Here is a little sneak peek – The entire chapter one of the Pine Lake Inn Cozy Mystery book 2 – Digging for Trouble.
Chapter One
There’s a tradition in Australia known as walkabout. It’s for people who have lost their way. Lost their motivation.
Lost themselves.
I love taking strolls around my home of Lakeshore, here in Tasmania. We’re the southernmost tip of Australia, an island all to ourselves separate but part of the Lucky Country. Lakeshore’s nearly as far south as you can get in Tasmania, too, without ending up in Southport. We’re about an hour southwest of Geeveston, if that gives you any kind of reference, smack dab in the middle of the Hartz Mountain National Park. The peaks rise up against the horizon, and tall Monterey pine trees grow everywhere, and flowering bushes make decent homes for small animals like bilbies and echidnas.
Beautiful.
Lots of folks come here every month to experience this view. Since Lakeshore’s primary industry is tourism, there’s plenty of trails leading off into the bush for the wayward traveler to take advantage of. They meander through forests and hills and along the shores of the three lakes that give our town its name. Pine Lake, Gallipoli Lake, and Lake Bowen. It’s a great place to do walkabout, if that’s what you’re looking for.
Me, I’m just looking for a little exercise and fresh air this morning.
I’ve never stood in anybody’s way if they came to Lakeshore looking for themselves. I just can’t for the life of me figure out why there’s so many lost souls out there.
Maybe they just need someone to help them find their way.
I’m not a guide. I’m not a philosopher or a counselor, either. I’m just an ordinary Innkeeper, although that’s plenty enough for me. Yup. Adelle Powers, owner and operator of the Pine Lake Inn. Dell, to my friends.
‘Course, I suppose I’m not all that ordinary. Been a few developments of late that wouldn’t fit into any list of ordinary I’ve ever seen.
Like, talking to ghosts.
Well, just one ghost. So far.
Anyway, the Pine Lake Inn is kind of like the port in the storm for folks in trouble, I guess. A place to sit and rest a while from their troubles. My Inn gives people more than a place to rest. It gives them a place to start an adventure.
That’s exactly what it says on the brochures. Thought that one up myself.
We’re almost full today, back at the Inn. Thirteen of my fifteen rooms are rented out. The honeymoon suite, too, even though that one costs a bit more cash. Not surprising. Lakeshore’s had more’n its fair share of publicity in the past year. Murders and thieves and whatnots. Hard to believe this is still just a sleepy little town with a police force of six people and a mayor who’s old enough to remember when Christ was still a bright-eyed child. On the surface, it still looks like that same place. All the houses and buildings painted white, and the streets clean, and the fountain in the town center still bubbling its pathetic stream of water.
Yes, all of the houses are white. Most of the buildings, too. It’s a nod to our history and while I’m all for showing pride in our roots, my Inn is a lovely shade of yellow, nestled in among a few tall Monterey Pines, close to the shore of Pine Lake. It’s a welcome splash of color for tourists coming to town. I had to fight with the town council for permission to do it, but I’m glad I did. It gives my Inn character.
So do the guests.
I was actually taking a rare morning off from the guests, and the paperwork, and the daily running around that I have to do to keep the Inn running smoothly. Out here for a walk in the warm breezes of November—remember, we’re on the other half of the world, and here we have summer when most people have winter—leaving the Inn in the capable hands of my business partner, Rosie Ryan. There weren’t any arrivals due in until tomorrow, and all of my own work was caught up, so it seemed like a good time to stretch my legs and go for a walk on those trails I was talking about earlier.
At least, that was the theory.
Couldn’t have been more wrong if I tried.
Rosie and the staff are more than capable of handling the Inn for an hour or two while I’m gone. That’s not the problem. Rosie’s the chef, and she runs the kitchen and dining room side of things while I take care of the paperwork and all the rest, but even though her head’s in the clouds most of the time I would trust that woman with my life. Our Inn, too.
No. That wasn’t the problem.
Crazy old men with their crazy dreams. That was the problem.
Now, I’m not against having a good man to hold you in his arms during the long, cold winter months of June, July and August. I had one of those myself before he up and left me without a word. After forty-plus years living on this earth, and five years without a good man to mark the birthdays with me, I figure I might just be ready to try it again. I’m open to having men in my life.
Just not with our resident town coot, old Arthur Loren. He was quite possibly the last man in all of Tassie that I wanted to run into this morning.
Yet, here he was.
About two miles away from town the pine trees have thinned out again in favor of dry patches of earth carpeted in brown grasses. We’re having a nasty dry spell here in Tassie. It’s the Queen’s own weather, to be sure. Thank God I brought my big plastic water bottle with me because my long auburn hair is dark with perspiration already and sticky across my forehead and cheeks. I’d changed into khaki shorts and a red tank top before leaving the Inn, and I was glad of the cooler clothing in the heat.
Arthur Loren had apparently forgotten to check the weather forecast.
He was in a heavy red wool shirt, frayed at the elbows and cuffs, and an old pair of jeans that he’d tucked into bulky leather work boots. The tips of them were scuffed down to the steel-toe inserts. The wide, drooping brim of his hat was giving him a paltry amount of shade, and his face was beat red. Sweat dribbled down his cheeks as he puffed away at what he was doing. Dirty, dusty, and scratching at his curly white beard, the old man slammed his shovel into the hard dirt, over and over.
Everyone in town knew Arthur. The old fossicker coot was harmless enough, muttering to himself as he walked the streets of Lakeshore, never really talking to anyone. Just himself. That house of his had once been a fine single story home. Now it was falling in on itself, the siding warped and gone completely in some spots.
Kind of like the man himself, I have to say, standing here now with no way forward on the trail except by walking past him. Once upon a time, Arthur Loren was probably a spunk of a man. Time and toil had taken away his good looks. He was kind of hunched over now, which masked how tall and muscular he really is. His face was sharp and angular under that scruff. Clean him up, remind him what manners were in a civilized society, and those faded brown eyes of his would probably be the centerpiece of a handsome, eligible bachelor.
Uh, just not the way he is now.
My hand found the carved wood of the unicorn necklace I wear everyplace I go. It’s my good luck charm. A very good friend of mine gave it to me just before she died, and any time I feel stressed or worried I smooth my fingers over its small, intricately carved mane and curling horn. Makes me feel better.
When a crazy man is trying to dig his way to the States right in front of you, shouting at the ground over and over, I figure it’s a good time to find some peace of mind.
“Give it back!” Arthur shouted in a lispy rasp. “Give it back or so help me, I’ll gut this whole place to find it!”
Oh, snap. Where’s my Kevin when I need him?
Kevin Powers, my son and ace police officer, would know exactly what to do here. All I’m wanting to do is run back the way I came.
But if Arthur has finally gone full on crackers, him running after me with a shovel in his hands didn’t really set a good image in my head.
So, what to do?
“Arthur?” I asked, hesitantly, taking a few more steps toward him. “Are you having some troubles?”
When he spun on me I gasped and took my steps back. Never thought old Arthur Loren could move that fast. He had the shovel up crossways to his chest, one hand on each end, and suddenly the broken tip of it seemed very, very sharp.
“Dell!” he shouted. Then, with a squint, he looked at me closer. “Dell? That you? What’re ya doin’ out here? This ain’t no place fit for a Sheila like you!”
“These are the walking trails, Arthur.” I kept my distance and reached for my cell. Not great service this far out in the foothills of the Hartz Mountains, but I’d rather be ready to call for help if I need it. Ever hear stories of hikers dying in the wilderness with their mobile still in their pocket? Yeah. That’s not going to be me. I’m ready to dial 000 if I need to, and I’ve got my Kevin’s mobile on speed dial.
“Walking trails? What the devil are ya talking… about…?” He trailed off, and his searching eyes looked all around us, at the scrub trees, and the forest not that far behind me, and the rise of the mountains in the distance over Gallipoli Lake. “Well,” he said, letting his shovel drop, “this ain’t right.”
You’re telling me, I thought. This old fossicker digs everywhere for gold, as any good fossicker will, but not on the hiking trails where people walk every day. I kept those exact words from coming out, but it was a near thing. Best not to antagonize the crazy man.
Instead, I called his name in a gentle voice. “Arthur. Why don’t we both get out of this sun, eh? We can maybe go down to Cindy’s Milkbar and have an iced tea. How’s that sound?”
“Don’t like tea,” Arthur grumped, taking off his rumpled hat and using it to mop the sweat from his brow before settling it back over the slick and tangled strands of his gray hair. Then he blinked at me again. “Dell? What’re ya doin’ out here?”
Oh, boy. “Come on, Arthur. Let’s get you back to town.”
He looked down at the shovel in his hand, almost like he was surprised to find it there. “What’m I doin’ out here?”
I looked down at the ground at his feet, seeing the multiple attempts he’d made to dig holes in the ground. On the path there were maybe half a dozen. Around us, outside of the tamped-down walking trail, in the grass and weeds, there were twice as many, maybe more. None of them were very deep but… how long had Arthur been out here?
“I think that’s enough holes for one day,” I suggested. “I’ve seen Wombat’s do less work than you’ve done out here.”
His jaw dropped and his wide eyes looked through me as his grip tightened on the shovel again. “The holes! That’s it! I need to find it. Gotta find it. Give it back!” And with that, he whirled and ran off into the brush, his heavy boots dragging a little. “Give it back! Give it back…!”
Too late, I reached out for him, but he was already gone. Screaming, swinging the shovel like a baseball bat, he made the tree line and disappeared.
I could go after him. I probably should go after him. Somehow, though, the thought of chasing a crazy old man through the trees and around the shoreline or wherever he was headed next just didn’t sound like the best plan.
Looking up at the clear blue sky and its scorching white sun, I knew I couldn’t just leave Arthur out here. I’ve just been on a nice, relaxing walk, and already I’ve got perspiration trickling down my spine, under my shirt. For my age I’m in good condition, too. Better than good, thank you. I can only imagine what an old, worn down man like Arthur must be feeling in this heat.
So this time I did take my phone out. Kevin’s number is the first one in my list. Always has been. Not because I’m his mom and want to keep tabs on my son. He’s well past the age where his mother has to worry about him.
I still keep his number handy, because it’s surprising how many times having a cop in the family comes in handy.
He’ll know what to do.
***
“I don’t know what you expect me to do here, Mom.”
Okay, so sometimes he still needs some direction from me.
“I want you to find Arthur and bring him in before he dies out there,” I explained. Again. “He needs our help.”
“He needs to change his medication, is what he needs.” Kevin looked up at the sky just like I had, shielding his eyes from the sun with his arm. “You’re right, though. That old crank is going to get himself killed in this heat.”
Kevin had joined me out on the trail. In his dark blue uniform shirt with its shiny badge and his black duty belt snug around his waist, he wasn’t exactly dressed for a hike any more than Arthur had been. And, it took him nearly an hour to get here, while I sat in the shade of the pines and drank some of my water.
We were right at the part in the trail where the Wailing Lady stood, so I’d nestled down against one of her legs to wait. She’s a pretty famous landmark out this way. A single Monterey Pine, standing by itself away from the others, with a trunk that managed to grow all twisted and weird so that it looked just like a pair of women’s legs running in a dress. Two thick limbs stretched out like arms, complete with fingers that tapered down to twigs full of fat, green needles.
If that weren’t enough, the trunk narrows at just the right place for a neck. A trick of light and imagination even creates the shapes of a screaming oval mouth and two sad eyes in the rough, hoary bark. The whole tree looks like a woman running after something she’s lost…or away from something that terrifies her.
The Wailing Lady. Lots of stories about that tree in local legend. All I cared about, right now, was that she made for a comfortable spot to sit, and wait.
A phone call to Rosie full of static and repeated words had let me know that everything was going fine back at the Inn so I had the time to wait, thankfully. Although apparently our resident border, Mister Brewster, wanted to speak to me. Something about his bill. No idea what that’s about but I know it can’t be that important.
Now that my son was here, I was hoping we could get Arthur back to town with the help of the fire department or something. Truthfully I was hoping Kevin had brought some of the other police officers from town out with him, since I had already told him what was going on. Now we’d have to wait even longer to get a search party together.
“Any idea what he was digging for?” Kevin asked me, toeing one of the several holes that Arthur had left behind. “I know he’s always trying for gold but I thought he did that further out in the bush.”
“He does,” I agreed. “I’ve seen him come back with a few tiny specks of gold dust but nothing worth being out in this heat. What he was looking for here, I don’t know.”
“Just kept yelling ‘give it back, give it back’?”
I nodded. “Whatever that means.”
“Well,” he said, swiping sweat from the back of his neck and then rubbing his hand on his jeans, “I’m no expert on crazy old men, but I’d wager that he wants something back.”
I gave him a look that told him only he thought he was funny. When he smiled back at me, I could see some of my own features in his face.
Unfortunately for him he inherited my freckles. His cheeks have the same definition mine do. His bristle short hair is a similar reddish-brown color. Only difference is, he has his father’s brown eyes. He’s half a foot taller than me and built like a rugby player, but there’s no mistaking him as my son.
Even if he does annoy the devil out of me sometimes.
“So what are we going to do about Arthur?” I prompt him.
“Find him,” was his simple answer.
“Well, I guess that’s why you’re the police officer. You come up with all the really technical, complicated plans. I know we need to find him, Kevin. I was just asking how you were going to manage that.”
He knelt in the dirt of the trail, on one knee, examining the marks from Arthur’s shoveling. “You said he went off in which direction?”
“That way,” I pointed. “You don’t have to look for his footprints. I saw exactly where he went into the trees.”
“Right, you mentioned that. I was just looking at these holes. The deepest one looks to be less than a half meter deep. Not very far to dig down. What on Earth could he be looking for?”
“Kevin?”
He turned to look up at me. “Yeah?”
“Why don’t we find him and ask him? You know, before this heat fries his brain?”
Standing up, he slapped his hands together a few times to wipe away the dust and dirt. “Sounds like a good idea, Mom. See, I knew we shoulda made you a police officer.”
“They should make you Senior Sergeant, is what they should do.”
“Mom, don’t start.”
We have this talk a lot, me and Kevin. He’s the best police officer on our little force here in Lakeshore. The most capable, the most honest, all of that. And that’s not just a mother’s pride talking. My son’s made headlines a couple of times now for solving cases the current Senior Sergeant, Angus Cutter, had mucked up. If anyone deserved to be in charge of the department it was my Kevin.
But Angus seemed to have friends in high places who were protecting him. For now.
“How is our favorite inept police Senior Sergeant?” I know he told me not to start, but I can’t help it. Cutter’s on my list. The man’s dirty, and maybe worse. I can’t forgive that. Can’t just ignore it. Can’t prove it, either, which leaves me in a spot where I don’t feel like being nice to the man.
Kevin gave me a look. “Cutter’s still miffed about how the matter with your friend Jessica turned out.”
“You mean where we caught her real killer?”
“Right,” he said. “That. Man holds a grudge, Mom.”
“So do I.”
He doesn’t argue that, because he knows it’s true.
Unable to help the smile that crossed his face, Kevin turned to where I’d pointed, into the woods where I last saw Arthur running off. “Well. Let’s go find our neighbor.”
“What? Kevin, he could be anywhere in there by now!”
“I know. But before I call out the troops and the fire department and Search and Rescue from Hobart, let’s see if I can’t give them a place to start looking.”
Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense.
Following him off the trail and across to where the pine trees start to grow thicker together and cover the ground with soft, brown pine needles, I take another drink from my now half-empty bottle. When I offer it to Kevin he shakes his head and takes out a piece of gum from a pack in his pocket instead. “This works nearly as well. Hopefully we won’t be out here much longer.”
“You don’t think we should at least get an ambulance started this way?” I asked him. The branches from the trees are impossible to avoid now, and I push several out of my way as we go. “Arthur needs help, Kevin. You didn’t see him out here. I don’t know if it’s heat stroke or if he suffered some kind of mental episode, but he needs help.”
“We’ll get it for him, Mom, I promise. I just don’t want to have medical personnel heading this way and then find out he’s half a mile somewhere else. Let’s give this five minutes to see what we can find and then we’ll start making calls. Promise.”
“Fine, Kevin, but you’re not going to—”
He stopped, and I stopped behind him to keep from running into his broad back.
Down a short slope, laying up against several exposed tree roots, was Arthur Loren.
“Found him,” Kevin chirped.
Some days I could just throttle this kid of mine.
We rushed to the old man’s side, Kevin feeling for a pulse, and me pouring just a little water over his face and cracked lips. His hat had fallen off at some point, and I could clearly see the line across his scalp where his face had been burned red under the brim. I thought I saw the start of white blisters, too. Not good.
“He’s alive,” Kevin announced, even as Arthur sputtered and took a shaky breath and his eyes fluttered. He moaned, and grasped a hand across the ground, reaching for the shovel still lying nearby.
“Give… it back…” he said, weakly, trying to lift his head up and failing. “Give… it…”
“Take it easy, Arthur,” Kevin told him. “We’re going to get you out of here.”
“No,” the old man insisted. “Have to find… give it back!”
With an unexpected surge Arthur pushed up off the ground, just far enough to fall back down with a whump. He groaned and muttered words that made no sense to me.
Kevin took his cellphone out from its case on his duty belt. Lifting it above his head, then to the left, then right, he frowned. “Do you have any service out here?”
“Not very good service, but I got through to the Inn earlier.”
“Call down to the Thirsty Roo and get Sylvester to bring some of the fire department guys down here. We’ll need to get Arthur to the medical center in Geeveston. He’s in a bad way.”
“Dehydration?” My own phone only had one bar, but it would be good enough to make the call. “What do I tell them?”
“Probably dehydration. Second degree sunburn, looks like. I think there might be a lump back here, too,” he added, feeling with his hands behind Arthur’s neck. “He might have been attacked before he came out here digging in the dirt.”
“That would explain a lot,” I said, pulling up the number of the bar in town—the Thirsty Roo—from my contact list. “I wouldn’t go digging in the dirt in this heat either unless someone bonked me over the head.”
“Don’t know,” he told me, checking Arthur’s pulse again. “All I know is that he’s in a powerful hurry to get something back.”
“Maybe not,” I suggested, thinking it over.
“What d’ya mean?”
“He kept saying, give it back. Give it back, give it back. Whatever this ‘it’ is, maybe he wasn’t shouting for someone to give it back to him. Maybe he wants to give it back to someone else.”
Kevin considered that, rocking his head back and forth. “Know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think it’s too hot to figure it out. Let’s get Arthur someplace cool. Us, too.”
He wouldn’t get any argument from me.
I got a call through, and told the bartender that we needed Sylvester, and the reason why. Then I stood there with Kevin, watching over Arthur, and wondering.
Give it back. That’s what Arthur had been saying. What could possibly be so important that it would send Arthur out here in the bush looking for it?
Or was he just out of his nut from a knock to his skull?
Give it back. Give it back.
Give what back?
Digging for Trouble will be released on November 2, 2015.
