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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

Elissa stared at the decaying cottage and grudgingly admitted she needed a man. She prized her independence but now she needed a man to buy the place, fix it up, move in, fall for her, briefly - while she remained aloof - and, finally, help her die.

In the beginning, Mason Forsythe didn't know how much the buying of his dream home would change his life. How it would challenge his deepest beliefs in what was, or, rather, what wasn't. He knew already that love could become hatred. What he didn't know, yet, was that it could also lead to fear. Had he known all that, he might never have bought the place. But, of course, he hadn't.

In fact, right now, Mason was sitting at his desk in the tiny University Office and feeling used... as usual.

He had been used all his life, at first by his three older sisters as a fetcher, carrier and general scapegoat. Then he had been taken advantage of by his minor league hockey coach, who had used his natural ability to play whatever position the team needed, both wings, centre, defense, even a season in goal. It had won the coach several championships, but the result for Mason was that, when it was time for him to try to turn pro, they told him that by now he should be proficient at playing some one position...no time for teaching basics in the Pros.

So he had gone to University instead, where he had met Lorna. Lovely long-legged Lorna. Lovely Goddam Lorna, who had manipulated him to fulfil her desire for a daughter to train in her own image, and who was still using him, after the fact, to pay her alimony for the marriage she had cancelled, alimony that meant he'd never afford to own a home again.

Every time he'd been used, it had seemed the reasonable thing to do at the time. Often, he'd even enjoyed the experience while it lasted. When it ended, however, he was often bitter and had become increasingly distrustful of others' motives. But now, though he was both, he was consciously allowing himself to be used because he damn well needed to be.

He had stared at the blank computer screen for over a minute before his gaze wandered to the forty pages of hard copy he had just completed for Professor Bernstein in Biophysics. That was pretty much the story of his life, he thought grimly. Everything for others, nothing for him.

Oh, he'd be paid for the learned article on something or other he'd just written in Bernstein's name. But it wasn't his Ph.D. thesis. If he didn't get that at least started this semester, he'd have to write all his exams again.

He stared again at the blank screen with its mocking, blinking cursor. "Give me a topic, stupid," it said. And Mason couldn't.

In six years, he'd been kept so busy writing the learned material upon which others got promoted that he hadn't even had the chance to decide on a thesis topic. He knew that his tutor, Professor Weber, wanted him to write on the "Influence of Thomas Heywood on the Industrial Revolution," but Forsythe's opinion was that Heywood had had no influence. Hardly the stuff of a hundred thousand words - fifty thousand, maybe; more would be just padding.

Right now, his favourite idea was a theory that Wordsworth and Coleridge were really a haberdasher named Marsden Foresight who wrote Coleridge's stuff when he was tight and Wordsworth's when he was hung over.

I mean, why not? Doctoral theories had been built on flimsier evidence than none at all. It wouldn't really matter, therefore, what his topic was. It could be a study of the effects of the ecological movement on nursery rhymes - "Mary had a little polyester;" "Ladybug, ladybug, put out your home. Your house fire is damaging to the ozone." Come to think of it, there might be something in that.

Mason's eyes returned to the blank computer screen and his fingers hovered for a moment over the keys.

But a picture was appearing on the screen that made him pause. It was only in his mind, of course, but it was clear enough that it might have been composed of tiny, coloured pixels.

It was that old log cottage he had seen last Summer on his first visit to Birches Lake. He had bumped into his old high school English teacher who had invited him to his place for the weekend and, on a leisurely boat tour of the lake, he had seen the log cottage.

"Deserted for as long as I can remember," his teacher had said. "Since the late forties anyway. Got itself a reputation, naturally, as any deserted place is bound to...ghostly happenings. Doesn't bother the local teenagers, of course. They use the beach for parties and the cottage for...other purposes. Pity to see it deserted. Other than the roof, it's probably still solid. But, they say, the present owner will neither sell the place nor fix it. Probably go for back taxes."

"Who is the present owner?" Forsythe had asked.

"Haven't the faintest. Moira Carleigh, the Town Clerk could tell you, though."

And Mason Forsythe had dreamed for two weeks about that cottage. What a beautiful, secluded spot to live and to write...what he really wanted to write.

For, deep in his soul, Mason Forsythe wrote western mystery stories, a genre brainchild of his own devising, the offspring of his imagined, if improbable, marriage of Zane Grey and Agatha Christie. And now his imagination could see him creating those masterpieces of unpopular pulp only in that old log cabin on the beach of Birches Lake...the cabin he couldn't afford.

"Well, Mason, you finish that piece for Bernstein?" Professor Weber's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Forsythe nodded at the manuscript on the desk.

"Good, good. I've been having the devil's own time making up reasons for him why I hadn't finished it. I'll have one for you from Howerchuk this afternoon. Something on his theory that white rats are cancer prone, I think."

"I'll do it after class today."

"Good. Good. Started on your thesis yet?"

Mason wanted to explode. He wanted to shout,

"How can I start my thesis when you keep me busy doing ghost writing that you end up taking the credit for? How can the ghost of a ghost write anything?"

But what he said was,

"I'll have a prospectus for my thesis on your desk in the morning. The Effect of Thomas Heywood on Mother Goose."

"Good. Good." Weber never listened to what anyone else said. That was the way to a higher education. "Sounds interesting. Oh, and there's a message for you in your mailbox...your grandfather, I think."

"My grandfather?" Forsythe hadn't thought of the old man in months. He'd lived somewhere in the States for several years now and sent a card at Christmas as his only means of communication with Mason, his last living relative. "What's my grandfather want?"

"Nothing, apparently. Seems he's dead." Weber shut the office door behind him.

In the second week of November the lasting snows still hadn't come and Mason Forsythe had found the drive up from the City relatively easy on the balding tires of his old Datsun. Now he sat on a bench in the Carleigh Township Offices across the street from the Carleigh Arms Hotel and Sam Carleigh's Barber Shop and Pool Hall, waiting to see the town clerk, Moira Carleigh, and wondering just how incestuous Carleigh Township was.

As his grandfather's sole beneficiary, Mason Forsythe had inherited approximately four hundred thousand dollars Canadian after taxes. The approximation was the result of the fact that, while two hundred thousand was in cash and had already been credited to Mason's account, the other was tied up in property and bonds which would have to be sold by the trustee for whatever he could get before Mason would see any of it. Still, two hundred thousand should be enough to buy and fix up the old log cottage and he'd keep his job at the University until the rest of the money came through. Then it would be time to invest it and move up here for good and write something under his own name...Murder at Apache Pass, or something.

He'd called Moira Carleigh from Toronto to find out the name of the present owner of the property but, for some reason, she had seemed reluctant to talk about it over the phone and had suggested that he take a day off work and drive up to see her. So here he was.

"Mister Forsythe? Sorry to keep you waiting." The speaker who interrupted his thoughts was a pleasant-faced, chubby woman, probably in her late forties, with a somewhat wicked twinkle in her eye. "Tax time, you know. Keeps me pretty busy."

"Ms Carleigh?" Forsythe asked.

"Just 'Miss.' I missed so I'm still single...no secrets up here."

"Yes, I wanted to talk to you about..."

"Shush. I stand corrected. There are still a few secrets." Moira Carleigh put a chubby index finger to his lips. "Come in my office."

When she had closed the door behind her and sat down, almost disappearing behind her cluttered desk, Moira Carleigh opened the subject.

"So you want to buy the old Carleigh place?"

He had been right, he thought, about the incest.

"It belongs to a relative of yours?"

"Did belong. To a great-uncle, Ephraim Carleigh. Long deceased but, I gather, not fondly remembered. The only In Memoriam he got in the Carleigh Advocate was a dirty limerick...which they published. The cottage was sold in the early fifties after he died. I vaguely remember it from childhood visits as a gloomy, spooky old place. Guess the new owner did too. He never came up to it. Been deserted over forty years now."

"My friend says it's probably still in pretty good shape."

"Structurally, your friend's probably right. The house's, I mean. I don't know about your friend's structure. Of course, there's been vandalism, I hear. Kids throwing parties and breaking stuff. And the roof is probably shot."

"As long as its walls and foundations are good..."

"Oh, they should be. Good solid buildings in those days."

"So can you give me the name of the present owner?"

"Yes, but first I have to explain something to you." Moira Carleigh leaned forward and the wicked twinkle in her eye seemed to have grown brighter. "I am about to send out a tax lien on the property."

She swivelled around to face the large map on the wall behind her.

"You see that property with the red pin in the black square marking the location of the cottage? That's the property. The red pin means no taxes have been paid for twenty years. You understand what that means?"

"Not really."

"It means the property will be auctioned off to pay the back taxes."

"You're telling me I could get it at a bargain?"

"Not really. Oh, the auction would start at the amount of the back taxes - around ten thousand dollars..."

"That's a bargain."

"But it would only start there, the bidding. It could go as high as someone wanted to push it. Someone who could afford to push it beyond where you could go."

"You sound as if you know the someone."

"Yes, Wallis Barnes, Town Reeve for Life and Real Estate Developer. Big money, young man."

"Why would he want an old place like that?"

"Because he's trying to buy up all the property on that side of the lake. Then he'll raze all the buildings and erect his subdivision of classy ultramodern summer homes."

"It doesn't sound as if you like that idea."

"Oh, it'd be great for taxes, but let's just say money isn't everything to me. Wallis cheated in the last three elections for Reeve. Worst of all, it was me he cheated out of beating him. I'd just as soon he didn't get his filthy hands on family property."

"But where do I come in?"

"I can withhold the tax lien for...maybe two weeks. If you can agree on a price with the present owner in that time, then you can pay off the back taxes and the place will be yours, free and clear...an island, a hiatus, a spoilsport..."

"An eyesore..."

"Exactly...in the middle of Barnes' subdivision. You just have to promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"Never to sell to Wallis Barnes, no matter what he offers you."

"That's a pretty tall order."

"It's my condition for withholding the tax lien." Moira Carleigh rose and looked out through the venetian blinds behind her. "How fortunate. Come over here, Mister Forsythe. There's somebody I want you to see."

Mason Forsythe walked over to the window and peered out between the slats.

"You see that man in the vanilla ice cream suit shaking hands with that voter? You notice how broad his smile is?"

"It's lop-sided, though."

"Observant of you. Now watch what happens as the voter turns away. See how fast that smile disappears?"

"That's why it's lop-sided. It's really a sneer."

"You just saw vintage Wallis Barnes."

"The ice cream man? Figures. I accept your condition, Miss Carleigh."

"Good. Here's the name and address of the present owner. Good luck."

As Moira Carleigh showed Forsythe to the front door, Wallis Barnes was coming up the stairs, beaming his lop-sided grimace.

"Moira, my lovely. You look wonderful this morning."

"That's 'cause I feel like shit. Oh, Wallis, may I introduce Mister Forsythe." The twinkle was positively diabolical now. "He's buying the old Carleigh place out on Birches Lake. I think you've heard of it."

Barnes' extended hand dropped and his face was as cold as a stepmother's kiss, as the Swedish say.

"That so? Congratulations." It was the first time Forsythe could remember hearing a halibut talk.

"Don't let me keep you from your business, Mister Forsythe," Moira beamed. "Oh, and when you're ready, I've got a cousin does renovations cheap."

"Close, Moira," Barnes said bitterly. "He does cheap renovations."

"I put my home number on that paper, in case you need to contact me." Moira blithely ignored Barnes.

"I'll be in touch" Mason promised as he bounded down the stairs. The address of George Farnsworth, the present owner, was in Stouffville, just outside the City. With luck, he could have this all wrapped up today. Thanks to Grampa Forsythe for his generosity, and to Moira Carleigh for her stubbornness...even to Wallis Barnes for being a bastard.

George Farnsworth turned out to be a man in his middle-eighties, confined to a wheelchair and taken care of by an equally aged sister, and his home had the pleasantly musty smell of horsehair, stale pipe smoke and beef stew.

"You here about the Carleigh place?" he opened the conversation bluntly.

"Yes, as a matter of fact..." Forsythe answered.

"Where you from?"

"Toronto."

"Good," the old man grunted. Forsythe couldn't remember when it had ever been good to be from Toronto. "Then we can talk. Won't talk to anyone from Carleigh Falls."

"Why not...if you don't mind my asking?"

"You might be one of Wallis Barnes' men. You know he's been having teenagers vandalize the place to bring my price down?"

"No, I didn't."

"You still want to buy it?"

"The question is, do you want to sell it?" Forsythe asked.

The old man gestured at his blanket-covered legs.

"A week after I bought the place, I was in a car accident. Lost both feet. Cottage wasn't much use to me then. Never even spent a night in the place."

"I'm sorry," Forsythe said. "But why haven't you sold the place before now? That was forty years ago."

"Forty-three," Farnsworth corrected him. "Dunno. Guess at first I thought I'd somehow be able to get up there again. I was only about your age then and full of the optimism of youth. But that changed with time. And then that bastard Barnes started to want it. No way I'd sell to him. He's having teenagers vandalize the place, you know, to bring my price down. And nobody else ever asked. Nobody who I didn't suspect was an agent of Barnes'. You don't strike me as one. Don't ask me why. Maybe because you look stupid enough to buy a broken-down cottage that teenagers have vandalized. Barnes puts them up to it, you know, to bring my..."

"But you didn't even pay your taxes..." Forsythe interrupted.

"Why should I pay tax on something I'm not using?"

"Figures. All right. How much do you want for the place?"

"How much you willing to offer?" the old man countered. "Don't go too high. You don't look rich to me and you'll need money for renovations. The place has been vandalized, you know..."

"Fifty thousand," Forsythe interrupted again.

The old man shook his head slowly.

"That's not what it's worth. I was thinking something more like five hundred."

"Five hundred thousand?" Mason gasped.

"No," the old man shook his head, impatiently this time. "Five hundred."

"Five hundred dollars?" Mason gasped again.

"Done. And you pay my legal fees."

"Done." Forsythe shook the old man's hand in awe of what had just happened.

"Oh, you'll probably want to use my phone to call what's-her-name, the Clerk up North."

"Moira Carleigh."

"Yeah. Should have remembered. I get enough letters from her. She'll want to know what you're going to do about the taxes. Agnes will show you where the phone is."

"I'll make it brief."

"You'll pay the bill. Only get one bargain a day here." Farnsworth smiled for the first time.

"May I come back tomorrow?" Forsythe smiled back.

"Make your call and get out." The voice sounded gruff, but the old man's eyes were moist.

Agnes showed him to the phone.

The first November Saturday found Mason jolting along the back road to Birches Lake in Jerry Rowley's truck. The bluff, red-faced man was Moira Carleigh's renovator-cousin and he had picked Forsythe up at the Township Offices where Forsythe had given her a cheque for nine thousand, eight hundred and seventy-three dollars and twelve cents, the amount of the back taxes.

"How much do you figure it'll cost?" Forsythe asked. He still had over one hundred and eighty thousand of his grandfather's original bequest, but there was no sign of the promised property or bond money and Mason was essentially rather close-fisted.

"Can't say without seeing it, and without knowing what you want."

"A roof over my head, a floor under my feet, something to heat the place with and insulation to keep the heat in."

"I suppose that'd include windows."

"It has no windows?"

"I think it just has holes where the windows used to be."

"Yeah, the owner said it had been vandalized by kids."

"You won't find a kid around here to admit to that," Rowley smiled. "Anyway, here we are."

From the back lane, the cottage didn't look as large as it had from the lake, but it was still plenty large enough for him, Mason told himself. As they climbed down from the truck, he could see that many of the cedar shake shingles were missing. The roof would certainly need some repair. Then, as they approached the back door, which swung open on a single hinge, Mason noticed that the logs were covered with green moss.

"We'll have to scrape that stuff off," he said. "I'm not going to live in a rabbit warren."

"Wouldn't do that," Rowley shook his head. "The moss is probably the only insulation you've got now."

Forsythe felt his stomach begin to tighten.

However, the inside was light and airy enough, he tried to think, for the sun streamed between the boards of the ceiling and the breeze off the lake blew through the windows. And it had no floor. Or, rather, you couldn't tell if it had a floor for all you could see was tarpaper, rotting mattresses and piles of unidentifiable, sodden jetsam, some of which might once have been newspapers. If it had been at one time more than one room, it was no longer, for the partitions had been ripped down, probably to feed the fire in the large stone fireplace that dominated the right-hand wall as you faced the lake.

Then a surprisingly nasty thought occurred to Mason.

"Where's the bathroom?"

"Probably out back. That's where they usually put 'em."

"An outhouse?" Mason gasped. "I didn't see one."

"Probably stolen."

"Who'd steal an outhouse, for God's sake?"

"Someone who didn't have one. Maybe a collector."

"People collect outhouses?"

"People collect anything," Rowley philosophized.

Mason stared at the leaning counter in the back wall whose hole showed it had once had a sink.

"So where's the rest of the plumbing?"

"There's a pump out back."

"That's it?"

Rowley sat down on what had once been a stuffed armchair which sagged soggily under him, emitting a foul odour.

"Let me see if I can figure what you want. You mentioned insulation...that means I'd have to stud and panel the outside walls. And we've already talked about windows."

"They're nice," Forsythe said.

"And I figure you need a floor. The junk's just holding this one together. You want a floor?"

"Keeps the drafts off the feet."

"O.K. Plumbing. You were talking about plumbing. By that, do you mean indoor john and running water?"

"I'm planning to live here year 'round."

"Then an indoor john is nice," Rowley agreed. "Now let's talk real luxuries. You want more than one room?"

"I'd like the john separate."

"Yeah, yeah, separate bedroom too?"

"Sure, while you're doing the john. Not together though."

"How about baseboard heaters to supplement the fireplace on cold Winter evenings?"

"That'd be good."

"That means you'll need hydro. Have to wire the place."

"There's no hydro?"

"Do ghosts need hydro? Do kids with portables need hydro?"

"Put in hydro," Mason grunted. "How much are we talking now?"

"You want any more luxuries? Doors, for instance?"

"Sure. Doors...inside and out. Damn the expense."

Rowley thought for a moment.

"Twenty, maybe twenty-five thou. No more. Look, you're still getting a bargain. Moira tells me you paid the owner practically nothing and Reeve Barnes would've paid a hundred thou for the land alone."

"Maybe I should just sell it to him and let him raze it."

"Can't," said Rowley.

"Why not?"

"First," Rowley counted on his fingers, "you gave Moira your word. Second, you'll really like this place when I'm done with it."

Rowley touched his ring finger for "third" but thought the better of it. He rose and went over to the back door.

"You coming before we fall through the floor?" he asked.

"Go on...third," Forsythe urged. "You were going to give me a third reason why I shouldn't raze this place."

"Third," said Rowley, "the ghosts wouldn't like it."

And he left Mason Forsythe standing in the rotting chaos of his dream home.

He wasn't thinking about Rowley's last words, he told himself, for he didn't believe in ghosts.

Such as it was, this was his place now. Here, he'd do only what he wanted. He'd write only what he liked. He'd live as he damned well pleased.

And he'd never feel used again.

Chapter Two

As late-arriving darkness of June began to fall, Elissa stood behind a tree at the edge of the old Carleigh property. She had stood there, in fact, all afternoon in the intermittent light rain, watching the men moving boxes and furniture into the refurbished cottage and trying to decide which one was the new occupant, for she was certain that fate had chosen him for her. Finally, she decided the chosen one was the tall, dark-haired man of about thirty who seemed to be giving most of the directions. He would certainly do, she thought. But she would have to be careful; one false move could ruin it all. He was really quite good-looking and he seemed forceful and decisive, qualities she admired. But she mustn't let herself admire them too much. She was naturally outgoing and confident, but her present situation had made her a bit hesitant to approach him when anyone else was there.

Finally, she swallowed hard and moved cautiously among the trees around toward the back door of the cottage where her arrival would be less likely to be seen. She was about to step onto the path when she saw the elderly couple standing on the back stoop.

With a sigh, she melted back into the darkness.

Mason Forsythe moved into his new home on Sunday, June twenty-first, the only day he could get movers.

The cost of the renovations had run more like thirty thousand, but it wasn't all over-run or extra luxuries. There had been trouble with the building permit which it cost five thousand dollars to fix - Mason suspected it went into Wallis Barnes' campaign funds - and there had been a new local tax on renovations, to encourage new building, and, finally, Mason had to add a bedroom wing to the side to fulfill the requirements of a new local by-law requiring a minimum of one thousand square feet in any new or renovated building. Almost all of the extra expense, in fact, could be laid at the feet of the local council, for which read, "Wallis Barnes."

But Mason, and Jerry Rowley, had persisted, and, by June, Rowley had finished and Mason still had about a hundred and fifty thousand in the bank after the purchase of a four-wheel drive Subaru wagon to replace his dying Datsun.

And, Forsythe had to admit, Rowley had done a good job. The new bedroom wing housed a modern washroom, complete with toilet, sink and a shower stall, and two cozy bedrooms, only one of which was presently furnished...with a box spring and mattress. Moreover, having the bedroom wing maintained the spaciousness of the main room which was the kitchen, dining and living area, as well as Mason's office. Rowley had built a new chimney for the fieldstone fireplace and had panelled the interior so that it resembled the exterior logs, without the moss. He had also put in a new gravel lane, paved at the upper end by the back road to town so that it could be plowed and used as a parking spot in Winter, for this was to be Mason's year-round home, unless his writing was wildly successful, in which case he'd probably by a condo in St. Maarten or somewhere else that was warm.

Mason hadn't exactly resigned from his job at the University. At Weber's insistence, he had taken a leave without pay, but Mason was fairly sure, and Weber suspected, that it was merely a matter of semantics. However, Forsythe was aware of the old saying that "you can make a lot of money as a writer, but you can't make a living," and he thought it wise to keep his options at least semantically open.

So, on June twenty-first, as dusk fell, Mason Forsythe sank into the overstuffed armchair he had bought at an auction, put his feet up on the overstuffed footstool, similarly acquired though hardly a match, and relaxed from a day of supervising moving men and unpacking boxes and crates. It had been nearly nine o'clock before he had put a can of baked beans in a pot, opened a beer, lit a fire in the fireplace, and taken his seat.

Tonight would be the first test of Rowley's insulation, Mason thought. So far so good. And tomorrow, after soaking up the solitude for a night, he would begin work on Murder at Apache Pass, or whatever. Right now he was content to let his Macintosh with its darkened screen sulk in the corner while Mason enjoyed the rare luxury of being lonely.

At first, Mason thought the knock might have been a dead tree branch blowing against the door, for it had been a single hard rap, but the wind was blowing from the wrong direction. And, after a moment, it came again.

Mason sighed, put down his beer, and went over to the door.

The couple standing on the back porch reminded Forsythe of American Gothic, the painting that must have been done by an enemy of Norman Rockwell. Not that they bore any physical resemblance to the couple in the painting. These two were both short and square and somewhere in their sixties. Perhaps it was the fact that their faces didn't look as if they'd ever smiled. They were not sad or angry faces, just stoically smileless.

"Good evening," the man spoke first, with just the trace of an accent Forsythe figured was probably German. "I hope it's not too late to welcome a new neighbour."

"We're Gerta and Manfred Frobe," the woman said.

Her voice was warm enough, Forsythe thought. Her voice smiled, but the face didn't. It was as if she were lip-sync-ing.

"How do you do? I'm Mason Forsythe. Of course, it's not too late. Come in." Mason found himself grinning like an idiot to compensate for the carved faces on his visitors.

Manfred stepped in and looked around.

"Nice job," he appraised. "We've been watching all Winter, of course, through binoculars...but we couldn't see inside."

"I hope you won't think us inquisitive...there's not much else to do in the Winter but watch."

Still amazed at the disparity between their lively voices and their recently dead faces, Forsythe now found himself saying stupid things.

"Of course not. Anyone would be curious. Next Winter we can watch each other. I'll buy binoculars."

"That would be nice," Manfred nodded.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee? A beer?"

"No, it is we who came to call on you. It is we who must bring a welcome." Gerta pulled back a white and blue striped teatowel. "Biscuits to go with your baked beans."

"Why, thank you. But how did you know I was having beans?"

"I smelled them," Gerta said. "I hope you won't think me inquisitive."

"Of course not. Natural curiosity." Mason could see now, if he ever got another girlfriend, he'd have to get drapes for the picture window. And the bedroom. The john. Everywhere.

"Well, you must be tired, so we'll be going," Gerta said, putting the plate of tea biscuits on the kitchen counter. "Don't worry, Manfred will pick up the plate in the morning."

"I'll drop by in the morning to see if you need anything in town. I always go in on Mondays."

And they were gone into the night.

Mason closed the door behind them and returned to his chair. Possibly it was the back door being open, but the cottage suddenly seemed chilly. As he threw another log on the fire, a strange thought occurred to him. From way back came Jerry Rowley's voice saying "the ghosts wouldn't like it." His mind's eye now saw the faces of Gerta and Manfred Frobe...the kind of faces that told you exactly what they would look like in their coffins. And he could still feel the strange chill that had accompanied them. Weren't strange chills supposed to be associated with hauntings? Had he just met the ghosts Rowley had mentioned back in November?

Don't be stupid, Mason. You don't believe in ghosts.

But, in spite of himself, Mason jumped when the light tapping came suddenly at the back door.

And he took a long pull at his beer before he went over to answer it.

While he had been lost in his stupid thoughts about ghosts, it had apparently started to rain, quite heavily, for the surrounding trees were whispering loudly about it, and the young woman standing on his back stoop was soaked. Her print dress clung - deliciously, he thought - to her slim figure, accentuating its subtle lines, and her long black hair, framing her pale face in dripping strands, only made her Caribbean-blue eyes seem that much larger.

"I was walking the beach and it started to rain," she smiled shyly. "I don't suppose I could come in for a moment and get warm?"

"I suppose you could. You'll catch your death if you don't. Come in. Sit by the fire. I'll put on some coffee. Have you eaten? I'm just about to have some beans. Want some?" Why was he babbling, Mason thought? He hadn't done that since he bumbled into the girls' change room in High School...by mistake...probably.

"I've already had supper, thanks. But I'd like a coffee."

"It's just instant. I haven't had the chance to set up a proper larder yet. I just moved in today. Barely had the time to get unpacked."

"I know."

Had she been watching him too? Was that the local pastime?

Suddenly, Forsythe was aware of the steam rising from the girl's dress as she knelt before the fire.

"You're absolutely soaked," he said, rather obviously.

"Can't be helped now."

"I can at least get you something dry to wear while your dress dries."

"Don't bother. I'll be all right."

"Nonsense. Let's see what I've got unpacked."

He rummaged in the bedroom closet and came out with a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans.

"Hardly stylish," he said.

"But dry." She smiled her shy smile again.

"You better change."

"Where? Here?"

"No...the bedroom...or the bathroom." He gestured vaguely in their general direction.

"Thanks. I'll take the bathroom. More private." She disappeared through the single door to the bedroom wing.

For a moment, Forsythe considered hanging a blanket over the picture window in case of Frobes with binoculars, but he put the thought from his mind. That would just convince them that something was going on, and nothing was...not tonight. He'd just met the girl. He didn't even know her name. You should at least know a name before you...stop thinking like that!

When the girl returned wearing his plaid shirt outside the oversized jeans, Mason almost lost his resolve. She was barefoot. Bare feet had always been a turn-on for Mason. And hers were tiny and perfect. He swallowed hard and ran the cold water for the kettle, but he ran it over his wrists first.

"Now that I'm dressed in your clothes, I suppose I should know your name," the girl said as she hung her dress over a wooden chair by the fireplace and placed her little moccasin slippers beside it.

"Now that you're dressed in my clothes, I suppose I should know yours," Mason replied.

"It's Elissa Hanley."

"Mine's Mason Forsythe."

"Sounds like an author's name."

"I hope it will be some day. That's why I moved up here."

"What did you used to do?"

"I lectured in English at the University of Toronto."

"That sounds interesting," Elissa sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace and hugged her knees to her chest, enjoying the heat.

"Actually, I hated it. Liked the teaching; hated the marking. But most of my time was spent as a ghost writer."

Elissa frowned, looking briefly either startled or puzzled, and her little nose wrinkled. Mason liked those wrinkles.

"A writer of ghost stories?"

"No. Other people who can't write give you a bunch of notes and you write it and they put their name on it. You get paid, but nobody knows you wrote it, except the man who didn't."

"Oh, I see. But don't you get some mention? You know, like 'by Teeder Kennedy with Scott Young?'"

"You're too young to know about Teeder Kennedy."

"So are you," she smiled at him with tiny, perfect lips, "but my father was a hockey fan. He had that book. And he explained to me that the 'with' really meant that Scott Young had written the book. Don't you get something like that?"

"You might, if it were commercial stuff. But this was all academic writing. Literary criticism, that kind of thing."

"Sounds pretty dull."

"It was. That's why I chucked it and moved up here."

"What do you want to write? Thanks." Elissa Hanley accepted the hot coffee and wrapped her tiny, perfect fingers around the mug.

"My own combination of two popular genres. Western and murder mystery. Louis L'Amour meets Ngaio Marsh, you know."

Elissa shook her head.

"Never heard of either of them. I only read romances and ghost stories. I even tried to write one, long ago. A ghost-romance, where a woman falls in love with a ghost."

"Like The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, I guess."

"Never heard of it either. Anyway, mine was pretty bad."

"If it was long ago, you'd have been pretty young. You might be able to do it better now."

"I think I still might have a copy of it around. I could show it to you...if you'd like to see it."

"I'd love to. Which brings us easily to a topic more interesting than me. Which is you..."

Elissa laughed a little tinkling laugh. An altogether delightful sound, he thought.

"Me? I'm not that interesting."

"You are to me. I presume you live around here. I mean you're not just a Summer cottager."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, your name. Hanley's pretty common in these parts."

"Like Carleigh and Rowley. They were founding families. But you said 'first', so there must be at least a second."

"Your dress."

"What about my dress?"

"It's hardly what the girls are wearing in the City now."

"And what are the girls wearing in the City?"

"Actually, much like what you've got on right now, and with about as careless a fit. They call it casual-chic. I call it sloppy. Though on you it looks good." He was babbling again. "So do you live around here?"

"My father's place is up in the bush, behind the lake."

"You live with your father?"

"I did until he died...a few years ago now."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I've finally grown to like living alone."

"No boyfriends?"

"Yes, until he died in what they say was an accident."

"But you don't believe them, whoever they are?"

"It's too late now to do anything about it. Let's just stop talking about me." Elissa rose and looked out the picture window at the last glimmer of the twilight. The sky was clearing off. "It's stopped raining. I'd better be going."

"But your dress is still soaked."

"Then I'll leave it here to dry. It'll give me a reason to come back. To return this stuff and get my dress."

"You better take your shoes."

"They're wet, too. It's O.K. I like to go barefoot." She picked them up, but put them down again on the mat by the door.

She had opened the back door before the idea occurred to Mason, the idea that should have come to him earlier.

"Can I drive you?"

"You can't drive in to my place."

"Can I walk you, then?"

"I'm perfectly safe. I know my way around in the dark."

Reluctantly, Mason held the door open for her.

"I'll be back," she smiled. "It's the only dress I have, even it isn't a la mode. I'll see you in the morning."

"Bring your book."

"I will if I can find it. Thank you for the coffee, the clothes, the fire...and your friendship."

As she brushed past him, her final addendum about friendship made Mason suddenly want to lean forward and kiss her right on her little, wrinkly nose. Or maybe he should kiss her full, tiny lips. That brief moment of indecision cost him any kiss at all. For she was past him and gone into the dripping darkness before he could move.

With a sigh, he shut the door and turned back to the fire trying to imagine her still sitting there. And, only then, was he aware of the smell of something burning. The hem of Elissa's dress was on fire.

He grabbed it and ran over to the sink, running it under the cold water. It stopped burning, but the damage was already done. The dress was ruined. He'd have to go into town and get another one for her in the morning. Something more in style, perhaps, if that was possible in Carleigh Falls.

As the smell of burned cloth evaporated, another odour began to assail Mason's nostrils. This time it was the acrid scent of baked beans scorching on the stove.

With a sigh, he ran the pot under the cold water too. Then he picked up the plate of tea biscuits from the Frobes. They were stone cold, but he didn't dare heat them in the oven. So he sat down in front of the fire and ate a supper of cold biscuits and warm beer.

Meanwhile, Elissa padded along the back road toward town, her little bare feet skipping over the puddles and her emotions a mixture of elation and caution.

Yes, she decided, Mason Forsythe would do quite nicely for her purposes...if she watched herself. He was kind and thoughtful, which were not only qualities necessary for her purpose but also - and dangerously - qualities she loved in a man. She was going to have to be very careful indeed.

She'd done her best. She'd already lied to him. Of course, that was only because he wasn't ready for the truth yet. But after that, would she have the courage to keep from him the things she still couldn't tell?

Well, she finally decided, if he was the one that Fate had chosen for her, then Fate, at last, was being good to her.

She just couldn't let it become too good. He'd be all to easy to fall for...

Staring at the dying fire, Mason decided it had been quite a day. He'd met an absolute wonder of a girl and managed to burn her dress. Hardly a good start to a lasting relationship. Then he'd burned his supper, chilled his biscuits and warmed his beer. He'd have to do better tomorrow.

At least the insulation in the cottage seemed to be working, he thought, as he drifted off into a tired sleep in his chair.

About two in the morning, he awoke. The fire had died down and damp drafts blew down the chimney and across the floor, chilling his feet. It was raining again. Mason hoped the clinking-dripping sound was water off the eaves and not what he knew it was - water dripping into his bean pot in the sink. Either a leaky faucet or, worse still, a leaking roof. The air hung with the clammy aroma of wet wood, as if that weren't the only leak, and he found himself shuddering with the cold. And this was June. What would it be like in January?

Uttering soft curses, Mason stumbled through the dank blackness, slipping and almost falling in a pool of water on the floor, and found his way blindly to the cold bedroom where he fell, fully clothed, onto the legless box-spring and mattress which served as a bed, adopted the prenatal position and turned the electric blanket up to nine. Somewhere, he heard a fuse pop with the surge of current.

He slept and dreamed of little bare feet.

Chapter Three

The single hard rap that was Manfred Frobe's signature woke Mason abruptly from an unexpectedly sound sleep. The sun was streaming through the bedroom window and seemed to offer promise for a better day all round.

As he shuffled to the back door, Mason noticed that the dripping sound and the pool of water had both been caused by the faucet leaking into the sink until it overflowed. He pulled the plug in the sink and dreamily watched the water drain away. Another hard rap snapped him out of his clouded reverie at watching the swirling water and restarted him on his still-dazed progress to the back door.

He knew who it was at the door, but he was trying to remember why he was there.

Oh, yes, it was to see if Mason wanted anything in town.

The truth was that he did...a dress. But he could scarcely ask the nosey Manfred to buy one for him.

The dress! It was still sitting on the kitchen counter in plain view of the back door, if you peeked through the crack at the hinges, which Frobe just might. Mason reversed field and dug under the counter for a grocery bag into which he stuffed the ruined dress, still damp and smelling of burned cotton.

A third hard rap sent him scurrying back to the door, garbage bag still in hand.

"Good morning. Sleeping late?" the square man's face was as impassive as ever and his voice incongruously cheery. Somehow, seeing him in the daylight, with the sun shining on his close-cropped, almost white hair, dispelled the ridiculous notion he had briefly held that Manfred Frobe and his wife were spectral. Ghosts, which he didn't believe in anyway, certainly didn't walk abroad in the full light of day.

"The fresh air, I guess," Mason smiled too broadly. "That and the lulling sound of rain on the roof."

"Did it rain last night? I didn't hear it."

"Yes, quite heavily."

"Funny. It was clear when I woke up. And the underbrush only seems damp with dew."

"It probably quit after I fell asleep then," Mason guessed.

"Anyway, you want anything in..." Frobe's voice suddenly stopped for his eye had lighted on the little pair of moccasins that Elissa had left behind. "So you did have company last night. Gerta said she thought she saw someone walking up here from the beach, just after we left. A friend of yours?"

"No. Yes. That is no. No, I had no company last night." Mason didn't know quite why he was lying. Of course, he knew that the Frobes were inquisitive, but he didn't know if they were also gossips. They probably were though. Gossip is the newspaper of a town like Carleigh Falls. He was only protecting Elissa, he thought. I mean, it had all been perfectly innocent in her mind...if not exactly in his.

"I see," Frobe nodded expressionlessly. "She's still here, then."

"No, she left. That is, she was never here. Truth is...those moccasins..." Mason could tell he was stalling until he could find a plausible truth to invent, so Frobe could probably also tell. "Those shoes are my wife's."

"I didn't know you were married."

"I'm not. That is, I was married, but it's over. Divorced."

"But you keep her wet shoes as a memento of good times past."

"Yes...No." Mason knew he was blowing it completely. There was something about conversing with a talking marble statue that unnerved him. "Truth is, I packed them by mistake. I put them there to remind me to send them back to her."

He wished he'd stop saying "Truth is." That always meant you were lying.

"Thoughtful of you. Well, I said I'd drop by to see if you wanted anything in town."

"No, nothing. Well, truth is, I do have a couple of errands, but I have to do them myself."

"Then let me drive you."

"No, thanks anyway. I'll go in later."

"Nonsense. You must be tired of driving after your move yesterday. It's no trouble. I'm going anyway."

"I'd only hold you up. I haven't had my breakfast yet."

"Neither have I," Frobe said. "I tell you what. I'll stand us both to breakfast at the Dunkin Shop."

"Truth is, I don't often eat breakfast."

"Then it's settled. Put your shoes on and let's go."

He'd been trapped, Mason thought, as he climbed into the cab of Frobe's Ford pick-up, still carrying the grocery bag into which he'd stuffed Elissa's dress. He'd need it to establish the right size in town, if there was a Ladies' Wear Store.

As they came through the door of The Dunkin Shop a full-breasted, heavy-set red-headed woman of about forty-five greeted Manfred.

"Well, if it isn't the Wooden Soldier. Regular as usual. What's new?"

Manfred gave a brief glance at Forsythe.

"Nothing much."

"What about your companion? He's new."

"My new neighbour, yes. Elaine, I'd like you to meet Mason Forsythe. Elaine can tell you more than you'll ever want to know about everybody within fifty miles."

"A hundred," Elaine grinned, pouring them each a coffee as they took their seats at a table. "You're the one who fixed up the old Carleigh place, then?"

"That's me." Mason stood and shook her hand. She had a strong handshake, he noticed.

"Any run-ins with the ghosts, yet?"

Mason was taken aback for a moment and his uncertainty made his answer perhaps a bit too candid.

"To tell the truth, I thought I had last night. But it turned out to be Manfred and his wife."

"I can understand that. Didn't I tell you, Mister Nutcracker, that you should do something so you don't look freshly embalmed? Like smile?"

Manfred tried to smile but the muscles had atrophied. He managed only a kind of crooked smirk.

"Now you look like Dracula...before he wakes up," Elaine laughed. "Here's a menu. You've got thirty seconds to decide on what you want for breakfast." She turned away.

"Does she always call you things like that?" Mason asked, puzzled by Elaine's insulting manner toward Frobe.

"Like the 'Wooden Soldier?' All the time."

"And it doesn't bother you?"

"Why should it? It's just her way of flirting."

"Strange way."

"First few years, she tried to make me laugh. She did, too, but, of course she couldn't tell. So, recently, she's been trying to make me angry. Anything to get me to change expression. But I've had this stone face all my life and I like it. It's a pleasant little game, though."

"So, what'll it be?" Elaine called across the small room.

"Poached eggs on toast," Mason decided.

"The usual," Frobe said.

"Two poached on a raft and two faceless," Elaine called through the half-door to the kitchen.

"Faceless?" Mason inquired.

"I like mine fried, over, not lightly," Manfred explained.

Somehow it seemed appropriate, Forsythe thought.

As they finished their eggs and coffee, Forsythe decided he would be best to ask Elaine his question. He certainly didn't want to ask Frobe. He got his chance when Frobe excused himself to go to the washroom. Mason caught Elaine's eye with a small wave of his hand and she bustled over.

"Yes, Mister Forsythe? More coffee?"

"No, thanks, though it was great. I was wondering if there was a Ladies' Wear store in town."

"Expecting a lady friend?"

"No, I owe a lady friend. I ruined her dress." The moment it was out of his mouth, he knew he'd made a mistake. Someone like Elaine could compose a novel around that utterance...a novel that everyone in town would read.

"I hope she's not a stylish dresser." Elaine did not seem to notice anything peculiar. "Zelda's Boutique is hardly haute couture. In fact, it strains mightily upwards to barely achieve ghetto. But it's all we've got in town. Go one block up the hill, hang a left and you can't miss it."

"I'll try it, thanks. I just want something simple."

"Simple, she's got. Oh, so you don't get confused. Zelda doesn't run the place now; she's semi-retired. Arthritis. The 'girl' you'll meet is Rosie. Though she's hardly a girl and she doesn't live up to her name, not her personality, anyway."

"Thanks."

Manfred was returning from the washroom and Forsythe abruptly changed the conversation.

"No more coffee, thanks."

Elaine nodded and bustled off.

"What's between you and my girlfriend?" Manfred inquired.

"Nothing. She was just filling me in on the best spots to shop in town."

"Not hard. There's only one of each kind. Well, I've got food to pick up, fishing tackle to buy, and a bottle to get at the In and Out Store. Any of those fit with your needs?"

"Not really. Oh, you could pick me up a pound of coffee. Anything so long as it's fine grind."

"Done. We'll meet back here in, say, half an hour?"

"Sounds about right."

Mason waited until Frobe was out of sight around the corner and onto Main Street before he picked up his grocery bag and ventured out to find "Zelda's Which Was Rosie's Who Wasn't."

Elissa let herself into the cottage and out of the rain easily enough, though the door was locked. Her dress should be dry by now, she figured; Mason had hung it right by the fire. She'd change into that, grab her moccasins and be off. She didn't feel comfortable in his clothes.

But the moccasins were still damp to the touch and she couldn't see her dress anywhere.

Well, then, she'd just wait till he came back...

She sat in the big chair in front of the fireplace and fancied she could smell the manliness of him. And then the idea came to her.

She was trying to get him to fall for her, wasn't she? And he'd said she'd looked good in his jeans and shirt. And the way he'd stared at her bare feet. Some men had little fetishes about things like ankles and bare feet...

Well, then, maybe she'd just have to start feeling comfortable in his clothes...until he got her out of them.

And she liked going barefoot anyway.

Also, maybe it looked a bit pushy to be here when he got back from town. She'd go get some jeans and plaid shirts in town, and put in an appearance when she knew he was back.

And she might never have to wear shoes again...

Mason found the Boutique where Elaine had said, and the clerk as Elaine had described.

"What can I do you for?" yawned the overly made-up, dyed blonde who appeared to be in her late thirties, give or take five years. Mostly give.

"I need a dress," Forsythe said.

"For yourself or as a gift?" the woman leered.

"For a friend. Nothing too dressy. Just a sort of...sun dress, I think."

"Good thing. All our dressy stuff has been on order for six years. By that time it's in fashion here. What size?"

Forsythe shrugged.

"I don't know. Small."

"That's not good enough. You should have asked her size."

"Couldn't. It's a surprise."

"Anything bought here would be. Give me an estimate?"

"I have a dress of hers." He held out the plastic bag.

Rosie Who Wasn't took the bag and pulled out the dress.

"God, she is small, isn't she? How old is this friend, anyway?" She examined the hem. "Obviously too young to play with matches."

"That was my fault."

"I won't even ask how it happened. I'd prefer to imagine. But I don't think we've got anything this small, not in ladies' wear. Maybe a girls' jumper?"

"She's in her twenties," Mason protested.

"Undernourished, poor girl. Afraid you're out of luck. We mostly cater to elephants and other larger mammals."

"And there's no other place in town?"

"You could get her a barbecue cover at Slater's Hardware. It might fit. But hold on. Zelda's just finished doing inventory. She'd know for sure. It's worth a try."

She strode off into a back room, bellowing "Zelda!"

A few moments later a little, wizened, gray-haired woman of at least seventy came hobbling out from the back room. This was undoubtedly Zelda of the Arthritis.

"I'm Zelda. Sorry to keep you waiting. Arthritis, you know. This is the only thing we have in that size."

She held out an aquamarine dress that could have been made out of the same material as Elissa's eyes.

"That's perfect!" Mason enthused. "How did you find it?"

"Ordered it years and years ago. A house dress as a present for a bride-to-be from her fiancé. But the bride-to-be ran away before the wedding and her fiancé killed himself. Nobody's ever asked for that size since. And, for some reason I can't remember now, I never sent it back."

"Well, then, this is a lucky day for both of us," Mason said. "You finally make a sale and I get exactly what I need. How much?"

"Five dollars."

"Five dollars? That's ridiculous!"

"I paid four. I've got to make a profit, you know."

Mason handed her a ten and told Zelda to keep the change. She put the dress neatly into a monogrammed bag and he took it and turned to leave.

"Here," the old lady called. "Take the old dress. I don't want it. Maybe your friend can use it for dusters."

"Or knot it as a ladder so she can climb up into bed," Rosie Who Wasn't suggested.

As soon as he was outside the store, Mason shoved the monogrammed bag inside the grocery bag with Elissa's old dress. He didn't want Frobe to see the store's name on the bag.

Frobe was waiting for him in the pick-up when he got back to the Dunkin Shop.

"What you got there?" he asked as Forsythe climbed in.

"Just a few clothes I need," Mason answered.

"Uh-huh," Manfred said noncommittally and they drove back to the lake in silence.

When they arrived back at the top of Mason's laneway, Frobe stopped the truck, but Mason found he couldn't open the door.

"Damn," Frobe grunted. "That door sticks sometimes. You have to yank it from the outside. Hold on, I'll do it."

He leapt out, trotted around the front and gave the door a mighty heave. The door sprung open and the grocery bag fell out onto the road, spilling its loose contents, Elissa's old dress.

"What's this? Some clothes you need? Second hand even. Fire sale, it looks like."

"It's for a friend," Mason sighed. "Not that one. The dress I bought that's in the other bag."

"Your visitor from last night, I bet. Gerta's never wrong. What'd you do? Make love too close to the fireplace?"

"Her dress was wet from the rain."

"But it didn't rain."

"And we hung it up by the fire to dry and forgot about it."

"Too busy doing something else, I bet."

"Look, I only just met the girl last night."

"Young folks are so casual these days..."

"Nothing happened. Elissa isn't that kind of a girl."

He'd blown it again, Mason thought, but Frobe didn't seem to have noticed the mention of her name. He was climbing back into his cab.

"It's your business anyway," he said as he drove off.

That, Mason observed, was a more ridiculous remark than any he himself had made that morning... and he'd made some beauts.

Only when he got into the cottage did he remember that Elissa had said she would come back in the morning. What if she had come when he was gone? Would she come back later? Briefly, he considered walking over to the Frobes to ask Gerta if Elissa had come by, for he was sure she would know, but the pool of water on the floor and the clink-drip of the tap reminded him that he had more pressing chores to do. Of course Elissa would come back. He still had her dress. She didn't know it was burned. And her shoes. And she had his clothes. Manfred didn't know about that yet. But he probably would soon enough. And what would he make of that? Dressing in the dark?

He mopped up the water on the floor and then spent most of the afternoon fixing the tap. Actually, he spent most of the afternoon searching for the tap that would turn the water off so he could fix the tap. When he finally found it in a tiny shed by the outside bathroom wall, the rest of the job took no time at all. The washer turned out to be the wrong size.

As he stepped back inside after turning the water on again, he noticed Elissa's moccasins still inside the door. Having burned her dress, the least he could do was clean the sand and mud off her shoes, he thought. After all, it had been pouring as she walked along the beach and up the muddy path to his house. He picked up the shoes.

They were still slightly damp, but there was no sand or mud on them, nor on the floor where she had put them. Had he only imagined the rain last night?

No, her dress had been soaked and the shoes were still damp. Dammit, he had even heard the rain, even if Manfred hadn't. He shook his head and put the moccasins back.

Walking over to the table by the picture window, he flipped on the Macintosh, fired up Macwrite Pro, sat down and typed the header "Murder at Apache Pass, Chapter One, Page 1" Then he stared at the blinking cursor for two hours without getting the faintest idea of where to begin.

At six o'clock, he typed "The girl's little, dainty feet were naked." Then he thought the better of it and changed "feet were" to "body was." Then he thought better of it all, saved, and shut the Macintosh off in disgust, either at his dearth of ideas or at the only idea that had occurred to him.

At seven, he fried himself a steak, onions, and sliced yams and made himself his first cup of real coffee in his new home. He ate, wondering when and if Elissa was ever going to turn up.

By eight, he had finished washing up and he poured himself a second cup of coffee, lit a fire in the fireplace, for as the sun dropped the cottage was getting cool, and pulled an old John Dickson Carr mystery off the bookshelf. Perhaps reading one of his favourite authors would get him started on his own book.

But he couldn't concentrate on the reading. His mind wandered back over the day. Except for the leaking tap problem, and except for his behaving like an idiot all morning, it really had been a pretty good day...except for the fact that he had missed Elissa, if she had come.

By nine o'clock, the sun had set behind the hills across the lake, and Mason dreamily watched as a wall of rain advanced across the water.

And then, just as the rain began its first tiptoeing on the roof with its little bare raindrop feet, the light tapping came at the back door.

He almost ran to open it.

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