Sugar Sands: The Coast-to-Coast Michigan Mysteries, #3

By Deb Davies

Michigan's sunset coast turns deadly when a group of vacationers encounter a dying author who sees the ghosts of children.

 

When Arnie refuses surgery for his bum knee, Laurel takes the family on a relaxing trip to the beautiful sunset coast on Lake Michigan to recuperate. Accompanying them are Arnie's sixteen-year-old son, Sawyer, and things are made even better when their close friends Claire and Charles join them for a visit.

 

The area is known for sand dunes, white beaches, and swimming. An odd manifestation of bioluminescence—floating lights on the lake—creates an eerie prediction of things to come. One that Sawyer jokingly points out because anytime his parents and their friends get together, disaster strikes.

 

But this time it's Sawyer's girlfriend who proves to be the catalyst for trouble when she takes a job at Dune House as a live-in scribe for Maeve, a dying author who sees the ghosts of dead children. When Felicity mysteriously disappears, and then others follow, it's apparent that Sawyer's prediction has come true: trouble has come to Lake Michigan.

 

Following forensic botany clues, Arnie and the remaining group desperately search for the others and walk right into danger. Will Arnie find everyone in time? What mysteries does the Dune House hold? Find this out and more in Sugar Sands, Deb Davies's latest Coast-to-Coast Michigan Mystery.

 

Rich in Michigan's local flavor, beauty, and culture, Deb Davies brings that true "up north feeling" into her writing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BHC Press
• Release date: Apr 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9781643973876

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Sugar Sands

Copyright © 2024 Deb Davies

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please write to the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by BHC Press

Library of Congress Control Number:

2023945947

ISBN: 978-1-64397-385-2 (Hardcover)

ISBN: 978-1-64397-386-9 (Softcover)

ISBN: 978-1-64397-387-6 (Ebook)

For information, write:

BHC Press

885 Penniman #5505

Plymouth, MI 48170

Visit the publisher:

www.bhcpress.com

9779

Northern Light

White Nights

For my affectionate pit bull, Nelly, who,

when we got her, was afraid of scrambled eggs.

44044780

Claire pushed the huge bouquet of mauve coneflowers to one side of the table so she could see Laurel without dodging petals and leaves. You sure you don’t mind that we came to visit? she asked. Luzerne wasn’t the same without you. She was sucking on ice from her third scotch and soda. Her blond hair, longer than usual, hung down over her green silk nightgown.

Are you kidding? Laurel asked. She dabbed at her face with a napkin that had cherry pie filling on it, smearing red under one eye. It’s been wonderful having Sawyer here to help with Arnie, but even a devoted son deserves some time out on his own. Her black hair had more threads of silver in it than Claire remembered. The back had grown out enough to reach the collar of her red-and-white striped pajamas, but her bangs had obviously been trimmed recently by Laurel, creating an uneven pixie effect.

"Help with Arnie? Help with Arnie? Since when do you talk about me as though I’m not here?" Arnie’s jaw, which showed a short, bristly, black-and-white beard that had grown out rather than his usual five o’clock shadow, jutted in annoyance. Having resisted Laurel’s attempts to make him change clothes, he was wearing gray, paint-stained sweatpants and a gray flannel shirt.

Sorry, sweetheart, Laurel said. I should have said ‘help Arnie.’ Bella, short gold fur wrinkling on her forehead, staggered to her feet and left the fireside to stand by Arnie’s chair. She knew something was wrong and it was something she couldn’t help with. She wasn’t even allowed on Arnie’s lap.

I’m so glad you kept this dog. Charles and I love her, but having her at his cabin on the creek with ravens and otters would be disastrous. What does she weigh now? Claire asked.

Maybe eighty pounds? She’s very gentle, though. Laurel pursed her lips. When she takes food from our fingers, she lips it off.

You’ve done a great job with her, Claire said. She was scrawny and smelly when we found her, or she found us, at Tahquamenon Falls. She’s filled out and her coat shines. She is beautiful—that copper color, with yellow eyes, and her big goofy smile. When I first heard someone say she was a red-nosed pit bull, I thought of guys who drink too much and wondered if dogs got addicted to alcohol, but I guess the flush her muzzle gets when she’s excited goes with the yellow eye color.

It sure does. Her muzzle turns fuchsia when she’s happy. And she’s happy a lot now. Arnie called her Jelly at first, because she was scared of so many things, including strangers and disappointing us. If we offered her leftovers she didn’t like, scrambled eggs, for example, she’d back off, shaking like a bowl full of jelly. That’s not a problem now, but she’s still scared of gunshots and thunder. Arnie and I don’t quarrel often, Laurel assured them, but if we do, she tries to hide under a couch.

Not much room under a couch for a pit bull, Claire noted.

Arnie scratched Bella’s neck. I’m thinking of training her to support my weight, he said.

You should get knee surgery, Claire repeated. Charles had a knee done last fall, and he never even thinks about it now. He can scale cliffs to look at bird nests again.

Laurel added, You’ve been through so much worse, Arnie. The treatment for the concussion from the bullet that nearly killed you. You never whined once when you were going through that.

I was younger then, and braver. And I wanted to impress you. Plus, they gave me more Percocet. This fentanyl epidemic has doctors unwilling to prescribe opiates even if pain is making people bang their heads together like deer in rut. Sawyer broke an arm playing soccer last year, and they basically told him to use Advil. I don’t want to be compared to Charles! He isn’t really scaling cliffs, is he? Arnie growled.

Not cliffs, no. There aren’t a lot of cliffs around Luzerne. You know Big Creek runs through a valley. But he goes up and down trees when he needs to, Claire said.

Why would he need to? Neither Charles nor I should be climbing trees at our age, Claire.

He put a flying squirrel back in its nest in the hollow of a tree. It had gotten knocked down near our cabin, maybe by an owl, and he was worried Oscar would swing by in the morning and pick it off.

Arnie ran out of his ability to quibble. It’s hard to believe that raven still comes by, he said.

It flew into the cabin when we left the door open and ate a rabbit on our bed. I’m still trying to get blood stains out of the sheets. The sheets were almost new, Claire complained.

Ugh, Laurel said. They all looked at Charles, who stood on the back porch of the lake house. As dusk came on over Willow Lake, there were still swallows soaring, mouths open for mosquitoes, but they were now joined by small and large brown bats. Charles had perhaps changed the least out of them all since they’d met. His hair was whiter and thinner, but ropy sinews defined his arms and legs. He was wearing cutoff blue jeans tied with a rope belt and a sleeveless white undershirt, sometimes known as a wifebeater. He was the only one of the four friends who wouldn’t know the term.

I’m still not sure how you stand him, Arnie said without rancor. The tension that had existed between the two men when they first met had long ago dissolved into respect for each other’s different takes on life.

Bella whined softly.

That’ll be Sawyer, Laurel said. Anyone else and she’d bark as though a werewolf were at the door. I’ll say this really fast before Sawyer gets here. The breast reduction looks great, Claire. You look thinner and a lot younger.

Thanks Laurel. It’s so much more comfortable not having gouges in my shoulders from a bra. And I save money not buying double D, tough-as-canvas underwear.

La la la, Arnie said. I don’t hear this.

Sawyer let himself in and surveyed the table. Don’t hear what?

We were talking about you, Laurel said. We can’t repeat it or you might get conceited. We didn’t leave you much food, she added. There’s still a little pie left. It’s from The Cherry Pit. Or was from The Cherry Pit.

Sawyer pushed his hair out of his eyes and considered the remaining pie crust. I’ll take a little for later, he said, folding it in a napkin. Felicity and I took a picnic lunch down to Empire Beach. It’s good to see you, Claire. I guess Charles will be in soon. It’s starting to rain.

How’s Felicity? Laurel asked.

Funnier and prettier and smarter than I am. I’ll bet money her SAT scores will be higher than mine. Sawyer affectionately roughed up Bella, who threw herself on her back, kicking in ecstasy. And she’s gone to a job where I can’t visit her. I’m bummed about it.

She’s going to make a packet of money, Arnie said.

How would you like it if Laurel took a job and you didn’t even know where she’d be staying? Sawyer asked.

You will know, right? Laurel asked.

Yeah. She said she’d text me. She better. I don’t want to be dumped by two girls this summer.

You’re not comparing Felicity to Brie, are you? Arnie asked. Felicity’s tall and skinny, with feathery dark hair. Brie, his Ann Arbor girlfriend, is a dyed blond, round, brainless cheese.

Evian, Dad. Her name is Evian, not Brie. Sawyer gritted his teeth in irritation.

She’s a soft little cheese, Arnie muttered.

Dad! Sawyer said. Have you been drinking?

It’s probably not just booze, Arnie said. It’s booze and Percocet.

I thought you were out of pills, Laurel said.

I saved a couple, Arnie said. I wanted some to take when Claire and Charles got here.

Don’t take them both at once, Sawyer said.

The know-it-all young, Arnie said. I was warning kids about opiates before you were born. Did you say Evian broke up with you? I thought you were going to dump her before she left for Europe.

Nope. I just said that. It was better this way, Dad. Evian doesn’t have a lot of self-esteem.

Why wouldn’t she have some self-esteem? I’ve seen her pictures. She’s a gorgeous, curvy blond, Laurel protested.

Her parents tell her she’s fat, Sawyer said. They tell her if her butt gets any bigger, she’ll roll off their dining room chairs. We never really hooked up. She needed to have a guy friend to keep her parents off her back.

Rolling off a chair isn’t my problem, Arnie said. I do need some help up. He hit the power button on his recliner, but it didn’t get him straight enough to be steady on his feet. Bella stood against his legs. He winced but reached down to rub behind her ears, teetering to keep his balance.

How in God’s name, Laurel asked, did pit bulls get a bad rap?

It’s complicated, Arnie said. "They were all-American friendly farm dogs. And in England, they stayed so close to children, they were sometimes called ‘Nanny Dogs.’ They showed up in comedies with Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd, and Fatty Arbuckle, and were in Our Gang—with the little rascals—which I’m not old enough to remember."

Charles came in soaked, in time to have heard Arnie. He sat down near Claire and leaned over to kiss her. Wet! She leaned away. Wet, wet, wet, wet, wet.

Liar, Charles said to Arnie. "You’re old enough to remember Nosferatu."

I vant to bite your neck, Arnie said. No, I don’t. You’d taste like spinach.

What about that pit bull bite strength stuff? Would Bella’s jaws lock? Claire asked.

More hokum. Part of the bite hold depends on training; part is how long they’re left with their momma, who teaches them not to chew too hard; and part of it is determined by the size of the dog. But, Arnie admitted, the original bull terrier—we’ve lumped several breeds in with them—is traced back to 1889 as a fighting breed. I bet they scared off a lot of wolves and bears to protect their human families. Part of their bad reputation is they were bred to fight, but they were also bred as pets, and the stereotype being that they’re popular in African American urban communities as guard dogs. So, embarrassingly enough for this country, people think of pit bulls as drug dealers’ dogs and poor people’s dogs.

Why do you know all this stuff? Claire asked.

I got defensive and read about them, Arnie admitted. People came up to Laurel and me in Grayling, looked at Bella’s deep chest and huge head and muzzle, and said, ‘Wow, I bet that’s a great fighting dog. You could make a lot of money if you wanted to fight her.’

What did you say? Claire asked.

Even with a messed-up knee, I can hunch my shoulders and project a cop aura. The things people do for money make me sick, Arnie said.

Speaking of doing things for money, Laurel turned to Sawyer, this isn’t about pit bulls, but it’s not so depressing. Tell Claire about Felicity’s job.

Felicity has got a job that guarantees her at least two hundred dollars a day for a minimum of six weeks. She’s working for a woman who wrote mysteries but is now writing a ghost story. Nonfiction, she’d say, because she says she sees ghosts.

Maeve Underhill, Laurel added. "She wrote Amber Room Imbroglio. Great historical background. That one was about a room lined with plaques of amber that the Germans stole and were in the process of hiding when the Allies bombed Königsberg. Only now she needs help to write anything. I guess that part’s depressing too, but it’s where Felicity comes in."

Sawyer stretched out an arm to steady Arnie. The problem is Maeve is dying. She wasn’t supposed to have lived as long as she has with a heart condition and one lung that keeps collapsing. She wants to write one more book—a different kind of book from the other things she’s written—before she dies. Her husband, Elliot, says she was never great with a computer, though she does have some notes she keyed in herself. The effort it will take to finish is beyond her now, so Felicity’s going to take notes and try to blend in whatever results with the work Maeve has done.

The minimum pay is in case Maeve’s not up to working. Or dead, Arnie said.

Jesus, Arnie, Claire said. Don’t sugarcoat it. And that sounds like a horrendously depressing job. Work with a woman who is delusional and dying?

I told her not to take it, Sawyer said. So, of course she did.

Where is this place? Claire asked.

Sawyer said, That’s what’s sketchy about it. Her husband, Elliot, absolutely refused to tell Felicity, her mom, or me where their house is. He says it’s back in the dunes off Lake Michigan, as though that was an area the size of a handkerchief. He and Maeve are down to one woman who cooks, cleans and helps Maeve, and one guy who drives to do errands because Elliot stays with Maeve and they don’t want Maeve’s fans stopping by.

We checked her husband out, Arnie added. He was an investment advisor before he retired. He met Felicity, her mother, and their pastor for dinner at Joe’s Friendly Tavern here in Empire. Then Felicity and Maeve talked once on Zoom, but the Internet kept dropping them, and Maeve ended up crying.

It’s not just the money that interests Felicity. Maeve promised to write her a recommendation that says she takes notes while she walks on water. If Maeve can’t do it, Elliot will. That would be good, because she’ll be a junior this year and checking out colleges, Sawyer said.

You know where you’re going? Claire asked.

Probably U of M if I listen to Mom. Sawyer grimaced.

Ignore your mom if you want to, Arnie said. She was the love of my life when we married, but she’s always been bossy. Your grades are good enough, and you play soccer. You should be able to go wherever you want. Only now, fast-forward, kid. I want to go to the can.

Sawyer shrugged, waiting while Arnie straightened his left knee. I don’t want to think about college right now, he said. I just want to spend some time doing what I’m doing, bumming around on the sunset side of Lake Michigan. Shopping in Empire for Dad and Laurel, walking Bella, taking care of Evian’s rat.

Oh, no, Claire said. He’s another one like Charles?

No one’s like Charles. Thank God, Arnie said.

The three turned to look at Charles. He’s been reading up on what he might see. He wants to see a red bat, which he says are really gold bats, and are one of the most handsome mammals in the Great Lakes Region. Bats worry him. The ones that roost in caves are having problems with nose and mouth fungus, Claire told them.

I have to admit, Laurel said, bats creep me out with that zinging from side to side stuff. Not as much as some politicians creep me out.

Let’s not do politics tonight, Claire said. Charles will start talking about Arizona wanting Great Lakes water, which is more depressing than ghosts. He’s right, but I’m too tired right now to listen to it one more time.

I can take a hint, he said. I’m going to check out the fog forming on the lake. I like fog, now and then. He stood on the porch for a minute, getting his bearings. Arnie, shepherded by Sawyer, headed for the bathroom.

Claire glanced around. This is Zoe and Sanjay’s place? she asked.

Laurel glanced around at the house where she and Arnie had spent the past weeks. "Sure is. I love the setting. Zoe bought the place because she’s interested in wooden sailboats. There’s a workshop near here that specializes in them. She and Sanjay meant to spend the summer here, but Sanjay’s covering for a vet who has the latest version of COVID. She told Arnie if we came here, walking Lake Michigan beaches might strengthen his knee. That, I think, was a lie. We tried beach walking once and he fell. It looked like a good place to try. Flat, white stretches of sand as fine as sugar, and Lake Michigan smooth as a mirror. We got about fifteen feet north on the beach, and a four-foot-high wave came in and knocked Arnie, as he says, on his keister. I thought I’d never get him back on his feet.