Mystery Of The Mountain Cabin 1855w

Mystery of the Mountain Cabin

Charlotte Lewis

Copyright © 2013 by Charlotte Lewis.

ISBN:

Softcover Ebook

978-1-4836-5817-9 978-1-4836-5818-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 06/22/2013

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteeen

Chapter Nineteen

For Christopher Michael Warren

CHAPTER ONE

The ad was sketchy. “Mountain cabin available-Aug, Sept, Oct. Isolated, not remote. Close enough to town to be convenient. Lake view. Baldwin Realty” and a telephone number. Evidently, the cabin is at Lake Baldwin, California. It doesn’t come right out and say so but that is a very logical conclusion, I think. This was the first time I’d seen an ad in my local paper for a rental so far away. It does make good sense to where you think the clients might be though. I wonder why there is no reference to the rental amount? Probably would scare people off. I really need a getaway place for the summer. Money is an object but not a forbidding one. I have savings. But more than that, I need to save myself from the misery my apartment can be in the summer. It can’t hurt to just inquire, can it? The Sunday paper is always filled with a lot of advertising. Usually, I just chuck the two or three sections that aren’t news or comics. Today I accidentally left the travel section tucked behind the comics and I actually looked at it. The first ad that caught my eye was the Lake Baldwin cabin. Instead of cutting out the ad, I read the rest of the ‘getaway’ ads. All of them had prices—and the prices were pretty high. The least amount I saw for a mountain getaway was $1750 a month. And the facilities didn’t sound too promising on that one. Most quoted weekend rates beginning at $600 and going up to a grand. So how much can the rent be for three months? In the mountains? Overlooking the lake? Well, I don’t ‘know’ that it overlooks the lake. The ad says lake view and that could mean anything. Overlooking may be wistful thinking. I folded the section and drew a dark line around the small ad. I will definitely call in the morning. As I am sure the 3month rate will be outrageous, I’m keeping the whole section so I can review the rest of the ads. I really need to get away from here for a while. After I’ve had a good laugh at the outrageous rent they’ll quote, I will look for something else. Maybe. Maybe I’ll just buy another fan. After dinner I re-read the ad. It says the cabin is available August-SeptemberOctober. It doesn’t say you have to rent it for all three months even though that

was what I thought I had read originally. Compared to the other ads in that section, it is a strange little ad. What does it really mean? My apartment has no decent air conditioning. I have lived in this little twobedroom dump for over a decade. Too lazy to shop around, I guess. But this year —well, this year I am fast growing tired of ineffective air conditioning and the noise of my neighbors’ grandkids. The weather has been sweltering since Mother’s Day. That was six weeks ago and it seems that each week the daily high temperature is 5 degrees hotter than the week before. Most of my neighbors are in their fifties and sixties and have grandkids who have created their own wonderland in the common pool. In the good old days, like two or three years ago, I could use the pool in the evening after sundown. But these kids have made it almost impossible to swim or relax at any time, let alone in the evening. And you are unable to hear above their fracas right up to the pool’s 10 o’clock curfew, and sometimes beyond that. I cannot believe my witch of a manager hasn’t said a word to them. Instead of neighbor’s grandkids, maybe it’s the manager’s grandkids. She and her husband are old enough to maybe even have great-grandkids. Regardless, no matter who the kids belong to, I want out of town. I want peace and quiet. I want fresh air. I want to enjoy summer. It’s highly unlikely that these apartments will ever be refitted with more than the single window air conditioner under the big window in the living room. The kids will be gone in a couple of months but, meanwhile, I’m dying here. So to find an ad that sounds like pure summer relief—well, it must be a good omen. As it is very unusual for me to read any of the classifieds in the Sunday paper, perhaps I was meant to see this particular listing. Do you believe in fate? Me neither, but sometimes it is the only ‘logical’ answer. First thing Monday morning, well, first thing for me, I called the number listed in the ad. The telephone rang several times. Just when I thought an answering machine would click in, my cue to hang up without leaving a message, a man answered. “Baldwin Realty, this is Sam. How may I help you today?” He sounded a bit breathless; maybe he had to run to catch the phone before it was caught by the answering machine. I am sure that a real estate office has an answering machine. I told him I had seen his ad in the Pasadena Star-News travel section and wanted a bit more information.

Evidently he has only the one ad running as the realtor, Sam, launched into a speech that he’s either given many times before or has it printed on a card in front of him. He carried on about the wonderful clean air, how good air quality makes you feel better. He raved about the mountain atmosphere, how quiet the area is. And then he raved about the water, pure clean fresh water directly from the tap. Finally I was able to interject a word. I had to talk over him to do it. I told him I’ve been to Lake Baldwin; I know what it’s like. I should have felt bad about interrupting him as he just seemed to run out of steam. He may have had another five wonderful minutes of dialogue. He hadn’t gotten to the marvelous qualities of the cabin itself. It took him just a moment before he got back on track and extolled the various marvelous aspects of the cabin. Then he mentioned that I would love the quiet. I interrupted him again and said that was the whole reason I was calling. I needed some peace and quiet. He said all I had to do was see the property and I would absolutely fall in love with it. I had no reason to disbelieve him about anything until he got to the price. I was expecting a high rent—as much as $3500 a month. But he quoted $1,000 a month with utilities if I signed a lease for the entire three months. I asked him if his client knew what he was asking as rent. Oh, yes, they knew. I was a bit skeptical. I had read several ads carefully yesterday. The usual rent in an area like Lake Baldwin is a thousand a weekend. Anywhere in the mountains, any time of year, commands high rents… even if the accommodations aren’t topnotch. What can be wrong with this property? A thousand a month at Lake Baldwin for the summer? The rent for my crummy little place in the city is almost that and I pay my own utilities besides. What’s the deal? The realtor insisted there was no hidden agenda. The owner was just tired of having the place trashed weekend after weekend and was hoping to find one person or one couple to spend the rest of the summer in the cabin. It’s a small cabin—so the ten and twelve people who have been using it at a time were over loading the premises. The owner was tired of all the work, cleanup and remodeling. If I was interested, he’d meet me at the cabin the next morning. I questioned him more than once about the rental price as it was, and is, too amazing to believe. He assured me that the owners were just interested in recouping some of the expense from the winter without having to incur more during the summer.

I’m not really big on first impressions, especially on the telephone. It didn’t sound as though he was giving me a song and a dance. In fact, he sounded quite sincere. But my gut said something has to be wrong. Maybe not with him, himself, but there has to be a skunk in the woodpile somewhere. I asked for directions. The next morning I packed my camera and headed for the hills. His directions took me through Crestline and Running Springs. He said this route was not nearly as scenic as going through Redlands but was much quicker. This morning, I was interested in quicker. We agreed to meet at 9:30 at the cabin. I got there fifteen minutes early and he was already there. I wondered if he had had a lot of response to his ad. If I , I’ll ask him before I leave. My first impression carried over. This was a nice and, I believe, honest man. Samuel Smit looked to be about seventy years old. I would have mistaken him for an ant. He has that ‘bookish’ air about him. Not very tall—maybe five eight. And he seemed dressed exceptionally well for a small town realtor. Okay, I don’t really know how a small town realtor dresses but a suit and tie wasn’t my first thought. He could have been a professional man working in a big city office. Quiet, mild-mannered. The cabin was small—two bedrooms, neither was very large but the smallest would make a perfect place to stash my computer so I could work on the days it rained or the times I didn’t feel like sitting on the porch. Actually, the cabin has several things my apartment doesn’t have—a nice view, a big porch and no neighbors. The cabin sits on a little knob that overlooks a good expanse of the lake and town. It indeed has a view of the lake… a magnificent view. Both the kitchen and bathroom looked new… very new. I questioned Mr. Smit. He itted that there had been a fire and portions of the cabin had been redone. The outside structure was sound. There was a direct line to EDS, the emergency detection system of the town. If a fire should happen, an alarm would ring in their office and he would be notified as well. But, he felt I was smart enough not to build a fire in the middle of the kitchen floor to bar-b-que just because it was snowing outside. He felt there was no real danger of fire… just stupidity. And he believed I didn’t look stupid. Additionally, there was only one of me. At the time of the fire, there had been 8 people staying in the cabin. I looked around. Where in the world would you put eight people? Wasn’t there even one of the eight

smart enough to prevent someone else from building a fire on the kitchen floor? Stupid is a condition but ignorance is an option. Evidently none of them realized there could be a danger in building fires on wooden floors. Wonder what they’d been drinking? The feature that thoroughly convinced me I should rent the cabin was the porch. It wrapped around 3 sides of the house and in so doing nearly doubled the footprint of the building. I reviewed the contract very carefully and could find no loopholes that would cost me a bundle at the end of the summer. I signed it. I could move in the first of August—a couple of weeks away. The realtor gave me directions to his office and told me he would have the keys, maps and other useful items waiting for me on the first. If I want to bring my own linens and bedding, fine. However, they were furnished along with pots, pans, dishes, etc. He said the telephone would be turned on before I moved in if I wanted a telephone. Cell phones don’t always work at Lake Baldwin. I said, “Sure. Give me the number.” He reminded me that I would be responsible for the cost of the telephone. I told him that was just fine with me. How much can a telephone cost for the summer? I don’t hang on the phone for hours and, at that moment, couldn’t even think of anyone I would want to call. Well, maybe my editor. Maybe. “I am surprised that you are renting to me so quickly. Weren’t there any other responses to your ad?” “The ad has been running for a month. There have been other inquiries but most of them sounded a bit daft to me. Most were willing to pay the monthly rent to just come weekends and bring their friends. That is not what the owners want. You sounded sensible; you checked out. Yes, I ran a check on you yesterday. And you never mentioned weekends, weekend parties or friends. I feel confident that you would be the perfect tenant for this cabin.” “Running for a month? I wonder how I missed it before? Well, I hope the check you ran told you that I am not gainfully employed—that I’m a writer.” The realtor laughed. “Ms. McFannin, I recognized your name the minute you gave it to me. I almost didn’t run a credit check on you. Believe that or not. I am a fan of yours. Many of us in Lake Baldwin are.” I was embarrassed. But I was also pleased. He knew who I was and was still

willing to rent to me. Wow! I sang all the way back to my city apartment. There were things to do—newspaper delivery stop, mail forwarding, small stuff like that. I’m not a plant person so don’t have to worry about someone watering for me. I don’t have pets. Funny, the realtor never asked if I did or didn’t. If I had been renting a place for the summer to someone I didn’t know, I would have asked if they had pets. He had taken enough information to run a thorough check on me—except whether or not I have pets. Well, it is a cabin in the mountains. Maybe it makes no difference if you have a pet. I had to get things in order at my apartment before leaving for the summer. I took a couple things to the bank to put in my safe deposit box. I cancelled the newspaper rather than put it on vacation hold. All it’ll take is a phone call to start again and you don’t get points for years of uninterrupted service or anything. My mailman advised me that there is no mail delivery system at Lake Baldwin so I should rent a box. But until then, I could forward my mail to General Delivery. He said the office is small enough it wouldn’t make much difference. It’s nice having a letter carrier that knows about other post offices. I went around the house that last morning and unplugged anything that was plugged in, including the refrigerator, except for one lamp in the bedroom and another small lamp in the living room. Both were on timers. I left the drapes facing the courtyard partially open but drew the sheers. From outside, the apartment looked occupied. I was ready to go. For several years I have lived in a small town—well, what most people consider a small town. Monrovia, California. It’s an old town with many historical places. It backs up into the San Gabriel Mountains and many of its parks are wilderness parks. The population has grown over the years—I’m not even sure how many people there are now. When I first moved to Monrovia the population was about 15,000. But I was soon to discover that, comparatively, Monrovia is a really big city.

CHAPTER TWO

August 1st broke bright and sunny. The kids were in the pool before ten. That made leaving just that much easier. I loaded some clothes, my computer, bed linens and towels, a couple books, some knitting, a few provisions and my maybe-not-useful-cell phone into the car. It took several trips to and from the carport to get everything loaded. This was one of the few times I regretted living on the second floor. There is no elevator here and never will be. Before leaving I made sure I forwarded my home phone to the cabin number. I went down to the manager’s office and slipped the August rent into the mail slot. You don’t bother my apartment manager before noon. I didn’t bother to leave my manager a note that I’d be gone. With all the noise and people, she won’t miss me until I’m back. I’ll send her the rent each month. That may cause her to wonder but who cares? I do have a security system and gave them the telephone number at the cabin, in case of emergency, as well as the realtor’s number. The operator there asked if I had stopped the paper, forwarded the mail and all the stuff I had done. He said that it was safest to make the apartment seem occupied. I told him I’d done all those things plus put a couple lamps on timers. Great, great. I guess it’s his job as part of my security system to tell me all this stuff but it kind of bugged me that they’d think I was so stupid not to handle things like this on my own. The trip seemed to take forever. Of course, I did take the scenic route this time. Mr. Smit was standing in the door of his office as if waiting just for me. Again, he was dressed in a suit. Guess he wasn’t out to impress me the first time I met him. He gave me the key and a packet of papers. He told me where the best market was and wished me well. “Any problems—just call me.” I made some inane comment to the effect I hope there’s no problems. One of the papers he gave me was a map of the town that showed the restaurants (with notes as to when they were open), the different stores, the gas station, volunteer fire department, sheriff’s sub-station, post office and a gold star where his office is and a red star where the cabin I had rented is located. I made note to go to the post office as soon as possible. Though my carrier says it’ll take a

couple of days for mail to begin showing up I want the post office to be aware it’s coming. I don’t get a lot of mail which may be a good thing. The cabin I’m renting is called the “Tower Cabin”. The realtor mentioned that the Tower family owns two cabins; the one I am renting and one they live in. Apparently, my cabin is the smaller of the two and they ‘moved’ up a few years ago to a better cabin in a nicer location. Personally, I think the cabin I’ve rented is in a perfect location. And for me, it’s perfect in size as well. Of course, I’ve never seen their other property and know nothing about their family. But, being a writer, I have a great imagination. It didn’t take long to put everything away. The distance between the car and the cabin wasn’t nearly as great as between my apartment and the carport so the unloading didn’t take as long as loading. And there were only five steps up to the porch, not sixteen as at the apartment. When I finished, I decided the walk to the village couldn’t be that bad as it is just over a mile. I walked down to a small restaurant I had seen as I came into town. It’s called the Knotty Pine or something like that. It is one of the better restaurants according to the map Mr. Smit gave me. People there were very pleasant. The waitress seated me, handed me a menu and asked, “Are you staying in Lake Baldwin?” I thought it was a bit odd that she thought I was staying somewhere and not just driving through or something. Then I realized she probably saw me walk in. I told her, “The Towers Cabin.” Slight pause? Probably not. The waitress may have been trying to place the cabin in her mind. I am sure everyone knows they rent their cabin. But there really did seem to be a hesitation before she responded. “Nice place. That porch is a marvel.” “Yes. It truly is. That’s what cinched the deal for me.” “What do you do for a living that you can take off three months?” At first I wondered how she knew I was staying for the summer. Then I figured it is a really small town and the family, if not the realtor, may have verbalized their decision to rent for the summer or not at all. I have heard stories about small towns and already Lake Baldwin was starting to bug me.

Then I thought she was being impertinent and finally decided she was just nosey. Where I was raised you didn’t ask strangers what they did for a living. You waited to find out or let them tell you; but you never asked. “I’m a writer. Mysteries, mostly.” I fished around in my purse for a card and gave it to her. I had 500 of these cards made a couple years ago and have about 450 of them left. I carry some in my purse just in case someone should ask for one. She didn’t actually ask but I gave her a card anyway. “Oh, my goodness.” She seemed to get flustered. “I’ve read everything you’ve ever written, I think.” Now it was my turn to fluster. Few, if any, people have ever told me that. “Thank you. I hope you have enjoyed the books.” “Oh, yes, especially the ‘Red Boots’. That was such a surprise ending. I just loved it. I read it at least three times before I took it back to the library.” Well, there went my big chance to say, “I could autograph it for you.” I was slightly deflated. I have known for a long time that my books fly off the library shelves, but they don’t sell that fast in the bookstore. Oh, well, I don’t really care where the royalty comes from. Though I have wondered if that means people like the stories but not well enough to pay for them. As you can see, I over think everything. My Dad told me once it was the ‘curse of a good writer’. I think it’s the curse of a mediocre writer too. My personal opinion is thatI haven’t gotten to the “good writer” category yet. Finally, I got to order lunch. The food was very tasty and I really enjoyed just sitting there watching people drift in and out. As I walked back to the cabin I realized it would be more than possible that this waitress would let everyone know who I was and where I was. I enjoy a touch of drama now and then. I’ve moved here to escape the city heat and noise. I could probably deal with a fan or two. haha. As if that will ever happen. A Phoebe McFannin Fan Club—yeah, sure. This encounter was my first insight into just how small a really small town is. Apparently, Lake Baldwin is a really small town. The road from the cabin to the town is sort of meandering. It’s not a steep incline

even though the cabin sits much higher than the town itself. It is gravel part of the way, close to the cabin, and just packed dirt the rest of the way. Going down was pretty easy. But coming back I found the road was a bit steeper than I had thought. I’m not in excellent physical condition and was panting and puffing quite a bit by the time I got to the front door. Guess I’ll have to start an exercise program of some sort if I am going to go walking to the town very often. Of course, that in itself would be a good exercise program. I planned to go to the grocery store once I unpacked but since I had dilly dallied at lunch, I figured that could wait a while. Mr. Smit said that during the summer the grocery is open to 9. I’ll go later. The walk tired me and I decided to lie down for a short nap. I did bring a few provisions with me, whatever was in the fridge as well as the few perishables I had in the cupboard. You know, cereal, bread, fruit, stuff like that. So if I don’t make it to the grocery this afternoon, I certainly won’t starve. I left my shoes on the front porch. They were a bit dusty. I hadn’t made the bed yet so just laid across it fully clothed. Half an hour later I was awakened by a sensation of movement. I tried to shake the sleep from my mind. I could feel something but couldn’t smell anything, but there was smoke. Smoke everywhere. It was quite thick in the bedroom and the kitchen. I slipped into my shoes and ran to the living room. I grabbed my laptop and my purse and got out of the cabin, coughing and hacking through the thick white billows. It seemed almost like a very dry fog. Well, Mr. Smit told me there was a smoke alarm and it was connected to an emergency system. But no one came. And then I realized I hadn’t heard an alarm. Looking closer at the cabin I also realized there was no fire, just smoke. It was weird the way it drifted out the front door—which I had not closed behind me. And, there didn’t seem to be any heat. Where there’s heat there’s fire, isn’t there? No heat, no fire. I laid my stuff on the hood of the car and went back inside. I went through the whole cabin, but I found no fire. The smoke dissipated rather quickly and the cabin was clear. Nothing smelled like smoke. What the devil is going on here? I took my computer back inside before driving down to realtor’s office—fuming.

He gave me a cup of tea and tried to settle me down. “What’s with that cabin? Smoke but no fire, no odor, no heat? And no alarm sounded.” “Well, that’s part of the problem. It’s not all in your head. And the smoke you saw couldn’t set off the alarm. And I’m not sure it really is smoke but whatever it is, it isn’t toxic. I can’t explain it.” He was fumbling around for words, for an explanation. Evidently there isn’t one. “So this has happened before?” “Yes, more than once.” “Exactly how long ago was this fire in the kitchen?” “It was January.” “And did any one die in that fire?” There was a definite hesitation before he cleared his throat. “No, no one died in the fire.” He looked at me for a long moment. “Do you want to void the lease?” I swear the man’s hands were shaking. I had given him a check for three thousand dollars plus a security deposit a few hours ago. I wonder if he’s already deposited it. Obviously, he doesn’t want to refund my money. “Absolutely not. If you are telling me the truth that no one died in the fire then the cabin isn’t haunted. There is just some residue that is creating this false smoke, or something. No, I am not canceling the lease.” Mr. Smit seemed greatly relieved. “I can’t explain it. In fact, I have only recently believed that there was smoke. Some of the tenants weren’t what I’d call in a reliable state of mind. Alcohol, you know. I suppose I should have told you but I wasn’t sure it’d continue—if it really did happen at all. Every time I’ve gone up after a tenant called in a ‘smoke’ alert, there was nothing but a dozen empty bottles sitting about. No smoke and no trace of smoke. No smell. I wasn’t sure there had been smoke but, perhaps because I had told them about the fire, it was in the front of their mind when they’d had too much to drink.” “Well, I am here to tell you that there is smoke. Thick, white billows of smoke throughout the cabin. But you’re right, no odor, no trace of smoke at all after a few minutes.”

He apologized another half dozen times before I was able to back out of his office and get into the car. The drive to the cabin took less than 5 minutes, even putting at 10 miles an hour. What the devil is going on and why did I say I’d stay? Well, Phoebe, it’s obvious. You’re a mystery writer. Besides you don’t want to load all your belongings up and go back to the city. Other than this ‘episode’, this is the perfect place to spend the summer. Isn’t it? Yes, it is.

CHAPTER THREE

Within a day or two, I had fallen into a regular routine. Up when I felt like it, breakfast and then on the porch with my laptop. A lot of mornings I ate on the porch too. It was surprising to me that I was getting up so early. But I get up when I feel like it and lately it happens to be early. Maybe it’s that marvelous mountain air the realtor had tried to sell me on. Maybe it is the peaceful, uninterrupted sleep I’ve been getting. And it could be that because I go to bed earlier, I get up earlier. What a concept! I had a mid-September deadline for ten chapters of a new book. Months ago I submitted an outline and summary to my editor. He time lines everything and asked for ten chapters by mid-September. But when I left home to come to Baldwin Lake, I didn’t have even one chapter completed to my satisfaction. Mid-September is six weeks away—surely the words will come to me. Surely. The outline is firm—there shouldn’t be a problem. But lately, when I sit down to work, my mind goes blank. And the screen stays blank. The first week or so I just sat on the porch. There is a small round table just the right height to put the computer on. I could sit on the rattan chair and still reach it. All that fresh air and marvelous sunlight but no words. Morning after morning. Not a single word came to me. Nada. During that entire time, I had the sensation that someone was watching me. Watching me sit on the chair and stare at the monitor of my laptop. Watching me as I came out to the porch with a cup of coffee and my computer. Watching me as I opened the computer, sat in the swing and drank my coffee. Often I would get up and walk around the porch—but no one was there. I knew no one was inside but I still checked. Someone, or something, was definitely lurking about the cabin. I could feel eyes on me. I couldn’t write. It was a very eerie feeling. After about a week, I started coming out with my coffee only, sitting until the cup was empty and then took a walk. I never went as far as the restaurant and often in a different direction each time. I’d walk for about fifteen minutes. Then I would come back to the cabin, bring out the computer and pour a second cup of coffee. For some reason, I didn’t feel so much under observation after a walk. It

was as if whoever had me under surveillance had grown weary waiting for my return. After a few days of this routine, the words just began to flow. I mean flow. Within ten days, I had the ten chapters. A full month early—and I had actually reread and edited the ten chapters twice. Feeling rather smart, I called my editor and asked if he wanted me to email the chapters or send him a disk. He was in a state of shock, I believe, when he said, “Who cares? Just get them here. Are you feeling okay? You’re ahead of schedule.” I assured him I was fine and told him I had rented a mountain cabin for the summer. Primarily to get out of the city and the oppressive heat but also maybe to write in peace and quiet. He said that it sounded like a great idea. Send the words asap. Email would be fine. There were several wi-fi signals in the area and not all of them were secured. So I logged on to the strongest open signal and sent the ten chapters to my editor. He has an auto response on his end and within minutes I knew he had my words. The story continued to pour out and I continued to write and write and write. There were days I made a pot of coffee, drained it completely and quit writing only when I got super hungry—late afternoon. By that time of day I was a bit weary. I began to think that I was hallucinating from hunger or something. Often the swing by the front door would be moving when I came out of the cabin. I knew I was hungry and maybe lightheaded from not eating and watching a monitor for hours but that swing shouldn’t move alone regardless. There is always a light breeze up here in the mountains, but never enough to make a heavy wooden porch swing move. I tried to think what kind of motion it was. It wasn’t a rocking motion as though someone was sitting in the swing. I thought and thought. Finally—it reminded me of when someone gets off a swing and it continues to move a bit. But there was no one on the swing. The feeling of eyes on me continued. I decided I was just working too hard. When was the last time I wrote with this fervor? Every day the temperature was perfect; there was nearly always a gentle breeze; there was no noise. I was definitely feeling okay. I began walking down to the little restaurant, with the adoring fan waitress, for lunch twice a week. By the end of August, I had another ten chapters. The story was just melting onto the computer screen.

I was in awe of myself. The creative juices hadn’t flowed like this in years—two or three books ago. In fact, not since the Mystery of the Red Boots… the story the waitress was so enamored with that she read it three times. I ed my editor and said I would be emailing another ten chapters. The book is nearly finished. I always know how a story will begin and how it will end and trust it to fill itself in. This story was working overtime to do that. Honestly, I was impressing myself. I have always believed I was a able writer; better than a lot of the hacks that publish. But this was the first time I actually felt “gifted”. Yes, gifted was the word. I felt like a real Hemingway some days. Or a DeMaurier. Perhaps it was the pure mountain air. I had such a marvelous feeling of well-being. I wrote every single day. And I wrote a lot every single day. It didn’t take long to establish habits here. I go to the laundromat every other week. Once a week I drive down to the village to the grocery store to pick up provisions. Fresh fruit of all sorts is in season and I buy some of everything. Peaches, grapes, melons, berries. I usually buy one piece of meat, one baking potato, lots of vegetables and fruit, milk, eggs and cheese. The grocer’s wife bakes bread at least twice a week and a loaf fresh from the oven comes home with me. I try to go on the days I know she bakes—usually Thursdays. I didn’t realize how citified I truly was until I got to Lake Baldwin. Once there were fresh picked blueberries on sale for $2.25 a pound. I had never bought blueberries by the pound before. A 6 ounce clam shell box was about the only way I’d seen blueberries. So I said I’d buy four pounds. I was quite surprised at how many berries were in the bag but I didn’t say anything. I looked too much like the city slicker anyhow. I could have baked two pies with all those berries. Seriously. I took them home and parceled them out into sandwich bags that I put into the little freezer at the top of the fridge. I ate about a quarter of the berries like popcorn that evening and the next while watching the news. And I ate them on my cereal for the next week. Four pounds are a lot of blueberries. The frozen berries are good. I get a kick putting them on my cereal. The milk wraps around the berries and freezes creating a little white coat on each berry. Yes, that sounds like a child’s eye view but that’s how the frozen berries looked to me in the bowl. Little round blue people in white jackets. If I keep thinking that way there will be people in white jackets coming after me. I still have a couple sandwich bags of berries in the freezer. Now I know that four pounds of blueberries are a lot of blueberries. A whole lot.

Frequently I run into townspeople in the grocery or the post office and they ask how I like the Tower cabin. I tell them it is marvelous. I always mention that I practically live on that wide covered porch. “Glad to hear it, glad to hear it.” is the usual response. On days when I am actually thinking I wonder why the interest is so great in how I like that cabin. Was the fire that big a deal? Maybe so, this is a small community. I wondered if there was more to the fire than the realtor had told me. There probably was as he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it at all. And other than that feeling of being constantly under surveillance, I love the place. But somedays, it seems someone is right there in the cabin with me. How silly is that? I do look over my shoulder a lot. There are small noises that I can’t identify. Usually a click, click, click noise—like something hard touching the wooden floor. Not as loud as a woman’s high heel but that sort of noise. And some days I believe I hear sounds like a baby fussing or something. But I’ve never found a source of any of the noises. Evidently the mountains have little sounds I just don’t recognize. Summer evenings at Lake Baldwin are pretty quiet even when the town is filled with visitors. It’s the weekends that are noisier. Not all the noise is unwelcome though. Throughout the summer there are band concerts. While the Tower Cabin is not close in, most evenings when the concerts are in full swing, I can sit and hear the music. Music must be like hot air—it rises. The music is always distinct enough I could name the tune—if I knew it, of course. I seldom go to town on the weekends. People have begun to recognize me. Maybe not as that famous novelist but as a regular who is renting a summer cabin. Many of the townies waved hello after the first few weeks. I guess that can be called being accepted, sort of. But there were times when people would whisper behind their hands and I would hear my name, Phoebe McFannin. So either the waitress has mentioned me or the pictures on the back of my books are better likenesses than I think they are. No one approached me though. In a way, that was disappointing. In a very small way—I’m not sure if they were mentioning me by name because of who I am or where I was staying. Sometimes I felt that the whole town knew a big secret about the Tower Cabin and I was the only person who wasn’t in on it. August seemed to evaporate in the mountain air and September rolled around— and with it, Labor Day. This was the first real holiday since I’ve been in the

cabin. The merchants I deal with said to batten down the hatches as sometimes it gets a bit wild and wooly during a major weekend holiday. Labor Day is the official end of summer and there were a lot of people in town. Everyone I spoke with presumed I was far enough out of town to hear the action and not be part of it. I agreed that would be the preferred, if I had a choice. The realtor, Samuel Smit, called to be sure I had his number in case the weekend got too raucous up my way. “Usually doesn’t happen, but one never knows about tourist-types. Tower Cabin is off the beaten path but that doesn’t always mean you’ll be left alone. There are a lot of people who come up without reservations and some of them look for out of the way places they can park and sleep in their car.” I was sufficiently warned about tourists and holidays. The Thursday before the holiday, I went into town to stock up and bought a few goodies as I used to for the holiday. Half a watermelon (I figured I’d throw less away if I got only half), some Hebrew Nationals and buns, tomatoes, baked beans and some potato salad. That used to be the stock meal on Labor Day when we were a family at home. Everyone joked about the coming weekend though I felt that, underneath, it wasn’t all joking. The waitress (Trudy) told me that many tourists come up with no reservations—hoping to find a cabin (not likely), hotel or a campground (all usually reserved far ahead) or deciding to just sleep in their cars, use public facilities and party all weekend. She said it could be a real pain in the arse sometimes. This reinforced what Mr. Smit had told me. She went on to say the tips were usually good but these types were terribly demanding on the whole and she really worked for the tip. Since I tip well, I knew she wasn’t just angling for a tip but voicing a legitimate complaint. The entire month of August had been a great vacation for me. I enjoyed where I was and what I was doing. But suddenly in September I got the feeling I was being watched even more closely. Not just the day-to-day feeling I’ve had. I can’t really explain it, but like someone was looking through a telescope from across the lake, or something. I decided it had to be in my head. On occasion, in August, I had found things out of place and figured that I had been absentminded when I put them down. I was rather distracted with the sudden gift of words. For instance, I take off my walking shoes at the front door and sit them just inside the door. Originally, I put them on the porch but was worried some wild animal would come along and steal a shoe. But even inside, it was seldom that both shoes would stay by the front door. One shoe, and sometimes both, would be by the sofa or the door to the kitchen. I don’t know how they moved, but they

moved. Sometimes only a few inches; sometimes across the room. In September things got a bit more hectic, starting the Friday of the Labor Day weekend. Maybe hectic isn’t the right word. But things seemed to be more frenetic than before. There seemed to be an energy in the cabin that wasn’t there before. I don’t mean a creative energy that was enabling me to be brilliant and write so well but the type of energy you’d expect from an unnatural source. Am I being overly dramatic? Maybe so, but it’s a difficult thing to describe. Goosebumps form going into one room or another; that sort of thing. Cold spots in an otherwise warm house. Odd sounds in the night. And things moving by themselves. Sometimes I saw them move; other times I just knew that they had. There was a small round rug in front of the stove in the kitchen. It made standing and cooking more comfortable, not that I do a lot of either. I kept finding it in a heap under the cupboards. I don’t know how it got there. I pull it back, straighten it out and forget about it. But the next day, or even later the same day, I find it rumpled under the sink cupboard which is across the room from the stove. That Friday morning before Labor Day I was on the porch and heard a crash in the kitchen. I went running. I had stacked some things on the counter by the sink with the intent of putting them away later. Now they lay scattered across the kitchen floor. And the little round rug was crumpled under the counter. I put everything away instead of just restacking it; straightened the rug and went back to the porch. But what caused the things to fall? And why was that rug under the counters again? Neither made any sense. There hadn’t been an earthquake or anything else that could have jarred the cabin. I would have felt that. But yet the stack of small pans and silverware were scattered as though they had been shaken off the counter… from an earthquake or heavy bump. For the rest of the day, I had the feeling someone was staring at me. Not just watching, but staring. I saw no one. Other than a couple of blue jays in a tree across the road from the cabin, nothing was moving. I moved to the other side of the house. The porch does wrap around three sides. I had not been settled and working for more than five minutes when I heard a muffled noise—again sounding as though it was coming from the kitchen. I went running. Maybe a squirrel got into the house or something. Nothing. There was nothing in the kitchen except the little round rug was bunched up under the counter again. I looked through the rest of the cabin to see if there could possibly be an animal trapped inside. But I found nothing.

When I thought about the incident later, I realized that I haven’t seen any animals around the cabin other than a few birds since I’ve been here. No skunks, squirrels, dogs, cats, mice, no four-legged creatures; none. And even the birds weren’t actually on the property but across the road. Isn’t that a bit strange for a mountain environment? I’m not looking to find bears or anything, though I understand there are a number of them in the vicinity. But I had thought I’d see skunks, squirrels and maybe even opossums up here. And surely some of the neighbors have dogs that wander. But no, no four legged beasties at all. I spent a good half hour thinking about that—no, I haven’t seen any animals—except when I am walking and a good distance from the cabin. That night I went to bed a bit later than usual. Not sure why, I just felt like it. Well, yes, I do know why. While I was sitting on the couch reading, I kept feeling someone was looking over my shoulder. I must have checked half a dozen times. Of course, no one was there but the feeling persisted until my usual bedtime. There was no room for anyone to look over my shoulder. No room unless he/she was small enough to be sitting on the back of the couch itself. I got up and said something stupid like, “For pete’s sake, leave me alone.” After that, I had no sensation of being watched. So I stayed up a while longer than usual. I don’t know what I was expecting but the sudden feeling of Not being watched was almost as eerie as being watched. Incredible. I watched Leno’s monologue instead of being asleep before the 11 o’clock news. Around 4am I woke with the feeling that someone, or something, was on the end of the bed. I turned on the bedside lamp. Nothing was there but there seemed to be a depression in the blankets toward the bottom corner of the bed. I investigated with my foot, under the blankets. The spot was warm—as though some living thing had been there a few minutes before. I went through the house. Everything was as it should be. My standard reasoning, maybe a squirrel got in, didn’t cover this. No squirrel would curl up on the end of my bed like a cat. My mother used to have a cat that curled up on the end of her bed every night—in the middle of the night—and stayed there until Mother got up. But I don’t have a cat. I haven’t even seen a cat since I’ve been here. Is something prompting my memory of bygone things? I went back to bed. There’s nothing there now. And probably hadn’t been. But my mind could not devise a way that I could have contorted myself to make a warm indention at the end of the bed. I am absolutely positive that when I moved my foot under that indentation the sheet was warm, body warm.

The next morning I was up earlier than usual and as I stepped into the living room, I had the sensation of two forms on the floor. Like big pillows. Something white. But, it was evidently just a sensation as I found no evidence of anything on the floor at second glance. It must have been the way the sun was barely peering through the living room window that caused the illusion. But it vanished before I took another two steps. I turned sharply to go back into the kitchen and stepped on something. I checked the floor but nothing was there. I definitely had felt something other than the floor under my bare foot. It was like a snake, only it wasn’t a snake. It was like a stick, only it wasn’t hard. It was warm, fuzzy even. I closed my eyes and shook my head. My gawd, it was like stepping on a tail. Mother’s cats were great ones for being underfoot and I have stepped on several furry tails. But there was no tail on the floor—there was no animal in the room with or without a tail. But I stepped on a tail; I know it was a tail. Good lord, Phoebe, get a grip! There is nothing on the floor. And to prove it, I got the dust mop and mopped the living room and then the kitchen. Among the dust were two little leaves and a small wisp of white fur. Egads! I’m losing my mind. No wonder the writing has been so easy, Phoebe. It’s probably gibberish and you just think it’s good. You’ve probably sent twenty chapters of pure gibberish to your editor. No wonder you haven’t heard from him. He thinks you’ve lost your mind. He probably has a call in to the men in white coats right now to come and take you away. Good thing he doesn’t know where you are, Phoebe old girl. Fortunately, for me, the phone rang just at the moment I was ready to commit myself. It was my editor. He has received my two emails with the first 20 chapters. My gawd, he’s delighted. “This is the best stuff you’ve written in over a year. Since all your stuff is good do you hear what I’m saying? This is great! How soon will you be sending more? How much longer is the book? From what I’m reading this is going to be a bit longer than your usual—or am I just kidding myself? How in hell did you manage twenty chapters in a month?” I told him I was working daily and would be sending another ten chapters in a couple weeks. The poor man was over the moon. “Phoebe, you can buy that damn cabin you’re renting. This is the best thing you’ve done yet. I am very enthusiastic. Do you want an advance? I’m sure this is a best seller.” He just kept babbling. At that moment, I wasn’t sure I wanted to buy this cabin. For five weeks it was

Eden and now it’s giving me the creeps. Of course, I couldn’t tell him that. Maybe this is what’s making the writing so fluid. A rare form of insanity. Of course, that’s the only thing that makes sense… insanity. We talked for a few more minutes and he pointed out what he considered the highlights of the book and made suggestions to keep what he considered the momentum going in certain areas. I made notes of all his ideas. This was much better than his usual reading an entire manuscript, slashing it all to hell and sending it back for rewrites. I had rebelled at the idea of submitting ten chapters at a time. My thinking was that I might possibly want to make a major revision and then I’d have to resubmit something and argue with him if he didn’t agree. Maybe all this time I’ve done my submissions the hard way by waiting until the first draft was complete. It’s a good thing I had written so much of the book before Labor Day as I didn’t get much done in the next week or so. I kept seeing shadows out of the corner of my eye. Movements, I guess you’d call them, that weren’t attached to anything. I sensed movement in the kitchen, living room and bedroom. More often than not I would awake with the feeling of something at the end of the bed. It was eerie. The indentation, the body warmth, just nothing visible. I was getting paranoid and didn’t turn on the computer for several days. The Thursday after Labor Day I went into town for groceries and dropped a can of tomatoes on my foot. It swelled up something ferocious and hurt a lot. Nothing appeared to be broken so I kept it elevated; packed it in ice and took ibuprofen the rest of the day. When I went to bed, the swelling was down and the pain was a dull throb. But it still hurt. And it hurt a lot. I was super cautious getting into bed and left that foot uncovered. At 3am, I woke and not only felt, but swear I saw, a cat curled up next to my foot. As soon as I was obviously awake, the image of the cat disappeared. The cat’s warmth had soothed the injured foot—except there was no cat. I got up carefully to go to the bathroom and saw the ghostly images of 2 cats lying on the kitchen floor. One seemed to stretch and got up to follow me. When I turned to look a second time, there were no cats. But all the while I was in the bathroom, I could feel something warm close by. I put some ice in a baggie and sat on the edge of the bed with it around my foot for about ten minutes. The throb calmed down. I took more ibuprofen and went back to bed. Back in bed, my mind started churning through things I’ve heard about ghosts. I

believe I’ve never heard about ghost cats but a ghost is a ghost, right? Perhaps somehow these two cats once lived here, perhaps died here and were never reconciled to death. I decided I would do some online research later in the morning on animal ghosts. Surely there is such a thing, isn’t there? With that thought in mind, I went promptly back to sleep. The next morning I opened the computer and found an unsecured signal so I could go online. My main problem was what key word should I use since I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for. There are several, in fact, hundreds, of sites on ghosts. But few of them tell you how to know if your uneasy feelings are due to ghosts. There are lots of photos—so far, other than the brief (imagined) illusions of two white cats lying on the floor—none of the photos shown come close to my situation. Protoplasm or whatever it’s called is not what I’m talking about. I don’t have visions of white cloud like stuff floating through the air. I have illusions all right but I couldn’t find anything on line that really matched them. I made a lot of notes and even printed off a few pages that sort of match my situation. Finally I decided that what I needed was to get away from the cabin for a while. I stowed my laptop in a drawer that could be locked and headed out to explore the area.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lake Baldwin isn’t far from Big Bear. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been to Big Bear. As teenagers we went to Big Bear to go to the snow. But that was a long time ago. I can’t if I ever came to Big Bear in the summer time. My mind refused to focus that far back. I don’t think I ever did. It was always ‘going to the snow’. Summer is everywhere in Southern California; snow is scarce. The history of the area is associated with Lake Baldwin. When the area was first discovered it was full of grizzly bears—back in 1845. The area was called Yuhaviat, a Serrano Indian word meaning Pine Place. But a man named Benjamin Davis Wilson rode into the area with 20 men and they rounded up bears, a lot of bears, and he called the lake “Big Bear Lake”. However, the lake he named Big Bear was Lake Baldwin—Big Bear Lake is a manmade lake and wasn’t in existence yet in 1845. But when it did come into being, the name Big Bear Lake was used. Lake Baldwin is the natural lake at the east end of the valley. The entire area is a former gold mining mecca. I had read somewhere that an organization in Big Bear offers year round gold mining tours. That sounded interesting to me. Maybe I can take in a tour or two today and later have some dinner. I haven’t had dinner ‘out’ since coming to Lake Baldwin. It would be a real treat. All I had to do was find the company that provides the mining tours. Later I’ll worry about a good restaurant. Restaurants up here are well d so that shouldn’t be a problem. I shouldn’t have worried about finding anything as there are brochures available all over town. The very first place I looked for mining tours was the Big Bear Discovery Center. It not only provides tours but also has a brochure for people (like me) who would like to chase gold mines on their own. By the end of the day, literally eight hours after I got to Big Bear, I had chased the gold mines; saw the Metzger Mine, Lucky Baldwin Mine, Two Gun Bill’s Saloon, Hangman’s Tree and Wilbur’s Grave. Most are relics and run-down structures but it was interesting to realize that for about fifteen years men actually mined gold in this area and inhabited these run down relics. 1860 to about 1875.

I ended up at Nottingham’s Restaurant for dinner. The brochure touted it as a Big City steak house. Believe me, it was better than the big city steak houses I’d been to lately. In fact, it was marvelous. Well-stocked bar and entertainment. Add to that an incredible New York steak and you have an outstanding, memorable dinner. The service was remarkable. I haven’t been treated so well, or eaten so well, in a long time. I always ask for double butter for my baked potato and usually get two little pats on top of the potato. Not this time—there were two scoops of butter nestled in the warm, soft, flesh of the potato. I like a medium well steak and this one was perfect with just the thinnest line of pink across the middle. The vegetables had been steamed to perfection; nothing soggy here. I was impressed. But the best came just before I called for my check. A waiter, not the one who had served me, came to the table and asked if he could buy me another martini. I had had one Bombay Sapphire martini, up-no olives, before dinner. That too had been perfection. “Why would you want to do that?” I realized I wasn’t being very gracious but I had not seen this young man before. And it’s been a long time since a younger man offered to buy me a drink… a long time. “You are Phoebe McFannin, aren’t you?” He stood with his hands crossed in front of him. “Well, yes, I am. But—” “I had heard that you were staying at Lake Baldwin but I never dreamed you’d come to my restaurant sometime during the summer.” “You heard I was here? I didn’t realize people know who I am. I guess I’m flattered.” “A lot of people know of you up here. I have read all your books and really appreciate your sense of mystery. I thought it would be all right to offer to buy you a drink. Am I off base?” I didn’t know what to think, or say. Wow. A real fan, other than Audrey. “Thank you very much. I am very flattered. I have taken a cabin through October in Lake Baldwin and am currently in the middle of a new mystery. Forgive me for

being rude. You caught my ego unaware. I would love a martini. Thank you.” I am usually not an eloquent speaker so I surprised even me with this little dialogue. He smiled from ear to ear and ran off. Two other servers came to the table. “Miss McFannin, are you going to be here in Big Bear for very long?” “Well, no, actually, I am going back to Lake Baldwin as soon as I leave the restaurant. Why?” “I was wondering if you’d be here long enough for me to run to my apartment and get a couple books for you to autograph. Oh, I never asked. Would you autograph three books for me? I’m here for the summer so I only have three of your books with me. But I sure would appreciate it. And my friend (he pointed to the kid next to him) has a couple of your books too.” “If you can get permission to boogey before your shift ends, sure, I’ll wait.” Not very eloquent this time. But what else could I say? I have already been rude to one fan in this place. I didn’t realize that the 20s and 30s were my readers. Audrey is late 20s or early 30s and neither of these servers could be over 25, if that. And the one who wants to buy me a drink, he’s about the same age as these two. Isn’t that something? I thought old people were my readers. Oh, my gosh, I have a younger audience than I ever imagined. That explains the big library statistic. It’s cheaper to read from the library than buy the book. Kids don’t have a lot of expendable funds. But these two actually bought books. Evidently, the two kids standing at my table live together. One of them spoke to the man who had seated me. He gestured in my direction and I saw the older man nod. The kid was gone in a flash. Just then the first server returned with a martini. The older man, maitre ‘d or whatever he is, came to my table and asked if I would care for anything else. He asked if he could take a photograph—they have a small rogue’s gallery he said. I was their first mystery author. I smiled my best famous author smile and said, “I’m flattered.” He grinned from ear-to-ear and produced a small digital camera from his shirt pocket. As I recall, when I first ran into Audrey, I said I wouldn’t mind a little drama. I sure got it this evening. In a few minutes the young man was back with 3 of my books that were his and two that belonged to his roommate. I keep a nice fine point pen in my purse just for autographs (I haven’t used it all that much). I

opened the first book (Mystery of the Lonesome Pine, my third book) and asked for a name. Ted. Ted also had the ‘Mystery of the Red Boots’ (Book #4) and ‘Mystery of the Open Door’(Book #6). The other two books belonged to Buddy. ‘Mystery of the Opera Ticket’ (Book #2) and ‘Mystery of the Stray Dog’(Book #5). I very carefully signed them taking special care to reference their names. They chatted with me for a few minutes. I told them I was in Lake Baldwin to finish a new book. They were surprised when I mentioned a new mystery had been released six months ago. Neither of them had the newest book. Both said they’d certainly get it. And to think, I was working on another already. Did I ever take time off from writing? Ted said if he got the last book before I left Lake Baldwin, would it be okay for him to call and come up for me to autograph it? I was again taken aback—you can see I haven’t had a lot of direct with my fans. I told him of course, but to call first in case I am walking or working. He nearly fell over himself leaving the table. I told them I live in the city and was tired of the noise and heat so rented a cabin in Lake Baldwin for the rest of the summer. The martini kid said he’d heard that from a friend who works in Lake Baldwin but he didn’t believe it until I walked in to the restaurant. I finished my martini and picked up my purse saying I really should get back before it got much darker as I haven’t driven in Lake Baldwin after dark and didn’t want to get lost. They all laughed, thinking I was joking. I wasn’t. I have a reputation in my family that I could get lost in a closet. Long story but it’s true. But, if they think I’m joking, it’s probably better for my ‘ahem’ reputation. I took my dinner check and credit card to the front desk of the restaurant. The cashier looked terribly bored and didn’t comment on my name (from the card) or anything else. I guess she was too old to read my kind of mysteries. (She can’t be as old as I am.) Oh, well. A little drama is good. If she isn’t part of it, I don’t need her. When I got to the door, I turned around and my fan club was still standing in a group. I waved at them and left. Actually, I kind of floated out. Imagine. People read my stuff. Young people and they like it! I autographed five books tonight! What a charge! The decision to come to the mountains for the summer was looking better and better. I autographed five books! Wow! That probably sounds really weird—but I hate doing publicity tours and beg off whenever I can. I am not very good in public. My hair never looks right; I’m not a fashion maven; I’m awkward when I walk. I was born in the Year of the Ox

and it shows every time I move. My editor says that personal appearances sell books but I’m doing okay financially without having to embarrass myself in public. When I got back to the cabin, more than half an hour later, it was rather dark. A bright moon was playing tag with the clouds so the sky would brighten and then go dark suddenly. I parked carefully next to the porch, picked up my camera, a stack of brochures from the day, my purse and went inside. Fortunately, I flipped the switch by the door that turns on a lamp in the corner of the living room. I turned to pull the door close behind me. Something was in the middle of the hardwood floor. It didn’t take much for me to realize it was a field mouse. A small brown field mouse, perhaps 2 inches long with a tail twice that long. I looked it over carefully but couldn’t find an obvious cause of death… no puncture wounds, no blood, just dead. I didn’t want to pick it up barehanded so went to the kitchen and got a sheet of paper towel. I folded the dead rodent into the towel and took it out to the trash enclosure. I went through the rest of the house. Nothing out of the usual. And no more dead mice. All the doors and windows had been closed while I was gone and I don’t recall any openings anywhere that would it a mouse. Of course, it was so small it could have come in around a plumbing pipe, I suppose. But it was the first animal I’ve seen since I’ve been here. Of course, it was dead so perhaps that doesn’t count. I flipped on the television and was surprised to find the ten o’clock news on. I had not realized it was so late. I really had been gone all day. But, it was a very rewarding day. Not just the history I had learned but the fans I didn’t know I had. Oh, I know from the royalties that my books are selling. But I never knew that so many of the readers were under 30. And those, this evening, didn’t seem repulsed that I am an old(er) woman. They didn’t act as though I was ancient as their mother. Such a thrill. I’ve been writing a long time but other than a couple of book tours I didn’t want to do, I really haven’t met my public. And if these guys are representative of my fan base, well—I was totally amazed. I turned the TV off after the news program was over. I had no problem falling asleep. The next morning I decided I would not make a pot of coffee but actually have

breakfast. That meant going to town, enjoying a pleasant breakfast, drinking coffee someone else has brewed and then check out the town—maybe go to the post office.

CHAPTER FIVE

The postal service would not rent me a box on a short-term basis and I refused to pay for a full year’s rent on a box I’d use three months. So, my mail goes to general delivery. I haven’t been too faithful about picking up my mail. I should really start doing that every Thursday when I go in for groceries or do my laundry. Breakfast was great and the coffee really, really good. It was a strong French dark roast. I need to buy some coffee like that to make at home. After eating, I stopped by Mr. Smit’s office. No reason, just to say hello, I guess. Oh how I wish I had a camcorder. The look on his face when I walked in was unbelievable. “Is everything all right? How can I help you?” The man was a nervous twit. I swear he had turned white when he saw me. He’s still dressed in a suit-guess this is the small town realtor dress code after all. “Everything’s good. I just thought I would stop and say hello while I’m in town. I’m headed to the post office.” The relief on his face was so obvious that it aroused all the old questions I had the first week I was here. What exactly is that man hiding about the cabin I live in? There has to be something. He babbled for a while—wondered if I’d had any unwelcome visitors over Labor Day. I told him I had not. And then he asked if I was playing tourist this summer or writing. I was rather surprised he asked. In a town this small I was pretty sure he knows when I leave the cabin. And where I go when I go. “Well, a bit of both. Yesterday I went to Big Bear and chased gold mines. Then I had a marvelous steak and a good martini before I came home. But I have written enough to keep my editor happy.” He made small talk and then I decided to broach the subject of the mouse. “Well, he may have come in around the plumbing. I can’t think of any other possible openings.” “What confuses me is that there was no obvious cause of death. No blood, no

wounds.” “Perhaps he starved to death.” “Mr. Smit, I was gone less than ten hours. A mouse does not starve to death in ten hours.” He mumbled something that sounded like “You’re right, of course.” “Well, what really gets me, Mr. Smit, is that this dead mouse is the very first four-legged animal I have seen since I have lived in that cabin. I have seen no dogs, cats, mice, rats, skunks, possums or coyotes. No four-legged animals at all —except one dead mouse.” His face got that look on it again. I know damn well he’s hiding something from me. “That does seem a bit unusual, Ms. McFannin. I am sure there are many four-legged animals afoot around your cabin. You just haven’t seen them. The cabin was uninhabited for quite a while. The animals may just be wary now that someone is there.” “Yeah, right.” I didn’t believe a word of it. “Well, I am going to the post office. I’ll talk to you later.” I got into the car and, as I turned the corner to go to the post office, I looked in the rear view mirror. He was still standing in the doorway watching me. What is he hiding? It is more and more obvious every time I see him that he is definitely hiding something. The cabin seemed stuffy to me when I returned. I opened all the doors and windows. They all have screens so I figured I would be letting in only the fresh mountain air. The day was getting warm and I was sure the breeze will air out the cabin. I sat on the porch swing and went through my mail—there was quite a bit. I do have to check it more often. I separated it into three stacks-toss without opening, probably toss after opening, and open and handle. Gasoline credit card bill, Jenny bill, electric bill for the city apartment, and a renewal notice for my auto insurance. I went in for my check book and wrote three checks. My insurance renewal is automatic and comes directly from my checking so I don’t have to do anything with that. I just made a note of the new amount. It’s nuts—last year the company lowered my auto insurance by $17 for the year. This year they’ve increased the annual by $11. Wish they’d make up

their minds. The probably toss after opening stack was just that—mostly appeals for money. I truly feel sorry for a lot of causes that solicit my help but I can’t help them all. I have a list of those I do and seldom stray from it. The toss without opening stack is obvious advertising. I leafed through it but didn’t find any applicable to my present location. Rather than take all this stuff into the house to a wastebasket, I just walked it over to the trash enclosure. As I lifted the lid, I glanced down. I saw a cat. I thought I saw a cat but when I looked a second time, there was no cat. The ground under the trash can is just loose dirt but there was no obvious disturbance. If a cat had been sitting there, there should have been some sort of mark, a footprint or just a smudge. But nothing. I don’t get it. I see cats but there’s none there. I stood there in the trash enclosure for a minute. Did I see a cat or did I not? If I did, what color was it? How big was it? And where did it go? Finally I decided that this was just another of those images I see out of the corner of my eye ever so often. Not really shadows but not really anything else. Maybe I should have my glasses checked. Is this prescription still correct for my eyes? I’m seeing things, Doc. Help! I felt like writing and went in for my laptop. The sun was going down when I finally came up for air. Once again the words just seemed to flow onto the monitor. Lots of them. The book is nearly finished. I don’t know why that is so incredible and so hard for me to believe. But I’ve written almost an entire book in less than sixty days. A new record, for sure. And it is all good. Re-reading what I’d written that afternoon I made very few changes. I put together a sandwich and read through the draft again. What would my editor say if I managed to send him the balance of the book before the end of the month? He’s read 20 chapters—I think there will be about 34 altogether. I’m half through the last fourteen. The mystery is beginning to wrap up so maybe it won’t be that long. And it’s good. I really like this book. When was the last time I really liked the book I was writing? Red Boots I think. And that was three books ago. Don’t get me wrong. The last books have been good mysteries. But sometimes I like one book better than another. It may be the research I’ve done for it or maybe one of the characters develops into someone more personable than I had expected or the story twists a bit more than I had thought it would. Some stories

just appeal to me more. People seldom believe me when I say that a story writes itself. When you lay a good foundation and solid characters, everything takes on a life of its own. Really. This story is proof of that. I went to bed without even checking the nightly news. Who cares what’s going on in the world at large? All’s right here. Well, it was when I went to bed but by 2am, I was in pain. I had a headache, a very bad headache. At first I just lay there and tried to find a comfortable spot to rest my head. Impossible. Finally I got up and took some ibuprofen and went back to bed. Usually I feel major relief in 20 minutes. Not tonight. I made an ice pack for the back of my neck. Still no easing of the pain. I seriously considered dressing and going to the Urgent Care Center I had seen in Big Bear. I do not often experience headaches and finally reasoned that was why it felt so bad… it was unusual. I changed the location of the ice pack. I put on a robe and went to sit in one of the chairs in the living room. Perhaps a change of posture would help. One chair has an ottoman. It faces the picture window and I could see faint little lights from the town below me. My headache was too painful to enjoy the view as I have several nights before. I leaned back into the soft contour of the oversized chair and put the ice pack behind my neck. With my feet up, I was in a very comfortable position. Eventually, the ibuprofen must have kicked in as the pain began to ease ever so slightly. I shifted myself to get even more comfortable. I woke up two hours later. The ice pack was now just a bag of water but it was still cool. I didn’t really want to move for fear the headache would return in all its fury. At the moment, it was just a dull throbbing. But I was thirsty and really wanted to replenish the ice and so made a move to get up. But there was a weight on my lap. At first I thought it was a pillow from the sofa but I couldn’t recall picking up a pillow when I sat down. Very slowly, I reached for whatever was on my lap. And I could feel a warm, furry body. I ran my hand across it hoping to identify it. I didn’t want to move my head and look down but I really wanted to know what was on my lap. The headache was returning but I had to see. But whatever it was suddenly was gone.

I reached up and turned on the floor lamp next to the chair. There was nothing on my lap, or the chair, or the ottoman. But there were a few white hairs on my robe. It had been a cat. It had to have been a cat. But where did it go? How did it get into the house? There’s no doubt in my mind now that I have a cat lurking in the cabin somewhere. But where? I’m not feeding an animal. Where is it living? How does it get in? How does it vanish so quickly? The headache was in full swing again. I got up and emptied the water from the bag and refilled it with ice before wrapping it in the towel. I sat back in the large chair, turned off the light and repositioned the ice pack. It was another two hours before the headache finally subsided. The cat did not return. I emptied the water from the bag and went back to bed. I slept fitfully until nearly 8am. Once I was up and showered, I went through the cabin room by room. There was no sign of a cat anywhere. But I have actually felt the animal now. I am sure it is a cat. And the loose fur on my robe tells me it’s a white cat. A fairly good sized white cat. It took up most of my lap. All that day I did not do much of anything. Primarily I lounged on the porch swing. No writing today. The headache seemed to be lurking in the back of my head. I tried putting hot packs on my neck, maybe it’s a neck strain or something. I was afraid to do much. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t eat much but tried to stay hydrated. It was nearly dark before the headache seemed to lift and leave me. I went to bed early and slept through the night. The next day I felt much better but still didn’t feel like doing anything. There are two lounge chairs on the porch outside the large window. I have been in this cabin nearly two months but haven’t tried them out yet. They do look quite comfortable. I went out and flipped the cushions on the chairs—they were dusty to say the least. I brought out a light throw and put it on one chair. And then I settled down to take a nap—even though I’d been up only an hour or so. From this lounge, I could see the large chair where I had sought refuge from my headache. I could also see the town below me and the lake. Usually I would be looking to see what else I could see but not today. I was interested only in being comfortable and not riling the headache. I dozed for a while and once looked into the living room of the cabin. So help

me, in the large chair and on the ottoman, there were two white cats. I lay very still and watched them for at least five minutes. Two large white cats were curled up as if they belonged there. They didn’t move when I sat up and stretched. I watched them for another minute or so before gathering up the throw and going inside. The door is around the corner from the lounge chairs. By the time I entered the living room, the cats were gone. But the chair and ottoman were still warm from their presence. The front door had been open but there is a screen door which was not open. There are screens on all the windows—no possible access there. I went to the kitchen and opened the cold-air pantry. Perhaps the screen at the bottom isn’t securely fastened. That would explain both the dead mouse (sort of) and the cats. But the screen was in place and firmly nailed to the floor. The back door, which leads to the mud room and then outside, was not only closed but bolted. I can’t recall having opened it since I’ve been in the cabin. I looked under the kitchen cupboard where the sink is located—no holes, nothing. I went through the house. There is no entry available and yet these cats come and go. Now that I’ve actually stroked one—I know they can’t be ghost cats as I thought a week ago. Are they so quick they can dart in and out when I open the front door—so stealthy that I don’t see? They seem to be fairly large cats. I just don’t understand the logistics of their presence. They are so large that I’d have to be blind not to see them zip past me if they left by the front door. How can this be happening—I know they’re not sneaking past me. I’m going nuts is what’s happening. I decided I did not want to stay in the cabin right then so I went to the store to get some groceries. The fresh air seemed to blow the cobwebs out of my brain. After getting home and putting my things away, I went back on the porch with my laptop and sat down to write. And write, and write. Once again, the words were just flowing. I forgot all about the cats, for the time being. The rest of the week flew by. I saw the cats once or twice but they made no move to come close to me. Apparently, the only time they are interested in me is when I am asleep or not well. But seeing them on occasion made me feel better —maybe I’m not going nuts. They seemed to frequent the large chair and ottoman—when I’m outside. I took my camera with me each time I laid down on the lounge chair. Maybe I can get one or more photos of the cats.

That little round rug in the kitchen—it still bugs me. Now I believe that one of the cats is the mover of the rug. I have found the rug at the edge of the kitchen door, the one leading into the living room several times. Just sitting there as though it had been pulled from its place in front of the stove some three feet away. Usually, when I find that rug out of place, it’s under the counter where the sink is—the far wall of the kitchen. But I have found it just inside the kitchen door once or twice. On Sunday morning I spent about an hour on the porch—early. The sunrise was quite spectacular. I watched the red disk creep up and over the horizon while turning the sky around it a brilliant pink and gold. I’ve seen sunsets like this but this was the first sunrise I’d seen that was so colorful, so vivid. The few clouds reflected the sun’s color and the sky seemed alive. The lake reflected the sky above it—the clouds were as colorful in the water as they were in the sky. If this had been a movie, I am sure some magnificent music would have begun playing as the camera panned across wispy pink clouds in a gold and pink sky. I cannot what woke me so early—it was about 6:15. I am sure I had no forewarning of the beautiful sunrise. I stayed on the porch, enthralled, to watch until after 7:30 when the sky finally settled down to being blue filled with white clouds. As I came into the cabin I saw the little round rug go skimming across the kitchen floor, ending in a heap under the counter. I thought I saw a cat on that rug, riding it like a surfboard. There was a thump as the rug came to a stop but no cat. At least, I didn’t see one get up and run off. But I am positive there was a cat on that rug as it slid across the floor. Where did it go? Cats do not vanish into thin air—unless they’re really not there. I really am going nuts. But wait, while the whole scenario was totally illogical, let’s approach it with a bit of logic. A body cannot stand on a rug and propel it without some sort of force. The way the rug slid, I would guess someone had a running start and their own momentum furnished the force. If that is the case, where did the cat start his rug journey? A straight line from the starting point of the rug into the living room… a straight line also from the ending spot under the counter… ended at the love seat under the front window. I checked the love seat without knowing what I was checking for. I found an impression that could have been a paw print and a few wisps of white fur. The cat is using the love seat as a springboard to give it speed enough to hit the rug with some force and slide across the kitchen floor. Cat’s aren’t that smart, Phoebe. Are they? Do cats like to surf? That’s the only way to describe

what I think is happening; a cat is surfing the kitchen floor on a rug. Yeah, right, Phoebe. You need this summer vacation more than you ever knew. You’re nuts, Old Gal. The whole rug thing was bugging me so I took it out and hung it over a porch railing. When it had aired out well, I folded it and put it in an empty drawer in the bathroom. I am tired of finding this rug where it doesn’t belong. I don’t stand and cook so much that I’ll miss it. Later that evening, I had already turned off the news, I was dressing for bed when I heard a horrible noise. Sounded like two wild beasts fighting. I turned on the kitchen light—nothing. I went into the bathroom, nothing. The noise ended abruptly as I flipped on the living room overhead light. There were several little tufts of white fur on the floor by the front door. Had the two cats had a fight? That’s how it appeared. But where did they go? Maybe they hide out in the second bedroom. Did I really want to check that? Who knew what I might find? I haven’t been in there more than three times since I’ve been here. No. I’m not possibly wrecking a good night’s sleep by opening that door now. I’ll check that room in the morning. As usual, now, I woke during the night to find a cat on the end of my bed. Just one cat. Too tired to worry about the second cat, I rolled over and went back to sleep. Somewhere in the back of my brain a small voice said, “Thank god there’s only a month left to go on this lease.” As I woke the next morning that thought came to me again. Egads! It is the first of October—already. I started a pot of coffee brewing and showered. Before eating, I took a cup of coffee and my laptop to the big chair by the window. I skimmed through the chapters that I haven’t submitted to my editor. Fourteen of them. The book is finished. I reread the chapters and decided they were ready to send. Rather than calling my editor, I just logged on to the strongest unsecured signal I could find and emailed the rest of the story to him. I got the automatic response from his computer about a minute later. I set the computer aside and went to refill my coffee cup. When I returned a white cat was sitting in the chair staring at the computer monitor. I slipped into the bedroom and picked up my camera. The cat was almost nose-to-nose with the screen when I clicked the shutter. But before I

could I had the picture, the cat was gone. I decided right then I was going to start carrying my camera with me all the time. I looked at the camera—I had the shot. I have proof that there is at least one cat living in my cabin. It was nearly noon before the phone rang. My editor was elated, delighted and over-the-moon. All his . “Give me a day to go over the total manuscript, Phoebe. I’ll email everything back to you tomorrow with suggestions, as usual.” And I thought that by submitting the book his way, ten chapters at a time, I was going to avoid the routine tear-apart-the-book-at-the-end situation. Right. Oh, Phoebe, how could you be so naive? Well, the book is finished and the editor’s comments aren’t coming until tomorrow. So what to do today? For one thing, look in the second bedroom. I opened the door with some trepidation. Unfounded fears. There was nothing out of place or unexpected in that room. I decided to leave the door open. It actually made the living room lighter. There is a nice sized window in there. There is no porch on that side of the cabin, so no long roof overhang. The sunlight flooded the living room through the open door. Okay, I’ve checked the spare bedroom. Now what? A long walk? Why not? I filled my canteen, put my camera and sunblock in my fanny pack with my ID and a few bucks, put on my hat and set off. The terrain around the cabin is a bit hilly, actually it is bumpy. There is some downed wood, but not much, scattered about. I wondered if I needed a permit to take it home? There is a nice free-standing fireplace in the cabin. There is a ranger station a mile or so from the cabin. Why don’t I walk over there and ask about the wood? The evenings are getting just a bit chilly and a fire might be very nice. The ranger was a very pleasant fellow. He answered all my questions. No, I didn’t need a permit for downed wood. He gave me a forest hiking map that looked a bit aggressive to me but I thanked him for it anyhow. Then he asked if I was comfortable in the Tower Cabin. I told him it was extremely comfortable. He asked if I’d had any animal problems. I should have said, “Such as?” but I didn’t. I merely said, “No, no animal problems. In fact, other than a dead field mouse and two cats, I haven’t seen any other animals at all. None. Which I believe is very unusual in a forest setting.”

He had a strange look on his face. “No skunks, bears, possums, dogs, nothing like that?” “Nothing. That is a bit strange, isn’t it?” “Well, yes, I would think so. Perhaps the smell of the fire is still in the ground. Animals are odd about fire.” That was the best answer I’d heard yet as to why there was no wildlife around my cabin but somehow it didn’t really make any more sense than any other idea I’d been offered. “Perhaps. But at least there haven’t been any bears.” “Well, you’re lucky there. There have been quite a few bear sightings this summer. Haven’t had much rain and there seem to be more people this year.” I thanked him for the map and the information and headed back to the cabin. I have another full month to go and haven’t lit the fireplace once. While I’m out here why don’t I bring some of the downed wood back. I wonder if there’s a saw or an axe on the premises. Most of the wood was fairly long and I piled it on top of itself and created a sled like contraption made of firewood. It was much later that I wondered why he had not commented on the fact that I said I had seen only a dead mouse and two cats. He seemed amazed there was no wildlife but didn’t address the cats at all. Do you suppose he thought I had brought them with me? That I was talking about two cats I own? I mulled it over while I picked up wood. And then I decided maybe he hadn’t heard the two cat reference. No, he had to have heard. He must believe the cats are mine; that I brought them with me. By the time I returned to the cabin, I had a pile of downed wood stacked carefully that I pulled behind me. There is a wood box on the porch next to the back door. I dropped the stack of wood at the bottom of the stairs to the porch. I thought of walking down to Mr. Smit’s office but decided to call him instead. I was walked out for the day. He must have caller ID because he answered the phone a bit oddly, I think. “Yes, Ms. McFannin, how is everything today? Everything all right?” “Everything’s fine. I just wonder if there’s an axe or a saw around the cabin. I brought back some wood that needs chopping. Evenings are starting to cool and I thought I might want to fire up the fireplace.”

He sounded quite relieved and suggested both a saw and an axe might be in the wood box itself. And if not there, maybe in the cupboard in the mud room. I haven’t even seen a cupboard in the mud room. I haven’t been in the mud room but I didn’t tell him that. He would probably wonder why I don’t look around for stuff before I call him. I thanked him and hung up. To my surprise there was a pair of gloves, a saw and a small hatchet in the cupboard in the mud room. There were also five or six pieces of wood in the wood box. I spent most of the rest of the day cutting wood into useable pieces and carrying it to the wood box. I made a note to myself to buy matches when I went to the grocery store on Thursday. I don’t recall seeing any in the cupboards or by the fireplace. Well, after the fire in the kitchen in January, maybe Mr. Smit has decided it safer to not leave matches laying around. That evening while I was showering I kept hearing funny little sounds outside the bathroom door. I turned off the shower and reached out to open the door. I couldn’t that I had closed it. I’m alone here; why close the bathroom door? When the door swung open, I saw the now familiar shapes of two cats. Of course, they vanished as soon as I reached for the door. I am seeing the cats more frequently now but still can’t figure their coming and going. I am also doubting myself. I felt one cat; actually brushed my hand along his back. I’ve stepped on a tail. And I have a photo. But there’s no way these cats can be living breathing cats—they appear and disappear too quickly and completely. But ghosts aren’t solid—you couldn’t pet a ghost cat. Can you? If these are ghosts, then yes, Phoebe, you can pet a ghost cat. I closed the bathroom door and finished showering. I didn’t hear any cat like noises for the rest of the time I was in the bathroom. The rest of the evening ed peacefully. The manuscript I came to the mountains to write was finished. I didn’t have any real sense of purpose for the first time since I’ve been here. I don’t have to wait until Thursday to go to town. Just because that’s what I’ve been doing doesn’t mean it’s written in stone. Tomorrow I would walk down to town and have breakfast. There are more restaurants than the one I’ve been frequenting for lunch twice a week. I should try another. I have only a month left here, I should really explore the little town more than I have. And so, the next day I walked down to the town. I went to the post office and

retrieved my mail—the clerk was surprised because it wasn’t Thursday but he had good sense enough not to comment on it. I am not sure how I would have responded. I’ve been in such a good mood all week that I might actually become a nice, polite, postal patron. Who could know? Breakfast was delightful. A number of people stopped by my table and welcomed me to Lake Baldwin. A few even asked if I had been writing while here. I was flattered and said I had just finished a book. I would be here for another month. Two people asked if I would autograph their copy of one of my books and I said I would be delighted. Evidently everyone lives pretty close because they left and were back in less than twenty minutes. Several others asked if the Tower Cabin was comfortable. They knew there had been a fire and wondered if it had been restored to the comfy little cabin it used to be. I told them I didn’t know how it used to be but it was really quite comfortable now. I was enjoying it very much—especially the porch. I spend a lot of time on the porch. They seemed to nod wisely and went on their way. Later I wondered if that was a good or bad reaction. No one actually said much about the fire—just that it had happened. After I finally left the restaurant, I stopped at the grocery store. The owner was surprised to see me but said there was fresh bread if I wanted a loaf. Of course I did. I ed matches and bought a small steak and a potato to bake. I felt I should celebrate the completion of the book. I didn’t buy too much because I didn’t want to struggle up the hill with a big bag of groceries. I reached home without huffing or puffing. I think I’m in better physical shape than I was two months ago. I put the matches on the little ledge by the fireplace as I ed by and went to the kitchen to put the few other things away. The telephone rang just as I completed that little chore. It startled me. It hasn’t rung too many times—a few forwarded calls from friends to see how things were going with the book. Most of them didn’t even realize I wasn’t still in the city. I didn’t tell them. So when the phone rang this afternoon I jumped and dropped the paper bag from the groceries on the kitchen floor as I hurried to the telephone. It was my editor. He said he was ready to email the entire manuscript back to me with notations. Would I have time to work on it yet today? All of a sudden he wanted to get this book into the publishing system. I reminded him that he had just asked for ten chapters by the middle of September. It’s two weeks after that

deadline and he has the whole book. Yes, yes, he realized that. But if we could get this going yet this week, we could have release before Christmas. Well, release before Christmas is a big deal in the publishing world. And the last time I had a book released just before Christmas the sales went through the roof. Yes, I could work on the revisions this afternoon. I didn’t promise I’d finish as I have no idea what to expect from him in way of corrections or whatever. I turned on my computer and looked for a strong unsecured signal. I don’t know how this computer thing works and wasn’t sure if I could receive an email if I wasn’t signed on—I’m used to having my own cable connection. Just then I heard a rustle sound from the kitchen. I got up from the computer and went toward the kitchen. The paper bag was moving. I watched it for several moments before I realized there was a cat inside. I was once told that an empty paper bag is nothing but a cat toy. Not having cats, I didn’t know that—until today. I saw a tail flick out the open end of the bag once and I laughed. The laugh was a mistake. The cat was gone almost immediately. That does it! This is not a living cat. This absolutely has to be a ghost. I had been watching the bag. I had seen the tail. And suddenly, there was nothing and the bag folded up on itself. I wanted to talk to Mr. Smit but just then my computer dinged that a new email had been received. The revisions my editor wanted weren’t as horrendous as I thought they would be. In fact, they were so few that I called him to be sure he had sent his marked up copy of the manuscript. “I told you this was the best thing you’ve done in years. That’s it, kiddo. Very few suggestions for revisions, very few.” I went back to the computer and went to work. Frankly, rewriting and revisions are harder than writing a fresh manuscript. I hate it. But it’s how I make my living. Less than two hours after I began, I was finished. That in itself surprised me as I usually labor over revisions for a long time. This go round though, the editor either wasn’t paying attention or I really hit the story right the first time. Personally I was pleased with the original—these revisions were too few to worry about. There was only one spot where I balked at his suggestion… I had researched an automobile carefully before putting it into the story and he wanted a change. I left the original words and added the notation that this was researched material and I didn’t feel good about changing it. If he had a valid

reason (offending someone or something), I’d reconsider but then I might have to do a lot more changing. The words were valid and I wanted to retain them in toto. Re-reading that comment I wondered if suddenly I am becoming politically correct. Lord, I hope not. Being PC has become a rampant idiocy. I don’t argue much with the editor but, this time, he’s off base. I waited by the computer like a kid waiting for a romantic email. An hour or so after receiving his “message received” message, I went back to the kitchen to see where I had left off. The paper bag was still in the middle of the floor. I picked it up and folded it before tucking it into a drawer. Should I call Mr. Smit? Go visit him? When? This cat matter has to be settled once and for all. He has to know something about it as he always asks very leading questions—not the general how are things questions. Why is this cabin haunted by two large white cats? It has to be a haunting—these are definitely not real, live cats… no matter how soft and silky they are. Are they the reason there are no other four-footed animals in the vicinity? Can animals sense a ghost? The ranger didn’t have any suggestion why there’d be no animals except for the smoke smell theory. Does he know about the cats? Does the whole damn town know about the cats? Is that why everyone is so solicitous toward me? They must think I am bonkers not to have picked up on this. Or do they imagine that the cats have not appeared to me yet? Two months is a long time. That wouldn’t make any sense. Maybe everyone in town thinks I am a witch and the cats can relate to me or something. Are the cats the reason why the owner was willing to rent for the summer at such a ridiculously low rate? I think I’m on to something. Problem is—I don’t know what. It was after 5 before the computer dinged again. My editor is willing to back down on his suggestion since I have researched that little vignette. He made it sound as though he was doing me a favor. So, the book is in, edited and ready for whatever step comes next. Sounds like the time to celebrate a little. There’s a small hibachi on the porch and I put a bit of charcoal in it. I par boiled the potato, carefully buttered it and wrapped it in a piece of foil. The potato went on the hibachi first. I made a salad and debated over opening a bottle of wine. I don’t drink much and I’m not really sure why I brought the wine with me. Maybe for this very occasion. It was in the cupboard when I was packing staples to bring. But do I want to have a glass of wine or

not? I decided I did not. I put a placemat on the small breakfast table on the porch. The air is just a bit nippy—probably mid 60s but I want to eat outside. I went inside to get the place setting and found the box of matches on the floor. The lid had opened slightly and there were perhaps ten matches scattered about. Had to be a cat. The match box was far enough back on the ledge of the fireplace that they could not have fallen by themselves. I have to talk to Smit tomorrow. That evening, actually middle of the night, I was awakened by what sounded like a foot race. Someone, or something, was running through the cabin—from the front door to the back. It was very fast as the noise sounded like a horse race. I opened the bedroom door to see what or who was there. Other than a flash of white that I spotted obliquely there was nothing, no one. The race was over and I don’t know who was racing. Or who won. I have a month left on the lease—I am tired of sharing the cabin with ghosts. There seems to be no other explanation for the noises, the movements, the misplacement of things. This cabin has to be haunted. Perhaps someone died here before the fire in January. Maybe the January tenants weren’t trying to barb-que in the kitchen; maybe they were inebriated and ghost chasing. Sounds good, but somehow I know it doesn’t fly. I went back to bed. Something is so wrong here. And yet, it seems so right. The next morning I didn’t even make coffee. I showered, dressed and headed to town. I was determined to have it out with Mr. Smit. I cannot argue with the price; I cannot argue with the beauty; I cannot argue with the weather; I cannot argue with the cabin itself. But I can argue about ghosts. As I turned onto the street where his office is located I saw one of those one-hour photo places. I went in—they were just opening. I told them I had a couple pictures I’d like to have printed from a smart card. “There are only four”, I said. “How long would it take to print them?” The young man was more than accommodating. As he was just opening the photo kiosk and there was nothing ahead of me, I could wait—maybe ten minutes? I thanked him and he showed me where to insert the smart card so I could select the photos I wanted. True to his word, I left there ten minutes later with four photos of white cats. Most of them were slightly blurred. The photo kid had worried about that until I told him they were very fast kitties

and the photo was exactly right. Mr. Smit was opening the blinds. Evidently he too had just opened for business. The look on his face was one of total shock. “What is wrong, Miss McFannin? You’re out and about quite early today.” “Mr. Smit, I want to have a discussion with you about the cabin. And I don’t want any of your tsk-tsk bullshit. I want some straight answers… now.” He almost staggered under the weight of my words. I guess they did sound pretty threatening. Not to mention a tad profane. “Of course, Miss McFannin. Come in and have a seat. I haven’t put the coffee on yet but will do that immediately. I don’t know about you but I like to start my day with a nice cup of coffee.” I was going to be really rude and say “forget the coffee” but decided that you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar—at least, my grandmother says so. I knew he was killing time but that was okay. I sat in a chair across from his desk with the four photos clutched in my hand. I put my purse on the chair next to me. And I waited patiently. He evidently has a pot like mine and in about 8 minutes he returned to his desk with two cups of steaming coffee. “Do you like cream or sugar?” I shook my head and accepted the cup he offered me. “No thank you. I prefer my coffee to taste like coffee.” Gawd, I couldn’t even be polite over a cup of coffee. Too bad, it’s show time. He sat down across from me. “Now, what is the trouble? You look slightly distressed.” Slightly distressed? Slightly? I leaned forward and carefully placed the four photos, one at a time, in a row in front of him. “These are my troubles.” His mouth gaped open. He sat his cup down so heavily, the coffee sloshed over the rim. “What are these?” I was sure he knew exactly what they were but couldn’t believe it. He just couldn’t seem to get his mouth to close. He was astonished. That’s the only word, astonished. “These are the cats that have shared the cabin with me for the past two months.

They are not intrusive—except once in a while—but neither are they real. I thought at first they were living, breathing cats. When I didn’t feel well, one of them comforted me. I stroked his fur. I could feel a warm body under my finger tips. They sleep on the end of my bed. Both of them curl up on the large chair and ottoman by the big window. One of them liked to use the little kitchen rug as a sled—until I hid the rug. “I want to know who or what these cats are. Why are they haunting the cabin? Why did they try to drive me away the first day with the smoke screen? What in hell is going on at Tower Cabin, Mr. Smit? I know you know. I know you know from the solicitous way you greet me. From the panic I hear in your voice each time I call you. From the way the townspeople inquire as to how I like the Tower Cabin. Something is going on and has been going on, I imagine, for a long time. I want to know what that something is. WHAT?” Yes, I got a bit loud before I finished saying my piece. But I was afraid I wouldn’t get it all out any other way. He picked up his cup and took a very long swallow. “Where did you get the photos?” “Isn’t that rather obvious? I took them myself. The cats have become rather brazen the last couple weeks.” He selected a photo—the one of the cat looking at my computer monitor. It’s a little fuzzy but the clearest of the four. There’s no doubt it is a large white cat. Then he picked up the one of the cats on the large chair and ottoman. Again, the image is not perfect, but it is definitely of two lounging cats. He shook his head. “Please, Mr. Smit, I have a right to know. I’ve paid you for the summer. I took the cabin in good faith and have diligently maintained it. It is ridiculous for this farce to continue. What is happening at the cabin? What?” He pushed his chair back from his desk a foot or so. He still had the two photos in his hand. “I don’t know where to start, Phoebe.” I bristled a bit at his familiar use of my first name only. I didn’t realize we were on a first name basis. I am with nearly everyone else in town, but never Mr. Smit. He’s always been quite ‘formal. “Miss McFannin, please.” I didn’t shout it but I emphasized every single word. I must have sounded a bit like a Marine

Corp drill sergeant. The words were clipped and distinct. He could not possibly misunderstand that I am not his friend—I am Miss McFannin, his tenant. He cleared his throat and had the decency to blush. “Miss McFannin, I don’t really know what’s going on. I know some of the effects but not why it’s happening. I don’t know where to begin.” “How about the beginning? The very beginning… how long have you known the Towers? How did you come to be their property manager?” He got a bit indignant. “I believe you are overstepping your bounds here, Miss McFannin. That information has nothing to do with the cats.” “How can you be so sure? You don’t know where to start about the cats so begin before the cats.” He laid the photos back on his desk and leaned back in his chair. He held his hands as though he was going to play “here’s the church, here’s the steeple”. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I have known Ellison and Eleanor Tower since before they were married. We went to high school together in Redlands. They married in 1960. We all went to the same college and we all graduated in 1962. I had majored in economics and, when I came home to Redlands, took classes in real estate to become a realtor as there wasn’t a lot open in my chosen field at the time. I bought this office in 1965. At about that time a big developer came into the Lake Baldwin area and bought up several tracts of land. A year or so later, after all the surveying was done, he put one and two acre lots on the market at extremely reasonable prices. I called the Towers as they had often mentioned they’d like to own property in the area. They came, talked to the developer and bought three pieces of land— one two-acre and two one-acre lots. I acted as agent for them. The developer liked the way I worked and we more or less became partners. “So, of course, my business flourished for about three years with just the sales commissions from this one developer. That enabled me to keep the office open and it has continued to prosper. “A year or so later, the Towers built the cabin you’re currently renting. The porch was added in the early 70s. And when the cabin was reroofed in the 90s, the porch roof was added. Before then, the porch was unprotected. Eleanor used

to complain that they should have covered the porch when they built it. But they were coming up just for weekends, holidays and vacations back then. Nothing more was done to the cabin, other than necessary maintenance, until last January when there was a fire in the kitchen which pretty much destroyed the kitchen, bathroom and mud room.” He paused and picked up his coffee cup. I got the impression he thought he had told me everything I wanted to know. I waited a moment or two and said, “And the cats? Where do the cats come in?” He took another drink. Then he sat down his cup with a look on his face that my mother would have called me on if I made it in her presence. You know, that righteous indignation look that almost sneers at you. “The cats. Well, in 2001, both Elliott and Eleanor retired and moved into the cabin. It had everything once Elliott turned the mud room into a laundry room as he said he made more laundry than he made mud anymore.” I think he expected me to laugh, grin or somehow be amused. I wasn’t. “And.” “And, shortly after they moved in, a very pregnant cat took up residence under the front porch. Eleanor kept tabs on her and even went so far as to feed her before delivery. One afternoon there was a lot of mewing coming from under the porch and Eleanor found the cat had delivered two kittens; both white; one long haired, one short haired, or so it appeared. She made sure the mother cat had food and water and pretty much stayed out of her way. After a few weeks, the mother cat began leaving the kittens alone for short periods of time and Eleanor would check them out. She decided they were both female. The mother cat took off one morning about five weeks after delivery and never came back. Elliott figured a coyote got her or a car may have hit her on the highway. He had seen her cross the highway once when he was going to Big Bear. The next morning it was pretty obvious Mother Cat was gone for good so Eleanor brought the kittens inside. She named them Thelma and Louise. Both kittens were pretty much weaned and Eleanor kept them in a box in the laundry room. They frequently got out of the box but stayed in the room. After a month, Elliott picked up the long haired kitten and laughed. He told Eleanor that Thelma was a male. She didn’t believe it but he insisted. She asked which kitten and he kept saying the hairy one. So she changed Thelma to Harry. When the kittens were totally underfoot every step he took, Elliott said if she was going to keep the kittens, she had

better take them to the vet. Weren’t kittens supposed to get shots or something? She said okay and took them to Dr. Harvey, the vet in Big Bear. There he informed her that Louise was also male. Eleanor just laughed that off and said she’d drop the e from the end of his name. So Louise became Louis. We went to dinner that weekend and Eleanor was still laughing at how her Thelma and Louise had become Harry and Louis. It was a story we laughed over right up to last January. And it was always good for a laugh in a crowd if there were new folk to hear it.” He got up and refilled his coffee cup. He motioned to me. I indicated I was okay. My cup was still full. How could he expect me to drink coffee at a time like this? He sipped at his coffee for a few minutes before setting down the cup and continuing on with the story. “Well, in 2008, Elliott and Eleanor finished building a bigger cabin on their 2-acre lot and when it was done, they moved into it. At first Louis and Harry didn’t seem to like the idea of moving. After all, they’d been in the old, smaller cabin their entire lives. But it’s not much more than a mile to the new house and frequently they’d come back to visit the old cabin. They didn’t have access but they’d rest on the porch for a while before returning to the new house. “At my suggestion, Elliott and Eleanor began to rent out the old cabin for weekends and summer vacations. We did a lot of research and came up with a price of $250 a night for weekends; minimum two nights or $1250 a week— Sunday through Saturday. As they had bought new furnishings for the new cabin, the old cabin was furnished. Renters were asked to clean up the kitchen and empty the refrigerator before leaving and to strip the beds and leave the linens on the bed. So anytime the cabin was rented, Eleanor would go in to mop, dust and bring the linens home to launder as Elliott had turned the laundry room back into a mud room. Short time visitors shouldn’t have time to do laundry. There were times the cabin was rented pretty steadily and finally I hired someone to do the clean up. Everyone benefitted. “This worked fine for three years and then I rented the cabin to a couple who said they’d be bringing a few friends along. This happened frequently. I told them there were two double beds in the cabin, period. As all the others, these said, ‘that’s fine’. Not until after the fire did I discover that there had been 8 adults staying there that weekend. They had rented for four days—Thursday through Sunday. The fire happened on Sunday, the last day.”

He drained his coffee cup again. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like more coffee?” I nodded. I still hadn’t touched what he gave me in the first place. “There was a lot of confusion with the fire. The alarm sounded and the volunteers were there in less than 15 minutes. The fool that started the fire had managed to keep it from spreading beyond the back portion of the house until the fire department arrived. The sheriff came and, of course, Elliot and Eleanor. “The paying guests emptied the house of their belongings and left—it was about 3pm. Surprisingly, the smoke damage wasn’t too great—evidently the fire starter jerk had opened the mudroom to kitchen door as well as the outer door of the mud room. The fire followed the fresh air. It was two days later before a cleanup crew was called in. It was bitter cold that week and they were called then only because Eleanor couldn’t find Louis and Harry anywhere. She was afraid they may have been in the cabin at the time of the fire. As the back door was opened to the outside, it was a possibility. The two cats had the habit of visiting weekend people. No one ever seemed to mind as both cats could be very charming. “Unfortunately, she was right. During the fire activity, a chair fell and blocked the cupboard under the sink. Both cats were hiding in the cupboard. The chair prevented them from getting out and the noise from the fire and all that activity prevented anyone from hearing their cries. They died of smoke inhalation. “Well, Eleanor carried on as though she had lost two children instead of two cats. She insisted that Elliott make a little wooden coffin for the two of them and she buried them behind the cabin.” He slumped back into his chair. I got the feeling that was it—he’s told me everything he plans to tell me. But that’s not everything. I waited a few minutes. Nothing. He sat there with his eyes closed. “So, Mr. and Mrs. Tower actually built the cabin, or had it built. I thought someone else had when I saw the carvings in the shutters. Instead of initials they’re just decorative.” “The L on top of the L? No, those are initials. Elliott and Eleanor. Both names sound as if they begin with an L; so instead of doing something with a double E, or a T for Tower, they just stacked one L on the other. Not only is it two Ls but, with imagination, a T as well.”

I nodded. That does make sense, sort of. I’ll check the decorations out when I get back to the cabin. “How many times have you successfully rented the cabin since January?” “One.” “One?” “You’re it. The majority of the others were put off by smoke the first afternoon. If they arrived late at night, it happened the next morning. The rest of the renters complained about noises and movements they couldn’t for. Said it spooked them.” “So you’ve been refunding money, finding other lodging and paying someone to come in and clean for virtually nothing?” “That’s about it.” “Why do you suppose I’ve been allowed to stay?” “I don’t think it’s a matter of being allowed—you just refused to go.” That was a truth. He’s offered to void my lease a couple times in the past two months when I come to him with a complaint. “Why do you suppose they’ve eased up on the scare tactics? They’re bringing me gifts like the dead mouse and comfort me when I feel bad.” “Maybe you remind them of Eleanor.” “But why haven’t they just gone back to her? They knew the way when they were alive. Surely they haven’t forgotten in death?” “Miss McFannin, I have absolutely no idea. You’re the first that has gotten beyond the smoke and a few noises. How should I know what a ghost cat knows or doesn’t know?” He was sounding pretty frazzled. He was looking more than frazzled. “When this all began I thought there were ghosts—I thought someone had died

in the fire and you hadn’t told me. Well, in a way, that is true. Anyhow, I went on line to see about how to get rid of ghosts. I think I’ll go back on line and see what it says about getting rid of friendly ghosts.” “Do whatever you feel you have to do. If you rid the cabin of ghosts, I’ll be eternally grateful.” I stood up. “I’ll leave the photos with you. If I can’t get rid of the ghosts you can rent the cabin as a haunted cabin and show the renters who is doing the haunting. Maybe you’ll get some takers.” “I’d rather you get rid of the ghosts, Miss McFannin.” He was holding his head in his hands, elbows on the desk, when I left. I didn’t say goodbye. Neither did he. No wonder they were willing to rent for a thousand a month in the summer. Now all I have to do is figure out what to do next. I have already gone on line and googled exorcisms. But none of the research covered animal ghosts, at least not friendly animal ghosts. I’ll check again to see if there is anything about animal ghosts. Surely there is. These two cats can’t be the first friendly spirits to ever haunt a building.

CHAPTER SIX

I ran a few other errands while I was in town still thinking of the reaction I got from Sam Smit when I showed him the photos. As a result, I wasn’t paying much attention to what I was doing or where I was going. My mind came quickly back to the present when someone shouted at me. I was crossing the street to the market from the post office. A man I’ve never seen before nearly run me over. He put down his window and shouted at me. “Watch where you’re going. Pedestrians have to take responsibility for their own safety. Next time I’ll run you over.” That brought me back to my senses. I shouted back, “I’m sorry. You’re speeding anyhow.” I don’t know if he was or not. I’ve never seen a speed limit sign in town—not even at the edge though I am sure there are signs somewhere. Evidently he took my shout to heart as he slowed down. So, he probably was speeding. I kept my head up and my mind on what I was doing after that though. As I exited the store, the man was leaning against his car—now parked at the curb. He offered to take one of my bags and I said, “Thanks, but I’m in the next block.” He followed me. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry I yelled at you but, damn it, I nearly ran you over.” “It was my fault. I was thinking of an earlier conversation and wasn’t paying attention. And you were speeding. You need to take responsibility for that.” I had reached my car and juggled the groceries to get the key out of my purse. He reached over and took both bags. I opened the trunk and turned to take the groceries from this man. “Thank you very much. I didn’t mean to wander out in front of you and you really don’t owe me an apology.” He put the bags into the trunk and closed the lid. “Let me buy you lunch. I want you to know I’m not the town meanie.”

“Sir, I don’t know you. I don’t believe you’re a meanie. Lunch is not necessary.” I was abrupt and know that my words came out clipped. But I didn’t care. People have nearly run me over before and never offered lunch as a consolation prize. “How about a drink? Do you drink?” “Of course I do, but it is a bit early for lunch or a drink. Who are you?” He looked at me for a moment and then smiled. “I’m sorry. I thought everyone in town knew me.” “I’m a summer visitor. I have no clue who you are.” He looked me up and down. “You’re a summer visitor? Really?” “I’ve been here since the first of August and my lease is up at the end of this month.” “Where are you staying?” “I believe it’s known as the Tower Cabin—Elliott and Eleanor’s old place.” “You are kidding! You’ve been at the Tower Cabin for more than two months?” “Why would I kid you? And yes, I have a 3-month lease.” “Tell me truthfully—haven’t you had some ‘unusual’ things happen up there?” “Sir, who are you? And why would you ask such a ridiculous question?” I moved around the car to the driver’s side door and opened it. He looked at me like I was a specimen in the local zoo or something—except there is no zoo at Lake Baldwin. “I’m Dr. Mark Hampton. I have treated a few people who have stayed a day or a night at that cabin. They were scared out of their wits. Talked about fireless smoke or ghosts. They’ve fallen off porches and ran into door jambs trying to out.” I laughed out loud. “Dr. Hampton, the cabin definitely is haunted. By two large cats named Harry and Louis. They died of smoke inhalation during the cabin fire

in January. But, Dr. Hampton, they’re cats, not ghouls. Once you know what they are, you can ignore them.” Now he laughed. “You’re not kidding, are you?” “No, I’m not. Tell you what. Come up for lunch and we’ll see if the cats will make themselves known.” “You’re inviting me to lunch?” “Well, I presume you’re free as you just invited me to lunch.” He laughed again. “So you’re Phoebe McFannin.” “Did you know that all along?” “Nope, not until you said you lived at Tower Cabin. Welcome to Lake Baldwin, Miss McFannin. I am an avid fan of your mysteries. I’d be delighted to come to lunch. What time?” I don’t wear a watch. “What time is it now?” “11.” “If you aren’t supposed to be in the office or something, come up now. However, if you want something other than white wine, bring it yourself.” Finally I have a reason to open that bottle of wine I had brought with me two months ago. I got into my car and he trotted back to his own. On the way to the cabin I thought, “Why have I invited this man to lunch? He says he’s the town doctor. Do I know that for fact? There’s a list of emergency numbers by the telephone. I’ll try to check it before he gets there.” I didn’t putt putt through town but actually drove about 30 mph. That may have been speeding. I got into the cabin a few minutes ahead of him. His name was on the list as town doctor. I put the groceries away and wondered what in the heck to make him for lunch. Well, he can eat what I had planned to eat—as soon as I make it. I left the front door ajar and he yahooed as he reached the door. “Come on in, Dr. Hampton. I don’t know where the cats are but they usually

snoop around when I am in the kitchen.” “You’re going to stick to the story then? The cabin is haunted.” “Yes, by two large white cats.” I took down dishes and added the silver settings. “Do you want to eat on the porch?” “May as well take advantage of the weather while it’s still good.” He came into the kitchen. “Would you put these on the table on the porch then?” I indicated the small pile of tableware stacked on two placemats. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye—maybe he thought if he didn’t move his head I wouldn’t realize he was watching me. I don’t know if he was sizing me up or if he was surprised I’d ask a guest to help. Before I had invited the good doctor to lunch I had planned a salmon salad for my lunch. Why not still make it? I broke a half head of romaine into a salad bowl, chopped some green onions, peeled and diced cucumbers, shredded a small carrot, and sliced a few radishes and tossed it together adding poppy seed dressing as I did so. I drained a can of mandarin oranges and added them to the salad. Meanwhile I had a couple ounces of angel hair broken into short pieces coming to a quick boil on the stove. I love angel hair—it takes only four minutes to cook. I drained the pasta, cooled it down and added it to the salad. I tossed it again and added some more dressing. Then I reached into the freezer to grab a cup of walnuts. I saw blueberries and ice cream and thought “ah dessert” and put a baggie of blueberries in the fridge to thaw. I chopped the walnuts a bit and added them to the salad. There was about a quarter pound of leftover salmon from dinner a couple nights ago. I flaked it with a fork and added it with one deep stir of the salad. It sure looked good. I stuck the salad tongs inside the edge of the bowl. Today was bread day so I buttered 3 slices and then cut them into quarters corner to corner so I had triangles. I put them on the crust edge in a circle on a bread plate. Lunch was ready. I got a pitcher of water out of the fridge. The good doctor came back into the kitchen. I don’t know where he had been—probably cat hunting. I handed him the bread and water to take out. “Bread and water? We’re having bread and water for lunch?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Doctor. Tight budget, you know. I didn’t realize you expected something more.” I laughed and he shrugged and took the bread and water out to the table. Oh lord, he doesn’t have a sense of humor. Inviting him to lunch could be one of the worse ideas I’ve had in a while. I added ice to two glasses, got down wine glasses, fished the wine out of the fridge, wrapped a clean towel around it and put everything on a tray with the salad. Almost forgot the corkscrew—so stopped to add it to the tray. As I got to the door, Dr. Hampton opened it for me. “All is forgiven. I see we have wine.” He took the tray and eased it onto the table on the porch. The town and the lake were visible below us. The scene was quite impressive. The sun was high; clouds higher; and the sky was blue, blue, blue. Even though it’s nearly the end of summer, the trees around the lake were still bright green. It was a beautiful tableau. “You may serve yourself or I can serve the salad for you, Doctor. It’s up to you.” “Would you mind? I’m a bit of a klutz sometimes.” “Then you’re not a surgeon?” He looked at me, rolled his eyes and laughed. “Sometimes I am. But I do so much better with a scalpel than I do with salad tongs.” Well, maybe he does have a bit of humor in him. A bit. But I’m not going to count on it. I left his plate in place and grabbed a nice portion of salad with the tongs. I tried to place it in the middle of the plate so it would look good. Then I decided that salad would look good centered or not. He poked at the salad with his fork. I am not sure what he was looking for. Finally, I couldn’t not say something. “There is no hidden agenda in the salad, Doctor. Is it not to your liking?” “I’ve never seen a salad like this before.” “I do hope you will try it. There’s salmon, walnuts, oranges, angel hair and several veggies. It’s dressed with poppy seed dressing. Really, I believe it to be a very healthy salad, as well as flavorful.” He frowned but took a bite. A smile crossed his face. “Miss McFannin, this is

very different and very good.” He ate a few more bites and then took a piece of bread. “Mrs. Rush’s bread?” “Of course.” We ate in silence for a few minutes. I poured water for myself and asked if he’d care for some. Yes, he would. I was surprised—we finished the entire salad. I was sure I’d have enough left for dinner. I asked if he’d like some dessert with his wine. He would. I had intended to serve the wine with lunch but we both chowed down so quickly that I didn’t have the chance to even open the bottle. I went into the house and put two large scoops of vanilla ice cream in each of two bowls. The blueberries were thawed but still chilled. I divided them between the two dishes and took them out to the porch. Plain but pretty. He had opened the wine and poured two glasses. “Excellent wine, Miss McFannin, excellent wine.” When he saw the dessert his face really lit up. “This is absolutely the finest lunch I’ve had in a long, long time.” He seemed to savor every bite of ice cream. And like a child, he made sure he had blueberries in every bite. I smiled—inwardly, I hope. I stacked the used dishes inside the salad bowl and moved it to the back of the table. We talked for more than an hour. Surprisingly, I believe we never mentioned the cabin and its ghost cats once. We covered his education and mine; his profession and mine; his dreams and mine. It was a lovely afternoon. The food was all gone and, now, so was the wine. It was nearly 3 o’clock before he checked his watch. “Miss McFannin, I took today off as a mental health day. The job has been a bit whacky lately. This marvelous lunch was just what the doctor ordered. Thank you so much for coming to town this morning. I ask your forgiveness for yelling at you—though you really should watch where you’re going.” “Doctor, I had gone to town today to get Mr. Smit to come clean about the cabin. I succeeded and I guess it addled my mind a bit. I appreciate that you yelled instead of running me over.” “If I am going to see you again, I would appreciate your calling me Mark. And I

would like to call you Phoebe.” “What if we’re not going to see each other again? I have less than a month left on my lease here.” “No, that’s not acceptable. We must see each other again. It is imperative. Extend your lease for another month. Tell Sam you need another month to rid the cabin of ghosts.” “Me, rid the cabin of ghosts? I don’t know if I can. They’ve had free rein for several months now. Besides, they’re really not that obtrusive.” “Phoebe, I have faith that you can do anything you set your mind to do. And you’re the only one who seems to accept these ghosts. Everyone else freaks.” “Thank you, Mark. No one has ever had that kind of faith in me. I’ll see what I can do. Do you believe Mr. Smit would extend the lease for the same money?” Basically, I was being sarcastic though I did think he’d know if Mr. Smit was amiable enough to go for another month at the same rate. “Phoebe, he hasn’t been able to rent the cabin all year. I’m sure he would. Would you like me to talk to him?” “No, that’s fine. I can handle it. I need to talk to my publisher before I do much of anything else.” “Well, keep me in the loop. I’d love to take you to dinner Saturday. Are you available?” “I will, of course, have to check with my social secretary, Doctor. I believe I may be in the middle of an exorcism on Saturday.” I almost laughed out loud. Available? I’ve never been so available. I hope his sense of humor lasts through Saturday. “Well, that does sound very important. Perhaps you need some help. My receptionist was telling me about a new television series that started last month. A brilliant doctor is visited by his late, already ex-wife and during the first episode he went to someone to have her exorcised out of his life. I could ask my girl what method they used and whether or not it worked.”

“Thank you but I believe I’ll just go on online and see what I can find. We are talking cats here, not ex wives.” “You get a signal up here?” “Maybe only because the cabin is elevated. Maybe signals float around in higher places. But, yes, I do get a signal up here most of the time. I don’t know who it belongs to—has some acronym for a name. It’s unsecured so I use it.” “How about if I come up around 7 on Saturday and we’ll decide where to go from there. If there’s a restaurant you’d like to try, let me know. And, I might even be able to decode the acronym for you, if you really want to know.” “Mark, I don’t know the places around here. I had dinner at Nottingham’s in Big Bear once but I don’t know any of the other good restaurants. Really, just pick a place. I trust you. And as for the signal, I don’t abuse it so am not really curious to whom it belongs. If they find out I’m using it and object, they can just put a on it.” “True, true. Are you into martinis? Some of the restaurants have better martinis than others—personally I am into martinis.” “Gin?” “Is there any other kind?” “I’ll see you at 7.” I didn’t respond to the martini question. In fact, I could scarcely believe that he was a martini person. That is one good stroke of luck, anyhow. Martini people usually have a sparkling wit—this man’s wit may sparkle, but so far I haven’t seen that. For a moment I thought he was going to lean over and kiss me. He actually made half the move but got up instead. “Thank you, Phoebe, for a marvelous lunch. You are definitely a mental health specialist as well as a great nutritionist.” He didn’t mention that I was a great author. Though he did say he read my books. Hmmm. Maybe he doesn’t think I’m a great author. Oh, well. I walked him to his car. As he drove away, I waved and he waved back. I picked up the lunch things and went inside. “Well, well, well, Phoebe, this has been an

interesting afternoon.” It took only a few minutes to wash the dishes and put them in the rack on the sink. Then I went on line and began to research exorcisms. Apparently, the friendly the ghost, the easier the process. I made notes and I printed several pages of ceremonies or rites or whatever you call them. The more I read the more ridiculous the whole situation seemed to be. I’m talking cats here—not demons. Cats. Big white pussy cats. But at the moment I decided that I’m just dealing with cats, I saw one of my shoes move. As usual, I had taken them off at the front door when I came in from lunch. Now one of them was rocking back and forth. Then it slid a couple inches and then it rocked again. There has to be a cat playing with my shoe. I know that my shoe does not move by itself. I’ve had the shoe for some time and it has never moved alone before. I watched it for a couple minutes and it went silent. Then it moved again, with some vigor. I yelled, “Come on, Harry, leave my shoe alone.” And it stopped. I don’t know why I chose Harry—I am sure Sam Smit had given me two names. Did I write them down? Yes, Harry and Louis. The shoe moved again. “I said, leave it alone. Harry, leave my shoe alone.” It stopped. The shoe didn’t move the rest of the afternoon. At least, I’m pretty sure it didn’t. Can it be that easy? Just tell the cats to leave? I doubt it. This was one specific, single incident. And the next time, it might be the other cat causing the disturbance. Cats surely know their name. And, if so, they know when you call them by the wrong name. That can’t be good for discipline. Damn, there has to be an easy way to approach this problem. Of course, there is. HA.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next day I began thinking about Saturday. If the doctor is coming at 7, wouldn’t it be nice to be able to offer him a martini while we decide where to go to dinner? He mentioned a good martini. I make a good martini. At home I have martini glasses up the whazoo and shakers and everything necessary to make a good martini. Here, I have nothing. I walked down for lunch and afterwards went to a liquor store I have seen several times half a block from the restaurant. It’s small. Probably gin and vermouth will be all I can buy—no glasses or anything else. Somehow the glass makes the experience of the martini only better. You can drink a martini from a Mason jar but you would probably never really consider it the best martini you’ve ever had. This wasn’t just a liquor store. I got quite a surprise! There were shakers, glasses sold in pairs and even olives and olive picks. Most surprising—they carried my brand of gin. It’s a top shelf gin and some smaller places don’t carry it. I spent a bit more money than I would have liked to but this is an emergency, sort of. I bought the smallest bottle of dry vermouth and a small bottle of gin. I don’t want to carry a partially used bottle of gin back to my city apartment next month. I think I have a couple unopened bottles in the pantry already. When I got home, I carefully washed the glasses. They almost match a set I have at home. Then I dried them and set them in the freezer. Now, to wait until Saturday. At least, when it comes to martinis, I am ready. Reading through all the notes I’ve made about getting rid of ghosts, I decided I don’t know enough about these cats. Why don’t I talk to Mrs. Tower? Would that be so out of line? After all, this is her house and they were her cats. I found the very thin telephone directory in a drawer under the phone. The phone rang three times before someone answered. I explained who I was and asked if I could speak with Eleanor Tower. The man who had answered asked me to hold the line. Finally, Eleanor came on the line. There was a question mark in her voice.

As she sounded as though she wasn’t told who was on the phone, I went through the introductions again. She said, “Mr. Smit handles everything pertaining to the cabin.” I said that I had already talked to Mr. Smit and I added that I thought perhaps if I knew something more about her cats, I could convince them to quit haunting the cabin. She sounded quite stern. “Are you making fun of me?” “I beg your pardon. I don’t know what you mean.” “Everyone thinks I am loony because I believe the cats are somehow tied to that cabin because they died there.” “I agree with you. There is some sort of psychic hold. Perhaps they are unaware they are dead. But because of the hold, they can’t leave. I want to learn more about the cats to see if I can help them.” She sounded more dubious than stern now. “You aren’t joking? You’re not putting me on? This is really my tenant, Phoebe McFannin?” “I’m not joking and I am me. I have lived with these cats for the past two months. They seem to be warm and wonderful pets. Or, at least they were once. They comfort me when I am ill, they play with my shoes, they bring me mice.” “Oh, that’s Harry. Louis wouldn’t dirty his paws with a mouse. But, Harry-Harry feels it’s his duty to keep the premises free of mice.” “That the kind of information I am hoping to learn. Can you meet with me somewhere? Maybe even the cabin? They frequently make themselves known and you might be able to tell me which is which.” “You’re serious? Are you saying you’ve seen them?” “I am. I have. I have about three weeks left on my lease and I’d like to leave the cabin totally uninhabited when I go.” “Well, I am going to the grocery store this afternoon. Perhaps I could swing by the cabin first. I can’t believe you’re serious. I can’t believe that you believe me.”

“Mrs. Tower, I had no inkling you believed as I do. Mr. Smit is so closed mouth that I feel lucky to have gotten out of him what I did. I had to confront him in his office. I have photographs that I’ve taken and that’s when he finally decided to come clean.” “Sam hates to talk about it. He sees the cabin now as a money pit—a losing money pit. But even with all the stories, he cannot bring himself to believe Harry and Louis are the ghosts. Or even that there are ghosts. Are you serious? You have photos?” “I have been able to get a few. I think they’re sharp enough you can tell me who’s who. I’m not a world class photographer and ghosts don’t photograph well, but I have pictures. I’ll be at the cabin all afternoon. Come whenever you can.” I felt a lot better after hanging up. I’m not alone in this ghost thing. Now to see what else she has to say. I can’t believe that she’s had this cat ghost idea all along. If Sam Smit would have told me the truth a month ago, maybe we could have gotten together sooner. And I was afraid people would think I was crazy. If only I had known that Eleanor Tower felt the cats were still at the cabin, if only — I took a book to the lounge chair on the porch. I came to write a book but brought several to read as well. I’ve completed writing my book, now it’s time to read. The book was good but I still dozed off about the fifth chapter. A toot-toot of a car horn woke me. I roused and saw an unfamiliar vehicle pulling up in front. Then I ed Mrs. Tower had said she’d stop by. I got up and went around the corner of the porch to greet the woman coming up the stairs. She’s maybe twenty years older than I; my height; looks authoritative even in jeans and a flannel shirt. “Mrs. Tower?” “Yes, and you’re Phoebe McFannin?” “I am.” “Is that your real name or do you just write under that name?” Well, this certainly wasn’t the greeting I had expected or have ever encountered.

“Oh, it’s mine all right. I’ve had it for about forty years.” I stepped aside so she would have to go around the porch to the lounge chairs. Don’t ask me why; I just thought it would be better if she didn’t go into the cabin right away. I’ve seen the cats so often from the lounge lately—maybe they’ll show up this afternoon. She sat on the furthest chair. “Would you care for some tea or lemonade, Mrs. Tower?” “No, no, thank you. I just want to talk about Louis and Harry.” And so we did. For an hour. I excused myself and went in and brought a pitcher of lemonade out with two glasses of ice. She accepted the drink. Of course, she had been talking for nearly an hour and was probably thirsty. When she first came, I am sure she was so suspicious of me or my intentions she didn’t want to get involved with niceties. She started the story exactly where, and how, Sam Smit had when he finally got to cats. How the mother cat went off one day and never came back. The funny bit of name changing because the cats were both male and not female. How they (the cats) came back to this cabin almost daily after the Towers had moved. There were times that Mr. Smit would get a call from a weekender asking if he was aware there were two cats that seemed to think they lived there. Then she would come to the cabin and take them home. She talked about how hard it was to keep them away and how that was eventually fatal to them. They had lived in this cabin for more than eight years and it was home. Period. She talked about Harry and what a music lover he was. She said she frequently would put a CD on while she was working. If he liked the music, he’d plop down in the middle of the floor with his head resting on his front paws. If he really liked it, he’d roll over on his back and lay with all four feet up in the air. If he didn’t like the music at all, he’d leave. He was an avid Dancing with the Stars fan. From the very first season. The two nights each week it was on—Harry would be in front of the television, waiting for someone to turn on the set. Sometimes her husband would turn on something else and Harry actually became vocal about it. She laughed, “One night Elliot wanted to see some news special on another channel. Harry came and sat on the floor in front of him and meowed for several seconds. Almost as though he was bawling out Elliott.

Elliott changed the station. Harry laid down in front of the set and that was the end of that.” Elliott says it was just coincidence but I’ll never believe that. Harry’s actions were too deliberate to be coincidence. Once the Towers went to San Bernardino on business and, as it was rather late when they finished, they had dinner there. When they got home, Harry was in the middle of the floor facing the television. It was ten minutes past the hour. He acted a bit put off most of the evening even though Elliott turned on “Dancing with the Stars” as soon as they came in. Louis on the other hand was a baseball fan. He would somehow position himself on the arm of the sofa so that Mr. Tower could view only about half the television screen. The man and cat would argue about the cat’s location for about the first two innings of any baseball game. Then, as though reluctantly, Louis would go sit by Mr. Tower—head and paws on his lap—and watch the rest of the game. She said she often asked her husband why he didn’t just offer the spot to the cat in the first place and he said it was a matter of principle. If she or Mr. Tower was reading the newspaper, Louis would snuggle down under his/her left arm so that he could read also. But if she was reading a book, or knitting, Louis would stretch out along the top of the sofa, or chair, directly behind her; as though he was supervising. If she was doing the puzzles in the newspaper, Harry would lie on the sofa and rest his head on her foot—she said she always put her feet up when on the sofa. He didn’t try to help, as Louis would sometimes, but he just lay there dozing until she had finished the puzzles. She said that once a leak developed in the kitchen sink. Elliott, her husband, said he’d get to it later. Later turned into much later. Meanwhile, Harry would sit on the edge of the sink and try to catch the drips from the faucet. Sometimes he’d put his whole head under the faucet hoping to catch the drop of water in his mouth. Other times he’d just bat the drip with his paw. He seemed to love water and pouted for several days after Elliott fixed the leak. He would go to the sink and wait for a drip. He’d wait over half an hour sometimes before giving up. It was nearly a month before he stopped waiting for the fixed faucet to leak. Then there was what she called escort service. At times either or both of the cats would decide they knew where in the cabin she was going and would walk in front of her—as if escorting her. Of course, they always walked so slowly she nearly tripped over them. And there were times they got miffed when she went some place other than where they thought she should be going.

I laughed. “Well, that certainly explains the many times I’ve stumbled, thinking I stubbed my toe on some unseen thing on the floor. I could never find anything on the floor but I’d have the definite impression I had hit something.” She laughed too and nodded her head. I could see her reliving those slow walks through the cabin. Both cats were proprietary. They had certain places staked out in the cabin that were theirs alone. If she and her husband closed their bedroom door at night, one or both of the cats might come knocking. Harry was a light tap, tap, let me in. Louis, on the other hand, must have sat on his rear haunches and pounded on the door. Let me in, you’re hiding something from me. Louis would lie on the floor at the end of the bed until he thought they were asleep and then he’d leave. Harry usually curled up on the end of the bed on her side and stayed there until she got up. She picked up her lemonade and drank with her eyes closed. I don’t know if was to keep the memories more vivid or to keep the tears from falling. She began talking again, quietly, almost to herself. “They seemed to like the same foods—dry kibble only. We tried canned and it was untouched, no matter how long it sat or how often we tried. If Louis thought I was going to open the refrigerator at any time he was in the kitchen, he would immediately run to a small bowl I kept on the floor. Then he’d start his begging for milk… such a little voice from such a big cat. He sounded almost like a small baby fussing. It was a pathetic little cry and sure to elicit at least a half cup milk. That’s all I gave them at a time—and never more than once a day. They shared a milk bowl; Louis always drank first. If I put milk down when Louis was not in the kitchen but Harry was, Harry would sit there and wait for Louis before he took a single lap of milk. I never quite understood the pecking order. Louis was the larger of the two; perhaps he was born first. Or, maybe he just intimated Harry. But there seemed to be a predetermined order. “If we ate on the porch we had to guard our plates. Especially if we had potato chips or cheese, any kind of cheese. The two of them would sit in front of us and just watch. If they weren’t given a treat, they’d wait until they believed we weren’t looking and a white paw would sneak over the edge of the table and try to snatch a chip or a piece of the cheese. Elliott said we shouldn’t allow them to do that but he never corrected them. It was rather hilarious to watch. While they watched our plates regardless of what we ate, it was only the cheese and chips

we had to protect. “Louis had a built in clock—not unlike Harry and his television program. He had decided that we should go to bed by 11:30. And, we did, usually. It was more or less habit. But on occasion there would be a reason Elliott and I would stay up later. Maybe a special guest on Leno or Headlines. We love Headlines. Lou would come stand in front of one of us and meow and then walk to the bedroom. If that person didn’t follow him, he’d go to the other and meow a bit louder— then walk to the bedroom. If we both ignored him, Lou would sit in the middle of the room and meow under his breath. Maybe he was cat mumbling. When we did finally get up and go to the bedroom, he ignored us. We were off his radar by then. He was quite the cat.” A tear wound its way down her cheek. Memories can be so painful. Then she sat up a bit and went on. “Frequently, in the late afternoon, I used to sit in the large chair by the window to relax, knit and sometimes read. But invariably, if I appeared to be headed toward the chair, Harry would run ahead and sit in it. It was a game he loved to play. However,” she said, “he always moved when I told him to. Big display, but he moved.” Just as she said that I looked into the cabin through the big window to the easy chair. Very quietly, I said to her, “Mrs. Tower, turn your head slowly and don’t make any noise or sudden movements. Look at the easy chair and ottoman.” She did as I instructed and I heard a gasp. “They’re there!” “Then you can see them too?” “Yes, I can. But they’re dead. I buried them myself.” “I know. These are their ghosts. They believe they are alive and live here. They have been the cause of all the trouble since January. I think that between us perhaps we can either convince them they are dead and should leave or convince them that they shouldn’t be here.” Another tear rolled down her cheek. This woman clearly loved those cats. “Do you see them often?”

“No, just when they feel safe, I think. But they play with my shoes and I see the shoes move. I suspect them of moving a kitchen rug. I kept finding it under the sink cupboard and finally put it away.” “That’s Harry. He gets a running start from the love seat and hits the rug and slides into the cupboards. No matter where I moved the rug, he’d drag it to the threshold between the kitchen and living room. I even put it in the front bedroom once. He still dragged it out.” “You and I understand what’s happened but I am sure you realize they are the reason you haven’t been able to rent the cabin. They are doing a very effective job of haunting it. Other people don’t understand they’re just cats. I don’t know how they create the white billowing smoke but it’s definitely Louis and Harry haunting the cabin.” “What can we do?” I picked up my tote bag—filled with notes and printouts of how to get rid of friendly ghosts who don’t know they’re dead. She looked through everything. “But this pertains to people. I am not sure we can reason with a pair of cats.” “I know. That’s the problem. That was why I wanted to talk to you. I felt you know them so well that perhaps you’d have an insight as to how to get through to them.” “Do you suppose they’d come home with me?” “Come home with you?” “Yes, do you suppose I could talk to them and convince them to come with me?” “I don’t know. What would you do with them there?” “Nothing. I will know what’s making the noise and movements. Do you think they’d come with me?” “I really don’t know. How would you like to proceed?” “There were several times after I bought that very large chair that Harry would be exactly where he is now. I’d walk into the room and tell him to move over—

and he always did. Or, if I had knitting, I’d order him out of the chair. He always obeyed. If I can do that now, I could then take them off as I used to when they bugged the weekenders. Maybe all it takes is to get them away from this building. There must be, as you have said, some psychic hold on them. If I walk in and they disappear or bolt and run, are we any worse off than we are right now?” I shook my head. Actually, it sounded like a good plan to me. She stood up quite slowly and walked around to the front door. Afraid I would spook the ghosts, I watched through the window until I saw her come into the living room. I could hear her as she said, “Okay, Harry, move over. You’re hogging the whole chair.” When I saw the cat get up and stretch, I slipped around the corner to the front door. By the time I got there, Mrs. Tower was seated and the cat that had been on the chair was lying next to her with his head on her lap. The cat on the ottoman stretched before he walked up her legs to her lap. He looked as though he was reaching up to kiss her before he snuggled down on the other side of her with his front paws on her lap. She sat there for several minutes talking to the cats and stroking their fur. The tears were flowing freely now and I was surprised they didn’t seem to bother the cats. It was obvious to me she was saying her last goodbyes. After several minutes she said, “Okay, Boys, it’s time to go home. We’ve bothered this lady long enough.” I stepped back outside on the porch. She came out with the long haired one draped over her left arm. The other cat was following her. She opened her car door—the cat behind her made a tremendous jump and landed on the enger seat. She released the cat on her arm and he walked across the driver’s seat and sat next to his brother. Mrs. Tower got into the car and started it—her window came down. “I’ll call you and let you know what happens. If they return here, let me know.” I waved at her and watched as the car wound its way down the hillside. I found that I was crying too. I have never had a pet so was surprised how much someone could love an animal. This woman loved those cats very much. And obviously, they loved her in return. I wiped my face with a napkin. I have never really ‘seen’ love before. It was a special moment. I cried a little more. Such love is indescribable.

I picked up the lemonade stuff and went back into the house. There was only one way I felt I could be sure I would know if the cats returned. I got the small round rug out of the drawer and put it in front of the stove. Silly as it seems now, the evening just seemed to drag along. I watched a couple game shows and the news and went to bed. The cabin seemed empty. The rug didn’t move; neither did my shoes. The next morning Mrs. Tower called. “Miss McFannin, any cat sightings?” “No, and I replaced the rug in front of the stove. How is it at your house?” “It was strange. I talked to them all the way home. But they seemed to be fading. When we got to the house, they jumped from the car and I saw the cat door quiver twice but I could no longer see Louis or Harry. I think we may have broken the tie to the cabin. I haven’t seen or heard anything since.” “I guess there was a way to reason with them after all, Mrs. Tower. You knew them well enough to get them out of the spell of this place.” “Do you believe that cats go to heaven, Miss McFannin?” “I am not really sure that I believe in heaven, Mrs. Tower. But, if I did, I think I’d believe cats were allowed.” There was a long pause. I think she was blowing her nose. I know I was. “Oh, Miss McFannin, on another subject, remind the good doctor that Saturday is the Service Club’s TGSO dinner dance. I am sure that he’s forgotten. He usually does.” I was shocked. How did she know I had a date with Dr. Hampton? “I beg your pardon?” She was laughing. “When I was at Mark’s office yesterday—before you called me, I asked Rachel his secretary to remind him. And she said that he had written your name on his calendar. So either he plans to attend and bring you or he’s forgotten the dinner-dance completely.” “This dinner-dance, what is the dress code? I didn’t plan on anything elaborate when I came up this summer.”

“Oh, it’s dressy but not formal—we save that for the big holidays. Some of the ladies call it holiday casual. That’s up to your interpretation, of course.” “Well, of course, I will remind him. I am fairly sure he has not ed. Do they serve a good martini there? That seems to be Dr. Hampton’s main criteria for dinner. At least, that is my definite impression.” “If he balks, tell him Bart Harris and Robert Roselli are tending bar. They make the best martinis in town.” “Thank you. I will remind him.” After I hung up I thought, “Saturday is becoming expensive. I’d better go to Big Bear and see if I can find a dress and shoes suitable for whatever a TGSO dinner-dance is. I am sure if I mention it, Dr. Hampton will say oh, of course, we should go.” By noon, I was on my way to Big Bear. The town has grown a lot since I was a kid and we came up in groups for the snow. When I was here doing the gold mine thing, I didn’t really look at the shops. There were actually three boutiques that sold dresses as well as several shoe stores. I dislike asking merchants to take my personal check when I’m not at home so I put everything on plastic. Being end of the summer, many things were on sale. I found a full skirted dress with ¾ sleeves and a nice neckline for under fifty dollars. It’s dressy but not flashy and covers my knees. As for shoes, I need a new pair of dress pumps anyhow. I was surprised to find the brand I prefer on sale for about forty dollars. Fortunately I realized before I left the dress shop that I also needed a slip and hose. I have earrings but looked around for a necklace that would match the dress—no luck. Oh, well, adornment never has made me look better. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear—or some old saw. Back in Lake Baldwin, I stopped to buy some fruit to go with my dinner and spotted a necklace. It was probably made for the tourist trade but was very handsome and very inexpensive. Only in Lake Baldwin can you buy four dollars of fruit and a five dollar necklace at the same store. And probably, then, only during tourist season. From the look of the town, tourist season was either over or dying down. It is early October after all. It’ll be a couple months before the snow season starts. I guess the town gets to breathe in October and November.

As I was in town, I went to the post office. I hadn’t gone to town yesterday in the excitement of the cats’ leaving. How nice—a notice that my second quarter royalties had posted to my checking . I was surprised at the amount. Now, if the new book can be released before Christmas and third quarter isn’t too bad, this could be a very good year for mystery writers, at least this one. Saturday morning I washed my hair. And then I set it—something I haven’t done all the time I’ve been in Lake Baldwin. It has a lot of natural curl but I’d like a bit more control today to compliment the dress. I ate lunch later than usual as it is obvious I’ll be eating dinner later than I’ve gotten used to. By four o’clock I was practically pacing the floor. By six I was getting ready. My hair actually did what I hoped it would; the dress fit better than I ed it had at the store. I was ready half an hour early. At quarter of seven I heard a car crunch its way to the cabin. Gravel roads are good for something. It was Dr. Hampton. I slipped into my new shoes and went to the door. He eased out of the car and reached back to retrieve something from the enger seat. A small box. Flowers? Maybe I have misunderstood the importance of this dinner. He bounded up the porch steps and greeted me with a peck on the cheek. “Gracious, Miss Phoebe, you look positively ravishing tonight.” “Ravishing is better than ravished, right?” I still don’t have the key to this man’s humor so hoped he’d laugh. “Absolutely. Of course, we can handle ravished later if you like. Meanwhile, to make me look like a good guy, I have brought you a little flower to wear tonight.” Now was my turn to laugh. “Doctor, Doctor. What are we going to do with you?” I took the flower and found it could be pinned on my dress or worn on my wrist. It was three pale yellow rose buds in white lace and ribbon. I put it on my shoulder. The flowers gave off a beautiful fragrance. “Come in. Do sit down. Would you care for a martini?” “Have you thought about where to go for dinner?”

“Not really. Eleanor Tower asked me to remind you that the TGSO dinner-dance is tonight. So I thought I should not presume you weren’t going and make another choice.” “You’ve met the lovely Mrs. Tower?” “Yes, yesterday. I believe she and I have dehaunted the cabin.” “You’re joking!” “Nope. Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it.” “But first, did you say martini?” “I did. Do you like it dry or very dry?” “Dry is fine.” I started into the kitchen. I filled the shaker with ice. Dr. Hampton came up behind me. “May I watch?” “Of course, but you do know how to make a martini, don’t you?” “I do. I’m just checking your technique.” Under other circumstances I would have been insulted by that remark. Wonder why I’m not now? This must be his version of a sense of humor. I am going on that assumption for now. I took the glasses out of the freezer. I poured gin into the shaker. Then I put 3 drops of vermouth into each glass before turning back to the shaker. I gave it half a dozen shakes. I swirled the vermouth around the glass and poured the bit of excess into the sink. Then I poured gin into the glass. “Do you want olives?” “Two.” I speared two olives on a pick, dropped them into the glass and handed it to him. Then I swirled the vermouth in the other glass and emptied it; gave the shaker one more shake and poured the gin into the glass. I drink my martinis without

olives—too much sodium. The good doctor sniffed the martini. A little smile ran across his lips. “Tell me, Miss McFannin, if three drops of vermouth make a dry martini, how many make a very dry martini?” I laughed. No one has ever posed that question to me before. They just enjoy the drink. “Well, Doctor, a very dry martini has NO vermouth in it.” “Really? How interesting. Three drops actually make a difference?” “Oh, indeed they do.” He lifted his glass as in a toast—I raised mine (not knowing what to expect) and he touched the rim of his glass to mine. The slight ping made me smile. I like martini glasses that ping. He took a small sip. I waited for the “Ah”. If there had been no ‘ah’, I would have been terribly disappointed. The doctor did not disappoint. Then a second sip. “Phoebe McFannin, you make an excellent dry martini. Absolutely excellent.” “Oh, Mrs. Tower also said to tell you that Robert Roselli and Bart Harris are bartending tonight at this shin-dig.” “Bob makes one of the best martinis in the valley. Until tonight I would have said the best.” I was glad that he approved of my martinis. I was also surprised. We went back into the living room and I put coasters down on the coffee table. It was just 7. “Do you want to go to this thing?” He’s asking me? I don’t even know what it is. And I told him that. He laughed at me. “Phoebe, TGSO—thank god summer’s over. It’s the annual service club end of summer function.” I laughed. “Oh, gosh, I should have figured that one out.” “May I use your telephone? I don’t what time this thing starts or what the cost is.” I handed him the cordless phone. “Do you have Mrs. Tower’s number handy?”

“Just hit redial. She’s the last person I called.” He chatted first with Elliott Tower, evidently, and then talked to Eleanor. At first he sounded as though he didn’t really want to go. Then she must have said something that made sense to him and he said, “Oh, alright. I had hoped to have her all to myself but if you need her, we’ll be there. She is certainly dressed for the occasion—well, actually, I suspect she would have dressed like this to go out with me anyway. No, I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I just found this woman this week—why would I want to share her with the whole damn town? True, she is somewhat a celeb. I guess you’re right—that’ll make me look good too.” He laughed and after a few seconds said, “I’m going to sit here and have a martini, and maybe a second. And then we’ll see you at the Lodge. No, Phoebe knows how to make the perfect martini.” I have no clue what was said between these bits and pieces of conversation but it sounded as though she did intend to let the town know the cabin was no longer haunted—and maybe she’ll even tell how it happened. During the conversation, he had finished off his martini. That surprised me as I am a rather slow sipper when it comes to martinis. When he came back to the sofa, he said, “Could I impose upon your good nature for another drink of the gods?” I took his glass, rinsed and dried it and stuck it back in the freezer. I rinsed the shaker and refilled it with ice and made one more martini. The glass had just begun to frost over when I put the vermouth into it. We sat at opposite ends of the sofa, sipping our drinks and saying little or nothing. Finally he said, “So you really exorcised the cats from the cabin?” “I think so. There’s been no activity at all today and none last night.” “Well, please recall it was me who said you could do it.” He put his glass on the coffee table. I hit him with a pillow. He was laughing too hard for me to be angry with him. “According to my watch, we should meander down the lane if we are to arrive at this soiree on time.” I had readied a small evening bag with my ID, a lipstick and some cash. I picked it up and said, “I’m ready. Lead on.” But actually, I wasn’t. I am a very shy

person and normally would never go to a town dinner-dance. Never, even in my own town. For some reason, I didn’t want him to know that. I had on a new dress and new shoes; time for a new face. I smiled. Perhaps this experience is like being a grandparent. You spoil the child and then send them home. I can go to this function; make a total fool of myself and then leave town. There’s a Japanese proverb that says “We’re all fools whether we dance or not so we may as well dance.” I was ready to be a fool.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Lodge was hidden on a back street of town. I had never seen it although I’ve wandered through town quite a bit the past two months. There was ample parking. What a concept! In the city, when you go to a function like this, you hope there’s a paid parking garage somewhere close as there’s never a parking lot nearby and available street parking is a miracle. The lodge parking area was even paved. No lady had to worry about ruining dress shoes in gravel or mud. I was impressed before I got inside the building. Another surprise awaited me inside. Most lodges have 15 to 20 foot ceilings and you often get the impression you are in an auditorium and a basketball game might erupt any second. Here the ceilings were lower—making the atmosphere much cozier and comfortable. The room itself was quite large—with a bandstand at one end. At that end there was also a dance floor. About 2/3 of the room was set up as a dining room with tables of 8. There was no hokey crepe paper and dangling tissue decorations. Each table had a very nice low floral arrangement in the middle. Around the dining area, the outer walls, there were small tables now and then-each with a floral arrangement and a bouquet of balloons. The effect was quite amazing… to me. This appears to be a high tone affair. Don’t ask me what I expected, but this wasn’t it. I had never thought of decorating with flowers and balloons—it was really festive. Maybe I’ve been out of circulation too long. Eleanor Tower must have been watching for us as we had barely entered the room before she came to greet us. “Please, come sit with Elliott and me. I’ve saved two places.” Mark is not the soul of discretion you might think a doctor would be. “Well, if you’ve saved chairs, we’d better take them or you’ll look bad.” Or, does he just have a really different sense of humor? I don’t know, yet. Eleanor laughed. She thinks he’s funny. So the problem may be mine. We followed her to a table and she indicated which chairs she’d reserved. I laid my small bag on the cover plate of one of the places. Mark said, “I’ll go check us in. I can’t if I made reservations or not.” I was left standing there. Eleanor had already moved off to

talk to someone else. A wall flower already and I’ve just got here. A very good-looking older man came up to me with his right hand extended. “Phoebe McFannin. I am Elliott Tower, the most grateful landlord in the world.” I put out my hand and he took it gently. “Phoebe, may I call you Phoebe?” I nodded. “Phoebe, for the first time in nine months, my wife has slept through the night. No nightmares, no sudden awakenings. And she tells me that she believes the cabin you occupy is no longer haunted.” He’s still holding my hand. “Mr. Tower, Elliott, I hope your wife is correct. It does seem the ghosts are gone.” “More than ridding the cabin of ghosts, you gave Eleanor an opportunity to say her goodbyes to the Boys. You cannot imagine how painful our grieving has been. Their death was so sudden, so unexpected. It was what like losing a child must be. Horrific.” “Eleanor spent some time with me and told me many stories about Louis and Harry. It was more than evident that she loved those cats as much as anyone could love anything. It was fortunate that things happened as they did while she was at the cabin. It couldn’t have gone better if it had been planned. Watching her with those two cats made me cry. Their mutual love and affection was that obvious.” He didn’t speak for a moment. Tears were behind his eyelids and his eyes shone brightly. “We had them from the day they were born—over ten years. They both had personalities exceptional for cats… at least, any cat I’ve ever known.” He was still clutching my hand. “Let me get you a drink, Phoebe. For a mystery writer, you’re one hell of a ghost chaser. I owe you a lot.” “Could you speak to Mr. Smit and tell him it’s okay to let me stay one more month? I haven’t asked him yet but anticipate an argument.” I figured why not get my request in to the boss himself. I really don’t like dealing with Sam Smit. There’s something slightly creep about him. He reminds me of a cheap shyster lawyer in a movie. He wants to keep everything secret. He even looks like an

attorney. “Anything you want, Phoebe. Anything you want.” He gently tugged on my hand and I followed him to the bar. As we arrived, so did the good doctor. “Elliott, are you trying to steal my date?” “Lord, no, Mark. But you’ve been ignoring her. I’m just buying her a drink.” Soon we all had a martini in hand and Mark suggested we mingle a bit. He thought I should meet some people. Mr. Tower said he’d see us back at the table in a few minutes. They wanted to serve promptly at 8. Mark put his free arm around me and guided me to a clump of people—the mayor and his wife and the police chief and his wife among them. A lot of glad handing and nice to meet you and that sort of thing; a few gushes at ‘meeting a real live author”. It was not at terrifying as I thought it would be to meet so many people at once. Two more groups of people and Mark said, “We’d better get back to the table. I’d hate to miss first course.” “Oh, is it something special?” “Usually it is a pear and walnut salad… exceptional.” I thought it would be strange to go to a dinner-dance and know what the menu would be because it had always been that. But I’ve heard small towns are like that. Perhaps that’s better than going and wondering if the menu would have anything on it worth eating. I’ve gone to a few dinners like that. Back at the table, Mark pulled my chair for me before he sat down. The Towers were in place and they introduced me to the others. The Rushes, from the market where I shop, were to my left and Sam Smit and his partner, Randy, were on the Towers’ right. So the table of 8 was comfortable to me; I knew most of the people. Everyone but Randy. Why was I not surprised to learn that Sam was gay? I hope I didn’t make any small telltale sign that said I didn’t know. The salad was pear and walnut. And it was exceptional. Mrs. Rush leaned across and said to me, “Perhaps you could give me the recipe for the salad we talked about a few weeks ago. We could use a change around here.” I had to think a minute. I went into the store to buy canned mandarin oranges

and we ended up discussing the many ways to use them. I mentioning two or three salads. Then I ed how interested she’d been in one in particular. “You mean the cabbage, orange and walnut salad?” “Yes. I think that would be a great salad for the holiday banquet here. It’s simple and all the ingredients are available year round.” “It is quite colorful not to mention tasty.” That was a really trite response but I didn’t know what to say. People don’t usually comment on my recipes or cooking. I’m a writer, for pete’s sake. I’ve never been known for my cooking. But that salad is a favorite of mine. I may have been more enthusiastic when I described it to her than the occasion called for. Mark spoke up. “Phoebe must be a real whiz when it comes to salads. She made one for me earlier this week that was absolutely smashing—salmon and oranges and stuff.” “I use oranges and nuts in a lot of my cooking. They’re good and good for you. And I like them.” Why did I feel like a television ment? How did we ever get on this subject? I went back to eating my pear salad. It was good. The walnuts had been glazed and instead of bib lettuce, the base was a mix of romaine and field greens. I couldn’t identify the dressing though. Some fruity vinegar based dressing… nothing I was familiar with. But tasty. The waiters were serving the entree and removing the salad plates before anyone really started a conversation again. Mr. Smit said, “Miss McFannin, is it true that you have de-ghosted the Tower cabin?” I looked over to Mrs. Tower. She was smiling. “Well, it would appear so, Mr. Smit. I won’t swear to it. It may be too early to claim bragging rights.” “Also, I hear you would like to extend your lease by a month.” Mr. Smit had a really odd expression on his face. He’s ticked off because I went over his head. I’m sure that’s the expression. “Well, I have considered it. Mr. Tower said he thought it might be possible.” Actually, that wasn’t what Elliott Tower had said but it was all I could think to come back with. And I didn’t want to cause too much friction between Sam and

Elliott. “Well, yes,” Mr. Smit folded his napkin and laid it next to his plate. “Stop by the office Monday and we’ll discuss it.” He had that pissy little look on his face. Elliott Tower spoke up. “For hell’s sake, Sam. She’s staying for November. No lease, no payment. Is that understood? I don’t think we need an additional lease between friends for this. You can start renting it out again in December.” “But, Elliott, Thanksgiving weekend is always a good money stay.” Sam Smit was going to have his say if not his way. “You know what, Sam? Until Phoebe got rid of the ghosts, you couldn’t have rented it for Thanksgiving and probably not even Halloween. Phoebe is staying through November—to and through Thanksgiving, if she wants. Understood?” Mr. Tower was not hot under the collar exactly but he was tired of the posturing. He’s right—the cabin wasn’t even rentable a week ago. Sam evidently feels he should have a lot to say about cabin rentals. He pursed his mouth and I expected some sort of rebuttal. I waited. Sam picked up his napkin and put it back on his lap. “Okay, Elliott, I get it. Miss McFannin is staying another month—without a lease. I got it.” His friend leaned over and said something to him—sounded like ‘watch your blood pressure’. I leaned over to Mark. “This is very awkward. Does Mr. Smit hold grudges?” “I’ve never even seen him worked up about something before and I’ve known him 20 years. So, I don’t know. I doubt it. He’s a money man—that’s all. His cash cow died in January. You brought it back to life and he can’t milk it yet. That’s all. Don’t let him bother you. Elliott calls the shots.” The outburst didn’t seem to dampen the spirit of the rest of the table at all. So I may have blown it out of proportion when I took it personally. The entree was served and the conversation flowed. I enjoyed this very much. Adult conversation about adult topics. I hadn’t realized until right then how much of a hermit I’ve been. I have missed this give and take with other people. And I didn’t even know it. I don’t mean just the past two months here at Lake Baldwin. I’ve been hiding away for some time. As long as I’ve been fairly prolific in writing, maybe five or six years, I haven’t been especially social. Until this very minute, I didn’t realize how much I missed the company of other thinking adults.

Dessert was served. A moist, warm, chocolate, molded cake with fresh raspberries on top. It was small. It was rich. It was delicious. And I said so. Mrs. Rush’s face lit up. “It’s my recipe. And I figured how to take the recipe from serves ten to serves 200.” “That is quite a feat—to increase a recipe by 20. I’d love to have the recipe. I am not the world’s greatest baker but I’d really work to make this right. It is so good.” The smile was a great reward. This woman is a whiz in the kitchen but I have the feeling people take it for granted. That’s how it was with my own Mother. She could cook anything well but everyone took it for granted and there were very few genuine compliments. “I’ll have a copy for you Thursday when you come in. Thank you for the compliment. Most people don’t understand you can’t just take a recipe and multiple each of the ingredients by 20 to increase the amount and get the same result.” “That is true. It takes a very talented baker to do it. Thank you so much. I am going to buy the ingredients too on Thursday.” The woman was positively beaming. But I was sincere. It takes talent to increase a recipe like that. My mother was the only other person I knew that could do it. And she was a professionally school trained chef. I am sure Mrs. Rush has no more culinary schooling than high school home economics. And I know for fact that’s a spit in the wind when it comes to learning how to cook. It seemed like only a few minutes until the tables were clear and someone was at a podium (I hadn’t even seen it before.) asking for everyone’s attention. It was the mayor. He had a little speech about the summer, how the merchants were affected, how many summer visitors had been in Lake Baldwin, statistics on several things and other stuff like that. He mentioned that the most famous visitor this year was Phoebe McFannin, the mystery writer. He asked me to stand and there was a little flurry of applause. I am sure my visit was news to more than half the people there. It was rather interesting to hear a run-down of a summer’s business in a small town. While he didn’t give dollars and cents, he was big on percentages and it appeared that most of the town’s merchants had done better this year than last. Then the mayor asked Mrs. Tower if she still had something to say. Eleanor got up and quickly went to the podium. “I want to thank all of you again for your help with the fire that we had in our

rental cabin in January. As I know you are all aware, the cabin has been haunted since then. Everyone scoffed at the idea but weekend renter after weekend renter attested to a haunting. In August we rented to Phoebe McFannin, the renown mystery writer. Phoebe discovered the source of the haunting and invited me to the cabin this week. Together we were able to completely rid the premises of unwanted presences. I know many of you think I am crazy but if you’d care to talk to Phoebe and me this evening, we will explain everything to you. Phoebe will be in Lake Baldwin through November. She has finished a new book while she’s been here. I hope you’ll all buy it when it’s released.” With that, she left the podium. Everyone applauded; a few hooted but not many. When she got back to the table, she was flushed. I would say with success. “I hope you don’t mind what I said, Phoebe.” “Not at all. Nice plug for the new book. And it’s true; the ghosts are gone.” She patted my arm. “I’m so glad I met you, Phoebe McFannin. You are truly a marvelous person.” Now it was my turn to blush. The mayor had retaken the podium and was saying, “Let’s dance. Thank God Summer’s Over.” Mark asked, “Do you dance, Phoebe?” “Well, I used to, Mark. It’s been a while.” “It’s like riding a bicycle—you never forget how.” “Mark, I’ve never ridden a bicycle. But I’d like to dance.” He laughed and took my hand. “Let us go. If you step on my feet too much, I’ll cry.”

CHAPTER NINE

The party began to wind down around 1am. Little groups of people had been drifting out for more than an hour when Mark asked if I wanted to wait until the band quit playing or go home early. We had danced several dances together and frequently someone would cut in and introduce himself as he danced me around the floor. Each time a gentleman cut in, he would say to Mark, “Good doctor, it’s my turn to dance with the pretty stranger.” or something like that. Mark would say to me, “This is Ted Bocher from the sporting goods store.” or whoever it was along with his place of business. Introductions were swift and simple and I met many nice men. A number of them wanted to talk as we danced but a few just danced. I had truly forgotten how much fun dancing could be. Mark would claim me at the end of each dance and we’d either go back to the table or would immediately engage in the next dance. It seemed to depend on the music. In an hour or so I came to realize that Mark wasn’t much of a cha-cha or rumba dancer. That didn’t bother me though. I love the rumba but can’t cha-cha worth a darn. It has been a long time since I took Cotillion in college. But there were men there who asked me to dance the rhumba, fortunately cha cha doesn’t seem to rank high in Lake Baldwin. A couple of the dancers were single men and they were more talkative than the married guys. Their first question, almost invariably, was how long have you known Mark? I laughed and explained that I met him when he nearly ran me over last week. And one fellow, Jim Hyer from the ski and sports shop, said, “Great. So there’s no relationship with the good doctor. How much longer will you be in Lake Baldwin?” And another, after asking how long have you know Mark and I repeated the run over story, said, “He does drive like a bat out of hell sometimes through town. He’s been called on it before. He’s been lucky so far and hasn’t killed anybody.” I laughed. “After he told me a pedestrian has responsibilities, I told him he was driving too fast. You mean to tell me he probably was?” “Oh, yeah.”

It turned out to be a very fun evening. I was glad that I had gone to the effort of buying a decent dress. We were at the table—the Rushes had just left—when Mark told the Towers we were going to leave. They nodded and said they thought they would too. We shook hands all round and Eleanor gave me a hug. “Thank you again, Phoebe.” I knew she wasn’t talking about ridding the cabin of ghosts. “I’m glad you were there.” I didn’t know what else to say. I know I’ll never forget watching Eleanor saying goodbye to her cats. If there had been nothing else in the summer, that would have been enough for me. The drive to the cabin went quickly. Just as we got to the gravelly section at the end of the driveway, I saw a family of skunks crossing from the cabin to the other side of the road. “Look, Mark. Skunks.” He had slowed the car to allow the little family to cross safely. “For pete’s sake, Phoebe, don’t they have skunks in Monrovia?” “Of course they do. But, Mark, these are the first four-footed animals I’ve seen in the vicinity since I’ve been here.” “Give me a break. Come on, Phoebe, animals are always sniffing around the cabins. Even where I live.” “You don’t get it, do you? Mark, the cabin was haunted. No living animal would come around.” “You’re going to stick to that haunted idea, eh?” “I am. Because it was. Ask Sam Smit to show you the photographs I left with him the morning you nearly ran me over. Maybe then you’ll believe. I took them with my own camera… just weeks ago.” He parked the car at the bottom of the steps. “Okay, Phoebe. I’ll ask Sam to show me the proof.” “Good!” Mark is such a skeptic. I hope I learn of his reaction to the photos—if

he bothers asking Sam about them. He came around the car and opened the door for me. We walked up the steps to the porch. “I didn’t realize,” he pointed downward, “you can see the town so well. There are a lot lights at night.” I really didn’t have a response to that. But then, I think he was just musing out loud. I opened the cabin door. “Thank you for a nice evening. I truly enjoyed it.” “You’ll probably be getting a lot of calls in the next few days. You were a bit hit among the single men of Lake Baldwin.” “How will anyone know my number?” “Goose, look in the directory. You’re listed as Tower Cabin.” Of course, I should have known. The telephone belongs to the cabin and is turned on only when the renter is going to stay and pay for it. “Of course, Mark. I forgot I’m in a small town.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Phoebe, Phoebe. How can someone so intelligent be so dumb? I’ll call you in a day or two.” And with that, he got into his car and left. I went in, closed the front door and leaned against it. I had survived a social night out. And it felt good.

CHAPTER TEN

The next morning I woke quite early. Early for me since I’ve been in Lake Baldwin, that is. The sun wasn’t too high in the sky yet—at 6 it was just beginning to peek over the horizon. It was barely pushing its way through the clouds. The outside temperature wasn’t too cold so I went out on the porch in robe and slippers to watch the sun struggle its way up and over the mountains. The birds were very lively—something exciting must be going on as they all seemed to be talking to one another—all at the same time. Two dogs came trotting around the corner of the cabin. They didn’t seem too surprised to see me and one even woofed a greeting. At least, I think it was a greeting. It sounded friendly enough. They must be taking a shortcut to somewhere as they didn’t turn up or down the road but continued in a straight line across the hillside. There were three or four squirrels in the tree closest to the cabin. They were chattering about something. Winter is coming and I imagine they are strategizing about their food storage—or some other important matter. One kept running up and down the tree trunk while the others sat in the Y of three large limbs. They seemed to have a lot to discuss so early in the day. I went back in and started a pot of coffee. My shower took about five minutes. I just wanted to wash my face and to rinse off the rest of me. I put on a pair of jeans, a turtle neck sweater and some warm socks. By the time I was clean and dressed, the coffee pot signaled it was finished brewing. Today is the first day in the three months I’ve been here that I’ve missed having a daily paper delivered. I sat on the swing, drinking my coffee and watching the wild life. This is the first day I’ve seen, or heard, squirrels, dogs, blue jays and there was even one lone opossum. The cabin definitely is no longer haunted. I should have known weeks ago that something was wrong when there were no animals around the cabin. I should have known. I did know but ghosts aren’t something you discuss over tea and crumpets. You ignore the possibility. Well, I do. And so do small towns. Everyone was interested in how I was enjoying the cabin but not one of them could ask if I thought it was haunted. The telephone rang about 7 and startled me. First of all, I haven’t gotten a lot of

calls and secondly, it’s awfully early to be calling. Well, maybe it’s my editor. He is always forgetting there’s a time zone difference of three hours. I left the porch swing and went inside to answer. It was the good doctor. “Do you realize what time it is, Mark?” I was surprised that he’d call so early. He knows he brought me home after 1am. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do know the time. It’s 7:10. Why do you ask?” “Because, where I come from, people don’t call people until 9 or after.” “Really? What a strange custom. Do they set up impromptu breakfast engagements the night before or something?” “Oh, SIlly, you know what I mean. It’s mighty damn early in the day for the telephone to be ringing.” “Weren’t you up? Did I wake you?” “No, I’ve been up for over an hour.” “So, what’s the problem?” I shook my head. I could see I was going to get nowhere. He did have a point but I hated to it it. “There’s no problem. What can I do for you at 7:10 in the morning, Doctor?” “Well, I thought you might care to me for breakfast. Providing you haven’t already eaten. If you have, you can watch me and have a second or third or whatever cup of coffee. And then, if you have any available time, perhaps you would accompany me to San Bernardino. I understand they are having a hot air balloon fest this weekend. It’s the last day and I thought you might be interested in seeing the balloons.” I was surprised at both invitations. It sounded like a fun day and nothing that I would have thought would interest the good doctor. “I would love to do both, Mark. I’m in jeans and a sweater. Is that presentable for a balloon fest up here?” Why did I ask? I have been to the San Bernardino

balloon festival before—in jeans and a sweater. My brain evidently isn’t in gear yet. The good doctor throws me off somehow. “Absolutely. I’ll be up in less than ten minutes. We can eat in Big Bear before we head down.” “Thank you for calling.” “Even at 7:10am?” He can be such a snide man. “Even so.” I went into the house and changed shoes. The last balloon fest I went to involved a heck of a lot of walking. I put my camera in my purse, checked for cash and rinsed out my coffee cup. By the time I got back to the front door, Mark had pulled his car up to the stairs and opened the car door for me. As he turned around in the drive way he said, “The squirrels sure seem active today. Must be headed for a cold winter.” “This is the first time I’ve even seen a squirrel so close to the cabin. I was really surprised when I got up today, Dogs, birds and squirrels and one lone opossum.” “You’re sticking to the haunted cabin story then?” “Indeed I am, Doctor. Indeed I am.” He didn’t actually laugh, but he smiled quite broadly and sort of shrugged his shoulders. “Well, let us leave this haunted place and get some breakfast.” “Mark, as Eleanor told the town last night—the cabin is no longer haunted. That’s why all the animals are around.” He reached over and patted my knee. “Anything you say, Cupcake. Anything you say.” Cupcake? Cupcake? Who does he think he’s patronizing? What a chauvinist!

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The day was as much fun as it had sounded at 7am. We ate at a small place in Big Bear—evidently Mark is a regular as everyone seemed to know him. I was famished and ordered two poached eggs, a side of bacon, hash browns, a bowl of fruit and some toast. He had some fru-fru thing with whipped creams and berries on top. “What kind of meal is that to start the day, Doctor? You’ll be starving before lunchtime.” “I’ll have you know that I have a strawberry waffle every Sunday.” “And are you hungry by noon?” He looked at me with a weird smile. “You know, come to think of it, I am. But I like strawberry waffles.” Well, I had made my point and where did it get me? Nowhere. So I just dropped the whole thing and went back to my sensible breakfast. He was on his third cup of coffee by the time I had finished eating. I refilled my cup from the coffee carafe on the table. “Have you been to a hot-air balloon affair before, Mark?” “No, that’s why I thought it might be fun. Sounds fun. Looks fun.” He didn’t ask if I had so I didn’t tell him I have even been to Albuquerque, New Mexico for a week of hot air ballooning. A friend of mine owns a balloon in partnership with someone else and they manage six or eight festivals a year. And I’ve been to a couple balloon affairs since Albuquerque—weekenders, like this one. By 9 we were well on our way to San Bernardino; actually a large open park just north of San Bernardino. There was limited parking and a lot of people. But Mark found a spot not too far from the main launching area.

There were nearly a hundred balloons there—according to the program I snagged on the way in. Some of the balloons I’d seen before. Pretty famous shapes—Cows, shoes, beer bottles, cottages, cars, train engines, monkeys. Mark apparently had never seen a balloon shaped like anything other than a balloon before and he was like a kid in a candy store. He’d point and grin, and grin and point. We walked nearly three quarters of the way around the perimeter when I spied a friend. I waved at him and he came running over to Mark and me. “Phoebe McFannin, what the heck are you doing in this neck of the woods?” “Graham, just how far away do you think I live from here? It’s an hour at most.” “Really. Well, how the hell have you been? Did you come hoping to see me?” He laughed. Mark is looking on with a slight pout—already. “Graham, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Mark Hampton. Mark, this is Graham Greene.” The two men shook hands. Graham asked Mark, “Is this your first balloon fest, Mark?” “As a matter of fact, it is.” Mark is still swivel necking as he tries to see everything. “Would you like to go up and see it from the air?” Mark got a look on his face that looked like terror (to me). “Go up? In a balloon? Are you serious?” “Yeah, I am. See the balloon over there with the vertical colored stripes? The one that actually looks like a balloon?” Mark looked in the direction Graham was pointing. “Yes. I see it.” “That’s mine. We’ve about ready to launch. There’s room for one more. If you’d like to come along, you’re more than welcome. We’ll be aloft about half an hour or so. That yellow truck—that’s our chase vehicle.” Mark looked at me. “Would you want to go?”

“Oh, sure. Do you have room for two more, Graham? If not, I’ll go with the chase and let Mark go up with you.” “Well, two more would be a bit of a squeeze. I have two already.” “Then I’ll stay on the ground and Mark can go with you.” Mark began to protest that that wouldn’t be right for him to go up and not me too. “Mark, I’ve been aloft before—in that very balloon. Go ahead. If you’ve never gone, you will be so amazed. It is so quiet up there you can hear the wings of the birds flap as they fly by you. That is until Graham pulls on the gas cord. Go ahead.” Mark started to make another objection and Graham said, “Come on, we have to be out of this spot in ten minutes or less. There’s a rotation system in this small an arena.” He took Mark by the arm. I ran behind them until I got to the chase truck. “Hi, Graham says I can ride with you.” The driver turned and looked at me. “Phoebe, how are you?” It was Graham’s brother Gregory. He and I went up in the balloon together the last time I was aloft. “Jump in. I see he suckered your boyfriend into a ride.” “Greg, he’s not my boyfriend, but I do believe suckered is the right term.” We both laughed. “Who are the others going?” “Some attorney from Pasadena and one of his cohorts. This guy booked us for several rides on Friday morning. I think he’s wanting to buy a balloon. He spent so much money on his bookings that Graham is giving him a freebie ride today.” The ground crew released the tie lines and the balloon gradually lifted off the ground. I could see Mark hanging on to the side of the basket for dear life. Maybe it was a good thing he had only a waffle for breakfast. It may have been my imagination but he looked a little pale. Of course, distance has to be factored in—so maybe I’m only imagining his pallor. But I’d lay odds that I’m not. The balloon followed the highway for some distance and then headed eastward. Greg had no difficulty keeping it in sight as we chattered away.

“How long has it been since we’ve seen you, Phoebe?” “At least six years, maybe seven. How have you all been? Did you ever marry Lenore?” “No, not yet. But we’re still together. She’s ground crew today. Yesterday she was chaser.” “You’re damn lucky she enjoys this as much as you do.” “Sometimes I think she doesn’t enjoy it at all. She just comes along to keep an eye on me. You can be sure she managed to ask Graham who the woman was before she untied the line.” I laughed. I think he expected me too. “Gregory Greene, I believe you may be exaggerating.” On second thought, maybe he’s not. Lenore can be a bit jealous at times. But I didn’t say that out loud. It was well over half an hour before Graham brought the balloon down. We pulled up on the road next to the meadow he had landed in before the balloon was fully deflated. “He’s deflating. Are you over for the day?” “Probably. We got here Thursday. Graham had scheduled a couple of private flights for Friday. These two guys and a bunch of their friends in the morning and a couple others Graham booked on line in the afternoon. We’re all a bit tired this trip. And by deflating and rolling up, these guys can see the whole deal. Important stuff to know if you’re buying a balloon.” “I’m glad we showed up when we did. Mark had never been in a balloon before. Graham nearly had to break his arm to get him in this time. I’m sure he’s forgiven both of us by now—a good flight will change your outlook on life forever.” “Phoebe, are you still writing? You should write our ads. That was so poetic.” I punched him and got out of the truck to go help roll up the balloon. Greg would have to find a way into the meadow because the balloon and its basket are very heavy and we’d never get it to the truck from this distance. The two attorneys

helped roll the deflated balloon but I am not sure they knew what they were doing. Though, actually, there’s not much to it. Mark was happy as a lark. He had truly enjoyed the flight. Once the balloon had been stowed in basket and it was ready to go in the back of the truck, Graham said, “Phoebe, please help Greg with the cooler. We still follow tradition.” Mark looked at us with a question forming in his mind. He hadn’t asked it yet but I could feel it coming. Greg and I carried the cooler back. He pulled stuff out of it, I draped it with the small cloth he handed me and he then used the cooler as a table. “Phoebe, you pour the juice, I’ll handle the bubbly.” The question was getting bigger. But Mark still hadn’t asked it. But once he had a mimosa in his hand he said, “What’s this?” Graham replied. “Come on, Mark. It’s a mimosa. Surely you’ve had one at a Sunday brunch or something.” Graham loved playing the smart ass especially if he thought he was dealing with one. “Well, of course, I’ve had several minosa. I just don’t understand. I’m standing in the middle of someone’s cow pasture drinking champagne.” “It is tradition. A mimosa after a good flight.” We touched rims and drank. I asked Mark, “Well, how did you like the ride?” “Phoebe, it was absolutely remarkable. And so is this mimosa. And so are you.” Graham introduced me to the two other engers. The six of us stood and finished our drinks in silence. Greg packed everything back into the cooler and then pulled the truck within a few feet of the basket before deploying a small ramp. He had a small winch anchored in the bed of the truck and the basket full of balloon soon was in the truck. Graham and the two attorneys got into the back seat of the truck cab. Mark came up front with Greg and me. We turned the truck around and headed back to San Bernardino. Mark was full of questions about ballooning and bombarded the guys all the way back. They were delighted that he was so enthused and answered every question —even a couple of dumb ones. We were back at the launch site in a few minutes.

Lenore came running up as we got out of the truck. “Phoebe. I couldn’t believe it when Graham said he was taking your boyfriend up. It’s good to see you. How long has it been? Seven/eight years?” “Greg and I were trying to determine that earlier. I think it’s been seven.” “Sure good to see you. What a pleasure. Don’t be a stranger. We’re still in the same place. Come see us. Are you still in Monrovia?” I tried to answer all the questions. Mark was saying his thanks for Graham. Handshakes all around; and hugs for me. The attorneys had taken off almost as soon as the truck stopped. We walked back to the car. “God, Phoebe, you didn’t tell me you knew ballooners.” “I didn’t know they’d be here so there was no reason to mention it. Did you have a good time?” “I sure did. And now I’m starving.” He looked at his watch. “No wonder. It’s after 2.” There were plenty of food kiosks at the festival but neither of us was interested in standing up and eating. Ballooning works up an appetite. Mark knew of a restaurant on the way home—in Running Springs. It had been a really fun day. Mark got to fly for the first time. And I saw longtime friends. He talked about ballooning at lunch and all the way back to Lake Baldwin. I think he’s a talker anyhow but I was wishing he had a mute button somewhere that I could push by the time we pulled up to the Tower Cabin. I invited him in for a drink when we pulled into the drive but his pager sounded just then. “Oops, Looks like I’m still a doctor.” And he was gone. It had been a day full of life. I haven’t enjoyed a day like this in a long time. Truly, I have become a hermit. I put a martini glass in the freezer and went in to the bedroom to change my clothes. I washed my hands and face and then made a very dry martini. It’s been a long time since I’ve drunk alone too. I took the drink out to the porch swing and watched the sun go down. What an absolutely beautiful day this has been. The sunset over the lake was so colorful it even

tinted the water. I took a long time to finish my drink. Yes, it had been a great day.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The next morning I took my coffee out to the porch swing. When I had finished that first cup, I went for a walk—as I have done so many mornings before. The trees are beginning to turn from green to red and gold on the upper slopes of the mountains. Winter is on its way. It’s October. I can stay here one more month if I want. Do I want to? That is the question. Do I want to? Am I getting too involved with Lake Baldwin? Or too involved with Mark? No, a day out isn’t too involved. I watched the squirrels. Mark’s right; they’re really busy. My grandmother would agree with him that it’s going to be a hard winter. Can squirrels really predict weather? I don’t think so. Maybe they’re just ambitious. They may be making up for the time lost when they were afraid to approach the cabin. When I returned to the cabin an hour later, I took my computer out to the porch. I haven’t done that in a long while. I wasn’t really writing anything though. I looked up a couple of things on Google. No rhyme or reason for that other than the inquiring mind wants to know. It was an eclectic search of several things. I was just ready to turn off the computer when my editor called. He was his usually hyper excited self. He yelled at me. “Don’t you ever go online anymore, Phoebe? I sent you five layouts for the dust jacket of this new book last Tuesday. I want to get this show on the road and the book out before Christmas. For pete’s sake it’s nearly Halloween.” I itted I haven’t been online for quite a while. Didn’t find a need to. I didn’t tell him I’ve been googling some stuff but didn’t even think about email. But I did promise I would do so as soon as I hung up. He’s right. You can’t publish a book without a cover. And as I hadn’t turned off the computer I had absolutely no excuse not to go back online. My email was overflowing. As that’s been my primary method of communication for quite a while, I guess I should be checking it daily—as I used to. I deleted about half of what was there before I finished scanning to find the jacket layouts. I didn’t like any of them. I liked part of one and part of another

but all five seemed so lifeless. I sent an email saying so. Some actual fan mail—wow! I don’t know why, after so many years, fan mail still surprises me. I answered them briefly, one by one. Quite a few had been there for more than a week and I apologized for the late response saying I have been completing a new book which hopefully would be out by Christmas. I hate excuses but what else could I say that wouldn’t make them feel I didn’t care? And, it is the truth. Sort of. Before I finished the emails, I got another jacket layout. Evidently the editor had someone throw together the two jackets I half liked and he sent that. I made a suggestion about tweaking one little thing and sent it off. An almost immediate response—“I knew it’d be trouble when you insisted you have approval rights for the jackets.” I sent back a response. “Yeah, you knew it. But you love the books. And whoever does the layouts has all their taste all in their mouth. And you know it.” Some of my book jackets have been so dorky. I felt it was absolutely necessary to begin approving them to improve them. While you can’t judge a book by its cover, I’ve been told, the cover certainly affects its selling power. A bad cover indicates a bad book, right? Of course it doesn’t, but many readers seem to think so—if they aren’t fans of that author already. Personally, I’d like to get new readers as well as old ones to buy my books. Perhaps half an hour later a revised layout arrived. It was good. “This is very nice. Thank you.” That’s all I said. I didn’t stay on line waiting for a response. He won’t respond anyhow. He’s trying to publish a book before Christmas. I plugged the computer in to recharge and went to make some lunch. I had missed breakfast altogether. For a change, I ate in the kitchen and not on the porch. Suddenly there was a bit of a chill in the wind and I wasn’t dressed for it. Yes, I could put on a jacket but I was hungry. And the hour’s walk seemed to satisfy my need to be outside today. After cleaning up after myself, I unplugged the computer and took it to the big chair by the window. No outline, no summary, but all of a sudden a story was trying to unfold in my mind. I sat down and wrote and wrote and wrote. I quit when the battery asked to be recharged. I could see the lights of the town come twinkling on. I know that I have just finished a book but this new story is pretty insistent. I haven’t ever

written two in a row—an immediate row that is. Usually there’s a couple of months between books. But this story feels good and I don’t want to blow it. There have been times that I’d get an idea and decide to let it ride until the next day. I lost it every time. I don’t want to lose this one. I made a tomato and cheese sandwich and went back to the computer. The battery wasn’t totally recharged so I just left it plugged in. The words were just flowing onto the monitor. I believe my fingers were barely touching the keys. It was like magic. I have a friend that would swear I was channeling. Channeling who? She never knew and my work doesn’t vaguely resemble anyone’s. No, some stories are just more insistent than others. This feels like a good mystery with a bit of comedy woven in. Finally somewhere around 3am, I backed up the day’s writing and went to bed. Hopefully, the words will look as good in the morning. If they don’t, well, I exercised my fingers a lot.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I woke to two squirrels outside my bedroom window. They were arguing about something. At least, it sounded like a full-blown argument. It was just barely 8am. I opened the window and yelled at them. “Don’t you know people are trying to sleep in here?” They stopped chattering and looked at me. They looked surprised, believe it or not. Either I interrupted them and they couldn’t where they had left off or else the argument was over. The two bushy tailed beings on the branch shut up. But, too late, I was wide awake now. I resisted the temptation to turn on the computer and start reading. I might never get showered or fed if I do. I put coffee on to brew. I am so glad I decided to bring my own coffee pot. The one in the pantry that belongs to the cabin could not possibly make a decent pot of coffee. After I showered I sat in my robe and slippers at the kitchen table and enjoyed a cup of coffee. I didn’t feel like eating cereal today and I didn’t feel like cooking anything. But I am definitely hungry. I finished a third cup of coffee, got dressed and walked down to the Knotty Pine. Audrey was on duty this morning and was surprised to see me. I don’t come often for breakfast. “Good morning, Phoebe. Can I get you some coffee?’ “Audrey, I believe I have had enough coffee for the moment. But I would like a Denver omelet and a biscuit, right after some fruit. What kind of fruit do you have today?” “We have peaches, strawberries and blueberries. The peaches are local.” She didn’t say where the berries were from so I guess that means they didn’t buy them from a local source. “Oh, and tomatoes. We have absolutely beautiful tomatoes.” “I’ve eaten tomatoes nearly every day I have been in Lake Baldwin and still have some at home. How about a dish of peaches?”

Audrey brought me a glass of water, a pitcher of cream and a dish of peaches before she hung the order for the omelet. The peaches were pure ambrosia. I could have eaten a second dish of fruit and called it even but the omelet order was already working. “How’s the book coming, Phoebe? I hear you finished it?” “Yes, the book I started when I came is done and should be released by Christmas. It’s called “The Mystery of the Forgotten Fountain. I okayed the dust jacket yesterday.” “Do you have any idea when you might start another book?” I smiled, mostly to myself. “Well, I may have started one yesterday. I’ll have to see how it goes.” Audrey doesn’t know, but I have never started a book and waited to see how it goes. After reading the first ten thousand words I know whether or not it’ll fly. Maybe that’s why I’m putting off reading what I wrote yesterday. Maybe. Then she asked about the balloon fest. She had heard that Dr. Hampton and I had gone to San Bernardino on Sunday. “How did you hear that, Audrey?” “Oh, my little brother fell down a cliff Sunday evening and the exchange paged Dr. Hampton. He showed up in about five minutes—said he’d just dropped you off at your house. And, of course, my mother had to ask where you’d been and he said the San Berdo balloon thingie. He said you knew some ballooners and he got to go up in a balloon.” Ah, the wonders of a small town and a doctor with a big mouth. “He said that if we ever had the chance to go up in a hot-air balloon we should take it. He said it was the best and most quiet ride he’s ever had. It was very peaceful and he could actually watch the world go by. He said the balloon was right at the level the birds were flying and it was really a kick. One bird seemed to be curious about the balloon and followed it for some time.” Thankfully, just then, the cook called Audrey. My omelet was up. She carefully

set the plate in front of me. “Would you like some coffee now?” I nodded. This will be cup four or something. I don’t need it. But I didn’t call at her to cancel either. Should I say something to Mark about talking so much? I had gauged him as a talker but was still surprised that he said so much about our day to ‘people’. Is this the way small towns are? Should I be rethinking staying another month? Could I possibly finish the story I started yesterday somewhere else? Is it the locale that is prompting the words? Do I want to take a chance? That is something I guess I’ll have to wait and see how it goes.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

During the walk home I decided it really didn’t matter how much Mark talked about what we did. I won’t be here much longer. No one seems to dislike me or the good doctor, so the result won’t be nasty gossip. I’ll just let it ride. Gossip may be the only entertainment a small town has when the tourists have gone for the season. With a winter season coming up, they’ll forget me soon enough. I dust mopped the cabin and did the few dishes in the sink. I made another pot of coffee and sat on the porch with a cup. I can’t believe I am drinking more coffee today. The squirrels weren’t the only animals that seemed in a bit of a frenzy this morning. The two dogs I now see daily were the only four-legged creatures not scurrying about. They just sauntered by, as usual. After another cup of coffee, I went inside. There was a nip in the air today unlike any I’ve experienced up here —to date. A downright chill. Guess the weather changes quickly in the mountains. In Monrovia, where I live, there is very little difference from summer to autumn to winter. Very little. For some reason I feel a bit out-of-it today. My brain hasn’t seemed to lock in yet. Or something. I sat in the big chair by the picture window and just took in the view. I hadn’t noticed before but the non-pine trees, right around the cabin, are all beginning to change color. Across the lake the upper reaches of the mountains have been gradually changing for a week but the trees close to the cabin were green, I swear, until this morning. I got up to go to the bathroom and realized I have probably had ten cups of coffee all told today. That is entirely too much. I’ll never sleep tonight. That’s probably why my brain is out of gear. Too much caffeine. There’s no undoing that unfortunately. Finally, I decided I had to read what I had written yesterday. After turning on the computer and accessing word processing, I turned on the word count. Unbelievable. I looked twice—I had written over 8,000 words yesterday! I began to read. Even five thousand words should be enough to tell me whether or not this really is a story or not. But eight? I was almost afraid to pull up the first page.

The day slipped away and the light was fading when I finally came up for air. I don’t need 10,000 words to know whether or not a story will go—not when it’s this solid, this good. I have surprised even me this time. Without an outline, summary or character list, this story has really taken off. It should be good. Very good. Do I need to do a character list? Can I write 80,000 words and everyone? I don’t know. I’ve never written a book this way before. I made some dinner—what I had planned to have for lunch actually. Yep, I read through another meal. I should be losing weight with all the meals I’ve missed this summer. And perhaps I am, my jeans do seem a bit loose. While eating, my mind went back to the new story. Yes, it should be good. Even though there’s a lot of caffeine in cocoa, I wanted something hot to drink that wasn’t coffee. I made a pot of cocoa, put the computer on the kitchen table and started to write again. The story is there. I just need to lay it out. The last of the cocoa was cold and so was the cabin. I laid and lit a fire in the fireplace. The temperature must have dropped quite a bit during the later part of the day. I don’t wear a watch so went into the living room to see the only clock in the cabin—it was after midnight. Unbelievable. The cabin is small enough that it warmed up nicely in less than an hour. I didn’t feel like taking a shower though I probably should. I really prefer to shower in the morning even though I don’t do that every day. I sat in the big chair for half an hour getting warm. I wasn’t tired enough to doze off. It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten high on writing. A long time. Wow! Maybe I am really becoming an author. Suddenly I realized I couldn’t see the lights of the town. I got up and went closer to the window. Looks a little bit foggy out there. The temperature must have really dropped. I tidied up the kitchen, turned out the light and went to bed, warm and toasty. As Scarlet said, “Tomorrow is another day.” Surprisingly, it didn’t take long to go to sleep.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Later that morning—about 8:30—I woke. There was a strange silence. No birds, no squirrels, nothing. Sort of like the first days I lived in this cabin. I slipped into my robe and slippers and went to the kitchen. I could see absolutely nothing out the window. I went to the living room. Fog—a dense heavy fog had taken over the landscape. It was a bit chilly in the cabin so I built another fire in the fireplace. I had brought several pieces of wood inside last week to fill the inside wood basket. Most of it was what I had dragged home myself. I’ll not freeze up here. It’s moments like this I am glad I asked about gathering wood. The outside wood box is on the porch by the back door and it is also filled with the wood I dragged home a few weeks ago. I can stay warm a long while. I byed the coffee this morning and made a pot of Prince of Wales tea. A big pot. Yes, still has caffeine but it doesn’t affect me quite as radically. I don’t get hyper on tea. There were bits and pieces of leftovers in the fridge and I made a nice hash. I grated two potatoes to add to the pan of onions, leftover meat, a bit of sweet corn, well—the standard leftover stuff. While it was cooking, I got dressed in jeans, turtle-neck sweater and heavy socks. I don’t know that it’s actually colder outside or not but it looks as though it should be. The fog seemed even denser at 10 than it had at 8:30. I took the computer to the big chair and started writing. The story seems to know where it’s going—even if I don’t. But, I actually do. I just haven’t formalized it by writing an outline. Unusual for me but the words keep coming. I was pleased with what I read yesterday. I wrote all day again. The fog never lifted though it seemed to clear ever so slightly. I couldn’t see the lake or the town and lost my reference for time. When I finally backed up and closed the computer, it was nearly 9pm. Is this what it would feel like to be a hermit? After I backed up the story on a new disk, I went scrounging in the kitchen. It

was too late to walk down to the Knotty Pine—and I probably couldn’t find my way back anyhow. The fog was still hunkered down. I walked out on the porch and couldn’t see the lights of the town or any reflection from the lake. This is one tough fog. The last fog I saw this thick was on the coast—no, wait, it was the year a group of us drove to the Sacramento Delta to rent a houseboat over Thanksgiving. That was one mean mother of a fog. Highway 99 practically vanished. We caravanned behind a couple of semi trucks for about thirty miles. When they stopped, we stopped. We were at a truck stop. The two drivers said it was too much fog even for them. When we told them where we were going, one of the drivers said it was less than ten miles further up the highway. But, he suggested we wait until morning. So we sat in a truck stop in the middle of a pea soup fog, drank coffee and listened to trucker tales until about 5:30am. The fog had begun to thin out a bit and one driver gave me very explicit directions to the marina. He also gave me his address. As I recall, we exchanged a couple of postcards that year and kept in touch for quite a few years. I wonder what ever happened to him? How long ago was that? I haven’t thought of that trip in a very long time. It was marvelous. There was no fog the entire week we were on the Delta. And none at all driving home. That was the year before my first book was published. Things have never been the same since. I believe that was my last real vacation until now. I wonder if this fog will dissipate by morning? What causes a fog like this in the mountains? I didn’t have an answer and went to bed. It was nearly midnight, again. On Wednesday morning I could see under the fog from the edge of the porch. It’s lifting! But there was still a tomb-like silence over the side of the mountain. I had a bowl of cereal with the last of the blueberries. The marvelous taste of summer in a little blue ball. I put a pot of coffee to brewing. The computer was still on the table from last evening; I hadn’t even closed it. It might be a good idea to check my email—I think it’s been awhile, again. I have enough trouble keeping track of time without a fog to completely obliterate my days. An email sent Monday from my editor caught my attention. “The Forgotten

Fountain” is wrapping up quicker than expected. Would I consider an appearance with Jay Leno on the Tonight Show in mid-November to push it? He went on to remind me that I’m not that far from Los Angeles and it shouldn’t be that big a hardship for me to go. He was offering a defense even though I hadn’t said a word—am I that difficult to deal with? I sent him a reply saying, “You’re right, Edward, it isn’t a big hardship to go to LA. When? I need at least two-weeks’ notice.” I clicked send and went on to the other emails waiting. Nothing important—I read and deleted my way down the list. Before I had finished the computer dinged—a new message. Eddie. “My people will talk to his people and we’ll set a date. I’ve already made an inquiry and he’s interested. His secretary says he’s a Phoebe McFannin fan so she’s sure he’ll be delighted to have you on the show. Could you plan on wearing something very attractive? You usually go kind of dressed down.” I laughed to myself. I guess I’m not much of fashion plate. I replied, “I was invited to a rather fancy hoedown here a few weeks ago and bought an extremely attractive outfit for it. I will wear it to Leno’s.” I signed off and opened the manuscript I’ve been working on so diligently the past few days. Instead of beginning to read at the beginning as I have each time I’ve opened it before today, I went down 40 pages and began reading from there. As is my custom, I made little changes as I went—add something here, delete a word or phrase there, change something. When I came to the end, I sat back and smiled. This is good. It’s even better than the “Forgotten Fountain”. How can that be? I think the fountain is one of the best books I’ve written—ever. Even my editor agrees. The coffee pot had signaled it was ready more than an hour ago. Fortunately, the coffee drips into a thermos and was still hot. I poured a large cup, took two sips and began to type. This story is like a stream of water—bubbling with life, washing words onto the paper, rushing to who knows where. I stopped when the telephone rang. The good doctor was checking up on me. “I haven’t seen you about town for a few days and wondered if the fog had spooked you or something?” “No, not at all. The fog is a damper and it’s been so quiet up here. I’ve been busy

being an author. Besides, the fog was so dense up here I wasn’t sure I could find my way home.” “Want to have dinner with me this evening?” “Mid-week?” “Don’t you eat on Wednesdays?” “Of course I do. I’ve just not seen you much on weekdays—unless you’re running over me or something.” He groaned appropriately and said, “Well, I have some business in the city and thought you might like to ride along and then have dinner with me some place not here.” “How long is your business going to take? I’m a terrible waiter.” “Probably half an hour. Can you handle thirty minutes waiting?” “I can do that. I could probably even manage an hour with the promise of a martini at the end.” “Good girl. I’ll pick you up in an hour. Slacks and a sweater are okay. It’s a bit chilly out.” “An hour? What time is it?” “Don’t you have a clock up on that mountain?” “Yes, but I haven’t looked at it lately.” “It’s 2:15.” “Wow! I have zoned the whole morning. Okay. See you in an hour.” I went back to the computer; saved the file and logged off. I’ve been at this for over 5 hours. Incredible! Fortunately I do have dress slacks and a nice sweater in my wardrobe. This is probably the first time in my life that someone has told me what to wear to go

out with them. This makes me wonder. Do I look like a country bumpkin; someone totally out of it socially? Or is he so concerned with what people think of him, and therefore his dates, that he feels it necessary to dictate wardrobe? Do I even want to bother with this train of thought now? No. Who cares? His dictation saves me from having to think. I took a shower and ate a quick bite. By 3:15 I was clean, dressed and ready to go. The story though is still swirling in my mind. Wish I could take my computer with me but I believe Mark would be insulted. The coffee was still warm and I poured a cup. The first cup went cold and I never finished it. I can’t believe how into this manuscript I’ve been. Like an addiction. He was punctual, as usual, and we were off to see the Wizard, or whatever it was he had to do. When he said the city, I didn’t know what city I expected. It was San Bernardino. For some foolish reason, I hadn’t thought of San Bernardino. Living in Monrovia, my ‘city’ thoughts always go west. Los Angeles, Pasadena, Culver City, coast cities—San Bernardino was seldom a destination for me. Mark met with someone at the general hospital in San Bernardino. The person appeared to be another doctor and quite happy to see Mark. I had told Mark I could wait in the car but he said he’d feel better if I was safe and warm inside. I was left in a very spacious waiting room in the physicians’ tower so we weren’t in the actual hospital but evidently a private doctor’s office. There was coffee, a ladies’ room and new magazines. I settled in to wait. Forty minutes later the two doctors returned. They shook hands and Mark beckoned for me to come over to where he was. “Dr. Mherson, this is my friend Phoebe McFannin. We’re going to dinner before we trudge back to Lake Baldwin. Would you care to us?” The doctor looked a bit surprised. “THE Phoebe McFannin?” I smiled. “I believe there is only one of me in this world.” “Your books are so delightful. I think I have them all. Do you have a new book coming out soon?” “Yes, the “Mystery of the Forgotten Fountain” should be released before Christmas. I finished it while staying in Lake Baldwin. I’ll be plugging it in a few weeks on the Tonight Show.”

“I watch Leno faithfully. I’ll see you then.” He turned back to Mark. “Thank you for the dinner invitation but my wife expects me home this evening for a change.” We shook hands all round and Mark and I went down the elevator and out to his car. “You didn’t tell me you were going to be on Leno.” He held the car door open for me. “I found out just this afternoon, Mark. I am sure it would have come up during the evening.” I couldn’t tell if he was upset or not. He did seem a bit pouty and didn’t say much when he got behind the wheel. What do I do now? Find out if he’s sulking and suggest going home? Or ignore him? I’ve never known a grown man to pout so much. Evidently this is how a small town doctor gets his way with the ladies. Or something. He seemed to be concentrating on the traffic as he drove along I-10. I thought we were headed the wrong way to be going home so evidently dinner is still on the agenda. Soon we were off the freeway and winding up to a restaurant overlooking it. Pomona Valley Mining Camp. I haven’t been here in a very long time. All I from then is a well-grilled New York strip.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Another really late night. I haven’t been to bed before midnight for nearly a week. As it turned out, Mark wasn’t sulking. He was actually afraid he’d missed the turnoff to get to the restaurant. He had made a reservation and our table overlooked the freeway (from 200 feet or more up-the restaurant is on a tall cliff) and the city below that. After he had ordered two martinis he said, “Well, tell me about the Tonight Show.” I explained that I had no details. I said I had been informed just this afternoon that I would be on the program sometime in mid-November. Of course, that brought up a zillion questions as to whether or not I’d return to Lake Baldwin afterwards and many other things. Mark couldn’t know, but I was already wondering if I want to stay that long in Lake Baldwin. Perhaps leave at the end of October as I had originally planned. This promotional bit is causing me to think a lot. I had toyed with the idea of leaving as scheduled before the Leno offer was made. Now I believe that would definitely be best. I would still wear the neat outfit I bought here—I don’t have much fancy stuff at home. But, it would be simpler all round. Yes, it would be more simple. I never asked, so don’t know, why Mark was meeting with Dr. Mherson. He took nothing into the meeting and brought nothing out. He offered no explanation and I feel it’s not really my business. Of course, for everything and anything I do—he needs an explanation. I have never been that nosy. Dinner was great—the New York was as good as I ed. The martinis were not quite as dry as I like but were still good. A good gin overcomes many things. Thursday morning broke bright and clear. There was absolutely no evidence of the fog that had hung over the area for days. I drove down to the Knotty Pine as I have a lot of errands to do including my laundry. Audrey was glad to see me. She commented on the fog. I told her she should have seen it from my place—it was liked being wrapped in cotton. She laughed at the idea. After I had a filling breakfast, I parked in the center of town so I could walk to each place and return to the car without a lot of hassle. The post office was

nearly empty when I went in. There was a package wrapped in brown paper for me. The postal clerk made a remark about brown paper packages. It actually was sort of clever and I laughed. He seemed quite pleased with my reaction. I hefted the package—book. OMG, could Eddie actually have an author’s copy ready this soon? I wanted to open the package right then but restrained myself. I took all my mail back to the car and put it on the front seat before going to the grocery store. Mrs. Rush was delighted to see me and asked how bad the fog had been uphill. I told her it was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. I told her how quiet it was and that I couldn’t even see across the road. “It was pretty bad down here too, but not quite that bad. We haven’t had a fog like that since 1974. It was a good omen then; hope this one is too.” “Good omen? How?” “Well, that was the best winter any merchant had in nearly a decade. The snow came early and so did the skiers. It was a wonderful season.” “Maybe this will be a good omen too.” “Well, we certainly hope so. I think your being here has been a good omen. And getting rid of Eleanor’s ghosts—well, Phoebe, you’ve definitely been a good omen for Lake Baldwin.” I thanked her and asked for a loaf of her wheat bread. She mentioned that she had made some special small loaves of cheese bread. I said, “Good, I’ll take one of those too.” I haven’t tasted her cheese bread but it’s cheese, it’s bread; how can it be anything but good? Thinking that I may be leaving in a week or so, I didn’t buy quite as much as usual. If I don’t leave, I can always come back to the store. I was finished shopping in about 20 minutes. After I put the food in the trunk of my car, I walked over to Sam Smit’s office. He was at his desk but didn’t look too busy. “Hi Sam, got a minute?” He looked up. I honestly believe he does not like me. “Of course, Miss McFannin, come on in.”

“Sam, you said at the TGSO dinner that your winter monies start with Thanksgiving.” “That is true.” “How much time after someone leaves the cabin do you need to get it ready for the next occupant?” He pushed back from his desk and stood up. “Why are you asking, Miss McFannin?” “I’ve been thinking that perhaps I should leave before Thanksgiving.” “Have you said anything to Eleanor or Elliot?” “No, I wanted to check with you, first. I hope you don’t mind.” He offered me a chair. And then he sat down himself. “Well, since it’s been you, it would only take a few days. I can’t imagine that you have been destructive in any manner.” “So, if I leave on the 15th, you’ll have time to clean up and offer the cabin for rent for Thanksgiving?” He looked at the calendar at the edge of his desk. “Yes, that would be sufficient time. I can always and make reservations before then, of course.” I stood up. “Fine. Then I’ll vacate on the 15th.” He stood up and offered me his hand. “Thank you very much, Miss McFannin.” “Everyone in town calls me Phoebe. I know I once told you not to but I feel it would be appropriate now.” I shook his hand, picked up my purse and walked out. I left him standing with his hand out. I felt so much better. I made the decision without really thinking about it. But if the Towers can begin earning income on the cabin again, it will be good for them. They had a long dry spell without income. And they’re both retired now. I’ve given notice to Sam; I should give Eleanor and Elliott notice too—well, later.

I got into my car and drove slowly through town. I will really miss this place; the people, the quiet. Yes, I will miss Lake Baldwin. I got home and before I got out of the car, I opened the brown paper package. It was “The Mystery of the Forgotten Fountain”. It looked so sleek and rich. I wonder if Eddie will send a copy to Leno or will I have to sacrifice this copy?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The following Monday Eddie sent me an email. I am to be on Leno on the 17th. Perfect. I called Eleanor and told her I would be leaving her little cabin on the 15th. “Phoebe, why? I was hoping you’d us for Thanksgiving.” “I can still do that. But I am going to be promoting my latest book on Jay Leno on the 17th. It’ll be simpler for me to be at home in Monrovia. But I can still come for Thanksgiving.” She chatted for a few minutes about things in general. Then she said, “Sam will certainly be happy.” “I have talked to him. I think he was very surprised. Happy? I hope so.” “He knows you’re leaving? Why hasn’t he said anything to us?” “He probably figures that’s my job, Eleanor.” “Does Mark know?” “No, but I think he suspects I’ll be leaving sooner than later.” We talked for a short while and finally said goodbye. I had to promise to see her before I left and to keep her posted. And to seriously consider coming up for Thanksgiving. That was the biggie—Thanksgiving. Ten minutes after we hung up, Eleanor called back. “There’s a little party on Halloween. Has Mark mentioned it?” “No, he hasn’t. Maybe he has another date.” “I doubt it. Well, there is a party on the Saturday before Halloween. Costumes suggested but not required. Come without Mark if he doesn’t mention it.”

“Maybe I will. Thanks, Eleanor.” After her call I realized that the Saturday before Halloween wasn’t that far away. Do I want to dress up or just go or stay at home? Decisions, decisions, decisions. Not being a hermit puts a different kind of stress on a person. I never realized that before. Maybe, subconsciously, that’s why I’ve been a hermit. The new book is almost finished. Eddie is going to be very surprised. I am not sure that I’ve even told him I have been working on a new story. If I can finish it this week, I can send it off to him before my date with Jay Leno. Maybe he’ll let me mention working a new book at the time I am releasing another. What a thought. I’ve never done that before. I’ve never finished a book in such a short time frame either. I settled down at the computer with a cup of steaming coffee. I cannot ever being so happy and confident while writing. And so I worked most of the morning. The story is still fluid. Between chores and writing, the week pretty well vanished. I set the new book that came in the brown paper package upright on a kitchen counter and left it where I could see it. The fountain matches the one in the story to an absolute T. There was water trickling over the edges into the basin below. All around the fountain was foliage; beautiful foliage. Yes, this was a very sophisticated cover for one of my books. Frankly, I think most of them have been pretty hokey—but the cover approval clause in each new book contract may help my books look as professional as I want them to look. Oh, thought. I should let Eddie know about the new book so I can get a contract rolling. The following Thursday I drove to town as I had laundry to do as well as grocery shopping. I went for breakfast at the Knotty Pine. I don’t get out on the porch to write very often of late as it is getting quite chilly and my fingers don’t move well. If the sun is out and bright, maybe I’ll sit on the swing and work—maybe. The birds and squirrels are still very active. More and more often, they come to the edge of the porch or even to the porch railing to watch me. I like that as I can then watch them better too. I’ve started putting nuts and seeds out in a couple of pans on the porch. If it’s going to be a really hard winter I would hope these guys will survive because they got extra food.

Audrey greeted me and led me to my favorite table. “We have a really good pumpkin bread today, Phoebe. Would you like to try it? Instead of your regular toast?” I’ve never been too big on pumpkin and squash type breads but Audrey seemed so anxious for me to try it that I said, “Sure, why not? Two eggs poached. Any link sausage today?” I cannot ever ordering link sausage before—here or anywhere. But the request just popped out. “Of course, a side of links. Potatoes? Coffee?” She had soon built me a lumberjack breakfast—which I agreed with. I was hungry and if I work this afternoon as I have lately, I might not eat again until dinner or not at all. We made small talk—she wanted to know when the new book would be released. “Actually, it’ll be released November 17. I will be on the Tonight Show that night plugging the book. I hope you can watch.” “That’s kind of late for me. I’ll record it. Wow! Someone I know on the Tonight Show.” Knowing Audrey, everyone in town will know by sundown. Well, that’s my effort toward publicity. And I am quite sure it is very effective. While my laundry was churning around, I went to the post office for my mail. I sorted through it at the laundromat, put the clothes in the dryer, took the mail to the car and went to the market. I hadn’t bought a lot the last time I was in town and was nearly out of everything. At least now I know I will be here for another two weeks. I put the groceries in the trunk and went back to fold my laundry. It wasn’t yet noon. And while I had had a huge breakfast, visions of a cheese, avocado and tomato sandwich were dancing through my head. I always make sure I don’t shop on an empty stomach but it is amazing how my mind will fixate on something I’ve purchased—hungry or not. As half expected, I worked all afternoon and came up for air about 9pm—and I made a tomato/avocado/cheese sandwich. It was delicious. I should have grilled it though. Saturday dawned cool, crisp and clear. What an absolutely beautiful start to a day. It was so pretty I took my coffee and sat on the porch swing. I will miss the sunrise very much when I get back to Monrovia. In fact, I am going to miss all of this—the sunrises, the sunsets, the quiet, the trees, the view of the lake, the

chattering birds and quarreling squirrels. I’ll miss it all. It’s been a magnificent three months. I feel so invigorated and I am sure I’ve lost weight. All of my clothes, except the new dress, are slightly ‘baggy’. Jeans are longer than I so there must not be as much fanny to cover. I’ve folded the pant legs up one turn on all my jeans. Well, maybe I can afford to buy some new clothes after “The Fountain” is released. I could afford it now, I guess, but I hate to spend money. I had finished dinner when I heard a car crunching into my driveway. It was Mark. He bounded up the stairs and said, “Are you going like that?” “Going where?” “The town Halloween party.” “You haven’t mentioned a Halloween party, Mark. When and where is it?” “It’s here, in Lake Baldwin and starts in half an hour. I thought I’d come early for a martini.’ “Mark, you have not said one word to me about a Halloween party.” “I haven’t?” “No, you have not. I can make you a martini though.” I looked at him. He was not in costume—well, maybe for him it is. Jeans and a flannel shirt and loafers. Exactly what I had on. I’ve never seen him dressed so casually. I went to the kitchen and put a glass into the freezer before I got down the shaker, gin and vermouth. “Evidently this is not a costumed affair?” “Well, actually it is. But I never go to the effort.” “I see. And when do you believe you told me about this party?” He rubbed his chin and cocked his head. “I don’t know but your name is on my calendar so I’m sure I must have mentioned it.”

“Well, you haven’t. I’m not sure I am up to a Halloween party. What kind of things do they do there? Is there food? A bar? A place to sit down? Dancing? What?” He sat down at the table. “I was so sure I asked you to go.” I filled the shaker with ice and gin. “And I’m so sure you didn’t.” “Well, will you go anyhow?” “If I can go as I stand, sure, I’ll go.” “You’re standing just fine. In fact, it looks like we are a matched pair.” In a way, I was surprised that he noticed. I made his martini without commenting on that. He took a few sips, set the glass down on the small table by the love seat, and said, “Okay, there are games. Some are funny but most of them are pretty dumb. Middle school mentality. There’s always free finger food and a no-host bar. And a band that plays until midnight. There are small tables with chairs scattered around. Anything else you need to know?” I shook my head. I went into my bedroom and combed my hair and put it in a pony tail. He was leaning back in the love seat, glass in hand, with his eyes closed when I returned. “Are you ready?” I asked him. “What?” His eyes opened. “Oh, yes, of course.” He finished his drink and went to the kitchen and rinsed out the glass. “I’m ready when you are.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEEN

The Lodge was filled with people—even more than for the TGSO dance. Well, of course, Idiot, this is a town party, not just a merchant party. We greeted people right and left as we edged in the door. I saw the Towers and waved at them across the room. Eleanor responded. They were in costume but not masked. The Rushes were there and, of course, Sam and Randy. There were no reserved tables at this shin-dig but I found a small table that was vacant almost in a corner. I put my jacket over the back of the chair. Mark asked if I wanted a drink and as I hadn’t had one at the house, I said, “Sure. Thanks.” I sat down to watch the people. It surprised me how many I knew—maybe not by name but by face or occupation. Suddenly a figure in a black swirling dress came up and sat down on the chair across from me. She had on a hat—not a pointy witchy hat but an odd hat nonetheless. “I hope you and Eleanor don’t believe you have some sort of supernatural powers. You haven’t exorcised the ghost from Tower cabin. As soon as you leave, the ghost and his smoke will return. You’ve just been too damn stubborn to give up. The cats never were the problem.” She, I realized as she spoke it was a woman, got up and swirled away—almost running into Mark as he approached with a drink in each hand. “I didn’t think she started giving readings this early in the evening.” “Who is she?” “Did she give you a reading?” “Reading? It was more a warning, or a prelude to a threat. Who is she?” “That’s Lake Baldwin’s token witch.” “Witch or Wiccan.”

“How can you tell the difference? Isn’t a witch a witch?” “You’ve forgotten the Wizard of Oz already? Everyone knows there are good witches and evil witches.” “Definitely evil witch. At least, I’d say so. Don’t wiccans have some sort of Code of Ethics or something?” “They do. I have a neighbor who is a practicing witch, a true Wiccan. She says there are definite rules. She was accosted in her condo by a young man with a gun. The police didn’t catch him that night but she said she would ask the powers to put a spell on him—to make him highly visible. Of course, the police laughed but two weeks later he was caught. I never asked her for the details but she insists it was because he was suddenly so much more visible. I believe her. She says she could do that under her Code of Ethics as he had attempted to do her bodily harm. But she says that she cannot do something deliberately malicious. Wiccans are not malicious.” “Well, then, Holly is definitely a plain run-of-the-mill witch.” “Holly?” “That’s what I call her—Holly Golightly.” “You are joking of course. Holly Golightly? Where’s the grace, the charm?” “Phoebe, I have no idea what her real name is. The first time I saw her was shortly after I opened my practice here some 17 years ago. It was a Sunday and she was about the only person on the street. She was window shopping, I think. She had this wistful look about her. She was dressed all in black. Hair neatly up in a French roll. Completely different persona than she is now. I called her Holly Golightly to myself. Have never said it out loud before. Since that day, 17 years ago, I have not seen her more than two dozen times and most of those times were at the Halloween party. I have heard stories that she’s into the occult and that’s the opposite end of the spectrum I operate on. I am sure Agnes knows her real name. (Agnes is his front office girl.) While Holly’s been around for years she never came to me for medical attention until this past April to have a really nasty spider bite treated. I understand that she goes to Twenty-nine Palms for the winter. But, she always waits until after this shin-dig as she “reads” everyone. I can’t actually say she’s done malicious things but there are a lot of people in

town who give her a very wide berth. And there must be a reason for that.” “You’re not joking.” “Nope, and I’m not drunk either. Speaking of which—here is one Robert Roselli specially made martini.” He handed me the glass. My hands were trembling. Something she had said that Mark called a reading is rattling around in my mind—something isn’t right. Are there truly evil witches? I know my neighbor is definitely a good witch but are there really evil ones? I sipped at the drink—the party has been going on for a while and someone acting as host or activities director called for 12 couples for a new game. Mark set his drink down, took mine from my hand and sat it down, and then pulled me into the crowd. For some reason I never thought of him as the silly party game type. But here we were—six couples each in two lines facing each other. Each line was man, woman, man, woman. The object of the game was to see which line could a six-inch (or so) pumpkin down the line the fastest. There was a catch to the game. You had to hold the pumpkin under your chin and not use your hands. When there was a six foot man and a five foot woman next to each other, it got extremely complicated. As well as uproariously funny. Our side lost but it was a fun time. Mark and I were in the middle of the line so can’t be blamed exclusively for losing though it took us almost two minutes to that stupid gourd. Everyone was good natured about the loss and the win. We all laughed like crazies before we shook hands and dispersed. Thankfully, though, Mark ignored the call for the next game. It looked more complicated—dangling apples and toothpicks or something. We danced for a while and then went to the buffet tables. There was a wild and wide range of, what I call, finger food available. I don’t know what the ission was but Mark certainly got his money’s worth. We filled our plates and went back to our table. A few minutes later Eleanor came by and said, “I saw our resident witch talking to you earlier. What do you think of her?” A light suddenly went on in my brain. OMG! “Eleanor, truthfully, did any of your renters ever complain of noises, movements, etc.?” “Well, on occasion, for the most part the smoke spooked them so badly they weren’t there long enough for anything else. Why?”

I repeated what Golightly or whatever her name is said to me. “Eleanor, that sounds like a threat to me and I think she couldn’t make a threat like that unless she knows how the smoke is occurring.” Mark had gone to the bar when Eleanor came up. She sat down on his chair. “My gawd. You might be on to something. Shortly after the cabin had been repaired, she went to Sam and said that for a hundred dollars she’d do an exorcism on the cabin to be sure that no ghosts were there from the fire. Sam, of course, laughed at her and put her off. The next week was the first weekend he had rented the cabin after the fire—and the smoke put a quick end to that. “I immediately thought of Louis and Harry and blamed them for the smoke. But, as you yourself said, how could they do that? Everything they did as ghosts, they had done in life. They never created smoke while they were living.” We looked at each other. “Do you suppose?” We both nodded. There was no doubt in my mind that the Witch of Lake Baldwin had a hand in the smoke. She may have been totally unaware of the actual haunting produced by the cats. I don’t recall telling anyone other than Sam, Mark and Eleanor. “Don’t worry about this, Phoebe. I will take care of it. Sam already has renters for Thanksgiving weekend. I’ll be sure to spread the word that they are coming in on the Monday before Thanksgiving. Actually they’ll be here Wednesday. You’re leaving the 15th. Thanksgiving is the following week. If she has anything to do with this, we’ll find out then.” The rest of the evening went well. Mark got a reading that suggested he find better company to mix with and that his practice would soon see a slight boon in cases toward the end of next month. On Monday morning, the Sheriff walked up to the cabin. I was surprised to see him on foot. He said it was in case people were watching. He went around the cabin and found the opening to the crawl space under the cabin. The cabin is built into a small hill so there is space under the elevated part of the floor— where the utilities and plumbing were. He crawled inside, very cautiously. I don’t know what he expected. When he backed out, he had his flashlight in one hand and a can of “Magician’s Smoke” in the other. The can was full—he said it was directly under the kitchen sink area with its little red nozzle thing stuck in a crack by one of the pipes. It reminded me of a can of WD-40. Now we know

how the smoke comes about but the who is still to be determined. The sheriff also mentioned there’s quite a large nest of spiders under there. What was that Mark had said at the Halloween party? That the witch (I don’t know her name and Holly Golightly just doesn’t cut it for me) came into his office for treatment of a spider bite? I mentioned that to the sheriff. “Did he happen to mention when that was?” “I think he said April, but you’ll have to check with him to be sure. Why would anyone leave a full can of smoke there?” “Maybe they intend to try and scare you off again but your routine isn’t conducive to their sneaking under the house. Or, maybe they’re waiting for the next renter. All they’d have to do is reach in and push a button and run like hell. It is obvious someone is playing tricks.” He bagged the can of smoke. I asked if he had time for a cup of coffee and he said, “Sure. I’ve been intending to get up here and meet you since you moved in. Just been busy, I guess.” We sat and talked at the kitchen table for some time. I mentioned to him what Eleanor had said about the $100 offer to Sam to rid the cabin of ghosts before he started renting it out again. “I’d hate to think someone could be so petty. Of course, whoever it is was unaware that there really were ghosts. Eleanor told me all about your experiences this summer and how you and she have gotten the cats away from the cabin. But it is true-it’s the smoke that spooked everyone. No one, other than you, were in the cabin long enough to experience the cats. My, my, my.” He leaned back in the chair. He asked about my writing—rather than had I found the peace and quiet I was looking for here at Lake Baldwin? I told him this was the greatest writing venue I’ve ever had. I even suggested I might talk to Sam about renting the cabin next summer. “Well, if the ghosts are all gone, he may want a tad more than he’s getting from you now.”

I laughed. “You’re probably right. Sam is a hard-nosed money man. Elliott and Eleanor are lucky to have him.” “I don’t know if I’d go that fair, Miss McFannin. Sam does have his faults.” “By the way, Sheriff.” “Please, call me Ralph.” “Ralph, what is the witch’s real name? I’m sure you’d know.” “She’s Rosalind Riggby. She’s lived up here for about thirty years. She has a twin sister, Ruby, who lives in Twenty-nine Palms. Rosy goes to visit her every winter, about this time. I met Ruby once—she seems to be the exact opposite of Rosy. Dresses different, pleasant to talk to, exact opposite.” “Why would Rosalind have it in for the Towers?” “Oh, I don’t think it’s the Towers she has it in for. It’s Sam. She had a real crush on him—they dated for five or six years when she first moved up here. She was an upstanding citizen, had a shop where she sold fresh herbs and stuff, fancy potions, candles, a little clothing. Then Sam came out of the closet and Rosy was history. She couldn’t accept it. Never could figure why she hung around after that. She sure didn’t seem to like the town especially.” “What does she do for a living now?” “She tells fortunes, sells potions and fresh herbs and grows vegetables that she sells to a lot of the restaurants in the area. I’m sure you’ve seen her place. The small gray house just beyond the post office with the sign with the ‘eye’ on it.” I nodded. I had seen the place. It does remind me of some of the more occult shops where I live. But before Saturday, I had never seen her. Go figure. After about an hour, the Sheriff said he really had to get back to business. He apologized for my rude welcome to Lake Baldwin. And then he thanked me for ‘breaking the case’. He has no doubts that Rosalind Riggby is responsible for the smoke haunting of the cabin. “I am glad that Eleanor came to me after the Halloween party with her idea that Rosalind had something to do with the smoke. Eleanor even had an idea how she might have accomplished it. That’s

why I went to the crawl space first off.” “But, until I catch her in the act, I will not say a word. And I’m sure that you won’t either. She’s going to be very disappointed to find her can of smoke gone.” “Shouldn’t you leave the can in place, Sheriff? What if she comes up early to check and it’s gone. Then she’ll know someone is on to her. And then she won’t do it again and you’ll never catch her.” “You do have a point. I’ll take it down and see if there are any fingerprints and bring it back. How’s that sound? I’ll try not to disturb you when I bring it back.” With that the Sheriff walked away from the cabin and toward the ranger station. About half an hour later Eleanor Tower drove up. “Wow! Two visitors in the same day. I’m getting popular.” “That’s why I’m here. Sheriff Brault told me what he’d found up here. He checked with Mark as to when Rosy was in for treatment for the spider bite—it was a few days after the first smoke screen.” “Come on in. I’ll make another pot of coffee. I have some of Mrs. Rush’s coconut macaroons to go with it.” The thought ran through my mind that I’ve bought more coffee in the past three months than I have in a year at home. Could coffee be inspiring me?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

And so, as planned, I left Lake Baldwin on the 15th. Several people came to help me pack up the car. There were hugs all round and Mrs. Rush sent a loaf of her special sourdough bread for me to take home to Monrovia. I checked and double checked the cabin to be sure all my belongings were packed. It amazes me still that I could have become attached to so many people in just 15 weeks. Even Sheriff Brault was there to see me off. I reminded everyone I was to be on Leno the 17th. I thanked them for being such good friends. The drive home went so quickly; I could scarcely believe it. The apartment was just as I left it—a bit dustier but not in bad shape. I brought my things up a bit at a time. For some reason, I didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that I was home. There was a rent increase letter under my door. Beginning December 1, my rent was going up $75. That settles it—it’s over a thousand now. I need to find a new place to live. Maybe I should check into buying a house; a mortgage can’t be much more than I’m paying in rent. My agent, Eddie, called me to say that a limo would pick me up at 4 pm on Wednesday. Burbank is not that far away but the Tonight Show is actually taped around 6 or 6:30. I have really moved up in the world; I will be the lead-off guest. Eddie said he had forwarded a copy of the book to Leno so I didn’t have to take my copy with me. Supposedly, Leno reads most featured books before the show. Sounds good but somehow I can’t see him reading that much. Who knows? Maybe I’ll ask him—off camera of course. I was ready early—nervous as could be. The driver came to my door and was most gracious. He did have an odd look on his face. As we went down the stairs I asked, “This isn’t what you expected is it?” “Beg pardon, ma’am.” “Famous authors are supposed to live in fancy digs, aren’t they?” “Well, yes ma’am, I suppose. But it is nice to know that you don’t.”

We were at the limo by then and I didn’t have time to respond. He tucked me into the back of the car and said, “There’s a bar fully stocked. Just about anything you’d like.” “Pepsi?” He smiled. “Yes, maam. I made sure of that myself. I read something about you a couple years ago that said your favorite drink was Pepsi Cola.” “Thank you so very much. Will you also be bringing me home?” “Probably. NBC usually assigns us to one star for the evening.” “Great.” He referred to me as a star. What a marvelous beginning to the evening! I checked my purse to be sure I had a twenty I could slip him when we got home. He closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side. Several of my neighbors were hanging over the railings and crowding in to the entry to see who was getting in the limo. I had the impulse to wave and then decided against it. Most of them haven’t been especially good neighbors. Traffic was already heavy on the 210 Freeway but he was definitely a professional driver. I poured a glass of Pepsi. I really didn’t want it but as he had gone to all that effort, I thought I should. It was very good. The glass was really glass and the ice was in small cubes. I looked up and saw him in the rear view— smiling. I was whisked into makeup as soon as I got out of the limo. The makeup person said, “It is so nice to work with people with good skin. We won’t use much makeup—just enough to keep the shine down. The lights can be a bit warm sometimes.” Everyone I met associated with the show was so nice. Once I was in the green room, or whatever they call the holding room for guests, Jay Leno himself came in to talk to me. He said he realized I haven’t done much in the way of TV interviews and wanted to give me a fighting chance. He laughed when he said that but I felt better regardless. He did sort of go over the procedure and promised he’d try to not embarrass me. Somehow I didn’t feel that comfortable with his assurances as I watch the show fairly regularly. While on air he did

bring up my summer in Lake Baldwin and asked if the cabin I stayed in was truly haunted. I said it truly was. I didn’t go into details. Guess he wasn’t sure what I’d say so, like a good interviewer, he didn’t go on much further. Eddie said I could mention working on a new book if I wanted. So when Jay Leno asked what I was doing now, I said, “I’m working on a new book.” The audience actually applauded. The interview went well and I sat back and listened to him interview the next ‘star’. I had been asked if I wanted to leave immediately after my interview or stick around. I elected to stick around. It was about 8pm when my driver came in looking for me. I shook hands with the entire cast and the crew and was definitely ready to go. I hope that when Eddie sees this, he’s happy. The driver escorted me down to the garage. He said he had watched the show on closed circuit TV and thought I had done a splendid job. “Weren’t you nervous at all?” He asked. “I was so nervous I think my knees were knocking.” “I sure couldn’t tell it. You really did a bang-up job, Miss McFannin.” “Thank you, very much. I hope my publisher agrees with you.” We both laughed. How could a publisher not be happy with the interview? I said all the right things and didn’t make a fool of myself. At least, I hoped that was the case. The driver refused the tip and I asked if the studio had a policy preventing him from taking it. He said no. I said, “Then, please, take it. You made me feel at ease before I got there. That was a big help. I would have been a basket case if you hadn’t paved the way for me.” He finally said okay and accepted the money. I am sure other “stars” tip better but to me twenty bucks is pretty good. I debated about not staying up to watch the show and then decided I had to stay up to see if I did as well as the driver and I thought. Good thing I did as the phone started to ring during the first commercial after my appearance. It was midnight, California time. The Towers had a ‘watch Phoebe on TV’ party and there were at least a dozen people at their house. They all wanted to congratulate me and to thank me for all the nice things I said about Lake Baldwin. I assured them it was only what I truly felt. Eleanor signed off saying, “I’ll call you Monday. Have a good week.” At first I thought, “Oh, yeah, Thanksgiving details.” Then I ed what

Monday was. Trap Day. Eddie called the next morning. Already the orders were pouring in for the book. He again told me I could buy that cabin if I wanted. I assured him that while I plan to move, I had no interest in living at Lake Baldwin year round. It’s a nice place to visit. It’s a great place to write but I believe I need to reserve it for R&R. It had taken me only a day to decide not to move to Lake Baldwin. I have to to give notice here as soon as I find something. Guess I should start reading the classifieds. Eleanor called about 7 Monday evening. “First, about Thanksgiving. We hope to eat around 3. Bring whatever you want to drink. And, plan to spend the night. Can’t have you driving home in the dark.” I said I marked my calendar and would be there by 3pm… earlier if I could be of some help. She said, “Come whenever you want.” Then she took a deep breath and said, “Would you like to hear about the latest guests at Tower Cabin?” “You know I would. What happened?” “Well, first, Ralph fingerprinted the can he found under the cabin and then returned it to where he found it. As suspected, Rosy’s fingerprints were on it. Monday about 11, we had some friends play tourist and they pulled up to the cabin and unloaded a box/presumably provisions for the weekend. Later they went down to the Knotty Pine for lunch and told Audrey they were going to be at the Tower Cabin for the week through Thanksgiving.” “Good idea, telling Audrey.” “We thought so. They went back to the cabin about 2 and made a show of taking in some more things. They turned on the TV. Meanwhile, Ralph and a few men had staked out around the cabin. The crawl space, as you know, is at the opposite end of the cabin from the front door. About 20 feet from that crawl space is that little grove of aspen trees—? Well, Ralph had guys with binoculars and they watched the copse of trees and the crawl space. About 4 they could see someone moving through the woods and stopping in the trees. Dark clothes including a hat. It’s getting dark by this time up here and so Ralph’s men began

to move quickly. Suddenly there was a shout from the house—they could see white smoke billowing throughout the cabin. The men moved in quickly and bingo—one Rosalind Riggby in custody. “Our attorney tells us that we can sue her for lost of income as well as a laundry list of other things. She didn’t argue but did try to get away at the very beginning. There were three men hanging on to her. So far, of course it’s only been a few hours, but she hasn’t said a word about anything let alone why she did this—and for so long.” “Has she asked for an attorney?” “Seriously, she hasn’t said a word yet. Ralph is turning her over to someone else as Lake Baldwin really isn’t equipped to handle female prisoners—or any prisoners for more than a night. But she’s plain just not talking. Ralph says he told her that silence is no defense but she didn’t even respond to that.” We talked for a few more minutes and she would only hang up when I assured her I would be there on Thanksgiving and stay the night. I hung up with a sigh of relief. The exorcism is now actually complete. I saved the Sunday classifieds. I am sincere about finding a new place to live. But I am going to be very careful about reading ads. Sometimes it’s what they don’t say that you have to watch out for.

OTHER BOOKS BY CHARLOTTE LEWIS

The Oregon Trail Series: Becky Rebecca Anna Amanda

Mystery & Suspense Stories Chris Eleanor Bethany The House Eve Sam Abigail Stone Mysteries Bump The Letters Mystery of the Mountain Cabin Children’s Stories The Impetuous Journey of Harry Fisher, CAT