I Have a Secret (A Sloane Monroe Novel, Book Three) (9 page)

“You don’t understand, Maddie.  They were in
my
room, with their hands on
my
possessions, touching
my
stuff!  And they moved things around, I could tell, and I—”

“Slow down…when’s the last time you took something?”

“Ate something?”

“No….”

“For what?”

“Your anxiety, sweetie.”

I sighed.  “I’m fine.”

Maddie made a noise that sounded like ‘phooh.’ 

“What was that?” I said.

“Gum.  If I chewed it any longer it would have disintegrated in my mouth.  Listen, I know you think you’re fine, but you’re not.  I can hear it in your voice.  I know how you get when you’re out of your element, and believe me, you’re not just a little out this time.” 

“I can handle it.  If Jesse could just keep his hands to himself—”

“Who’s Jesse?” she said.

“A guy I knew when I used to live here,” I said.  “He’s a cop now.  It seems like every time I show up somewhere, he does too.”

“Where are you now?”

I looked around and realized I’d walked about a block away from the hotel.  The smell of melted butter and vanilla wafted through the air.  I stopped and breathed it in until I spied the location it came from.

“I went outside to get away from Jesse,” I said. “How’s Boo?”

“Let’s just say OCD runs in your household.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Did you know your dog separates his food by flavor? All the dry chicken pieces are rejected. He removes them out of the bowl with his mouth and makes a pile on the floor next to him until all that’s left are red ones.”

“What can I say,” I said. “We’re a red meat kind of family.”

“Have you talked to Giovanni yet?”

“What for?”

“I have a feeling if he knew someone else had their hands on you there’s a strong possibility that person wouldn’t still be alive.”

I sighed. “I can handle Jesse. The whole reason I called you was to ask about the knife. Did you get the picture I sent?  Do you know what it is?”

“Based on the triangular shape, it looks like a lancet.”

“A what?” I said.

“Scalpel.”

“Like the kind you use to perform autopsies, right?”

“Similar. X-ACTO knives are sold everywhere. Except—”

“What?”

“The one in the picture you sent isn’t the kind I see every day,” she said. “It’s unique.”

“How so?”

“It’s an obsidian scalpel with what appears to be a twelve millimeter blade from what I can tell by looking at the photo you sent me. Most surgeons use plain, ordinary, disposable scalpels, but this one would have probably been used several times.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“It’s made from a type of volcanic glass. The cuts made with an obsidian are five hundred times sharper than your average steel scalpel.”

“How is that beneficial in surgery?” I said.

“Incisions made with this type of blade heal faster. A surgeon might use it at the request of the patient. In most cases, it would be used whenever any fine cutting action is required.” 

“So I’m looking for someone in the medical profession then?”

“Anyone with medical training who’d have access to that sort of thing. People don’t just walk around with these in their pockets.”

Maddie took a deep breath. “Sloane, are you sure you’re all right? Because I can take some time off. I know how hard it must be for you to be back in your hometown again. Say the word and I’m there.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not yourself, I can hear it in your voice. Look, I understand how it must feel to go back there after all this time, but stop running. Forget about the Sloane from the past and think about who you are now—tough, resilient, a fighter.”

Out of the corner of my eye I spied a familiar flash of grey. “Damnit, I can’t even get five minutes to myself.”

“What’s going on?” Maddie said.

“It’s Jesse, he’s coming.”

I slipped into the donut shop, slid across the red vinyl seat until I reached the corner of the booth and placed a call to Trista.  Eight minutes later her burgundy minivan rolled into the parking lot.  The windows were tinted the lightest shade of grey I’d ever seen on a vehicle, and on the back was a series of stickers of a stick family in white all lined up next to each other.  I’d seen that type of thing on so many minivans over the years I’d begun to wonder if it was a free add-on with purchase.  One look at Stick Doug gave me a renewed determination to find his killer.

I sent Jesse a quick text so he wouldn’t put an APB out on me and promised we’d get together later that night for dinner like we’d planned the day before. I hoped to get some information out of him and not have to deal with him again. The more time we spent together, the more uncomfortable I felt. He was aggressive, just like he was when we were younger, but that wasn’t all.  He exerted a sort of confidence and determination I didn’t remember him having before. And I didn’t like it.

When I hopped into the van, Trista swept her sunglasses over her red, puffy eyes and looked at me. “Where to?”

Good question.

She pointed at the bakery. “Donuts sound good.” 

“No!” 

It was only after I yelled that I realized the harsh way the word spewed out of my mouth.  I placed my hand on her arm.  “I’m sorry, I’m a little on edge.  I’d like to get out of here if you don’t mind.  Anywhere else is fine, just get me out of the center of town.”

Trista put the van in reverse and wheeled out of the parking lot.  Several minutes later we stood in front of a black and white animal that she referred to as a ‘paint.’  The horse trotted forward in his stall and lowered his muzzle.  Trista stroked him.  

“This is Duke,” she said.   “Doug bought him a few years back.”

“John Wayne fan?”

She nodded.  “Doug owned every movie the man ever made.”

“I’ve always wondered how John Wayne got his nickname,” I said.  “Figured it was given to him by another actor.”

She shook her head.  “A fireman named him that when he was a kid.  He used to deliver papers with his dog named Duke.  The fireman called them Big Duke and Little Duke.” 

“Wow.  I had no idea.”

“I didn’t either until Doug gave me the backstory one night on John Wayne’s life.  I’m worried about him.”

“The horse?”

She nodded. “He’s barely eaten in days.  It’s like he senses something’s wrong because Doug hasn’t been here. He used to stop by after he got off work.”  Trista angled her head toward the next stall.  “You ride?”

I backed up a few paces and waved my hands across each other.  “I haven’t ridden a horse since I was a kid.”

“Why not?”

“I got bucked off once.  Haven’t had much of a desire to get back on one since.”

Trista walked over to a pile of hay in the corner, sat down and indicated with her finger for me to sit next to her, but ever since we’d entered the barn I’d squeezed one of my hands over my nose to block the smell.  She hadn’t seemed to notice. 

“Would you mind if we walked around outside instead?” I said.

She shrugged and followed me out of the stable.  “I’ve been coming here every day since Doug died.  I don’t know why.  I never paid much attention to his horse before, but now…”

“It makes you feel close to him, doesn’t it?”

“In a way.  In other ways I probably make it harder on myself by being here. I don’t know why I do it.  I guess I’m trying to hold on to him any way I can.”

She stopped and leaned over a wooden fence post. I stood next to her. “Trista, I need to ask you a question.”

She swirled some dirt around with the tip of her rounded boot and stared at the ground. “I know. Heather called me, and you’re right…I should have told you. But he’s dead, and I didn’t want you to remember him that way. Besides,” she shrugged, “he was only with her the one time.”

I placed my hand on the fence post and watched the horses frolicking in the field next to where we stood.  “You don’t need to convince me—one night of infidelity doesn’t change my feelings toward him. It was a mistake. He loved you.  I don’t doubt that.”

Trista grimaced. “I wanted to beat the crap out of her, you know. Not for the cheating—I mean, I hated that part too, but I knew he could talk to her in a way he couldn’t talk to me. I asked him a thousand times to open up and he still wouldn’t.”

“You understand why, right?”

She shook her head. 

“He didn’t want you to worry,” I said. “Doug wanted you to see him for the man he wanted to be—if he spilled out all his problems to you, he would have felt like even more of a failure.” I faced her. “So what. They slept together. The way I see it, Heather was more of a counselor to him than anything else. She was someone he confided in so he could get past his issues and back to his family.”

She frowned. “He turned to her because he couldn’t turn to me, you know. I got sick of asking and getting nowhere. So I became numb—to him, to the kids, everyone. I probably pushed him right into her.”

“There’s no shame for taking something to help you cope,” I said. 

A look of shock washed over Trista’s face. Obviously Heather hadn’t told her everything about our time together. She gave me a look like I just didn’t get it. “What about when your doctor prescribes one pill a day but you take ten and you have to be rushed to the hospital to get your stomach pumped? What then?”

I put my arm around her shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with a wake-up call. We all need them from time to time. You’re here, you’re alive, and doing the best you can. You have three beautiful reasons to pick yourself up and move on. Your kids need you now more than ever.”  

I was poised on a black velvet chair in an Italian restaurant.  The décor was similar to most Italian restaurants I’d been in: Dangling vines of fake plastic grapes, bottles of red wine, and arched mirrors—lots of them.  Jesse sat across from me.  He shoveled a load of noodles into his mouth and didn’t seem to mind the Alfredo sauce dripping down his chin.  He retained his conversation without missing a beat.  I clenched my fists under the table and resisted reaching for a napkin.  He was a big boy, he could clean himself up.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve thought about you over the years,” he said.  “Damn, it’s good to see you, and you’re lookin’ fine tonight…wooh-eee!”

“Let’s talk about Doug,” I said.

“Always Doug with you.  Man you’re tight, Sloane.  A hard ass, you know it?  You gotta loosen up.  It’s like you’ve never been complimented before.”

I’d been complimented plenty.  The difference was always in who was doing the complimenting and whether it was wanted or unwanted.  Jesse either didn’t know the difference or didn’t care.  I drew in a long breath.  “Look, if you don’t want to answer my questions, fine.  I can leave.”

I scooted my chair back, stood up and tossed my napkin in the center of the table.

Jesse waved a hand in the air.  “Oh c’mon, Sloane.  Sit back down, woman.  I’ll answer anything you want.”

I stood there, unmoved, and considered my options, mostly for dramatic effect.  When I thought it had reached its desired level, I lowered myself into the chair again. 

“How much have you seen Doug over the years?” I said.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table.  “It’s a small town.  I’m a cop.  I see everyone.”

“Let me rephrase—how often have you spoken to him?”

“Pulled him over for drunk drivin’ a couple months back.  Guess that’d be the last time we were face to face.”

“And?”

Jesse glared at me.  “He was drunk, Sloane.  I just said that.”

“Did you arrest him?”

He shook his head.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Should have, I guess, but I didn’t. I left his car there and gave him a lift home.”

“That doesn’t make sense to me,” I said.

“Why—because I’m a police officer, my only option is to arrest him?  I can’t be an officer
and
a friend at the same time?”

“Arresting him is part of the job, right?  Who knows what could have happened if you hadn’t come along.”  I sighed.  “Look, I cared for Doug too, but if he was driving drunk one night, he was probably doing it a lot more than you thought.  Maybe locking him up for twenty-four hours would have taught him something.”