Still Lake. Anne Stuart

course not. And I could be wrong—instead of a reporter he could be writing the kind of true-crime thrillers my mother used to devour. I bet if I look through her stacks of books I’ll find one with his picture on the back cover.”

      “As long as it’s the back cover and not the front,” Marge said. “You know, it seems to me that you’re the one whose imagination has gone into overdrive. Lots of people read about serial killers.”

      “Then he’s probably a very rich writer,” Sophie said grimly. “Which means he can afford to buy the house out from under me.”

      “I think you need to take a deep breath and calm down,” Marge said, pushing her empty plate away from her. “And you need to stop feeding me your food. I’ve gained fifteen pounds since you moved here.”

      “So have I,” Sophie said mournfully. “And I can’t afford it.”

      “Tell you what. Get your mother and sister to help with the cooking. That way no one will be tempted to eat much.”

      Sophie made a face. “Great idea. Then I’ll be flat broke in a matter of weeks.”

      “I thought you were already flat broke.”

      “Close to it.”

      “So why are you wasting your time worrying about the Whitten place and your Mr. Smith?” Marge asked, practical as always.

      “Not my Mr. Smith!” she protested. “And maybe I just want to be distracted from my problems.”

      “And maybe you’re more interested in Mr. Smith than you want to admit. There’s no question he’s a very attractive man if you like that sort.”

      “What sort? Tall, dark and loathsome?”

      Marge grinned. “Yeah, you keep on thinking that way, missy. If you ask me, the man’s hot, and you’d be a fool not to do something about it.”

      “The only thing I’m about to do is check on my mother and sister. Mr. Smith can snoop around all he wants—I’m planning to ignore him.”

      “As you’ve ignored him so far? Good luck, babe,” Marge said lazily. “If you’re really not interested in him I’ll have a crack at him. He’s too young for me but I can be open-minded.”

      Sophie opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. Marge was baiting her, and the awful truth was, Sophie was rising to it. She didn’t want Marge sleeping with her mysterious neighbor. She didn’t want anyone having him. She wanted him to simply disappear, as Sara Ann Whitten had so long ago, so she could concentrate on important things like her family and her extremely shaky business venture. She didn’t have the time or energy to waste on a stranger with a hidden agenda.

      “Feel free,” Sophie said breezily. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. He’s probably only here to research a new book on the Colby murders, and he doesn’t care who he uses.”

      “I think you’ve got one hell of an imagination yourself, Sophie. You ought to start writing fiction instead of columns on the perfect strawberry jam and how to turn your lawn mower into a planter.”

      “I plead guilty to the first, but not the second. And speaking of which, I need someone to help with the garden and the mowing. Jeff Pritchard went back to college early. Can you think of anyone?”

      “I’ll send Patrick Laflamme over,” Marge said, sounding amused at the notion. “He’s the only one I can think of who’s strong enough to resist Marty’s siren lures.”

      “Is he old and ugly? Anything less would be too dangerous.”

      “Sorry, he’s young and cute. He’s also tough enough to ignore Marty. Don’t worry about him—he’s got good old-fashioned Yankee values and a mother who’d put the fear of God into anyone. He won’t lead your sister astray.”

      “I’m more worried about the other way around,” Sophie said grimly.

      It was late afternoon by the time Sophie got back to her kitchen. The weeds in the perennial garden couldn’t be ignored any longer, and then there was laundry to do and Marty to harass into eating something. Sophie was always terrified that Marty was going to become anorexic, but in fact she ate enough. Her reed-thin body just never showed it. Which just went to show how unfair heredity was. Sophie’s mother Grace had always been slender and willowy, while Marty’s mother had constantly battled her weight. Sophie should have been the one to inherit a skinny metabolism.

      She was planning on making another peach pie, a dire mistake since she’d end up eating most of it, but she couldn’t let all those wonderful peaches go to waste. Marty had left her dishes in the sink, as usual, and she was lying down by the lake, courting skin cancer at an early age. Sophie just shook her head and put the dishes in the dishwasher, then reached for the earthenware crock she kept her flour in when she noticed the yellowed newspaper on the counter.

      At first she thought it was some kind of flyer, but as she looked closer she realized it was an actual copy of the Northeast Kingdom Gazette from long ago. Twenty years ago, in fact. And the headline read “Murder in the Kingdom.”

      Sophie’s appetite for peach pie vanished. She poured herself a cup of coffee, shuddering slightly at its strength, and picked up the newspaper with careful hands. Tucking it under her arm, she went out onto the side porch, setting her coffee down on the windowsill behind her and curling up on the hanging glider. It was a beautiful day—a soft breeze was blowing across the lake, bringing with it the scent of pine resin and cool water, and the sun was bright overhead. Sophie stared down at the newspaper, at the grainy pictures, and started to read.

      The account was relatively straightforward, devoid of conjecture and sensationalism, which wasn’t surprising, considering the reporters and owners of the paper had lived in Colby for generations and knew all of the families involved. It was one thing to splash murder pictures all over the front page when you didn’t know the helpless victims, another when they were your neighbors and friends.

      There was a photo of the killer. Alleged killer, as they referred to him, and in fact, he might still be alleged since apparently he’d gotten off years later. Thomas Ingram Griffin looked like almost any drifter from twenty years ago. Long hair and beard, dazed but defiant expression on his face. The photo was faded from age, and it hadn’t been the best of quality in the first place, but for some reason he looked vaguely familiar. Sophie shrugged. The man would look completely different twenty years later. He’d be clean shaven, clean cut, probably forty pounds heavier. If he was even still alive.