Fear at First Glance Read online

  The Badger, the 410-foot car ferry that plies Lake Michigan waters back and forth between Manitowoc and Ludington, Michigan, is still as much fun for me as it was in the 1960s when my father introduced me to the route that cuts Chicago out of a trip West. Back then vacationers like us were an afterthought to the ship’s real purpose of connecting rail traffic. But today tourists and their vehicles are the end-all of the Badger’s mission.

  “It’s big,” Jan said with awe in her voice as we parked in the bowels of the ship. And then, as the big boat pulled away from the pier, “It’s quiet, too.”

  And four hours later we disembarked in Ludington. Jan was on her phone as I negotiated our way to U.S. 31 which snakes its way up the coast to Traverse City. We arrived at the Skeegmog Inn just after nine p.m.

  “Janice!” A tall woman, taller than Jan, wearing an old faded red-plaid shirt over cutoff jeans, came bouncing out of the building with the word “office” burned into a board hanging over the porch. Jan had pulled up and shut off the motor, and as she opened the door, the woman used both hands to pull her into a huge hug, lifting Jan as if she were weightless and spinning around as both women laughed in joy at their reunion.

  “Francine,” Jan said breathlessly as she staggered back to the truck. “I’m glad to see you too!”

  I had gotten out of the truck and was stretching. Jan had “Francine” by the hand and led her to me, “Jim, this is Frannie Willard Blake – she and her husband, Greg, own this place.”

  “Wow, Jan; you said he was a big guy, you didn’t say he was gorgeous, to boot.”

  “Careful,” Jan said in an obvious aside, “he doesn’t blush. It’s a family thing; Stanton men don’t blush.”

  “Must be a blood pressure thing, then,” the woman said in what was just as obviously supposed to be an “aside” that I wouldn’t hear.

  “Probably,” Jan deadpanned.

  Then Frannie stuck her hand out and in mock formality, “Welcome to the Skeegmog Inn, Mr. Stanton; I hope you will enjoy your stay with us, and we’ll do everything in our power to ensure it.”

  “A leash law here?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A leash rule? Or can I let my dog out to pee?”

  “No; no leash law; Schatzi, our German Shorthair, is around here somewhere, but she’s pretty gentle with guests. We expect our guests to bring well-mannered dogs to camp even if their kids are wilder ’n hawks. Let’s take a look at her.”

  Judy exploded out of her carrier, and, wiggling from nose to stubby tail, she took a whiff of the girls before making a quick circuit around the parking area, stopping to mark a couple of spots before racing back to my side.

  “She hunt?” Frannie asked.

  “She does a bit.”

  “She’s wonderful,” Jan said, “and she hunts.”

  “Are you hunting this trip?” Frannie asked me.

  “We’re hoping to see Judy on woodcock if there are any around.”

  “I think your wish is coming true. Greg and some of his cronies brought home a nice mess of woodcock and grouse over the weekend. They said it’s been a while since they had a 50-flush day on grouse; they’re pretty excited now that the leaf drop has started.”

  Then she went into innkeeper mode, “I’ve put you two in number three, that cabin over there,” she pointed to the only cabin with a light on. “You’ll love the view of the lake from the kitchen and the porch. Best site in our little collection of great sites.

  “Jan, you want to come in and complete the registration? There’s tea water on...”

  “I’ll start unloading our stuff,” I volunteered.

  “Perfect,” Frannie chirped. “We have some catching up to do. You’ll find the place open and waitin’ for you.”

  I drove the hundred yards or so to the cabin, and started unloading the vehicle. When everything was unloaded, and I had thoroughly investigated the cabin, I was ready for a shower, and that was a treat to be savored after a hard day’s traveling.

  The cabin was a two-bedroom affair. You came in through the screened porch, into a room that had a fireplace and overstuffed chairs to your right, and the kitchen with a table for four to your left. Walking straight back through a hallway, you came to a large bedroom on the left, which was the lake side, and a smaller room on the right. Continuing on, the hall made an ell to the right to a back door. Straight ahead on that ell brought you into the completely wonderful bathroom including a shower big enough for two and a Jacuzzi tub.

  The whole place had a knotty pine “north woods” look and smell to it, and I felt instantly at home.

  I came back to the kitchen area after my shower, and found a freshly-filled ice bucket, a pitcher of water, a brand new bottle of Maker’s Mark, and a tumbler that filled my fist just right. There was a note too, “Welcome to Skeegmog, a home away from home for people who know the difference between fishing and catching, hunting and killing, living and existing. Enjoy your stay! Fran and Greg Blake.”

  With just a towel wrapped around me, I spilled some bourbon over a couple of cubes and took the glass to the porch. The night was clear and still. I felt the crisp night air on my exposed skin, and went back inside for a sweat shirt and pants. When I went back to the porch I sat down on a reclining lawn chair, tasted the whiskey, listened to the sounds of a lake at rest, and felt the travel melt out of me.

  Jan entered the porch behind a flashlight, carefully closing the screen door to keep it from slapping the frame and waking me up. I watched her, debating if I would let her enter the cottage or just scare the daylights out of her right here.

  “I know you’re not asleep, Stanton.”

  “How in the world...?”

  She just smiled, and turned on the porch lights.

  “Really, how?”

  “I know you. I read you like a book. I love you like crazy, and I always know what you’re thinking...”

  “Then you know...”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She headed to the back of the cottage, finding her way and then I realized this was probably not the first time she’d been here.

  I hobbled a bit to the kitchen table, took another tiny hit on the Mark, and went back to the porch, knowing that once she was in that shower, I’d be waiting a while...

  I went for a walk at daylight, keeping to the trail map I’d found on the wall of the cabin. It took me south along the lake, then made a wide sweeping turn back to the north, where it crossed the drive leading to the lodge, and continuing on for more than a mile before curving back to the lakeshore, and then south again until I came to the first signs of the resort, some primitive campsites, with subtle but appropriate signage identifying locations and offering directions for newcomers.

  There had been three natural resting areas where I indulged my need for tai chi practice, stretching and working out the kinks of the trip. By my reckoning, I had been on the trail all together for an hour and a half and estimated the total distance at something approaching three miles.

  Back at the cabin, Jan was still sleeping, and I was quiet as I looked again at the map. The legend had the total length of the trail at six point four miles. “Hmmm,” I thought, “I didn’t account for how flat that was.”

  Jan was up and about when I came out of the shower, and took my place, pointing at the table as we passed wordlessly. I smiled, knowing that she had found coffee, and would be social after a shower.

  We spent the rest of Thursday idling around the resort. We had breakfast in the resort dining room, then I tossed retriever-training dummies off the dock, and Judy showed off her eager-retriever skills while launching high-arcing entries into the water she loved so well.

  We had packed provisions for the first few days of our stay. Jan had said we’d restock on Friday when we visited downtown Stoney, but that evening, Frannie invited us to join her and Greg around the grill.

  The sun was just setting over the lake and Greg was wearing jeans and a camouflage tee shirt as he fiddled with s
tarting charcoal when we arrived. Jan introduced us, and his handshake was firm and nothing more. I didn’t see him size me up or even start the comparisons I had come to expect when meeting another similarly-sized guy.

  He was almost as tall as I, but had the look of a worn leather thong. He wore the deep tan of a man who spends most of his time outdoors. His rangy build reminded me of a Winchester portrait of a cowboy. Gunmetal gray eyes and a flurry of laugh lines around those eyes gave me the sensation that I was in the presence of a man who liked what he saw in the mirror every day.

  “Hope you folks can stand steak, potatoes and salad – pretty mundane stuff, but Frannie didn’t bother to find out what your eating habits might be.” He was tinkering with a device that he’d half buried in charcoal, then I saw that it was a flue and he was starting the fire without the benefit of an accelerant.

  I watched him as he inspected his work, then struck a match and dropped it into the device. As he turned away, his eyes met my look, “I don’t like to think about the fumes and stuff from starters getting on my meal...” He shrugged, “I figure if it takes a bit longer to start, that’s just more time for a cocktail. Anything special I can serve you?”

  “Whatever you’re drinking will work for me,” I said. He looked at Jan.

  “Will there be wine with the steak?”

  “A merlot, I believe.”

  “I’ll wait, thanks.”

  “Iced tea?”

  “That wouldn’t be bad, thanks.”

  Greg headed for the back door of his home. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  “You’ve known them how long?”

  Jan thought for a second, “I knew Fran when we were kids; she was a senior when I was a freshman. She’s fourth generation to run this inn; Greg’s her second husband; first one was a guy she met in college at Michigan State. He died in Vietnam.

  “They lived down state at first. Greg was a general contractor; his company mostly specialized in concrete and masonry. When her folks wanted to retire, they sold out down there and came up here.

  “I became re-acquainted with Fran when I was first selling advertising in Traverse City. When I started the Record we launched annual spring and fall recreation guides. Fran and Greg were still new here, and they became featured advertisers. At first they were surprised at how many calls they received from folks who saw them in our guides.” She was thinking back at those days when she was bucking the odds to start and keep a country newspaper afloat. She shook herself again.

  “You might as well accept them, Jan,” I said softly.

  “Accept what?”

  “These little nostalgic trips your mind is going to take over the course of this trip. You’re time traveling, kiddo. It’s not unlike where my head was at when I first met you. I actually came to enjoy the little memories that seemed to explode on me like flying fish roe do when you find them in your mouth after you’ve eaten sushi.”

  She smiled at me and I saw a little touch of sadness in her.

  “What?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer right away, then softly, “I don’t spend much time thinking about what was, either...”

  Greg arrived with a tray. “Fran is putting the finishing touches on the salad and will be right out.” He put the tray down, handed an iced tea to Jan and then a tumbler just like the one I’d found in our cabin the night before, only this one was filled to the brim with a cherry floating and adding another hue of red to the cocktail.

  “Manhattan?”

  “I sure hope so,” he said with a chuckle, “or I’m going to have to retake that bartending class at the community college.”

  “Cheers!” I said, saluting him with my glass.

  “To good fortune, good hunting, and good times,” he responded with a smile at each of us.

  CHAPTER 5

  After dinner, the four of us sat and watched the evening fall. Jan and Frannie were talking about their mutual acquaintances from their days in Stoney.

  “You know, Jan, your class was so snake-bit; it seemed you all either abandoned the area in mass exodus or died young.”

  “I never thought about it that way...”

  “Well, there were eighty-three of you in your class and twenty-eight have died already, and 12 more have lost touch with the class... that’s nearly half!”

  “Is that a lot?”

  “Well, in the class of ’77, we had ninety-two members, and when we were having our thirty-fifth reunion, we had seventy of them on hand and our committee had only four that didn’t receive a personalized invitation.”

  “Wow, that’s sure different from our experience, huh?”

  “It’s been a topic of conversation around here for years. You wouldn’t believe what some of the old timers have dreamed up to explain it.”

  I listened to their chat as Greg went to check on something in the house. “You don’t want to totally disregard those theories,” I said. “Often as not there’s a glimmer of reality in the wildest of them.”

  “Oh, no,” Frannie said with a smile; “I’m talking about everything from a serial killer to UFOs and alien abductions.”

  “Oh, my,” Jan said with some glee in her voice. “That sounds like my hometown for sure.”

  “I know,” Frannie joined in with Jan’s mirth; “You should hear ’em down at Annie’s. This town’s penchant for rumor, gossip and fantasy hasn’t dwindled even as its population has shrunk like a July ice cube.”

  “Small towns are like that,” I said idly. “There’s not enough action in the real world for some folks, and so they spice up the stories of their times with a little drama.”

  “Isn’t that what you mystery writers do?” Frannie asked.

  I turned to Jan and she sent me her most wicked smile, “You’re now acquainted with Frannie’s acidic needle, Mr. Stanton; you’ve arrived and been judged friend.”

  I nodded, “Thanks for the explanation; I had already thought I was among friends here.”

  “Now it’s confirmed.”

  Greg had caught this byplay, and sat heavily at the picnic table next to Fran’s chair and said to her, “And in just one day?”

  “He’s a likeable sort,” she answered as if we weren’t there.

  “That he is,” her husband answered in the same vein, “and polite too; he didn’t unleash his famous wit on you in retaliation; a very polite fellow.”

  “Or shy, maybe?”

  Greg glanced at me and winked, “He might be a number of things, but I don’t see shy as one of them,” and then he turned to me, “What is it that a mystery writer does, Jim?”

  “We feed vicariously on the blood-lusting and thrill-seeking members of the public who love to read, so I guess that is exactly what we do... something we have in common with resort operators...”

  Greg turned to his wife, “Here it comes, cupcake.” Then back to me, “In common?”

  “I noticed it in our cabin right there next to the Gideon’s contribution for troubled souls and rainy nights.”

  “What are you getting at?” Frannie asked.

  “My books, all of them, lined right up and looking well read... so I guess you know what mystery writers do...”

  Jan piped up, looking at her old friend, “The feeling’s mutual, Fran,” and then to me, “And in just one day?”

  “Likeable sorts, both of them.”

  All of us just sat there, smiling, and I was aware that in this remote little piece of Michigan, we were in the company of kindred spirits...

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning, I took Judy with me on my walk, and just past the sweeping arc back to the North, the Drathaaur went on point on the edge of a tag alder break in the forest.

  I noted the dog was locked up in solid thrall, but her nose was twitching, something I’d never noted before.

  I stepped quietly in front of her, and a brown blur of chirping woodcock erupted in a vertical, helicopter-like launch into the clinging leaf cover. Judy bolted in a flurry of sniffing an
d snorting activity, just as if she was releasing pent up anxiety over this encounter with a strange, new bird.

  “Come, Judy,” I called quietly. She came immediately to heel, and sat. I ran my hand over her muzzle back over her eyes to the nape of her neck. “Welcome to Mr. Woodcock, Judy.” Then in an mock whisper, “We’ll buy licenses today, and we’ll have some fun with these guys, girl.”

  Her stubby tail beat a rhythm of anticipation in the leaf clutter covering the forest floor.

  When I returned to the cabin, I found a note about meeting Jan for breakfast at the dining room. I made sure Judy had water and a snack, took a shower, and shaved before walking over to the restaurant.

  “Let’s eat light and head for Stoney,” she said as a way of greeting.

  The twenty-minute drive was accomplished in silence. Jan was at the wheel, and appeared to be concentrating on a route she must have known like the back of her hand, and after a couple of gentle attempts, I let the silence prevail. I sneaked peeks at her from time to time, but I suspected that while she was on a familiar road, she was really traveling back in time.

  It was a glorious September morning. The poplar trees were turning yellow and a westerly breeze was flagging them gently against the Kodak-blue sky. The forest was still mostly green, but the tamaracks were starting to go rusty and the occasional maple or Beachwood was contributing a flare of orange and red. The real “fall color” parade was probably several weeks – or days, depending on the weather – away. As we slowed to make the first radical curve that braced both ends of Main Street to make a highway-speed run through the town impossible, she finally murmured, “I always loved these first few days of autumn...”

  In only a few turns, she silently pulled to the curb on a tree-lined residential street and turned off the engine. “This is here...”

  The house looked just like most of its neighbors: A two-story Craftsman with a porch running across the front of the house, no more than 20 feet of setback from the sidewalk. Above the porch roof, two dormer-style windows graced the front wall of the second story, and my eye measured the distance between them, reduced it by half and realized they were bedroom windows and that there were closets on both sides of the wall separating them.