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Other Crooked Lake Mysteries by Robert W. Gregg
Other Crooked Lake Mysteries by Robert W. Gregg
A Death on Crooked Lake
The Man Who Wasn’t Beckham
Setting the Stage for Murder
The Scarecrow in the Vineyard
The Cottage with Too Many Keys
The Haunting of Hawk’s Nest
In the Chill of the Night
Death Comes on Silver Wings
Tragedy at Welcome Inn
Requiem for a Birder
Murder Takes a Cruise
The Woman in the Wall
Dedication
I owe a debt of gratitude to many people, but particularly to Kurt Foster, who helped me navigate the transition to a new computer, and Lois Gregg, who edited the text which became Murder on the Road Less Traveled.
PROLOGUE
The calendar said it was June 5th, and a warm late spring breeze was stirring the trees and the flags in and around Southport’s town square. It was only 8 am, but the square was crowded. The reason for the crowd was readily apparent: there were nearly as many bicycles on the grass and walkways as there were people, and a majority of those people were wearing helmets and colorful short sleeve jerseys. This was the day when Crooked Lake was staging its annual Gravel Grinder, a fact that was spelled out for those who had just happened on the event by a large red and yellow banner that flapped in the breeze above Market Street.
It is doubtful that anyone in the crowd was a savant, able quickly and accurately to identify the number of bikes and riders in the square. But Joe Reiger, who had organized the event and kept a record of those who would participate and had contributed to its fund for charity, knew that the number was close to 155. There would be a few latecomers, of course, not to mention the occasional cancellation. But these were bikers, and bikers take their sport seriously, even when what they are embarking on is not a race with a winner. Virtually everyone who had signed up would be present when the Gravel Grinder started.
As was to be expected, many of the bikers knew each other. They had done this before, in some cases many times. Some donned their biking gear daily, often before breakfast, because it was a habit, and a good one at that. Now, as the starting time approached, they were chatting good naturedly, checking their equipment, stocking up on some last minute refreshment for the road and what would be a ride that could well last for close to five hours. One of the riders was Ernie Eakins, a 32 year old veteran of these events. He had already logged nearly four miles, having biked down from his home on the hill northwest of Southport. His wife, Connie, who was a much more casual biker, had offered to drive him to the town square.
“No point in wearing yourself out before the race,” she had said.
“No problem. It’ll just be a short warm-up, mostly downhill. What’s more, it isn’t a race. So I’ll meet you at the finish line. Why don’t you aim for one o’clock? There’ll be burgers and coffee; then you can take me home.”
Little did Connie know that Ernie wouldn’t be at the finish line at one o’clock. Or at two. Or for that matter when dusk descended on Crooked Lake that evening.
CHAPTER 1
The crowd that had filled Southport’s town square at the beginning of the Gravel Grinder had largely dissipated by 9 am, but it was fast reassembling by the time the clock on the Methodist church tower struck one. Several of the bikers had already completed the course, and were standing around the cooking wagon which had been set up on the square. Others could be seen turning onto Market Street and heading toward the finish line. As usual, some participants had treated the event as if it were a race, or something close to one; not surprisingly, they were among the first to return to the square. Others, a clear majority of those who had signed up for the Gravel Grinder, knew that they were in for a long and demanding morning and felt no need to push themselves to the limit. They would be returning to the square sometime in the next hour, satisfied that they had done what they had set out to do and made their contribution to a worthwhile cause.
Joe Reiger was aware that two of those who had committed to the event had had to withdraw at the last minute, Bill Donovan because his wife had gone into labor and Jenny Flowers because she had awakened with a temperature of 102. Otherwise everyone who had made a commitment had been a part of the closely packed group of cyclists who had left Southport shortly after eight. There would be a few laggards, of course, but eventually all of the rest would cross the finish line and hit the food line (Joe always made sure that there was enough even for those for whom cycling a fair distance was a more challenging task than they had imagined it would be).
Cycling, at least for many of those who participated in the season’s Gravel Grinder, was a community sport, a shared form of exercise, a satisfying opportunity to renew acquaintances. Evidence of this social value of biking was omnipresent in Southport’s town square that afternoon. Rather than head immediately for home, many of the men and women who had just completed roughly 150 miles of cycling found themselves engaged in swapping stories about a particularly rough road, a spectacular view from a hilltop, the occasionally inconsiderate driver, or minor problems that needed fixing and sometimes gave vent to expletives.
Gradually these post-ride conversations petered out and the cyclists and their friends and families went home. One person who didn’t was Connie Eakins. She had expected Ernie by one, or no later than 1:15. After all, he rode, often considerable distances, several times every week, and he prided himself on being in good shape. There would be no trouble spotting him, even in the crowd that would be gathering on the square, or so she had told herself. He always wore a distinctive blue and yellow helmet and stood a ramrod 6’ 5” tall. Unfortunately, she had not spotted him by 1:15. At 1:30 she began making the rounds of the bikers, inquiring as to whether anyone had seen him somewhere on the course. Few had and most of those remembered their encounters as having taken place in the early going on the road toward Watkins. It was not until little more than a corporal’s guard was left in the square that she ran into Lou Coughlin as he was saying good-bye to Reiger.
“Hi, Lou. I’m beginning to worry about Ernie. He should have been back an hour ago. You see him anywhere along the way?”
“Hi, Connie. Long time, no see. Sorry, but I don’t remember seeing Ernie since we took that cut-off above Waneta. I wouldn’t worry. He probably had one of those pesky problems with a tire. Happens all the time. Didn’t he call?”
“That’s what’s bothering me. He had his cell with him, always does. Promised to stay in touch. But no call. And he always carries a spare, so I can’t imagine him stuck somewhere on the course with a bike that won’t perform.”
“Sounds right. Not sure which of his bikes he was riding, but he’s got several good ones and he’s a bear about maintenance. My guess is that he stopped off somewhere to see a friend, just forgot to tell you. Why don’t you call around, give him hell that he stranded you down here on the square?”
“Thanks,” Connie said, making no effort to hide her worry. “You know him better than that. Just about every cyclist we know around the lake was in this race or whatever
