This Secret Thing Read online

  PRAISE FOR MARYBETH MAYHEW WHALEN

  “Each character’s voice is distinct and lived in as the reader gradually connects the threads tying everyone in this small town together . . . There’s a lot here. An intriguing mystery filled with hearty characters.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Multilayered characters lift this elegantly plotted crime novel from Whalen (The Things We Wish Were True) . . . Loads of hidden love stories and small-town gossip will keep readers turning the pages.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[Only Ever Her] will satisfy those who enjoy watching a community’s underbelly exposed.”

  —Library Journal

  “An inherently fascinating, page-turner of a read by an author with an impressively skilled narrative storytelling style.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Marybeth Mayhew Whalen’s character-driven suspense propelled me through the pages with a relentless need to absorb every word. Unputdownable!”

  —Robyn Carr, New York Times bestselling author

  OTHER TITLES BY MARYBETH MAYHEW WHALEN

  Only Ever Her

  When We Were Worthy

  The Things We Wish Were True

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Marybeth Mayhew Whalen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542019477

  ISBN-10: 1542019478

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  To the four most dangerous women in the world Beaucatchers, all

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  PODCAST TRANSCRIPT: THE NOSY NEIGHBOR, EPISODE 108

  Norah

  Violet

  Nico

  Violet

  Casey

  Polly

  Violet

  Casey

  Bess

  Violet

  Casey

  Norah

  Polly

  Violet

  Bess

  Nico

  Casey

  Bess

  Polly

  Violet

  Casey

  Violet

  Nico

  Polly

  Violet

  Polly

  Bess

  Nico

  Polly

  Violet

  Casey

  Bess

  Nico

  Violet

  Polly

  Casey

  Bess

  Violet

  Polly

  Violet

  Nico

  Bess

  Casey

  Polly

  Bess

  Nico

  Violet

  Casey

  Violet

  Nico

  Polly

  Bess

  POPPY-SEED CHICKEN CASSEROLE

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Your beauty was theirs for the asking.

  Ezekiel 16:15b

  PODCAST TRANSCRIPT: THE NOSY NEIGHBOR, EPISODE 108

  BILL PARSONS, HOST: I’d like to welcome back all of my loyal listeners to the Nosy Neighbor podcast. I’m your host, Bill Parsons. If you’re new to the podcast, well, then, welcome to the show devoted to asking questions and finding out details about some of the nation’s most intriguing cases. For an hour each week, we invite you to be that nosy neighbor you don’t want to admit you are. We delve into the gossip and peek behind the blinds. This week’s show is no exception and one we’ve had requested for the past two years. It seems you all want to know the truth behind the arrest of the so-called suburban madam, Norah Ramsey, in Raleigh, North Carolina.

  Rumors of Ramsey’s ties to some pretty important men in Raleigh—a city known as a center for technology and the North Carolina state government—were rampant and relentless. And when news of the discovery of a body in the lake near Norah Ramsey’s suburban residence hit, interest in this case reached a fever pitch. And I think in today’s episode you’ll find out why. Today we’ve got one of Norah Ramsey’s actual neighbors with us. Bess Strickland, welcome to the podcast.

  BESS STRICKLAND: Thank you, Bill. [Clears throat.] Excuse me.

  BILL PARSONS: Would you like a drink of water?

  BESS STRICKLAND: No, I’m fine. I’m just a bit . . . nervous. Talking about what happened can still be sort of . . . hard.

  BILL PARSONS: But you felt it was important to come on the show.

  BESS STRICKLAND: Yes. I did. Those of us who were personally affected by this case feel strongly that the true story needs to be told. There are a lot of rumors lingering that are just . . . inaccurate. There were people who were impacted by this case who did nothing wrong, and I think that’s important to keep in mind. As someone who cares about my neighbors, I just want to make sure they’re fairly represented.

  BILL PARSONS: I’m sure. And don’t worry. We’ll make this easy. Let’s just start with who you are in relation to Norah Ramsey.

  BESS STRICKLAND: Well, like you said, Bill, I am—or I was—her neighbor. We lived on the same street. Our daughters were best friends and, well, once we were, too.

  BILL PARSONS: Is there a story there?

  BESS STRICKLAND: Not really. We just grew apart. It happens.

  BILL PARSONS: Indeed it does. From what I’ve read, Norah kept pretty much to herself. Wasn’t really close to anyone. Mainly just interacted with her daughter, Violet, who was, what, fifteen when all this occurred?

  BESS STRICKLAND: Yes, our daughters are the same age. They were both fifteen when Norah was arrested.

  BILL PARSONS: And you said they were best friends?

  BESS STRICKLAND: Well, that friendship had actually tapered off, too. Both girls had started moving in different directions. No real falling out or anything. Just growing up, you know?

  BILL PARSONS: But it was that friendship that prompted Norah Ramsey to send her daughter, Violet, to stay with you when she was arrested, am I right?

  BESS STRICKLAND: Yes, that’s right. Violet came directly to my house after the police allowed her to pack some things. They were searching the house, from what I understand, for evidence or whatever, so Violet had to leave while that was taking place. That went on for a couple of days, as I recall.

  BILL PARSONS: I bet that was hard for the whole neighborhood. Cops everywhere. The press. Onlookers trying to get a glimpse of “The Madam’s House.”

  BESS STRICKLAND: Yes, it was a stressful time for all of us. But, to be clear, Norah did not run a bordello out of her home. That was all run out of the spa used as a front. Our neighborhood was—well, it still is—a family-friendly community. It’s not the place where something like that would happen.

  BILL PARSONS: But it did, though. Didn’t it?

  BESS STRICKLAND: [voice barely audible] Yes, I guess it did.

  BILL PARSONS: OK, we’re going to take a short break to hear from one of our sponsors. But stay tuned because when we come back, we’re going to hear more from Bess Strickland, giving us all that peek inside the home of Norah Ramsey, bringing o
ut your inner nosy neighbor. Don’t go away.

  Norah

  August 25

  She was shopping online for luxury-brand anti-aging cream, about to press “Purchase” to spend more money than she cared to admit for the sake of her vanity, when her phone buzzed beside her. Lately, whenever that phone went off, she experienced a jolt of anxiety. It felt like a small seizure.

  She could still recall when the sound of the ringing phone had meant creditors chasing her down, how her body had reacted the exact same way then. She could only guess it was like muscle memory: what to do in cases of severe panic. Back then she had thought that was as bad as it could get, owing money she didn’t have to people who expected to collect it nonetheless. Funny how that time—those old phone calls—had led right up to this one, to these mini seizures every time the phone rang all over again.

  When she saw that it was just Violet calling, she exhaled loudly, her breath making a whooshing sound in the otherwise quiet room. She needed to turn on some music, and fast. Music always made her feel better, drove the demons away. Quiet just bred anxiety. When baby Violet had cried, she used to turn the music louder than her wails. She would hold her on her hip and the two of them would dance away the tears.

  She answered the phone. “Hey, baby,” she said to her only child, hoping that the tone of her voice belied any wisps of lingering panic. She didn’t want to alarm her daughter. Because no matter what happened, Violet would be fine. Norah would make sure of that. Norah always made sure of that.

  She heard static on the other end, only pieces of her daughter’s voice coming through, staccato syllables. Sometimes when this happened, she wondered if her phone was bugged. She glanced around the den, wondering if it was bugged, too. If someone was listening to her right now. Or, God forbid, watching her. She glanced down at the threadbare T-shirt and very old sweatpants she wore. She was just being paranoid.

  “Vi?” she asked the static.

  “Mom?” She heard her daughter’s voice, then more static.

  “Vi! Call me back!” she hollered into the phone. She ended the call, put the phone on her lap, and waited. A moment went by before it buzzed again. She smiled and picked it up. “Is that better?” she asked.

  “Huh?” a voice said. She had not looked to see who it was. In that brief moment, as she’d waited for Violet to call back, she’d forgotten to be worried. Not that she wouldn’t have answered her business partner’s call if she’d looked first. She and Lois were in this together, after all. They were all each other had right now.

  “Sorry, Lo,” she said. “I thought you were Vi. We had a bad connection earlier.”

  “He was there again,” Lois said, skipping pleasantries. Norah heard the anxiety in her friend’s voice.

  “Wh-what was he doing?” she asked.

  “You know, skulking around like he always does. Looking with those eyes of his. Asking lots of stupid questions. He asked to use the bathroom, and Tessa said he had to be a paying customer. He said, ‘Oh yeah, I’m sure I do.’”

  “Tessa told you this?” Norah asked.

  “Yes, she called as soon as he left.”

  Norah sighed into the phone because there was nothing else to say.

  “He’s a cop,” Lois said.

  “We don’t know that.” Norah’s words came out too fast, too desperate, to be reassuring.

  Lois sighed too. “Yes, we do.”

  The two women sat silently on the phone, listening to each other breathe as they each weighed their options. They’d always known this day could come. But things had been going so well for so long, they’d almost forgotten about the possibility.

  Lois spoke up. “I think it’s time for plan B.”

  “I guess it is,” Norah agreed. She’d been thinking the same thing but also wondering, was this panicking too soon, folding needlessly? She didn’t know, but she wasn’t willing to be at risk anymore. The infamous plan B was dreamed up the same night as plan A, a night of much wine and laughter, when success seemed like the only future they would have. Success, and money. Money to buy expensive eye cream to prevent the signs of aging. Money to keep creditors at bay forever. Money to provide a freedom neither she nor Lois had ever known. But the time for plan B had come. And who knew what would come after that? Certainly not Norah.

  “So this is goodbye,” Norah said.

  Lois’s voice in response was choked with tears. “Just for now.”

  Though Lo couldn’t see her, Norah nodded. “So, then I’ll just say, ‘See you soon.’”

  “Remember what we said? Remember what we promised?” Lois asked, and she sounded like a very scared little girl.

  “Mouth shut,” Norah intoned. “I remember.”

  “Mouth shut,” Lois agreed. “Whichever one of us goes down, we go down alone. We take no one else with us. I’ll do it for you.”

  “And I, you,” Norah replied, the words from that long-ago night of plan-B scheming coming back to her like those verses she used to memorize back when her mother, Polly, went through that religious phase and dragged her to church every Sunday. Which of Polly’s husbands had been the religious one? Norah wondered, more because thinking about the past was easier than thinking about the present. When she was little, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t turn out like her mother. And she hadn’t. She’d managed to turn out worse.

  Norah heard the click on the other end that meant Lois had hung up.

  “You think you’re better than me,” Polly used to say. “You’ll see someday. You’ll see.”

  And now, she did.

  Violet

  September 24

  On Wednesday Violet’s mother brought a pumpkin home, and on Thursday Violet’s mother got arrested. When the student volunteer, a boy with a facial tic that only drew more attention to his terrible acne, came to get her out of class because the police were there for her, Violet followed him silently, thinking as she walked to the school office that she should’ve known something was up when her mother got that pumpkin so early. It wasn’t even October yet. The damn thing would probably be rotten by the time they went to carve it.

  A policeman drove her home, the size of the houses growing with each neighborhood they passed—big, bigger, biggest. He asked her inane questions throughout the drive, like they were just two people passing the time for no particular reason at all. He could’ve been an Uber driver, except for the uniform. He asked her name, even though he already knew what it was: Violet Ramsey. He asked how old she was: Fifteen. What grade she was in: Tenth. What her favorite food was: Sushi. If she’d lived in Raleigh her whole life: Yes. The officer probably thought he was getting her mind off what was happening, but it wasn’t working.

  Even as Violet answered his questions, a million questions of her own were running through her mind: Where is my mom? What did she do? What’s going to happen to her? What’s going to happen to me? She looked out the window at the familiar surroundings, keeping watch for their house to come into view, ready to spot that orange pumpkin sitting on the porch like a beacon.

  The officer pulled in front of their house and put the car in park but didn’t turn off the engine. A man stood on the front porch right beside the pumpkin, waiting for them. He was a policeman, too, but he wasn’t wearing a uniform. Violet knew from cop shows on TV that that meant he was higher up in the police force, a detective or something.

  Someone opened her car door, startling her. She looked up, expecting to see another cop, but instead she saw Mr. Sheridan, from their swim club. Just this summer Violet had helped his daughter learn to jump off the diving board, holding her arms up time after time as she coaxed the little girl to leap. She was four and scared, but, with time, she grew brave. By the end of the summer, she was jumping without Violet there.

  Mr. Sheridan had addressed her exactly once this summer, marveling at how Violet had achieved something he could not. They’d stood side by side as they watched his daughter plunge into the water and come up grinning and shrieking, Viol
et, self-conscious in the new bikini Nicole had talked her into, and Mr. Sheridan, wan and paunchy in his beige swim trunks. And now here they were, blinking at each other as he extended his hand to help her out of the car. His hand was soft and meaty; her own hand disappeared inside it.

  “Your mom asked me to come,” he said. Then he cleared his throat, looking pained.

  “M-my mom? Asked you?” She had never seen her mother speak to Mr. Sheridan at the pool, or anywhere else for that matter.

  He nodded. “I’m her attorney.” He handed her a business card as proof.

  She glanced down just long enough to see “Jim Sheridan, Attorney.” Then underneath it, the words “Specializing in Criminal Defense.” She focused on just one word: criminal. He patted her back in an awkward attempt to comfort her, and she shoved the card in the back pocket of her jeans.

  Mr. Sheridan pointed at the man waiting on the porch. “I think they want us to hurry this along,” he said. He gave her an apologetic look.

  “Hurry what along?” she asked. Her mother’s car was in the driveway. Violet had thought they were taking her home to see her so she could explain what was happening. Obviously something was very wrong. She feared she was going to have to go inside and see her mom in handcuffs, because that was the worst thing she could imagine. But, looking at Mr. Sheridan’s face, she realized that wasn’t what they were there for.

  “They’re going to escort you in so you can gather some of your belongings—things you’ll need for a few days, maybe even a week.” Her eyes widened, and he winced. “Jeez, I’m sorry. I thought they told you this already.”

  “My mom’s not here?” she asked, sounding stupid, sounding like a child. She pointed at her mother’s car, parked right where she’d left it the evening before. Violet had suspected she hadn’t parked it in the garage because she wanted to carry that big heavy pumpkin right up the front sidewalk and put it on the porch. Violet had watched from her window as her mother struggled under the pumpkin’s weight and roundness. She could barely get a good grip on it and almost dropped it twice.

  She’d laughed and knocked on the window at her, but her mother hadn’t heard. She hadn’t told her mom that she saw her carry the pumpkin, never even mentioned the pumpkin at all. She should’ve asked her about it that morning. She should’ve asked why she had bought a pumpkin so early. But her mom had been on her computer with her mouth pulled tight, which meant to leave her alone. Violet was thinking about the upcoming test in first period anyway. They’d barely acknowledged each other. It had been a normal morning.