Murder at Sunrise Lake Page 4

  The studio was bright and sunny, perfect light for sketching and painting. It wasn’t like she was immensely talented, but she liked to think she was fairly good. She wasn’t ever going to sell her work. Like her aerial silks, and bouldering, painting relaxed her. She’d taken quite a few art classes along with her business classes in college.

  She kept the journal on her nightmares and the sketchbooks locked up in a drawer beside her bed. She never wanted anyone else to find them. They were the real things of terror. She didn’t look at any of the older entries or drawings. In fact, she deliberately began to scrub her mind clean as she’d taught herself to do. She pictured her brain as a chalkboard and erased it over and over until there was nothing on the board. Once it was empty, she pulled up the details of the nightmare. The boulders. The plants. The reeds. Every detail she could remember. She looked at the sky. At the ground. At the edges of the lake itself. She tried to see past the fisherman, past her own terror of what was to come, so she could focus on details and widen her scope of what she could draw. Even the shape of the boulders in the water and the algae covering them might give her clues to where the scene was.

  Once Stella was satisfied she had as much detail as possible of the surroundings, she concentrated on the man fishing, trying to see as much about him as she could. His clothing. His shape. His height. As much of his hair as she could see with his hat pulled down the way it was. His hands on his fishing rod. The rod itself. She wrote it all down, everything she could possibly remember, and she was good at pulling up details.

  The lake came next, and every tiny bit she could possibly decipher about the surface, the shape, the colors and even what was under the surface. Last was everything about the killer. The way he moved. His body structure. His strength. The way he moved in the water. His wet suit. His gloves. The belt he had around his waist with all kinds of weapons in it.

  After she wrote it down in her journal, she took out her sketch-book and began to draw each separate scene, just as she’d written it, making certain of the details. She didn’t hurry, wanting to get every fact right. When she finally straightened, her back aching a little, she was satisfied she had reproduced the potential murder scene in her nightmare to the best of her ability.

  She flipped back to the first entry five nights earlier to compare drawings. The first one had little detail because it was the least she had gotten, the camera lens shuttered, allowing only a tiny portion of the unfolding horror to be seen.

  Her cell played a few notes of a jazz song, jerking her out of her intense contemplation. She dragged the phone out of her pocket, frowning down at it with utter guilt.

  “Harlow. I’m so sorry. I know. I know. I stood you and Shabina up. I got caught up in something . . .” She trailed off, knowing Harlow would be sweet about it.

  Harlow Frye had grown up in a political family and was used to adjusting to whatever was happening around her. She “went with the flow,” so to speak, with grace and elegance. She never got upset over small things, especially when she would assume Stella was busy fixing some problem at the resort.

  “We’ll try again another time. I’m hoping to come into town tonight. Maybe I can text you to see if you’re available to meet up,” Stella offered, knowing both women had to work. That was why they had planned to meet for morning coffee.

  “Working a night shift tonight. So is Shabina,” Harlow said. “We’ll meet up though, no worries.”

  Stella felt terrible for lying. This was how it started. Lying to her friends. Suspecting Sam just because he walked like a predator. Did she suspect him? Not really, but she couldn’t just dismiss the fact that he was capable of murder. But wasn’t everyone? No, she didn’t think so. Not everyone.

  She hung up after apologizing again and then texted Zahra, asking her if she had time for lunch. Zahra Metcalf worked at the hospital as an administrator, so she spent most of her time in meetings, figuring out where to spend any money they managed to get their hands on. Stella knew grants were exceedingly important to the hospital. Grants, donations and fund-raising bought up-to-date equipment for the hospital and ensured they had enough doctors and nurses for the emergency room as well as the hospital itself. It was small, but the hospital was very well-equipped. It had to be. They were a good distance from any other help. Zahra was the administrator who ensured the money flowed to the hospital. She was astute and incredible at finding grants and securing them for their hospital. She was very good at thinking up fund-raisers and oversaw executing them, getting the entire county involved.

  Harlow had a hand in those as well, although there was something between Zahra and Harlow that neither woman ever talked about. They were always friendly but not super close, which didn’t make sense. Harlow had helped Zahra escape from an arranged marriage in her country. Her mother had gotten Zahra a visa and a good job and then eventually citizenship. Zahra never talked about any problems with Harlow, and Harlow never talked about a problem with Zahra. Stella had too many secrets of her own to pry.

  Zahra could meet her for lunch, which was perfect. Stella glanced at her watch. She had plenty of time to drive around the lake and look for any spot that might resemble what she’d drawn. She had been around Sunrise Lake numerous times, but it was a big lake and there was no way she could remember every single section of it.

  When the snowpack melted, it fed the river and creeks that ran into the lake, which was why it was so cold. The main road leading around the lake was narrow and two laned, paved but chewed up with potholes all year round. The snow and ice kept the asphalt from staying smooth. No matter what was done to protect it, the road disintegrated into mostly a dirty, muddy mess.

  Stella tossed a few water bottles into her 4Runner, opened the back for Bailey, waited for the Airedale to leap in and then went around to the driver’s side. Her 4Runner was a working vehicle, equipped for every kind of weather. She had enough money to ensure her rig was going to perform no matter what she ran into.

  She had the sketchpad with her, although she was fairly certain the murder scene was etched into her brain, never to be erased. She took the main road leading around the lake, but there were a few dozen small dirt roads that branched off, leading down to the shore, and she explored the first six in a row that were the most well traveled. If the fisherman was camping at her resort, he might stick close to the main resort, but if he was a local, or one of the regulars who came often and fished the various lakes, who knew where he would have his favorite spots?

  She turned down the first dirt feeder road. It was bumpy and not well-known. Only the locals used this road when they wanted to fish here. The brambles were overgrown, but she could see tire tracks in the dirt. Someone had been through recently, not that it meant anything. If her nightmares held to what they had done in the past, she had another day, possibly two, before the killer struck. That didn’t mean the murderer wasn’t scouting out his victim right that minute.

  She stopped her 4Runner right in the middle of the narrow dirt road, opened the hidden console in the middle between the seats and pulled out her Glock. She had a concealed carry permit, just to be safe, and she was a very good shot.

  “All right, Bailey, we’re loaded now,” she said softly as she glanced in the rearview mirror at her dog. “You ready for this?”

  The Airedale had gone on alert the moment she pulled out her weapon and loaded it. She eased her rig into gear and once more started slowly down the narrow lane toward the lake. There was a slight bend in the dirt track, and when she rounded the curve, just ahead, she could see two vehicles—one a dark grayish-green truck, the other a dirty navy SUV. She recognized both rigs.

  Stella hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she let out her air. Her lungs felt raw and burning. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white as she stared out the windshield at the two men fishing. They were included in the circle of her friends—those she h
ung out with when she was able to break free of work and have a night off.

  Bruce Akins, a man with a dark beard and perpetual scowl, which wasn’t at all his personality, was one of the first business owners she’d made a deal with. He owned the local brewery, employing townspeople and trying to keep the economy up and running in a town where there wasn’t a lot of work.

  Stella had sat down with him, convincing him that she could turn the resort around and, in doing so, help the local businesses at the same time. She used his beer, playing it up as exclusive and creating a brochure, eventually having him give a VIP tour of the brewery, which a few of her higher-end clientele paid handsomely for. His beer was good, that was the thing. If it hadn’t been, Stella wouldn’t have gotten behind it.

  Many of those who came to climb or ski or backpack came from the Los Angeles area and had money. Once they tasted Bruce’s beer, they wanted to have access to it, and not just at the resort or in the surrounding towns. Bruce was able to secure contracts with a few of the very private clubs in Los Angeles for his beer, and that meant charging a high price for it. Stella became one of Bruce’s favorite people.

  Dr. Denver Dawson and Bruce had been close friends for years, at least as long as Stella had been living in the area. Denver was an outdoorsman. He hunted. Fished. He was a strong climber, whether bouldering, trad or sport climbing. He claimed he didn’t like winter sports, but she knew he’d gone out to recover bodies in the snow more than once and he’d triggered an avalanche when they needed to bring down a section too dangerous to leave hanging. He wasn’t afraid of hard work and pitched in wherever he was needed, often at Zahra’s fund-raisers.

  Denver was a good man and she liked him a lot. Most everyone in town did. When he hunted, he shared the meat with people who wouldn’t get through the winter without help. Same with his fish. He was quietly generous. As far as Stella knew, although Sam seemed to be polite to everyone, Denver was the only one he was friends with, if he had a friend.

  Bruce had a thing for Zahra. She was petite and had that cute-as-hell accent and those dark, dark eyes and perfect mouth. Bruce towered over her, a bear of a man. He almost made two of her. With everyone else he was absolutely confident, but around Zahra he could barely say a coherent word. He had reason to be confident. He was six foot six with wide shoulders and kept himself in good shape. His scowl made him look intimidating, but his blue eyes and his handsome face drew all the women like magnets—all but the one he wanted.

  Because Denver was supposed to be his “wingman,” he was seated next to Stella at nearly every event Bruce attended. Stella and Denver ended up laughing quite a bit over their two friends dancing around each other. Stella really liked Denver. He wasn’t smooth and charming like a couple of the other men in their circle of acquaintances, but he could be counted on. He was loyal to his friends. He had a great sense of humor. That mattered to her.

  She parked her 4Runner, looking at the colors of the sun shining down on the surface of the lake. The fog edging through the trees gave the sky a shimmering silver effect, amplifying the gold and orange tones spread out over the water. She always wished she could find the perfect colors to paint the visual on canvas. She’d tried in various mediums but could never quite come close to replicating nature.

  Stella let Bailey out of her rig. He knew both men, but more importantly, he knew how to behave when men were fishing. He had more manners than most of the tourists that came to the resort. She had actually discussed tips with Roy Fulton, the man who worked at her bait shop for years, putting together a list of common courtesy rules and leaving them in every cabin. She’d asked Denver to add to them when the two of them had been at the bar watching Zahra and Bruce do their careful dance around each other.

  The men were a good distance apart, but both had lines in the water. She could see why they liked this spot, especially in the morning hours. Trees grew nearly right up to the shore, giving them privacy and protection from the relentless heat of the sun on the hotter days. There were the inevitable granite rocks, smooth from the years of being in the water with waves lapping at them, shaping them into rounder versions of an egg. Plants grew along the shore, tall reeds rising above the surface, swaying with the waves as the light breeze played over the water.

  These two men were her friends. They were a large part of the life in their community and she knew they were at risk. She hadn’t thought in terms of any of her friends being at risk. When that realization hit her, she could barely breathe for a moment. She leaned against the driver’s-side door and stared at the two men as they peacefully fished in the beauty of the lake. It was so beautiful there with the colors of the sun and reflections on the surface of the water. The shimmering silver of the mist creeping in, and the fall brilliance of the leaves, oranges, reds and greens decorating the trees. The men would never suspect, for one moment, that danger lurked beneath the surface.

  Her vision blurred. Bailey pressed his head tight against her hip, and she sank her hand into his fur, reaching back with the other to grip the door. What in the hell was happening to her? A full-blown panic attack? She hadn’t had those in years. Just like shoving her fingers against her lips or rocking, she was regressing back to all those childhood habits, but the realization that these two really good men could be at risk was horrifying. Sam fished as well. Most of the men in her circle fished.

  “Stella, come here, babe. Just sit down. You need to breathe.” Denver wrapped his arm around her and walked her to a camp chair.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath as she sank into the chair and managed to drag fresh air into her laboring lungs. “I’m okay, Denver.”

  He must have tossed his fishing pole and come running. That would be like him, to notice someone in trouble. He was the hospital’s anesthesiologist. Dr. Denver Dawson, nicest man on the planet, although his rough exterior put many people off. Make that women. She’d seen it dozens of times. Silly women always went for the smooth charmers, the players, and then they cried when their hearts were broken.

  Denver crouched beside the chair, one hand automatically petting Bailey, the other with his fingers over her pulse. That was the other thing about Denver. He could be all business, but he never failed to recognize the animals around him. He might hunt and fish, but he ate what he killed.

  “I didn’t make you lose your fishing pole, did I?” Stella tilted back her head to look up at him. “And you don’t happen to have any coffee, do you? I’m sure I was a little faint from lack of caffeine. I really need to put it directly into my veins.”

  “I wasn’t about to lose my favorite fishing pole,” he said, standing and ruffling her hair as if she were five. “You drink far too much caffeine and I’m not sure I should contribute to your addiction.”

  “I get grumpy without caffeine, Denver. Even Bailey doesn’t like me.” She didn’t want him thinking too much about her panic attack or asking her questions. He would too. Unlike Sam, who had no problem with long silences and rarely asked questions, Denver would get all up in her business. He never seemed to see the barriers she put up, but then he didn’t see them with others either. She was certain he was somewhere on the spectrum—a brilliant man with autism, most likely Asperger’s, although clearly he was extremely high functioning.

  He flashed her a grin and jogged over to the gray-and-green truck. Stella watched him go, a little frown on her face. His body was all muscle, much like many of the men who lived and worked in the area. They were climbers, outdoorsmen, backpackers and skiers, and they kept in shape out of necessity for what they loved to do. Denver had a great body. Very muscular. She’d noticed that before, but for some reason, the way he was moving, it was very apparent to her all over again. Still, even built as he was, that wouldn’t keep him safe from a killer lurking beneath the lake’s surface.

  She scrubbed her palm down her face, trying to think. Could she ask the two men not to go fishing for a few days because she’d had
a bad dream? That would make her sound like a lunatic. How could she protect her friends? Her mind raced and her stomach churned. Bailey pushed against her. Her dog always knew when she was upset.

  Denver was back with a mug of coffee and another camp chair under his arm. “I stole Bruce’s chair. I’m not even certain he knows you’re here. When he’s fishing, I think a bomb could go off and he wouldn’t know it.”

  She wrapped her hands around the warmth of the coffee mug. There was a moose with wide antlers on the mug. “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

  Denver glanced up at the sky and then his gaze moved slowly over the lake. “Yeah. Nothing like it anywhere else, Stella.”

  She smiled at him. “That’s exactly how I feel.” She put her head back and closed her eyes for a moment. “Denver, it’s been eighteen months since you lost Suzy. Why haven’t you gotten another dog? You’ve always had a dog.” The silence stretched for so long she was afraid she’d offended him. She opened her eyes to look at him.

  Denver was staring out over the lake, his expression a little lost. That was another thing about him. She could never read Sam, but Denver was an open book. If he was angry, you knew it. If he was sad, it was right there on his face. He didn’t bother to mislead you. If he didn’t like you, he made it known. There was no bullshit with Denver. He didn’t yell, that wasn’t his style, he just looked at whoever was being an ass with utter contempt and then walked away, or he dropped them with one punch and then walked away. He had a bit of a reputation, so most drunks in the bar left him alone.

  “I’m sorry, Denver.” Stella put her hand on his arm to comfort him. “I shouldn’t have asked. Bailey and Suzy were such good friends. When I let him out of the car, I half expected to see her rushing up to greet us. When she didn’t, I wondered why you hadn’t gotten another dog, but I should have left it alone.”