Enchantment Lake: A Northwoods Mystery

by Margi Preus

  And then she learned that Buck had taken a community education course on snake and reptile identification. Well, well. There did seem to be a common thread, and if she were a detective—which she wasn’t, she reminded herself and anyone else who might have been eavesdropping on her thoughts—her prime suspect, in whatever crimes might have occurred, if any crimes actually had occurred, would be Buck Thorne. For the love of Mike, as Aunt Jeannette liked to say, what a name!

  She drained the dregs of her cappuccino and smacked her lips. In one afternoon of scrounging, she’d uncovered enough dirt on Buck to, if not hang him, at least seriously call him in for questioning—if she were an actual detective.

  Maybe this “detective-ing” wasn’t really all that hard.

  On the way home, she thought about the party at the Fredericksons’ that night. “What’s the right thing to wear to a party like this?” she mumbled. “It doesn’t matter, because for sure I don’t have it.” Painful irony! To leave New York to get your big break at a remote lake in northern Minnesota, and she had nothing to wear. She needed someone to help her. Ginger.

  Ginger was sitting at her table, her head in one hand, her other hand wrapped around a glass of lemonade that Francie was pretty sure was spiked.

  “You okay?” Francie asked.

  Ginger sighed. “Yeah. No. I don’t know. This thing with Warren. It’s just too much with everything else that’s happened. My mom and dad were in the middle of a divorce when Dad died. They were haggling over everything: money, property, including this place. Then this spring, when he died, the sheriff came out and made all kinds of insinuations about my mom—like she killed him! I feel bad for T.J. That’s why I agreed to stay up here with him. So he could have one last summer at the lake. He and Dad were real close, and Warren had filled the gap a little bit. They were like soul mates, almost, Warren and T.J. Why would anyone kill him?”

  “My aunts seem to think that someone is trying to scare people or wear them down to make them sell their property. If that’s the case, who better to get rid of than Warren, the guy who makes it possible for these nice old ladies to stay in their cabins. And nice young ladies like you, I guess.”

  Ginger shivered. “That’s creepy.”

  “Yeah,” Francie agreed. She should probably feel a little creeped out about it too, but all she could really think about was getting to the party.

  Ginger must have noticed her impatience because she glanced at her and said, “What’s up with you?”

  Francie explained that she was invited to the Fredericksons’. Ginger raised an eyebrow in response. “What I really need is something to wear,” Francie said. “What do people wear to parties around here?”

  “How should I know?” Ginger shrugged. “Do you think anybody invites anyone from the murdering Angell family to anything? And why do you want to go to the Fredericksons’ anyway?”

  “Don’t you know who Savery is?”

  “Sure. I met her at a potluck. Everybody was there, including your aunts. Who doesn’t know Savery Frederickson?”

  “Yes, but she’s not Savery Frederickson! She’s Frederica Ricard.”

  Ginger looked at her blankly.

  “Star of stage and screen?”

  “Really?” Ginger said. “I never heard of her.”

  “Well, mostly stage. And it was a while ago.”

  “Okay, so?”

  “I’m an actor! I mean, I want to be,” Francie said.

  “Huh? I thought you were a detective.”

  “No! I’ve been trying to tell you!” Francie said. “My aunts started that rumor—don’t ask me why—and now everyone thinks I’m a detective, including Frederica. Mrs. Frederickson. Whatever her name is. But this party might be jam-packed with important theater people!” Francie rushed on, breathlessly. “Or maybe I can even get a chance to talk to Mrs. Frederickson. Uh, Frederica.”

  “Okay,” Ginger said, “but you’re missing a chance to stay here with me and play gin. And better yet, drink it. If you still want to go, you’re welcome to have a look in my closet.”

  Ginger opened her closet to reveal a small selection of lake clothes and one simple black dress, which Francie chose. She didn’t have quite the knock-out legs that Ginger had, but the dress fit well enough, and Ginger outfitted her with a simple necklace and earrings, too. “That should do it,” she said. “You look smashing.”

  And definitely older than seventeen, Francie thought, eyeing herself in the mirror. Was that good? Or bad?

  “Thanks a lot,” Francie said. “If your light is still on later, I might stop by.”

  11

  The Party

  The partygoers were dressed in hues of watermelon and peach (or was it nectarine?). Plenty of gold jewelry created a dull gleam on the twilit deck. Francie, the only one in black, looked like she was on her way to a funeral. Circulating through the rooms, out onto decks and back inside, she caught snippets of conversations. A couple of men in sport coats were discussing “core samples” with two guys in jeans and T-shirts. Another man rattled on about “yields and commodity prices” with a woman who could barely suppress her yawns. Who were these people?

  And where were the theater people? The impossibly thin people? The ratty sweaters? The tight black jeans? The sallow, spends-all-one’s-time-in-a-dark-hole complexions?

  “Hello, darlin’,” Mrs. Frederickson said, sweeping up to Francie, looking classic and dramatic in a Grecian-style cerulean-blue dress and carrying a tray of canapés. “So nice of you to come. The kids are in the family room.” She waved her free hand toward a stairway. “Downstairs.”

  “Mrs. Frederickson?” Francie began, intending to explain who she really was: an actor looking for work.

  But Mrs. Frederickson turned away, wafting the tray of appetizers past Francie yet not close enough that she could actually nab one. “We were so drawn to the peace and quiet,” she drawled to a woman nearby. “It was the kind of old-fashioned lake we found appealing. Real woodsy.”

  Francie looked out at the green sweep of lawn. A sprinkler chinged away at the far edge. “For liking it woodsy, you don’t seem to have saved a lot of trees on your property,” she mumbled.

  “Well, they’re so messy, aren’t they?” the other woman said. Oops, Francie thought. Big mouth. “All those leaves and twigs and things,” the woman went on. “You have to constantly pick up after them.”

  Francie wondered if this woman had any children or if she’d gotten rid of them, too, once she discovered they were messy.

  A ruddy-faced man elbowed in to ask if she knew anybody looking to sell or if she herself was looking to get rid of some property. He was interested in buying around here.

  “I don’t own property,” Francie answered.

  “This young lady is not a landowner—yet,” Mrs. Frederickson said. “She’s a detective in New York.”

  “Actually—” Francie began, but all attention was at that moment diverted to a scene unfolding behind her. By the time Francie realized that people were not looking at her and turned to see what it was they were looking at, she caught the tail end of an argument that culminated with one of the many blonde women tossing a glass of something on someone. The someone, Francie noticed, was Buck.

  “It’s Rose,” the lady next to her whispered to her husband. “Buck’s ex-wife.”

  Rose Thorne? Francie thought. For the love of Pete, what a name!

  Buck wiped down the front of his polo shirt, and Rose stalked out onto one of the many decks.

  “Now, darlin’,” Mrs. Frederickson said, turning once again to Francie, “the family room is down those stairs.” She swept her elegant arm toward the stairway again, more insistently this time. “There’ll be fireworks on the dock in a little while.”

  Francie dutifully walked downstairs into a scented cloud of perfume, aftershave, cologne, and hair product. Latice and her city friends were hanging out on couches and chairs, watching a movie and getting smashed. It looked like Latice had raided her par
ents’ liquor cabinet for the hard stuff, while upstairs the adults sipped wine. One of the guys caught her eye—it was that guy she’d walked right into, the one with the bouquet of flowers, no doubt for a girlfriend, and yep, sure enough, he looked like he was with someone.

  Except for that guy, and he seemed to be taken, these were not the people she was looking for, and at the first opportunity, Francie glided up the stairs and back into the tantalizing world of the adults.

  The kitchen! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? In her experience that was where actors hung out—close to the refrigerator.

  The kitchen was strangely empty, further proving to her that there were no theater people here. The people at this party got enough to eat without scrounging in other people’s kitchens, apparently.

  She heard Buck’s voice; he seemed to be coming her way. Having no desire to talk to him, she slipped into a pantry as he entered the kitchen. Buck turned on the tap and held a towel under it as another, younger man entered. Francie recognized him as Buck Jr.

  “Hey, Pop,” said the younger man.

  “Oh, it’s you, is it?” the elder Buck mumbled.

  Francie took another step into the recesses of the pantry where, although she could no longer see, she also couldn’t be seen. It made her feel detective-ish. Plus, she really didn’t want to make small talk with either of them.

  “I been looking all over for you,” said the younger Buck.

  “Yeah?”

  “I need some cash.”

  “What else is new?”

  “Come on.”

  “You know I don’t have any cash.”

  “Everything tied up in real estate?”

  “I’m warning you, Little Buck,” Buck Sr. said.

  “Don’t call me that,” Buck Jr. growled.

  “Yeah, okay, whatever.” That was Buck Sr.

  “I thought you were gonna be selling condos like hotcakes by now.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve run into a snag or two.”

  “Liquefy some assets, that’s what I’m saying. My deal is gold—gold. You ever hear that old story about the treasure they say is buried around here?”

  The treasure? Seriously? Francie leaned in.

  Buck Sr. mumbled, bored.

  “Well, Pop, I found it,” Buck Jr. said. “It’s in there.”

  Francie glanced around her, hoping he was not pointing at the pantry.

  “That’s not where it is,” Buck Sr. said.

  “Where is it, then?” said Junior.

  There was the sound of ice clinking in a glass. Buck Sr. was the only person she’d noticed drinking a mixed drink. Everyone else was drinking wine or beer. That was a silly thing to think about when treasure was being discussed, Francie thought.

  Buck Sr. grunted and swallowed.

  “Where are the glasses?” young Buck asked. “I’ve got a powerful thirst.”

  Francie heard his footsteps echoing around the immense kitchen, growing closer. She glanced up and noticed, through the glass windows of the cupboards in her hideout, glasses of every shape and size glittering inches from her nose.

  “Try that pantry over there,” Buck Sr. suggested.

  12

  Fishing

  “Oh, never mind,” Buck Jr. said, “I’ll just have a beer.”

  Francie heard the fridge open, the clinking of glass, then the fizz of a bottle opening, followed by the ting of the cap on the counter. Then the click of heels on the tile floor, retreating. She resisted the impulse to heave a sigh and stepped out of the pantry into the kitchen.

  “What were you doing in there?” Buck Sr. asked.

  Oops. She should have counted the number of feet retreating. She’d have to remember that in future sleuthing situations.

  “Me?” Francie squeaked. “Looking for a glass.”

  “Couldn’t find one?” Buck said, nodding toward her empty hands.

  “They all looked too nice,” she answered. “I just wanted an ordinary glass—like you’ve got. She nodded at the glass in his hand, filled with ice. “You know, for a glass of water.”

  Buck took a tumbler out of a cupboard and filled it with water from the tap, then handed it to her and grunted. “Made a decision about that property yet?” he asked casually, but his stare was intense, his eyes moist with drunkenness or desperation—Francie couldn’t tell. She knew what her aunts wanted her to do—say “yes!” But she couldn’t.

  “Soon,” she said. “Just checking on a few things.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then again. It made her think of a Finnish folk story about why fish do that: they think they’re talking, but since they’re underwater, they can’t hear, so they just go through the motions, and it seems like talking to them.

  “Listen,” he said, suddenly sounding very drunk. “Lez go fishin’.” He flung an arm around her.

  “Sure, Buck, I’ll go fishing with you sometime,” she said, uncoiling his arm from her shoulder. “In a few days maybe.” He didn’t know that in a few days she planned to be gone.

  “No,” Buck said. “I think we should go right now.”

  “I just got here!” she protested.

  “Nothin’ going on here,” he said. “Come on, lez go.” He grabbed her arm and steered her through the kitchen, down a set of stairs, in and out of several rooms. Francie craned her neck to look at the Architectural Digest–worthy furnishings, art, and flower arrangements. Wow! Frederica had made some solid money. Or the money was courtesy of her husband, Francie supposed. Who knew what business he was in?

  Finally, while crossing a series of decks, Francie started to get nervous. Buck had not gotten distracted or changed his mind through all those rooms. He was still dragging her toward the dock.

  She did not want to go with him. Probably not ever, but for sure not right now. She still hadn’t met the theater people. There were bound to be some at this party somewhere.

  “I wanna tell you somethin’,” he said. “I think you’ll be extra in’erested in it. You being a detective and all.”

  Argh! He would dangle that enticing tidbit in front of her. Although he really was too drunk to drive a boat.

  “All right,” she said, “if I can drive the boat.”

  “Alrighty,” he said, “if you can drive the boat, you can drive the boat.” He laughed at his joke.

  “Which one’s yours?” she asked, surveying the jumble of boats and the big pontoon tied to the dock. She intended to get in first and start it before he could. Somehow, he was at the motor by the time she climbed in. He pulled the starter cord a few times, revved the motor, and they were off. Why was he driving an ordinary fishing boat, she wondered. Didn’t he have a big speedboat parked at Sandy’s?

  As if reading her thoughts, he said, “Buck Jr. took the big rig somewhere. This here one is better for trolling anyways.”

  It was the tail end of twilight. Just the two of them in the boat, exactly like in The Godfather when Al Pacino or whoever it was took Freddy out in the rowboat. She would be the Freddy character, she thought glumly, or was it Fredo? Anyway, the one who doesn’t come back.

  She looked longingly at the shore, rapidly becoming a dark smudge. You could tell where the Fredericksons’ house was, though—the place looked like a cruise ship run aground. Electricity, she thought. They had it.

  Buck cut the motor and offered to bait her hook. She took him up on it—since the bait was leeches—and she cast her line into the dark purple water.

  They fished in silence for a while, then suddenly he said, “You lie, right?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Francie asked.

  “I mean, as a detective. I seen them shows. Them detectives are always lying in order to get a confession or whatever. So, do you?”

  Francie swallowed. What was the right answer to that question? Of course, she was lying right now by pretending to be a detective. She didn’t see any reason to tell him the truth. “I guess you could call it that, but we prefer the term ‘professional discretio
n.’”

  “Profezzional discrezion,” he repeated. “I like that.” He was silent for a moment, and Francie listened to the waves nudging the boat, pushing them toward shore. That gave her some comfort. The sooner they got to shore, the sooner she could get out of this boat and get back to meeting the right people.

  “Well, then, I guess you know how it can happen,” he was saying. “You tell just a little white lie and then another and pretty soon you’re pretty good at it. Easy to lie when you’re in real estate. Job almost requires it; it’s just a matter of how much are you gonna lie, ya know? Where’s the line going to be? Them detective shows . . . telling little white lies . . . catch the culprit . . . figure you know what I’m talking about,” Buck finished.

  “What?” she said. What had he just said? She’d been thinking how best to approach Mrs. Frederickson.

  “Are you Catholic?” Buck asked.

  Francie shook her head.

  “Well, in Catholicism there are sins of commission and sins of omission. Things you do and things you don’t do, things you say and things you don’t say. You might just not say something. That’s omission. Just don’t mention that a house has had water in its basement, you know? It will probably never happen again anyway. That sort of thing. Not what you’d even call a lie.” He jigged his line a bit.

  “What would be a lie?” Francie imitated his jigging style.

  Buck didn’t say anything and Francie took a moment to reel in her line and check her bait. “Do you think they’ve been nibbling at this?” she asked, dangling the leech in front of Buck.

  “Does it feel like they’re nibbling at it?”

  “I guess not,” she said, and threw her line back in the water. “What would be a sin of—what was that other kind of lie?”

  “Commission,” Buck said. “That might be something like mis-showing where the property line is. There are lots of ways to lie a little bit, without it seeming like lying.”