Missing in Michigan: A Paranormal Mystery (Alexa Bentley Paranormal Mysteries Book 1)

by April A. Taylor

  Even with this admonishment fresh in my mind, I’m stunned again when I meet Professor Williams. He’s part of the local tribe, and he’s cleaner cut than anyone I’ve ever met.

  “Ah, Ms. Bentley, correct?” he asks while shaking my hand.

  “Yes, thank you so much for meeting with me!” My words are overly exuberant, most likely in an attempt to hide my surprise. I mentally chide myself; Wow, Alex. Would you just be cool for once? Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to notice, and before I know it, we’re sitting in his office.

  “So, Chad Hambler tells me you want to learn about Native American folklore? I’m happy to help,” he smiles. “You’re not the first author to turn to me for assistance.”

  What? Oh, yeah. My lie about being an author gained me this meeting. Without it, I wouldn’t be sitting here, and I certainly wouldn’t have warm memories from last night of a certain handsome sheriff. Determined not to let my daydreams get the better of me, I refocus my full attention on the man in front of me.

  He’s got short, black hair and darker skin than my pasty whiteness, but not nearly as dark as I’d expected. Strike three, I tell myself, cringing at my shocking lack of knowledge regarding his culture. I swear he can read my mind because he says, “I know all of this may look a bit different than you’d envisioned.”

  “I’m sorry,” I blush.

  “Don’t be. How can you learn about another culture if you don’t experience it for yourself? We don’t expect you to come here knowing everything. But we do expect you to walk in with an open heart and open mind.”

  “Thank you, professor.”

  “Please, call me Wayne.”

  “Wayne Williams?”

  “I know, I know. I couldn’t possibly sound whiter if I tried,” he jokes. “Believe it or not, Smith is now one of the most common Indian surnames. Williams isn’t far behind. My father was a big John Wayne fan, to answer your other question.”

  I’m intrigued by how easily this man understands my thoughts. His grace at my clumsy questions is endearing, and his skills as an orator make me wish I could sign up for one of his classes.

  “You’re very kind, Wayne. What can you tell me about the wendigo legend?

  “Ah, yes. The wendigo, such a fascinating creature! Ojibwe legends teach us that wendigo should be avoided at all costs. They’re foul, supernatural creatures that survive via cannibalization and dining on humans. Of course, that’s a bit repetitive because many legends say humans who resort to cannibalism are the ones who become a wendigo. They’re never satisfied, either. A wendigo could burst into this room and eat both of us, and it would still leave with a gnawing hunger in its stomach.

  “The name wendigo – oh, and the plural form is wendigoag, not wendigos – means ‘evil spirit that eats mankind.’ There are many physical descriptions, and they’re all equally nasty. Most say they soar above their prey at fourteen or fifteen feet tall. Fire glows in their eyes, and their fangs are longer and more vicious than a tiger’s. They might have matted, light brown fur. Alternately, they could be furless with yellow, decaying skin.”

  I realize I’m sitting on the edge of my seat. Uncertain if he’s at a true stopping point, I risk a question. “So… do you believe they’re real?”

  His head cocks to the side and he loses the battle with his urge to laugh. “No, of course not. But it’s a great legend, right? Spooky enough for your book, I’m betting. Oh, but there is one nugget of truth to the entire thing. Wendigo psychosis is an actual medical condition. This is what happens when someone is trapped alone in the winter and unable to find enough food to survive. In the late 1800s, Swift Runner killed his entire family and ate them. The judge determined he had wendigo psychosis at the time, although that didn’t stop local law enforcement from executing him for his crimes.”

  “That’s terrible! And you really believe wendigo psychosis is real?”

  “Let’s just say I believe a combination of desperation and evil can cause men to do unspeakable things. Whether it’s because they had wendigo psychosis or merely murderous intentions, the result was always the same.”

  “Where are wendigo supposed to roam?”

  “Anywhere wooded, especially in the winter. But legends do point out a clear predilection for the most remote areas available. For example, Isle Royale.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say Isle Royale?”

  “Yes,” he says as confusion scrunches his face. “But remember, it’s just a legend.”

  He relaxes, but I get tighter than ever. I have to go to that island. “How does one go to Isle Royale?”

  “You shouldn’t,” he blurts. Then, more slowly, he explains. “First, it’s the offseason, so getting there is practically impossible. It’s also not safe to be there, particularly during the autumn and winter months.”

  “Wendigo season, I presume?” I say lightly.

  His face turns graven. “No. But believe me when I say that even if the wendigo legends were true, there are worse things than wendigoag.”

  “I bet you’re hungry after the long drive out here,” he says, masterfully attempting to change the subject. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be pulled off topic so easily. But he’s right; I’m famished.

  He convinces me to go to a local diner for dinner. I know he’s being nice, and probably nothing more, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s wrong to be excited about the company of another man. I quickly snuff out that line of thought. I’m not in a relationship with anyone, nor am I looking to be. If I want to enjoy the company of different men on back-to-back evenings, well, that’s my prerogative.

  Still, it’s shockingly odd that I, perpetually single girl Alexa Bentley, have noticed two men during this trip. And even odder, they both appear to have noticed me, too. At least a little bit, anyway.

  Wayne casually relaxes on his side of a large, comfortable booth. The dark wooden table is so high, and the seat is so deep, that I feel like a child. Wayne doesn’t have that problem, though. He towers over me with a solid frame that exceeds six feet, which puts him more than half a foot taller than me.

  I take the time to truly drink him in for the first time today. Chad is handsome with his sexy swagger, but Wayne doesn’t need to put his sexuality on display to capture attention. When he’s not talking about his passion - Native American folklore and culture - he’s surprisingly understated. This puts his face on display unmarred by conversation, and let’s just say I’m enjoying the chiseled view.

  We eat in silence for a few minutes, and I sneak surreptitious glances until he catches my eye. His knowing smile doesn’t leave me flustered like usual, which is flustering enough on its own.

  Polite chit-chat ensues. He gestures frequently with his hands while talking, and I’m taken in by how strong they appear. His gentle and polite nature meshes well with his intelligence and good looks. I wonder if Chad knows what Wayne seems to instinctively understand; he doesn’t have to work so hard to get a woman’s attention.

  Wayne is a gentleman from start to finish, so he doesn’t hit on me during dinner. He doesn’t need to, either. If he asked me out right now, I’d say yes with no hesitation.

  Unfortunately, we’ve reached the end of the evening and no such question had passed through his beautiful lips. He walks me to the car, we exchange phone numbers, and he shakes my hand again.

  “It was nice to meet, you. Alex. Call me if I can be of any further assistance.”

  “Thank you. I will. I appreciate it!”

  The beating in my chest tells me I want to initiate a less formal type of physical contact, but I resist. What is going on with me? I usually don’t even like physical contact with others. But I guess the fresh U.P. air really does work miracles like so many people claim.

  Chapter Eight

  I awake to a text message from Leslie. She asks to meet for breakfast. I’d much rather have the first meal of the day to myself, but I should check in with her since it’s been a couple of days.

  Picking at the c
innamon roll in front of me, I half listen to Leslie’s frustrations.

  “I’m at the end of my rope here, Alex. Doing house calls isn’t my style, and only half my clients are going for it, anyway. I’m flat broke because of that whiny ghost. Flat. Broke.”

  I know she needs some type of reassurance from me that everything will be over soon – preferably yesterday – but I can’t bring myself to give her false hope.

  “I have a few leads I’m following up on, but I don’t know what happened to her son. You live here. Can you give me something more concrete than rumors and innuendo?

  Anger drapes her face as she stabs at her breakfast. “Look, I’ve told you everything I know. Maybe you’d have better luck if you spent your time talking to Mrs. Felton and actually investigating instead of screwing around with Sheriff Hambler.”

  I reel from the verbal slap as if a bucket of water was thrown in my face. Her hostility toward me seems out of proportion for the situation, but I quickly attempt to rub some emotional balm on my wounds. She’s losing her livelihood, after all. And to top it off, she’s expected to pay me for my troubles. I respond as calmly as possible, given the circumstances.

  “Sheriff Hambler is a nice man, but there’s nothing going on between us.”

  “Oh, please! Do you think no one saw the sexual tension between the two of you at the bar the other night? It’s practically all anyone can talk about. And if you think he’s a nice guy, well… you’re not half as smart as I gave you credit for.”

  Ouch. Yet another onslaught of her piercing slings and arrows hits my pride. The faint tickle of doubt also flits across the back of my brain. Have I misjudged Chad? It’s not like two conversations and a few dances turns someone into an open book. Besides, I once knew someone for years who lied and manipulated me from day one. When that relationship ended, I vowed I would never let it happen again.

  When it comes to ghosts, I never feel the need to question their words or to doubt my intuition regarding their emotions. If anything, I’m more of a ghost empath than a ghost therapist. That’s how I’m able to help them; I can see, smell, hear, touch, and even taste their emotions. But human emotions? Those remain a veiled mystery. Perhaps the dead let go of the very human need to hide their personal truth in a twisted web of emotional walls and deception.

  Wow. That got real o’clock fast, didn’t it?

  “Leslie, I do want to help you. It’s the entire reason I’m here! Helping Mrs. Felton find enough peace to move on is my primary mission, but there are so many other factors at play here… I don’t mind admitting I’ve never dealt with a case this complex before. Ghosts don’t usually ask me to pretend I’m Nancy Drew or part of the Scooby Gang, all right? For all I know, I’m looking for someone who can’t be found, or who doesn’t want to be. But a deal is a deal; I’ll go visit Mrs. Felton again after breakfast to see if I can help her find closure with a more conventional method.”

  My outburst and vulnerability hit a soft spot in Leslie, and her face sags as her anger dissipates. “Shit, I’m sorry. Look, don’t listen to me, okay? I’m just a naturally grumpy person who for some reason chose a line of work that forces me to put on a happy face and entertain the most woo-centric comments in history. If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure if this is what I want to do with my life anymore.”

  Tears infiltrate her eyes and threaten to lay siege to her face. This is an emotion I understand all too well. I wasn’t always a ghost therapist, you know. It took a while for me to discover who and what I was supposed to be, and the process was always painful. Especially when a lot of time, hard work, and money had been dumped into a venture that didn’t fit. I imagine Leslie’s feeling a lot like that; as if her career is a sweater that once slipped on easily but has since become shrunken and torn beyond all repair.

  “Ignore my comments about Sheriff Hambler, too,” she continues. “I guess I’m just jealous. I’ve had a crush on him for years, but he’s never shown any interest in me. And then you roll into town and he’s all over you. It’s demoralizing, you know?”

  “Well, I mean, first off, no one has been all over anyone. And if he’s not interested in a beautiful woman like you, then maybe something is wrong with him.”

  I don’t one-hundred percent believe my own words, but they have the intended effect. Her wounded ego has been patched up. Hopefully, we can stop squabbling and I can get back to trying to finish this case. I’ve been here for way too long already. Which reminds me, I need to call my cat sitter and extend her services. Again. Leslie isn’t the only one who’s going broke due to Mrs. Felton’s refusal to move on.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Mrs. Felton?”

  The depth of her despair smacks me between the eyes, instantly causing a headache. It’s only ten in the morning, but this day already has me wanting to go back to bed.

  “I’m here, dear,” she wails.

  Her mental state – if a ghost can have a mental state without a brain – seems to be dwindling further with each passing day. I’m frustrated at my lack of progress and how little I have to report to her. She listens patiently as I tell her about the past couple of days, but I can tell none of it gives her hope. I turn to leave, but then her words call me back.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit odd that Sheriff Hambler won’t investigate my son’s disappearance when his own son is missing, too? What if they’re connected? And isn’t it also strange he went out of his way to make up with you after learning you might be on to some of the more bizarre aspects of this area? He sent you to the professor to satiate your appetite, but I bet neither of them expected you to ask about actually going to Isle Royale. Why do you think that gave the professor the heebie-jeebies, anyway?”

  I’m drowning under the weight of all these questions and insinuations, including the earlier batch of unpleasantness from Leslie. It sounds like they both have ill feelings toward Chad, and maybe even toward Wayne, too. I don’t know what to make of this, but I do know I need some peace and quiet if I ever hope to figure it out.

  “I’m going to go now, okay?”

  “Of course, dear. But promise to think about what I’ve asked you. It might be important.”

  I nod my head in the least committal way possible while speed-walking out of the massage studio, through the building’s main door, and to the ice-covered streets of downtown Munising.

  It’s November 9. No snow has fallen yet in this part of the U.P., and that’s odder than the entire mystery on my plate. As I struggle on the icy sidewalk and pull my coat’s thin hood over my head, I find myself wishing this freezing drizzle would turn into snowflakes. At least then I wouldn’t need ice skates to make it safely to the rental car.

  Dammit! This mess must be much worse than I thought because the locks are frozen shut. How did that happen so quickly? And what now? Mrs. Felton’s comments swirl in my head as I resign myself to the only option that makes sense.

  A short time later, I see Chad’s police cruiser carefully making its way toward me. He steps out of the car and almost falls flat on his face. Sheepishness fills his features as he realizes I saw him slip.

  “Hey there,” he says with a mixture of embarrassment and flirtatious energy.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly!”

  “No problem. It’s what I do,” he winks at me. “Now let’s see what the problem is, shall we?”

  He chisels ice away from the door and attempts to stick a deicer into the lock, but it won’t turn. He grunts with the physical stress of attempting to push through the invisible barricade.

  “I don’t understand,” he says, mostly to himself. “It’s almost as if...” With that, he pulls out a penlight and shines it around the keyhole. He takes his glove off, swipes a finger across the lock, and then sniffs at the residue before giving it a quick lick with the tip of his tongue.

  He glances at me, puzzled. “What the heck? Listen, I have to ask you something. Do you have a habit of pouring pop out your car window?”

&nbs
p; I look at him with incomprehension. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You know, pop. Soda. Don’t Detroiters call it pop?”

  “Yes, but I don’t understand the question. Do people do that?”

  My confused response is enough to satisfy his curiosity. “Your lock has the distinct flavor of a certain locally made red pop. Here, try it yourself.” He motions toward the frozen lock, but I turn down the fortunately rare opportunity to taste it.

  “What does this mean?” I ask, still flustered by the oddness of this occurrence.

  “Well, I hate to say it, but it looks like someone froze your locks shut on purpose by spraying freezing cold pop directly into the cylinders. They probably used an old air compressor can or something. Or else they randomly happened to hit your car with a spray of pop without leaving a can behind. But the odds of the pop actually dripping into the lock on its own are astronomical, so I’m going with option A.”

  The cold moves past my skin and sinks into my bones. “Why would someone do that?”

  His puzzled face echoes his spoken sentiment. “I wish I knew, Alex. But come on, let’s get you out of the cold. I’ll send Joel out to fix this.”

  “Joel?”

  “Joel Haddonfield. He’s the local locksmith.”

  My head is spinning from this seemingly unprovoked attack. Why would someone target my car locks? And how did they get away with it without getting caught? They must have moved fast because I visited Mrs. Felton for less than thirty minutes.

  “Say, what brings you to this part of town, anyway?” I’ve been dreading this question.

  “I wanted to get a massage. I met the lady who owns the studio. Leslie? She said she couldn’t fit me in today as she rushed out the door. Then I decided to check out the rest of the building to look for anything else of interest.”

  He seems satisfied with this answer. “Yeah, Leslie can be a bit odd at times, I guess. I hear she gives a good massage, though. Come on, hop in my car.”