8. Happy Place

Nadia

On my way into Misted Pines the next morning, the screen on my dashboard changed to indicate I had a text.

I glanced at it and saw it was from my best friend, Maribeth.

That was when I frowned.

Maribeth had been my bestie since we met in seventh grade.

Now, she was the closest thing to family I had left.

So, of course, she was the one who was most worried about me after all that happened with my mother, and my until-recently-unknown father. This after I still really hadn't gotten over losing Trevor and the way that happened.

She was also the one who was being the pushiest about getting an invite out to Misted Pines…ASAP.

This had exacerbated in the last couple of days, with her sending now five texts, all of them saying a version of, Nothing's wrong. But call me. We need to talk.

I hadn't ignored them (or, not all of them), but I'd let them sit and then given some excuse about being busy (when I was not).

I just didn't want to talk, because I was painfully aware I was not doing what I'd sworn to her I was going to do when I moved all the way across the country and out from under her watchful eye.

Heal.

In other words, if anyone could see through my faking-it selfie malarky, it was Maribeth.

And I was deducing she wasn't falling for it.

Though, now, I did have something to do.

Because Riggs's wild party and subsequent peace offering had broken my rut.

And that morning, I'd jumped out of bed, determined to keep it that way.

Not to mention, what he'd said about living the best life you could being the best revenge stuck with me.

It was wise.

Although I wasn't ready to take it there, at the very least, I could stop moping around, drinking too much wine, eating too much food and watching too much television.

I might not start exploring my mental state, but I was going to start by exploring my environs.

I also had plans. Plans to pack a bag sometime soon, maybe around the time Riggs left town again (but after the way he'd firmly put us in the Friend Zone last night, for my mental health, I wasn't thinking about why that hurt so much, and instead was telling myself I felt safer when he was around). I was going to take a commuter flight back to Seattle and spend a few days there.

I'd only ever spent a night in Seattle, that being before I came to Misted Pines. Since I was this close, it would be a shame I didn't take the opportunity to look around.

I'd also cracked open my computer and looked up local spas, and apparently, there was an award-winning one in a place called the Pinetop Lodge.

So I was also going to set up a spa day.

With all of this on my horizon, I felt invigorated. Even though this wasn't about sorting out my head, it made me feel lighter than I'd felt in over four months.

I hit town, which I'd only driven through to get to the market, not paying much mind to it.

This time, I paid mind.

And I saw what I'd distractedly seen in the pictures from the minimal research I'd done about the place and while driving through it.

Taking it in, honestly, it looked like an army of Hollywood set designers had swarmed the place and built an image of smalltown Americana.

There were some discrepancies, of course, since it wasn't a movie location.

The huge mural on the side of what appeared to be the local coffeehouse, called Aromacobana, an obvious indictment about climate change, being one. Another was the local cinema that had one of those old-fashioned lit overhangs above it. But there wasn't a new release on that sign. It sported a double bill of "Walking Tall," with the letters JDB next to it, and "Walking Tall," with the letters DJ beside that.

But underneath those, it said, Only Mrdrs in the Bldg Fest with next weekend's dates.

So, bizarrely, they were going to do an Only Murders in the Building festival next weekend.

Fantastic show.

But yes.

For a smalltown cinema, a newish TV show fest was kind of strange.

It was lunchtime, and in my car crawl through the town, I realized I was hungry when I saw what looked like a fifties diner that hadn't changed since that time. It was called the Double D.

I decided my next adventure was to stop and sample a local restaurant.

It was on the other side of the street, so to experience more of the town, I took a left turn, drove around a block, which was all modest, well-kept houses, then back to the main drag to find an open parking space among the ones that were angled toward the sidewalk.

It was only then, a creeping sense hit me, and it got worse as I located a spot a couple of doors beyond the Double D, got out and started to walk back to the diner.

I couldn't put my finger on it.

But maybe it was the near perfection of the place.

There was a flower shop, with stands of bright flowers out front, and a market with fruit and veggies on display. The sidewalks were clean and uncracked. The windows of the shops and restaurants were sparkling.

Main Street America in Misted Pines was maybe five or six blocks long, and the town itself wasn't that big, but it was bustling, and from what I could tell, you could spend hours there buying not only flowers and the orangest oranges I'd ever seen, but also attractive hiking gear, homemade candles and greeting cards, and everything you might need to decorate your home in America! for Memorial Day and the Fourth of July, because they had a dedicated holiday shop.

However, this place was very rural. I couldn't imagine how these shops could not only stay in business, but apparently thrive.

I read in my research that Misted Pines was a tourist destination due to the many outdoor activities on hand, so that could explain the bustle.

But there was a vibe.

No.

An undercurrent that was exhilarating, at the same time oddly disturbing.

It wasn't that eerie feeling I'd felt a couple of times at the lake. Although that was indisputably eerie, it also felt warm, welcoming.

No, this was bizarrely sinister. Telling you not all was as it seemed in Misted Pines.

This was my thought when I was about to hit the door to the Double D, and I saw her with several bags dangling from her fingers, walking my way.

I didn't know who she was, I only saw she was very pretty.

That was, I didn't know who she was until she smirked at me.

I'd never seen her face, but she'd obviously seen mine, not to mention, I'd seen that healthy brunette hair, and that smirk said, "You want him, but I've had him."

She was the woman who'd passed out on top of Riggs post-coital.

Courtney.

I felt the nasty sting of jealousy it wasn't mine to feel, but I simply dipped my chin to her and pushed through the door of the diner.

Once inside, I saw it was busy, perhaps not a surprise, because it was Saturday.

What was a surprise was that it was, indeed, a meticulously cared for diner straight out of the fifties, and this was to such an extent, I felt I'd stepped into that era.

I took a stool at the horseshoe shaped counter that dominated the middle of the space.

I'd barely sat down and grabbed a plastic-coated menu from its silver holder in front of me, when a woman in a knee-length diner dress, complete with little apron and cap, was in front of me.

And I was definitely feeling the strangeness when I saw her nametag said Dot.

Nothing wrong with the name, it was just that she looked younger than me, and it wasn't exactly modern.

I must have been staring at it, because she didn't greet me.

She said, "My real name is Maggie. But tips are better from the tourists if I go the extra mile."

This explanation caused a wave of relief to hit me, and I smiled at her.

"Get you something to drink while you look at the menu?" she asked.

"Do you have Perrier or San Pelligrino or something like that?" I asked in return.

She just stared at me.

I decided that was a no.

"Tea?" I requested.

"Iced and sweet?"

"Um, no, like chamomile or mint."

She stared at me again.

"Just water," I said.

She nodded, turned, filled a milky-turquoise plastic tumbler with water, which sloshed with the ice from the pitcher, and set it in front of me.

She then took off.

I looked at the menu and decided what I wanted immediately, so I put it back.

Dot/Maggie returned and raised one brow along with the pad in her hand with her pencil on it.

"Can I have a patty melt, without the onion, and instead of the fries, maybe a side salad?"

She sounded part offended, part astonished when she queried, "A patty melt without onions?"

I shrugged. "Onions aren't my favorite."

"I don't recommend our salad," she went on.

"Cottage cheese?" I tried.

She stared at me some more, mumbled, "I'll see what we got," then took off again.

Barely surviving that, I was rethinking my foray into Misted Pines, because it didn't seem big-city girls were super welcome, as I reached for my water and took a sip.

I nearly did a spit take when a woman hopped onto the stool beside me, and she did this by putting both her hands to it, swinging her legs out to the sides as she hefted herself over it, and landing on her behind on the seat.

I stared at her in shock because, not only was this a strange thing to do, she wasn't young, though she wasn't exactly old, but she was quite a bit older than me.

That wasn't the half of it, though.

She was wearing a white T-shirt with a red Santa face emblazoned on the front and the words Smells Like Christmas Spirit surrounding it. Dangling from her ears were lines of little gold, red and green bells, and on her head was a slouchy red beanie with an edge of white fur.

All of this, and it was mid-May.

"Hey," she greeted, sticking a hand toward me aggressively for a shake. "I'm Kimmy."

"Uh…hey," I replied, hesitantly taking her hand because I didn't want to seem rude.

She shook, and her grip had about ten pounds more power than it needed before she let me go and asked, "You the woman renting Dave and Brenda's place?"

That was quite a guess.

Unless, from what I'd learned from Riggs's visit, word was getting around about me.

Seemed I was going to learn quickly about life in a small town.

I didn't want to confirm I was, because I didn't know this person, however I had another year to get through in Misted Pines, and she might find out eventually.

So I was forced to say, "Yes."

To this, she whistled…loud. Loud enough, people turned to look.

I fidgeted uneasily on my stool.

"So, have you seen him?" she asked.

I figured she was asking about Riggs, since any red-blooded woman would want to know that. But since I wasn't sure, I asked, "Seen who?"

"The ghost of Roosevelt Whitaker."

I felt my throat close.

Kimmy's sure didn't.

"I think all the others got it wrong. It isn't ole Rosie who's haunting the joint," she declared. "I mean, the man was messing around with his brother's wife. His twin brother's wife. He knew he was doing his brother dirty. I figure he went into that forever goodnight and stayed there because he knew he did wrong. I knew 'em, and seemed to me, those two men were tight. But a woman can hold a mean grudge."

"Um…"

"Everyone says she married the wrong brother, including me. Plain as day. Thick as thieves, Sarah and Roosevelt were. How Lincoln didn't see it, no one knows. Damn fool, if you ask me. Still, they shoulda come clean rather than carry on behind his back."

"Uh…"

"But that doesn't negate the fact she was his wife and the mother of his children, and he blew a huge hole in her chest instead of just blowing his stack. They say she was happy there. Happiest times she had was when she was at that cabin with her true love, even if the old ball and chain was around. So I say, she doesn't want anyone else there. She wants it all to herself. That's why she chases everyone off."

Chases everyone off.

And now I knew why no one had been at the cutest cabin west of the Mississippi (and possibly east of it) for three years.

"Kimmy," Dot greeted as she set a turquoise tumbler of some brown colored pop in front of her. "What's it gonna be today?"

"Reuban, Mags, thanks," Kimmy said, picking up the tumbler and sucking back a quarter of it in one draw.

I was uncertain she should have any more caffeine.

Dot/Maggie strolled away, and Kimmy turned back to me.

"Stick it out, girl. Things were looking dire, so Dave wanted to Airbnb the joint, but Lord knows, with all the hassle MP has been through the last few years, we don't need more strangers traipsing through here." She jerked a thumb at herself. "I'm not complaining, though I'd want other circumstances that brought it on. Fresh blood for my shop. I own the holiday store," she explained.

"You don't say," I mumbled.

She went directly into her spiel. "Yeah. Got one section, all Christmas all the time. But the rest of the store, I switch it out. Spring. Summer. Winter. Fall. Halloween. Thanksgiving. Easter. St. Patrick's Day. Fourth of July. The whole shebang."

"I saw that when I walked by your shop," I told her.

"You should come in," she invited. "Everyone could use an American flag, year-round, and I got every size you could need."

Actually, a flag would look good at the front of the cabin.

"I'll think on that."

"Anyway," she said over me finishing the word "that." "Brenda declared she put too much work in the place to have people going in and out, breaking her glasses, staining her toss pillows, not giving two bits because it's a vacation rental. She wanted a long-timer. So you gotta dig in. Ole Rosie, or Sarah, whichever one it is, never hurt anyone. They just moved some rocks around or scratched the windows…"

Scratched the windows?

My heartrate spiked.

Kimmy jabbed a finger at me. "…and that right there is why I think it's Sarah. Somehow, her spirit can't get inside. The stables are gone, which…obviously…was their happy place. That cabin was her other happy place. So that's my theory."

She then sucked back more pop.

I sipped my water to alleviate my suddenly dry mouth.

"So, one of them visit?" she pushed me.

"No," I lied, but I did it hoping I wasn't lying.

She seemed disappointed.

She explained this—insanely—by sharing, "Got no more serial killers hitting MP, never thought I'd say this, but things are kinda getting boring. But what I know is, business sure is dropping off."

"Serial killers?" I croaked.

She narrowed her eyes on me. "Yeah. Don't you know?"

"Um…"

"Damn, woman, how'd it escape you?"

I was wondering that myself, and I didn't even know what she was talking about. I just knew it was more of, from my brief experience, her general not good.

That said, I was an Antonov. My great-grandfather garnered media attention because of his backstory, and his ever-increasing wealth and tenacious pursuit of more. My grandmother and grandfather did the same, also because of their wealth, but Grandma was already famous before she even met my dedulya. Their tragic story was dredged up constantly over the years simply because it was tragic, and people loved a good tragedy.

Trevor and I had earned our own mentions, and they weren't minor, ditto the tragedy.

Then, obviously, there was the most recent calamity that had befallen the Antonov line.

I'd been trained by my mother and grandfather since I was young to ignore the media as much as I could, and truth told, more recently, I did it because they seemed dedicated less to the act of informing the public and more to dividing it.

I scanned the Chicago Tribune's daily e-newsletter to keep on top of current events, rarely clicking on any stories, and definitely not clicking on anything about serial killers.

I liked a good story, but I got mine from books.

Morbid, real-life stories weren't my thing.

Sure, one could say I was fascinated when Riggs told me about the sordid tale of the Whitakers last night, but I was living in their cabin.

And he was Riggs. He had an amazing voice that was deep and managed the miracle of being smooth and rough at the same time. So I could listen with fascination to anything he said, even if he was reciting his grocery list.

But…serial killers?

Plural?

Kimmy shimmied on her seat, settling in, and stated, "First, there was Ray Andrews. He wasn't a serial killer so much as a psychopath. Or a sociopath. I get those two mixed up. Anyway, he just wanted Cade Bohannan's attention. And he sure got it, along with a life sentence. Just wished he didn't kill those two girls before he got it. I mean, little Alice was only eight years old."

Eight years old?

Lord.

Unfortunately, Kimmy kept talking.

"Then there were those two numnuts, Ezra and Carrie, who murdered poor Brittanie out at the Good Times Motel. It's The Blue Mountain now. It's cute. So cute, I'd consider a stay-cay there. It needed fixing up, and Britt dying flushed out the Crystal Killer. Both good things, but again, I wouldn't want Brittanie dying in such an ugly way for us to get a nicer motel in town. Though, her sacrifice probably saved a lot of other girls, 'cause Richard Sandusky wasn't going to stop."

I'd heard of Richard Sandusky aka the Crystal Killer. I'd also heard he'd been caught. I even knew it happened in Washington State.

I hadn't heard it had anything to do with Misted Pines.

Boy, I hadn't done enough research before I'd moved.

And Riggs sure left a lot out when he was telling his story last night.

A lot.

"But that was a while ago," Kimmy continued. "And don't get me wrong. I don't want more of our girls getting dead. But you can't deny, it made things interesting and brought in the lookie-loos. Now, even the coven has stopped getting new members."

Dot/Maggie was now putting my plate in front of me.

I stared at her, probably like prey stuck in a predator's mouth.

I knew this was true when her eyes went from me, to Kimmy, back to me. She gave a short shake of her head, which wasn't much movement, but it spoke volumes, and those volumes said not to put much stock in what Kimmy said.

But still.

Dot/Maggie moved away, and now that I was in for a penny against my will, I might as well go for the pound.

So I asked, "Coven?"

She was finishing the last of her drink, but she barely swallowed when she said, "Yeah. The women wronged. I don't recommend watching the videos," she advised. "I'll just say, they got a knack for revenge that's original, if entirely pornographic."

Eek!

She went on, "But that whole thing going viral brought in like-minded ladies, and they all took over a subdivision. They don't cause any problems, though. Least, not after they expelled Ellen from their numbers after the crap she pulled at the town meeting."

I reached for one half of my sliced patty melt, noting that Dot/Maggie had managed to dredge up a small bowl of cut cantaloupe and honeydew, the first I liked okay, the second I didn't, but A for effort.

And I did this having hit my limit.

Yes, I needed to do the work I clearly didn't do in learning more about where I'd decided to land to sort my head out.

And yes, there were some words I needed to have with Riggs, because we'd spent hours together last night in what more and more seemed to turn into an impromptu date, but in the end he made it clear it absolutely wasn't (which hurt enormously, and thus was incredibly disappointing, at the same time I was glad he obviously wasn't attracted to me, because even though it sounded like he was out of town a lot, I had enough going on, I didn't need an entanglement with my neighbor that might turn awkward).

And he hadn't shared any of this.

And he should have, mostly because I'd asked.

Therefore, I urged Kimmy, "Tell me about your shop. Do you carry those beanies there?"

She straightened and declared, "Sure do. After lunch, we'll walk over, and I'll show you."

I did not want to own a fur-trimmed beanie that looked like a riff on a Santa hat.

I did want her to stop talking about dead girls, serial killers, revenge porn and ghosts that might or might not haunt the cabin I was living in.

So as she launched into the vision behind her patriotic summer campaign, I listened and adjusted my plans for that day.

Those being, after buying a Santa beanie I'd never wear, I was going to sit in my car, get on my phone and learn about Misted Pines.

Belatedly.

But necessarily.

And then I was going to go have a chat with Doc Riggs.