DEEP
IN THE
SHALLOWS
A Lake Waihola Mystery
Table of Contents
Title Page
J. L. O'Rourke
Millwheel Press Ltd
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Other Books by J.L. O’Rourke | Power Ride | An Avi Livingstone Murder Mystery
Blood in the Wings | The First of Severn.
Chains of Blood | The Second of Severn
About the Author
J. L. O'Rourke
Millwheel Press Ltd
Andrea North sees a job at beautiful Lake Waihola as a welcome escape from her controlling ex, but an easy task is soon complicated by a strange hoard and a close encounter with an arrogant pig hunter. When the campground dog pulls a gruesome object from the lake, Andy must decide who is she fighting against and who she can trust.
Cover picture by Bethany Nehoff
The author exerts their ownership of this work under the NZ Copyright Act 1994.
No part of this work may be copied, published or sold without the author’s permission.
First published 2017 by Millwheel Press Ltd
ISBN 978-0-473-41592-1 – Softcover
ISBN 978-0-473-41593-8 – epub
ISBN 978-0-473-41594-5 - mobi
Acknowledgements
Thanks to John and Lucy whose old house I have twisted into the Netherby house and who were the owners of the real Kali pug whose swimming antics gave me the original idea for the plot, and to Joanne Nicolson, owner of the real Jackson whippet.
Thank you to Swanndri, the clothing company, for allowing me to use their company name and their iconic brand of jackets to clothe my Southern Men.
All the characters in this book are fictitious. No relationship is intended to anyone living or dead. The Waihola buildings and campground are real but the people I have put in them are entirely fictitious.
The Netherby house does not, in actuality, border the lake – the house I based it on is several kilometres away up a back-country road. I have taken substantial liberties with its condition and layout.
Chapter 1
I was sure I was going backwards. Actually, I wasn’t. The plane was still moving forwards, descending rapidly towards the land, but it felt more like a time machine travelling back into my past than a small jet in a standard landing manoeuvre against what I knew would be a strong crosswind. I pulled my seatbelt tighter, sat back and braced myself. There was always a crosswind at Momona airport but that wasn’t the reason I was wriggling in my seat, nerves on edge. Did I really want to be here? Was this journey a blessing or a curse?
As if in answer the small plane rocked, buffeted sideways as the wind hit it. Around me, gasps of fright and clenched knuckles distinguished the first-time visitors from the local travellers. I stifled a giggle as I recognised in them the fear I had felt, and conquered, years ago, while the captain’s cheerful words from the intercom welcomed us all to Dunedin.
“I hope all you North Islanders brought a raincoat,” he added. “It’s a bracing nine degrees out there this morning, with a gusty south-easterly, although they tell me that the rain should ease by this afternoon. Thank you for flying Southern Air.”
In a series of sways and bumps, the plane touched down, rumbling to a halt in front of the white rectangle that was the terminal building. With my fellow weary travellers I stumbled down the metal steps, pulling my casually comfortable clothes tight against the weather as I scurried across the rain-soaked tarmac to the protection offered behind the welcoming entrance door. Safely inside, I shook the rain from my jacket, looked around and sighed in despair. Nothing had changed since I had last made the same journey. I had hoped to see some changes, not the same old walls with the same old memories. It didn't bode well. Was this going to be a new start or a dreadful repeat of past mistakes? At least the terminal was warm.
With no desire to go back out into the rain and worry about what I was heading towards, I did what I always do when there’s a decision to be made. I procrastinated. Trailing behind the other travellers, I let them forge ahead to claim their baggage, content to let my own bag circle past three times before I stepped forwards to wrestle it from the carousel. I wasted more time amusing myself watching an anxious tour guide goad and cajole into order his flock of recalcitrant human sheep, their excited exclamations of wonder overpowering his futile instructions to board the bus parked outside the terminal’s main door. I checked my watch. A bit early for lunch but I could smell coffee. Waihola would wait for me; another hour wouldn’t make any difference. Dragging behind me my garishly striped suitcase with the faulty wheel, I clattered my way across to the café, ordered a large long black and a blueberry muffin, struggled to balance the tray in one hand and steer the suitcase with the other, then gave up, dividing the tasks into two journeys to the closest table and chair, into which I collapsed with a profound sigh of relief and an admission that I would never make a successful career as a waitress.
Not that I needed a career as a waitress, I had a much better one, even if I was bored with the corporate clothes, the tiny air-conditioned office with its neat desk and ordered filing system, the repetitive sameness of every day. It had a fancy title though. Executor of wills and estates for Wilson Smythe, an important firm with connections to all the right people and branches in several cities. I worked with dead people. Or to be precise, I sorted their estates after they died and made sure all the conditions of their wills were carried out. Which is why I was heading to Waihola. I wasn’t sure if the boss had sent me because I used to be a local, so I was less likely to get lost than my city-slicker workmates, or because she knew what was going on in my private life and was being kind, giving me a week out of town to help get the message through to Simon. Either way, while part of me was feeling strange about returning to Otago, more of me was pleased to be getting out of Wellington.
The big choice was whether I actually wanted to go back there. Did I want to go back to the city after I had finished this job or did I want to stay as far away as possible? My workmates had been supportive and encouraging but he had demanded. He had assumed that I would do as he said. He was wrong. I had been astounded at his assumption that I would do as he ordered and infuriated by the continuous string of angry texts and emails he had sent since I had defied him to do my job. That thought made me remember my mobile phone. I rummaged in my jacket pocket, drew it out and reset it from flight mode. The texts pinged as they arrived. Twenty. In the time it had taken to fly from Wellington to Dunedin, he had sent twenty texts. I deleted them all unread. At least I was in the other island. There was no more danger of him barging into my flat or parking his car in the street outside for hours, watching me.
I leant back in the chair, the taste of freedom blending with the blueberry muffin and the smell of coffee. My phone pinged again. Another text from him. Shaking my head in disbelief, I thumbed the contact icon and clicked on his details. A few keystrokes changed Simon Briggs to Simon Bastard. Then I deleted his text, still unread. There were several emails as well. I deleted all the ones from him and scanned the others, leaving them unopened to deal with later. Nothing required my urgent attention. There wasn’t going to be anything that required my urgent attention this week. Certainly nothing in Wellington. I checked the time. Time to move. I had to do it sometime, I couldn’t set up camp in the airport. Remembering all the tips from the corporate empowerment workshops he had dragged me to, I down
ed the last of the coffee, stood, squared my shoulders and marched towards the rental car facility, dragging my reluctant luggage, squealing in rebuke, behind me.
Behind the counter, the rental car agent’s cherry-lipsticked smile failed to reach her bored eyes as she proffered the standard greeting.
“I have a car booked,” I smiled back in a friendly gesture that made no difference.
“Name?”
“North. Andrea North.”
“Driver’s licence?”
Still smiling, I opened my wallet, flashing my licence in its plastic sleeve. The bored woman gave it a cursory glance before pushing her paperwork forwards for my signature and handing me a set of keys.
“It’s parked out there,” the agent drawled, pointing to a door to her left. “It’s the grey Mitsubishi hatchback. The registration number is on your keys.”
Dismissed, I forced my reluctant luggage in the direction indicated, pushing through the door to find that the car was where it was supposed to be and the rain had cleared. Next stop, Lake Waihola where my oldest memories would become my new life – at least for a week.
Once in the car though, I had an overwhelming desire to drive the other way. It was tempting to take the road north to Dunedin where I could hide away in the old buildings of the university campus, instead of turning south towards the lake and the task I had been given.
“Get a grip!” I scolded myself. “Breathe in. Treat this as a holiday. A deceased estate near the lake. All you have to do is sort the old lady’s stuff, value it, organise someone to pack it up, then hand the house over to a real estate agent to sell. How hard can that be? And stop talking to yourself or people will think you’re crazy.”
There was only a flash of indecision when I reached the crossroads. One quick glance in the direction of Dunedin, a deep breath, and I turned the car south. I turned up the radio, singing along to an old country song as I crossed the Taieri Plains. I had always loved the secret way the lake suddenly appeared as the car swept around the bend in the road. I would crane forwards in the back seat of Dad’s car, trying to be the first to shout, “I see the lake!”. Driving my own car around the bend was just as magical. I revelled in the first sight of the blue water, letting pleasant memories of childhood lakeside picnics outweigh the nagging doubt that I was heading towards something momentous that would force me to make decisions. I hated making decisions.
But where had that got me? An inability to make decisions had led to me leaving the decisions to others, then blindly following whatever they suggested, even if it wasn’t what I had wanted to do. In the end, it had led to working in a job I was bored with, because that was easier than pushing myself to do something new, and going out with a man who treated me like his personal slave. No more! When I had packed my bag to fly south, I packed only my pyjamas, an old pair of jeans, a spare t-shirt, a woollen jersey Mum had knitted for me several years ago and one uncrushable, bland business suit, just in case. All the exquisite designer dresses that he had bought and ordered me to wear were left behind, in a rubbish bag dumped outside my neighbour’s door with a note asking her to donate the bag to the Salvation Army. I was wearing my better pair of jeans, my favourite t-shirt and a comfortable grey jersey under my waterproof hooded jacket. When I needed more, I would treat myself to a shopping spree in Dunedin – even if that would mean making my own decisions.
I slowed down as I drove into the tiny township of Waihola. It had hardly changed since I had last visited – how many years ago? I could see some new houses on the sloping hill to my left, but the Black Swan Café was still there. In the centre of the town I turned right, towards the lake, and pulled into the campground, stopping in front of the small office. As I stepped out of the car a smiling woman in overalls and gumboots waved from the nearby ablution block. She hurried towards me, almost tripping over a rotund black pug that weaved around her legs as she approached.
“Hi,” she greeted, “I’m Gail. My husband, Tom, and I run this place. You must be Miss North.”
“Yes, Andrea North. I’ve got a cabin booked but I’m not sure how long I’ll need it for.”
“That’s not a problem, dear. It’s not the busy season yet, so there’s not exactly a horde of campers waiting in line. You just let me know from day to day and we will sort it all out. Now, come inside and we’ll do the paperwork.”
Ten minutes later, I placed my suitcase on the metal-framed bed that took up most of my tiny cabin, turned, and gazed out the door to the clear, blue waters of the lake, stretching across the landscape from its beach, just a few metres away. I tasted the scent of the recent rain on the crisp, fresh air. As I breathed in, my mobile phone pinged. Another text message from him. This time I didn’t delete it, but opened it and typed a reply.
What part of NO do you not understand! F off!!!
Muttering a curse, I hit send, thrust the phone into my pocket and strode off towards the lake. That felt good.
My attitude surprised me. A month ago, even a week ago, I wouldn’t have dared speak back to him, and I certainly wouldn’t have used the F word. I would have hung my head, avoided eye contact, apologised even if I had done nothing, and sat meekly while he lectured me about my myriad of faults. The memory of how low I had fallen refuelled my anger, spurring me towards the soothing pull of the lake, away from the cabin, away from reality. If I had been in Wellington city work mode, I would have stayed in the cabin, dragged the paperwork out of the side pocket of my suitcase, searched the internet for the address then headed out to look at the house I was supposed to be evaluating, but the lake was so peaceful that work seemed like a lifetime away and Simon seemed like another universe, one that was now well behind me.
How had I allowed myself to become so pathetically dependent? It had taken two years, even with the warnings from my friends, to realise how controlling he was, then another five months to pluck up the courage to leave, but one text from him was still enough to rocket my anxiety levels. I purposefully slowed my pace, breathing out the anger that welled at the mere thought of him, relishing the joy that came with feeling my own new strength. Blowing Simon out, breathing the lake in, I allowed myself to meander along the gravel footpath that stretched beside the edge of the lake, inviting me to follow it to its end. The quiet was almost overwhelming. My memories of Waihola were from school holidays and summer weekends when the campground was full of tents and caravans with mothers still carrying out the basic day to day chores of cooking and cleaning, but out of plastic buckets, yet still smiling while their rambunctious children, myself included, ran riot, throwing themselves into the weedy water heedless of their parents warnings to look out for hidden dangers. I had always thought Waihola was too peaceful to hide any danger.
Shrugging off the work-ethic induced voice that nagged at the corner of my brain, reminding me of the paperwork and the house I was supposed to be finding, I continued my slow walk until the path came to its end at a solitary wooden picnic table on a small promontory. I was tempted to sit for a while and gaze at the lake, thinking nothing, but it was obvious that the ducks had been there before me. Even though they weren’t my best clothes, I wasn’t willing to risk the one tiny clean patch available on the wooden seat, so I was left with the only sensible alternative. I turned around and made my way back to my cabin, wondering if, somehow, the ducks and my guilty conscience were working together. At least I had discarded the thoughts of Simon; the deep lake a much better antidote than Wellington city had been.
Back in my cabin I forced myself to concentrate on the job I was supposed to be doing. A glance at my watch proved that I still had at least three hours of daylight, which was more than enough time to find the house, even if the real work waited until tomorrow. The information I needed was all in the fat legal file that I pulled from my suitcase. Ignoring the will and the other estate documents, I spread out the topographical map and the handy internet-sourced aerial photograph. Both had the property conveniently marked with a large X in red felt pen, but even
without that I knew I could find the place easily. When we were children, while we played in the lake and Mum lounged on a deck chair reading romance novels, Dad would sneak off to the pub where he made friends with the local farmers, shouting them beers and beating them at darts. On rainy days, when the lake wasn’t an option and the caravan was too crowded, Dad would bundle us into the car and drive to one of their farms where we would traipse through muddy paddocks in shorts and gumboots while Mum talked about us and Dad drank more beer. So, as I looked at the map, I was reasonably certain I knew where I was going.
The property was a small holding just to the south of the lake. I took careful note of the road names, grabbed my keys and set out, counting side roads as I drove even though I had programmed the GPS. A right turn off the highway, another right then a left and I was off the tarmac onto gravel. I hadn’t accounted for that. Or, rather, I had expected the roads to be gravel but I hadn’t realised my city driving skills would be so inadequate. My memories were of Dad effortlessly throwing the family Valiant around the bends, gravel spraying from the bite of the tyres on the verge – my reality was sudden panic as the lightweight rental began to slide. Just before I did something stupid and hit the brakes, one piece of Dad’s advice popped into my head. Don’t brake! Heart pumping, hands rigid on the steering wheel, I took my foot off the accelerator and, as the car slowed down, concentrated on keeping it going in a straight line down the middle of the road. Back in control, I breathed again then continued up the road at a much slower speed, heart pounding, lesson learnt.
I soon realised my childhood memories were faulty - a couple of twists in the road and I had lost all sense of direction. Ahead I could see an intersection, maybe even a signpost, so I risked stealing a sideways glance at the map that was spread out on the passenger’s seat. The red X was off to the right, just where the GPS kept telling me it would be. Confident that I wasn’t lost, and feeling better about my country-road driving skills, I sped up a little, imagining myself rally-driving around the corner, channelling Dad and the Valiant as I turned the steering wheel.
Deep in the Shallows Page 1
