Page 175 of It Happened on the Lake

“Maybe.” But his sly grin had confirmed the obvious.

“But how?”

“My secret,” he’d said, so proud of himself. “My ‘tricks,’ you know.” He’d made air quotes and laughed. “You should see inside,” he’d said. “So many places to get lost. So many places to hide. So many treasures to lift.”

“You stole from them?”

“Moi?” he’d intoned, his eyebrows raising over the round rims of his glasses as he motioned to his chest and feigned affront. “Never!”

Man, she’d wanted to slap that self-satisfied smile off his face. And she knew he’d been lying. Trick was capable of just about anything if money was involved.

And looking through the binoculars this night, she wondered if she was even focusing on the right room.

Still trying to figure out what she was viewing on the island, she heard a door opening behind her. She turned to see Ronnie stepping onto the covered area. “Hey, Moon . . . wanna go for a ride?” He offered her a tab, and she dropped acid. And that was that.Everything got a lot more fuzzy after that, she thought now, as she gave up on folding the sheet neatly and picked up a pillowcase.

She did remember the cops, though. Down the street they’d roared. Screaming sirens. Flashing lights.

Panic had ensued.

Someone came—Jesus, had it been a policeman?—and told them to get the hell out.

They all did. In one big hurry. Scrambling away, not bothering with some of their things. Only staying long enough to say, “I didn’t see anything,” to the other officer who stopped by before they tore out.

It seemed surreal now, but through her haze she had recognized them. Weren’t they the cops who lived down the street?

“But you’re no longer a tripped-out flower child,” she said aloud. Nope. Now she was a mother, with sons of her own. And a new respect for the law. As a kid all she wanted to do was avoid trouble, save her own skin, but now . . . should she call the police? Tell them what she knew? Her memories were foggy at best, drugged. And maybe it was unimportant now, wouldn’t make a difference. She’d had feelings of guilt ever since she’d fled the house that night, been conflicted over the years, more so once she became a mother. She bit her lip and couldn’t shake the feeling that she should make an old wrong right.

Probably because of the tragedy the other night. Chase’s mother on that burning craft? There certainly was no connection.

Nonetheless, telling what she knew was probably the right thing to do.

She was a mother trying to set a good example for her two sons who seemed hell-bent to mess up their lives. “Do it,” she told herself.

Then she dialed information, rather than 9-1-1, and asked for the detective division of the Almsville police where she was instructed to dial the emergency number for immediate assistance or leave a message. She opted for the voice mail and was surprised to hear a man’s voice that identified himself as Detective Watkins.

Wasn’t that the name of one of the cops down the street when she’d lived on Fox Point? One she’d seen that night? She froze for a second, her resolve crumbling a bit before she bolstered herself. She left her name and number, and a longer message than she’d intended. Then she figured she’d done her civic duty for the day. Now it was her free time. She placed the folded laundry back in the basket and carried the sheets to the bedroom.

Humming again, Janet wondered if what she witnessed that night, or what shethoughtshe witnessed would be of value now. Probably not. She’d been drug-impaired. Make thatverydrug-impaired. And she’d have to admit that painful fact.

She scowled. If either of her boys ever used LSD or anything stronger than weed, as they referred to it now, she’d kill him.

After putting the sheets in the closet, she walked into the kitchen again. She found a half-full bottle of Merlot on the counter, the bottle she’d opened just last night after learning she was getting a raise. She’d celebrated alone and hadn’t wanted to kill the bottle. Which worked out well for tonight. “Time for a nightcap,” she told herself as she poured herself a healthy glass and took a long, smooth sip.

Perfect.

Kicking off her shoes, she headed for the pantry and grabbed a box of Cheez-Its on a low shelf from the back of the pantry where she’d hidden them from her tall sons who didn’t seem to have the brains to bend over and look on the bottom shelf. She planned to settle down and watch a show or two she had taped on the VCR. As she headed to the living room, she took another long swallow, felt the wine begin to mellow her out, and smiled to herself. She’d snagged the VCR along with the king bed and an imported duvet in the divorce, despite her ex’s complaints. “Too bad, Jeff,” she said to the empty house. She had episodes ofRoseanneandL.A. Law,along with her favorite guilty pleasure,Days of Our Lives,which she could never watch during the day as she worked as a Girl Friday at Ole Olsen’s Used Cars on Eighty-second Avenue in East Portland.

Tonight was all hers, and she only hoped that the gods of storytelling had beefed up Bo and Hope’s storyline inDays.That couple was her favorite, and they put Felicia and Frisco ofGeneral Hospitalto shame. Not that Janet didn’t tune intoGHwhen she had the chance.

Before she could sit down, she heard the dryer’s timer buzz. It seemed early, but it would be best to get her son’s battered Levis out now. Leaving her wine and crackers on a side table with the VCR cued up, she snagged her empty basket from the bedroom, then walked through the house to the garage and reached for the light switch.

Click.

Nothing happened.

No sizzle and wavering illumination from the aging fluorescents.

Damn it, the bulbs had burned out again!

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