Page 2 of Little Buried Secrets

The following morning

I woke feeling off, and I wasn’t sure why. Glancing at the clock on my nightstand, I realized I’d risen later than normal, which wasn’t like me. Most days, my body was its own internal clock, and I never had to set an alarm. So why was today different than all the rest?

I had one sneaking suspicion.

Several months ago, I’d started feeling hotter than usual, and given it was December, I should have been reaching for my coat. Instead, I’d been stripping it off, fanning my face with my hand. I’d also felt tired and rundown, and I’d been forgetting things, like where I’d placed items in the house. On top of it all was a change in my mood, which was requiring a lot more effort to keep balanced.

At a recent Sunday dinner at my mother’s house, she caught me fanning myself and suggested I get some bloodwork done. I put it off for a couple of weeks, but she kept pestering me until I relented. I made an appointment with Dr. Rae Remington, a woman who was also a good friend. As it turned out, my testosterone levels had just about flatlined, and there was a simple explanation why: I was entering menopause.

Yippee for me.

Upon hearing the news, my first question was how long the menopause madness would last.

It was a good question, but it had a less than satisfactory answer.

Seven to fourteen years on average.

Fourteen flipping years of menopause?

I couldn’t bear the thought of it.

Even now.

I slid out of bed, rolled out my yoga mat, and did a quick fifteen-minute morning meditation session. Then I got in the shower. When I finished and stepped out, I realized I was no longer alone in the bathroom. Luka, my Samoyed, was sitting on the floor. He was staring up at me, his head cocked to the side like he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been served breakfast yet.

“I know, boy,” I said. “It’s coming. Let me get dressed, and you’ll get your breakfast.”

Once he heard me utter the word breakfast, he spun around in gleeful anticipation. I reached down, smiling as I gave him a pat. I put on a pair of gray, high-waisted trousers and a violet, short-sleeved wrap blouse, and we hit the kitchen.

Dog food for him.

Eggs for me.

Eggs for him.

And it was time to go.

I grabbed my coat, even though I doubted I’d need it, and walked to the car, opening the passenger-side door. Luka hopped inside, and we headed to the office for a morning meeting with fellow private investigators Simone Bonet and Lilia Hunter.

Business at the Case Closed Detective Agency had been slow of late. For me, anyway. There had been no murders to investigate, no major crimes committed around town. I supposed it was a good thing, but it had left me feeling antsy and in need of a stimulating case.

I turned onto the highway leading into town, reducing my speed when I spotted Rex Foley’s car parked on the side of the road. He was the chief of police for San Luis Obispo County in California. He was also dating my sister, Phoebe. I considered driving by and not stopping, until I noticed Foley was standing next to Detective Amos Whitlock, their eyes fixated on what appeared to be a mangled bicycle.

I pulled behind Foley’s car and parked, which shifted his attention. He looked over and shook his head at me, like he wasn’t surprised I’d turned up. I told Luka I’d just be a minute, and then I got out of the car.

Whitlock, who was dressed in a navy turtleneck, matching trousers, and a pair of shiny black shoes, grinned at me and said, “Lovely to see you this fine morning.”

Foley wasn’t as welcoming. “What are you doing here, Georgiana?”

He’d started growing a mustache since I’d seen him last, which gave me Tom Selleck Magnum P.I. vibes, except unlike Tom’s luscious locks, Foley had no hair left on his head.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“We’re checking out this bike.”

I bent down to get a closer look.

“Don’t touch it,” Foley said.

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