Unbelievable

by Cindy Blackburn

  “Girl.” Dad waved to get my attention. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Size,” I said. “What are you?” I asked Joe. “Five-ten?”

  “Ten and a half,” he said with half a smile. “I’m no giant.”

  “No, but you’ll do.” I ignored another half-smile, climbed out of the canoe, and pointed. “Sit down dead-woman style, please.”

  “Put your arms like so.” I knelt down on the dock and pulled on his left arm. He arranged his right arm to match.

  “And my legs like this?” He stretched out, and his knees popped up over the edge of the canoe like hers had.

  I stood up. “Perfect,” I said. “She was five-ten.”

  “Her canoe could have been a different size,” Joe argued.

  “That’s right,” Dad said. “Science experiments should be exact. No uncertain variables.”

  “Says the retired English teacher.” I told Joe to wait and dragged my kayak into the water.

  Then we each paddled out, and Joe sat still while I banged my kayak into the canoe, trying to mimic my actions of the morning. The only new “variable” was Charlie. He thought this game was super fun and swam back and forth between Joe and me, deftly avoiding our paddles.

  “It was a regular old metal canoe, like you see everywhere around here.” I deliberately smacked into the bow of the canoe, and Joe flicked a paddle to splash me. “And.” I splashed him back. “Her canoe was the same size as this one.”

  “You’d be a good scientist,” Joe told me. “Good experiment.”

  “But I’m still missing something.” I stopped splashing and frowned at the canoe. “Some crucial variable.”

  Chapter 9

  Joe didn’t have to ask me twice. When he pointed to his pontoon boat and suggested we take a trip over to Mallard Cove, I put down the stack of plates I was clearing from the picnic table and headed off the porch. “Let’s go.”

  “Cassie wait,” Dad called after me.

  “For what?”

  “You don’t need to go down there and upset yourself.”

  “Yes I do, Dad. I need to figure out that missing variable.”

  Joe shrugged at Bobby. “It can’t hurt to explore,” he said. “To make some observations.”

  “Maybe it’ll help me remember something,” I added. “And I want to ask Joe a few questions.” I glanced at Maxine’s house. “Out of earshot.”

  “Well then, you kids go,” Dad said. “Charlie and I will hold down the fort.”

  I ignored the kids comment, and Charlie ignored the fort comment. He raced across our yards and ended up the first on board.

  “Out of earshot,” I repeated as Joe maneuvered his boat around a group of kayakers.

  He told me Lake Bess is over three hundred acres. “We’ll steer clear of everyone.” He turned left, toward the north end of the lake. “And we’ll take the long route.”

  “Good,” I said. “Because I have lots of questions. I want all the dirt on everyone who lives in Mallard Cove and Fox Cove.”

  “We’d need ten trips around the lake to cover all the dirt on the B and B.”

  “So condense.” I waved to the Gallipeaus as our pontoon boats passed each other. “But don’t skip anything about Arlene and Pru,” I whispered. “Or the ghost. Haven’t I heard something about a ghost?”

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “About as much as I believe in Whoozit.”

  “Whatzit?” Joe asked, and I reminded him about Bobby’s sci fi world.

  “How about you?” I said. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “No. But some spooky stuff happens at the Fox Cove Inn.”

  “What exactly? Who’s the ghost?”

  “Ghosts,” Joe corrected. “And I thought you wanted the condensed version.”

  ***

  A speakeasy or a bordello. A speakeasy and a bordello. A speakeasy then a bordello. Whatever the exact timing, the history of the Fox Cove Inn was chock full of spooky stuff and dirt.

  “It was a speakeasy during Prohibition,” Joe said. “But the bordello phase lasted well into the seventies.”

  “As in the 1970s?” I was incredulous. “Where was the sheriff?”

  “Taking bribes. I was only a kid, but even I know Fred McGuckin wasn’t nearly as conscientious as Gabe Cleghorn. He didn’t shut the place down until someone got shot and killed.”

  “Is he the ghost?” I asked.

  “Ghosts,” Joe reminded me, but he waited until we were past the public beach to say more. “Most people assume the ghosts are the dead Mr. Pearsons. And they weren’t shot, they were poisoned by their wives.”

  I looked at Charlie. “Bobby doesn’t know what he’s missing,” I said, and Joe told us Arlene isn’t the first Pearson woman with a bad temper.

  According to the ghost stories, the Pearsons ran the bordello for several generations. And with each new generation, some Pearson wife decided her Pearson husband was bad for business.

  “How many ghost-guys are we talking about?” I asked.

  “Three, I think. Supposedly they roam the hallways groaning and complaining of stomach cramps.” Joe held his index finger to his lips as we passed the Lake Store.

  Tater Ott, a kid who makes Dennis the Menace look tame, was fishing off the dock. He waved enthusiastically, and Charlie looked to me for permission to jump in and go visit.

  “No,” I said firmly, and he sat back down.

  Tater kept waving. “Maybe I’ll catch your dead lady,” he called out. “Wouldn’t that be wicked, Ms. Baxter?”

  “Wicked,” I agreed, and Joe kept us moving. He set a course for the eastern side of the lake, and I asked about Arlene and Pru’s father. “Is he one of the ghost-guys?”

  “No, but their grandfather supposedly is. After the shooting that closed the place down, Grandma needed some income. Legend has it she poisoned Grandpa for the life insurance.”

  My mouth dropped open. Charlie’s mouth dropped open. And the ducks we were passing changed direction to follow us and hear more.

  Joe continued, “Soon after that, their son Arty—that’s Arlene and Pru’s father—ran away to Boston. That’s where Arlene and Pru were born and raised.”

  I thought about everyone’s general age. “Did you know Arty?”

  Joe shook his head and said he was just a little kid at the time. “And Arty never came back home. After Arty’s mother died Sheriff McGuckin boarded up the Fox Cove, and it sat there for decades.”

  “Great for ghost stories,” I said. I asked how Arlene and Pru ended up at Lake Bess.

  “They inherited the place after Arty died,” Joe said. “Supposedly they knew nothing about the Fox Cove until the estate attorneys tracked them down.”

  “So they moved up here?” I asked. “Sight unseen?”

  Joe shrugged. “Lake Bess is a good place to live, Cassie. Maybe they wanted a fresh start.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe they didn’t know about the speakeasy, bordello, poisonings, shootings, and ghost-guys.”

  ***

  “Are we brave enough to venture in?” Joe asked as we made it down to Fox Cove.

  “We must,” I said. “In the name of scientific observation.”

  We got situated at the mouth of the cove and stared across the water at the Fox Cove Inn.

  “Here’s what I’m observing.” I gestured toward the terrace where several guests were enjoying the evening. “They definitely have a view of Mallard Cove.”

  “So do the Poquettes.” Joe pointed to Oden’s farm, located up the hill behind the B and B, and I noticed Rose and Ruby at the edge of the property chowing down on some poor innocent plant.

  “They had an even better view this morning.” I reminded Joe the goats had been in Mallard Cove at five a.m.

  “The Honeymoon Cottage also has a view of Mallard Cove,” he said, and I glanced at the quaint little building in the middle of the B and B’s garden.

  I nodded. “So anyone over here could have s
een what happen—”

  “Get off my property!” Arlene Pearson emerged from the Honeymoon Cottage, and everyone in every direction jumped ten feet in the air. The people on the terrace wrestled each other to get through the French doors leading off the patio, and out of Arlene’s way. And poor Charlie tried to make himself invisible beneath Joe’s captain’s chair.

  “She doesn’t own the lake,” I told the dog. But when Arlene headed toward the water’s edge screeching my name, I also considered hitting the deck.

  “Why did you bring her over here?” she screamed at Joe. “You’re ruining my business. Get! Out!”

  “On it,” Joe said under his breath. He started backing away when Arlene caught sight of Rose and Ruby and went truly ballistic. The goats disappeared around the back corner of the inn, and Arlene raised a fist and ran after them.

  “And people think I’m crazy?” I asked.

  “That woman is spookier than the ghost-guys,” Joe agreed.

  Chapter 10

  “Mama Bear, Papa Bear and Baby Bear,” I said as we arrived in Mallard Cove. “The first time I kayaked down here, I gave these houses nicknames.”

  Joe pointed to the smallest house. “Evert Osgood’s is Baby Bear?”

  I nodded and gestured to the largest house, in between the other two. “The La Barge place is Papa Bear, and Fanny Baumgarten’s is Mama Bear.”

  I glanced around. It didn’t appear that any of the bears were home that evening. “The La Barges don’t really live here, right?” I asked. “I know they have a big house in Montpelier.”

  “It’s probably better for Ross’s political aspirations to live in the state capital,” Joe said. “But Lake Bess is a good place to raise children. Their son Travis grew up here.”

  I mentioned that I’d seen Travis at the Lake Store a few times. “He’s always buying beer.”

  “That’s Travis. He still lives here. He takes care of the place for his mother.” Joe nodded at Papa Bear, and I noticed an upstairs shutter dangling forlornly from its hinges.

  “Any La Barge dirt?” I asked.

  Joe raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you already know enough about the La Barges?”

  A valid point. Unfortunately, Ross La Barge is a Vermont celebrity. Better known as Ross the Boss, he owns a used car lot outside of Montpelier, and his TV commercials are legendary for their stupidity.

  For instance, every Thanksgiving, Ross dresses up like a turkey, and encourages us to, “Gobble! Gobble! Gobble up a pre-owned vehicle from Cars! Cars! Cars!” Another classic, for his annual tribute to Valentine’s Day, Ross the Boss dresses up as Cupid and dances around in the bed of a bright red pickup truck.

  It gets even worse every four years when he embarks on another round in his never-ending quest to become governor. We Vermonters are then treated to incessant campaign commercials, featuring Ross’s wife Janet bragging about her husband’s maturity, good taste, and sound judgment.

  Never say never, but I’m guessing I’ll never vote for a man I’ve seen dressed in a pink diaper.

  Joe asked if I’d seen the latest commercials. Lucky me, I had. Because lucky Vermont, Ross was already starting his gubernatorial campaign for the coming November.

  “I assume Janet won’t shoot any of her vote-for-my-husband commercials here.” I waved at Papa Bear, and in particular, at the raggedy hammock tied between two maple trees in what might once have passed for a garden.

  “That’s where Travis sleeps off his hangovers,” Joe said.

  I glanced sideways. “Am I sensing dirt?”

  “Dirt, problems, whatever you want to call it. Travis drinks. And I think he does drugs.” Joe frowned. “He graduated from Hilleville High with my daughter Paige.”

  “I take it they weren’t friends?”

  “No, thankfully.” He frowned some more. “But Travis does have some talent. He has a lot of potential.”

  “It can’t be easy being Ross the Boss’s son,” I said.

  “Yep, and it’s even harder being Janet’s son.” He nodded toward Baby Bear. “What do you know about Evert?”

  “I know his house looks a lot tidier than he does.”

  “Don’t let looks fool you,” Joe told me. “Evert’s a good guy.”

  Easy to believe, since lots of Vermonters look pretty darn rugged. All those months of surviving the seriously cold winters make people up here a little rough around the edges. Let’s just say Evert Osgood’s edges are very rough.

  “He seemed friendly anytime I’ve talked to him at the Lake Store,” I said. “But he’s always so messy-looking.”

  Joe explained that I’d probably caught Evert on his way home from work. “He’s the dynamite expert for the state highway department. He blasts rock. When you talk to him, speak up. He’s half deaf from his job.”

  “So the dirt on Evert is actual dirt,” I told Charlie. “Which can probably also be said about Miss Rusty,” I added as I remembered Evert’s basset hound.

  “That dog is cute as a button.” Joe said, and Charlie and I had to agree.

  I glanced at Mama Bear. “I’m guessing there isn’t any dirt on Fanny?” I asked, and Joe agreed it was highly unlikely.

  Like Ross the Boss, Fanny Baumgarten is a local celebrity. But in a good way. Fanny was the sole teacher at Lake Elizabeth Elementary School for half a century. Yes, you read that right. Lake Bess has a one-room schoolhouse where Elizabethan children attend kindergarten through third grade. After that they get bussed into Hilleville for the remainder of their K through twelve education. And the reason this system still exists is Fanny Baumgarten.

  In the late 1970s when state authorities decided one-room schools were obsolete, Fanny fought to save her school. She produced all kinds of statistics proving that every student who ever attended Lake Elizabeth Elementary went on to graduate from high school. Yes, you read that right also. Every. Single. Student.

  But Fanny didn’t stop there. She called in the troops—namely her former students—and dozens of doctors, lawyers, teachers, engineers, and a well-known actor came out of the woodwork, down from mountaintops, and across continents to testify in front of the Vermont State Board of Education on behalf of their elementary school.

  Fanny won the battle. Her victory made the New York Times, and the framed article about her sits atop the meat counter at the Lake Store.

  “Was she your teacher?” I asked.

  “Of course.” Joe pointed to Baby Bear. “And Evert’s.” He pointed to Papa Bear. “And Janet’s. And Oliver’s, and Maxine’s. Mrs. Baumgarten taught every Elizabethan over age thirty.” He stopped smiling. “You know what happened after her retirement?”

  “She went blind,” I said. “I’ve seen her at the Lake Store with Lindsey. You know, her assistant, or aide, or whatever the right word is.”

  “Beautiful is the word,” Joe said on reflex. He glanced at me. “Sorry.”

  “Why?” I asked. “She is beautiful.”

  An understatement. Lindsey Luke is drop-dead gorgeous—tall and buxom, with long dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and a pale complexion. She’s stunning. And she certainly stuns any man who gets in her path. I’ve witnessed the profound effect she has at the Lake Store. Chester Stewart and Hollis Klotz are actually rendered speechless in her presence, Oliver drops things, and my father gets dizzy.

  “Bobby has to hold onto me for support every time we see her,” I said. “It doesn’t help that he stands eye level with her chest.” I glanced at Joe. “What profound effect does she have on you, Dr. Wylie?”

  “I stutter. She probably thinks my name is Joe Why-Why-Why.”

  ***

  “Why, why, why?” I pointed to the sky, where storm clouds were rolling in.

  Joe frowned upward also but steered us toward the cattails, anyway. “Let’s take a quick look,” he said and maneuvered the boat to hover over the dead-redhead spot.

  I stared into the pool of darkening water, and Charlie came over to see what I was so interested in.

&nbs
p; “Nothing,” I said. “She was dead, and she was lying in a plain, old, ordinary canoe.” I pointed to the three canoes at the three docks of Mallard Cove. Even Fanny had one.

  “Think harder,” Joe told me.

  I took another peek at the cattails, and it actually came to me. “I know the missing variable!” I looked up. “There were no paddles! She had no paddles in that canoe, Joe.”

  “Someone was out here moving her around,” he said.

  “Either that or she was beamed up, Chance-Dooley style.” I shook my head. “But my father insists this so-called beaming up business doesn’t work.”

  ***

  “Rose and Ruby weren’t the only ones watching you this morning,” Joe said as we arrived back at his dock.

  “Nope.” I waited until my feet were on solid ground before responding. “The murderer was watching me.”

  “Murderer!” He glanced at Maxine’s house. “Murderer?” he whispered.

  “The redhead didn’t die in that canoe, Joe. And she wasn’t asleep. Someone killed her and put her out there. And when they saw me see her, they decided they’d better hide her.”

  “That’s a stretch, Cassie. You’re jumping to a lot of unsubstantiated conclusions.”

  I folded my arms. “Do you have a better hypothesis, Mr. Mad Scientist?”

  Joe stared at me. “Okay, so maybe it’s a remote possibility,” he said. “Now what?”

  “We test the hypothesis, right? Isn’t that what scientists do?”

  He reminded me I’m not a scientist. “Gabe Clegorn’s the guy to test this hypothesis.”

  “He’s not a scientist, either.”

  “No, but he is the sheriff.”

  “The sheriff who never called me,” I said. “The sheriff who hasn’t found the body, the sheriff who hasn’t figured out anything.”

  “Patience is a virtue.”

  “How would I know?” I said as thunder clapped overhead. “Something sinister happened here,” I shouted over the sudden downpour. “And I intend to find out what.”

  About then, lightning struck nearby and set off both Charlie and the FN451z. Charlie ran in nervous circles around me, and a totally frenzied FN beeped, burped, and chirped from inside Joe’s house.