"We have not cared to live in the place ourselves," said Lord Canterville, "Since my grand-aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, was frightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by two skeletal hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for dinner."
Lake life suited Wylie McLauren. Linger Lake, with its ring of pretty homes and hobby farms (and a junkyard run by a hoarder at one end who was keeping the property values, and taxes, down, thank you) was large enough to fish, boat, and swim in but small enough to discourage noisy crowds. It was a lake for the community, not tourists. Wylie could write her best-selling mystery novels in bucolic peace. Except around the holidays.
Holidays brought all the Linger Lake Loons out in noisy force and she downed tools and joined in, grinning. The Halloween decorations had been going up for weeks. Almost everyone had a theme. Tiny 'ol Fabienne June, to the right of Wylie's pseudo-Victorian cottage, was the Queen of Candy Country. She was stringing white lights on a wicker throne as her grandchildren tacked a red carpet up the steps of her porch. Miss Fabienne was already wearing a rhinestone crown.
On Wylie's left was another retiree, Atlas Cade, and his Haunted Tunnel. A funhouse gauntlet of shrieking touch-plate skeletons and ghouls stretched all the way up his front walk. His Airstream trailer, usually a gleaming silver and surrounded by flowers, was entirely wrapped with orange and purple lights. Atlas himself was untangling extension cords and testing the connectors of the shriekers dangling from his crape myrtles. He didn't need a ladder. He was as tall as Miss Fabienne was short. Very.
Wylie, ironically for someone with a sweet tooth like hers, had turned the small gazebo in her front yard into the extremely popular Salt Lick. A theater grade popcorn popper was the main attraction and she backed it up with packets of potato chips, nuts, and pretzels. And if you're going to have a Salt Lick you need macho, hairy hunters to run it. She was already dressed like a frontiersman with a coyote-tail hat and a hunting knife strapped to her leg. The gazebo, usually sweet and picturesque under the linden tree, looked like something Davey Crockett could comfortably live in. Maeve McLauren, Wylie's sister in law, was helping her wire a rack of moose antlers to the top.
Maeve was wearing desert camo and sulking. She'd wanted to dress as a cheerleader. Then be a cheerleader, Wylie had said. Maeve had refused. Who was she to wreck a theme, sigh, pout, mumble. Like Lydia, she was short, blonde, and quick.
Wylie's brother, Nate, who was tall, dark, and handsome, like Burlie, was sitting on the porch in a rocker and directing them with his cane until his sister offered to feed it to him. He was wearing bright hunter's orange and could be seen for miles.
So there was quite the audience when Deputy Thorson pulled up in front of the house. All of the Junes, the Mclaurens, and Atlas dropped what they were doing and gawked.
"Drag me out by the leg, please," Burlie requested.
"No," said Thorson, a handsome Viking of a young man, as he pulled the parking brake.
"At least drag Lydia."
"No," said Lydia.
Thorson got out of his squad car, walked around, and opened Burlie's door for her like a true gentlemen instead of her arresting officer.
No sense of occasion at all. Oh, well. "I was framed," Burlie croaked as she got out.
Nate relaxed. Wylie was already grinning.
Maeve shot down the ladder propped against the gazebo. "What happened? What's going on?"
Wylie rolled her eyes and followed. Lydia didn't move out of the car. She looked mortified and sat clutching Thorson's beloved service dog, a mini-dachshund with long, silky white fur.
Thorson held up his hands. "Everything's fine. Everything's just fine."
"My babies brought home by a cop," Nate said. "We're gonna make the Loon Ledger for sure." He covered his eyes with his arm.
"Heyyy," Atlas called out. "What'd they do? Drunk and disorderly?"
"Arson," Thorson yelled back, smiling.
Burlie closed her eyes. Wonderful. "We don't need two Baptist churches in town, really," she said. The June family yelped.
Maeve wasn't having any of it. "Arson! You burned something? What? What did she burn?"
Thorson was surprised. "It's nothing like that," he attempted.
Maeve wasn't listening. "For godssakes, Burlie, why? And why did you drag Lydia into it?" Maeve's arms were wide, the camo making her even more obnoxious. Nate braced himself on his cane and slowly stood but he stayed on the porch. He couldn't tackle the steps.
Thorson raised his hands. "Wait, please, I shouldn't have said arson," he said. "Nothing that serious at all," he said. "I caught 'em burning leaves in the cemetery. Being conscientious about it, too. Very neat. And that's all."
Maeve panted with horror. Thorson looked down at her with alarm. Meet Mama, officer, Burlie thought to herself, disgusted. She panics.
"Aaanyway." Thorson backed slowly away and bent to address the little girl. "You're home, honey. Can I please have Lili back?"
She pretended not to hear.
"Lydia, come out of there," Burlie said.
Gripping the dog made climbing out of the car awkward but Lydia clearly wasn't about to let go. She landed and looked up at Thorson as if he were to blame for every evil in the world. Lili just patiently wagged her tail.
"Burning leaves?" Maeve finally groaned.
"Was that you?" Wylie jumped in. "I could smell it. Right when the wind picked up. I almost started crying."
Burlie shook her head. "Ghosts did it, right Lydia?"
Lydia's chin went up and she glared at Thorson. "We made the Autumn come."
"Ghosts, all right," Nate said.
Thorson turned to Burlie. "Pyromaniacal ghosts?"
"Yep," Burlie's face was a total blank. "Ugly ones, too. Googly eyes."
Thorson nodded and stretched out a long arm towards her. The hair around his wrist became coarser and darker as a two-inch claw popped from his forefinger. He scritched Burlie's nose with it. "There is no such thing as ghosts, firebug," he said.
"Uck!" Lydia exclaimed and shot past them all towards the house.
Unable to do anything right on this fine day, Thorson snatched his hand back. "Sorry," he mumbled as they all watched Lydia jump up the steps and run inside, the tags on Lili's collar jingling with every step. The door slammed. Nate slowly turned and followed her inside.
"Where did you get the leaves?" Wylie asked as if nothing had happened.
"From you. From the shed," Burlie answered.
"Oh, those! I was going to make compost. I forgot they were there." Wylie frowned. "Forgot to make a garden, too. Well, burning them is even better. Good job," she said to Burlie who smiled.
Maeve still failed to relax. She turned on Burlie. "No more fires, are you crazy?"
"Well, Dr. Beatrice says..."
"No more setting fires!"
"Okay!" Burlie glared at her mother. The woman could make a disaster out of a toilet roll facing the wrong way. It was tiresome.
"Can you be bought, ossifer?" Wylie quickly asked. "We've got hot popcorn? Or we will soon."
Thorson smiled. "I can, actually, but I'd better be getting back. It's gonna be a long night in Well Deserved Rest. Did I mention I hate Halloween?"
"We have a witch that's just moved into the house behind us," Wylie pointed out a tiny brick house to the left of her generous back yard, practically on the pebbles of the lake beach. "He's a new investigator for the Smith Sodality. British born and trained, too. Maybe he can throw a cordon around the cemetery so you don't waste the night chasing stone-tippers."
"That's a great idea," Thorson said, brightening.
"If he'll actually help," Burlie muttered. "He might make things worse." Her mother frowned at her. Burlie shrugged. It was true. A witch would do anything.
"Well, there he is with Atlas, watching the show. Let's ask him," Wylie said. Burlie looked up and there he certainly was, standing next to the old man with his hands in his pockets. He was young and handsome in a c
alm way. He had rock star hair, though. Light brown and thick. "Fisk!" Wylie called. He straightened. "Come here, m'dear." He smiled and headed for the gate.
Uck, Burlie thought to herself. Out loud she said, "I'll go rescue Lili," to Thorson. She smiled, forgiving him. "Thank you for not throwing us in the hole."
"Yah, sure," he said, sounding relieved.
Trying to appear casual, Burlie turned and headed for the porch. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Fisk watching her go.
"Oh, Wyyylie, look what I've got!" Miss Fabienne called, waving a giant cookie in the air. Clearly she had to know what was going on and she had to know now.
Wylie could be bought, too. "Ooh," she said. "Maeve, you ask Fisk." She shot across the yard making grabby gestures. Good thing she was tall and loved to hike and swim. Otherwise the extra pounds worth of damage caused by living next to the Junes, owners of June Day Sweets, would be painfully obvious.
Burlie met her dad as he came out of the door. He had the dachshund tucked under his arm and Burlie gave her a pet. Lili soaked in the attention and her tail went whap, whap, whap against Nate's side. Burlie's heart melted. She was the cutest wiener dog in the world.
"Burning leaves?" Nate asked.
"Just goofing around," Burlie answered. "Thorson was being nice, giving us a ride home."
"Well, I think we'll all survive the scandal," Nate said. "Talk to your sister while I give Deputy Dawg his sidekick back."
"D'you want me to take her down?"
Nate looked down at the steps with disgusted weariness. "Nah, I can let her go right here," he said. Relieved, Burlie nodded and cleared the way for his cane. Without bending too far he slid Lili to the ground. "Call your dog, Thorson!"
Burlie heard a whistle and the thud thud thud of a short-legged dog that couldn't manage steps very well as she went in to look for her sister. Lydia was on the back porch, playing with her dollhouse. Maeve had converted a small book cubby into a four-roomed palace that even Burlie coveted. But Lydia's face was red and her eyes were wet. She looked angrily up at Burlie and whispered, "I don't care how nice he is. I don't like him."
Burlie nodded. Lydia seemed to be waiting for an argument but Burlie wasn't going to give her one. Yes, Thorson was a good guy but that wasn't the point. She herself had been lectured until she wanted to vomit about how she should feel about...things. And people. Certain people. She didn't want to do that to Lydia. A layer of guilt on top of PTSD was no help to anyone. She sat down next to the little girl and put an arm around her hunched shoulders.
Burlie was fast running out of steam and it wasn't even five o'clock yet. She cleared her throat for the eight-millionth time and felt her voice go completely. Sometimes she could nurse it along all day and sometimes it would give out before lunch. What joy.
"Look at us," she whispered. "We're surrounded. Witches on one side and dogmen on the other."
"Yeah."
"At least we get along with the Smiths."
"Yeah. "
It was true. No blood-crazed Smith had ever gone flapping after them in the dark of the night.
Yet.
Sitting on the back porch Burlie could dimly hear bits of the conversation going on in the front yard. Fisk Iping, the witch, the witch, seemed to be trying to crank up his fee. A fee? So much for being neighborly. "See, I'm not asking for that much," he said. Maeve mumbled something in reply. Burlie couldn't hear the rest.
What did he want? And if Mama and Thorson didn't give in what would he do to them? To all of them? The tickle in her throat that never went away got worse.
Hack!
"Don't give him anything," Burlie whispered.
Then she remembered. It's Halloween. Fun. Remember the fun. She was going to make sure Lydia had fun. Whee. Yay. "C'mon. We need to get clean and get dressed." She stood and snapped her fingers over Lydia's head. "Up. Don't forget the castle. Then trick or treat. Then Godzilla."
Lydia blinked and delight began to seep back into her expression. "Can I take a shower under the hose?"
Burlie wished she was six years old again. "Yah, sure."