The series has grown to
four novels, with stories ranging from the Southwest (Anacacho and Spa Deadly)
to New York (Xs), to the most recent
(Dark Lake) featuring her beloved
Adirondacks. Her next Allie Armington mystery will be set on a cruise ship.
Her first Allie Armington Mystery, Anacacho, won the 2003 National Benjamin
Franklin Award for Best Mystery/Suspense sponsored by Publisher’s Marketing
Association in Los Angeles. The San Francisco Book Festival awarded Louise with
best audio book in 2010 for Spa Deadly.
And most recently Recipes from Camp
Trillium won the Dan Poynter’s Global eBook Awards, in which Julia Fairchild and Spa Deadly were also finalists.
A world traveler, Louise divides her time between her homes
in Houston; Santa Barbara, California; and Old Forge, New York in the
Adirondacks.
Read an Excerpt of Dark Lake by Louise Gaylord:
Chapter 1
My heartbeat quickens as I turn off Route 12 onto Route 28
at Alder Creek and begin the familiar climb toward the
Adirondack Park.
It’s been fifteen years since I last made the trip. Fifteen
years since I was sent packing, head bowed in shame. Now, as my rental car
careens around the bends of Route 28, I can’t help but feel a twinge of
excitement in the pit of my stomach. But there’s something else, too. Something
I can’t quite identify. Something that makes my hands shake a little as I grip
the steering wheel.
I brush it off. It’s just nerves, I tell myself. Nerves at
being back here after so many years. What else could it be?
I force myself to take in the sights flying by outside the
window. Despite a crunchy chill in the air, the birch leaves are full blown.
White daisies nod their heads at the passing traffic. And occasional clumps of
daylilies stand at attention.
I weave through the hamlets of White Lake and Otter Brook
and then cross the bridge at the Moose River. After what seems like forever,
Thendara and Old Forge, still much the same as I remember, pass quickly and the
final part of my journey begins along the north edge of the Fulton Chain of
Lakes.
My pulse is now on double time as I slow and turn right to
pass between the tall stone columns bearing a small brass plate reading:
HOTANAWA.
Meant to sound like a Mohawk Indian name, Hotanawa was
cobbled together from the first two letters of four Chicago families’ last
names: “Hoh” from Holden, “Tah” from Taylor, “Nay” from Napier, and “Wah”
Walton.
The road, brightly dappled with late afternoon sunlight for
a hundred or so feet, darkens beneath a thick canopy of tall pines and hemlocks
as the descent toward Fourth Lake begins.
At the first plateau, I brake for a second, then drive
slowly past the familiar landmarks of my teens. After all this time, I still
feel that surge of excitement I first felt when our car traveled down the drive
so many years ago. And yet this time, it’s not as light or innocent as it once
was. Now there’s a darker edge.
To my right, the fountain comes into view, its faithful
artesian well still pulsing water high into the air to arc gracefully and
splash into the wide, shallow basin.
Thinking back, I remember the warm days when the gang wasn’t
dockside, and how the fountain’s tumbling waters brought us welcome relief
following fierce tennis competitions or a prolonged game of Olly Olly Oxen
Free.
The fountain was where I got my first kiss. That kiss had
been coming ever since Fin Holden finally “discovered” me on the deck
overlooking the moonlit lake. I can still hear the boom box blasting that great
5th Dimension song, “Up, Up and Away,” and I can still picture couples, young
and old, gyrating to its rhythms.
To my left is the tennis court. It’s empty now—not at all
unusual this early in the season. And yet, for some reason, its emptiness seems
strangely foreboding as I pass it by.
Though some families come up for weekends in June, the
com¬pound will not be filled until just before the Fourth of July when everyone
arrives to savor the joys of this magical place until the last sad goodbyes are
exchanged on the Tuesday after Labor Day.
I make a sharp turn to the right.
Almost there, almost there.
It’s my childhood voice chanting as I trembled then with
excru¬ciating excitement, and tremble even now. And then another voice, older
sounding, whispers words of caution that are lost on the wind.
I gun the motor to urge my rental up the steep hill and the
cottage perched above the lake.
Holden Cottage is the only one in the compound that is set
apart. The parcel of land along the north shore of Fourth Lake had been
pur¬chased by the Holden family in the late eighteen hundreds, and they
exercised their right to take first option: the high bank overlooking the lake.
The other three cottages are situated on a flat shelf of
land halfway from the highway to the boathouse.
Though the cottages are all within a few yards of one
another, well-matured stands of birch and blue spruce offer each of the three
families complete privacy.
I pull into the parking space next to a silver 1988 Toyota
Land Cruiser. Even after fifteen years, seeing that car triggers a grim
reminder the accident.
A shudder begins at the top of my spine as I remember the
day Uncle Aiden drove my sister Angela and me to Utica and then west on the New
York Thruway to the Syracuse airport where we were depos¬ited curbside in
disgrace.
Apparently fifteen years hasn’t been long enough. Although
Arlene’s original invitation had been for the end of June, my cousin called in
late March and asked me to push my visit to mid-June, saying she had a big
surprise and couldn’t wait to tell me about it.
The date change was fine by me. For as long as I could
remember Aunt Sallie always opened Holden Cottage the week before Memorial Day,
and then spent the month of June enjoying the solitude of her aerie perched
above Fourth Lake. For as long as I can remember, Uncle Aiden spent June in
Wilmette. Why should this summer be any different?
I shift gears into park and stare at the Land Cruiser for a
moment. As I do, an eerie feeling starts somewhere in my gut. I can’t shake the
nagging feeling that something isn’t right. But nothing seems to be amiss. I
shrug off the feeling, pop the trunk, and drag out my roller-bag.
I cross the road and struggle down the steep stone steps to
the wooden deck. There is a handrail but it still wobbles. That handrail has
been at the top of Uncle Aiden’s summer project list since forever.
I walk to the kitchen door, a sliding glass door that my dad
and his brother installed the first summer we visited. It gave the dark kitchen
added light and a pleasant cross-breeze on the rare warm days.
“Hello?”
No answer.
The kitchen, usually filled with the welcoming clang of
cooking utensils and ever-enticing aromas, is eerily silent. I choke down my
worry, assuring myself that I’m just being silly; that nothing is wrong.
I slide open the screen, step into the darkened room, and
stop.
When the small voice at the side of my mind whispers,
“Things aren’t right,” I call out: “Arlene?”
“Aunt Sallie?”
“Anybody?”
I stanch my rising panic, take a long breath, and tell
myself that the women are probably at the Big M stocking up on groceries for
the weekend. But that can’t be. The Toyota is in the parking lot. But then I
remind myself that Arlene must have a car.
I make the quick trip through the kitchen to the back
hallway, drop my roller-bag on the bottom stair step, and return to open the
refrigerator door to see Aunt Sallie’s signature pitcher of lemonade crammed
with lemon and orange slices sitting on the bottom shelf. I’ve been dreaming
about that pitcher of lemonade ever since I boarded the plane in Houston and
that welcoming “gift” suddenly makes everything all right.
I pour a glass, take a swig, and make my way outside to the
deck.
It’s an unusually warm day for this time of year, and a
gentle breeze stirs the budding trees. I flash back to summer afternoons spent
with Aunt Sallie long ago, the way she would always ask about, and then praise,
my achievements of the past year. She always encouraged me to study harder,
play better golf, or pursue any goals I mentioned. I loved her for caring
because my mother never bothered to ask me about anything. My mother has never
cared enough to bother.
I move to the railing, recalling how often I had leaned
against the warm wood to inhale the sweet air rising from the lake. Then my
gaze wanders to the narrow sand beach.
Bitter bile lunges to my throat as black spots spire before
my eyes and my treasured glass of lemonade drops from my hand to shatter on the
moss-covered outcropping below.
Overcome with horror I push away, take a few deep breaths,
and then force myself to look a second time.
Thirty feet below, the upper part of her body face down in
the frigid waters of Fourth Lake, lies my beloved Aunt Sallie.
And, don't forget to buy your copy of
WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty!
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