“Yes. Thanks. Are you still able to pick me up for dinner?”
“Of course. That’s why I’m calling. Leslie and I will be coming back from Grand Rapids. We can swing by and pick you up around six. That’s about an hour.”
“I was going to go for a walk. Didn’t you tell me there’s a natural hot tub—like a pond—out here somewhere?”
“Yes. If you can find it. It’s a bit of a hike—about two miles from where you are.” He gave her general directions—which included having to walk from the small island across the short bridge to the mainland. “Not many people know where it is, and no one really goes there because we have Lake Michigan and Wicks Lake.”
“Well I’m in the mood for a walk. I really need to clear my head before I can get to work. Why don’t you just pick me up down there by the hot tub—hot spring, I mean—instead of having to make a detour and come all the way up here to the island.”
“Sure. That makes it even easier. I’ll text when we’re close.”
Teddy disconnected and looked thoughtfully at her bathing suit. Something about churning, warm water in a natural habitat seemed like it would be a good way to clear her mind, get her creative juices flowing. If she could find the hot spring, maybe she could sit in it and veg for a while. Just let things flow. Relax. Get rid of the stress so the story could come to her.
With a satisfied smile, she dragged on her bluebell-colored one-piece suit. I really have to start working out, she thought. Having a sedentary job didn’t do a thing to help the size of her butt.
Then, after tossing a towel, a comb, and dry underthings into her large leather tote, she pulled on a loose but pretty sundress, stuck on her sunglasses, slid into sturdy sandals…and left the house. Feeling only slightly guilty.
Harriet would never have to know.
And an evening out in the fresh air, then with friends, would surely get things moving.
“What do you mean, there’s been a mistake?” Oscar London swiped a forearm across his forehead to catch the trickle of sweat, and the heavy bag of equipment he was holding clunked into his shoulder.
The college kid who’d obviously been sent as sacrificial lamb stammered, “Uh…well, Dr. London, I’m so sorry, but there was a last-minute booking that came in, and someone else approved it, not realizing you’d already leased Stony Cape Cottage for the month—I mean, no one’s stayed here for years, and then all of a sudden two people wanted—and…so…well, there’s someone else staying here already.” He glanced at the door as if expecting said rival boarder to make an appearance.
Oscar looked at the three man-sized equipment bags he’d just lugged onto the porch of the keeper’s house, then back at the Jeep where a fourth one, as well as his backpack, sat, and shook his head firmly. “I’m not leaving. You people made the mistake, I paid for the rental, so you can just move your other client to another location.”
“Uhm…but, like, there’s…not any other location available. You see, it’s the beginning of July—that means high season in Wicks Hollow, and everything’s been booked for—”
“Look.” Oscar squinted out at the rippling blue of Lake Michigan. “I’m not trying to be unreasonable, but I need to stay here. I rented this place because of its location near a water ecosystem I’m going to be studying, and because I won’t be disturbed. Plus it has the space I need to set up my lab. So I’m not giving it up.”
“Well. Uh. You brought your own refrigerator?” The kid looked at the compact unit next to the rest of the equipment, then at Oscar, who just nodded wearily. “Well, uh…there are two bedroom suites. The other—er—tenant is staying in the bottom of the lighthouse. You could, like…both of you could stay.” He rushed out this suggestion. “I mean, the place is set up, like, for that. You each have your own suite.”
“Fine. I don’t care. As long as they don’t get in my way. Wait. How many of them are there?” With his luck, Oscar would end up sharing the damned place with a couple on their honeymoon. No fecking way. He thrust away visions of Marcie and Trevor.
“Just one person. A, uh, writer named Teddy Mack.”
“Right. He can leave if he wants, but I’m not going anywhere. Now let me finish unloading my stuff so I can get to work.” Oscar looked toward the narrow promontory from the mainland that was connected to this tiny island by a wood and metal bridge. The hot spring—the only known one in Michigan, and deliciously close to the Great Lake—was supposedly located just to the southeast of the finger-like peninsula.
“Do you…uh…want me to tell Teddy?” asked the kid.
“Huh?” Oscar turned from scanning the horizon. The sacrificial lamb was already edging off the porch, clearly ready to bleat and flee, so Oscar took pity on him. “No. I’ll take care of it. But if there are any problems, I’m sending him to you.”
“Yes. Of course. Oh, and the agency is offering a thirty percent discount on your stay for the inconvenience, or you can apply it to a future booking.” The kid was already at his car, preparing to climb in.
“Thirty percent? With a double booking, it should be at least a fifty percent discount,” Oscar grumbled under his breath. But the reality of solitude dangled in front of him, so he decided to hold off arguing about that in favor of being left alone.
Happily, for both of them, the young man drove off in his car as Oscar lugged the rest of his supplies inside.
Thirty minutes to set up the basics, then I’m off to find the only natural hot spring in Michigan.
It was a ridiculous way for a well-published PhD from Princeton to spend his summer, analyzing a tiny pool of water in Michigan when he had four other research projects he was managing with his grad students. And Oscar was fully aware that his plan would be little more than busywork. But it beat staying in New Jersey.
He just didn’t want to be anywhere near the city when Marcie married Trevor next weekend—because with his luck, he’d run into them, or her parents, or their mutual colleagues who’d been invited and had come to town. Including his sister, who was one of Marcie’s bridesmaids. So, since he wasn’t teaching any summer classes at the U, he got the hell out of Dodge.
So he was here. In a small, white, blue-shuttered cottage attached to a non-working lighthouse. It consisted of a one-room kitchen/dining/living space that didn’t appear to have air conditioning, but was equipped with very large ceiling fans. A space he was going to have to share with a writer. Oscar mumbled a curse.
At least writers were supposed to be antisocial. Maybe the guy would be locked up in his bedroom in the lighthouse all day, working on whatever he was working on.
One thing was sure: the bloody writer wasn’t going to be using the living room or kitchen, because that was where Oscar was setting up his lab.
Forty minutes later, he had the basics in place: the mini fridge for samples, a small centrifuge, a pressure cooker, a shaker, an incubator, and two microscopes. He had all his flasks, tubes, plates, and pipettes arranged. All of the chemicals he’d need—resin, alcohol, and more—were lined up alphabetically on the long coffee table. Good thing he’d brought his own power strips, because the bungalow—which was probably built or at least updated in the fifties—was severely lacking in outlets. It’d be a miracle if he didn’t blow a fuse when he had everything up and running.
Oscar pulled on his work vest and tucked gloves and syringes into their slots. The rest of his equipment (Cubitainers, glass bottles, and biohazard bags) he packed in a small cooler. Then, slinging it over his shoulder like a messenger bag, he set off on foot with a bottle of water in hand.
Might as well get started.
It was a pleasant hike on a defined path, but one that clearly didn’t see a lot of foot traffic.
Though he’d been to every continent except Antarctica, and visited the West Coast and Southern U.S. often, Oscar hadn’t ever been to Michigan. What he’d seen so far since driving across the border from Ohio was a sort of natural melting pot.
The Great Lakes State had everything from
flat farmland to rolling hills to small ski mountains; thick, lush forests, to tall, scrawny, piney ones, and broad meadows of farmland where alfalfa and rows of corn flourished. Pretty much every time you turned around, there was a lake or pond or river or creek in view; and yet, here at the shoreline of the vast and powerful Lake Michigan, there were desertlike sand dunes studded with scrubby clumps of grass. And adjacent to this smidge of desert shore was a thick, dark forest that reminded him of Grimm’s fairy tales.
Though heavy with humidity today, the air was clean and smelled loamy and fresh. Oscar spotted several species of wildflowers he could name thanks to his Scouting days—Indian paintbrush, Queen Anne’s lace, daisies—and others he’d never seen before. Moss grew everywhere in a variety of textures: short, bright green that reminded him of a miniature putting green; another patch in a hue closer to the color of grass that had slightly taller stems, which reminded him of the close-cropped fur of Marcie’s terrier; and still others in shades of olive, reddish-bronze, yellow.
After a good twenty minutes of hiking—along the bridge back to the mainland, then south from the promontory—he heard the faint rumble of rushing water. At last. Now he just had to follow his ears through the forest.
Climbing over fallen logs, avoiding eye-level pine branches and wild raspberry bushes, Oscar picked up the pace, his knapsack thunking companionably against his side. The forest was dead silent but for the rumbling and an occasional rustle of leaves, or the call of a bird. Once in a while, the distant purr of a vehicle buzzed by in the far distance.
He saw a doe and her fawn, which shocked him when they merely stared at the intruder before bounding off into the forest, flipping up their tails to show the white that gave them their name. The slender, dark whip of a snake slithered into the underbrush when he disturbed its place in a sunny patch on the rough path. Meanwhile, the water’s rumbling was growing louder, and Oscar was aware of a little spike of enthusiasm.
A natural hot spring was, after all, a unique ecosystem. In this case, it was the only known one in the region. Maybe there’d even be something interesting there—some new bacterium or alga that could be useful. Or at least something he could mess around with to keep his mind off home.
At last, he could make out the stony outcropping that appeared to make up the backdrop of the pool. Then he saw the steam rising into the air.
At last the pool came into view: a gently roiling mass of steaming water.
And, sitting in the water, messing up his plan and contaminating it all to hell, was a woman.
Oscar stifled a groan, but went on.
She looked over at him as Oscar approached.
“Nice day for a swim,” she said.
Though her hair was dry, her face was rosy and moist from the steam. It was a pretty face, no denying it, with large eyes, arching brows, and full lips. And from what he could see above the surging water, the rest of her wasn’t too bad either. She had brown hair pulled back in a clip or something, and even from here, he could see that her eyes were filled with humor.
Oscar looked around. She seemed to be by herself. “Yep.”
“Though on a hot day like today, I’m not sure a steam bath is the best idea. Still. Here I am.” She shifted, and he caught sight of more cleavage than was healthy for a guy who was currently avoiding women like the plague.
“You here by yourself?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin and gave him a mild look. “Is there something wrong with a woman being in a hot spring by herself instead of with some guy—or another woman, for that matter?”
“No. Just wondered.” He unslung his tool bag, considering whether there was a polite way to ask her to get the hell out of his ecosystem.
Probably not.
“If I were a nervous sort of woman—which I’m not—with a great imagination—which I do, in fact, have—I’d be wondering what’s in that bag. And why you want to make sure I’m here all alone.” She narrowed her eyes at his things. “For all I know, you could have rope in there. Or duct tape. Maybe a gun or a knife, even. A camera, to take pictures of the scene?”
“Or syringes and plastic baggies and gloves.” He produced them with a flourish. “You do have an imagination.”
“Yeah. Sometimes.” She slumped down in the water so it bubbled up around her shoulders, suddenly looking miserable. “Only sometimes.” She tipped her head up, closing her eyes as she rested her head against the stone rim behind her.
Oscar ignored her as he pulled on a pair of gloves. He could still take a sample, but he’d much rather have one not freshly contaminated with sunblock, perfume, deodorant, and whatever else she might have clinging to her body. Shampoo. Body lotion.
“Gloves? Hm. Maybe I should be worried.” She was sitting up again, watching him with interest.
If you don’t stop talking to me, you might need to be.
He dug out a Cubitainer and syringe, closing the top of the cooler to keep it cold.
“What are you doing?” She sat back up and was watching with bright, interested eyes. “What’s all that for?”
“I’m sampling for E. coli in the water,” he said, slanting a sideways look at her. Maybe that would get her out. “Among other nasty things.”
“Really.” She didn’t sound concerned. Nor did she seem ready to leap out of the possibly infested water.
“How much longer are you going to be in there?”
“Why? Are you thinking about skinny-dipping? I promise to close my eyes till you get in.” She grinned, and he almost grinned back.
But she was in the middle of his private ecosystem, contaminating it with God knew what—and worst of all, she was far too friendly and chatty.
“I just told you I’m testing for E. coli and you ask if I’m planning to take off my clothes and get in?” he replied.
“Well, since most E. coli isn’t harmful, I figured you were either exaggerating or teasing me.” She shrugged.
He gritted his teeth. Smarty-pants.
“As for how long I’m going to be in here—skinny-dipping partner and potentially deadly bacteria notwithstanding,” she continued, slanting him a look that could only be described as sassy, “I don’t know.”
Her expression dimmed suddenly, as if a bad memory had come to mind. She slid back down into the roiling pool, a wash of desperation and misery erasing her smile. “Until my brain starts working again. Which might be forever. But they say water actually helps the mind work better, so…” She grimaced as the water splashed and roiled against her jaw. “I’ll soak away. Like a human teabag.”
Oscar moved over to the edge of the pool. The heat rose in waves, dampening his skin. Droplets of water splashed up from the churning water, spraying him in the face.
“So are you really testing the water? Is there really a chance there might be the nasty kind of E. coli in it?” She did look a little concerned now.
“I don’t know what’s in it. A natural hot spring is a unique ecosystem unto itself—and this is the only one in Michigan. So who knows what I’ll find. That’s why I’m testing it.”
He hesitated, scoping out the situation. To get a good sample, he should be in the center of the pool, not near the edge, where it was shallow. The water was so enthusiastic that there was no danger of his sample being stagnant. Still, the sample needed to come from the center, where the grit and dirt from the floor wouldn’t be mixed in.
“What’s wrong?” The woman was still watching him from her deep-in-the-water position.
“Nothing. Just trying to figure out the best way to reach the center.”
He was close enough now to see locks of dark brown hair clinging to her cheek and the damp skin of her neck. A few other strands had curled up in the humidity near her temples and the fronts of her ears. A trio of small gold hoops hung from each lobe, and a delicate chain glinted against the damp skin of her throat. She had light skin flushed red from the heat and blue eyes that sparkled with enthusiasm. He put her age at around thirty or so.
“If you don’t want to get in, I can do it for you,” she offered. “But if you were planning to strip, don’t let me stop you.” That glint of ready humor was back in her gaze.
Oscar looked at her, ready to refuse—then decided letting her help wasn’t a bad idea after all. That way he wouldn’t have to zip off his switchbacks and remove his shoes and socks—which would entail taking off the sterile gloves he’d just donned. Which he’d have been thinking about previously if he hadn’t been distracted by her. “You’d have to wear gloves.”
“I think I can handle that.” She sat up and scooted across the pool toward him. He gave her a pair that would be too big for her, but at least would cover her hands.
“Don’t touch the inside of the container,” he instructed her when she was ready. “And put it below the surface about six to eight inches, like so.” He demonstrated by turning the Cubitainer upside down and bringing it straight down. “Fill it all the way up, then empty it out. Do that three times, and the last time, keep it filled. I’ll give you the cap when you’re finished.”
“Why do I have to fill it—and empty it—three times?”
“To make sure every area of the surface is touched by the sample before you actually fill it up.”
“Are you sure you trust me to do this?” She held out her gloved hand for the container. The ends of the fingers flopped loosely.
“I’m beginning to wonder,” he muttered, but let his mouth soften into a little smile. Other than being far too chatty and a definite contaminant, she seemed harmless—relatively intelligent and able to follow directions.
“Well, you could climb in yourself.”
“I’m sure you’ll do a fine job,” he replied, handing her the container a little more abruptly than he intended. But she didn’t drop it. As she turned to swim to the center, he caught a glimpse of a spectacular rear end, nice and curvy, covered in a bright blue swimsuit.
He couldn’t wait to get out of here.
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Sinister Sanctuary: A Ghost Story Romance & Mystery (Wicks Hollow Book 4) Page 2