The Candidate (Jill Lewis Mysteries Book #3): A Novel

Author

1

It’s like just before the sun goes to bed down on the bay, those million sparkles on the water. . . . Like that mountain lake, it was so clear . . . it looked like two skies, one on top of the other. I couldn’t tell where heaven started and the earth begun.

—Winston Groome, in Forrest Gump

Jill had spent a lifetime of summer evenings on the porch of her family home at the lake, but none seemed as quiet as this one. As she lit the candles, memories of those evenings began to roll through her head like a film clip—Scrabble games, thick slices of watermelon, and barbecues with friends.

Jill smiled as she recalled the lively suppertime debates with her dad. Her sister Kathy, prim and proper like their mother, would usually sit silently, but not Jill. She had always liked to voice her strong beliefs. Much to the chagrin of her mother and sister, Jill was still espousing her views. Only now, families around tables everywhere read them. But that was all about to change.

After Jill poured iced tea into the two glasses, she added a sprig of mint to each one, then settled into the porch glider to wait for her mother to bring their dinner. Back and forth, the swing’s creaking chain chimed in the summer chorus of frogs and crickets.

Why hadn’t she lingered at family suppers instead of wolfing down her food and dashing off to meet her friends at the local hangout, Eat’n Time? Today that diner was gone, her friends scattered across the country. And her father’s chair was empty.

Bon appétit, Pearl said as she appeared at the door, carrying their supper on a tray.

Pearl set the plates of roasted chicken and green salad atop the linen placemats. She stopped to watch the sunset, shielding her eyes with one hand as deep purple unfolded around the edges of the sky and a ginger sun slipped cloud by cloud toward the water, leaving behind a trail of pink ribbons scattered across the heavens.

Going, going . . . Jill said. Then, at the exact moment the fiery ball crashed into the azure lake, Jill exclaimed, Gone! Wow!

Wow? Is that all the author can utter after a glorious sunset? Pearl asked, raising an eyebrow. She pulled the linen back from the bread basket and offered Jill a roll.

I’m a journalist, not a poet.

And you’re a publisher now, Pearl reminded her.

Of a small-town newspaper, Jill added, carefully punctuating the word small. "A lot less impressive than investigative reporter at the Washington Gazette."

Oh, but it sounds prestigious. I can just see Miss Cornelia’s words in print on the society pages. Pearl fanned her hand across the air. "‘The bride is the publisher of the award-winning newspaper, the Lakes News.’"

Jill rolled her eyes. Let’s not get too carried away, Mother.

By the time you’re married, you’ll have won at least a couple of awards. Pearl patted Jill’s hand in reassurance.

Jill pursed her lips, then chuckled. So the truth’s out. You don’t expect me to marry for another decade or two?

Au contraire, Pearl retorted, her eyes twinkling. She speared a piece of grilled chicken as if it were a husband for her daughter and asked, What girl wouldn’t love to have your left hand, a hand with not one but two marriage proposals?

And a girl whose mother happens to own the only bridal shop in a ten-mile radius to boot. Jill raised her water glass high.

Wedding shop aside, I know you’re here to get away from it all so you can decide which of the charming young men you’ll marry.

No. Jill frowned. I’m here to run the newspaper I bought, remember?

To whatever got you here, I’m grateful. Pearl clasped her hands and looked heavenward with a smile.

After my last investigation, it didn’t take much to bring me home. Jill shuddered at the memory. She leaned forward to confide in her mother. And just tonight, I’ve made another decision.

Pearl leaped from her chair and hugged Jill. Oh, darling, that’s marvelous news. You must drop by my bridal shop tomorrow so we can choose your wedding gown. I bought several Vera Wang designs in New York with you in mind.

Mother . . . shouldn’t I choose my groom first?

Oh, I’m sorry. I almost forgot. Who’s the winner? Uh, I mean, who’s the lucky man? Is it Tommy or John? I’m dying to know.

I’ll bet you are. Jill clucked her tongue. But this decision has nothing to do with a bridegroom.

Shoulders drooping, Pearl sat back down and took another bite of her salad. Between bites, she asked nonchalantly, Okay, so what is this big decision?

I’ve decided I’m not going back to Washington. Tomorrow I’m calling Annabelle and Rubric to make it official.

What? Pearl gasped, dropping her fork. It tumbled and clanged against the china plate. But Annabelle’s given you a six-month leave of absence to find someone to run the paper. Why resign now? Especially since both your young men live in Washington. Unless you’re telling me you’ve decided not to marry either one of them?

Relax, Mother. I haven’t made any decisions about my love life.

Then are you sure it’s the best time to leave Washington for good?

I think so. Jill sighed. I almost died in my last investigation, and since then, I’ve just wanted to live each day to the fullest. Home is where I need to be, with you. Jill felt tears coming to her eyes, and she blinked them back. "I want to watch the sunsets like we did tonight and to run the Lakes myself. Jill wrapped her arms around herself and hesitated. I thought you’d be thrilled, Mother."

If I believed it were true, I’d hop up on this table, shout amen, and do a tap dance to the ‘Hallelujah Chorus.’ But I know you too well, Jill Lewis. Pearl wagged her finger at her daughter. "Once you recover from your post-traumatic stress disorder or whatever you call it, you’ll be back on the Hill involved in another life-threatening story while I’m finding your replacement at the Lakes."

Realizing her mother’s words just might be true, Jill didn’t protest.

Both women sank into a reflective mood as they silently watched the flicker of taillights and the last boats sputtered toward home. Loud, angry voices broke their mood.

Pearl frowned. This lake’s not what it used to be. Too many rowdy tourists.

Probably a bunch of drunks. Should I call the lake patrol?

Before Pearl could reply, the angry voices ceased. Sounds like they’ve settled down now, she said, then excused herself. In a minute she returned with two slices of lemon pie and a pot of coffee.

As the women enjoyed the summer dessert, Pearl asked, What are your plans for tomorrow?

Scuba diving, Jill announced, wiping meringue off her mouth with her napkin.

Pearl shook her head. Good heavens! I think you’d be much safer in Washington. There’s no telling what’s rumbling around at the bottom of this lake.

2

I’ve never lost a game in my life. Once in a while, time ran out on me.

—Bobby Layne

Sunlight sliced across the lake’s surface. Thirty feet below, Jill and her diving buddy, Donna, trailed a school of sunfish. Without warning, the iridescent sunfish scattered like shooting stars in every direction. Jill looked around for the source of their panic. There it was, gliding beneath her—a northern pike with yellow fins and rows of needle-sharp teeth. Typically, this species dined on the fish that lived in brushy pockets of coves and submerged caves, exactly the places where Jill, a novice diver, aspired to search for sunken relics.

Hoping to find a buried treasure to blog about tonight on the greenhorn diver’s site, Jill pointed to the pike, signaling Donna to follow. Donna flashed thumbs-up and joined Jill in the chase. Swiftly, the women swam far away from the other divers, nearly colliding with a turtle in search of a breakfast of sunfish. Sufficiently bullied, the old turtle reluctantly paddled away into a limestone formation. Curious, Jill followed him. Looking inside, she gasped at what she saw snagged on a ledge of limestone—a treasure born of childhood dreams and untamed imagination.

The wooden dinghy was covered in barnacles and packed with mud and sand. It was impossible to tell the original color. Jill shined her flashlight on the side of the craft, reading a gold, cursive letter T hanging on by a single rusty screw. Jill searched, hoping to find more of the fallen letters near her feet. After looking through the mud and sand, she came up with only one more, a cursive C. Not much of anything to go on, T and C. Respectfully, Jill returned the letter to its resting spot. Once more, she rubbed her hand over the smooth surface and nearly caught a finger on a nail sticking out above an eroded area. From her diver’s vest she pulled out a camera and snapped photos of the dinghy.

Pleased with her find, Jill turned around to show Donna, but there was no sign of her diving buddy anywhere. Since they weren’t allowed to separate, Jill immediately kicked off to find her, but Donna was nowhere in sight. Had Donna surfaced and neglected to let Jill know? That was definitely a diver no-no.

Jill considered her options. Blowing her diver’s whistle would needlessly alarm the other divers in the class. If she surfaced, she couldn’t count the required time for today’s dive toward her diver’s certificate. Their instructor had repeatedly warned the buddies to stay together, so Jill decided she’d try to find Donna. But first, she had to check the gauges on her diving console.

With all systems go, Jill swam deep. The water grew murkier as she traveled; the distance blocked out the sun’s rays. Where are you? Jill looked around for the northern pike. Maybe Donna had followed the fish, not realizing Jill had taken a detour after the turtle.

The warning alarm suddenly sounded on Jill’s console. It can’t be . . . But before she could check the alarm, her fins scraped the bottom of the lake. Quickly checking her depth gauge, she was alarmed to read it registered fifty feet below the lake’s surface. Being alone, especially at this depth, was risky. It was time to resurface.

To increase her buoyancy, Jill deflated one of the weights on her diver’s vest. With both feet she pushed off from the rocks on the bottom, but something tugged at her left ankle, holding her back. She leaned in closer to confront her captor and was relieved to see it was only a few long strands of milfoil weed tethering her to the bottomland.

Jill swung her foot back and forth to free herself, but this gnarly plant appeared to have a life of its own. The more she tugged at the weed, the tighter it gripped her ankle. She sloughed off her fin, but her foot still wouldn’t budge. Jill imagined her final headline: Jill Lewis Murdered by Lake Weed.

Giving one last jerk of her foot, she swiped her diver’s boot against something sharp that sliced like a sushi knife slitting a shrimp. Pain seared her foot as a small red cloud colored the water. Knowing she had to get out of there, she grabbed the diver’s knife and hacked away at the weed, eventually cutting herself free.

She wiggled her foot back inside of her fin and swam sideways to avoid the thicket of weeds. Trying hard not to snag her equipment, she carefully maneuvered between two five-foot pillars covered in plants. Stalagmites? Curious, Jill chopped a few weeds from a pillar to reveal a pale structure.

As she examined the pillar, Jill realized she was trapped inside a rib cage of gigantic proportions. The twenty-one ribs she counted extended along an enormous backbone with ringlike vertebrae forming an enormous barrel-shaped cage attached to a large pelvis. What a marvelous sight! The carcass dwarfed her by a few feet. After surveying the site of the skeletal remains, she discovered more of the mammoth-sized bones scattered haphazardly about the lake bottom.

No way these bones belonged to a native fish. The largest catch ever recorded on this lake was a sixty-pound pike. Whatever this monster was, it was too large to survive in a small lake for its hunting ground. Had it moved into this locale through an underground stream or river?

Anxious to research her discovery, Jill pulled the underwater camera from her vest again. She swam in and out of the rib cage, snapping photos and imagining the front-page story for her debut issue of the Lakes News. With her head filled with headlines, the slight hissing noise coming from her regulator was easy to ignore, but when a fine mist of bubbles tickled her face, Jill realized air was escaping from her tank. Horrified, she checked the pressure gauge on her console; her air supply still registered a little over half an hour, just enough to surface.

No more exploring. Before Jill kicked off, a loud noise blasted behind her like a revving motorcycle. Jill slapped her hands over her ears. A rush of bubbles gurgled about her head now, blinding her view. The bubbles were coming from her tank. She was losing air at an alarming rate. Panicking, Jill sucked hard on her mouthpiece, fearing the gauges had malfunctioned or, worse yet, all of her air had escaped.

There was still air in her tank, for now, but bubbles continued to encircle her head. The compressed-air-demand unit she wore on her back was designed to automatically shut down after each breath, but now the air was free flowing from her tank even when she wasn’t inhaling.

She grabbed her underwater rescue whistle and blew. She knew she would black out within minutes after the tank was drained of air, and the surface was a long way away.

3

The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore.

—Vincent Van Gogh

As Jill floated upward, she caught sight of a ghostlike image moving toward her through the water. Donna? Or was she hallucinating? As the form grew closer, she saw it was Donna. Oh, what a beautiful sight!

Donna held out an alternate air supply regulator to Jill, who took gulping breaths just as a second murky form appeared above them. Their diving instructor, Chad Stokes, quickly hooked Jill up with an extra tank. Once he was satisfied that Jill was inhaling normally, he signaled for Donna to surface and then guided Jill toward the sunlight. Jill rejoiced as she saw sparkling beams of light bouncing around on top of the water.

Chad guided Jill to the dock and helped her onto the ladder. Donna waited for them on the dock. Are you okay? she asked anxiously.

Jill nodded as she pulled out her mouthpiece. After a few deep breaths, she felt euphoric.

Just climb on up the ladder, Chad prodded. With a single push, he lifted himself out of the water and directly onto the pier.

Feeling weak kneed and jelly armed, Jill didn’t have the strength to climb. To stop herself from falling back into the lake, she wound her arms around the steel rails and leaned her forehead against the top step.

Chad was about to head back up to shore when he saw Jill still waist deep in water. Jill! What are you still doing down there?

Give me a few minutes. I . . . I don’t have enough strength to get up there just yet. But I will, she promised with a feeble smile. Just as soon as I get my land legs back.

Instead of letting her wait, Chad grabbed Jill’s arms and pulled her up, scraping the whole length of her lower torso as she slid onto the pier. On her back, staring up at the blue of the sky, she could only imagine how black and blue her legs would look by tonight.

Can you sit up? Donna asked.

Of course. Jill pulled herself into a sitting position.

Donna helped Jill remove her gear. As she pulled off one of her fins, a small puddle of blood ran out.

Jill winced. It’s no big deal.

Chad grabbed a towel off a stack from the diver’s cart and tossed it her way. He made a second towel into a makeshift bandage around her foot. There, that should stop the bleeding until I get back with the first-aid kit.

Thanks, Jill murmured, hating the fuss. She made a face at the deep gash. Chad took her wrist to check her pulse while he timed it on his watch. The young man looked right at home in the Wisconsin resort area, with his deep tan and sun-bleached hair.

Will I live? Jill asked in an effort to be funny.

If I don’t get back with those bandages soon, you could bleed to death. Chad squinted. You can smile now; I was only teasing. He glanced back to the shore, where the dive class still waited. I better dismiss class; I’ll be right back with that first-aid kit. He gathered his equipment and walked down the planks with Donna, making loud battering reverberations with his feet as he went. The other members of the class waited, wanting to know what happened. It took him several minutes to extricate himself from the group and escape into the dive shop.

Jill dangled her uninjured foot into the water. Trying to calm her nerves, she watched as sailboats gathered for a race. A gun blast signaled the start, and boats skirted the bright orange markers as the wind kicked up waves. Bits of spray cascaded over Jill. She had grown up by the lake without incident, but she now had a new, healthy fear of it. She’d wanted to learn to deep-sea dive for a possible honeymoon trip to the Bahamas. Right now, snow-laden slopes sounded best.

Minutes later, Chad ran back down the length of the wooden pier with the first-aid kit. He sat cross-legged beside her. How’s your foot feeling now? he asked, lifting the towel to have a peek.

It’s feeling better. The bleeding hasn’t stopped, but it’s slowed down. Jill winced over the sting of the antiseptic.

What did you cut it on, a rock?

I don’t know, but whatever it was, it was sharp. Jill quickly realized it was going to take more than one measly Band-Aid to stop the blood from seeping out, so she put on five of them.

With all the junk people toss into the lake, it could be anything. There’s all kinds of stuff rolling around down there. You may need a tetanus shot.

Jill ignored his suggestion, trying not to think about her father’s long-gone medical practice. But Chad’s comment reminded her of the bones. Have you ever heard stories about the lake monster?

Oh yeah, everyone has, but I don’t believe a word of it. It’s just the old-timers around here trying to stir up some excitement. After all, the stories aren’t just about this lake; every lake community in the area claims to have their own version of the monster. You don’t believe in all that bunkum, do you? Chad looked at her as if she were a lunatic.

Of course not, Jill answered, trying to brush off his suspicion. But, I must admit, it’s kind of fun to think about. When I was in high school, the town’s historian told me about the lake monster overturning boats in the late 1800s, early 1900s. I fell in love with Delavan folklore.

So now you think you might’ve cut your foot on the bones of the lake monster? Chad burst out laughing.

I’m not sure, but I’ve got some interesting photos in my camera. Jill reached for the camera from her vest but couldn’t find it. Hey, did you take my camera up with my equipment?

Chad helped Jill to her feet. I don’t remember, but I’ll look. Now, before you collect the prize for your archaeological find, drop by Doc Jenkins’s office and get a tetanus shot.

I’ll do that on my way back into town. But I really need to find my camera first.

We can look for it in the shop. By the way, what happened to you down there? Did you panic when you saw the bones?

Jill stood a little straighter, anxious to defend herself. I got separated from Donna. And then my tank went haywire, and I lost all my air.

Why didn’t you just surface? Chad began flexing his fingers nervously.

The way you ask it makes it sound so simple, but it wasn’t. I got caught in the weeds and lost air too fast, and I guess I panicked.

The worst thing a diver can do—panic. Are you sure you weren’t getting air?

I’m positive.

I checked all the tanks this morning myself. Chad started to sound defensive.

I know you did, and I double-checked it, just the way you taught us, she told him. But something happened down there, and it wasn’t the lake monster’s doing.

Let’s go to the shop and find out what happened. Dad’s up there checking your equipment now.

Jill followed Chad to the beach and then across the small road and into the diver’s shop. They found Mitch in the back room, where the tanks and scuba gear were stored. He was weighing the tank she wore during the dive. He smiled at Jill. Hello, Jill. Sorry about the mishap. Chad told me there was a problem.

Yes, but I’m fine now. Jill emphasized each word. Just thinking about how she felt nearly sent her into panic mode.

This tank is empty. As Mitch read the gauge, his smile faded. Let’s see if I can figure out what happened here. Mitch started examining the tubing and the gauges.

From what Jill described, I’m guessing her O-ring blew, Chad said.

Mitch frowned at his son. But weren’t the O-rings changed six months ago?

Yeah. I changed the O-rings on all of the equipment, just like you told me to. I always do what Daddy tells me. He’s the one in charge.

And you’re sure you changed this one? Mitch narrowed his eyes, obviously doing his best to ignore his son’s blatant rudeness.

Positive! Check the logs. It’s all documented. Chad pointed toward the books, his face flushing.

Just because it’s logged in doesn’t mean it was actually done, Mitch quietly stated.

What’s an O-ring? Jill asked, partly to distract the family tension.

It’s a gasket used for sealing a connection. In this case, from the hose to the tank, Chad explained, visibly reining in his emotions.

With a pair of tweezers, Mitch meticulously pulled the ring from its seat