Page 20 of It Happened on the Lake

T he past.

Thinking about it was a trap.

That’s what Rand tried to tell himself as he walked back to his office.

But with Harper Reed back in town, escaping the past was sure to prove impossible. And she was still intriguingly beautiful. Even beaten to hell with a bandage across her chin and bruises on her face.

Or maybe he was just a fool.

Harper Reed came with a whole set of problems capped by a volatile temper.

But he didn’t know the half of it. When he walked through the door to his office, he found Chelle Brown elbow deep in a dusty box on the floor.

“What’s this?” he asked, tossing the file onto his desk and pulling his recorder from his jacket pocket.

“Cold case.”

“Yeah? Which one?” But he had a nagging suspicion that he already knew.

“Olivia Dixon,” she said, succinctly.

Harper’s grandmother.

“It’s not a cold case.”

“No?” She cocked her head quizzically. “The way I see it, it was a case that was never really solved.”

“As I remember it, an old woman died by an accidental overdose of medication. Not considered to be a homicide.”

“A rich old woman.”

“So?” He didn’t like where this was going. “Is there a reason you’re going through all this now?”

“Yeah. I’m interested. Another person dies on the lake just as Harper Prescott returns to the family home. It got me thinking about the other deaths related to her, to that island she calls home, and more specifically the lake.”

“So you decided to pull out decades-old files.”

“Yeah.” A grin slid across her face. “It’s what I do.”

“When you’re not working on active cases.”

“This is related.”

Chelle rocked back on her heels, came up with a file of yellowed papers, and tossed it onto her desk.

“And it still hasn’t been transferred to the computer records—everything about it is in here.

” She motioned to the box as she settled into her desk chair.

“You know that Mrs. Prescott—then Miss Reed—was taking care of her grandmother that night but admitted to leaving the premises when her boyfriend didn’t come and meet her. ”

Yeah. Rand knew it. Even now he remembered her as she had been on that long-ago night—ashen-faced and hiding in Levi’s truck.

“I think there’s more to it than was ever found out.” She slapped the files onto her desk just as the furnace kicked in, warm air rumbling through the ducts. “Maybe it’s time we took another look at what happened that night.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I do. I think someone killed Olivia Dixon, and I think it might have been her granddaughter, who was supposed to be caring for her on the night she died, and who, I just learned, inherited a fortune from the old lady.” She added, “Who had a stronger motive to get rid of her?”

“Olivia Dixon’s case wasn’t a homicide,” he repeated.

“Wasn’t it?” She wiggled her flat hand up and down, in a maybe yes, maybe no gesture.

“No one could really tell, could they? You’re right.

‘Accidental overdose’ is what they came up with back in the day, but really, her demise could’ve been intentional.

” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Isn’t that right? ”

“Harper was eighteen.”

“Teens aren’t known for their stability. Or great judgment,” she countered. “Capable of all kinds of things. I say it’s worth looking into.”

He scratched his jaw. “You won’t find anything.”

“My time.”

“Fine.”

“Okay then. There were other suspicious deaths in the Reed family, right?”

“Hey, where’re you going with this? Harper was just a kid when her mother died.”

“What about the brother, though?”

“Jesus, Chelle, are you on some kind of vendetta here? Don’t you have other, more important work to do?”

But she ignored him. “He died from a . . . self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

“‘Self-inflicted’ being the important information.”

Her expression changed, sobering as she picked up a yellowed bit of newsprint she’d dug up. “Harper found him.”

“That’s right.”

“Huh.”

Rand could almost see the gears turning in Chelle’s brain. “And then there was the mother—what was her name?” She checked her notes. “Anna.”

He nodded and heard a phone ring in a neighboring office.

“Suicide.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “And again, in the lake.”

He felt his jaw tighten. “Harper wasn’t there.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. And I don’t know where you’re going with this.”

“I don’t either. That’s the point. Maybe no one does. But Harper was found . . . let me see.” She picked up another faded bit of newsprint. “On the terrace and rushed to the hospital. Had pneumonia.”

He felt his gut tighten. “She was nine years old.”

“I know.” She twiddled her pen, still thinking, putting the jagged pieces of the Dixon Island deaths into place. “It’s just an odd string of deaths, you know. And now they’re all gone, and she inherited millions, right? Maybe even tens of millions.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“I’m just saying it’s curious, that’s all.

If it had just been the grandmother. If she’d died, you know, ‘accidentally,’” Chelle said, making air quotes, “it wouldn’t be so odd.

But the other ones . . . let’s see, the brother, Evan, he was eighteen and their mother just double that, dead at thirty-six.

” Leaning back in her chair, she studied him with slitted eyes. Quietly assessing.

“Coincidence?” he suggested. “Maybe just bad luck.”

“Mmm.” She glanced down at the list she’d made again, then her eyes were back on him. She finally adjusted her ponytail and asked, “Did you have a thing for her?”

“A thing?” He felt all his muscles tense.

“Come on. Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t fit. You know what I mean.”

He did. But dodged it. “She was my friend, Michelle, Chase Hunt’s girlfriend. Chase was my best friend.”

“Yeah, I know. The dude who went missing. And it’s Chelle. Remember?”

“Right.”

“So,” she asked again, “did you have a thing for her?”

“What?”

“Were you ever involved with Harper Reed?”

“Jesus. I said—”

“I know what you said, but it’s not the first time a friend has the hots for his friend’s chick. You know, a ‘Jessie’s Girl’ kind of thing. You’ve heard the song, right?”

“It wasn’t like that,” he said, knowing it was a lie. How many nights alone in his loft bedroom had he stared out the window to the island and fantasized about Harper Reed?

“If you say so.” Her eyes sparked with a naughty, knowing twinkle.

“I do.” And he felt his jaw tighten to the point it ached.

She drummed her fingers on the desk and dropped that particularly sharp topic.

But she wasn’t done. “If you ask me,” Chelle said, “all those deaths associated with that damned family deserve another look.” Her eyes met his, as if daring him to argue, as if she was silently suggesting he was hiding something and that something had to do with Harper Reed.

“I’m telling you, there’s something off about all of this. ”

“I’ll pull the files,” he said. “See what’s there.”

“Maybe those cases, even if they’re closed, could use fresh eyes,” she challenged, and he could almost see the suspicious wheels in her brain turning.

“You might be too close to it. The way I hear it, your family and the Hunts were thick as thieves, right? Your dad and Tom Hunt worked together, here. Were partners at one time.”

Obviously she had already looked into this.

She suggested, “And you and Chase were besties.”

What was she getting at? He said, “It was a long time ago.”

“I know.” She pinned him with her dark gaze. “So here’s a question for you: If Harper Reed hadn’t shown up here yesterday, do you think Cynthia Hunt would have been on that boat?”

“She didn’t know that Harper was back.”

“You think. But Harper’s father had a heart attack—what, a few days before—right?

And . . . if you kept up, you’d know it was about the time she was going to inherit.

It was in all the papers way back when.” She motioned to a clipped newspaper article from years before.

“Not really a secret, so Cynthia could have figured it out. Or maybe Harper let people know. Or possibly, like the brother, Levi? He could’ve spilled the beans. ”

“I don’t think he knew Harper would be back.”

“But you don’t know,” she pointed out.

“Cynthia Hunt was in a care facility. She was mentally declining.”

“But she got out, didn’t she? On her own. Made her way from Serenity Acres to the lake and started the boat, so she wasn’t mentally that far gone.”

“She set herself on fire. Pretty far gone.”

“You’re taking Harper Prescott’s word for it,” she said and plucked a dead leaf from one of the vines running from her desk down the side of the file cabinet.

“There were other people on the lake. They saw it.”

“Two night fishermen—is that even a thing? Anyway, they were out drinking for sure and fishing in the dark maybe. Neither guy is completely certain what actually happened. The other boats showed up later. So we’re taking one woman’s word for it, the same woman who gave us all the information on Chase Hunt’s disappearance and Olivia Dixon’s death.

I think it all deserves to be checked out again.

” She raised her eyebrows as if waiting for him to disagree.

He wanted to argue, God, he wanted to. He’d hoped that particular chapter of his life when Chase Hunt disappeared was closed, never to be reopened.

Of course that wish was folly now. Harper Reed Prescott had seen to that.

“I was there,” he reminded her. “I saw the fire from the house when I heard the neighbor’s dogs barking. I took my boat out.”

“But after it all went down, right?”

He gave a curt nod and heard the fax machine down the hall start spitting out pages.

“You and the rest of the neighbors,” she said, crushing the dead leaf in her fingers and tossing the bits into the trash under her desk.

“That’s right.”

She thought about it a second. “But the point is she came back because her dad has a heart attack. And all of a sudden Cynthia Hunt breaks out of some old people’s home, manages to get to her old house, takes out the boat, and sets herself on fire. All on her own?”

“Cynthia Hunt was in her room at the last bed check,” he said. “I talked to the general manager at Serenity Acres, who had verified that with the night staff. So far no explanation, but we’re on it.”

“Don’t they have cameras? Or alarms?”

“Apparently not. Or at least none that was working.”

“Convenient.” Her eyebrows pulled together as she picked up her pen and started twirling it again. “I’ll double-check.”

“Good.”

The phone rang, and she picked up the receiver. “Detective Brown.” A pause and then, turning her gaze to Rand, said, “Ms. Simms with the Tribune ?” She lifted her eyebrows in a question, and Rand shook his head and held up a hand.

“I see. Well, for now, I’ll transfer you to the public information officer and—”

Rand was already out of his chair.

“I can’t comment at this time. As I said, I’ll transfer you and—” A pause, then, “No, I said—”

Rhonda DeAngelo Simms wasn’t taking no for an answer. Not a surprise. Rand remembered her from school. She, like he, had returned to Almsville, where she’d taken a job as a reporter with the local paper. He had no interest in talking to her at the moment and left Chelle to deal with her.

He headed for the break room. In the hallway, he passed a uniformed officer ushering a disheveled man in cuffs toward the interrogation rooms. The guy was a mess, the smell of alcohol seeming to seep out of his pores while he argued loudly with the female officer escorting him in the opposite direction.

Rand turned a corner and stepped into the break room with its round tables, vending machines, microwave, and coffee station.

It was quiet, no one inside, and the glass carafe in the coffeemaker still held a cup or two.

Someone had strung black and orange letters spelling out HAPPY HALLOWEEN over the high windows and there were a couple of small pumpkins and a gourd nestled on the counter, Almsville Police Department’s nod to the season.

He poured himself a cup and thought about his conversation with Chelle.

She was right, of course.

He wasn’t objective when it came to Chase Hunt or Harper Reed.

Nonetheless, if she was going to start digging, he wanted to search through the old files before he handed them over to her.