Ghost Across the Water

By Dorothy Bodoin

Hoping to escape a shattering personal loss, Gothic novelist Joanna Larne comes to a lakeside cottage which is ideal for her purpose in every way except for the persistent sound of water falling from an unknown source and the ghost across the water who bears an uncanny resemblance to her lost lover.

When Joanna saves the life of a tourist, she finds herself in the middle of an old, unsolved murder mystery and a real life ghost story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590884621

Book preview

One

Dark clouds lay heavily over the woods northeast of the freeway, stealing the best of the light. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Where had all the cars gone? For a brief, eerie moment, it seemed as if I were the only traveler on the Michigan interstate this Friday afternoon.

The moment passed in a rumble of thunder. The other vehicles were far behind, their headlights shining in the thick air. Soon they’d sail past me, as the last wave of traffic had done. I was driving at the posted speed limit and didn’t intend to exceed it, not even to outrun the approaching storm. Especially with all the state troopers I’d seen along the way, and my dog in the back seat asleep in her crate.

On the morning news I’d heard about the chance of severe thunderstorms. As always, I had a contingency plan. If caught in a downpour, I’d take the first exit I came to and wait in a well-lit parking lot or restaurant until it passed. I could have postponed my trip until tomorrow, but didn’t want to lose a single day of August.

A green car with one broken headlight vaulted toward me like a jet-propelled monster in pursuit of its prey. The distance between us shrank. Why didn’t he hurry up and pass? The thunder and his excessive speed added to my anxiety.

Think about something relaxing and wonderful, Joanna, I told myself. The lake, the cottage, the scent of spearmint, the prettiest little town in Michigan. Just me and my collie. I should be able to meet the deadline for my book, if nothing happened to prevent it.

Shifting in the seat, I turned the AC to high in the hope of discovering that the car’s air conditioner hadn’t malfunctioned after all. Waves of hot air hit my legs. My green cotton skirt, fresh and crisp this morning, was a wrinkled mess, and the matching blouse left my arms bare but did little to keep perspiration from forming between my breasts.

I opened the window, letting humid air pour in. The car was an oven on wheels, sending my discomfort soaring to the burnt level. As I rounded a curve, lightning sliced through the clouds, flashing danger. I shouldn’t be driving in this deadly weather at all.

The green car picked up speed and came closer. Half a mile ahead, the freeway swept uphill and curved again. I followed the white lines around the bend, moving closer to the storm, and tried to read the signs swaying in the distance; but I was too far away to see the letters.

The green car was catching up to me.

The powerful blast of a horn blended with the next roll of thunder. Obviously the warning was meant for me. But why? The impatient driver was traveling in his own lane. I wasn’t in his way.

My rush of anger surprised me, and I kept my hand fastened on the wheel, well away from my own horn. I wasn’t the kind of driver who allowed annoyance to turn into rage and cause accidents. Was I about to clash with one who did?

He blew his horn again.

Ignore him, Joanna. Concentrate on driving.

Last winter, I’d read about a woman who had been trapped between two dueling drivers, each one trying to force the other off the freeway and over the edge. She was the only one killed.

I could read the signs now. Sashabaw Road. Flint-Saginaw. Keep left... Oh, no! Without warning, my lane had vanished. Right Lane Must Exit. Since when?

The last time I’d driven up north, only a week ago, this was a through lane. With road crews constantly reshaping freeway lanes, familiar routes changed overnight. Nothing in life ever stayed the same, but I wasn’t going to exit.

The green car was approximately ten lengths behind me now. I had time to switch lanes. A second only. Pushing down on the turn signal, I entered the new right lane. With still another horn blast, the driver pulled alongside my car on the left and slowed to match my speed.

Two young men in a Monte Carlo. Impressions rushed at me like pelts of rain: Stringy dark hair, thin faces, black shirts... Punks with leering, mean expressions.

The passenger waved a bottle in front of his face. Tilting his head back against the seat, he poured the contents into his mouth and rolled down the window. The driver leaned over him and shouted, Get a horse, lady!

Remembering all the warnings I’d read, I resisted the temptation to fling an answer at him. Pretend you didn’t hear. Don’t make eye contact with a belligerent driver. Never get into an argument with him.

With an obscenity, the passenger hurled the bottle at the side of my silver Taurus and yelled, Get that tin can the hell off the road!

I felt the jolt as the bottle shattered against the door. A shower of shards blew in through the window. Instinctively I veered to the right. With a burst of speed, the Monte Carlo jetted down the freeway and turned into a green speck on the horizon.

What stupid, arrogant jerks!

Kinder was awake. From her crate, she barked her anger at the attack.

It’s over, girl, I said.

The door was probably dented where the bottle had struck it. Well, better the door than my dog or me. A piece of jagged-edged glass had landed in my lap. Looking down, I read the fragment of a label: Vodk... The a was missing. I brushed it to the floor, thankful that my skirt covered my thighs. I’d almost worn shorts.

The incident was over, but shreds of anger and fear remained. I felt shaky, and my neck and chest were damp. As I dabbed at them with a tissue, half expecting to see liquor or blood, my fingers brushed against a sliver of glass caught in my collar. I swept it to the floor where it joined the larger chunk.

Thank God the Monte Carlo was out of sight, swallowed whole by the murky atmosphere. If I came upon a trooper, I’d stop and tell him to be on the lookout for the unsavory pair. Or I could call, but in a display of poor planning, my cell phone was in the trunk, in my suitcase.

The other cars had caught up to me, and traffic moved steadily and sanely northward, without a ripple in sight. From now on, I should find smooth sailing.

Except for the storm. It looked as if it would break at any minute. I hadn’t planned to stop for a rest. If I hoped to reach the cottage in time to salvage a part of the day, I should keep going. But I needed a respite from freeway madness and knew enough about driving to pay attention to my feelings.

When I reached Silver Oak Road, I drove onto the ramp, turned right, and found myself in a wild, wooded area. On either side, trees grew high and thick, their uppermost branches meeting across the unpaved road. Pink wildflowers sparkled in the high grasses, and streaks of blue water shimmered through green leaves.

I was the only driver in this tranquil place, as safe and private as I could ever hope to be. In spite of the stormy weather, peace seemed to unfold all around me. The dangerous fools who had vandalized my car were already part of the past. I would never see them again. Now to find a quiet place and wait out the storm. Already, I felt calmer.

Get a horse, the stringy-haired punk had said. Now that the danger was over, I couldn’t help smiling. I wouldn’t mind doing that at all.

RAIN POUNDED MY CAR, enclosing me in a world of water. I sat inside, sipping lukewarm tea from my thermos, belatedly realizing that sheltering under a tree in a thunderstorm wasn’t the best idea. But the rain had left me no choice. I’d hardly had time to take Kinder for a short walk before the rain sent us both scrambling back to the car.

This was an inauspicious beginning to a summer that I’d burdened with high hopes and impossible dreams. I couldn’t bring my father back from the dead or mend a broken romance, but perhaps I could find a measure of happiness.

Please let this be the last wrinkle, I prayed.

Kinder munched a Milk-Bone biscuit, oblivious of damp fur and hot air. I pulled the package of gingersnaps across the seat, gathered a handful of cookies, and began to eat them as if they were popcorn. Their spice and sugar mix revived me. All I’d needed was a little snack. The thunder was farther away now, and the rain was tapering off. In a few minutes, I’d be able to move on. Impatient with delays, I couldn’t wait to settle into the cottage.

Kinder’s furious barking alerted me to the presence of a newcomer moments before I saw the tall, husky policeman emerging through the wall of rain. He crossed the road and approached my car with grim resolve. In his hand he carried a long, polished nightstick.

It’s okay, Kinder, I said. Quiet.

The officer tapped the window lightly, and I pressed the control button. Raindrops and waves of warmth rushed in. He shoved the stick in his belt and looked down at me.

His tawny hair was liberally sprinkled with gray, and his face, with its attractive angles and deep tan, would have been handsome if it had worn a congenial expression. He appeared to be the quintessential lawman, however: All business, no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners. At the moment, he was getting wet.

Afternoon, ma’am, he said with a slight, barely perceptible nod. His voice was like steel, and his eyes were the color of the lake I’d passed earlier, cool and light, with the shimmer of a pale blue jewel.

Officer. I swallowed my gingersnap and brushed invisible crumbs from my lap. I couldn’t possibly be more innocent, but somehow this grim law enforcer made me feel as if I were desperate to hide some guilty secret.

Did you run into some car trouble? he asked.

I relaxed. Innocent until proven guilty. No, I’m just waiting for the rain to pass.

Seems to be letting up now.

I’ll be on my way then. I moved my hand slowly toward the ignition. But wait. In the austere presence of the law, I’d almost forgotten the freeway punks. Something happened back on I-75. Some trouble... I described the incident, fumbling on the floor for the bottle fragment to offer as evidence.

The officer glanced down at the door and ran his hand along its surface, shaking his head. Some drivers are just plain nuts. If he’d aimed higher, you could have been badly hurt. You were smart to exit the freeway when you did.

I wasn’t running away from them, I said. I don’t run away from trouble.

No, you were avoiding it. If more people did that, there’d be fewer accidents.

I wanted to set the record straight, even if it didn’t really matter. I left the freeway because of the storm. I don’t like to drive when I can’t see where I’m going. That’s a good way to get killed.

I had said enough and hadn’t given the policeman the crucial information yet. The men were heading north less than a half hour ago. The car was a late model green Monte Carlo with one broken headlight. The right one. Maybe you could radio ahead to the state troopers to watch for them.

I’ll do that, ma’am. A fleeting smile transformed his features, crinkling the lines around his eyes. That’s a nice dog in the crate. He’s a collie. Right?

A purebred collie. Her name is Kinder.

A Lassie dog. He tapped the back window, and Kinder growled a low warning. You’ve got yourself a protector.

The best kind, I said.

I used to have a collie when I was kid. The same brown sugar color with white markings. He was a good dog. Drive carefully, ma’am, and stay cool. He nodded and strode back to his cruiser.

I wondered if he was really going to contact the state police. Maybe he was only humoring me and that was condescension I saw glimmering in his eyes. Well, it hardly mattered. I’d escaped the wrath of the freeway punks and set the law on their trail without having to track down a state trooper.

While I’d been talking to the officer, the storm had turned into a gentle shower. Pale light washed the country road, and the air was fresh and sweet. It smelled of woods and water and strange flowers, hinting at new beginnings.

Carefully I closed the package of gingersnaps and replaced the top of the thermos. Across the road, the officer sat in his cruiser, watching me. Maybe he was bored with patrolling quiet byroads, and I’d been a brief diversion.

That’s what I was. Joanna Larne, intrepid Gothic/time-travel/cozy writer, a country cop’s diversion.

I turned on the ignition and pulled onto the road. The entrance ramp should be no more than ten minutes away. In what direction, though? Back the way I’d come? Right or left? I’d better ask the officer; but when I looked for him, he was gone.

THE ROAD SEEMED TO go on forever, an unpaved ribbon of a trail unwinding endlessly through woods, lakes, and country estates. I amused myself by reading the infrequent signs: Welcome to Foxglove Corners, Neighborhood Watch in Effect, Horse Country—Drive with Care, and the silhouette of a leaping deer that didn’t need words. All the while I looked for the one that eluded me. Nowhere did I see an arrow pointing to I-75.

I was lost. Two right turns, one left, and my sense of direction had deserted me. Apparently this road didn’t have a name, which was as unlikely as the chance of a criminal being deterred by a Neighborhood Watch sign posted in the wilderness. There was no one I could ask. At this point, all I knew was that I was no longer on Silver Oak Road. Without a name to cross-reference, my road map was useless.

I ought to turn back but hated to waste time. If I kept going, surely I’d come across another entrance.

Thin wisps of fog lingered in the air, bathing the area in an ethereal haze. The eerie feeling I’d had of being the only driver on the freeway gripped me again. This was a perfect place for fantasy to blossom. Probably I was the only traveler on this road.

Eerie feelings always made me nervous. I reached for another gingersnap, but my fingers scraped the crumbs at the bottom of the package. The thermos was empty too. I had long since passed discomfort and crossed over to misery. At the moment, I would happily pay any amount for a slice of pizza, an icy soft drink, and a freeway sign beckoning in the distance.

If only I could travel back in time and ask directions of the country cop, before he could vanish in his patrol car. To take my mind off being lost I played an alternate version of the reality in my mind.

The officer’s blue eyes sparkled like the lake water, belying his brusque, official manner. His eyes rested approvingly on my green blouse with its low-scooped neckline.

I saw you pass this way five minutes ago, ma’am, he said. Are you lost?

I’m afraid I am. Can you tell me the way to the freeway, please?

"I can, but first, would you join me for dinner?"

Here I erased the pleasant scenario. Nothing in life was ever that easy, and imaginary conversations weren’t going to lead me to the entrance ramp. What troubled me the most was the possibility that I’d traveled several miles in the wrong direction, setting my arrival time at Spearmint Lake back again. I couldn’t very well make my way to the cottage on a route of rocky byroads.

What now? I spoke more to myself than to Kinder. She was asleep in her crate, trusting me to deliver us both to our destination in one piece.

All I could do was drive on.

At last a sign loomed ahead. Slowing down, I read the worn letters: Star Lake Road. I unfolded my map, found Star Lake, and then the road. I saw that I hadn’t strayed too far from the exit ramp. If I turned left now, I should reach I-75 in less than an hour.

Another chunk of time lost on this convoluted trip, but this road had a smoother surface. Soon I spied the white, three-board plank fence of a horse farm gleaming in the distance and, on the other side of a crossroad, a freeway sign, its red, white, and blue half obscured by a screen of silvery leaves.

An amber caution light blinked brightly in floating strands of mist. I stepped on the accelerator, certain of my direction now. The anxiety of the last hours melted away.

Then... five or six car lengths ahead of me, I saw a green Monte Carlo waiting to make a left turn.

Two

By the time I reached the crossroad, the Monte Carlo was out of sight, a greenish blur on a road bracketed by cornfields. I glanced after it, wishing I’d been able to see who was inside.

This couldn’t be the same car I’d encountered on the freeway. The vanishing speck was turquoise, and was it a Monte Carlo or another model with similar styling? So many automobiles looked alike today. I couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to entangle myself in details and shades of green.

What if it was the same car, though?

In my mind, the two angry young men were miles away, perhaps already under arrest for drinking and driving, but they might have left I-75, as I had, and doubled back.

Suppose they had. For what purpose? To cruise the lonely byroads of Foxglove Corners? To get me? Or had they simply missed their exit? I couldn’t stop thinking about the frightening incident. Maybe, just in case the officer hadn’t alerted the state police, I should do so myself.

He said he would, and if the people in the turquoise car were tailing me, they were doing a poor job of it, having sped off in the opposite direction.

An old red truck loaded with lumber rumbled through the intersection. The driver waved as he passed by. Or perhaps he was signaling me to go, as this was a four-way stop. With a final look down the cornfield road, I coasted to the other side.

Here smooth pavement replaced dirt and pebbles. Increasing my speed, I sailed past the freeway sign and watched for another one. They were there, placed at far intervals along the way, like beacons guiding me home.

Fifteen minutes later, I swung around onto the northbound entrance ramp and merged with ease into the Flint-Saginaw lane. Finally. It was a pleasure to move with the friendly traffic under a clear sky, while the warm wind whipped my hair into tangles.

Although the weather was still hot and humid, I didn’t feel so wilted now, and my hunger was lost in anticipation. According to the car’s digital clock, I was two hours behind my schedule. But in the summer, daylight lasted until past nine-thirty.

Beyond the thick evergreen forest ahead was the exit to Spearmint Lake. Although the cottage was still half an hour away, the rich scent of wild spearmint seemed to blow in through the window with the wind. That magical, nostalgic, essence-of-summer fragrance. Once I reached the lake, everything was going to be all right.

THE SCENT OF WATER assailed me as I drove down Lake Road. I breathed in deeply and, with the fresh, sweet air, felt the stress of the past hours begin to slip away.

Spearmint Lake lay on my left, smooth and still, like a blue-tinted looking glass shining through a fringe of forest. Dark woods shadowed its northern edge, and cottages and boats formed a crescent pattern along the beach. East of the trees, an elegant new house built in Victorian style rose in lonely splendor, outshining its simpler neighbors with its soft pink color and fancy gingerbread trim.

My gaze fastened on a graceful sailboat gliding across the water. Now that I had lake access, I should have a boat of my own, but after making the down payment on the cottage, I couldn’t afford such an expensive purchase. Maybe next summer. In the meantime, I’d be satisfied with my own piece of the Great Lakes State.

The cottage was half a mile farther. If I stayed on Lake Road, I’d drive through Green Branch, the picturesque little town that dated from the 1890’s. Beyond Green Branch, farms, woods, and lakes stretched all the way to North Port, the closest mini-metropolis, with a population of five thousand.

I made my last turn on Shore Road, a winding dirt trail, and came to a stop in front of a small white house with green shutters and empty window boxes. Sensing change, Kinder stirred in her crate and yawned. I pulled the keys out of the ignition, opened the door, and stepped outside into the hot air.

I’d hoped the August heat wave wouldn’t accompany me up north, but even with the lake to cool the air, the temperature was higher here than it had been downstate. My skirt and blouse felt as if they had melded to my body and resembled crumpled nightwear. My left arm was burnished red, several shades darker than the right one.

And my car had sustained a disfiguring wound. As the country cop had done, I ran my hand along the scratch. It was more a gash than a scratch. Had he notified the state police? Angry anew at the damage and unanticipated expense, I decided to call them myself.

With that settled, I freed Kinder from her crate and let her stretch and sniff at the scents of her new surroundings. The subtle fragrance of spearmint that flavored the air grew stronger as I neared the front porch. The plants grew wild behind the cottage and all the way back to the lake.

The key turned stiffly in the new lock. I pushed open the door to a blast of musty air. Moving quickly, I opened the living room and kitchen windows and switched on the ceiling fans. The cottage was sparsely furnished with a small table, two matching chairs and a twin bed and dresser, all of them maple, all flea market finds. They’d been delivered yesterday. The credenza in the living room had been left behind by the previous owner.

After the last eventful hours, I was happy to have this cozy haven waiting at my journey’s end. I had the absurd notion that the cottage was welcoming me, as if it were a sentient structure that I’d rescued from years of neglect or the wrecking ball.

It was only that it felt like home.

In reality, the cottage had proven to be too great a financial burden for its aging former owner. In spite of the peeling paint and overgrown yard, it was a genuine bargain and a happy reminder of the little vacation house on Lake Huron where I’d stayed with my family as a child.

I felt confident that I could do whatever work the cottage needed, including painting the exterior, and I’d fill the empty window boxes with red geraniums. Although it was late in the growing season, most nurseries still had annuals in stock. A cheery picture began to emerge: Crimson splashes against the white wood and a stone sculpture for the front yard. A seahorse or mermaid. Perhaps I’d add a white picket fence to ensure Kinder’s safety.

All in good time. Painting came first.

As I unloaded my suitcases from the trunk, a cold nose nudged my hand. Kinder wanted a drink of water and something to eat. So did I, and I needed to unpack and change out of my wrinkled clothes and then take Kinder for a leisurely walk down to the lake.

My first stop was the tiny galley kitchen. Small but efficiently appointed, it provided plenty of room for a slender woman to move around in, unless a large collie decided to keep her company. A stove and an apartment-sized refrigerator with a loud annoying hum had come with the cottage, but I’d only bought a few staples, as I didn’t plan to do much cooking.

There was a steakhouse in North Port. This morning, I’d planned to go out for dinner. Now, I was too tired to drive another mile. I’d postpone the T-bone until tomorrow and make an omelet for myself tonight.

After I fed Kinder and gave her water, I wandered into the bedroom to unpack. The sight of the bed with its crisp cotton sheets and fluffy pillows was inviting. Ignoring its pull, I opened the window and turned on the floor fan.

In the corner, the blades turned at their highest speed, creating a lulling, whirring sound. Lord, it was so hot. I stood in front of the mirror and ran my hand along my red arm. My skin felt tender and painful from hours of exposure to the broiling sun. It needed a generous coat of anti-burn lotion, which I’d forgotten to bring.

Kinder padded into the room and lay down in front of the fan. With her thick coat, she must be miserable. She’d never been near a lake, but perhaps I could teach her to swim, even though she barely tolerated her baths. But if the heat wave continued, she might change her mind about water.

As I moved lingerie into the top dresser drawer, cool images of secret waterfalls and glossy gray stones slipped into my mind. We always desire what we can’t have at the moment. Winter warmth and summer chill. In last winter’s Arctic weather, this unrelenting heat would have been welcome.

The fan whirred, and my thoughts slid back to the coldest month of the year and the beginning of the bad time. My father had died on Valentine’s Day. During his funeral, a blizzard buried the city. At St. Anne’s Cemetery he lay in his coffin sheltered by a tent because the ground was frozen. Overwhelmed by grief, I only visited his grave once to make certain the gravestone I’d ordered was in place.

Now my mother and father were both gone, and I was alone. With a sigh, I lifted their picture from the suitcase and held it for a moment before setting it in the center of the dresser.

A sound broke into my thoughts, quivered in the air for an instant, and then faded before I could identify it. I stood still, listening to the fans whirring. There was nothing to hear now.

Turning back to the suitcase, I lifted a cotton nightgown and tossed it back on the pillows. In May, my relationship with Bret Kramer had unraveled. Bret was a handsome, beguiling charmer with sandy, sunlit hair and devilish blue eyes. Losing him was painful, one more blow when I was least able to cope with it.

Bret’s picture lay under my beaded white cardigan, his likeness smiling out from a silver frame. Why had I brought this sad reminder of the past to Spearmint Lake? I turned it over and closed the suitcase.

After Bret left my life, I had my hair cut in layers that lay in wisps around my face. Soft spring makeup and a sexy black dress made me feel different and new. Every morning I ran with Kinder. I lost fifteen pounds, and closed on the cottage.

But I couldn’t seem to let Bret go. Every day I sat in front of the computer and worked on my Gothic novel, but I was unhappy with what I wrote. My talent and enthusiasm had vanished. I looked at my four published books for encouragement and doubted that I’d ever finish another one.

Worst of all, a wave of apprehension washed over me when I least expected