Isle of Intrigue

by Ann-Marie Desiree

  * * *

  Whiskey Creek Press

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Copyright ©2008 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  * * *

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  ISLE OF INTRIGUE

  by

  Ann-Marie Desiree

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Published by

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  Whiskey Creek Press

  PO Box 51052

  Casper, WY 82605-1052

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Copyright © 2007 by Jeffrey Redmond

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-60313-027-1

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Julia Stilchen

  Editor: Jeremy Seffens

  Printed in the United States of America

  Other Books by Author Available at Whiskey Creek Press:

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About the Author

  * * * *

  Dedication

  For all those who dare to be different

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Prologue

  Peggy beamed happily at her departing guests. It had been a wonderful farewell party, with everyone acting as though she would be away for two years, rather than two months. She was lucky to have such supportive co-workers, rare for a large paper like The New York Times. Or maybe they were being so friendly because they knew they were getting rid of her for awhile. They all worked great as a team, but she knew she could be overbearing and egotistical when it was necessary.

  "Have an awesome time, Peggy!"

  "Where the hell is that place, anyway?"

  "Don't burn to a crisp!"

  "Hey, watch out for the hot natives!"

  After being smothered in a bear hug from her boss, Peggy began to gather her briefcase to leave for the day. Only he and her best friend knew where she was really going. She was going to get the best news story of the year—an absolute exclusive. She'd received the assignment from J.P. just last week. He wanted her, and her only, on the story. She believed it was partly because of her raw talent as a journalist, and partly because he thought of her as the daughter he never had.

  "Bye, Peggy."

  * * * *

  When her flight arrived, all Peggy could think of was putting on her iPod, reclining her seat and shutting out the world for some blissful sleep. The events of the previous months receded and she finally began to relax. The trip from New York City was smoother and faster than expected, thanks to the latest in aerodynamic technology. And her nap was a refreshing one.

  The plane reached the Detroit Metro Airport. And, after finally reaching the gate to her connecting flight, Peggy began to gather her thoughts and focus on her assignment. This plane would be carrying her to a remote part of the country, the Copper Harbor region of Michigan, and the Keweenaw Peninsula. She knew nothing about this place. Hicksville was how she referred to it in her mind. Probably full of uneducated, backwater idiots, and lots of sleazy bars to entertain the many unemployed.

  However, an unnamed source provided her boss with some information about the former rock star, Jonny O'Dawg. He had once been the lead singer of the rock band Seventh Sojourn but he had disappeared mysteriously a few years before, and was thought to be dead. Apparently, he was now believed to be living on a remote island off the coast of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, called Mystic Isle.

  After purchasing her ticket, and a hot cup of coffee, Peggy stood on the Bayfield dock to wait for her ferry off of the mainland. Gazing out across Lake Superior, Peggy spotted the small vessel she was waiting for. And, farther out in the misty Great Lake, barely visible along the horizon, were the distant and mysterious Apostle Islands. Well, we shall see if this place holds any mystery. If it does, I will be the one to uncover it.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 1

  "That's just terrific!” Peggy snapped. “How the hell am I supposed to get off this godforsaken island if you won't wait for me?"

  Waves smacked against the dock, spraying her waterproof jacket and brand-new hiking boots from L.L. Bean. She clamped one hand over her wide-brimmed felt hat, the latest fall fashion in NYC, and gripped her briefcase with the other. Enormous, dark clouds appeared on the northern horizon, and the tall pine trees hissed with a wind so strong it was blasting fallen leaves through the tumbled mass of her long brown hair. The storm blowing down out of the north was surely gale force status.

  The young owner of the little ferry that had brought her across the lake sat stubbornly in the stern of his craft, gripping the rudder for dear life. He raised his voice to be heard over the howl of the wind.

  "I'm not staying here all night, lady! Either you come back with me now, or I'll get you in the morning when the weather's settled down, eh?"

  The boy spoke with a slight accent, as did most of the locals. But, thanks to an almost adequate educational system in the region, his grammar was passable, if not his attitude.

  "I've got a job to do!” she shouted back at him. “And I never give up on a job. Don't you know who I am?"

  "No, ma'am!” the boy yelled.

  And he looked as if he were about to add something else, like maybe he didn't care to know who she was.

  "I'm Peggy Schmidt!"

  To prove her point, she let go of her hat and flashed a plastic coated identification tag she'd wrestled out of her jacket pocket.

  "I'm a star reporter at The New York Times, won the PEN Award last year, and I've been on CNN four times! And right now, I'm working on the biggest news story of the year. You're missing your big chance to be a part of history!"

  "Look, lady,” he shouted, clearly unimpressed, “there's nothing worth reporting up here in these islands! Nobody in their right mind would live up here, unless they're hiding from Homeland Security."

  "Exactly!"

  He peered up at her through the first spattering of raindrops.

  "You sure don't look like Homeland Security, ma'am."

  "I'm not Homeland Security! I'm a reporter. A writer! Don't you people have television up here? Bookstores? Newspapers?"

  Unable to keep her secret mission under wraps another instant, she burst out, “I'm here to find Jonny O'Dawg!"


  The boy's eyes popped. “Jonny O'Dawg? The leader singer of Seventh Sojourn? Lady, you're crazier than I thought. He's been dead for five years, eh?!"

  "That's just what everybody thinks,” Peggy bellowed. “But, I've got a lead that says he didn't die at all. He's been living right here, and I'm the one who's going to write his story!"

  The boy shook his head. “You're nuts! No one lives up here! It's full of ghosts and demons and—"

  "Oh? What do you call that?"

  Triumphantly, she pointed at the treetops, where the outline of a steeply pitched roof was clearly visible. A map which had been carefully drawn by her source had brought Peggy to exactly the right spot. Her guide squinted up at the roof.

  "That?” he shouted.

  "That's just Brent Barnard's cabin. He's no dead singer, lady. He's just as much of a lunatic as you are! Only he's dangerous, eh?! You better come back with me before he finds out you're here."

  Peggy lifted her briefcase and glared at the boy. “Don't try to intimidate me! I don't threaten easily. I have a black belt."

  Her young guide opened his mouth to argue some more, but quickly reconsidered and gave up. Without another word, he tipped his nautical cap, which proudly displayed his occupation, and then shoved off. He gunned the boat's little motor and began his long journey back the way they had come.

  He left Peggy, world-renowned reporter who rarely left the safety of her journalistic world, standing on the deserted shores of a storm blackened Great Lake.

  "You don't know what you're missing!” Peggy shouted after him, unmindful that her words were snatched away by the wind. “Your name could be a headline on every media source in the world!"

  Peggy watched the boat chug across the waves, and for an instant, she felt a prickle of panic. Sure, she could come on like a terrorist, but inside she was quivering. She even raised her hand to call the boat back, intending to beg the boy to stay, maybe even bribe him. She'd never been abandoned in the wilderness before. But begging would be humiliating, and Peggy had once vowed never to be humiliated again. So, she snatched her hand down and, after just a second's hesitation, whirled around and headed for the shore. She struggled to hold onto her hat and rummage through her briefcase at the same time.

  "Ignorant, superstitious morons,” she muttered to herself, angry for feeling weakness even for a moment. The dock was wet, and a reflecting film of wetness was slippery underfoot. Peggy skidded, nearly plunging into the lake, but caught her balance just in time by grabbing a tree branch.

  Warily, she staggered onto the rocky shore. Boulders slick with lichen were separated by patches of rank weeds. She spotted a break in the trees farther up—maybe a path. Muttering to herself, Peggy began to climb over the rocks.

  She grabbed for a handhold in the bushes and heaved herself upward. Her supposedly rugged footwear slithered inadequately on the stones, more proof that she should have made better plans before jumping into this story with such abandon.

  Panting as though she'd run a marathon race, she realized she'd traveled less than ten meters. Suddenly, the bush she'd been hanging on to gave way, and Peggy slipped, landing on her behind with a squishy plop.

  "Damn!"

  She'd landed in a puddle. The seat of her new jeans was totally soaked through.

  "What kind of godforsaken place is this?"

  "It's my godforsaken place, eh?” a male voice growled from above her on the trail. “Now, who in the hell are you?"

  The first thing she noticed was that he was carrying a shotgun—a big nasty-looking thing. Peggy clambered to her feet, raised her hands over her head, and tried her best to force a cocky grin. She also noticed his deep voice and local accent.

  "Let me guess,” she said as innocently as possible. “This is your island, and your name is Jonny O'Dawg, and you live here with a bunch of other castaways, right?"

  He did not smile back at her. He was a tall, dark male with a muscular body encased in tight jeans and a big-shouldered plaid shirt. His face was hard and sharp featured, with at least three weeks’ worth of beard that made guessing his age difficult.

  His hair was dark brown, long and shaggy, as though it were growing out from a month-old haircut. Peggy had a quick impression of flecks of gray at his temples, and in his dark beard.

  But most arresting were his eyes. They were brown, and burning with such hostility that Peggy took an involuntary step backward. The weapon resting alertly in his hands was of the semi-automatic variety, and looked dangerous from the way he handled it. She swallowed hard and tried to muster a friendly smile.

  "Look,” she said, “I wonder if you would mind putting that thing down? It's quite distracting and makes me a little nervous, you see. And I want to be absolutely clearheaded when I explain to you exactly who I am."

  He narrowed his eyes and made a quick inspection of her figure, as if expecting her to pull a missile launcher out of her briefcase or a big machete from her hip pocket. There was more than mere suspicion in his expression, though. He was ready for serious trouble. She raised her hands higher and wiggled her fingers.

  "I'm harmless. See?"

  Still visibly wary, he lowered the muzzle. He hadn't exactly been pointing it at her, but when he finally crooked the weapon under his arm, she relaxed.

  "Well, isn't this so much nicer? How do you do?"

  She cheerfully marched up the trail toward him, her hand extended for a friendly shake.

  "My name is Peggy Schmidt. What's yours?"

  He ignored her hand.

  "What are you doing here?"

  His voice was low, barely a rumble. It made Peggy's sound loud and raucous, even to her own ears.

  "Well, I'd like to explain that in detail to your employer. Perhaps you could take me to him?"

  "My what?"

  "The one you work for. Mister O'Dawg is his name, so I hear. You're some kind of caretaker, I assume?"

  He did look like some kind of classic henchman. A daunting specimen with a tough, smoldering look. And a pair of strong-looking hands that appeared capable of wringing necks. Peggy tried her winning smile again.

  "It would sure save a lot of time if I just talked to you both at the same time."

  Stone-faced, he said, “This is private land. You'll have to leave."

  "But I've come such a long way to talk to this O'Dawg guy!"

  "I'm sorry the trip was for nothing. There isn't anybody else to speak to you, Miss. I'm alone here."

  Peggy managed to fake a flirty took. “Maybe I'll have a look around anyway, just to be sure."

  He barred her path by moving the barrel of the shotgun. “There's no need. This island is deserted. You'll just get hurt."

  "Oh, I'm tougher than I look."

  He glanced at her again, clearly not believing her for a moment. Her jacket was stiff with newness, her jeans still creased. Her boots were totally wrong for the terrain. And the expensive leather briefcase she'd dropped on the trail looked more suitable for a corporate boardroom than the uncharted ends of the earth. He shook his head.

  "It's out of the question. You'll have to leave."

  "I can't leave,” she said patiently. “My transportation just disappeared. See? That's him out there on the lake. I'm stuck here, so you might as well—"

  "You didn't ask him to stay?"

  "Of course I did, but he panicked and fled. I couldn't very well clobber him with my tape recorder and hijack his boat, could I?"

  "Why didn't you bring your own?"

  "My own boat? Good heavens, I don't even drive a car!"

  At that, he looked disgusted, as well as suspicious.

  "What did you say your name was?"

  "Peggy Schmidt,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a child. “What's yours, while we're on the subject?"

  "You don't need to know,” he replied.

  Remarks of that nature just made Peggy more curious than ever. If she'd been a cat, she was sure her whiskers would be twitching. She could smell an interesting story a fu
ll kilometer away. In addition, she'd written a string of highly successful, unauthorized biographical articles about international celebrities to prove it.

  Peggy Schmidt was a name that set newspaper publishers to salivating. She had a nose for scandal, and one look at this shotgun-toting man told her there was a great wonder of a story in the air.

  "Maybe I've made a mistake,” she said. “Are you Jonny O'Dawg?"

  "It doesn't matter who I am,” he said. “You're leaving!"

  "For crying out loud!” She threw her hands up in the air. “Whether you like it or not, I'm stranded here for the night! It's raining! What kind of a human being are you? There's a storm of all storms on its way, I'm slowly freezing to death, and you're playing the man who guards the gates of hell! There's obviously a perfectly cozy cabin up there in the trees. So, why don't we make the best of a bad situation and go inside? You're stuck with me! I'm sorry, but that's the way it goes. Am I getting through to you, handsome stranger?"

  He stared at her, clearly amazed to find a brunette, briefcase-toting female with a New York accent, yelling at him right in the middle of his island paradise. Whether her arguments penetrated, Peggy couldn't tell. His face remained cold and revealed nothing. Peggy held her breath.

  "Cerberus in the Hades of ancient times,” he said at last. “He was a dog, not a human."

  "A what?” she asked.

  "The animal that guards the gates of that particular hell."

  He turned on his heel then. With the shotgun tucked under his arm, he led the way up the trail into the shelter of the big trees. The wind whistled down from the sky at that moment, bringing the first onslaught of hailstones. The weather didn't seem to faze Handsome, though. He hiked upward several paces, then looked back.

  "Come along,” he said.

  Peggy needed no further invitation. She scrambled after him, one thought shining like a beacon in her mind. The whole story might even make one unbelievably terrific book. The house nestled in the trees was not exactly the palatial hideaway of a reclusive rock star. Peggy felt a pang of disappointment when she finally got a clear look at it.