Grady Lake, page 1
part #1 of Grady Lake Mystery Series Series
GRADY LAKE
BOOK ONE
GRADY LAKE MYSTERY SERIES
J.L. HYDE
CONTENTS
Also by J.L. Hyde
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
31. City of Grady Official Press Conference Transcript
Epilogue
To Be Continued…
Acknowledgments
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by J. L. Hyde
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
First paperback edition October 2023
Cover Design by Allsweet Studios and Keith Kerr
ISBN 979-8-9871631-2-2 (Paperback)
www.jlhyde.com
Created with Vellum
For Mal, may every single day be Free Linguini Day
ALSO BY J.L. HYDE
Underground
Delta County
Summer of ’99
Midnight in Delta County
Magnolia Court
PROLOGUE
When we were children, it was the stories with scant details that kept us up at night. Remember the one about the little boy who drowned in the lake? It prevented me from dangling my feet underneath my inner tube for years. How about the lonely widow who leaped to her death and now wanders the halls of the old bed and breakfast in town, searching for her lost love? The mysterious bobbing light by the railroad tracks is obviously the ghost of the old train conductor, haunting the north end of town with his lantern for eternity, right? The specifics changed from town to town, generation to generation, but the terror remained the same. Something that happened a long time ago, that we knew very little about, was somehow going to reach out and grab us individually, putting us in a chokehold and changing our lives forever.
We couldn’t even manage to keep the particulars straight when it came to ubiquitous classics like Bloody Mary or Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board. Did we have to summon the spirit of Mary in a bathroom mirror, or would a vanity do? As we grew older, the obsession with being horrified by the unknown was slowly replaced with the need to know every repulsive detail of real-life horrors that played out in front of our very eyes on whichever streaming service had the latest crime documentary.
Today, America’s obsession with true crime has reached a fever pitch, with morbid curiosity overtaking common decency and any sort of respect for victims’ families. We want to know every lurid detail. We need to hear how the mother reacted when she learned her daughter’s life had been taken. We can’t sleep until we listen to the local sheriff recount every action taken to solve the decades-old murder. We curse the crime labs for taking months to deliver DNA results while the suspected killer roams free. What was once a shameful discussion topic is now commonplace at the family dinner table.
When you throw a small town into the mix, it becomes its own character in the story. Take my hometown of Grady, Michigan for example. Its name has become as notorious as Waco, Columbine, or Plainfield. Driving by the oversized wooden sign that reads Welcome to Grady inevitably inspires the driver to state the obvious. “You know, this is where . . .”
Most people refer to the town as Grady Lake, rather than the official name of Grady. The scenic body of water accounts for nearly twenty percent of the town’s acreage, and nearly all of its social activities. The infamous lake, in the center of the barely-big-enough-to-be-incorporated town, was the scene of the largest search party in Michigan’s history. It was 2003, roughly a year before Facebook or any other social media platform was a feature on every teenager’s computer. Some of us had cell phones, but they did little more than text or call our loved ones. Every person in this country was glued to the nightly news for any hint of updates on the search. It was the perfect recipe to capture the nation’s attention—a young, working-class, seemingly innocent, white female from a decent family vanished without a trace in a town where nobody ever disappeared. How could this happen in the remote Upper Peninsula of Michigan, in a town that could pass as a wooded, lakeside version of a Norman Rockwell painting? The only crimes making the local news before her disappearance were drunk driving, domestic abuse, or hunting without a license.
It sickens me to tell you that the disappearance of Malorie Rose Benard dramatically increased tourism for the picturesque, sleepy town of Grady. The family’s locally renowned Benard’s Lakeside Inn stayed booked for years with people wanting to spend a weekend at the scene of one of America’s greatest mysteries. The fact that she has never been found only keeps the interest alive.
I can’t seem to wrap my mind around the fact that kids growing up in Grady now tell the story of Malorie Rose around the campfire. They warn each other not to swim out too far, for her ghost haunts the dark depths of Grady Lake, and she’ll pull them under without warning. They dare each other to look up toward her old bedroom window at night, for they may just see her spirit passing by. Even now, twenty years later, podcast hosts who call themselves journalists roll into town thinking they are the chosen ones who will finally score an interview with the elusive Benard sisters, who are Malorie’s aunts.
Her disappearance destroyed the Benard family in more ways than one, leaving only five members behind to pick up the tattered pieces.
I know this because my name is Katie Benard, and Malorie was my sister.
CHAPTER ONE
“So, you’re meeting the other man tonight?”
I roll my eyes as I gather my purse and keys from the metal hook next to my desk. Carrie Arthur gets so involved in the details of her coworkers’ lives, I wonder what she does for entertainment when she’s alone in her apartment with her three cats and nobody to pester for gossip.
“Look, Dave was miserable for an entire year after I convinced him to move to Lansing. I’m so relieved he found a friend; I don’t care that they bond over mundane things like pickleball and rare whiskeys. It gets him out of the house a few nights a week so I can watch 90 Day Fiancé and eat Chinese food in peace after a long day at the office. I’m all for it.”
“So, is Dave’s friend good-looking? Single? Looking to be fixed up with your very available coworker?” she asks, comically raising her eyebrows.
“I have yet to meet him in person, but Dave said he just went through a bad breakup, so I’m not sure if he’s ready to get back in the game yet.” Her shoulders sink, so I add, “But if he is, you’re my girl. I’ll hook it up.”
Carrie squeals with excitement and claps her hands together. “Try to get a picture for me?”
Dave doesn’t even know I’m coming; this is the first after-hours business event I’ve been able to make it to, despite being invited a dozen or so times. I’ve overseen a project that is over schedule and over budget for the last three months and it’s taken every bit of my free time and energy. Dave has been so patient and kind about my absence, but I know it’s starting to wear on him. I moved mountains to be able to leave in time tonight to catch the last hour of his office’s social event at a small pub close to our rental house.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I reply with a wink on my way out the door.
Moments later, I drive past Slick Willy’s Pub on my way to our small craftsman to leave my car and walk the six blocks back to his event. This way I’ll be able to enjoy a few cocktails without worrying about getting my car home. I smile when I see Dave’s SUV in the driveway; he had the same idea. I don’t bother going in the house; I just kick off my heels and throw them in the backseat, swapping them with the pair of Keds I keep in the car for occasions such as this. The off-white sneakers don’t match very well with my powder blue blouse and black pencil skirt, but they’ll have to do. Dave works for a biomedical research company; I don’t think these guys will be lining up to judge my outfit, assuming they even notice. My stomach rumbles as I grab my purse from the front seat and lock the car. I worked through lunch again today and forgot to grab a midday snack.
The early August heat is lingering, even as the sun begins to go down on the walk to Slick Willy’s. It’s an exercise in patience as I repeatedly fight to redirect my thoughts away from the project at work. Heading the rebranding and marketing strategy for the State of Michigan’s Tourism Bureau has consumed every bit of my energy since the first week of June. If I’m forced to conduct one more market research panel to determine which shade of blue elicits happiness and wanderlust without being overwhelming to the eye, I’m going to pull my hair out. I need a mental break, and having drinks with my fiancé and his coworkers
The pub is packed for a Thursday night, and I am forced to turn sideways as I squeeze past the crowd gathered by the front door. I make the quick decision to order my cocktail at the bar first so I’m not embarking on the adventure of finding Dave and his crew whilst empty-handed. Darren, the entirely-too-handsome college kid who tends bar a few nights a week, is wiping his brow with the striped towel normally hanging from the back pocket of his faded blue jeans. He catches my eye and beelines to the corner of the bar to take my order, which seems to piss off a few men who have been waiting longer than me. I’m in my thirties and will take all the harmless attention I can get, particularly from college boys who look like Darren.
“I’m craving a Manhattan,” I shout over the music, using both hands to hoist myself up and closer to his ear.
“I got you,” he shouts back with a wink. He doesn’t ask what kind of whiskey I’d like, but he’s served me enough times to know I couldn’t possibly care less. Dave typically asks him countless questions about what ryes they got in on the truck this week or how the new bourbon on the menu was aged, but I’m just looking for a reasonably priced cocktail that will make me forget that I’ve already logged fifty-nine billable hours this week and still have to go into the office tomorrow.
I don’t feel comfortable putting my drinks on Dave’s office tab, so I start my own and clumsily drop my debit card on the bar while thanking Darren with a wink that is meant to be harmlessly flirtatious but comes out more like a spastic, involuntary tic. He lingers for a minute to make sure I’m okay and shakes his head, his beautiful lips curling into a slight smile as he walks away. Fantastic.
While scanning the crowd, I notice a dozen or so people huddled near the back of the bar that fit the description of a group of over-educated, overworked thirty-somethings. I spot a friendly-enough-looking woman on the edge of the group, leaning over a table to retrieve another scoop of hummus for the small appetizer plate in her hand. I startle her when I tap her shoulder and speak loudly into her ear.
“Do you guys work for Zimmerman Labs?”
“Yes, how did you know?” she shouts back.
I smile. “Lucky guess. I’m Dave’s fiancée. Do you know where I can find him?”
“Dave? I haven’t seen him. He said he had some work to catch up on. I think he went home from the office.”
I’m an idiot. His car was in the driveway. He was inside our beautiful little house working away, while I threw on more comfortable shoes to walk six blocks away and order a cocktail. He’s going to love this story. Classic Katie he’ll say with a smile.
“Aww, man! I came here to surprise him. Well, it was nice meeting you. I’m Katie, by the way,” I say, holding out my hand to shake hers.
She wipes her hand on her dress pants to rid herself of the pita breadcrumbs on her fingertips.
“Katie, I’m Lucinda. It was a pleasure to meet you as well.”
A man walks up beside us mid-shake. He appears to be a few years older than me, with salt and pepper hair and a warm smile.
“Did you say you’re Dave’s fiancée? We were beginning to think you didn’t exist,” he jokes, also holding his hand out for me to shake. “I’m Eric; I work in Dave’s department.”
“Eric? I’ve been dying to meet you; Dave has told me so much about you,” I respond. Although, truth be told, the way Dave always talks about him made me somehow picture a man ten years younger. Eric looks like a mature, respectable man, not the young, energetic athlete Dave complains about each time he loses to him at pickleball.
“About me? He complains about my workstation, doesn’t he? I’m just not neat and tidy when I’m in the middle of something. I’ve explained this to him.”
Lucinda gives me a knowing look, confirming that Eric’s workstation is a disaster.
“Not so much about your workstation as your competitive nature. After you guys played last week, Dave had to ice his ankle and take a shot of Maker’s to numb the pain. He’d kill me if he knew I told you that,” I say with a laugh. Dave and his foolish pride would be mortified to know the competition sensed any weakness.
“Played what? I’m afraid you must have me mixed up with someone else. With the hours I put in, the wife doesn’t let me play much of anything these days,” he says, shrugging and looks over his shoulder, gesturing toward a tall redhead a few feet behind him. At that moment, I notice the wedding band on his finger. My face reddens.
“I’m so sorry, I must have gotten things confused. There must be another Eric?” I ask.
He squints, tilts his head, and looks to Lucinda for confirmation. They both shake their heads. No other Eric in the office.
The words Eric Office have illuminated Dave’s phone with calls and texts for the past six months. His name is brought up in conversation regularly.
“Mind if I grab a quick drink with Eric, babe?”
“Eric has a court reserved at six; do you mind if I skip dinner?”
“Eric and I are staying late at the office tonight, big project. I’ll call you on my way home.”
There’s no way I’m mistaken. He holds his screen up to show me when it vibrates, which I always thought was sweet. When it’s not his siblings or parents, it’s Eric Office.
I feel dizzy. As sad as it sounds, at this moment, my mind is focused on ensuring Dave doesn’t look bad in front of his coworkers. I need to save face. Protect him.
“Oh, please don’t tell him. I’m so horrible with names!” I feign embarrassment before setting my still-full drink on the table next to me and excusing myself. I stumble to the bathroom, barely in the stall when I pull my phone out of my purse to text him.
“Hey, where are you?”
Within seconds, three little dots signify that he’s responding.
“Babe . . . I’m at the after-hours event at Slick Willy’s, remember? Playing darts with Eric. Text me when you leave the office.”
CHAPTER TWO
“I’m coming home,” I say when Aunt Lou answers the phone. No hello, no pleasantries, no energy to even try.
“That’s great, kiddo. I can fix up cabin three for you and Dave. When will you get in?”
I take a deep breath. Time to rip it off like a Band-Aid.
“No Dave, just me. He turned out to be a cheating asshole.”
Silence.
“Ah, shit, kid. I’m so sorry. Men are useless; I’ve been telling you this since you were nine years old,” she grumbles. I hear the click of her lighter, followed by a long drag and exhale. “How long will you be here for?”
“Indefinitely,” I respond with conviction.
“Music to my ears. I’ll have your old room ready.”
This is why I chose to call Lou over my other aunts; she’s no frills. I just couldn’t deal with a dramatic response and a million questions about what happened between me and Dave. I just wanted to deliver the message that I’m coming home and have someone expecting me. Had I called Brenda or Deb, they most likely would have put me on speakerphone, cried over the end of a relationship they knew next to nothing about, and smothered me with emotionally distraught calls until I arrived in Grady. Letting Lou handle it means she won’t even tell her sisters the news until I’m about to pull into town, which will piss them off but save me a lot of hassle in the process. Lou is my favorite; a fact that I can never, ever say aloud.
