Page 77 of It Happened on the Lake

I t looked like his mother was home.

Rand parked in the driveway behind her yellow AMC Pacer with a Reagan bumper sticker from the last presidential election still proudly displayed. Probably Kent’s doing. Kent’s influence on Rand’s mother was ever-present.

When Rand knocked on the door, his mother answered.

“Rand?” she said, obviously surprised, “I didn’t expect you, but come in, come in.

” She stepped out of the doorway and let him pass into the living area, which smelled of lemon oil and furniture polish.

“I can offer you a cup of coffee, unless you’d like something else.

All we have is Diet Coke and Fresca, I think.

Kent’s death on anything with sugar. Claims it’s bad for your teeth, and he should know, right? ” She was heading for the kitchen.

“Coffee’s fine,” he said, following her through an immaculate house with modern furniture, long low couches, and chairs situated around a round teak coffee table. Probably twenty or so years old and still looking new. The art on the walls was original, all splashy modern pieces.

In the kitchen, she poured two large cups of coffee and motioned for him to sit at a white Formica-topped table.

It was situated in front of a sliding glass door that looked out to a small yard where several bird feeders were surrounded by towering arborvitae and shrubs, most notably the heavy-blossomed hydrangeas with their fading blooms. “You still drink it black?”

“Right.”

She placed the cups on the table, then sat across from him.

“Well, this is a nice surprise,” she said, smiling over the rim of her cup.

Her hair was blond and cut in a short curly shag.

She was still trim and fit, a dedicated Jazzercise enthusiast, now wearing acid-washed jeans and a coral sweater with wide shoulders that narrowed to her waist. “I thought you would be working.”

“I am,” he said.

“So this isn’t just a friendly drop by.” Her eyebrows arched.

“Afraid not this time.” He glanced around the room. “Is Kent here?”

“At work, but only a half day. He has tennis and a massage later. Why?”

“Just asking,” he said, sipping from his cup. “You know about Cynthia Hunt, right?”

“Oh, dear, yes. The poor thing.” Barbara set her cup down. “A tortured soul.”

“Right.”

“You’re looking into what happened?”

“That and a few other things.”

“Like what?” she asked, and she played with her wedding ring, a nervous habit he remembered from the years when she was still living at Fox Point, still married to his father.

“Let’s start with the night Chase Hunt disappeared,” he said, and she looked away sharply, to the window where a hummingbird was flitting around a hanging feeder.

“You remember?” he asked gently.

She swallowed. “Yes. Of course. Who wouldn’t?”

“You came to the house. You said you wanted to say good-bye as I was shipping out.”

“That’s right.” She returned her gaze to his. “But you weren’t there.”

No, he’d been out getting drunk as hell after his fight with his best friend and before Levi had shown up on the doorstep. “Did you talk to Dad?”

She paused. Her pale pink lips compressed.

“Mom?”

Barbara let out a tremulous sigh. “No, I didn’t. He wasn’t there, either.”

“Where was he?”

“I don’t know, he never said.” She played with her cup, spinning it slowly in front of her on the table.

“I thought he was there because his car was in the drive, but no one answered. So I walked around back, thinking he might be on the dock, you know, having a cigarette or something, but it seemed like the place was empty.” She hesitated, and he waited her out.

“I asked him about it later, and he said he’d gone for a walk, but . . .” She stopped twirling the cup.

“But what?”

“The boat,” she said, biting her lip. “It wasn’t in the boathouse.

I looked, thinking that maybe, you know, he was working on it or something, but it wasn’t there.

He wasn’t either. I thought maybe you’d taken it out or something.

” Her face had turned pale as death. “And then? Later? I heard that Chase Hunt was missing and Olivia Dixon had died because Harper had left her to meet Chase . . . oh, I don’t know what I thought. ” She swallowed hard.

“Did you give a statement to the police?” he asked.

“No one ever asked.”

“Because you didn’t live on the lake any longer and no one knew you’d been at Dad’s?” he guessed.

“And . . .” Once more, she looked out the window, but the hummingbird had flown off. “And I wanted to stay out of it. I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

“So you never went to the station to make a statement.”

She was shaking her head, fighting tears.

“And Dad never asked you anything.”

“No.” She sniffed and cleared her throat. “Kent told me to stay out of it, that it was none of our business.” She pushed a curl behind her ear. “If your dad would have been suspended or called on the carpet, it would have been bad. For all of us . . .”

Rand’s gut tightened.

She went on, “Gerry had a career, was a good cop.”

Was he?

Always.

“But you didn’t trust him,” Rand accused.

“That worked two ways,” she whispered, and Rand felt his gut churn, remembering their fights, the accusations, the anger and tears before they’d split up. He’d ended up with his father because Kent Eldridge hadn’t been interested in a stepson. They’d tried it for a few months. It hadn’t worked out.

“You get half of Dad’s retirement,” he said flatly.

“That had nothing to do with it!” she said, offended, but he remembered that Kent had been buying his practice at the time, so it was a possibility that the thought of a steady paycheck would have been tempting. He saw it on his mother’s face. The shame.

Jesus.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, scooting his chair back and standing. He’d learned what he needed to know.

“Oh. But . . .”

He saw the regret in her eyes as she walked him to the door. “I’m sorry,” she said, touching him on the arm, and their gazes locked.

“For?”

“Everything.”

His jaw grew rock hard, but he managed to say, “Yeah. Me, too.”

And then he took off, striding through the drizzle to his Jeep.

Bothered, his thoughts moving in dark directions, he drove directly to Lynx Hills Country Club located south of the city.

Set on rolling hills in a cleared area that had once been a forest of old-growth timber, the course offered views of the wide Willamette River beyond which the Cascade Mountains rose in the distance, though today their craggy snowcapped peaks were obscured by the low cloud cover.

He parked in one of the guest slots, dashed through the rain, and walked into the clubhouse. No one was manning the desk, and no golfers were visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the course.

He found his father in the men’s bar, a cozy room complete with a huge fireplace, views of the first tee, and a smattering of tables over an industrial-strength plaid carpet.

Several men chatting about the Portland Trail Blazers basketball team were crowded over sandwiches and beers at the long bar that separated the kitchen from the card room.

He saw his father with three other men at one of the designated card tables. After asking for a card from the dealer, Gerald received it, frowned, tossed his hand down, and finished what remained in a short whiskey glass. “I fold,” he said and glanced up just as Rand approached. “Deal me out.”

He finished his drink and scooted back in his chair.

He must’ve read the grim expression on his son’s face because he motioned Rand away from the table where the game continued.

“What’s up?” he asked, stepping away from the table.

“Did someone die?” Then before Rand could answer, Gerald guessed. “This is about Cynthia Hunt.”

“To start with.”

With a glance at the table where his friends were still playing cards, Gerald suggested, “Let’s talk outside,” then led Rand through a locker room to a side entrance.

They stood under the striped awning near the locker room, the wind buffeting them, the rain still coming down.

“A bad thing, that. The fire. Cynthia in the boat.” Gerald shook his head. “A damned shame.” Lighting a cigarette, he asked, “What’s going on?”

“I’m looking through some old cases.”

“Homicides?” He blew out a cloud of smoke and looked Rand in the eye. “Are there that many?”

“Not homicides. Not even cold cases. Just odd deaths that are connected.”

“To Cynthia Hunt? I’m not following.”

But Rand thought his old man was bluffing.

“I’m starting with Chase. He disappeared and was never found.”

“And he probably never will be.” His father shook his head.

“It’s a mystery, yeah, but it’s long over.

I don’t know why you’re dredging it all up again.

” He looked pained as he blew out a stream of smoke.

“I saw the paper this morning. Some damned reporter thinks the public is interested in ancient history.”

“Because Cynthia Hunt died a horrible death.”

“Yeah, well.” He sighed. “That? What happened to her? A shame.” His dad drew deep on his Marlboro and shook his head. “A real shame. God rest her soul,” he said in a cloud of smoke. “But she’s gone now. Mucking around what happened twenty years ago isn’t going to help anyone.”

“Maybe Chase.”

Gerald glanced up sharply. “You really think you’re gonna find him?”

“I’m going to try.”

“Well, it’s a waste of time, if you ask me.

If he was alive, and that’s a mighty big if, don’t you think he would’ve shown up by now?

There’s no more war to dodge, and yeah, he might have to straighten things out with the government, but I’d be willing to bet that if he was alive, he would’ve come home after his dad died.

” He squinted through his smoke. “Don’t you think so? ”