One was red vinyl, filled with Sari Chesney’s familiar handwriting, an account of the last five months, starting with January first and ending on the Wednesday before her death.
I set her journal aside and turned to the Rayburn Diary, running a hand over the engraved leather cover, feeling the symbols and soft leather under my fingertips. Flipping it open, I read the name on the inside and shook my head, wondering if there was a curse on the damn thing after all. Had this book—this collection of thoughts and observations and secrets—been the catalyst that started this whole chain of events?
Chapter Forty-six
I stood at the edge of Lost Lake and lifted a hand to my forehead as a visor. I’d forgotten my sunglasses again, and I cursed both the brightness of the sun and my own stupidity.
It was a windless day, and the water was calm. June had come and gone and the hot July weather had drawn scores of visitors to the cool, turquoise lake. Most were hikers and fishermen, though one determined couple had, incredibly, hauled inflatable stand-up paddleboards up the trail. The couple floated on them now in the middle of the lake, bobbing in the gentle waves.
Turning from the water, I watched as a young family with three boys set up camp near the spot where Sari had slept on the last night of her life. The mother and father argued as they struggled with the poles of the tent. The boys raced back and forth along the water’s edge, daring one another to touch the lake.
I wanted to call to them, warn them to be careful, but I held my tongue.
The water, the running … all of it was no more dangerous than the decision to get out of bed in the morning. We are, each of us, born with a bull’s-eye on our back. Death is the price we pay for life, and when our time is up, that’s it, folks.
And if Ruby Cellars’s theory was correct, Lost Lake would be the safest place for miles around … at least for the next sixty years.
Still, the lake made me uneasy. From the scout who had discovered it to the Lost Girls to Sari Chesney, the waters demanded a terrible price for their beauty.
I hadn’t been back since the night I’d camped with Finn. It was hard to believe that had been two months ago, though the reality was that after what I was calling my “road trip from hell,” things moved very quickly in the investigation.
Between Jake Stephens’s confession in my car and Sari’s journal, we were able to piece together the rest of the story. James Curry was the Bookkeeper, an obvious nickname in hindsight. Though he’d had the Rayburn Diary in his possession for months in order to restore and authenticate it, he wanted it for longer.
He wanted it forever.
Knowing that Betty Starbuck would never allow it to be sold, Curry went after Sari Chesney. Somehow—Sari was never sure how—he discovered her money woes. And he used those woes to lure her in, promising to make her rich beyond her wildest dreams.
Together, they hatched a plan practically the first week that Curry had the diary. The theft was months in the making. Curry agreed to pay Sari a quarter million dollars in exchange for the diary. It was more money than she would otherwise ever see at one time, and it would be enough to let her leave Cedar Valley and start fresh somewhere else. She stole the Rayburn Diary the Wednesday before her death, the night of the special preview party. Then she’d hidden it and her own journal in her mother’s apartment for safekeeping.
We arrested James Curry at his home. When confronted with the evidence, he confessed quickly. He accepted a plea deal with the district attorney in exchange for a reduced sentence.
Larry Bornstein assumed the position of Director of the Cedar Valley History Museum. He was thrilled to have the Rayburn Diary back, and there was talk of renaming a section of the building the Elizabeth Starbuck Hall and installing the diary there permanently. Between the curse, the theft, and the recovery of the diary, there was enough material to fill ten articles in The Valley Voice, which was exactly what Bryce Ventura did. The media coverage sparked enough interest in the museum to attract the attention of a bigwig donor in Denver. The last time I talked with Bornstein, he beamed as he told me that as long as he was director, he’d never sell the museum.
I’d paid Ruby Cellars another visit at the River Street Methodist Church. She’d been in the corral, working one of her horses, when I pulled up and parked. In the light of day, the graveyard seemed smaller than I remembered, more peaceful somehow. Her little girls ran around the headstones, playing tag, their white cotton summer dresses and blond hair making them appear, when the sun hit exactly right, like little ghosts.
When I told Cellars that a person—a real, live, flesh-and-blood man—was responsible for the murder of Sari Chesney, a thoughtful look came into her eyes. I said in a joking tone, “Perhaps your theory is wrong after all.”
She replied in all seriousness, “Detective, there are still eight months left in the year. This isn’t over yet.”
The only remaining mystery was Betty Starbuck’s utility bill, with its cryptic message indicating she’d been afraid of someone. I felt strongly that it was Patrick Crabbe; he’d admitted to Moriarty that he did in fact spend time in his mother’s backyard, in the middle of the night, when he couldn’t sleep. I never did figure out why he lied about that to me. Subsequent requests to speak with him were turned down on advice of his attorney. Crabbe was awaiting trial in the Trenton penitentiary for the murder of Kent Starbuck, and I was okay with letting that business drift further and further away from Cedar Valley, away from me.
And, of course, we never did learn why Betty Starbuck had requested the meeting with Kent the night of the gala. Kent’s theory was as good as any other: his mother had feared Patrick and wanted to keep the meeting secret.
The last I heard, Mac Stephens and Ally Chang had moved in together. To everyone’s surprise, they were having twins, and I wished them well. Whatever mistakes they’d made, they deserved to start fresh … especially with two children soon entering the picture.
And though Jake’s trial wouldn’t start for a few months, already word on the street was that he would get life in prison for his crimes.
We’d solved the murders and returned a priceless diary to its rightful home at the history museum. Morale at the police station continued to rise as the leak in the department faded from collective memory.
Every loose end that could be tied up had been … so why did I still feel so disquieted? Part of it stemmed from the sheer awfulness of it all.
Sari’s death … Betty’s death … Kent’s death.
I knew part of it stemmed, too, from Jake Stephens himself. He would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down. It was a terrible fate.
Did he deserve it? Probably. He probably deserved a hell of a lot worse. He killed two women and, though he didn’t pull the trigger on Kent Starbuck, his choices had caused Kent’s death, no doubt about it.
Three dead, and for what? It was madness to try to assign meaning to such tragedy, and yet it was human nature to do so.
I looked down at my left hand, watching the way the stones in my engagement ring captured the sunlight and changed it, reflected it back as a thousand colors in a million directions. Brody and I had settled on a wedding date, and I wondered if my continued unease was a result of that. Maybe the ring was a metaphor: life before marriage appeared as one thing, life after as something completely different.
Maybe I was being ridiculous.
After all, it was just a ring.
And a lake is just a lake, I thought, as I turned from the deep blue water and headed back to the trail that would lead me home.
Also by Emily Littlejohn
Inherit the Bones
A Season to Lie
About the Author
EMILY LITTLEJOHN was born and raised in Southern California. A former librarian, she now spends her time writing, raising a family, and working in city government in the Denver metro area. Inherit the Bones was her acclaimed debut novel in the Gemma Monroe series, which also includes A Season
to Lie and Lost Lake. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Also by Emily Littlejohn
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
LOST LAKE. Copyright © 2018 by Emily Littlejohn. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover photograph © Mark Fearon / Arcangel Images
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Names: Littlejohn, Emily, author.
Title: Lost lake: a detective Gemma Monroe mystery / Emily Littlejohn.
Description: First edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018025709 | ISBN 9781250178305 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250178312 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Women detectives—Colorodo—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3612.I8823 L67 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018025709
eISBN 9781250178312
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: November 2018
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