Bitterroot Lake, Alicia Beckman [good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT] 📗

 27

“So, we were right,” Holly said. “Not that we can prove it.”

The four friends and Peggy gathered in the kitchen after Holly and Nic returned from town, so Janine could hear what they had to say while she cooked. Once again, she’d refused help. Easier, Sarah suspected, to do it all herself than direct the rest of them, especially in an outdated space nothing like the commercial kitchens she was used to.

“Turns out records clerks love a good mystery,” Holly continued. “And the county was small enough back then to make searching a breeze.” She laid a photocopy of a State of Montana Standard Certificate of Death on the table.

Sarah summarized what the form called the “personal and statistical particulars.” “Anja Sundstrom, age twenty-one, born in Sweden, drowned in Bitterroot Lake on Sunday, January 1, 1922. Single, a resident of Whitetail Lodge, Deer Park. Informant, Frank Lacey, Whitetail Lodge. It asks for parents’ names and birthplaces. Mother is blank. Father, Carl Sundstrom.”

“I always forget,” Nic said. “This lake doesn’t freeze over, does it?”

Sarah shook her head. “Some of the shallow bays freeze, but not up here. Too deep.”

“Does it say what happened to the body?” Janine asked.

“Buried in Valley View Cemetery, Deer Park,” Holly replied. “We interpreted Caro’s journal entry to mean that she threw herself in the lake because of whatever happened at the house party. But in this column”—she ran her finger down the right side of the form, filled out with a finer-nibbed pen, in a compact backhand—“the medical doctor says cause of death was drowning, and where it asks ‘accident, suicide, or homicide?’ he wrote ‘accident.’”

Sarah frowned. “You saying he didn’t want to call it suicide? Why—stigma?”

“Maybe. Look at the time of death. One thirty AM. Or maybe it was an accident,” Holly speculated. “She was just running. Trying to get away, not noticing where she went.”

Or not caring.

Sarah sat back, stunned. She’d been right about her dream—her nightmare. No one went swimming in a mountain lake at one thirty in the morning on the first day of the year. Not even a hardy Swede. Especially not a servant, expected to work late and early when guests meant extra household duties. Anja had come back to lead her to the truth.

“There was an investigation,” Nic said. “If you can call it that.” She laid a single photocopied sheet on the table, another printed form completed by hand. “Not easy to decipher, but the upshot is the sheriff was called to Whitetail Lodge in the early hours on New Year’s Day after the body of a lodge employee was found in the lake. Frank Lacey was interviewed, and the body delivered to Massey and Sons, Undertakers. End of story.”

“What was she wearing?” Sarah asked, sure she already knew. “Who saw her last? What was her mood? Had she been upset about something? Was anyone else present when she went into the water?”

Nic glowered. “Methinks the good sheriff left a few things out. Whether he was lazy or protecting someone, I have no idea. If he made any notes, they’re long gone.”

“Would the undertaker have records?” Janine asked.

“The Masseys sold to the Newmans ages ago,” Peggy said. “Their building was destroyed in a gas explosion when you girls were babies. Flattened the whole block.”

“We may never know what happened to Anja,” Nic said. “But at least we know her last name and date of birth.”

“Oh, we know,” Sarah said. “We may not know the details or who drove her to her death, but we know.”

One dream, one tragedy, she could dismiss. But not all this.

“What did you learn about Sarah Beth?” She poured herself a glass of iced tea and took a long swallow, the cold constricting her throat with a pang.

“Diphtheria,” Holly said. “Ten days after Caro’s dream.”

It was as if the house itself, every log and timber, every window and shingle, even the deck where they sat, gave a collective shudder.

“But not here, in the lodge,” Sarah said, perching on the edge of her chair. “Even Caro couldn’t have hung onto the lodge, much as she loved it, if her little girl died here.” She pictured the baby book, so lovingly tended. The dress. The funeral roses.

“No,” Holly said. “In the hospital, in Whitefish. Different county, but the clerk found her death certificate for us and printed off a copy. That was before the hospital in Deer Park was built—remember Caro’s comments in her journal about fund-raising?”

“You kids were born in the McCaskill wing,” Peggy said. “It was torn down when they built the new hospital. Mary Mac was so angry she refused to give them any more money. You know how she was.”

“Fierce,” Sarah said. “Despite her sweet look. Grandpa used to say her needlework was an excuse to stab things without getting sent to jail.”

“She scared me half to death,” Peggy confided. “Unlike Caro. But she was generous, too, and once she saw that I made John Patrick happy, she completely accepted me.”

Like Jeremy’s parents when they first met Sarah.

Two dreams accounted for. Three, including her first dream, the day before Lucas—

“Oh my gosh, I forgot to ask.” She threw an apologetic look toward Janine, then turned to Nic. “Did you get an answer from the prosecutor? They aren’t going to file charges, are they? And did you reach your daughter?”

“Yes. We hope not. Yes.” Nic ticked off fingers in the air. “Bottom line, the meeting with the principal is moved to next week. Tempe insists she’s got everything under control.”

“And the kid?”

“Keeping his distance. Now that the principal and his parents are involved, I think he’ll back off. Too chicken for revenge. Or maybe she’s right and the other kids think he’s a dipstick who deserves a dose of his own medicine.”

“You should be there,” Janine said. “You don’t need to stay here and babysit me. This crew can do that.”

“Nothing’s going to happen at school before next week,” Nic replied. “As for charges, like I told Janine earlier,