George Jackson, Author

The first Draft Chapter of the 15th book of The Falls small town mystery series: The Falls: Brotherly Love (Enjoy!)

Just after dawn, Ed Morganstein tromped along the shore of Lake Pumpkinseed, fishing pole, fishing tackle box and a can of worms held tightly in his arms. He was headed to his favorite on shore fishing hole. It was a little cove surrounded by a half circle of willow trees that leaned out over the water. The willow trees obviously had no leaves at this point and there were chunks of dirty snow and ice still underfoot as he slowly made his way along the partially frozen shore. But it didn’t matter. From time to time he altered his path to carefully avoid clumps and slabs of thick, gray mud.

March in Vermont is a month of mystery. One year it can be filled with intense snowstorms, ice storms, subzero temperatures and swirling, whipping winds. The next year, it might be mild, with the winter’s supply of snow and ice melting, and a few wildflowers poking up their heads, only to be covered by snow again the next day. Then the snow melts once more and the ground begins to thaw out only for a freak ice storm to swoop in overnight. Sometimes, the mud season even begins before the month is out.

Let’s be clear, there are five distinct seasons in Vermont. Spring, summer, fall, winter and mud seasons. Mud season comes after the first signs of spring and before the warmth and humidity of true summer. But mud in Vermont is totally unlike mud in most locales.

Vermont mud is thick, cold, heavy and sticks to anything like glue. It’s composed mostly of thick clay and heavy loam imbedded with ice and seems to have a life of it’s own. Farmers have to wait for the mud to soften and disperse before they dare till their fields. Vermont school children know that if they get their boots stuck in spring mud, they may never get the back. School bus drivers understand the darker elements of Vermont mud and make sure they don’t drive on any dirt roads or shoulders covered with the stuff. They understand all too well that it will take a heavy tow truck to pull them out once they venture in.

Vermont’s unfrozen spring mud takes whatever finds its way into it and slowly but surely sucks it in, to hold on to it forever. So it has always been and so it will always be.

But on this particular day, Ed Morganstein found himself marching slowly along the shore of Lake Pumpkinseed during the first week in March. Thoughts of mud season were far from his thoughts. True, it was still chilly and the lake water was frigid. Also true, there were still chunks of ice from that winter’s ice flow still floating out in the smooth waters or lying motionless and slowly melting on the partially frozen shore around the lake.

But Ed Morganstein was an avid fisherman. He was also retired so he didn’t have the hardware store to take up his time and his thoughts anymore. He had been house bound most of the winter, with several slight cases of cabin fever. He had missed fishing in the worst way possible. Yes, he had been out ice fishing several times, but although ice fishing was nice, to Ed, sitting on the banks of the lake or drifting in his dinghy out in the middle of the lake was what fishing was all about.

Once he had finally reached his fishing spot, he grinned with delight as he carefully arranged a worm on the hook and he continued to grin as he placed a red and white bobber up ten feet from the sinker and baited hook and made an accurate cast out thirty feet into the lake.

Sighing with pleasure, Ed opened his small folding chair and sat down, his sunglasses reflecting the bright, shimmering rays of the early morning sun. Truth be told, Ed didn’t even really care if he caught any fish today. What mattered was that it was his first day of fishing for the year. What he loved most was simply being there, breathing in the crisp air, staring around at the beautiful scenery of Lake Pumpkinseed and feeling the wind and sun on his rugged, weathered face.

Ed happened to gaze over toward Mallard Landing on the other side of the lake. He squinted and made out two unmoving figures out standing on Mallard’s dock. He grinned to himself. He knew without being able to see their faces that it was Mallard Hornsworth and Reggie Clark standing out there in hopes that some early season ducks would find their way home to be fed, pampered and spoiled this morning.

Suddenly curious, Ed lifted his eyes to the skies and squinted once again as he scanned overhead for a full minute. There were no ducks, no geese, no waterfowl at all to be seen. Ed nodded to himself, figuring that Mallard and Reggie would just have to wait a little longer for their migrating pets to arrive from the south.

Ed stared back out to where his bobber was floating on the surface of the lake. Suddenly the red and white float began bobbing up and down in a jerky, unrhythmic motion. Ed grinned in anticipation as he carefully reeled in the slack and got ready to set the hook, should the fish that was playing with the worm should get serious. His muscles tensed.

He watched the bobber as it dipped sharply beneath the surface and then, with perfect timing, he yanked back the pole and felt the hook set solidly in the fish’s mouth. His grin widened as he felt the perch fight and saw it jump. It was about a fifteen-inch perch, good size, just right for frying up on top of the stove for breakfast. He joyfully played with the fish for a few seconds and then got down to business and pulled him in, walking down to and into the edge of the lake. He reached down and grabbed the perch expertly by the mouth.

Picking the wiggling fish up, he gave a satisfied sigh and whispered passionately to himself, “It's fishing season again, old man! First fish of the season! You made it through the winter one more year! Good for you!”

Standing in six inches of water, his boots feeling the icy cold of the lake, he held the perch firmly with one hand while dislodging the hook from the fish’s mouth making sure the sharp center spine in the fish’s back didn’t stick him. For some reason, the shimmering early morning rays of the sun began playing across the smooth surface of the water at that moment. As they did, Ed’s eyes became attracted to and focused on what appeared to be some sort of fairly large, dark object under the surface of the water about six feet away from shore.

With the squirming fish in one hand and his pole in the other, Ed stepped a few feet closer and stared over at what looked like a large lump of clothing. Ed’s first thought was that some fisherman had lost their jacket in the lake last fall. But then, whatever it was, looked much bigger than a jacket now that he was closer to it.

Cautiously, Ed reached out a boot and nudged the object. It felt solid. It didn’t move. Stepping closer, and becoming more and more curious every second, Ed found himself next to the object and staring down curiously at it. For a moment, the object looked shadowy and indistinct and seemed covered with some of the fast growing weeds from the lake. Then, a larger wave surged up and around the object. The object shifted and turned and all of a sudden Ed Morganstein knew exactly what it was. It was a dead, badly decomposed body.

Eyes wide with shock, his mouth formed in a perfect ‘O’, adrenaline spiking sharply, and his face deathly pale, Ed Morganstein quickly tried to scramble away from the body. Unfortunately, his boots slid across the slimy surface of a large, slippery rock. A second later, Ed Morganstein was gasping and seated in two feet of ice cold freezing water, completely soaked and the now liberated perch was back in the water, hightailing it for the nearest bed of weeds.

Ed Morganstein stared over to where the body was still submerged and he scrambled fearfully to his feet, retreating quickly until his feet scrambled up on dry land. Raging rivulets of water streamed down his pants and his boots that were now filled with ice water, but Ed didn’t even notice. All his brain could deal with at the moment was: He had just been in the water with a corpse!

As his heart slowed, his foggy brain started accessing thoughts other than the startling find of the dead body, and his soaked, icy clothing began to make him shiver, he realized what he need to do. Luckily, his cell phone had been in his tackle box all along.

“West Sugar Shack Falls Sheriff’s office,” came Darlene’s flat, commanding voice. “What can we do for you?” It was Darlene’s second week back on the job after her injury and she was back to her old self.

For a moment, Ed just stood there standing and staring wide-eyed at the indistinct object under the water, hoping that perhaps he had just imagined the body. Then, as if in response, a hand slowly rose to the surface and then, as the current changed, sunk below the surface once again.

“I, ah,” Ed sputtered, dripping and shaking, into the phone his brain still not quite in gear, “found a dead body. It’s in the lake. The body is in the lake. Lake Pumpkinseed. I think I need the sheriff. Now.”