~ * ~
Jonquil Lane was always dark at night, never more so than in a power failure. A tiny light flickered in the window of the yellow Victorian across the lane from our house, indicating that Camille and Gilbert were already home. They’d brought out the candles.
The rain had lessened to a disheartening drizzle, but the ground was saturated. I cringed at the prospect of muddy paws. But the night was warm, and the humidity had returned.
Our green Victorian farmhouse burst into view in the Jeep’s headlights, and seven collies filled the night silence with indignant barking.
Why did you leave us alone in a dark house?
Crane parked behind my Ford Focus and, hand in hand, we made our way up the walkway to the side door. No stranger to power failures, we kept flashlights in a kitchen drawer, along with candles and matches. It was too late to light candles, though.
Crane opened the door, and the dogs converged on us with hot breath, soft fur, and plaintive yips. The humans were home. All was well in their world.
Crane lost no time in turning on the flashlights. He set one in the window and slipped another in his belt. Candy nudged his leg and bolted through the door, closely followed by Misty, the white collie. Halley, my first collie, and Gemmy, brushed against me for homecoming pats, while Star and Sky lagged behind. Last came Raven, our rare bi-black collie, who had slowed down somewhat after healing from a broken leg.
“I’ll take the dogs out,” Crane said. “You get ready for bed.”
I would, as soon as I poured fresh water and set out biscuits for the dogs’ late night snack. Then I remembered to switch on the kitchen light and a lamp in the living room. Of course no light issued forth, but when the power came back on—if it did during the night—we’d know.
On the other hand, Brent had invited himself to dinner tomorrow, and I could hardly serve cold cuts. Crane could barbecue chickens or…I wondered if my favorite little restaurant, Clovers, had power. If so, I could buy take out dinners. Lucy would likely bring leftover cake for dessert.
You’ll think of something.
When you live alone, a power failure is a mere annoyance. However, when you’re married to a handsome deputy sheriff, the finest in the land, it adds an extra layer of ambience to romance. With that cheering thought, I carried two of the lantern flashlights upstairs and waited for Crane to come inside with the dogs.
~ * ~
We woke the next morning to the bedside lamps throwing their soft light over our faces. Great! We had power. I could fix Crane a pancake breakfast and cook a proper dinner for tonight’s guests.
He bounded out of bed, full of energy as usual, while I wished the night had lasted a little longer. Halley and Misty, who slept in the doorway presumably to stop nighttime intruders in their tracks, came over to my side of the bed for their traditional wake-up petting.
With all the activity around me, I might as well get up.
In the kitchen, I stirred eggs into pancake batter and surveyed the waterlogged vista through the window. The woods across Jonquil Lane had withstood the storm, although fallen branches littered the ground. The yellow Victorian had a fresh-washed gleam, but the flowers in Camille’s spectacular gardens struggled to raise their heads.
The earth would soon revive, though, and our summer heat wave showed signs of continuing. It was already hot in the house.
Crane opened the door and our collies bounded into the kitchen. Candy gravitated toward the stove where the pancakes were turning golden brown. Crane sat at the table, the dogs milled around, and I realized I was ravenous.
What a perfect way to start the day! All of us together and the power back on.
~ * ~
That evening Brent took a long sip of his coffee and fell upon his second piece of devil’s food cake.
“I have an announcement to make,” he said.
A sunbeam landed on his dark red hair. It was the color of a certain kind of maple leaf in autumn, a shade any woman would kill for. His eyes radiated with excitement. Misty sat at his side like a stone statue, her eyes fixed on the cake which, being chocolate, was forbidden to her.
Annica tapped her pink seashell earring, and it made a soft clinking sound. “Don’t keep us waiting.”
“I didn’t want to intrude on Lucy’s night, so I thought I’d wait till we were all together. I bought another house. You’re going to like it, Jennet. It’s one of your favorite things. An old Victorian on an acre of land.”
“Is it haunted?” I asked.
“Could be. I don’t think so. It’s pretty run down. The house has been on the market for years. There was talk of demolishing it to build three new houses on the property, but I couldn’t let that happen. They accepted my offer yesterday. I left the developer in the dust.”
“I hate developers,” I said. “They chew up every spare inch of land.”
“And we sure don’t need all those fancy big houses they build,” Annica added. “Who’s going to buy them?”
“Young people with families,” Lucy said. “As for myself, I’d rather have the land.”
I agreed. Further up Jonquil Lane, an unfinished development of French Chateau style houses had been abandoned when the developer went out of business and left the state. In his wake, the houses slowly deteriorated as nature stepped in to reclaim her own. The place was dark and forbidding—and dangerous. It drew ne’er-do-wells and had set the stage for more than one confrontation with evil.
“Are you going to open another restaurant like the Spirit Lamp Inn?” Lucy asked.
“I sold the inn.”
“Will you renovate the house and move into it then?”
“I’m staying in my house till they carry me out,” he said. “The new place is going to be for the dogs.”
Three
“That requires an explanation,” Lucy said.
“Which dogs?” Annica asked. “All of them?”
“Not my own dogs.” He ate his last piece of cake and set the dessert plate on the coffee table. Misty eyed the crumbs longingly but didn’t move.
Brent had a massive guard dog of indeterminate pedigree, fittingly named Napoleon, along with a collie, Chance, and his rescues.
“I got to thinking,” he continued. “Lila and Letty over at the shelter have a dog who’s been with them for years. He has a few medical problems, and his age is against him.”
“Don’t forget our Rescue League’s new program,” I reminded him.
Matching geriatric collies who have little chance of finding a forever home with senior citizens had been my idea, and so far it had been successful. My Star was one of those hard-to-place collies, traded in by her owners for a new puppy.
Brent nodded. “It isn’t enough. I talked it over with Sue last night. There aren’t enough senior owners to go around. Not everyone has a fenced-in yard, and most people want a young dog or a puppy.”
“Are you talking about a retirement home for collies?” Lucy asked. “If so, I think it’s a good idea.”
“When the new place is renovated, they can have the run of the house and an acre of land to play in. Or sleep. Whatever they want to do.”
“Who’ll take care of them?” Annica asked.
“That’s the next step. I’m going to hire a caretaker to live in the house. He’ll be responsible for the dogs, and who knows? Some of them may find homes of their own.”
“It’s a generous idea, Fowler,” Crane said.
Brent had the funds to make his dream a reality. We could continue our ‘Seniors for Seniors’ program. We’d just go to Brent’s house to find the dogs, and Sue could concentrate on placing younger collies.
“Where is your house located?” Lucy asked.
“In Foxglove Corners on Loosestrife Lane. Do you know the street?”
None of us did.
“There’s a weeping willow on the property,” Brent said. “It must be a century old. At least.”
“I’d love to see the house before you start tearing it ap
art,” I said.
“Me too.” Perhaps Annica sensed a waiting mystery. In any event, she didn’t like to be left out of what she called my adventures.
“You can do that,” Brent said. “I’m having the kitchen remodeled in a week or so. That’ll give you time to look around. I already have a waiting list for the dogs,” he added.
“I’m so proud of you, Brent,” Lucy said. “It’s the rare man who uses his wealth to benefit helpless animals.”
He bent down to ruffle Misty’s fur. She usually sat in his lap when he visited us. This evening, with the proximity of the chocolate cake, he had had kept her on the floor.
“How will we get in?” I asked.
“I had the locks changed.” He pulled a key out of his pocket and set it on the coffee table beside the plate.
“Can we go tomorrow?” Annica asked. “I have a day off and don’t have a class.”
She attended Oakland University in Rochester and worked as a waitress at Clovers to pay for her tuition and books. I often wondered how she had time to share my so-called adventures, but desire finds a way.
“I’m free,” I said, “and it should be a nice day.”
“It’s a date then. What’s the address?”
“Hold on.” He pulled an index card out of his wallet. “It’s the largest and oldest house on Loosestrife Lane. You can’t miss it. Hey, Jennet, is there any more cake?”
“A whole half. Anyone else?”
“I never turn down chocolate cake,” Crane said.
Annica jumped up. “I’ll make more coffee.”
In the kitchen, while I cut the rest of the cake into generous slices, Annica said, “Just think, Jennet. We have another empty house to explore. Maybe it’s haunted. Brent didn’t say it wasn’t.”
I had to smile at her exuberance. “Don’t count on it. Not every old house is haunted.”
“There must be a reason it stayed on the market for so long.”
“Probably it needs too much work for the average buyer,” I said. “Brent can afford to turn it into his dream house. Canine dream house,” I amended. “Maybe his new house had a story associated with it. And maybe a ghost.
~ * ~
The next day Annica’s fellow waitress, Marcy, called in sick.
“I have to work,” she said. “Mary Jeanne doesn’t have anyone else.”
I assured her we’d go another day, but as I ended the call, I realized there was no reason I couldn’t visit Brent’s new house on my own. I found Loosestrife Lane on a map of Foxglove Corners. I could easily walk there; it was only a little farther than I usually took the dogs, only in a different direction. I was going to take the collies for a walk anyway.
I studied the map. I’d follow Squill Lane to its end, turn left, then right at a crossroad. I’d pass a bridge, then look for a massive weeping willow tree.
After lunch, I leashed Halley, Sky, and Misty, pocketed Brent’s key, and set out.
The sun was warm, but brisk winds cooled the air, and wildflowers gleamed in the light, their many colored petals shining like jewels. The rain had breathed new life into the flora of Foxglove Corners. All but a few puddles had dried.
The dogs were ecstatic with the new route, excited by all the marvelous scents it offered. I came to a bridge spanning a restless creek and in the distance saw the weeping willow Brent had described. It was ancient, full and graceful, trailing long fronds to the ground.
“We’re here,” I said and walked a little faster. Tall spires bearing dark pink flowers lined the way. The plants were loosestrife, rarely seen as they had fallen out of favor as an invasive species. But they were gorgeous, lending bright color to the vista in its many shades of green.
The house sat far back from Loosestrife Lane, enclosed by a white picket fence. It was a magnificent if threadbare relic of Victorian times with high turrets and generous gingerbread trim in every possible place.
Among its many amenities were two porches. One of them wrapped around the west half of the house, stopping beyond the front door. The other, on the east side, was a small semi-circle held up by three white pillars. It couldn’t be accessed as a porch because it lacked a door leading from the house. Like a heavily ornamented crown, a graceful cupola sat on top of it.
The gate was locked, but near the willow, four pickets had fallen back into the yard, leaving a gap wide enough for anyone to walk through. It was as if a vehicle had plowed into the fence. Besides repair, the pickets needed a coat of paint. One more item on Brent’s restoration list.
When I reached the willow, I brought the dogs to a halt. Beyond the fence I beheld a massive fishpond encircled by large rocks, some of which were dislodged or missing. Behind it rose a rock garden whose plants were choked with weeds. To one side, a pair of lawn ornaments, pale pink flamingoes, lay on their side, their paint peeling.
Stagnant rainwater and a prodigious amount of algae filled the pond. Twigs and leaves, remnants of past autumns, lay lightly on its surface, and willow strands dripped down into the water. Was that a Hershey wrapper? Yes, doubtless blown from some distant point.
The abandoned pond was the most forlorn sight I’d ever seen, once-elegant, now languishing in an abandoned yard. But how beautiful it would be if it were cleaned and filled with pure Michigan water, with goldfish swimming in its depths. The ornamental flamingoes could be repainted and placed around it to look as if they were drinking, and missing rocks could be replaced. With the weeping willow shading the whole, the pond would become the focal point of the grounds.
Add a few lawn chairs, and you’d have a place to dream away the summer hours.
A memory stirred. We’d had a fishpond in our yard when I was a child, smaller than this one but every bit as wonderful.
Regretfully, I tore myself away from the pond and led the dogs through high grasses toward the house, which was, after all, my main reason for visiting Brent’s property. A feeling of sadness went with me.
Four
I inserted the key in the lock, and the door opened onto a stuffy, chilly expanse of bare hardwood floors and walls covered with faded paper. A long hall flowed into a large room, no doubt the living room, judging by the fireplace. Windows coated with seasons of grime offered a distorted view of the grounds.
Misty yanked on her leash, communicating her desire to explore. She fixed her eyes on the staircase that rose upward into darkness.
“Slow down,” I told her.
The echo of my words sounded eerie in the silence. Sky whimpered. She was used to furniture and warmth. In other words, the familiar. But Halley took any new experience in her stride. As long as I was at the other end of the leash, she was happy.
The floor plan was simple. A dining room opposite the living room, both the same size. At the back of the house, a kitchen showing its age with fifties’ décor and a black phone attached to the wall. Ruffle-edged curtains had faded to a dull yellow. I recalled that a kitchen renovation was at the top of Brent’s list.
Nothing of the former inhabitants remained in these rooms. Nothing tangible, that is, but there was something.
Didn’t something always stay behind in an empty house? Misty sensed it. I did as well.
Her impatient yip drew me back to the present. She wanted to go back to the stairs to see what surprises the second floor held. Sky sneezed and scratched at the linoleum.
Halley and Sky weren’t interested in exploring, but I wasn’t about to leave them alone on the first floor, although I’d locked the front door behind us. We’d check out the upstairs then, even if all we saw was more of the same.
I grasped the cold, dusty railing. To my dismay, it wobbled. Darn. Brent should have warned me it was unstable.
This house is dangerous.
From what far, mist-enshrouded place had that thought come?
Keeping my hand well away from the railing, I led the collies upstairs to another hall. All of the doors on this level were open. Room after room swam in sunlight that revealed cobwebs dangling fro
m the ceiling and draped in corners. Floors bare of rugs, faded wallpaper, chairs, and tables—everything that made a house livable had been whisked away.
Except… One room was different. It held a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and a tall chest in an outmoded Mediterranean style, all crammed into a small space. A gray king-sized sheet covered a twin bed. Dust layered the tops of the furniture. Unable to resist, I opened a dresser drawer. Lined with brittle, yellowing paper, it was bare of possessions.
What had I expected?
I wondered why Brent hadn’t mentioned the furnished bedroom. Had he even viewed the entire house? What about the attic? The basement?
Maybe there was more Brent hadn’t told me.
Feeling uneasy, even with three large dogs for company, I decided I’d seen enough. The dim rooms and musty air resented our presence. If that were possible.
The dogs were getting restless. Sky pressed close to my body and Misty pulled on her leash again.
“Come, girls,” I said and led them down the stairs to the first floor and outside, making certain the door was locked behind us.
It was a pleasure to take deep breaths of fresh air. The earth smelled oddly of freshly mowed grass, although I walked through long blades and weeds heavy with dew. Shades of green assailed my eyes, and pink spires of loosestrife swayed in the wind.
I turned toward the fishpond. Misty gave a whimper and pulled hard on her leash as if she were responding to a strange lure. We had plenty of ponds in the woods of Foxglove Corners, but they were natural, part of the environment. Someone had built this one, poured cement, placed rocks around its circumference, and planted the rock garden.
I hoped Brent wouldn’t take the pond apart as he redesigned the grounds. He might fear one of the dogs would drink from it or swallow the goldfish.
No, a feral cat might do that. Or any other predator. This was a complication I hadn’t considered.
But please. Let him keep the pond. Forget about the goldfish.
He should have the pond drained. Standing water bred mosquitoes, although I hadn’t suffered a single bite in spite of being surrounded by dampness.
Phantom in the Pond Page 2