Live and Let Pie Read online

  The question I had been ruminating on was whether or not I could see myself in my childhood home. The house was wonderful. It was tucked in the hillside above Southern Oregon University on Mountain Avenue, surrounded by sequoia, aspen, and pine trees. Its giant windows looked out into the forest. As a kid I always thought that we lived in a tree house. Yet the house was still easily within walking distance of the plaza. It was a two-story Craftsman with a large living room, a beautiful kitchen with an eat-in nook, and a formal dining room with French doors that led to an outdoor deck with stunning views of Grizzly Peak to the east. I hadn’t said a word to anyone about the idea, but I could already hear Lance’s voice in my head, saying, “Darling, it’s simply perfect. The pine trees, the views, the charm.”

  Maybe there was a reason I was hearing his words.

  Mom cleared her throat. “Are you daydreaming again?”

  It was a constant joke between us. She was convinced that I had inherited my father’s tendency to drift off with my own thoughts.

  “Maybe.” I chuckled.

  “So does that mean you’re thinking about the house?”

  “Yeah. I am, but I don’t want you to wait for me. If you’re ready to list it and get it on the market, I understand.”

  “Juliet, stop. We wouldn’t have offered it to you if we didn’t want you to have it.”

  “I’m not ‘having’ it, Mom. If I end up there, I’ll buy it from you.”

  She pursed her lips. “We’ll see about that, young lady.”

  “There’s no question about it. I’m going to buy something here in Ashland anyway. What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is that Doug and I would love to see you in the house. It would be wonderful to keep it in the family. Doug is the one who brought up the conversation initially. Not me.”

  I reached over and patted her forearm. “You found a good man.”

  She winked. “I know.”

  “But there’s no chance that I’m not buying it from you.”

  “Time will tell.” She pointed to the sky. “Oh, look at that hawk.”

  I knew that she was intentionally changing the subject. That was fine. I needed more time to sit with the idea. I didn’t want to rush into anything, yet the thought of baking a farmers breakfast in my mom’s kitchen or sipping a glass of wine outside on the deck in the evening, taking in the golden glow of the hills, was definitely appealing.

  We zoomed along Highway 66, passing goat farms, an equestrian sanctuary, old farmhouses, and gently rolling green hills. The turnoff to the lake took us onto a gravel road. Ahead there was a huge retaining rock wall, holding back the lake waters.

  Mom steered the car past stacks of bright white crew boats, a boat ramp and dock. We followed the road to the playground, picnic area, waterslides, and swim cove. I spotted two fishermen casting from the opposite hillside. To our left were orchards of trees with picnic tables and shady benches tucked in the grove.

  We arrived at the lake house. Only a handful of private homes dotted this side of the lake. The house we were here to view was a mid-century single-level ranch. From the front the house didn’t look like much. It was painted forest green to blend into the natural environment. I knew that everything would be oriented to the back. An open-house sign was propped on the stone pathway that led to a charcoal-gray front door.

  “Shall we take a peek?” Mom asked as a teal-blue convertible zoomed into the parking space next to us. A woman got out of the car and approached us. I recognized her immediately. It was Stella Pryor, the real estate developer with whom Pam was furious for trying to build a tiny-house development next to Nightingales.

  “Are you here for the open house?” Stella slammed her car door shut.

  I wondered how she had managed to keep her long, dark hair tied in a tight ponytail with the top down on her convertible.

  “Yes, I’m Helen.” Mom stepped forward and extended her hand. “My real estate agent told me that there was an open house today and suggested I stop by and take a look. Are you the owner?”

  “No,” the woman scoffed. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a business card with her face on it. “I’m sure you recognize me, I’m Stella Pryor.”

  Mom looked at the card and handed it to me. It was hard to tell how old Stella was through the layers of makeup caked on her face.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m Stella of Steller Development. We are Ashland’s premier developer. We have dozens of projects in the works.”

  “Ah. I see.” Mom handed Stella back her card.

  “Keep it. A word of warning, if I can get the city to pull its head out of the sand and agree to zoning updates that are decades overdue, the house that you’re about to look at is going to be bulldozed.”

  “Oh.” Mom looked at me.

  Before we could ask more, Stella flipped around and marched toward the front door.

  “She’s um…” I tried to think of the right word.

  “Intense? Type A? Off-putting?” Mom offered.

  “All of the above.” I chuckled, and then I told her about my conversation with Pam and how furious Pam was about a potential tiny-house development going up on the property adjacent to Nightingales.

  “That doesn’t sound like Pam,” Mom said, with a touch of concern in her voice. “I’ll have to stop by Nightingales and check in with her. I know that she’s been busy with the constant rotation of guests for the high season. I’ll have to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  We headed inside. The house didn’t disappoint, with white-birch floors, an open fireplace connecting the living room and dining room, soaring ceilings, and tons of natural light. I hoped that Stella wouldn’t succeed in her quest to convince the city to update its zoning policies. It would be a shame to see the house bulldozed. Its vast windows offered a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the lake. I could picture the Professor relaxing in a comfy chair in front of the woodstove, reading a book of poetry, or Mom whisking up a soufflé in the chef’s kitchen, complete with granite countertops and an eight-burner gas stove. The house was nestled in the foothills of Grizzly Peak with private lake views and numerous stone patios for outdoor entertaining.

  Stella wasn’t the only one interested in the property. The open house had drawn a number of people. Mom and I caught each other’s eye multiple times while we toured the property. “Look at this bathtub, Juliet,” Mom whispered, pointing to a clawfoot tub in front of a wall of windows that looked out over the lake.

  “Amazing,” I whispered back. I waited until we were back in the car before asking her opinion. “What did you think?”

  She grinned. “I loved it. What did you think?”

  “It’s incredible. I can totally see you and the Professor there. Are you going to bring him back to see it again?”

  “Absolutely.” She nodded and steered the car back the way we came. “I was thinking I should call our agent right now.”

  “Go for it.”

  “The only downside is that this location is pretty far out of town.”

  “What? Like ten minutes?” Everything in Ashland was within a ten-minute drive. And aside from the occasional backup on Main Street during the height of the tourist season, the only time traffic came to a stop was when a herd of black-tailed deer were crossing the street.

  “True. But we couldn’t walk from here to the plaza.”

  “Yes, that’s fair, but is that one of your top priorities? You’ve lived within walking distance of everything in Ashland for a long time; maybe it would be good to have a different view.” I paused and swept my hand toward the blue waters of Emigrant Lake. “How can you beat a view like this?”

  “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” She patted my arm playfully.

  “No. I promise, I have no ulterior motive in trying to sell you on this house, but I saw the way your eyes lit up from the moment we walked through the front door. Why don’t you at least give the Professor a call and see if he can come tak
e a quick look.”

  She glanced to the back. “What about our picnic?” We had pulled into the parking lot above the swim cove. Kids zipped down the blue waterslides and splashed in the shallow swimming area. Families and couples had spread out blankets and folding chairs on the grassy lawn among the picnic tables.

  “It can wait. I’d love to get a nice long walk in. I haven’t walked the cemetery trail in years. I’ll walk along the trail and through the cemetery and meet you here for a picnic later.”

  “If you’re sure?” She hesitated.

  “I’m sure. You saw the crowd in there. If this is the house, you don’t want to lose it.”

  That motivated her. She reached for her phone and called the Professor. I applied sunscreen, grabbed a floppy hat, bottle of water, and headed for the trail. I had to walk along the gravel road for a stretch. Once I rounded the corner where the crew boats were stacked I saw two guys carrying kayaks down to the water. This side of the lake was quieter. Red sandy soil revealed the erosion level. Forested hills rose on either side of the lake. In the winter they would be dusted with snow. Waves lapped on the shoreline as a motorboat sped to the middle of the lake. A group of teenagers dove off the dock and a handful of families floated in the lake on bright-colored rafts and inner tubes.

  The path that wound above the reservoir to the old cemetery wasn’t an official city hiking trail. It could have been an old deer trail, or perhaps a path that had been worn from years of foot traffic. It paralleled the lake for a little over a mile and then connected with the hillside cemetery. The cemetery had once been where Emigrant Lake now sat. It was moved in the 1960s when the old town was flooded.

  Underneath the lake’s vast waters sat the remains of an old town, now submerged. The town, Klamath Junction, was one of the region’s original settlements. It wasn’t a booming gold town, rather a small plot with a few houses, a service station, a dance hall, and a cemetery. In school we had learned about the Mill family, who had originally settled the claim.

  Emigrant Lake was created in 1924 and then expanded in the 1960s, flooding Klamath Junction. The town and its inhabitants were relocated, and the cemetery was moved up the hillside.

  There were rumors that the lake was haunted by the ghost of George Mill, a family member of one of Klamath Junction’s original homesteaders, who went missing right before the town was flooded. According to local legend, George was so attached to his family’s property and distraught over the town’s impending destruction that he barricaded himself in and awaited his fate. When I was growing up, kids would dare one another to visit the cemetery on Halloween in hopes of waking ancient ghosts. They would dare each other to dive into the lake’s frigid waters in search of buried treasure and ghosts.

  I chuckled at the memory. I never agreed to a single late-night session at the cemetery or diving for treasure. Both thoughts had creeped me out as a child. To be honest, they still did.

  I was glad that I had hiking boots on as I trekked through dried grass and bramble that reached my knees. A bee buzzed in my ear and a groundhog darted between my feet. The smell of murky lake waters and grilling barbecues at the waterslide area wafted through the air, as did the sound of children jumping off the docks. I crested the hill and paused to catch my breath.

  Snake holes lined the dirt path. In a crop of trees on the hillside kids had built a fort out of driftwood. Honey-colored hills stretched in every direction. An osprey circled above. In the distance I could make out the crest of a rowboat and hear the shouts of the crew team as they cut through the waters. A large group of kids on inflatable rafts had gathered around the dock. They were taking turns trying to land on a doughnut-shaped floatie, pushing farther and farther from the dock’s edge each time. Two younger girls swam in rhythm toward the middle of the lake. Their mom floated on a raft nearby, sipping lemonade and reading a book.

  One of the girls stopped, began treading water, and adjusted her goggles. I watched as she did a perfect surface dive and disappeared. Her mom didn’t look up from her book. The girl’s friend treaded water, as if waiting for her to resurface. I glanced at my watch. My pulse quickened. I’ve never liked diving in water where I can’t see the bottom. From my vantage point a hundred feet above, the lake looked as dark as a midnight sky.

  Sweat formed on my brow as I watched for the girl. She’d been underwater for at least a minute. How long could she hold her breath? Emigrant Lake was known for having forests of reedy plants beneath the surface. Could she have gotten tangled up in them?

  I was about to call down to her mom, when her head bobbed on the surface. I let out a sigh of relief. Except it was short-lived. The next thing I knew, the girl held something up in one hand and her friend let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  Chapter Six

  Without thinking, I flew down the hill. I didn’t care that thorns stuck in my thighs. The girl’s screams echoed in the vast lake canyon. What had happened? By the time I made it to the shore, the mom had scooped both girls onto her inflatable raft and was paddling it with one hand. The group of kids who had been diving off the docks had cleared the water and were dragging their inflatables with them. There weren’t lifeguards posted on this side of the lake. I wondered if I should run to the other side near the waterslides and get help.

  A teenage boy sprinted into the lake. As soon as he was waist-deep in the water, he plunged his head in and began kicking so fast that a spray of whitewater spewed behind him. The girls both continued to sob, but their screams subsided a bit. When the teenager made it to the raft he kicked behind it and the mom paddled with one hand.

  I wiped sweat from my face. When I looked at the back of my hand it was spotted with blood. A small gash on the side of my left cheek oozed. I must have cut it on a branch. I was breathless and confused but had had enough experience in crisis situations to try and assess the scene. I started with the kids who had been playing on the docks.

  “Do any of you know what happened?” I asked.

  “No, we heard screams so we got out of the water,” a girl who looked to be about thirteen answered. “We thought maybe there was a shark or something.”

  “A shark?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “In Emigrant Lake?”

  She nodded earnestly. “We learned about river sharks in my science class. Did you know that some sharks can swim in fresh water?”

  I didn’t have time to debate the reality of sharks in the lake. “Did anyone else see anything?”

  One of the boys raised a tanned arm. “I think there might be something in the water. Those girls went crazy and then their mom yanked them onto that raft.”

  I could see that I wasn’t going to get far with the group of young teens. “You all stay put. I’m going to see what I can find out, but in the meantime, I think it’s good that you got out of the water.”

  I heard one of them say something to the effect of “because of the sharks” under their breath as I walked away. The raft was almost to the shore. I could see that the two girls were huddled together. They looked okay. I didn’t see any obvious signs of trauma. What could have happened? Had they gotten spooked?

  The teenager helped the mom drag the raft onto the rocky beach. I ran up to assist. “Is everything okay?”

  The mom shook her head. She motioned to the girls. “Hannah, Ellen, hop off the raft. I want you both to go wrap up in towels. They’re by our picnic spot. I’m going to talk to this nice lady for a minute and then I’ll be right there.”

  The girls hopped off the raft. The girl who I had seen diving was ashen white. Her tiny body quaked. Was she in shock? Her reddish-blond hair was tied in two long ponytails. She gnawed on the tip of one her ponytails while her friend repeatedly tossed a pair of goggles up in the air.

  “Do I need to call for help?” I asked.

  The mom nodded. “Please. I don’t have my cell phone.”

  “Is your daughter hurt? Did something happen out there?” I asked, reaching into my pocket for my phone.

  “Hannah
isn’t my daughter. She’s Ellen’s best friend. They were taking turns diving near the site of the old town.”

  I pointed behind us. “Yeah, I saw them from up on the hill.”

  The teenager had pulled the raft completely out of the water. He was staring at the raft in a strange way, as if it was about to explode or something. I was distracted by his reaction but needed to focus on what the woman was telling me. I wanted to be able to relay everything clearly and concisely so that the first responders would know what they were coming into.

  “Last week the girls found an old gumball machine about ten feet under the water. They’re convinced they’re going to find a chest of money. Apparently there’s a rumor floating around that there’s an old bank underwater. They’ve been begging me to come back so they can take turns diving. They sketched out a map of the lake and have been marking their dive spots. It’s been so cute. Kind of like a treasure hunt.” Her eyes drifted to her daughter. Ellen was shorter than Hannah with an adorable pageboy haircut and doelike eyes. She had taken her goggles and looped them over one ear. Then she used them like a slingshot, trying to knock a pinecone off a rock nearby.

  The woman put her hand over her mouth. “I never should have let them dive. What was I thinking?”

  I knew that the woman was shaken up, but I needed her to stay focused. “Did Hannah get hurt when she was diving?” I kept one hand on my phone, ready to punch in 911. Hannah continued to chew on the tip of her braid, but she didn’t have any outward signs of harm. I didn’t see any bruises or blood on her body.

  “Huh?” The woman looked at me for a moment and then blinked rapidly. “Oh, right. No. She’s fine. No, she’s not fine. I think she’s in shock, but she’s not hurt.”

  “Good.” I kept my tone calm, but internally I wanted to scream. The woman was having a hard time getting to the point. “Why is Hannah in shock? If I call for help, they’ll want to know.”