Undisclosed Read online

  “I didn’t tell anyone else. I promise.”

  “But Truman!” I struggled to lower my voice. “Why on earth did you tell Santa?”

  “Because he’s Santa.”

  No, really. That was the kid’s answer.

  I took a deep breath. “Santa has a secrets key to unlock your lips?”

  “He’s doesn’t need a key,” Truman informed me. “Santa Claus is good at keeping secrets.”

  I pointed him to his dinner and turned to my father. “Who?” I mouthed.

  “Hollis Klotz,” Dad mouthed back.

  Insert colorful words… Here.But the time I finished thinking, not verbalizing, a few more colorful words, conversation had moved on to other activities at the Carnival. Bobby had enjoyed watching the Hilleville High cheerleading squad dance to the high school band’s rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock,” and Truman mentioned Deputy PT Dent.

  “Deputy PT showed us about snowmobiles,” he said. “I told Santa I want a snowmobile.”

  “You’re too little,” I said, and the kid slumped.

  “That’s what Santa said.”

  “Speaking of Santa,” I said as calmly as humanly possible. “Who else did he talk to? You know, other than the children?”

  For the record, Santa Claus, otherwise known as Hollis Klotz, rivals Maxine Tibbitts in the busybody category. Retired and bored, he and his best friend Chester Stewart hang out at Oliver Earle’s Lake Store gossiping. Gossiping a lot.

  “Hopefully Santa left the Carnival after talking to you and went straight home to the North Pole,” I said, and while my father bit his lip and cringed, Truman informed me Santa had talked to “lots and lots of grown ups.”

  I crossed my fingers under the table. “Which grown ups?”

  “Aunt Maxine was done judging the snow sculpture contest by then.”

  Oh, nooo—

  “Santa Claus talked to her for a long time.”

  Insert colorful words… Here.

  Chapter 7

  The best laid plans. Are other mothers familiar with this concept?

  By the time we finished dinner, it was too late to decorate the tree. I told Truman we had experienced enough excitement for one day, promised we would get to the tree the following night, and reminded him it was a school night.

  And here’s a shocker. It worked. Bath time went off without a hitch, and soon Charlie, Notz, and I were tucking the child into his beloved cow-print sheets. I handed him his favorite soft toy, a creature we call Cosmic Cow. But just as I was shutting off the light, Truman jiggled the cow at me. “Moo!” she said. “Truman wants to talk about the skull.”

  “Moo!” I said. “What’s up?”

  “When’s Captain Jason giving it back?” Truman asked me. “I want to bring it to show and tell.”

  “Show and tell!?”

  “On Wednesday. Ple-eease?”

  In case you are wondering, my answer was no.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Mr. X’s skull is a secret, remember?”

  “But not for always.”

  A valid point, unfortunately. With Santa Claus, a.k.a. Hollis Klotz, in the know, it would take a true Christmas miracle for that skull to stay a secret.

  “Ple-eease?” Truman kept begging. “Captain Jason should share. We’re supposed to share.”

  Oh, great. The sharing argument. I tried my I am your mother voice, and insisted the skull wasn’t a good choice for show and tell.

  “Why not?”

  Why not. Do other mothers dread that question? Probably, but I hope other mothers never have to resort to explanation I gave. I took Truman’s hand in mine and reminded him he knew a few people who had died.

  “My daddy died because he was a soldier,” he said. “And my first momma died—” He blinked at his cow. “—she was murdered.”

  I gave Charlie a meaningful glance, and the dog snuggled up closer to our five year old who knows the meaning of murder. “Let’s talk about my mother, instead,” I suggested.

  “Your momma died a long time ago,” Truman told me.

  “But let’s pretend it was her skull. Would you want to bring it to show and tell?”

  The big blue eyes got wide. “No!”

  I tilted my head. “I wonder why not?”

  “Because you and Grandpa Bobby loved her. That’s disrespectful.”

  What a great kid! Truman’s kindergarten class had been working on the concepts and respectful and disrespectful, and clearly my sweet boy understood the lesson. He even said something about respecting the dead.

  “So we should respect Mr. X, right?” I asked.

  “Right. I don’t want to bring the skull to show and tell anymore.”

  I patted his hand, promised to think of something else, and reached for the light.

  “Was Mr. X was murdered?”

  I pulled away from the light switch. “Yes.” I spoke matter-of-factly, but the big blue eyes darted to the crawl space above. “Does that scare you, Sweetie?” I asked.

  “Are you scared?”

  “No.”

  He shifted his focus to me. “Then I’m not scared, either!”

  “Good!” I poked him in the belly and leaned forward for a goodnight kiss.

  “Will Captain Jason find the murderer?”

  “I think so.” I stole a kiss and reached for the light, but he grabbed my arm. “Truman,” I scolded. “It’s time to sleep.”

  “Do you think Mr. X had a mother and a father?”

  “Yes. I hope he had some loved ones, don’t you?”

  “Maybe he had brothers and sisters,” Truman suggested. “Or children, or a wife.”

  I repeated that I hoped Mr. X had some loved ones, finally got the light turned off, and tiptoed away.

  “Do his loved ones know what happened to him?”

  I stopped at the door. “Umm. Probably not.”

  “We should find them and tell them.”

  “Let’s let Captain Jason handle that.”

  “But he’s too busy. He’s looking for Mr. X’s murderer. You should look for his loved ones, Momma Cass.”

  “Me!?” I exclaimed, and Notz meowed from the bed.

  “It’s a good deed. I’ll help you.”

  “You!?” I shook myself. “This is not a job for a little boy, Truman.”

  “But it’s respectful of the dead. Please, Momma Cass? Ple-eease, let’s find Mr. X’s loved ones? Ple-eease?”

  Okay, okay. I mumbled something about trying.

  “Promise?”

  Okay, so I promised. Then I escaped before the kid came up with any other bright ideas.

  ***

  I grabbed my coat and escaped to Joe’s before my father could ask why bedtime had taken so long.

  “You-hoo?” I hollered as I let myself in next door. “Anyone home?”

  The FN41z beeped from above, and Joe appeared on the landing. “Don’t come up, I’ll come down,” he said.

  Fine with me. I tossed my jacket aside, found the wine—always better when supplied by Joe than by the Baxters—and poured two glasses. And by the time I was settled on the couch, Joe joined me. He gave me a prolonged kiss but then pulled away. “How’d it go with Sterling?”

  “No more bones,” I said.

  “Figures.”

  “Would it be better if we had found more bones?” I asked. I quickly changed the subject and thanked him for taking Truman to the Winter Carnival, and he told me everyone had enjoyed themselves.

  “Especially the little guy.”

  “Did you happen to see who helped him with his letter to Santa?” I asked.

  No such luck, since Joe no longer recognizes the kids at Hilleville High. “Paige used to help with those letters when she was in Honor Society,” he said, “but that was years ago.” Paige, FYI, is Joe’s twenty-something daughter. A mad scientist like her father, she’s at MIT, working on her PhD in some completely incomprehensible and esoteric field of engineering.

  And speaking of Cassi
e being clueless, I asked Joe if he at least knew who had control of the mailbox to the North Pole, but no luck there, either.

  I sighed. “And Truman refuses to tell me what he wants, since Santa already supposedly knows.”

  “I know what he wants.”

  I jumped. “Really? What? What, what, what?”

  He mentioned a computer game, but warned me the thing was noisier than the FN451z.

  “Impossible,” I said, and while the FN burped agreement from above, I got up to find paper and pen. “Santa will bring the noisy computer gizmo.” I sat back down. “Say it again.”

  Joe cringed.

  “Jo-ooe!” I whined. “Don’t tell me you’ve already bought the computer gizmo?”

  “We can change the tag and make it from Santa.”

  I shook my head. “Santa will just have to think of something else,” I said, but Joe kept cringing.

  “Did Bobby mention the Santa at the Carnival?” he asked.

  I groaned in answer.

  “Hollis Klotz plays Santa Claus every year, Cassie.”

  “But I’m guessing it’s not every year a child tells him about human remains.”

  He tapped my wine glass with his. “I assume you intend to find the killer?”

  “Oh, please. Of course not.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “This is way different than all those other times,” I said, but the eyebrow remained raised.

  “Really?’ he asked. “No cockamamie theories yet?”

  Okay, so let’s just say, I’m kind of famous for my cockamamie theories about murders. But I told Joe I wasn’t looking for the murderer. “This time I’m looking for the loved ones.”

  “Mr. X’s loved ones?”

  “I promised Truman. Wish me luck?”

  “You’ll find them” he said. “You always gets to the truth.” He tapped my glass again, but then frowned. “This means you and Jason Sterling will be at it again.”

  “At what?” I asked, although I had a feeling—

  “Flirting.”

  “Nooo.” I shook my head. “Jason’s looking for the killer, and I’m looking for the loved ones. Our paths will never cross.”

  Another frown. “As you would say, yeah, right.”

  I sat forward and set down my wine glass. “This is why you didn’t join us for dinner, isn’t it?” I made sure to frown also. “Some ridiculous nonsense about Jason and me.”

  Joe mumbled something about catching the end of the Patriots game.

  “Yeah, right. Who won?” I asked.

  “Okay, so I was pouting,” he admitted. “I don’t like seeing you with Jason Sterling, Cassie. I’m not proud of it, but there it is.”

  “Earth to Joe Wylie. I had human remains in my living room. I had to call the cops.”

  “But you didn’t have to call Sterling, Cassie. You could have called the Hilleville cops, you could have called Sheriff Hawthorn, you could have called Sarah Bliss. She works for the sheriff, and you’re good friends.”

  “Hello! Sarah and I barely tolerate each other, Joe.”

  “Hello. You’d take a bullet for each other, Cassie.”

  I stared at the man before me, who, for the record, had once taken a bullet for me.

  “You could have called me,” he said quietly.

  “You!? You are not a cop, Joe! Why would I call you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because we’re involved, maybe because I’ve lived next door to the old Tumbleton place for decades, maybe because I might know something about that skull.”

  I jumped. “Do you? Do you know something about that skull?”

  “No,” he answered. “But I’m interested in anything that concerns you.”

  Oh. That.

  I glanced at the ceiling and listened to the FN.

  “The FN’s not going to help you,” he said. “She’s on my side.”

  I swallowed.

  “I love you,” he continued relentlessly. He waited to catch my eye. “Lake Bess is a good place to fall in love, Cassie.”

  I swallowed again and went back to staring at the ceiling.

  Chapter 8

  “Chance Dooley and Evadeen Deyo are on vacation this week,” my father announced.

  “Then why, oh why, are you waking me up?” I stuck my head under a pillow, while the old man offered some nonsense about an author’s work never being done.

  I shifted the pillow and checked my alarm clock. 5:02 am. Why, oh why, did the author’s work have to get done at that hour? In my room?

  Because my father is annoying, that’s why. He insists we Baxters are “morning people,” and to prove his point, wakes me up before the crack of dawn every day. And lucky me, he’s gotten Charlie, Notz, and Truman in on this routine also. Every morning—before the crack of dawn—Dad takes up residence in the rocking chair at the foot of my bed, Truman takes up residence on Dad’s lap, and Charlie and Notz join me on the bed for our daily dose of Chance Dooley.

  Chance Dooley, by the way, is the absurd star of Bobby Baxter’s absurd science fiction stories. Chance owns and operates Dooley’s Delivery Service: The Delivery Service that Dares to Deliver Where No Delivery Service Has Ever Delivered Before.

  How does Chance do it? With his nifty, if often unreliable, Spaceship Destiny, that’s how. The Destiny is equipped with all the state-of-the-art technology the fifty-first century has to offer, making it the only spaceship in the entire Hollow Galaxy capable of delivering to and from what lies beyond the Crystal Void. Oh, and the Hollow Galaxy? The absurd setting of Dad’s stories.

  Last but not least, is Chance Dooley’s business partner and girlfriend, Evadeen Deyo. Evadeen’s a Whooter, meaning she harkens from Whoozit, the most remote of all planets, located way, way out there beyond the Crystal Void. Whooters, in case you’re actually still following this, are hicks. Nevertheless, Evadeen is the best mechanic ever, from anywhere, anytim—

  “Momma Cass. You’re not listening.”

  I gave up on sleep and sat up, and while the pets pawed around me to make themselves perfectly comfortable, I asked about Chance Dooley’s vacation. “I hope he’s going someplace exciting,” I said as Charlie settled himself across my lap.

  “Indeed.” Dad nodded. “He and Evadeen have landed on the planet Fayla, if you can believe it.”

  Trust me, I could believe anything at that time of day. I asked what we knew about Fayla, and Truman informed me it has purple polka dot sand.

  “Fayla is famous for its sands,” Dad elaborated. “All the most posh people flock to Fayla to frolic on its fabulous beaches.”

  I scowled at Charlie. “Posh doesn’t sound like Evadeen Deyo’s style.”

  “But she likes to swim,” Truman told me. “Evadeen’s a good swimmer.”

  “All Whooters are,” Dad said, and I told the pets you learn something new every day.

  I looked up. “Good for Evadeen,” I said. “That poor woman needs a vacation.”

  The old guy exhaled a loud sigh, and the little guy twisted around to see him. “Evadeen’s in a pickle, isn’t she, Grandpa Bobby?”

  The child knew from whence he spoke, because Chance Dooley and Evadeen Deyo are experts at getting themselves into pickles. And sure enough, Dad told Truman he had hit the nail on the head.

  “Say what?” I asked. “You mean, the posh purple polka dot sands aren’t pickle-proof?”

  Truman giggled, but my father offered another over-wrought sigh. “Ironic,” he said. “But there you have it.”

  ***

  Dad set bowls of oatmeal before us and sat down. “What’s in store for you two kids this week?” he asked, and both us kids chimed in that school vacations would begin Wednesday afternoon.

  “Meanwhile, this kid has gobs of final exams to grade,” I said. The students had already deserted the Crabtree campus for the holiday, but us poor professors still had some work to do.

  Truman pointed his spoon to himself. “This kid has show and tell on Wednesday.”
<
br />   My father asked what he intend to bring, and Truman was sure to say it would not be the skull. “That would be disrespectful, Grandpa Bobby. What should I bring instead?”

  “We’ll think of something,” Dad promised. “But first things first. Let’s plan tonight.”

  “Decorating the tree!” Truman shouted. Charlie and Notz looked up from their breakfasts, and the kid caught himself. “Decorating the tree,” he whispered.

  “Did you and your first mother have any tree-decorating traditions?” I asked. I defined tradition, and Truman told me they ate cookies when they decorated their tree.

  “We ate cookies all week before Christmas,” he insisted.

  Okay, so my father promised they would do some baking after school that day. “Anything else?” he asked, and Truman mentioned his former neighbors.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Webb and Ryan helped trim our tree last year.”

  Dad slapped the table. “Then we shall re-invite our neighbors for tonight’s festivities.”

  “Maybe Joe will have an idea for show and tell,” I said as I got up to clear the dishes. “He has good ideas.”

  “Maybe he’ll have a good idea about Mr. X’s loved ones, too,” Truman said.

  Oops!

  I dropped the bowls into the sink and waved both hands to get the little guy’s attention. “Nooo!” I mouthed, but he didn’t get it.

  “Me and Momma Cass are gonna find—”

  “Teeth!” I said loudly. “Go upstairs and brush your teeth,” I repeated, and he finally got the hint and skedaddled away.

  But what a shocker, my father had also caught onto something. “Loved ones?” he asked me. “What are you up to, girl?”

  “I’m loading the dishwasher,” I told him and took great interest in the task.

  ***

  “Why can’t we tell Grandpa Bobby about our good deed?” Truman asked me as I drove us along the ice patch otherwise known as Leftside Lane. “Doesn’t he want us to find Mr. X’s loved ones?”

  I turned onto the equally icy Elizabeth Circle, cautiously hit the gas, and glanced in the rearview mirror. “Grandpa Bobby worries too much,” I said. “He doesn’t like it when I sleuth.”

  “What’s that?”

  I defined the term.

  “I’m a good sleuth. too!” Truman informed me as we headed toward the tiny town center of Lake Elizabeth, Vermont. Tiny, by the way, is an understatement. The Congregational Church, its cemetery, and the little schoolhouse stand on one side of Elizabeth Circle, and opposite them are Town Hall and the Lake Store. And that’s it.