Suspicious Trust

CHAPTER 1

“Dogs never lie, Luke.”

Uncle Matt told me that several years ago. Of course, my uncle never said what dogs might need to lie about, but he was known to be a bit ambiguous when giving out advice. Despite my uncle’s wisdom, I was currently ignoring Mule, my beagle-walker hound mix, who was scratching at my leg while I was lying underneath the kitchen sink reconnecting the hot and cold water feeds. I figured he was just trying to tell me Mrs. Thompson was digging holes in my yard again. He’d been alternately pawing at me and staring out the back door for the last thirty minutes, but I’d looked out across the yard twice and hadn’t seen anything.

Having a dog was a new experience, and I wasn’t used to having to respond to the myriad requests for attention that Mule apparently considered an entitlement. He finally abandoned his pawing and walked back over to the patio door. He stood on his hind legs and issued a short, sharp bark as his nails clacked repeatedly against the glass pane. I was still learning to read his signals, but it finally occurred to me his theatrics might just be a plea for a bathroom break. I wiggled my way out from underneath the sink, and massaged the deep dent the cabinet edge had pressed into my back before heading to the door to let him outside. The doorbell rang before I could let him out, however, and Mule dropped to all fours, skittering across the ceramic tile of the kitchen floor like a drunken figure skater. He issued a deep “woof” and took off down the hall, prancing around the front door excitedly waiting for me to catch up.

I followed Mule down the hall, hoping it wasn’t actually Mrs. Thompson. She had lived across the road from my Uncle Matt and Aunt Sarah for decades and was an old family friend. My uncle had died unexpectedly last month—my aunt having passed a few years ago—and I had inherited his bayside residence in North Landing, Virginia. Mule, a three-year-old rescue, had come as a package deal. An otherwise delightful old lady, Mrs. Thompson was a firm believer in the long-standing rumor of my uncle having a secret treasure buried somewhere on his property, a local legend that had grown from the humble origins of a Spanish doubloon he had found along the shore of Back Bay when he was a kid. Mrs. Thompson had been caught digging on the property numerous times over the years, but seemed to be even more motivated since my uncle’s passing. Twice in last week I had caught her, shovel in hand, coming up from the direction of the bay shore with her gray hair unravelling from her normally tight bun and sweat beading on her wrinkled forehead. She hadn’t evened offered an excuse, just awkwardly waving hello while seeming to be surprised I was home.

I peeked out the window and to my relief, it wasn’t Mrs. Thompson standing on the porch, but my neighbor to the south, Bill Cooper. It was Bill who had found my uncle’s body on the shore of Back Bay, and despite only meeting him once, I was actually happy to see him. I needed a break from the remodeling, and though I’m a chronic introvert, being in this house without my uncle had created a sense of isolation even I was starting to find a little unnerving.

“Maybe you’re finally ready for some normal human interaction, Luke,” said Jessica. I paused before I opened the door to answer her.

“I’m still recovering from all the human interaction I had before I left for Europe,” I said.

“I’m not sure witches count as human.”

“Paisley isn’t a witch,” I sighed.

“Okay, something that rhymes with witch, then.”

Jessica had me there. I usually ignore her carping about my ex-girlfriend, Paisley, since Jessica can be a bit judgmental. I’d chalk it up to simple jealousy, except Paisley was indeed a real human I had interacted with, and Jessica—well, Jessica wasn’t. Neither real nor human. She was the voice inside my head. Even though I’d “heard” the voice since I was a kid, I had kept it secret from everyone but my dad and Uncle Matt. I was surprised when I found out everybody didn’t have a voice like that inside them. My dad told me most people did have some sort of inner voice, but that mine was more pronounced—a trait I apparently shared with my late mother. As I got older, it became normal to have conversations with Jessica inside my head. It’s funny how my readers think she’s an entirely fictional character.

“Well, I think you need to be more social,” Jessica continued.

I ignored her comment and opened the door. Bill, a former professional football player, was over six and a half feet tall, and still sported the build of a powerful linebacker. He made me, at six feet, look tiny. His wavy, jet black hair and gray eyes brought out a hint of his Mediterranean ethnicity, and he possessed a perpetually intellectual gaze that said he could beat you at Jeopardy as well as the bench press. Mule leapt up, putting his front paws on Bill’s legs and wagging his tail like a maniac. He finally dropped to the floor when Bill reached out and gave his head a firm rubbing, and it was obvious the two had missed each other. They had spent a lot of time together over the past month while Bill and his wife, Sheri, kept Mule at their house until I had arrived in town.

“Hope you’re not too busy, Luke,” he said. “Thought I’d stop by and see how you two were getting along as roommates.”

“Pretty well, I think. Although I’m going to have to learn to keep my temper in check now that I’m not living alone. I came inside in a full rant earlier today after nearly being run into the ditch by the landscapers’ van as it was leaving. Mule must have thought I was mad at him, because he hid in the bedroom closet and I had to resort to the bacon-flavored jerky treats to coax him out. Other than that, we’ve managed okay under the circumstances. He was just now supervising while I was putting in a new kitchen faucet.”

“I brought beer,” Bill said, holding up a six-pack of Blue Moon.

“Then I just got to a good stopping point,” I said. “Come on in.” Even though I was sure Bill had shown up with genuine neighborhood hospitality, I still had to suppress my natural paranoia when engaging with people I didn’t know well. Despite Jessica’s encouragement to be more socially interactive, I suddenly recalled another of my uncle’s favorite pieces of advice—keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Unfortunately, I had a long history of not being able to distinguish one from the other until it was too late, a shortcoming Jessica frequently warned me was going to get me into big trouble one day. Bill followed me into the kitchen and put the beer on the counter.

Mule went back to the patio door and stared out into the backyard while I opened two beers and handed one to Bill. We sat down at the kitchen table and Mule came over and lay down between us. I guess after being stuck with me for a week, guests were more compelling than the call of nature.

“How are the renovations coming along?” Bill asked after taking a long draught and setting his beer on the table.”

“I’m starting slow,” I said. “Just some work on the faucets and countertops for now. I hired a crew that will start on the floors in a couple of days. The windows will probably have to be replaced eventually. From what I can tell, the power bills here are on the high side.”

“I like this house,” Bill said, gazing around the kitchen as if he could see through the walls into the other rooms. “Your uncle told me he built it himself.”

“He did,” I said. “He was very proud of it. I still can’t believe he left it to me.” Even though Malcolm, my uncle’s other heir, was still living in North Landing, and I had been more or less a vagabond since graduating college, Uncle Matt had entrusted the future care of his beloved home and canine companion to me. I remember my uncle telling me once that Malcolm could make all the bad decisions he wanted with the cash he would inherit one day, but the house and Mule were too much responsibility for him.

Malcolm and I practically grew up together. We aren’t actually related because he is from my late Aunt Sarah’s side of the family, but we call ourselves cousins anyway. I was raised by a single father whose job required frequent travel and relocation, so I spent every summer break and major holiday in North Landing with my aunt and uncle from the time I was six years old until I started college. This house is the closest thing to a real home I’ve ever known. My aunt and uncle never had kids, and Malcolm and I filled that void. Unfortunately, after high school, Malcolm ran into some legal problems—shoplifting on a dare, driving while impaired, and possession of marijuana—but this didn’t sit well with my uncle. But Uncle Matt had promised my aunt he would be as equitable as possible with his two heirs, and as far as I knew, my uncle had always kept his promises. He also always had a plan, though, and his plan did not include Malcolm getting this house, or even half of it. As much as I loved my new home, however, part of me wished Malcolm had made better decisions over the past fifteen years so he would be the one crawling under the counter installing the brushed nickel faucet and handles, and I would be getting a big fat check in the mail with no obligations.

There had been an offer on the house immediately after my uncle’s passing, but I had declined despite the generous amount the buyer was willing to spend. This was a gift from my uncle, and I couldn’t even consider treating it like some meaningless financial asset. And just as significantly, the offer had come from Ricky Moss, a former suiter of my Aunt Sarah and someone my uncle absolutely detested. I was positive Uncle Matt would rise from his urn and his ashy specter would haunt me for the rest of my life—and beyond—if I let Ricky Moss take possession of this house.

Bill offered a quick toast and an official welcome to the neighborhood, and we talked about the renovations until we finished our beers. I asked Bill if he wanted another, and he nodded. As I handed Bill a second beer, I noticed Mule standing by the door again, staring out across the back yard. His tail was tucked between his legs and he seemed distressed as he stared through the glass. I guess the call of nature couldn’t be put off any longer, and I chastised myself for getting distracted and forgetting to let him out. I handed Bill his beer and opened the door to let the hound out. Mule had just stepped out onto the deck when I heard the scream.

“What was that?” I asked, as Mule bolted off the deck and sprinted across the yard.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Jessica said.

Before I could turn around to ask Bill if he had heard it, too, the big man pushed past me and was out the door, breaking into a run and following Mule around the pool. By the time I took off after them, Mule was already out of sight around the corner of the pool house and Bill, still showing the dexterity that made him an All-Pro football player, was steadily increasing the distance between me and him. I sprinted along behind Bill, wondering what could be wrong. A prickling sensation ran up the back of my neck as I turned the corner around the pool house and saw Mule barking frantically at a landscaper’s van with the rear doors open. I didn’t even know the landscapers had come back. Bill was standing beside Mrs. Thompson, who was bent over on her hands and knees, sobbing hysterically. I suddenly realized this was what Mule had been trying to tell me. Something was wrong.

“Dogs never lie, Luke,” Jessica said.

Bill left Mrs. Thompson and stepped towards the back of the van. He looked inside and then turned around to face me as I finally caught up to him. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when Mrs. Thompson let out another wail.

“I only wanted a shovel!” she cried, burying her face in her hands.

“What’s going on?” I asked Bill. “Where are the landscapers?”

Bill didn’t say anything, but moved aside and I stepped past him and looked inside the van. There were none of the tools or equipment I expected to see; in fact, it was practically empty. Empty except for two bodies that were bound in plastic and lying on a tarp on the floor. I stared intently at the body on the left, as Mule put his front paws on the rear bumper and continued his relentless barking as if saying “I told you so! “I told you so!” Bill came up beside me and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Recognize them?” the big man asked somberly.

I had to look again because I couldn’t understand how Malcolm had ended up dead in the back of van in my backyard.