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The Deepest Water
     

The Deepest Water

4.2 4
by Kate Wilhelm
 

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Abby Connors' father, Jud, was a novelist whose career finally took off after three novels and years of hard work. Jud was also the most important man in Abby's life, to the chagrin of her husband, Brice.

When Jud is murdered in his Oregon lakefront cabin, Abby's life is overturned. Was the killer someone she knew?

Fortunately, it seems she has a guide to

Overview

Abby Connors' father, Jud, was a novelist whose career finally took off after three novels and years of hard work. Jud was also the most important man in Abby's life, to the chagrin of her husband, Brice.

When Jud is murdered in his Oregon lakefront cabin, Abby's life is overturned. Was the killer someone she knew?

Fortunately, it seems she has a guide to direct her through themaze that is her life: Jud's last novel. If only she can see through the fiction to perceive the truth.

Outwardly calm yet irresistible, The Deepest Water grows more chilling—and more compelling—as the reader probes deeper into it. This novel is a blockbuster from one of America's best-loved storytellers.

Editorial Reviews

bn.com
Our Review
Reading Between the Lines
At the center of Kate Wilhelm's beguiling new mystery, The Deepest Water, is a novel. Abby Connors's father, Jud, was a successful writer who preferred the remote tranquility of the wilderness to the hubbub of the city and the company of his dogs to the company of people. When he is murdered in his isolated lakeside cabin in Oregon, Abby is initially confused and paralyzed by grief. Who would want to kill her father and, still more perplexing, why? Frustrated by the police's thorough but slow efforts to track down the killer, Abby embarks on her own investigation, uncovering deeply buried secrets in the process and learning more about her father, herself, and the people around them than she ever knew before.

Searching for clues, she quickly realizes that the key to finding her father's killer lies in his latest novel, finished just weeks before his death. She knows that Jud's fiction often contains veiled references to real people and events in his own life, and his last work is no exception. As she reads the manuscript, she recognizes the people closest to him, and they all become suspects: his fiancée, his literary agent, his neighbors at the lake, Abby's husband, Abby's ex-husband. And Abby begins to realize that it is only a matter of time before she herself is in danger of becoming the killer's next victim.

But mysteriously, Jud has also been withdrawing a steady stream of cashier's checks for a number of years, puzzling Abby and the police. Why has he been secretly taking out this money? Where does he send it? Does he have another family somewhere that he has been secretly supporting? Is he paying off Abby's ex-husband? Will this trail of checks lead to the murderer? Again, Abby turns to the novel for guidance and stumbles upon a long-forgotten period of Jud's life that may offer clues to both the cashier's checks and his murder: his tour of duty in Vietnam.

As the mystery unfolds, The Deepest Water moves from the serene but haunting backwoods of Oregon to the sticky jungles of the Vietnam War to the city streets of San Francisco, eventually reaching its startling conclusion back in Jud's cabin by the water. Wilhelm skillfully unravels a page-turning plot with emotion and suspense. But as an author, her greatest strength lies in her careful examination of the characters' psychology. Through flashbacks, Wilhelm constructs a touching, realistic father-daughter relationship between Jud and Abby. Likewise, she successfully portrays Abby's anguish as she deals with her father's death and considers some of her most trusted companions as cold-blooded killers. Wilhelm also briefly but convincingly delves into Jud's post-Vietnam struggle to adjust to life back home. Ultimately, though, The Deepest Water is a worthwhile read for both its exciting plot and its thoughtful psychological twists that will keep the reader guessing until the end.

--Stephanie Bowe

Minneapolis Star-Tribune
An outstandingly fluent, sensitive writer, Kate Wilhelm is able to really get inside her characters' heads; she makes those small observations of behavior and emotion that go further toward defining human psychology than all the poetry and virtuosity in the world.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Set in and around her own Eugene, Ore., prolific Wilhelm's latest tale (after The Good Children) of psychological suspense reinforces the solid reputation she's earned for her 40-odd books published since 1963. Abby Connors is mourning the death of her father, bestselling novelist Jud Vickers, at the age of 48. Jud was a womanizing former ne'er-do-well who had recently found success, only to be murdered at his remote lakefront cabin. The local police baffled, Abby soon finds herself doing her own sleuthing, much to the dismay of her husband, Brice, a financial planner who was always jealous of Jud's primary place in Abby's heart. As Abby investigates further, she discovers secrets in Jud's past as well as an unfinished novel. Aware that Jud always based characters and events on people he actually knew, Abby begins to wonder: does the identity of the murderer and the motive lie within those unpublished pages? The brief forays into Jud's novel within the novel are sometimes over-the-top, and some readers may feel cheated by the subtle, nonconfrontational climax. The star of the book, strangely, is the cabin itself, a perversely menacing version of a Thomas Kincade painting and a deliciously eerie setting for the mystery and murder, beckoning the reader to step inside. Then, too, Abby is a plucky heroine whose steely patience serves her well even amid grief and bewilderment. Meanwhile, the ever-present specter of the murderer--casting doubt on the behavior of everyone Abby has contact with--keeps the edginess quotient high. (Oct.) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.|
Library Journal
Abby Conners's father, Jud, a successful novelist and her personal hero, is found murdered in his cabin on a remote Oregon lake. As the police pursue their usual avenues, Abby searches his manuscripts and papers for answers of her own. Jud's neighbors often said they saw themselves in his novels. Could he have portrayed one of them too clearly? As she digs for clues, her husband, Brice, voices concern that she's ignoring him and his reversals of fortune as an investment broker. Abby is about to inherit big money from her father's latest best seller and the subsequent movie rights. Could Brice be the killer? Her research reveals not only the recipient of Jud's unexplained cashier's checks but the real reason for his repeated trips to San Francisco. As her questions about Jud are answered, much bigger concerns about her husband and his possible motives for murder arise. Wilhelm (No Defense) is a first-rate novelist. Her characters are well drawn, the setting is real, and the pace keeps the reader raptly involved to the last page. Fans will love this, and readers who have enountered Wilhelm's previous works are in for a real treat. Highly recommended.--Susan Clifford Braun, Aerospace Corp., El Segundo, CA Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.\
Kirkus Reviews
SF/fantasist Wilhelm interrupts her series of legal dramas starring Barbara Hollway (Defense for the Devil, 1999, etc.) for a stand-alone whodunit that develops into a did-he-do-it.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781551668468
Publisher:
Mira
Publication date:
09/28/2001
Pages:
384
Product dimensions:
4.19(w) x 6.75(h) x 1.05(d)

Read an Excerpt


Chapter One


Afterward everyone said the memorial service had been poignant yet beautiful, exactly what Jud would have wanted. But not yet, Abby protested despairingly, silently, not at forty-eight years old! For days she had said little or nothing, as if her vocal cords had frozen, she had lost the power of speech. People held her hand, embraced her, patted her, and she understood that they were trying to express something, but she could feel herself adding layer after layer of protective, invisible shielding against every touch, removing herself in a way that kept her numb and rigid, unresponsive to their sympathy, unable to stop adding to the cocoon that might keep her safe. Shock, they said; she was still in shock.

    Exactly what her father had ordered, the funeral director assured her, even to the box that Jud had provided along with his instructions. He placed the box in her hands deferentially, then walked away with his head bowed until he had cleared the crematorium chapel, when he straightened and walked more briskly.

    "Honey, we have to leave now," Brice said at her elbow. He took the box from her, held it under his arm, and put his other arm around her shoulders, guided her toward the door. People were waiting. Jud's parents from California, Lynne—Abby's mother from Seattle—Brice's parents from Idaho, friends, strangers ... Lynne had said the family would have to go back to the house after it was over; everyone would expect coffee, wine, something to help ease them back to the world of the living. She would take care of things, she had promised, that's what shehad come for, to help Abby; then she wept. Abby had looked at her in wonder. Her parents had been divorced for so many years, why was she crying now?

    "Mrs. Connors?" Another stranger, another outsider.

    She paused, expecting him to hold out his hand, kiss her cheek, something.

    "I'm Lieutenant Caldwell," he said apologetically. "State special investigations. I need to talk to you—"

    Brice's hand tightened on her shoulder. "You can't be serious!" he said. "Not now!"

    "No, no," he said quickly. "Of course not now. But tomorrow? Around ten in the morning?"

    Abby accepted this as numbly as she had accepted everything else. She nodded.

    "We've already told the police everything we know," Brice said. He tugged at her shoulder; she started to move again.

    "I understand," Caldwell said, still apologetic. "I'll explain in the morning. I'm very sorry, Mrs. Connors." Then he was gone, and they walked out into a fine light rain.

    There were a lot of reporters, a camera crew, others waiting. After years of struggling, Judson Vickers had become an overnight bestselling author; his death by murder was news, at least today it was news. Abby walked past the crowd blindly.

    That night, after the mourners had gone, and only her mother remained for one more night, Lynne said almost pleadingly that she didn't have to go back to Seattle yet if Abby wanted her to stay on a few days.

     Abby shook her head. "There's no point. In the morning the police are coming to ask more questions, and in the afternoon Christina Maas is coming. There are things we have to talk about. That's how it's going to be for a while." Her voice sounded strange, as if muffled by layers of cotton.

    Lynne looked at Brice, and he shrugged helplessly. "It's been a tough few days," he said. "We'll be okay after we've had a little rest. I'll take you to the airport in the morning."

    Her mother was going to cry again, Abby thought guiltily, and she still didn't know why, and couldn't ask. Not now. And Brice ... She knew she was shutting him out exactly the way she was closing out everyone else, and she knew it was unfair, even cruel, but she couldn't help that, either. He wanted to hold her, to comfort her, to wait on her, do whatever he could, and she was like a stick in his arms. Silently she began to gather plates, cups, and saucers.... Her friends Jonelle and Francesca had brought food, she remembered; it all looked strange and unfamiliar.

    "Honey, please, go take a long bath, try to relax," Brice said. "We'll take care of this."

    With the unquestioning obedience of a good child, she left the room to go take a long bath. She could hear their voices as she went up the stairs; talking about her, the state she was in, she thought distantly. The house was usually spacious feeling, with three bedrooms, two baths, stairs with a plush, pale green carpet, a nice Aubusson rug in the living room, a carpet in the den, drapes throughout; room enough, with sound-deadening furnishings, so that voices carried no farther than from one room to another, yet she imagined she could hear them all the way up the stairs, through the hallway, the bedroom, on into the bathroom, even after she turned on the water. She went back to the bedroom for her gown and robe, and came to a stop holding them.

    The voices were not her mother's and Brice's, she realized, but her mother's and her father's, or her father's voice talking to her, telling her something important. That's what he would say: "This is important, listen up now."

    She took a step and staggered, and only then recognized her fatigue, that she was reeling, maybe even hallucinating from sleeplessness. Tonight, she told herself, tonight she would take one of the pills her doctor had prescribed. She would give herself half an hour and if by then she was still wide awake, she would take a pill. Dimly she remembered that she had made the same promise the previous night, but instead had sat huddled in a blanket on the couch in the dark living room, dreading today, the relatives, the memorial service, remembering Jud, denying his death, willing him not to be dead, willing it not to have happened, afraid of the pill that promised sleep, because it seemed to offer a kind of death to her.


Later, while Brice was getting ready for bed, Abby went to tell her mother good night, to thank her for coming. She felt awkward, as if in the presence of an acquaintance, not her mother.

    Lynne was in the guest room, the room Abby called her study. She stood in the middle of the room, wearing her robe, holding the dress she had worn earlier, and for a moment they simply regarded each other. Then Lynne dropped the dress and took Abby in her arms. "I wanted to be with you," she said softly, "but I didn't know what to say, how to act with you. Abby, baby, please say something, talk to me. Yell at me. Anything!"

    Abby gazed past her mother silently and offered no resistance to the embrace, but neither did she return it. People had always said she looked like her mother, and she had denied it, had seen only the differences, not the similarities; they were the same height, and Lynne was only a few pounds heavier, her hair was as dark as Abby's and, out of the chignon she had had it in, hung straight to her shoulders, like her daughter's. They both had dark blue eyes and heavy eyebrows, bold and thick, without a curve, much less a peak. The likeness, remarkable as it was, appeared superficial to Abby. The image of her mother that rose in her memory was of a face contorted with anger: a mouth pinched in fury or downturned in resentment; glaring, red-rimmed eyes; her voice loud and shrill, out of control in her rage or whining in self-pity.

    She disengaged herself and drew back, picked up her mother's dress and took it to the closet, placed it on a hanger.

    "I can't talk right now," she said, her back to Lynne. "Not right now. I'll come visit you in a few weeks."

    "No, don't come up to Seattle. Call me and I'll come down here. We'll go to the coast for a day or two. Will you do that?" She was pleading again.

    Abby closed her eyes hard for a moment, then opened them and turned around. "Yes. I'll call you when things settle down again. We'll go to the coast." She didn't know if she was lying or not. But they both had known she wouldn't go to Seattle; she didn't like Lynne's husband or her own half brother, Jason. "Good night, Mom. Sleep well. I'm glad you came. Thanks."

    Back in her own room Brice was already in bed. They had twin beds pushed together, his mattress not as firm as hers, but he was on her side, waiting for her.

    "I need a little more time," she said, taking off her robe. "I'm sorry, but I need a little more time. I took a pill and I think I'll sleep okay tonight."

    "I just want to hold you," he said. When she got in beside him, he held her tenderly, stroking her shoulder, demanding nothing. She stared dry-eyed into the darkness of the room.

    Later, when he kissed her cheek and moved to his own bed, she pretended to be asleep and listened to his breathing change. He had a little snore, one that she was used to and sometimes even found comforting, but she felt herself go tense when he snored now. She waited longer, then silently got up, felt for her robe, and left the bedroom.

    The third bedroom had been turned into a study where Brice often worked at home. She entered and closed the door. There was no need for a light; his computer monitor was enough. An endless stream of aircraft flew silently by: zeppelins, the Wright brothers' first plane, SSTs, 747s, biplanes, helicopters, all forever flying from the void, going nowhere. Their ever-changing light flowed over the top of the funereal box, which Brice had placed on his desk.

    She had seen the box before; it was mahogany so dark, it looked black, finely carved all over with intricate patterns of flowers and birds—a souvenir from his R&R on Bali, Jud had said.

    "They carve everything," he had said that afternoon at the lake. "They'll start carving a living tree while it's still standing, the damnedest thing you can imagine—demons, birds, gods, snakes, flowers.... And they carve it for eight feet up, ten feet.... They carve the undersides of stairs, where no one will ever see the art. They carve the concrete walls at the airport...."

    "Why?"

    "I think it's a religious act," he said thoughtfully. "Nothing else quite explains it. They're expressing their religion through art. Little boys, four years old, five, they're already artists. They do the traditional things the same way their ancestors from the beginning of time did them, and then they do their own thing on the back of stairs, on boxes, whatever is at hand. In that climate nothing lasts very long except stone, and when the paint fades, gets washed away, or eaten by mold, they repaint it exactly the way it had been before. If a wooden object or building crumbles, they rebuild it exactly as it was before. You can't tell by looking if anything was made that morning or a hundred years ago. They're preserving the past, keeping the faith, but here or there, hidden away, they express whatever it is they need to say through their art."

    She had felt the box all over, the delicate tracery of flowers and stems, and thought that it was a magic box, that it contained secrets no one would ever decipher, except the boy who had carved it.

    "Honey," Jud had said that day, "this is important, listen up. When I die, I want my ashes to be buried in this box, here by the lake. I might never ask another thing of you, but this is important. Will you do that for me?"

    She had nodded solemnly. At ten years of age, she had not yet believed in dying. It did not occur to her to ask why he was telling her, not her mother. The divorce came two years after that. Perhaps he had already known Lynne would not be around to carry out his wishes.

    She touched the box on Brice's desk and again felt the mystery of the carved wood, the unknown, unknowable mystery of the artist who had carved it.

    She felt the mystery of the man whose ashes were inside it, her father, unknown, unknowable forever now.


Chapter Two


She ended up taking the sleeping pill that night and slept until Brice shook her awake at nine.

    "How do you feel?" he asked.

    Human, she thought, human monster with a watermelon for a head and leaden legs; that's what sleeping pills did to her. But feeling anything at all was an improvement. She said, "Okay," and pulled herself up and out of bed.

    "You should have gotten me up," she said in mild protest at the kitchen table when Brice said he already had taken her mother to the airport.

    "Honey, you were a walking zombie, out on your feet. I just wish that idiot cop hadn't said ten this morning; I would have let you sleep until noon, or even all day." He was opposite her at the breakfast table, studying her face anxiously.

    She drank her coffee, and when she started to rise to get the carafe, he jumped up and hurried across the kitchen; in passing, he kissed the top of her head.

    "Let me wait on you for just a little while. You don't know how I've felt, wanting to do something, anything. I watched you sleeping," he said, pouring the coffee, "and I wanted to sit there and not even breathe, just watch you."

    "I'm ... I'm sorry," she whispered, not looking up at him.

    "Oh, Christ! I didn't mean to dump a guilt trip on you. I've just been so goddamn helpless."

    "I know."

    She did know. They had been married for four years, and it was a good marriage; he was a tender and passionate lover; he brought her unexpected presents, listened attentively when she talked about the museum, her work there, her dissertation that was going nowhere; he, in turn, talked about his clients, the others in the office, his plans. They were lucky, she knew, especially when her friends talked about this couple or that, or their own failed marriages or affairs, or when she remembered her first marriage, she realized again how lucky they were. She understood and cherished what they had, but this week she had not wanted anyone to touch her, not her mother, not friends, not relatives, and not him.

    He touched her hair now, a fairy touch, light and tentative; although she willed herself not to flinch, not to stiffen, something was communicated, and he drew back. "Well," he said in a strained voice, "that cop is due any minute now. After he leaves, I have to check in at the office for a few hours. Will you be okay?"

    She nodded, aware only then that he had on a suit and tie, dressed for the office. She couldn't remember if he had gone in at all that week. Had he gone in to report on the weekend meeting? He must have, she thought miserably; his world hadn't caved in the way hers had. She simply hadn't paid any attention, like now, not noticing that he was dressed for clients, dressed for business in a good gray suit, maroon silk tie, shirt dazzling white. At thirty-four, he was even more handsome than when they married. Marriage agreed with him, he sometimes said jokingly. She wondered if his folks had left town yet, if they were driving home to Idaho, the potato farm. His father's hands had been spotlessly clean, she thought, and her mind skittered off in yet another direction.

    That was how she had been all week, unable to focus on any one thing for more than a few seconds and left with no memory of what she had been thinking. A persistent thought recurred: if he had had a fight with his father, he had to make amends now, before it was too late.

    Just then the doorbell rang. She had forgotten that the policeman had said he would come at ten, and she glanced down at herself in dismay; she was in jeans and an old sweater.

    "Finish your coffee," Brice said. "I'll take him to the living room."

    She left the coffee and followed him to the front door, where he was admitting the policeman and a woman with short brown hair so curly, it was almost too frizzy.

    "Lieutenant Caldwell, and this is Detective Varney," the policeman said politely, as if aware that she had no memory of their names.

    She nodded, and Brice said briskly, "Well, come on in. Do you want to take off your jacket and coat?"

    Caldwell was wearing a windbreaker; Detective Varney had a long dark green raincoat. She pulled it off, then held it, but he shook his head. "It's okay. Beautiful day out there, just right, not too hot, not too cool. And not raining," he added, making a leisurely examination of the foyer, of Brice and Abby, everything. He was a stocky man in his forties, heavy through the shoulders and chest, with dark hair turning gray at the temples, and dark eyes. Everything about him seemed too deliberate, too slow, as if he never had rushed in his life and would not be rushed now.

    "This way," Brice said, steering them toward the living room, where he and Abby sat on the sofa, and the lieutenant and detective sat in identical tapestry-covered chairs. The detective did not relax, but Caldwell settled back, crossed his legs, and examined the living room with the same methodical scrutiny he had given the foyer.

    "Nice house," Caldwell said finally.

    Abby could feel her stomach muscles tightening harder and harder. The house was nice, with good, maybe Danish furniture, good original art on the walls, even if not very much of it. There was a grouping of netsuke on the mantel; the lieutenant's gaze lingered on it as if in appraisal.

    Expensive, she wanted to say. Too expensive. Brice had brought home two of them from a trip to Los Angeles, her first anniversary gift, startling her. Take them back, she should have said; we can't afford them. But they were so beautiful....

    "Well, we're not selling and you're not buying, so let's get on with it," Brice said, glancing at his watch. "I already told you we've given statements to the local police. What more do you need?"

    Lieutenant Caldwell faced Abby and Brice then. "You see, Mr. Connors, that place where the crime happened is sort of in a no-man's-land, the lake and all. Part in one county, part in another, it makes for confusion. In cases like this they often call in the state investigators, and that's what happened this time. And just to keep things straight in my own head, I'd like to go over your statements again, get it firsthand, so to speak." He shrugged, almost apologetically, it seemed. "And, of course, you might have remembered something during the past few days that you didn't think of when the sheriff talked to you."

    "I can only repeat what I said before," Brice said wearily. "On Friday I drove to Portland for a business meeting with associates from my company. We had dinner together and talked until about ten-thirty. I went to bed around twelve. I had to make notes about the meeting; it took a while. On Saturday morning I checked out, drove down to Salem and had breakfast there, and then drove home. I gave the sheriff copies of the log of my trip and my receipts. And they already took our fingerprints, they said for elimination purposes. That's all I can tell you."

    Caldwell had been listening intently, consulting a notebook from time to time. He nodded. "Your firm is Hartmann and Fine Financial Services?"

    "Yes. The head office is in Bellingham; there's an office in Spokane, one in Olympia, in Portland, Salem, and here in Eugene. A representative from each office attended the meeting."

    "Your company in trouble?"

    "No. It's not like that! If you read the newspapers, you know how the market's been for over a year, crazy swings up and down. We have clients who get antsy when it gyrates like that. We've been having these meetings once a month over the past year. Purely routine."

    "You always go?"

    "No. There are three of us here in the Eugene office; we take turns. They aren't exactly pleasure jaunts, Lieutenant. It happened to be my turn."

    Caldwell nodded, as if everything Brice said checked out with the notes he had. Then he said, "I understand that some of the associates share rides. Do you do that?"

    "No," Brice said stiffly. "Dave Fulton is in Salem, and I would have stopped and picked him up, but I planned to stay over Friday night, and he didn't. So we drove up separately."

    "Do you usually stay up there overnight?"

    "That was the first time," Brice said. "The other times I went I didn't get home until after two in the morning. We never know when the meetings will end, and no matter when I go to bed, I'm awake by six-thirty. I decided to stay and get some sleep this time since Abby would be gone."

    "Did you check in at your office here in town before you drove up to Portland?"

    Brice's impatience was clearly strained almost past endurance. "I already told them. No. Abby didn't have to go to work until nine, and we lazed about that morning. I left when she did."

    The lieutenant asked more questions: where he had stayed, the names of his associates, where they had met, had dinner, where he had had breakfast. All things Brice had gone through with the sheriff, all things already in his notebook, Abby felt certain. Brice's tension was almost palpable; she took his hand and held it. At first he was as stiff and unresponsive as she had been all week, then he squeezed her hand and she could feel his tension ease. They were both like that, she thought fleetingly, coiled so hard and tight that a word, an expression, a breeze might make either of them erupt in some unpredictable way.

    "Okay," Caldwell said at last, and turned to Abby. "Mrs. Connors, you want to tell me about Friday?"

    She moistened her lips and released her hand from Brice's grasp, which had grown increasingly hard. "I was at the coast with friends."

    He smiled at her. "In just a little more detail, maybe?"

    "Jonelle, Jonelle Saltzman, picked me up when I got off work at about two, and we drove out. To Yachats. Emma Olson and Francesca Tremaine came out a little later. We walked around, ate dinner, and talked until very late. On Saturday the deputy came to tell me. Jonelle brought me home."

    "This is something you do often, go spend the weekend with your pals?"

    "Once a year, sometimes twice."

    "Who made the reservation?"

    "I did. At the Blue Horizon Cottages."

    "Why that weekend?"

    "Since Brice would be away, and the others could make it, it seemed a good time."

    "When's the last time you folks were at the lake, Mrs. Connors?"

    She moistened her lips again. "August."

    "I understand your father called you on Friday morning. Is that right?"

    She nodded.

    "What did he say? How did he sound?"

    "He asked if I could come over for the weekend, and I said I couldn't." She realized that the other detective, the woman, was watching her hands, and she glanced down and saw them clutching each other almost spasmodically. She flexed her fingers and spread them, then let her hands rest in her lap. "If I'd gone, it wouldn't have happened," she said in a low voice. "I could have gone there instead of to the coast. If I—"

    "For God's sake, Abby! You might have been killed, too," Brice said. "You couldn't have stopped the maniac who shot him. You would have been killed with him."

    "Do you remember exactly what he said that morning?" Caldwell said, ignoring Brice.

    She nodded. "He was happy and excited. He said, 'This is important. I have something to tell you.' He was laughing and happy. And I said I couldn't."

    "Did he say what was important?"

    She shook her head. "I asked if he could come to town on Saturday, that we could all have dinner Saturday night, and he said he'd just stay put and work."

    Brice put his arm around her shoulders, squeezed her shoulder lightly. "Lieutenant Caldwell, tell her she couldn't have prevented what happened out there. It wasn't her fault."

    Abby avoided glancing at him; he sounded desperate, pleading. A glance now might be the cue that would make her erupt into tears. And she was determined not to cry, not now. Get through this, that was all that mattered.

    "Tell me about the dog," Caldwell said, paying no attention whatsoever to Brice.

    Brice squeezed her shoulder harder.

    "Spook? What about her?" Abby asked.

    "Mr. Halburtson said she barked during the night, all the next morning. Did she bark a lot?"

    Coop Halburtson was the nearest neighbor to her father's cabin; he always heard Spook when she barked. Abby shook her head. "No. Just if a raccoon came around, or a cougar, or a stranger, something like that."

    "Did the dog stay out every night?"

(Continues...)


Excerpted from THE DEEPEST WATER by Kate Wilhelm. Copyright © 2000 by Kate Wilhelm. Excerpted by permission.

Meet the Author

Kate Wilhelm is an American author of science fiction and mystery novels. She began her writing career in 1956 with a series of science fiction short stories. Her debut novel was published in 1963 and was a mystery book titled More Bitter Than Death. Wilhelm’s best known series include the Barbara Hollowar mysteries and the Constance Leidl and Charlie Meiklejohn Mysteries. In 2003 she was inducted into the Science Fiction and Fantasy Hall of Fame. She won her first nebula award in 1968 for her short story The Planners and won her first Hugo Award for her novel Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang.

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4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 4 reviews.
harstan More than 1 year ago
Abby Connor is stunned when her father Jud, a noted novelist is murdered near an Oregon lake. Being closer to her dad than even her spouse, Abby goes through the motion of living. She struggles with her current relationships as a vacuum has left her prime connection severed. However, a revelation strikes her that Jud had to have known his killer because the dogs must have recognized the culprit.

Abby begins reevaluating her life and those currently in her life. She searches for a greater understanding of her father and ultimately his untimely death. Finally, deciding she needs closure, she examines his last unpublished novel thinking she will find the clue to uncover the identity of the culprit.

THE DEEPEST WATER is an intriguing suspense thriller due to Abby, as complete a protagonist as found in a novel. The tale starts innocently at a funeral, but builds up in tension as Abby regains her equilibrium and soon obsesses over her father¿s murder. The support cast provides grit to the novel as several individuals ¿advise¿ Abby on what she should do next. The enthralling story line will entice the audience to find other works by Kate Wilhelm.

Harriet Klausner

Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
Enjoyed this novel very much...It was SUSPENSEFUL, NOT SO VIOLENT AS SOME NOVELS. IT WAS A GOOD FAST SUSPENSE STORY.....and was good 'WITHOUT SEX!!' THEN THE SLY SUPRISE ENDING.

There was not a lot of useless wordy pages to fill space.

Guest More than 1 year ago
Abby's father is shot and killed in his remote cabin. She realizes that his latest book will tell her who the killer is. The story is interesting, but there¿s no cover to the killer. If you¿re paying attention you know the sequence of events 150 pages before the book ends. Nothing to purposefully read.