If I’d known Charlotte would pick the hottest day of summer for the hike to Wolf Bog, I might have thought twice about going. But then again, I might have gone anyway, Charlotte being such a good friend. By Charlotte, I mean Charlotte Hinckley. She’s the executive director of the land trust in the Berkshire town of New Nottingham. It’s the place where I come to relax at my rental house after spending the work week in Boston. I’m Kathryn Stinson, and I’m in my early thirties, which made me the youngest member on the hike that day. Besides Charlotte and me, there was Wally, aka Rufus Wallingford, Esquire, Charlotte’s estate attorney, and another good friend of hers; Steve Reikart, a veteran of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, whom Charlotte had taken under her wing; and my neighbors on Rattlesnake Hill, Hal and Betty Phelps.

The hike wasn’t so bad at the beginning. It took us through the woods, where we had nice views of the sparkling waters of Many Acre Lake and Indigo Pond. How I wished we could’ve stopped for a dip in one of those lakes! But no, we had to trudge on to Wolf Bog. We left the wide, well-marked trail, which allowed us to walk side by side, and shaded us from the sun’s scorching rays, to follow a narrow, overgrown path that was out in the open, exposing us to the full force of the sun and making us prey to prickly plants and pesky insects—ouch! That’s when I started having my doubts.

I wondered if any of my fellow hikers shared my growing discomfort. Not Wally, probably. He was our guide and had grown up on the edge of the vast expanse of wetlands called Many Acre Swamp, so he knew what to expect. Not Charlotte either. She’d spent years in the rainforests of Madagascar studying lemurs, and was in great shape. Or Steve Reikart: as a former Marine he was used to roughing it. As for Hal and Betty, I’d bet good money that Hal would rather have spent the afternoon on the golf course, while Betty would’ve preferred shopping. I’d no sooner thought this than Betty stopped to wipe her sweat-beaded forehead with a handkerchief and take a long drink from her water bottle.

I stopped too. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, but I hope we get there soon. When we reach the bog, I’ll want to jump in the water.”

“Better not.” Hal joined us. “With more muck than water, a bog’s not a good place to swim.”

“Hal’s right.” Charlotte strode back to us, trailed by Steve and Wally.

Betty swatted a mosquito away. “Remind me why we’re going there.”

“Wolf Bog’s a special place,” Wally said. “It’s one of the few remaining examples of a New England bog.”

“If you say so,” Betty said.

We forged ahead and twenty minutes later, Wally directed us to gather on a stretch of high ground above the bog. Before us lay an expanse of water, floating vegetation, and hillocks of sedge grass, rimmed by dark soil, where the water had receded due to the drought.

Wally pointed at the vegetation with his hiking pole. “Those masses of floating plants you see are called bog mats. They’re fragile and easily damaged.”

Charlotte’s brow furrowed as she stared at the bog. “There’s something down there. A dead animal or . . .?” She raised her binoculars to get a better look.

“Where?” Wally asked. She pointed to a spot on the peat at the edge of the water. Wally had barely lifted his binoculars when Charlotte cried, “Oh, my God, it’s a body!” And took off toward it.

“No, don’t go there!” Wally grabbed at her, but she eluded him. When Charlotte was almost to the body−−if that’s what it was−−she began to sink into the bog. She waved her arms and twisted her legs, but her struggles only made her sink deeper.

I stared at Charlotte, horrified. How would we ever get her out of there without being sucked in ourselves?

Wolf Bog, A Berkshire Hilltown Mystery #3
Genre: Traditional
Release: July 2022
Purchase Link

In the drought-ridden Berkshires a group of hikers that includes Kathryn Stinson discover the perfectly preserved body of a local teenager, missing for forty years, at Wolf Bog. Who was he and what happened between him and Kathryn’s close friend, Charlotte Hinckley, to make her distraught and blame herself for his death? Searching for answers, Kathryn learns of the fabulous parties held at a mansion up the hill from her, where local teenagers like the deceased mingled with the offspring of the wealthy. Other questions dog the arrival of a woman claiming to be the daughter Charlotte gave up for adoption. But is she really Charlotte’s daughter, and if not, what’s her game? Once again, Kathryn’s quest for the truth puts her in grave danger.

About the author
Leslie Wheeler divides her time between Cambridge, Massachusetts and the Berkshire Hills of Western Mass. where she writes in a house overlooking a pond. When not writing, she tends her flower and vegetable gardens, and goes on hikes with the town land trust. Landscapes inspire her. She especially enjoys mysteries with a strong sense of place like those by Ann Cleeves and Louise Penny.

All comments are welcomed.