Yet, feeling a little guilty about leaving her alone—even though there was no reason he should; he wasn’t responsible for her at all, and she probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone—he left her a note in the kitchen explaining his plans for the evening and that he’d bring her back a sandwich or something from the Lakeside Grille. Otherwise she’d probably starve.
As he navigated his way to the Lakeside Grille in his Jeep, he once again mulled over the conversation he’d had with Teddy’s cousin last night.
Ghosts in Wicks Hollow. An infestation of them, if Declan Zyler was to be believed. Riiight.
That was probably just what they told tourists—after all, a reputation like that would certainly draw people to the village. Declan’s significant other owned a B&B; it made sense he’d help to promote the town’s party line, bring in more tourists and curiosity seekers.
Well, Oscar wasn’t going to be fooled or punked. But he was definitely looking forward to a meal he didn’t prepare himself, and the possibility of a good beer or two (he wasn’t counting on all three being winners).
The Lakeside Grille was on the northwest side of Wicks Lake. It was a couple miles from the little town and tucked away from the county road—which was why it was mainly a hangout for the locals, and, he’d been told, was usually overlooked by the tourists because they couldn’t find it. But since Declan had given him directions—there was no sign for the restaurant except for a large piece of sealed driftwood leaning against a tree, with LG painted on it—Oscar had no trouble finding it.
The place looked like a big box with a long porch on the front of it. It had a high-peaked roof of dark green corrugated metal and was sided with dark brown shingles. There were large windows on the lakeside for obvious reasons, and two huge barrel planters bursting with colorful flowers flanked the front door. Although the parking lot was full, he didn’t see anyone standing around waiting for a table.
As soon as Oscar walked in, Declan saw him and called him over. He was sitting at a round table in the middle of a collection of more round tables, all in the same old-fashioned Colonial style Oscar remembered from his grandparents’ house in Boston. Scarred maple tops, slender and ornate legs, wavy chair backs, and a large pedestal that balanced each tabletop. All of the tables were filled, crowded with people laughing, talking, and eating.
There were two other men with Declan, and the fourth chair was empty. He gestured to it, and Oscar took his seat after shaking his host’s hand. Already his mouth was watering—whatever the Rubenesque woman was carrying out from the kitchen smelled amazing. But before he could comment, Declan made introductions.
“This is Oscar London. He’s staying up at Stony Cape Lighthouse with my cousin Teddy. This is Joe Longbow, chief of police—we just call him Joe Cap,” Declan said, nodding to a man in his mid-fifties. He had short, grizzled hair that might once have been jet black but was now salt and pepper. Oscar supposed his nickname either came from his title—Captain—or the Tigers ballcap he wore. “Joe’s got the night off; that’s why he’s here to sample as well.
“And this is Baxter James,” Declan went on, using his thumb to point at a slender, handsome black man about their age. “Bax, I’m thinking you owe Oscar at least a couple of beers on the house.”
“Good to meet you,” said the brewer, offering his hand for a shake. “I hear you’ve been keeping T.J. Mack fed and watered while she finishes her next book—and you’ve got my eternal gratitude for that. I’ve been waiting for it ever since Titan Mist came out last year.”
“It’s my pleasure,” replied Oscar, feeling surprisingly comfortable, surrounded as he was by strangers. “And when it comes down to it, now that she’s got the book going, Teddy’s pretty easy to see to. I just slip a plate through the slit under the door, and when she’s done, she pushes it back out. No knives allowed, though—I don’t want her getting any ideas about escape before the book’s done.”
Baxter looked at Oscar for a second as if unsure whether to believe him, then they all laughed. “Well, I’ll be honest—I wouldn’t mind a sneak peek or some sort of hint as to what’s coming next for Sargent Blue. Can you tell me anything?” As he spoke, he put a trio of juice-sized glasses down in front of Oscar, then filled one with a nut-brown beer from the pitcher next to him. “Consider this a bribe: I call this my Steel-Edge Porter. It’s got a bite to it, but a smooth finish. Let me know what you think.”
“There’s a trapdoor,” Oscar said, lifting the beer to examine it. Not cloudy, very clean, a good dark brown color. It smelled fresh and sharp. “I was helping her figure out how to get Sargent Blue out of his latest situation,” he added modestly, and Baxter’s eyes went wide. “And she jumped on my idea of a trapdoor.” And then she jumped on me.
“Why the hell didn’t I get double-booked with T.J. Mack at the keeper’s cottage?” Baxter grumbled. “Lucky dog.”
As Oscar sipped from the beer, he realized he was damned pleased he’d been stuck with Teddy at the cottage—and not because she was a famous writer. Not because she was a writer at all.
And he was also very glad it wasn’t the handsome, toned Baxter James who’d been the one having plot discussions about RBSs in the pool with Teddy. No, Oscar was just fine hanging out with the sweet-smelling, talk-your-ear-off, ping-pong conversationalist and bouncy personality who gave pretty sexy kisses when someone gave her a good idea.
He couldn’t wait to give her another one.
Baxter was pouring a second beer for Oscar to taste when the curvy waitress came up to the table.
“Hi there, handsome. I’m Mirabella—but just call me Bella. Welcome to the Lakeside. My husband Reggie and I own the place.” Bella looked to be just on this side of fifty, but she was a well-preserved woman with a huge bust and matching curvy hips and ass, displayed by the tight dress she wore. It was pale pink with dark pink flowers splashed all over it, and a round white collar and cuffs at the end of elbow-length sleeves. The apron she wore over it was bright green. Her white-blond hair had a light purple streak in it that coiled around into a puffy style that would have fit right in on the set of Grease.
Oscar felt like he needed to blink, and if he did, the wild splash of colors would be burned on the inside of his eyelids. Instead he just smiled and said, “What do you recommend on the menu?”
“Everything, honey,” she said, her startling red lips curving in a smile. “But tonight, special, we’ve got fresh lake trout Reggie’s dusted up with some flour and Cajun spices, and deep fried. Fresh right from Wicks Lake out there. You can get co’slaw with it or green beans just as fresh from the backside of the restaurant. My Reggie’s also known for his Monte Cristo sandwiches, and he turns a pretty good venison burger—with or without cheese. Best served with a slice of raw onion like this.” She used her fingers to demonstrate a measure of no less than an inch thick.
“I like a burger with my beer,” Oscar said. “And while I’ve had ostrich and bison, I’ve never tried venison, so I’ll give that a shot.”
“I’ll get that going for you,” she replied, then swished off to grab an order that had just been shoved through from the kitchen.
“So what else can you tell us about the new book?” Baxter asked. “Anything?”
“Not really. Now that Teddy’s got going, she doesn’t come out of her room much. I hear her typing and swearing sometimes, and once she was congratulating herself on something—I don’t know.” Oscar spread his hands and smiled as he sampled the second beer. “Oh. That’s interesting.” He managed to swallow the pungent taste as he put the glass down rather quickly.
He and Declan exchanged pained glances, and Baxter explained, “I was trying for a cherry shandy, since, you know, Michigan’s known for cherries. Not working for you, then?”
“Uh…I like the porter better,” Oscar said, and Declan laughed.
“He’s politer than I am, Bax. Forget the shandy. Let’s try the third one. Did you say it was a wheat beer?”
All in all, Oscar had
an enjoyable evening, trading stories—everyone wanted to know what a microbiologist was doing in Wicks Hollow for the summer. He told them about his sampling and testing of the hot spring, leaving out the details about his escape from Marcie’s wedding.
“Well, there are some legends about that hot spring,” Joe Cap drawled. “About it being somethin’ special.”
Before Oscar could pursue that topic, Bella arrived with an efficient swish and began to slide a plate in front of each of them.
She pointed out the small piece of Cajun-spiced trout she’d added to Oscar’s plate. “Just wanted you to have a taste. When’s the last time you had fish right out of the lake and onto your plate in less than two hours?”
Though he lived on the East Coast, Oscar couldn’t say whether he’d ever had seafood that fresh. “It smells delicious, and I can’t wait to try it. And speaking of fishing and fishermen,” he said, looking at Joe as Bella darted off, “I saw a boat out on Lake Michigan the other night. Just before the sun went down—seemed too late for fishing, and it wasn’t going fast enough to be a sunset cruise. In fact, it was going very slowly until it came to a stop right out there. Then the guy on it dropped something over the side into the water. Looked like a big bundle. Any idea what that might’ve been?”
The police chief took his time finishing the trio of ketchup-laden fries he’d just stuck in his mouth before responding. “Well,” he said in that easy, drawling voice that sounded as if it might catch up to the end of his thoughts by next week, “that’s a good question, there, Oscar. You said they were dropping something over the side, there? On the big lake? Sure as hell hope it wasn’t trash.”
Oscar hoped so too. “It was a bundle about this big.” He showed them, estimating about three feet square. “Seems like if you’re going to throw trash over, you’d throw something bigger—it wasn’t the size of a trash bag. It definitely wasn’t a fishing net.”
“Did it look heavy? Could you tell? How far out was it?” Declan asked, digging into his own lake trout dinner. “Can’t see that far from the porch over there.”
“I was on top of the lighthouse and had a pair of binoculars,” Oscar said. “Maybe it was about a quarter or a half-mile away. Two guys tossed the bundle over—it didn’t seem like they were struggling with it, so I’d say it wasn’t very heavy.”
Joe narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure what that could be, but I’ll do some checking around. Did you see a name or markings on the boat? What kind was it?”
“Say a forty-footer. I don’t know much about boats…looked like a decent speedboat. I didn’t see any markings, but it was white with blue and green swooshes on it near the back—the, uh, stern, I guess it is.” Oscar bit into the venison burger and immediately fell in love. Bella was right—the thick slice of onion added just the perfect flavor to the brioche bun and the mountain of mustard he’d added to the sandwich. “The thing is, it looked like a package—sort of tied up or taped up or something.”
Joe’s expression became serious, and Oscar got the impression that despite his easy manner of speaking, the man was sharp as any city cop or detective. “All right, then. Thank you for the information. I’ll check with the sheriff and the Coast Guard and see if they know anything. When was this? Date and time. And specific location.” He pulled out a small pad of paper with a pen.
Oscar told him, ending, “That was the night Teddy and I got locked up on top of the lighthouse.”
“You what?” Baxter asked, his face lighting up with humor. “That would have been a great story—besides being a craft brewer, I do freelance journalism for some of the local papers and a couple magazines.”
“I’m not sure T.J. Mack would want her readership to know she accidentally got locked outside the top of a lighthouse and couldn’t figure out how to get down,” Declan said with a laugh. “Considering that she writes about a Jason Bourne kind of guy who’s always getting out of sticky situations.”
“But that’s what would make it a great human-interest piece,” Baxter said earnestly. “I really want to do a story on her anyway.” He looked at Oscar. “Maybe you could ask her.” He turned to Declan. “Or you could.”
“I’m not willing to risk asking her anything till she finishes the book,” Oscar told him. “It’s just too dangerous. But when she’s done…assuming I get the right sort of bribe…” He lifted his empty glass.
They laughed, and Baxter ordered another round of the porter and the wheat beer. Everyone was very grateful when he left the shandy off the list.
As had become his habit, Oscar wore earplugs and played white noise on his laptop that night. And thanks to the beer and a good meal, he slept like a baby.
The next morning, the kitchen showed some signs of life. The to-go container he’d brought back was empty except for an unused packet of ketchup, and he found a plate in the dish drainer and the toaster out of whack from its position against the backsplash on the counter.
He futzed around in his lab and, just for the hell of it, went on a long hike to take samples from other freshwater sources in the area. Not a bad idea to compare them with the hot springs—and Lake Michigan itself. It felt good to get out and walk around, and it was hot enough that he doused himself in a small creek.
He read a book, perused a few scientific journals that had begun to stack up, and did some drafting of a new paper he wanted to submit by the fall. And tried not to think about the spiky snowflake microbes as being anything but simply unique—definitely not supernatural. He was glad, in retrospect, that he hadn’t asked Joe Cap anything further about the hot-spring legends.
He’d brought Teddy a sandwich for lunch, and then shared his spaghetti (made from jarred sauce that was probably part of her food stores, but he didn’t think she’d care) later that night. He studiously avoided Facebook and barely skimmed his emails. If there was any news about Marcie, he didn’t want to see it.
Counting today, only four days till D-Day. Or, rather, W-Day. Wedding Day.
Once it was over, he’d be able to move on.
He even managed to stream a James Bond flick via his Wi-Fi hub later that evening.
And so it went for that day and the next. He didn’t mind the solitude, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Teddy was going to be locked in her room for the entire month of July. He didn’t exactly miss her, but there were times when he could have used some conversation.
Not that anything was keeping him from driving into town or even up to Grand Rapids if he wanted human interaction…
At about four o’clock on the ninth day he’d been at Stony Cape, he was settled on the cottage’s porch, watching the gulls screech over Lake Michigan—a habit he’d settled into. There was something so relaxing, sitting there watching the waves, the birds, and the boats. It got so he’d begun to recognize a few—and that one white, green, and blue forty-footer that had appeared twice since the initial sighting.
But the boat didn’t stop, nor did anyone dump anything over the side, except that first time he’d seen it. He tried and failed to read the numbers on the side of the boat—just so he could tell Joe Cap—but without field glasses, he couldn’t read them. He did become captivated by a beautiful boat with a bright red sail that cruised over the water with the grace of a skater.
Oscar was nursing another B-Cubed (he was becoming a loyal fan) and contemplating life—and whether he wanted to go into Wicks Hollow again, just for a change of pace—when he heard a loud shriek.
Bolting to his feet, Oscar slammed into the cottage and ran to Teddy’s room. He flung open the door to find her dancing around, whooping and shrieking.
Either she’d been bitten by something or she’d finished her book. He was guessing the latter.
Teddy saw him and, with another whoop, flung her soft, curvy self into his arms. She smacked a kiss on his cheek, then pulled her face back and announced, “I’m finished! I’m finished, I’m finished, I’m fin-iiiish-ed!”
He was laughing by now, and he found he didn’t want t
o let her go, even though she was still wriggling excitedly in his arms. All warm and soft, though smelling just a bit stale.
“Congratulations, T.J. Mack. I’m sure the world will be delighted to read your sixth book.”
Still in his arms, she looked up at him with surprise, pulling back. “So you know who I am.”
“I’m a scientist. I know how to do research. I also occasionally read. Especially thrillers that are well researched.”
Teddy hadn’t stopped wriggling, so he let her go. “Thank you so much for everything—for the food, for letting me alone to work, and, most of all, for the trapdoor idea.”
“So that worked, did it?” Oscar thought it would be fun to tell his dad—who was a big T.J. Mack fan—that he’d helped the author out of her writer’s block and had given her the ending of what was surely going to be her latest blockbuster.
“Well, not really. I didn’t end up using a trapdoor at all. But you got me to thinking, and that’s how I ended up with a remote-controlled trolley car that helps Sargent Blue save the day.”
“Oh.” And here he thought he was brilliant. “But at least you got your heart’s desire.”
“I certainly did.” By now, her giddiness had eased into mere delight. “So we have to go out and celebrate!”
“Go out?” Oscar was already easing back from both the idea and Teddy, though he wasn’t certain why. Hadn’t he had a great time the other night? But then, that had been about free beer. And just a bunch of guys.
“Of course! That’s what I always do when I type, ‘The End.’” She was still beaming, which revealed three tiny dimples at the corner of her mouth that had previously been hidden—presumably by stress. “You’ll come with me, won’t you? My treat, as a thank you for feeding me for the last—what’s it been, a week?”
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