Stacks of cardboard boxes and wooden crates filled the room. The linens and lamps and knickknacks from the upper floor? The dishes and stemware she couldn’t find last night?
Time for that search later. Her attention was drawn, like a magnet to the North Pole, to the top of the cabinet Victrola. There stood her quarry: the dollhouse. The sense of magic it had given her forty years ago came flooding back. Three stories, rose pink with white trim and deep mauve accents, the scalloped edges of the tiny black shingles on the roof dusty but distinct. Lace curtains hung in the windows, the three-sided turret as mysterious as ever.
A shadow moved and she jumped. “Oh, Bastet. You scared the—what are those doing there?”
On the floor, next to the cat’s paw, lay three shiny pennies.
“What are you trying to tell me, Jeremy?” She looked around as she spoke, as if her husband might be hiding behind a stack of crates or perched on an old cane-seat chair.
She slipped the pennies into the pocket in the waistband of her black pants.
A small thud startled her and she glanced around, spotting Bastet’s bright eyes in the dim room. The cat had jumped onto a domed-top trunk against the far wall, next to a stack of leather suitcases.
The McCaskills weren’t packrats. They were hoarders.
She didn’t remember the trunk. Whose it was or what it held, she had no idea. She set Bastet on the floor, where the cat immediately began licking a paw and washing her face.
Sarah undid the two large brass buckles on the front of the trunk and pushed the lid with the heels of her hands. It didn’t budge. She groped at the ends of the trunk for more buckles, finding only thick leather handles. She gave the tongue another tug, then tried again.
The lid remained firmly shut.
She shone the flashlight on the front of the trunk and craned her neck, spying a small brass keyhole she hadn’t noticed earlier. It couldn’t be hard to pick an old lock like that, could it? Unless the key was around here somewhere.
But what was so valuable that it had been locked away for decades?
She carried the cat out of the apartment and closed the door, then made her way down the unlit staircase. The windows on the ground floor level were as filthy as the ones upstairs, and she played the flashlight beam across the rows of tools. No keys. Had her mind been playing tricks on her?
Not for the first time. When, she wondered, would be the last?
12
“Squat.” Nic spat out the word and dropped a white paper bag on the table outside where Sarah sat, facing the lake. “They told me squat.”
“Care to be more specific?” Sarah asked.
“I should have ignored the letter,” Janine said, taking the seat across from Nic. No sign of Holly. “Then none of this would have happened.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have broken your phone, but Lucas would still be dead,” Nic said. “And you’d still be a suspect, unless you had an alibi. Which, bottom line, you don’t.”
Lucas. Still stirring up trouble from the grave. Metaphorically speaking.
“Would she?” Sarah closed the notebook in front of her, the start of a list of repairs and other projects. “Be a suspect, I mean. She never filed an official report against Lucas, so even if they dug that deep in his background, they wouldn’t find a link.”
“Somebody had to know,” Nic said. “His wife, his partner, his therapist.”
Sarah and Janine snorted in unison, almost as if they’d rehearsed.
Nic threw up her hands. “I’m being theoretical here. He has to have told someone. No one keeps a secret like that his whole life.”
“What was there to tell?” Janine opened her own white paper bag. “He never thought he did anything wrong.”
When it came to Janine, maybe, but the rest? The wreck?
“Well, they know now. The price of honesty.” Nic made a noise like an unhappy horse. “The prosecutor was in trial today, so no chance for a meeting. I called a friend to ask about her—turns out she beat Lucas for the job a couple of years ago, handily. Rumor is, he never got over it and took every opportunity to slam her. But from what I hear, she’s fair. She won’t let his behavior affect her prosecution.”
“Did you see Leo?” Sarah asked.
“Spent most of an hour with him.” Nic peered inside her paper bag.
“And?”
Nic raised her head and bit her lip. “Preliminary autopsy results confirm the cause of death was the gunshot. Manner, Leo wouldn’t say, but it’s gotta be homicide.”
Sarah shuddered. Ugly word. An ugly death she didn’t wish on anyone.
“Apparently Lucas was known to keep a gun in the office,” Nic continued, “but it isn’t there now. No sign of it in his house or car. Good chance the killer used his own gun on him and took it with him.”
Or her.
“Leo won’t find anything to connect the shooting to me,” Janine said. “I know how it looks, but I didn’t kill him.”
“There’s reasonable doubt, right?” Sarah said. “Don’t they have to show no reasonable doubt before they can charge her? I forget how that works.”
“To charge her, all they need is probable cause to believe she committed the crime. Then, at trial, they have to show proof beyond a reasonable doubt.”
The words hung in the air, meaning nothing, meaning everything.
“So, what next?” Sarah asked.
“Meet with the prosecutor,” Nic replied. “Talk to people who knew Lucas. My guess is they’ll release the body in a day or two. His mother is widowed. Lives out of state with his sister.”
Lucas Erickson had a mother. Everyone did, but she hadn’t given his any thought. Poor woman.
“They’re on their way up,” Nic continued. “The ex-wife is taking charge of funeral arrangements. Two kids—boys. Middle-schoolers.”
He had kids. There would be a funeral. She should go.
God help me. She couldn’t go to another funeral, not now. No one would expect that of her. Hardly anyone in Deer Park had any inkling she’d ever known Lucas Erickson.
The back door squeaked open and footsteps crossed the deck. Holly set a bag and a can of pop in front of her. “We got you lunch.”
“I’m not hungry. But thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Holly took the fourth spot and carefully tore her bag to make a place mat, kept from blowing away by her Mountain Dew can. Sarah watched as her sister set the pickle at three o’clock, the white envelope of seasoned fries at nine o’clock, and a small plastic cup of ice cream at twelve o’clock, the paper-wrapped wooden spoon on top, crosswise and perfectly straight. The burger Holly positioned in the center, the white paper wrapper held by a toothpick with a frilly plastic end that also held a radish. She pulled out the toothpick and the wrapper flapped open. The smell sent Sarah back in time to high school summers, taking orders at the Burger Depot window.
Holly raised the toothpick and opened her mouth, then stopped. “What?”
“You are so weird,” Sarah said.
“I’m a creature of habit.”
“Which is why we all knew you were going to do that the moment you sat down,” Janine said. “Do you rearrange the table when you go out to dinner?”
Holly glowered. Pulled the radish off the toothpick with her teeth, then set the pick on the bag-turned-place mat, behind the ice cream cup.
“If the Burger Depot’s open, summer’s not far behind,” Sarah said. “What did Leo say about the letter?”
“Not much.” Holly reached for her pop. “Our cousin’s gone closed-mouth on us.”
“They wouldn’t confirm whether they think Lucas sent the letter to Janine,” Nic said, “but the fact that Holly got one too makes it more probable than not. In my opinion, anyway. The trick will be to convince them that the letter didn’t have anything to do with his death.”
“You threaten somebody, in writing, and end up dead,” Sarah said. “It’s gotta be connected.”
“I didn’t kill him,�
� Janine said, her tone insistent.
“And I have an alibi,” Holly added.
“I know, I know.” Sarah raised her hands. “I’m not accusing either of you. It’s just—who? Why?”
“Who and why are inextricably linked,” Nic said. “And that’s what makes the letter interesting. But they’re looking at every possibility for the shooter. The ex-wife, opposing counsel, disgruntled clients. A burglar, though the secretary claims nothing is missing.”
Except the gun. “What about the former law partner?”
“Dan Fleming. We met on a case eons ago. I’m hoping to connect with him this week. Find out what happened to their partnership, see if he can shed any light on the case.”
The smells finally got to her and Sarah slid the burger and fries out of her bag. Offered the radish to Holly, who wrinkled her nose. Radish first, then pickle, then burger and fries. Certain things remained predictable. Sarah unwrapped her burger and took the first bite. It wouldn’t win culinary prizes, but it was exactly what she’d been craving.
“What am I going to do about my phone?” Janine said.
“Isn’t it fixed?” Sarah waved a hand in front of her mouth. “I’m sure he said two days.”
“When he thought all it needed was a new screen,” Janine replied. “Now he thinks it might need a different part, which will take at least three days to get here. If that’s what it needs.”
“Where’s it coming from? China?”
“Spokane. Same diff.”
Two hundred and fifty miles. And several thousand light years.
“No big deal,” Holly said. “Get a new one.”
“I bake cakes for a living. I can’t afford a new phone. Now with all this …” Janine threw up her hands.
All this? What did she mean? The letters, the murder? What did that have to do with buying a new phone, unless she expected to need every penny for a lawyer. Not Nic, who focused on family law and gay rights and Sarah wasn’t sure what else, but who would never ask an old friend to pay her. No, Janine feared needing money for a criminal defense lawyer.
She wouldn’t be charged with murder. She couldn’t be charged. “Janine, it’ll be okay. Not right away, but it will be okay.”
“Says you.” Janine’s curls swung in her face and she shoved them out of the way. “You and your perfect life.”
All the warmth went out of the sunshine. “You mean the life that just fell apart? When my husband died?”
“Sarah, I am so sorry,” Janine said, her voice breaking. “I didn’t mean that. It’s the stress talking. But at least you don’t have to worry about money.”
Small comfort at the moment. “I know. Thanks.”
“Cheer up, Janine,” Holly said. “None of our phones work out here.”
Janine stuck out her tongue.
“We got a booster for the cell signal,” Holly told Sarah. “The guy said it plugs into the jack for the landline. Easy as pie.”
“Assuming he knows which end is up,” Janine said.
“No help on the landline, though,” Holly continued. “Mom was on her way out, so I called the phone company, but they wouldn’t talk to me, since I’m not the account holder. At least the insurance agent was helpful. And Connor will swing by as soon as he gets a chance.”
“Pray it doesn’t rain before then.” Sarah glanced to the west, the sky clear and cloudless. But the weather changed quickly in the mountains. “Where was Mom going?”
“No idea.” Holly plucked a fry from the bag. “We walk in. She’s all friendly. I say I want to see what she’s working on—she must be deep into it if she’s not out here riding herd—and all of a sudden she’s got some place to be.”
“That is crazy.”
“Oh, by the way,” Nic said, “Leo was very interested when we showed him pictures of the roadside cross.”
Holly held out her phone, and Sarah took it, though she’d seen the memorial herself. Scrolled through the pictures rapidly. Stopped and swiped the other way. Tapped the screen, then spread two fingers to zoom in on the photo. Showed it to Janine. “That gold charm, with the basketball sitting on top of the letters UM. That wasn’t there yesterday, was it?”
Janine leaned in, frowning. “But who in Deer Park knew Michael Brown?”
“Good question, although there are plenty of college basketball fans up here, and he was a hot shot.”
“Twenty-five years ago. Who would remember him now?”
“I wondered if it was Lucas, but obviously not, if new things are being added to the shrine,” Sarah said. “We could share that photo on Insta or Facebook and see what we find out.”
“Leo’s already on it,” Nic said. “I can’t imagine how it might be connected to the murder, but you never know.”
“Could be totally innocent. Griz fan with a long memory,” Holly said. “Found a photo of him online and printed it out. Though why now, after all these years?”
Sarah picked up her pop can. “A sports fan that attentive, that obsessed, is probably male. I’ve always assumed it was women who decorated roadside crosses.”
“Tempe took drivers’ ed last fall,” Nic said. “The teacher made them work in teams and research newspaper stories about roadside fatalities. They had to visit the cross, take pictures, and give a report in class.”
“That’s cruel,” Holly said.
“And there’s a judge in Billings who makes that part of the sentence after a DUI,” Nic continued. “Leo said nothing like that goes on up here, but I think he liked the idea.”
“While you three were in town, I went up to the carriage house apartment,” Sarah said. “No interior damage, thank goodness. That’s where all the stuff from the third floor is. And the dollhouse.”
“I loved that old dollhouse,” Holly said. “But not half as much as you did.”
“None of you have gone out there?” Sarah asked, though there had been no footprints on the dusty steps. No’s, all around. “So how do you suppose these got on the bedroom floor?” She fished the three pennies out of her pants pocket.
“They look brand-new.” Janine plucked one out of Sarah’s palm and held it up. “It’s dated this year.”
If you’ve got something to say, Jeremy, just tell me.
* * *
Below the highway, Sarah pulled off McCaskill Lane onto the trail leading to the horse barn, then further east to the Hoyt place. She passed the weathered building, its stalls holding nothing but horses’ dreams, and kept going. In her bag, her phone pinged, but she ignored it.
She ignored the boundary between Hoyt and McCaskill land, too, certain George wouldn’t mind. She slipped her foot off the brake, then pressed the gas gently, steering the rig between the high spots and the muddy potholes frost heave left behind. Clearly, the road hadn’t been used much in the current century.
Ahead loomed the Hoyt barn, where George had kept his stock. Never much interested in managing the timberland he’d inherited, he’d turned to outfitting once he sold the sawmill. He’d run several crews of guides and hands, using horses and mules to carry guests into the backcountry to hunt or fish. The stock were long sold off and the barn looked lonely. The rails of the old corral had splintered and collapsed in the middle, like a shallow V, the posts leaning, as though they’d lost the will to stand up for themselves. Hints of wild brush and grasses greened the ground on either side of the road, but inside the corral, the dirt held only the faintest greenish sheen, as if all the hooves over all the years had pounded too hard even for weeds to take hold.
An illusion. Weeds were the sturdiest plants around. “A weed is just a plant in the wrong place,” her grandmother had liked to say.
“Bloom where you’re planted,” proclaimed a poster Abby had hung on her bedroom wall.
The world is full of such contradictory advice.
Clearly if she were going to take up riding again, it would not be here.
Beyond the corral lay the first pond, the road dipping below it, then moving on to the next,
each pond ringed in last year’s cattails, a red-winged blackbird perched on one. No wildflowers, and the pussy willows hadn’t opened yet. Maybe the woman in the blue car had found some forsythia in bloom, or a wild fruit tree by the side of the road.
She kept going. Above the largest pond stood the old ice house. Two stories, deeply weathered, the cupola on top tilted slightly, and something inside her seemed to heat up, freeze, and melt again.
The barn road was a wreck. Her front tire hit the edge of a pothole, the SUV swerving sharply to the right. The vehicle bounced and she swore and jerked it back. If she weren’t careful, the soft dirt along the edge could grab her tires and pull her off into the narrow drainage ditch.
Steady, Sarah. Don’t get stuck up here. Even if her cell worked, she did not want to get stuck up here.
The spring that fed the old homestead had turned the meadow green already, and the pond shimmered in shades of chilly blue. A pair of mergansers swam effortlessly on the far side. A hundred years ago, ice had been cut here for the railroad and townspeople. She parked beside the ice house, near where the road teed into Hoyt Lane. Over a small rise to the east, she saw the chimney of the house where George’s mother had lived when Sarah was a kid.
She swung her car door open, testing the ground with one tennis shoe, then the other. Took a deep breath. Took one step, a second and a third, bypassing the ice house until she stood in front of the homestead shack. No picturesque logs here. Rough lumber but well-built—it was still standing, after all—that had been whitewashed once, so long ago it was nearly impossible to tell.
A creeper clung to the door frame, last year’s leaves dry and brown, and they rustled in the soft breeze. The upper half of the door stood open, the screen torn in one corner. A squirrel or a racoon? A tree branch tossed by the wind?
She stretched out a hand, then pulled it back. She didn’t need to go inside. She didn’t want to go inside.
Jeremy would not be waiting for her.
13
When she reached the North Shore Road, she jammed her foot on the brake and slammed her fist into the steering wheel, the impact vibrating up her hand.
Bitterroot Lake Page 9
