The Lakeside Murders

By John A. Miller, Jr.

The butler did it, or maybe he didn’t.

It’s summer, and fourteen-year-old Mary Ann Markham is bored. Then she remembers that her wealthy grandfather just happens to own a rather rundown lake a short distance down the hill from his huge Victorian mansion. She enlists her live-in writing coach, Art Parker, and her friend, Jennifer Martin, to help restore the lake and its surroundings to a thing of beauty, using Grandfather’s money, of course.

Things get off to a good start—that is until they discover the decomposing body of a teenage girl in the woods. Then there’s the butler who likes to stargaze, the local youth hostel that just happens to catch fire while Mary Ann and Art are attending a sing-along there, the two bodies discovered in the ashes of the hostel, and the local sheriff who thinks everybody’s guilty of something.

While fishing from a boat on the lake Jennifer hooks something big—you guessed it—the nude body of another teenage girl. Suspects abound, but especially the new butler, gardener, and housemaid.

Time passes. The girls throw a Halloween party at the mansion for their classmates and then disappear. Now Art, with little help from the local sheriff’s department, must try to find them and their abductor before they join the growing list of corpses.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John A. Miller, Jr.
• Release date: Dec 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466020344

John A. Miller, Jr.

John Miller, writing under his full name of John A. Miller, Jr., started writing novels back in late 1991 after working for many years in the mainframe computer and telecommunication fields. He had lived in southern Arizona so he knew the area well and set his first novel, Pima, in that area. Shortly after writing that novel he moved back to southern Arizona where he wrote five more novels in the Pima Series. He returned to his home area near Allentown, Pennsylvania in 1999 and continued to write, launching the Victorian Mansion Series with its nine novels.Since retiring from their day jobs John and his wife have enjoyed visiting Cape Cod and The Bayside Resort in West Yarmouth, Massachusetts at least once every year, so with their permission he partially set there a standalone novel, The Bayside Murders.Recently, after reading a number of cozy mysteries, John decided to launch a new series in that genre and named it Three-Zee for its main character, Zelanie Zephora Zook.

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The Lakeside Murders

John A. Miller, Jr.

Copyright 2007 by John A. Miller, Jr.

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The Lakeside Murders

Book Number 2 in the Victorian Mansion series

The butler did it, or maybe he didn’t.

It’s summer, and fourteen-year-old Mary Ann Markham is bored. Then she remembers that her wealthy grandfather just happens to own a rather rundown lake a short distance down the hill from his huge Victorian mansion. She enlists her live-in writing coach, Art Parker, and her friend, Jennifer Martin, to help restore the lake and its surroundings to a thing of beauty, using Grandfather’s money, of course.

Things get off to a good start—that is until they discover the decomposing body of a teenage girl in the woods. Then there’s the butler who likes to stargaze, the local youth hostel that just happens to catch fire while Mary Ann and Art are attending a sing-along there, the two bodies discovered in the ashes of the hostel, and the local sheriff who thinks everybody’s guilty of something.

While fishing from a boat on the lake Jennifer hooks something big—you guessed it—the nude body of another teenage girl. Suspects abound, but especially the new butler, gardener, and housemaid.

Time passes. The girls throw a Halloween party at the mansion for their classmates and then disappear. Now Art, with little help from the local sheriff’s department, must try to find them and their abductor before they join the growing list of corpses.

** ** **

This is a work of fiction. Except for actual historical figures, any resemblance between any character in this story and any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

This book is not intended for children. It contains some inappropriate language and sexual situations.

Look for more books in the Victorian Mansion series and other books by John A. Miller, Jr., either available now or soon to be available at SmashWords.com.

(1) The Victorian Mansion Murders

(2) The Lakeside Murders

(3) The Beach House Murders

(4) The Pirates’ Hill Murders

The Drummond Estate

First Floor Plan

Second Floor Plan

Third Floor Plan

Table of Contents

Prologue

Day 1 Saturday

Day 2 Sunday

Day 3 Monday

Days 4-7 Tuesday through Friday

Day 8 Saturday

Day 9 Sunday

Day 10 Monday

Day 12 Wednesday

Day 13 Thursday

Day 14 Friday

Day 15 Saturday

Day 63 Friday

Day 66 Monday

Day 67 Tuesday

Day 68 Wednesday

Day 70 Friday

Day 71 Saturday

Day 72 Sunday

Day 78 Saturday

Day 92 Saturday

Day 93 Sunday

Day 94 Monday

Day 98 Friday

Day 99 Saturday

Day 100 Sunday

About the Author

Prologue

Are you sure this is the way?

Don’t worry. It’s a warm night, so you’ll be able to sleep here in the woods and then get back to the road easily tomorrow morning to hitch another ride. However, I wish you would let me put you up for the night in a more civilized place.

Thanks for the offer, but I’m kind of, like, turned off grownups at the moment. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate you giving me the lift and all that—I was getting pretty tired of waiting for somebody to pick me up back there on the road—but now I think I’d rather just be alone. Silence dominates for several minutes except for quiet footfalls and the rustling of displaced branches. Darned thorns. My legs are getting all scratched up. Anyway, we should be far enough away from that house back there that I don’t think anyone will be able to hear me down here. I have food and water with me, so I might stay here a day or two before I head out, if you don’t mind.

I don’t mind. After all, I don’t own the place.

Good. How’d you know about this place anyway?

Oh, I’ve been in the area for a while. The old man who owns the house is a cripple, and there are only a few people living there. They won’t bother you.

I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. A brief pause. This looks like a good spot. These stones are pretty clean, almost like a floor, and I can pile up some of those old leaves to put my sleeping bag on.

Here, let me help you with your backpack. I still think you’re awfully young to be out on your own like this.

My folks are usually drunk. Like, I had to get away for a while before they drove me completely nuts.

So how do you expect to survive on your own?

I have some money. When it runs out I can get a job.

A job; at your age? What could you do?

I don’t know. Maybe, like, I could be a hooker. I’ve seen TV shows where girls made a living doing that.

Do you know what a hooker is?

I think so. She’s a girl who’s nice to men for money although it sounds like somebody who catches fish or makes rugs. Silence; then, Why are you shining the flashlight in my face?

I want to get a good look at you. I really didn’t earlier. You know, you’re very pretty.

I don’t think so. For one thing, I’m too skinny. For another, I’m really not fully developed yet, but then what fifteen-year-old girl is?

I don’t care. You’re still pretty.

Are you, like, some sort of pervert? You’re, like, weird. Hey, let go of my arm, or I’ll scream.

You said you wanted to be a hooker. I can teach you some things about that. Like you said, we’re too far away from the house back there for anybody to hear you if you scream.

Shit! Let go! You’re hurting me! Don’t unbutton my shorts. Get your hand out of my pants, you son of a bitch.

Just take off your clothes so I can see your body. Then I’ll leave.

Yeah, like I really believe that.

Well, you’ve got to learn what being a hooker means so you’ll know whether that’s the kind of work you want to do. Besides, I only want to see what you look like and touch you a little bit. I promise I won’t hurt you. Please don’t cry. Just take off your clothes.

No! Let go of me! Don’t touch me there, you bastard. Sobs, a brief scream, and then choking and gagging sounds followed by a long, ominous silence.

Damn, I shouldn’t have squeezed so hard. I don’t think she’s breathing. No pulse, either. A soft thud. I can’t help it. I’ve got to see her body. Rustling sounds. Oh God, she’s beautiful. Her skin feels so soft. A long pause punctuated by sobs. I wish she were still alive. If I had been nicer to her maybe she would have let me touch her more; even make love to her just like those other girls let me. They didn’t fight me; they even seemed to enjoy it. I can’t do it to a dead body, though. Just thinking about it gives me the creeps. I’d better hide her clothes. More rustling sounds. Now what can I do with the body? I don’t have anything here to dig a grave with. I know. I’ll pile a lot of brush over her to hide her, and that should help keep the animals away, too, at least until she’s a skeleton. She’s dead, so she won’t care although I’m glad I don’t believe in ghosts. I can take her panties for my collection. I’d better take her backpack, sleeping bag, and shoes with me, too. My fingerprints are probably on them. I can find someplace to ditch them.

Sharp noises of branches and shrubs being broken, torn, and dragged, finally replaced by quiet footfalls and the rustle of disturbed vegetation fading into the distance. The natural sounds of the forest night return—the soft hooting of an owl from a nearby tree, the chirping of hoards of crickets, and the gentle scurrying sounds of curious mice coming to investigate new smells emanating from a sheltering pile of brush.

Day 1

Saturday

Last one in the water is a rotten egg, Mary Ann shouted as she ran for the pool. Now I’ve never worried about being a rotten egg, so I merely continued sauntering along the paved walkway to the water’s edge. Besides, I’m the kind of person who likes to enter the water slowly, savoring every moment as the agonizing chill raises goose bumps on my tender skin. All right, so the correct word isn’t exactly ‘savoring’, but you get the idea.

Summer was meandering along. I was rather enjoying the warm, mostly sunny weather. Mary Ann, on the other hand, was showing those signs of boredom that strike most young people about midway through the long vacation from school. We lived twelve miles from the nearest town, a small one at that, and playmates were limited.

Admittedly, the girl was supposed to be working on her new novel, a mystery for teenagers about the murder of a housemaid, but she was procrastinating at a prodigious rate. The book was to be based somewhat loosely on an incident that had happened here just a few months ago. I’m somewhat of a procrastinator, too. I’ve always believed that anything worth doing is also worth putting off until tomorrow, but Mary Ann was outdoing even my best efforts.

You may wonder who I am and what my concern is with whether or not Mary Ann finishes her book. For starters, my name is Arthur Parker, and Mary Ann is not a relative, although I am on record as being an alternate legal guardian for her. Mary Ann Markham is fourteen going on twenty-eight. For those of you who’ve had little experience with teenage girls, that means sometimes she wants to be treated as if she’s an adult and at other times to be cuddled like a child. Mary Ann’s number one legal guardian, her grandfather, Charles Drummond, originally hired me to act as a writing assistant and guide for the girl’s literary efforts. She had already published one novel, a horror story for teens, but her live-in assistant for that book disappeared rather abruptly, so I was hired to coach for book number two.

I live on the premises and have free run of the house and grounds. There’s a full-time staff of four: Rachel Peabody, the cook; Brinton Davies, the gardener; Bridget O’Donnell, the housemaid; and George Peters, the butler. Consequently, my duties are generally very light—best job I’ve ever had. Mrs. Peabody has been with Drummond for years, but the rest of the staff is very new, all of them hired within the past two months. There was another housemaid at the beginning of summer, but she had to resign because of family problems. Fortunately, the current newcomers are quite experienced, so they should learn the ropes quickly.

Okay, now you know the main players. The setting is something else. I already mentioned that we live twelve miles from the nearest town, the little village of Bearford. Our house is an enormous Victorian mansion on extensive grounds buried in the woods. Drummond sold his manufacturing business for a fortune some years ago after he was involved in an automobile accident that left his only daughter and son-in-law, Mary Ann’s parents, dead. Drummond, himself, has been in a wheelchair ever since. His hobbies are collecting stamps, something about which I know absolutely nothing and care even less, and making sure most of the house is kept in period style. The old nursery, which now is used as a TV room, and Mary Ann’s bedroom, are the only areas he will permit to be out of character.

Several months ago after Mary Ann and I found the former housemaid dead one afternoon on the girl’s bedroom floor, Mary Ann moved into the room next to mine. However, she finally moved back into her original room with its Winnie the Pooh wallpaper and new light blue carpeting. The bloodstains in the old carpet had proved impossible to remove. While I hadn’t minded having the girl in the next room, even with an open connecting door, I did occasionally miss my privacy, especially when she’d dart into my room unannounced and make snide remarks about my taste in boxer shorts.

Mary Ann’s best friend, Jennifer Martin, had spent quite a bit of time with us since school ended for the summer. Jennifer didn’t have a huge swimming pool at home, or any size pool for that matter, but I think she would have been a frequent visitor anyway. However, today she wasn’t here so it was only the little pain in the butt and me making our trek to the cooling waters. Fortunately, whatever Mary Ann thought of my boxer shorts, and she tended to be pretty explicit with her comments, she couldn’t say very much about my swim trunks, which were plain beige—boring, perhaps, but not much at eliciting negative remarks.

The little demon with the long dark hair and pretty face dove into the pool without a moment’s hesitation while I worked my way slowly and painfully down the steps into the shallow end, wincing as each ripple of the freezing cold water lapped against an unacclimatized area of my quivering flesh. I was sure the pool thermometer, which read seventy-eight, was broken. I even took a surreptitious glance around the pool looking for icebergs. The Titanic would have been in great danger in these waters.

When I finally was submerged to my neck and the polar bears stopped nipping at my heels, I clung to the side of the pool and began to work my way toward the deeper water. That was the moment Mary Ann decided to sneak up from behind and splash me until icicles dangled from the fringes of my curly red hair. Okay, I exaggerate, but I’m sure I’ve felt warmer freezing rain. I put my hands in front of my face to ward off some of the deluge until the girl finally ceased her attack.

Art, you’re a fraidy cat.

Am not. I’m just a bit older and, consequently, more conservative in my actions.

Yeah, Mr. Old Fogy himself.

Hey, I’m not exactly a senior citizen yet.

Getting there, though. Definitely getting there.

Just because you’re still a snot-nosed kid…

Take that back.

No. The splashing resumed although this time I gave back as good as I got. Finally, exhausted from all the unaccustomed activity, I collapsed back against the side of the pool at a convenient corner and gasped for breath. Mary Ann decided to call a truce and assumed a similar position against the adjacent wall.

Art, I’ve been thinking.

I thought I smelled something burning.

Careful, you’re asking for another drowning.

Not now, honey Chile, I’m too tired.

Yep, definitely getting old.

All right, what have you been thinking about, if I may be so bold as to ask?

I’d like to fix up the lake.

The lake? What lake?

You know, the one I told you about down in the woods.

Oh, that lake. I’ve never seen it.

That’s because it’s too hard to get to. Goodwin never cut a path to it, so you almost need a machete to reach it. Goodwin had been Drummond’s gardener, butler, valet, and general factotum for many years, but he was no longer with us.

It can’t be a very big lake.

Well, it’s not one of the Great Lakes if that’s what you mean, but it would be big enough for a rowboat or canoe. It even has a small island.

That’s nice, but wouldn’t it cost a lot to landscape a whole lake.

Grandfather could afford it.

I’m sure he could. He doesn’t seem to worry much about cash flow.

Besides, we’d only have to cut a wide pathway down to it, clean up the banks and plant grass, and do something with the island. I thought a nice gazebo, maybe.

What do you mean, we?

Oh, I don’t mean we’d do the work. It would definitely be too much for Mr. Davies, too, especially as he’s just getting used to dealing with the rest of the grounds. No, you and I could design what we want and then have Grandfather hire a contractor.

That easy?

Of course. That’s what being incredibly wealthy is all about.

You never were very mercenary before. Why the change of heart?

I don’t know. I guess I just keep visualizing myself in a long, white dress sitting under a tree with my toes dangling in the water.

And the little fishies nibbling at your toes. Girl, all the Victorian trappings around here are warping your tiny mind.

Oh, come on, Art. At least help me work up the idea.

All right, I suppose we can afford a couple of pencils and some paper, but you’re going to have to sell the old man on this one all by yourself.

Do you think he’ll refuse me?

Of course not, you spoiled little brat.

Take that back. And so it was that more gallons of water saturated the air around us until, resembling nothing so much as drowned rats, we crawled from our soggy surroundings and collapsed into two of the comfortable lounge chairs that stood at poolside. We spent the remainder of the afternoon laying out plans for the lake renovation project. We even found pencils and paper in the summerhouse, which was near the pool, and made a few rough sketches of an appropriate gazebo for the island. Fortunately, Mary Ann can draw a little bit. My attempts were pretty ludicrous.

** ** **

Somewhat surprisingly, Mary Ann didn’t even have to sell the idea to her grandfather. As soon as she mentioned the project he perked up and became its most enthusiastic supporter.

I remember looking at that lake, he said, and planning to do something with it like you’re proposing. However, after the accident I rather lost interest in the project and, I’m afraid, in almost everything else.

That’s right. I remember Mrs. Peabody telling me once you wanted to fix it up. So what do we do next? I asked.

Well, you two work out what you want, and Monday I’ll call Frome and have him begin to draw up some paperwork to solicit bids. Ethan Frome—yes, that’s his real name—is Drummond’s lawyer. For the fat retainer the boss pays him every year, Frome will do nearly anything legal and probably a few things not quite.

That sounds reasonable. Don’t you think we should take a look at the lake, first, to make sure it’s worth rehabilitating?

Obviously I can’t go down there—Drummond tapped the arm of his wheelchair—so I’ll have to rely on the two of you.

All right. Mary Ann, when can we visit Golden Pond?

The girl grimaced. No, I don’t like that name. We’ll have to think of something more Victorian like maybe the Lotus Pool.

Oh God, that’s worse. Okay, we’ll work that out later. Meanwhile, do you have any machetes?

Oh, it’s not quite that bad. I think we have enough time tonight to get down there for a quick look. However, first I’m switching from shorts to jeans. I don’t want my legs all scratched up.

I took the girl’s advice, and a few minutes later we were hiking down the hill along the blacktop lane that led to the highway. Suddenly, at a spot where I could see no indication of a pathway, Mary Ann turned abruptly to her right and disappeared between the soft branches of two huge hemlocks. I was right. There was no pathway; merely a cross-country bushwhack around rocks and trees and a surprising number of thorny shrubs and vines. Without the jeans my legs would have been shredded long before we reached our destination.

The lake definitely had potential. It covered about ten acres or so with a half-acre island near the center. True, the shores were thick with unpleasant looking vines and bushes, but there were some huge trees that could provide very nice backrests for Mary Ann’s toe-dangling expeditions. Even the island sported several large trees, oaks, I think, that would shade the gazebo. The water was surprisingly clean. I had rather expected something more in the black muck line. The banks on the far side looked a bit low as if there was an outflow, maybe through some boggy ground. It was something we’d definitely have to investigate.

Where does the water come from? Is there a stream?

There’s a small one way up at the north end in that big clump of hemlocks. Other than that I guess there are springs.

Are there any fish?

I really don’t know. I don’t come down here much.

Hm. I wonder how deep it is. We’ll have to get a boat and take some soundings.

One of the boys at school says his dad has an electronic thingy than can show the depth of the water and even let you know where the fish are hiding.

Expensive gadget. Besides, isn’t that unfair to the fish?

Probably, but who cares?

Thoreau sounded Walden Pond with a rock and a string.

Sounds like a tough job to me. No, I vote for the modern stuff.

Okay, it’s your grandfather’s money. By the way, what do we do about snakes and other disreputable critters?

We have them stomped or at least relocated.

Relocated will win you more points with the animal rights folks. I glanced up at the sky, which was fading to a deeper blue. I hate to be a spoilsport, but it’s getting dark and I don’t think I want to face the jungle without a flashlight. I remember following you one night on a good path and nearly winding up a corpus undelectable.

Yeah, well, you will learn about fresh batteries someday. Shaking my head slowly—after all, if I hadn’t intervened the girl might be dead by now—I followed Mary Ann as she led the way back to the lane.

** ** **

My door swung open and a small girl in a long tee shirt wandered in from the hall. Fortunately, I was decently attired in one of my less spectacular pairs of boxer shorts, not my Kiss Me in the Dark or leprechaun ones.

Don’t you ever knock?

No, why should I?

Someday you’re going to wander in here and catch me in a less civilized condition. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t done it already, especially when you were sleeping in the next room with the connecting door open.

Oh, I used to look across your room at the mirror on your dresser. If you were naked, I’d wait. It’s tougher now because I can’t see the mirror from the hall.

Shit! You’re apparently hard to embarrass.

Yep.

Which reminds me, I still haven’t caught you skinny dipping like you did me. One night earlier in the summer I had sneaked out to the pool for a quick dip in the buff. Mary Ann followed me and switched on the pool lights before I had a chance to get into the water. I had sworn revenge.

I’m sneaky that way. You made too much noise and woke me.

Yeah, well that was when you were in the next room. Anyway, what’s our next step in the lake renovation project?

I don’t know. I’ll have to rely on my smart daddy. The kid gave me a big hug. It was things like this that instantly broke down any resistance I might have had to whatever off-the-wall ideas she came up with.

Okay, I guess tomorrow we put on our mukluks and make a more detailed survey of the area. I’d like to walk completely around the lake, if we can, and see if there are any problem spots. Are there a lot of mosquitoes?

Believe me, there are mosquitoes, which is one of the reasons I seldom go there.

Funny; I didn’t get bitten tonight.

No, I didn’t either, but it was probably because the breeze was blowing them away.

I’m sure there must be some way to deal with them without getting the tree-huggers, or in this case mosquito-huggers, all up in arms.

Oh, you’re so smart I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Another hug. This kid was giving me, a guy who had never liked kids very much and never had any of his own, delusions of fatherhood.

Day 2

Sunday

Fortunately, we were being blessed with a run of good weather. The woods around the lake were thick enough without the added unpleasantness of soggy ground and wet leaves. Also, any mosquito problem is generally worse during damp weather.

By the time we finished a leisurely breakfast the sun was high in the sky. Attired in jeans, tee shirts, and rubber boots we trudged toward the edge of the woods where we figured the best road access point would be. Of course, we immediately found ourselves in a jungle of thorny, wild blackberry vines.

Getting rid of some of this crap won’t be a bad idea, I said.

This is why we didn’t come this way last night. However, I think the ground here is probably better for a road.

To our right the same low hill that separated the main house from the summerhouse and pool extended all the way to the lakeshore, except here it was thickly wooded. If the road were run parallel to the base of the hill, it probably wouldn’t cause too much environmental damage.

I estimated one man with a bulldozer probably could cut the road in a day or two. However, both Mary Ann and I agreed that it shouldn’t be paved. Fine gravel would work well to keep the mud under control and still maintain the rustic nature of the area. We also agreed that the road should connect with the driveway between the front of the house and the garage. That way it wouldn’t be easily accessible to casual passersby who might drive into the main lane and decide to explore a side road. We didn’t want the general public using our lake for a picnic area, or worse.

By this time we had reached the shore. To our right a small bluff, the end of the hill, jutted up from the water. The bank to our left was lower. From our current location I couldn’t tell where we had stood last evening, but it was somewhere in that direction.

Do you think we could have them truck in sand and build a small beach here?

As I said, it’s your grandfather’s money, and he doesn’t seem be too worried about your spending some of it on this project. Yes, I think this would be a great spot for a beach. The trees just to the south aren’t too tall, and you’d get the afternoon sun from over the lake. You could install a small floating dock at the end of the road. That way you could pull it out in the winter to avoid ice damage. We could even have the contractor build a small pavilion or beach house with a porch where your grandfather could sit.

What about landscaping the shoreline?

I don’t know. From here the trees look rather nice where they come right down to the water. Maybe where there are open areas… Let’s take a hike around the lake and see what we find. I’ll bet in all these years it’s something you’ve never done.

I tried once, but I started too late in the day, and it was just too tough at some places to fight my way through the undergrowth. Besides, I didn’t have boots on, and I didn’t want to get my sneakers all muddy.

We turned to our right and began struggling up the hill, switchbacking around rocks and trees until we reached the top. A sheer drop plunged about fifty feet into the water. I wondered how deep the lake was at that point. Once we had a boat