Put to the Test: A Heron Lake Mystery

By Judith Williams

Willow Rather is a lonely Chicago transplant who decides to return to her small town of Heron Lake and to Aaron Rather, the grandfather she loves. While Willow is still wrapping up her affairs in Chicago, Aaron Rather dies in a fall that is officially deemed a suicide. Despite the existence of a suicide note, Willow is convinced that her grandfather was murdered, and she returns to Heron Lake to ferret out the truth.

Aarons death and its aftermath cause a reluctant psychic to come forward, and soon everyone questioning the suicide is in danger. Stymied by the lack of a clear motive and hampered in the investigation by their own police department, Officers David Kennison and Doug Podgorski struggle to net a wily, determined adversary. As the threat to the town escalates, David must deal with mounting tensions in his marriage, and Doug begins to fear that his deepening feelings for Willow may never be reciprocated.

Despite a breakthrough in the case provided by an unexpected source, the two officers find themselves locked in a game of catch-up with a killer whose obsessive quest manages to put everybody to the test.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Aug 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480831735

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 Judith L. Williams.

Cover art by Judith Williams

Used with the permission of Cynthia Tonkin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-3172-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-3173-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016907908

Archway Publishing rev. date: 08/31/2016

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Dedication

To Mom,

whose bedtime readings of Nancy Drew

instilled in her kid

a lifelong love of the genre.

Acknowledgments

For their good suggestions and much-needed edits,

three highly literate friends merit special thanks.

They are, in alphabetical order,

Nancy Pugh, Cynthia Tonkin and Patricia Wemstrom

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction.

The people, companies and events are fictitious

and are in no way intended to represent

real individuals, companies or events.

CHAPTER

1

T he rope bridge humped and swayed but his practiced feet soon found its rhythm. He felt good. His aging joints were mercifully quiet, his beloved granddaughter was coming home to stay and today he’d risen early enough to catch the opening smile of a beautiful September morning.

It was therefore with dismay that he suddenly felt the slatted floor of the bridge go slack, felt himself free-falling, his arthritis-ravaged fingers unable to maintain a grip on the support ropes. Quickly he calculated that given the distance and the rocky creek bed below, he wouldn’t survive the fall. Aaron Rather had just enough time to whisper to his granddaughter how sorry he was for the terrible hurt he was about to cause her - and just enough time to ask the Lord to accept his soul.

CHAPTER

2

A s the Metra train bound for Heron Lake departed its final Chicago stop, Willow Rather stared dully at the passing scenery. She was going home, just as she’d done hundreds of times over the past five years, but today was different. Home wasn’t home anymore. That familiar dot on the map, the site of her teenage years, Heron Lake High, the Congregational church, her grandparents’ two-story frame house - none of these were home. Home for her was an old man with halting gait and midnight blue eyes, a man who communicated little unless one’s gaze happened to meet those eloquent eyes.

Trees and houses and storefronts rushed by in a watery blur. Blinking away the offending tears, she bit the inside of her cheek until she’d regained control, until the fleeting world outside came back into focus. How could so much of her life have unraveled in so short a time? she wondered. As the train moved relentlessly forward, she closed her eyes and traveled back to the day everything had begun to change.

She was in her cubicle with its window overlooking Grant Park. One final claim remained to be paid, and even though she’d already satisfied the 60-to-80 daily quota, she didn’t like to leave unfinished work for the morning. In fact, she thought bitterly, she’d always given her all to ChicagoTeam Insurance. She consistently met her company’s 97 percent accuracy requirement. She worked to make her letters to the insured polite, concise and easy to understand. Phone calls, a constant interruption, she handled with patience and sound advice. She knew her job. That she’d never been selected for advancement was a sore point. Adequate yearly raises did not make her forget that she still occupied a lowly rung on the insurance ladder.

Willow knew that this was also the day she’d confronted even larger personal issues, such as why she had no close friends and why there was no special man in her life. It was the day she’d admitted to herself that she was lonely. With that admission had come thoughts of moving back to Heron Lake, to the grandfather she dearly loved, to that rural life she’d once longed to escape. She had to concede, though, that in many ways Chicago had measured up to her expectations. After college with its legacy of idealism and cosmopolitan thinking, she’d looked toward the big city, that garden of ethnicity in full bloom. How she’d longed to plant her flower among the rest, to thrive in that soil so rich in culture. Heart open to everyone, mind open to just about anything, she’d quickly embraced the vibrant metropolis. Satisfying her creative appetites were Sunday matinees at the Merle Reskin Theater, showcase for the De Paul University players, and weekly pilgrimages to the Art Institute. When she wasn’t visiting her beloved Impressionists, she was attending a lecture series or taking advantage of a members-only preview exhibit.

Willow also acknowledged her love affair with Chicago restaurants. Never self-conscious about dining with only a book or magazine for companionship, she would rotate among her favorite culinary haunts, most of which she’d found through the Internet under Cheap Eats. On occasion, however, especially around Christmas, she’d treat herself to lunch at the Walnut Room and then take in the Loop’s fabulous window displays. When her sweet tooth acted up, she’d often hop the Michigan Avenue #3 bus to Ontario Street in order to indulge in the Grand Lux’s decadent beignets. If her pangs demanded Italian, there was no place like Petterino’s on Dearborn, although the lunchtime line could be daunting.

Then there were her restorative weekly jogs through Lincoln Park, hiking or biking Lake Michigan’s vast shoreline, even visits to the museums. In the early days, before she’d admitted that owning a car in the city was just too expensive, Saturday morning often included a self-indulgent excursion up Lake Shore Drive, dubbed the Outer Drive by natives. She’d travel northward along the water’s edge to Sheridan Road, then past the city limits into Evanston, Wilmette, Kenilworth, Winnetka and Glencoe, beautiful North Shore communities dotted with mansions, many turn-of-the-20th century or earlier. It was a scenic route she loved. However, each time she’d turned the car once again toward the city, there in the hazy beyond, Willis Tower and the Hancock had beckoned, too, with a magnetic charm that was Chicago’s own.

Willow settled back in her seat with a sigh. Admittedly those early days had been full as her mind sponged up all it could of the city’s heady nectar. Sometimes she sensed the soul of the city, envisioned Carl Sandburg’s strapping young man - beautiful, powerful, a little wild. There was excitement. There was also danger. She couldn’t remember exactly when fear first tipped the scales, but at some point a chronic uneasiness had begun to temper her high spirits. Worn down daily by news accounts of random violence and alarmed by the occasional assault on a colleague, she’d found it progressively harder to enjoy her evening cultural forays. Not one to delude herself, though, she suspected that things would have been different had she found a companion other than her own overactive imagination.

The train lingered in the next station long after the platform had cleared. Willow felt little curiosity. She was in no hurry. Sensing the return of movement she automatically fixed on familiar landmarks as they leaped to the fore and fell away. Unbidden, flashes of the day that had changed her life came rushing back.

She remembered feeling exhausted as she stood at Washington and Wabash, waiting for the first of two buses that would carry her, albeit in agonizing rush-hour fashion, back to her apartment. Eddie from Human Resources was leaning close, about to hit on her as he did most nights. She tolerated him because he was harmless and because he afforded her protection during most of the long ride home. His opening line was always the same, despite the fact it had never gotten him anywhere. That night she’d braced herself for one more repetition.

Willow rather my place or hers? he’d asked huskily, his lips brushing her ear.

Willow rather not, she’d responded as usual, relieved to spy their bus’s marquee less than a block away.

She and Eddie had squeezed onto an already crowded vehicle. She’d found herself in the middle of the aisle, buttressed by other bodies but with nothing to hang onto. Each lurch forward and braking had forced her to scramble to maintain her balance. It had taken a full 30 minutes before the crowd thinned and a seat opened up. She remembered sinking down with a grateful sigh.

Her next memory of that evening was the elevator ride to her sixth-floor apartment, her mind busy planning for the upcoming weekend. She thought she’d travel to Old Orchard, Skokie’s iconic open-air mall that still managed to retain its upscale feel. After browsing favorite stores she would hit Maggiano’s for lunch because of their classic pasta special: pay for one entree, get another to take home. For dessert she’d go next door to The Corner Bakery or maybe cross the walkway to Barnes and Noble for a latte and a little slice of heaven from the Cheesecake Factory. She was also anxious to try out the new menu at Nordstrom’s Marketplace Café, but that she’d decided to save as a future treat for her taste buds.

Exiting the elevator she’d counted the 10 paces to apartment 605, her sanctuary for the past five years. Once inside she’d set down her purse and flicked the light switch. As usual a lamp beside her studio couch had illuminated the large room. Deep in debate over what to fix for dinner, she’d automatically started to kick off a shoe when her peripheral vision warned that something was wrong. With one knee still bent, she’d surveyed her surroundings with growing alarm. The cart which normally held her TV and DVR stood empty. Nearby, her Kindle and iPad were missing from their respective cubbyholes in her desk. Heart thudding, she’d sprung backward into the hallway and out of habit relocked her apartment before darting to the efficiency next to hers. Persistent pounding accompanied by a quavery plea for help had finally elicited a muffled response from her elderly neighbor: I don’t open my door to strangers. With that, she’d succumbed to a temporary panic as she pictured her purse and cell phone in a locked apartment that she wasn’t about to re-enter.

Willow rested her forehead against the train window and peered straight down at the swift-moving carpet of prairie grass stubble and hardy weed. How she would have loved to erase that terrible evening from her memory, but it stubbornly dominated her waking thoughts and regularly insinuated itself into her dreams.

The train had yet to reach full speed before she found herself again reliving that night, recalling how she’d tearfully begged her neighbor to at least call 911. She remembered hugging herself against shock and fear as she waited downstairs for help that might never come, and she experienced anew that immense relief as wails and a revolving strobe had signaled the approach of a squad car.

The calm, matter-of-fact manner of Officer Tony Salvino had helped her keep her own emotions in check. She’d watched, temporarily mesmerized, as the fingerprint technician skillfully applied a light dusting using different colors for different surfaces, and when he’d requested her prints for the purpose of elimination, she had readily complied, totally forgetting to mention that she was bonded. It was later, during the walk-through, that she’d lost her composure.

At first she’d unemotionally inventoried missing items but when they came upon the contents of her keepsake drawer all strewn about, those cards and letters that were pieces of the people she loved, a sense of personal violation had overwhelmed her. Picking up on her distress, Officer Salvino had reassured her that people often hide money and good jewelry in just such places. She’d deferred to his expertise, but a part of her had remained uneasy. Then came the relentless questions about keys to the apartment, former boyfriends, jealous husbands, questionable friends and relatives, colleagues, neighbors - nothing that she felt applied to her situation, but she’d answered truthfully and patiently until he’d interrupted her in midsentence. His voice had taken on an edge.

Look, Miss Rather, you are a very attractive young woman. I find it hard to believe there are no men in your life. We’re not here to judge or to cause trouble for innocent people, but we do need honest disclosure.

Willow flushed as she remembered her embarrassment, those tearful gasps that had punctuated her reply. Do you have any idea … how hard it was for me … to admit that I don’t have a love life … or even a best friend?

To his credit Officer Salvino had elected to back off. OK, let’s say that I believe you. Can we please dispense with the waterworks?

Reassured by her nod and the series of noisy snuffles that followed, he’d given her time to pull herself together by pausing to consult his notes. Whoever stole your property must have let themselves in with a key - unless, of course, you accidentally left the door open, which you say you didn’t. The lock hasn’t been tampered with. Earlier you said there are four keys to this apartment that you know of. Tell me again who has them.

I have two - but they’re always on me, she’d answered, and besides the building superintendent’s, the only other key is with my grandfather in Heron Lake.

Officer Salvino had skillfully masked any skepticism he might have felt. Well, I guess we can rule out yours and I know your super. He has several buildings in this district. There’s never been a problem. Now what about your grandfather? Does he keep your key in a safe place? Would he have made copies for anyone? Does someone else live with him?

The questions had served to catapult Willow’s thoughts back to her most recent trip to Heron Lake. She and Grandpa Rather had been enjoying mugs of hot chocolate at the kitchen table when her gaze seized upon a new key rack beside the wall phone. There in plain sight was her key dangling from the pink window tag that bore her name and address.

Well? Officer Salvino had prodded when she failed to respond.

I guess that Grandpa’s key might be a problem, she’d admitted. While he lives alone and surely wouldn’t make copies without letting me know, he does hang my key in the kitchen, and he doesn’t always lock his doors, especially during the day. But Heron Lake is such a safe place …

Willow knew her last sentence had betrayed her own growing uncertainty, a signal for Officer Salvino to close his notebook.

OK, Miss Rather, we’re almost done but I want to leave you with some advice. First off, the odds are slim that someone would hit your place again tonight or in the near future. However, I realize that it will be some time before you feel safe here, so for now I suggest you pull that chain you have on the door and, if it makes you feel better, prop a chair under the door knob. Then tomorrow I want you to contact the super about having your locks changed. If you think of anything else that might help us in our investigation, here’s my card.

Willow recalled thanking him as they walked toward the door together and she remembered asking, as an afterthought, if she would likely get her belongings back.

Officer Salvino had shot her a sidelong glance that held an apology. The odds are pretty astronomical against, to be honest.

The train interior fell into shadow, telling Willow that they’d entered the copse of silver poplars which formed a welcome bower against the summer glare. It also told her that Heron Lake was drawing near. She felt aching regret. That night in her apartment she’d made a decision, the right decision, but it had come too late. She’d phoned Grandpa Rather to tell him that since her apartment lease was up shortly, she was giving ChicagoTeam Insurance a month’s notice and then she was coming home. The joy in his voice had restored joy to her own heart. She’d chosen to save news of the robbery for another time. Now she questioned that choice. Had she spared him worry or had she unwittingly let him face danger totally unprepared? As her eyes again brimmed with tears, an inner voice warned, Don’t go there. If you want to get through this, you can’t go there. You have to keep it together until you find out who murdered your grandfather and why.

Forcing her attention back to present surroundings, she noticed several fellow passengers studying her. Willow was used to stares but couldn’t imagine a duller subject than herself. Still sporting the white-blond hair of childhood, she felt colorless. She thought her eyes were mostly obscured by the matted, flaxen lashes that at best made her look sleepy. Grandpa Rather, however, had told her she was pretty. He’d once said that her eyes were as startlingly blue as the deep end of Heron Lake on a perfect day. She’d laughed, replying that he was prejudiced, but the compliment had surprised and pleased her nonetheless.

On another occasion she’d been shocked by a co-worker’s reaction to a simple invitation. Just after Christmas she’d suggested to a friendly girl in her unit that the two of them have lunch and take in a show or a concert. The girl had hesitated and looked away.

Willow, I like you, she’d begun with obvious discomfort. I really think it would be fun to hang out with you, but I’m trying hard to find the right guy. And, to be honest, I just couldn’t handle the competition. No man would notice me if you were around. I’m sorry. I really am.

Nonplussed, Willow had watched the girl hurry back to her cubicle. Moments later she herself was receiving a hug from an older colleague who had overheard the exchange.

Beautiful girls have a hard time with relationships, her co-worker had soothed, not just with men but with women, too. One day you’ll find those precious few who can see beyond your looks and who will choose to stick around.

Although unconvinced, Willow had rewarded the woman’s kindness with a short smile. In truth, she’d begun to feel like a social pariah and that day marked the last time she’d made overtures of friendship at work. It was not, however, her last ChicagoTeam trauma.

A few weeks later Bob Turner, head of individual claims, had intercepted her at the end of the workday, just as she was digging in a pocket