Page 29 of It Happened on the Lake

B efore she got out of the car, Harper checked her rearview mirror to make certain Rhonda hadn’t followed her.

It seemed unlikely. Rhonda was a reporter, not a stalker.

But who would’ve thought she would have tracked Harper down by her license plate number and then sat in her car waiting for Harper to show up?

Seeing that the coast was clear, she dashed into the store, which, of course, had changed in the past two decades.

But the old wooden floorboards still creaked, the apples and oranges were stacked in the woven baskets, even the oversized ice-cream freezer was still in its spot, next to a wall of newer glass cases.

The deli counter displayed a selection of cured meats and cheeses in the case while a huge, silver meat slicer was at the ready on a table behind the counter.

Though the merchandise had changed over the years, the old grocery seemed familiar. Like home.

She bought some basic necessities, including some microwave dinners and paper products and a six-pack of soda before returning to her Volvo and climbing inside. She checked the parking lot and the cars on the street, as she half expected to find Rhonda DeAngelo Whatever tailing her.

As if she were in some spy movie.

“Get over yourself,” she said aloud when her wagon rattled past the gargoyles and crossed the bridge. Night had fallen, and the drizzle had turned to rain.

“Jinx,” she called, scanning the paved area and the bushes as she juggled the two grocery bags to the house.

Where was the damned cat? She hadn’t spied him on either side of the bridge or near the house but told herself he would show up, if only to get out of the rain.

He was a California cat, used to basking in the sun and climbing lemon trees.

That said, if felines really did have nine lives, Jinx had only given up one or two that she knew of.

Not that she believed all that nonsense. Nonetheless, one could hope.

Inside the old house, she unpacked the groceries, then ran a cloth over the inside of the refrigerator before shoving items inside. The whole place needed a thorough, professional cleaning. A.S.A.P.

With an eye out for Jinx, she opened a bag of Doritos and checked the countertop microwave, an Amana Radarange, one of the first on the market. Luckily, it still worked.

Eating chips from the sack, she walked through the butler’s pantry and turned on lights to search the rooms. There are a million places a cat could hide in this house , she thought, walking into the parlor. Her gaze traveled over the couches and chairs and her grandmother’s favorite chaise longue.

Nothing.

The cat wasn’t curled on one of the cushions, nor was he hiding between the legs of a table or lurking between the damned dolls propped everywhere. She glanced over to the curio case, tables, lamps, and bookcases but found no hint of Jinx.

He’ll come back.

He always does.

But this was a new place. Unfamiliar.

Determined not to dwell on his fate, she walked to the window.

She had no reason to look through the telescope but found herself sitting in the chair next to it and swinging the eyepiece close to her face.

As she ate the chips, she peered through the high-powered lens and concentrated on the houses across the lake, all five on Fox Point.

She started with the Hunt cottage, which was at the tip of the point.

Dark. No one inside. And no boat peeking out of the open garage door of the boathouse.

Of course. Most of the Hunts’ cruiser was now in charred pieces at the bottom of the lake.

Her stomach twisted as she thought about Cynthia again.

Still holding a triangular chip, she crossed herself and sent up a little prayer for the woman who had cursed her own soul to hell.

She wondered about Levi. He’d surprised her by showing up at the hospital, and for a second she’d been thrown back to that long-ago winter.

He’d been the one who had helped her that night when Chase disappeared, even tried to keep her secrets.

But they ran deeper than he knew. She didn’t want to think about him or his brother or their complicated lives, so she moved the lens to the Leonetti place where Beth was living with her husband.

Unlike the two dark houses, the split level with its bank of windows was lit as bright as a Christmas tree.

On the main level, Beth was in the kitchen, hovering over the sink, a phone pressed to her ear, and at the opposite end of the house, a light was on, though Harper saw no one, only recognized a poster for the movie First Blood .

So this was probably Beth’s son’s room now.

Max, she remembered. The window to this room was high, cutting her visibility.

What was wrong with her? Why was she spying when she was dead tired, her stomach growling, her face aching?

She was about to turn away when she noticed movement in the lower level, a shadow slinking through the dark recesses of the house.

Harper adjusted the focus as the figure stepped from the back of the house, beyond the staircase.

She remembered that area. It had been Mr. Leonetti’s work space, a windowless, concrete bunker of sorts, cut into the side of the hill under the garage.

Mrs. Leonetti had always sworn she was going to make the area a wine cellar, but her husband had insisted he needed a place for his tools and workbench.

The shadow slipped through an open doorway to what had once been the Leonettis’ rec room.

A light snapped on, flooding the room with illumination from the same fluorescent fixtures Harper remembered.

The room was still walled in the wood paneling from the 1960s, but the long, low couches surrounding the stereo/TV console had been replaced by a huge desk with a personal computer, a drafting table, and filing cabinets.

Even the ping-pong table and super-cool foosball game were no longer front and center by the slider.

Instead, she saw a rack of hand weights in varying sizes tucked into a corner with a rowing machine and stationary bike positioned closer to the windows.

Obviously the space had become Craig’s office and personal gym.

He had put on muscle since the last time she’d seen him on the night he’d wheeled Gram out on a stretcher.

Now his shoulders, thick neck, and biceps suggested he used the rowing machine and free weights.

Instead of a floppy Beatles’ cut from high school, he now sported a curly mullet, cropped short on the sides but long enough in the back to brush his shoulders.

He closed the door behind him and took the time to lock it, all in full view due to the floor-to-ceiling windows and wide sliding door that opened to the exterior deck.

Intrigued, and telling herself she should turn away, Harper instead adjusted the viewfinder for better clarity.

She expected him to get onto the bike, but instead he double-checked that the door was locked, then crossed the room to a dartboard mounted on the wall.

With a flip of a switch, the cover slid to one side to reveal a safe.

Again, he glanced over his shoulder as if double-checking that he was alone.

Then he spun the safe’s dial several times.

The safe opened.

He reached inside.

And came out with a pistol.

What?

Harper stopped eating.

It’s not that unusual , she told herself, but she still kept her eyes riveted on Craig. And the gun.

Furtively, he glanced toward the glass doors, as if he’d sensed her. He tilted his head, staring upward at the mansion.

For a second she thought he was staring straight at her. As if he’d felt her hiding in the darkness, observing his every move.

Which, she supposed, she was.

Her heart dropped, and she told herself that nothing he was doing was any of her business. So he had a gun? So what? Didn’t she, after all?

She should look away.

But couldn’t.

Mesmerized, her eye still glued to the telescope, Harper watched as Craig reached inside once more and retrieved something—she couldn’t tell what—that fit in the palm of his hand.

A packet of ammo, maybe? Or something else?

He closed the safe and replaced the dartboard, setting the gun and other item down before retrieving a black sweatshirt from the handlebars of the exercise bike.

He yanked the sweatshirt over his head, adjusted the hood, and scooped up the pistol and smaller item.

With one final look at the door to the room, he moved to the slider and stepped barefoot onto the wet deck where unused patio furniture, boxes, and firewood were stacked.

As if he were expecting an ambush, he advanced slowly, half crouched, easing stealthily across the wooden planks, the long-barreled pistol raised in both hands as his gaze swept across the dark water.

The gun.

She recognized it.

It looked similar to her grandfather’s handgun, but it was too dark to see the grip, to confirm its pearl handle.

Like the one in the cabinet?

Or was she imagining things? All guns were similar, and from this distance in the dark, even with the high-powered telescope she couldn’t tell. Just because she was missing one didn’t mean that Craig Alexander had it.

“What’re you doing?” she whispered as a light flicked on upstairs, in the room with the poster, the bedroom she assumed belonged to Max, Craig and Beth’s son.

She even caught a glimpse of the top of Max’s head in the high windows.

Curly blond hair flopped over a high forehead as he walked across the room, then disappeared as if he’d either sat down or flopped onto his bed.

Fascinated, though she couldn’t explain why, Harper swiveled the telescope.

Beth was still in the kitchen, chopping something on the kitchen counter and watching a nearby small black and white TV. She seemed oblivious to her husband’s surreptitious movements.

What does it matter? Why do you care?