The House on Serpent Lake (Ghost, Romance, Fantasy) Read online

  When he finally took his chair behind his desk, he straightened and tried to look lawyerly. He cleared his throat.

  “Young lady, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do. I think you knew but were afraid to tell us. Why? Didn’t you think it was important, especially since we wanted to move in?”

  He said nothing, simply adjusted his glasses, sat back, then straightened.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you.”

  “Mr. Mathews, please. It’s way past the time to be evasive. I’ve seen the ghost … well, not actually seen him, but I know he’s there. I’ve been to the library and I just left Shirley, Elsie Hall’s granddaughter. I know about the rumors. The question is, why didn’t you tell us? Didn’t you think we had a right to know?”

  “I'm a man of facts. I can't support rumors and gossip.”

  “But still, don’t you think you owed us an explanation? Or at least knowledge of the rumors?”

  “As Miss Frida’s attorney, I owed a fiduciary duty to her, which I performed to the best of my ability. We also had an unbreakable attorney-client privilege, which I also honored. And as a friend to the family for over numerous years, my first duty was to them.”

  “My husband is part of that family. Doesn’t your loyalty extend to him?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Peterson. I’ll do everything I can to help you regarding the property, but that’s as far as I can go.”

  “Did Eric’s grandparents call you the night Frida shot Mr. Halidor? Had you begun your practice yet? It’s him, isn’t it? He’s the ghost.”

  Mathews gaped at her, then sat back as if wilted. “I’d just graduated when the tragedy occurred. How much do you know?”

  She related what Shirley told her. “Is it true? And did Frida think the ghost was her fiancée?”

  “What does your husband think?”

  “That I’m imagining things.”

  “Well, then—”

  “I’m not and you know I’m not. Please, Mr. Mathews. I want to know if the story is true, and if you think the ghost is Mr. Halidor. If it is, then maybe I can figure out what he wants and how to get rid of him.”

  “I’m sorry. Attorney-client privilege again and I can’t discuss it. You’ll have to find your answers elsewhere.”

  On her way home, Lindsay thought about their conversation. While she wasn’t an expert on body language, Mathews seldom made eye contact, kept his arms crossed, and turned away from her. Maybe he wasn’t actually lying, but he knew more that he would admit. If he wouldn’t tell her the details, she had to find someone else to help her. Maybe if she knew the entire story, she could get the ghost to leave.

  Just as she stepped onto the front porch, her cell phone rang. Eric. Was she ready to talk to him?

  She ignored the ringing, but it rang again and again, demanding she pay attention. Reluctantly, she answered.

  “Sorry I haven’t called before,” he said. “It’s been crazy here.”

  Something in the tone of his voice, a humbling, an unexpected hopelessness caused all her old feelings for him to rush back.

  “I understand, honey. I have so much to tell you—”

  “Can’t talk long. I’m between meetings. Lindsay, I hate to tell you like this, but it’s true. Someone’s embezzled most of our funds, and if Mark and I can’t recover them, we’re going down.”

  As much as she longed to tell everything she’d learned, his distress made her pause. Now wasn’t the time to talk about ghosts. Or their troubled marriage.

  “Oh honey, I’m so sorry. Can I help? I can hop the next shuttle—”

  “No, no, wouldn’t do any good. Besides, I’d just worry about you sitting alone in the hotel room while I’m running around like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off. Talk about metaphors. Or is it a simile? And who the fuck cares?”

  He never used profanity, so she knew how desperate he must feel.

  “What can I do?”

  “Just be there. I don’t know when I’ll be home. It’s too expensive to stay in a hotel while the authorities try to track it down, but I can’t leave Mark to face it alone. He said I could stay with him, but I’m concerned about you.”

  “You do what you have to. I’m okay here.”

  “Thank God for you. I need you to be my anchor right now, something stable to hold onto to.”

  Anchor? Stable? If he only knew she thought she’d made love to a ghost. But she couldn’t tell him, not now, not while he felt his world was coming apart.

  “Honey,” she said, keeping her voice calm and reassuring, “if worst comes to worst, just remember, we still have each other.”

  “You didn’t sign up for this, a failure husband, a broke one at that, especially if this company goes down.”

  “Eric, you listen to me. You’re not a failure. You are what’s important. Not the company or the money you make. If the company goes under, we’ll be all right. This home is paid for, so we can sell our Palm Springs condo and live here with barely any expenses.”

  He was silent, listening, so she went on. “Don’t worry so much, honey. It’s not good for either of us. Do what you must do there, then walk away. Come home. I’ll be waiting.”

  He made a slight sound. Choking back tears? She wished she could give him a reassuring hug.

  “I love you,” he finally said.

  After hanging up, Lindsay sat on the swing, gently pushing, gazing at the lake, wondering, thinking about the possibilities. Should she make the trip anyway?

  He’d said something about worrying about her in a hotel, but what if she stayed in their Palm Springs condo? Even though it was about two hours east of Mark and the company quarters, at least Eric could come there and relax when he had the time.

  But it was leased for the summer and she couldn’t throw out the tenants—especially on a moment’s notice.

  She could, however, rent a kitchenette motel, one of those for extended stays. She could provide all the wifely things men like such as home-cooked meals and fresh laundry, those little things to help him remember how important he was to her.

  But again, it would be costly, and if his company were truly broke, he’d worry about the expense.

  She pushed the swing with her foot, watching the sun begin its descent behind the western shore, marveling at the streaks of clouds tinted by brilliant shades of red and gold. Gulls circled and cried overhead, and she realized she’d miss it all if she left.

  Should she or should she not? On her android, she checked shuttle flights at the Brainerd airport, and if she hurried, she could make the last one out that evening.

  Still, she sat and pushed the swing. Sometime later, she gathered her handbag and keys, entered the house, and paused in the foyer.

  Was he here?

  She waited, but after detecting nothing but normal house smells, she decided to have a sandwich. She could decide afterward whether or not to leave.

  She wasn’t hesitating because she wanted to learn more about the ghost, was she? It was because her husband asked her to stay.

  Wasn’t it?

  She prepared a ham sandwich and put a dab of potato salad on her plate. Instead of sitting at the corner table, she entered the dining room and kept up the pretense of eating a meal like a normal person by setting the table with silverware and a placemat. She even pulled out her chair, but instead of sitting down, she took half of the sandwich and stood at the window, nibbling and gazing at the ash tree in the growing dusk.

  What was it with that tree? How had she known about the carved initials, and why had she reacted so strongly when she saw them?

  She felt she knew who the spirit was, and although her suspicions were growing, she didn’t know his relationship to her.

  Still, it didn’t make sense, and even if she did figure it all out, how could such a thing be happening?

  While she couldn’t answer that, she was no longer afraid.

  If only she knew why he haunted the house and
what he wanted of her.

  After scraping most of her sandwich and salad down the disposal and stacking the plate in the dishwasher, she got ready for bed.

  They stood in the copse of trees, their private shelter, their kisses deeper, stronger than any they had exchanged before, he kissing her tears away, holding her tighter, consoling each other for strength in the coming days.

  “It doesn’t have to be this way.” He stared into her eyes, begging, pleading.

  “I owe too much …”

  He began carving their initials in the tree, far enough from the house to be hidden, yet a lasting declaration of their love. The sun began its descent, yet she watched, transfixed, as he laboriously chipped away at the bark with his knife, loving him so much she wondered if she could survive a life without him.

  “There,” he said, enclosing the initials with a heart. “No matter what happens, we’re joined for all eternity …”

  With a sob, Lindsay woke and sat up. The forest was gone. So was he.

  More tears welled and she grabbed a tissue from her nightstand. The clock’s numbers flipped to 3:00 a.m.

  It had been a dream, only a dream. So why was she feeling the woman’s heartbreak? Why she did want to go back to sleep and dream of him again, to be with him just one more time?

  The woman had been so completely in love. Just looking at him had brought joy beyond anything Lindsay had ever experienced.

  Bliss? Not quite. The woman’s eyes had been heavy with tears as she imprinted his image into her mind, her heart, knowing he would soon be lost to her.

  Still torn from the woman’s melancholy, Lindsay grabbed another tissue. She paused. Her eyes widened. The woman had imprinted his image …

  No, it wasn’t possible. Still, she had to find out for sure.

  She took the stairs to the attic and to the portrait she had painted.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The image staring back at Lindsay was the man from her dream.

  Every instinct told her it was Galen, but how could she have known? How could a man who had died at least sixty years before invade her thoughts, her dreams?

  After the first one in which he’d made love to her, she had tried to paint him, but she couldn’t remember how he’d looked. But something, someone, had guided her strokes. How? By invading her subconscious to lend his memories? That was bizarre, beyond reality. Nevertheless, there it was. She stood before the portrait, knowing she had captured the man from her dream.

  Like the woman who had watched him carve the initials, Lindsay gazed lovingly at each feature, at the sadness in his eyes and wanted to kiss it away. Even now, the longing for him pulled at her, causing a fresh wave of tears.

  How could she yearn for a man she never knew? If the man in her dream was Galen, then the woman had to be Frida.

  Why was she dreaming about two lovers who had lived over sixty years ago?

  Knowing she wouldn’t sleep the rest of the night, she headed downstairs to the kitchen. Perhaps after some strong coffee she would be better able to figure out what was happening.

  Once the entire twelve cups dripped into her carafe, Lindsay filled her mug and took it to the dining room window.

  Everything looked so normal. The morning sun was brightening the horizon, painting the forest with a golden light. Squawking crows circled the treetops to claim their branches, and sparrows went about their daily routine. So peaceful, so ordinary.

  She spotted the black ash and pictured the initials surrounded by the carved heart. How could she possibly dream about an incident that may or may not have happened to someone else?

  But the carved heart did exist. How could she explain that?

  One possible theory, according to articles and lectures she’d attended in the past, was that she might be sensitive and picking up psychic impressions from the house.

  If it were true, she had no idea why it might be happening. She didn’t want to know about another person’s life; she had enough to handle with her own. But that explanation was better than the old accusations, allegations she had stamped out and repressed for most of her life, accusations that had made her feel like a freak, like someone so peculiar she didn’t deserve to live.

  Lindsay sipped her coffee, refusing to give credit to old wounds. But if there was something to psychic impressions, if she had, somehow, entered Frida’s mind, her emotions, why was the woman wondering how she could survive a life without her fiancée? They were planning to marry, so why would she lose him? It didn’t make sense. She couldn’t know then he’d soon die of a gunshot, one from her own hand at that—unless she were planning to kill him. But the woman in the dream had been so in love she’d never even consider harming him. So what had happened?

  So many unanswered questions.

  She had to find Harry. He might have heard something about Galen and the sisters and what had happened to cause such a tragic outcome. If she could find out more about the sisters, perhaps she could discover why she was so involved in their lives.

  With only a passing thought to her husband and his business woes, she hurriedly dressed. She felt slightly hungry but was too impatient to find Harry to spend the time for breakfast. Maybe later she’d stop in the diner where Shirley worked.

  Too edgy to walk, she took the car to the library, but it didn’t open until ten. Two long hours.

  Good Lord, was everything conspiring against her?

  She drove the block to Main Street, parked in front of the first diner, rushed in, looked around, and before the young waitress could greet her, spun around and left.

  On to the next one. Please, please, Harry. Be there.

  But she didn’t find him.

  Forty-five minutes until the library opened. How could she pass the time without going insane?

  Her stomach rumbled, so she stopped at the bakery for coffee and toast. Twenty minutes later, she walked to the library door and peered in. The inside lights were on and Karen Midthun was bent over some paperwork on the counter. This time the door opened.

  Lindsay straightened her blouse and ran her hands through her hair. Had she even combed it this morning?

  “Good morning,” she said. “You may not remember—”

  Karen looked up with a smile. “Of course. You’re Mrs. Peterson.”

  “Lindsay, please. I won’t keep you long, but I’m looking for Harry Halverson. I thought he might be able to tell me about …” she trailed off, wondering if she should divulge the true reason.

  “About what?” Karen asked helpfully. “Perhaps I can help you.”

  “He said he knew everyone, and I thought, I thought he could tell me more personal things about the town’s history.”

  “Harry is out of town right now. He just left to visit his son. He goes every year about this time, but I’d be happy to select some books for you.”

  Lindsay nearly wept with frustration, but she managed to talk to Karen and even left with some books, although she doubted she’d ever read them.

  She wandered aimlessly downtown, looking in store windows, not seeing anything. She could call Eric, but while she wondered how he was doing, she couldn’t tell him what was happening. He would, she knew, still ridicule her and she couldn’t handle that now. She needed someone with whom she could confide, to voice her confusion, her fears.

  Two women about her age walked by, talking and laughing, each carrying a package from a local gift shop. Lindsay watched them walk down the street and felt envious. Until she met Eric, she had spent most of her life feeling alone, isolated, as if she were observing people from behind a glass wall.

  She wished she had a close friend nearby, but since she’d first arrived in Crosby, too many strange things had been happening to take her time and energy. Plus her concern over her failing marriage. She could admit it now. Her marriage was failing, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

  Now she wished she had someone for the camaraderie, the sharing of secrets. Just to be able to voice her concerns to
someone who cared would be cleansing. But there was no way she could introduce herself to someone. She could just image how that would go:

  “Hello, I’m Lindsay Peterson, whose husband inherited Crosby’s haunted house, and I’m so sorry I haven’t met you before, but you see, I’ve been so busy with a ghost trying to seduce me and dreaming events from the sisters’ lives who lived there before that I haven’t had time to join anything or make myself known. But I’m happy to meet you now.”

  She almost laughed at the mental picture that made.

  She had always been a loner, so it wouldn’t be new for her to now do the best she could on her own.

  Still, she wished she had someone who could help her.

  In her kitchen, just as she was opening a can of tomato soup, Eric called. He said the normal things such as he missed her, and Lindsay automatically responded.

  But did she miss him?

  She realized with a start she hadn’t given him much thought.

  Ever since they had first met, she had hated his business trips and counted the minutes until he called. Now she was listening but not hearing what he was saying, as if his life didn’t concern her. And, she had nothing to say to him.

  “—and when we confronted him,” Eric said, “he finally broke down and admitted he’d taken the money. With some hard work, Mark and I may be able to save the company after all, thank God. It’ll mean I’ll have to stay another week or two, but it’s something I have to do.”

  “That’s good,” Lindsay said absently, pouring cream into the can, then adding enough water to fill it. She emptied the liquid into the soup and stirred, wondering if any of the library books had any information she could use.

  “It’s good I’ll have to stay in California?” His tone changed, sounded wary. Wary enough to jar her back to their conversation.

  “I meant good you might be able to save the company.” She struggled for more to say, to be encouraging. After all, he was her husband, but he wasn’t interested in hearing about the strange events happening in her life, so she felt at a loss. She finally asked him about his stay and that got him talking. She made the appropriate responses, and soon after, they hung up.