Hidden Secrets - A Whispering Pines Mystery, Book 4 (PAPERBACK)

Chapter 1
TRIPP BENNETT RESTED ONE HAND on the popup camper like a priest administering last rites.
“Why is this such a big deal?” He blew out a long slow breath. “We’re only moving it across the yard, not getting rid of it. Winter will be here before we know it, and I won’t be able to sleep in it anyway.”
The fifteen-foot camper had been sitting in my front yard since the day I hired Tripp to help with the house three months ago. Today it was leaving its post.
Despite Tripp’s turmoil, this was an exciting day. After months of backbreaking work renovating and converting my grandparents’ seven-bedroom lake house into a bed-and-breakfast, we were done. It was a little bittersweet as well. Opening our doors to guests meant that our time together was about to change in a big way. No more long leisurely nights sitting on the deck watching moonlight ripple off the lake while listening to the goosebump-inducing cries of the loons.
“Take a minute.” I placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, doing my best to remain patient with this process.
I really did understand his distress. Tripp had spent five years wandering the country, never staying in one place for long. Making spur-of-the-moment decisions wasn’t hard for him. Which paint colors or tiles to use in the nine bathrooms? That took maybe a half hour. Hire a chef or let Tripp do the cooking for Pine Time B&B? That took half a second. Tripp wasn’t handing his kitchen over to anyone. Not even me. Of course, I couldn’t cook. Deciding what to do with the little camper, however, took weeks.
Finally, we settled on tucking it along the far side of the detached garage where it wouldn’t be visible from either the house or by cars approaching on the quarter-mile-long driveway. We started the moving process this morning by hauling all his possessions from the trailer up to the attic. This took approximately fifteen minutes. Tripp didn’t own much. For the last twenty minutes he’d been psyching himself up to hitch the thing to the back of his partly red, partly rusty pickup truck.
“Okay.” He blew out one more breath. “I’m ready.”
“You’ve got this.” Good thing I was standing behind him. The rolling of my eyes was anything but supportive.
He hopped into the driver’s seat, put the truck in gear, and backed the camper up like a pro, positioning it next to the garage. Meeka, my West Highland White Terrier, inspected the moving process, barking her approval or giving a scolding yip when something wasn’t done to her satisfaction.
“I’ll get a tarp and cover it—” Tripp paused mid-sentence, squinted, and rushed back to where the camper had been.
“What’s wrong?” I jogged behind him, then saw dead spots in the yard from the wheels. A large rectangle of grass had turned yellow-green from being in the shadow of the popup.

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