by Mary Bowers
“Oh, do you think we could? They’re always booked solid for the changing of the leaves.”
She twinkled. “Remember me telling you about Evaline Klausen?”
“Evaline!” I cried, transported. “The one you met at that B&B – no, don’t tell me – I’ve almost got it – Trollhaven, right? In Fish Creek, Wisconsin.”
She sat down at the table and beamed at her clever niece. “The Trollhaven Guest Cabins. That’s right.”
“She’s still there, helping her father? I thought she was planning to move on.”
“She changed her mind. I told you that. Or maybe I didn’t.”
“No, you did. I remember now. Her dad owns the place and he needed help, but she was threatening to leave if she didn’t get a stake in things, so he let her invest, not that he needed a partner, but he was afraid that when he passed away the place would simply close, and he’s devoted his life to it – have I got the right story?”
“That’s the story. Exactly. Arnie Klausen. His son wasn’t interested in running a bed-and-breakfast. I think he got a fried chicken franchise or something. Anyway, according to Evaline, things have been tense between Arnie and Karl ever since. Arnie feels that Trollhaven is his family’s great achievement, a landmark, in fact, and instead of carrying on, his son became the worst kind of greedy capitalist. A franchise! Arnie was horrified. His son was a shoe-in for something unique like Trollhaven, and he didn’t appreciate it. Arnie is a bit of a crusty old codger, and very old-fashioned, I’m afraid. He wanted his son to carry on the business, not his daughter.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Poor Evaline was trapped in one of those situations, and she found that Nettie was the one person she could open up to without being given any impossible advice. People can be so flip, when it’s your problem and not theirs. But mostly, I smiled because I knew that Nettie was genuinely interested in the life and problems of a lady who ran a B&B where she’d once stayed for a few nights.
“So you still keep in touch with Evaline,” I said, loving my dear sweet aunt.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “We talk every few weeks, and it just so happens that she called me last night. They’ve had a cancellation.”
“No!”
“Yes. Some Florida people who had to scramble for home when that hurricane in the Gulf blew up unexpectedly. And the first person she thought of was me. I told her I had a niece staying with me, and she said that was even better, bring you along, she’d love to meet you. Now, it’s a one-bedroom cabin, but it has twin beds, and you and I have never had a problem sharing a room before.”
“And this is a cabin, not a room, right?” I said, letting myself get excited about it. “It’s not just a bedroom and a bathroom.”
“It’s got a little living room with a gas fireplace and a little nook with a table and chairs inside a bay window, and best of all, it has a screened-in front porch overlooking some beautiful trees.”
“Oh, let’s go for it! Let’s see, this is Friday. Is it only available for the weekend, or do we get some days next week, too?”
“It’s for today through Tuesday. Five days, four nights, as the travel agents say.”
“Perfect. And,” I said, trying to be stern, “along the way in the car, we can discuss the way you’re handling Duke. Or actually, how you’re not handling Duke.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, very serious but not meaning a word of it. “I know I could use some advice.”
I looked at her suspiciously, but she had her sweet face on, and nobody gets past that. And we were going to Door County, the peninsula that juts up the east side of Wisconsin, with Lake Michigan on one side and Green Bay on the other. It’s thick with virgin forest and lined with tidy little villages and unique shops and restaurants. It was beautiful at any time of the year, even winter, when it was buried in quiet snow, but this would be the best time of the year, when the fall color was still set off by a few green leaves for contrast. It had been settled by Scandinavians and still had some of that quaint, Nordic flavor. At least, it had the last time I’d been there.
I could bring that new fall anorak I’d just bought that looked so great on me. With my cool complexion and dark hair, the rich plum color of it suited me perfectly, and it had a detachable hood that framed my face movie-star style. And I’d just washed out all my jeans, so that was all right. We wouldn’t be getting dressy in Door County.
If it hadn’t been for the smug little smile she had on her face when I happened to glance up at her, I would have forgotten about Duke by that time.
“I really mean it,” I said, seriousing up again. “You’re going to have to toughen up about Duke or he’s going to walk all over you. Before you know it, he’s going to have you in a hammerlock and be marching you down the aisle.”
She patted my hand. “I’ve been holding Duke off for ten years now. And I have a secret weapon, where he’s concerned. He’s not marching me off to anyplace I don’t want to go. Now you go and pack. I’ll clear up the breakfast things.”
I gave her a grimace, impulsively pecked a kiss onto her soft cheek, and went off to sling a few things into a suitcase. As I packed, I could hear her happily humming to herself in the kitchen as she worked. It gave me a warm feeling. Don’t get me wrong: Nettie’s an upbeat person, but she’s not a hummer. It made me feel especially excited about the trip to know how much she was looking forward to it, too.
It wasn’t until we were in the car and on our way that I found out why my aunt was so happy she just had to hum. As usual with Nettie, there were wheels within wheels. I wasn’t just going along on a serendipitous trip because I was her beloved niece (which I am). I had been cast in the role of chaperone.
She had a secret weapon, all right.
Chapter 3 – Aunt Nettie’s Complicated Love Life
Once we had settled on our route, with Aunt Nettie driving and me using her tablet to put a hold on the morning newspaper delivery, I tried to bring up Duke. It was time, I told her, for the gloves to come off. No jury would convict her for breaking his nose, once they got a good look at her and an even better look at him. Of course, an order of protection was out of the question. The only thing he’d been threatening her with was marriage. The cops would just think it was old folks being cute. Obnoxiousness was not against the law.
We had managed to back out of her driveway and make our getaway without Duke noticing, or, if he’d been lurking again, he’d probably thought we were just going shopping. Anyway, we made a clean getaway.
Once we were headed for the expressway I began to do battle with her in-car GPS, which of course was hopeless, but I gave it a try anyway. Five minutes later I put my phone on a charger and used its generic GPS, and after that we could relax and just move on down the road. Our ETA was 2:13 p.m., according to the GPS, but we’d be stopping for lunch, which meant we’d be there about 4:30, the way Nettie drives. Also, traffic was going to be heavy; on Friday afternoons in the summer and fall, Illinoisans make for Wisconsin like lemmings. Still, I could have made it there an hour sooner, which was why I wasn’t driving.
She waited until we were past Milwaukee to lay the news on me. Beyond that point, it was all little towns, barns and farmhouses, soft rolling hills all green and gold, and patches of forest starting to show the colors of autumn.
“Actually, dear,” she said, quite seriously, “I have been meaning to ask your advice on something, and it does have to do with a man.”
“Well, it’s about time. From what I can see, you’ve been handling him absolutely the wrong way.”
She seemed confused for a moment. “How clever you young people are. You knew? However did you find out? I don’t post details of my love life on the internet.”
“What love life? You’re not saying you’re in love with him?”
“Perhaps.”
I turned to stare at her, aghast. Even then, a little voice tried to tell me that I would work toward supporting auntie’s December romance, no matter how uncouth the old fa
rt was, just for the love of my aunt, but jeez. While I tried to reframe my thoughts, she hesitated, then went on.
“Oh, well, maybe not love, exactly,” she said, getting all pink and maidenly. “But I do like him very much, and he’s going to be there. I think, in fact, that my friend Evaline is trying to play cupid. She’s the one who called him.”
I blinked, trying to keep up. “Just to be clear, we’re not talking about Duke here, right?”
“Oh, heavens no, Paige. What made you think of Duke?”
I waved a hand. “Just how many men do you have after you? And if we’re not talking about Duke, who are we talking about, and why is he going to be at Trollhaven?”
“Well, it was two couples from Florida who had to cancel at the last minute – they’re friends, you know, and they were going to be traveling together – so Evaline needed to rebook two cabins.”
“And?”
“Well, there’s this man who lives in Wisconsin, over near The Dells, and we got to be friendly on that trip to Paris I took.”
“Define friendly.”
She laughed musically. “I told you about my trip to Paris.”
“Never mind Paris,” I said impatiently. “Tell me about this man.”
“He’s very nice, although you may be a bit put off by him at first.” She took her eyes off the road for a split-second and gave me an intent look. “He’s a very quiet person, and comes across as . . . oh, how do I say it?”
She wasn’t intentionally trying to drive me insane, but before I could do something that would set off the passenger-seat airbag, I took three deep breaths, settled myself down and said, “Just tell me about him. Start anywhere. What does he do for a living?”
“As far as I know, he’s not working anymore. He’s a retired homicide detective.”
“Homicide?” I said weakly.
“Oh, it doesn’t show when you look at him,” she reassured me. “He’s a widower, and his only son has died, and all things considered it’s not surprising that he’s a little withdrawn. But he’s very nice, really, once you get to know him. Although I don’t think he lets just anybody get to know him,” she added thoughtfully.
I was staring at her by this time. “What’s his name?”
“Henry. I’ve always liked the name Henry. His name is Henry Dawson. Come to think of it, I’ve always liked the name Dawson, too. I had an English teacher – ”
“Never mind the English teacher. Are you telling me that some man you just met on a tour is going to be at Trollhaven?”
“Well, actually, yes, he is. And I hope you’re going to like him,” she said, slightly worried.
“Uh huh. Just exactly how much do you like him?”
She paused, and when she spoke, her voice was just a tad softer, just a tad lower. “Oh, I like him a lot.”
I gave it a moment’s thought. “Is he bigger than Duke?” I asked finally.
She considered. “About the same size, I think, but much more . . . oh . . . put together, if you know what I mean. And of course,” she added lightly, “he knows how to use a gun.”
“Oh, good,” I said, hoping she wasn’t speaking in metaphors. She couldn’t be, could she? I mean, she was old.
This is the point where we should have laughed together at the thought of Henry needing to gun Duke down in the driveway, but we didn’t. She seemed too worried that I wasn’t going to like Henry, and I was too surprised about my aunt’s love life being hotter than my own to have anything else to say.
Whoda thunk? My dear little Aunt Nettie had picked up a guy in Paris. And he knew how to use a gun.
* * * * *
I’m careful about my diet as a rule, but this was rural Wisconsin. Cheese everywhere, and a lot of it ends up battered and deep fried. It fills out your lunch plate next to the french fries and the main course, which will be something on a bun, and even that may be battered and fried. So I’m careful about my diet, but I don’t obsess about it in impossible situations.
We stopped for lunch at a roadside hamburger stand and I went ahead and ate like the locals did. Actually, the soup of the day – cheddar-beer soup – was worth defying the diet experts. And you talk about filling . . . we wouldn’t need to stop again until we got to Door County, though we did decide to stop in Algoma and get some cherry wine to drink while sitting on our cabin’s porch. I happen to like Von Stiehl cherry wine, and I don’t get it very often, so we got a case of it, along with some cheese straws and a couple of pretty wineglasses. We wanted leftovers to take home, but it partly depended on how many drinking buddies we found in Fish Creek. Mr. Dawson, for one.
I hadn’t been up the Door County Peninsula in a while, and the first thing I noticed was the proliferation of little wineries along the road. There was even the occasional distillery now. I was still glad we’d stopped at Von Stiehl, though. The precise flavor of that wine puts me in a very nice place – inside the memory of visiting Door County on a trip with my mom and dad and Aunt Nettie, about 15 years earlier. I was not quite legal for wine drinking at the time, (not that that stopped me), and what with tasting the wines in the sales room and taking some along to consume in our suite, it became the flavor of that trip. Even the smell of the tasting room took me back. Those had been good days.
And now I was here with Aunt Nettie again, my mom was gone and I didn’t seem to see much of my dad anymore. After an unnecessarily thorough trip down the wine list and in the glow of golden memories, it’s a wonder I didn’t get back in the car crying. I thought how lucky it was we weren’t staying at the same hotel we’d been at with my parents, all those years ago. I think I would’ve gotten depressed if everything was the same as it had been on that trip, except for the glaring absence of my parents.
Nettie understood. Her lips were a little trembly, too. She touched my hand, smiled at me and started the car. After giving me a few minutes to settle, she began to talk about Detective Dawson again, probably because she knew I was worried about the Paris dude and it would distract me.
So between Algoma and Fish Creek, I learned a lot about Mr. Henry Dawson, at least as much as my aunt knew. I had already known that there were incidents on that trip – murders, in fact – but I hadn’t realized how much my aunt and Mr. Dawson had contributed to the unravelling of those crimes. She probably had left all that out because it might shock me, which it would have.
Slowly, imperceptibly, my attitude toward the mystery man began to shift from getting ready to defend my aunt’s virtue to being very curious about this former homicide cop. Images from The Big Sleep began to form in my mind, images of a good old-fashioned gumshoe on the job, world-weary, cynical, but still holding onto his core sense of honor.
I was going to be very disappointed if Mr. Dawson turned out to look like Santa Claus.
Chapter 4 - Trollhaven
There’s a steep, winding hill, forested on both sides, leading into the community of Fish Creek. We drove into town in the late afternoon and the main street was bustling with car traffic and a lot of pedestrians who weren’t watching where they were going. The busiest part of town was to our right, but at the intersection, we turned left and within a block we were suddenly far away.
The Trollhaven Guest Cabins had been set back inside a patch of forest next to the bayfront, and despite the bed-and-breakfasts that lined the other side of the street, somehow Trollhaven managed to be all alone. That was mostly because the cabins were just far enough back from the road to be nearly invisible. The forest around them hadn’t been managed in any unnatural any way. It simply grew as forests grow, calm and eternal, surrounding the row of cabins in an almost friendly way.
There was a main house for the owners, with a hand-carved sign over the porch entrance, then four little cabins going off to the right side of it. Next in line was a larger cabin, more like a house, but not nearly as big as the main house. Beyond that were two more little cabins, making seven rental accommodations in all.
Though old, the wooden buildings were newly p
ainted and looked fresh. All of them had been painted white with forest green trim, and all had screened-in porches. It wasn’t the Holiday Inn. It was more like granny’s farmstead. And being precisely where it was, it was possible to imagine yourself deep in the woods. Somehow the bustle of the downtown didn’t carry over to Trollhaven.
For some reason, as I stepped out of the car into the cool autumn air, my imagination took hold of me. It was so easy, among all these untended trees and the mulchy forest floor, to imagine all sorts of things. Just over a little rise, the waters of the bay made an occasional washy sound as they hit the shore. Twisted trunks of trees seemed intentionally formed, as if somebody had had a purpose for them. Little shoots and saplings filled in spaces without blocking the sun, and the golden haze of the dying leaves colored the forest. One patch of brilliant red from a maple lit up the spot like a cold fire.
Nettie was already walking toward the main house to check in, but I found myself rooted for a moment, just hearing the quiet, and feeling the air. I had to remind myself that the main street of the town was only a block and a half away. Trollhaven seemed to be living in an enchanted space of its own.
There was a legend about Trollhaven. My aunt had mentioned it in an off-hand way, and said it was reprinted in their brochures, but I hadn’t seen one yet. Tourist nonsense, created to bring in business, no doubt. Something about . . . oh, right. A troll, of course. Silly me. I’d have to get a brochure and read up on it, but just then I found I’d been left behind and got myself moving toward the main house to help my aunt check us in.
“Are you the lady?” a little voice said beside me.
I hadn’t seen a living soul yet, and after getting immersed in my imagination, the quiet little voice sent a cold thrill through me. I came to a shuddering stop and looked around, hoping I’d see something human.
I did. It was a little girl, blond and delicate and apparently, shy. She’d spoken to me, then taken a few steps back when I turned on her.