There was also a huge armoire in the corner. I plopped my bag on a luggage stand and plopped myself in an armchair. Unlike Pauline, I didn’t have much to unpack. Jeans, turtlenecks, gray t-shirts, those were my uniform, most days, and they made sense here. No need to lay them neatly in the mahogany armoire. I was used to living out of a bag; it was what I did every day as a reporter.
“Ladies! Let’s go!”
The thirty minutes were up. Pauline was always early and, even for a girl’s weekend, had a schedule to maintain.
Georgianne and I met in the hall and exchanged similar looks of fear.
“She doesn’t understand what the term relax means, that’s what I’m getting,” said Georgianne.
“I’m askaird,” I replied. We walked down the massive staircase to our waiting drill sergeant, uh, girlfriend.
“Ladies! We have the tour of the lighthouse, and then massages.” Pauline clapped her hands together as she listed today’s itinerary.
“Have you scheduled in napping?” I said hopefully. “I need napping.”
“Oh, stop, we’ll sleep when we’re dead!” Pauline’s reply did not fill me with confidence.
We followed the ebullient one out to the front of the house and on to the porch.
“Come on! It’s a quick little walk to the lighthouse.”
“Yes, sir!” Georgie saluted Pauline, and we fell in line.
As we walked, I was able to get a better look. The spot really was spectacular. It took a heck of a journey to get this far up the tip of Upper Michigan, but it could rival Cornwall when it came to dramatic cliffs that met foaming waves. I expected Ross Poldark to round the corner in a tri-corn hat and tight pants as I watched the water crash into the shore.
“Lake Superior is looking fierce and beautiful today,” I said. But no such luck on a Ross Poldark sighting.
The lighthouse was the centerpiece of the Great Lakes Shipwreck Museum. I craned my neck to see to the top.
“I’m looking forward to the museum actually,” Georgianne said. For Georgianne, a museum was one click away from a bookstore, so this probably would be her favorite part.
We entered the museum building, separated into sections, apparently by shipwreck. A plaque on the wall explained that the structure had been crew quarters when ships launched and docked here. But these days it was empty but for the ghosts.
“This is self-guided, so I say we go clockwise!” Pauline suggested. I had no opinion on the direction we mulled around the building. They led, and I followed.
Georgianne became our defacto docent. Some of the information she knew, since she was well versed in history, others she read aloud from the information plaques we passed.
“Michigan is home to more lighthouses than any other state, over 120 watch over our Great Lakes Shoreline,” Georgianne told us, and I had to admit, I was surprised.
“Treacherous water, unpredictable weather, and wicked winds also mean we are the home to hundreds of shipwrecks. This museum is here to honor those souls lost to the saltless sea.”
“Now I’m creeped out,” I said as we looked at the artifacts recovered from the various wrecks.
Georgianne was a fine storyteller, and as we walked through the museum, relics from ships and sepia-toned photos of lost crews animated her soggy facts.
As if the weather itself was in on Georgianne’s stories of the water claiming hundreds of crew members, the winds howled and shook the windows.
We finished exploring, and in the end, I was a total convert to the seafaring tales the museum told. “This is incredible. This place is amazing.” My initial skepticism had evaporated.
“Yes, but have you noticed, there’s not one other tourist in here,” Pauline said. The mystery for Pauline was always why was marketing failing.
I looked around and confirmed Pauline’s observation as we approached the last exhibit with a familiar name, the SS Bannockburn, inscribed on a black plaque.
The SS Bannockburn, carrying gold, silver, and other precious metals, departed from Widow’s Bay, October 31, 1902, headed for Thunder Bay in Ontario. The weather reports called for a calm sea; in fact, the air was warm for the season. As October turned to November, a dramatic shift saw the temperature drop from a temperate mid-sixties to just below freezing. With the drop in temperature came the fearsome gales of November, weeks earlier than anticipated. The crew of twenty-five, a ship’s cook, a medic, and the Captain were lost. The last known sighting was from this very lighthouse. Captain Lars Van Keppler radioed in that they were going to attempt to use lifeboats. One lifeboat was found, and it remains the only trace of the crew or the wreck ever recovered.
“Van Keppler, that’s old Dolores’ grandfather?” I said, imagining the tragedy awaiting the doomed ship as it launched from here.
“Yes, the house was his home base, passed down,” Pauline said.
We had finished the tour but weren’t quite ready to go back to the stately hotel.
“Let me read the plaque on the lighthouse,” Georgianne said. We walked over to the imposing tower that reached into the sky with its height and, once, into the waters with its beacon.
The Point Ojibwa Lightstation stands high above the waters of Lake Superior at the tip of Widow’s Bay. It was built at the site of a battle between the local Ojibwa (also known as the Chippewa or Anishinaabeg) and an invading Iroquois war party. Local legend says the outcropping of land was used to help French Explorer Etienne Brule find safe harbor here with the Ojibwa. The lighthouse, built in 1855, stands 70 feet high. After 110 years of service, the lighthouse was retired, replaced by an automatic light in Whitefish Point. Local legend says the old light glows only when bid by the call of souls lost in Lake Superior’s depths.
I happened to know a Brule; I’d have to ask him about the place.
The stories and museum tour put us in a somber mood. We finally returned to the Van Keppler house as the history of this place tamped down on the quips that had been flowing freely.
“I, for one, could use a drink after that,” I said.
“Agree,” Georgianne added.
3
We found our hostess waiting. She sat, ramrod straight, in a formal drawing room, by a fire for which I was grateful. It was summer, but the air off the lake had a chilly bite to it today.
“That museum was amazing,” I said to her.
“Here, ladies, sit, have a glass of brandy, your massages will be all the better for it.” Dolores sipped her drink. We sat around her and didn’t argue with the wisdom of a good stiff belt.
“So, Captain Van Keppler?” Georgie inquired, and Dolores nodded.
“Yes, my grandfather. He went down with his crew. My family has vowed to make good for the families of his lost crew. Unfortunately, there’s nothing to make good with. I spent my life hoping there’d be something to assuage the pain for those wives and children. But all I ever found was the lone lifeboat.”
“We saw it in the lighthouse museum, that’s so sad,” Georgianne said.
“Oh, listen to me, going on. This is your holiday. SKEETCH!” Dolores’s voice jangled my already frayed nerves. I took a gulp of my brandy, but before I could finish it, Skeetch came running in.
“Ms. Dolores, I’m here! No need to shout.” Skeetch smiled at us, and I felt for the guy if that’s how she summoned him regularly.
“The ladies are ready for the spa, Skeetch. Can you escort them?”
“Of course, and will you be joining us later for dinner?”
“I’m going to retire to my room. Have Chef send it. Enjoy our spa and your evening, ladies.” Dolores waved her hand, and we took our leave as well. The brandy had done its job. I was warmed and feeling less funereal.
Skeetch led us through the foyer and to another wing on the first floor. It likely was a screened-in porch at one point, but now it functioned as a grand, welcoming spa. The darker rooms in other parts of the mansion were nowhere to be seen here. A long wall of windows provided a spectacular view of the waters.
It was just as impressive as the rest of the mansion. If we weren’t at the northern tip of nowhere, this place would have a waiting list. As it was, it was only the three of us witches.
“Enjoy your spa time, and we’ll be serving dinner in about two hours,” Skeetch said and left us in the hands of the spa staff.
“Welcome!” A young lady greeted us. “Ms. Van Keppler says you’re all to get the works. That means we’ve got depilatory, facials, and a massage for all three. I’m Kim, I do the mannies and peddies. Bruce is our masseuse, he can do full body, deep tissue, hot stone, whatever your body needs today. Fiona will get you all situated with any laser or waxing treatments you might enjoy.”
“That’s wonderful,” Georgianne said.
We were all given thick terry cloth robes with the Van Keppler logo on the breast pocket.
“All this to ourselves,” I whispered. “Pauline, they’ve got to be losing money in buckets at this place.” Pauline nodded at my observation.
I was looking forward to having professionals buff out the decades and recent stress. But there was no way the three of us were enough to sustain a business.
“Well, I got a good rate, and if we can find ways to give Van Keppler a good Yelp review, maybe we can help generate some more bookings,” Pauline said.
“Got it.”
“Oh, and there are two more guests in our wing,” Pauline informed me. “I saw them.”
“This way, ladies!”
I was led to a small room with several hair removal options. I opted for laser treatment. I had, of late, developed a few unsightly and stubborn hairs on my chinny chin chin.
Fiona would be taking care of my chin hair today.
“Let me know if this gets too uncomfortable.” Fiona wore a white coat, and with a gentle demeanor, she fired up the lightsaber to remove all traces of chin hair. Her gentle demeanor masked the fact that she was going to fry my hair at the roots. Or yank it out with hot wax if I preferred.
What we women did to be hairless really was medieval.
“Turn it up to full power, Fiona, I can take it.” I knew the drill and was ready for it.
The laser felt like a rubber band snap on the skin, but it was nothing. It was worth it to not have to pluck for a while.
I did worry, when I got older, or incapacitated, or had failing eyesight, who might step up to help an old crone out? I was the mother of sons, and neither had agreed to be mother pluckers in my dotage. I hoped the laser killed the follicles for good to save my dignity in my old age.
Or maybe I could book gigs as Santa Claus?
“Oh, a few gray ones in there, they’re toughies.” Poor Fiona, it was a thankless job.
“Ha, yeah, great.”
Fiona completed her mission, and after the laser treatment, I rotated in for a massage.
I hopped up on the massage table and quipped, “Bruce the Masseuse, that’s got a great ring to it.”
“Thank you! My aunt thinks it sounds rather ridiculous, given our family heritage as tough sailors and captains.”
Bruce Van Keppler was crunchy. Back in the day, maybe hippy would work, but in today’s parlance, Bruce was crunchy. From his sandals to his leather cuff bracelets to his faint patchouli aroma.
“You’re Dolores’ nephew?”
“That I am. She hired me on here when she expanded the hotel to include all these spa services.”
“Ah, well, a perfect fit.”
“I guess so, it’s pretty slow, though. My aunt isn’t the best manager.”
“Well, that’s what Skeetch is for, eh?”
“I suppose.”
I sensed a little negative undercurrent, but I wasn’t sure if it was directed at Skeetch or Aunt Dolores. Bruce changed the subject.
“What type of massage are you thinking today? I’m certified in several disciplines.”
“Hot stone?”
“No problem!”
He chatted about the weather, and I hovered on the edge of sleep as a masseuse named Bruce, worked out the kinks.
Time floated by, and I found myself hairless, fluid, and more relaxed than I’d been in months. After my massage, I joined Pauline and Georgianne for pedicures.
“Wow, between Fiona and Bruce, I’m going to give this all the stars or whatever on Yelp,” I said.
“No kidding! I didn’t realize how stressed I was until I laid on that massage table.” Georgianne said. We clinked champagne flutes as bubbles tickled my toes.
“See, this place ought to be the hottest weekend booking in Widow’s Bay,” Pauline added.
I barely heard her, as the champagne and newly loosened muscles helped lull me into a near stupor.
“Oh, ow!” Georgianne said, and my eyes opened to see Georgianne lifting her toes out of the bubbling water.
At the same moment, I felt the water temperature go from bearable heat to scalding. “Holy heck!” I kept the language clean but thought a lot more than heck!
The hot water was too much, and I lifted my own feet out.
“Hello, can someone come in here and turn this temperature down?” Pauline called out. She had also removed her feet, and we all waited, watching as steam rose from our pedicure stations.
There was no answer to Pauline’s request. The water appeared to be getting hotter, not colder.
“I better go get, uh, Kim, right?” I said. She’d left us all to soak—or maybe she’d planned to boil us into a stew!
As I tried to put my hand on the armrest of the manicure chair, it collapsed. I was pitched akimbo toward the boiling water. I tried to skootch away, and the entire manicure chair fell apart with me in it. The hot water sloshed everywhere.
I struggled from the floor and saw both Georgianne and Pauline had been swallowed up by the chairs, which apparently, were held together with Scotch tape.
“Ladies, oh my gosh, ladies!” Kim and then Bruce burst in. The water on the tile floor had turned the surface as slick as ice. Kim slid to the ground, and Bruce stopped a similar catastrophe by bracing himself against the wall.
He inched his way to the outlets and unplugged the chairs, and Kim found her footing and reached out to me.
“Let me help you up,” she offered. Bruce was helping Georgie and Pauline.
Our robes were soaked; we were all three a bit shaken but otherwise uninjured by the killer manicure chairs. Fiona appeared and began to cry.
“I don’t know what to say, I’m so sorry. This is brand new equipment,” Kim said as we all three looked at the room, which now looked like a mini-tornado had hit it. Kim’s calm was appreciated next to Fiona. She was melting down, just like our feet.
“This just keeps happening, this place, it’s unclean, evil!” Fiona wailed dramatically.
“What?” I asked her.
“Don’t worry about her, she’s just emotional,” Bruce said, apparently trying to maintain some sort of professionalism in the wake of this spa disaster.
“Uh, we’re okay,” Pauline assured the spa staff as we made our way out of the manicure area and back to the front room that served as the lobby.
“Why does this keep happening?” Fiona said as she followed us out.
“What, your footbaths boil on a regular basis?” I asked.
“No, but last week the laser shorted out,” Fiona said. “Luckily, it only shocked me, and not the armpit of the client I was about to zap.”
I rubbed my chin, happy that I’d escaped that fate.
“We got you the new laser wand, but maybe there’s an electrical situation,” Bruce said, trying to remain logical about the mishaps.
“Yeah, well, what about that ceiling tile that nearly killed us both!” Fiona had forgotten that there were guests, apparently. It wasn’t exactly the kind of dirty laundry you wanted to air in front of the paying customers. Fiona’s litany of spa disasters could explain why we had the place to ourselves.
Just then, Skeetch arrived on the scene and took control of the situation.
“No h
arm done though,” he said quickly. You three, kindly clean up here, I’ll take our guests to their rooms. Dinner will be served early, as you know, with Ms.Van Keppler.”
“No harm done,” I repeated.
“I think I have a third-degree burn between my toes,” whispered Georgianne. She was a redhead, and as such, had delicate skin. I looked down at her feet.
“No, third-degree would mean blisters. Second at best,” I said.
“Great, so still a twenty percent tip?”
We both laughed and did tip the spa staff. The electrical issues weren’t their fault.
In the end, it was an old house. And they had tried to give us good service.
“We’re fine, thank you, Skeetch. We’ll escort ourselves,” Pauline said. We shook off the ever-present Skeetch, changed into our clothes, and padded back to our rooms on our own.
“Man, that was nuts,” Georgianne said.
“But I gotta tell you, they did a great job on your eyebrow shaping,” I said.
“And your chin looks like a baby’s butt.” Georgianne returned the compliment.
“I don’t know, this is really going to affect the Yelp reviews. No wonder no one’s booking this place.” Pauline contemplated the effect of the failed spa experience here on word of mouth for the business. She seemed unconcerned about our actual toes. Which were recovering nicely.
“The dinner better be top drawer,” Georgianne said. “I mean, to compensate for the toe scorching and utter collapse of our pedicures.”
“As long as we’re not the ones in the boiling pots, it will be a win,” I observed.
4
Despite our low-level disaster of a spa experience, we dressed for our early bird bed and breakfast dinner.
“I hear she has a great selection of wines, from vineyards right here in Michigan,” Pauline said. We descended the grand staircase. Skeetch was there waiting.
“You all look lovely this evening!” Skeetch smiled at us and led the way to the dining room. “Chef Courtney will be out to explain the menu. Until then, enjoy some Verterra Riesling.”
Cold Cases and Haunted Places Page 47