Undisclosed Read online

  I sighed and spoke as calmly as humanly possible. “Jason and I work in the same town, so occasionally we have lunch together. And for the record, the Bouillabaisse Bistro is far from fanc—”

  “How occasional?”

  “None of your business!”

  “I think it is my business, Cassie. Sterling’s been interested in you since your dead redhead-pajama incident last summer.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “And now he’s interested in a lot more than finding Mr. X’s loved ones, or his murderer.”

  I decided to stare at my wine.

  “Have you kissed him?”

  I jumped again. “What!? Who? Jason? Nooo! The man is way too tall for me. I’d need a stepladder, for Pete’s sake.”

  “So you’ve considered it.”

  I folded my arms and mustered up my most withering glare. “We’ve had this conversation way too many times, Joe.”

  “Because you’ve had lunch with Jason Sterling way too many times.”

  “That’s it!” I spoke over the FN451z, who was, of course, taking Joe’s side. “I’m out of here.” I put my wine glass down and headed for the door.

  Joe stood up. “Cassie, wait.”

  “For what?” I snapped.

  “It’s cold out. You should have a coat.”

  “And you should mind your own business.”

  “I thought you were my business,” I heard as I slammed the stupid door.

  Chapter 14

  “It’s quite a pickle,” Dad announced, and I groaned from somewhere beneath my pillow. “Evadeen Deyo is mad at Chance Dooley, girl. Wake up!”

  I checked the clock on my nightstand, groaned again, and sat up. Let’s face it, I just can’t argue with the old man before the crack of dawn. And in the dead of winter, in northern Vermont, dawn had yet to crack.

  I blinked at the little guy in the darkness. As usual, he was sitting on my father’s lap in the rocking chair at the foot of my bed. “Good morning, Sweetie.”

  Truman wished me a good morning, and as I patted the covers for the pets to join me on the bed, I mustered the energy to ask after Evadeen. “Why’s she mad this time. She’s on vacation, for Pete’s sake.”

  “On Fayla, for Pete’s sake,” Truman added, and my father agreed that nothing was wrong with Fayla “per se.”

  “However.” He cringed. “Chance Dooley has just landed two tickets to the Yayla Gala.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” I asked.

  “What’s a gala?” Truman asked.

  “A big fancy party.” I scowled at Charlie as it hit me. “The Yayla Gala on Fayla?”

  The dog thumped his tail, and while I said something about needing coffee, my father informed us that everyone who’s anyone in the entire Hollow Galaxy attends the annual Fayla Yayla Gala. “It’s a very posh affair.”

  “Posh?” I nodded. “That doesn’t sound like Evadeen at all.”

  “You’ve hit the nail on the head, girl. Most other women would give their right arm to go to the Gala. But not Evadeen.”

  “Evadeen’s not like most other women,” Truman said confidently.

  “She’s shy,” I agreed, and Dad sighed again.

  “I’m afraid there’s a bit more to it than that,” he said. “It’s because she’s a Whooter, you see.”

  Call us crazy, but we did see. My son and I had caught on long ago that Whooters, harkening from the planet Whoozit, are the hicks of the Hollow Galaxy.

  “Whooters have suffered a long history of being shunned by most everyone,” Dad reminded us.

  “So let me guess,” I said. “No Whooter has ever attended the Fayla Yayla Gala?”

  Truman shifted to face my father. “Evadeen will be the first?”

  “Beats all get out, but there you have it.”

  I asked how Chance had landed the tickets in the first place. “He’s a glorified mailman,” I said bluntly. “The delivery guy of the galaxy isn’t exactly Gala material either, is he?”

  “Therein lay the irony,” Dad said and offered a thoroughly complex explanation of how Chance and Evadeen had ended up vacationing on Fayla. “Their last delivery before the holidays was a large shipment of Whoozit Boozit,” he said. “Daphne Klondike, the chairperson of the Gala, ordered it.”

  In case you’re actually still following this, Whoozit Boozit is the sole export from Evadeen Deyo’s home planet.

  “This is Daphne’s first year as chairwoman,” Dad continued. “She’s something of a maverick, you see.”

  I defined maverick so the little guy would see, and the old guy explained that in addition to the traditional purple champagne that flows freely at the Gala, Ms. Klondike had decided to offer a non-traditional alternative. And apparently she was so excited when Chance made the Whoozit Boozit delivery that she gave him two complimentary tickets to the Gala.

  “He doesn’t have to use the tickets,” I argued.

  “Him and Evadeen could go swimming instead,” Truman suggested. “Whooters are good swimmers.”

  What a shocker, my father argued it wasn’t that simple. “Every top executive of every major galaxy-wide corporation attends the Fayla Yayla Gala,” he explained. “The connections he could make?” Bobby whistled. “This is Chance Dooley’s big chance to take his delivery service to the next level.”

  I looked at Truman. “He could end up with a lot more customers,” I said and told my father Evadeen was definitely up to the challenge. “She’s smart, beautiful, and talented. All the gala-goers will love her.”

  Dad told me Chance Dooley certainly saw things my way, but not Evadeen. “You know how skittish she can be,” he said. “She’s claiming she has nothing to wear.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Buy a dress.”

  “That is exactly what Chance Dooley suggested. girl. He said he would rent a tux, and Evadeen could buy a dress.” Dad grimaced. “That’s when she walked out on him.”

  Truman raised his hand. “Tux?”

  “Tuxedo.” I pointed to the framed picture on a my dresser, and he slipped off Bobby’s lap to look at my parents’ wedding photo. He had seen it before, but the little guy really studied it. “I like your tuxedo, Grandpa Bobby.”

  Dad winked at me. “That was a long time ago. Your Momma Cass wouldn’t arrive for another five years.”

  Truman turned to me. “Why aren’t you married?”

  “Because she’s skittish,” the old man answered.

  ***

  And lucky me, the little man stayed right on topic while we got ready for school and ate breakfast, and as we made our way out to my Honda.

  “Why aren’t you married?” he asked for the umpteenth time as I turned off Leftside Lane onto Elizabeth Circle. “Why, why, why, why, wh—”

  “Truman!” I said. “Please stop worrying about it.” I glanced in the rearview mirror. “Let’s talk about something else. Like, how about what do you want for Christmas?”

  Of course he mentioned a snowmobile, but otherwise told me to stop worrying about it. “Santa knows what I want.”

  Yeah, right. I gave up on new toys and reminded him the high school hockey team was collecting old toys.

  “Hockey!”

  “So?” I asked as I parked the car, and we got out. “Do I have your permission to give away your old toys?”

  He stared at his school and considered it. “It would be a good deed,” he said. “And Santa Claus likes those.”

  “Yes, but look at me, Truman.” I knelt down, and he blinked his big blue eyes. “We don’t have to give anything away if you’re not ready.”

  “Those toys were from my other house.”

  “That’s right.” I nodded. “So, what do you think?”

  He smiled immediately. “Let’s give them away!” He flapped his arms and started running toward Prissy Ott. “Why aren’t you married?” he called over his shoulder.

  ***

  Called? Make that shouted. The people buried behind the Congregational Church probably heard t
he kid. And I’m sure Prissy Ott heard, but at least no one was outside the Lake Store to hear Truman’s question. I crossed the road and headed in, but not before I noticed the sign reminding everyone the store would be closed Christmas day.

  “What are your plans?” I asked Oliver before inviting him to join the Leftside Lane gang for the holiday.

  He thanked me for the offer, but told me not to worry. “I’m a bachelor, but I won’t be lonely,” he said.

  “He’s coming to my house for Christmas Eve,” Chester Stewart called over.

  “My family will be there, too,” Hollis added, and Oliver also mentioned Fanny Baumgarten.

  “She’s hosting me Christmas day,” he said. “Lindsey’s cooking, and I’m bringing dessert.” He pointed to the freezer section, where several locals had stocked the shelves with homemade pies, then he stepped away to make a fresh pot of coffee.

  I followed. “I have another question for you.”

  “You want I should save you one of Mimi Gallipeau’s pumpkin pies?”

  “No. I want some more information.”

  He frowned. “About that skull again?”

  “Not really. Although this may be relevant to the skull.”

  “What? What’s relevant?” he asked impatiently.

  Oliver Earle, impatient? I shook my head and moved on, and asked him about old Mr. Tumbleton. “I understand he built both my father’s house and the Fox Cove Inn.”

  “News to me.”

  “Really?” I said. “I thought for sure you’d know.”

  Another frown. “Why?”

  “Hello. Because you’re Mr. Lake Elizabeth. You know everything.”

  “Where’d you hear this about your house?” he demanded as he filled the coffee maker, and I mentioned Paula Erickson.

  He spun around. “You talked to Paula? Why?”

  “Oliver!” I flapped my arms. “Because she was Bobby’s realtor, and because you told me to.”

  “Me and my stupid suggestions,” he muttered, but he did admit Paula would know what she was talking about. “She’s been in the business a long time,” he said. “She knows a lot about real estate in this state.” Another frown. “But why do you care?”

  Hello? I told the guy he could use some of that coffee he was making, but then Hollis and Chester also decided to play dumb. “Why do you care about the Fox Cove?” they asked me.

  Oh, brother!

  “Mr. X.” I spoke slowly and firmly. “The skeleton, and the skull. Doesn’t anyone else find it fishy that my dad’s house and the Fox Cove have this Mr. X connection? And now this other connection about who built both places?”

  Blank stares.

  I was busy shaking my head and sighing when Jerry Bradshaw, a New Yorker who’s fairly new to town, walked in and headed to the coffee pot.

  “When are you going to start serving lattes?” he asked Oliver.

  “When hell freezes over,” Oliver answered.

  Jerry turned to me. “I heard about that skull.”

  “I don’t suppose you can help identify it?” I asked.

  “No, but Oliver sold me my house. Maybe I should be searching my attic for missing body parts?”

  Oliver waved to me. “There now, you see what you’ve started? My reputation is on the line.”

  Okay, so even Jerry the newcomer laughed at that ridiculous notion. “That’s like saying Santa’s reputation is on the line,” he said. “Although Santa would serve lattes.”

  Chapter 15

  “I’m not much of an elf, but I did my best,” Bambi said. She stepped into my office, and I looked up from Darren Taft’s terrible essay on Julius Caesar to admire the red and green cow print wrapping paper on the box she held.

  “For Truman?” I asked.

  “Who else?” She shoved a stack of essays aside to make room for the gift on my desk, then she took her usual chair. “It’s coloring books,” she told me. “That’s one of the first things you and Truman did together, right? You colored?”

  We did. I told her she’s a good elf, whether or not she admitted it.

  Bambi shrugged. “Shopping for your son after work yesterday was way more fun than going home to deal with my in-laws.”

  “Still not going well?” I asked and learned that her mother-in-law had stopped speaking to her sister-in-law.

  “Tennn-sion!”

  I reminded her Christmas was just around the corner. “After Saturday you can send all the various Vixens packing.”

  “Don’t I wish,” she said. “Lucky me, everyone’s decided to stick around through Sunday to watch the stupid football game. Twenty four. More hours.”

  I laughed a little. “And let me guess,” I said. “Your mother-in-law is rooting for the Patriots, while your sister-in-law likes—who?”

  “The Denver Broncos. And yes, that’s exactly it. You’re brilliant.”

  Hardly, but an idea did occur to me. “Are any of your house guests children?” I asked. “Kindergarteners in particular?”

  “They act like kindergarteners. Does that count?”

  I sighed. “I was hoping one of them could give Santa some clues on what to give Truman.”

  Good old Bambi took pity on me and suggested we go shopping together the following day. “You can shop for Truman, and I can avoid my in-laws.” She pointed to an unruly stack of exams and asked when I’d be finished grading.

  I predicted eleven-ish, and she asked about my other project. “Any news on Mr. X?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Or on Jason Sterling?”

  I blinked. “What about Jason?”

  “Well,” she said. “I get why you’re looking into the loved ones—because you promised Truman, and because you’re nuts. But what about Jason Sterling?”

  “What about Jason?”

  “Come on, Cassie. You know why he’s taken such an interest in this cold case.” She pointed to me. “Mr. X gives Mr. Hunky-Boo State Trooper an excuse to see you.”

  I snarled. “Drop the hunky-boo thing, and you sound like Joe,” I said. “FYI, he found out about my lunch dates with Jason.”

  “Joe did?” She winced. “I’m afraid to ask what happened.”

  “He dragged it out of me, that’s what happened.” I shook my head. “The fact that we’re next door neighbors gets me into all kinds of trouble. I need more privacy, I need more space, I need—”

  “You need more honesty, Cassie. You should have told Joe about those lunch dates long ago.”

  “Yeah, well, we had a big huge fight last night, and now we’re not—” I stopped.

  Bambi shook her head. “Not what?”

  “Not involved anymore.”

  “What!?”

  I pointed to my office door. “Would you please keep it down? The students.”

  “Are gone for the holiday, so no, I will not keep it down. This is so typical of you, Cassie. You do this every time.”

  “Do what?”

  She talked to the ceiling. “You know exactly what.” She focused on me. “Every time things start going well with a guy, you break it off. You.” She pointed. “Are afraid of commitment.”

  “You.” I pointed back. “Are forgetting I just adopted a child.”

  “Try again, Cassie. We’re not talking Truman. We’re talking about your love life—Kyle Caprio, and before him Alan Taylor, and before him—”

  “And fa la la la la,” I said. “You know perfectly well Kyle and Alan weren’t right for me.”

  “And you know perfectly well Joe Wylie is.” My office phone rang, and Bambi shook her head. “Twelve o’clock, on the dot,” she said. “Why do I know who that is?”

  “Because you’re brilliant,” I told her and picked up.

  ***

  Jason was waiting at our usual table when I arrived at the Bouillabaisse Bistro, and as I requested, he had ordered me the croque monsieur.

  “I can’t stay long,” I said as I sat down. “As I mentioned over the phone, I have gobs of grad—”

  I
stared at the red and green striped package he was placing before me.

  “You can take the frown off your face,” he said. “It’s not for you.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “For Truman?”

  “Would it be so terrible if I did get you a gift?”

  Okay, so I ignored that loaded question. “What is it?” I asked.

  “A toy patrol car.”

  “Oh, that’s perfect! Truman’s fascinated by your patrol—” I stopped. “Umm, Jason,” I sang.

  “Umm, Cassie,” he sang back. “What’s up?”

  “Didn’t you tell me you’ll be with your sister for the holiday?”

  “In New Hampshire. That’s right.”

  “And she has a son, right? So you have a nephew, right?” I nodded encouragement. “So, like, what should Santa Claus bring Truman?”

  Jason claimed to have no idea. “My nephew’s thirteen,”

  “But he was five not that long ago.”

  “I’m not a kid expert, Cassie. I’m no elf.”

  I was busy whining when our waitress Rhonda interrupted with our lunches. “Why the frown?” she asked me. She pointed to the Christmas package and tilted her head Jason-ward. “I told him you’d approve.”

  “I do approve.” I made sure to smile and also reminded Rhonda that I love the Bouillabaisse’s croque monsieurs.

  She nodded, but then pulled several pencils from her apron pocket and set them next to you know who’s plate. “Good luck,” she told me and stepped away.

  I stared at the pencils. “What have I done this time?”

  “Paula Erikson.” Jason chose a pencil. “Explain.”

  I shrugged. “I already told you I’m looking for Mr. X’s loved ones, and my father’s realtor seemed like a perfectly reasonable place to start.”

  The pencil snapped.

  “I visited her yesterday.” I pointed to the pencil parts. “Which I’m guessing you already know?”

  “Not good, Cassie.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you got to her before I did!”

  Okay, but really. I still didn’t see the problem. “I told Maxine—per your instructions—to put the Mr. X story in Lake Bess Lore,” I said. “Clearly that skull isn’t a secret anymore.”