Phantom in the Pond

by Dorothy Bodoin

  I knew I was right. That is, I was ninety-nine percent certain.

  ~ * ~

  Then next day Lucy and I visited the house on Loosestrife Lane and the pond that drowsed in the shade beneath waving strands of weeping willow.

  “The goldfish are back,” I said.

  “Brent bought a dozen more. He’s mad that something must have eaten the others.”

  “The dogs will keep predators away,” I said. “How peaceful the pond looks now.”

  But I would never forget the events that had played out when Misty had dragged me into the wild water.

  “The sense of peace here is heavy,” Lucy said.

  We strolled over to look up at the cupola. Misty raked her paw through the dirt, uprooting a healthy dandelion.

  I was right; I knew it.

  “But also there’s a feeling of restlessness,” Lucy added. “Of waiting. I never stood in this exact place before. It was always the landing.”

  I nodded. That landing. Holly seeing the funnel cloud through the window. Possibly seeing her Tristan in its path as well.

  “Holly was foolish to leave the house instead of seeking shelter in the basement,” Lucy said.

  “She wouldn’t have gone without her dog.”

  I rested my hand on Misty’s head and was rewarded by a wag of her tail. “I’d never leave one of mine to the mercies of a tornado—if I could help it.”

  “Man and dog are meant to stand together,” Lucy said. “Make that woman and dog.”

  “If Holly had stayed in the house, the story would have had a different ending. The house survived the tornado, after all.”

  “No doubt.”

  Holly Wickersham might have written enough books to fill a whole shelf. Modern readers would know her name. She and Micah, or the new man, might have gotten married and had children. She would have lived.

  I could have wept for the life that didn’t happen because of a choice.

  Forty-six

  On the day scheduled for demolition, soft light bathed the house on Loosestrife Lane in a golden haze. It sat quietly in its green surround, resigned to losing a part of itself. I thought the cupola had never looked more beautiful. For a moment I was sorry it had to come down.

  “Sunshine is a good omen,” Lucy murmured. “God bless our enterprise.”

  “It’s so hot, but I feel cold,” I said, wishing I’d brought a cardigan.

  “That’s the cold of the grave.”

  Brent had ordered us away from the site, well behind the picket fence. A small crowd had gathered to witness the event. Annica had requested time away from her shift at Clovers, and Crane arrived in his official capacity. Having somehow found out about the demolition, although not its purpose, a reporter from the Banner named Will Latham was on hand.

  He zeroed in on me. “What are they hoping to find today?”

  I had an answer prepared. “The skeleton of a woman who vanished without a trace several years ago.”

  “And they think she’s under the porch because…?”

  That question was trickier. “Because of some clues in the house’s attic. They were found when the house changed hands recently.”

  As an English teacher, I knew the advantages of using the passive voice.

  “Do they know who this unlucky person was?” asked Latham.

  “Holly Wickersham, a local mystery writer.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “She died young,” I told him.

  Without a word of thanks for the information or any comment whatever, Latham jumped the fence and advanced on the demolition team, only to be sent back by Brent.

  Crane slipped his arm around my waist. “Do you have a story ready for the public?” he asked. “And the police if they’re curious?”

  “I’ll tell them about finding Holly’s journal,” I said. “They can’t suspect me of killing her. I’m too young.”

  Lucy stood close enough to us to hear our exchange. “Everybody loves a good mystery,” she said. “Then they forget about it when the next tantalizing tale comes along.”

  “In spite of our attempts to keep the story quiet, it’s being treated like a seventh day wonder,” I said.

  “Well, this is Foxglove Corners,” Annica pointed out. “A drowsy little town where nothing of note ever happens.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Crane said.

  “All right. A drowsy little town where strange things happen.”

  “Better.”

  Brent moved away from the demolition team and gave me a jaunty thumbs up.

  “They’re almost ready.” Crane took my hand and led me still further away from the fence into a patch of sunlight. “Lucy, Annica, follow us.”

  The blast held the power of a thousand thunderbolts. The cupola and porch crumbled together, raining pieces of wood and plaster and glass and shingles into the air. My ears rang with the assault. I breathed in flying grit while the echo of the implosion hung heavily over the earth.

  I leaned into Crane’s chest and said a quick prayer that the rest of the house still stood.

  Opening my eyes, I saw that it did.

  The time of reckoning had arrived.

  ~ * ~

  “They found something!”

  Brent’s shout rang out through the settling dust. The crowd swarmed closer to the fence, several people talking at once.

  Found what?

  What’s happening?

  Did they find a body?

  As Brent advanced toward me, Latham seized his opportunity to jump over the fence again. Brent didn’t notice him. Lucky for the reporter.

  “You were right, Jennet,” Brent said. “Holly was lying under the porch all this time. Not very far down, either.”

  Then why hadn’t her body been unearthed during the rebuilding of the original structures? I guess we’d never know.

  “From what I could tell, she was about your height,” Brent said. “Tatters of grayish material clung to the bones. There’s not much left of it, but a medallion on a chain survived. Its picture was the silhouette of a collie.”

  “Holly,” I said softly.

  Lucy added, “May you rest in peace.”

  “How can she?” Annica asked. “You guys just disturbed her grave.”

  “She’ll go to a better one,” Lucy said. “But think, Annica, her spirit was never in the ground. It’s all around us. Perhaps she’s in the crowd or at the fishpond.”

  I nodded and couldn’t help glancing at the pond. “I think she’ll approve of what we did. What’s next?”

  “She’ll have to be reburied,” Crane said. “Considering what we know about the first cupola and the porch being destroyed in the tornado, there’ll be no question of foul play. I don’t think so anyway.”

  My mind leaped ahead to providing a proper resting place for Holly. “Maybe we can arrange for her to be buried in that cemetery at the end of Huron Court.”

  “I’ll commission a gravestone,” Brent said. “Meanwhile, I’d like to get rid of these gawkers.” He raised his voice. “Everybody, go on home now! Show’s over!”

  A few people left. Some drifted away but re-formed in small groups to talk and speculate. I didn’t see Latham. He was probably already filing his story.

  Brent turned to me. “There’s something else you should know, Jennet. Holly didn’t die alone. There’s another skeleton lying near her. Unless I miss my guess, it’s a canine skeleton.”

  “Tristan.”

  “I’d say so.”

  The phantom collie hadn’t died in the fishpond, then. Holly had managed to pull him out only to be caught in the tornado’s deadly pitch and slammed into the torn earth. With her dog in her arms.

  Lucy laid her hand on my arm. “Man and dog will stand together.”

  “Make that woman and dog,” I said.

  ~ * ~

  To my surprise, Miss Eidt was one of the onlookers. In her pastel blue suit with a triple strand of pearls and a straw hat to keep off the blazing s
un, she looked out of place. She carried the library’s camera and a large tote bag decorated with lilacs.

  “I thought I’d take pictures for the file,” she said. “I had no idea what they were looking for.”

  “It all came together suddenly,” I said.

  “I’m a bit confused,” she said. “How did you know that anyone was buried here, let alone Holly Wickersham?”

  “A hunch,” I said.

  Seeing her skepticism, I added, “A strong hunch. I put together her story from several sources. Having access to her books was invaluable. I learned that several houses were damaged during the tornado from your vertical file. Lucy had a few strange experiences in the house. So did I.”

  “I understand,” Miss Eidt said. “Holly Wickersham was a hometown writer who didn’t receive her proper recognition while she was alive. I’m going to rectify that.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll have Debbie scour old bookstores and estate sales for her paperbacks and display them in a special carousel right by my desk. Mark my words. People will be asking for them. We should be able to find her picture on a dust jacket to copy and enlarge, and I’ll collect news clippings about today’s event and paste them into a book.”

  “There’s a picture of Holly with her friend, Micah Frost, on a beach,” I said. “Maybe they were at Sagramore Lake, for all we know. You can have a copy of that—or better still, the original.”

  Miss Eidt’s face fairly glowed with enthusiasm. “It’ll be a wonderful memorial to a forgotten writer. When I’m through, Holly Wickersham will be a household name. In Foxglove Corners, anyway.”

  “I’ll bring back the paperbacks I took from the library, and when the police release her journal, I’ll see that you have it. There might be more of Holly’s possessions in the attic that would give us a clear picture of her.”

  Not make-up or clothing but something meaningful like the picture of her and Micah. Everyone agreed that her collie medallion should be reinterred with her.

  “I can’t wait to get started,” Miss Eidt said. “Stop by as soon as you can to see what I’ve done.”

  Every writer hopes her works will live on after she dies. Thanks to Miss Eidt, this was going to happen for Holly. I thought she would be pleased and finally at peace; and the house on Loosestrife Lane would be also at peace.

  I hoped.

  Forty-seven

  The next day Brent brought us the evening edition of the Banner. The demolition story, complete with photographs, covered the front page. A sidebar contained a brief biography of Holly, taken from one of her dust jackets.

  “We made the front page,” he said. “I’m inviting everyone to have dinner at the Hunt Club Inn tomorrow. We’ll drink a toast to Holly Wickersham and celebrate a job well done.”

  I set the paper on the coffee table. We now had four of them. “Everyone meaning?”

  “You and Crane, Lucy and Annica. Miss Eidt, if she’ll come.”

  I recalled the last time we had been together at the Inn. We were a larger group gathered to celebrate Lucy’s movie, Devilwish. Helena Millay was the thirteenth guest that night. She’d been so excited about the arrival of her new collie, Arden.

  Everyone knew how that had turned out.

  “It sounds lovely,” I said, “but we can’t do it tomorrow. Did you forget the fundraiser for the animal shelter? I’ll be too tired to go out after washing dogs all day.”

  “I guess I lost track of the days. Okay, I’ll make the reservation for next Saturday.”

  “Are you going to move the collies to their new home or wait until the new construction is finished?” Crane asked.

  “Wait, of course. That’s the story of my life.”

  As he looked suddenly despondent, I said, “What’s the matter?”

  “I lost another caretaker, a couple actually. A husband-and-wife team.”

  “Oh no.”

  “My latest offer was declined this morning. It turns out that Mrs. Anderson was spooked when she read about the bones they found.”

  “But that’s in the past now,” I said. “The skeletons are gone and that part of the house is being rebuilt. I trust the workers will dig down deep to make sure there are no other skeletons on your property.”

  “That doesn’t make any difference to her. She says she couldn’t sleep in that house for thinking other bodies may be under the foundation. She’s afraid they’re going to rise up through the floors and get her.”

  Crane clapped him on the arm. “You just can’t win, Fowler.”

  “Mr. Anderson thinks it’s nonsense, but he won’t force her to live in a house she’s afraid of.”

  “I’m sorry,” Crane added. “You’ll have to keep looking. Sooner or later you’ll find the right person.”

  “I’m back to square one,” he said.

  Hoping to refocus his attention, I said, “Are you bringing your dogs to be bathed tomorrow?”

  “Just Chance and Tempest. They pick up more mud and burrs than all the others put together.”

  “I guess I’ll see you there then. It’s supposed to be warm and sunny. I hope we’ll have a good turnout. The shelter needs all the help it can get to stay in business.”

  ~ * ~

  Red, white, and blue balloons swayed in the gentlest of breezes on Sagramore Lake Road the next morning. My heart lifted at the carnival atmosphere that permeated the normally quiet street. Large portable tubs and tables had been set up on the five front yards south of Jennifer’s house which served as the fundraiser’s headquarters. The sounds of barking, yipping, and screeches of canine protest filled the air.

  I made my way toward the lake and Jennifer’s house. Across the street, Lila and Letty Woodville stood behind a card table dispensing iced water, iced tea, and lemonade. It seemed only yesterday that Molly and Jennifer were little girls selling lemonade and homemade cookies. Now here they were young ladies who had organized this impressive fundraiser to help the animal shelter.

  In Jennifer’s front yard, eight identical tubs were arranged on the lawn, together with boxes holding shampoo, detangler, rags, and a large selection of grooming implements. A separate box contained colorful bandanas.

  Jennifer was washing a reluctant Irish setter who was crying and trying in vain to escape from the tub. How pathetic elegant, long-haired dogs looked when they were wet. She dabbed at the dollop of suds that had landed on her nose.

  “Hey, Jennet,” she called. “Didn’t you bring your dogs?”

  “I wanted to, but I came to work.”

  Fortunately I’d slept well and felt fairly energetic, if a little warm. I glanced at the equipment set out in front of the house.

  “It looks like you’re ready to open a pet supplies shop,” I said.

  “Yeah, Mr. Fowler ran all this stuff over to us early this morning. He went back for two of his dogs. Then he’s joining the Wash Team.”

  “Brent? I’m surprised.”

  I knew how generous he was with his funds and time, but I always pictured him as the delegating kind.

  “The Woodville sisters wanted to pitch in and work along with us, but we put them in charge of refreshments,” Jennifer said. She lowered her voice. “We think they’re too old to wash a bunch of dogs.”

  “Don’t let them hear you say that. Are all the dogs taken?”

  “Right now. You can have the next one.”

  “Then I’ll go say hello to Lila and Letty and get a drink before I start,” I said.

  I crossed the street. At the moment, the Woodvilles didn’t have any customers. Unlike the rest of us, they hadn’t donned casual clothes. Lila wore a mint green gingham house dress and a matching hairband, but not her trademark voluminous apron. In a short denim jumper and white shirt, Letty came a little closer to fitting in. They both greeted me with happy smiles.

  “Will you have iced tea or lemonade?” Lila asked. “I made the lemonade myself.”

  “Lemonade,” I said. “It’s my favorite.”

  She p
oured the beverage into a large paper cup. “You’re an angel to help out the shelter. I know how busy you are. I read about your latest adventure,” she added.

  Eager to veer away from demolition and bones, I said, “Anything for the shelter. If you can stay in your home a little longer, we’ll come up with other ways to help.”

  “Oh, but the house on Park Street doesn’t belong to us,” Lila said.

  “I always thought it did.”

  “No, Major March let us live there rent free, and he sent us a generous monthly stipend to maintain the shelter. Now the house is part of his estate.”

  “It’ll be sold,” Letty added. “But we kept our old family house and the farm. We’ll just move back there and take whatever dogs we have. So every little bit will help.”

  “That’s what we did before Major March came into our lives,” Lila said. “We rescued dogs. We could only take care of a few, though. With his help, we’ve had as many as twenty-five at one time.” She sounded cheerful enough, but her smile seemed forced. “We’re getting too old to take care of that many dogs anyway. So maybe losing the house is a blessing in disguise.”

  “It’s a shame Major March didn’t remember the shelter in his will,” I said.

  “Like many of us, he must have thought he’d live forever,” Letty said. “But he died suddenly in that plane crash and left us to carry on as best we can.”

  I finished my drink, threw the paper cup in the receptacle provided, and crossed the street again. Like the library, the animal shelter was a fixture in Foxglove Corners, two old white Victorians enjoying a new life in a new century. Wherever the sisters’ farm was located, it wouldn’t be so easy to visit with treats for the shelter dogs and relax over tea and Lila’s wonderful coffee cake.

  And Caroline Meilland. Her portrait commissioned by Major March, hung in the vestibule, a gentle reminder of the slain animal activist who had so loved all the creatures with whom we share the earth. Would her legacy be lost along the way?