Bitterroot Lake by Alicia Beckman (i read a book .TXT) 📕

Sarah leaned forward, her voice low. “Everything’s okay, right? I mean, not okay, but you’re in the clear.”

“I’m not under arrest, but that’s not the same as not under suspicion,” Janine replied, in an equally low tone. “Leo’s a nice guy, but he’s got a murder and no suspects.”

“Oh, honey,” the waitress said as she set Janine’s plate of toast on the table. “When it comes to Lucas Erickson, this town is full of suspects.”

“Deb!” the white-haired man at the nearest table interjected. “How can you say that?”

“Why shouldn’t she say it?” his wife asked. “It’s what everyone’s thinking.”

“Not a fan, I take it?” Sarah asked the waitress. Deb.

“The son of a bitch represented my ex in our divorce,” Deb explained. “I know darn well Lucas helped him hide assets from me. Now he’s living the good life, with a brand-new pontoon boat and a shiny red truck to pull it with. Candy-apple red. And I’m working here. Not that I don’t enjoy it, but you understand.”

She did. She hadn’t been away from Montana so long that she didn’t understand the dangers of men who drove candy-apple red pickups.

“I heard they took some woman in for questioning,” the woman at the table said. “From Missoula, but I guess she used to live here.”

Janine froze at the words, a piece of toast halfway to her mouth. Fortunately, Deb had her back to them, busy refilling the gossipy couple’s coffee.

Sarah grabbed her bag and fished inside. Dropped cash on the table and stood. “Thanks, Deb. You were right about the hash browns. Sorry we’ve got to run.” She managed to position herself so Janine could slide out and head for the door without being seen. “Bye now,” she called over her shoulder.

Outside, Sarah led Janine down the sidewalk, away from the Spruce’s plate glass windows.

“No one in this town will ever believe me,” Janine said.

“Don’t say that. Those people don’t know anything. They don’t know who you are. And you heard them—nobody liked Lucas.” Although he must have had friends in high places—or thought he did—if he planned a run for Congress. And money, though you’d never guess that from the exterior of his office.

Questions, questions, questions, as Jeremy would have said.

“Leo’s deputy told me about an electronics repair shop a block off Main. After we see if they can fix your phone, we’ll find you some clothes,” Sarah said. She hitched her bag up on her shoulder. “Come on.”

“Sarah,” Janine said. “Get real. I can’t afford anything in this town.”

“I’ll buy you—”

“No. I don’t want to owe you.”

Friends back in Seattle had told her she needed a project to take her mind off her loss. She’d managed to not tell them to go jump in the lake. Her mother wanted her to make the lodge her project. Washing windows, ironing lace curtains, and pulling birds’ nests out of gutters might be exactly the therapy she needed. Counting sets of china and making lists of paintings and knickknacks. It would go quickly, and might almost be fun, with help.

“Make you a deal. Give me a hand cleaning up the lodge, and we’ll trade work for whatever you need. If you can stay for a few days. Did Leo tell you not to leave town?”

“No. Nic said he can’t say that, that it’s tantamount to an arrest, even if TV cops say it all the time. But I’m not going to leave yet. Not before she gets here.”

Sarah had almost forgotten about Nic, making the long drive across the state. Maybe she’d been wrong; maybe Janine did need a lawyer.

“Deal?” She held out a hand.

Janine’s features softened. “Okay. But we’re shopping the sale racks.”

No one recognized either of them as they picked out shirts and pants at the sporting goods store, and found sandals and tennis shoes to replace the rubber clogs that were part of Janine’s kitchen work uniform. Everyone was as friendly as Deb the waitress and the couple in the café, and no one gave them a second glance at the grocery store, where they picked up new tea and sugar, cat food, and cleaning supplies, among other things. Sarah could almost feel Janine’s anxiety ease.

The SUV loaded, Sarah dashed into the pharmacy for a notebook and tiny stickers. And a measuring tape—there had to be one somewhere in the lodge, but you could never find things like that when you needed them.

One more stop. Why was it so hard?

Because she hated to admit that at forty-seven, she needed her mother.

A few minutes later, they rounded the curve at the end of the lake and there, at the corner of Lake and First, its three-sided turret a beacon, sat the Wedding Cake. That had been her name for her grandparents’ pink Victorian when she and Holly were kids and walked here every afternoon from the squat two-bedroom starter house on the other side of Main, their mother pushing Connor in the stroller. Before Grandpa Tom and Grandma Mary, often called Mary Mac because she’d traded one Irish surname for another, moved to the lodge full-time and gave the house in town to the young family.

The frothy old frame house hadn’t been pink in ages. After Mary Mac died, Peggy confessed she’d always hated the pink and repainted it a dusty dark blue, the white gingerbread cream. Though it had been odd at first to see such a dramatic change, the blue and cream were striking. Almost as if the house should have been those colors all along.

Through the multi-paned windows of her bedroom on the second floor, Sarah had been able to see much of Bitterroot Lake and the mountains ringing the valley. Her view hadn’t quite stretched to the lodge, though on a clear day she could see the point that separated McCaskill land from the Hoyt property to the east, and the beginnings of the gravel beach. Idyllic, even when life itself had not been a fairy tale. Her mother had converted the room