Ripples from Pearl Lake

By Bernice Dinner and Roger Shaw

When Becky McDonnell leaves her job as a feature reporter at the Boston News, she plans write a historical novel about the womens suffragette movement in the Granite State. She moves with her boyfriend, Sean, also a reporter, to the peaceful town of Lisbon, New Hampshire, to a house overlooking Pearl Lake. Once there, she explores Pearl Lake for inspiration and meets her neighbors, the Childers brothers. Becky is appalled when she hears the brothers she met have been brutally murdered just as Sean leaves her for a dangerous assignment in Iraq.

At her lowest point, Becky meets fellow reporter Elizabeth Williamson and begins writing articles together for a local weekly newspaper. As the Lisbon police reveal more evidence to the press, Becky, being highly ambitious, sets out to solve the murders thinking that Pearl Lake holds the clues she needs. Soon, she not only becomes a person of interest to the police but also to the suspected murderers. The motive for the murders extends beyond Pearl Lake to Boston and to Toronto but not before there is further bloodshed and a threat to everything Becky holds dear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Apr 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781458214218

Bernice Dinner

Bernice Dinner is a retired audiologist and nonprofit founder and administrator from Denver, Colorado. Roger Shaw, from Redhill, England, worked in the printing industry and wrote and published guides and training modules. Dinner and Shaw met at the Franconia Writing Club in New Hampshire. This is their first book.

Book preview

Chapter One

I T WAS A WARM SPRING day, in early May, when Becky first stumbled across the Childers brothers, while walking the narrow path that meandered around the edge of Pearl Lake, high above the small town of Lisbon.

After a leisurely breakfast in their vacation home overlooking the lake, her boyfriend, Sean, announced he was driving into town to get gas and pick up groceries from the convenience store. Why not take a stroll around the lake while I’m gone, he suggested, picking up the keys and heading for his car parked on the drive.

Becky responded with a broad smile. I will, she announced taking the dog leash from the hook on the back door. Besides, Ginger needs the exercise.

Carroll Childers was leaning against the cab of a white pickup truck, with a camper on top, when Becky rounded a bend in the path. A can of Diet Coke, rather than beer in his hand at nine-thirty in the morning gave her the confidence to stop. Caught anything? she asked pointing towards the fishing rods perched on the bank, their lines snaking out into the dark waters of the lake. He looked up and took a deep drag on the cigarette hanging from his mouth, but didn’t respond. Not being in the least bit shy, she continued, My name’s Becky and this is my dog Ginger.

Caholl, Caholl Childahs.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, Carroll Childers, she replied and thought but didn’t say, that’s the broadest New Hampshire accent I’ve ever heard. I wonder how he deals with snide remarks about his feminine sounding name.

Yep, that’s it, Caholl.

You have an old-fashioned name like mine, she replied and was immediately overcome with embarrassment. In the silence that followed she took the opportunity to study his features. The clear blue eyes that shone from beneath heavy eyebrows contrasted sharply with the grey stubble and pallor of his skin. He was wearing a brown sweatshirt stained with grease and canvas trousers that had never seen an iron. His fingers, wrapped around the cigarette, were red and raw, and his fingernails were ingrained with dirt. Becky guessed from his appearance he was a mechanic, or at the very least a man who worked with machinery. Pointing to the dirty canvas bag and the tin poking out from one end, Becky asked, What bait do you use?

Nothing better’n power bait, he replied picking up the tin and twisting off the lid. Inside, was an evil-smelling black paste which he thrust under her nose. Been coming here for twenty years and never found anything better for Pearl Lake lady. Without another word he closed the tin, tossed it in the bag and ambled towards the lakeside, flicking his cigarette into the water as he went.

Looking past Carroll, Becky could see another man standing fifty yards further along the path. Like his companion, he had a large beer belly, and seeing a half dozen scrunched up beer cans at his feet Becky wasn’t surprised. He was taller than Carroll, with strands of brown and grey hair sweeping across his head, in a vain attempt to disguise fast-approaching baldness. His clothes - plaid shirt half hanging out from torn jeans with scuffed leather boots – and a permanent scowl on his face, made her feel uneasy. She was tempted to hurry straight past, but as she approached, he stepped in front of her. What sort of dog is that, lady? he asked bending down to greet Ginger.

She’s a King Charles spaniel called Ginger.

They all like it, he said looking up and nodding towards Ginger, who was eagerly licking his fingers. It’s the power bait me and my brother use. He gave Ginger a stroke and stood up. Saw you chatting with Caholl. I’m Stan Childahs, by the way.

What kind of fish do you catch here? Becky asked, hastily pulling Ginger away.

Mostly trout, but some bass, want to try your hand? he asked picking up one of several rods at his feet.

Becky sensed his interest in her was getting too familiar, and edging past, she wished him good luck and hurried on her way, dragging a reluctant Ginger behind her.

It was a month later and a few days after Sean left for Iraq when Becky next became aware of the two brothers. Their pictures were on the front page of the White Mountain Gazette, and the headline said they’d been found in their trailer shot in the head at close range.

Chapter Two

B ECKY’S HANDS SHOOK AS SHE scanned the front page of the White Mountain Gaz ette.

Neighbors Discover Dead brothers

Local brothers Carroll and Stanley Childers were found dead by neighbors Tuesday when they broke into the brothers’ trailer on High Plant Avenue.

There’d been a funny smell coming from their trailer, and we hadn’t seen either of them for a couple of days, so me and two other guys thought we’d better investigate, Gary Oldman, trailer park resident told our reporter.

Lisbon Police Chief Joe Black was alerted, and the Childers’ trailer sealed off. Talking to the White Mountain Gazette by phone, Chief Black said the two brothers were shot several times at close range. At this stage, there are no clues as to the killers.

Carroll Childers, age 60, had returned to Lisbon after retiring early from a twenty-year career with General Motors in Detroit. His older brother, Stanley, 62, had spent most of his life in and around Lisbon. He’d moved into a trailer on High Plant Avenue after his parents, Vern and Linda were killed in an accident ten years earlier when their Dodge Ram struck a moose late at night on I-93.

The brothers served with distinction in the Vietnam War, and Stanley earned the Silver Cross. They are survived by Carroll Childers’ son, Edward of Rochester County NY, and his daughter, Dena Polcia of Denver CO.

Becky laid down the paper and looked across the lake. She missed Sean. With him being thousands of miles away in Iraq, she felt lonely and vulnerable.

* * *

Becky and Sean met at Boston College five years before as they waited in the registration line for the same media communication course, and by the second semester they’d fallen in love. Wanting to be together, they rented a one-bedroom condo off the Back Bay in the cheaper part of South End. It meant doing part-time work, mostly waiting tables. During the summer vacations Becky dressed up six times a day to re-enact the Boston Tea Party for the tourists. It was hard, but they still had time for fun. At the end of their sophomore year, Sean decided his future lay in television or film and transferred to the Media Studies Department while Becky continued with her major in mass communications.

After graduation, Sean was offered a gofer’s job on a cable news channel. Before long his good looks and ability to get to the heart of a story earned him a place in front of the camera. He had a regular spot on the nightly news, but what he wanted most was to land a foreign assignment.

Becky’s ambition was to be a writer and after graduating with honors managed to land a job following a two-semester internship in the features department of the Boston Daily News. The boss, Joe Hagen, was a journalist of the old school and boasted of having spent thirty years on the paper. Seen ’em all come and go, he would say, Editors, owners, the lot, and I am still here, ’cause at the end of the day I know what journalism is about – good stories and fine writing. He always referred to her as The Girl. As in I’ve seen them all, Girl. After two years of failing to teach Joe gender sensitivity, Becky resorted to smiling weakly back at him or simply walking away, but she learned a lot under his tutelage.

Six months ago, the company announced, without any prior warning they were merging with A. D. Trudeau Associates of Ottawa. As they already owned the Boston Times, the staff assumed the two papers would merge. The following day Hagen announced he was retiring. At sixty-eight, he’d had enough new owners and didn’t have the energy to break in another one. Besides a cabin in the woods beckoned, and there was still a lot of fishing to be done before he met his maker.

The editorial department threw up its collective arms in horror, but the company made no attempt to persuade him to stay. At his retirement party, Hagen took Becky aside and said she wasn’t supposed to know, but before the merger she was being groomed to take over as features editor. Now, who knows what’s going to happen? Mergers are messy Girl. A lot of people get hurt. Just make sure you’re not one of them.

His words struck a chord, and over the next few days Becky began to give some thought to her future. Hagen predicted there would be a lot of jostling for positions until the new paper settled down. Never good at office politics, a sabbatical for six months seemed an attractive proposition. Grandmother Alice, her father’s mother, had left her some money, and she promised to put it to good use. One of her friends at Boston College, Kay Hart, was majoring in women’s studies, and they’d spent hours in Kay’s dorm room discussing and arguing about the role of women in American society. Becky told Kay she had a desire to write a historical novel about the women’s suffragette movement in New England. With all that was happening at the paper, now seemed a good time to get on and write it.

Sean wasn’t worried where he lived as he spent most of the time jetting around the country on assignments for the news channel. All he needed was a comfortable bed and a fridge stocked with beers. So, after hurried negotiations with the owner of their rented condo in Boston and a search on the Internet for a suitable house in New Hampshire, they were ready. Becky’s only regret was leaving her mother behind, but with a promise to keep in touch, they loaded the car and headed up I-93.

The day in July that Sean got a call from the newsroom to pack his bags and head for Iraq, Becky wasn’t at home. But the moment she walked in the house she knew something was wrong. It’s too dangerous. You could easily get killed. Please don’t go! she cried, but knew it was a waste of breath. Sean reveled in danger and looked forward to dodging the bullets and suicide bombers. That night they made love with an intensity she’d never experienced before, but as the dawn broke he slipped quietly from their bed and was gone.

You came here to write a novel, so get on with it, she said to herself the day after reading the article about the brothers in the White Mountain Gazette. Making notes from the books she borrowed from Kay, and mapping out the first chapters is what she should be doing. Her head was obsessed with the news about Carroll and Stanley. But, instead of sketching out her novel, she spent hours going over in her mind the day she met the brothers, frantically recalling every look, every gesture: anything that might give a clue as to the killers.

Walking around the lake ceased after Sean left. A trail ran behind the house, and Becky took Ginger up there to romp in the wildflowers. Occasionally, they would meet other walkers, but when they approached she kept her head down and avoided any attempt at conversation.

The breakthrough in her spiraling depression was a chance meeting with Elizabeth Williamson in late August. In need of some comfort food, Becky drove to the Grateful Bread bakers in Franconia, hoping they had some cakes or spanakopita fresh from the oven. The post office, opposite, was on the verge of closing for lunch, and she had planned to mail her mother’s birthday card. At the back of the line stood a tall, angular woman with a shock of black hair falling to her waist. She was wearing a loose top, floppy trousers and open sandals. A couple of cameras were hanging from one shoulder, and a large canvas utility bag was slung on the other. She displayed all the signs of a journalist on assignment.

Seeing Becky holding an envelope and looking anxiously at her wristwatch, Elizabeth inquired, You look like a lady who needs to get that in the mail.

It’s a birthday card for my mother. I’ve been carrying it around for the last couple of days, and if I don’t get it in the mail today, it won’t get there on time.

Be my guest, she said, waving Becky forward. Harvey, the postmaster, has a reputation for closing dead on one o’clock, no matter how many people are waiting.

During the few minutes it took to get to the head of the line, they chatted, and Becky’s surmise about her being a reporter proved to be correct. Elizabeth was on her way to interview one of the town’s Selectmen about a recent citizens’ survey. Becky smiled at finding someone with a similar background and suggested they grab a bite to eat at the Dutch Treat Sports Bar and share experiences.

Settled at a window table, Elizabeth explained she was a part-time staffer on the White Mountain Gazette and with prompting from Becky; the conversation inevitably turned to the murder of Carroll and Stanley. I’m familiar with the case, Elizabeth said biting into the tuna and mayo salad, I took the call from Chief Black. I wanted to write up the story, but the editor, Jack Spencer, grabbed my notes and said he would do it. I was so angry. I very nearly quit there and then, but my husband, Jacques persuaded me to stay.

Becky, who knew what it was like to lose a big story, expressed her sympathy and by way of a diversion told her about the historical novel and the struggle she was having getting started. Elizabeth suggested she contact the women’s writing group in Bethlehem, who might be able to help.

It was only supposed to be a quick bite, but it was mid-afternoon before the pair emerged. Elizabeth was late for her appointment and after several attempts, managed to reach her interviewee on her cell phone. She began apologizing profusely and mouthing to Becky to keep in touch, headed for her car.

A few days later when Becky called and asked for Elizabeth, a very cultured French voice answered, Bonjour, madam. I am very sorry, but regretfully my wife is indisposed, but if you will be patient with me I will try to put you through.

The line had gone silent for a moment before Elizabeth’s voice came through. Becky, how are you?

Never mind about me what about you?

Oh, it’s just stupid. I should have mentioned it the other day, but we’re expecting our first child. Yesterday in the office I had a pain in my belly, and now the doctor tells me I need complete bed rest for a week. It’s so stupid.

Sorry, but are you up for a visit?

Of course. How about today?

At the door, Elizabeth’s husband, Jacques, greeted Becky with an old fashioned bow, took her hand and led her up the stairs.

In her bedroom, Elizabeth was sitting propped up by two enormous pillows. She gestured to Becky to sit in a large upholstered armchair close to the bed. Her husband joined them and folded himself into the cane chair under the window.

I was typing my interview with the Selectman when it started, Elizabeth said in response to Becky’s question. Jack Spencer, my boss, was amazing. He called the doctor and told me not to come back until she gave permission. After being angry with him over the Childers story, I was glad Jacques persuaded me to stay.

She couldn’t explain where it came from, but Becky found herself offering to cover for Elizabeth during her sickness and maternity leave. It’s a streak in me that feels the need to reach out for a new challenge when I’m feeling miserable, is how she rationalized it.

To her delight, Elizabeth responded positively, though she was insistent they work as a team. You do the research Becky and I’ll write up the story. I may be confined to bed, but I can still operate my laptop computer, she said defiantly.

Becky quickly agreed. That way I can help you and still work on my novel. She might have added the arrangement also provided a perfect opportunity to keep tabs on the Carroll and Stanley story.

Jacques, who hadn’t uttered a word during all this, sat smiling and nodding, clearly very happy with the outcome. Becky rose to her feet. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the new literary sensation of New Hampshire - Becky and Elizabeth.

Still smiling, Jacques pulled out his cell phone and handed it to Elizabeth. There’s no time like the present, Mon Cherie. Call Jack now. Strike while the pan is hot. Becky smiled at Jacques’ misuse of the idiom, as Elizabeth took the phone and patted her husband’s hand affectionately. They waited anxiously as Elizabeth phoned the Gazette and explained the proposal. When she put the phone down, she beamed, He likes it, but wants to see you Monday afternoon at two?

Awesome! Becky cried. Let’s celebrate. Jacques offered to open a bottle, though making it clear Elizabeth would only be permitted a small glass. Becky phoned the Village Pizza Restaurant in Lisbon and ordered one of their eighteen-inch submarine meatball specials. They deliver, so it should be here in about twenty minutes, Becky announced as Jacques returned brandishing a bottle of champagne.

Chapter Three

O N MONDAY AFTERNOON, BECKY WAS sitting in the outer offices of the White Mountain Gazette waiting to meet Jack Spencer, the editor. She’d been waiting for ten minutes after tapping on the frosted-glass partition and being told sternly by the grey-haired lady sitting on the other side, You’ll have to wait. The editor is busy right now.

Her eyes wandered around this small room. She couldn’t help comparing it with the plush carpeted reception at the Boston Daily News, with its wood-paneled walls, fine prints and air of order and calm. Here, the walls were badly in need of a paint job, and the two faded landscapes on the walls were probably covering damp patches. Overhead a lazy ceiling fan stuttered slowly around, and threatened to grind to a halt at any moment. In one corner old copies of the paper were piled up in boxes covering much of the floor. The carpet was old and worn, and the chair Becky was sitting in had seen better days. The wooden legs splayed out, and rubber foam spilled from every corner of the cushions.

Becky, thanks for coming. I need you to cover a story for me. There’s been a development in the Childers story.

Shocked into consciousness, Becky looked up to see a large, florid man extending a chubby hand and carrying a sheath of page proofs. She smiled and attempted to rise out of the chair, but he was standing too close. Realizing her predicament, he stepped back and put his foot in one of the boxes on the floor. With his arms flailing in a vain attempt to keep upright, the proofs shot up and scattered over the floor. It took several minutes for Jack to get back on his feet and gather the proofs safely in his hands. Not the most auspicious introduction to your new editor, he smiled and shook her hand.

Becky took the opportunity to study the man she would be working with: tufts of grey hair leaped randomly from an otherwise bald pate. Sharp, brown intelligent eyes complimented a strong nose and full-lipped mouth. He was wearing a plaid shirt with chinos, and brown hiking boots. Around his neck, a purple tie hung loosely. The overall effect was of a man making a desperate attempt to look sharp and tidy, but failing.

What developments? Becky asked, her confidence returning.

Chief Black phoned a few minutes ago to say they’ve discovered the Childers’ camper. You’d better get over there and find out what it’s about.

Gathering up her things and heading for the door, Becky asked. Does this mean I’ve got the job?

Let’s see how you get on with this, shall we? Whatever you get, I need two hundred words and a picture by four. I’m putting the finishing touches to the paper, and if it’s any good we’ll put it on the front page. It’s been a slow week, and all I’ve got is the Lisbon Girl’s field hockey team’s win over Littleton.

I’m on it! Becky called out as Jack disappeared back into the editorial offices.

Lisbon PD occupied the lower ground floor of the Town Hall - a large multi-storied structure with elongated cream-painted windows straddling the upper floors and deep red-clapboard above a brick base. It stood proudly on the far side of the Ammonoosuc River that nearly divided the town. A couple of police cruisers were parked on the road as Becky crossed the bridge, and pulled into one of the free spaces adjacent to the river.

The lobby of the police department displayed the usual wanted posters, hunting licenses and a notice in bold lettering reminding residents a permit was required for a bonfire within the town boundaries. WHETHER SNOW IS ON THE GROUND OR NOT, it spelled out in capital letters at the bottom. Opposite were pictures, some very faded, of the town’s Police Chiefs for the past fifty years. A swing door led from the lobby and pushing it; Becky approached the counter.

Good afternoon ma’am. How can we help you? the officer inquired.

A short, rotund man dressed in the standard Lisbon PD uniform of black and grey looked at her expectantly. The name on his badge announced he was Officer Glen Wingfield.

Like to see Chief Black, please?

Sorry, ma’am he’s not here. Can I help?

"I’m Becky McDonnell from the White Mountain Gazette. Chief Black rang the office to say there’d been a development in the Childers brothers’ case."

"Oh, right ma’am, Chief said if anyone from the White Mountain Gazette came by to send them up the Pearl Lake Road."

I’m on my way, Becky said backing out the door and pulling out her cell phone. Punching in Elizabeth’s number, she backed out of the parking lot and headed across the bridge. Hi Elizabeth, this is Becky. There’s been a development in the Carroll and Stanley case, and I’m on my way to meet Chief Black now.

Does that mean we’ve got the job? Elizabeth shouted in Becky’s ear over the noise of the car.

Depends on how well we do. I will need you to put together a hundred or so words and email them to Jack the moment I call. When Becky started to suggest a slant to the story, the phone went dead. Elizabeth had taken umbrage and cut her off. Ahead Pearl Lake Road loomed up, and Becky made the sharp right turn and accelerated up the hill.

The road passed some outlying houses and cabins before winding its way into the hills above the town. Becky assumed it would be obvious where the camper was found, but as she drove there was no sign of any vehicle, camper or police cruiser. On both sides, spruce was interspersed with white birch trees and a dense undergrowth spread to the roadside. The road bent and twisted, and it was difficult to see far ahead.

When it finally appeared, she nearly collided with a police cruiser parked up a trail, with its trunk protruding onto the road. Pulling over, she slid past the cruiser and parked a little way ahead. Reaching for her camera and notebook, she walked up the old logging trail. Chief Black? she called out but there was no response. Continuing up the trail, her eyes scanned the dense woodlands on either side for any sign of life. After a further twenty yards, she rounded a bend and saw a tall figure dressed in boots, jeans and a police issue zipper jacket. Hi, you must be Becky. Officer Wingfield said you were coming up, nice to meet you.

Becky used the ten yards separating them to study him more closely. He was well over six foot, and much younger than she’d imagined. Chiefs were meant to be fifty plus and overweight, but this guy was in his thirties with a very relaxed, confident air. Dark brown eyes dominated his features. He had a long tanned face, and a trimmed moustache. Thick black hair stuck out from a baseball cap, with the letters LPD embroidered above the peak.

He looked comfortable in the casual clothes he wore like he dressed for himself, rather than conforming to other people’s views of what how a police officer should dress. If asked he would shrug, give a lazy smile and say, its dress down day.

As Becky approached, he extended a hand, Happy to meet you. What happened to Elizabeth? Heard she’s expecting.

"A complication and she’s confined to her bed. I’ll be covering for the White Mountain Gazette from now on."

He nodded and walked up the trail. It’s this way, he said over his shoulder. It was not a regular trail, and Becky was beginning to wish she’d worn hiking boots rather than heels for the interview. She stumbled along behind, and after ten yards they pushed through some low-slung branches into a rectangular-shaped clearing.

It’s here, Chief Black said, pointing to a white camper, partially hidden by a few branches dragged from the surrounding woods.

Joe waited until she joined him. "The Lisbon PD has a good relationship with the White Mountain Gazette and I hope that will continue, Becky. Elizabeth always called me Joe, and I hope you will as well."

Thanks. Odd looking vehicle isn’t it? Becky mused taking a proper look.

The locals call them piggyback campers. Please don’t touch anything, he called out. I’m waiting for the crime scene team to dust it for fingerprints.

Obeying his instructions, Becky walked around the camper studying it from every angle.

Did you know the brothers? Joe asked as Becky returned to his side. She told him about the meeting at the lake, but made it sound like a chance meeting, which it was.

Becky nodded in the direction of the camper and pulled out her notebook. With her pen poised, she asked. How was it discovered?

From their accent I guess they were a couple of flatlanders: most likely illegal hunters crawling about in the woods in search of game. They must have thought it odd to find a camper out here in the woods as they left a message telling us where to find it.

What’s the angle, Chief, sorry, Joe?

We’d like to know if anyone saw the camper being driven in the last few days. It wasn’t at High Plant Avenue when the bodies were discovered. So how did it get here? Someone must have seen it parked somewhere or driven up Lake Road.

She jotted a note down knowing Elizabeth would turn it into a concise quote later. If anybody remembers seeing the Childers’ camper, what do you want folks to do?

Call the PD, he replied watching closely as Becky finished writing. Help yourself, he said nodding towards the camera bag hanging from Becky’s shoulder.

She didn’t wait for him to change his mind and began snapping photos of the camper from all sides. Has the medical examiner done the autopsy yet? Becky asked circling the clearing.

Report said they died of gunshot wounds to the back of their heads, .22 caliber-bullets, possibly a Smith & Wesson, fired from above; a classic assassination. The coroner said the marks on their wrists suggested they were tied with wire or cord. Most likely they were kneeling with their hands behind their backs and shot from behind.

Any progress in identifying the perp? Becky called out, lining up her last shot.

He waited until Becky finished and was checking the images on the screen