The Candidate's Mother, Shard Villa, Middlebury, Vermont

The young newshounds got rooms at the Middlebury Inn. After a brief talk with their informant they drove south on Route 7. The candidate had stirred the pot by stating he had attacked his mother with a hammer…during his youthful, dark days. The candidate claimed he found spiritual guidance and took a different road, becoming an admired and consummate professional.

      Skyler was fascinated by the odd tale and approached Chloe to pursue the story. They got a free-lance assignment to find the candidate’s mother and interview her. The media had to know the truth!

     Fortunately, Chloe had a friend at the Vermont Medical School who was taking a residency in geriatrics. He had discovered the candidate’s mother secreted away at the Shard Villa, an upscale, assisted-living home in Middlebury, Vermont. The doctor was able to arrange a meeting for the reporters. Chloe would ask the questions and Skyler would clandestinely film the interview with the elderly woman.

     Their contact greeted them at the Shard Villa and escorted them to an upstairs turret room with a view of the Green Mountains. The two introduced themselves, taking seats in front of the candidate’s mother, Mable. The elderly woman sat on an upholstered chair with a plaid blanket over her legs. In her left hand she fingered a silver cross; Mable's right hand was under the coverlet.              After small talk, she coughed and asked Skyler to get a glass of water from the kitchenette across the room.The young man turned away and the silver cross slipped from the old lady’s gnarled hand. Chloe bent from her chair to retrieve the icon, taking the cross from the floor. Suddenly Mable‘s right hand came out from under the blanket holding a ball peen hammer. With a swift blow, she popped Chloe on the head and the young woman collapsed to the floor with a soft thud.

     Skyler was just returning with the glass of water and he gaped at Chloe sprawled on the floor.

     “I think she’s fainted.” The elderly woman said her eyes wide.

     Quickly Skyler crossed the room and knelt beside Chloe. He saw the wound in the back of her head and looked up at Mable, who then cracked Skyler in the forehead. The young man toppled on his back and the room was still, but then Chloe groaned.

     The old lady bent down. “You got it wrong, dearie.” She whispered.

     “I’m the one with the hammer.”

The White Buffalo Trading Post Explosion, Kendrick Park, Northern Arizona

The wind whistled among the pine trees and an odd noise in the night woke Bruce. His research group was staying at the White Buffalo Trading Post and in the morning he would present the history of the Red Mountain Devil, a Hualapai tribal legend of a creature that inhabited the Grand Canyon area in Northern Arizona.

     Creeping from his bed to the window, Bruce saw there was a moon illuminating the still landscape and he heard again the clinking sound. Catching his breath, Bruce saw something lope from the inn’s propane tanks and vanish among the rocks on the other side of the road. A bobcat?

     Donning a heavy sweat shirt and jeans, Bruce hurried outside to the parking lot with a flashlight. Everything was still as he crept to the road, scanning the light among the brush. Suddenly his beam caught a figure crouched in the juniper, red eyes blazing in the dark. The shape rose and vanished along a trail into the pines. Bruce crossed the road, calling out. And then the White Buffalo exploded.

Later, sitting on the ground with a blanket around his shoulders Bruce stared at the fire-scarred ruins of the trading post. His team was dead and only he and the owners who lived in front had survived the explosion. After paramedics treated him, the Sheriff asked questions, curious why he had come outside and escaped the fire. Bruce told the Sheriff he had awakened to a noise and gone to the window, seeing something run from the shadows of the inn and cross the road. The Sheriff asked Bruce what he had seen.

          “Please don’t tell us it was the Red Mountain Devil.”  A deputy scoffed sarcastically.

          Bruce took a breath and paused.

          “Probably a bobcat.” He answered.

The Red Mountain Devil, Kaibab National Forest, Coconino Plateau, Northern Arizona

 The Red Mountain Devil is a legend of the Hualapai, which once dominated the Coconino Plateau and Grand Canyon. According to the Hualapai, the devil roamed the Red Mountain volcanic cone and surrounding badlands, preying upon the weak and infirm condemned to the Red Mountain. Those that were banished to the area disappeared without a trace.

A small group of adventurers stood at the foot of the Red Mountain cone, gazing at the hoodoos and odd mineral crystals that erode out of the jagged walls. Hugh, their leader, told them to wander as they pleased, then rendezvous in an hour. He urged members to be on the lookout for bobcats, which were often seen in the area. Hugh reminded they would get an early start the next morning and spend the day scouring the area for evidence of the supposed devil and his lair.

     Bruce detached himself from the group and wandered off, climbing along the slippery hillside slope. The sun was at his back and shone on the northeastern side of the cone. He walked cautiously, taking pictures of the various formations, the sunlight casting eerie shadows.

     Pausing, he snapped an interesting gargoyle-like formation in the distance, noticing an odd figure at the rock base. Bruce quickly advanced his telescopic lens to study the rock and image, but to his surprise, the figure rose and vanished among the Ponderosa Pines. Perhaps the bobcat?

     Later Bruce met the rest of the group, but kept quiet about what he had snapped among the weird-shaped rocks. He was a breakfast speaker the next morning at the White Buffalo Inn where they were staying. His task was to present the Hualapai history of the devil legend. Bruce was excited to end his presentation with the hoodoo picture and the gray presence at the formation’s base. He would let the group conjecture on exactly what was in his picture.

     They made their way back to the parking area and climbed into the van. Bruce sat in the back as the vehicle moved to the two-lane highway. He looked back and was surprised to see a face peering at him from the juniper brush. Quickly Bruce raised his camera, but the figure ducked away.

     That was no bobcat.

A Vanishing at Lake Hortonia, Sudbury, Vermont

A moonbeam-lighted figure stood in my bedroom doorway. I sat up as she stepped forward in the pale light and I could see it was Nan, the gray-haired Trac Inn manager. She sat gingerly on the end of my bed and whispered. “She’s going to kill you.”

      I sat up with a start, realizing Nan was talking about the waitress, Brita who I had picked up in Magdalena, New Mexico and then dropped off in Roswell. I was driving from Arizona to Vermont for two weeks on Lake Hortonia.       Inexplicably, Brita had shown up in Vermont waiting tables at the Trac-Inn.

Nan edged down the bed, leaning forwarded. “Brita is staying across the road at the old Hunter place in the marsh.”

      She was referring to the cottage that was slowly disappearing in the encroaching swamp. “That place is deserted and inhabitable.” I said. “No one’s stayed there for 20 years.”  Nan shook her head. “No matter, Brita’s not from here.”

      “Brita is Scandinavian.” I said. “I think Norway.”

      Nan gazed out of the window and looked at the night sky. “She’s from out there.”

      I followed Nan’s gaze out of the window and realized she was looking at the stars. “Come with me.” Nan whispered. “We have to check on Brita. You’re in danger.”

      Dressing quickly in running shoes, jeans, and a sweatshirt, I followed as Nan led the way with her flashlight. We walked the peninsula dirt road to Route 30, the black macadam that runs north and south. It was three in the morning and there was no traffic as we approached the ramshackle cottage that was listing in the bog waters.

      “Listen.” Nan commanded. We stopped and my skin prickled. It was quiet except for the frogs and crickets singing in the night. We proceeded slowly to the narrow path that wound through the undergrowth to the bleak cottage; Nan touched my arm and looked at me. ”Let me check. I’m friends with Brita. I’ll signal you with the flashlight.”

      Nan kept her light down on the path and disappeared into the reeds and brush. Only a swamp creature could live in that old place, I thought to myself as an owl hooted. A cloud covered the moon, leaving me in darkness of the edge of the swamp.

      Nan’s flashlight beamed through the cottage windows and then the stillness was broken by a shrill scream, then quiet. Even the marsh denizens paused and only only the loon cried from the southern end of the lake. I waited holding my breath, but Nan’s light had gone out. A cloud covered the moon for a few seconds and the trees and brush seemed to creep closer.

      The realization slowly dawned that Nan was gone, vanished. It was time to for me to retreat and leave Vermont, return to Arizona. What had Nan said about Brita? “She’s not from here.” And then Nan pointed at the stars.

      What had I gotten into? Martha Blake of Scottsdale had hired me to analyze her murdered spouse’s tangled finances, which ran into the millions. Martha had agreed I could take 2 weeks in Vermont to assess her dead husband’s complicated transactions. To my surprise Brita, the backpacking hitchhiker, had appeared at the Trac-Inn and waited on me for dinner. After taking my order, Brita had whispered that Martha had hired her to… “Take care of me”.

      It was too dangerous to search for Nan. Better to leave Vermont and head back to Scottsdale. I had to focus on Martha and try to understand what was going on.

      Time to go.

  

A Killing at Lake Hortonia, Sudbury, Vermont

A demented wail sounded across the lake as the sun set reflected on the gray waters. It was the call of the loon, which usually heralds a storm. Sipping a glass of Otter Valley Shiraz on the lakeside cottage deck, I looked at the crumpled note the hitchhiking blonde had passed me in Roswell, New Mexico. She had printed, “Vermont”.

      Looking at the paper I wondered how Brita knew I was traveling to Vermont. Or was she traveling across country to Vermont and letting me know her destination?

      Lake Hortonia is east of Whitehall, New York, a small upstate NY town known for past UFO sightings and Sasquatch encounters. Perhaps Brita was pursuing her own UFO research, as she had previously visited Nevada’s Area 51 and then Roswell.

The next morning I rose at 7 and the lake was becalmed, like a mirror. I noticed the road-side door was ajar. Had someone entered during the night? I look around the cottage, but nothing seemed disturbed. The cabin is set on a finger peninsula that ran north to south and I was alone as the Nature Conservancy owned the rest of the land jutting into the lake, just south of Lake Champlain. I checked the screen porch, looking up and down the dirt road that bisected the peninsula, but no one was about.

      I devoted the morning to the financial analysis of a young widow, Martha Blake, whose husband had been murdered in Scottsdale, Arizona. The case involved many millions and was unsolved. Martha had agreed I could continue my work of analyzing her husband’s complex investments in Vermont. Just before I departed Arizona, I had noted oddities in her finances and pointed them out, but my client became agitated at my discoveries so I let them be.

      Taking a break after lunch, I walked up Route 30, and then bore right on a dirt road. The area was thinly populated and I saw no one. At one point on the ridge road, a fawn bounded out of the woods, glanced at me, and then vanished in the dense foliage. As I walked it struck me the financial oddities appeared as thinly disguised payments, two withdrawals of $50,000 just before her husband’s killing. I also noted a more recent payment of $100,000. Had Martha paid someone to murder her husband? Was someone else to die?

      That night I went to the Trac Inn, an Innsbruck-style building that was set back from the road. The gray-haired manager greeted me at the door, introducing herself as Nan and led me to a small, lake-view table. Nan left a menu and I studied the array of offerings. I sensed a presence and looked up to see Brita, the backpacker from Roswell, dressed in a white blouse, black skirt replete with a dainty white apron. Smiling she curtsied, her blonde pony tail bobbing, and noted she was my server. I was stunned, but pleased to see her.

      Brita bent low and told me she was on a sabbatical from the University of Stockholm studying unexplained phenomena and otherworldly happenings. But she had taken a side job since she had arrived in Vermont. She nudged me, saying she was happy to see me again.

      I wanted to ask about the note she had given me in Roswell, but the manager bore down on us, so I gave Brita my order of seared scallops in lemon sauce and she departed. I felt a sense of well being. Trac Inn would be a convenient place for dinner. Brita looked to be in early 30s and seemed interested. Perhaps a meal together across the street in the cozy Palms, a chic Italian Restaurant.

      There was a commotion in the rear and I watched as the manager strode to the back of the restaurant. Brita suddenly appeared and she bent down, whispering in my ear.”My Vermont assignment is you. You stuck your nose where it doesn’t belong and Martha Blake is unhappy. ” She paused and I looked up startled.

      “It’s a shame.” Brita continued, massaging my shoulder. “Another place, another time… who knows? But business is business.” And then she left, darting back to the kitchen.

      My dinner came via another server, who told me Brita was indisposed. I ate a few of the scallops and pushed the rest around on my plate in confusion. I asked for the bill and paid in cash with a reasonable tip.

      Back at lakeside, I secured the cottage as best I could. Then I crawled into bed, pulling the covers to my chin. It was pitch dark on the peninsula and the frogs croaked in the cove, an owl hooted, but the loon was quiet.

      What to do?

      Brita intended to kill me.  

  

A Mysterious Blonde, Roswell, New Mexico

  

I left Flagstaff, Arizona in the early morning on July 1 for the first day of my cross-country trip to Vermont, aiming for Roswell, New Mexico. On day two I would head for Amarillo, Texas. Taking the back roads on US 60, I was just outside of Magdalena, New Mexico in the afternoon when an abandoned house with a curious light over it caught my attention.

      Pulling into a turnoff, I got my camera and headed to take a few pictures. To my surprise, a young woman emerged from behind the house, appraising me as I approached.

      She was tallish, broad shouldered, dressed in hiking boots, tan cargo pants, and a blue chambray shirt rolled up to her forearms. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a pony tail and she had a square face, large mouth, and intense blue eyes. She was carrying a medium-size backpack and gave me a smile.

      “Going past Socorro?” She queried. “Can I catch a ride to Roswell?”

Pausing, I expected her boyfriend to come bounding out of hiding, but no one else appeared. Instinctively I knew I should say no, but her smile broadened as she cocked her head in a silent plea. Agreeing to take her, I took my pictures, the first with her standing by the door of the main house, and the rest with the two structures in the afternoon shadows.

      I attempted to draw her out during the ride, but she was vague about her backpacking across the States. Throughout the trip, she gave curt answers to my questions with an enigmatic smile. My traveler said she was from Europe and her name was Brita, but she refused to elaborate. Her coloring indicated Scandinavia, perhaps a Viking as she mentioned a desire to see Minnesota and the Kensington Runestone.

      We made good time to Roswell and I turned onto Main Street, heading north. My passenger pointed to the left, indicating the UFO Museum.

      ”You can drop me at the exhibition.” Brita said. “After all, it’s Roswell.”

      I pulled over and my passenger exited the car, taking the backpack from the rear of my vehicle. Walking around to my side she thanked me for the ride and said she might see me at the Cowboy Cafe. Suddenly there was a honk behind me and I realized I was blocking the street.

      My hitchhiker passed a folded note to me through the open window. The car honked again, so I shoved the note in my shirt pocket and drove on to the Holiday Inn.

      After checking in I reviewed the stock market’s ups and downs, and then showered and shaved. It was past six so I drove to the Cowboy Cafe, which was dim inside with a nice buzz in the half-filled dining room. I took a table by the window and ordered their specially brew, which was amber and tasty, a slight hint of citrus, Out-of-This-World Ale.

      Relaxing, I scanned the surroundings for my hitchhiker, but no luck. I asked the waitress about a tall blonde in cargo pants, but she shook her head. Taking another sip of the cool ale, I recalled her note and found it in my shirt pocket.

      I unfolded the paper and found one word printed in dark ink…

The House at the End of the Street, Historic Boise, Idaho

Someone was in her bedroom and Amy sat up with a gasp. A stranger stepped from the closet, going to the bedroom door. Amy started to yell, but he put his finger to his lips. A person in the hall turned the knob, but hesitated.

       Amy and the boy locked eyes as they heard footsteps. “It was your stepfather,” the boy whispered. “He wanted in, but not tonight.”

      Putting her hand to her mouth, Amy thought it was a nightmare. The youth came to sit at the end of her bed. In the moonlight she recognized him as Brian Cooper from the last house at the end of her street.

      Thinking back with a shiver, she knew her stepfather, Ray, had been eyeing her. Intuitively, she sensed Ray’s intentions, made worse when he drank.

The girl pulled the covers up to her chin and cocked her head. What to do?

      “We have to kill your stepfather.” Her visitor whispered.

Three months later, Amy cajoled her mother to visit the Coopers. Amy explained she had recently met Brian Cooper and he had been a comfort after the tragic death of her step-father. Her curious mother agreed to meet Amy’s new male acquaintance.

          Brian’s house at the end of the street was small, in need of paint, and obscured by unkempt trees and shrubs. Amy knocked on the door and a woman in a shapeless dress partially opened the door. Her hair was gray and a wizened face peered between the crack of the entry. Amy explained they were neighbors and she was Brian’s friend.

          Mrs. Cooper brightened and bade them enter, pointing to a faded, brocade-covered couch against the wall in the dim living room. Taking a worn arm chair across from them, she waited in anticipation. Amy’s mother explained that she had lost her husband, Amy’s step-father, in a terrible accident three months ago. Mrs. Cooper interrupted, saying the postman had told her about Ray tripping on the cellar steps and landing head first on the concrete floor…”head cracked like an eggshell”. She cackled.

         Taken aback, Amy’s mother took a breath and then continued to relate how Brian had provided solace and comfort to Amy, and now she wanted to meet Mrs. Cooper’s son, thank him for being kind to her daughter.

         Brian’s mother stiffened, the color draining from her face, sitting still as a mannequin. A cloud of silence hung over the trio. Finally, Amy leaned forward, “Brian was such a friend to me. I want my mom to meet him, but I haven’t seen your son the past few months and I feared Brian might have had a mishap or something.”

        Mrs. Cooper was silent, then slowly nodded. “There was an accident.”

        Amy put a hand to her mouth and her mother grimaced.

       “A fatal motorcycle accident.”

        The two visitors sat stunned, absorbing what Brian's mother had just told them.

       “Brian’s been dead for more than a year.” Mrs. Cooper said.