The House on Serpent Lake (Ghost, Romance, Fantasy) (15 page)

Was she doomed to the same fate?

Because now Lindsay was convinced it was true. And she felt in her heart it was the fiancée, Galen Halidor. Why he seemed to be haunting her, she had no idea—unless she were connected to his past. Even though such a thing seemed incredible—and impossible, her mounting suspicions were telling her it was true. And if so, was it revenge because Frida had killed him? Yet the episodes weren’t frightening. The ghost seemed tender. Loving. Maybe he simply wanted to be near his fiancée. But, she reasoned, if that were so, wouldn’t his spirit have left the house once Frida passed on?

So many questions …

Maybe, with more investigation, she could find some answers.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Lindsay wondered how to find Harry. If anyone were old enough to have been around when the tragedies happened, it was Harry. He might be able to fill in some details.

How to find him? Karen—at the library was the best place to start. It was probably closed, but Lindsay felt desperate enough to try.

Sure enough, the doors were locked, the building dark except for a couple of night lights over the counter.

Harry had talked as if he knew everyone in town, so perhaps someone at one of the diners would know him. But how could she find out? She couldn’t see herself simply walking in and announcing she was trying to find Harry. So, as anxious as she was to find him now, she had to wait until tomorrow to begin the search.

Before going home, she thought about Mathews. If the entire town knew about the Peterson house, why hadn’t he warned them? Surely it was something she and Eric should have known before deciding to keep the place. Certainly before moving in.

What else did he know?

She hurried down Main Street toward his office. She didn’t know his hours, but it was well past seven, way past the time most businesses in town closed. But she was hoping to catch him before he left.

When she arrived at the door opening to the stairs, it was unlocked.

His office was dark except for a single lamp on his secretary’s desk. Had she missed him? But wait. A sliver of light shone underneath his closed inner-officer door.

She knocked.

Nothing.

She knocked again, louder this time.

His door opened, and when he saw her, he frowned. Not a good sign. Still, he cracked open the outer door.

“Mrs. Peterson. I’m about to go home. If you need legal advice, check with my secretary in the morning.”

Funny thing, he didn’t meet her gaze.

“Why didn’t you tell us the house was haunted?” she blurted. Probably not the wisest thing to do, but there it was.

Startled, he faced her. He even opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

She barged right through the door and into his office, firmly taking a seat. He plodded through like an old man facing execution.

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 …”