The Lost Women of Lost Lake by Ellen Hart Page A

apparently a light sleeper and would know instantly if someone tried to break in.
    Jane had hoped to stay and talk to Jill about the possible identity of the Peeping Tom, but Jill said she was tired. Jane figured she wanted to talk to Tessa alone. What bothered her about the evening were the undercurrents she couldn’t identify. Something was bothering Tessa that had nothing to do with her ankle. Her reaction to the Peeping Tom had made that clear.
    Glancing at her watch, Jane recalled the she’d made a promise to come down to the cottage by nine to fix everyone breakfast—everyone, that is, except Cordelia, who would undoubtedly sleep until noon unless a tornado intervened. Since it was just after eight, that meant she had time for a walk.
    Strolling along the shoreline, she watched a family of ducks paddle past the tip of the main dock. If the weather had been a little warmer, she would have removed her sandals, rolled up her jeans and waded in, but there would be plenty time for that later in the day.
    As she passed the cottage, a group of gulls soared overhead, gliding into the water just a few feet from where Jill had moored their pontoon. Jane couldn’t wait to get onboard and take a tour of the lake. It was amazing what enough sleep and a little rest and relaxation did for a person’s general sense of well-being.
    Half a mile down the beach, Jane saw an elderly woman in a light blue sundress come trudging through the sand toward her. The woman waved as if she knew who Jane was.
    Jane waved back, then realized it was Helen Merland. “Hi,” she called.
    â€œI thought I might find you out here,” Helen called back.
    Jane wasn’t sure why she thought that, though she was happy to see her.
    Helen was a dear friend of Jill and Tessa’s. Jill and Helen were related in some distant way that Jane could never remember. Nobody had to explain how complicated small town relationships could be. Pretty much everybody in town was linked to six major families—the Merlands, the Ivorsens, the Benoits, the Houtalas, the Dimitch clan, and the Welches. It was a microcosm of some of the ethnicities in northern Minnesota: Norwegian, Swedish, French Canadian, Finnish, Serbian, and Irish.
    Back in the late nineties, Helen had come to stay at Jane’s house during a spring graduation weekend. One of her many great-grandchildren was graduating with honors from the University of Minnesota. Over the years, Jane and Cordelia had been invited to dinner at Helen’s home on at least half a dozen occasions, the most recent of which had taken place during their last visit to Thunderhook three years ago. In the intervening years, Helen had aged dramatically. Her white hair, usually done up in a loose bun, was worn wild and uncombed, and her erect posture had grown stooped.
    Once upon a time, Helen Merland and her husband, Conrad, had been local royalty. Helen had been a whirlwind of activity, tall and hardy, full of ideas and high spirits. She ran a philanthropic foundation and in her spare time tended a flower garden in the back of her house that was a showpiece for the entire community.
    â€œNice to see you again,” called Jane.
    Helen walked straight up to her and threw her arms around Jane’s neck. “Come back to the house with me. I’ve got breakfast waiting. Fresh fruit. Yogurt. Tea and toast. Everything you like.”
    â€œWaiting for me ?”
    â€œWhat? I can’t make breakfast for my daughter?” She laughed, pressed her hands around Jane’s face.
    â€œBut … I’m not your daughter.”
    Helen adjusted her bifocals, her expression turning uncertain. “Of course you are.”
    â€œNo, I’m Jane.”
    The elderly woman seemed to falter. She backed up, extended her hand, then retracted it. “Not Sarah?”
    â€œI’m Jane. Jane Lawless. Remember?”
    The old woman looked suddenly drained. “I—” She held a