Summer Friday Read, Model Wave, Ch. 4
Love on the lakes, secrets in the Northwoods
Chapter Four, on Mel’s outdoor deck at the rental cottage in Copper Falls, Wisconsin
A law officer delivering frozen custard?
Only in Wisconsin.
I was on the deck, texting Susan, when a truck door slammed, followed by boots crunching on gravel.
Cole stood at backyard fence, rapping his knuckles on the gatepost. “Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?” I asked.
“Police, but I ask the questions, ma’am.”
I smiled. “Permission to enter, sir.”
Cole swung open the gate, then stepped onto the grass. He wore cargo pants and a tan shirt adorned with leather-encased gadgets—snaps, buckles, and zippers creaking with each move.
He was Oz’s Tin Man reinvented in leather and khaki. But what caught my gaze was the wicker basket he carried. It brimmed with plaid napkins and sundae fixings. Tantalizing.
“A call came in from this cottage requesting a build-your-own sundae,” he said. “Buck County law enforcement aims to deliver, ma’am.”
“I’ll get the spoons.”
We sat at the deck table, the morning warming quickly. The lake and narrow channel, mirror-like, reflected the pines, sky, and clouds.
I savored a bite of custard. “I feel like a lawbreaker. Eating a sundae this early must be against village ordinances.”
Cole grinned. “The statute’s clear: Thou shalt enjoy frozen dairy at any hour.”
We’d each fixed a treat. Max even had a small one, vanilla with crushed dog biscuit on top.
When scooping custard, thou shalt include one’s dog.The Commandments of Copper Falls sounded promising. I wondered how many existed.
Cole leaned forward, as if reading my thoughts. “We also have a regulation about second dates. Thou shalt be offered a compensatory evening when the first didn’t go as planned.”
“Sure, when you’ve got time,” I said.
“Let’s get together this afternoon.” His eyes sparkled.
Max woofed at a kayaker floating along the shoreline. I wanted to woof, too—Cole was a hunk. If he were a sundae, he’d be a triple-scoop with a chaser of human lightning.
I stared at the lake to avoid gawking. No way I’d let him know how I felt. This was our third meeting since I’d arrived. A few days ago, when he, Hilarious, and I met by chance at the church dinner, Cole seemed delighted to see me.
“Join us,” Hil had said. “You need the ‘Up-Nörthgåsbord’ experience—pasta and red gravy on a board in the middle of the table. You’ll never get that from takeout.”
And so, it came to pass, that we’d shared a table with pasta, sauce, and meatballs, knifing out sections, then moving the food to our respective sides.
Cole was straight man to Hil’s Opening Act. When your friend’s name was Hilarious Wilde, the spotlight naturally shined there first.
Hil had explained his unusual moniker with one line: “My parents had a unique sense of humor.” Then he turned Act Two over to Cole, the lawman.
That night, I’d felt enchanted, cast under a spell. Perhaps it had been the spiritual location of the church. Or, Cole, maybe. We swapped stories and laughed. A lot.
Now, on the deck, I studied him: tanned skin, smoothed and exfoliated by fifty years of clean air, ice, and pine needles. His slightly crooked smile—a sweet flaw that revealed a sense of humor behind steely blue-green eyes. And those eyes—sharp, ghostly—could read anyone’s thoughts.
I would not want to be interrogated by the guy.
“By the way,” he said, “thanks for sending the video about the incident at the dock. Let Hilarious know what you saw yesterday.”
I’d nearly forgotten the chaos at the launch twelve hours earlier. “Shouldn’t you be there? Don’t you—”
He held up a hand. “Storm’s passed, like always. On a one-to-ten scale, that was medium. Wind’s down, and the police boat towed everything back. Mr. Grey was still on his pontoon.” He met my gaze. “Chief’s leading the investigation.”
Tension flickered in his voice.
Don’t mention the wrecked ambulance … not your business.
“I hope the chief isn’t blaming you for the ambulance,” I said.
A grimace flashed over his handsome features, fleeting as a cloud’s shadow. It hinted at blame for mismanaging the scene.
“Believe it or not, a few vehicles have been lost at that dock. The recovery is … complicated sometimes.”
“What happened to Curtis Grey?” I asked.
“Can’t say, but folks are working on a theory.”
I recalled my brief encounter with Grey at the restaurant. “I barely spoke with him. Not sure I can offer much.”
Cole set his custard on the table. “Speak with Hil. He’s deputized for police work. I shouldn’t be the person taking a statement from you.”
“Will do,” I said.
“I’ve got a few things to wrap up, then I’m free. Pick you up in an hour. Wear jeans.”
“Your day’s free?”
“Mostly.”
That was the opposite of what I’d expected. But law enforcement got Saturdays off like regular people, too, I guessed.
Cole stood, then drifted to the railing, looking at the water—had he slept?
He appeared fresh as the proverbial daisy. The man intrigued me, and I wanted to know everything about him. His body language spoke confidence: tall, shoulders square, arms stretched along the rail. I’d describe him as a Midwest Sequoia: A healthy specimen with dark hair and a trunk-like body that soared beyond six feet. Appeared to thrive on dairy products and church spaghetti.
“I’ll be ready,” I said.
He turned around. “Great. Max can come, too.”
I showered, slipped into jeans, and pulled on a plaid shirt. Cousin Lou always complained that I wore black, a bad habit from my modeling days.
I was on vacation, though. The vibe of the Northwoods called for wearing bright patterns. It wasn’t just fashion here; it was in the DNA. Locals joked that Northwoods babies were born plaid, and bald eagles were known as “plaid eagles.”
Okay, I’m exaggerating.
Northwoods newborns aren’t plaid. Well, they are but don’t stay that way. They take their first breath, then turn orange, the color of cheese, Wisconsin’s official dairy product.
I smiled at my reflection in the bedroom mirror. The shirt was a refreshing change of pace. On the dresser, my phone pinged.
Susan.
Her text popped up, and I read it twice. The sentences wove together in strange, choppy bursts—like she was texting in plaid. Was she still tipsy from yesterday?
Susan wrote:
Ali and I are going shopping. No, we’re going on Ali’s boat, My Alibi, then eating water for lunch. No, eating on the water.
I tapped back:
Did you hear about Curtis?
After a few seconds, Susan responded:
Terrible! A police guy questioned us. Ali’s upset. Curtis is her ex—he wrecked that $$$ new pontoon! She added a heart emoji, then wrote: Kiss to Max.
I called her. “Max says he ‘hearts’ you, too.”
“Thanks,” Susan said. “I’m, ah, in a rush.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Shopping. I told you.”
“What about boating? You said—”
“Boating, My Alibi, yeah.” She giggled. “Maybe we’ll shop for a boat.”
“Are you okay?”
“It’s sooo nice to be here. Just what I needed.”
“How’s Ali?”
“Great for feeling, hic, bad.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Susan. Those emotions are opposite.”
Ice clinked in a glass on her end.
“Ali’s good but upset,” Susan explained. “She and Curtis were divorced for years. It’s a shock, though. He drank too much.” She snorted. “Like us.”
“Does Ali suspect foul play?”
“Fouls? Are you watching baseball?”
“Are you drinking? When did you speak with the police?”
“An hour ago. We had strong coffee and were perfectly sober. Sang like canaries.”
“Susan—”
“Gotta go. Love ya, Mel.” She hung up.
I stared at my phone.
She spoke with the police? Susan, I hope you didn’t say anything you’ll regret!
I waited for Cole on the deck, but the lake beckoned as though it had magical powers, drawing me down the slope to the pier.
Sticks and debris had washed up, remnants of last night’s storm. I recalled Curtis Grey’s No Bullship thrashing in the waves.
Was the businessman’s death an accident or foul play? Susan knew his ex and had many friends—had she said too much?
I wasn’t a lawyer, but I knew a post-incident chat with a police officer was not a friendly one.
Had Ali von Yaack spoken up, or had she let Susan do the talking? If Ali was involved, her silence might be telling—perpetrators clam up.
The irony of her boat’s name, My Alibi, wasn’t lost on me. Did the woman have one when her ex died?
I inhaled pine-scented air. It was not my place to quiz anyone about what happened. If a crime occurred, the authorities would reveal it soon enough.
But Susan was like a sister to me. I couldn’t have opened my craft mall without her. She’d been a guiding light. From recruiting artists to refinishing the floors, she’d been a godsend.
If she made a mistake speaking with the police, I’d help her. You don’t abandon a friend in trouble, even if it’s self-inflicted. You fight for them, not judge them.
Susan had made mistakes recently, but as her friend, I felt obligated to protect her.
###
Thanks for reading, friends! ICYM, previous chapters are below:
Chapter One, Chapter Two, and Chapter Three are linked. There’s an audio option. Just click the button and I’ll read them to you!
Surprise! Check out the embedded sample of SLEUTHING IN STYLE, Funny Midwest Whodunits and Heart Flips.
Yes, all you have to do is check out the epub, below. Please subscribe, too. I’m adding this because I want to gift current subscribers. New subscribers receive it in their Welcome email. Thank you, friends, for being here! I’m a clean reads author writing funny mysteries, magical rom coms, and cozy suspense. THANK YOU for riding along.
Local News about Wisconsin Authors and Bookstores, Wispresso Cafe, and a New WisMissus Podcast Drop!
LOCAL NEWS: I’m adding something new to my Substack posts, a local angle. Wisconsin is home to many wonderful authors and indie bookstores and highlighting them is important. Pearl Street Books, 323 Pearl Street, La Crosse, Wisconsin, was featured for its “Read with Therapy Dogs” that visit the store. News station WEAU interviewed store owner Beth Hartung about the success of the program. Check out the full story at this link and visit the shop if you’re in the La Crosse area. Also, remember you can support the store via Bookshop.org. Shop for a book (including The Backyard Model Mysteries), select the store, and a portion of the sale goes to Pearl Street Books.
THE WISPRESSO CAFE starts its new season on September 6. I’ll be interviewing Christina Clancy, author of The Snowbirds. Christina is the keynote speaker of the WWA conference, and I can’t wait to chat with her about books, writing, and her POV. Join us! The Saturday morning coffee chat at 10 a.m. Central Time is open to all, not just WWA members. I’d love to have you with us. Sign up at this LINK.
WISMISSUS PODCAST: Author Valerie Biel and I have too much fun with these book, writing, and newsy chats on our podcast. We’ve read our worst reviews, discussed marketing fails, and otherwise commiserated about publishing indie novels. HOWEVER, resilient creatures that we are—authors must be!—we laugh and escape while discussing marketing and indie publishing. Give a listen and have fun with us.
Thanks for reading and listening. See you next week for Chapter Five of Model Wave. 💖
~TKS