Missing in Michigan Read online

  I can tell he’s done with me, in more ways than one. Deflated, I thank him for his time and ask for directions to the ladies’ room. I walk in, notice I’m alone, and allow myself to decompress a little bit. I didn’t except to get hit on today, and I certainly didn’t foresee the local sheriff getting so harsh about a conspiracy theory. Maybe it’s not so crazy after all?

  “He’s lying, you know,” a deep voice shakes my eardrums and rattles the countertops. I jump a little before turning around to face the intruder.

  “Dammit! I wish you guys wouldn’t do that!”

  The ghost chuckles. “Sorry, lady. I thought you’d want to know the truth. He’s lying.” An almost vulgar look enters the dead man’s sockets. “He also still wants to have sex with you. And I can see why.”

  Flustered, I rush out of the bathroom and make my way quickly down the staircase. I send a cursory goodbye in Sally’s direction and then break free of the historic building. My heart is still racing, I’m embarrassed, and I’ve had way too much human contact. It’s definitely time to head back to the hotel room for a nap.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Where am I?

  I’ve woken in a hotel room, but that’s nothing new. Disorientation holds tightly to my fuzzy brain for a few more seconds before it all comes flooding back. Along with it comes the last lingering embers of embarrassment.

  I’m unsure what to do next. Counseling the dead is something that usually takes one or two sessions, and I’ve never been asked to play detective before.

  “Am I capable of doing this?” I ask the room.

  “Why not?” a sepulchral voice replies.

  Dammit! That’s twice they’ve sneaked up on me in the same day. This is all very odd.

  “Hello,” I wave.

  “Nice to meet you, Alex.”

  “How did you...?”

  “Girlfriend, your business card is floating all over the spirit world.”

  “What? How is that even possible?”

  “Stop asking questions and start believing, okay? That’s the only way you’re going to set things right.”

  I muse over these words while looking at the ghost before me. He’s a young black man, probably in his late teens or early twenties, and his wrists have been split. Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that? The way you die has a huge impact on what you look like as a ghost.

  “I’m sorry,” I say while nodding toward his wrists.

  “I’m not,” he replies. “This town is full of nothing but rednecks, racists, and homophobes. I’m better off, honey, believe me.”

  This type of talk is common from ghosts who desperately cling to the idea that being dead is better. I don’t try to disabuse him of this notion, no matter how tragic I think it is.

  “Are you trying to tell me wendigos are real?” I can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.

  “I’m telling you to open your mind, honey. But what do I know, right?”

  He disappears before I can respond. I don’t know what to make of his comments. I mean, monsters aren’t real. Right? I shake my head vehemently. I can’t believe I’ve wasted even a second considering such silliness.

  Chapter Five

  Twenty-Four Hours Later

  I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours Skyping with my cat (don’t judge me), talking to Mrs. Felton, avoiding odd looks from locals, and encountering an enormous number of ghosts. This is unlike anything I’ve ever dealt with before, and it’s overwhelming.

  To make matters even worse, none of this has gotten me anywhere. I’m pretty sure I’m falling further behind this mystery by the second. Desperate, I head back downtown.

  My breath dances visibly in the air, and I shove my gloveless hands deep into my coat pockets. I had a thin knit pair of gloves when I got to Munising, but I’ve lost them, per usual. Darkness is creeping across the horizon, and the temperature plummets with it. Indecisive, I hesitate between going back to the hotel and entering the local bar across the street.

  Screw it. This trip has taxed me beyond my limits already, and I haven’t even begun to help Mrs. Felton move on. I deserve a drink. Determined, I stalk up to the heavy, dark wooden door and push it open. A little too forcefully, in fact, but I don’t hit anyone. Luck is on my side for once.

  A pleasant cedar aroma fills the air. The sparsely seated patrons seem disinterested in the news show that’s broadcasting the latest catastrophes from around the world. With how much damage we do to ourselves and each other on a daily basis, I can’t imagine why any dead spirit would willingly get stuck in the mortal realm.

  The corner jukebox comes to life with a classic rock song. I hum along, nursing my amaretto sour. I’m not much of a drinker, but I also have no interest in staring at the hotel walls again. My plan is to milk this drink for as long as possible and hope no one bothers me.

  “Ms. Bentley? I mean, Alex?”

  My wishes are dashed. Doesn’t anyone recognize a moment of inner reflection when they see it? Sighing, I look up from my drink and almost visibly recoil when Sheriff Hambler’s eyes meet mine. Is he here to bark at me again?

  Taking in my guarded, surprised reaction, he removes his hat and manages to adopt a slightly abashed façade. “I’m truly sorry, miss. You and I got off on the wrong foot, and that’s entirely my fault. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  My instincts are skeptical, but then again, they’re always skeptical of just about everything. And it would be nice to get back on the sheriff’s good side. I nod noncommittally and smile with such reservation that it’s as if I’m waiting to pull it back into a frown.

  “May I?” He points to the empty chair next to me. Not the one across the table, mind you, but the one that’s all too close to my personal space. Turning down his request will make it harder to smooth things over enough to pump him for more information, so I give my consent.

  The chair squeaks as he pulls it out, and I wince. He searches my eyes for a way in, and then apparently settles on a course of action. “With Halloween being last week and all, I assumed you were trying to yank my chain with the monster talk. But how could you know how many wendigo pranks I was called about last week?”

  “Seriously? Wendigo pranks?” I’m intrigued despite myself, by both the monster talk and the twinkle in his eyes. I sit back and appraise him anew. Yup, that’s what I thought; he’s too handsome to be anything but trouble. Even worse, he knows it.

  Confidence and a hint of flirtation drip into his voice. “Yeah. Crazy school kids. But enough about that. How are you enjoying Munising? I could give you a tour, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re much too busy for something like that.”

  “Honestly?” He slides his chair closer to mine, and I can smell the liquor on his breath. “I have nothing but time on my hands. All the tourists have gone home. Well, except for you, I guess. But there hasn’t been much else going on lately.”

  I fight back the urge to ask him why the hell he isn’t looking for Mrs. Felton’s son, then. Instead, I find myself twirling my hair again. Emboldened, he takes my hand and says, “Come on. Let’s dance.”

  “Oh, I really couldn’t,” I mumble. I’m a terrible dancer, and I hate doing things in public that are going to attract undo attention. Despite this, I somehow find myself in his embrace while swaying from side-to-side. A rock ballad from the seventies blares through the bar’s sound system, and I feel dangerously close to falling, but not on the floor.

  This is a terrible idea, I remind myself, but my common sense has clocked out for a break. Our bodies press closer together. His firm grip and skilled feet lead me around the dance floor. It’s exhilarating, but it’s so far from something I’d normally do that I’m waiting for the alarm clock to wake me from the pleasant haze of a dream.

  “Can I ask you a question, Alex?”

  People love to pose this query, but it’s nothing more than idle chatter. My answer doesn’t matter; he’ll ask his question either way. Still, I give in t
o the social norms by saying, “Of course.”

  “Do you want to learn more about the wendigo legend?”

  There’s a finite combination of words that can be strung together into a sentence. I could have had years to hypothesize about what would come out of his mouth, but there’s no way I would have guessed correctly.

  “Huh?”

  My confusion is evident, and he chuckles. “I gave it some thought, and it might be good for your book, right? Plus, what’s the fun of going on vacation if you don’t soak up some of the local culture?”

  I agree, and he plunges forward. “There’s a professor who is an expert on Native American folklore. That’s who started the wendigo legend, you know? Anyway, he teaches at the community college in Baraga. It’s a couple of hours away, but it might be worth the trip. I can put you in touch with him, if you’d like.”

  “Yeah, that sounds great. Thanks!” This is what comes out of my mouth, but it’s doesn’t match up with my innermost thoughts. The professor in question might be interesting to talk to, but he’s definitely not who I want to be in touch with right now, if you know what I mean.

  The sheriff pulls away as the third song of our dancing ends. “Well, I guess I’d better be getting home now. But thanks for a lovely evening. I sure do hope to see you again soon.”

  His face lights up with amusement at my bewildered expression. I was sure he’d try to put the moves on me, perhaps try to talk his way into my bed. I would have said no, mind you. At least, I think I would have. But it’s nice to feel wanted, you know? And that’s something that hasn’t happened often. For good or bad, male ghosts have been the only notable men in my life for several years. Until recently, that was exactly what I thought I wanted. But now? I’m starting to think perhaps enough time has passed since things fell apart with my ex. Maybe, just maybe, it would be okay to start dating again.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The ghost in my room is exceptionally chatty tonight.

  “Ooh! It looks like someone had a fun night. Dish it, girl!”

  Protesting in a situation like this is in my nature, but I’m so giddy from the alcohol and dancing I start talking. “Oh, what the hell? It’s not like you’re going to tell anyone else. I met a guy tonight,” I gush. “Well, that is to say I met him the other day, but I met him in a whole new way tonight.”

  “So, you had sex with him? Please spare me the hetero details, okay?”

  We both laugh. I can tell he’s only playing a stereotype because it amuses him to freak people out. His act reminds me of a character from some movie or TV show.

  Sadly, this act was probably his way of dealing during life, too. I wish he’d been himself while he was still alive. Perhaps things wouldn’t have ended up this way. Since I can’t change that, I’m content to have someone to gossip with who won’t spread my personal business around town.

  “The sheriff dances like a dream,” I say while mock dancing with my pillow.

  He stiffens. “Wait a minute, hold up. Hold right up. The sheriff? You mean Sheriff Hambler?”

  “Yes,” I grin. “I thought he was a jerk at first, but he’s really quite nice.”

  He side-eyes me. “Well, make sure he wears a condom, okay? This isn’t his first rodeo with an out-of-towner, if you catch my drift.”

  “I’m not going to sleep with him, geeze!”

  He appears to be on the verge of saying something of consequence but changes his mind in lieu of launching into a little locker room talk.

  “And why ever not? He may be a man whore, but damn is he fine. The way he fills out that uniform is proof miracles exist.”

  Amused, I shoot a look at my uninvited roommate. Of course, he probably sees me as the one who has taken up unlawful residence in his room. We both hold ourselves together for about half a second, then we crack up with such hilarity that the front desk clerk knocks on the outside wall. Whoops.

  Enjoying this natural high, I allow myself to daydream before falling asleep. Would it be so bad to have a little fling?

  Chapter Six

  I stop at the police station on my way out of town with coffee for Sheriff Hambler and Sally. She lights up like a Christmas tree when I hand her a coffee, even though she already has one sitting on her desk.

  “Is Ch... the sheriff here? I wanted to thank him, thank both of you, for all your help the other day.”

  “No, I’m sorry sweetie, he’s out for the day.” Her newfound chipper veneer fades as she continues. “That’s the way of things around here. The men take off whenever they feel like it, and they leave us women to clean up their messes and keep everything running smoothly.”

  I have no idea how to respond, so I say something I’ve seen on several movies and television shows. “Isn’t that the truth?”

  She chortles and lightly slaps the side of my arm. “Girl, you’re as bad as me. But you have to be or else they’ll push you around for the rest of your life.”

  I sneak a peek at her left hand. As expected, there’s no wedding ring. But I get the sense there used to be one and she’s still quite bitter about losing her bling. I make a bit more polite, or should I say gossipy, conversation, then turn to go. I don’t make it two steps before I turn back around.

  “Say, Sally, can I ask you something?” My voice lowers conspiratorially, and I echo her words of the other day. “Just between us girls?”

  Her eyes are riveted, and I know I have her on my side. I launch into the first of a long list of questions that would have made an inquisitor proud.

  “What’s the deal with Sheriff Hambler?”

  It takes a second for her to connect this first question with its hidden subtext, then she flashes a slightly perverted grin. “Ohhhh. Has someone got herself a little case of blue fever? It’s okay, sweetie, almost every woman in town has succumbed to that a time or two. And a few of the men, too, although that’s not the sheriff’s way. He’s single, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yeah, about that. How is he single.”

  Some of the joy departs her face. “It’s actually a terribly sad story. His wife died off the coast of Isle Royale. They never found her body, but after a few weeks of searching, she was declared dead.”

  “Oh my gosh, that is terrible! Wow. I had no idea. How long ago was this?”

  “Let me see,” she concentrates while counting on her fingers. “One, two, three. Good lord almighty how the time flies. It’s been three years already.”

  “And it was just the two of them?”

  Somberness befalls her facial features, and I brace for the worst.

  “Actually… they had a son. He was fifteen when she died. The poor boy couldn’t cope with the loss of his mama. He turned to drugs, or so the rumors say, before he disappeared altogether last year.”

  “Wait, what did you say? The sheriff’s son disappeared?”

  She nods sadly. “It tore the sheriff up something awful, as you can imagine.”

  My feet sway beneath me, and I brace myself against her desk for support. “Do you have any idea what happened?”

  “As usual, there’s no official story. But the sheriff believes it was drug related.”

  A better chance might never present itself, so I pounce. “Does stuff like that happen around here often? Teens getting caught up in drugs and going missing?”

  Her hesitation is so slight most people wouldn’t notice. “Alex, I’ve sure loved talking to you, but I just remembered I’ve got a report due in a few minutes. You’ll excuse me, right?”

  Her lack of cooperation at the most critical juncture may have left others crestfallen, but it merely confirms my suspicions. Something is very rotten in Denmark – err, Munising. Very rotten indeed. Maybe I am cut out to be a detective after all. If what I heard the other day was true, I’ll soon need a new spectral business card: Alexa Bentley, Ghost Therapist and Paranormal Detective.

  Chapter Seven

  With Chad gone for the day, Leslie doing a few massage house calls, and Mrs. Felton unable
to offer any new information, I decide the time is nigh to connect with the professor. I study the GPS on my phone, along with a paper map, and see that the trip is going to take about two hours. I’d better get going.

  The U.P. is a truly beautiful place, especially near the water. The Native Americans sure got it right when they picked the name Michigan. Or, in their native Ojibwe, mishigamaa, which translates to ‘large lake.’ I have to crank the heat up on the rental car to keep from shivering, but I enjoy the view of the lake as I drive across M-28. The route is also flanked by the remnants of autumn’s crimson red and fiery orange leaves.

  I reach the town of Harvey, and it’s time to head inland on US 41. This road will take me directly to Keweenaw Bay Ojibwa Community College. As the miles fly by, I munch on a few apples and listen to an old Sarah McLachlan CD I found buried in my purse. Before it seems possible, the college comes into view.

  It’s a lot smaller than I anticipated, but that only means it should be easier to track down Professor Williams. Happily, I don’t even have to search because someone helpful approaches and offers directions. I’m surprised the student is glaringly white, and then I realize it was silly to assume everyone here would be Native American. The college has an Indian name and sits on reservation land. It also has a few history and cultural programs to die for. Perhaps if I’d taken one of them, I wouldn’t have let my ignorance color my expectations about the student body.

  Even with this admonishment fresh in my mind, I’m stunned again when I meet Professor Williams. He’s part of the local tribe, and he’s cleaner cut than anyone I’ve ever met.