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I had just wiped some dust from Henry’s hat (dusting him was a regular Saturday chore) and was cursing my decision to move his corpse closer to the entrance when the bell over the door tinkled.

A man—blond, fair skinned, and blue eyed, though a deep, dark blue rather than a pale, almost gray blue like my own eyes—entered my bookstore, bringing a new crop of Wisconsin late-summer dust in with him.

He stopped a few feet in, staring at Henry’s mummified body with horrified fascination.

“Is that real?” he asked.

“It is.

Welcome to Odds and Ends,”

I said.

“What oddity, mystery, or bit of magic can I find for you today?”

I can often tell a lot about a person based simply on appearance, but this fellow was a bit of a puzzle.

He looked to be around my age—early to mid-thirties—and of average build.

His hair was cut short and there was a slightly rigid, military bearing about him.

He had on slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie, unusually formal apparel for mid-August.

It was the height of tourist season here in Door County and most of our customers arrived kicked back, relaxed, and dressed in summer casual.

“I’m looking for a woman named Morgan Carter,”

he said, still staring at Henry.

I liked his voice.

It was even and mellow, though it lacked any discernible accent.

“That would be me.

How can I help?”

He managed to tear his gaze from Henry and aimed a disconcerting level of scrutiny my way.

“I .

.

.

um .

. . I’ve been told that you are something of an authority on strange things. Is that true?”

He glanced at Henry again and I imagine he realized how silly that question was under the circumstances.

“What sort of strangeness did you have in mind?”

I asked with a chuckle.

“Our store has a varied inventory.”

“I see that.”

His gaze shifted, breezing over the mystery books and settling on a nearby jewelry display.

“Can I interest you in a necklace or perhaps a tie clip?”

I suggested.

I walked over and pointed to a pair of cuff links.

“These are made from pig bone and there’s a matching tie clip to go with them.”

“Uh, no, thank you,”

he said with a look of distaste.

He turned back to Henry and stared at him.

“Can I ask . . .”

He let the question hang there, but I knew what he wanted.

“Sure, allow me to introduce you to Henry,”

I said with an arm flourish.

“Rumor has it he was part of the Klondike gold rush at the end of the nineteenth century, heading up toward what’s now Alaska in hopes of striking it rich.

Instead, he fell into a crevasse and died there.

Decades later, some indigenous folks came upon his mummified body still wearing the tatters of his mining clothes, and rather than leave him there or bury him, they carried him back to their community and sat him outside the entrance to one of their trading posts as an attraction.

Kind of a reverse version of a cigar store Indian, I suppose.

At some point, the body was treated with something that preserved it, but only after bits of it had fallen away. That’s why he has no nose. Eventually, he was relegated to the dark corners of someone’s attic until my dad found him on one of his trips to Alaska. He paid a ridiculous sum of money for the fellow, named him Henry, and brought him back here to the store, where he’s been a mascot ever since.”

“Hunh,”

the fellow said, still staring at Henry.

After a few seconds he looked at me and said, “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

“Private”

made me nervous.

My shop isn’t your typical mystery bookstore, though I do have a vast collection of those, everything from the latest releases to some antique, valuable first editions.

But I also sell all manner of peculiar, obscure, and eccentric items that sometimes appeal to folks of questionable character.

I looked around for my employee, Rita Bosworth, who is generally easy to find because she’s nearly six feet tall, always wears her white hair piled atop her head in a messy bun, and her glasses are attached to a chain of sparkling rhinestones that catch and reflect the overhead lights.

The last time I had seen her, she had been shelving books, but she wasn’t there any longer.

I spotted her over in the creepy-critters area, chatting with a customer near the skull collections.

She must have sensed my unease because she looked my way and gave me a little nod, letting me know she’d keep an eye on me.

Plus, I had Newt.

I turned back to the man and that was when I saw the badge.

He must have pulled it out of a pocket when I was looking for Rita.

I eyed it closely to see if it was legit because last year I’d had a collection of antique police badges that had sold like hotcakes.

The fact that he held it out for me to scrutinize until I was thoroughly satisfied reassured me.

“We can chat in my office,”

I said, leading him to the room under the stairs that served that purpose.

The space was small, and by the time the two of us and my dog, Newt, squeezed in there, it was uncomfortably close.

There was a chair against the wall, and I gestured toward it while I scooted around behind my desk.

Once the cop was seated, Newt positioned himself about two feet away and stared at him.

“He’s really big,”

the cop said, eyeing Newt uneasily.

“Is he friendly?”

“He’s friendly if you are.

He likes to analyze people and situations.

That’s what he’s doing now, deciding if you’re a good cop or a bad one.”

The fellow stared back at Newt, the furrows in his brow deepening.

“Oh, and he doesn’t like direct eye contact,” I added.

The cop quickly looked away, shifting nervously in his chair.

I laughed.

“I’m kidding.

His name is Newt and he’s a sweetie pie.”

“Newt?”

the cop said, and I couldn’t tell if he was talking to the dog or questioning his name.

“Yeah, short for Newton because he just dropped in on me one day, kind of like Newton’s apple.

Plus, he’s wicked smart.”

“Does he always stare at people like that?”

“He does.

It’s because he can’t see well.

His other senses are incredibly keen, though.

There are times when he stares at me, and I swear he’s reading my mind.

When he first showed up here, he was thin as a rail, bedraggled, and bloodied.

I think someone tried to use him in an illegal dogfight, thinking he’d be tough because of his size, but he doesn’t have the temperament for it. He really is a sweetheart. I had his DNA tested and it turns out he’s Labrador retriever, Saint Bernard, and golden retriever with a tiny bit of Anatolian shepherd thrown into the mix.”

The cop relaxed some and gave me an awkward smile, though he kept giving Newt a nervous side-eye every few seconds.

I can’t say I blamed him; Newt’s stare can be quite disconcerting.

“Now you know my dog’s name as well as mine,”

I said.

“Might you return the favor?”

“Oh, geez, right. Sorry,”

he said, looking contrite.

“I suppose I should have led with that.

My name is Jon Flanders.

I’m the chief of police on Washington Island.”

I didn’t know if he expected me to be impressed with his title, but I wasn’t much.

Washington Island had a police force of three.

One of them had to be the chief.

“What can I do for you, Chief Flanders?”

“I’ve been told you’re a cryptozoologist.”

I paused for a beat and then said, “I am.”

“I confess, I didn’t know that was a real occupation until recently.”

“You’re not alone.

And it can be a bit of a grab bag,”

I admitted.

“However, unlike the many con artists out there who are eager to take money from gullible people, I consider myself a professional.

I have degrees in both biology and zoology, as well as minors in religions and mysticism.

I’m also a professional skeptic.

While I’m certain there are lots of interesting things in the world that we have yet to discover, I’d need absolute proof before I’d believe in the existence of a cryptid.”

“A cryptid?”

“A creature that people say exists even though no definitive proof bears that out.

Like the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot.”

“Oh, right.

Yes.

That’s exactly what we need,”

he said.

“A skeptic.”

This piqued my curiosity.

The folks who hire me as a consultant cryptozoologist are typically looking for validation, not skepticism.

“Who is this we you’re referring to?”

Flanders shrugged.

“A political figure, a couple of business owners, law enforcement, the DNR.”

It seemed an odd combo to me, particularly the inclusion of the Department of Natural Resources.

“What is it you want from me?”

“We’re hoping you can help us determine what happened to a body we have in the morgue.”

“Isn’t that what an autopsy is for?”

“The official word out there right now is that our victim drowned in a boating accident.

But the medical examiner in Milwaukee is a bit stymied because this fellow’s injuries are .

.

. unusual.”

“I’m no expert on forensic pathology,”

I told him.

“That’s not what we’re looking for.”

He sighed, giving Newt another side-eye glance.

“We need someone who thinks .

.

.

outside the box.”

“Okay,”

I said.

“Where was this man when he died and sustained these unusual injuries?”

“We aren’t sure.

Based on what he told the boat rental shop, he was planning on fishing between Gills Rock and Washington Island.”

“Porte des Morts,”

I said with an appreciative nod.

“Death’s Door.”

Death’s Door is a strait that connects Green Bay to Lake Michigan, a waterway that’s prone to crazy weather, hidden shoals, and bizarre currents.

It used to be an extremely busy shipping canal because Green Bay was once the biggest lake port in Wisconsin.

As a result, the lake bottom through Death’s Door is also the final resting place for many a wrecked ship and the souls that went down with them.

In fact, it’s purported to have more shipwrecks than any other body of fresh water in the world.

“He might have changed his mind,”

Flanders went on.

“The shop told him there were some nice-sized salmon that had been caught north of Washington Island and he seemed interested in that.

We found his boat floating off the western coast of Washington Island.

Two days later his body turned up on a small strip of beach on the eastern side of Boyer Bluff.”

I shrugged.

“A drowning, while tragic, isn’t exactly unheard-of in these parts.

In fact, wasn’t there also one back in June?”

“There was.”

He said that in a way that made me think there was more to that story, but after waiting a beat without any further clarification, I said, “I don’t see where I fit in.”

He sighed, ran his hands down his thighs, and cast another wary glance at Newt.

“We’re hoping you can provide an explanation for the bite marks we found on the body.”

“Bite marks?”

I said, surprised.

And yes, intrigued, though I tried not to show it.

Before Flanders could answer, there was a knock on the door, and it opened to reveal Rita on the other side.

She quickly surveyed our situation and then said, “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a lady out here who’s looking for a couple of those hair balls from cows’ stomachs.

Didn’t we get some in recently?”

We had several of these hair balls on the shelf and I knew Rita not only knew that but knew where they were.

She was just using the question as a ruse to make sure I was okay.

“I put them on the shelf below the buffalo and moose skulls,”

I told her.

I smiled to let her know I was fine, and she backed away, shutting the door.

Flanders grimaced.

“Hair balls?”

“Do you really want to know?”

He considered the question, and then shook his head.

“Back to this death,”

I said, eager to hear more.

“Are you telling me that something tried to eat this man whose body you found?”

Flanders bobbed his head from side to side, an equivocal expression on his face.

“Not exactly,”

he said.

“The skin wasn’t broken, just bruised.

But you can see tooth impressions.

There was one on his arm and a much larger bite on the torso.”

“How much larger?”

“Nearly twelve inches wide.

Organs on the bite side of his body were crushed.”

“Did he drown or did the crush injuries kill him?”

“He drowned.”

He sighed.

“But the crush injuries occurred at or close to the time of death.

I’m sure you can understand why certain folks in our area would prefer not to have word get out about this.

The tourist industry is too critical to folks’ survival.”

“You underestimate the lure of the cryptids,”

I said.

“A rumor of one might attract people.”

“Not the kind we want,”

Flanders countered.

Fair enough.

“How did you come to know about what I do? I consult only part-time, and my clients thus far have all been out of state.”

Flanders hesitated, wincing.

His cheeks flushed red.

“Karl Swenson is my uncle,”

he said finally.

The name made my hackles rise.

“You mean, Karl Swenson, the detective in New Jersey?”

He nodded and waited for me to say something more, but that wasn’t a topic I wanted to discuss.

I needed to slap the lid back on that can of worms right away.

“You know,”

I said, “if you hadn’t told me the truth about your dead man, I never would have questioned the public reports of his death.

Why not just sweep it under the rug? If I start looking into things, it might draw unwanted attention.”

“I know,”

Flanders said.

“But I don’t think we can ignore it any longer.”

“Why is that?”

“Because a kayaker we found dead back in June had nearly identical injuries.”

Okay, definitely intrigued now.

I thought for a moment and then said, “If I find a creature that’s responsible for these deaths, what will happen to it?”

He shook his head but said nothing.

To his credit, though, he held my gaze and didn’t look away.

“They want it dead,” I said.

“And kept under wraps.”

At least he was honest.

I thrust that issue aside, figuring I could deal with it later if, and when, the time came.

“Okay,”

I said.

“I’ll need a thousand-dollar retainer up front, and I charge one hundred bucks an hour for my time.

Plus, reimbursement for any equipment I might need to rent.”

“That’s fine, but check with me first to see if I already have the equipment.”

Government people never let go of money that easily, and I’d purposely given him a number that was prohibitively high.

His quick capitulation told me how desperate he was.

To be honest, I was willing to help him for free and didn’t need the money, but charging fees is a good way to weed out the crazies and test how serious someone is.

“I can start first thing tomorrow morning, if that suits you.”

“It does.”

“I’m assuming you have access to a boat?”

“Sure.

I can arrange for a patrol boat.”

“Great.

Tell me when and where to meet you in the morning and we’ll be there.”

“We?”

Flanders asked, eyebrows raised.

“Me and Newt,”

I said.

“I don’t go anywhere without my dog.”