Shadow of the Ghost Dog: A Foxglove Corners Mystery, #22

By Dorothy Bodoin

The blue house on Dewberry Lane was a perfect setting for Lucy Hazen's movie, Devilwish, except for the incessant crying of an invisible dog within its walls.

The excitement surrounding the making of a movie based on Lucy Hazen's book, Devilwish, turns to horror when a landscaper unearths a human skeleton in the backyard of the house chosen as a setting.

Inside the vacant house, Jennet hears the incessant crying of an invisible dog.  As she searches for clues to the phenomenon, one tragedy follows another until a second murder takes place in the house's backyard, bringing Jennet to the attention of a secret murderer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613093061

Book preview

One

The house was blue , the fresh, clear color of the spring sky, with awnings a few shades darker and a door darker still. White gingerbread trim edged the twin gables, and a wide front porch wrapped around three sides. The house had a bay window with a second small porch above the first one and a door leading out to it from the inside. A person could while away a morning up there and feel as if he were sitting among the clouds.

Or more accurately... amidst the treetops.

Lucy Hazen brought her white Chevrolet to a stop in a winding driveway, shaded by a massive three-branched oak tree.

She said, In a word, Jennet, how would you describe the house?

Just one word?

If you can.

Blue and white. The colors of the sky and clouds. A porch high above the ground.

Airy? Ethereal?

Okay. Heavenly.

That was my first impression, she said. "That’s why I chose it for the setting of Devilwish. Mr. Horn lives here. He invited his best students to form a special class in Elizabethan Drama, and they meet in his home. He’s the Devil."

So you gave him a heavenly home?

For contrast, she said. An ugly rundown farmhouse wouldn’t do. On my recommendation, they’re using this house in the movie.

Wait a minute, I said. A high school English teacher doesn’t put together his own class and meet students in his home.

I should know, being a high school English teacher myself. The very idea appalled me.

Lucy frowned. Well, that’s one of the changes they made. In the screenplay, the characters are a little older. They’re in college.

Doesn’t that bother you?

Not really, she said. They’re not that much older, and it’s all very proper. Mr. Horn has a wife, Evadne. She stays home when classes are in session. Her job is to serve pop and snacks.

Evadne. Eve. I had to smile. All very proper with the Devil assuming the form of an English professor to seduce young innocents.

Everyone in or near Foxglove Corners was excited about the movie based on Lucy’s horror novel, Devilwish. Her story dealt with six high school students who make a bargain with the Devil after reading Stephen Vincent Benet’s short story, The Devil and Daniel Webster. Later they have cause to regret their decision, but it’s too late. They don’t have an American folk hero to go to bat for them.

Devilwish was a horror story, after all.

I have a key to the house, Lucy said. Unfortunately I forgot to bring it, but we can get out and walk around. One of the scenes takes place in the backyard.

"Which one?

The sacrifice.

Lucy slipped the car keys into the pocket of her long broomstick skirt and led the way to the back. Her hair was jet black with blue lights, and black was her wardrobe color of choice. If it weren’t for her gold chains and jangling gold bracelets, she would look as if she were in perpetual mourning.

Here comes a horror writer, her appearance proudly proclaimed.

A previous owner valued his privacy. She indicated a row of mature fruit trees at the end of a deep rolling yard. On both sides, tall pines spaced close together served as natural fences. The neighboring houses were built on double lots and looked as if they were unoccupied.

This is a perfect place for nefarious goings-on, she said.

I brushed leaves and twigs off a bench fashioned of logs and sat, wondering what kind of fruit the trees would bear. How did you find it?

One day I was driving through the countryside, hoping to stir up ideas. I came to Dewberry Lane, liked the name, and saw this house. It was destiny.

It’s certainly atmospheric.

In the front, a slice of heaven. Dark, shadowy reaches in the back. And quiet. The crackle of hellfire would never be heard.

The producer flew out to see the house and liked it so well she made an offer for it. It was accepted. She’s going to use it as a vacation getaway when the movie is finished.

A plaintive sound insinuated itself into the country silence. A whining, soft at first, then gaining in intensity. Then abruptly cut off.

I tore my gaze away from the fruit trees. What was that?

What?

That whining.

I didn’t hear anything, she said.

Something whined.

I had seven collies at home, one of whom, Misty, was scarcely out of puppyhood. Whining was as familiar a sound to me as barking and growling.

I need to go out now. I want my toy goat. Can I have a bite from your plate?

I listened, conscious of sound. If you listen, you become aware of the most subtle disturbance in the environment. At the back of the yard, beyond the fruit trees, was an overgrown wilderness area, neither full of sound nor quiet.

A rustling, a chirping in the trees, a splash of water... The stone and gray ranch house on the left had a fountain in one corner of the yard and a large fish pond under a weeping willow tree.

Nothing was whining.

It originated in the house, I said.

That’s not possible. No one lives there. The realtor has a key. She’s been hired to give the interior a clean, lived-in look when they start shooting in August. She’ll plant the window boxes and maintain the lawn.

I wish I could see the inside, I said.

The next time, I’ll bring the key and give you a tour. Now, how about lunch? Is Clovers all right with you?

It’s fine.

As we turned to leave, I heard the whining again. Pathetic, insistent, the kind of sound a dog in distress would make. A crying that tugged at my heartstrings. Definitely it had come from the house, which posed a question. Would I be likely to hear an inside sound when I was standing in the middle of the backyard?

Unlikely, but no matter.

There it is again, I said. You heard that, didn’t you?

I didn’t hear anything, Jennet. There’s quite simply nothing to hear.

USUALLY I ACCEPTED Lucy’s pronouncements without reservation. Along with her gift for writing popular, heart-stopping books for young readers, she was sometimes able to foresee future events. In the past I’d had ample evidence of her powers. In this instance, though, I felt she was wrong.

I knew what I’d heard: a dog crying in an untenanted house.

I also had faith in myself.

"Suppose there is a dog in the Devilwish house, I said. It may be trapped inside without food and water. Maybe after lunch we should go back. You can stop at Dark Gables for the key..."

We could, Jennet, but I think your imagination is running wild. There’s no way Elise brought a dog into the house. She has allergies.

She could have left the door open, though. The dog could have sneaked in, not realizing it wouldn’t be able to leave. I could think of other possibilities.

What did I hear then?

A radio? A tape of animal sounds? A Lassie movie?

A movie without words? Without music?

She pulled the Chevy into Clovers’ lot and maneuvered it expertly into a parking place.

If there were a sound of whining, I would have heard it, Lucy said. Maybe I’m suffering from hunger. I skipped breakfast this morning.

And hunger had affected her hearing?

I had to admit. Lucy was right about my imagination. In the past it had taken me to wild, uncharted places. I needed a peaceful interlude with a sandwich and a soothing cup of hot tea, needed the respite that was Clovers.

Painted green clovers bordered the little restaurant tucked into the wilds of Crispian Road. The owner, Mary Jeanne, specialized in old fashioned comfort food, the kind you’d find on your grandma’s table, and delectable desserts. Annica, my young friend and occasional partner in detection, worked as a waitress while putting herself through college.

Lucy opened the door, and chimes shaped like clovers announced our entrance.

I didn’t hear anything, but if it’ll make you feel better, we’ll do as you suggest. I’ll go back for the keys and we can have a look inside. I’m sure we won’t find your crying dog, though.

Two

Annica was another person whose way of dressing conveyed a clear message. Sometimes she chose accessories to promote Clovers’ desserts, for example, her unique cream horn earrings. Today she was the spirit of spring in a green linen dress with a wide yellow band above her waist. Clover eardrops sprinkled with dewdrops—in other words, crystals—sparkled behind cascading strands of red-gold hair.

She glided to the dessert carousel carrying a tray of small chocolate-iced cakes, set them in the empty spaces, and approached our booth.

How are you two ladies today? she asked.

Fine. Lucy answered for both of us. "We’ve been to see the Devilwish house."

The what house?

Lucy often neglected to add details, assuming her listeners were aware of them. The house where they’re going to shoot some scenes for the movie.

The movie! Annica’s eyes lit up. "That is so exciting. They’re having auditions at Alcott Middle School next week. I’m going to try out for the part of Christabel."

You’d be perfect, Lucy said.

I would. I’m an English major, and I have red hair.

Can you act? I asked.

"In high school, I was Emily in Our Town. A movie can’t be all that different from a play."

It’s quite different, Lucy said. But I’m confident you can do it.

If they like me.

Who wouldn’t like Annica? She was vivacious and witty and, when she was happy, radiant.

I had a girl like you in mind when I created Christabel, Lucy said. How about you, Jennet? You’d be perfect for the part of Miss Everly.

The Engish teacher who tries to help the kids? Isn’t she old?

In the book she is. They made her younger.

I’ll pass, I said. My goal is to fade out, not stand out.

Ah, well, Lucy said. I guess you have enough on your plate. Which reminds me. We came for lunch, Annica. Something light.

Remembering she was a waitress, Annica grabbed two menus and a pitcher of water. We ordered egg salad sandwiches and tea. When Annica was out of earshot, Lucy said, She’s so pretty. She’s a natural.

She certainly is.

But Annica was also busy. Her part-time waitressing job, college classes, and a new collie puppy, Angel, took up most of her time, leaving a few hours free for her to help me solve the occasional mystery that came my way.

What would she think about a crying dog in a house in which no one currently lived?

I didn’t know for certain that there was a mystery in the Devilwish house. Until now I’d managed to keep the idea at bay, but perhaps I was hearing sounds again like...

I concentrated on sipping ice-cold water, blocking out the conversations swirling around me, remembering.

Like the time soon after the shooting in my classroom when I alone began to hear gunfire at odd times.

It could be happening again.

I kept drinking water until the glass was empty.

It occurred to me that I needed a third opinion. I would take Annica to the house. If she didn’t hear the whining and I did, then I would know.

Did I want to know?

You look so serious, Jennet, Lucy said. Are you all right?

"I’m thinking about the Devilwish house, I said. I’m glad we’re going back."

It won’t hurt to make sure.

At that moment, Annica appeared with our lunches. They were identical, sandwiches on white bread with dill pickles, tea bags in floral patterned teacups, and individual pitchers of hot water.

Annica looked curious but didn’t question us. That would come another day, when we were alone. I sincerely hoped I would have a new mystery to tell her about instead of a mental disorder which I would keep to myself.

THERE WAS NO DOG IN the Devilwish house, no sound of whining. If there had been a dog, it would have launched itself at us, the intruders, with dripping fangs or limped toward us, tail wagging in supplication.

We stood in the living room admiring the cool, tasteful blue and green décor. The house had the unlived-in look we’d expected. Still, it seemed somehow alive like Ray Bradbury’s wondrous mechanical house in The Martian Chronicles with its dust-eating robot mice, the stove that cooked breakfast, and a ceiling that recited poetry. That house that futuristic magic kept in tip-top shape for a family who would never return.

This one was quiet, as a house without people or pets would be.

Elise hired a cleaning service, Lucy said. They’ll have to bring in books. Mr. Horn is supposed to be an English professor.

Books. That’s what the house was missing.

Not just any books, I said. "English novels, essays, biographies, poetry collections, dictionaries, Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations..."

I’m glad someone else will do that, Lucy said.

Well, let’s explore.

In the kitchen I opened the top cupboard doors and saw perhaps a dozen place settings of china neatly arranged. The lower cupboard, which would normally hold staples such as flour, sugar, and cereal, was empty.

What are you looking for? Lucy asked.

Dog food, I said. And maybe a dog’s dinner dish.

For the invisible dog?

I guess he wouldn’t need them, would he?

I was almost ready to give up the idea that a canine had found its way into the Devilwish house. Almost ready to accept the unpalatable truth that the whining had a different origin.

We should look upstairs while we’re here, Lucy said.

In the light streaming in from the windows, the hardwood stairs gleamed as if they’d just been polished. Our footfalls sounded too loud in the silent house. I felt as if we should be whispering but couldn’t have said why.

The second floor contained three bedrooms, one of them sparsely but beautifully furnished, and a spacious bathroom.

With a bar of white soap on a seashell dish.

Dove, Lucy murmured. That’s my brand.

But not even a jar of instant coffee in the kitchen, I said. Odd.

Elise must be making the house family-ready bit by bit.

Except there won’t be a normal family living here, I said. Just the Devil and his wife.

Lucy smiled. And the Devil’s dog.

It was time for us to leave. This strange house had set a torch to my imagination, and I had the evidence I’d sought. There was no dog in the Devilwish house, crying or otherwise.

AT HOME IN OUR GREEN Victorian farmhouse on Jonquil Lane, Crane Ferguson, my husband and the most popular deputy sheriff in Foxglove Corners, locked his gun in its special cabinet. He had listened to the story of my afternoon with Lucy, a trace of concern on his handsome face.

Whenever you discover a new house, trouble follows, honey, he said. It’s inevitable.

I started to deny it, then realized I couldn’t. Unusual houses and mysteries seemed to go together, especially in Foxglove Corners, and I’d stumbled across more than my fair share of them. Most recently, the pink Victorian house on Huron Court.

Lucy didn’t hear a dog whining, I said.

And Lucy is the one who’s tuned in to the supernatural. I think you can conclude there’s no ghostly dog in the house.

My own seven lively collies were clamoring to be fed. I’d been baking an apple pie for dessert and now was talking to Crane, which, in their estimation, I could do anytime. I pulled a jumbo sized canister from under the counter and started filling dishes with kibble while Candy, the prime mischief maker, pranced around my feet.

That’s what a sensible person would conclude, I said. But for some reason I’m not convinced. I think there was a dog in the house at one time. He was crying. Maybe he was abandoned there, and his misery lives on.

You’re talking about a ghost.

I guess I am.

Then, honey, let’s backtrack. Lucy Hazen is the official ghost maven in Foxglove Corners. Why didn’t she hear anything?

I didn’t have an answer for that question.

Three

Monday at Marston High School. How many weeks until the school year ended? I glanced at the calendar on the bulletin board. Charlotte Bronte, May’s author, bestowed her benevolent smile on the most unruly English students in Oakpoint, Michigan.

The rest of May, a couple of weeks in June.

When the second semester began in January, for the most part, I had different classes, except in my fourth period, which was more or less the same as it had been in the fall semester. The computer had contrived to give me again most of my American Literature Survey group, tossed in a few loud smart alecks whom I didn’t know well yet, and sent four courteous, studious girls to other teachers. It must be chortling in glee.

My new fourth hour was the Class from Hell, Part II.

Happily we’d left the Puritan writers far behind. Twentieth century literature was easier to read and to teach. For example, Ray Bradbury’s The Pedestrian, a story set in the future about a misfit who liked to take solitary walks and think, which in that society was considered unnatural. Bradbury’s message should resonate with today’s young people, who couldn’t bear to be parted from their electronic devices.

Enough woolgathering. If I let my mind wander in this class, someone would attempt to slither out of the room or surreptitiously sip a forbidden soft drink.

Hey, Teach, it’s hot in here. Turn on the air conditioning.

This request netted the speaker a few laughs. He was Rod Chandler, one of the computer’s imports.

I wish I could, I said.

Why can’t you? I didn’t see who’d asked the question.

It doesn’t work that way, I said vaguely.

No point in allowing myself to be drawn into a discussion of the temperature and building inequities.

The office of Principal Grimsley was air-conditioned, of course, as were science labs and other privileged areas. The classrooms in our hall had a view of woods, the school’s property, bursting with new green growth. That, it was reasoned, should be sufficient to keep us cool.

All of the windows were open, and a warm breeze wafted in. I set aside my sudden desire for a frosty lemonade. This was a warm spring day, but it followed a long, snowy winter. I shouldn’t complain about a little heat and thirst.

Turning to the chalkboard on which I’d written three questions for discussion, I said, "Note the copyright. Name a few electronic devices that have been introduced into our lives since Bradbury wrote The Pedestrian?"

iPhones!

Kindles.

Those Pokemon games.

Which wasn’t a device, but they were getting the idea. The discussion seemed to hold their interest, and before I realized it, the bell rang. My class stormed out the door, noisy and pushing one another out of the way... next stop lunch.

Thank you, Ray Bradbury, for the good material, I thought and retrieved my sandwich from the closet.

The powers in charge at Marston allotted a mere twenty minutes for lunch with ten minutes tacked on to the beginning and end for traveling to and from the cafeteria. My friend and fellow English teacher, Leonora, and I usually ate in her room or mine, a choice that gave us a longer, more leisurely break.

I unwrapped my ham sandwich and took a bite. Ham. I was going to be thirsty again.

Leonora brought out a container of her home-baked pineapple drop cookies. As she handed me a cookie, the sun caught the fire-flash of her diamond engagement ring. She glanced at her hand, smiling and admiring the stone. It was still a novelty. Over Christmas, while I’d been immersed in a chilling, life altering adventure, the pretty blonde had quietly become engaged to her longtime love, Deputy Sheriff Jake Brown.

I don’t see why Grimsley has to schedule a staff meeting on a Monday afternoon, she said.

To make a blue Monday longer.

According to the grapevine, he has a special announcement to make. Still, couldn’t it wait till our regular meeting?

I wonder what it is. It seems late in the year for any important news.

It’s supposed to be something good.

Who’s your source? I asked.

The grapevine, she said.

The grapevine, I suspected, had a name. Coach Adam Barrett, who had admired Leonora for years, was one of Grimsley’s pals. He must have inside information. Well, we’d find out soon enough.

Ever since her move to Foxglove Corners, Leonora and I had carpooled to Marston. This morning, I’d told her about the crying dog in the Devilwish house. She’d commented briefly and segued to a discussion of her late summer wedding, which was understandable. I might as well get used to it.

But off and on today, I’d thought about the mysterious whining. In spite of Lucy’s and my thorough exploration of the house, I persisted in imagining a dog trapped inside. Not a living dog, but a canine in spirit form who seemed to have a message for me.

You’re not happy unless you’re seeing mysteries everywhere, I told myself.

I keep thinking about that whining, I said. Would you come with me to the house some day after school?

"Sure. I’d love to