BITTERROOT LAKE
A NOVEL
Alicia Beckman
For Ramona DeFelice Long in friendship and gratitude
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
—Mary Oliver, “The Journey”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Whitetail Lodge, Deer Park, and Bitterroot Lake are all fictional, though I have drawn heavily on the history of northwestern Montana and its logging, its mill towns, and its historic lakeside lodges. The region is home to a small lake called Little Bitterroot and a Deer Park Elementary, but their fictional namesakes live only in my mind, and I hope, yours.
Women’s clubs were a critical part of life in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, often providing the only social opportunities some rural women had. While the Lakeside Ladies’ Aid Society is fictional, I suspect many organizations did good works that fell far outside their charter.
Book research takes many forms. Thanks to my cousin, Dawn Schwingler McQuillan, for helping me try to solve the mystery of Mrs. O’Dell, known only as a family friend of our great-grandparents, the Beckmans, and a namesake in two generations. We didn’t succeed, but it’s clear the real woman was as well loved as the Mrs. O’D of my imagination.
Jordonna Dores opened her treasure trove of family albums and scrapbooks, allowing me to connect with and better describe what I had imagined lay inside Caroline McCaskill’s trunk. Francesca Droll of Abacus Graphics, LLC created the map of Bitterroot Lake. Our collaboration was a joy, a chance to see how a professional artist and designer can add a critical visual layer to a novel from a rough sketch and a draft manuscript.
My sweet hunny, Don Beans, spent a glorious, clear blue spring afternoon exploring local cemeteries with me and scouting out an old ice house, not far from home but which neither of us knew about before I started researching them for this book. Thank you, love.
What a treat to work again with editor Terri Bischoff, now at Crooked Lane Books, and the rest of the CLB staff. Thanks to Edith Maxwell for reading the proposal, and to the late Ramona DeFelice Long for commenting on a draft. I’m lucky to share a terrific critique partnership with Debbie Burke, who read the proposal and a draft, and brainstormed with me when Terri said “more of this, and less of that” and my brain froze! Mystery writers are the most generous people I know.
My agent, John Talbot, pivoted on the proverbial dime when a series proposal turned into an invitation to write the stand-alone I’d long wanted to write. I deeply appreciate your knowledge of the business and your wise counsel.
Readers, it’s all for you. Thank you.
What Sarah remembered most about that day twenty-five years ago were the sounds.
The words that twisted Lucas’s full lips, that ripped away all the innocence of the weekend, that scraped her to the bone even still.
Janine sobbing, rasping for breath.
Lucas revving the engine of the little red sports car, grinding the gears as he pulled away from the lodge. Michael and Jeremy yelling, then jumping in as they tried to keep him from certain disaster.
The tires squealing on the highway. Metal crumpling. An animal bellowing.
And all of it echoing off the rocks and water and mountains, drowning out the birdsong and the chirping squirrels and the laughter of people at play on the lake. Winding through the spruce and pine and piercing her in the gut.
The siren. Jeremy moaning, strapped to the gurney, its wheels snapping as the EMTs loaded him into the ambulance. The doors slamming shut. The ambulance screeching back toward town.
Did they cry, the girls left to watch and wait? Scream, shout? They must have. She didn’t remember.
Fear and terror, and grievous loss, erase every other sense, wiping the memory blank, leaving time as clean and empty as her grandmother’s ironstone dishes. As she had too recently been reminded.
MONDAY
Seventeen Days
1
A light glowed in the window of the far cabin, the cabin closest to the lake.
Sarah McCaskill Carter squinted and tightened her lips. She was seeing things again. She’d thought that once she came home to Montana, to Whitetail Lodge, the apparitions, the ghosts, the specters—whatever they were—would go away. That she would be herself once again. Although the therapist in Seattle had told her it might take months, or longer, to feel she was back on solid ground. Everyone responds to grief differently, the woman had said, in their own way, on their own time.
The light was gone. Sarah blew out a breath and took her foot off the brake, aiming the rented SUV down the last stretch of the winding lane that led to the lodge. She touched the gas and focused on the road. Deer, even elk and the occasional moose, were known to jump out of the shadows that filled these woods, especially when twilight was fading. She knew what damage they could cause, to a car and to a life.
She glanced back at the cabin. The light was on.
“Get a grip, girl,” she said out loud. “Or your next trip will be to the funny farm.”
Moments later, her headlights hit the double doors of the carriage house. Even in the fading light, the roof appeared to be sagging and the siding dull, in need of oil. Less schlepping if she parked in front of the lodge. But high winds and evening rainstorms were common in the mountains, and it was better to be safe and sore than sorry.
Wait. Was one door ajar?
“Don’t get spooked,” she told herself. “It’s just loose. There’s no one here.” When her mother asked her help getting the lake place ready for the summer and making a plan for the future, she’d warned her that the lodge needed serious cleaning. Sarah could deal with that. She’d dealt with worse than a little dirt.
Even so, her mother would have expected her to stop by the house in town first.
Not yet. Sarah could not stomach the thought of staying in Seattle one more minute, but she wasn’t ready to be smothered by mother love.
Tomorrow. She’d call her mother tomorrow and let her know she was here.
The words “better safe …” echoed in her brain. It had been seventeen days since her husband’s death, and she had not felt safe for one minute.
Nothing in reach might double as a weapon. She stepped out of the car, leaving the engine running. Opened the rear door and dug in her suitcase for her heavy black flashlight, its heft a comfort.
The ten-foot-high garage door groaned at her touch, then slid open with a squeal. Her headlights picked out a white van, mud-splashed, Missoula County plates reading CKLDY.
She caught her breath. It had to be—it couldn’t be anyone else.
But why was the woman here?
“Janine?” Sarah called into the darkness. No answer. She tried the driver’s door. Locked. Circled the van, straining to see in each window. Empty, as far as she could tell. Touched a muddy tire. Fresh. Laid a palm on the hood—not hot, not cold.
What was going on? She slid open the other door, then pulled her SUV inside. She’d come back for her bags later.
The lodge loomed, tall and dark, casting deep shadows over the circular drive. She strode past the stone steps of the front porch, aiming for the forest path that led to the three log cabins. The evening clouds had begun to part, but there was no moon, leaving only the last hint of twilight to guide her.
It was enough. Her feet knew the way, and she didn’t want to telegraph her presence with a stray flashlight beam. Because who knew why her old friend was here, or if she was alone? With all the time and distance between them, Sarah could not count on being welcomed, even though this property belonged to her family.
Between the first two cabins, she paused to gaze out at Bitterroot Lake, listening to the
waves lapping on the shore. Its waters ran deep, frigid even in summer. Now, not quite mid-May, the lake could be deadly.
Her steps slowed. She paused and took a deep breath, intent on the last cabin. The curtains had been pulled tight, but a soft glow leaked out, and she could see a battery-powered lantern on the window sill. Whitetail Lodge and its grounds had been a haven and retreat since early in the twentieth century, when a railroad tycoon built the lodge as a summer home. Her family had acquired the property—several hundred acres and a long stretch of lakeshore—in 1922. Her mother would have told her if any cabins were occupied.
No, this visitor had come here on the sly. Sarah did not begrudge the refuge or the intrusion. But she deserved to know the reason.
She strode to the weathered pine door. One foot on the path, the other on the stone step, she raised her hand and knocked. Heard the silence within. Knocked a second time.
“Janine? It’s Sarah Carter. Sarah McCaskill Carter.”
Silence, then footsteps, followed by a soft sound—a meow?
The door opened a few inches, a narrow swath of light playing on the worn wood floor. Janine Chapman peered around the edge of the door, gripping it with both hands. Her dark eyes were huge and red-rimmed, her olive skin tear-splotched. Was that blood on her white T-shirt?
“Lucas Erickson is dead,” she said. “And they’re going to think I did it.”
And with those words, all the ghosts in Sarah Carter’s past came back to life.
2
Half an hour later, Sarah clutched a mug of hot tea and stared across the kitchen table. Her mother may have started cleaning the lodge—a bucket and sponge had been left in the deep white farmhouse sink—but she hadn’t gotten very far. Sarah had wiped down the chrome-trimmed Formica table and chrome chairs, their red vinyl seats showing wear at the corners, while the kettle heated. The tea was old, Twinings in bags, the sugar clumped with damp. She’d picked up a few things in a market not far from the train station, but tea and sugar weren’t among them—she’d make a full grocery run in a day or two, if she decided to stay.
But tea wasn’t the point.
“Tell me again,” Sarah told the woman she’d known since the seventh grade but hadn’t seen in years. “Start from the beginning.”
Janine spread her hands across the wrinkled letter that lay between them, smoothing the white paper. Capable hands, the fingers strong and supple. No rings, not worth the trouble of scrubbing them clean of flour and sugar, let alone keeping a shine. Despite their strength, the baker’s hands could not iron out the angry marks she’d made when she’d crumpled up the page and thrown it at the unseen, anonymous writer.
But the folds and furrows in the paper did not obscure the words, typed in a standard font, undated, unsigned.
“Only you know the truth of what happened twenty-five years ago,” the letter read. “Only you can decide what to do.”
“Did you bring the envelope?” Sarah asked. The cat—compact, its fur dark chocolate, coffee-tinged at the ears and paws—finished its circuit of the room and jumped into her lap. Her hands instinctively steadied the creature, and she added cat food to her unwritten shopping list.
Janine’s dark, wiry curls swung back and forth. “No return address.” Sarah had lent her a clean shirt, Janine’s bloodied T-shirt now draped over the back of a chair.
“The postmark?”
“Missoula.”
Montana’s second-largest city, home to the University of Montana. One hundred and fifty miles south. A long drive, simply to confront a man.
Nothing simple about it.
“But he lives here, in Deer Park. Why would you think he sent it?”
“Post office closed the sorting facility years ago. All the mail in western Montana goes through Missoula now. Unless it’s local, from one Deer Park address to another. And he might have gone down there, for court or legal business.” Janine drew her tea closer. “But it has to have come from him, doesn’t it? No one else …”
Her voice trailed off, not saying what didn’t need to be said. Twenty-five years ago this month, Sarah had graduated from the university, along with their friend Nicole. The new grads and Sarah’s sister Holly, a year younger, had come to the lodge to celebrate, Janine in tow. For a week, the four friends and roommates had been the only ones here—swimming, hiking, laughing, drinking too much wine, and falling asleep in the sun. Enjoying their last carefree days before time and plans separated them.
Then Lucas and his buddies showed up. And everything changed.
“Oh, God, Sally, it was awful. It was hideous. I wanted to throw up.” Janine bent over, clutching her elbows. Then she stood and began to pace between the ancient white enamel range and the equally ancient refrigerator.
No one had called Sarah “Sally” in decades, except occasionally when someone in the family slipped. Or a friend from way back.
“He wanted to make sure I kept my mouth shut. Rumor is he intends”—Janine paused—“intended to run for office.”
“Political office?” As if there were another kind. But Lucas?
“Congress, I heard. He might have lacked political experience, but he never lacked confidence.”
Why not Lucas? He’d been smart and ambitious. Lawyers often leaned toward politics. And officially, he had no criminal record.
“Lucas?” she repeated, this time out loud. The cat shifted in her lap.
“I thought—I thought—” Janine stopped, then grabbed her chair and rocked it backward. “He always blamed me for the wreck. Because I said no, because I wouldn’t sleep with him—”
“He attacked you. He all but raped you.” Sarah didn’t bother stemming her anger as the memory spilled out of her. “I saw you, we all saw you, racing out of the cabin, your shirt ripped, your shorts half off. Running barefoot down the gravel driveway to get away from him.”
“Instead, he jumped in Jeremy’s car and tried to leave.”
“I remember,” Sarah said, her voice breaking. She would never forget. Jeremy had left the keys in it. He and Michael ran after Lucas. Somehow, both young men—boys, really, barely older than her son was now—had ended up in the car, too. Trying to get Lucas to stop, to figure out what had happened, to keep him from careening up the road and down the winding, two-lane North Shore Road in a blind, foolish rage. Holly had jumped in their father’s old Jeep and raced after them. She’d seen Lucas picking up speed on the blacktop, weaving across the center line and back again. Seen Jeremy trying to wrench control of the car. Seen the moose amble up out of the borrow pit and straight into their path.
Sarah could see it all as if she’d been there. She could hear the squeal of rubber, the rip of metal on asphalt, the wild bellowing. The terrible sounds had rolled down the slope to where the other three had stood, clinging to each other, in front of the lodge. Nic—Nicole, always the sensible one—had run inside to call for help while Sarah and Janine rushed up the hill, terrified of what they would find but too terrified to stay put.
“Lucas may have blamed you,” she said quietly, “but Jeremy never did. He knew what Lucas had done. Even though you’d told him no over and over, all weekend, Lucas boasted that he could get you into bed, one way or another. Michael and Jeremy told him to shut up, to let it go. He always knew it wasn’t your fault.”
Janine collapsed onto the chair and buried her face in her hands. Careful of the cat in her lap and the years between her and her friend, Sarah touched Janine’s arm, then scooted closer and slid her hand onto her old friend’s back.
Jeremy had been raced to the hospital in Whitefish, then flown to the trauma center in Seattle. He’d been in one hospital or another for the better part of the summer. And when Sarah had gone to visit him, they’d begun building a serious relationship. His parents hadn’t welcomed her, not at first. Not until they saw that their only son was determined to keep her close.
And no one ever said that Jeremy Carter lacked determination.
Lucas’s injuries had been
minor. So minor that people assumed he was drunk, the way it often seemed to happen—the passengers or the innocent occupants of the other vehicle bore the worst of the trauma while the drunk driver walked away with barely a scratch.
But he hadn’t been drunk, except maybe on anger and pride, and there had been no other vehicle. Just Jeremy’s little red sports car, a graduation gift from his parents, flipped on its top, Jeremy seriously injured and Michael Brown, sweet, playful Michael Brown, thrown across the highway and killed.
And the big cow moose dead, her calf standing beside her, bawling. A neighbor, George Hoyt, had taken charge of the calf until state wildlife officers could come for it.
Janine straightened, letting Sarah’s hand fall away, and sniffed back her tears. “What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to call the sheriff,” Sarah replied. “Like you should have. I still don’t get why you didn’t.”
Janine turned to face her, her words urgent. “Lucas was dead, and I didn’t see the gun. I was covered in blood, and I was not going to be the next person shot.” Her shoulders slumped. “Besides, the cops don’t believe women like me.”
Her simple statement was a gut punch. An echo of the past.
Maybe Montana hadn’t changed so much after all.
“The sheriff is my cousin, Leo,” Sarah said. “I’ll make him believe you.”
Janine lifted her chin a few degrees, then nodded. She’d moved to Deer Park in seventh grade with her mother, a waitress at the Blue Spruce. Town was small enough that rumors flew, and the kids all heard their parents talk about Sue Nielsen and her errant ways. Sarah and Holly had thrown a Halloween party at the house in town that year and Peggy McCaskill suggested Sarah invite Janine, saying “that girl needs a friend.” Becca Smalley and her beady-eyed buddies said if Janine came, they would stay home. “Too bad, so sad,” Sarah replied—they’d miss out on the fortune teller, the games, and her mother’s popcorn balls. After that, she and Janine had become fast friends. Janine had stayed in Deer Park for a few months after high school, then moved to Missoula herself, picking up restaurant work. The next year, they got an apartment together. Leo had been a couple of years ahead, but Sarah bet he’d remember Janine, too striking not to notice.
Bitterroot Lake Page 1
