Murder at Sunrise Lake

by Feehan, Christine

  His arm tightened around her. “I came here to find a different way of life, to be a different person. Not the way I grew up, and not the person I’d been for our government. I found this place and you.”

  “No one is going to take that away from you, Sam.” Stella said it fiercely, determined she spoke the truth.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Harlow Frye had flaming-red hair and jade-green eyes. Freckles dusted her nose and high cheekbones, scattered across her shoulders and arms generously, adding to her beauty. She was tall with long legs and generous curves. By turns she could look elegant, a temptress or girl next door, depending on what she wore and how she did her hair and makeup. Even with all the varying looks she had, she always appeared to be a fiery flame. There was no getting around that, not with her hair.

  Today she wore her thick mane of red hair up in a simple ponytail. She had little makeup on, jeans rolled up and a golden sweater buttoned with tiny pearl buttons. Her boots came up to her calves, a soft golden leather that matched her sweater. Stella could never figure out where she found her clothes or boots.

  Harlow studied the sketch that didn’t really show much of anything while she digested what Stella had revealed to her of her true identity. Beneath the artist’s table in Harlow’s studio, Stella pressed her fingernails deep into her own thigh through her jeans. She’d told Sam she wanted to talk to Harlow alone, so after a curt nod that clearly conveyed his displeasure over her decision, he had stayed at the resort to ensure the last of the guests renting the cabins had left without mishap. They were officially closed for the season, a true relief. Tonight there would be a party for her longtime employees. They certainly deserved their break, and then she and Sam would have time off as well. Hopefully they would have time to develop their relationship and catch a serial killer.

  “When you have these nightmares, Stella, you’re aware that you’re dreaming? Are you an active participant in the dream?” Harlow asked, still studying the sketch. She was frowning in concentration.

  “I’ve never been before,” she admitted. “I was always terrified, but I was a little child the first time and a teen the second. The first series of nightmares was so unexpected, about the fisherman, I was just concentrating on trying to find the place around the lake where it might be. Zahra suggested I might be able to widen the lens. I never thought of that. I never even considered looking at the lens itself.”

  “Have you ever changed a dream?”

  “I’ve woken myself up by telling myself I was dreaming, but I never changed anything significant. When I liked a dream, before I went to bed, I told myself I wanted to dream that particular dream again and I did,” she admitted.

  “I’m sorry about your father, Stella.” Harlow looked up for the first time, meeting her eyes, looking sincere. “We can’t choose our parents, can we? Thankfully, they don’t necessarily have to reflect who we are.” She looked down again at the sketch. “This doesn’t really give me a lot to work with, but you could try experimenting. I know you’re not a camera person.” She glanced back up at Stella, who shuddered and made a face. Harlow burst out laughing in spite of the seriousness of their conversation.

  Stella covered her face with her hands and peeked out between her fingers. “You’re going to make me touch a camera, aren’t you?”

  Harlow studied her. “Why do you have such an aversion to them? Do you think it was because you grew up surrounded by the media after they found out about your father?”

  Stella took her hands down, considering Harlow’s question. “No, there were always reporters around. My mother was involved in multiple charities and sat on several boards for opera, ballet and theater houses. She was big in the arts. That translated to numerous articles in newspapers and magazines. At the time, my father was considered quite the handsome philanthropist. They were quite a couple and made a splash everywhere they went, always camera ready. I had to be as well if I went outside the house.”

  Harlow nodded in understanding. “I know what that’s like as a child. My father was always in politics as far back as I can remember.” She made a little face. “God forbid you get dirt on your shoes or scuff them up in the garden in case someone needs a family photo. That’s one of the reasons I don’t do portraits.”

  Stella knew Harlow rarely took photographs of people. When she did, the pictures were private ones, only of her friends and their activities. It was her landscapes that were considered breathtaking and captured so much attention.

  “That was definitely my childhood and then some. My mother had very strict rules in place for what I could wear and what I couldn’t. That’s probably why I wear jeans all the time and little makeup now. She had a camera my father had given her for Christmas one year. It was the latest thing and all her friends had cameras. She didn’t use it, she liked to keep up with whatever they had.”

  Stella couldn’t just sit at the long worktable. She had to get up and walk around. There were so many beautiful things in Harlow’s studio to see. Harlow was an extremely creative woman. It always amazed Stella how she could make such beautiful pottery and take exquisite photographs that looked as if they were so real you were right there too. Stella had one framed, a beautiful picture taken from above the lake, early morning just as the sun was coming up and the colors were extending out over the water. It was gorgeous. Stella wouldn’t give it up for any amount of money. She could never quite equate the creative side of Harlow with the pure practical side, the nurse who worked in the hospital and didn’t blink when sewing up wounds.

  Harlow was a strong climber. Like Stella, she preferred bouldering, but she did trad climbing with her friends, which Stella could do but didn’t enjoy that much. Harlow’s dog, Misha, a beagle, lay curled up in a doggy bed beside the door leading to the yard that opened to the canal, where Harlow walked her every couple of hours. Misha seemed to know the schedule and didn’t let Harlow forget it. Right now, she watched Stella wandering around the studio.

  “Misha and Bailey are good friends, Harlow, but she’s looking at me very suspiciously, like I might try to make off with one of your art pieces any minute,” Stella couldn’t help but point out. “No treats for you, Misha, thinking I might be an art thief.”

  Misha wagged her tail, thumping it against her dog bed at the sound of her name and the word treats.

  “Misha eyes everyone suspiciously in here,” Harlow agreed. “Her idea is to drive us out so she can do her favorite thing, which, as you know, rain or shine, is to go for a W.A.L.K. In her case, R.U.N.”

  Stella laughed. “That dog is too smart. She’s going to learn how to spell.”

  “She’s only smart when she wants to be. Stop stalling and tell me about the camera your mother had. She didn’t use it, but something happened to it.”

  The smile faded from Stella’s mouth. Reliving old memories wasn’t fun. How had this serial killer brought so many things back? She hadn’t even thought of them in the months of therapy she’d gone through as a teen. Nor had she when she had gone to therapy while she’d been in college. Suddenly, now she was remembering her childhood, things she had deliberately put in a room and locked the door on. Some things should just stay that way, behind doors one barricaded.

  “I’m remembering so many things I deliberately locked away, Harlow. I don’t want to remember these things about my mother, let alone my father. She started drinking too much as a way to compensate once I started telling her my nightmares. At first, she was just trying to cope with a child having terrible nightmares, but then she realized what they were. Maybe she suspected all along, I don’t know.”

  Harlow stood up as well and crossed to the window. “We think in terms of our lives, the way we are now, but women weren’t nearly as independent. My mother reminded me it was a different time when our parents were young. Our mothers were raised differently and there wasn’t as much help for women as there is now. Some of their parents believed that if you brought children into the world, you had the right to do anything
you wanted to them.”

  Stella had to agree. “The camera always sat on her dresser. It was beautiful to me and one day I just couldn’t resist. I always sat in her room when she was getting ready to go out. I liked to watch her put on her makeup and jewelry. I asked her if I could take her picture.”

  Harlow turned around very fast to face her. “Was this before your nightmares started or after, Stella?”

  “I was so young.” Stella frowned, rubbing her forehead, trying to think back. She looked out the window toward the canal, wishing she was outside. She felt closed in. Felt as if someone was watching her again. She was driving herself crazy. “I don’t know. I remember being happy with my mother in her room when she was getting ready to go out with my father, at least some of the time. And then it wasn’t good anymore.”

  “You started having the nightmares when you were four? And then they really started when you were five. That’s a fact. When he was caught, that came out in the story. He wasn’t caught until you were older, but the nightmares started when you were that young.” Harlow went across the room to one of the shelves and started looking at the cameras she had on display there.

  Stella’s heart dropped. She deliberately stayed where she was, close to the window on the opposite side of the room. “Yes, I was five.”

  “So, you could have been as young as four when you wanted to take your mother’s picture. You might even have memories as young as three of going to the theater with your mother. Of the ballet. Your mother would have taken you. You would have heard talk, gossip, all the time to reinforce memories of your mother being on boards for various arts. I’ve noticed you retain almost everything. It seems to be a gift you have.”

  “It’s a curse,” Stella muttered. “This entire thing is a curse.”

  “Not if you can catch him and save lives.”

  “I didn’t catch my father, or Miller when I was a teen.”

  “You did eventually,” Harlow pointed out. “You couldn’t expect to right away. And you can’t now. You’re going to have to understand that none of these deaths are your fault. He’s out there, and if you didn’t know about him, he would be killing without anyone to stop him. As a nurse, I know I’m not going to save everyone. I’m not. Not even my favorite patients, no matter how hard I try. No matter what effort I put into it. Every police officer has to come to terms with that same thing at some point. Every man or woman in the military.”

  “Death just feels … unacceptable to me. I almost feel like I’m being taunted and I fail these people, these very human people with families who love them.”

  “I feel the same way. I’m certain most doctors feel the same way. These nightmares you have are simply clues, a way to catch him. He doesn’t know who you are and that you’re already looking for him. Hopefully he doesn’t find out until we have him. That’s the big thing, Stella. Be careful of who you bring into the circle. I know you’re going to be tempted to bring law enforcement in, but if you do it too soon, he’ll disappear. Just fade away. This place is made for that. You have to know who he is before you inform them.”

  “I don’t want to be my mother, Harlow. I don’t want to trade my peace of mind for lives.”

  “Telling law enforcement too soon would be doing just that, Stella. Think about it. If you tell them, the FBI shows up, the serial killer fades away and you get your world back. He goes somewhere else and kills. No one is the wiser because he has a new playground, making every kill look like an accident, and you aren’t there to tell them any different. He would never stay here. Why should he? Especially if he’s a temporary visitor.”

  Stella crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the long bank of curved floor-to-ceiling windows. Of all the arguments to keep from telling Griffen, this was the best because Harlow was right. Stella felt it.

  “You’re making sense, Harlow, but then you usually do. Sam doesn’t think I should say anything yet. Zahra feels the same way. I haven’t talked to anyone else about it. I’m considering what to say when I do. I’m going to talk to Raine about the backpacking trails and campsites. She goes all the time with me. She knows the trails even better than I do.”

  “I’ve got a couple of cameras that were popular when your mom was young, Stella. I’m going to look in a catalogue and see if there were any knobs on them that look anything like you sketched.”

  Naturally, Harlow would do that for her. She was observant and knew exactly how much Stella disliked taking pictures, let alone touching an actual camera. “My mother gave me permission to take her picture. Of course, I had no idea how and she didn’t show me. I just probably played with it, looking at her and telling her how beautiful she was. She smiled at me over and over and then held out her hand for the camera. I gave it to her. Later, when she put me to bed, she kissed me several times and told me she wasn’t angry with me for breaking her camera. I told her I didn’t break it. She said, Remember, you dropped it? And then she kissed me again and told me accidents happen. My father was standing in the doorway and had a frown on his face. She told him not to be so angry, that I was just a little girl. She even flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.”

  Stella could still remember the chilling way her father had looked at her. She’d been afraid of him for the first time. She knew she hadn’t broken the camera. It was the first time she realized that her mother lied. That frightened her and she’d felt very alone. She didn’t remember how old she was.

  “It’s never a good time when we find out our parents might be monsters, like your father, or have feet of clay, like your mother,” Harlow said, her gaze glued to the catalogue she was scrutinizing. She glanced up for a moment. “Do you think any of us comes from normal? I mean anybody alive? Do we even know what normal is, or do we just make it up in our heads because the movies and television convinced us there is a normal?”

  Stella raised an eyebrow. “That’s a good question, and one I don’t have an answer for, but I don’t think most people have serial killers for fathers.”

  “I think the camera thing with your mother happened before the nightmares, Stella, so in a way, you can thank your mother for helping you stop serial killers. I know it sucks to be you when it happens, but at least you stop them eventually from killing. There is a similar-looking knob. In your next dream, try twisting it a little to the right and see if it widens your range of vision. If it doesn’t, no worries, we’ll keep working on it. You’re using your mind, not actual fingers, so you really can’t hurt anything. Don’t panic in your dream thinking you’re going to harm anything. If you have to, pretend I’m with you, taking the photographs for you. Just imagine that I’m twisting the knob to the right.”

  “You’re so brilliant, Harlow.” Stella meant it too. “Misha is out of her bed and pacing. I think she’s trying to tell you something. I’ll get Bailey if you’re ready.” She was more than ready to stretch her legs.

  At the lake she spent hours and hours picking up trash after everyone left. She was lucky that when she had a clean-up day, volunteers showed up with their own supplies to help— that was the kind of community she lived in— but there was always trash. She walked Bailey every morning and took a trash bag. In the evening she did the same after the last of the campers left and they closed everything down.

  She was used to being extremely active. Sitting even for a short period of time made her antsy— especially now. During the season, there was no time to do anything but work. If she took a day off, she climbed or hiked. She needed the time away to clear her mind. She was busy every minute of the day from sunrise until well after midnight. Sam had taken a great deal of pressure off her, and she had gathered the best staff and crew together over the years. That helped tremendously. They worked hard and she appreciated every single one of them.

  Misha leapt at the back door as Stella went out the front door to get Bailey out of her 4Runner. He was already waiting for her, eager for the walk. He waited for her release command before leaping out and then he r
aced around the studio to the back to meet with Misha, who was already eagerly yipping her joyous greeting.

  Stella found herself smiling. Happy. That was one of the things she loved about dogs. They lived in the moment. They took joy in whatever they were doing. Both Misha and Bailey loved to run along the canal, and they knew the way Harlow and Stella jogged or walked. Neither needed a leash. Everyone knew them and who they belonged to. They could play tag together and find every interesting crawling creature and rodent available.

  It was much warmer at the lower elevation and Stella wore a light sweater over her T-shirt. She could always tie it around her waist if she got too hot. The October weather cut down on the mosquitoes, which was helpful, but she was always careful anyway, carrying repellent with her. The same with tick repellent, although, if truth be told, she was more vigilant with Bailey than herself. Her dog was always protected.

  “Where’s Vienna today? I thought she had several days off in a row. Wasn’t she going to try to train her cat to go for a walk with Misha?”

  “Vienna was called into work just before I got your call, an emergency. Denver had to go in as well. Big accident, two trucks, head-on. It sounded bad.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “As for her cat and canal walking, yeah, that didn’t go so well. Her prissy little princess wanted to ride on Misha’s back, claws dug in deep, not walk on the ground.”

  The two women looked at each other and burst out laughing. The cat was the love of Vienna’s life and spoiled rotten. The animal ruled, although she never admitted it. She always indicated she was determined to have the cat come along on their adventures with the dogs. The cat never did. She lived in a “palace” and was snobby, turning up her nose at most food and demanding to be brushed and petted when Vienna was close. She would get annoyed if Vienna was gone too long and turn her back on her owner for long periods of time in a little snit. They all thought the “princess” was aptly named and loved to hear stories about her.