ShadowsintheMist

by Maureen McMahon

  “I should’ve come in to see you sooner but things have been so crazy around here…” I ignored the sugar but poured in a healthy dollop of milk and took a sip. No one could make coffee like Lottie!

  She sat down across from me, her ample frame bulging over the sturdy, straight-backed chair. She studied me intently. “How’re you doing, dear?”

  “To tell you the truth, I really don’t know anymore. I thought I was handling things pretty well…until last night.” I glanced up. “You heard?”

  She nodded, dropping her eyes. We were silent for a moment.

  “It seemed so real,” I said at last. “I could swear I saw something in the pool. And yesterday, there was a man standing in the road, then again at the edge of the woods by the grave…”

  “Wait a minute, honey. What man’s this?”

  “I don’t know. It was all so sudden.” I described the two events and Lottie listened with a frown, her huge hands laid flat on the tabletop.

  After I finished, she shook her head and clucked her tongue. “You might think I’m loony, Suzanna but it sounds to me like someone’s tryin’ awful hard to scare you. Otherwise…” She clucked her tongue.

  “Otherwise what?”

  She twisted her lips, embarrassed. “Oh, it’s nothin’. There’s no such thing…”

  “No such thing as what?”

  “Why, ghosts, dearie. Could be your daddy’s tryin’ to say a proper goodbye to you.”

  I nearly laughed out loud but collected myself in time, taking a quick gulp of coffee to squelch the smile that threatened.

  “Well, if Dad is trying to speak to me from the grave, why doesn’t he just do it instead of all this nonsense?”

  She stood up and moved to the oven, shoving the tray of buns inside.

  “Go on, now,” she grumbled. “Laugh if you like but there’s plenty of folk who believe the spirits of the restless dead come back. And it’s not for us to say how they do it neither!”

  “I’m sorry, Lottie. I didn’t mean to make fun. I guess I’m just not very superstitious.”

  She nodded. “Never you mind, doll. It’s probably just what Doctor Lancaster says—nerves. You know, there’s no tellin’ what a passel of strung nerves can do. When my James got sick, well I nearly went ’round the bend myself—all them doctors and hospitals. And all they could say was, ‘There’s nothin’ we can do, Miz Wilson. You’ll jes’ have to try and make him comfortable.’ Well, I did like they said but in the end it was merciful he didn’t last much longer.”

  She rambled on and I sipped from my cup, mumbling agreement from time to time but letting my thoughts wander down different paths.

  If someone was trying to frighten me, they were certainly going to a lot of trouble. Who’d want to do such a thing? And why?

  Could someone be that spiteful or did the person hope to gain some perverse satisfaction from making me suffer? My mind lit on Alicia as I remembered the conversation she’d had with Grant in the garden. Could jealousy of some sort be the catalyst for these horrible tricks? Could she feel so threatened by the marriage that she’d resort to revenge?

  And what about Grant? Would he stand to gain by arranging these shocking episodes? Perhaps if he drove me completely mad, he could inherit the whole estate! No, it was a ridiculous thought. I’d been reading too many mystery thrillers.

  “My own mama claimed she saw my daddy workin’ in the garden in the moonlight and Daddy’d been dead close to three years.”

  I looked up. “What?”

  Lottie threw a mound of dough onto the pastry board and sent a cloud of flour billowing up. She began to knead it expertly. “I was just sayin’ that I know quite a few folks who’ve been visited by their dead kin. You wouldn’t be the first. And what with Mr. Dirkston comin’ by his end so sudden, I expect he had plenty of unfinished business he’d be wantin’ to tidy up.”

  I grimaced and downed the last of the coffee.

  “I’ve got to be going, Lottie,” I said abruptly. “Thanks for the chat. I’ll see you soon.”

  “But Suzanna,” she called after me. “What about a bun? They’re nearly cooked!”

  I was already too far away to reply and my mind was working furiously. Ghosts! What rubbish! Yet, Lottie’s words had raised the hackles at the nape of my neck and a shiver ran up my spine. I zipped up my windbreaker and let myself out the front door.

  * * * * *

  “I’m sorry, Miss Dirkston. We really aren’t allowed to show you our files.”

  The uniformed man sitting behind the desk spoke with bored patience, as though my request was typical of many that passed through his office. He was a tall man with long, gangly arms hanging from shirt sleeves a fraction too short. His hair was blond and clipped regimentally short, so his head appeared to be too small atop his broad shoulders. His long-fingered hands were folded neatly on the desk in front of him.

  “What makes you think there’s something unusual about your father’s death?” he asked at my look of perplexity.

  “I didn’t say I did.”

  “Well, I can’t see any other reason why you’d want to see the investigation file.”

  “Sergeant, we’re speaking of my father here, not some stray cat run over by a car. I think I have a right to see what the police have found out about his death. Or is there some secret you’re keeping?”

  “Of course not, Miss Dirkston! If there were anything out of the ordinary, the family would be notified.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Well? What’s the problem then?”

  He shifted his gaze and drummed his fingers nervously. “It’s just that…well, it’s against official policy. We can’t just open our files to anyone who comes in. We’d have to put on a whole staff of clerks just to cater to the whims of every Tom, Dick or Harry!”

  He seemed genuinely apologetic and I relented. “All right, then perhaps you could at least tell me what the coroner’s report says.”

  He cast a speculative eye over me, then with a sigh, stood up and went to the filing cabinet behind him.

  “I really should tell you to go to the coroner’s office for that but since I’m not entirely heartless…”

  He laid a file in front of him and leafed through the papers, selecting one and passing it across the desk. “It’s all spelled out in medical jargon but help yourself. I have to attend to some business. I’ll be back in a few moments.”

  He left the room, shutting the door behind him and I studied the report. Much of it I didn’t understand but the long and short of it was “The victim died from a slow cerebral hemorrhage resulting from a severe concussion to the side of the head”.

  Setting the paper aside, I reached across the desk and pulled the rest of the file in front of me. I suspected the good sergeant had left it accessible on purpose and I made a mental note to repay him some day.

  The folder contained a number of reports that offered an assortment of useless facts relating to the position of the body, age, weight, height, build, hundreds of measurements. There were also notes on interviews with various members of the family. There was nothing there to substantiate my budding suspicions.

  The fact there was no evidence to show how Leo had struck his head puzzled me. It was as if the accident had been neatly packaged and forgotten. There was nothing to say Leo struck his head on the side of the pool. There was blood found on the concrete near the edge but that could have spilled anytime, possibly even after someone struck him.

  I shivered. Why was I questioning the evidence? Surely, the police knew more about these things than I did. But a voice at the back of my mind argued. They may know more about the laws but you know more about Leo Dirkston. I could not—would not—believe he died simply because of a stumble and fall. The only alternative was someone had caused the accident and that, I realized with icy clarity, was tantamount to murder.

  The sound of approaching footsteps made me jump and I shoved the papers back into the file and across the desk, plastering a serene smile on
my face just as the police officer resumed his seat in the swivel chair opposite.

  “Find anything?” His eyes glittered knowingly.

  I shook my head. “Like you said, it’s all very technical. I do have one question, though, that perhaps you can answer?”

  “Yes?”

  “How do we know my father hit his head on the side of the pool? Isn’t it possible someone struck him, then pushed him into the water?”

  His reaction to my bluntness was one of supreme tolerance. “I don’t think that’s plausible, Miss Dirkston. With all the advanced equipment we have these days, that avenue would’ve been well examined.”

  “But was it?” I persisted.

  He stood up impatiently. “Look here. I realize you’re a novelist and you must need to spend a great deal of time cultivating a creative imagination but it seems to me you’re looking for trouble where there isn’t any. Your father was an influential man. If there was any question of foul play, we’d know about it.”

  His eyes softened. “I know this has been a trying time for you. Believe me, I’ve had a lot of experience with bereaved families and, in most cases, refusal to accept an unexpected or violent death is quite common. There’s a psychologist here in Ludington who’s extremely qualified and has dealt with this sort of thing before. Perhaps…”

  “No!” I rose, clutching my purse white-knuckled. “I’m not crazy! You all seem to think…” I didn’t finish because the look in his eyes told me my reaction had simply reinforced his opinion. “Thank you, Sergeant,” I said, forcing myself to be calm. I held out my hand.

  He took it gently. “If there’s anything I or my staff can do, Miss Dirkston, don’t hesitate to call. Perhaps a holiday might be in order, eh?”

  I managed a smile.

  “Perhaps,” I said through gritted teeth, then hurried out, collapsing with relief onto the seat of my car, still cursing my stupidity.

  Of course, no one else would be suspicious. Why would they? I hardly knew myself why I was so convinced something was afoot. I felt like some inner force was egging me on despite the possibility of unpleasant discoveries or general disapproval. It was unlike me. I was usually a prime example of innocent gullibility.

  Perhaps they’re right. Maybe I do need some professional help. But I still didn’t believe my father’s death was an accident. Despite what anyone believed, I wouldn’t rest until I knew for sure what had actually happened that night.

  “Suzanna! Hey!”

  I was startled out of my reverie and looked up. Jenny Hampton was running toward me, excited, her straight blonde hair flying like a curtain behind her as she waved. Delighted, I got out of the car to meet her.

  “Jenny,” I cried as she flew up and threw her arms around me. We embraced warmly.

  “I thought it was you but I wasn’t sure,” she said breathlessly. “Your hair’s shorter.”

  “You’ve hardly changed at all,” I rejoined. “What’s it been? Almost eight years?”

  She nodded, pushing her long locks away from her face.

  She was quite a bit taller than I with a sweet oval face and shining blue eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. What I remembered in her as gawky lankiness had developed into svelte beauty. But if she were aware of her attractiveness, she didn’t show it. Her face was free of makeup and she wore simple jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “What are you doing back here?” I questioned. “Last time you wrote, you were in New York!”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t like it. It was just too busy. As a matter of fact, I’m kind of taking a break at the moment. I’ve decided to look for a teaching position in the area. Don’t laugh! I know I told you I’d probably never use my teaching certificate. Anyway, I’m staying with Mom for the time being.”

  Suddenly her smile faded and she placed a hand on my shoulder. “God, I heard about your dad. I’m so sorry.”

  I nodded. Her sympathy caused tears to well up in my eyes. I fumbled for a tissue.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve hardly cried at all. It all seems so…so unreal.”

  “I can understand,” she agreed. “When my father died, I felt the same.” Then, to lighten the mood, she said, “Come on! How about getting an ice cream at Bender’s—just like old times?”

  I gave a sobbing laugh. “But it’s only ten in the morning!”

  Her face set with determination. “Since when were you Miss Logical? I want a pistachio nut and coffee-ice. And you’ll have… What was it? Oh, yes…butter-pecan and chocolate-chip-mint!”

  We both giggled like schoolgirls and, linking arms, strolled the few short blocks to Bender’s Ice Cream Parlor.

  Once seated at an outside table with our favorite indulgences, we eyed one another appreciatively. Jenny was like a breath of fresh air and for once, I felt able to talk and laugh freely. The nagging doubts of the morning vanished into temporary oblivion. We compared notes on our lives since going our separate ways.

  Jenny, after graduating from the university, followed her dream of becoming a model to New York where she quickly discovered that the competition was overwhelming and her chances of rising to any degree of recognition were slim. She made enough money to keep a tiny apartment in the suburbs but was able to save very little and eventually was forced to admit she had no future there. Besides, she detested New York and felt alien and insecure amid all the hustle and bustle.

  “If I ever had to actually drive into the city,” she said, laughing, “I’d have to take along a crowbar just to get someone to pry my fingers off the wheel. It was a nightmare!”

  I nodded. “I know what you mean. I think you have to be born and bred in the city to feel comfortable there.”

  I told her about myself. About my decision to eke out a living on my own. About my novel and my career hopes. “Unfortunately, since this thing with Dad, everything has turned topsy-turvy. I hardly know whether I’m coming or going, let alone how I’ll ever finish this new manuscript on time.” I frowned, remembering my father’s disapproval of my aspirations.

  She reached across the table and took my hand. “Don’t worry. It does get better. It just takes time.”

  I smiled and squeezed her hand in return. “There’s more to it, unfortunately.”

  She cocked a curious brow and I told her everything—about the will, about the man on the road and near the grave and about last night’s incident at the pool. “I was just at the police station trying to find out if it could be possible Dad was…” I hesitated.

  “Was?” she prompted.

  “Well, that maybe his accident wasn’t an accident.”

  “Oh, no! Do you really think it’s possible?” She shuddered violently. “But who would do such a thing? And why?” She paused, considering. “Your dad might’ve had a few enemies, eh? I mean, being involved in a huge corporation like Dirkston Enterprises, he was bound to have stepped on a few toes.”

  I nodded, relieved that at least she hadn’t immediately thought I was crazy. “It just doesn’t sit right with me, Jenny. Call it a hunch but I just think there’s something more to this than meets the eye. And everyone at Beacon seems so…so…odd, lately.”

  “I can’t believe they all kept you in the dark about your father’s will! I’d be so furious. What do you think you’ll do now?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing by going along with it?”

  “I don’t know that either. I used to think it didn’t matter. After all, it’s only a piece of paper and the conditions say the marriage only has to last a year but now, with this notion someone—maybe even Grant himself—could’ve contributed to Dad’s death… Well, I wonder if I’m making a big mistake.”

  Jenny was thoughtful, weighing the possibilities. “Look, for what it’s worth, I’ll help you out. I don’t know what I can do but you can count on me.”

  I smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Jen, you’ve already made me feel a lot better. I was beginning to think I was losing
my mind.”

  “No way, José,” she said lightly. “If you’re crazy then that makes two of us!”

  We laughed again, comfortably pleased. We reminisced for a short while longer and parted only after making a date to go canoeing the next day.

  Before heading home, I stopped into the marina to arrange to pick up the equipment for our outing. David was busy with ledgers when I arrived but he shut the books immediately and greeted me with concern.

  “I was worried about you all night,” he said. “Shouldn’t you spend a day or two recuperating? Dad reckons you need more rest.”

  “I’ve had plenty of rest, David. Stop worrying! I’d like to forget last night ever happened. It was just a stupid mistake.”

  “One that came close to drowning you!”

  I changed the subject. “How about you? Have you recovered from the shock of losing me to another man?” I tried to make my voice light and frivolous but it sounded cold and accusing.

  Fortunately, his phlegmatic poise remained unshaken. “I guess I did rant on a bit yesterday,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It just came as a bit of a surprise.”

  “I thought you were quite in control, considering,” I said wryly.

  “Well, I’d still like to apologize. I’ll go along with whatever you decide, of course. Though I wish it were me instead of Grant on the receiving end.”

  I cocked my head, eyeing him knowingly. “Colin’s already told you, hasn’t he?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yes, he mentioned you made a tentative decision to go ahead with the marriage—though I’d prefer to call it a temporary partnership.”

  “Yes, well, there’s no point in going over it, is there?” I said briskly.

  “Have you set a date?” he asked.

  This was the last straw. “Set a date? For God’s sake, David! Doesn’t it matter that I have to marry Grant Fenton? Or does this damn marina mean more to you than…than us?” My cheeks were flaming. “No! No, I haven’t ‘set a date’. I haven’t even gotten used to the idea of being joined in matrimony to a man I can barely tolerate. Are you in such a big hurry to get rid of me?”