Murder Stalks the Mist

by L. J. Kottke

 One

Sid’s day began with an appointment arranged through Michelle, the secretary he shared with the insurance firm in the adjoining suite.  Her note informed him that a Mr. Martin Saunderson would be in to see him at ten o’clock that day.  Under the comments section of the message form Michelle had written just one word, “Personal.”

A quick scan of local newspaper archives told him all he needed to know of his prospective client prior to their appointment.  According to his brief research, Martin H. Saunderson was a well-known local attorney in the firm he founded.  He had two grown children, was active in numerous charitable organizations and dabbled in a small winery on the peninsula.  Sid smelled money, lots of it, and found himself looking forward to ten o’clock.

At five minutes before the appointed hour, a call from Michelle notified him of Mr. Saunderson’s arrival.  Having decided to escort his visitor personally, Sid left his office and approached the elderly man at the reception desk.  His visitor was an imposing figure, tall and thin, impeccably groomed and dressed in a three piece gray pin striped suit.  His expertly cut dark hair was tinged with gray at the temples, enhancing his already distinguished appearance.  After introducing himself, Sid escorted the man through the door with the neat lettering on the opaque glass panel, Sidney Langdon, Private Investigator.  He then closed the door and indicated a chair.  Mr. Saunderson declined any refreshment, so Sid took his own seat and got to the point.

“Well, Mr. Saunderson, the only information I have regarding this visit is that it concerns a personal matter.  Just how may I be of service to you?”

Mr. Saunderson hesitated as if to collect his thoughts before speaking.  “First of all, Mr. Langdon,” he finally began, “I must tell you that you have been recommended to me by Gordon Halberly.  Gordon is a client of my firm as well as a personal friend.  His home is in Darrowby Estates.  Actually he is a neighbor of the Sedgwicks and knows Jennifer quite well.  Gordon tells me that you are a man of discretion as well as an effective investigator; I need someone with both those qualities.  That’s why I’m here.” 

So, Sid reflected, another offshoot from the Sedgwick affair.  He’d had reason on numerous occasions to thank his lucky stars for that first case.  It was shortly after he had obtained his license and opened his office three years ago.  His involvement in the Sedgwick jewelry caper and the death of Jennifer’s grandfather had paid off handsomely in the referrals that had come his way due to his, fortunately, successful resolution of the matter.

“I’m just glad I was able to help,” Sid commented modestly.  “Please continue, Mr. Saunderson.”

His visitor still hesitated, looking at the floor and at the edge of the desk between them, as if trying to decide if he wanted to go through with what he had in mind.  Having finally decided not to waste the appointment, he slowly began to explain the purpose of his visit.

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Langdon, I’m afraid I’m very embarrassed to be here at all, but I’ve thought about this a great deal and I’ve just decided to get to the bottom of a situation that has been causing my parents a good deal of anxiety for more than a year now.  I can only hope, when I’ve explained everything to you, that you’ll see your way clear to look into a perplexing mystery that has been occurring at their estate on Orkan Lake.”

His parents?  Wondering why the man would try to engage him on behalf of someone else, and in that case just who his client would be, Sid said calmly, “Mr. Saunderson, if your parents are having any kind of problem they feel needs investigation, why haven’t they come themselves?  Have they already contacted the local authorities?”

“I understand what you’re saying,” Mr. Saunderson replied in a quiet, well modulated voice and articulate manner, “but I assure you I am here on their behalf, and the local authorities are already quite aware of the matter.  They simply don’t take it seriously.  You see, my parents are elderly and I’m afraid the local sheriff believes the situation is due to their age and relative isolation.  But I assure you, Mr. Langdon, my parents are quite lucid, and what is happening is more than simply their imaginations running wild, especially since I’ve seen it, too.”

“And just what is it that your parents, and you, have seen, Mr. Saunderson?”  Sid prompted.

His visitor took a deep breath, apparently steeling himself for the derision he expected, before he said levelly, “A ghost, Mr. Langdon, or more precisely, the ghost of Captain Edward Eversley.”  Then he paused, awaiting the skepticism he knew his statement would provoke.

“Ghost?”  As soon as the word was out, Sid looked down trying to suppress a disbelieving smirk he couldn’t hide.

Seeing Sid’s reaction, which had now become a common one whenever the subject came up, Mr. Saunderson said earnestly, “Believe me, Mr. Langdon, I know how it sounds, but I assure you something is definitely going on.  I firmly believe that someone is taking advantage of a local legend to harass my parents.  They live alone, except for my father’s personal assistant, a Mr. Damon Seward, and I’m becoming concerned for their safety.  I don’t believe in ghosts any more than you do, but I do think someone is trying to terrify my parents.  Why, I have no idea.  That’s why I’m here.  I want you to look into the matter and put a stop to it.”

His visitor was now clearly agitated, and Sid thought about the possibility that there was some truth to what he said.  Perhaps he should take the man’s concern seriously and find out more about the reasons behind it. 

“You say you’ve seen this,” searching for the right word, Sid finally settled on, “apparition?”

Sensing that he might at last be taken seriously, the elderly man nodded vigorously and said emphatically, “Yes, I certainly have.”

“Just tell me what you’ve seen, when it appears and under what conditions.”  Sid was now all business.  He wasn’t smirking any longer.  He had decided that Saunderson was far from a fool and now his own curiosity was aroused.  Just what was going on?

“Thank you, Mr. Langdon,” his visitor said with a tinge of relief, as he began to explain the background for his story.  “There is a local legend regarding the illegitimate son of the original owner of my parents’ estate, Greenwood.  From time to time over the years, there have been various reports of a figure lurking in the surrounding woods.  Over time the sightings became something of a local conspiracy.  Someone would report a glimpse of a shadowy figure and attribute it to the ghost of the son, Captain Edward Eversley, a Confederate officer who died in battle during the Civil War.  As long as it was just a story for the tourists we went along with it, thinking it wasn’t hurting anyone.  But a little more than a year ago, my parents began to report actually seeing a figure in a Confederate uniform standing in various parts of the estate, especially by a small cottage near the lake where, according to the legend, Captain Eversley once lived as a child with his mother, the housekee
per who raised him. 

“As I said, I wondered about the stories until I, too, saw the figure.  The latest appearance was a foggy night about a month ago.  I had gone to the estate for dinner with my parents.  It was a warm evening and we were having cocktails on the patio at the back of the house.  It faces the lake.  My mother saw it first and pointed it out.  It was difficult to make out through the fog, but I was finally able to see what appeared to be the figure of a man standing next to the cottage.  He was dressed in what I believe may well have been a gray uniform; at least it looked to me like a frock coat and hat.  It seemed to be decorated with some kind of design.  I suppose, because of the legend, I assumed the design to be an officer’s insignia.  He was just standing there looking back at the house.  He stood there for what seemed to be just a few seconds and then disappeared into the woods.  Let me tell you, Mr. Langdon, it made my hair stand on end.”

Sidney Langdon sat back in his chair, propped his elbows on the arms and brought his fingers together in front of him to form a pyramid.  In that position, he contemplated the elderly gentleman sitting across from him on the other side of the desk.  His attention wandered to the stripes at the seams of the man’s suit.  They were all perfectly matched, forming smooth continuous lines.  Forcing himself to confine his concentration to the matter at hand, he asked himself if this were really a case he wanted to be involved in.  He also asked himself if he could afford to turn the man down or, even if he could afford it, should he?  The answer to all of his questions was no.  But really—a ghost?

Mr. Saunderson took advantage of Sid’s pause to study the investigator he wished to engage.  He appreciated the man’s hesitation, for it meant he was debating the odds of a successful resolution to the problem his client presented.  The elderly man knew that if his case were accepted, it would be the result of a professionally considered decision.  He desperately wished for that acceptance, because he needed help.

The two men sat in silence, observing each other, until Sid finally heard himself say, “All right, Mr. Saunderson, I’ll look into it and see what I can find out.  I’ll contact you as soon as I have something to report.”  He watched the old man’s face brighten with obvious relief at his decision and immediately began to regret it.

“Thank you, Mr. Langdon.  Thank you very much.  I’m very pleased.  I left my card with your secretary; it has both my office and home numbers.  My parents too will be very pleased, I’m sure.  We’ll look forward to hearing from you, and thank you again so very much.”  With that his visitor rose to leave, and Sid left his chair to escort his new client to the door.  They shook hands and Sid watched the man as he crossed the reception room and disappeared into the outer corridor.  Returning to his spot behind the desk, Sid tried to absorb what he’d just gotten himself into.

Business had improved considerably since his initial success in the Sedgwick matter.  Word of mouth had brought him a reasonably steady flow of clients since news of the recovery of Jennifer Sedgwick’s pearls, and the satisfactory resolution of events surrounding her grandfather’s death, made the rounds of her family’s social circle.  The subsequent cases were hardly spectacular, but he had been lucky enough to see them resolved to his clients’ satisfaction, and their referrals turned out to be a better source of income than any advertising he’d ever paid for.  But chasing down a ghost was beyond his experience, or at least it had been until now. 

It was close to noon and Sid’s calendar was free.  The appointment with Mr. Saunderson had been the only thing on his schedule; now he was too apprehensive of his new undertaking to settle down and concentrate on anything else.  He decided to take the rest of the day off and plan his course of action from home, as he always did on a new case.  He wondered what Angela would say about his new career turn:  Sidney Langdon, Ghost Hunter.  Well, it did have a certain ring.  Before heading down to the parking garage, he said goodbye to Michelle and told her she could reach him at home if anything turned up, otherwise he’d call her the next morning.  Beyond that, he wasn’t sure of his plans.

He drove out of the ground floor parking garage into good weather.  The early morning’s cloudy gloom had lifted, as it usually did by noon, and Sid drove home through the sunshine and pleasant weather Seattle’s temperate climate afforded the city and surrounding coastal communities.  He watched as ferries crisscrossed the Sound on the way to Vancouver; in the distance a freighter headed out to sea riding low in the water.  He enjoyed everything about his life since relocating from San Francisco.  He felt particularly fortunate that his increased client list, and the generous billings it afforded, had dulled the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that often occurred around the first of the month when his rent was due.

San Francisco and his earlier years with Global Standard Insurance seemed far away now and he seldom thought of his life there anymore.  Of course, he knew he would always feel the pain of Ellen’s loss, but he was glad that somehow he had managed to go on and that right now life once again seemed worth living.

He was deep in thought as his car found its way to his street and around to the garage behind his condo.  Once inside, he turned off the engine and sat there for a moment while his reverie dissipated and he once again rejoined the real world. 

A squawk and a familiar “Hello, Sid!” greeted him as he let himself in through the rear door.  Max was not only awake, but sounded in good spirits and happy to see him, although perhaps that last part was just Sid’s imagination.  He told Max about his new case while he fussed over the bird, cleaning its perch and replenishing its water and dish of pellets.  He satisfied himself that Max was suitably impressed. 

He then turned his attention to his own lunch, deciding on the tuna casserole Angela had dropped off the night before.  He put together a small salad and made himself a cup of tea, then caught up on the cable news while he ate.  He luxuriated in his meal and prolonged it as much as he could; he even washed the few dishes he would normally have left in the sink.  He found himself dreading what he had come home to do—plan a course of action for dealing with a ghost.  Well, it was a little late for regret.  He had accepted the case and now had no choice but to see it through to its conclusion—for better or worse.  He knew his currently favorable reputation could turn sour just as quickly as it had developed, leaving him once again apprehensive on the first of the month.

He decided to follow what had become his usual modus operandi:  Getting to know the principals involved in the situation and what made them tick.  Once again he turned to the archives of the local papers.  Once again they proved a gold mine of information.

The gentleman who had engaged him on behalf of his parents, as Sid had previously ascertained, was Martin H. Saunderson, a widower and senior partner in his own well established and respected law firm, a firm which catered to the Who’s Who of society in and around Seattle and San Francisco.  Graduate of a prestigious eastern university, he now functioned mainly as a consultant in his firm, preferring to divide his time among his many charitable interests.  He also owned and operated a small niche winery on the peninsula, a venture Sid assumed to be merely a tax write-off.  He had two children:  Malcolm Saunderson and Leanne Saunderson Campbell.

It seemed that the son, Malcolm, made the most of his position as an attorney in his father’s firm.  The archives contained numerous items relating to his service on the boards of several well-known local companies.  He took up his share of space in the society columns, too, usually in connection with charitable affairs sponsored by the foundations his family controlled, and usually accompanied by an extraordinarily beautiful young woman identified only as Arisa Simone.  There was even mention of a racing sloop berthed at the downtown marina.  Nice life, Sid thought.

In comparison, his sister Leanne practically shunned the limelight.  After obtaining her law degree, she spent several years with her father’s firm, then left to join a brokerage house on Wall Street.  She had quite a successful, albeit short, career there before returning to Seattle.  She married an accountant and retired from professional life.  She and her husband purchased and operate a bed and breakfast in a small community north of the city, where her husband maintains an office.

Mr. Saunderson’s parents, Hunter C. Saunderson and his wife, Elisa, apparently reside in quiet gentility on their antebellum estate, Greenwood, on the southeastern fringe of Seattle in the Wenatchee National Forest.  Before his retirement, the senior Mr. Saunderson occupied himself with his own highly successful lumber enterprise.  He now divided his time between overseeing the firm he founded and the many trusts he either established or inherited.  His wife could be counted among the quintessential ladies who lunch, largely occupying her time with her gardening interests and various social affairs.  According to the society gossip columns, she maintains an active interest in the occult and has hosted a number of séances attempting to contact the spirit of the estate’s alleged ghostly resident, Captain Edward Eversley.  According to the columns, her efforts have so far remained unsuccessful.

He was unable to find anything more than passing mention of Hunter Saunderson’s assistant, Damon Seward.  Most of the notices merely identified him in pictures standing beside his employer at some charitable function or other.

Having gathered enough information on the living participants to start with, Sid turned his attention to the focus of his proposed investigation:  Captain Edward Eversley.  Details of the early life of Captain Eversley were rather sketchy.  It seems there was indeed an Edward Eversley born to a Mrs. Uriah Eversley in Washington Territory.  There was no further mention of him until his name appeared among the casualties from Washington Territory who fell during the Battle of Chattanooga in 1863.

Sid wondered how Washington figured in the Civil War, not having attained statehood until 1889, and how Eversley, aside from having managed to see action at all, wound up on the side of the Confederacy.

He had been so absorbed in his research that he hadn’t noticed the creeping evening darkness; now he looked up to see the room in shadows except for the small area around his desk where he had been working.  He walked over to the patio and peered out through the double doors.  A thick fog rolled over the Sound.  Max was sitting on his perch with his back to the patio.  He had apparently decided there was nothing to see when the glass doors in front of his perch appeared to be covered over in a heavy gray paint.  Except for moving lights from the traffic below, it was difficult to make out anything on the street at the bottom of the hill in front of the house.  Any traffic on the water was invisible, although Sid was sure it existed.  He was relieved to be home and in for the night.  Tomorrow, he decided, he would drive out to Greenwood to talk to the elder Saundersons and look around the estate. 

It suddenly occurred to him that Angela should be home.  A phone call to her next-door condo confirmed that assumption.  He wanted to get her take on his newest caper; her reaction was not unexpected.

“He wants you to chase down a what?”  Her voice betrayed her incredulity.

“Yes, can you believe it?  A ghost!  The old man claims to have seen it himself.  Of course, he assures me he doesn’t believe in spirits any more than I do, and for that much I have to assume he may be right when he says it’s a flesh and blood spirit trying to scare and harass his parents.  I’m going up there tomorrow to see if I can make something of the story.”

“Call me when you dig up something.  You know, you may have to do that literally.”

“Lord, I hope not, but you never know where something like this will lead.  Anyway, I’ll keep you posted.  Oh, by the way, the casserole was great.  I’ll finish it off tonight.  Thanks again.”

“My pleasure!  Be sure you do finish it; you have to keep up your strength if you’re going on a ghost hunting expedition.  Talk to you later.”

“Take care.  I’ll let you know what happens.”

He enjoyed bouncing his cases off his next-door neighbor.  They had been friends since her first visit, food in hand, to welcome him when he moved in three years ago.  He enjoyed her wit and perception and the way she had of reducing the most perplexing problem to its simplest element.  It was a talent that served her well in the course of her work as a paralegal with a downtown law firm.  She had a knack for turning a situation around with only a word or phrase, another talent he’d found useful on more than one occasion during the course of their friendship.

True to his word, Angela’s casserole became history with the evening news.  A glass of wine with Max in attendance brought his day to a close, and he retired that night anticipating the experience that awaited him for better or worse at the Greenwood estate on Orkan Lake.

*         *         *

The elderly Saundersons had confirmed the notice from their son regarding Sid’s promise to consider the matter of the apparition and agreed to see him around ten.  A quick breakfast at Dutch’s and Sid was on I-90 through the tunnel, across Mercer Island, heading southeast for Orkan Lake.  As usual, the previous evening’s fog had begun to dissipate; by late morning the day held promise of fair weather and glorious sunshine.  An hour’s drive brought Sid to the turnoff for Orkan Lake.  The name covered not only a sizeable body of water, but also the town beside it that served to outfit the hordes of tourists descending on the national forest each year. 

When he’d phoned that morning, he had talked to Damon Seward and was glad he’d had the foresight to ask for directions.  The Greenwood estate was beyond the town about two miles on what had originally been a rough service road through the forest, but which had since been covered with asphalt.  Tall majestic firs lined the narrow road, preventing all but flashes of sunlight from reaching the pavement.  Also lining the road were signs notifying approaching visitors that they had entered a private road, a dead end with no public access, and that trespassers would be prosecuted. 

There was just enough room for two cars to pass side by side, and no evidence of any type of development, until the road opened to a circular drive leading to the main house and also to a four-car garage a short distance away.  The house itself was red brick with white trim around the windows.  While no expert on architecture, Sid recognized a few details that identified the style as Georgian.  He knew the bricks had been an exceptional cost during the original construction, making their general use largely prohibitive.  Cost was one of the reasons most of the buildings in that style at the time were made of wood. 

There were four large white columns in front attached to the house itself.  A large pediment presided over the width of the double front doors.  The windows had small-interconnected panes.  Sid recognized them as Palladian, but only from books.  Until now, he’d never seen authentic windows in that style.  Each of the nine windows on the front of the house had its own small pediment overhead, identical to the larger one over the front doors.  The house faced away from the lake and was an impressive structure in an impressive setting.

Sid parked at the far end of the circular drive in front of the house and made his way to the front entrance.  He checked his watch, noting that he was ten minutes early for his appointment with the Saundersons.  The double doors at the entryway had been finished in white enamel and were accented with brass fittings, including the gleaming plate which showcased the doorbell.  He pressed the button and waited.  About a minute went by before he heard footsteps approaching on the other side of the doors.  When one of them opened, he found himself facing a tall blond casually dressed man whom Sid guessed to be in his late thirties. 

“Good morning.  I’m Sidney Langdon.  I have an appointment to see Mr. and Mrs. Saunderson.  I’m sure they’re expecting me.”

“Indeed they are, Mr. Langdon, and thank you for being so prompt.  I’m Damon Seward, Mr. Saunderson’s assistant.  Please come in.”

Sid stepped inside the foyer and took a moment to assess his surroundings.  His first impression was one of having stepped back in time.  The scene before him might have existed in the old mansions of the South when the house was built.  A stairway with a smooth and highly polished dark wood banister hugged the east wall.  A crystal and brass chandelier hung overhead, while a subtly shaded terrazzo floor led the way to several rooms beyond the main foyer.  A vase of colorful flowers stood on a small antique table opposite the stairway, above which hung an oval mirror in an intricately carved wooden frame.  The walls were covered in the same kind of floral wallpaper he had seen on tours of Southern mansions.  The entire scene reflected a kind of grace and elegance he could only imagine existing back then.

He was shaken from his reverie by the sound of Damon Seward’s voice.  “They’re waiting for you in the morning room, Mr. Langdon.  Please follow me.”

The two men crossed the foyer to a doorway beyond the mirror and the flowers.  It, too, was a wide entryway with double doors, but this time the doors were of leaded glass panels with brass handles in dark wood frames.  Sid noticed Damon walked with a slight limp, almost imperceptible, but it was there, a slight dragging of his right foot.  Damon opened one of the doors and stepped inside, repeated Sid’s name by way of introduction and stepped aside.  Sid followed him in and approached the elderly couple seated near the fireplace.  He was aware that Damon had left the room and closed the door behind him.

The man, sitting in a wheelchair, spoke first.  “Come in, Mr. Langdon.  I’m so glad you could come.  I do so look forward to resolving this pesky affair.  This is my wife, Elisa.”  He nodded toward the frail but elegantly attired woman seated on the loveseat beside his wheelchair.  She was now an echo of the beauty Sid was sure she had once been, with graying hair carefully arranged and just the slightest hint of makeup highlighting her delicate features.  She appeared to be partial to pearls, as they covered her fingers and were complemented by earrings and a simple matching necklace.  She smiled at Sid and said in a quiet, cultivated voice, “How do you do, Mr. Langdon.”

“I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Saunderson,” Sid responded as he crossed the room to shake hands with her husband.  “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”

The older man’s handshake was limp, his fingers dry and cool.  He motioned Sid to a sofa across from himself and his wife.  As Sid took his place, Damon Seward again entered the room, this time with a serving tray.  It contained a small tea service and a plate of little sandwiches and petit fours.  He placed the tray on the cocktail table in front of Mrs. Saunderson, who reviewed it and nodded her acceptance.  Damon quietly turned and left the room. 

Sid took the interruption as another opportunity to gauge his surroundings.  The room was small, but infinitely comfortable.  He recognized the furnishings as largely French Provincial, mainly because it was a style he himself was partial to and aware of.  The sofa and its matching loveseat were upholstered in a muted floral pattern.  They flanked a cast iron fireplace trimmed in marble and outfitted with brass andirons.  There was an ornate sofa against one wall in a style Sid wasn’t familiar with.  He thought the wooden frame might be mahogany, but the arms were curled in something like a serpentine motion.  He had seen the style only once before in a museum.  The piece had been meticulously restored from its silk striped woven fabric to its dolphin head feet.  The walls were soft ivory and the polished wooden floor was covered with a tapestry woven rug.  The rest of the room was furnished in an eclectic variety of styles, but nothing interrupted its balance and flow. 

Sid accepted the cup of tea offered by his hostess along with one of the petit fours.  He waited until her husband had been served and her own cup filled before bringing up the purpose of his visit.

“I’m sure your son has told you of our conversation.  He gave me a very sketchy description of the situation he feels is taking place here.  I wonder if you could tell me what you think is causing the appearance of these apparitions and just what else, if anything, has been happening here.”

Mr. Saunderson spoke up first.  “Well, if you must know, I think it’s just a lot of nonsense.  Probably some young vandal hoping to amuse himself and scare the old folks.  I don’t think there’s anything more to it than that, I really don’t.  The truth is I was very much against Martin contacting you, but you’re here now so I suppose we’ll just have to humor you.”

“But that’s simply not true, dear,” his wife said, offering her own explanation.  “It’s Captain Eversley.  It must be.  He’s simply letting us know he’s unhappy and would like the birthright he feels is due him.  We must do something, Hunter, or the poor man will never rest.”

Sid heard the old man mutter under his breath, “And neither will we, I suppose.” 

“Mrs. Saunderson, do I understand correctly that you actually believe you have seen the ghost of this Confederate officer?”  Sid wanted to be sure he heard what he thought the woman was saying—that she actually believed she was witnessing a supernatural occurrence.

“Oh, yes, definitely.  It’s Captain Eversley, I’m sure of it, and he’s come forth to seek justice because of Yolanda’s encouragement.  She told me his spirit can’t rest until the Captain is able to take his rightful place at Greenwood.”

“Yolanda?”  Sid knew where this was heading and he again regretted his decision to become involved in this scenario.  He had a sinking feeling he had been called upon to humor an old woman’s fantasy, probably being fed by some kind of charlatan.

“My psychic advisor, Mr. Langdon.  Yolanda Bibiane.  She’s very good.  She was able to make contact with Captain Eversley on her very first try.  It happened right here in this very room.  We all heard it, except for Hunter that is,” she said, frowning.  “He simply refuses to attend her sittings.”

“Bunch of nonsense, I say,” her husband muttered, with a wink to their visitor.

“I see.”  Sid felt as if he were drowning.  He looked to her husband for help, but found none.  The man just smiled benevolently, as if he were willing to go along with anything that made his wife happy and kept her occupied.  The visits from Yolanda apparently filled the bill.

Sid looked for a graceful way out of what he increasingly felt was a hopeless situation.  He decided to go through the motions.  He would then eventually turn in a report that settled nothing but allowed him to distance himself from this comic opera.

“Well,” he finally said, “why don’t I look around and make some inquiries.  I did promise your son that I would see what I could do and report back to him.  Mr. Saunderson, you may be right, that there is really nothing sinister going on here, but I’d like to look around just the same to satisfy myself, if that’s all right with you and your wife.”

“Of course, Mr. Langdon.  Look around all you like.  I believe you’ll come to the same conclusion.  We don’t mind, do we, dear?”  He looked at his wife, expecting her usual concurrence.

“No, dear.  Why should we mind?  I believe Mr. Langdon will find Captain Eversley a very congenial personality.”

“All right then,” Sid responded, just wanting to get out of the suddenly stifling room, “I’ll just wander around the grounds a bit and perhaps have a word with Mr. Seward, if you don’t mind?”

Having again gotten permission from his host and hostess, Sid took his leave with as much grace as he could muster.  He thanked them for their time and again shook hands with Mr. Saunderson.  Mrs. Saunderson rose and escorted him to the doorway.  She bade him goodbye and returned to her place beside her husband.

Sid needed some air.  He needed something to dispel the sinking feeling he had in his stomach, a feeling that he was on a loser that would send his somewhat fragile reputation down the tubes.  It was a familiar feeling, like the kind he used to get around the first of the month.

He found his way out and stood for a moment on the spacious veranda, trying to decide how to avoid having this visit turn into a complete waste of time.  He remembered the cottage his client had mentioned and decided to at least see where the alleged apparition had last appeared.  A narrow walkway from the garage continued around the house; now Sid followed it to the rear of the building.  A patio led away from the house and encompassed a swimming pool and a couple of small non-descript outbuildings. 

The patio was ringed by a stone fence about three feet high.  A gate guarded a serpentine path leading to the lake below.  Sid stood at the gate to take in the view.  The house had been built on a slight elevation, just enough to afford a panoramic view of the forest beyond and Orkan Lake shimmering in the early afternoon sunshine.  Looking down the paved walkway, Sid saw a small building next to a pier that extended into the lake.  He assumed that to be the cottage and proceeded down the walk toward it.  A wooden rowboat bobbed in the water next to the pier, moored to one of the pilings.  He wondered if the curving walk hadn’t been designed to accommodate Mr. Saunderson’s wheelchair, since steps would have provided a more direct route to the lake. 

As the cottage grew near, he could make out more of the details of its construction.  It was rather small, made of rocks probably obtained nearby and fitted together according to their size, then secured with some type of mortar.  The foundation and walls were certainly well built enough to have been the original construction, although the roof and the framework around the windows and doors had obviously been refurbished.  Reaching the door, he tried the knob and found it turning in his hand.  A slight push and the door fell open.  Walking inside, Sid could see the building was presently used as a sort of boathouse.  Oars stood propped against the wall next to a large metal cabinet.  An outboard motor, probably for the boat he’d seen outside, stood in one corner across from a large stone fireplace.  A rough wooden table and four chairs took up space in the middle of the room.  There had apparently once been a second story, the flooring of which had long since fallen into decay. 

“Mr. Langdon?”

Sid jumped involuntarily.  His first thought was gratitude that his heart was in good shape, for he was so startled by the sound of his name he thought he might have passed out right there.  He twirled around, instinctively reaching for the gun he sometimes carried in a shoulder holster.  It wasn’t there today.  Instead he found himself facing Damon Seward, who had been standing beside the door and out of sight.  The look on Sid’s face told Damon his surprise hadn’t been appreciated.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Langdon, I truly am.  I didn’t mean to startle you.  I’ve been waiting here hoping you’d come down to look things over.  I should have spoken up when you first entered.  I’m really sorry, but I have to talk to you.”

“Don’t do this again, Mr. Seward.  It’s an easy way to get hurt.”  Sid was not happy, but decided to calm down and hear the man out.  The truth was he was hard put not to punch him out rather than listen to him, but he just said, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about and why did it have to be here, with you sneaking around like the ghost I’m looking for?”

Damon knew Sid was still mad and apologized again; this time the apology had the desired effect and the detective appeared more receptive to conversation.

“I need to make you understand that you’re not here on a wild goose chase.  I know Mr. Saunderson dismisses what’s been going on as the work of pranksters and his wife attributes everything to the ghost of Captain Eversley, but I assure you, Mr. Langdon, you won’t be dealing with any spirit.  In fact, I am becoming increasingly concerned that Mr. and Mrs. Saunderson may actually be in danger.”

“All right then, Mr. Seward, why don’t you give me your take on why Mr. Saunderson’s son believes there is something here that requires investigation.”

“I have been employed here for about five years now,” Damon began.  “At first I was amused by the stories of a ghost prowling the estate and dismissed them as fodder for the tourists, and in the beginning I’m convinced that’s all they were.”

“In the beginning?  When did you begin to believe otherwise?”  Sid was becoming intrigued.  Damon appeared to be a rational sort and this was the first indication that there might be more here than meets the casual eye.  He encouraged the man to continue.

“Well, at first there were little things that could have been chalked up to absentmindedness, like the boat at the pier becoming untied and drifting off during the night.  Then things seemed to be disappearing, but again nothing significant.  A rope missing, windows found open, tools disappearing and reappearing.  Never at the main house, just at the cottage.  No one was ever seen, but things happened just the same.”  Damon paused, evidently reviewing past occurrences in his mind. 

“Tell me, Mr. Seward, have you ever seen anything yourself to lend credence to these ghost stories?”  Sid wondered why he hadn’t thought to ask before.

“No,” Damon said slowly, “not the apparitions, but I have seen other things that have made me suspicious.  Lights, for example.”

“Lights?  What kind of lights, where?” 

“Well, they were out in the woods at night.  Small, flickering lights.  I could barely make them out, but I’m sure they were there, and I haven’t the slightest idea as to what they might have been.”

“Could they have been some kind of signal?  Were they flashing in a pattern?”

“Not that I recall.  As I said, I just don’t know what they could have been, but they were in the woods just beyond the cottage.”

“You said you now think there’s a possibility the Saundersons may actually be in some real danger?”  Sid asked, again prompting him to go on.

“Yes, I’m becoming very concerned.  You see, when this started it was just the stories, and then it got closer with the boat becoming untied and small things becoming lost and then being found again.  But now the sightings, actual sightings, are becoming more frequent, as if whoever is behind this is becoming bolder.  Don’t you see, Mr. Langdon?  The activity is escalating, and I’m really concerned because there has to be some point to it all, and it can only have to do with the Saundersons.”  Damon stopped his narrative and looked at Sid as if pleading with him to do something.

“I understand,” Sid said slowly, “and you may be right.  Is there any possibility the Saundersons would accept protection until we find out what and who is behind this?”

“I doubt it.  They don’t see a problem.  You probably saw that for yourself.”

“Yes, Mr. Seward, it’s true that they don’t seem particularly concerned.  I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.  I intend to get to the bottom of this.  In the meantime, I’d like you to keep your eyes open and do what you can to watch the Saundersons.  I’m going to be talking to the sheriff just to let him know I intend to nose around.  I think I can convince him the matter should be taken seriously.  If anything happens at the house that leads you to believe the Saundersons are in imminent danger, I want you to call the sheriff and get someone out here, then call me.  Do you think you can do that?”  Sid pulled a business card out of his wallet and handed it to Damon, who looked it over and slid it into his jacket pocket.

“Yes, of course.  And I really hope you find something before it’s too late.”

“Mr. Seward, perhaps we have reason to be cautious, but let’s not overreact.  Right now all we have are suspicions and we could still be wrong.  Perhaps it really is the work of pranksters who may tire of their game and quit.  But until we have a clearer idea, it won’t hurt to be a little more careful than normal.”

“I agree, and I’ll certainly do as you suggest.  Incidentally, please call me Damon.”

“Thank you, Damon, I’ll do that, and my name is Sid.  Now I’d like to look around here a bit.  I suggest you go on back to the house.”

Damon nodded.  They shook hands and Damon left the cottage, returning up the path to the main house.  Sid looked around the interior of the little building once more, then proceeded outside.  He remembered that when Martin Saunderson came to see him, he’d mentioned the apparition disappearing into the woods.  Sid thought it interesting that a ghost should have to use anything for cover.  Weren’t they just supposed to dematerialize or something?

Although not dressed for tramping through brush, he proceeded to inspect the grounds immediately adjacent to the cottage.  They were heavily wooded, but some areas were clear where the fir trees had all but blocked the sun and pine needles blanketed the ground, smothering the underlying vegetation.  So, the last sighting had been a month ago.  Not too long.  Recent enough to find traces if anything had been left behind.  A silver flash caught Sid’s eye.  He dismissed it as probably just the sun reflecting off the morning dew which lingered because of the reduced sunlight.  Still, he walked closer to the spot where he thought he’d seen something.  Peering very closely at the ground now, he saw the object when it again bounced a ray of sunlight.  Picking it up, he turned it around in his fingers.  It was the silver paper on the filter of a cigarette.  Very interesting.  Could it be our ghost smokes?  Could a cigarette have been the source of the flickering light Damon said he’d seen in the woods?  Of course, it could be nothing.  Perhaps just a piece of debris deposited by the last gust of wind.  Or maybe not.  Sid slipped the stub into his jacket pocket.  So far it was the only concrete thing he had, and even it could prove ultimately to be just an illusion.
 

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