Lost Cause (Lost Lake Locators #3)

Chapter 1

Secrets. They wanted to stay buried. Deep. Hidden, often needing help to rise from the dark.

No matter. Abby Day was just the person to dig them up, starting tonight. She had to. Her friends and fellow teammates were counting on her to get this assignment and keep their company from going under.

She took a firm stance on the nearly deserted ferry as it cut through the turbulent water while powerful engines growled in a low rumble.

The double-decker boat navigated through thick fog swirling like a living entity around them.

She squinted to see her destination, but mist swallowed the island’s rugged outline, hiding the estate.

She shivered and tightened her coat against the damp chill—against whatever awaited her on Ravenhook Island.

The island wasn’t just remote—it was ignored by most. If you didn’t count the stories and the rumors. They continued to be whispered and shared on a regular basis.

Once home to six lavish houses for wealthy trendsetters, now most properties were in disrepair.

Some deserted. A few remained to shelter recluses—long-term occupants like Mr. Lemoine, who’d desperately called the Lost Lake Locators team to report a mysterious theft on his secluded estate. She couldn’t shake his cryptic words.

Another shiver raked over her body.

Stow it. Keep your imagination in check. Think like the former sheriff you are.

Nothing good came from chasing unsettling shadows and jumping to conclusions. Hold back. Wait. Look for evidence. Tangible things. Things she could use in a court of law if it became necessary.

Right. Focus on something else.

Balancing against sudden swells, she zoned in on the lighthouse’s rotating beam struggling to light the way to the island.

She held on, and the boat soon bumped against a large moss-covered dock with weak lights on tall poles that barely lit the way for the crew scurrying off the boat to secure heavy ropes so she could disembark.

Dressed in a green rain slicker, the burly captain opened the security gate and cast her a concerned look. “Remember, Ms. Day, we leave precisely at nine, and it’s the final ferry of the day. This island is the last place you want to be stranded for the night.”

“Don’t worry.” She lifted her shoulders in an attempt to appear fearless. “I’ll be back before it’s time to leave.”

Please make that true!

Her heart kicked into a rapid rhythm.

Chill. You’ve got this.

She crossed the narrow public road to the mansion’s long stairway.

Her boots landed on the first step, and she raised her flashlight.

Trees twisted with age, and severely overgrown hedges obscured part of the imposing estate, but the mansion’s grand front door came into view.

Still, everything was cloaked in darkness. Everything.

If Mr. Lemoine was expecting her, wouldn’t he have left on a light?

Uneasiness creeping over her, she rested her free hand on her sidearm, pausing to listen. Behind her, distant waves crashed and the idling ferry engine hummed, but otherwise the night remained quiet.

She swung her flashlight through the fog to the 1800s Victorian, revealing thick vines of ivy crawling up the walls. Broken shutters shifted in the breeze.

The most interesting sight? Fragments from a shattered window shimmering beneath the porch.

The likely entry point for the thief? Maybe.

An air of neglect hung heavy in the cool night as she pounded on the thick wooden door. It swung open under her hand, rusted hinges protesting. Cold air spilled out from the darkness. She caught a whiff of damp wood and something older. Something rank.

Abby stood still, pulse ticking in her throat as the door finally settled open wide enough to step through, but just narrow enough to make her wonder if she should.

“Mr. Lemoine?” She poked her head around the door and called out. “It’s Abby Day. Are you here?”

Light seeped from under an interior door to the left of the dark, mysterious foyer. She waited for the door to open and Mr. Lemoine to appear, but nothing moved.

Had something terrible happened to him after they’d spoken?

Please don’t let this turn into a murder investigation.

She crept into the entry hall. Silence and shadows clung to the dark walls, seeping into corners. Above the grand staircase at the back of the room, light beamed through a cracked windowpane, projecting splintered patterns on the floor.

Creepy was the only fitting word that came to mind, but she had to continue on even if her heart rate shot higher.

She aimed her flashlight to her right and made her way to the lighted room.

Pushing open the door, she found a large library with overflowing bookshelves covering every wall.

Peeling paint chipped from the woodwork, and torn, faded wallpaper covered the exposed walls.

An odor of old, maybe decaying air clung to the room. But no Victor Lemoine in sight.

Rumor had it he hadn’t left Ravenhook Island for decades, having all services brought to him along with supplies and food. She was beginning to believe it.

The large marble fireplace, once opulent, was cold. A ring of soot marked the hearth, the lack of ashes suggesting it had just been cleaned.

She backed into the foyer. “Mr. Lemoine? Mr. Lemoine? It’s Abby Day. Where are you?”

No answer.

She was technically trespassing, so did she move ahead or leave?

Call him. She dug her cell out and tapped her most recent call. A landline phone’s shrill ring reverberating from cracked plaster walls had her spinning toward a table less than three feet away.

The rotary phone continued to ring. Two. Three. Four times.

She ignored it and eased closer to the sweeping staircase. The sharp trill sounded from above too. His bedroom? The ringing stopped, and her call went to an old-fashioned answering machine.

She pocketed her phone, the urge to leave nearly overwhelming her. But she couldn’t. If Victor wasn’t answering the phone, it could mean he was hurt and needed help.

She waited, listening to the hall clock ticking down in the musty air.

This was pointless. She couldn’t just stand there.

She crossed a worn Persian runner, muffling the sound of her tactical boots hitting the floor.

Her flashlight illuminated portraits of stoic ancestors with pale eyes hanging on the walls.

Several frames were missing, leaving hooks and picture outlines on faded brocade wallpaper.

Around the first corner, a stone stairway descended into darkness. Carefully finding her footing, she traversed the stairs and located an antique push-button switch. She held her breath and pressed it down. Light flickered from the underpowered ceiling fixture.

Wow! Oh wow!

A time capsule greeted her of heavy stone walls and iron pots hanging from blackened hooks above a soot-stained hearth.

She eased carefully over rough, uneven flagstones to take a better look.

A butcher’s table stood in the center, covered in knife marks and stains from years of use.

She caught the scent of rosemary. Not just the pungent herb.

Something older—earthy and metallic permeated the air too. But what?

Footsteps echoed behind her.

She spun.

“What are you doing here?” a male voice challenged from the stairway, hidden in shadows beyond her light beam.

She caught a deep breath. “I’m Abby Day with the Lost Lake Locators. You contacted me and asked me to come right out. I drove down here and took the first ferry to get here as soon as I could.”

An older man stepped into the light. Despite his age, his eyes were sharp and unwavering. His hand rested on an ornate cane. His seventy-plus years on this earth had hollowed his cheeks and stooped his frame, but he seemed far from frail. Had to be Victor Lemoine.

“I wasn’t sure you would come.” He spoke with a raspy, measured voice.

“Is that the reason you didn’t answer the door?”

“I apologize. My afternoon rest time ran longer than I expected.” His liver-spotted free hand clutched a once-elegant velvet smoking robe. “How did you get in?”

“The door was open.”

He frowned. “I was certain I’d locked it.”

“I’ll check the lock to see if it’s been tampered with,” she offered, though he’d likely had a senior moment and failed to secure the door. Could be another way the burglar had gotten into his home.

“We can discuss the theft in the library.” He pivoted, his posture stiff like a precision soldier.

She trailed him up the stairs and down the hallway. He had a slight limp, his cane thumping on the wooden floor. He didn’t bother to turn on a light, something she would expect a man who likely had the poor eyesight of his advanced age might do.

He pushed the front door closed, then turned. “You can inspect the door later. After I provide details on the theft. Then I assume you’ll want to check all the entrance points for the house.”

“That’s fine by me.”

From his pocket, he handed her a large ring filled with jingling keys. “You’ll need these, along with the blueprint of the house and drawing of the property waiting for you in the library.”

She pocketed them and followed him into the lighted room.

Regal looking, he flicked a hand at a nearby loveseat as he settled in a high-backed chair. “Sit.”

She hung her soggy jacket on the back of a chair before taking a seat.

His deep-set eyes followed and evaluated her.

Something about the intense study said he was weighing her very character.

She didn’t appreciate how he behaved like an aristocrat, and she was beneath him, here to do his bidding and then be discarded.

But the team needed him as a client, and she kept her mouth shut.

He tapped a rolled set of documents sitting on the nearby table then poured a full snifter of brandy. He took a long sip and pointed at the table, no offer of something to drink for her. “The blueprint and property layout as I promised.”