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A reader wants a heroine she can understand, admire, aspire to be. But a reader also wants to see that main character as an extension of herself. If the heroine confronts a murderer, the reader does so as well, as the heroine's loyal companion in that story. The average reader is just as good and clever and brave as the person she chooses to follow into a literary adventure, and a good book helps her (or him) come to that realization.

-From the notebooks of Camilla Graham



Nostalgia isn't a phenomenon reserved exclusively for those in later life; it can take a person of any age by surprise, simply by reminding her of what once was, and is no more. Walking through Blue Lake, Indiana, on a crisp October morning made me feel nostalgic for a Lena London of the past, a Lena who would never exist again. That Lena had entered town under a dark cloud, full of fear and wonder at the idea of meeting her new employer (and idol), Camilla Graham. That Lena had been surprised to meet a young police detective on the side of the road, and then later at the site of a murder, and had been initially suspicious of his charm. She had disliked the local recluse, Sam West, on sight, but grew troubled when she learned his tragic story. And she had been glad to know that at least one person in town, her best friend from high school, Allison Branch, would always love and protect her.



Now, almost a year later, standing on a scenic overlook that let me admire the sun-dappled town and the glorious lake (which did in fact look very blue today), I realized how different my life had become-drastically, irrevocably different. Camilla Graham, my unknown employer, had become my family, my dear friend and confidante. Doug Heller, too, that wonderful police detective who had solved several mysteries in town since my arrival, was like my brother, and his girlfriend, Belinda, a genius of a research librarian who had helped me solve two very personal mysteries, was like a sister. Allison had proven her friendship to me time and again, most recently when I was recovering from a terrible injury; she had nursed me both physically and emotionally. All of my Blue Lake friends had become a sort of family in one way or another. Most significant of all, Sam West, the scowling, unfriendly neighbor of one year ago-the man who had been accused of murdering his own wife, and later of murdering his wife's friend-was in fact a kind, gentle, generous, and sexy man. He stood beside me now, not as a friend or a neighbor, but as my fiancŽ. I glanced down at the ring on my left hand, and at the scar on my left arm, partly visible now that I had pushed up the sleeve of my sweatshirt; the scar, white and almost pearlescent, was more than six inches long when totally uncovered. Some memories stayed with you, imprinted on your very skin . . .



"Are you having one of your deep-thoughts meditations?" asked Sam, studying me with his exquisite blue eyes. "Because you've been awfully quiet, and I thought we were going to make some wedding plans while we walked."



"Sorry. It's been almost a year, did you realize that? It struck me this morning when I put Lestrade's vet appointment on the calendar. Almost a full year in this town, and a lot of turbulent water under the bridge."



"Very true." Sam looked out at the lake but reached out his right arm and pulled me against his side. "But it's also true that sometimes you can come through adversity and find life even better on the other side. How can I complain when I have you? And Cliff? And all these new friends?"



"You can't," I said.



"Then I won't." He leaned over and kissed the top of my head. "Do you want to get married here? Or in Chicago, where you grew up? Or in Florida, near your dad? Or in Indianapolis, where we've escaped for some very romantic dates? Or on some far-flung island, like all those trendy people who have 'destination weddings'?"



"How do you know about destination weddings?"



"I've done my research. I'm a very thorough person." He looked at me, all windblown brown hair and deep smile lines and intense blue eyes, and his second statement seemed somehow suggestive. I blushed, and he smiled.



I shook my head and looked back at the lake, taking a deep breath of fall air. "Mmm. Someone is burning leaves. I have to tell you-despite everything we've been through in this town-I can't imagine getting married anywhere but here, can you?" I glanced back his way.



He shrugged. "Not really."



"Okay. One wedding plan decided. It will happen in Blue Lake."



"Actually, two plans. The first was that we decided who to marry."



"That goes without saying."



"I just like to say it," said Sam. "I'm going to marry Lena London."



I hugged him and kissed his newly shaven cheek. "I like it when you say it, too."



"It's a good thing Cliff and Doug aren't here. They would find our dialogue disgusting."



"Only because they're jealous, though God knows why. They both have women in their lives. At least Doug does. Has Cliff finally asked Isabelle to go out with him?"



"I don't know. He's been very closemouthed about it, which is not like Cliff. I know they both work weird shifts, which probably makes it harder."



"Love conquers all," I said.



"Ours did."



I squeezed him more tightly. "That should be in our vows, don't you think?"



"Absolutely. Along with something about not believing in first impressions, and the importance of cats and dogs in forming a strong relationship."



I giggled. Sam had recently become the adoptive parent of four cats, two of whom he had given to his half brother, Cliff (another new addition to his life). Now, between his two cats, my spoiled feline Lestrade, and Camilla's two dogs, we made animals a big part of our daily routine.



Sam's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out and answered after kissing my cheek. "This is Sam . . . Hey, Doug, we were just talking about you! What? Okay-yeah, we can do that. No, that's fine. We'll be there in ten minutes." He ended the call, his expression suddenly sober. He stared for a moment at the gold-orange vista before him, thinking his thoughts.



"What's wrong?"



"I'm not sure. Doug said he needs our help, and he wants us to come to Belinda's house."



"What-? That's weird. Is he on duty?"



"I don't know-wait, yes, I do. Cliff told me last night that he, Cliff, was on duty today because Doug had the day off and was going to take Belinda to Daleville for their Oktoberfest."



It was unlike Doug Heller to ask for help, and a gray, miserable feeling started to worm its way into my consciousness. "Okay, let's go. We can take my new car-it's closest." We moved quickly back down the path until we reached the pebbled driveway of Graham House, where Camilla lived. She was outside now, throwing tennis balls for her German shepherds, Heathcliff and Rochester, who cavorted in the fall air like happy lambs. Camilla looked good. She had new glasses that accentuated her delicate bone structure, and she had been taking daily walks with her devoted boyfriend, Adam, leaving her looking fit and contented. She and Adam were about to leave on a short trip in search of togetherness and fall color.



"Hello," she said. Then, ever attuned to our feelings, she said, "Something's up?"



Sam shrugged. "Doug called and asked us to come to Belinda's. He sounded a little-out of sorts."



The dogs were back; they laid slobbery balls at Camilla's feet, and she picked them up and threw them again. "Go, by all means. Lena knows I was going to have lunch with Adam on the way out of town, anyway. But please do keep me apprised. You know I'll worry if you don't."



I think Camilla saw us all as her Blue Lake children-Sam and me, Doug Heller and Belinda, and my best friend, Allison, and her husband, John. We were all around the same age, and we all looked up to Camilla and Adam. If Blue Lake was a kingdom, then they were the king and queen, with their castle at the top of the bluff. "We will, of course," I said. "And I know we're back on our writing schedule on Monday, correct? I assume you'll be back by the weekend and Adam isn't driving you all the way to Maine or somewhere." Camilla laughed. "Meanwhile, Sam and I will keep an eye on things here."



"Thank you. Yes, back to work on Monday, but for now we can all go play in the leaves. It's a perfect time to witness some autumnal splendor, isn't it? I think Adam wants to leave by noon. But I'll have my phone on, and I want to hear everything."



"Yes, all right. Have a great time." I gave her a quick hug, then ran inside to get my keys and purse, and then Sam and I climbed into my new car-a green Dodge Caravan. My father had approved its safety rating (since my last car had been totaled in an accident) and my insurance company had approved the price. I waved to Camilla as we pulled away; the dogs stood at her feet, staring at me with wide, panting mouths.



Navigating the pebbly downward road that was lined with trees dressed in yellow and rust-colored leaves, I stole a glance at Sam. "Any guesses what this could be about?"



He shook his head. "Truly not a clue. Everything seemed fine last night, didn't it?"



We had dined with Doug and Belinda the evening before; Sam had barbecued steaks on his back patio and we ate them in his large kitchen. Belinda had been proud of the potato salad she made from scratch, and Doug's eyes had drifted to her often, just as his hand often found its way into her long blond hair. He smiled at her whenever she addressed him. It had been comforting to see them so happy together.



We drove down Lake Road, bound for Belinda's place, and I gazed at the scenery that flitted past in bursts of color. What a sensory experience fall was-the red trees, the fragrant wood smoke, the taste of hot chocolate, the sound of the cold lake water lapping the dock, the feel of soft fleece when I donned a favorite fall jacket. I loved it all.



I reached for Sam, still looking out the window, and as always, he understood. His warm hand enveloped mine as my gaze lighted on two men walking on the side of the road. Workmen, by the look of them, with sturdy jeans and plaid flannel jackets. One of them held a camera and some tool I didn't recognize. The taller of the two turned and made eye contact with me as we drove past; his face was particularly unfriendly, almost villainous. But that was one of Camilla's words, and I was probably half writing the men into some future book.



They turned suddenly down a dirt path and disappeared into the woods.



"What are they up to?" I asked.



Sam made a sound of agreement. "I was just wondering that. I'm using process of elimination. They don't look like brothers or friends going fishing. No poles, and not much interaction between them."



"No, they look official somehow. Blue Lake Township Office?"



Sam shook his head. "I don't think so. Why would anyone from the township be out here?"



"Surveyors, maybe?"



"Maybe." Sam's brows furrowed. "But they didn't have surveying equipment."



I squeezed his hand, then put mine back on the steering wheel. "I guess we should stop looking for mysteries everywhere. We've had enough of them."



"God, yes. Enough to last a lifetime."



"Including this thing with Doug. Why would he want us to come to Belinda's?"



"We'll find out," he said, as I flipped on my blinker and turned left on One Shoe Road.



Sam drummed his fingers on his armrest. "Why's it called One Shoe Road, anyway? And why are all these shoes always lying here? I assume there's a story behind it."



"There is! Camilla told me that years ago a shoe appeared near the stoplight-just one shoe, as sometimes happens, making travelers wonder how it got there. Same with those shoes you see hanging from telephone poles and electric wires and stuff."



"Okay, back to the story."



"So apparently no one came to remove the shoe-no cleanup crew, no police officer. Maybe everyone thought it was someone else's job. So finally, locals decided it was funny, and someone put up a handmade sign next to the shoe that said, 'I'm lonely.'"



Sam laughed. "Don't tell me. Mr. Shoe started getting friends."



"Yup. A few appeared the same week as the sign, and then more and more, until the story about shoes at the intersection of Lake Road and Longwill, as it was called then, made the local newspaper."



"Huh."



"It became a part of Blue Lake tradition. People tend to put shoes out there as a rite of passage. Birthdays, graduations, engagements. You have to admit, they're lined up pretty neatly. I've seen tourists ask Marge Bick where they can find Shoe Corner, which I guess is what people call that intersection."



"We're famous. And when exactly did they change the name?"



"Camilla says it was about ten years ago, and it coincided with the town's centennial celebration."



"Huh. So Blue Lake is more than one hundred years old. I guess that makes sense. Although in the early 1900s Blue Lake was probably three houses and a barn. Hey, look at that." Sam pointed to a sign near the roadway and I glanced at it. A homemade poster nailed to a stake read, in dark black marker, "Keep Blue Lake Clean! Down with PLASTI-SOURCE!!"



"Wow," I said. "What does it say underneath there?"



"The Blue Lake Ecology Commission."



"But there is no such thing, and if there were, I think they'd spring for more expensive signage. Probably just an angry citizen wanting to add some drama to the protest."



I was still pondering this as we drew closer to our destination. I knew the way to Belinda's house well now; I had visited it first at a July Fourth celebration (not a happy evening) but had been back several times since, sometimes in a gathering of couples, sometimes just when Belinda and I wanted to chat. On those latter occasions, my friend Allison occasionally joined us. We all had different work schedules, so our social meetings had to be timed carefully. We did a lot of texting.