A Swimmer Is Dead: Darkwater Lake Mystery #2

By Tannis Laidlaw

Jodie loves her boat-access-only summer cottage at the lake. While relaxing with a friend, Jodie watches some kids larking about on jet-skis on the water. Soon, to their horror, the boys head towards the dock with a gruesome load – a very dead teenaged boy clad only in a swimsuit. The obviously distressed younger boy tells the women he ran over the swimmer accidentally with his jet-ski. The boys roar away without further explanation.

Jodie calls the police. She suspects the boy’s ‘confession’ was contrived because no jet-ski could have inflicted those types of wounds. And, if it had been an accident, why did the boys not wait for the authorities?

What is going on?

A book perfect for enthusiasts of intriguing amateur sleuths, a picturesque lakeside setting and a plot thick with red herrings and enthralling twists. If you adore atmospheric edgy cozy mysteries with an Agatha Christie vibe, 'A Swimmer Is Dead' promises an enthralling journey into the heart of a gripping, suspense-laden mystery.

Scroll up to the purchasing button to start experiencing the Darkwater Lake Mystery series and escape into life at a scenic lake in the Canadian wilderness now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tannis Laidlaw
• Release date: Jan 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215746349

Tannis Laidlaw

Tannis has worn many hats: occupational therapist in her early days, psychologist, university researcher and lecturer at various universities and medical schools and now author. She's written many first drafts which are safely stored on her hard drive (perhaps, one day, to be revised...) but she has published four novels and two books of short stories. Two of the novels are in paperback as well as ebook format. She lives with her husband in various places: two homes in New Zealand - a town house in Auckland and an adobe beach house on an isolated bay in Northland - and, to take full advantage of the northern summer, a tiny summer cottage (off the grid and boat-access only) on a remote lake in North-western Ontario in Canada. All are places perfect for writing.

Book preview

Prologue

He watches the swimmer gliding along the edge of the bay where granite cliffs form an almost sheer drop into the dark and hidden depths of the lake. He notices the grace and coordination of the swimmer and feels resentment building and building until it creates a tight black ball deep in his gut. The ball morphs into anger which grows larger and blacker until it fills his entire being.

Anger changes to hate.

He forces his eyes away, the hate slowly morphing into a powerlessness no less dark, no less debilitating. He gasps as if it is restricting his breathing, stealing his will to live.

But only losers give into such feelings. Losers are wimps.

Winners do something.

Anything, but winners act.

He turns his back on the swimmer. The time is now.

He straightens, his mind about to burst with dozens of possibilities until finally a single, simple plan of action forms and solidifies.

He nods.

Winners take all.

Chapter one

Jodie Hill surfaced after diving into the lake from her dock. August warm water, the sun shining and all was right in the world. She turned over and floated on her back, watching the summer cumulous clouds drift past, west to east – summer ‘puffies’, her mother used to call them. She rolled back to swim along the shore towards the bay to the south, just an easy breast stroke today, nothing too vigorous. No fishermen today either, thank goodness. The rush of visitors to Darkwater Lake tended to cluster around the second half of July through the first half of August. The people remaining now, many retired, some non-working mothers with children and the rest odd-bods like her, loved the quiet that reigned after the great majority had gone back to their city lives.

But summer doesn’t last forever. Could she manage to stay at Darkwater Lake during the colder months of the year? She’d love to, that was a given. This heat would turn to cool in the short fall, then the full extent of the Canadian winter would hit sometime after Thanksgiving, in October. Or not. Sometimes Indian Summer came back to warm things up for a few days when the last of the leaves were falling off to carpet the woods in golds, oranges and reds. Jackets came off, t-shirts hauled back out even for a few short hours mid-afternoon, all just a teaser before the snows fell and stayed. It was difficult to imagine this lake frozen solid, ski trails over the snow-covered ice, the delicate tracery of the winter-bare trees etched dark against the bright sky and the conifers starkly standing out from the white of the landscape.

In the meantime, she wanted to enjoy every minute of her time at the lake. If she couldn’t figure out a way to stay in the town of Darkwater for the winter, she’d again head to her Toronto cousin’s basement apartment, leaving in October, returning when the ice had broken and melted, usually six months later as April turned into May allowing her to get her boat out of storage and to open up her cottage. Not that she didn’t appreciate her cousin’s generosity in allowing her to use the little apartment and only charging her a share of the costs of running the household, but there was no comparison between living at the lake and living in a Toronto basement.

She swam steadily until she reached the first rocky point sheltering a little sandy bay beyond and swam back, this time in what they’d always called an Australian crawl. Reaching her dock, she climbed the aluminum ladder she’d attached last year and grabbed her towel, not to dry herself, but to aid in the comfort of lying on the warm, hard wood of the surface of her dock. She loved letting the sunshine dry the lake water from her skin. One of her summertime pleasures.

When she lived in Vancouver, she used to dip in the ocean during the summer. Dip. The ocean was seriously cold even in August. No letting sea water dry on your skin either. Salt would coat everything and you’d be itching from the moment you dressed. No, swimming there was more complex – and not just because it was much colder than the lake, but due to the need to always shower before dressing. Okay, she was a lake-girl, through and through.

Time to get back to work. This time, she would probably enjoy the process of writing the next book in the series, especially now all decision-making was hers alone.

She stared across the lake, her mind revisiting her former colleague who had been killed a few months earlier. Iris, not the easiest person to work with, had written a best-selling exposé of a famous media personality. But, when attempting to write the second book in the series, Iris couldn’t repeat the brilliance of her first book. Her editor had co-opted Jodie into saving the project. She became a type of ghostwriter, re-writing everything Iris produced. That second book, exposing the truth behind the Dark Ninja, a popular pop singer, turned out to be another success, solidifying Jodie’s contract to finish writing the next exposé of the politician Ivor Prentice under the same nom de plume of U Reade-Randall even though it was after Iris had died.

Jodie had talked to her editor yesterday – Eve, her editor in England. Editor and friend.

Good news, Eve had said. "We have a confirmation of the publication date for Ivor: October."

Super, Jodie had replied with genuine delight. "People like reading about dirty dealings by an up and coming politician. I’m convinced it will sell better than the Ninja."

"Hope so although the Ninja is doing fine, Eve said. How’s our new project going? She laughed. No pressure."

Jodie’s only problem was how quickly she could get the new project done, a project dear to her heart given she’d been victimised by the person to be exposed. Besides, her money situation was dire. She’d elected to forgo an instant payment up front, instead opting for royalties which, she hoped, would result in a better income over time. Except royalties didn’t start arriving into an author’s bank account until months after the publication of any book. And that wasn’t all. She still got the collywobbles whenever she stopped to consider living with this particular subject matter for the time it took to research and write a full length non-fiction book. Dredging up the most awful time of her life, ever. She still found herself questioning whether she could do it. Given she’d agreed, yes, she could and would. But she had been surprised at how the process was upsetting her.

It’s coming along, Jodie said carefully to Eve. I’m still asking myself why I said yes to this odious task, though.

You know, my friend. It’s not just a way to make a crust. It’s a way of getting some sort of justice for what the creep did to you.

The professor she’d worked for had got away almost scot free without a thought of how he’d immersed her in something she would never have agreed to, had she known the truth. He was disgraced, yes, but little else. Living the life of Riley.... What made her blood boil more than everything else, was that he didn’t say one word about her innocence when everything had gone to pot. Not to the press, nor to the university authorities. She was seen to be as guilty as he was and that was that, academically, in spite of her protests. Her career was down the tubes by her mid-thirties. And he sailed into early retirement slightly earlier than planned, the rat.

Well, Professor Chambers, you so cavalierly pushed the blame onto your hapless Research Fellow, but justice is coming. One of these fine days, the world will know about your duplicity and the full extent of what you did.

Chapter two

Jodie typed Fractured: An Unauthorised Biography of Professor Benjamin Chambers .

She gazed at it then deleted it and typed Lexie instead. Okay, she was being overly cautious. Lexie was just a working title but it would do for now. The full title was far too informative if the wrong person should see it prior to publication. Besides which, Lexie was what it was all about. This story would be told from Lexie’s point of view, third person close, as told to U Reade-Randall, the unlovely nom-de-plume Iris had chosen for her first book. And the bigwigs at the House had decreed that Jodie could not only carry on with the series but use the same nom de plume. Still, she was relieved it was not authored by Dr Jodie Hill, or worse, Dr Josephine Fayette, the infamous woman who everyone believed faked a database.

‘Lexie’ was not a made-up name but the name of a real person, Lexie Flanagan, who did have all the dirt on Benjamin Chambers. She was Ben’s research assistant who had worked for years in his lab before her retirement. Jodie had been hired in her stead. Lexie had retired in her fifties, mostly because of the dreaded diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer’s. A well-educated and intelligent woman being saddled with Alzheimer’s when only in her fifties? Horrible to contemplate.

Jodie really wanted to interview Lexie before the Alzheimer’s ravished her brain completely but she had not been able to track her down. She was increasingly thinking that Lexie, most likely at this point, would be unable to tell her story. Still, Jodie knew a fair amount about what happened and felt confident she could ghostwrite it for her. And would without Lexie’s help, if it came to that. Which reminded Jodie that she should continue her search to find her. Of course, she might have died by now. People did die of Alzheimer’s Disease, but usually not for many years after being diagnosed. But Jodie needed to search yet again just in case. She’d love to talk with her. It would make the writing of the story a lot easier.

Jodie stared at her screen, now re-titled Lexie and shook herself. She wanted to get into the writing, but she didn’t need to write the whole wretched book today. One bite at a time and you can eat an elephant, or so her grandmother used to say.

Seriously, she did need to begin using the same tried and true way she’d started the other books in the series, with a compelling scene that set the tone. Then the slow build-up could begin. Build-up? More like the slow corruption and descent into academic career purgatory.

That meant starting with a preface.

Scene:

Her name is Lexie Flanagan and she is in her little outer office, the sort that secretaries usually inhabit and through which anyone wanting to see the Big Man has to pass. Only she’s not a secretary. She’s a researcher in this ‘lab’ and she has a Master’s Degree. She knows what she’s doing. She’s good at her job, even though he thinks it’s funny to call her his Lab Lady.

Psychology laboratories can have EEG machines and other scientific equipment but often they don’t. Somehow, as long as a research project involves statistics – and almost all do – the set of offices inhabited by researchers, like this one, is called a ‘lab’. But she always says she’s no lady when the boss calls her his lab lady. Then she apologises.

And kicks herself.

In addition to her tiny cubicle, the lab consists of just one other room, Professor Benjamin Chambers’ office. Whereas her domain is tight for space with four filing cabinets crowding against her miniscule desk upon which sits her modest laptop, his room is a corner office, with, taking up more than half the space, a large sofa and two easy chairs and coffee table between. Part of the other half contains his gigantic desk with computer and two large monitors plus two not-very-comfy visitor’s chairs on the other side of his desk. Plenty of space left over for a filing cabinet or two. But, no, they are permanently stored in her windowless and tiny excuse for an office.

He loves his room. She hates hers, so she often as not works from home. Her little bit of rebellion. Today, though, she’s here. And, as it often is, the connecting door between the two offices is open.

Jodie had no difficulty describing the setup as if Lexie had told U Reade-Randell all about it. As it turned out, Lexie had taken early retirement before Jodie could meet her. Jodie, with a freshly minted PhD in Psychiatry and with a Masters in Psychology, had been hired to replace her and Jodie had taken over that tiny office. Other than persuading Ben to store the filing cabinets in the far corner of his office during the ‘honeymoon’ period of her employment, the scene was one with which Jodie was totally familiar.

Memories flooded back and Jodie pushed her chair away from her desk. Could she do this? Put herself through the worst and most agonising period of her life one detail after another for 90,000 words? The answer was simple: if she wanted to see justice done, then she could do it. And, dammit, she’d write a compelling account.

She put her fingers back on the keyboard.

Action:

A phone rings. Ben’s landline. Lexie can hear him plainly. Yes ... last week ... Ohio.... Now? I’m currently in a meeting, sorry, but I can be down straight after.... Of course. Yes, see you in about fifteen.

She gathers somehow she and Ben are in a meeting. Typical. But her cynicism drains away when she catches sight of Ben’s face, white as the fresh snow falling on the other side of his windows. He gets up from his desk and almost stumbles, muttering swear words under his breath.

What’s happening? she asks, now concerned. Besides, she’s well aware her career rises and falls with her boss’s.

The Davison paper, he says, his voice strangled. Those pigs, those devious scumbags, stirring up trouble. I could ... I’ll ... He took a shuddering breath. Don’t just stand there, your stupid mouth hanging open like a goldfish, he yells, glaring at her. Get out of here. Out of my sight! Out! Out! Out! He takes two steps and slams his door.

This isn’t the first time. She takes a deep breath, counts to ten and opens the door again.

So? she asks, one hand on her hip.

She well remembers the paper Davison and his team published some months ago. It was perfect for Ben’s purposes. He could use it – or rather, he could have Lexie use it – as the basis of yet another publishable paper. They were a team. She knew what to do. She’d take the Davison research questions which were described in the published paper and answer them afresh. She’d enter the data into Ben’s famous database and compare the results. Their wonderful database composed of many times the number of subjects than Davison had access to, leading the world. Lexie, as the writer of the ensuing paper, could then argue either for or against Davison et al.’s conclusions depending upon whether she (they) could support or refute the Davison findings. On this occasion, as so often happened, she wrote that the Davison conclusions could not be corroborated and thus were faulty, most likely due to the small numbers in their database. Hey, an instant paper which would be publishable in any of the international journals that usually accepted their work.

So, that’s what Lexie did. Just like she’d done over and over again, solidifying their mark on the world. Or rather, Ben’s mark. In spite of doing 90% of the work, she is always an also-ran – i.e., her name is there as a writer on the paper but always after Ben’s. He is the ‘first author’ of all papers emanating from their lab. Or rather, his lab.

Part of her job is to search for any recently published study about wayward youth – a good example is the Davison paper – which she could then test and corroborate or refute. This tactic was the basis of hundreds of papers, all written by Lexie Flanagan – that’s her full name – and published under the authors ‘Chambers and Flanagan’. The work is all hers: she calculates the new statistics and also writes every word in each publishable paper. But the database is his and he is the professor. And her boss.

So what is Ben’s contribution, you may ask? He publicises their work by giving papers in conferences all over the world. Such is how he divides the work here in this lab and how their reputations have been made, or rather, Ben’s reputation. He is now a full professor and often invited to give inaugural addresses at those conferences. Yes, her salary has gone up. He told her he’d fought for a higher salary category for her and won. Not even half of Ben’s salary, but that’s life.

Does she resent it? Just the tiniest bit, although, with her aerophobia – that means fear of flying – she’s content to stay at home.

Mostly. Conferences are often located on this continent, sometimes one or more a week, and she could take the train or even drive. But, no. That’s his ‘job’. Hers is to do the actual work.

They ... Davison et al. ... were told about our paper by someone who is one of the peer reviewers, I guess. Now, they’ve asked for our raw data, Ben tells her. Asked the Vice Chancellor, the scumbags, not us. Ben looks at his watch, his expensive watch, and flinches. He’s worried. And so he should be.

They both know what this means: the brass is involved. The top guns of both their own university and Davison’s. Bad news for Ben. I guess our meeting is almost over, she says, wryly. She grabs his jacket from the inside of the door and holds it out for him. Maybe a little pick-me-up? To settle your, um, stomach?

He gives her a dark look, hesitates and heads back to his desk.

She pretends not to see.

His behaviour is worrying. For instance, he didn’t even think of having a swig from his hidden bottle. He must be out of his mind. But she’s not surprised this day has come. It was inevitable. She’d worried about it for years.

As he passes her, she notices he’s grabbed his mouthwash. Okay, he’s back in control. She watches him head for the men’s room to rinse his mouth.

Jodie sighed as she finished reading what she’d just written. She, not Lexie, had lived through that scene – a different year, a different paper that set off the panic, but otherwise the same.

Shortly after Jodie started the job in Ben’s lab, she’d discovered Lexie had suffered through something similar several years earlier. Only, that first time, Ben had got away with it. Probably something to do with the size and prestige of the Ohio college (small and insignificant) where Davison and his colleagues worked. The second time, the final time, when Lexie was long gone and Jodie had occupied the tiny outer office for several years at that point, the complaining researchers had worked for a California giant in the university world. The database had not been altered in the three years Jodie had worked there. She’d had no idea how the database had been constructed, not then. She had thus been the muggins-in-situ when the whole debacle had replayed itself with, this time, devastating consequences.

Recently, she had acknowledged she had a few niggles about why Lexie had retired. She hadn’t questioned the Alzheimer’s story at the time but she was questioning it now. Perhaps Lexie didn’t want to live through anything like that first embarrassing inquiry ever again. She knew damned well their reputation, their very existence at the university in Vancouver, was built on a colossal lie because she had been in charge of recruiting subjects to provide the data for the database. Unlike Jodie who had been cloaked in the false protection of naivety, Lexie had known how it had all begun.

And Lexie had been afraid of how it all would end.

***

Jodie lifted her eyes. Late morning and the far side of the lake, perhaps a kilometre or so away, glowed in the morning sunshine. That view was seared in her consciousness, one she could pull up in her mind’s eye no matter where she was at the time. The steep granite cliffs were covered in moss and lichen with the odd tree clinging to small ledges which had accumulated just enough soil over the aeons to support some growth. The Canadian Shield had been scraped down to bedrock by the glaciers of the last ice age some 15,000 or so years ago and not much had changed since.

The Hill cottage was old in terms of when cottages started appearing in this part of the wilderness some hundred years ago or so. Her great-grandfather had built it originally and it had been passed down through the generations until her own mother and aunt had left it to Jodie and her cousin. Jodie loved it and her cousin, not at all interested in ‘roughing it’, generously didn’t insist on selling. Now that Jodie no longer worked in a university and had become a writer instead, the cottage was her home for almost half the year.

She would love to live there all year around but the old cottage was not winterised. That would cost a fortune in insulation and money was tight. Besides, twice a year, at the time of ice forming and again at ice-melt, she would have no way of getting to and from town. So, living at her cottage all year long was an impractical dream.

Her cell phone rang, startling her. Even more surprising was who was calling.

Luc? she said to her son.

Hi Mum, he said in what Jodie could describe as an ordinary voice – a voice she had rarely heard during his teenaged years. Luc calling her? How long had it been? She was the one who kept in touch. I have a big question for you. But be honest, okay?

Ask away, she said, her stomach churning at the thought that he was going to cancel spending the first week in September with her at the lake.

I ... I have a friend called Cassandra. I was wondering – look, say ‘no’ if you want – I was wondering if she could come to Darkwater, too.

Jodie’s relief he wasn’t cancelling almost made her say ‘yes, yes, yes!’ to his question. Instead, she said, Cassandra? Female. A friend or a girlfriend? No, let me be more specific, but be honest with me, too, okay? Staying with you in the Icehouse? Or separate bedroom in the cottage? She held her breath.

He gave a short laugh. Yeah. Girlfriend. Does that mean she can come?

Jodie suddenly realised the import of his question. No privacy. Competing for attention when a girlfriend would always win in comparison to a mere mother. She stifled a sigh. Of course, Luc. She’s welcome. But warn her about the composting toilet and the unreliability of hot water for a shower.

Yeah, I’ve already done that. She’s keen.

Jodie came off the phone thinking this girlfriend, quite possibly, was keen on him, not the idea of a holiday in an old cottage in the back of beyond. But if welcoming Cassandra meant Luc would be having a good time here, she was willing. Not altogether willing, but accepting, at least.

Jodie needed to stretch her legs. She got up from the deck chair and collected her watering can. She bent down from the dock to fill it with lake water for her tiny vegetable garden. She was successfully growing tomatoes which were, now, in August, producing beautifully, and Swiss Chard which was threatening to take over her plot, plus, for the first time, lettuce, beans and radishes. She’d take some freshly picked salad vegetables to her friend Charlotte’s cottage this afternoon when she went over for ‘Afternoon Tea’, which usually meant glasses of wine, at five.

Luc was coming in less than a month. That brought a rush of joy. She’d hardly believed it when he said he could come this year after his summer job with his father finished. Fingers crossed Cassandra would fit in.

How Jodie loved living at the edge of the Canadian wilderness. As far as she was concerned, she led an ideal existence. She loved the solitude, she loved having the town of Darkwater Lake a mere ten minutes away by boat and she loved being just three hours or so away from Toronto and even from Ottawa, where she could partake of any of the delights only a big city can offer, mainly shopping and the odd visit to an art exhibition or two. Yes, she’d love to have another academic position sooner rather than later but, if it didn’t happen, she would be content living the life she had now. In the summers, anyway.

Maybe she could get a job in the township of Darkwater which could enable her to stay year-round?

But what could a disgraced academic do? Wait on tables? Stock shelves at Canadian Tire?

Chapter three

As soon as Jodie tied up at Charlotte’s dock half way along the narrow Granite Bay, she gave her the veggies she had picked just before leaving.

Super. Fresh salad for me tonight, Charlotte said, looking at the variety of vegetables. Afternoon Tea for you? She passed a glass of red wine to Jodie who sat herself down at the table on the dock.

Milk and two sugars, please, Jodie said with a grin, accepting the wine.

Oh dear, the very thought, Charlotte said, as she sat on the other deck chair.

After taking only one sip of her wine, Jodie heard the unwelcome sound of a jet-ski. It came from the only other cottage on the bay, located almost directly across from Charlotte’s. She had always called it the House on the Rock, an apt description of the cottage that clung to the bottom of a granite cliff. The jet-ski was closely followed