Hidden in the Pines by Victoria Houston

Author:Victoria Houston [Houston, Victoria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crooked Lane

Chapter Twenty-Two

Judith woke to the patter of raindrops on the bedroom window. She checked her clock radio. Jumping out of bed, she pulled on sweats and a light sweatshirt. If she hurried, she could make seven-thirty Mass at St. Mary’s.

Early-Sunday Mass with her father had been a treasured habit of her childhood. Smiling to herself as she drove over, she had a flash of feeling young again, certainly younger than her sixties.

She was pleased to see that the pew that had “belonged” to her family was empty. After genuflecting, she slipped in, knelt, and prayed as all the ritual prayers of her youth came flooding back word for word.

After taking Communion herself, she watched the other parishioners file by. One, to her surprise, was Dr. Paul Osborne. She was surprised, too, to find him waiting for her outside the church.

“Good morning, Judith,” he said with a shake of her hand, “good to see you. Hope I don’t ruin your day, but I have a tip to pass along if you have a moment. It has to do with Camp Ashwabagon.” Osborne watched her face, knowing he was referring to her sister’s death and hoping she wouldn’t find the mention depressing.

“Love to hear it,” said Judith, responding with enthusiasm. “I’ve been planning to visit the Loon Lake Historical Society Museum and see if they may have references to the camp. I would love to find out if anyone from those days might still be alive, though I’m sure that’s a long shot. Didn’t the camp close back in the eighties?”

“Yes. But I’m sure you’ll find information on the camp at the museum. They have a room dedicated to the summer camps that flourished up here from the 1920s on.”

“That far back? I didn’t know that.”

“People forget this region was the center of logging in the late 1880s. Fortunes were made up here, which is why we have so many people, generations later, with lake homes and cottages they’ve inherited.

“Sheriff Ferris and I had a meeting very recently with our local tennis coach, and he happened to mention that his grandfather taught tennis fifty years ago at Camp Ashwabagon. His name is Philip Henman, and even as he must be near ninety, his grandson said he’s in good health. Unlike some of us,” said Osborne with a laugh, “he appears to still have his wits about him.”

“This is very helpful. Thank you, Doc,” said Judith, shaking hands again and starting to walk away. “Oh, wait, do you think his grandson would mind if I called him? I’d love to have a chat with his grandfather if he thinks that would be okay.”

“I doubt he would mind. The grandson is Bob Henman. His father-in-law is one of my best friends. I’ll get a phone number for you. And by the way, did you know the historical society keeps their museum open weekends throughout the summer?”

Checking online while chewing her second piece of cinnamon toast, Judith saw that the museum would open at eleven that morning.

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