Home Meet Dorothy Foxglove Corners My Books

Ghost Across The Water--2006


Chapter 1

Dark clouds lay heavily over the woods northeast of the freeway, stealing the best of the light. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Where had all the cars gone? For a brief, eerie moment, it seemed as if I were the only traveler on the Michigan Interstate this Friday afternoon.

The moment passed in a rumble of thunder. The other vehicles were far behind, their headlights shining in the thick air. Soon they'd sail past me, as the last wave of traffic had done. I was driving at the posted speed limit and didn't intend to exceed it, not even to outrun the approaching storm. Especially with all the state troopers I'd seen along the way and my dog in the back seat asleep in her crate.

On the morning news I'd heard about the chance of severe thunderstorms. As always, I had a contingency plan. If caught in a downpour, I'd take the first exit I came to and wait in a well-lit parking lot or restaurant until it passed. I could have postponed my trip until tomorrow but didn't want to lose a single day of August.

A green car with one broken headlight vaulted toward me like a jet-propelled monster in pursuit of its prey. The distance between us shrank. Why didn't he hurry up and pass? The thunder and his excessive speed added to my anxiety.

Think about something relaxing and wonderful, Joanna, I told myself. The lake, the cottage, the scent of spearmint, the prettiest little town in Michigan. Just me and my collie. I should be able to meet the deadline for my book, if nothing happened to prevent it.

Shifting in the seat, I turned the AC to high in the hope of discovering that the car's air conditioner hadn't malfunctioned after all. Waves of hot air hit my legs. My green cotton skirt, fresh and crisp this morning, was a wrinkled mess, and the matching blouse left my arms bare but did little to keep perspiration from forming between my breasts.

I opened the window, letting humid air pour in. The car was an oven on wheels, sending my discomfort soaring to the burnt level, and the static on the radio grated on my nerves. As I rounded a curve, lightning sliced through the clouds, flashing danger. I shouldn't be driving in this deadly weather at all.

The green car picked up speed and came closer. Half a mile ahead, the freeway swept uphill and curved again. I followed the white lines around the bend, moving closer to the storm, and tried to read the signs swaying in the distance; but I was too far away to see the letters.

The green car was catching up to me.

The powerful blast of a horn blended with the next roll of thunder. Obviously the warning was meant for me. But why? The impatient driver was traveling in his own lane. I wasn't in his way.

My rush of anger surprised me, and I kept my hand fastened on the wheel, well away from my own horn. I wasn't the kind of driver who allowed annoyance to turn into rage and cause accidents. Was I about to clash with one who did?

He blew his horn again.

Ignore him, Joanna. Concentrate on driving.

Last winter, I'd read about a woman who had been trapped between two dueling drivers, each one trying to force the other off the freeway and over the edge. She was the only one killed.

I could read the signs now. Sashabaw Road. Flint-Saginaw. Keep left . . . Oh, no! Without warning, my lane had vanished. Right Lane Must Exit. Since when?

The last time I'd driven up north, only a week ago, this was a through lane. With road crews constantly reshaping freeway lanes, familiar routes changed overnight. Nothing in life ever stayed the same, but I wasn't going to exit.

The green car was approximately ten lengths behind me now. I had time to switch lanes. A second only. Pushing down on the turn signal, I entered the new right lane. With still another horn blast, the driver pulled alongside my car on the left and slowed to match my speed.

Two young men in a Monte Carlo. Impressions rushed at me like pelts of rain: Stringy dark hair, thin faces, black shirts . . . Punks with leering, mean expressions.

The passenger waved a bottle in front of his face. Tilting his head back against the seat, he poured the contents into his mouth and rolled down the window. The driver leaned over him and shouted, "Get a horse, lady!"

Remembering all the warnings I'd read, I resisted the temptation to fling an answer at him. Pretend you didn't hear. Don't make eye contact with a belligerent driver. Never get into an argument with him.

With an obscenity, the passenger hurled the bottle at the side of my silver Taurus and yelled, "Get that tin can the hell off the road!"

I felt the jolt as the bottle shattered against the door. A shower of shards blew in through the window. Instinctively I veered to the right. With a burst of speed, the Monte Carlo jetted down the freeway and turned into a green speck on the horizon.

What stupid, arrogant jerks!

Kinder was awake. From her crate, she barked her anger at the attack.

"It's over, girl," I said.

The door was probably dented where the bottle had struck it. Well, better the door than my dog or me. A piece of jagged-edged glass had landed in my lap. Looking down, I read the fragment of a label: Vodk . . . The "a" was missing. I brushed it to the floor, thankful that my skirt covered my thighs. I'd almost worn shorts.

The incident was over, but shreds of anger and fear remained. I felt shaky, and my neck and chest were damp. As I dabbed at them with a tissue, half expecting to see liquor or blood, my fingers brushed against a sliver of glass caught in my collar. I swept it to the floor where it joined the larger chunk.

Thank God the Monte Carlo was out of sight, swallowed whole by the murky atmosphere. If I came upon a trooper, I'd stop and tell him to be on the lookout for the unsavory pair. Or I could call, but in a display of poor planning, my cell phone was in the trunk, in my suitcase.

The other cars had caught up to me, and traffic moved steadily and sanely northward, without a ripple in sight. From now on, I should find smooth sailing.

Except for the storm. It looked as if it would break at any minute. I hadn't planned to stop for a rest. If I hoped to reach the cottage in time to salvage a part of the day, I should keep going. But I needed a respite from freeway madness and knew enough about driving to pay attention to my feelings.

When I reached Silver Oak Road, I drove onto the ramp, turned right, and found myself in a wild, wooded area. On either side, trees grew high and thick, their uppermost branches meeting across the unpaved road. Pink wildflowers sparkled in the high grasses, and streaks of blue water shimmered through green leaves.

I was the only driver in this tranquil place, as safe and private as I could ever hope to be. In spite of the stormy weather, peace seemed to unfold all around me. The dangerous fools who had vandalized my car were already part of the past. I would never see them again. Now to find a quiet place and wait out the storm. Already, I felt calmer.

Get a horse, the stringy-haired punk had said. Now that the danger was over, I couldn't help smiling. I wouldn't mind doing that at all.

* * * *

Rain pounded my car, enclosing me in a world of water. I sat inside, sipping lukewarm tea from my thermos, belatedly realizing that sheltering under a tree in a thunderstorm wasn't the best idea. But the rain had left me no choice. I'd hardly had time to take Kinder for a short walk before the rain sent us both scrambling back to the car.

This was an inauspicious beginning to a summer that I'd burdened with high hopes and impossible dreams. I couldn't bring my father back from the dead or mend a broken romance, but perhaps I could find a measure of happiness.

Please let this be the last wrinkle, I prayed.

Kinder munched a Milk-Bone biscuit, oblivious of damp fur and hot air. I pulled the package of gingersnaps across the seat, gathered a handful of warm, crisp cookies, and began to eat them as if they were popcorn. Their spice and sugar mix revived me. All I'd needed was a little snack. The thunder was farther away now, and the rain was tapering off. In a few minutes, I'd be able to move on. Impatient with delays, I couldn't wait to settle into the cottage.

Kinder's furious barking alerted me to the presence of a newcomer moments before I saw the tall, husky policeman emerging through the wall of rain. He crossed the road and approached my car with grim resolve. In his hand he carried a long, polished nightstick.

"It's okay, Kinder," I said. "Quiet."

The officer tapped the window lightly, and I pressed the control button. Raindrops and waves of warmth rushed in. He shoved the stick in his belt and looked down at me.

His tawny hair was liberally sprinkled with gray, and his face, with its attractive angles and deep tan, would have been handsome if it had worn a congenial expression. He appeared to be the quintessential lawman, however: All business, no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners. At the moment, he was getting wet.

"Afternoon, ma'am," he said with a slight, barely perceptible nod. His voice was like steel, and his eyes were the color of the lake I'd passed earlier, cool and light, with the shimmer of a pale blue jewel.

"Officer." I swallowed my gingersnap and brushed invisible crumbs from my lap. I couldn't possibly be more innocent, but somehow this grim law enforcer made me feel as if I were desperate to hide some guilty secret.

"Did you run into some car trouble?" he asked.

I relaxed. Innocent until proven guilty. "No, I'm just waiting for the rain to pass."

"Seems to be letting up now."

"I'll be on my way then." I moved my hand slowly toward the ignition. "But wait." In the austere presence of the law, I'd almost forgotten the freeway punks. "Something happened back on I-75. Some trouble . . ." I described the incident, fumbling on the floor for the bottle fragment to offer as evidence.

The officer glanced down at the door and ran his hand along its surface, shaking his head. "Some drivers are just plain nuts. If he'd aimed higher, you could have been badly hurt. You were smart to exit the freeway when you did."

"I wasn't running away from them," I said. "I don't run away from trouble."

"No, you were avoiding it. If more people did that, there'd be fewer accidents."

I wanted to set the record straight, even if it didn't really matter. "I left the freeway because of the storm. I don't like to drive when I can't see where I'm going. That's a good way to get killed."

I had said enough and hadn't given the policeman the crucial information yet. "The men were heading north less than a half hour ago. The car was a late model green Monte Carlo with one broken headlight. The right one. Maybe you could radio ahead to the state troopers to watch for them."

"I'll do that, ma'am." A fleeting smile transformed his features, crinkling the lines around his eyes. "That's a nice dog in the crate. He's a collie. Right?"

"A purebred collie. Her name is Kinder."

"A Lassie dog." He tapped the back window and Kinder growled a low warning. "You've got yourself a protector."

"The best kind," I said.

"I used to have a collie when I was kid. The same brown sugar color with white markings. He was a good dog. Drive carefully, ma'am, and stay cool." He nodded and strode back to his cruiser.

I wondered if he was really going to contact the state police. Maybe he was only humoring me and that was condescension I saw glimmering in his eyes. Well, it hardly mattered. I'd escaped the wrath of the freeway punks and set the law on their trail without having to track down a state trooper.

While I'd been talking to the officer, the storm had turned into a gentle shower. Pale light washed the country road, and the air was fresh and sweet. It smelled of woods and waters and strange flowers, hinting at new beginnings.

Carefully I closed the package of gingersnaps and replaced the top of the thermos. Across the road, the officer sat in his cruiser, watching me. Maybe he was bored with patrolling quiet byroads, and I'd been a brief diversion.

That's what I was. Joanna Larne, intrepid Gothic-time travel-cozy writer, a country cop's diversion.

I turned on the ignition and pulled onto the road. The entrance ramp should be no more than ten minutes away. In what direction, though? Back the way I'd come? Right or left? I'd better ask the officer, but when I looked for him, he was gone.

* * * *

The road seemed to go on forever, an unpaved ribbon of a trail unwinding endlessly through woods, lakes, and country estates. I amused myself by reading the infrequent signs: 'Welcome to Foxglove Corners', "Neighborhood Watch in Effect', 'Horse Country - Drive with Care', and the silhouette of a leaping deer that didn't need words. All the while I looked for the one that eluded me. Nowhere did I see an arrow pointing to I-75.

I was lost. Two right turns, one left, and my sense of direction had deserted me. Apparently this road didn't have a name, which was as unlikely as the chance of a criminal being deterred by a Neighborhood Watch sign posted in the wilderness. There was no one I could ask. At this point, all I knew was that I was no longer on Silver Oak Road. Without a name to cross-reference, my road map was useless.

I ought to turn back but hated to waste time. If I kept going, surely I'd come across another entrance.

Thin wisps of fog lingered in the air, bathing the area in an ethereal haze. The eerie feeling I'd had of being the only driver on the freeway gripped me again. This was a perfect place for fantasy to blossom. Probably I was the only traveler on this road.

Eerie feelings always made me nervous. I reached for another gingersnap, but my fingers scraped the crumbs at the bottom of the package. The thermos was empty too. I had long since passed discomfort and crossed over to misery. At the moment, I would happily pay any amount for a slice of pizza, an icy soft drink, and a freeway sign beckoning in the distance.

If only I could travel back in time and ask directions of the country cop, before he could vanish in his patrol car. To take my mind off being lost I played an alternate version of the reality in my mind.

The officer's blue eyes sparkled like the lake water, belying his brusque, official manner. His eyes rested approvingly on my green blouse with its low scooped neckline.

"I saw you pass this way five minutes ago, ma'am," he said. "Are you lost?"

"I'm afraid I am. Can you tell me the way to the freeway, please?"

"I can, but first, would you join me for dinner?"

Here I erased the pleasant scenario. Nothing in life was ever that easy, and imaginary conversations weren't going to lead me to the entrance ramp. What troubled me the most was the possibility that I'd traveled several miles in the wrong direction, setting my arrival time at Spearmint Lake back again. I couldn't very well make my way to the cottage on a route of rocky byroads.

"What now?" I spoke more to myself than to Kinder. She was asleep in her crate, trusting me to deliver us both to our destination in one piece.

All I could do was drive on.

At last a sign loomed ahead. Slowing down, I read the worn letters: Star Lake Road. I unfolded my map, found Star Lake, and then the road. I saw that I hadn't strayed too far from the exit ramp. If I turned left now, I should reach I-75 in less than an hour.

Another chunk of time lost on this convoluted trip, but this road had a smoother surface. Soon I spied the white three-board plank fence of a horse farm gleaming in the distance and, on the other side of a crossroad, a freeway sign, its red, white, and blue half obscured by a screen of silvery leaves.

An amber caution light blinked brightly in floating strands of mist. I stepped on the accelerator, certain of my direction now. The anxiety of the last hours melted away.

Then . . . Five or six car lengths ahead of me, I saw a green Monte Carlo waiting to make a left turn.

Take a walk through Foxglove Corners and look at my cozy mystery series featuring Jennet Greenway and her collie, Halley.




4 Cups - Ghost Across The Water delivers spine-tingling chills. I fell in love with Joanna and her strength, huge heart and remarkable courage that reflect throughout the story. Kinder, the lovable collie is a great addition as well as Dalby. I melted at Joanna’s description of Dalby’s eyes. Ms. Bodoin creates believable characters and mixes suspense, romance and elegance that shoot off sparks making this one extraordinary read. Cherokee - Coffee Time Romance & More


Home Meet Dorothy Foxglove Corners My Books Email

text © 2003 Dorothy Bodoin
graphics © 2003 Words and Pictures

email: info@words-and-pictures.biz