Lost Lake

by Emily Littlejohn

  “Yes. A young woman named Sari Chesney. Did you know her?”

  Campbell frowned, shook his head. “No. Most of my dealings with the museum were with Lois Freeman and Dr. Larry Bornstein.”

  “I understand you’ve offered to purchase the museum? To what end?”

  “Would you like a cup of tea, Gemma? I was just about to have one myself when you arrived,” Campbell said. He lifted the telephone and spoke to someone. A few minutes later, the receptionist entered with a tray of bagged tea selections, a carafe of hot water, and two bone china teacups.

  She grimaced at the spider as she quickly set the tray down and left the room.

  “Please.” Campbell gestured. I leaned forward and helped myself to an herbal blend. “Yes, I’ve made an offer on the museum. I’m quite aware that you’ve looked into my background, Gemma. Does it really surprise you that I have a soft spot for those cultural institutions that preserve our local histories? I was an orphan, kicked—quite literally—around dozens of foster homes in Scotland. Do you know what that means? I have no history of my own.”

  Campbell made himself a cup of tea, sipped at it, then made a face and added another splash of cream. I noticed a tremor in his hands that I hadn’t seen before. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Me? What do I have to do with it?”

  Campbell’s eyes twinkled as though enjoying a private joke. “Don’t you want to see Cedar Valley prosper?”

  “I think we’ve been doing just fine. Our ski season revenues have been on the upswing for the last twenty years. Our tax base is strong.”

  “For now. The nature of your police work demands that you live among details. You dwell in the small things of life. You’re many things, Gemma Monroe, but a visionary you’re not. I’m talking five, ten, twenty years from now. This town can’t survive on ski lift tickets and souvenir T-shirt sales. You are sitting on a gold mine, and no one’s done a damn thing to drill it.”

  Was he right? Was I naïve to think that Cedar Valley could continue on as it had for years, without significant growth and development? I set my cup down, went to a large picture window on the wall, and looked out over the fancy houses and boutique shops.

  “And you’re the man to do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw you at the gala, Mr. Campbell. What did you argue about, you and James Curry and Betty Starbuck and Larry Bornstein?”

  He chuckled.

  I turned from the window and went back to my seat. “What’s funny?”

  “You. Always on the case. I wouldn’t say we argued. We disagreed on a few things. Curry and I thought the gala should have been canceled in light of the disappearance of the Rayburn Diary. We pushed for a full-scale investigation. The diary is too valuable to leave the theft uninvestigated, even for just a few hours. As I understand it, there still hasn’t been a serious investigation launched.”

  “That’s not entirely true. We’ve looked into the matter. The diary seems to have disappeared into thin air. Anyway, we’ve been kind of busy with our murder investigations. They seemed more important than a lost journal.”

  Campbell shook his head. It was his turn to rise, go to the window. He gave it a gentle knock. “Hear that?”

  “What?”

  “That sound, when I knocked on the glass. It’s quality construction. When you’re building something—anything—you must start with a solid plan. Without it, things develop haphazardly. Opportunities are missed, costs double. People get hurt. Do you believe all this—the town, this valley—just happened? That one day there was a mine and the next day an actual city? No. This town was built on someone’s plan.”

  “And you believe that someone was Owen Rayburn. Is that your interest in his diary?”

  Campbell returned to his seat and his cup of tea. His hand shook as he picked up the cup, and he saw me watching him. “Parkinson’s. I have a few years left, and I intend to use them wisely. You’ve always been honest with me, so now I’ll be honest with you. I believe there’s gold still left in these mountains. I believe Rayburn’s diary holds the key to finding it.”

  Buried treasure, again. A legend for children and thrill seekers. I’d wasted enough time already on the topic

  “I see,” I said, checking my watch. “Well, I’ve kept you long enough. I appreciate your time. By the way, did you enjoy the gala?”

  “Very much. In fact, James Curry and I continued our shared fascination with the Rayburn Diary in a conversation at the local pancake establishment. Flap Jack’s, is that what it’s called? Delicious. Do you know they serve pancakes all night long? If I recall, we closed down the place around three in the morning. We left the waitress a very large tip,” Campbell said with a tight smile.

  He lifted the glass and the spider tried again to make an escape. The glass came over it once more. “That’s really what you’re after, isn’t it? Hmm? My alibi for the night of Betty Starbuck’s murder? I do wish you’d learn to trust that I’m not a bad person, Gemma.”

  If Campbell’s story was true, then Flap Jack’s would be able to confirm it. And if Curry was there, too, then that took him as well out of the running for killing Starbuck.

  I gathered my things and, at the door, turned back and answered Campbell’s last words. “I don’t believe in ‘bad’ people, Mr. Campbell. I believe an equal measure of good and evil lives in each of us and on any given day, that balance can tip one way or another. Thanks for your time.”

  With a sudden jerk of his wrist, Campbell flipped the glass and brought it down on the spider with a heavy thud.

  “You’re more naïve than I thought. Evil, true evil … it exists in this world. It walks among us,” Campbell called out as I moved quickly through the door, eager to be away from him. “Evil is here, Gemma. It’s always been here.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Talking to Finn was the last thing I wanted to do, but I called him anyway and briefed him on my conversations with Sam Birdshead, James Curry, and Alistair Campbell.

  When I finished, he groaned. “More buried treasure. And now a mystery man … the Bookkeeper. Sounds like something out of a Hollywood mafia flick.”

  “No kidding. Look, Chesney had debt. Betty Starbuck gave away money. Maybe the Bookkeeper is the connection we’ve been looking for. Maybe he links the two women beyond their work at the museum. He could be an accountant, or someone involved with the casinos. There was no mention of him in Sari’s journals, but I bet she talks about him in the one that’s missing, the current year’s journal.”

  “Maybe Mac’s got the journal … or Ally.”

  “Good thinking. We’ll ask them.”

  Finn said, “The intern wrapped up the interviews with the gala guests this afternoon. As I predicted, it was a waste of time. Have you heard anything further from forensics?”

  “Not yet.”

  We spoke a few more minutes, but the longer we talked, the more tension I felt both in my shoulders and from the other end of the phone. It was obvious something was bothering Finn. Finally I said, “Okay then. I’ll be in tomorrow. You?”

  “Hell, what’s tomorrow, Saturday? Yeah,” Finn said. “Yeah, I’ll be in.”

  He hung up, and I checked my watch. It was nearly five o’clock. I headed up the canyon toward home. A few minutes later, Bull texted with an invitation for dinner. I called back with a grateful acceptance and told him Grace and I would stay the night with them in town.

  Clementine was in a rush to leave. She and a girlfriend had tickets to a show in Denver on Saturday night and would be gone the entire weekend. Before she left, she offered to stay at my house the following week, overnight.

  “Don’t you have classes?”

  “School is almost out, and I’ve already turned in my final assignments. I can do what little homework I’ll have here just as easily as I can at home. I know you’re working the museum murders and with Brody gone, I bet you could use the extra help.”

  “That would be wonderful, Clementine. Tha
nk you.”

  She left, and I packed overnight bags for myself and Grace. Seamus ate his dinner, and I scooped a few cups of his dry kibble into a plastic container for his breakfast. Then I got the baby and the dog loaded into the car and headed back into town, to the old Victorian house I’d grown up in, with its cracked concrete driveway and purple irises that bloomed every spring and antique wooden flower boxes that were painted to match the trim.

  Bull met me at the front door.

  “Is Brody joining us?”

  I shook my head. “He’s in China. Emergency work trip.”

  Bull started to say something in response, then decided to remain quiet. He took the overnight bags and dog food from my arms while I went back to the car for Grace and Seamus. The dog bounded from his seat and made a beeline for the side gate. I opened it and he trotted into the backyard, beginning his loop of the familiar space, his nose to the ground for any new scents.

  “Julia’s in the kitchen,” Bull called back over his shoulder as he walked upstairs to put the bags in my old bedroom. “Keep an eye on her, would you? Your grandmother’s liable to burn the house down.”

  “No kidding,” I muttered under my breath, and kicked off my shoes in the direction of the front closet. Barefoot, with Grace in my arms, I padded down the hall to the kitchen, passing the pale green living room where I’d spent hours practicing the piano, and the narrow dining room, with its oversize table where I’d done my homework.

  It’s an odd thing, spending time in your childhood home as an adult. Rooms appeared smaller, and the shine had gone out of things that used to sparkle, like the chandelier and the crystal vases Julia collected. But what remained—the wonderful memories, the sense of place—made the house feel large and rich.

  Suddenly I missed Brody very much. If he were here, he and Bull would have already cracked open two cans of beer and pulled out the chess set.

  In the kitchen, my grandmother Julia stood at the stove, her thin frame casually draped in a pink cardigan and blue jeans. She wore no makeup, and her fair skin seemed paler than normal, nearly translucent. She slowly stirred something in a large pot while Laura, her caregiver, sat at the kitchen table with a deck of cards, playing solitaire.

  I peeked into the pot. “Are we having water for dinner?”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. We’re having spaghetti and meatballs. The water needs to boil,” Julia said. She noticed the baby and cooed. “Sweet angel. May I hold her?”

  “Of course. Let’s move away from the stove.”

  We went to the couch and sat down. Slowly, with complete concentration and care, Julia took Grace from my arms. After a moment, they both grinned. Eyes locked, they seemed fascinated with each other.

  “Is she yours?” Julia suddenly asked. “She’s beautiful.”

  I nodded, blinking away sudden tears. “Grace is your great-granddaughter.”

  “She’s so heavy! I don’t think I can keep her. My husband doesn’t let me have any fun anymore,” Julia whispered to me. She shot Laura a dark look, then added, “Neither does that one. They act like I’m sick. But I’m fine, really. Just a touch of the flu.”

  “That must be frustrating,” I whispered back.

  “Sometimes I get so mad,” she continued. “It’s terrible when no one understands me.”

  Julia gently bopped Grace on her knee until the baby spit up, at which point Julia quickly handed her back to me. Laura tried to take her leave, but by then Bull had joined us in the kitchen and he convinced her to stay for dinner. He took over the cooking. A bottle of red wine appeared and, shortly after, a platter of spaghetti with red sauce and meatballs the size of my fist.

  After dinner, Julia decided she wanted to watch television on the big flat screen in the master bedroom. Bull joined her, and I took the opportunity to speak to Laura in private. She was responsive to my concerns regarding Julia’s increasing aggression.

  “Your grandmother is in the middle stages of the disease, Gemma. Her behavior will continue to worsen, although it may be years before we get to the late stages. She will only need more and more care. As it is, she still bathes and dresses herself. But … I’ve noticed there is confusion there, as well. As far as the aggression goes, we rule out pain and discomfort and then try to respond as best we can,” Laura said. “I’ve discovered it’s also very easy for Julia to get overstimulated. So we watch that, too. In addition, we’ve installed more locks on the doors and windows.”

  “When was the last time she saw her doctor?”

  “A few days ago. He’s reluctant to change her medications at this point, so we’ll continue to monitor the behavior and if the aggression worsens, we’ll re-evaluate,” Laura said. She crossed her sturdy arms over her stout body and fixed me with a steely gaze. “I know this is stressful, Gemma. Bull told me you saw him after Julia punched him. He was upset about your comments. I talked with him, helped him understand your point of view.”

  “I’m glad he listens to you. It sounds as though you agree with him, that we don’t need to move her yet to a twenty-four-hour care center?”

  She gently shrugged. “That’s a decision you’ll need to make with your grandfather and with Julia, too. I’ve seen many patients get to the point where that is the kind of help they themselves express needing.”

  “So status quo for the time being.”

  “Unfortunately, with this particular disease, there is never a status quo. But yes—I think it is okay for her to stay here,” Laura said.

  She left, and I joined Grace in my old bedroom, me in the bed, the baby in a spare crib that we’d picked up at a consignment shop. I watched her sleep, wondering if she would remember Julia and Bull, if they would live long enough for her to form memories of them.

  I was grateful that when my parents had died, I was old enough to know them. As time passed, though, I found my memories of them were fading. It was difficult to remember the bark of my father’s laugh, the softness of my mother’s skin. I touched the scar that wrapped around my neck. It was long and narrow, the width of a pencil. I’d gotten it in the same car accident that killed my parents, and every time I looked in the mirror, I felt the slow slide of the old station wagon on the black ice, heard the breathless scream of my mother and the frantic shout of my father.

  Then came the silence, and that was the worst part of all.

  The buzz of my cell phone beckoned me out of my melancholy reverie, and I smiled when I saw who it was.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, honey. I tried the house phone first. Where are you?”

  “We are staying the night at my grandparents’. How’s Beijing?”

  “Crowded. Loud and crowded. I’m making coffee in my suite and wishing my girls were here, but I think we’d best save China for when Grace is a little older.” He started the coffee pot, and from thousands of miles away I heard the familiar drip of hot water hitting glass. “You know what I realized on the flight over?”

  I lay back in bed and rubbed my eyes with my free hand. “That you hate Chinese food?”

  “Funny. I’ve never been away from Grace for longer than a night. It’s unsettling.”

  “So you’re not going to come home and tell me you’re applying for field jobs?” I asked, half joking. “Or tell me you have to stay in China for a month?”

  “Nah. I got everything I need in Cedar Valley. Don’t you worry, babe. I’m coming home.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes then said good night. I snuggled in under the covers, feeling cozy and content and loved. Sleep should have come easy, but it didn’t.

  I dreamed I walked along the shores of Lost Lake, watching a woman on the far side of the water. Her back was to me. When she finally turned around, I saw it was my mother. Opals filled the space where her eyes had been, and the water beneath her was as black and deep as an abyss, and suddenly she was running across the water toward me, her arms outstretched, her mouth a twisted grimace.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  I left Grac
e in Bull’s care and reluctantly headed back to the police station. Weekends … holidays … it didn’t matter, when I was in the middle of an active murder investigation. I couldn’t be fully present with my family until my cases were wrapped up, one way or another.

  I picked up a box of doughnuts from my favorite café downtown, Four and Twenty Blackbirds, then took the scenic route to the station, driving parallel to the Arkansas River. The midday sun shone high in the sky, and a few brave souls kayaked down the still-icy waters. I put the windows down and turned up the radio, humming along to an old U2 song.

  I took the pastries to the break room, calling out as I did so. The on-duty officers were excited to see them, and I had to fight to claim two chocolate doughnuts for myself. I finished them before I reached my desk and immediately regretted having the second one. Wiping sticky glaze from my hands, I swore to quit all junk food, cold turkey.

  “Morning, Fatty!”

  Flushed, I turned around, then breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Chloe Parker waving hello to Thad Fatioli, our mail room clerk. Though he couldn’t have been more than a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet, everyone called him Fatty.

  Relieved that the two doughnuts I’d eaten hadn’t been the impetus for my colleagues to start calling me names, I sat down and tried to decide where to start.

  I stared at my notes, willing two increasingly complex murder investigations to somehow simplify themselves. Closing my eyes, I pictured the Betty Starbuck crime scene and then worked backward, as though watching a film in reverse. Betty returning from a fast-food jaunt, holding the meal in one hand, setting the alarm with the other … locking herself in.

  Locking a murderer in?

  It would have been dark in the museum, dark and hushed. I remembered the way my footsteps had echoed in the cavernous space. But Betty had done this before, working late, alone in the big building.