Murder for Mayor: A Laura Kjelstad Mystery

By Andie Peterson

A woman hiking the shoreline of Lake Superior fears she's having a heart attack and gives an exquisite necklace to a good Samaritan who comes to her aid. "Don't tell a soul," she warns, "except Molly Berg." When the woman is brutally murdered, the young female hiker becomes a target for death and must run for her life.

Why would someone kill a loving grandmother on a beautiful summer day? How does that crime connect to the New Year's Day disappearance of the woman who designed the necklace? What about the designer's husband who vanished the same day? And how does it all link to a 1984 murder in Minnesota's Scott County?

When Laura Kjelstad begins connecting the dots of the crimes, she becomes the next target. The necklace leads her to Sedona, Arizona, where she uncovers dark secrets and corruption on a global level. Only a handful of people know that she's gone to Arizona, but a friend who accompanied her is kidnapped in Prescott and is terrorized on a harrowing trip down the mountain to Camp Verde. Someone knows the answers and has turned his sights on Laura.

A young widow, Laura is the first woman mayor of a small town in northern Minnesota. In the midst of a blistering reelection campaign, her opponents deal in hostility, misinformation, and outright lies. Her rival calls out the Internet trolls to defeat her, but Laura leaned from her Norwegian grandparents how to deal with trolls.

Peterson deftly handles both pacing and plotting and ties the subplots together superbly. The reader is rewarded with a genuine understanding of the strongly drawn characters and gains insights into the real life of small town politics in all its decency and ugliness. The book is balanced with a bit of romance and gentle humor that enriches the novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452032948

Andie Peterson

When Andie Peterson was asked how difficult the mayor's job is, she replied: "President Lyndon Johnson was having a press conference in the midst of the Vietnam War. His ratings were the lowest they had ever been. One of the reporters asked the President if anything could be worse than what he was experiencing at this dire time in United States history. President Johnson thought for a moment and said, 'Yes, I could have been a mayor.'" Andie served four terms as mayor of a small town in northern Minnesota so she knows first hand the unpredictable nature of elected office. She has served on numerous boards and commissions locally and nationally. She has published over two-hundred columns and articles. Among her many awards are: Minnesota teacher of the Year, Finalist for National Teacher of the Year, special awards from two Minnesota governors, the Tombola Award for her work in conservation, and three Minnesota School Bell Awards for editorial writing. Andie's previous books are "Northern Explosion, a Laura Kjelstad Mystery", "Murder for Mayor, a Laura Kjelstad Mystery", and "A Second Look, Native Americans in Children's Books." All the books are available through local bookstores and Internet sources.

Book preview

Chapter One

Scott County, Minnesota

July 4, 1984

In the car, Matt Ankarlo ordered. The ever present toothpick in his mouth moved with the cadence of his speech. In the front seat, eyes straight ahead. Ankarlo waved to the two men who had brought Vaydich to him. Time for you to disappear. I’ll handle it from here.

Carl Vaydich stared out the windshield of the black Corvette, sweat pouring from his forehead and down his nose. He wiped his nose with his sleeve, then brushed aside the tears that filled his eyes. He had wanted to make it big when he moved to Minneapolis, make enough money to help his family buy a nice house and own a decent car. After college, he had landed a job with one of the biggest corporations in Minnesota. Now he was going to die.

Could I explain what happened? asked Carl. I didn’t do anything wrong. It was an honest mistake.

Honest mistake? I don’t do honest.

Carl’s throat tightened. He tried to ignore the mounting terror, but he knew Ankarlo was a professional executioner. Can’t we at least talk about what happened? I didn’t know those guys were FBI. I swear.

You take me for an idiot? You think I don’t see someone heading for the FBI? But I’m feeling generous today. You won’t feel a thing. I’ll make it quick.

Where are we going? Does Heskan always follow you? Carl struggled to organize his thoughts. Maybe there was a way to escape the madness.

Heskan watches my back. What were you doing in the private office going through the books? Doesn’t sound innocent to me.

I had found some discrepancies in the audit. That was my job. Working on the revenue side of things. Carl trembled, stretched his legs and pushed against the floor to steady the shaking. He didn’t want Ankarlo to see the fear mounting.

Matt Ankarlo, in tan chinos and blue denim shirt, was well-groomed, with his rusty hair cut with all the appropriate angles and flair. Tall, good looking, great smile, and handsome presence all belied the coldness of the man. A lack of conscience empowered him; it was a madness that sent terror into the souls of everyone who knew him. Ruthless, controlling, and smart, Ankarlo was a dedicated killer.

Traffic was heavy on Highway 169, but Don Heskan managed to follow the speeding Corvette. He touched the camera to make sure it was still there. Ankarlo liked to keep photos of his victims. Heskan had watched Ankarlo work. Assassin. Executioner. Hit man. All of the above. He didn’t intend to be on the receiving end of the weapon of choice. Everyone had to obey one simple rule. Never irritate Ankarlo.

Heskan’s agenda was simple. Follow orders, deliver goods, watch Ankarlo’s back. He’d been doing it for a long time and he knew he always had to pay dues to the boss. Carl had followed the same path he had at that age. Innocent and then in over your head before you knew how deadly that could be. No escape. Ever.

The Just in Time Antique Shop was on St. Charles Boulevard, set in the midst of the Woodland Hills neighborhood. Ankarlo pulled into the alley and signaled Heskan into the antique shop. Minutes later Heskan returned to his car carrying a bag that held a Smith & Wesson .44 stolen from a local gun dealer. Ankarlo made a point of never having a gun in his car. Never have a weapon that could be traced to him.

Ankarlo made a slight motion of the hand and Heskan knew to follow at a discreet distance. Heskan speculated on how the kid was dealing with the terror that must be gripping him. Nothing anyone could do once Ankarlo had the job.

As soon as they turned south on 169, Heskan understood that they were going to the farm that Matt owned. Lots of land, an abandoned farmhouse, and a great slough that had turned into a graveyard. Ankarlo loved playing the cat, taunting his prey, playing with emotions until he could smell the fear. Sometimes Ankarlo talked for a long time, letting the terror build until the victim was begging. He always liked to see them beg.

In turn, Heskan had learned to hate Matt Ankarlo. He was something less than human; he was a bottomless piece of hell.

My family needs me, said Carl, his voice cracking. I’ve got a couple of sisters still at home. Mom and Dad don’t have a lot of money. Give me a chance. I didn’t know those men in the bar were FBI. I swear before God.

Ankarlo shrugged. I don’t bargain. You’re a damn whistleblower.

No, I’m not.

No use, thought Carl. He looked in the side mirror; there was no way to signal for help, no hope. He knew too much. Too smart for his own good was what the boss told him. Sweat beaded on his chest and under his arms; the smell of fear turning acrid.

After twenty minutes, they turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road winding its way through a cornfield. The farmhouse was stark in contrast to its past beauty. At one time the house was grand; porches, big trees, gardens, and a big yard where children played and picnics were held. Ankarlo had let it die, just like everything else he touched.

Looking for any way to escape, Carl kept an eye on the land. Twenty-four years old and in good physical shape, he ran every morning, lifted weights, and swam several times a week. The layout of the land wasn’t promising. Knee-hi corn on the Fourth of July. Nowhere to hide. How do you outrun a bullet?

Ankarlo stopped the car at the end of the driveway. Heskan parked twenty yards away, effectively blocking any entrance. Lifting the bag from the back seat, he started toward Ankarlo.

My dad is in the slough, Ankarlo told Carl. Took my car keys away. Everybody thought he’d died in an accident. I loaded up his fishing equipment, drove his car into the St. Louis River near Duluth with the driver’s side door open. The police thought he’d been washed down stream with the current. The car was in drive mode. Everyone knew my dad was always forgetting to put the car in park. More than once he had to chase the car down someone’s driveway. Heskan threw the toothpick, grabbed another one from his pocket, and clenched down hard. That’s what I told the police anyway.

So how did you get back to Minneapolis? asked Carl. Be friendly, he thought. Maybe the guy would give him another chance.

Rented a car under a different name. Paid cash. No big deal. Behave yourself, kid, and it won’t take long. Don’t get your hopes up. No one escapes.

Sure, Carl said. Whatever you say.

Ankarlo started talking to Heskan, his back turned on Carl in an act of arrogance. Carl wiped his eyes again and caught sight of the keys dangling in the ignition. Why should he do the whatever you say crap? In one swift movement he grabbed the keys and ran toward the slough.

Running at full speed, Carl was covering a lot of territory. Heskan watched in amazement. What the hell was the kid doing? Heskan gestured toward the farmhouse and started talking to Ankarlo. Keep him busy. Let the kid have a final act of freedom.

Hope had abandoned Carl Vaydich, but the keys in his hand propelled him with exceptional energy. He felt exhilarated, powerful and free, even if it was for his final seconds.

Something caught Ankarlo’s eye. He turned, cursing, as he watched the car keys sail into the murky slough.

Chapter Two

Parkside Neighborhood

St. Paul, Minnesota

10:00 a.m. – January 1

Present Time

Looks like everyone is sleeping in this morning, said Jim to no one in particular. I didn’t hear any ruckus last night so things must be all right in the neighborhood. He went to the drive-up window and began washing the glass. A few cars on the street, but lots of empty parking spots.

Snow glittered on the ground and the morning felt good and clean and brisk. Ned Tryzanie sat by the fireplace in Jim’s Coffee Shop, blowing on his coffee, and reading the St. Paul newspaper. It was a winter without much precipitation and he had hoped for a heavy snowfall. Instead there had been a dusting of snow and he watched the clouds dissipate and move to the east.

Not the usual activity for the area that was filled with shops, restaurants, and galleries. New Year’s Day in Parkside was quiet. Ned looked around the room. The only noise was the clicking of keys. Most of the people drinking their morning coffee had laptops perched on their tables, intently scanning their screens for messages or playing Internet games.

Ned’s cell phone beeped.

Sloan here. The voice sounded urgent. I’m concerned about the letters and photos you told me about. I’m worried about that Tryzanie. Don’t wait. I did some research on my own. Looked through the old files. I know it’s a holiday, but I’d feel better if we could meet earlier today. How does two o’clock sound?

I thought you had company coming.

I do. All I want is to get those boxes into headquarters. Locked up. It’ll take ten minutes. We can meet again in a couple of days after I’ve looked through everything.

Sounds good, said Ned. Make it three o’clock. I’m going for a hike with my wife, then I have to get the boxes out of hiding. I’d sure like to get them off my hands.

On a hike. When you’re holding potentially dangerous material. Risky to hang on to it.

My wife doesn’t know that. I’m not going to let the poison spread to her.

You’re sure no one else knows about any of this.

I have no idea what information my grandpa gave anyone. That’s a big question mark.

Why’d your grandpa give them to you? Why not just have the attorney deliver everything directly to us?

Maybe he didn’t want anyone to know how important the boxes were. His attorney does get a little talkative. Or maybe Grandpa didn’t trust certain cops.

Sloan gave a dismissive grunt. Well, anyway. See you at two o’clock.

Three.

I’ll be in the office at two in case you want to unload them early. Think about it. Sloan disconnected.

Ned continued looking at the newspaper, although his mind was preoccupied with the boxes his grandfather had bequeathed to him. Grandpa Tryzanie had died in October, but he had left explicit directions that the boxes were to be given to Ned after Christmas. His grandpa lived only a few weeks after the liver cancer diagnosis. In the end, he was kept comfortable while family visited and prayers were said.

I have some unfinished business, Joseph Tryzanie told his lawyer. Give the boxes to Ned after the Christmas festivities are finished. No need to mess up his holiday with my haunted past.

Now Ned was in possession of that past. Haunted indeed. He had made an appointment to meet with Detective Sloan. Part of Joseph’s plan. Grandpa Tryzanie had taped a letter to the top of one of the boxes with explicit directions to contact Sloan.

Anxiety rested on Ned as he thought about the consequences of mistakes. But the sealed notebooks and ledgers inside the boxes were no mistake. Grandpa had it planned. Calculated. Get them to Sloan. That was specific. End of his responsibility. End of nightmare.

The coffee shop door opened and a short, rather robust lady entered. There was something slightly old-fashioned about her, a by-gone look that seemed appealing. Her clothes were smart enough, though the frilliness of the jacket was a contrast to the bright red boots she was wearing. Her permed hair was gray, her eyes keen, but friendly, and she clutched a capacious red leather handbag.

Kate Blassingame’s smile lit up the room. Good morning, Ned, she said. Happy New Year. Isn’t it just beautiful out today? You look like you’re ready for a walk.

We’re hiking the Cliff Trail, said Ned. It’s such a pleasant day. Newly fallen snow with a hint of sunshine.

The perfect magazine cover day, said Kate.

How are you doing? asked Ned.

Quite well. I had a wonderful Christmas with all the kids and their families over in Woodbury. I stayed a few nights so I didn’t have to drive back and forth. Still, there’s something I like about this community. I know my neighbors for one thing. And I have my own routine. There’s something special about St. Paul, don’t you think?

Absolutely, said Ned. Great place to live.

Where’s your lovely wife? she asked.

Shirley opted out of coffee this morning.

Kate moved to the counter, picking up a newspaper as she went. Probably see you here tomorrow, she said.

Within five minutes Shirley and Ned were in Ridgeview Park in the eastern part of the neighborhood. It was at the top of a narrow ridge overlooking Sandy Creek. Old growth oak trees edged the trail, forming a shady canopy in the summer. Now those oaks were imperial in their nakedness, a sprinkling of snow giving them a majestic bearing. Large rocks clung to the side of the ridge and the city had to periodically push a stone down the hill to avoid an accidental slide.

For a brief moment they stood at the edge of the hill, watching the creek transform as the sun flickered through the clouds. At the edge of the parking lot, a young couple walked past, holding hands and laughing.

They both turned at the sound of an approaching car. A man got out, looked at them, and reached into the back seat. He was wearing a yellow anorak, blue jeans, and a red ski hat.

Looks like we’ll have some company on the trail, said Ned. Not everyone was out partying all night.

He’s staring at us, whispered Shirley.

Probably one of the solitary types that doesn’t want to get too close. We can go slow and he’ll move ahead of us.

A woman jogger rounded the curve ahead of them, waved, and kept up a steady pace. Shirley turned to catch a glimpse behind her and saw the man was waving at another car.

Looks like he’s meeting someone.

A flash of reflected sunlight caught the barrel of a revolver. Gun, shouted Ned. Whatever he’s after, we had better not be in the way.

What in the world? Shirley looked around. There’s no one here, but us. Why would he have a gun?

He’s aiming at us. Run. Head down. Ned grabbed Shirley by the hand and they both ran as the sound of gunfire and snapping branches exploded through the air. The gunman shot one round that ricocheted off a rock, a second shot caused Shirley to stumble face first onto the ground.

Shirley wasn’t moving. Ned could see the snow grow crimson. He crouched beside her, grabbed her under the arms, and began dragging her toward the edge of the cliff. Another shot slammed through the trees and Ned dropped.

Kate Blassingame rushed to the porch when she heard the gunfire. I’ve called the police, she yelled. They’re on their way.

Sirens wailed in the distance, but not soon enough to keep Kate Blassingame safe. The gunman was moving toward Kate. The door to the coffee shop opened and strong hands pulled Kate inside and onto the floor.

Arrogant SOB, said Jim. He had grabbed his .38 Smith & Wesson and fired, hitting the shooter exactly where he’d intended. Upper right shoulder, flesh wound. Enough to let him know that Jim meant business. Rocks flew as Jim fired warning shots into the ground. I’ll put the next shot in your fool head.

Sirens were closer now. Jim could hear the distinctive shrill of police vehicles and the pulsating howl of the ambulance. A car pulled alongside the wounded man, hands wrenched him inside, and they raced north as the police moved in from the west.

Taking careful aim, Jim fired one last shot before police cars pulled alongside the coffee shop. Got the back fender. As quick as Jim had pulled the gun from an empty cookie jar, he replaced it and stuck it under the counter. No one saw that, did they? he asked the customers. Heads nodded a collective no.

Is anyone hurt? asked the first officer to the porch. There was a report that someone was shot. We have an ambulance coming.

Kate pointed toward the Cliff Trail. I think both Ned and Shirley were hit. They’re at the top of the hill.

Officers Phil Stern and Greg Lanigan sprinted in the direction that Kate indicated. Jim was close behind the officers, his face grim as he gave directions.

Over to the right, shouted Kate as she pushed her way up the hill. Shirley fell by the rock. Ned was helping her when he was knocked down. It had to be a gunshot that propelled him back.

Jim looked down at the blood splattered snow, then started walking around the area. They went down here.

Shirley, called Kate. Ned. Where are you?

We need to ask you to go back to the coffee shop, said Officer Lanigan. We have to secure the area. This is obviously a crime scene.

With no bodies, said Stern. Looks like they went over the cliff.

Into the river? asked Kate.

Chapter Three

Police Headquarters

St. Paul, Minnesota

2:00 p.m. - January 1

Why is the heat off in the building? asked Lanigan. Thermostats fouled up again?

Something like that, said Detective Jonas Sloan. Our maintenance supervisor had to come in on a holiday. He says it should be running within the hour. Now give me a condensed report.

The shooter and his accomplice took off as soon as they heard the sirens. There were lots of witnesses, but no one really got a look at the sniper. Yellow anorak, red ski hat pulled over the ears, and blue jeans. That’s the only description we have. No one could describe the man. Or his gun for that matter. Officer Lanigan flipped his notebook shut. We have the crime scene people out there now securing evidence. No one even knows how tall the man is.

Except Mrs. Blassingame, said Stern. She seems to have a fairly good idea, but she says she has to go home and measure on the doorjamb.

Anyone go with her? asked Sloan. Not a good idea to have a witness alone.

Knutsen took her home and he’ll call as soon as she has a measurement.

Doorjamb. Eyewitnesses will all have a different description. The poor woman was probably afraid to go home alone. Of course, I don’t blame her and she’ll feel she’s done her duty. Sloan poured coffee for all of them. Need to warm up a bit. We’ve had too much trouble with the heating system in this building. January and we don’t have any heat.

Budget cuts, said Lanigan. Cut money for building upkeep, nip away the staff. Never makes sense.

What else do we know about the case? asked Sloan.

At this point it looks like the two victims went down the ravine, said Stern. We have the rescue squad searching the banks of the creek. They found a woman’s shoe with a possible blood smear, shell casings in the parking lot.

Detective Sloan shook his head. Anything else?

No sign of the guy that did the shooting. Everything’s been bagged and brought to the lab. Stern lifted the lid from his coffee cup and added some sugar. We did get to visit briefly with Shirley Tryzanie’s parents. They are devastated, confused, and have no idea why someone would shoot at their daughter. Must be a case of mistaken identity, they said.

What about Ned Tryzanie’s family? asked Sloan.

They’re in California. I called them personally. Lanigan opened his notebook again. The father thought it was a case of some nut acting up after a night of celebrating. I didn’t get to talk to the mother. She was dumbfounded and said she wanted to fly out here immediately to help with the search for her son and daughter-in-law.

I thought you said you didn’t talk to her.

Not directly, but she was talking in the background. Tell the police, she’d say to her husband, tell them we’re flying out on the next available plane. I could hear her clearly.

Are they coming to St. Paul?

It sounded like it, but I’m supposed to call them back with a report in a couple of hours. They’re checking airlines for the first available flight. Still plenty of daylight, so maybe the rescue squad will find something.

Let’s hope those two are alive at the bottom of the ravine, said Sloan. Were the Tryzanie’s dressed in warm clothes?

They were, said Stern. I interviewed Jim Thorne, the owner of the coffee shop, and Kate Blassingame. They both gave the same story. The Tryzanie’s were going hiking and they were wearing appropriate outdoor gear for a long hike.

Sorry to interrupt, sir. Tony Graham smiled at the three men. Heat’s back on. Any more problems, give me a call right away. He gave a slight wave. And happy New Year.

You, too, Tony, Sloan said. And Thanks. We appreciate your over and above work ethic.

Tony, a thirty year maintenance employee for the City of St. Paul, shrugged into his jacket and walked out the door. Sloan appreciated Tony’s professionalism and his wry sense of humor. It was times like this that the police department needed people like Tony Graham.

Sloan swiveled in his chair. You two had anything to eat? My treat for hamburgers down at the New Grill Café.

Starving, said Lanigan. Give us a couple minutes to wash up and we’ll meet you downstairs.

Weather report is just in, said Stern, looking at the monitor in the office as he headed to the door. Lots of snow predicted tonight. That won’t help the crime scene crew any.

Snow. Big flakes were beginning to fall. Stern was right. Searching for evidence would be hampered in this weather.

Sloan watched them go. Good workers in this building. Solid team work from everybody. Looking out the window, he considered his options. He tried to shrug off the guilt, but he was the one who had dropped the ball. Why hadn’t he gone to meet Tryzanie himself? He should have gone to Shirley and Ned as soon as Ned called. Someone knew too much.

Chapter Four

Brighton Beach

Duluth, Minnesota

2:00 p.m. – August 1

A bald eagle soared above the treetops, landed atop an aged birch tree, then dropped to a rock jutting from the water. Marcie Reynolds had walked a few blocks from her home on London Road to the mouth of the Lester River. She watched as the eagle eyed the lake for lunch and took a sip of the icy water. Marcie focused her camera and caught the bird as it lifted into glorious flight. Her camera whirred as she snapped four shots in quick succession.

A man had appeared suddenly as Marcie snapped photos. Seemingly oblivious to Marcie’s presence, he turned and climbed up the rocks. A couple, arms wrapped around each other, ran laughing to the beach and started skipping rocks across the giant bulk of water. Marcie scrolled through the pictures. Two of the pictures caught the eagle perfectly. She had also caught a good picture of the man who had walked in front of the camera.

The day was marvelous, the afternoon sky flawless with the sun tinting the trees and lake with a golden glow. The lake was calm and the water reached toward the horizon with a vast quietness that added an air of reverence to the scene. A few billowy white clouds scudded across the rich blue backdrop of sky; the luxuriant trees on either side of the road spiraling majestically upward. Massive rock scraped by an ancient glacier could be seen on the water’s edge.

Marcie needed to hurry on her walk today. E-mail messages were mounting, but the computer had not been cooperating lately. Yesterday she had worked on correspondence, but the computer responded by saying: invalid e-mail address. The addresses she had entered were correct, but she obediently retyped the addresses and the same message appeared. After the third try, she felt like she was back in kindergarten: Is too. Is not. Is too. Finally she conceded to the computer and went outside to work in her flower garden; you just have to walk away from a bully.

In the back of her mind she was considering options in her fundraising campaign for the Guiden Farm Historical Society. They were a new organization, good at researching the history of their area, but their finances were in a mess. Not enough money, an hour a week treasurer, and a newly elected president sent the board scampering for help.

Marcie smiled as she remembered the phone call.

We haven’t any money. Rona Hallenbeck’s voice was on the edge of desperation. Our mission, vision, and purpose statements are done. We have a hard working board, but no one with the skills to raise money. I’m president of the organization. We need a fundraiser. Someone who can talk to the people in Duluth and surrounding area who are capable of writing checks in the five-thousand dollar category. Our goal is to hire a director.

I’m not sure where the Guiden Farm is, Marcie had responded. And how do you expect to pay me if you don’t have any money?

We received a check for five-thousand dollars to hire you. That’s the only money we’ve been able to secure. The donor lives in Chicago, but her family homesteaded near the Guiden Farm in the early 1900s. She said she’d give us start-up money, but then we’d be on our own. If we could meet, I can show you the maps we have of the area.

Fundraising was something Marcie enjoyed. Duluth had several non-profits that needed her skills. She always delivered the money. Her list of potential donors had a jump start because her parents had been successful business owners in Duluth. Active in church and civic organizations, Beth and Harry Reynolds were trusted names in the area.

By three o’clock, she was ready to go home. She’d walked farther than planned and had a lot of work to do. It was her turn to be lead vocalist for the contemporary service at the church on Sunday and she needed to drop the music off at church by five o’clock. She led the service on alternate weeks, a schedule that worked well for her.

She was nearing a lonely stretch of the road, following the shoreline, eventually meeting the lane back to London Road. A grove of ancient cedars, fragrant and imperial, stood at the triangle of the two paths she was nearing. Breathing in the scent of pine and cedar, the sheer beauty of the landscape energized her, prepared her for the daily tasks and she was ready to make amends with the Internet.

Quiet melodies erupted from her cell phone.

Emily Hansen, here, came the voice. Your parents are coming to our house for supper and I was wondering if you’d join us. I have some names of possible funding sources for Guiden Farm Historical Society.

Of course, she’d come. Marcie was thrilled. Dinner at the Hansen’s was special. Owners of The Oslo House, one of the best dining establishments in Duluth, the Hansen’s were phenomenal hosts and had great contacts in the business community.

See you at six o’clock, then, said Emily as she said good-bye.

Marcie wasn’t sure what caught her attention first, a noise or a flash of color. She was sure she had heard a cry for help, but was met with silence. Sound carried long distances here, echoing across the lake and causing distortions that make you wonder where the noise was coming from.

Hello, she called.