Page 160 of It Happened on the Lake

“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.”

Chapter 40

“. . . and since you haven’t called me back, I thought I’d give you one last chance to add to the first installment of the series that will start running tomorrow. So just in case you lost my number, you can reach me at—” Harper erased the message before she heard Rhonda Simms leaving her damned phone number. The gist of the message was that the reporter had the green light to run a five-part series on the tragedies that had occurred on Lake Twilight, much of which involved Harper and her family.

“Not happening,” she said to the empty kitchen. She waited for the next recorded call to play while searching through a nearby cupboard for a glass. Cradling the receiver between her shoulder and ear, she turned on the tap and filled the glass with water. She was thirsty and tired from putting her things away and trying to make the manor livable. She’d spent the day organizing her bedroom and office, removing old things, replacing with new, then as items had shifted since the major cleaning, rearranging a bit. Once the new phone lines were installed, she’d be ready to work. At least she had a bed with clean sheets, and her closet and the old bureau were filled with her clothes.

She used her grandfather’s desk for her computer, a “portable” Compaq in its suitcase-like case that she’d lugged up the stairs, cursing the broken elevator at each landing where she’d taken a break. She set her printer on a large side table. For now, the computer sat on a too-small stand near the telescope. Her grandfather had used the tall table for his cigars, matches, and ashtray, and it wobbled a little with the weight of the typewriter. But it would do. For now.

During all the hours she’d spent upstairs, she’d ignored the phone, leaving the answering machine to pick up her calls.No way am I going to call Rhonda back, she thought, sipping from the glass as she eyed the floor, her eyes stopping on the untouched dishes she’d left out for the cat.

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