Summer Friday Read, Model Wave, Ch. 3
A clean, comic cozy mystery packed with boats, romance, and a splash of Northwoods mischief—perfect for your next getaway!
This summer, I’m reading from MODEL WAVE, a funny summer mystery with small-town charm, pontoon boats, and plenty of laughs.
Hilarious Wilde yanked me from the mud, wrapped me in a blanket, and bundled me into his Saab.
“It’s got dents, but it’s safe,” he promised. “It’ll get us to your place.”
I shivered beneath the blanket. “W-where’s Cole?”
“Took a fall, but he’s okay. Waiting for the police boat. Once the storm clears, they’ll tow the pontoon back to the dock.”
Hilarious and I had met at a charity dinner in a church basement in Minocqua. He’d been with Cole, toting an impressive camera and said he’d been a photographer in the Big Apple. I’d quipped that I’d been a mannequin in the same city, surviving on apples because that was all I could afford.
We’d hit it off.
In the car, on the dark road, I glanced at him. “Are you okay? That was h-horrible.”
“I’m fine.” He stared through the windshield. “Did you record what happened?”
My teeth chattered. “Y-yeah, I had my video running.”
“Send it to Cole. Email the file from your laptop if you have one—cell service is spotty up here.”
I’d learned that when checking into my rental cottage. “Got it.”
“Cole said I should talk to you about Curtis Grey,” he said.
“Mind if we do it tomorrow?”
A firetruck roared past. Hilarious watched it in the rearview. “Wish that guy would slow down. No need to wreck another vehicle.”
“What can they do now?”
“Wait until the storm quits, then search with the police boat. Stuff won’t drift far; the lake isn’t that big. It’s too dangerous now. The crime scene’s a mess, but we’ll find the boat and the body.”
“How do you know it was a crime scene?” I shouldn’t ask. None of my business.
“Cole isn’t sure it is,” Hil said. “He’s just a thorough guy. He’s sorry he couldn’t drive you home.”
Cole and I had shared frozen custard, but it ended up in my lap. Then a dead body showed up in a thunderstorm, and a dock and an ambulance were destroyed. Not sure if I’d go out for frozen custard anytime soon.
The rain gushed, wipers swished. We drove until the headlights flashed onto a sign, Lollygag Lane. Hilarious turned, the sure-footed car crunching on the stones.
“Is your camera okay?” I asked.
“Maybe, if water didn’t ruin it. Dropping it didn’t help. Comedy of errors at the launch. We don’t process crime scenes very often.”
Another mention of a skullduggery. I glanced at the backseat. The camera jostled on the cushion, its flash attachment dangling like a broken limb. “Anything I can do?” I asked.
“Call Cole tomorrow. Tell him you’ve got the video. And keep calling—don’t give up.”
“What’s that mean?”
He sighed. “My friend has a job that sucks, and he works too much. But I’ve known Cole Lawrence my whole life. I’ve never seen him react to anyone the way he did with you.”
Caramel-colored light spilled through the window, the sun bold and red as a cherry. Even dawn in the Northwoods looked like a sundae.
But my mood darkened as I recalled the storm, the lost ambulance, and Curtis Grey, the fellow who had been “pontooned.”
“That’s what we call it,” Hilarious has said when he dropped me off. “Doesn’t happen often, but now and then, we find a poor soul who’s sailed to the great dock in the sky.”
From the window, I watched an eagle soar, hunting breakfast. Max tapped toward me, his nails clicking on the tile. I scratched his chest. “We’ll go out in a sec. Let’s check if Aunt Susan sent us a text.”
I glanced at my phone. Nothing. “Rats,” I muttered.
Max took it as a command and bolted to the patio slider, eager to chase something in the backyard.
I opened it. “Easy, Max. Don’t get squirrely.”
I’d had the dog since November. He’d become the greeter at the Bell, Book & Anvil, my craft mall in Cinnamon. He’d helped me through a murder investigation and the breakup of my long-term relationship. He also tolerated my frugality and corny jokes.
I suspected Max rescued me, but neither of us was keeping score.
I checked my phone again. Susan was still sleeping, probably. When we arrived a few days ago, she’d ditched me like an old beach towel to party with friends on the busy side of the lake. I didn’t mind, preferring the quiet side with its cozy cabins and rustic vibe. She’d invited me to stay at her condo, but I’d gotten a rental.
Like Paul Bunyan, Mel Tower is a tall, solo act.
Susan was one of the best artists in my mall, her work a client favorite. But she’d made awful mistakes. She’d had an affair, wrecking her relationship with her partner, an attorney, a genuinely good fellow. And, she’d told a whopper of a lie that put me in danger.
She’d apologized, and I’d forgiven her.
But since arriving, Susan had been different. She and Ali von Yaack had been partying like reality TV stars. A few nights ago, they’d caused a scene at the Glass Bottom restaurant over a barstool—not who got to sit on it, but who’d made it, who deserved credit for its existence.
Ali began arguing with a man, her haughtiness on display.
I’d wanted to tell Ms. Von Yaack that Max yaks fur balls under the stools in my home with perfect timing—just before guests arrive because, of course, because dogs know somehow.
I’d stuffed that joke yak down. No sense in being rude to someone I’d yust met.
Ali did not like me, I sensed.
Max woofed. I stepped onto the deck, inhaling pine-scented air. He darted about, a black-and-white blur sprinting from deck to lake to tree, then pausing to glare at squirrels. They chattered back, unbothered.
“Max won’t hurt you,” I called to them. “He’ll just herd you. You’ll have to learn to coexist.”
I’d fallen for this cottage the moment I’d arrived in the Northwoods. I’d toured the knotty pine paradise and learned it was for sale. Despite running a mall and starting a bookstore venture, I’d written a check for the earnest money, handed it to the real estate agent, and now awaited the purchase inspection.
Agent Ericka Dimblé, the other woman at the table yesterday, hadn’t gotten back to me yet.
I thought about Susan again.
I would not abandon our friendship, even if she pulled away. I treasured our closeness and sought to repair what was wrong.
I’d planned to stay two weeks in the Northwoods. Maybe I’d stay longer—there was another reason to linger.
If I were writing a romance novel, I’d cast Sheriff Cole Lawrence as its lead. The keeper of peace, sharer of custard, had swept this former model off her feet like a leaf blower wearing a badge. We hadn’t spent much time together, but something about the handsome sheriff made this forty-five-year-old woman take risks. Release her inner Reality TV star, perhaps.
No, I wouldn’t go that far.
But Cole Lawrence was a compelling reason to stick around.
Speaking of leaf blowers, I needed one. M. Nature had yakked pine needles all over the deck during the storm.
I swept it clean. Then Max and I took a constitutional down Lollygag Lane.
Few things rival a Northwoods morning. The air smelled crisp, like well-done bacon—though that was probably from the Sunny Side Inn, a hole-in-the-wall breakfast spot a hundred yards from the cottage. The tiny place seated about twelve, and served scratch bakery and pancakes too big for their plates.
I paused to read the sign touting the special: “Sheriff & Eggs—get some while he’s hot!”
Okay, maybe not.
I glanced at Max. He seemed to roll his eyes in disappointment.
“Sorry, buddy,” I said. Dogs save their humans from themselves, sometimes.
We strolled on. The sun lit the sky a vibrant blue, and clouds morphed into odd shapes, like white puffs posing as silly animals for tourists’ cameras. I spotted a lizard with saber-tooth teeth and spikes down its back—a hodag, the legendary Northwoods monster, part reptile, part bull, or maybe an alligator crossed with a Tasmanian devil.
My phone buzzed. The screen showed a pair of spurs—my cousin Louella Jingle, speaking of devils.
Lou’s voice was a mix of stadium announcer and marching-band trumpet. She doesn’t need a phone; she could just lean out her kitchen window and add diaphragm.
I answered, though a morning stroll was sacred time. Lou, Jason, her husband, and our mutual friend, Steven, were arriving soon for the Deliveree Games, a delivery-driver competition and Steven was competing.
“Hiya, Mel. What’s new?”
“Not much. Enjoying a walk.”
“Max got a new dad yet? How’d the date with the lawman go?”
“Fine.”
“Anything happen?” she asked.
I glanced at the sky, spotting another hodag. “Nope. Custard, then home. Nothing unusual.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Sheriff,” I said.
“Dillon? Andy Taylor?”
I sighed. Sharing details with Lou was like renting a billboard. “Doesn’t matter. Two people shared frozen custard. That was it.”
“You didn’t eat it all, did ya?”
“Of course not.”
She laughed. “What’d ya wear?”
“Sequins. And turquoise bell bottoms.”
“You’re jokin’.”
“Yep.”
She clucked, “Bad luck to tease your only relative. But I’m gonna get ya into somethin’ other than black. Bringin’ a suitcases of glitzy Western Wear. Carrot muffins, too. We’ll be up tomorrow.”
I changed the subject. “Have you ever heard of being ‘pontooned’?”
She laughed. “It happens up there, too? Dang.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jason water-skied on Lake Cinnamon in high school. Hung with that crowd. Every so often, a city fella would be found belly-up in his pontoon, boat driftin’ like a tumbleweed.”
“No way.”
“Yup, usually a Chicago fella. And the poor sap didn’t get there on his own power. He got help—sometimes a business partner, sometimes an ex. Why?”
“No reason.”
“Hold on, muffins are done.”
I heard the whoosh of her convection oven. Lou was a baker-volunteer and made treats for any nonprofit or charity that asked.
She came back. “Me, Jason, and Steve-O arrive tomorrow. Bringing cashboxes for the Deliveree Games. I’m running the box office—get it? Delivery drivers use lotsa boxes, hehe.”
The Deliveree competition was for messengers, drivers, and couriers—knights of the road who delivered in rain, snow, and sleet. Our friend Steven, a veteran driver, was a competitor.
“We rented a cottage down the lane from ya,” Lou said. “You buyin’ that place?”
“Yes, just waiting to hear back from the real estate agent.”
“Light a fire under her! We’ll visit spring, summer, fall, and winter. Nothin’ like family time.”
“Great.”
“Stay outta trouble—or at least wait ’til I get there to start some.” She hung up.
Max and I headed home. Lou was a font of wisdom. Her font was forged of cement, barbed wire, and spurs, but that didn’t make her wisdom less valid.
I should stay away from trouble. But with the mysterious death of Curtis Grey, Susan’s odd behavior, and my pull toward the sheriff, I sensed trouble had found me. ⛈️
Earlier Chapters of Model Wave
To hear earlier chapters, see Substack posts Chapter One and Chapter Two.
New Podcast About Animals!
Award-winning writer Kathleen Donnelly begins a new podcast soon. “Sit, Stay, Read: Books for Every Wag, Whinny, and Whisker” features authors writing about horses, dogs, kitties and more. Read more about the new podcast on Kathleen’s Facebook page.
Nellie’s Island Children’s Horse Story
Nellie’s Island, small hooves, big heart, island adventures start! is available! The children’s horse story features a brave pony learning her “filly esteem” on the island voted as best summer destination by Travel + Leisure magazine. I’m thrilled to say Island Books, the only bookstore on the island, will be carrying the paperback. Starry Gazey Studio did the illustrations, which are retro and magical and perfect. Select locations will have the bespoke hardcover, which features glossy lettering and brilliant colors. I truly hope readers enjoy this lovely pony and her adventures.
Sisters in Crime Workshop
On June 25, 7pm Central Time, I will be presenting a workshop about writing loglines, those pesky short descriptions that seem to vex us. I’ll share helpful tips in this online class that’s open to guests. Sign up online and join the workshop! Misery loves company, right? 😉 Let’s learn together with Wisconsin Sisters in Crime.
Are you recording your own? Have fun! Its a big task. 😄