Still Lake. Anne Stuart
simply turned and headed back home. Sophie squared her shoulders and followed him, pushing the tall grass out of her way as she kept his back firmly in her view. Not that she would have had any trouble finding her way. She’d explored the property around the abandoned Whitten house not long after they moved to Colby, and whenever things were overwhelming at the inn she’d disappear for a few hours, sit on the porch and watch the quiet glide of the water as it moved past the rocky point of land just beyond the house.
She took her time, and he was waiting for her on the porch when she got there. “Did you know I’ve got an option to buy this place?” he asked abruptly.
She doubted she could keep the stricken expression off her face. “Why?”
“I like it here. The peace and quiet. The remoteness.”
“The house is a mess. I doubt it could be winterized, and there’s no way to earn a living year round…”
“Maybe I could turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.”
She stared at him in horror. “What?”
His slight smile was far from reassuring. “I’m kidding,” he said. “Do I strike you as the hospitable type? I’m not sure I even like sharing this end of the lake with anyone, much less my house.”
She took a deep breath. “No wonder you’re unattached.”
“Are we back to sex again?”
“No!” She moved past him, pushing open the torn and rickety screen door and walking into the old cottage. She’d never been inside before, only peered through the windows, but it looked and smelled just as she’d imagined it. The furniture was old and solid—a mission oak sofa and table that had probably been built at the same time as the house; a couple of sturdy rocking chairs; a wide table and chairs. The fieldstone fireplace held nothing but ashes, the bookshelves were crammed with the detritus of vacationers over the years—Reader’s Digest condensed books and paperback mysteries. The floor creaked beneath her feet, and the mice had gotten into the braided rug. And if the so-called Mr. Smith bought this old wreck out from under her she’d kill him.
If there’d been any way to turn this place into a bed-and-breakfast she would have bought it in a snap. The Niles homestead was bigger, with more lake frontage and the good-size wing in back for when she wanted to expand. But the Whitten house called to her soul, a hidden little jewel in the forest by the lake.
“What do you think?” he asked, oblivious to her covetous thoughts.
“I think you need an army of people to come in and shovel out this place,” she said frankly. “The screens are torn, the chimney probably needs cleaning, the cushions have been chewed by animals. What’s the roof like?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said wryly.
Without thinking she started up the long, narrow stairs to the second floor. There were four bedrooms and a bath off the center hallway. The claw-footed bathtub was stained with rust, the old linoleum on the floor was cracked and torn. Three of the bedrooms were abandoned, smelling of mice and mildew, the fourth was relatively more habitable.
It had a fireplace, as well, probably connected to the same sorry chimney. The old iron bed was high and wide, covered with quilts and a myriad of pillows that had somehow survived the mice. The casement windows stood open to the lake, and an old wicker chair had been drawn up close. There was a book open on the floor beside it, and she moved closer, curious. Then she realized that Mr. Smith had followed her up the stairs and was leaning in the doorway, watching her while she poked around his bedroom.
“Looks like the roof needs replacing,” she said calmly. “Or at least mending.”
“Oh, really?”
The man was very annoying. He either said too much or too little. “Look at the watermarks on the ceiling by the fireplace,” she said. “The flashing needs fixing. And there are some stains near the window. Maybe ice dams, but since this house isn’t used in the winter that’s probably not it. No one shovels the roof in the winter, so it’s most likely weakened from the weight of the snow. You need someone to come and check it out or the whole thing might collapse on you while you’re lying in bed.”
Damn, why had she said the word bed? she thought hastily. Without thinking they both turned to contemplate the bed. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?” Mr. Smith said. “Who do I call?”
She was still curious about that thick tome by the side of his chair, and she had no intention of leaving the room until she read the title. “Hank Maynard fixes chimneys. Zebulon King does carpentry, and you can probably get his wife and son to come in and clean the place if they’re not too busy working for the other summer people. They’re a little odd, but good workers.”
“Summer people? Is that what I am?” He sounded amused at the notion.
“Those are the people who come in the summer and leave when it gets cold. You’re a summer person.”
“What makes you think I’ll be leaving?”
She ignored that. “How’s the plumbing?”
“Aren’t you going to check?” he asked. “You’re very thorough.”
She refused to blink. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“The water’s rusty, but the pipes seem to work.”
She moved around the chair, too damned close to the bed, ostensibly to look at the casement windows. The framing seemed in good shape, and the glass was still intact. She glanced down at the book, then stepped back hastily.
“Finished?” he asked pleasantly.
“Finished. I’ll write down those names and phone numbers for you. The first rush of summer business is over, so they should be able to help you. I imagine Marge Averill can send the bills to whoever still owns this place.” She looked up at him. “You really ought to find a more comfortable place to rent. This place is in lousy condition—anyone would be a fool to buy it.”
“What makes you think I’m interested in buying it?”
A wave of relief washed over Sophie. “Silly of me. No one would want to buy this place….”
“Except you, obviously. Don’t worry, Sophie. I’m not here permanently. You’ll have your privacy back before long.”
She still didn’t trust him. “In the meantime I’m not sure how safe this place is. Maybe you ought to see about renting the Wilson place on Black’s Point—”
“I like it right here.” He moved out of the doorway, just enough to let her pass. She had to brush against him in the narrow, dark space, and she didn’t like it. She found she was holding her breath until she got past him.
She was sitting at the table, scribbling down notes, when he came up behind her. She concentrated on her list, ignoring him, until he spoke.
“So what happened to the Whitten girl?”
She glanced up at him. “I imagine she just got bored with the place and took off. Just because there were murders here a long time ago doesn’t mean that it will happen again. Most young women need a little more adventure than Colby can offer.”
“Don’t you?”
“I’ve never cared much for adventure,” she said in a calm voice.
“When did she disappear? Before or after the killer got out of jail?”
She turned to face him. “You seem awfully interested in our old murders, Mr. Smith.”
He shrugged. “Just curious.”
“Curious enough to be reading a book called Encyclopedia of Serial Killers?” she shot back. “You’re as bad as my mother.”
“Your mother likes to read about serial killers? How very interesting.”
“She