Page 64 of It Happened on the Lake

She held her tongue as they did a quick tour of the rest of the property, including the boathouse and basement. All Craig could mutter was, “A helluva lot of work,” as they made their way to the garage, where he stopped short the second Harper opened the doors.

“Holy shit, would you look at that?” Eyeing Gramps’s Corvette, he shook his head.

“Jesus. The ’59! Still here.” Walking around the car, he added, “Frost blue. White accents. Blue interior. All fuc—frickin’ original.

Wow.” Awestruck, he opened the driver’s door and slid inside.

“I can’t believe you still have this.” Hands on the blue steering wheel, he checked out the gauges in the dash, then touched the gear shift.

“And in perfect condition! I heard it was wrecked, nearly totaled.”

“Gram had it restored.”

“But the old man—George—your grandpa, he died in the crash. Right?” he asked, his big hands almost caressing the steering wheel.

“Uh-huh,” she said, recalling that hot summer night when she’d learned her grandfather had been killed in the single-car crash. “But Gram wanted to preserve the car. She figured it would become a classic.”

“And man, oh man, was she right!” He slapped the steering wheel and gave a long whistle. “Tell me this baby is for sale.”

“I’m not sure yet,” she admitted.

“God, Beth will probably want to sell it with the house, kind of a bonus for the right buyer, but forget that. If you’re going to sell it, let me know first, okay?”

“Yeah, sure, I guess,” she agreed, though it could well be a lie.

“Don’t let her talk you out of it. I’ll make sure Beth knows the deal.

” He was nodding to himself. “I’ll tell her I want it.

God, can you imagine cruising around the lake with the top down?

Hell yeah, that would be so awesome.” Stretching out of the low-slung car, he took stock of Gram’s Cadillac with a practiced eye, then walked to the motorcycle.

“This was Evan’s,” he said, lost in thought.

“I used to watch him ride it.” He threw a leg over the Honda and placed his hands on the grips, then, like a ten-year-old boy, leaned low and moved his heel as if he was actually shifting through the gears.

“He even gave me a ride once, down to the far end of the bridge and back, but never let me drive it.” He swung off and rubbed his chin as he stared at the bike.

“You know, I’ll buy this, too. Max will be getting his license in a couple of years, so yeah,” he was thinking aloud.

“But as for the Caddy, I’ll have to think about it. ”

“I’ll think about it, too,” she said, irritated that he just assumed he could buy the vehicles.

But why not? What’re you going to do with them? Store them here, so they can continue gathering dust?

“While you’re thinking about it, didn’t your grandpa have a gun collection?”

Bingo! Harper couldn’t believe her good luck, that she didn’t have to initiate the conversation. “I think so. But, you know, I wasn’t allowed to be around any firearms. With Evan, it was a different story. He was a boy and he hunted and . . .” She let her voice trail off.

“Right, right.” He pulled a face. “Sore subject, I know, but if you want to get rid of any of the guns? I’m into them.

” His eyebrows lifted, and he glanced around the garage.

“I thought there used to be a gun closet in here. I remember that sometimes it was my dad’s job to clean the rifles and shotguns. ”

“Right. In the back corner.” They walked behind the vehicles to a storage space tucked beneath the stairs leading to the garret. The door was locked. She pulled her grandmother’s key ring from her pocket and tried each and every key. Nothing.

“Let me try.” Even though he’d watched her try the keys, Craig shouldered past her and, as if she’d been too stupid to get it right, ran through them all again. No luck.

She snagged the key ring from his hand. “I guess Gram wasn’t allowed in. These were hers.”

“Huh.” Beneath the brim of his cap, Craig’s brow furrowed. “Do you have another set of keys that belonged to your grandfather?”

“If I did,” she said with measured calm, “wouldn’t I have tried them?”

“Ouch.” He held up his hands. “Just asking.”

Well, it was a stupid question.

“I’m thinking he had another set.” With that, he walked back to the convertible.

“Where are the keys to this?” he asked, and then started looking through the car, under the mats, in the glove box, and under the hood but came up empty.

“Crap.” Scratching his nape, he said, “If you find them or get into the gun closet, let me know. He had a Parker Side by Side that I’d be interested in. ”

“Okay.” She didn’t remember the gun.

“That’s a shotgun,” he explained, “and I think my dad said it was made in the 1800s.”

She nodded. Knew what kind of firearm it was. Had seen Gramps oil it enough to know. Had never shot it but had gone to the rifle range with her father and Evan. She knew about guns. And how to use them. “So you just want the shotgun. No pistols?” she asked.

“Oh, I want to see the whole collection. Hell yeah, I do. Shotguns, rifles, pistols, bows, knives, any kind of weapon—I mean he could’ve been into all sorts of army stuff.” His eyes lit up. “Maybe something from World War II or I? Boy, that would be cool.”

“Okay,” she agreed, though he was getting under her skin, really starting to irritate her. Nonetheless, this might prove to be her only chance to find out what he knew.

“I think I remember my grandpa having some old revolvers with mother-of-pearl grips or something.” She feigned innocence, played the dumb girl card, which she abhorred. “You know, like cowboy guns.”

Did she see just the hint of a muscle twitch near the corner of his eye? Did he stare at her a little harder? “Yeah, I remember my dad cleaning a pearl-handled pistol when he worked here.” He was nodding, attempting to look nonchalant.

“There were two.”

“Were there? I only remember your Dad with one, but maybe he cleaned one, then the other, and I thought they were the same gun. I was just a kid.” He flashed a smile as if that explained it all.

And he was lying. When he lived here, he was more than a kid, more like a horny teenager.

“And didn’t Evan use one, you know, when . . .”

The image of her brother, pistol in hand, lying in a pool of blood flashed through her mind. “Yeah. That’s right.”

In the suddenly awkward silence, he said, “Hey, look, I gotta run. I’m supposed to be at a job site in—” He made a big deal of looking at his watch. “—uh-oh, ten minutes ago. And it’s fifteen minutes away. Damn.” He frowned. “I’d better roll.”

With that, he jogged to the truck, where his big, shaggy dog waited.

He climbed in, then said through the open window, “I’ll get to work on an estimate as soon as I get back to the office.

” He started the Ford’s engine. “Let me know if you find those keys. And promise you won’t sell the cars or guns until you talk to me!

” Then he put the pickup into gear and cut a tight circle in the driveway before hitting the gas, his pickup rattling across the bridge, oversized boards hanging over the tailgate, red flag flapping behind.

The image of Craig with the gun, secretly slipping into the Hunts’ house, skittered through her mind.

I wouldn’t trust him if I were you , she heard her grandmother say as clearly as if she’d been standing next to her.

“I don’t.” She was shaking her head.

But then you don’t trust anyone .

“Not anymore, Gram,” she admitted and pulled down the garage door. “Sometimes I don’t even trust myself.”