Page 48 of It Happened on the Lake

His jaw tightened, and for a second he remembered his mother as she had been when he was growing up, a tall, willowy blond with an affinity for Virginia Slims, fake fur coats, and dry martinis. She’d been a smart woman, wily in her youth.

Mrs. Cynthia Hunt had an infectious laugh and a naughty twinkle in her brown eyes, and a sharp tongue that her husband often dulled.

That was until her eldest son vanished.

Then everything changed.

Everything.

The sparkle. Gone.

The sarcastic wit. Disappeared.

Even her perfectly coiffed blond hair had dulled and become unkempt, her gray roots often showing.

Their family had been gutted, and rather than growing closer, the three had been driven further apart.

And then her husband, too, left her. In the very boat that he’d cherished, the Triton that somehow had been left idling in the lake when Chase had vanished.

After that, Mrs. Cynthia Hunt had lost the ability to distinguish between reality and fantasy.

She’d told him of conversations she’d had with “Tommy” and that Chase had visited her on occasion.

He’d suggested that the visits and conversations had been in her dreams, but he couldn’t convince her of the truth, so a few months ago, he’d stopped trying.

Even when she called him Chase.

He’d let it go, rather than argue and confuse her more.

He pushed open the door and was met with a mess.

Yes, the police had been here. Though his mother hadn’t been the neatest homemaker on earth, and certainly whatever skills she’d once possessed had declined over the years, she wouldn’t have left drawers open and belongings scattered throughout the two rooms.

He braced himself.

Going through her things was going to be tough.

But maybe, just maybe, he’d find something the police had overlooked. Something that would give him some inkling as to what had gone on the other night. He hoped to God he was right.

He had an appointment later today with a woman who was certain her husband was cheating on her and needed proof.

He was the man for the job these days, even if some tasks cut a little close to the bone.

But he’d come back another time with boxes and figure out where to donate her belongings.

Again, he was plagued by the same questions that had haunted him since he’d first heard the unthinkable news. How? Why? How did she manage it?

He caught sight of a picture on the wall—the family at the Seattle World’s Fair in 1962.

They stood on the revolving observation deck of the Space Needle.

Dad in his narrow tie and sport coat, Mom wearing a sleeveless pink dress.

Chase, at thirteen starting to lengthen out, while Levi was at the age when he’d thought he’d never grow.

In the photo his brother and father towered over him while his mother’s hands rested gently on his shoulders, her fingernails painted frosty pink to match her lipstick.

Happier times , he thought now and abruptly left his mother’s room at the nursing facility. He nearly ran over a gray-haired septuagenarian bent over a walker.

“Sorry,” he said and tried to skirt the guy.

“You a cop?” the man almost yelled.

“What? No. I’m . . . Cynthia’s son.” Levi hooked his thumb and motioned to the door. “Cynthia Hunt.”

“Her boy?” The old man eyed Levi suspiciously, his brow furrowing, his unruly eyebrows lifting over thick glasses. Frowning, he shook his head. “Her boy disappeared. Years ago.”

“My brother.” Did he know this man?

“Oh! Let me see.” Eyes thinning in appraisal, the stooped man asked, “You’re the younger one?”

“Yes. Levi.” Levi stuck out his hand and introduced himself as the old guy lifted a gnarled palm.

His grip was like iron.

“Yes,” the old guy said. “Yes, you are. You were a troublemaker in your youth. Looks like you maybe straightened up. She said so.”

Levi assumed the man was talking about his mother.

“I’m Ed,” he said. “Ed Sievers, we were neighbors.”

Old Man Sievers. With the barking dog and rumored bomb shelter .

His long hair was little more than white stubble over a pink pate these days, and his face was lined with deep wrinkles.

Thick glasses bridged his nose, and rather than camouflage gear he’d picked up at the army surplus store, he was now dressed in an oversized robe and striped pajamas.

Sievers looked over his shoulder and whispered, “This is a hellhole. Yep. That’s what it is. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.” He paused and added, “Sorry about your mother.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “A shame. That’s what it was. A damned shame.”

“You knew her?”

He pointed a big-knuckled finger to the door across the hall. “We were neighbors here, too.”

“Do you know why she—?”

“Why she lit herself up like a Christmas tree on the lake? Nope. Not a clue. But I know she was upset that the girl was coming back to town.” His head was bowed as he adjusted his walker, and he looked up at Levi over the rims of his glasses.

“The girl? You mean Harper Prescott?”

“That her name now? She’s Livvie Dixon’s granddaughter,” he said firmly. “You know, her mother died in the lake, too. Years ago. I saw her. Had to run over to that cop’s house—Watkins. Bah! Never cared for him. You remember?”

Levi had never forgotten that night. His gut twisted at the memory of his father and Gerald Watkins retrieving Anna Reed’s body.

Sievers was hitching his walker across the hall. “Come on in,” he said as he unlocked the door and a sudden burst of yapping greeted them. As he opened the door, a tiny terrier shot out—a scruff of mottled black and brown fur that bounced at Ed’s feet.

“Shh. Jake. Shh. You’ll get me in trouble.” But Ed chuckled as he bent down and picked up the perky-eared pup, which rewarded him by washing his face with his tongue. “Come in, come in,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Levi. “I’ve got something for you.”

He set the dog on a carpet worn with the tracks of his walker, then opened a drawer in the small kitchenette within the studio unit that held a tiny table, large recliner, and twin bed.

“Let’s see . . .” He pulled out a wallet, some receipts, a bottle opener, a book of stamps, and finally a small sealed envelope that Levi recognized as his mother’s personal stationery, embossed with CLH, Cynthia Larsen Hunt.

A lump grew in Levi’s throat as the old man handed him the small envelope with his name written in his mother’s hand. Levi. His throat grew tight. “She gave this to you, when?” he asked.

The old man rubbed the stubble on his chin. “That night,” he said, as if Levi should have guessed the truth. “Just before I helped her get out of here.”