Murder at the Falls by Stefanie Matteson

saw the cause of the commotion: it was a body floating in the water. Or rather, a set of shoulders and a head with long, flowing blond hair. The rest of the body had been carried into the culvert, where it had become lodged in the mud. The body looked strangely romantic, Charlotte thought, perhaps because of the long, flowing hair. That and the murky, yellow-green water with its reflections of the overhanging willows; the spikes of blue-flowered pickerel weed and the path that meandered along the grassy bank reminded her of a romantic painting by one of the Pre-Raphaelites (was it Burne-Jones’s painting of Ophelia?) in which a drowned girl floats on her back, her flower-bedecked hair spread out over the surface of the water.
    But this corpse wasn’t floating on its back; it was on its stomach, a condition that a pair of fire department rescue workers were now trying to rectify. Wearing rubber fishing boots, they had waded into the shallow water and were prodding the body with a hook affixed to a pole. A third rescue worker stood nearby, steadying a floating stretcher.
    But the body wasn’t cooperating. Bloated from decomposition, it was as resistant to their prodding as a waterlogged plank. After a third helper had been called in, they finally succeeded in turning it over.
    A low murmur of shock coursed through the gathering of onlookers as they caught sight of the victim’s face, which looked like some horror-movie makeup man’s idea of a ghoul. It was pale and swollen to twice its natural size, and its nose, chin, and lips were studded with little red wounds where chunks of flesh were missing.
    “Turtles,” said the man next to them to no one in particular. Though he was dressed in plain clothes, it was clear from the orders he was giving the uniformed police officers that he was the one in charge.
    Repulsed by the horrible sight, some of the onlookers moved back, allowing Charlotte her first clear view of the corpse. She knew immediately who it was. There was no mistaking the large, protruding teeth, which, seen through lips that had been drawn back in death, gave the body a rodent-like appearance.
    “It’s Randy!” she said with a little gasp as she turned to Tom, who was right behind her. Then she felt her knees begin to buckle.
    The plainclothes officer, who was standing at the balustrade next to her, reached out to grab her elbow. “Steady, there,” he said. He waited a moment for the shock to pass, and then asked: “You know this guy?”
    She looked again at the corpse. The body had been wrapped, mummy-like, in white fabric—a bedsheet, perhaps—but if she had any doubts, they were put to rest by the clothing that was visible. He was still wearing the red bow tie and the high-top sneakers.
    “His name is Randall Goslau,” she said.
    The officer holding her elbow was in his mid-fifties, and nearly bald. With his broad shoulders and pot belly, he gave the impression of physical power. Despite his bulk, however, he had a certain grace. She would have guessed him to be a good dancer.
    “He’s an artist,” Tom offered. “He lives and works in that mill over there.” He nodded at the building to their right.
    The officer looked over at the red brick mill, one of a line of three or four, and then back at Tom. “How do you know him?”
    “I was going to buy one of his paintings. That’s why we came out here today. We had an appointment with him at ten.”
    “Too late now,” the officer said, with a glance at the corpse, which was being loaded onto the stretcher. He had taken a pen and notepad out of his pocket. He pointed the end of the pen at Tom. “Lieutenant Marty Voorhees. Criminal Investigation Division. Who are you?” he asked.
    “Tom Plummer.”
    “Hey, I know you,” he said, pointing the pen at Tom again. “You’re the guy who writes the true-crime books.”
    Tom nodded.
    “Pleased to meet you,” the detective said.
    Tom was the darling of police officers. In his books, the cops