Murder at Sunrise Lake

by Feehan, Christine

  “Dive in, Stella. I can’t eat all this by myself or I’ll have to go to one of those obnoxious girlie classes Harlow puts on.”

  Stella dipped a zucchini stick in marinara sauce. It was good. Not like Shabina good, but good. Alek had his own recipes from his mother’s side of the family and they were valuable to the Grill. It wasn’t just a greasy spoon.

  “Harlow’s yoga classes? Wait until I tell her you describe them as girlie. That’s rich. Have you ever tried one? Take a private lesson if you’re too intimidated to take a class. Seriously, not easy, and that’s beginner. People always think yoga is going to be so easy. Your body has to use all the muscles, stretching them …”

  “Harlow gives private classes?” Carl interrupted.

  Stella took a sip of her Moscow Mule. She knew better, but it was going down smooth and this was too good to be true. Carl Montgomery was into Harlow. Who knew? He was always so buttoned down. He rarely came to the Grill, and if he did, he didn’t hang out with their crowd. Not really. He was one of the ones on the fringe. She knew him, but not well.

  “Yes, Harlow gives private lessons.” She glanced toward the dance floor when movement caught her eye. Carl slid off the barstool.

  Sean was pushing his way through the few people dancing between him and Stella’s small inner circle of friends. He strode right up to Shabina, who was dancing, and he positioned himself behind her, his body almost on top of hers. She tried to elbow him off of her, but he yanked her into him, his hips thrusting hard.

  Stella found herself trying to run toward the dance floor, but there were too many people between her and the place marked off for the dancing. She squeezed through two men and went around a woman who had paused right in front of her. By the time she got to the edge of the floor, whatever had taken place was over.

  Bale, Ed and Jason had Sean by the arms and were escorting him out. Bruce, Sam, Denver and Alek’s bouncer, Jeff, watched them go. Zahra and Raine escorted Shabina back to Stella. She flung her arm around her friend.

  “That man needs someone to teach him a lesson or two in manners,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. It’s not like it’s the first time some man wanted to freak dance with one of us. It happens all the time.” Shabina smiled at Carl. “I didn’t know you were here tonight.”

  He waved toward the platter of food. “Have at it, ladies. What are you drinking?” Once again, he got the bartender’s attention.

  Within minutes Carl had them all laughing. Stella appreciated that he didn’t refer to the incident at all but rather got everyone back on track having fun. Denver and Bruce joined them. Sam went to his usual place in the corner, keeping an eye on them. Before, she had wanted him to be with them, thinking it strange and creepy that he didn’t sit with them, but now, she liked the idea that he watched over them— that he was sober and she didn’t have to worry about anything but having a good time with her friends because he was there.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Stella woke with her head pounding. It was still dark, thank heavens. Bailey shoved his wet nose against her face and she absently patted him. Had she remembered to take him out last night before she went to bed? She was a responsible dog owner. Of course she’d taken him out, but clearly he needed to go out again. She sat up, groaning as she did so, pressing her hand to her head. She so deserved everything she was going to get this morning.

  Looking around, she realized she was in her own bed. On the nightstand was a bottle of water and two white tablets. Sam. He’d poured the four women into her rig and driven them back to the resort instead of the campsite. On the way back, they sang at the top of their lungs and laughed hysterically, mostly because once Bruce, Denver and Carl had retreated, leaving the four women, Stella had confessed scandalous thoughts she had had about Sam and all the things she wanted him to do to her.

  She groaned again and covered her face. Hopefully she’d been whispering when she told her friends over and over how hot she thought he was. He’d been sitting a distance from them, and the noise level in the bar was loud, so surely he hadn’t heard. She drank down as much water as possible and slid out of bed.

  She was still in her clothes, but no shoes. At least she was spared the indignity of throwing up all over him. She hurried to let the dog out, trying to think whether she’d been facing him while she was confiding to her friends in her tipsy— okay, past tipsy— state about how hot Sam was. She was almost positive he could read lips. She’d be mortified. But then, she had a lot to be mortified about. Leaving Bailey to do his business, she hurried into the shower, hoping to clear the cobwebs.

  The Moscow Mules had somehow made the four of them believe they were superb at Cossack dancing. They took to the dance floor, squatting, kicking their legs out with their arms crossed over their chests and laughing hysterically. Unfortunately, all they were really doing was squatting, standing and squatting again. That, and falling on their butts. It had been a fabulous night.

  Sam kept his expressionless mask in place as he drove them home, putting up with the four of them making outrageous faces at each other to remind themselves to keep quiet and hide Stella’s secret crush. They would all burst out laughing. He was stoic about it, which only made them laugh louder.

  Stella dressed in jeans and a tee, trying to remember if the conversation with the girls had taken place in front of Sam or not. She’d definitely asked them if she had inadvertently blurted out how hot he was or how she would “do” him in a hot minute. Had she asked them at the bar or in the 4Runner or at her house? She remembered Zahra assuring her over and over she hadn’t said a single damning word in front of him. The others had nodded solemnly, but then they’d spoiled it all by laughing hysterically again and asking how they would know because they were drunk.

  She pulled on running shoes after braiding her hair and went out to find Bailey. Sam was usually up long before anyone else. She didn’t see him anywhere, so she headed down to the boat rentals. Bernice Fulton was always up early, making certain the boats were clean and all had the required number of life jackets in them. She was meticulous about the care of the boats. She certainly didn’t deserve Stella snapping at her a few days earlier.

  Bernice and Roy Fulton had worked for Stella for five years and she’d been very lucky to find the couple. Roy was knowledgeable about all aspects of fishing and had been willing to pass that knowledge on to Stella. When she came up with the idea of fishing tournaments, he had been more than willing to help her. They were two of the few year-round employees she kept on staff. Each year, Roy had helped her improve the tournament until fishermen came from all over to participate in their event.

  Bernice might not be able to fix motors on boats, but she was skilled with customers. They liked her and she could easily upsell all kinds of items from their selection of paddle boats, rowboats, kayaks, canoes, fishing boats, and of course their cruising boats. They had it all to rent at the marina.

  “Hey, Stella.” Bernice greeted her with her customary smile. She was in her late fifties and perpetually happy. She had very few lines on her face to show the passing years, and those she did have were mainly from being in the sun. She always wore a wide-brimmed hat and slathered on sunscreen. Her hats were darling, and no one wore them with more style than Bernice.

  “Good morning, Bernice. Although I haven’t had my coffee, so technically, I can’t say if it’s a good morning or not,” Stella greeted her. “As always, you’re looking lovely.”

  Bernice did look lovely. She wore soft yellow jeans rolled up to her calves and a boat-neck shirt with thin blue, white and yellow stripes. Her yellow boots matched her thick sweater, and somewhere she would have sunglasses that went with her outfit as well.

  “Thank you, dear.” Bernice took the compliment as her due. “Roy has coffee at the bait shop, but you know it isn’t all that good.”

  Stella was well aware Roy’s coffee lacked anything that remotely was good about coffee other than actual caffeine. “I wanted to a
pologize to you for the way I talked to you the other day. I was way out of line. You didn’t deserve me taking out my seriously bad day on you and that’s what I was doing. I hope you can forgive me, Bernice. You’re a good friend and I know I hurt you by snapping at you the way I did.”

  Bernice’s eyes clouded over and she threw her arms around Stella. “Sweetheart, think nothing of it. I knew that day was terrible for you. Roy told me how some of the guests yelled at you. I hated that for you.”

  Stella hugged her back. “That’s no reason to take it out on you, someone I care about. I’m truly sorry.”

  Bernice patted her back, sniffed and then straightened and released her. “No worries. I appreciate your apology. It means something to me. Sam said you were camping with your girls for a few days. I think that’s good. You need some time off.”

  “You saw him this morning? Where is he? He was supposed to take us to our tents last night.”

  “Not this morning. When he brought all of you home last night, he told Roy he was going to spend the night where you would be camping to protect your things, said he was worried about all of you waking up with hangovers. Thought he could get a little fishing in. You know he rarely has the time. Denver might join him if he isn’t hungover. Apparently Denver drank more than he usually does, but was planning to meet Sam out there early this morning before sunrise.”

  Bernice continued to talk, but Stella couldn’t hear a word she was saying. She felt the color drain from her face. Sam and Denver were fishing. She’d led two people who meant the world to her right to the spot where the murderer wanted his victim to be.

  “I have to go, Bernice,” she whispered, and ran out of the little building and back down the marina to the main house and to the garage where Sam had parked her 4Runner. She knew she must look insane, but she didn’t care. She had to get to the men before something evil happened to them. “Bailey!” She yanked open the back of the rig.

  Bailey came running and immediately leapt into his spot. She slammed the door closed and ran around to the driver’s side. Where was the fob to her rig? She’d given it to Sam the night before. Where would he put it? Probably on her nightstand. Swearing, she ran back into the house, into her bedroom, and sure enough, it was right there. Sam was predictable when it came to things like that. Water to hydrate. Aspirin for her headache. Her keys.

  She drove like a maniac. She knew what her rig could do and just how far she could push it on the road around the lake. Thank heavens Bailey had woken her before the sun came up. It was rising into the sky now and she knew the two men would be fishing, or at least Sam would be if Denver wasn’t there yet. The tires slid just a little as she took a tight bend far too fast. It wouldn’t do to slide off the road.

  She hit the steering wheel with the flat of her palm and sent up silent prayers to someone, she didn’t know who. The last time she had watched helplessly as people had died, she’d stopped believing in anyone outside of herself. Still, prayers might help. Who knew? She didn’t want to lose anyone else. Not Sam. Not Denver. No one.

  Stella made the turn onto the pitted dirt road leading to the lake. Dust rose around her in clouds, forcing her to slow her speed. She came up behind Sam’s rig, threw the 4Runner into park, turned off the engine and jumped out. She didn’t see Denver’s truck. Sam was already fishing. He wore a hat and waders. Just like in her nightmare, he had waded out among the boulders, plants and reeds. She released Bailey and ran toward the lake, calling out to Sam.

  The wind had come up and it whipped at her hair, tore tears from her eyes. Maybe it put them there. He was too far away to hear. Her gaze went to the surface of the lake where the wind tugged at the water. There was that dark spot that drew her gaze like a magnet, that exact spot where Sam had dropped his line. Of course he’d hit the spot where the water seemed to swirl just a little bit, making its own lazy pool.

  The sun had risen, casting the lake in beautiful colors the way it did every morning. Today it had chosen various shades of purple, from light lavenders to dark purples to burgundies and finally dark, dark reds. Her heart accelerated as she ran. She felt that dark menace creeping closer. It wasn’t her imagination. It was there, beneath the surface of the water, swimming toward Sam’s hook. Swimming toward him like a silent wraith.

  She saw his arm jerk slightly, just the way the fisherman’s had in the nightmare. He stepped out farther into the lake, gently battling the fish on his line. Stella felt as if she were running in slow motion. Past the tents. The picnic table and firepit. She kept yelling, trying to tell him to get out of the water. To let go of the line. He was too far out there, away from the safety of the shore. As she ran, she shed her heavier clothes, the jacket, the sweater, so she was down to her tee. There was no getting out of her jeans or shoes; she didn’t have the luxury of time.

  Sam moved farther out of the safety net of shore, wading deeper among the reeds, working the “fish” on his line. She could imagine the determination on his face. She kept running as she saw his body jerk and lose balance, something Sam never, ever did. He went over backward abruptly, just like in her nightmare, hitting the back of his head on a boulder.

  He was a big man and it took several heaving tries for the killer to drag Sam’s unresponsive body underwater, giving Stella the time she needed to cover the rest of the ground. She didn’t hesitate, running into the icy water and then diving below the surface.

  The lake was fed from the snowpack every year, and the temperature was freezing to her body. Shockingly so. It didn’t matter. The cold barely registered as she swam toward the killer trying to hold Sam down in order to drown him. Sam wasn’t completely out with his head injury. Instinctively, he was fighting back, his movements slow.

  Stella hit the killer from behind, trying to get around his air tank, wishing she had worn a knife so she could sever his airline. She jerked at him, going for his mask, for anything to distract him. He swung around, punching at her face and hitting her cheek. She inserted her body between him and Sam, determined that he wouldn’t get to the nearly unconscious man. She swam at the killer once more, trying to tear his face mask off again. This time he drew his legs up, knees to his chest, and slammed them into her hard, driving her away from him with the power of his legs. He swam away fast, disappearing out of sight beneath the deeper water.

  Stella tried to move, to swim, to do something, but she couldn’t. She just curled up there in the water, her mind sluggish, unable to process what she needed to do next. Sam’s hands caught at her before she realized she was nearly completely numb and unable to move in the icy water. They staggered together through the reeds and boulders up to the shore where they lay together, Sam nearly on top of her. He whistled for Bailey and the dog responded, lying down on the other side of Stella at Sam’s command. They lay that way trying to catch their respective breath and warm up enough to actually move.

  “We need to get you out of your wet clothes,” Sam said eventually. “I’ll build the fire back up to get us warm.”

  “I can do it, Sam. Your head. You took a bad hit on the rocks when he jerked you under.” She was shivering so badly she thought she might crack her teeth, they chattered so much. She had a terrible image of them fracturing and just disintegrating and falling right out of her head.

  “I think, for once in your life, you’re going to let me take care of you. I know you’re independent and you don’t need anyone, but you’re going to lie here with Bailey keeping you warm while I get that fire going. First, I’m stripping you and bringing you my sleeping bag.” There was pure steel in his voice.

  She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. Something in his dark eyes told her not to mess with him and she was too damn tired to argue. She wasn’t sure she could get to her feet anyway. She couldn’t control the incessant shaking. She just nodded and laid her head back down passively. Who knew that when he did start talking he’d be bossy?

  Sam pushed himself up and reached for the hem of her shirt. “Can you lift y
our arms up, Stella? If you can’t, I can cut this off you.”

  She put her arms over her head and tried to lift herself enough for him to pull the wet tee from her body. Her bra was next. Then her shoes and jeans. He was gone and returned quickly with a sleeping bag, tucking it around her and once again commanding the dog to lie tight against her. By the time the shaking had ceased, Sam had the fire built back up in the firepit, had changed into dry clothes and had put on water for coffee.

  He brought her the backpack from her tent. “At least you have dry clothes.”

  “The cut on the back of your head is still bleeding.” She avoided his eyes. Not because she was naked under the sleeping bag, but because she’d driven out to the lake and acted like a maniac, running to him, diving in, clearly knowing a killer lurked beneath the surface. How was she going to explain that?

  “It’s letting up. Get dressed and come over by the fire. Have some coffee. With you, that always helps.”

  “What do you mean, it’s letting up? Let me look at it. Does it need stitches? We should have Harlow or Vienna take a look at you. Or go to the emergency room.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Stella.” He turned away from her and stalked back to the firepit.

  She wasn’t going to get a reprieve. She had wanted to tell him. She’d even needed to. He was intelligent. He listened. Really listened. He had a way of staying silent and processing what she told him, not interrupting but really hearing when she talked to him. She had wanted to tell him that she knew a serial killer was going to begin killing in the Sierras and he would disguise his kills as accidents, making it extremely difficult to identify the pattern.

  Telling him, talking about her past, meant giving away her secrets. But then, Sam had secrets too. He had a past he didn’t share with others. Not even her. She didn’t think he would be upset and hurt the way she knew her friends might be. The thought of going back, revisiting all those things that she had buried, made her ill. She had promised herself she would never open those doors again, but how did one ignore a murderer?