Meet Me on Spirit Lane: A Foxglove Corners Mystery, #35

By Dorothy Bodoin

Intrigued by the story of a Christmas party haunting in an old, abandoned house on Spirit Lane, Jennet and her young partners in detection set out to investigate, while they also search for a runaway collie who has been seen in the area.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613093085

Book preview

One

It was a rare spring snow that fell, brushing the newly-opened daffodils on Jonquil Lane with gentle fingers, lest they shrivel in the unwelcome showers. April is indeed the cruelest month.

Through the kitchen window of my green Victorian farmhouse, I watched my corner of the world turn white, visions of Easter eggs and bouquets slipping away.

Hadn’t Mother Nature consulted her calendar before selecting the day’s weather?

Apparently not, but this was Michigan, a state with a light hold on the seasons.

Horrible, I said. Miserable.

Candy, my tricolor collie who had followed me into the kitchen, tilted her head. She heard ‘treat’ or ‘eat’ although the words I’d spoken sounded like neither.

Not yet, I told her.

As the clamor that could only be raised by seven excitable collies erupted at the front door, Candy abandoned me to join the rest of the pack.

I followed her to the living room and peered through the bay window.

I couldn’t see anything but swirling snow. The dogs, however, had sharper senses. Moments later, two bundled-up figures and one dog, a sable and white collie, appeared on the lane.

As the trio came closer, I recognized Jennifer and Molly, my young partners-in-detection, and their collie, Ginger, all three fairly skipping through the snowflakes.

Quiet! Back!

The dogs retreated mere inches as I hurried to open the back door. The visitors bounded in on waves of frigid air while Candy tried to sneak outside. I grabbed her collar.

You girls are out and about early, I said.

Well, it’s Saturday. Molly pulled off her red knitted hat, and its pom-pom jingled faintly. She had a new hair style, a short bob with bangs. Don’t teachers live for weekends, too?

Yes, certainly. But should I admit it?

Everyone likes leisure time, I said. Come back to the kitchen. I’ll make cocoa and I have cookies.

Jennifer dabbed at the snowflakes that had landed on her long yellow hair. We’re searching for a lost dog. It’s a collie puppy named Pepper.

She was a rescue, Molly said. Someone left the gate to the yard open, and she ran away. Trying to find her previous owner, I guess.

My heart sank at the thought of a collie baby forced to fend for herself. The country could pose a thousand threats to an innocent animal. Cars speeding on lonely roads, predators in the woods always on the lookout for their next meal, and starvation. Only the canniest and the strongest had a chance of survival.

Who would leave a gate open with a new dog in the house? I asked.

No one admits doing it, Molly said. There are three kids in the family.

Recently Jennifer and Molly had formed a group, Dogfinders, Inc. At the first ‘missing dog’ notification, the members, all ages and sexes, including one search-and-rescue dog, came together to cover every inch of Foxglove Corners, except for the many wooded acres, of course, until the lost one was safely home.

They had found every dog they’d searched for except one, but that was a story for another day.

Molly pulled a picture out of her pocket. She’s a tri with long legs and one ear up. Call us if you see her.

We thought we’d kill two birds with one stone, Jennifer added.

Molly frowned. That’s a gruesome saying.

Don’t be so literal, Molly, Jennifer said. No one’s throwing stones at birds.

In the kitchen, the girls seated themselves around the oak table; the collies, including Ginger, found places in the dining room where they could observe us; and I measured water and added enough cocoa powder for three drinks.

I set a plate of sugar cookies on the table and gave the cocoa a stir. What’s your second purpose in coming out on this wretched day?

It’s a beautiful day, Molly said. This is winter’s last hurrah.

I smiled. Oh, to be young and find magic in an April snow.

The purpose? I repeated.

We heard that Pepper was sighted in the Spirit Lane area, Jennifer said.

My memory clicked on Spirit Lane, officially named Spear Lane, the location of an alleged haunted house. The girls had told me about it last winter.

You said you’d like to investigate the house on Spirit Lane with us, Molly reminded me. We don’t want to do it alone.

We need your supernatural expertise, Jennifer added.

I don’t remember the details, I said. Something about a Christmas celebration?

They say that on December fourteenth, there’s a party at the house, but it’s a ghost party. There are about thirty people inside and music and everything, but no cars are parked in the driveway or the road. When they check it out, there’s no one there and no furniture or party. Nothing.

Weird, I said, and couldn’t resist asking, "Who are they?"

People who’ve experienced the phenomenon, I guess.

So, there are supposed to be thirty ghosts? I asked. All under one roof?

All at the party.

Mmm. I’m used to dealing with one at a time.

Jennifer broke a sugar cookie in two. Candy, ever hopeful, had advanced into the kitchen. She nudged Jennifer’s knee, but Jennifer was focused on her snack.

There’s more. Molly took up the story. A few weeks ago, Jerry and Bert—they’re in our English class— decided to spend the night at the house, but they came back early and refuse to talk about what happened.

And you want to visit this place?

If you’ll go with us. You didn’t change your mind, did you? We could walk there. It’s only about a mile or so. You said we’d go in the spring and take Misty with us.

Misty. My beautiful tri-headed white collie, my psychic collie. She had been missing at the time, which was all I could think of. But now, she was home, and it was another season, in spite of the falling snow.

The prospect of exploring one more haunted house was an irresistible lure. Since I’d moved to Foxglove Corners, the Home of the Strange and the Ghostly, I’d experienced more than my share of paranormal incidents. I was writing a book about them and needed one more chapter, one more otherworldly adventure, to finish it.

The girls were waiting for my answer.

I gave the cocoa a final stir. I’d love to join you, but not in the snow.

When it melts then? Molly asked.

How’s next Saturday? Supposedly a warm-up is on the way.

We’ll do it then, Jennifer said. But we’re going to head out to Spirit Lane today. We still have to find Pepper.

Two

By mid-afternoon, the snow had begun to melt. It dripped down from the trees and disappeared into the ground. Green patches emerged—and mud.

The daffodils showed no signs of distress, and the elegant yellow Victorian house across the lane resembled an elaborate lemon cake without its frosting.

Surely this morning’s madness had been winter’s last hurrah.

I made a beef stew and a strawberry pie for dinner, tended to my collie family, and wrote lesson plans for the coming week while waiting for my husband, Crane, to come home from his patrol of the roads and by-roads of Foxglove Corners.

Yes, Molly. English teachers live for weekends, too, for time to keep one step ahead of schoolwork.

At the thought of returning to Marston High School on Monday, a little bit of my spring-induced euphoria evaporated. These days a dark cloud hung over our school. Last year, shortly before Christmas recess, Marston had suffered a second shooting from which we’d recovered. Sort of. On the surface.

The first incident had taken place in my classroom, this second one in the hall close enough for me to hear every agonizing sound. Both had claimed lives and left students and teachers traumatized.

A terrible thought haunted me. Could there possibly be a third shooting?

Don’t think about that until Monday, I told myself. Think about spring and rebirth, daffodils and Easter.

And collies. And don’t think about thirty-two muddy paws. It’s spring!

With dinner as good as ready, I took my brood outside to play in the sun. They might be an illustration of collie coloration, my pretty rainbow cotillion. I had tricolors, sables, a blue merle, a tri-headed white, and a rare bi-black, all rescues I’d adopted, except for my first collie, Halley, who came from a kennel.

Moving or still against a landscape on the verge of turning completely green, they were a joy to watch: Candy and Gemmy play fighting over the Frisbee; Misty digging in the mud; Halley running with a stick, Velvet chasing her; Raven sniffing at the house’s foundation hoping to locate hidden treasure; and Sky, the timid blue merle lying beside the oldest, Star.

As a member of the Lakeview Collie Rescue League, I took pride in the knowledge that my dogs were well cared for and loved. They had a good home and one another. Whereas the little runaway, Pepper, had nothing. I said a silent prayer that the girls would find her before she met with disaster.

CRANE CAME HOME EARLY carrying a yellow tulip plant high above the heads of eight curious canines. He set it on the counter and pulled me into a quick but ardent kiss. The collies clamored for his attention, the plant already forgotten.

As he locked his gun in its special cabinet, I brought two root beers out of the refrigerator. How did you know I was longing for something springy?

I know how you feel about April snow.

Thank heavens it’s gone.

He sauntered into the kitchen and into a ray of sun that set the silver strands in his fair hair a-gleam. With his frosty gray eyes and handsome features, he was the most desirable man in the county.

Why stop there? In the state. Home safe from his patrol, my love, the man who turned the green Victorian farmhouse into a home.

There’s another lost dog in town, a collie puppy. I told him about Pepper and the girls’ visit which, of course, led to their interest in investigating the house on Spirit Lane.

I’m familiar with the area, he said. There are only three houses on Spear Lane. At one time, there were four, but one burned to the ground and wasn’t rebuilt. The road backs up to a wooded slope and railroad tracks. Which house is supposed to be haunted?

I’m not sure. We’re going to check it out next Saturday.

I repeated what I knew of the mystery, about the ghostly party and the thirty spirit revelers. At the last minute, I remembered the two boys who had apparently experienced something so unnerving at the house that they refused to talk about it.

Crane finished his drink and set the can on the table. It sounds dangerous.

Because of the boys? Jennifer and Molly only have their version of what happened. Maybe they’re Stephen King fans or aspiring horror writers.

I was thinking of rotting floorboards and vermin, he said. And bats. That’s if you’re able to get inside. I’d think the house would be locked.

I hadn’t realized that wild creatures might have made a home in an abandoned house. I’d certainly never thought about bats. There must be a way in.

Ever the lawman, Crane said, That’s breaking and entering.

Not if the house is vacant.

Somebody owns it. Somebody pays the taxes. The boys are lucky they didn’t get caught.

We’ll just investigate the grounds then, I said.

He gave me a knowing look. Crane knew me well.

If they haven’t found the lost puppy by then, we can look for her on Spirit Lane.

Even as I spoke, I thought of how long a week could be when you were lost and hungry and thirsty. When a coyote, just as hungry as you, had you in his sights.

Be careful, he said.

I was only thinking of Pepper. I hope she’ll still be alive.

Three

Sunday sped by as only a weekend day can. On Monday, I fixed a hearty breakfast and a lunch for myself and kissed Crane goodbye. We were going in different directions, he staying in Foxglove Corners to keep the peace while I headed an hour south to Oakpoint and Marston High School.

While we were gone, Camille, our neighbor who lived in the yellow Victorian across the lane, would let the dogs out and give them fresh water and treats.

My longtime friend and fellow English teacher, Leonora, and I took turns driving to Oakpoint, half an hour on a woods-bordered country road, half on the freeway. Today, I was the passenger, happy to lean back and view the hint of green that colored the trees in early spring. We avoided talking about school.

How was your weekend? Leonora asked.

Quiet, I said, with a prospect of adventure in the near future.

Mine was just quiet. Oh, I raked leaves leftover from last fall and baked a cake.

I told her about the house on Spirit Lane and the forever party.

I can’t believe you found another haunted house, she said.

This one was found for me by Jennifer and Molly. Would you like to join us next Saturday when we investigate it?

I’ll pass, she said. It sounds bizarre. Whoever heard of a party that never ends?

It’s a party of ghosts, I said. Unusual, I admit.

You do the investigating. Then you can tell me all about it.

Fine. I’ll have all the fun.

Leonora eased onto the freeway entrance ramp. At this point, we were halfway to Oakpoint, and I was aware of a familiar hollow feeling deep in my stomach. I might as well have been a new teacher uncertain of my ability to control a class and teach a lesson.

Was this the day when something horrible would happen? Did other teachers have the same crippling apprehensions?

The grief counselor hired by the Board to help students cope with their feelings was still in residence, still accepting appointments almost four months after the shooting. She was also willing to talk to the staff, but so far, I’d kept my feelings private. But maybe the time had come for me to avail myself of her service. Otherwise, how could I help my students?

You can never know the future, but the day’s plan was no mystery, if nothing happened to prevent it. Leonora and I had different sections of the same courses.

What are you doing in World Lit today? I asked.

"Drama. We’re starting to read The Teahouse of the August Moon."

"We’re reading Harvey. The kids are having fun with it."

That’s a good choice for Easter. A big invisible rabbit. Sometimes I wish I had a Harvey.

We fell silent as country views gave way to settled communities. Spring was more advanced south of Foxglove Corners. Certainly, it was warmer in Oakpoint, with less wind.

Leonora and I had been friends for ages. In a sense, she had followed me to Foxglove Corners, buying a Victorian house of her own and marrying her own deputy sheriff, Jake Brown. We should be able to talk about what was on our minds.

But we didn’t.

WHEN WE REACHED THE school, we parted company. Leonora stopped at the teacher’s lounge for a cup of coffee, while I picked up my mail in the office and went straight to my room.

The halls were bursting with life, students half delirious with the joy of a warm sunny morning and the rapidly approaching Easter break. Boom boxes—well, booming—lockers slamming, quiet chatter, and shouting, that last frowned on by Principal Grimsley who hadn’t arrived in the building yet. And the shrilling of the first