Page 211 of It Happened on the Lake

“What’s it gonna be?” he asked, the car idling. “Do we go to Las Vegas and get married? Or do you want to go home?”

She thought again of the apartment.

Of her angry, irritable stepmother.

Of her despondent, miserable father.

They didn’t need to be tied to her and her unborn child. She was an albatross around the neck of their marriage.

The seconds ticked off and headlights appeared in the rearview.

“Harper?” Joel prodded.

Her heart pounded in her head. She swallowed hard. “Vegas,” she whispered.

He took the corner. “You’re sure?” he asked, crooking an eyebrow.

She hardly dared to breathe. “Yes!” she finally said. Nodding, she felt more and more certain. “Yes. Yes.” She bit her lip, caught up in the thrill of it all now that she’d agreed. “Let’s go!”

“You got it!” He stepped on the gas. The Rambler took off, and he laughed. “On our way,” he said as they drove toward the freeway. “Vegas, here we come! By this time tomorrow, you’ll be Mrs. Joel Prescott and you can kiss your parents and all their rules good-bye!”

1988

The Present

Chapter 52

On the way to Camille Musgrave’s home, Rand filled Chelle in on his conversation with his father. She listened from the passenger seat of his Jeep, for once not peppering him with questions.

They passed an accident, cops and ambulance already on the scene, a Toyota’s hood and quarter panel crumpled, headlight dangling, a service van with smashed rear doors on the shoulder. Traffic was routed to one slow-moving lane while officers interviewed several agitated people.

Finally the snarl opened up and Chelle asked, “So you believe your dad, that Chase Hunt is dead, his body hidden by his father who killed him by accident.”

“That’s what Dad believes.”

“And Tom Hunt committed suicide because the guilt finally got to him.”

“Right.”

“And maybe that happened when Cynthia finally discovered the truth.”

“The time line fits.”

“Huh.” Chelle was digesting the information, turning it over in her mind. “So then here’s a question: Why did Tom Hunt want the gun used to kill Evan Reed?”

“Don’t know,” Rand admitted, driving along a county road before he found the entrance to a sprawling 1970s subdivision of look-alike ranch homes. “But I think it might be tied up with Tristan Vargas or Larry Smith or whoever he is. He was blackmailing Tom, he was a known criminal, so I’m guessing there’s a connection. Hopefully Camille Musgrave can help us.”

“Or Janet Van Arsdale Collins. Moonbeam. She may have kept up with him.”

“Let’s see her later today,” he said as he took a final corner, then parked on the curb in front of the tan Rambler with wine-red trim and a faded Ford Pinto parked in the driveway.

“This looks like my Aunt Zena lives here,” Chelle remarked as they walked past a patchy lawn decorated with all kinds of yard art. Everything from pink flamingos to garden gnomes and ceramic frogs peeked out from overgrown vegetation.

They stepped onto a porch covered with gourds, pumpkins, and a scarecrow that had definitely seen better days.

Rand pressed on a doorbell and heard chimes pealing from within.

“Coming,” a woman’s voice called just before a chain clinked, and the door opened a crack. A slip of a woman with thick Coke-bottle glasses and a house coat peered through the screen door. Her gray hair was wrapped in rollers, and she wore a medical boot on one foot.

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