Still Lake (11 page)

Sophie really had no intention of searching Grace's room. She was merely interested in snitching her resurfaced copy of
Murder in the Northeast Kingdom
. It should have been lying on top of Grace's neatly made bed, or in an orderly pile on the floor beside it.

It was nowhere.

There were books arranged neatly, by size, in the bookcase, but amid all the Ted Bundys and Boston Stranglers there wasn't a Vermont killer to be found. On a whim Sophie looked under the bed, but there wasn't even a stray dust bunny. When she opened the closet it was more like the old Grace—clothes
piled on the floor, hung on hooks instead of hangers, her shoes caked with dried mud.

Sophie closed the door again, thoughtful. When had Grace wandered out on a muddy path? She tried to keep track of her—the only time she thought Grace wasn't accounted for was when she'd visited their surly neighbor in her bare feet. So when had she gone traipsing through the mud? And why?

She leaned against the closet door, staring at her mother's room as if looking for answers. Her windows were open, and she could hear Grace's soft voice from the porch as she said goodbye to Doc. She'd come inside then, only to find her daughter searching her room, Sophie thought, suddenly ashamed of herself. If she wanted to read the book all she had to do was ask her mother.

Except that the book had disappeared, and Grace wouldn't remember where she'd put it.

There was something deeply shameful about spying on one's mother, Sophie thought, opening the dresser drawers as quietly as possible. Even if it was for Grace's own protection, it felt strange, uncomfortable. After all, what did she expect to find? She'd stopped looking for the book—if she really wanted it she could probably get it online. It wasn't as if she had any interest in the old killings, apart from trying to figure out what John Smith's particular fascination with them was. So why was she rifling her mother's drawers?

They were like the closet, jumbled, messy, everything mixed together. The expensive lacy stuff that Grace had always preferred, mixed with the utilitarian cotton that Sophie had bought her on the premise that they were easier to launder. No missing paperback to be found, and Sophie had no earthly reason to keep searching.

Until she found the knife.

 

He would pray for their souls, he thought, bowing his head. His true path was being pointed out to him, and there was no way he could shun his duty, much as it pained him. The righteous must triumph, the wicked must perish, or there would be no meaning to life, and he had to cling to the belief that it all meant something, otherwise why would God have taken his children from him?

The wicked would die, the righteous would be born again, and he would grieve his part in meting out justice.

Not the fact that he must kill them.

But his pleasure in the act.

Three of them in that old house. Three women, all sinful in their souls, from the old, crazy one to the randy young one. And even the Madonna in the middle was courting temptation. It would be a gift, to have her die in a state of grace. He would tell her he killed the others, so she wouldn't worry. She worried too much about her small family. She would
be much happier knowing they were no longer her responsibility.

He could do it all, though it grieved him. He was young, strong, immovable with the Lord's wrath to guide him. He would take them all. And then maybe he could sleep at night.

S
ophie woke up with a start, her heart pounding, covered in a film of cold sweat. The moon was shining in her window, almost daylight bright despite the late hour, and she sat up, letting her eyes focus on the dark shapes in the room. They seemed to shift and move, but it was only the shadow of the tab curtains moving in the breeze from the open window.

She didn't move, waiting for her heartbeat to still, waiting for reality to wash over her. It was a cool, silent night in the country, and the only sound was the rustle of leaves as that same soft breeze stirred them. That, and the faint lap of the lake against the sandy shore were all that broke the stillness.

They were noises she was used to, soft, lulling noises that soothed her to sleep. Why had she woken up in such a panic?

She scooted back against the headboard, tucking the plump feather pillows behind her. It must have been a nightmare, though she wasn't quite sure what had set it off. In fact, she hadn't had the world's calmest day. At least Marty had been halfway cheer
ful, and she'd even taken her dishes out after they finished dinner. Grace had gone off with Doc, and by the time she returned she'd gone straight to bed. Nothing to panic about with either of them, at least for now.

Of course, there was the big hunting knife she'd found hidden beneath Grace's underclothes. That in itself wasn't terribly worrisome—Grace had a habit of appropriating strange things and leaving them in her room. Over the past few months Sophie had retrieved three of her most flowery dresses, a frying pan, four half-eaten boxes of cookies, a trowel, an electric razor from God knows where and a red wool hunting cap. She had no possible use for any of those things, except perhaps the cookies. Grace had never had much of a sweet tooth, and she'd seldom eaten store-bought cookies, but then, she was changing so radically that it was no wonder that Sophie couldn't keep up with her.

Still, it was nothing out of the ordinary in terms of Grace's recent behavior. Though the knife was intrinsically more dangerous—she could have cut herself on the dull, rusty blade.

But at least it was out of her reach now, tucked in the back of Sophie's closet. She could clean the rust stains off it, maybe give it to Doc to dispose of. It was a good-looking knife if one liked that sort of thing, and men seemed uncommonly fascinated with
weapons. She didn't think Doc would be, but he probably knew someone in town who'd like it.

As a matter of fact, it had a distinctive handle, a carved white bonelike substance. Not the sort of knife that was kept behind the glass case in Audley's extensive hunting section. Maybe Doc would know who'd lost a knife like that one, and could get it back to its rightful owner. And even come up with a reason why Grace would have found it and hidden it in her drawer.

It was really nothing to worry about. No more than Marty's interest in the new gardener. Patrick Laflamme was immune to her, Marge had assured her. He was much too focused on going back to college and accomplishing things to be distracted by a young girl who meant nothing but trouble. Besides, he had a stern French-Canadian mother who'd keep him on the straight and narrow.

So that situation was safe enough. The inn was almost ready, everything was running smoothly. What was her problem?

She knew perfectly well what her problem was—she just didn't want to think about it. It could be summed up in one word. Well, maybe two. John Smith.

Why in the world had he kissed her like that? And why couldn't she stop thinking about him? It wasn't as if she'd never been kissed. She'd kissed any number of men, looking for one, anyone, who would
entice her enough to make her throw caution to the wind. She still hadn't found the right one, but that wasn't for want of trying. She'd kissed more than her share of toads, searching for a prince in disguise. So far they'd all been toads.

Including John Smith—or whatever his name was. Who did he think he was, to grab her like that? What in heaven's name made him think she'd want him to kiss her? Had she been sending out erotic messages? Highly unlikely. Maybe he was just egotistical enough to think any woman would want him to kiss her, including someone who'd gone out of her way to show her dislike…

Had she? Had she been cool and unfriendly? She'd meant to be. But the question was, why? Why did John Smith bring out the worst in her?

Maybe because he was a liar. If his name was John Smith then her name was Madonna. She hated liars.

He also had the totally annoying habit of acting as if he could see right through her. Past the flounces and the flowers, past the jams and pies and soothing rituals. He could see something small and frightened inside her, something she tried to wash away. And she didn't want anyone looking that closely, particularly someone as unnerving as John Smith.

She scooted back down in bed again, closing her eyes. The shadows in the room shifted in the moonlight, and for a moment she cursed her obsessive
attention to detail. The room needed light-blocking shades of some sort, or heavy curtains. So far she'd been more than happy to let the sun wake her up at the crack of dawn, and she didn't even mind when the strong moonlight occasionally roused her from sleep.

Tonight she minded. She lay there in the moonlight, listening to every creak and groan the old house made. She'd grown used to those noises, even loved them. It made her think of a kitten purring. Her huge old house was talking to her, making approving noises, telling her she was welcome.

Tonight it felt restless, nagging at her. Silly, Sophie thought. She was the one who was restless. Anxious about the opening of the inn, anxious about her family, anxious about being kissed by an unwelcome stranger who certainly wasn't inspired by love at first sight or even a passing attraction. He made it clear he found her just as tiresome as she found him.

So why did he kiss her?

And when was she going to get back to sleep? Tomorrow would be a long day—she had to call the bedding shop in Burlington to deliver the new mattresses, and the building inspector was coming in the next day or two, and sooner or later she had to get her software up and running. All before strangers started invading her inn.

And maybe that was the crux of it. She'd moved
to Vermont, bought the huge old house of her dreams in order to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. She'd worked tirelessly, and everything was coming to fruition. And suddenly she didn't want to share her haven with a bunch of paying guests tromping through her peaceful rooms.

“Get over it,” she muttered, keeping her eyes closed.
You have to make choices in this life—nothing was ever handed to you on a silver platter
. The only way she could afford to live in this peaceful place at the back end of beyond, the only way she could support such a huge old house and her sister and mother besides, was to take in paying guests. Whether she wanted them there or not.

She heard the noise, and for a moment she couldn't place it. Just a quiet clicking sound, coming from below. She had one of the front rooms overlooking the lake, though she knew she would have to give that up when she opened for business. Customers would pay more for a lake view, and Sophie couldn't afford to indulge herself. The wide porch ran directly beneath her open window, and she suddenly realized what she'd heard. The sound of the front door latching.

She scrambled out of bed and opened the door as quietly as possible. For a moment she stood in the hall, wondering if she was being the world's greatest idiot. Like a heroine of an old Gothic romance, she
was wandering around in the middle of the night in her nightgown with a murderer on the loose.

But there
was
no murderer on the loose. She was just getting spooked by the unnerving reminders of those long-ago deaths. The boy had been caught, and even if he'd eventually been freed, in most people's minds there was no doubt he'd done it.

Though her unwelcome neighbor probably had some other theory, or why would he bother snooping around?

No, it was much more likely to be Marty or Grace sneaking out of the house. Marty slipping out for cigarettes or a boy. Maybe Patrick Laflamme wasn't nearly as stalwart as Marge had promised.

She opened Marty's door just a crack, breathing a thankful sigh that she'd oiled the hinges, and peered in at the bed. Marty was sprawled on top of it, her fuchsia-streaked hair startling against the pillow, her face innocent in sleep. For a moment Sophie couldn't move, as a wave of nostalgia washed over her. For all her sullen, teenager defiance, Marty was still a kid. The little sister Sophie had always loved, and somehow felt responsible for. Her parents' deaths had hit her hard, but Sophie had done everything she could to make up for it, to give her a home and security. Seeing her like that, her defenses washed away by sleep, reminded Sophie just how much she loved her and always had. And re
minded her to thank God Marty wasn't in the garden shed with Patrick. And the spiders. And the ghosts.

That had been an odd thing for Grace to say. God help them all if she started seeing ghosts and apparitions. Sophie wasn't about to put her in a nursing home—Grace was her responsibility, and Sophie had every intention of keeping her home as long as possible. But how would a delusional old lady mix with her well-heeled clientele?

Sophie closed the door just as silently and made her way down the stairs, carefully avoiding the seventh one that always squeaked no matter how she tried to fix it. Sure enough, Grace's door stood wide open, her rumpled bed empty in the moonlight.

Sophie didn't hesitate. She grabbed a flashlight and a shawl she'd draped across a chair and ran out into the damp night air.

The moon had vanished behind a cloud. There was a mist rising from the lake, spreading out over the sloping lawn like a velvet fog. She tried to beam the flashlight toward the woods, but the light simply bounced off the rolling mist, and there was no sign of anyone.

She couldn't afford to wait. Grace would be heading back to the Whitten place—she'd developed a fascination for it. Or maybe it was a fascination for Mr. Smith, though Sophie doubted it. That particular weakness seemed to be left to her usually hardheaded daughter.

She plunged into the woods, fighting her way through the overgrown ferns and saplings, as the fog swirled around her. The air was cool and damp, almost clammy, and Sophie pulled the shawl tighter around her. At least she wore decent cotton nightgowns, not the skimpy shorty pajamas Marty favored or the slinky silk that used to be Grace's style. She was still shivering, probably because her feet were bare and cold, but she was determined to catch up with her errant mother before she happened to wake her mysterious neighbor. The last thing she wanted was another midnight confrontation with the man. Especially after that kiss this afternoon. Right now all she wanted was to keep her distance.

She could always head back home and call Doc. He'd come out and find Grace, and provide a buffer if Smith decided to come calling. But what if Grace had headed in the opposite direction? Did Sophie dare waste time?

No, she'd be at the Whitten place. Sophie had found her there any number of times, sitting on the porch, humming softly. Her mother seemed to have a fascination for the old house, and an entirely unhealthy fascination for the man who'd rented it. She wouldn't go anywhere else on a midnight stroll.

The Whitten cottage was set in a little clearing among the towering white pines, and the moonlight filtered through the darkness, glancing off the rolling fog. The mist was almost like a living thing. Some
giant, lumbering beast, some strange enchantment from an old fairy tale, wrapping itself around the cottage. The house was dark, but the front door was open, and Sophie breathed a silent curse. She was too late.

Or maybe not. There were no lights on—clearly Grace hadn't woken the tenant yet. Maybe there was a chance she could get in there, retrieve Grace and get out before Smith even realized his privacy had been breached once more.

The porch creaked beneath her bare feet, and she tiptoed carefully across it, pushing open the screen door and peering into the house.

“Ma?” she whispered, not too loud. At least Grace still had all her faculties, even if her memory and reasoning power were shot all to hell. If she was there she'd hear Sophie calling her. “Grace, are you there?”

She couldn't see anyone, any movement, and she stepped inside, squinting in the darkness. Immediately the smell assailed her, the unmistakable scent of old wood and paint and years of lakeside living, mixed with the unexpected note of fresh lumber. She took a deep breath, inhaling it, fighting off the wave of pure longing. This should have been her house, Sophie thought for a blind, covetous moment.

And then she remembered what she was doing here. And who was upstairs asleep. “Ma?” she whispered loudly.

She didn't dare climb the narrow stairs to the second level. She was already playing with fire—besides, Grace wasn't the stealthy sort. If she was here, Sophie would have heard her. She tried one last time. “Grace?” she called in a stage whisper.

“She's not here.”

Sophie shrieked. Smith had appeared out of nowhere, looming up in the darkness. Blocking the doorway. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a panicked voice.

“I live here, remember?” he said with thinly disguised impatience. “And your mother hasn't wandered over here tonight. What made you think she had?”