Riverside Grove’s School of the Arts was a charming establishment out in the woods overlooking a lagoon. Back in the lumber days, the site boasted a hotel situated on a bend of the Kalamazoo River that catered to passengers traveling on Lake Michigan, but it was left stranded when the course of the river was altered around the turn of the century, cutting off the hotel from its patrons. Thanks to a handful of visionary artists and architects, the hotel and its surroundings got a second life as a haven for the arts, and it remained a thriving program to this day.

Which is also one of the reasons that until the dollar store opened, you could buy a painting for ten grand in Pemkowet, but not a pair of socks.

Anyway, the majority of Riverside Grove’s programming takes place in the summer and it should have been fairly empty at this time of year, but as luck would have it, the Pemkowet Historical Society was hosting an open house on this particular Sunday and had arranged hourly tours of the rustic campus with commentary by local historians.

It was a nice idea, and I understand it was a rousing success before the caretaker’s ghost showed up.

“Hello, dear.” Mrs. Meyers greeted me placidly when I emerged from my Honda onto the grassy parking area, where would-be tourgoers and other members of the historical society were hiding behind their cars. She nodded toward the insubstantial figure of a stocky man who was patrolling the verge and scowling, a double-barreled shotgun over his shoulder. Unlike the ghost bride’s, his feet appeared to make contact with the earth, presumably because he hadn’t died dangling above it. “I was just telling Officer Fairfax, I’m afraid Leonard’s risen.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Leonard?”

“Leonard Quincy,” Cody informed me. “Off-season caretaker of the facility until he was found dead of a gunshot wound to the head in the winter of 1968.”

“Suicide?” I asked.

Cody shook his head. “According to Mrs. Meyers, it was an unsolved homicide.”

“It was probably an accident. Hunters, you know. Poaching. I always suspected one of the Thornberrys, myself.” Mrs. Meyers lowered her voice. “I tried a banishing spell, but Leonard only flickered.”

A shiny black SUV came barreling out of the woods and pulled into the parking area, disgorging Stacey Brooks, camera in hand. “Did I miss it?” she asked eagerly. “Tell me I didn’t miss it!”

I rolled my eyes. That was probably the something that had come up while I was on the phone with her mother—an alert on the police scanner.

“You didn’t miss it,” Cody assured her. “And it’s not the Tall Man. Ready, Daise?”

“Yeah.” I hoisted the spirit lantern and shot a scathing look at Stacey. “Just make sure you stay out of our way.”