Enchantment Lake: A Northwoods Mystery

by Margi Preus

“Did he get shot? No. Heart attack,” Sandy shoved the boat away from the dock. “That’s what they say, anyway.”

  That’s what they say? Francie opened her mouth to ask him to explain, but Sandy had started the motor, and she knew he wouldn’t hear her.

  “There’s been some strange stuff going on around here,” he hollered over the roar of the motor. He wheeled the boat around and called back to her, “Be careful!” The boat sped away, quickly becoming a small, receding spot.

  3

  At the Cabin

  Francie stood for a moment listening to the boat’s wake wash against the shore. It had always struck her as a lonely sound and seemed even lonelier now that she was by herself. Maybe she should have asked Sandy to come with her. Why had she said no?

  It was eerie how silent everything was. Once the lake was still again and the boat long gone, it was too quiet. No slamming of screen doors or squeals of kids playing in the lake, of parents calling their children home for dinner. But perhaps those were just sounds from her memory, when she and her brother had spent summers here, and they had been the ones making all the noise.

  She walked slowly up the rather rickety stairs from the shore to the cabin, trying to reimagine the stillness as tranquil, peaceful. She concentrated on the air, soft on her skin, inhaled the scent of cedar and sun-warmed pine and the distinctive smell of the cabin that had always meant home to her. She took a deep breath, taking in the musty, musky, wood-smoke, piney smell of it all. There was pleasure in being back—but also pain.

  She had loved this place when she had been a kid, but a lot had happened since then. Things were different, and she had changed. She was a city girl now.

  The way the door swung open—it hadn’t been fully latched—made her throat tighten. Sandy’s admonition to “be careful” came back to her. Why hadn’t she asked about the “strange stuff” he said was going on?

  The living room was suffused with light. The sun set directly across the lake, and at this time of the evening, the cabin was filled with a powerful orange glow that momentarily blinded her. When her eyes adjusted, she took in the scene: the same lumpy old couch, the creaky old rocking chair, the old fireplace, the old table covered with a half-finished jigsaw puzzle.

  She was about to speak her aunts’ names, although they seemed stuck in her constricted throat, when a small noise made her jump. Francie held her breath, her skin prickling. There it was again, coming from the kitchen. A mouse?

  She fought back the urge to bolt and, holding her breath, crept toward the kitchen, then paused. Did she dare go a step farther?

  One more step, around the corner, and she clutched at her chest. A body—well, part of a body—was sticking out of the refrigerator, the rest swallowed up inside.

  Gas! The fridge was gas, because there was no electricity here. She knew people used to commit suicide by sticking their heads in old-fashioned gas ovens. Was it possible to kill someone by sticking her head in an old-fashioned gas refrigerator? Francie’s skin went as cold as if she had been refrigerated; she was unable to utter a sound.

  Then one of the legs twitched. Had she imagined it? But no, a shelf in the fridge rattled, and there was a curse from a muffled voice, an “Oh, for the love of Mike!” And then, “Is that you, Astrid? Can you help me out here?”

  Francie took a ragged breath. “Auntie Jen?” she squeaked. “Is that you?”

  “Frenchy? Is that little Frenchy?” Jeannette said, without moving. Why didn’t she come out?

  “Are you okay?” Francie asked.

  “No!” Jeannette cried. “My hair is stuck in the cheese drawer or something.”

  “Oh!” Francie exclaimed. She carefully stepped over the various containers of food scattered on the kitchen floor and reached in and untangled her aunt’s curls from one of the metal racks.

  “Oof!” Jeannette said, as she emerged, rubbing her head. “I was stuck good!”

  Francie started giggling, and that made Jeannette giggle, and that made them both laugh harder, and pretty soon they were having a good cry.

  Jeannette wiped her eyes and reached out to embrace Francie. “Dear little Frenchy! Look at you! So grown-up! Look at your beautiful black hair, with the white streak, just like—well, isn’t it lovely? Gotten so tall! My, but you look grown-up.”

  Francie was used to that. Everyone assumed she was older than her age; she supposed because of the silvery streak in her otherwise black hair.

  They babbled back and forth; Francie politely ignored the oblique reference to her mother, who had also had a white streak in her hair—about the only thing Francie knew about her. Finally, Francie said, “How long have you been stuck in the refrigerator? Is that why you sent for me?” she joked. “To untangle your hair?”

  “What?” Jeannette said.

  “Never mind. I’m so happy to see that you’re okay! But tell me what’s going on around here.”

  Jeannette glanced at the mess on the kitchen floor and said, “Oh, I have to go through the fridge once in a while and throw things out. You know your Aunt Astrid—she never throws away anything. Honestly, someday she’s going to poison someone!”

  “So Aunt Astrid is fine, too?” Francie began, then noticed a head of white hair floating by outside the kitchen window. And suddenly, Astrid was there, striding into the cabin.

  There were more hugs and tears and cooing from both aunts and plenty of exclamations about how beautiful Frenchy had grown up to be, such an elegant creature, well, wasn’t she lovely? And so on.

  While basking in the compliments, Francie assessed her great-aunts. She had remembered Jeannette as a towering figure, somber and grandmotherly. She now seemed lovely and wise and kindly. And shorter than Francie now. She was still robust, though now her hair was more white than black; wisps of it floated about her like smoke.

  Astrid had always been small, but now she seemed elfin, with bright white hair and even brighter blue eyes and a playfully wicked smile—something Francie had not noticed as a kid.

  Although they’d obviously aged, Francie saw the same smiles, the same crinkle of the eyes, and heard their still youthful voices, especially when they laughed, although with a little waver (Jeannette) or a bit of a rasp (Astrid).

  “Now,” Francie said, “can you please tell me what’s going on?”

  “It looks to me like Jeannette is throwing out perfectly good food again,” Astrid said, eyeing the contents of the refrigerator spread out on the floor.

  “Actually, I was referring to your phone call—.” Francie began.

  “Oh yes, that,” Jeannette said, picking up containers from the floor.

  “Well?” Francie prodded.

  “We’ll tell you all about it, but first let’s get some food in you, poor thing. Coming all that way—you must be starving!”

  Francie started to object but then realized she’d had only a couple tiny bags of airplane peanuts and a Coke all day, and she was starving. “Okay, yes, I am hungry,” Francie admitted, “but can you explain things while we’re fixing dinner?”

  “No,” Jeannette said. “You sit there and tell us all about yourself.”

  “But I want to know what’s going on with you.”

  “You first,” Jeannette insisted.

  Over the next hour, between bites of fiery hot curry and pickled beets—and reminiscing about some of the more unusual meals they’d had when she was a kid—they asked about her life in New York, and she heard about their life at the lake and winters in New Mexico. They asked after her brother, about whom she knew painfully little, she was sorry to admit.

  Finally, Francie’s patience came to an end. “Please, Aunties, will you please tell me what is going on! What was that phone call about?”

  “Frenchy,” Astrid said, her eyes dancing, “there’s a mystery here. And we think you’re the only one who can solve it.” She got up and bustled over to the cupboards.

  “Me? What makes you think I can solve anything?” Francie said. “And what are you doing?�
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  “You were always very keen on solving mysteries when you were little.” Astrid’s voice was muffled, her head deep in a cupboard.

  Francie snorted. “I was a kid! And what are you looking for, anyway?”

  “I’m looking for some bars,” Astrid said.

  “Oh, boy,” Jeanette murmured. “I better go give her a hand.” She hoisted herself out of her chair, then turned to Francie and added, “You worked very hard to find the buried treasure, remember?”

  “Yes,” Francie said, “and I didn’t find it, either. Remember that part?”

  “I’m sure you came very close, though,” Astrid said, opening and shutting drawers and cupboards in somewhat useless fashion. “The legend of the treasure that lies ‘under enchantment,’” she said, waving a wooden spoon as if it were a magic wand. “Did you ever figure out whether it was under enchantment, as in ‘bewitched’? Or was it under Enchantment, as in under the lake?”

  “I never solved that or anything else,” Francie said. “And I’m unlikely to be able to solve your mystery, either.” She gritted her teeth, trying not to regret the audition she’d missed, and removed herself from the kitchen.

  “So you don’t even want to know what the mystery is?” Astrid called after her.

  Alone in the living room, Francie indulged herself in some eye rolling. “Okay, fine,” she said. “What’s the mystery?”

  “It’s about the road!” Astrid chirped.

  “We don’t know that,” Jeannette snapped. She came out to the living room and set down a plate of bars on the coffee table while Astrid carried a pot of tea and three cups.

  “What road?” Francie asked. She eyed the bars, wondering what they were made of. Perhaps that was the mystery, she thought.

  “They’re talking about putting in a road on this side of the lake,” Astrid said. “We don’t know who’s behind it, but we suspect that the road might have something to do with the fact that someone is trying to kill us.”

  “Kill you!” Francie exclaimed. So she had been right. Take that, Granddad!

  “When she says ‘us,’” Jeannette said, “she means ‘us’ in the larger sense.”

  Okay, hold on, Francie thought. Maybe Granddad was right.

  Jeannette continued. “It seems that people along the lake-shore are . . . well . . .”

  “They’re dropping like flies!” Astrid crowed. She poured Francie a cup of tea.

  “Not to be rude or anything,” Francie said, “but my recollection is that a lot of the cabin owners here are kind of . . .”

  “Old?” Jeannette asked.

  Francie hesitated. “Yeah.”

  “They’re not dying of old age, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Astrid said.

  “Then how?”

  “Strange accidents,” Astrid said. “Or are they accidents? That’s the mystery for you to solve, and you are the perfect person, being a detective and all.”

  “Detective? You know that was a TV show, right? I played a detective on a TV show—a kids’ TV show. That does not qualify me as a detective.”

  “Yes, yes, we know all that, but we always thought you should be a detective,” Astrid said.

  “And as long as you’re here, there’s someone we’d like you to meet,” Jeannette added.

  Francie felt frustration boiling up in her. “Aunties!” she croaked. “Do you realize how much of a scare you gave me? I thought your lives were in imminent danger! I was afraid you might be dead by the time I got here! I dropped everything, worried myself into a frenzy, and came all the way out here so . . . so you could set me up with a blind date?” Was she angrier with her aunts for duping her, she wondered, or with her grandfather for being right?

  “Oh my,” Jeannette said. “I just mean you shouldn’t worry about us. Astrid and I aren’t in any immediate danger, are we, Astrid?”

  Astrid’s eyes glittered. “Oh, but yes! Yes, I think so. I should think we are exactly the prime victims.”

  Wait. So they were in danger, after all? Francie watched Jeannette’s eyes flash at Astrid. Was she scolding her for saying that? Or was it something else? There was a little crackle in the air; Francie almost felt the prickling of electricity but didn’t know why. She supposed if she really were a detective, she would know what that feeling meant. But no, she was just confused. “So are you two in danger? Or not?”

  “That’s enough for one night,” Jeannette said. “We old people need to toddle off to bed. We’ve prepared the boathouse for you.”

  “Wait a minute! First you aren’t in danger, then you are, then, ‘Let’s all go to bed’?”

  Astrid opened her mouth, but Jeannette stopped her, saying, “It will wait until morning. Here’s a flashlight. And don’t you worry. You’re perfectly safe.”

  “I’m not worried for me,” Francie said. “But what about you? I’m worried about you!”

  “Oh, we’re not in any danger tonight, we’re quite sure,” Astrid said.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Well, because you’re here!”

  Francie was not at all sure she provided any protection, especially if she was going to sleep in the boathouse, but both aunts shooed her toward the door, saying, “That’s enough for tonight—good night!”

  Just as she was going to step out, Francie noticed a gun leaning by the door. “A rifle?” Francie asked. “What’s that for?”

  “Jet Skiers,” Astrid said and winked.

  Francie must have looked alarmed because Astrid quickly added, “Oh honey, it’s just a .22. It’s for woodchucks. They’re murder on our garden.”

  4

  The Boathouse

  The boathouse had been Francie’s favorite place to sleep when she was a kid, and her aunts remembered that. They must have known she would come back, too, because they’d obviously prepared it: the canoe had been taken out, the floor swept, the bed made up.

  Lying in the creaky bunk with the windows open, only inches from the water, Francie tried to recall her childhood wonderment. But instead of feeling the magic of wind and waves, what she noticed was the insistent drone of mosquitoes on the other side of the screens, the scratching of a mouse somewhere, and the fading sound of a boat motor. Every so often there was a fizz, then a pop or a series of crackles—faraway fireworks before the Fourth of July.

  Beyond all that was a deep and empty silence. No horns honking, sirens wailing, whine of tires, or clank of garbage trucks. No crashing of bottles in the alley dumpster at 2 a.m. Everything was utterly silent, so silent she could almost hear her heart beating. But no. Of course she couldn’t.

  Someone had once told her the story of the troll who had no heart in his body. “Far, far away there is a lake,” the story went. “On that lake there lies an island, on that island stands a church, in that church there is a well, inside that well there swims a duck, and inside that duck there is an egg. Inside that egg lies the troll’s heart.”

  Francie’s heart was not tucked away in quite so complicated a way. She had long pictured it inside a small silver box, engraved all over in elegant, swirling designs. It was a specific box, one she’d played with when she’d been a kid: her mother’s jewelry box. At least she had pretended it had belonged to her mother. Francie knew enough about anatomy—and reality—to know that it was far too small to contain a heart, and anyway, it was impossible. But that’s how she pictured it: her heart encased inside this beautiful box, untouchable. Sometimes she imagined just the box inside her chest, where her heart should be. Sometimes, when she felt particularly lonely, she felt as if the box with her heart inside was somewhere else entirely.

  A loon called. Then another, closer. Creak of bed as she shifted. Drone of mosquitoes. Bang of moth on screen.

  “Far, far away there is a lake,” she thought the story could go. “On that lake there is a loon, and inside that loon there is an egg, and inside that egg there is a box, and in that box there lies my heart.”

  A breeze kicked up. She heard it first in
the highest boughs of the pines, then in the ticking of the poplar leaves, and finally in insistent little waves pushing up against the shore. And then:

  Bing bing bong. Bong bong bing. Bing bing bong. And so on.

  A wind chime.

  Augh! What was the point of wind chimes? And this one was worse than most: pathetically tuneless, music with brain damage. Bing bing bong. Bong bong bing. After fifteen minutes of torture, she decided the noise must cease.

  She rose, slipped on her flip-flops, and stepped out into the dark.

  Except it really wasn’t all that dark. The moon was up and almost full, or just past full, Francie wouldn’t know. The moon was not something she often noticed in Brooklyn. But here, tonight, it was not to be ignored. She stood for a moment gazing at the lake, where moonlight rolled out in a long, glittering carpet.

  She had a sudden memory of being in a boat with her father, dragging her hand in the water trying to catch the moonlight. But it eluded her, always just out of reach. The boat plunged on, the path of light continuing to retreat in front of her.

  Bing bong bing.

  Where was the blasted thing?

  Bong bing bing.

  Next cabin over. She started through the woods to the neighbor’s.

  Here the moon had been cut into abstract shapes and laid on the ground in fanciful designs. Francie had an impulse to play hopscotch on the bright patches, but reminded herself that she was sneaking to the neighbors. She tried to move quietly, but her flip-flops slapped her heels, sharply punctuating each step.

  It didn’t seem like the cabin was occupied, although through the trees she glimpsed what looked like a boat tied to the dock. But it was hard to know if people were here or not since there was no driveway and no car.

  The tubes of the chimes gleamed in the moonlight, and she was happy to see she could easily slide them onto a convenient little shelf under the roof. The Olsons (did they still own this place?) might even think the wind had pushed the chimes up there.

  Now the only sounds were the soft lapping of waves against the shore and the wind high up in the pine boughs, making a soft whoosh, and—what was that? Another sound, somewhere distant, though she couldn’t tell from where, caught her ear: a harsh, metallic, rhythmic ka-chink. Chains? A boat winch? A car radio with just the bass audible? Whatever it was, she could only hear it when the wind lulled.