Sinister Sanctuary Read online

  Sinister Sanctuary

  Wicks Hollow

  Colleen Gleason

  Avid Press

  Contents

  An Important Note from the Author

  Updates!

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Updates!

  About the Author

  Also by Colleen Gleason

  An Important Note from the Author

  The characters and basic set-up of Sinister Sanctuary previously appeared in the short story “Hot Springs Magic.”

  I’ve taken the idea and developed it into a full-length novel here in this book.

  Thank you for giving it a read!

  — Colleen Gleason

  August 2018

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  One

  Stony Cape Lighthouse

  on beautiful Lake Michigan…

  A relaxing sanctuary from the rest of the world.

  Only four miles from quaint

  Wicks Hollow, the

  vintage Keeper’s House is a unique

  getaway for the guest who enjoys solitude and quiet.

  Find Your Paradise at Stony Cape Lighthouse!

  _________

  My paradise? We’ll see about that. Teddy Mack grimaced as she read the energetic sales pitch.

  My paradise is to figure out the bloody ending to my damn book.

  She shoved the pamphlet into her large leather tote and grimaced.

  “I’ll finish it by the end of July,” she’d promised her agent Harriet—who’d gone on to guarantee to Teddy’s editor that, yes, the next T.J. Mack book would be turned in on time.

  Or nearly on time.

  Well, six months late wasn’t really on time. But publishing was a slow business at best, and it wasn’t as if Teddy hadn’t turned in her other five manuscripts—all of which went on to be bestselling thrillers—when they were due.

  “This book is kicking my ass,” she’d told Harriet two weeks ago. Though she kept her voice calm, inside it was nearly a wail. “I don’t know why.”

  “You need to get away. Somewhere where no one will bother you. Where you won’t be tempted to post pictures of your office on Facebook instead of writing, or go out to lunch every day instead of writing, or watch Netflix instead of wri—”

  “That’s research. Netflix is,” Teddy said. “I have to stay up on pop culture, or how will I know what to write about? And Facebook is social media, and I have to have a presence there, and on Instagram and Twitter, and—”

  “You have to write a good book. That’s what you have to do. Forget Facebook and Twitter, and watching a whole season of Friday Night Lights in one week—”

  “Five seasons. Kyle Chandler is impossible to resist. Not to mention Taylor Kitsch—”

  “Five seasons? In one week? No wonder your book isn’t done!” Harriet’s voice rose, then tapered off into a more modulated tone. “You need to go somewhere without Internet or Wi-Fi. Somewhere where you won’t be distracted.”

  And that was how, thanks to her cousin Declan, Teddy had come to be settling in at the smallest, most remote rental property in the vicinity of touristy Wicks Hollow, Michigan.

  The Stony Cape Lighthouse might only be four miles from Wicks Hollow, but for all intents and purposes, it was in the middle of nowhere. On a tiny island connected to the mainland by a single-lane bridge, the lighthouse was hardly visible from ground level on the mainland due to the rolling hills and thick forestation of the bluffs overlooking Lake Michigan.

  And because of this figurative remoteness, the place didn’t have Wi-Fi.

  That meant no email, no Facebook, no Wikipedia. No Netflix or Hulu.

  Teddy had even left her smartphone in Harriet’s care—all the way back in New York City—so she wouldn’t be tempted to try out the 3G connectivity in Wicks Hollow. She’d even temporarily transferred her number to a cheap “burner” cell phone.

  (That part had been rather fun, for although Teddy had often written about people—usually villains—using burner phones, she, of course, had never had reason to use one. Doing so made her feel very edgy and incognito.)

  However, she’d nearly gotten motion sickness sitting in the back of the car that had picked her up from the airport as she was driven to Stony Cape—for once they turned off Highway 31 and onto the road leading to the lighthouse’s bridge, it was all bumps, snakelike curves, and jounces. And the driver took the road like he was a Daytona racer—making the ride feel like a mini rollercoaster.

  Teddy might write about wild car chases and acrobatic plane maneuvers, but in real life, she avoided thrill rides for a reason.

  The trees were so thick that they grew like a permanent tunnel over the road, casting it in shadow even in the middle of the day. She could smell the fresh splash of water from Lake Michigan, and when the car finally crossed the bridge then emerged, minutes later, from the wooded road into a small clearing, she caught her breath.

  Wow.

  If this place doesn’t inspire me, I don’t know what will.

  The car had barely stopped when Teddy slipped out of the vehicle, and she turned in a slow semicircle, taking in the place that was to be her writing sanctuary for the next month. The place was adorable and charming and stately all at once.

  The entire property was a small island about a mile from shore. A little bridge connected the tiny peninsula that extended from the mainland in a finger parallel to shore to the acre-sized island on which the lighthouse and its attached keeper’s cottage sat. The island was little more than a small, rocky outcropping with some reedy grass surrounded by Lake Michigan.

  Stony Cape Lighthouse was painted white, and its cap, where the now-defunct light was enclosed, was red. Teddy could see the small walkway around the large gallery, some thirty feet in the air. There were random windows in the whitewashed brick column, and the keeper’s residence was a compact cottage attached to the base of the lighthouse on the southwest side. The cottage was covered by white Shaker shingles, and each window—including the round window over the door—had a pair of shutters in cobalt blue. A wild vine of green ivy grew up one side of the cottage, clinging to the stone chimney that appeared to belong to a real fireplace.

  On the side facing the lake was a long, covered porch enclosed by a yellow railing. A riot of flowers that desperately needed weeding spilled from beds on three sides of the cottage (the fourth being attached to the lighthouse). Teddy recognized zinnias, daisies, cosmos, verbena, and hydrangea. Hmm. The combination of perennials and annuals indicated someone—the caretaker?—had been around to plant the gardens. The boxwoods and spirea needed pruning, but they weren’t completely untended. And the minuscule square of grass, a small patch between the cottage and the thickly wooded two-track road, had probably been mowed in the last week.

  A little stone path crossed from the small parking area to the side door of the cottage, and another one made from shallow stone steps led over to and down the incline that presumably ended at the beach.

  “Looks like a nice place,” said the driver as he began to pull her bags from the trunk. �
��Kinda remote, though.”

  She glanced at him, assessing whether he was taking her measure so he could come back and rob or attack her later. You just never knew.

  Being a writer, Teddy had a very active imagination when it came to possibilities and tactics. She was always thinking of other options, of what-ifs, of how murderous or villainous activities could be accomplished.

  “Oh, my boyfriend and his sister and her husband will be here in a few hours,” she lied airily. “I’ll have just enough time to settle in before they get here.”

  “Small place for four people,” he commented—though he didn’t seem to be disappointed that she’d ruined his nefarious plan. If indeed he’d had one. Not that she had any real reason to believe he did, but…again…you never knew. “But the view makes up for it.”

  “Oh, let me get the door open,” she said, realizing he was waiting for her to do that so he could bring in her luggage—which wasn’t all that much, of course, since the only thing she was going to be doing here was writing.

  The only thing.

  Looking out over the glistening blue of Lake Michigan as it rushed onto the shore below, Teddy stifled a sigh as she dug in her large tote for the FedEx envelope with the key she’d been mailed.

  No swimming. No boating. No hiking. No shopping. No sightseeing. No relaxing. No restauranting.

  Just writing.

  She had brought a swimsuit, though. She could at least put her toes in the water.

  The door opened with reluctance; the lock was obviously not used very often, and it stuck. But at last she muscled it open and stepped back so the driver could bring in her bags.

  “You gonna run the light?” asked the driver as, still standing on the porch, she dug out her credit card to pay for the ride. “The one up there?” He jerked an eyebrow in the direction of the top of the lighthouse.

  “No,” Teddy told him with sincere regret. “This lighthouse has been dark—ha, ha—for over forty years. They don’t really need it because there are two other ones up along the coast, one south and one north of here, and there aren’t any ships or boats that come along this way. Though there have been plenty of shipwrecks on the lake—including the famous one where the Catherine Teal, which was owned by the Astors—you know, of New York City? during the Gilded Age?—went down in a storm somewhere in Lake Michigan between Traverse City and Chicago. They were sending a large wedding gift to some friends in Chicago—”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the driver said, taking the computer tablet from her as soon as she’d finger-signed (and given him a decent tip, even though he’d driven like a maniac). “Hope you enjoy your stay out here.”

  All by yourself.

  He didn’t say the words, but he didn’t have to.

  Teddy heard them loud and clear, and as he climbed into the shiny black Town Car and drove off down the gritty, dirty road, she gave a long, deep sigh.

  Yes. All by myself.

  A little trickle of panic threatened, but she pushed it away as she stepped inside the vestibule of Stony Cape Keeper’s House.

  Vestibule was an optimistic word, to be sure. In Teddy’s mind, vestibules were large and airy with a ceiling at least two floors high. In this case, the vestibule was hardly more than a small entranceway, dark and dim—as it was currently in the shadow of the lighthouse—painted some standard cream color with, of course, a lighthouse painting on the wall. The mat on the floor appeared to have been there since Woodstock, and the lamp and matching chandelier were hideous mangles of metal, wood, and mirrors.

  To the left of the vestibule was the lighthouse itself, accessed through a small door with a curved top. Through the door was access to the small bedroom suite in which she’d be staying, and, she assumed, the stairs that led to the top of the non-working light.

  Because of course she was going to stay on the lighthouse side of the cottage.

  To her right was the “common area”—a kitchen and living room space decorated with more of the hideous mangled metal lamps that someone clearly thought were artwork, for the rest of the place was furnished in what she thought of as 1980s “blue goose” decor. Beyond the common area, to the right, was a short hallway down which she suspected was another bedroom suite. No one else was staying here, nor would anyone else be here.

  She’d told the booking agent she didn’t even need the daily housekeeping.

  Because Teddy didn’t need any distractions. She needed to be alone. She needed to be a monk, locked in her tower—in this case, represented quite accurately by the lighthouse accommodations—like a prisoner in her cell so she could figure out and write the rest of her damned book.

  “Well,” she said aloud to herself—as she had a habit of doing. “Guess I’ll check things out inside, get the lay of the land, unpack. I can take some time to unpack,” Teddy said, as if Harriet might be lurking about, judging her for hanging up her sundresses and finding a place for her underthings, three pairs of sandals, two swimsuits, and all the rest.

  Of course she’d overpacked. That had been part of the procrastination, and the indecision that paralyzed her for the last nine months. It wasn’t as if she’d be wearing anything besides sundresses, shorts, or yoga pants and a tank top for the next month.

  She felt sick to her stomach. Weeks. I’ve only got four weeks. I have to finish this.

  She’d just rolled her suitcase through the curve-topped door and was opening the door into the bedroom, which had a view of the lake and butted up to the covered porch, when her burner phone rang. She was half surprised she even got service out here, to be honest.

  She fumbled with the phone—it was smaller and lighter and not at all familiar, compared to the larger smartphone she had back home—and managed to answer it by the fourth ring. “Hi, Harriet.”

  “Are you there? Are you settled?” Her agent’s nasally New York tone was businesslike, yet Teddy detected a hint of concern. “Is it nice? Do you have everything you need?”

  “I literally just walked in the door, but so far it seems nice. It’s not really new,” Teddy said, looking around at the eighties Berber carpeting and the plain white walls decorated with framed photographs of more lighthouses. “But other than these really awful metal lamps that look like mutant spiders with mirrored eyes, it’s kind of cute.”

  A queen-sized bed was made up with a neat quilt and four pillows (two in shams)—all in a pretty blue and yellow floral theme. There was a desk against the wall near a large window overlooking the lake. Bonus.

  “Best of all, it’s clean. My cousin told me no one has lived here for several years, though obviously someone keeps it up. Or, at least, they did a good job cleaning it for me,” Teddy said. “The lighthouse is pretty much abandoned; it doesn’t illuminate anymore. No one runs it.”

  “That’s nice,” Harriet said briskly, clearly not caring in the least. “Well, I’m glad you’re there and settled. I’ll tell Erin. She’ll be pleased to know.”

  Erin was Teddy’s editor, nervous about the book coming in—and rightly so.

  “What did you say?” Teddy asked, as Harriet’s voice disappeared into a crackle of static. “Hello?” She moved closer to the window, hoping to improve the reception.

  “I said, there’s no Wi-Fi there, right? Can you hear me now?”

  “Yes, you’re back. And no Wi-Fi to my knowledge. Like I said, no one has lived here for years, according to Declan. But it just occurred to me—what if I need to do some research?” Teddy realized she sounded a smidge whiny, but after all, she was going cold turkey here. No Internet was pretty significant.

  “You’ll go to the library.” Harriet’s voice crackled again, but was still discernible. “Are you there?”

  Teddy walked back to the window as she replied, “Yes, I’m here. And I don’t have a car here, remember?”

  “Have your cousin drive you. And hey—isn’t he the blacksmith who does all that restoration work? The hot ginger who visited you in New York?”

  “I guess you could
call him hot,” Teddy said, gripping the windowsill so she wouldn’t forget and wander again, putting their connection in jeopardy. “I mean, most women think he’s hot. Dec’s just my cousin, so, you know, meh. I remember him when he was scrawny and his hair was a lot brighter. Now it’s more of a mahogany than a Weasley-like ginger. Besides, he’s too young for you, Harriet—and he’s got a serious girlfriend.”

  “Didn’t you write a book about a sexy blacksmith?” her agent asked. “A long time ago?”

  “What? Can’t hear you…I’d better unpack and get to work,” Teddy said breezily. “And since you asked, no, I won’t starve, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere without a car or Wi-Fi or anything. And I’ve got food deliveries arranged for every other day.” Plus, Declan was picking her up to have dinner tonight in Wicks Hollow. But she wasn’t going to tell Harriet that.

  “Good. You’ll need to keep your strength up. All right, I’ll check in with you in a couple of days. Cheers!”

  Teddy unpacked quickly then left her room to explore the remainder of the cottage. The whole place was small and efficient, with a kitchen area that merged into the living room, the two tiny bedrooms down a short hallway, and a smaller bathroom. No television either, so she couldn’t even try to watch a DVD.

  Her phone rang. “Hey, Dec.”

  “You here? All settled?”

  “Yes. Thanks. Are you still able to pick me up for dinner?”

  “Of course. That’s why I’m calling. Leslie and I will be coming back from Grand Rapids. We can swing by and pick you up around six. That’s about an hour.”