Hidden in Shadow Pines Page 2

  Roger had spoiled me with a birthday lunch of all my favorite foods—strawberries, Cheetos, Oreos, peanut butter sandwiches without the crust, and red velvet cake. Even though we both knew I had to leave by five so I wouldn’t ruin the birthday dinner my parents had planned for weeks, it didn’t stop us from snuggling under the covers.

  If only I’d paid more attention to the time. My delay in leaving the cabin caught me driving in a torrential downpour. The wiper blades caused streaks, making seeing clearly out the windshield difficult. White bolts danced on the horizon, accompanied by drum rolls of thunder. The blue and gray sky lit up in flashes. Never before had I seen such a breathtaking display.

  Paying more attention to the lightning show than the road, I hadn’t noticed that the traffic light had turned red. I was in the middle of the intersection when bright headlights raced toward the passenger side of the car. A blaring horn sounded, followed by screeching tires.

  I leaned into the door, made a sharp left turn, then stepped on the gas. My arms shook as my hands clenched the steering wheel. I’d been inches away from a disastrous collision. My eyes focused on the road ahead, not bothering to look in the rearview mirror to make sure the other vehicle was okay.

  Still shaking a minute later, I pulled into the driveway and noticed that the house was dark except for the light above the side door. Dad’s car should have been in the driveway. They wouldn’t leave without me, would they, I thought. I ran for the side door, sidestepping puddles. Turning on the kitchen light, I saw a note on the counter. Isabella, Dad and I went to Dairy Queen to pick up your ice cream cake. Be back soon. Love, Mom.

  I headed up the back stairs for a quick shower to calm my nerves. Afterward, I pulled my brunette hair into a ponytail, then put blush on my checks and a little mascara on my lashes.

  We were celebrating my birthday at the classiest restaurant in southern Iowa. Mom and I had found the perfect outfit for me to wear three days before—a shimmering purple sleeveless dress with a velvet long-sleeved jacket. I stood in front of the full-length mirror, looking to the right, then left. A twirl, just for fun.

  I bounded down the front stairs, shouting, “Mom? Dad? You ready to go?” No answer.

  A flash of lightning brightened the dark living room. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Flipping on the living room light, I noticed the blinking red light on the answering machine. I walked over and pressed play.

  Message one. Recorded at six-ten p.m. Hi, sweetie. We picked up your cake, but had to stop by the office for some papers. We should be home in fifteen minutes. Sorry we’ll be late. Love you.

  I turned on the television and sat in Dad’s recliner, careful not to wrinkle my outfit.

  Ding-dong, ding-dong. Someone knocked on the front door, then shouted, “Hello. Is anyone home?”

  “Coming!” I yelled. I’d fallen asleep in the recliner. Why hadn’t Mom or Dad woken me up? I looked around the room. Where were they?

  I ran to the door and opened it wide. A police officer stood on the welcome mat, his hat in his right hand. He didn’t look much older than I was. Blue lights flashed from the squad car parked in the driveway. I stared at the man in front of me, my heart pounding. Had someone seen me run the red light and reported it to the police?

  The young officer cleared his throat as he showed me his badge. “I’m Officer Beckman. Are you Isabella Retsul?”

  My mind went blank. I couldn’t speak. Instead, I nodded.

  The policeman asked, “May I come in?”

  Taking two steps back so he could enter, I finally spoke. “Sure.”

  He walked inside, looking to his left and right before standing on the rug in the middle of the foyer. Tiny water droplets fell from his hat onto the rug. “Are your parents Nicholas and Marlena Retsul?”

  I stood motionless, staring at his hazel eyes. In a hushed voice, I answered, “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid I have bad news. There’s been an accident.”

  I must have stood at the corner of my block for a full ten minutes, watching. Then I spotted Ed standing in my driveway next to a man in a black suit. I walked briskly past three houses to reach them.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll be in touch if I have more questions. Here’s my card if you think of anything else.”

  I stared at the man in the suit. I couldn’t believe it. “Officer Beckman?”

  “Detective Beckman. And you are?”

  “You don’t remember me? It has been sixteen years.” I cleared my throat. “You delivered the news that my parents died in a car accident.”

  Detective Beckman looked at me, then at my house. “I was a rookie cop back then. I can’t believe you remembered my name. You took the news quite hard.”

  For a moment, I was eighteen in my purple dress. “I’ll never forget looking at your name on your uniform when I first opened the door.”

  “I’m sorry to inform you I have more bad news. Your neighbor, Tish Minter, has been murdered.”

  Ed wrapped his arm around me. “Someone strangled her. Harriet Stimler stopped to pick up Tish for their Monday night movie outing. The front door was open, and when Harriet went inside, she found Tish lying on the living room floor and called the police.”

  “Poor Harriet,” I exclaimed, deeply shocked. “But why would anyone want to hurt dear Tish? She was the most likable person in the world.” My bottom lip quivered. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.

  Detective Beckman spoke. “Her purse is missing and so is her car. At this point, we’re calling it a random robbery.”

  I pulled a tissue out of my purse and wiped my eyes. At Tish’s house, two EMTs carried the gurney down the front steps and into the ambulance.

  “Did you see anything unusual today?” Detective Beckman asked.

  “A white van with a blue stripe was parked in front of her house around eleven this morning. I assumed Tish was doing more remodeling,” I said.

  “I’ll make a note. Call me if you think of anything else.” Detective Beckman handed me his business card then walked across the street to the crime scene.

  I put my head on Ed’s shoulder. “Why would anyone want to hurt Tish?” I took a deep breath. “She was the nicest person.”

  “Until they catch whoever did this, I want you to be extra careful,” Ed told me.

  “I will. I’ve got the alarm system and my gun,” I said.

  As the ambulance drove past, my mind filled with images of Tish. Mostly, I’d miss her infectious laugh. Tish made me smile, even if I was having a bad time of it.

  Wiping away a tear, I lifted my head. “I’ve had a long day. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight, Ed.”

  “Goodnight, Isabella. Call me if you need anything.”

  I unlocked the door, turned off the alarm, and walked to the kitchen. The house still smelled like apple pie. My blue ribbon didn’t mean much to me now. Tish had called my cranberry ceramic pie dish my secret weapon. I brushed my fingers over the etched letters on the bottom—sp.

  The computer screen glared back at me. If it could talk it would say, Come on now, type away, fill me with words. I had five more pages to write before I could send it to Christopher for a first review. Taking the notes out of my purse from earlier this afternoon, I knew at once how to get Jack out of another dangerous situation.

  I finished the pages, composed an email to Christopher, attached the document, and hit SEND. Now I had a few weeks to paint the living room while Jack Deveraux went on hiatus.

  Stretching out on the couch, I picked up the book Secrets Can Be Deadly. Slightly chilled, I covered myself with the crocheted afghan draped over the back of the couch. Fifty pages left to read. I wanted to finish the book before bed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tuesday, August 6, 2013, 3 a.m.

  (the next morning—not sure where)

  My eyelids were heavy and my arms felt like lead. I tried lifting my right arm, but it fell onto my lap. I touched something strange. My fingers walked across the strap until they
reached a buckle. It was a seat belt. How could I be in car?

  My head bobbed. Looking to my left, I saw the driver, who had on a ski mask and black hoodie. A wadded-up Snickers wrapper lay on the dash.

  Where am I? Who are you? What happened to me? That’s what I wanted to say, but my mouth and brain weren’t working together. I moaned, “Who...you?”

  The driver turned slightly toward me and in a deep voice said, “You don’t need to know who I am. Go back to sleep.”

  “Can’t…be…here.” I tried to scream. All that came out was a whimpering “noooo.”

  Every morning I woke between seven and seven-thirty. I only used an alarm clock if I needed to wake up earlier. Now, I opened my eyes long enough to see bright sunlight entering through the window. Today, I simply didn’t want to get up. I pulled the covers over my head and caught a whiff of lavender. The scent was coming from the sheets, and I didn’t use any type of perfumed laundry detergent. I pushed off the covers and sat up.

  I quickly glanced around the room. This wasn’t my bedroom. I saw pink walls, the color of Pepto-Bismol, and oak hardwood floors. Stuffed animals sat on the dresser, on the shelf, and on top of the hope chest—cute, furry bunny rabbits of all shapes, colors, and sizes.

  At first, I thought I was having a dream, one of those dreams that seem all too real. I whispered, “This is just a dream.” I could talk. In my dreams, I could never talk. This was real. I was in my own pajamas—the pink-and-white-striped flannel top and bottom matching set I’d bought on sale at Target the year before.

  Think. Think. What was the last thing I remembered? I was almost finished reading a book, and then in a car.

  Getting out of bed, I walked over to the window. The room was on a second floor. A chain-link fence surrounded the backyard. I could see another house off to the right. I tried opening the window, but it wouldn’t budge.

  My heart pounded. I didn’t know where I was or who’d brought me here. All I could see were those stupid stuffed bunnies. How could something so cute at the same time be so terrifying? I now understood how people might be afraid of clowns.

  I envisioned myself walking out of the room and confronting the person who’d brought me here, demanding to know why I was taken and where I was. However, I wasn’t that strong emotionally. Instead, I stood staring out the window, my hands trembling.

  After taking several deep breaths to calm myself, I took two steps to the right and opened the closet door. Several items hung on pink plastic hangers, and two pair of shoes sat on a shelf. Upon closer inspection, I realized all this was actually mine.

  A new fear chilled my skin. I took a step back and closed the door, leaving my hand on the knob. Then I opened the door again, thinking I might see something different. Nope. My clothes still hung from a row of pink hangers.

  I moved in front of the dresser, the bunnies following my every move with their eyes. I felt as if they were laughing at a joke, and I was the punch line. Opening a dresser drawer, I found my underwear, socks, and t-shirts, all neatly arranged.

  Someone had done a lot of planning and had gone to a lot of trouble to get me here. Why? I was no one special, just a ghostwriter living in Darden, Iowa.

  I heard a click. My head jerked toward the door. I stood motionless as the doorknob began to turn.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tuesday, August 6, 2013, 9 a.m.

  (later that morning—in a pink room)

  The door creaked opened.

  “You’re up. Good.”

  I expected the person from last night in the ski mask and hoodie. Instead, a woman a few years younger than I held a tray with orange juice, toast, and jam. She put the tray on top of the dresser near the door.

  Smiling, she said, “I brought breakfast to you this morning. Thought you might want to be alone, gather your thoughts. Bathroom’s down the hall to the right. I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.” She then turned and closed the door.

  I hadn’t moved. Not uttered a word. I’m not sure I even blinked while she was in the room. Jack Deveraux wouldn’t be pleased with my lack of action.

  With the arrival of the toast, my stomach grumbled. In the novels I wrote, my captors would spike the meal with truth serum. Except in the novels, the person being held had information she was willing to die for. I didn’t have any information, at least not that I knew of.

  The longer I concocted stories in my mind, the colder the toast was getting. Might as well have breakfast, I decided.

  Fresh-squeezed orange juice, toast a perfect golden brown, and homemade strawberry jam. At least I was eating well for now. The woman definitely knew how to cook. A silly notion crossed my mind—I wondered if she could beat me in a pie-baking contest.

  After ten minutes of sitting on the bed realizing I wasn’t going to collapse or die right now, I gathered a change of clothes and opened the door. Creak. I poked my head out to get a glimpse of the house. Down the hall on the left was a closed door, followed by a staircase to the first level. Straight across the hall, a railing. I tiptoed over, stretching my neck to see a dining room and living room below.

  The woman sat poised in a chair, ankles crossed, reading a book. I studied her for a few minutes. Her straight blonde hair fell below her shoulders. She was fair skinned, mildly attractive, and wore a purple-and-white-striped summer dress. She looked like a normal woman in a normal house, but this wasn’t a normal day in my own life.

  I proceeded down the hall to the bathroom, went in, and closed the door. No lock. No window. I put down the toilet seat and sat, hugging my clothes. My right knee bounced—one of my nervous habits. Should I take a shower or just change clothes? My usual routine involved a shower every morning after breakfast, and that’s what I needed to do.

  The warm water had a calming effect. I closed my eyes and let the water flow over my head. For the first time this morning, I felt almost relaxed. It was time for clean clothes and time to face the woman downstairs.

  Peeking over the railing as I left the bathroom, I found the woman sitting in the exact same position I’d witnessed earlier. I slowly walked down the stairs, stopping at the bottom step. Ten feet in front of me sat the woman in her chair. Five feet to my left, a solid wood front door. For a brief moment, I thought of running out the door and screaming for help, but I had no idea what was out there. In my writings, I’d have a muscular man in black pants and black t-shirt armed with a machine gun guarding the exit. I wasn’t ready to die in a blaze of bullets. But then again, maybe only flowering mums and periwinkles sat outside in mosaic pots.

  Okay, get a grip, I thought. I shook my shoulders letting my arms flail, releasing tension.

  The living room looked bright and cozy. Centered on the wall straight ahead was a brick fireplace. A large painting of poppies hung above the mahogany mantle and on either end of the fireplace were two small bookcases filled with books and pictures. To the right, rested a tan couch with two red pillows and a red throw draped over the back. A square mahogany coffee table sat between the couch and two red chairs. A bouquet of gerbera daisies in a crystal vase stood on a round oak table between the chairs. Sunlight poured in through the large picture window.

  Taking a step forward, I asked, “Can you tell me where I am? And who you are?”

  The woman stood and placed the book on the coffee table. “Oh, what terrible manners I have.” Smiling at me, she held out her hand. “My name is Jaime. Jaime Clark.”

  Feeling the need to be polite in turn, I walked over to her, shook her hand, and said, “Isabella Retsul.”

  “Yes, I know.” Jaime nodded. “Come sit on the couch with me.”

  “How do you know who I am?” I asked as we sat.

  “The town council informed me of your upcoming arrival yesterday afternoon when they dropped off some of your things. I hope you don’t mind that I put them away for you. Anyway, it’s my job to inform you of the rules and tell you about Shadow Pines.” Jaime sat calmly, hands folded in her lap.

  Raising an e
yebrow, I said, “Rules?”

  “Yes. To keep everyone safe.”

  Safe from what, I thought. My right leg started to bounce. I quickly put my hand on my knee to stop my nervous twitch.

  Jaime picked up a yellow folder from the coffee table. “This will be yours to keep and use as a reference. Let me go over what’s inside.”

  “Okay.” Too scared to do anything else, I sat and listened.

  “Usually, new residents are quarantined and learn about Shadow Pines and its culture gradually. Today, you’re getting a crash course. I’m extremely proud the town council gave me the honor of teaching you our ways.”

  Leaning forward, I shook my head. “I’m sorry, did you just say new resident…of Shadow Pines?”

  Jaime straightened up, tilting her head to the right. “Yes. Shadow Pines is very lucky to have you join us.”

  Jaime reached over and put her hand on my knee. I hadn’t realized my nervous knee bounce had started again. “Are you okay? You seem a little jumpy. Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. You’re safe in Shadow Pines.” Jaime leaned back and smiled.

  “Right. New resident in Shadow Pines. Nothing to worry about.” I wasn’t doing a very good job convincing myself everything was going to be just fine.

  “First off,” Jaime said, “welcome to my home. I’m sure the town council will find you your own home pretty soon, though. Upstairs, besides the bedroom and bath, there’s also a spare bedroom. You’re in the living room, and the dining room is behind you—but you probably saw it from the landing. To the right of the dining room is the kitchen. You have to go through the kitchen to reach the half-bath. In the kitchen are two doors—one to the garage and one to the basement. I use the basement as a pantry, and of course the storm shelter is down there. Every house in town has one. Also, every person is required to have an emergency backpack in the shelter. Past the dining room is the closet for the washer and dryer, then my bedroom at the end of the hall.”