Page 102 of It Happened on the Lake

To make Harper so anxious to get out of here, she’d hire him to make all the necessary repairs?

Really? she asked herself but knew the answer.

It all came down to money.

And her best friend’s husband.

She just had to prove it.

And the only way to do that was to catch him in the act.

Back into the house and up the stairs she went. Again, her hip started to ache, and again, she ignored the nagging pain.

In the tower room she didn’t bother with lights but walked directly to the window to stare across the lake to Fox Point.

No lights glowed from Rand’s A-frame, and even though Levi had moved into the house next door, the Hunts’ cottage showed no signs of life. She hadn’t seen a glimpse of Levi after their argument about Dawn and couldn’t imagine what their next meeting would be like.

Closer to the swim park, lights were on at the Sievers’ home. She saw people moving in and out of the kitchen in the back, but as time passed, most of the lights were turned off, although a TV with its shifting images was partially visible.

As usual, the house at the other end of the street, the Musgraves’ cabin, was completely dark.

Not so the Alexanders’ house, which was the one that held her interest tonight.

There was activity there, people moving about, so she took the time to reheat a cup of coffee and lace it with bourbon. Then she returned to the tower room and kept the lights off to ensure she wasn’t backlit and couldn’t be seen.

Propping herself up with pillows, she sipped her drink and kept her binoculars trained on the Alexanders’ house.

As she sipped, Harper observed Beth, curly hair piled onto her head, dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and leggings.

She moved about her kitchen making microwave popcorn and pouring a glass of white wine.

After dumping the popcorn from its bag into a big bowl, she balanced the bowl and glass on her way to the living room.

Then she put the popcorn on the table and plopped onto the couch to sip wine.

“Cheers,” Harper said, holding up her cup in a toast where they would clink the rims of their drinks. As if Beth could hear her. As if Beth had any idea Harper was playing the part of the voyeur. On her best friend’s family.

Harper did feel a little bad about spying but didn’t stop. Not when she was certain Beth’s husband, and possibly Beth herself, were involved in plotting to terrorize her.

So Harper kept watching as Beth picked up the TV remote to channel surf, eventually landing on MTV, where a black and white Guns N’ Roses music video was playing.

Harper watched, found herself humming to the tune of “Sweet Child o’ Mine,” and kept drinking. She spied Max in the house, appearing from a hallway, their big dog tagging after him.

In pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, wearing headphones attached to his Walkman, Max went into the kitchen for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and bottle of Gatorade.

He grabbed a spoon, took a couple of bites right out of the container, then wandered into the living room.

Eyes on the television, he stopped by the couch to say a few words to his mom, then ambled off, disappearing into the hall.

A minute later lamplight glowed in his room.

His shades were drawn, she couldn’t see what he was doing and didn’t care.

How much of a creepy voyeur could she be?

Max was a kid.

And Harper’s interest lay with Craig.

She found him in his office/workout room in the basement, shuffling papers, taking phone calls, so she sipped slowly, wondering about him. About Beth.

At eleven Harper reheated the last of the coffee, added a final shot of liquor, then returned to her post.

Max’s room was dark.

Fifteen minutes later Beth retreated to her bedroom and shut off the lights.

But Craig was still up. He stood in front of the stationary bike and was throwing darts at his dartboard, three of which landed near the bull’s-eye.

He was taking aim again, then stopped suddenly, turned, and walked to his desk. He answered the phone, cradling it next to his ear and pausing his game, as his attention was riveted to whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying.

She watched as his entire body grew tenser, muscles in his jaw bulging, his face becoming a deep red.

His side of the conversation came in short answers, and Harper had no experience reading lips.

But his body language indicated that he was angry as hell as he slammed down the receiver.

He threw the darts he was still holding at the board, one at a time in rapid succession.

Zing!

The first dart went wild. Barely hit the board.

Zing!

The second was a better shot, sticking closer to the center of the board.

Zing!

The third dart was right on the money. A bull’s-eye.

Visually calmer, he snatched all six darts from the board and pocketed them, then strode through the door to the hallway to the bottom of the staircase that led upward.

A few seconds later the kitchen was flooded with light and Craig appeared, his features hard and set but his face no longer flushed.

As if his anger had given way to gritty determination.

He beelined to the fridge, yanked out a bottle of beer, and twisted off the top.

Taking a long swallow, he walked through the slider to the deck.

He set his bottle down on the top rail and lit a cigarette, the flame of his lighter illuminating his grim face for a second.

He drew deep, then exhaled and didn’t seem to notice that his dog had wandered through the open door and made his way down the exterior steps.

While Craig smoked, Rambo nosed around the lower deck where a kayak and patio furniture were stored.

Nearby was a stack of firewood and a scarred stump that was obviously used as a chopping block.

An ax had been buried deep into the stump.

In her mind’s eye Harper imagined Craig with an ax in his hand, throwing his shoulders into swinging the heavy blade downward to split chunks of fir.

She imagined the split pieces spinning and flying across the deck and into the yard and Craig stacking them next to his house.

She thought about the empty bins in her own basement, where once firewood had been stored.

Craig knew this house like the back of his hand.

He and Beth had financial issues.

He wanted to renovate her house.

His wife wanted to sell it.

Both of them profiting if Harper hired Craig’s construction company to fix up the place and then Harper sold it through Alexander Realty.

Still looking through the telescope, she watched as he drained his beer and flicked the butt of his cigarette into the air, its red tip arcing, then dying as he stalked into the house again.

He made his way to the front hall where he picked up his jacket, then headed down the stairs to the basement.

Now what? she wondered, her gaze glued to the scenario playing in front of her.

Within seconds she saw him storming across the yard and into the boathouse.

Not a minute later the boat churned out of its berth and into the lake where Craig, at the helm, turned it, pointing the prow directly toward Dixon Island.

Harper smiled. “Well, come on then,” she said aloud, her racing heart belying her calm words.

She headed down the stairs quickly, stopped on the first floor where she’d left the shotgun, and carried it down another flight to the basement even though she knew shooting it in a confined area was dangerous. Possibly deadly. Shotgun pellets would ricochet everywhere.

Threatening to fire the shotgun was a bluff at best.

Actually pulling the trigger, a last resort at worst.

For backup she grabbed the poker, then positioned herself so she could view the chute. Sitting on the gritty brick floor, her back propped against one of the old furnaces, she held the gun across her lap.

Then she waited.