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An ex-policeman finds a dead body on his newly acquired land. An intriguing tale involving murder, drugs and chickens.

Synopsis

Karl Warren came to small-town Idaho to escape the big-city police force, to be free of the ghosts of his past. He wanted chickens instead of a life full of death, sin, and human misery.

Instead, he uncovers the dirt and ugliness of his new paradise. While sifting through a growing pile of dead bodies, Warren discovers the town has more evil hiding.

As the pieces slowly fall into place, Warren realizes he may need skills from his past if he wants to survive. Westwood's web of dangerous secrets and deception requires unraveling.

I must confess that reading about the finding of yet another dead female body in the first chapter did encourage me to class the book in the long line of serial killer/weary detective tropes and prepared myself for the usual police procedural. However, a rather odd-ball main character, a feisty and level-headed woman police chief and a web of intrigue going back years turned it into a more of a character-driven exercise, as years of deception come to light - some of it on the part of the ex-policeman himself.

 Karl Warren has recently taken early retirement from the police force, following his wife Laura’s leaving him, and has bought 40 acres in the lee of Rathdrum mountain in Idaho, with a barn and small living quarters attached. He has partially renovated the living quarters, installed some chickens, and wants to turn his plot into a wild flower meadow. So far, so idyllic. However, in the process of harrowing the land to rid it of stone, he finds the body. The plot had belonged to a lumber-mill supervisor who had died in an accident 5 years ago and all his effects remain in the barn in boxes. In one of these, hidden at the bottom, is  something which alerts Karl as to what has happened.

The story is intricately plotted with various parts of the jigsaw provided in just sufficient quantities to puzzle us and provide clues, some to highlight aspects of Karl’s character and his reasons for leaving the police force, some to reveal what is happening at the mill and why. However sometimes we are wrong-footed by unexpected revelations, some of which include Karl covering himself in body lotion (don’t ask, you’ll have to read it) as well as much discussion of the chickens.  The characters' dilemmas are clearly drawn - Karl’s despair at the misery and death he encounters in his police work (which has led to his introversion and inability to connect) and Laura’s discouragement and unavailing efforts to help him.  ‘All those people are dead,’ she says, ‘.. but you’re not. You’re alive. Do something about it!’ He doesn’t, but refers to her throughout as Lost Love, which I found rather saccharine. The unravelling of the plot and the morally ambiguous double twist at the end should please lovers of the genre and it makes for a highly entertaining read. 

Reviewed by

Jenny Hill (Jaye Sarasin) Took early retirement from teaching to write YA (The Green Enclave, 2023, Keepers of the Sun, Parfoys Press 2024 Published Using Literature in Language Teaching (Macmillan 1986) as Jennifer Hill Passionate reader, gardener, traveller

Synopsis

Karl Warren came to small-town Idaho to escape the big-city police force, to be free of the ghosts of his past. He wanted chickens instead of a life full of death, sin, and human misery.

Instead, he uncovers the dirt and ugliness of his new paradise. While sifting through a growing pile of dead bodies, Warren discovers the town has more evil hiding.

As the pieces slowly fall into place, Warren realizes he may need skills from his past if he wants to survive. Westwood's web of dangerous secrets and deception requires unraveling.

Spring 2019



The stones came up every year, like mushrooms. They crept up bit by bit with the annual frost heaves as the earth chilled and thawed. Left alone long enough, perhaps the field would end up being littered with the type of stones that would elsewhere cost $200 per ton at a landscape supplier.

This field had been left alone long enough, though. Last year, my first on the property, I paid a neighbor to disc up the field and broadcast a native seed mix, fescue, and wildflowers mainly. Having been ignored for several years, the 20-acre patch had turned to knapweed, vetch, tansy, and oxeye daisy. It hadn't been grazed or mowed or burned or sprayed. Nothing. An excellent five-year project for what I had in mind.

The land was just shy of forty acres and dead flat. It was a triangle whose eastern side traveled northeast along what once was a railroad line. Bordered by Wyoming Avenue to the south, neighboring hay fields to the west, and a drainage ditch between the two was lined with the fruits of previous stone harvests. The field itself would still need a couple more years before it was back to health, but some carefully managed goat grazing, when I eventually get them, and harrowing should bring it back to almost pristine condition. I had no desire to use the land for hay. Instead, I wanted to create a native oasis, and I had the plan to do it.

For the second time in as many springs, I used the antique, red, and grey tractor to ride over every square inch of the field, dragging a harrow rake. The previous owner's family left it behind when they abandoned the property, and I was more than happy to make good use of it. Harrowing knocked down any furrows caused by the discs, filled any low spots, and gave the seeds a good covering of earth in which to take root. It also educated me on how many stones there were in this piece of dirt. On all the other properties nearby, I had seen huge piles and long rows of stones dumped after they had been gathered from the fields. A farmer would work the soil and then send a son or daughter out with a pick-up or 4-wheeler and trailer to collect them. The rock harvest would usually take longer than any other aspect of the farming cycle. Nothing was growing yet, and the kids needed a chore to keep them out of trouble. Hence, this part of the country had lots of fields with four-foot-tall stone boundaries.

It was during this, my second season of stone harvesting, that the problems began. The year before, I had noticed an unusually large collection of stones, or rather, so many in one tight place. It didn't seem like the rest of the field, but I didn't give it too much thought. Plenty of stones to deal with, so no use getting worked up over these few. This year, the same problem in the same area. The harrow grabbed just enough of the buried nuggets that they dislodged the others, exposing 10 or 12 to the grey sky. It was unusual enough to get on my radar but not enough for me to alter my plan. What could possibly be wrong, right?

I didn't return to that spot for two days. I had been harvesting from other parts of the field and had started an impressive collection for the stone wall I was hoping to build. By the time I returned, oddly enough, the rocks hadn't moved on their own like I had wanted them to. One by one, they went into the back of my new-to-me farm truck.  


BAM!  


BAM!  


The low clouds and the closeness of the mountains made the din of granite on metal echo loudly. A rich, satisfying tone.

As I cleared the first few stones, I could see that there were several more just below the surface. Might as well, I thought. There was no way this project was going to be easy, so I just kept plugging along. By the 23rd stone (I was odd about counting things), I began to ignore a growing suspicion that the rocks were in an unnaturally neat, elongated shape. "Nope. Perfectly natural." I half-whispered to no one in particular.

It was rock number 37 that did the trick. Nothing special about it. Mostly grey, a few specks of black, and two ribbons of white going through the center. Its uniqueness was what lay beneath it. I saw the cuff of a sleeve from the remnants of what was probably a grey hoodie or sweater. And with it, a small, desiccated hand.

Though not a surprise at this point, I did have to take a step back to collect my thoughts. It's not every day that you find a dead body. Rarer still to find an old one buried on your property, property you bought and moved to for the express purpose of not finding dead bodies anymore.

Despite the apparent age of the body and its long-term exposure to the elements, it still had traces of that smell, that goddamn smell of death and decay. I said to the world my first clear words of the day, "Well … Fuck!"

I may have to alter some expectations of this new life in Westwood, Idaho.



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1 Comment

Daniel BaumerWow! What a kind and thoughtful review for my debut novel. I really appreciate it. Reviews like that make me want to work on my craft and right more.
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About the author

Soon after discovering that one could paint brilliant pictures using only the written word, I became an avid reader. Since then, starting with Richard Adams 'Watership Down,' I've journeyed around the world, gone into strange new ones, and have dived deep within this current one. view profile

Published on March 24, 2023

80000 words

Contains mild explicit content ⚠️

Genre:Mystery & Crime

Reviewed by