Spirit of the Season: A Foxglove Corners Mystery, #10

By Dorothy Bodoin

It's Christmastime in Foxglove Corners where danger mixes with holiday cheer.  A skater who fell through the ice fifty years ago returns to haunt the lake where she died.  Meanwhile, a woman trips over a reindeer dog toy left on a step and falls to her death.  Her friend spreads a rumor that the collie, Gemini, plotted her owner's death.

As Jennet Ferguson attempts to create the perfect Christmas for her husband, Crane, and to plan a family wedding, she must champion Gemini, discover the identity of a killer, and figure out the significance of the phantom skater apparition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597054126

Book preview

One

Still, still, still . One can hear the falling snow...

Snowflakes swirled through the air in the lightest of winds. They settled on the graceful curves of woodland that edged the lake. It was so quiet that if I listened carefully, I could almost hear them hit the graveled road, even over the Christmas carols playing softly on the radio.

I turned on the windshield wipers. The glass cleared instantly, giving me a view of frozen water under an ice-blue sky. The lake had an unusual shape, forming a wide figure eight. Framed by lean, thinly-spaced woods, the ice lay still, as quiet and peaceful as the surrounding landscape.

A high school English teacher longs for a time of quiet and peace at the end of a hectic December week, and everyone needs loveliness. I slowed down to admire the view.

All of Foxglove Corners was lovely this winter, each wooded acre, covered bridge, and body of water as rare and glittering as a Christmas card. This scene was animated.

Through the falling snow, a skater glided out from the far side of the lake. She was a slender blonde girl in a beige jacket lavishly trimmed in ermine. The red, white, and green stripes of her scarf were bright in the swirls of snow. She skimmed the lake’s surface, her long yellow hair streaming out behind her.

Like a snow queen.

Candy cane colors. Skater on a woodland lake. Here was another charming Christmas card picture. I glanced away from the road to watch her. Just for a moment.

As the scene shifted.

A sharp crack shattered the deep country silence. A scream tore through the air, and the skater toppled forward. The stripes of her scarf blended into strands of yellow hair as she dropped down into the widening fissure and disappeared. Just in a moment.

The country silence came back, but the scream’s echo continued.

Horrified, I turned off the road, pushed the gear into park, and grabbed my cell phone.

Hurry! Before it’s too late.

Nine one one. Three numbers only, but my fingers froze as they tapped them, and my heart raced while I waited long seconds for an answer. Finally it came.

A girl fell through the ice, I said. A few minutes ago. I was driving by and saw her.

Where is this? The dispatcher asked.

On... I realized I wasn’t sure of my location as the route was unfamiliar. I’d driven to the small city of Lakeville after school to buy Christmas presents in a new antique shop. I knew the way home but not the name of this particular road.

But I’d passed a horse farm; that name I remembered.

About three miles north of Victory Creek Stables, I said. There’s a small lake, all frozen over.

You’re on Sunset Road, the dispatcher said. That’s Sunset Lake. Somebody will be there right away.

Snapping the cell phone shut, I slipped it back in my shoulder bag. Right away might be too late. I had to do something now. But what?

I turned off the engine, silencing the Christmas carol in mid-stanza, and yanked the hood of my parka over my hair. Throwing the key in my pocket, I pushed open the door. It cut through the deep, unrelenting snow.

The drifts were higher than they had appeared from inside the car. Treading heavily through their crusted top, I stamped to the edge of the lake, as far as I could go, and looked for the break in the ice.

It was snowing harder now, severely reducing visibility, but the break should be straight ahead. I couldn’t see it but recalled a tall, scrawny spruce that grew at the water’s edge, listing to one side. The girl had gone down approximately three yards from the tree.

As I stepped warily onto the lake, the heel of my boot began to slide. Quickly I moved back. Beneath a powdered-sugar layer, the surface was frozen solid, but I didn’t dare venture out any farther. How many people had lost their lives in a vain attempt to save a person who fell through the ice?

Don’t be a coward, Jennet, I scolded myself. If you don’t help her, she’ll die.

But I thought of Crane, my husband of only seven months. And of Halley, Candy and Sky, my other dear ones. Risking my life would be selfish. Wouldn’t it? Because walking on thin ice would be suicide.

So this one time I’d be a coward. And maybe, in spite of the delay, the skater could be saved.

I shivered. The wind was colder than I’d thought, and stronger. It seemed as if I could still hear the girl’s scream. Or its echo.

How long could a person live in frigid water? Probably not long, but I didn’t know.

Still, if only I could do something besides wait. If I made my way through the woods, I’d reach the leaning spruce and be close enough to call out to the skater, to tell her help was on the way. That was something I could do.

As I started walking through pristine country stillness that had suddenly turned deadly, a low growl rumbled on my right.

Like the skater, the dog appeared out of the snow. It surveyed me coldly with lips curled high to expose a set of lethal teeth. Incredibly the creature looked like a collie, a small, thin, unattractive one with chestnut fur under a thin coat of snow.

Apparently sensing I didn’t pose a threat, it bounded past me to the shoreline where it stood barking frantically. Its whole body trembled with the effort.

Could it be the skater’s dog?

But the dog didn’t rush to her rescue. It tested the ice cautiously with one paw and backed up to safe ground, barking louder. A wind gust blew frosty snow in my face and yanked my hood back.

Hurry, I thought. Please, please hurry.

It seemed as if the scream’s echo still lingered in the snowy air.

THE FIRST RESPONDER was a young state trooper with a new-minted air of authority and a haughty take-charge manner which he wore like a second jacket. It seemed I was always encountering his type.

As I dashed toward him, I let my vague guilt slip away. I was the reason he was here, the one who had made the call.

What happened? he demanded.

A girl was skating, and the ice broke, I said. Over by that second circle.

He looked at me and scanned the lake. Second circle?

Where the top part of the figure eight starts, I said, pointing.

I wasn’t making myself clear. Three or four yards from that listing blue spruce. I’ll show you. But aren’t you going to call for back-up?

His voice was clipped and as icy as the lake but reassuring. I already did.

Over here then. I led the way along the path of deep boot prints I’d made earlier, a waving trail through sparse woods and winter-dead vegetation.

The trooper didn’t speak but strode ahead of me, plowing through the blowing snow as if he’d come this way before. I ran to catch up to him, breathing hard as the wind tried to push me back.

When we reached the landmark tree, he surveyed the lake grimly, sweeping the expanse with eyes as cold as his voice.

I don’t see anything, he said at last.

The wind had picked up, once again snatching my hood from my head. Impatiently I brushed my hair out of my eyes, looking for the place where the girl had disappeared. East of the crooked spruce tree. It had to be here, but I didn’t see anything unusual. Only a stretch of mirror-smooth ice with a light snow cover.

I don’t hear anything either, he added.

Well, no, he wouldn’t. It was quiet, oppressively so, except for an eerie wail that could only be the wind. I couldn’t disagree with him. There was nothing to see or hear now. But there had been.

She must be here, I said. Down in the lake, I mean. I saw her the exact moment she fell through the ice.

His cold blue eyes mirrored doubt. Three or four yards from this fir, you say?

I nodded. About that.

He walked boldly out onto the ice, stopping approximately four yards from the spruce and looking in every direction. He was tall, with a muscular build and apparently oblivious of danger. Under his weight, the ice was as substantial as silvered rock. It wouldn’t dare break.

I waited to hear another ominous crack, another cry. What I heard was a faint note of condescension in his voice.

There’s no hole in the ice. There’s nothing. He walked back to stand next to me. His eyes searched mine. I fought the urge to look away.

That can’t be, I said.

I felt as though I had stumbled into a nightmare, trying to convince the officer of a reality he couldn’t perceive.

And trying to convince myself?

The wind, I said. It must have blown snow over the depression. But the girl is down there somewhere. We can’t leave her in the lake to die.

Don’t worry; that won’t happen, he said and stamped back to the cruiser. Obviously he’d reached his verdict, accomplished his mission.

I followed him. But I saw her. Please believe me. She had a long scarf. It was red and white with green stripes. Like a candy cane.

Hand poised on the door of his patrol car, the trooper said, You saw the colors from the road? Even though it was snowing?

I have excellent eyesight, I said.

He didn’t believe me. I could tell. In a few minutes, I wouldn’t believe myself. But I had seen the skater. Beige jacket. Ermine trim. Red, white, and green stripes. Long blonde hair. I’d seen all of this. I couldn’t possibly imagine these details.

And it only started to snow hard after the ice broke, I added.

He opened the cruiser door. Sometimes blowing snow plays tricks on us, he said in a kinder tone. Trees and shadows look like people. This piece of wood... He picked up a long thin branch and shook the snow off it. It looks kind of like a rifle, doesn’t it? I’m sure you thought you saw something.

I did. A skater falling through the ice.

Then ask yourself this, he said. Why would a girl invite danger by skating alone on an isolated lake? It doesn’t make sense.

I had no ready answer for him.

So I won’t cite you for turning in a false alarm this time, he continued, but don’t let it happen again, Miss...

Mrs. Ferguson. Jennet Ferguson.

It’s a serious matter to tie up an officer’s time. Somebody else might be in danger right now while we’re standing here in the snow talking about nothing.

I heard another siren and remembered he’d called for back-up. Oh, great. More skeptical men or women to convince that there was an emergency while a girl lay dying or already dead beneath the ice. What could I say to make them believe me?

There’s the dog, I said, remembering the collie with the chestnut coat. It could be the girl’s pet. He knew something was wrong. He was barking.

What dog? I don’t see a dog.

I looked for the chestnut colored collie, but the officer was right. No curious canine padded behind me or lay observing us from a nearby snow bank. In truth, I’d forgotten him and didn’t know when he’d left the area. Now there was no sign of life on the ground, not even a lowly squirrel. Only a flock of black birds flying low over the lake.

Your siren must have scared him, I said. He ran away when he saw you.

Yes. That’s what must have happened. You’d better go on home now, Mrs. Ferguson. Drive carefully. The roads are getting slippery.

AND STAY IN THE REAL world.

The state trooper might as well have added that admonition. He’d had a brief exchange with two policemen who had arrived with sirens screeching and an excess of attendant noise. I’d tried to read their expressions, knowing I wouldn’t be pleased if I could hear what they were saying. A few words drifted my way.

False alarm.

...thought she saw a girl fall through the ice.

No. No one. I’m positive.

Well for...

The rescuers had all gone now, and they had the last word. I was alone and feeling deflated and chastened. Not an alert citizen but a deluded woman who saw a tree in a snowfall and mistook it for a skater in peril on the ice.

I couldn’t deny the truth of what the trooper had said. Sunset Lake spread out in front of me in all of its crystalline splendor, unmarred by a crack in the ice. Probably unmarked by the scratch of a bird’s claw.

The wind still blew, and no one, not even a person with a fine-tuned imagination like myself, could hear a scream in its keening.

Neither could I deny the skater, or the colors of her scarf, or the moment when the ice broke open to swallow her whole.

Where then did that leave me?

In a place I’d been before and never wanted to go again. For a brief moment snatched out of another time, I had seen a ghost.

Two

One of the advantages of being married is having someone to confide in when your comfortable world slips momentarily out of its orbit. A disadvantage of being the wife of a deputy sheriff is that he isn’t always home when you expect him to be.

Crane’s schedule was often erratic. Having been wed to the law since May, I was used to dealing with minor and major calamities alone, not to mention keeping the home fires burning and his dinner warm. This latest one, the incident at Sunset Lake, had left me shaken. I could deal with upsets, both of the natural and supernatural kind, on my own, but I didn’t have to.

When I reached home, Crane was elsewhere in Foxglove Corners, protecting its citizenry from assorted evils. As always, my three collies greeted me ecstatically, vying with one another for the first pat of the afternoon. Halley, as the undisputed pack leader, claimed the first one; the incorrigible Candy the second; and my sweet rescue dog, Sky, nudged my hand for her rightful share of my attention.

A quick look in the refrigerator revealed a turkey casserole ready for heating and fresh ingredients for a salad. I tended to the needs of the collies and glanced out the kitchen window. Camille’s yellow Victorian glowed beneath its icicle edging and snow-frosted roof. In the first floor windows, lights shone through the fading daylight. They seemed to call to me.

All the way from the lake to my house on Jonquil Lane, I’d thought about hot tea and fireplace flames. Camille would have both, along with her unique perspective on problems in all sizes.

Telling the dogs I’d be back in a few minutes—a fabrication, but they had no concept of time—I trudged across the snowy lane and climbed the eight steps to Camille’s wraparound porch.

She hadn’t shoveled the stairs yet, which was unusual.

After a moment, she came to the door with the young tricolor collie, Holly, straining and leaping on a leash. The more sedate Belgian shepherd, Twister, stood calmly at Camille’s side wagging his tail.

Come in, Jennet, she said. What brings you out in the snow?

I dodged Holly’s paws. She had belonged to me for a brief time, but I’d been too distracted when she was a puppy to teach her that basic command: Don’t jump up on people.

Trouble, I said, hanging my parka in the closet and stamping the snow off my boots on the reindeer mat. I need a cup of tea and a confidante.

Oh, no. We don’t want trouble, with Christmas and the wedding so close.

A scent of balsam drifted through the air, bringing the freshness and fragrance of the outdoors into the living room. I looked for a tree or evergreen garland inside, but all I saw were a trio of green pillar candles burning on the coffee table, no doubt the source of the scent.

In the dining room, the mahogany table was stripped of its hand-crocheted scarf and the vase of fresh flowers that Camille always kept in the center. In their place were strips of soft grayish-pink material pinned to pattern pieces.

I’m making my wedding dress, she announced. The color is old rose. Do you like it?

It’s exquisite and perfect for your coloring, I said, with an admiring glance at her silver-honey colored hair. I’ll shop for a dress in light pink.

Camille had asked me to be her matron of honor when she married Crane’s Uncle Gilbert on New Year’s Eve. She was right. We didn’t want trouble in this busy, exciting month, but trouble never waits for a convenient time.

Twister and Holly trailed after us through the hallway. In the kitchen Camille filled the teakettle and brought a tin of Queen Mary down from the cupboard. She intended to bake her own wedding cake and had been experimenting with recipes. The three-layer coconut cake on the crystal stand must be her latest sample.

It looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas, she said. I’d love to be married in a winter wonderland, complete with an ice sculpture.

An ice sculpture?

A small one. I saw some gorgeous carvings at the Lakeville Ice Festival last week.

I made a mental note: Ice sculpture for the buffet table. Bride and groom? Pair of doves? Valentine hearts?

Gilbert would like that, living in the South as he does, she said. Now, tell me what’s wrong.

I saw a girl, a skater, fall through the ice today.

Camille gasped. My goodness! Is she all right?

I don’t know. It turns out that she wasn’t there.

I launched into the strange tale, concluding with the state trooper’s brash no-nonsense response.

He thinks I saw a tree in the snow and mistook it for a girl, I said.

Then no one drowned.

Not today. The teakettle whistled. I watched Camille pour boiling water over the loose tea leaves. This was our treasured afternoon ritual. Tea and conversation and whatever Camille had baked that day in her pretty blue and white country kitchen. I always went home feeling better.

It’s happening again, I said. This time, an apparition on ice.

As usual, she was unflappable. I’m not surprised. Christmas and ghosts go together. You know that from experience.

Yes, I do.

I remembered. A decorated Christmas tree that appeared, only to disappear and follow me from a vacant Victorian on Park Street to my own dining room. The three white collies of Lost Lake who traversed the snowy woods and waters of Foxglove Corners. They were all Christmas spirits.

The most recent phenomenon that had touched my life, a disembodied voice in a blue house, didn’t fit the mold, having occurred in the summer.

One of Camille’s endearing qualities was her understanding of human nature, of my nature in particular, which was one of the reasons I’d sought her company today.

It’s natural to be frightened when you’re faced with an unknown, she said.

I keep asking myself what it means and why it’s happening to me. I must be cursed.

Camille waited to answer until she’d served the cake. No, dear, you’re blessed. It’s a rare gift you have. In the past, when these doors into the other world open, you’ve received help. Even been saved.

That’s true.

The phantom Christmas tree had given me my chance to outwit a killer. On another occasion, the snow dogs had saved my life. And because of the voice in the empty house, I still had my husband.

Besides, haven’t other people seen your Christmas ghosts? she asked.

Yes, they have. Henry McCullough, who lived next door to the Foxglove Corners Animal Shelter, had trimmed the original Christmas tree long before it appeared in phantom form; and the artist, Lyzanda Farrendine, had seen the ghost dogs too. She believed they were descended from her lost collie, Genie. I wasn’t as alone on that unearthly plane as I’d thought.

This is the first time I’ve seen a person, though, I said. She was as real to me as you are, only farther away. I can tell you what she was wearing, the color and length of her hair, and even the stripes in her scarf.

From the road? The trooper had demanded. Through the snow?

I should have known then.

Someone must have drowned there once, I said. Did you ever hear stories of a haunting on Sunset Lake?

I’ve never even heard of Sunset Lake.

Neither had I until today. I was Christmas shopping in Lakeville and took a different route home.

Until this moment, I’d forgotten my gifts, still in the trunk of my car. That was all right. One of them was for Crane, and I had to find a good hiding place for it.

Over the years there must have been accidents on Sunset Lake, Camille said.

Yes. Accidents and confused spirits who don’t realize they’ve passed on. Hauntings.

Foxglove Corners is an extraordinary place, she added. Strange things happen here. Wonderful things, too.

Seeing someone die and not being able to help her isn’t wonderful, I said.

Camille laid a comforting hand on mine. Well, Jennet, if this girl is a ghost, that happened a long time ago.

Or she’s going to drown in that lake sometime in the future.

Or maybe somebody rescued her. You don’t know. Whatever happened, I don’t see how you can affect it.

Which brings me back to one of my questions, I said. Why did the skater appear to me?

Perhaps you’ll find out before long, Camille said, noticing my empty plate. Have some more cake.

I’d hardly been aware of eating my first piece, but my plate was empty. Holly had sidled up to me, her bright eyes fixed longingly on the crumbs.

Thanks, I will, I said. It’s delicious.

So it is. Light and not too sweet. I think I’ve found my wedding recipe.

She was determined to do everything connected with the wedding herself except decorate the yellow Victorian for the ceremony. That was my task, and my friend, Leonora, had promised to help me.

When I have time, I’m going to ask a few questions and do some research, I said. If other people have seen the skater, I won’t feel so singled out.

When you have time. Camille laughed softly. When will that be?

During Christmas vacation, I said. If this apparition has meaning for me, I want to be prepared.

AFTER DINNER, CRANE and I sat in front of the fire while Halley and Candy stretched out as close to the flames as they could get without singeing their fur. Sky, preferring to lie alone, chose the rocker.

I’d told him about the skater on the lake and, like Camille, he was unflappable. Perhaps because his beloved Aunt Becky was no stranger to ghosts, Crane accepted my