Page 212 of It Happened on the Lake

“I’m Detective Watkins, Almsville Police Department, and this is my partner, Detective Brown.” He produced his ID, as did Chelle. “We’re looking for Camille Musgrave.”

“Well, you found her.” She sized him up. “Your dad is Gerald, right? Man, oh man, you look just like him. I remember him. He was a cop, too. Lived down the street from our cabin.” Her gray eyebrows drew together. “So, what’s this about?”

“Chase Hunt’s disappearance.”

“Oh, that.” She scoffed and waved a hand. “Yesterday’s news.”

Chelle said, “We’d just like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“Well, come in then. It’s miserable out there.”

She unlocked the screen and opened the door.

They followed her inside as she, using a cane, hobbled into the living area while the smell of roasting chicken emanated from the back of the house. Camille passed by a stone fireplace, flipped a switch, and flames immediately flickered over the gas logs in the firebox.

“Sit, sit!” she said, motioning to a couple of side chairs in the living room while she plopped onto a small floral recliner and cranked up the footrest. “Damn this thing,” she grumbled, adjusting the boot. “Twisted my ankle last week, and this is what they gave me. A pain. That’s what it is.” She eyed them both. “I’m afraid you made the trip out here for nothing. I can’t tell you anything about that Hunt boy. When it all happened, I told the police the same thing. Nothing has changed since.”

Rand and Chelle sat in separate chairs in front of a large picture window overlooking the front porch. Between them was a bird cage on a stand, a little blue budgie jumping excitedly from one perch to the other.

Chelle took out a recorder and notebook and asked, “Do you mind if we record this?”

“Knock yourself out. It won’t do any good. As I said, nothing’s changed.”

“Mom?” a female voice called. “Was that the door?” A fiftyish woman walked into the living room from the hallway. “Oh! Uh . . . who are you?” She, too, was short, but fuller-figured than Camille and twenty or so years younger. In jeans and a sweatshirt, her mop of brown curls held away from her face with a headband, she hesitated in the archway to the living room.

Rand got to his feet and pulled out his ID. Introductions were hastily made, she being Camille’s daughter, Lynette Decker.

Lynette wasn’t just surprised that there were cops in her living room, she was downright skeptical of why they’d come. “You think Mom can help you?” she asked, and before he could answer said, “It’s been, what? Twenty years? I saw the write-up in theTribunethis morning because Mom still gets the Almsville paper, but really? She and Dad didn’t even live in Almsville at the time. They rented out the cabin on the lake.”

“To those hooligans,” Camille interjected bitterly. “Hippie scum.”

Lynette rolled her eyes and stepped in front of the fire to warm the back of her legs. “They ripped Mom off. Skipped out on the last month’s rent and trashed the place.”

“More than that,” the older woman interjected as the bird whistled. “They were selling drugs and doing who knows what else down there. Ticked me off, let me tell you. My father built that cabin and that dock, the biggest on the damned point, and he’d be rolling over in his grave if he ever found out what had happened there!”

“Water under the bridge, Mom,” Lynette reminded her.

But the older woman wasn’t listening. Agitated, she said, “Renting the place out was Victor’s idea, and if he wasn’t already dead, I’d wring his scrawny neck!”

“Victor was my dad,” Lynette explained with a sigh. “We probably should have sold that place ages ago, but—”

“Over my dead body! Didn’t I just say that your grandpa, he built the cabin, and the boat slip and the damned dock? It’s not leaving this family, not while I’m still kicking.” Camille’s chin jutted out, and she sent her daughter a warning glare.

“I know, I know,” Lynette said, as if she’d heard it all a dozen times over. “Mom, just tell them what you know. Oh God, is the chicken burning? You were supposed to watch it and let me know if it was done.”

“Well, I got busy now, didn’t I?” With lips pursed, she hitched her chin toward Rand and Chelle.

“Holy crap!” Lynette was already hurrying around the fireplace, presumably in the direction of the kitchen.

“Anyway,” Camille said, drawing out the word. “I can’t tell you anything. And I’m surprised you’re asking. Those other cops who were on duty then? They didn’t care a lick about what went on down there, and if they questioned any of those hooligans, I didn’t hear about it. As a matter of fact, they all tore out the day after that boy went missing. Just left the place a pigsty!”

“She’s right,” Lynette agreed, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she returned.

“The chicken?” her mother asked.

“Crispy. But it’ll be okay.”

Chelle brought the woman back to the topic at hand. “Were any of the people you rented to friends of Chase Hunt?”