Dreams and Bones: A Foxglove Corners Mystery, #17

By Dorothy Bodoin

At the Spirit Lamp Inn, newly purchased by Jennet's friend Brent Fowler, a garden renovation turns up human bones buried in the inn's backyard.  The discovery rekindles interest in the case of a young woman who disappeared from the inn several decades ago.

In the meantime, the Lakeville Collie Rescue League is faced with a possible lawsuit when the new president places a dog in a forever home without the knowledge of the owner.  Jennet finds herself in the unenviable position of trying to placate both the new owner and the original one who is determined to get her dog back, no matter what she has to do.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613091944

Book preview

One

S parrow?

The voice had the clarity of a bell coaxed to life in the humid autumn air. Its source eluded me as we appeared to be alone on Sagramore Lake Road, I and three of my collies.

Candy froze in her tracks, ears at attention, eyes fixed on a gabled white cottage half-hidden behind a towering blue spruce.

Sparrow!

A figure in black stood in front of an open window, a young woman with streaming yellow hair and a rag in her hand. The next moment the face was gone and the front door burst open. She hurried down the walkway toward us on an intercept course.

Candy strained at her leash while Sky, the skittish blue merle, pressed her body close to mine and Misty, my rambunctious white collie puppy, started barking.

I smiled at the stranger, not sure if that was the best response.

You have such beautiful collies, she said. The tri is absolutely gorgeous. May I pet her?

She was looking at Candy whose tail was wagging energetically.

I was tempted to say no. There was something about her that set an alarm bell ringing. Something about her excessive enthusiasm. Perhaps the glitter in her cat-bright green eyes. Who comes bounding out of her house to talk to a passerby’s dog? What if she were a nut? Suppose she later claimed that Candy had bitten her?

Don’t overreact, Jennet, I told myself.

She’d already extended her hand for Candy to sniff.

I guess so, I said and added, Be careful. Candy has sharp teeth.

The woman stroked Candy’s soft black head. She’s so beautiful. What’s her name?

Candy.

Where did you get her?

I paused. Candy had been a stray brought to me by an unknown boy during that unhappy time when Halley, my first collie, was lost. He had his eye on the reward. I’d kept her even though she wasn’t Halley.

I found her locally, I said with a possessive touch on Candy’s neck. Who is Sparrow?

The girl ignored my inquiry. I’m in the market for a tricolor female.

What a coincidence! No wonder she was interested in Candy.

I belong to the Lakeville Collie Rescue League, I said. You might check out the dogs we have available for adoption.

Rescue? No. An edge crept into her voice. I want a dog of my own, not someone else’s castaway.

I couldn’t let that pass. Of my collies, five were rescues, and they were all unique and wonderful, each in her own way.

All kinds of dogs end up in Rescue through no fault of their own, I said. We have a website...

I want a collie with a good pedigree, she said. One I can show.

It was futile to try to change somebody’s mind and unfair to the dogs who hoped to find a forever home. There are several fine kennels in the area. Colliegrove has a beautiful blue merle at stud.

Yes, well, I’ll look.

Seeing she couldn’t convince the stranger to pay attention to her, Misty began to pull on her leash. She could smell the lake water and the scent of smoke in the air. So could I. Someone was burning leaves.

Nice talking to you, I said, giving the leads a light tug.

I sensed that the girl stood rooted to the sidewalk, felt her gaze on me and my dogs as we walked on.

It was foolish to let a chance encounter unsettle me, so I wouldn’t; and there down the street I spied another diversion, friends this time. Molly and Jennifer, the little blonde girls whose lemonade stand had become a summer fixture in Foxglove Corners, saw us and waved. The admiring stranger already forgotten, Candy urged us onward. She knew the girls had cookies for sale as well as lemonade. Dogs remember.

THE LAST TIME I’D SEEN Molly and Jennifer, Molly was the taller of the two girls. They were the same height now. They looked more grown up with fingernail polish and a touch of pink lipstick.

Well, it had been two summers ago. At least the stand and the menu hadn’t changed, and Jennifer’s whimsical lion’s head shirt hearkened back to little girlhood.

I told the dogs to sit and they obeyed. Candy chose a spot close to a paper plate of cookies.

How’s business? I asked.

Good, Jennifer said. Everybody’s going to the beach today. They stop here on the way.

We couldn’t set up last Saturday because it rained, Molly added.

There was a hint of rain in the sky this morning. A gathering of clouds, a thickness in the air, and a dampness stealing over my skin. I pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen forward over my eye.

I’ll have a lemonade, I said, and three cookies for the dogs.

They were oatmeal. No raisins. It was the collies’ lucky day.

Jennifer counted them out. One for Sky, one for Candy, one for Snow White.

Her name is Misty, I said. She’s new.

Where’s Gemmy? Molly asked.

At home with Halley and Raven.

These days I walked the dogs in shifts, three at a time, thanks to Candy, my wild child, who had incited a canine riot when she’d broken free of her leash to chase a deer. My husband, Crane, and I both agreed that walking six large dogs together was asking for trouble, unless he was with me. Certainly I’d never lead my entire brood onto a residential street.

They must hate being left behind, Jennifer said.

I’ll take them out this afternoon.

Double trouble. Double time. But also double exercise, and I felt more in control with three.

Jennifer poured lemonade in a tall cup while I sifted through the coins in my pocket for change and dropped fifty-five cents into the girls’ canning jar bank.

We’re going to have caramel apples next week, Molly said.

I took a long sip. The weather was warm for late September, and the lemonade was on the warm side, too. But no one would hear me complain about these temperatures. Fortunately it was Saturday. That meant no school and perhaps one of my last chances for a leisurely stroll by the lake. In other words, it was a good day.

What’s been going on in the neighborhood? I asked.

A new boy moved in next door to Jennifer, Molly said. He’s real cute.

And there’s a new dog in the corner house, Jennifer added.

His name is Douglas, Molly said.

The boy or the dog? I asked.

That elicited a burst of hilarity, rather out of proportion to the statement, but it was good to laugh in the sun, to exult in the joy of freedom and the mere mention of a new boy on Sagramore Lake Road.

Molly was the first to regain her composure. The boy, silly.

There’s something else, Jennifer said. We have a mystery of our own.

Yeah. We’re going to be detectives like you when we grow up, Molly added.

You girls know I’m an English teacher, don’t you? Nouns and verbs and writing and literature.

Molly made a face. But you solve mysteries, too, and that’s more fun.

I smiled. Sometimes. Tell me about your mystery.

The girls exchanged glances.

We can’t, Molly said. Not yet. It’s a secret.

Well, I guess you can’t then.

I was mildly curious but didn’t press them for details. They’d tell me when they were ready, although the lemonade stand’s days were numbered. I might not see the girls again until next summer.

Their mystery couldn’t be an earthshaking one but a puzzle tailored to their age and interests. Jennifer and Molly and the Mystical Jewel. Or maybe it concerned a boy named Douglas.

The dogs had finished their cookies, licked up every fallen crumb, and Candy was eyeing the still-heaping plate as if it were the most precious treasure in her world.

I glanced back down the street. The young woman who had fussed over Candy had gone, presumably back into her house. She was no mystery, but the incident was a little strange, and her prejudice against rescue collies saddened me. Still, people want what they want.

It occurred to me that she hadn’t mentioned her name.

Do you know the girl who lives in the house with the tall spruce tree in the front yard? I asked. She has long blonde hair.

Is she our age? Jennifer asked.

No, older. Probably twenty or so.

Molly shook her head. She must be new, too. Don’t you want a cookie for yourself, Jennet?

I did, but I’d have to share it, as all three dogs were begging for second helpings. While I debated, thunder rumbled in the distance. Should we walk on to the lake or go home? I calculated distances, scanned the sky, and decided the storm was still far enough away for safety. We could easily make it home before the storm.

Come back next week and bring the others, Molly shouted as she gathered paper cups.

If we can, I said.

Who knew what would happen in Foxglove Corners from one week to another? I’d learned it was best not to plan ahead. If possible.

Two

The rest of the day was uneventful. Thunder continued to rumble, but the storm didn’t reach Foxglove Corners, although light rain fell at intervals, turning the landscape soggy. I was able to take the other three dogs for their walk. Because Crane was out of town on sheriff’s business, I didn’t have to cook dinner. A long evening lay ahead of me, one filled with infinite possibilities.

But how dull the house was without him. How lonely.

I imagined him coming home from a long stint of patrolling the roads and by-roads, locking his gun in its special cabinet, and sitting by the fire after dinner with his newspaper while Candy slept at his feet.

A typical evening in our green Victorian farmhouse on Jonquil Lane.

I could almost see the sparkle in his frosty gray eyes. Any minute I would hear his voice, so powerful was the imprint of his personality.

Candy tilted her head. It was as if she heard his footsteps coming up the walkway. She was always the first to greet him.

I, of course, heard nothing. Crane was far away in another part of the state. As the wife of a deputy sheriff, I had grown used to his long absences. Which didn’t mean I had to like them.

So quit fantasizing and enjoy this evening alone.

I would feed the dogs, make a sandwich for dinner, and revel in the knowledge that nothing needed to be done tonight. I could settle down in the rocker and read my new Gothic novel instead of the dry-as-dust Puritan sermon slated for tomorrow’s American Literature lesson. I could always do schoolwork tomorrow.

A melodious ring tone floated into the deep silence that had settled over the house. I found my cell phone on the kitchen table and snapped it open.

Hi, Jen. What are you doing?

Leonora, my friend and fellow English teacher at Marston High School, sounded a trifle dispirited, which was unlike her. Usually invisible bubbles formed around her words.

I glanced at the loaf of bread on the counter. Thinking about dinner. What’s wrong?

My date stood me up.

Leonora was seeing Deputy Sheriff Jake Brown, a handsome rogue who liked beautiful blondes. He courted both Leonora and my sister, Julia, and appeared to be happy with either one.

And on a Saturday night, she added.

Sheriff’s business? I asked.

Who knows? I hope so.

Do you want to come over?

I thought I could talk you into going out for dinner.

I glanced again at the loaf of bread. What did I have to put inside a sandwich?

That sounds like fun. Immediately I thought of my favorite restaurant with its comfort food menu, so fitting for a rainy fall day. Clovers? I said.

"Some place a little nicer. After all, it is Saturday. She paused. How about the Spirit Lamp Inn?"

My second favorite restaurant, the atmospheric Inn was an appealing autumn destination with a history to rival any Gothic novel and a documented haunting as well.

Perfect, I said. Maybe we’ll see a ghost.

We can only hope. I’ll drive. Say an hour?

I’ll be ready.

I considered my long dark denim skirt and white shirt. An evening at the Inn called for a dress. Something black. I had the ideal one in mind.

THE HAVER HOUSE, LEONORA said softly as we passed the old white farmhouse on Deer Leap Trail en route to the Inn. It looks so lonely.

No one comes here anymore.

With the change of seasons, the vibrant colors had drained out of the wildflowers that had flourished throughout the summer. Stalks, ferns crumbled to powder, once tall perennials caved in on themselves, loneliness was inherent in the scene, almost palpable. Loneliness, sadness, grief, and loss.

The acreage was indistinguishable from other tracts of land along Deer Leap Trail. An abandoned white house, a barn sitting in the midst of fields, woods. A ‘For Sale by Owner’ sign in the front yard. A ‘No Trespassing" sign nailed to a tree. Its story was finished.

Quickly I turned my thoughts to the Spirit Lamp Inn where life and light still existed.

THE INN HAD AN EXTRAVAGANZA of brown gables and a picturesque wooded setting that lent an air of mystery to the place. Lights in the first floor dining room did their best to attract and welcome a select clientele, for in truth the Inn was quite literally off the beaten path.

Leonora and I had first known the Inn as a refuge from a summer storm. In time we learned a few of its secrets. I suspected a few more waited to be uncovered.

What’s that? she asked as she pulled into the drive. Oh, no!

The lamp post cast a yellow pool around the ‘For Sale’ sign that had sprung up like a noxious white mushroom in the grass after rain. It hadn’t been there the last time we’d dined at the Inn. Last summer.

We can’t lose this place, Leonora said. We just found it.

Everything changes. I tried to look on the bright side. It’s not closing down. It’s just for sale.

What if someone wants it for a private residence?

That was what it had been at one time. This was, I had to admit, an out-of-the-way location for a restaurant but a good one for a country home. Then I guess we lose it, I said. But I hope we won’t.

There aren’t many people here. Leonora found a parking place near the front door and we walked up to the porch. This reminds me of our first visit. We were the only customers.

And like the first time, the hostess’ station was deserted. A sign invited us to seat ourselves, and a menu board promised Michigan pasties with mashed potatoes and gravy and for dessert pumpkin or apple pie.

I peered into the dining room. There were eight people sitting at three tables. By mutual agreement, we chose a booth by the window with a view of the garden in vibrant autumn color.

Please, I thought, don’t let the Inn pass into history.

According to an old story kept alive by the owner, whom I had never met, a ghost known as the Lady in the Blue Raincoat haunted the Inn. Supposedly she wandered the hall on the second floor searching for her traveling companion who had disappeared one stormy night in 1955, never to be seen again.

I didn’t know of anybody who had seen the Lady, but the Inn’s wait staff and hostesses came and left at a dizzying rate. Once I’d heard a terrified scream that was glibly explained away by an employee. I didn’t believe the explanation. Knowing Foxglove Corners’ reputation for unearthly happenings, I didn’t doubt that the Lady had made an appearance.

I wonder what the blue phantom will think when she comes back to find the Inn closed, Leonora said.

Being a ghost, she probably knows already.

Then she won’t come back.

She hasn’t found her friend yet. I think she’ll keep looking for her.

Even if they demolish the Inn? Leonora asked.

This is too fine a house to tear down.

But I didn’t know that for certain. In Oakpoint, where I taught at the local high school, I’d seen several sound houses razed to make room for larger, fancier ones. The new structures swallowed up every square inch of the lot. A developer might look at the Spirit Lamp Inn and see an eyesore.

Well, Leonora said. Here we are on a Saturday night without our men. You look terrific, Jen, she added.

So do you.

I’d added a rhinestone pin to my black sheath. Leonora’s dress had similar styling but it was ice green and accessorized with a king’s ransom of crystal jewelry. This was undoubtedly the dress she’d intended to wear for her date with Jake.

I don’t think I’ll ever have Jake the way you have Crane, she said.

This was an obvious invitation for me to disagree with her, but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be kind to give her false hope.

He seems to like to play the field, I said. But you never know what the future will bring. For a long time, I wasn’t sure of Crane’s intentions.

Change.

What?

You said it. Everything changes.

That’s true. Maybe Jake will realize that he can’t live without you. One day.

A waitress dressed in coffee brown and white filled our water glass and handed us large menus. I’m Gillian, she said. Can I get you something to drink?

Root beer later with my meal, I said.

Same here, Leonora added.

Dutifully I scanned the offerings, although I’d already made my decision. I’ll have the pasty and mashed potatoes.

Oh, I’m sorry. Gillian looked truly regretful. We ran out of pasties. Everyone wanted them.

Then... What was like a pasty? Meat with mixed vegetables and crust? Chicken pie. and garden salad.

Same for me, Leonora said. "Although I did want a pasty, she added with a fleeting pout. I guess I’ll have to make my own."

That’s an idea. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

When Gillian returned, I said, I was surprised to see the ‘For Sale’ sign out in front. Why is the owner selling?

Personal reasons, she said in a clipped tone. We’ll be here a while longer. Through Halloween, I think.

Ah, Halloween! That magical time for haunted houses. The mysterious owner wouldn’t want to vacate the Inn before Halloween. That would be the night to come back to the Inn for dinner. Maybe Crane would be able to join us. Brent Fowler, Foxglove Corners’ other elusive bachelor, would. And we’d invite Lucy Hazen, our celebrated horror story writer who seemed to have captured Brent’s interest.

On my desk at home I had the beginning of a manuscript narrating my own supernatural experiences in Foxglove Corners. It had stalled for want of material. I had enough for several chapters but wanted an entire book.

I wasn’t the first to write about the Lady in the Blue Raincoat. Rachel Carroll, her name was, and her companion was Cynthia Lauren. The Foxglove Corners Public Library had a modicum of information about the case and subsequent hauntings dating back several decades.

No one had seen the Lady in ages, and her search for her missing friend remained as wispy as fog on an autumn morning.

Maybe it was time for that to change.

Three

W e have a problem, Sue Appleton said. It’s serious, and I’ll admit I have no idea how to solve it.

Sue, recently elected president of the Lakeville Collie Rescue League, sat at the oak table in my kitchen the next day pretending to eat her apple muffin. Obviously she didn’t want it. No one was more aware of that than Candy, who had stationed herself as close to Sue as possible without being in her lap.

Sue had walked over from her horse farm on Squill Lane, arriving windblown and breathless. I’d known immediately that something was wrong.

I made a mistake, she added. But how could I be expected to know?

Tell me about it, I said, pouring tea in our cups.

She speared a piece of muffin on her fork and moved it to the side of her plate. Yesterday out of the blue this girl, Deanna Reid, came to visit me. She claims we let her collie be adopted without her permission. She’s going to sue us if we don’t return the dog to her.

People had threatened the League with lawsuits in the past, ignoring the fact that the organization operated solely on the generosity of donors and, at times, the personal resources of the members. Collies in need of food and veterinary care severely taxed the modest sums in the treasury.

How did that happen? I asked.

It’s a complicated story, and I don’t know whether to believe every part of it. She reached for her teacup and knocked a piece of muffin off the table. Candy caught it in mid-fall and licked her chops for more.

When Ms. Reid was in the hospital, she asked a friend to keep her dog for two weeks and paid him for board. Apparently she paid him well. Come to find out, he surrendered the dog to Rescue. He told her he gave it away.

I saw why Sue had reservations. The story seemed far-fetched. Or, if credible, crucial details were missing.

What kind of friend would do something like that? I asked.

A former boyfriend, she says.

A disgruntled, vengeful one.

She seemed sincerely distressed, Sue said, but it’s all so outrageous there has to be more to it.

I took a sip of my tea, feeling I needed fortification. This situation was indeed dire. How would I feel if somebody had given one of my dogs away without my knowledge?

Sue took a paper from her purse. I made a copy of the adoption. The alleged owner, Alex Blaine, claimed he had been laid off and couldn’t afford to feed a dog. He didn’t have her papers.

Did he say he owned the collie?

I didn’t ask him. I just assumed...

Oh, dear.

Why would he surrender someone else’s dog?

That’s the question, I said. I’d like to talk to this Deanna Reid. Is there anything else you can tell me?

The collie went to the Summerton family in Lakeville on July third. They’ve given her a wonderful home. Sue read from the paper: Collie, tricolor female. Two years old. Sixty pounds. In good health. Obvious good breeding. Appears friendly. Name, Sparrow.

Sparrow!

The young woman we’d met on Sagramore Lake Road had called Candy Sparrow and come dashing out of her house to make an inordinate fuss over her. Now this odd behavior made sense. To a point. Hadn’t she said she was in the market for a tri female, a show prospect?

This is a coincidence, but I think I know who Deanna Reid is, I said. Does she have long blonde hair and green eyes?

She’s a blonde, but she was wearing sunglasses.

I’ll bet it’s the same girl. I told Sue what had happened on our walk. She made me a little uneasy. I’m not sure why.

Sue folded the paper and slipped it back into her purse. "Could you talk to her, as a representative of the League? Maybe you can reason with her. How can we take Sparrow away from the Summertons? They’ve had her for over two months. Their three little girls love