Phantom in the Pond

by Dorothy Bodoin

  “He also claims that a truck forced him off the road and drove away, leaving him trapped in his vehicle.”

  “It could have happened that way, but obviously he got away. What about the husky pup?”

  “That he couldn’t help him. The puppy was to have been delivered to a family in Ohio.”

  “That state trooper who took him home will sort it all out,” I said.

  “And in the meantime Kate Brennan will question him. There’s something else,” Sue added. “He says he doesn’t have a partner. He works alone.”

  “Doesn’t he realize that people saw his website? It clearly stated that Sea-to-Sea had two owners.”

  “He’ll be a tough nut to crack,” Sue said.

  Her comparison made me feel like laughing, although there was nothing humorous about what the man had done.

  “Where is he now?” I asked.

  “Still in the hospital.”

  “Let him stay there till he answers our questions truthfully,” I said.

  “You mean Kate’s questions.”

  “Of course. He has to pay for all the grief he's caused and give the dogs back to their owners.”

  “If he can,” Sue said.

  Twenty-three

  I set The Edelweiss Lure aside and let it slide to the back of my mind but only for the moment. I didn’t intend to procrastinate indefinitely on the off chance that Holly might have left a clue to her fate or even her frame of mind in her book. Writers did that sometimes, I believe.

  I’d already studied her calendar, reliving her year month by month…until August when she stopped making notations. It was similar to my own with appointments, reminders of engagements, and occasional comments about the weather with which she seemed to be obsessed.

  She also kept track of her writing progress. For example, she completed a science-fiction short story on the first of May. In mid-June she started a new book. She also noted the receipt of a contract and the notification of an award.

  The mention of ‘Lorin’ to whom she’d dedicated both of her books didn’t help as she hadn’t included a last name. I stashed the calendar in my desk drawer for possible future reference and resolved to look through the old trunk for a more promising source of information.

  I didn’t have time to spare in the next few days. The people most affected by the Sea-to-Sea scam kept me busy talking on the phone. It seemed to ring constantly. Lyle wanted to know if I possessed any inside information; Helena invited me to meet her for coffee and a strategy session; Sue kept me in the loop and Lyle, on still another call, wanted all of us who had been victimized by Sea-to-Sea Transport to get together again.

  “There’s strength in numbers,” he said. “All of us together, we can take him down. What does the jerk call himself?”

  “Duncan O’Meara,” I said.

  “That’s a fake name. I saw his picture on the news. He isn’t the man I dealt with.”

  Nobody, least of all Kate, believed that Duncan O’Meara was a new hire under the impression that Sea-to-Sea was a legitimate company. Still, no one contradicted him. No one corroborated his version of events either.

  “He’s going to walk free,” I said, “possibly with the proverbial slap on the wrist.”

  “One way or the other, that’s not going to happen,” Lyle said.

  Recalling Lyle’s passion for carrying arms, I knew what he meant. I’d cautioned him once about his threatening stance, but obviously he planned to go on his merry way with his gun beneath his vest.

  Helena was deeply disappointed. “It isn’t that I thought Arden would be in that van, but I counted on the man talking, if only to save his neck.”

  “Oh, he’s talking. He’s just not saying what we want to hear.”

  “What does your husband think?” she asked.

  “You understand that Crane is all for law and order. He’s pretty sure Duncan, or whatever his name is, will slip through the cracks. Sometimes it happens.”

  “Where does that leave me and the others?”

  “Last night on her segment Kate said one of the victims identified Duncan as the company’s owner,” I said. “Well, the person is ninety percent sure, which leaves room for doubt. Lyle says it was another man who picked up his dogs.”

  “Even with the van turning up, we’re back at Square One,” Helena said. “Are you going to the get-together?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I’m hosting this time. On Friday at seven.”

  “Would you like me to bring something?” I asked.

  “I have it covered… Oh, wait, with that gang, we can always use more cookies.”

  I jotted down directions to Helena’s house. “I hope something turns up by then,” I said in parting.

  My seldom heard inner voice chimed in, Don’t count on it.

  ~ * ~

  Once again we waited for Sea-to-Sea Transport to make a move. Duncan O’Meara was released from the hospital and promptly dropped out of sight. I imagined the company would lie low for a while and perhaps change their method of operation. They must have another van and would certainly choose a different name.

  But would they repeat the pet transport scam? Not if they were smart.

  Kate’s audience was now aware of them. Dog owners would be leery of all transport services in the future. That was unfortunate, as some companies were honest and the service they offered was helpful.

  Still, none of this brought the stolen dogs home.

  With the Sea-to-Sea mystery in Kate’s hands, Lucy and I turned our attention to what Lucy called “the haunting of Holly Wickersham.”

  “That’s a great title for a book,” Lucy said.

  “I agree. Do you think you’ll use it?”

  “I may. But I’d like to solve the mysteries first.”

  Seized by the imp of the perverse, I imagined how surprised we all would be if it turned out that Holly was alive. But what woman would leave all her belongings behind?

  Before moving on to the house, Lucy wanted to see the restored pond in all its glory. We stood at the rock border enjoying the beauty of that well-shaded part of the property. New plants flourished in the rock garden, and the freshly-painted flamingoes overlooked the clear water. It seemed impossible that once a strange collie had supplanted Misty’s reflection in its surface.

  “I don’t think any otherworldly creature lurks in the pond,” Lucy said, “but there’s something that never left. It’s been here for a long time. It’s a feeling. Very faint.”

  “Like the feeling on the landing?” I asked.

  “Not exactly. I sense loss and sadness.”

  As we made our way through overgrown grasses to the house, I said, “How common do you think it is for a person to leave her emotions behind when she passes from this life?”

  “Not very, I’d say. Perhaps if her passing were violent. What is uncommon is for somebody to be aware of them.”

  “Somebody like you,” I pointed out.

  “Or you,” Lucy said. “You’ve sensed things and heard sounds.”

  I had. The scratching that Annica said was a giant rat. And the siren that cut off in mid-wail. Neither Brent nor Annica had been aware of it. I assumed it was part of the ghostly trappings.

  “I hope the ghostly sounds will be gone by the time Brent is ready to open his shelter,” Lucy said.

  That would be ideal, but we didn’t have much time to accomplish that.

  Brent had promised to meet us at the house after he interviewed a new applicant for the caretaker position.

  “When he gets here, we can go up to the attic again,” I said.

  “An old attic—yes. That mystery story staple.”

  “All of Holly’s possessions were dumped up there,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll find something else.”

  ~ * ~

  Lucy stopped on the landing and recoiled as if someone had shoved her. She grabbed at the wall for balance. I steadied her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “So
me force.” Her breath came in gasps. “I felt somebody push me and…” She held onto the railing and sat on the closest step. “There’s darkness and confusion. Motion. Things are flying around the house.”

  “How can you tell?” I asked. “We’re on the stairs.”

  “I can see it in my mind’s eye. For just a moment, I felt like I was falling.”

  “Sit here for a while,” I said. “I’ll make you a cup of tea or…” I recalled I wasn’t at home but in Brent’s house on Loosestrife Lane. “Coffee maybe,” I added, thinking of the coffee maker in the kitchen.

  “The images are beginning to fade,” Lucy said. “They’re fuzzy.”

  I’d rarely seen her so shaken.

  She described the experience again, the eerie sensation of being shoved into a maelstrom of hard objects, of losing control, and of being a little nauseous.

  “It was so real.”

  I may have heard scratching and a siren, but at present everything in my environment was stable. Except…

  The stained glass window. Were the colors running? Was it—melting? I looked again. No, it was intact with the sun turning the multi-colored panes to rare jewels. Everything was still and quiet.

  The power of suggestion? The calm before the storm?

  “Let’s get away from this landing,” I said.

  Twenty-four

  I sat at the table in the kitchen sipping tepid coffee and listening to Lucy rehash her experience on the landing. She hadn’t touched her own coffee, but she appeared calmer. An anonymous benefactor—Brent?—had left a box of jelly doughnuts from the Hometown Bakery on the counter.

  Now that we all made sure the back door was locked, food had stopped disappearing.

  “Strawberry,” Lucy said. “My favorite. This will go a long way toward restoring normalcy. Whatever happened on that landing was too intense to fade away with time,” she added. “On the contrary. It’s growing stronger.”

  “You’d think the whole house would be affected.”

  As a drop of strawberry jelly escaped from the doughnut, Lucy reached for the napkins. “What happened was like the cover of Holly’s book with leaves, a girl, and a dog all caught up in a whirlwind. It left me with the kind of sensation you sometimes experience when you ride in an elevator.”

  “You spoke of furniture flying through the air,” I reminded her.

  “That’s what I saw. But what happened—really? Will we ever know?”

  “I hope so.”

  I took a few more sips of coffee, the last few drops in the cup. Ordinarily I’d never drink coffee that cooled so drastically, but my throat was dry. From trauma, I suspected. Nothing in my world had flown out of its appointed place, but in a way I had shared Lucy’s experience.

  “Brent’s house is haunted,” I said. “There’s no doubt about it.”

  “But not necessarily by a traditional spirit. At least I didn’t see an entity wandering through the rooms.”

  “Because she isn’t dead?”

  “I can’t say. Perhaps we’ll know some day.”

  “Then why can’t you pass the landing without being trapped in an upheaval from yesteryear?” I asked.

  “That’s what I have to find out,” Lucy said.

  “You’ll have to pass the landing en route to the attic.”

  Lucy sighed. “I’m not quite ready for a repeat performance, Jennet. I’m just now feeling grounded.”

  I started as I heard a commotion in the living room: A stomping of boots on hardwood, a ping of an object falling to the floor, a loud curse. Brent had arrived.

  “Where is everybody?” he called. “Lucy? Jennet?”

  “In the kitchen,” Lucy said.

  He came in, jingling his house key. “Are you girls through exploring?”

  “We never started,” I said.

  He made a show of consulting his watch. “What have you been doing all this time?”

  “Lucy sensed something on the landing,” I said. “She’s been recovering. I’ve been monitoring her progress.”

  “What’s this about the landing?”

  “You know what I believe about certain events imprinting themselves on the walls of a house and echoing through the ages?” Lucy said.

  He frowned. “Maybe. Tell me again.”

  She did.

  “That’s weird,” he said. “If something bad happens, you want it to be over and done with. Not to happen over and over again.”

  “Not everyone will be aware of it,” Lucy pointed out. “Something frightening took place on that landing—who knows how long ago?”

  “What can happen on a landing?” Brent asked. “It’s so small.”

  “Anything,” I said. “Like murder. We haven’t scratched the surface of the psychic activity in this house yet.”

  “Then hurry the investigation along. Next week the kitchen renovation is scheduled to start, and before next month, I want to move my senior collies into the house.”

  “Did you find your caretaker yet?” I asked.

  “I think so. It’s a nice couple, the Ralstons, who lost their own collie a few months ago. They think they’re too old to raise another puppy. Turns out they haven’t had any luck finding a rescue, not even from Sue Appleton. My job is ideal for them. They’ll sell their house and have a nest egg for their future.”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “Except…” Lucy corralled the crumbs and powdered sugar onto her napkin. She paused, frowning.

  “Except what, Lucy?” Brent asked.

  “Don’t you want to start with a clean slate?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Without any leftover shadows to cause difficulties.”

  “What could they do?”

  “Who knows? A severe fright could give an older person a heart attack. A fall down the stairs could kill somebody. Luckily Jennet was with me earlier or I might have been hurt when I lost my balance.”

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong about something bad hanging around the place, but I never saw anything out of the ordinary,” Brent said. “And Jennet, no one else ever saw a dog’s reflection in the pond, before or after I had it cleaned.”

  That ghastly reflection. It seemed to have happened a long time ago and had only occurred twice. Still, I wasn’t ready to assign it to imagination.

  “Don’t you believe us?” I asked.

  “Sure, but I can’t abandon my project at this stage. I don’t want to. I’m keeping six senior collies at the barn just waiting to move them to the house. Now that I found the caretakers, it’s all coming together.”

  “So you’re going ahead, no matter what?”

  “Maybe I’ll get a priest to bless the house,” he said. “Would that help, do you think?”

  “It couldn’t hurt.”

  Lucy stood and took our cups to the sink to rinse. “Then we have to solve the mystery quickly.”

  “Do you still want to go back up to the attic today, Jennet?” Brent asked.

  “Yes. Now more than ever.”

  “Lucy?”

  “If I could get there without setting foot on the landing… If I could fly across it…”

  “I can carry you.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll stay downstairs and make more coffee. You and Jennet go ahead. Jennet won’t be in danger.”

  I nodded. “I’ll be all right, and we have to explore every avenue. Let’s go.”

  ~ * ~

  Oddly enough, the old attic appeared to welcome us, even while the house below didn’t. I took Brent’s hand and stepped up onto the uneven floorboards. Why did builders take such care when constructing a house and leave the attic floor, walls and ceiling unfinished?

  The chill that permeated the stale air was perhaps a bit less unpleasant today, and it seemed that more light filtered through the small windows. But this was our second foray into the uppermost story of the house. The thrill of first discovery was over. It was time to focus: on Holly, on her memorabilia, on a clue to her fat
e. Any clue.

  “I’d like to go through the trunk again,” I said.

  Brent pulled a book of stickers out of his pocket. “I’m going to tag the furniture I want moved downstairs. Be careful. Watch where you walk.”

  “I will.”

  I opened the trunk and began to shift through the material stuffed inside. Paid bills tied together with string, an address book with a smudged cover—I set that aside—pages torn from a magazine on a variety of unusual subjects, probably story ideas for a dry spell, and greeting cards for every conceivable occasion. Did she never throw a card away?

  Brent called from the northernmost corner. “Here’s a small piano. How did they get it up in the attic?”

  “Is it a spinet?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what a spinet is. So, maybe yes. It could be a kid’s toy, too.”

  “Does it play?”

  He struck a note, then a whole chord, then another. A shiver cut through me. The resulting melody, developed from keys played at random, sounded like a refrain from a macabre tune.

  “I don’t think a piano would add to the quality of a collie’s life,” I said.

  “Not true. Some of the collies at the barn like music. A couple of them watch TV. Ray brought Lassie videos in for them.”

  “Mmm.”

  I stopped listening. At the bottom of the truck, under a folded patchwork quilt, I saw an album. As I lifted it, a photograph fell out. I picked up a picture of a man and woman standing on a beach. The man was tall and fair-haired, and handsome with rugged features and a half smile. The woman about a foot shorter, had dark hair blowing in the wind.

  The woman was Holly Wickersham.

  Twenty-five

  “Brent, come look at this,” I said.

  He clomped his way across the boards. “What did you find?”

  “A picture of a man and woman. It’s Holly. I recognized her from the photo on her books.”

  Brent shone the flashlight on the photograph. “She was pretty, wasn’t she? Who’s the man?”

  I turned the photo over and saw the date on the back written in faded ink—July, 1987, and beneath it, neatly written: Me and Micah.

  “Is that Sagramore Beach?” Brent asked.