Deadly Secrets Excerpt
"So, you staying out of trouble?" Jenny's voice was small and flat in the nearly-deserted sandwich shop.
Sylvie ducked her head guiltily and speared the dill pickle on her plate. Jake had sent a terse text message with a similar question two hours ago: R U safe?
Yes, she had lied. She would tell him in person, later over dinner, about her run-in with Lamar West, the Bishops and her trip to The Pines at Dataw to see the critically-ill Percy Bishop. He wasn't going to like her report.
"Trying to," she smiled. That at least was true.
She wasn't trying to get killed. But someone else had a different idea for her. Sylvie closed her eyes a moment and saw the battered red truck speeding up behind her car, felt it slam into the Chevy Impala, heard the shriek as the plastic fascia that covered the bumper was wrenched off.
She had jammed her foot on the accelerator, the car's engine roaring in response. A moment or two slower…. Well, she wouldn't be having a late lunch with her sister.
Sylvie looked up. The overhead lights leached color from Jenny's already pale complexion and cast purple shadows under her eyes.
"Jen, are you ok? You look tired."
"I look like hell, you mean."
Sylvie shook her head. "You're still the prettiest woman I know, but now you look worried. And sad."
"I am...worried," Jenny admitted, her voice cracking.
Allowed to worry, but not to be sad? Sylvie thought. What a family!
Jenny cleared her throat. "Worried about you. About Mama. About the kids, and how they're taking this divorce. Doug was a pain, but the kids miss him. They feel abandoned. The bastard! If it were just me, I wouldn't care; but I can't stand him hurting Michael and Sara." Tears glistened in Jenny's blue eyes. Sylvie scooted closer to her sister, pressing a crumpled napkin into her hand, and patting her clumsily on the shoulder.
For the millionth time, Sylvie wished things had been different between them, or could be different now. That somehow the sisters could be closer. "Can I help?"
"No. No. Sorry," Jenny mumbled into the napkin. "I'll get through it. That's what I do. I get through things." She dabbed at her nose, sniffing back a fresh surge of tears, and sitting up straighter in her chair. Her voice took on that brisk tone Sylvie knew so well.
"Enough about my problems. I know you wanted to talk."
Sylvie felt another rush of guilt. Right! She had invited Jenny to lunch to talk about their older sister, but after the morning's events.... She now had to admit Jake was right. Cora Lee had not left the mutilated doll taped to the mirror in Sylvie's hotel room. Still, as Cora Lee's and their mother's legal guardian, Jenny should know about what happened yesterday at the nursing home. Sylvie felt a knot of grief form in her chest as she recounted Cora Lee's disturbing behavior.
Jenny's face went from pale to ashen. "Oh, my God. Did you tell anyone? Is Mama safe?"
"Yes!" Sylvie assured her. "I spoke with the staff. They promised to keep an eye on Cora Lee. Jenny, Dr. Smalls said that Mama is more agitated around Cora Lee--"
"It's you! We're all agitated since you've started this crusade," Jenny exclaimed.
"Hold on," Sylvie snapped. "I was in D.C when all this started, so don't blame me."
"I know, I know." Jenny slapped the tiny table in frustration and the sound ripped through the silent cafe like a shot. "But, you're making it worse. Cora Lee comes home every night mumbling about 'your daddy' and 'not telling.' She scares me! You're scaring me!"
Sylvie nodded, hands palm up. "Guilty as charged. I'm stirring up a wasp's nest, Jake says--"
"Jake? Jake who?"
Sylvie shifted and stirred her iced tea. A fat lemon wedge swirled inside the glass. "Jake Butler."
"Well!" Jenny said on a long exhalation. "You're moving pretty fast."
"Jake's a friend. He's helping me out."
When Jenny didn't respond, Sylvie looked up. Her sister's eyes were calmer now, her face a little more relaxed. "Jake's a good man, Sylvie. Good head on his shoulders. Kind heart too," she added at last.
Sylvie dipped her head and changed the subject. "Jen, I went to see an old neighbor of Mama's on Brewer Road. A Mrs. Campbell. Do you remember her?"
Jenny's blue eyes flashed. "I told you before! I don't remember Brewer Road at all."
"Mrs. Campbell remembers you, and Cora Lee, and Mama and Daddy. Jenny— She remembers the last time she saw Daddy! It was the night of the fire. Fourth of July. I asked her point blank if Mama could have killed Daddy and she said yes, Jen. In self-defense. She said it without hesitation. She said Daddy hit Mama more than once."
"I can't believe that!'
"Listen to this." Sylvie rushed on, trying to get it all out before Jenny refused to hear any more. "Mrs. Campbell also said that before the fire, Cora Lee was a bright, happy little girl. But after the fire, she noticed that something had happened to both Mama and Cora Lee. They changed."
"Sylvie," Jenny protested. "Of course, the fire must have been traumatic."
"No, it was more than that. She said the light had gone from their eyes." Jenny stared at her in disbelief, but Sylvie plowed ahead. "It makes sense with all the crazy things Mama and Cora Lee have been saying."
"No! It can't be." Jenny pushed back in her chair, as if trying to distance herself from Sylvie's words. "None of this makes any sense. If Mama killed Daddy, then how did he get to Freedman's Point? Daddy was a big man, and Mama was pregnant with you! Plus, she had me and Cora Lee. Come on, Sylvie! You think she just packed us all up in the family car and took us on a midnight joy ride to Freedman's Point?"
"I know, Jenny. I know it doesn't all make sense. But I'm on to something. I agree someone had to help her. I don't think it was Lamar West; he wouldn't have left any loose ends."
"Lamar West? You haven't been talking to him have you?"
Sylvie blinked. Straight-out lie or white-washed truth? She opted for version #2. "Yes, I had a short conversation with him this morning. He's pretty pissed at me."
Jenny nearly shot out of her chair. "Jesus, Sylvie! That man is dangerous. He may look Country Club now, but he is bad, Sylvie. Evil! Stay away from him."
I would if I could. Had he sent the red truck after her? Definite possibility. "I don't think it was West, Jenny. My money's on Percy Bishop."
Jenny flopped back in her chair. "Not him again."
"I went to see him today."
Jenny moaned, "Oh no. We're not going to be sued are we?"
"Not by him. He's in a coma."
"What?"
"Has been since earlier this month."
"A coma?"
"Jake showed me an article in the Sentinel. Bishop had a stroke. He's recovering at a place on Dataw Island. The Pines it's called. That's where I saw him."
"How did you get in?" Jenny demanded. "That's a high profile nursing home. You can't just stroll in there."
Sylvie shrugged. "I lied. I called the nursing home and pretended to be Heyward Bishop's assistant. I said that Mr. Bishop's niece would visit him today. I gave my own name and when I got there, they let me in."
Jenny's blue eyes widened in alarm. "The Bishops are not going to be happy."
"Not my problem."
"Please tell me you didn't see Eleanor Bishop?"
"Don't worry. Nothing happened, and I didn't see Eleanor." At least not at the nursing home. No need to tell Jenny about the shouting match with Eleanor earlier in the morning. "I sat with Mr. Bishop for a few minutes. There was nothing to—"
"Stop! Just stop." Jenny stood abruptly. "I… I can't believe you. I'm…I'm going to the Ladies Room." She frowned at Sylvie and shook a finger in warning. "Don't go anywhere. We're not done."
Sylvie watched her hurry away. This was so typical of Jenny's behavior. Avoidance or anger—or maybe both. Sylvie shook her head sadly and let her mind drift back to the dimly-lit room at The Pines, the smell of antiseptics and decay strong in her nose.
"Percy?" she had whispered. Tubes crisscrossed the old man's body and dark bruises spread under the papery skin where they connected.
So, this was her mother's lover. The Night Daddy Cora Lee had called him. Successful attorney. Venerable state senator. Her father?
She had whispered his name, her voice unrecognizably harsh. "Percy! It's Becca. Becca Moore," she lied shamelessly. "Wake up Percy. I need to talk to you." She hoped the old man would wake, would mistake her for the Becca of thirty years ago. Hoped that the truth would spill out. But, the gray face never changed, the rasping breath neither quickened nor slowed, and the closed eyes remained lifeless and still.
Sylvie sat with him for nearly thirty minutes, waiting, hoping… but, Percy Bishop was too far gone. As Jake had pointed out, none of the people involved in this fiasco were likely to start talking. One was dead, one was uncommunicative and this one, the third, might as well as be dead.
She left the nursing home feeling the weight of her failure. The nurse at the reception desk patted her arm. "Don't be sad for your uncle, Honey. He's on his way to a better place."
Yeah? Well, he made a mess out of this place.
Minutes after she left the gated enclosure of The Pines, the red truck had appeared behind her. By the time she realized the driver was not just some lead-footed yahoo trying to pass on a curve, it had almost been too late. The truck jetted up behind the Impala and rammed her. Sylvie's car leapt forward, the wheel almost wrenched from her grasp.
"What the...?" Sylvie sped up, making the tight turn with wheels squealing. The road from Dataw Island to Highway 21 was narrow, and deserted at ten o'clock on a Friday morning. Breathing hard, Sylvie raced toward Beaufort, fingers searching for her phone on the passenger seat. If she could just call 911….
The truck had fallen back, but then, in the rear view mirror, Sylvie saw it speed up, and her gut clenched. Whoever he was, the driver was having a good time. Mirrored sunglasses hid his face, but Sylvie saw the deranged grin as he bore down on her again. She fed the car a little more gas, trying to stay ahead of the truck while navigating the twisting road.
Come on, come on. Where's the phone?
Her fingers closed around the phone, and she jerked it to eye level. Gaze shifting between the road ahead and the phone, Sylvie jabbed frantically at the keypad. A flicker of movement in the side mirror caught her attention. She had a split second warning before the truck rammed her again. The impact sent the phone flying from her grasp, but it didn’t matter. She had bigger problems.
The truck stayed right on her tail. When the Impala shuddered and slowed even as she jammed her foot on the gas, Sylvie knew. They were connected. Bumper to bumper. Heart thundering in her chest, she jerked the wheel hard to the left. The connection held, then, with a shriek, the Impala's plastic fascia was wrenched away. Released at last, the Impala sprinted forward. In her mirror, Sylvie saw the midnight blue fascia swinging madly on the truck's protruding chrome bumper before it caught on the tarmac and was yanked under the truck.
It was then she heard the drawbridge's siren and looked up to see it's flashing yellow lights. The red and white guard gate was just descending. With a surge of hope, Sylvie stomped on the gas.
Motor roaring, the Impala flew like some desperate creature, sweeping under the gate with inches to spare. Sylvie caught a glimpse of the bridge operator's surprised face as she passed his booth. He blasted the siren again, but she didn't slow. Even when she saw the bridge angling upwards.
Clattering over the slippery metal grid, she lost traction as the car bounced off the lip of the ramp, soared over the opening, and slammed down on the other side. Fishtailing wildly, Sylvie fought to control the speeding car. Ahead, in the opposite lane, a short line of cars waited behind the guard gate. A Volvo station wagon idled in front. As the Impala hurtled toward the Volvo, Sylvie saw the driver's look of horror. He leaned on the horn. Its frantic wail mingled with the drawbridge's siren in a rising crescendo.
Sylvie gripped the wheel harder and muscled the Impala back into her own lane. She narrowly missed the Volvo, but clipped the guard gate with her side mirror. The tip of the wooden arm shattered. In her rearview mirror, Sylvie saw chunks of the red and white gate spinning against the backdrop of the fully raised bridge. The red truck was no longer visible. Unlike the Impala, it had not attempted the crossing.
Sylvie let out a whoop of victory. Take that, asshole!
With shaky movements, she had slowed the Impala only slightly and headed for the safety of Beaufort and lunch with her sister.
Back from the Ladies Room, Jenny sat down with a huff. She glared at Sylvie. "OK. You saw Percy Bishop. Did anything else happen?"
"No! Nothing." What's a little lie between sisters?
"I don't like this, Sylvie," Jenny said angrily. "You'd better be careful. Whoever killed Daddy may still be out there."
Ya think?
Sylvie ducked her head guiltily and speared the dill pickle on her plate. Jake had sent a terse text message with a similar question two hours ago: R U safe?
Yes, she had lied. She would tell him in person, later over dinner, about her run-in with Lamar West, the Bishops and her trip to The Pines at Dataw to see the critically-ill Percy Bishop. He wasn't going to like her report.
"Trying to," she smiled. That at least was true.
She wasn't trying to get killed. But someone else had a different idea for her. Sylvie closed her eyes a moment and saw the battered red truck speeding up behind her car, felt it slam into the Chevy Impala, heard the shriek as the plastic fascia that covered the bumper was wrenched off.
She had jammed her foot on the accelerator, the car's engine roaring in response. A moment or two slower…. Well, she wouldn't be having a late lunch with her sister.
Sylvie looked up. The overhead lights leached color from Jenny's already pale complexion and cast purple shadows under her eyes.
"Jen, are you ok? You look tired."
"I look like hell, you mean."
Sylvie shook her head. "You're still the prettiest woman I know, but now you look worried. And sad."
"I am...worried," Jenny admitted, her voice cracking.
Allowed to worry, but not to be sad? Sylvie thought. What a family!
Jenny cleared her throat. "Worried about you. About Mama. About the kids, and how they're taking this divorce. Doug was a pain, but the kids miss him. They feel abandoned. The bastard! If it were just me, I wouldn't care; but I can't stand him hurting Michael and Sara." Tears glistened in Jenny's blue eyes. Sylvie scooted closer to her sister, pressing a crumpled napkin into her hand, and patting her clumsily on the shoulder.
For the millionth time, Sylvie wished things had been different between them, or could be different now. That somehow the sisters could be closer. "Can I help?"
"No. No. Sorry," Jenny mumbled into the napkin. "I'll get through it. That's what I do. I get through things." She dabbed at her nose, sniffing back a fresh surge of tears, and sitting up straighter in her chair. Her voice took on that brisk tone Sylvie knew so well.
"Enough about my problems. I know you wanted to talk."
Sylvie felt another rush of guilt. Right! She had invited Jenny to lunch to talk about their older sister, but after the morning's events.... She now had to admit Jake was right. Cora Lee had not left the mutilated doll taped to the mirror in Sylvie's hotel room. Still, as Cora Lee's and their mother's legal guardian, Jenny should know about what happened yesterday at the nursing home. Sylvie felt a knot of grief form in her chest as she recounted Cora Lee's disturbing behavior.
Jenny's face went from pale to ashen. "Oh, my God. Did you tell anyone? Is Mama safe?"
"Yes!" Sylvie assured her. "I spoke with the staff. They promised to keep an eye on Cora Lee. Jenny, Dr. Smalls said that Mama is more agitated around Cora Lee--"
"It's you! We're all agitated since you've started this crusade," Jenny exclaimed.
"Hold on," Sylvie snapped. "I was in D.C when all this started, so don't blame me."
"I know, I know." Jenny slapped the tiny table in frustration and the sound ripped through the silent cafe like a shot. "But, you're making it worse. Cora Lee comes home every night mumbling about 'your daddy' and 'not telling.' She scares me! You're scaring me!"
Sylvie nodded, hands palm up. "Guilty as charged. I'm stirring up a wasp's nest, Jake says--"
"Jake? Jake who?"
Sylvie shifted and stirred her iced tea. A fat lemon wedge swirled inside the glass. "Jake Butler."
"Well!" Jenny said on a long exhalation. "You're moving pretty fast."
"Jake's a friend. He's helping me out."
When Jenny didn't respond, Sylvie looked up. Her sister's eyes were calmer now, her face a little more relaxed. "Jake's a good man, Sylvie. Good head on his shoulders. Kind heart too," she added at last.
Sylvie dipped her head and changed the subject. "Jen, I went to see an old neighbor of Mama's on Brewer Road. A Mrs. Campbell. Do you remember her?"
Jenny's blue eyes flashed. "I told you before! I don't remember Brewer Road at all."
"Mrs. Campbell remembers you, and Cora Lee, and Mama and Daddy. Jenny— She remembers the last time she saw Daddy! It was the night of the fire. Fourth of July. I asked her point blank if Mama could have killed Daddy and she said yes, Jen. In self-defense. She said it without hesitation. She said Daddy hit Mama more than once."
"I can't believe that!'
"Listen to this." Sylvie rushed on, trying to get it all out before Jenny refused to hear any more. "Mrs. Campbell also said that before the fire, Cora Lee was a bright, happy little girl. But after the fire, she noticed that something had happened to both Mama and Cora Lee. They changed."
"Sylvie," Jenny protested. "Of course, the fire must have been traumatic."
"No, it was more than that. She said the light had gone from their eyes." Jenny stared at her in disbelief, but Sylvie plowed ahead. "It makes sense with all the crazy things Mama and Cora Lee have been saying."
"No! It can't be." Jenny pushed back in her chair, as if trying to distance herself from Sylvie's words. "None of this makes any sense. If Mama killed Daddy, then how did he get to Freedman's Point? Daddy was a big man, and Mama was pregnant with you! Plus, she had me and Cora Lee. Come on, Sylvie! You think she just packed us all up in the family car and took us on a midnight joy ride to Freedman's Point?"
"I know, Jenny. I know it doesn't all make sense. But I'm on to something. I agree someone had to help her. I don't think it was Lamar West; he wouldn't have left any loose ends."
"Lamar West? You haven't been talking to him have you?"
Sylvie blinked. Straight-out lie or white-washed truth? She opted for version #2. "Yes, I had a short conversation with him this morning. He's pretty pissed at me."
Jenny nearly shot out of her chair. "Jesus, Sylvie! That man is dangerous. He may look Country Club now, but he is bad, Sylvie. Evil! Stay away from him."
I would if I could. Had he sent the red truck after her? Definite possibility. "I don't think it was West, Jenny. My money's on Percy Bishop."
Jenny flopped back in her chair. "Not him again."
"I went to see him today."
Jenny moaned, "Oh no. We're not going to be sued are we?"
"Not by him. He's in a coma."
"What?"
"Has been since earlier this month."
"A coma?"
"Jake showed me an article in the Sentinel. Bishop had a stroke. He's recovering at a place on Dataw Island. The Pines it's called. That's where I saw him."
"How did you get in?" Jenny demanded. "That's a high profile nursing home. You can't just stroll in there."
Sylvie shrugged. "I lied. I called the nursing home and pretended to be Heyward Bishop's assistant. I said that Mr. Bishop's niece would visit him today. I gave my own name and when I got there, they let me in."
Jenny's blue eyes widened in alarm. "The Bishops are not going to be happy."
"Not my problem."
"Please tell me you didn't see Eleanor Bishop?"
"Don't worry. Nothing happened, and I didn't see Eleanor." At least not at the nursing home. No need to tell Jenny about the shouting match with Eleanor earlier in the morning. "I sat with Mr. Bishop for a few minutes. There was nothing to—"
"Stop! Just stop." Jenny stood abruptly. "I… I can't believe you. I'm…I'm going to the Ladies Room." She frowned at Sylvie and shook a finger in warning. "Don't go anywhere. We're not done."
Sylvie watched her hurry away. This was so typical of Jenny's behavior. Avoidance or anger—or maybe both. Sylvie shook her head sadly and let her mind drift back to the dimly-lit room at The Pines, the smell of antiseptics and decay strong in her nose.
"Percy?" she had whispered. Tubes crisscrossed the old man's body and dark bruises spread under the papery skin where they connected.
So, this was her mother's lover. The Night Daddy Cora Lee had called him. Successful attorney. Venerable state senator. Her father?
She had whispered his name, her voice unrecognizably harsh. "Percy! It's Becca. Becca Moore," she lied shamelessly. "Wake up Percy. I need to talk to you." She hoped the old man would wake, would mistake her for the Becca of thirty years ago. Hoped that the truth would spill out. But, the gray face never changed, the rasping breath neither quickened nor slowed, and the closed eyes remained lifeless and still.
Sylvie sat with him for nearly thirty minutes, waiting, hoping… but, Percy Bishop was too far gone. As Jake had pointed out, none of the people involved in this fiasco were likely to start talking. One was dead, one was uncommunicative and this one, the third, might as well as be dead.
She left the nursing home feeling the weight of her failure. The nurse at the reception desk patted her arm. "Don't be sad for your uncle, Honey. He's on his way to a better place."
Yeah? Well, he made a mess out of this place.
Minutes after she left the gated enclosure of The Pines, the red truck had appeared behind her. By the time she realized the driver was not just some lead-footed yahoo trying to pass on a curve, it had almost been too late. The truck jetted up behind the Impala and rammed her. Sylvie's car leapt forward, the wheel almost wrenched from her grasp.
"What the...?" Sylvie sped up, making the tight turn with wheels squealing. The road from Dataw Island to Highway 21 was narrow, and deserted at ten o'clock on a Friday morning. Breathing hard, Sylvie raced toward Beaufort, fingers searching for her phone on the passenger seat. If she could just call 911….
The truck had fallen back, but then, in the rear view mirror, Sylvie saw it speed up, and her gut clenched. Whoever he was, the driver was having a good time. Mirrored sunglasses hid his face, but Sylvie saw the deranged grin as he bore down on her again. She fed the car a little more gas, trying to stay ahead of the truck while navigating the twisting road.
Come on, come on. Where's the phone?
Her fingers closed around the phone, and she jerked it to eye level. Gaze shifting between the road ahead and the phone, Sylvie jabbed frantically at the keypad. A flicker of movement in the side mirror caught her attention. She had a split second warning before the truck rammed her again. The impact sent the phone flying from her grasp, but it didn’t matter. She had bigger problems.
The truck stayed right on her tail. When the Impala shuddered and slowed even as she jammed her foot on the gas, Sylvie knew. They were connected. Bumper to bumper. Heart thundering in her chest, she jerked the wheel hard to the left. The connection held, then, with a shriek, the Impala's plastic fascia was wrenched away. Released at last, the Impala sprinted forward. In her mirror, Sylvie saw the midnight blue fascia swinging madly on the truck's protruding chrome bumper before it caught on the tarmac and was yanked under the truck.
It was then she heard the drawbridge's siren and looked up to see it's flashing yellow lights. The red and white guard gate was just descending. With a surge of hope, Sylvie stomped on the gas.
Motor roaring, the Impala flew like some desperate creature, sweeping under the gate with inches to spare. Sylvie caught a glimpse of the bridge operator's surprised face as she passed his booth. He blasted the siren again, but she didn't slow. Even when she saw the bridge angling upwards.
Clattering over the slippery metal grid, she lost traction as the car bounced off the lip of the ramp, soared over the opening, and slammed down on the other side. Fishtailing wildly, Sylvie fought to control the speeding car. Ahead, in the opposite lane, a short line of cars waited behind the guard gate. A Volvo station wagon idled in front. As the Impala hurtled toward the Volvo, Sylvie saw the driver's look of horror. He leaned on the horn. Its frantic wail mingled with the drawbridge's siren in a rising crescendo.
Sylvie gripped the wheel harder and muscled the Impala back into her own lane. She narrowly missed the Volvo, but clipped the guard gate with her side mirror. The tip of the wooden arm shattered. In her rearview mirror, Sylvie saw chunks of the red and white gate spinning against the backdrop of the fully raised bridge. The red truck was no longer visible. Unlike the Impala, it had not attempted the crossing.
Sylvie let out a whoop of victory. Take that, asshole!
With shaky movements, she had slowed the Impala only slightly and headed for the safety of Beaufort and lunch with her sister.
Back from the Ladies Room, Jenny sat down with a huff. She glared at Sylvie. "OK. You saw Percy Bishop. Did anything else happen?"
"No! Nothing." What's a little lie between sisters?
"I don't like this, Sylvie," Jenny said angrily. "You'd better be careful. Whoever killed Daddy may still be out there."
Ya think?
