“George Hoyt. All these years,” she said. “I never suspected he hated us. The other morning, after the storm, he drove down to check on the place and he couldn’t have been nicer. When we were kids, he let us ride all over the ridge. Anywhere we wanted.”
And the first time she’d slept with Jeremy had been in the Hoyts’ homestead cabin, on the land he’d helped her brother buy. Jeremy, who always swore he wasn’t sentimental.
“We gave him a life estate on the property between the highway and the lake,” Connor said. “He was just about broke. He’d already moved into the smaller house up by the highway and started renting out the lake house. Now that he’s getting a hefty monthly payment from us, he could move back down. It’s not fancy, but nice enough, and it’s on the water.”
“What was in this deal for Lucas? Let me guess. He wanted help funding his campaign.”
“Initially, yes, but Jeremy talked him out of running. How, I don’t know—I wasn’t part of that conversation.”
“Oh. Ohhh.” She raised a finger to her mouth, her eyes filling. “Jeremy knew that if Lucas stepped into the public eye, we would all have to make a decision. About what to say …”
“About the crash, and the assault,” Connor filled in, understanding now. “Makes sense. So Lucas contented himself with legal fees for the corporate work, which added up. Plus the commission—less than a real estate broker would have asked, but substantial, and a monthly service fee for transferring funds.”
“And this fictitious company he created?”
“Oh, it’s not fiction, big sister. It’s real.” A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “And you own it.”
29
Turned out Jeremy had been savvy as well as secretive. He’d set up a company called KB Properties, named for Knuffle Bunny, a book Abby had adored and the name she’d given her favorite stuffed animal until she discovered princesses and cast all other toys aside. KB then lent Deer Park Lumber—Connor had resurrected their great-grandfather’s original business name—the money to buy Porcupine Ridge, including Lynx Mountain. And Sarah owned KB, in trust for Abby and Noah. She would retain sole control of the company and its only asset—the loan to Deer Park Lumber, in reality McCaskill Land and Lumber—until Abby, the younger of the two kids, turned thirty or Sarah died, whichever happened first.
Lucas had been clever and capable, if a bit conniving.
The low rumble of heavy equipment that had been droning in the background since she arrived faded away. Employees waved through the window as they paraded by. Steph at the front desk turned out the lights and left. Sarah and Connor sat in the office, alone with the ghosts of the past.
Connor laid out his plans for the expansion, investing in new equipment and processes for using small-diameter trees and developing new markets. “We’re expanding and diversifying. Focusing on sustainability will keep us competitive. And, I hope, profitable.”
“You convinced Jeremy,” Sarah said, “and you’ve convinced me.” Then she finished telling him what they’d found in Caro’s trunk, who she now believed H to have been, and what she suspected of his role in Anja’s death.
Connor opened the manila folder and slid out a receipt for a single burial plot, dated January 4, 1922. “I always meant to track down who this plot was for, but never got around to it.”
“Apparently log walls are more than good insulation. They’re good at keeping secrets, too.”
“Now I understand why George didn’t want to sell us that land,” Connor said, rolling his chair back and resting his big feet on the corner of the desk. “If you can understand holding a grudge for three generations and a hundred years. George resented Dad and Grandpa Tom for succeeding when business got tough forty years ago. But well before that, G.T., which I assume also stood for George, resented Con for forcing him out of the company in 1922.”
“Give Con and Frank Lacey credit for listening to their wives,” Sarah said, then switched gears. “How much of this does Mom know? I mean, about the loan and you buying the Hoyt land.”
“She knows I bought the land, but I didn’t tell her where I got the money. She never would have agreed to keep that from you.”
“She’s better at keeping her mouth closed than you think. Not one peep about the dreams, until today. Or the paintings—have you seen her new work?” Sarah described them to her astonished brother.
“If it were just Mom,” Connor said, “and you know I love her, I could call those dreams woo-woo and wave it off. But not you. And not twice.” He glanced at the brass clock on his desk, a gift to their grandfather from some association or another. “I gotta go. Almost dinner time, and I promised Aidan I’d watch the NBA playoff game on TV with him later. You’re coming to their soccer games tomorrow, right?”
“You bet. We’ll bring Mom.” Sarah started to rise, then stopped. “Basketball. Do you have any idea who’s been tending the roadside memorial for Michael Brown? It’s all done up in Griz colors, UM keychains, his picture.”
“Wow. No. No idea.”
“One more thing. You told Leo all this, right?” Sarah asked. Her brother’s face went blank. “You know, our cousin the sheriff. Investigating your lawyer’s murder. You did tell him, didn’t you?”
But she knew the answer before she asked the question. Leo wouldn’t have kept the secret, either. He’d have quizzed her, hunting for any facts, no matter how trivial, that might point to a suspect.
“There was no reason to tell him, Sarah. George doesn’t know about the ruse or the loan. Even if he did, he wouldn’t have gone after Lucas, who made plenty of enemies on his own. George would be coming after me, screaming bloody murder and yelling about fraud.”
“Why? He got his money. He got his grandfather’s revenge.”
That should have been enough. Unless there were ghosts haunting him, too.
* * *
Twilight in the mountains was a magical time of day, and it came on quickly. Sarah stayed on alert for whitetail and other wildlife as she drove down Mill Road. You never knew what might jump out at you in these woods.
Or anywhere else.
“Oh, Jeremy,” she said out loud. He’d been protecting her and her family, making a business deal she would have refused because of an old resentment. A valid one—Lucas had caused deep pain and had not been punished for it. And some of that was Sarah’s fault.
Grateful as she was for Jeremy’s willingness to help Connor save the business, she was furious over the deceit.
Whoa, girl. He hadn’t actually lied. He just hadn’t told her what he’d done. It wasn’t the same thing.
The irony was that she and George Hoyt were caught in similar binds, not wanting to do business with someone they resented, though any sensible person would have jumped at the opportunity.
She liked to think she was a sensible person. But here she was, holding the past in a death grip. And believing in ghosts.
At the edge of town, she made a left. If she was going to keep digging for secrets in her family’s archive, she needed reading glasses.
Did it make a difference that her grudge was grounded in more recent, personal offenses, not ancient history like George’s? Not really. If she were honest, she had to admit she was driven as much by her own guilt as by a compulsion to protect Janine.
In the shopping center lot, she parked between two white SUVs. Jeremy had been willing to navigate waters he knew she would have resisted wading into—and had done so brilliantly. Like he’d done almost everything.
Damn the man for making her miss him so much.
Inside the pharmacy, an instrumental remake of Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” played, just loud enough to be noticeable and annoying. She paused to scan the bulletin board for “lost cat” notices. Nothing. The reading glasses were on the far wall near the nail polish. Vanity clustered with vanity? She pried a pair of tortoiseshell frames off the rack. Maybe someday she’d be one of those women who, like her mother, wore zebra stripes or red frames with blue and
yellow dots, but not yet.
You’d think there would be reading material next to the display of reading glasses, but no. She scanned the nearby shelves for a box or jar with print in different sizes. Picked up a bottle of nail polish remover, then did a double take. At the end of the aisle stood the Black woman she’d seen at the Blue Spruce earlier in the week. The woman she’d seen at the wheel of the white SUV pulling away from the roadside memorial.
Now the woman was standing in Deer Park Drug, holding a helium balloon on a silver cord. A maroon and silver balloon in the shape of a football, UM emblazoned on both sides. Perfectly reasonable. And perfectly telling.
While Sarah debated how to march up and introduce herself, the woman stared straight at her. The football balloon bobbed and wove above her head.
Sarah shoved the bottle back onto the shelf and whipped off the glasses. Strode down the aisle and held out her hand.
“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” she said. “Sarah Carter. Sarah McCaskill Carter.”
“I know who you are,” the woman replied. She did not take Sarah’s hand. “Vonda Garrett.”
“Vonda Brown Garrett?” It had been twenty-five years since she’d heard Michael Brown talk about his big sister. His “little-big sister,” he’d called her, two years older but small like their mother. His height had come from their father.
A few minutes later, Sarah waited on the sidewalk while Vonda tucked the balloon in her car, also a rental, twin to Sarah’s except for the color. They walked silently to the grocery store coffee bar. Despite the tempting smells of coffee, Sarah bought two Pellegrinos and drank half of hers before Vonda had the cap twisted off her own bottle.
Now what? She set her bottle on the table and flicked a cookie crumb off the surface.
“Michael was a lovely young man,” she finally said. “Jeremy and I talked about him often, wondering what he would have become. What kind of life he would have had.”
Vonda said nothing, her deep brown eyes glistening.
“My sister and I have been wondering,” she went on, “who’s been decorating the cross. We thought it had to be someone local—a basketball fan who knew about the anniversary. But it was you, the woman from San Diego renting the place next to the lodge.”
“Yes. I got here Sunday. Misread the directions and drove down your road first. The lodge is every bit as impressive as my brother said.”
The vehicle George had seen? The lights, the presence she’d sensed watching her?
“I heard about your husband’s death,” Vonda continued. She took a drink and swallowed quickly. “My condolences. My parents never forgot the flowers your family sent to Michael’s funeral. I hope you and Jeremy understood when they asked him to stop sending Christmas cards. It was too painful.”
Because, to return to the Harry Potter metaphor that had bounced into her brain earlier, Jeremy was The Boy Who Lived, and Michael the one who died.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Vonda finished, and pressed her lips together.
Sarah reached out and covered the other woman’s hand with hers. “And I for yours.” She could feel Vonda’s fingers twitch, as if she wanted to pull her hand away. Sometimes, she’d learned over the last twenty-one days, a comforting gesture made the ache throb more. She took her hand back and picked up her mineral water.
“My parents are getting on,” Vonda said, tucking her hands in her lap. “It was only the two of us, and now that they’re in their eighties, I think they’re feeling the loss more acutely than ever. Their only son, part of their legacy. Though they adore my boys.”
“How old?” Children. Common ground.
“Twenty-five next month. Twins. My mother believes she and my father will be reunited with Michael in the afterlife, but he’s not so sure. They want to know the truth before they die.”
The buzz around them hushed, the cash registers and squeaky cart wheels and the swoosh of the electric door all gone silent. The smells of coffee and apples and a hint of floor cleaner drifted away and the bright lights and low hum of commerce dimmed. It was as though a key slid into a lock and opened a door and beyond the door lay a world that looked nothing like the one where she’d been standing.
“You sent the letters. Why? What do you want from us?”
“Nothing. What do you mean?” Her hands flew to her mouth. “No. Ohmygod, I didn’t mean—”
“What did you mean?” Sarah leaned forward, her confusion turning to anger.
“I wanted”—Vonda’s voice became a thread to the past. “I miss him so much. All the things he never got to do because of Lucas Erickson.”
Sarah’s senses snapped back to life. “Stay right there,” she said, and marched to the counter where she ordered two double-shot lattes. Pulled her phone out of her pocket and texted Leo. I’m in the grocery store having coffee with the killer. Studied her screen as the espresso machine buzzed, watching Vonda Brown Garrett out of the corner of her eye.
On my way, he replied. Stay safe and keep him talking.
So Leo didn’t know, either. Who did he think the killer was?
After minutes that seemed like hours and years, the lattes were ready and she carried them to the table, hoping, praying that her fear didn’t show.
How could this petite, grieving woman be a killer?
You never knew. And like they said of the Old West, a gun was a great equalizer.
“Tell me everything,” she said. To her astonishment, Vonda drew the hot coffee toward her, gripping it like the proverbial lifeline, and began speaking.
She’d been pregnant at the time, not due for weeks but having trouble. Afraid that the shock of Michael’s death would trigger premature labor, the elder Browns had opted to stay in San Diego with their daughter rather than travel to Montana. What could they do anyway? They’d visited a few times to see their son play, had just been here for his college graduation, but had never wanted to come back and see where he’d died. To make the pilgrimage, as she called it.
“They wanted to remember him alive,” Sarah said.
But Vonda’s own desire finally compelled her to act. She’d flown into Missoula last week, walked the campus, found his face in the team photos lining the halls of Dahlberg Arena. “I asked around, talked to people who knew him. That’s when I heard that Jeremy had died, and I realized if I was ever going to find out the truth, it had to be now.”
That’s why the letter had been addressed to her, not to them both.
“I didn’t know I was going to come up to Deer Park yet,” Vonda continued. “I went to the library and wrote you and your sister. And Lucas.”
“And Janine.”
“Later, after I found out her married name.” Vonda sipped her coffee, her plum lipstick leaving traces of color on the paper cup.
That answered Nic’s question about how the letter to Sarah had arrived before she left Seattle on Sunday, when Janine didn’t get hers until Monday.
“Why leave Nic out? I’m sure you didn’t mean to hurt us, but what did you think would happen? What did you think we’d do?”
“I hoped …” She lifted her gaze to Sarah. “The whole thing never sounded right. We had the highway patrol report—that’s where we got your sister’s name and Janine’s. Of course, we knew yours and Jeremy’s. Michael had told Mom and Dad that he was going up to the lake with Lucas and another guy, to see some girls. What was your other question? Nick? I don’t know who he is.”
Sarah had never seen the crash report. In her mind, they’d all been there together, the four girls, but that wasn’t true, was it? She and Jeremy had been out riding. Holly had been sunbathing, and Michael and Nic had just come in from canoeing on the lake when Janine managed her escape. When they heard the crash, Nic had stayed at the lodge, near the phone. Her name wasn’t in the report, even though she’d made the call, because she hadn’t seen anything, hadn’t been up on the highway with the rest of them.
“What happened? Why did the three boys race away in the sports car? Mich
ael’s things were still in the cabin. The sheriff packed them up and sent them to my parents. What didn’t they tell us?”
Vonda didn’t know. How could she? They’d kept quiet about the attack, about Michael and Jeremy trying to stop Lucas from leaving, afraid that he’d hurt himself or someone else. But she wanted to hear what Vonda had to say before getting tangled up in all that.
“Why did you come up here, to Deer Park?”
“To confront him. Lucas.” Vonda’s hands tightened around the cup. “I needed to know the truth. Why my baby brother died. He owed me that.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah saw Leo walk in. Though his manner was as casual as his jeans and fleece pullover, he quickly scanned the area, sizing up the situation. He was alone, but she was sure backup waited outside. She couldn’t see his gun, but he always carried one. He pulled a chair from the table next to theirs and sat.
“What did Lucas say to you?” Sarah asked the woman across from her.
The hurt on Vonda Garrett’s face deepened. “He sneered. He had no intention of telling me a thing.”
“And you shot him?”
“Oh, God, no. No.” Vonda’s eyes darted from Sarah to Leo, as if just noticing him and his interest. “No. I would never …” Her mouth formed the perfect O of a choir singer.
And though two minutes ago, she’d been convinced the woman was guilty, Sarah believed her.
“Then what happened?” Leo asked quietly.
“I told him my parents deserved to know the truth before they died. And he said …” She paused, as if not wanting to repeat Lucas Erickson’s words. “He said I shouldn’t be asking him. I should be asking the moose why it rammed into the car. I should be asking Janine Nielsen why she was such a prick-tease. He laughed, a mean, nasty laugh. And then I left. I ran out.”
“Was anyone else in the office? Did you see or hear anyone?” Leo asked.
“No. My phone rang, just as I got in the car. It was my mother and I always take her calls. With elderly parents …” She didn’t finish the sentence.
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