Page 109 of It Happened on the Lake

B eneath the broad brim of her hat, sweat trickled down the side of Olivia Dixon’s face. For once, she was alone, not even babysitting her granddaughter, Harper, though truth to tell, Harper was long past needing a sitter.

Olivia fanned herself a bit as she sipped her gin and tonic on the terrace.

This summer was one of the hottest on record in Oregon, and boats were scattered on the lake.

People swimming and waterskiing or just cruising along the shoreline on this beastly hot day, a rare summer day in Oregon where the temperature had soared to the triple digits.

She watched as hummingbirds and butterflies flitted through the flowers.

There were honeybees as well, and she even caught sight of a hornet.

She wondered if she would have to catch a few of the shiny creatures, but maybe not.

Maybe today would be the last that she would need them.

She crossed her fingers as the black wasp crawled over the rim of a terra-cotta pot.

With its white skull-like head and white rings on its tail end, it looked deadly.

Aggressive. Able to sting through some cloth.

Their sting was painful, and they defended their nests vehemently. Small. Fierce. Fatal.

She and the hornets had so much in common.

More than anyone knew.

Marilyn, her gorgeous calico, was sunning herself near the back door while that stinker Diablo was slinking through the shrubbery, on the hunt, his long gray tail twitching in anticipation.

“Don’t you dare,” Olivia warned him as he eyed a hummingbird with its shiny pink crown.

Oh, that cat was a devil and appropriately named.

Another sip and she heard the sound of a Corvette’s engine.

So he was returning. And it was too hot of a day for him to have the top of the convertible down. Oh no, it would piss him off, but he’d have it up and the air conditioning blasting.

She knew.

She’d ridden with him enough to know.

And she hadn’t been the only one. He’d had more than his share of floozies in that car with him doing God-only-knew-what.

Her blood turned poisonous as she thought of his philandering and how shameless he’d been.

How she had curdled inside when she’d learned of his flings.

The distasteful gossip, usually from Louise Chilcote while playing a “friendly” game of bridge or gin rummy.

Louise, with her Lucille Ball red hair teased into a coiffed beehive, was a pathetic card player but had a keen mind for gossip and a sharp tongue for delivering it.

Too often, Louise had offered kind, consoling words about George’s latest rumored affair, trying to look sadly concerned for Olivia.

However, Louise had never been able to hide the sparkle of nasty delight and satisfaction in her eyes at divulging a tantalizing secret she’d heard from her husband, Roger, the pot-smoking mayor of this tiny town, a damned druggie!

It didn’t matter that Louise would make a stupid card play.

Oh no. What had been important was that her bit of scandal had hit its mark in embarrassing Olivia. And embarrassed her it had. Always.

Once teenage rivals, now superficial friends, Louise, a neighbor who lived in a modest home on the north shore, had always wanted to one-up the woman with her own private island.

Well, no more!

Olivia had seen to it that she would never be embarrassed by her randy, obscene husband again.

If not today, then tomorrow, or the next.

But soon. Very soon she’d be rid of the beast that made the gargoyles guarding the drive seem tame.

Listening and sipping, watching the ice cubes melt in her glass, she heard the roar of the Corvette’s engine as he accelerated along the rim of the lake. He was driving recklessly. As he always did. Thinking himself impervious to any kind of catastrophe.

And he’d be wearing his cap despite the heat and the fact that the top was up. Incredibly vain, he kept his ever-growing bald spot covered at all times.

“Fool,” she whispered, taking another swallow.

She listened.

Anticipating.

Knowing he would be approaching the S curve, two sharp twists in the road rimming the lake.

She felt her pulse elevate in anticipation.

The powerful engine revved more loudly.

Oh, he was driving fast. Too fast.

She waited. Held her breath.

The S curve was the most likely place for—

Brakes squealed.

Oh!

She perked up.

Heard the crash, a thunderous roar as if the entire earth were shaking.

That unmistakable and horrible sound of groaning, twisting metal.

The splintering of tree limbs. The shattering of breaking glass.

Loud. Long. As, she imagined, the car tumbled off the steep slope, spinning end over end and bouncing against the sheer cliffs and towering firs.

Then the crashing stopped, but a horn began to sound in a steady monotone, like the sound of a heart monitor flatlining.

Perfect.

Slowly she sipped from her glass.

Swatted at a pesky mosquito.

It took several minutes. In fact, she was able to finish her drink before she heard the faraway wail of a siren.

The hornet buzzed around her head, and she smiled before lighting a cigarette.

“Not today,” she told the pesky insect as it landed on the glass-topped table. “I won’t be needing you today, and, if I’m lucky, never again.” She smashed her glass down on the black and white creature before taking a long, calming drag.

Today, she hoped, she’d gotten rid of that scumbag she’d been married to for far too many years. Today, it seemed God, with the help of a hornet or two, had done her dirty work for her and that miserable son of a bitch she’d been married to—yoked to—for ages was finally meeting his maker.

“Good.”

She figured it was really God’s hand that had guided the hornets to George’s bare face and neck, God’s will that they had caused him to panic, had even stung him with their deadly venom.

Because he was so allergic to them. Anaphylaxis.

What a long exotic term for severe, even fatal, allergic shock.

And he already had a weak heart, which, of course, was God’s doing as well.

It wasn’t murder.

It was diabolical. Well, maybe.

But murder?

Not really.

That would be a sin.

She sketched the sign of the cross over her chest and sent up a small prayer of thanks for what she believed to be the end of her torment, the end of her husband.

She picked up her glass, scraping the remains of the lifeless hornet off the bottom and finished off her drink.

Then she decided to pour herself another.

Just one, mind you.

To celebrate.