Mourning Moon (A Guinan Jones Paranormal Mystery #2) (4 page)

I awoke to the smell of bacon,
slow-baking turkey, and coffee. I squinted at the clock. A little after eight in the morning. I gasped, sprinted to the bathroom, and jumped in the shower. I was drying off before I realized today was a holiday. I gazed at myself in the mirror. I looked like a whole person—chestnut hair that fell past my shoulders, the widow's peak, hazel eyes like Granddad's, heart-shaped face. But I felt hollow, like my gut had a gaping hole in it.

Desmond Drake was dead.

Zeke and Tamzen were back together.

Guinan, you are the
stupidest...

I wanted to smack my own face. How could I put these things on the same level?
I sat down at my desk and kept my head in my hands for a long time. I eventually dressed and went downstairs. Before I entered the kitchen, I knew what I'd find: Granddad at the stove making eggs. I was surprised to see my father sitting at the table in front of his laptop.

"What are you doing up so early?" he said, sipping coffee.

"I could ask you the same." I sat down across from him. "You're not going to work on Thanksgiving, are you?"

"No," he said, closing the laptop lid. "I
awoke at my usual time and decided to get up. Those eggs ready yet, Isaac?"

"Coming right up."

My mother came down, and the four of us made small talk while we ate. I looked at my family and wondered how Desmond's parents were coping. Thanksgiving Day, and their son, their only child, was dead. I lost my appetite halfway through the meal.

Afterward,
when my parents left the kitchen, Granddad and I cleaned up. He peered into the hall to make sure my parents were out of earshot. "Were you and that boy close?"

"
Not really," I said. "I'd known him only since September."

"You know what I mean."

I gaped. "What? No, we weren't...involved."

The pressure of the silence swelled between us.

He stopped loading the dishwasher and glanced at the door. "You know, I hate the feeling I'm sneaking around, doing something wrong. Your parents, especially your mother, wouldn't appreciate this conversation. But I'm going to talk to them. They need to do better by you. Did you, uh—"

"Read him?" I said. I nodded.
"One part I remember exactly. He was thinking, 'I don't want to leave you.'"

"Who?"

I shrugged. "Obviously someone he cared about. I thought maybe his parents. A girlfriend. An ex-girlfriend."

"Anything else?"

"Something about wanting this person to know him and to make up for something."

"
Your mother gave me the gist of what happened. He went into severe anaphylactic shock after eating peanuts and died quickly. No doubt they'll test some of the food." He bit his lip. "Ah, well. It's a shame."

"
He was a genuinely nice person," I said. "I hate that this happened to him."

Granddad furrowed his brow. "Yeah, that's tough going. But I was tal
king about you."

"Huh?"

The sympathy in his eyes rippled through me. "It's a shame that you have to deal with death again so soon."

***

Death again so soon.

Was I destined to have death follow me from
city to city, like some teenage Jessica Fletcher? Maybe I'd find answers in the pages of my grandmother's journals. They remained in my parents' bedroom on their closet shelf. Tilda Jepson died when I was twelve, and I was attempting to honor her wishes and not read them until I was eighteen. I had no idea—couldn't even guess—why she wanted it that way.

During
Thanksgiving dinner, I tried my best to be cheerful as we ate our way through two helpings of everything. My father had opened a bottle of wine, and the three adults were indeed cheerful. If it weren't for Desmond's death, I'd want to stretch this exact moment into a week.

My cell phone buzzed in my back pocket
. My father hated cell phones at the table, although he didn't have a problem with computers. He didn't so much as glance my way. Instead, he made a toast and kissed my mother.

I
removed the phone and looked at the screen, expecting to see Embry's number. It was one I didn't recognize. I turned away from the table and whispered. "Hello?"

"Jones? It's Luke."

"How did you get my—"

"Are you kidding? Listen,
can you get away right now?"

My parents and grandfather seemed deep in conversation.
I used this moment to slip away from the table.

"
Get away where?" I said, heading upstairs to my room.

"There's something you need to see. It's very important."

Luke Chapman wanted me to come to his house on Thanksgiving. "What is it?"

He sighed. "I don't want to do this over the phone."

"Luke, it's Thanksgiving. I can't hop in my car and come to your house. My parents will—"

"I live down the street."

My jaw dropped. "What?"

"The white house
on the corner with the pale green shingles?"

"I had no idea. You
never mentioned—"

"I know," he said. "I didn't think it was important enough to mention. Will you come or not
? It has to do with Drake."

I glanced
at the digital clock on my nightstand. Almost six o'clock. I sighed. "Okay."

Wondering
if I'd end up regretting it, I put on my shoes and coat. I resisted the impulse to walk straight out the door without telling my parents where I was going. I'd learned my lesson about slipping away without notice.

"I'm going out for a bit," I said, trying to sound
casual. "A friend from school lives down the street."

My mother stopped smiling and
looked toward the window. "It's getting dark."

Oh, boy.
"I'm only going down the street, Mom. It's Luke Chapman, Desmond's best friend."

My father
cleared his throat. "Saundra, I think she'll be all right."

"From
the looks of it," Granddad said, "this is a pretty decent neighborhood."

"I don't know."

He stood. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll wait on the sidewalk and make sure she gets there in one piece."

My mother nodded, but still looked skeptical.

"Parents worry," Granddad said, as he shut the door behind us. "Wait till you get your own. By the way, what does he want?"

"
He said it has to do with Desmond."

He grunted. "That so? Be careful."

I felt silly with my grandfather watching me walk down the sidewalk. When I reached Luke's house, I gave Granddad a wave. He returned it and headed back to the house. I reached for the doorbell. Before I even made contact with it, the door flew open.

Luke
loomed in the doorway wearing a T-shirt with a tear at the bottom and wrinkled cargo shorts. He was barefoot. He watched me with red-rimmed eyes. I had a strong desire to touch his cheek.

"Thanks for coming," he said. "I
thought I was going to have to bribe you."

"I assume it must be very im
portant."

"Mind-blowing. Come on in."

I was taken aback by the living room's decor. A small lamp illuminated the high-ceiling room. Dark, heavy drapes cascaded down two, wide windows. An ornate, glass coffee table decorated with candles and thick books flanked a black, L-shaped couch. Two dark and imposing chairs were positioned on the other side of the table. It was the sort of room I envisioned when I read about vampires.

"My father's wife was a Got
h in high school back in the eighties," Luke said, ushering me toward the stairs. "She's still a Goth at heart."

His stepmother's influence hadn't touched his room. A color combination of light-blue and cream gave it a
simple and welcoming air. A spicy potpourri scent lingered in the air. A print of "The Scream" hung above an oak desk.

"Where are your parents?" I said, sniffing the air for turkey.

"My father and his wife are with friends," he said. "They half-heartedly invited me, but I didn't feel like going."

Observing Luke's gruff demeanor, I
wondered if he really wanted to go but sensed their reluctance to bring him. "What about your mother?"

"
Not around," he said, dropping his gaze. "Take off your coat. Make yourself comfortable."

I removed it
and tossed it on the bed. The dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises.

"Have you slept at all?"

"Not much." He ruffled his hair. "I don't sleep that well, anyway."

I folded my arms and
gazed around the room.

"You nervous, Jones?"

"Why should I be?" I pulled out my cell and texted Granddad to let him know I was okay. He replied in seconds. When I put the phone away and looked at Luke, his shock was barely contained.

"Did you just text
your parents?"

"I—"

"I suppose it's understandable." He stroked his stubbly jaw line. "Considering that someone tried to kill you a few months ago."

My
cheeks burned, and I felt a coughing fit coming on. I cleared my throat. "What do you want to show me?"

His eyes lingered on my face for a few beats, then he pointed at his des
k, where several small, clear plastic containers with colored tops stood grouped together. An inch-square of blue cloth lay among the bottles. His school tie, missing a section, lay near the edge of the desk.

Luke sniffed and pulled out the chair. He motioned for me to sit.
"I went to Desmond's house yesterday. I knew his parents had a peanut testing kit."

I sank onto the cold leather and studied
the containers. "Why did you want it?"

"I
needed to test something, obviously."

I rolled my eyes. "You know what I mean.
What
did you want to test?"

He cracked his knuckles and s
at on the edge of his bed. His Adam's apple bobbed. After a deep breath, he continued. "I took a sample of that canola oil. I had a gut feeling."

"
I thought that's what you were doing," I said. The evidence was definitely tainted now.

"That cop saw us in there. I'm sure he'll mention it in his report.
"

"What were you thinking? You must have known the police
would get to the pantry eventually."

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

I nodded and looked at the testing kit.

"I was hoping I was wrong," he said. He stood and walked to the desk.
"There are traces of peanuts in the canola oil."

I gaped at him. "No way."

He gave me a weak smile. "I thought that would be your reaction. That's why I asked you to come over to see for yourself."

He showed me the i
ndicator for traces of peanuts. "I poured some of the oil on my tie and tested it."

I stared at the material.
"Is it the same oil from school?"

He narrowed his eyes.

"What I mean is—"

"You think I'm lying, trying to set up Brennan. Why
the hell would I do that? To get you to come to my house? Besides, you were standing there with me."

Yeah, but my back was turned.
"I'm a lot things, Luke, but I'm not presumptuous. I just know how upset you are."

That seemed to calm him.

"You still have to tell the police."

He bit his lip. "I will
."

"Wait a second," I said. "
Do a search for canola oil ingredients. It might contain—"

"Already did it.
No peanuts."

He cut a
nother small section of the tie and repeated what he'd apparently done before I arrived. I watched the peanut indicator change colors. He and I stared at the kit.

"
Why did that bottle of oil have traces of peanuts in it?" I said.

He exhaled loudly. "
It looks like somebody tampered with the bottle."

I
studied the hardwood floor. Memories from
that
night at Jepson's Point flooded my mind, making me dizzy. "If somebody put peanut oil in that container, and they knew Desmond couldn't resist Mrs. Brennan's desserts..." I didn't want to go on.

Luke slowly
lifted his head and gazed at me. His anger was palpable. "That means someone either wanted to make him sick or—"

"Or kill him."