Page 45 of It Happened on the Lake

T he last person Harper wanted to talk to, the very last, was her ex-husband, but here she was on the phone, winding the cord nervously in her fingers and listening to Joel tell her that he’d be “right there.” He reminded her that Bend, Oregon, was only a little over a three-hour drive to Almsville and the island.

Right.

Just what she needed.

Joel riding in on his white steed—or in his case a red Camaro—like the damned Lone Ranger to save her.

He’d done that once before, and look where it had gotten them. She wasn’t about to make that mistake again.

He was saying, “I’m packed—already on my way.”

“Look, Joel, no,” she said for what seemed the dozenth time. “I’m all right.”

There was a pregnant pause, and she knew what he was thinking, that she’d never been “all right,” not in the past twenty years.

“Seriously,” she insisted. “Don’t come.”

“Okay,” he said, and she pictured him, standing at the phone, rubbing the back of his neck, his hair rumpled. “But you were in the hospital, Harper. Injured. Again. Jesus, you’ve barely gotten over that leg injury from falling through the deck.”

She bit her tongue rather than remind him again that it was his faulty step that had caused the tumble that had sent her to the hospital in Bend.

He added, “And you’ve been through a helluva thing with that woman drowning and all.”

“I said, I’m fine,” she stated more firmly.

“There’s nothing for you to do here.” Stretching the kitchen phone cord, she looked into the foyer, then down the hallway to the parlor and couldn’t imagine Joel poking around the place.

He was tall, six foot two, his eyes blue and scrutinizing.

His blond hair had grown darker than it had been when he was growing up near Malibu, when the California sun had bleached it nearly white.

Not that she’d known him then, of course.

But she’d seen pictures. Even when he’d moved to Oregon in his early twenties to go to college, he’d been far more blond than now.

If he showed up here, he’d be curious about the island, the house, the gatehouse, and all within. He’d be sizing the place up, mentally taking note of the value of everything while still trying to play off his once-upon-a-time surfer dude vibe.

No, she didn’t need him.

Not anymore.

Hadn’t for a long time.

He’s served his purpose , she thought, cringing a little at the thought.

“Tell you what,” he said, still pushing, “I have to be in Portland in the next couple of days on business. I might be staying awhile. I’ll stop by.”

“Call first.” She’d get the gate fixed and make sure it was locked. “I’m in and out.” And maybe she’d change the phone number, too. That wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Harper,” he said, finally getting it. “I could—”

“You could remember we’re divorced.”

“We have a kid.”

There was that. She had a sharp retort but held her tongue. And said instead, “And you have a girlfriend.”

A pause. “Melanie and I broke up.”

Oh, boo-hoo . But she didn’t say it, didn’t want him to hear her sarcasm.

Nor did she care one way or another about her ex’s love life.

Except that now he was calling her. Feigning interest. Not because she’d been in the hospital, but because now, finally, she’d come of age and inherited her family’s fortune. She knew that much.

“Listen, Harper. You and I—we agreed to get along. For Dawn,” he reminded her. “She wants to see you. She said so.”

Harper’s stupid heart twisted. Damn Joel. He knew just how to manipulate her. And using her daughter as bait was cruel enticement.

“I talked to her,” she said finally. “Again, I already told her I was okay.”

“She didn’t believe you.”

“I’ll tell her again. Or she can come up, she’s got a car. Or I can drive to Eugene in a couple of days, see her apartment—”

“I’ll bring her over.”

“No!” she said sharply. Then, knowing a fight wouldn’t help things, said more calmly, “Just let me settle in.”

Before he could argue, before he could work on her emotions, before he could remind her You owe me , she hung up.

She couldn’t deal with him. Not now. Joel Frickin’ Prescott wasn’t her only problem, unfortunately.

There was Rand, once Chase’s best friend and now a damned detective of all things.

Worse yet, he was obviously looking not only into Cynthia Hunt’s accident but also into her grandmother’s death and Chase’s disappearance.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that she, once again, was a suspect.

Which was just what she didn’t need.

As if she wasn’t edgy and stressed enough already.

Although she’d thought she would sleep like the dead the night before, she hadn’t.

Sleep had been elusive, and she’d spent hours tossing and turning in the sleeping bag before waking up to the whole weird doll thing and the knowledge that someone had been in the house.

So, no, she didn’t need Joel calling her or Rand questioning her or Levi showing up in her hospital room.

Despite her headache and her preoccupation with the fact that someone had actually gotten into the house, she’d spent some time with an out-of-date yellow pages but had yet to connect with a cleaning service that wasn’t out of business.

She also found an old toolbox and hammered stops in the broken window frame so the pane couldn’t be opened more than two inches.

She cleaned a little, concentrating on dirty fixtures and dusty countertops.

All the while, of course, she searched for the cat and nursed her hangover.

Then Joel had called.

“Get over it,” she told herself now and heard a scrape. The sound of a footfall.

But no one was here.

Oh, for the love of God, she was freaking herself out. “Don’t do this,” she warned, but felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.

It was as if she could feel someone in the house or at the very least someone watching her.

It wasn’t anything she could name, just a slight shift in the air and the soft sound of someone creeping through the rooms, but, of course, she had checked all of the floors again this morning.

Found no one.

She thought about the broken window latch. She thought about the doll she found in her bathroom, with the warning scribbled across her panties.

How?

Who?

Why?

“You’re a basket case,” she said, checking her watch and noting that now it was officially afternoon.

Though she knew it was a mistake, she went back to the liquor cart and poured herself a stiff shot of vodka that was probably twenty years old.

“You need therapy, not a drink,” she mocked, and remembered Joel saying just those words to her.

The prick. She downed the drink, contemplated another, and reached into the cupboard for the bottle again, before she realized that something was off.

Something was missing.

The revolver.

Gone.

But she’d left it here. Remembered handling it and putting it back.

Had it been here last night, when she’d poured herself the drinks?

Yes? No?

Had she noticed it?

She couldn’t remember. Nor could she recall seeing it when she was creeping around the house, her fingers clenched around a pair of scissors. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she searched through the glassware.

No gun.

Of course she remembered Craig Alexander with a similar pistol, one that he left at the Hunts’ home. “Not obviously,” she reminded herself. It might have been another gun altogether. Or he may not have left it there. All she knew was that she hadn’t seen it again that night.

She rocked back on her heels and told herself she was not losing her mind. Someone was in the house last night, moved the doll and took the gun. That had to be the explanation.

The doorbell chimed just as she was reaching for the vodka bottle.

Belatedly she remembered that she hadn’t closed the gate.

Shoving the bottle into place, she walked through the parlor and down the hall to the foyer, where she peered through the sidelights of the massive front doors.

Beth was standing outside. In a red jumpsuit with oversized sleeves and a wide silver belt that matched her wedge heels, Beth held a huge wicker basket.

She was definitely put together. While Harper in her ratty jeans and a dirt-streaked sweatshirt was not.

Awesome. Just frickin’ awesome.

Catching sight of Harper in the window, Beth waved frantically, her wide smile in place.

Great. Just what Harper needed. Cheery, well-dressed Beth carrying an enormous gift basket.

Forcing a smile she didn’t feel, Harper opened one of the doors and a cool October breeze scooted inside, bringing with it the promise of rain. “I didn’t know you were stopping by,” she said, as Beth stepped into the foyer.

“Compliments of Alexander Realty,” Beth said brightly.

“I thought I’d swing by and officially welcome you back to Almsville.

” She motioned to the basket laden with small bags of cookies, coffee, cups, candles, and miniature pumpkins all wrapped in cellophane and tied with a huge black and orange bow.

“All of these items are made in Oregon, most of them around here actually.” Her grin just wouldn’t quit as she passed the basket to Harper.

“But—” She checked her watch with its large bejeweled dial.

“—I can’t stay all that long. I’ve got a showing later today, and I want to get there early to make sure the house is presentable.

The owners have two dogs, and they need to be locked up.

Little barkers, both of them. They’re friendly enough but jump up and demand attention and so—off they go to the kennel in the garage!

” Then her smile faded slightly, and her eyebrows knitted in sudden concern. “So how’re you doing today?”