The Woodhouse Mystery

By John R. Christensen

A cold case comes back to haunt the small town of Valley-Wood. We follow the life of Brendan Gibbons who returns to reconnect with old friends. The townsfolk live a life of quiet effort until it is upturned by outsiders and innuendo. Secrets are being unveiled and catastrophic events lead to a mysterious death that adds a layer of fear and tension.
At the foot of the town rests The Woodhouse Lodge on the bank of the fast-flowing Nugget River. The Lodge is a magnet with rafters from the city for the thrill of running white-water rapids. Tangled relationships thread their way through the ever-changing realignments of loyalties.
Vivid characters reveal the truth as strange happenings tear the fabric of old friendships. It’s a drifting tale of suspenseful moments with no sure footing, until strength and hope shimmer on the horizon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035853182

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About the Author

John R. Christensen is a Canadian author of six novels. In his professional life, he was an executive life strategist. He uses his knowledge of the intricacies of relationships and communication to illuminate his vivid characters and creative arc of his story lines. He lives with his wife, Hazel in Burlington, Ontario, Canada.

Copyright Information ©

John R. Christensen 2024

The right of John R. Christensen to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035853175 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035853182 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Chapter 1

A Reconciliation

The question made Wilfred Madison mentally squirm. His body quivered, as if a thin sheet of ice had collapsed under his weight, plunging him into the depths of a watery past. Wilfred nodded, holding on to Brendan Gibbon’s question as the ‘morning mood’ music of Peer Gynt, Opus 23, soothed the background.

Brendan eyed Wilfred nervously, suddenly feeling regret for forcing the man to contend with the past and his own forwardness. His question was a calculated risk that could infringe on their bond of friendship. Wilfred was an outsider, much the senior of Brendan. The social connection grew over the years from Wilfred’s frequent visits as a summer guest at the Woodhouse Lodge during the 1990s in Brendan’s hometown of Valley-Wood. Brendan Gibbons was a teenager at the time. Gibbons Menswear, a mainstay in town, enjoyed a surge of business during the summer months as vacationers dropped by to inspect the latest crop of recreational wear. Wilfred Madison made it a habit to drop in while on holidays to browse their inventory and renew acquaintances.

It was a pleasant surprise to Brendan that Wilfred had returned to the outskirts of Valley-Wood, from the days of summer almost ten years ago as the recent owner of a country property. Brendan looked forward to paying him a visit. His school chum Sandra, who worked at the lodge at the time when Wilfred was there on vacation, had insinuated his involvement surrounding the unsolved mysterious disappearance of another tourist. The news brought back memories and unanswered questions that Brendan needed to explore.

Brendan turned his attention to the long, rutted farm lane with its grassy spine pointing off the gravel road to the foot of Wilfred’s century farmhouse. The property was skirted by uncut, weedy hayfields. A gaunt, weather-beaten barn, with its dilapidated companion that once roosted chickens, hunched behind the house. He parked next to the pristine white clapboard boasting a surrounding porch with ornate gingerbread trim running along the steeply pitched roof line. Brendan tugged at the outer screen door to free it from the snug fit within its swollen frame. The clopping scuffle of flipflops followed his knock on the door that was opened by his old friend.

The man’s plump face and bright eyes crinkled into a smile, a look barely reminiscent of the person Brendan had known. Brendan felt the fleshy touch of his outstretched hand; the feel of a man whose occupation was behind a desk, not the calloused palm of one who earns a living through heavy physical labour.

Wilfred was clad in a plaid shirt, its pocket stuffed with reading glasses. The shirt had a button missing at the bottom as it hung loose over the swell of someone who had an appetite for food and drink. His pair of weathered jeans were secured by a silver buckle with a long dangling leather tongue. The crooked doorway led onto the kitchen. Brendan breathed in the earthy smell that had soaked into the walls from a lifetime of existence. No airing by the new owner had yet eliminated the past. Green wainscoting rounded the room, scratched with white contrails from the backs of chairs, and the belts and buttons of previous occupiers. With a sweep of his hand, Wilfred motioned Brendan to take a seat at the table. Without asking, Wilfred plunked down a glass of golden cider swirling with the sediment of apple pomace. Brendan placed the sweaty glass on a faded souvenir coaster patterned with the words: ‘Nashville, Music City USA’.

Intense blue eyes offset Wilfred’s rosy cheeks. A red stubble of shaven head exposed his baldness mottled by the sun. His mitt of a hand strained the battered oak table for support as he settled onto the cushioned wooden chair. Brendan leaned back, warmed by a ribbon of fading afternoon sun flowing across the table. Golden rays coated the red clay pot of pink wood sorrel blossoms resting on the white-flaked windowsill. A picture pleasing to the eye and restful to the soul.

An atmosphere of peaceful living – until the rains came.

The gentle town of Valley-Wood and encroaching farmland were nestled in a fertile valley, loosely fringed by the rolling expanse of the lofty Slumbering Hill range. A string of houses and stores walled the main street. The red brick town hall held the post office, which proudly boasted a majestic bell tower that clanged over the community every noon hour and on special occasions. Brendan had just returned to Valley-Wood where he grew up and went to school.

The town hall still remained, but other touch-points of Brendan’s upbringing had disappeared. Long gone were the local bakery, with its counters sprinkled with icing-sugared pastries, and the confectionary with its Greyhound ticket office, brow-beaten by an unhinged eaves trough that was never attended to. The Watts Garage and Farm Equipment Supplies and Gas Station, with its jungle of corroding iron and steel skeletons still hung in there, now managed by the son, Stanley Watts. Bordering the rocky edge of Valley-Wood flowed the strong current of the Nugget River.

It was during the time when Wilfred attended law school that he and his buddies holidayed at the Woodhouse Lodge. The numerous recreational tourist activities offered by the area, from river rafting, trail walking, rock climbing, to the well-publicized annual fishing tournament, drew them back to the Woodhouse Lodge every summer. But unexpectedly, the annual visits of Wilfred to the Woodhouse Lodge came to a dramatic end. On Brendan’s return to his hometown, Wilfred’s name came up in a conversation with his father, who related that Wilfred had purchased the old Hammond property.

Following graduation from law school, Wilfred formed Madison & Oakley, a highly regarded legal firm in the city. One case he quickly closed was the marriage to his legal assistant, Beth. They were meant for each other. But life is like a canoe – just when you think you’re stable, something or someone capsizes you. Trials and heartbreak have always played a part in the human experience. The lawyer was blindsided with the loss of his wife and baby girl in a tragic car accident. Wilfred couldn’t slow the perpetual momentum of his grief. To gain some serenity while grappling with his lingering sadness, he journeyed back to the outskirts of Valley-Wood. He settled on a rustic country property, with its green wainscoting.

Without mention or agreement, Wilfred topped up Brendan’s glass, placing the jug between them on the table.

Are you planning on living here permanently? Brendan asked, rather hopeful that he would, as a conversation into the world of legal analytics with an experienced lawyer would be very stimulating. What about your law practice in the city?

The vacuity of Wilfred’s expression hovered in the air.

No, no, not living here on a permanent basis. Just taking a sabbatical. Someday I might open up an office in Valley-Wood. I was glad to see all the planned development taking place, Wilfred said, tapping his fist on the tabletop, triggering his body to lean forward in a concentrated state. Got a surprise yesterday when I returned from town. Someone had broken in, Wilfred announced, shaking his head to punctuate his chagrin.

Any damage, what was missing? asked Brendan, fearing the worst.

No damage. I had a fishbowl filled with coins and odds and ends in the back cupboard that was messed with. The only thing taken was a knickknack that meant a lot to me, Wilfred responded with a futile shrug.

Perhaps you should consider moving into town. Much safer than living out here on your own, don’t you think? ventured Brendan. The break-in may be one of your criminal cases catching up with you.

Wilfred treated the comment with a grunt.

A gust of breeze off the Atlantic coast travelled through the open window to ruffle Brendan’s shirt. Brendan asked again about the mysterious disappearance of the Woodhouse Lodge guest many years ago that his friend Sandra had mentioned. His repeated question poked the burden of resistance lingering in the air. Wilfred’s unbreakable gaze speared into him in an attempt to unsettle his mind and rob him of his thoughts. That tactic was what earned Wilfred his reputation as a well-regarded lawyer. His lack of immediate response Brendan took as indifference to his original probing. He continued with his silence as a strategy to pressure an answer out of Wilfred.

Ah, Brendan, my lad, Wilfred said, his body visibly slacking off. To address your question about the woolly case years ago. The one about the so-called missing guest at the Woodhouse Lodge. It was all fabrication, only hearsay –nothing to it. The more often a lie is told, the more it’s accepted as an imagined truth, he alleged. As a lawyer, I stand by the evidence, not by the whims of someone’s imagination.

It was a pretty big thing in town at the time. Lots of speculations, Brendan replied, not willing to accept a shrouded reality. He believed Sandra – she had been there!

It was something to spice up life in town – give Valley-Wood some notoriety, for god knows why. Wilfred’s dismissive remark carried a tone not echoing the strength of commitment. What business do you have with it; why the interest anyway? Wilfred questioned brusquely, his flinty face expressing a scowl, adding, Probably best to leave it alone.

Brendan wavered at the implied warning to let sleeping dogs lie, balancing his hunger to know more while maintaining a casual air. This mystery had captivated him since his teenage years. High school classmates, Madeline and Sandra, were employed as summer help at the Woodhouse Lodge. Madeline also corroborated the story of the puzzling incident surrounding a guest. They were skimpy on the details, but gossip naturally flourished amongst his school buddies. The story grew more dramatic with each re-telling. When it circled around to Brendan, the legendary guest had become prey to an evil entity that lived in a cave back in the Slumbering Hills. The malicious spirit ostensibly hunted once a year on the first full moon of the summer.

To counteract the fear that the teens were imagining, it was concluded that the guest was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. In the years following, on that particular night when the silver moon ascends the summer night sky, an eerie silence shadows the streets of Valley-Wood. A number of superstitious souls who were reluctant to test the powers of the Almighty, stuck close to home until the streaks of dawn broke the spell.

There’s been lots of changes around here for sure, Wilfred, Brendan said, moving on. I’ve been trying to reconnect with old high school friends now that I’m back. Alex Parsons is one of them. Have you heard anything about him?

The question produced a jerk of a head and confused look from Wilfred. When Brendan left for teacher’s college, his buddy Alex had mentioned he was destined to run the family farm. His