Page 188 of It Happened on the Lake

He found his father in the men’s bar, a cozy room complete with a huge fireplace, views of the first tee, and a smattering of tables over an industrial-strength plaid carpet. Several men chatting about the Portland Trail Blazers basketball team were crowded over sandwiches and beers at the long bar that separated the kitchen from the card room.

He saw his father with three other men at one of the designated card tables. After asking for a card from the dealer, Gerald received it, frowned, tossed his hand down, and finished what remained in a short whiskey glass. “I fold,” he said and glanced up just as Rand approached. “Deal me out.”

He finished his drink and scooted back in his chair. He must’ve read the grim expression on his son’s face because he motioned Rand away from the table where the game continued. “What’s up?” he asked, stepping away from the table. “Did someone die?” Then before Rand could answer, Gerald guessed. “This is about Cynthia Hunt.”

“To start with.”

With a glance at the table where his friends were still playing cards, Gerald suggested, “Let’s talk outside,” then led Rand through a locker room to a side entrance.

They stood under the striped awning near the locker room, the wind buffeting them, the rain still coming down.

“A bad thing, that. The fire. Cynthia in the boat.” Gerald shook his head. “A damned shame.” Lighting a cigarette, he asked, “What’s going on?”

“I’m looking through some old cases.”

“Homicides?” He blew out a cloud of smoke and looked Rand in the eye. “Are there that many?”

“Not homicides. Not even cold cases. Just odd deaths that are connected.”

“To Cynthia Hunt? I’m not following.”

But Rand thought his old man was bluffing.

“I’m starting with Chase. He disappeared and was never found.”

“And he probably never will be.” His father shook his head. “It’s a mystery, yeah, but it’s long over. I don’t know why you’re dredging it all up again.” He looked pained as he blew out a stream of smoke. “I saw the paper this morning. Some damned reporter thinks the public is interested in ancient history.”

“Because Cynthia Hunt died a horrible death.”

“Yeah, well.” He sighed. “That? What happened to her? A shame.” His dad drew deep on his Marlboro and shook his head. “A real shame. God rest her soul,” he said in a cloud of smoke. “But she’s gone now. Mucking around what happened twenty years ago isn’t going to help anyone.”

“Maybe Chase.”

Gerald glanced up sharply. “You really think you’re gonna find him?”

“I’m going to try.”

“Well, it’s a waste of time, if you ask me. If he was alive, and that’s a mighty big if, don’t you think he would’ve shown up by now? There’s no more war to dodge, and yeah, he might have to straighten things out with the government, but I’d be willing to bet that if he was alive, he would’ve come home after his dad died.” He squinted through his smoke. “Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know what to think. I’m trying to keep an open mind,” Rand said as he watched a sleek Porsche swing into the parking lot, its headlamps reflecting the driving rain. Seconds later, a man in rain gear climbed out and hurried toward the front door of the clubhouse.

“You probably knew better than anyone what was on Chase’s mind,” Gerald reminded Rand. “You saw him that night. The last person to see him as far as anyone knows.”

Was there an unspoken question in that statement? An innuendo? Rand ignored it and plowed on. “There are also some other things we’re looking into.”

“Such as? What? Olivia Dixon’s death?” Gerald guessed. “Because it happened on the same night? Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh hell no! She died because of a screwup. The granddaughter messed up her pills. But it wasn’t intentional. You’re not thinking she tried to kill Olivia.”

Did he sound unsure?

“Well, that’s one case.” Rand waited, measuring his father’s response.

“There’s more?” Gerald sucked hard on his cigarette as rain peppered the awning and splashed on the asphalt of the parking lot.

“A lot of unexplained deaths in the family.”