Page 214 of It Happened on the Lake

Lynette’s eyes slid away, and she rubbed her chin nervously. “Well, yes, and . . . well, we just locked it up. Actually sealed the door closed. No one’s been up there in years.”

Rand asked, “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Mom was paranoid about it,” Lynette said.

Camille chimed in, “Didn’t really know what was up there.”

Lynette nodded nervously. “She thought we might get in trouble.”

“With?” Chelle prodded.

Lynette sighed. “The authorities, or possibly some drug kingpin, or even the renters themselves if they ever returned.”

“About what? What’s up there?” Chelle was leaning closer.

“Spy stuff!” Camille spat out the words. “And dope and who knows what else!”

“Spy stuff like what?” Rand asked.

“Cameras. Listening devices, you know ‘bugs’ like in the spy movies,” Camille said, her eyebrows arching over her glasses. “Tape recorders and movie cameras and binoculars—like they have in the army, high powered.” Camille picked at the lace at the edge of her sleeve, pulling at a loose thread. “Victor, when he was alive, he thought maybe it was some kind of government operation—a sting and that Trick or one of the others was a spy. Maybe even a Ruskie.”

“On Lake Twilight?” Chelle asked but managed to keep the skepticism from her voice.

Still toying with the loose thread, Camille shot her a damning are-you-stupid look. “We’re not that far from Portland. And don’t you think there aren’t spies there!”

Lynette explained, “When he was alive, Dad thought that the cops might be planning some kind of undercover drug bust or something. But he was into all kinds of conspiracy theories. And then his stroke.” Lynette offered a weak smile. “It was a lot to deal with so . . .”

Chelle asked, “Any chance that stuff is still in the attic?”

“Don’t see why not.” Camille snapped the thread in her fingers. “I suppose you want to take a look, eh?”

Chelle was nodding. “Yes. It might help.”

The budgie bird gave off another high-pitched whistle before pecking rapidly at his hanging mirror.

“Don’t count on it.” Camille winced as she moved her booted ankle again. “Damned thing. Weighs a ton.”

Lynette was on her feet, ready to end the visit. “Okay. Good. The house is empty now. We’re between renters.”

“Becauseyouwant to sell it,” her mother charged, a pissy look on her face.

“I can meet you over there in a couple of hours,” she said.

Rand nodded. “That would be great.”

“But you’ll need a crowbar and possibly a hacksaw—something to get the door to the attic open. I’ve got a key, but it won’t do much good.” Nonetheless, she went into the kitchen area and returned with a key ring with two keys, one tarnished. She held the ring by the brighter-looking key. “We changed the locks again after the last tenants. This one is for the front door. And the other one is for the attic.”

From behind her thick glasses, Camille skewered him with a knowing glare. “Big waste of time if you ask me. If you’re looking for Chase Hunt, thinking he might be up in that attic?” She snorted and shook her head. “I hate to disappoint you, but he’s not there.”

Chapter 53

Traffic was sluggish, the sky ominous and dark, as Rand drove back to Almsville. At Chelle’s request, they stopped at Wendy’s for burgers and drinks. “I work better on a full stomach,” she told him, “and that roasted chicken at the Musgraves’ house was driving me crazy.”

They ate in the near-empty break room, and by the time Rand was back in his office, he found a thick packet on his desk. Inside was a partially burned and water-soaked photograph album with a few pages still inside. Also there were dozens of dried-out photographs that had been collected from the lake after Cynthia Hunt’s death. They were faded, most almost impossible to discern, but as he looked through them he caught images of Levi and Chase, their parents, and even a couple images of Rand himself. Of course there were a few of Harper. She’d nearly been a fixture in the Hunts’ lives, first as a friend to Levi and then as Chase’s steady. Until she wasn’t.

“What’re you looking at?” Chelle asked as she returned, her drink from Wendy’s in hand.

“Pictures that belonged to Cynthia Hunt. Dredged out of the lake.”

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