Bitterroot Lake

Obviously, someone had hated him. Harper had portrayed him as the classic difficult man—demanding, unyielding—though Sarah had detected a subtler, more complicated side to her feelings. Men like that were often quite charming, and financially successful, which only encouraged their bad behavior.

Entitled, to use the modern phrase.

But clearly not a modern phenomenon. H, in Caro’s account of the incident involving the Swedish housemaid, seemed to fit the bill. Who had he been? What had happened to him?

Some got their comeuppance. Others didn’t, at least not publicly. She’d worked her way around the side of the lodge and took a step back, scanning for streaks on the office windows. Justice was like physics. For every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction. Even if you didn’t get to see it.

But a murder? It had a ripple effect beyond the victim. It affected the entire community.

“Oh,” she said out loud. Was that what led to the formation of the Lakeside Ladies’ Aid Society? Had they kept it secret not just to avoid talk that might prevent women from asking for help, but also to avoid scrutiny? If a woman who’d been seduced by a married man sought support from a church society, word would spread like wildfire, but a group acting in secret could protect both the woman and the wife, and the child, if there was one, from rumor and scandal.

She picked up her bucket and moved to the next window, careful not to crush the shrubbery. They’d seen no indication that the Ladies’ Aid Society had done anything to exact revenge on misbehaving men, but she wouldn’t put it past them. Funny that they’d never heard of it until now. Had her father known? She’d have to quiz her mother.

At that very moment, the sound of an engine coming down the lane broke into her thoughts.

“She’s here,” Sarah told the squirrel who’d been keeping an eye on her. The vehicle passed in and out of view. Not her mother’s red sedan but a larger, white rig. “Oh, the phone company. Cross your paws, Mr. Squirrel.”

But it wasn’t the phone company service truck after all. It was a white SUV, fresh from the car wash.

The one they’d seen near the roadside memorial? Or the one George Hoyt had seen on the lane Sunday afternoon?

Then the SUV made the final turn and she saw two women in the front seat. Her mother, the passenger. And the real estate agent.

Oh, God. Of all the people, of all the agents in Deer Park—and unlike lawyers, you had your pick—why had her mother chosen Becca Smalley?

“Sarah!” Becca said moments later as she crossed the gravel drive, hand extended. Sarah ran her hand up and down her pants leg and held it out apologetically. To her surprise, Becca took it with both hers, warm, soft, and dry.

“I owe you an apology,” Becca said. “The other day, in the Spruce, I was so startled to see you. Sitting there, looking—well, confident and serene, as always. My mother told me about your husband’s death—she heard about it from yours. But I didn’t know you were in town and I didn’t know what to say, so stupidly, I said nothing.”

Serene? That had been the last thing Sarah had felt. And confident? Ha.

“You weren’t the only one who didn’t know I was in town,” she replied. “I was so worried about how it would feel to be back that I didn’t even tell my mother I was coming.”

“Oh, Sarah.” Becca tightened her grip and for half a second, Sarah feared the woman would hug her.

She freed her hand and gestured toward Janine, standing next to Peggy. “You remember Janine Chapman. Janine Nielsen.”

Becca’s mouth fell open and Sarah could almost see her mind

running through everything she knew, or thought she knew, about Janine, before her lips closed and curved upward. “Yes, of course, Janine. Good to see you. You two were always such good friends.”

So that’s how it’s going to be. Did Becca not remember how hateful she’d been to Janine, and by extension to Sarah and Holly, not just in the seventh grade but for years? Had she genuinely become this warmhearted woman? Or had she decided the prospect of a sizable commission was worthy of her very best behavior? Wait and see.

Wait and see.

26

“As I see it,” Becca said after a tour of the main lodge and a quick survey of the grounds, “you have several options. Whitetail Lodge is stunning—you know that. It could easily qualify for the National Register of Historic Places. But …”

They were seated at the dining room table. Janine had made herself scarce.

“But it needs a lot of work,” Sarah finished. “Single-pane windows that leak heat in winter and cool air in summer. Logs that need to be cleaned and oiled and rechinked. The soffits, the moss, the roof. Not to mention the damage to the balcony and the gable on the carriage house. Any prospective buyer will see dollar signs before they cross the threshold.”

“You sound like you’ve been making a list,” Becca said.

Sarah touched the notebook in front of her. “And you sound like you’re going to add to it.”

“Well, yes.” The real estate agent started ticking off items. It took both hands. “And that’s just what you would need to do before listing, if you want to get anything close to its true value. I always caution homeowners to be careful with improvements if they’re planning to sell anytime soon. Most cost more than they add to the value of the house. But others are worth making even if they don’t raise the sales price, because they shorten the time on the market.”