her about the quilt Maxine had sewn. “Some cow print flannel sheets to match would be fantastic,” I said. “But I can’t get them, because supposedly Santa Claus doesn’t bring little boys bed linens.”

  “Leave it to me,” Paige said and reached for the door handle.

  Chapter 30

  “Leave it to Cassie Baxter,” Sarah said when I stopped by the sheriff’s office a few minutes later. Yes, I was keeping two of my three theories from Paige Wylie for the time being, but Sarah Bliss lives to hear my theories. And sure enough she gave me the requisite hard time about Cockamamie Theories A, B, and C.

  “Just think about them with an open mind,” I told her, and she told me she didn’t have time to think.

  “I’m wasting way too much of it on the phone because of you and Mr. X.”

  “Excellent. So Maxine’s column continues to get results?”

  “Results?” Sarah shook her head. “Anything but. All I’m hearing are legends and rumors. I thought the week before Christmas would be quiet around here, but nooo—”

  Fa la la la la. I cut her off mid-complaint and mentioned I needed to be going. And between further complaints, I told her to keep theories A, B, and C to herself until further notice.

  “Notice?” she said as she picked up the phone frantically ringing on her desk. “Have you noticed how busy—”

  I knocked on the counter, wished her a merry day, and left to the tune of Sarah Bliss telling the caller they had reached the “Fox Cove Inn Hotline.”

  ***

  The “For Sale” sign at Joe’s house greeted me as I returned home.

  I greeted it with a colorful word and made my way into my own house, where everyone’s backside greeted me. Dad, Truman, Notz and Charlie were all crawling around the Christmas tree.

  “What’s so interesting?” I asked, and Truman sprang out.

  “Look, Momma Cass.” He pointed to a large box. “It’s for me! It’s from Aunt Maxine.”

  “It’s huge,” I said. “I bet that’s the biggest present we get under our tree this year.”

  The little guy pursed his lips and seemed confused. “Maybe,” he said. “Grandpa Bobby?” he asked, and my father emerged from below.

  “Will we have a bigger present than Maxine’s this year?” I asked him.

  “‘Tisn’t the season to ask too many questions, girl. Where have you been? You’ve been gone a long time.”

  Well, yeah. As I removed my coat, I reported that Paige and I had enjoyed a very nice lunch.

  “What kind of trouble did you two get into?”

  “Hello. I barely know the woman. So no trouble.” I waved to get my son’s attention, and he looked up from counting the presents under the tree. “What have you been up to?”

  The big blue eyes got wide. “Umm. Umm.”

  I glanced at my father.

  “We were—baking cookies!” Dad nodded to the kid, and the crew cut bobbed up and down.

  “Cookies,” Truman agreed.

  Oh, really? For the record, the kitchen counter was entirely free of cookies, and even more telling, the sink was free of dirty dishes. And trust me, I’m the only one who does the dishes at the old Tumbleton place. I spoke to Charlie. “It doesn’t smell like anyone was baking cookies.”

  The dog wagged his tail, and my father cleared his throat. “’Tisn’t the season to ask too many questions, girl.”

  “Keep that in mind, old man.”

  Dad pursed his lips. “The cookies are now in the freezer,” he insisted. “All ready for Christmas weekend.”

  “For Santa,” Truman added and reminded me we needed to leave a plate for him on Christmas Eve. “Can we go find Mr. X’s loved ones, now? You promised.”

  I had. And ignoring the look my father was giving me, I grabbed my coat again and tossed the child his. “Bundle up,” I said. “We’re snowshoeing.”

  The kid gasped. “Where to?”

  “To Mallard Cove.”

  “Can Charlie come, too?” he asked as he began bundling, but I had to say no to that. I was planning to snowshoe across the lake, and there was simply too much snow out there for Charlie to navigate. I ignored the look the dog was giving me and sent the kid out to the porch to fetch our snowshoes.

  Truman shut the door, and Charlie seemed to forgive me, but my father continued with the disapproving stare. “Did you and Paige discuss Joe, I hope?”

  I told the old man it wasn’t the season to ask too many questions.

  “You were gone a long time.”

  “Yes, I think you mentioned that. We went shopping, if you must know. We went to Xavier’s.”

  “Oh, that’s good, Cassie.” Dad smiled approvingly and tilted his head toward the porch. “What did you get the little guy?” he whispered.

  I blinked. “Umm. I’ll show you later.”

  He folded his arms and resumed the I am your father look. “You did not go shopping today.”

  “And you did not bake co
okies.”

  And what a shocker, he changed the subject. “Where are you taking that child?” he asked and pointed out the window. “What kind of trouble do you have planned this time?”

  “No trouble,” I said. “No worries.”

  “Yes, worries,” he kept on scolding. “I can’t believe I have to tell you this, but you cannot put Truman in danger.”

  “Da-aad!” I flapped my arms. “I can’t believe I have to tell you this, but I wouldn’t do that. We’re going to Fanny Baumgarten’s, for Pete’s sake. How much trouble can we get into?”

  “Knowing you and Fanny? Plenty.”

  ***

  Truman insisted on racing across the lake, and as we raced right along, that getting into trouble thing my father was so obsessed about, did start to make sense. None of my theories, A, B, or C, were exactly G-rated. So how exactly was I going to ask Fanny anything with Truman—

  Oh, and there we were. The kid had his snowshoes off and was knocking on Fanny’s door by the time I rounded the woodpile at the corner of her house. Fanny’s companion Lindsey Luke welcomed him inside, and Fanny was urging me to “Come in, come in!” before I could get my own snowshoes taken off.

  Eventually the four of us were gathered around the fireplace in Fanny’s living room, discussing everyone’s Christmas plans.

  “I want a snowmobile,” Truman announced and wandered over to the Christmas tree. “Your tree is pretty, Mrs. Baumgarten.”

  “It is, isn’t it.”

  The kid spun around. “But, Mrs. Baumgarten, you can’t see it.” The sweet child was truly upset, but Fanny told him she could smell it.

  “That’s almost as good,” she said. “And Lindsey can see it, and Evert saw it, and now you.”

  “Where is Evert?” I asked. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s home next door.”

  Because no one was. We learned that Evert Osgood, Fanny’s rough and tumble, but good-hearted neighbor, and his equally lovable Basset hound Miss Rusty were away for the holidays.

  “They’re visiting Evert’s cousin in South Carolina,” Lindsay told us. “They left this morning.”

  “But not before Evert replenished my woodpile,” Fanny said. “He is such a dear.” She slapped her knees and spoke in Truman’s general direction. “But let’s think about Christmas at the Baxters,” she said and suggested he check under the tree. “I believe you’ll find something.”