by JL Wilson
I considered telling him the whole sordid story, how John called me, hoping for reconciliation but instead he went to the fire, only to die. I curbed my tongue. Dan Steele didn't care about that old wound. I bent a corner of the notebook, which had slipped out of the accordion folder. "I could ask you the same thing."
Dan looked at me for a long minute. "Fair enough," he finally said quietly. "I'm not in love with Diane. I want to know what happened. She was murdered. She deserves justice."
I didn't believe him. I wasn't sure if he was still in love with his wife, but I thought he had another motive than a simple need to see justice done. Revenge? Maybe. "Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill your wife?"
"I've thought about that for two years. There's only one thing I can think of." He tapped the table in an odd two-beat, pause, three-beat-one-beat-pause rhythm. I wondered what song was playing its background music in his head. "She was working as a temporary secretary when she died. Perhaps she saw something she shouldn't have."
I pulled the notebook closer to me and opened it. "That's a start," I said, digging a pen from my purse. "Did she say anything about the kind of work she was doing?"
"She and I weren't talking much at that point." When I darted a quick glance at him, he seemed angry. "She wanted to file for divorce and I was trying to get her to see a marriage counselor. We didn't talk about her work."
I busied myself jotting a note on the page in front of me, more to avoid his anger than to add a notation for my memory. "If you can find who she was working for, maybe we could figure out if..." My voice trailed away when I saw his exasperated look. "What?"
"I'm checking that. All I know is she was doing temp secretarial work with an agency that's not in business any more. It will be hard to find where she was. My daughter mentioned that she thought it was with a lawyer in Edina."
"Edina? There're probably a million lawyers in Edina." I started to ask for clarification but stopped when I saw the hard line of his mouth. I decided to try another approach. "Do you think the fire was set to disguise your wife's death?" When he started to snap a reply, I hurried on. "I mean, maybe someone else was meant to die as well. Maybe it wasn't just your wife."
He tilted his head to one side. "I never thought of that," he admitted.
I had a sudden thought. "Maybe John was the target." I immediately dismissed the idea. "No, that's not possible. John wasn't supposed to be working that night. He filled in for Paul because Paul's son was sick." Even though I shot down my own thought, I jotted a note in my notebook. John: target? Filled in for Paul. "Do you know why the FBI might be called in?" I asked, my eyes still on the lined paper in front of me. When Dan didn't reply, I looked up, catching a glimpse of something in his brown eyes. Evaluation? Assessment? Worry?
The expression vanished and polite curiosity replaced it. "There are several reasons they might be involved. If there's a suspicion a Federal crime was committed, they would be called in. Or local law enforcement can request assistance."
He was lying. I was almost sure of it, but I couldn't put my finger on why he would. I gave myself a mental shake. I didn't know the man. How could I know if he was lying or not? "I'm not sure how an arson investigation takes place. Do you know?"
"It's similar to any police investigation." Dan's eyes flickered to the bookcases behind me then he turned his attention back to me. "Because a homicide was involved, it's technically the jurisdiction of the Roseville Police Department. The investigating officer in charge of the case works with the arson investigator in the Fire Department to review the evidence."
"But the FBI are involved now," I interrupted. "How does that work?"
"Tell us, Mr. Steele," a voice said behind me. "Tell us how that works."
I started, so surprised my actions caused the file folder to skitter to the edge of the table. Paul Denton caught it and nudged it back onto safe territory. I craned my neck to peer up at him. "Hi, Paul, how are..." My words faded when I saw his thunderous look directed at Dan Steele. "This is Dan--"
"I know who Mr. Steele is." Paul pulled out a chair and sat next to me, his eyes still fixed on Dan. "We've met." He glanced at me. "Michael is joining us. He's parking his car."
As always, I was surprised by how big Paul was. He was a college friend of John's, where they played football together. They were such a study in contrasts: Paul was the linebacker, big, burly, and black with his shaved head, thick body, and his background growing up on Detroit's mean streets. Then there was John, the wide receiver, tall and rangy with dark hair, a sunny smile, and a gentle disposition, who grew up in a small town in Minnesota.
Paul wore a dark blue Roseville Fire Department polo shirt that strained across his massive chest. He appeared tired, almost haggard. In the year since his promotion to Captain, Paul seemed increasingly harried. I didn't see him often, usually at fundraisers or charity events, but every time I saw him he seemed like a man with a lot on his mind and little time to pause and think. Of course, he was raising his teenage son by himself since his wife died and his daughter was finishing college. Who knew what strains parenting added in addition to his career?
"Michael is joining us?" I asked, hoping Paul didn't hear the disappointment in my voice. Michael Bennington was John's best friend from high school and he also attended the same college with John and Paul. Although John and Michael were from my home town, they were five years older than I so I was barely aware of them when I was in school. The three men were nicknamed the Tall (John, at six-foot-five), the Dark (Paul, who was black) and the Handsome (Michael, who was a sportswear model while he attended law school). Both Paul and John were good-looking, but neither could match Michael's boyish blond ruggedness. "Why?"
"We're both concerned about this investigation," Paul said, his eyes still on Dan. "How did you meet Mr. Steele?"
"It was totally by accident," I said defensively, then angry that I was defensive. Why was Paul acting so--so--macho? "I was at John's grave and I saw him. Dan's wife was killed in the same fire that killed John."
"I know." Paul glanced once at me then re-fixed his gaze on Dan. "He's the one who asked the FBI to investigate."
"What?" My eyes went immediately to Dan, who watched Paul the way my cat watched the birds on my deck. Wait a minute. Why was Dan acting like a predator? Paul was the one who was being aggressive. I dismissed that confusing thought as irrelevant.
"Didn't he tell you?" Paul asked, the low rumble of his angry voice echoing faintly in our corner of the quiet library. "He's a friend of the FBI agent who's coming to investigate."
Dan looked annoyed, not angry as I expected. "It's true I know Jack and I discussed Diane's death with him."
I felt betrayed. "I don't understand."
"He wants answers, so he told the FBI to snoop around." Paul thrust his chin forward belligerently. "Right?"
"Now wait a minute." Dan was finally starting to sound angry. "It's not that easy. I can't snap my fingers and have the FBI open a case. I talked to Jack about it."
"Who's Jack?" My gaze shifted from Dan to Paul.
"Jack Tinsley," Dan said. "He's an agent with the FBI."
Cold air seemed to envelop me, making goose bumps rise on my arms. I looked to my left, past Paul. John stood in the aisle between bookcases, watching us. His heavy brown gloves were clutched in one soot-covered hand and he stood with legs apart, as though getting his balance. He watched me with that same intent stare and a chill rippled through me, ghostly fingers tickling my spine.
"Tinsley," John whispered. "It must be the same man."
"What?" I leaned forward slightly when Paul moved, blocking my view of John. "Tinsley? That name sounds familiar."
"It should," Dan said. His mild tone of voice made me turn my attention back to him. He was watching me with those deep brown eyes. "You know him."
John moved from the shadows into the more brightly lit space around the tables. He seemed to glide across the dark brown carpeted floor, his booted feet moving bu
t making no sound as he stepped. I heard voices murmuring behind us but otherwise the only other noise was the faint hum of the air conditioning as it kicked on.
"What?" I shook my head, trying to rattle intelligence into the confusion I felt. "How could I know an FBI agent?"
"He was engaged to your sister-in-law."
I thought of Connie, married to my brother Sam. "What?"
"He was engaged to your husband's sister."
I struggled to make sense of what he said. John's sister? Amy was a widow, living in Baltimore. Her husband had died almost fifteen years earlier. Memory tugged at my mind, flooding me with knowledge as full understanding dawned. "Are you kidding? He's the guy--" I swallowed hard. "Amy was engaged to a cop who killed her son by mistake. Is he the guy?"
Dan nodded. "Didn't you ever meet him?"
I shook my head but stopped when I saw John smile. "Did I meet him? Was he at a family gathering?" I struggled to remember. Amy's son Mark was killed about four years ago. Before that, she and Mark came to Tangle Butte for a family reunion or...a funeral.
"Remember?" John said softly. "It was Uncle Leland's funeral."
I nodded at the recollection. Amy and Mark came home for the funeral. A man came with them. John and I went home for the weekend and...
Memories faded. "Maybe I did," I said. "I don't remember it very well. It was a while ago and there were a bunch of people." I stared at Dan, perplexed. "What a coincidence."
Paul shot me a disbelieving look. "I don't believe in coincidences."
"I admit I called Jack," Dan said, his voice cool. He seemed totally unconcerned about Paul's angry looks and my incredulous ones. "He and I have been friends for years. He was injured recently in the line of duty and getting bored with desk work. I asked him to look at the evidence in Diane's case, to help keep his mind occupied. When he discovered that his ex-fiancée's family was involved, he dug deeper."
"And what did he find?" Paul demanded sarcastically.
Dan glanced to the right, where John stood watching us. "Do you know him?"
I gaped at Dan. "What?"
"That guy." He nodded toward John.
I turned my head to follow his gaze.
Chapter 3
I sagged back in the chair when I saw Michael Bennington heading our way, striding through the aisle of bookcases looking like an Esquire advertisement come to life in his dark brown golf shirt, khaki pants and brown leather loafers. I rolled my eyes. Just what I needed, Michael the Drama King.
"I asked Michael to join us," Paul said. "John was his friend, too."
"And he's your friend, too, I assume?" Dan asked me.
"Oh, sort of." I didn't have time for more of an explanation before Michael joined us.
John stepped aside when Michael brushed past him. Michael paused, frowning, before standing near Paul at the table. "It felt cold there." His gaze went to Dan then to me. "We need to discuss what's going on."
I gritted my teeth at his peremptory manners, typical Michael-speak. It still amazed me that he and John had been friends. "Michael Bennington, this is Dan--"
"This is a private conversation. I'm sure you understand." Paul stared so fiercely at Dan I'm surprised small pinpricks of heat didn't start to sizzle on Dan's forehead.
Dan pushed his chair back, reaching for his cane, glancing at me sympathetically. Michael's eyes flickered to Dan's leg and he raised one eyebrow, looking quickly at Paul, who nodded curtly. I wondered what that meant.
"I apologize if I upset you," Dan said to me, ignoring Paul's hostile expression. "Contrary to what you've been told, I didn't suggest that your husband had anything to do with the fire. I think he's a victim, like my wife was. I hope we can--" He looked at Michael, started to say something then stopped. "I hope to talk with you later."
He turned, for an instant standing side-by-side with John. I tilted my head, confused. Dan didn't appear dwarfed by John's height. On the contrary, both men exuded the same air of tough, physical competency. I had a fleeting thought that they were alike but I shook the idea away. Dan was nothing like John, at least in appearance. Why would I think that?
Dan walked away, leaning heavily on the cane. John turned and watched him go, his face troubled. "I think he's a friend, Gen. You need to tell him that I didn't know his wife was in the building. I would have tried to help her if I had known."
I started to reply but stopped myself in time. I contented myself with nodding. I looked beyond Paul and saw Dan glance back. Our eyes met and he smiled briefly before limping from sight. I don't know why, but that smile depressed me. It felt like my only ally was leaving me.
Michael took Dan's empty chair, crossing his right leg over his left, pinching the crease in his crisp shorts as he did so. "What's the procedure, Paul? I'm concerned about this. I don't want John's good name to be tarnished."
"Bullshit." John's voice was so harsh I flinched. He had moved and was now at the end of the table, Michael on his left and Paul on his right. He stared at Michael, whose blue eyes were wide and concerned. As always, I wasn't certain they reflected his real emotions. Michael was very good at disguising his feelings, probably a leftover from his days as a professional model. He reminded me of a plaster of Paris angel, one of those tawdry decorations in a Valentine's display. If you scratched the gilt covering, would you find Michael hollow underneath?
"Why do you say that?" I asked John without thinking how it sounded to the earthly men sitting with me.
Michael straightened. "John was a good man. I don't want his reputation to be injured by something like this."
John stared at Michael as though he was a stranger. I couldn't understand it. Michael hadn't changed in the two years since John died. He was still lean and handsome with tousled, curly blond hair, a symmetrical oval face, and a narrow nose above a wide mouth framed by deep dimples. The Handsome was still as handsome as ever.
"An investigation could as easily clear his name," I suggested.
"Not if Michael has anything to do with it," John whispered harshly. "I had my doubts about him and Paul."
I bit my lip to keep from asking the questions I longed to blurt. I turned my focus to Paul. "What's all this about Dan Steele calling in the FBI?" From the corner of my eye I saw Michael lean forward then suddenly lean back, as though trying to appear casual. "The FBI doesn't have jurisdiction, do they? Was a Federal crime committed?"
"Of course not," Michael snapped. "Why would you think that?"
John stared past me at Michael. "Ask him why he's so worried. Ask him why he cares."
I blinked in surprise. "Michael, why are you so worried? What do you think they'll find?"
"It doesn't matter what I think. They've called in the FBI. An agent is on his way here now. Who knows what might be raked up?"
Bing Crosby's Pennies from Heaven chimed from my purse, a sign that my mother and my iPhone were trying to contact me. "Sorry. I need to take this. My aunt has been sick and my mom said she'd call and update me." I fumbled the phone from the side pocket of my bag and opened the case, peering at the screen. Yep. There was my mother's smiling face in the photo taken last Christmas.
"Hey, Mom," I murmured, pushing away from Paul and Michael and meandering toward the bookcases. John started to follow me but something Paul said made him pause and turn back to the two men. I was happy not to have him near me. I don't know what unnerved me more: that he was there or that I was accepting his presence with such calmness.
"How are things?" my mother asked.
I pulled a book at random off a shelf. Kings and Queens of Seventeenth Century England. I stuffed it back among its fellows. "Good. How about you?"
"Same old same old. Are you still planning to come this weekend?"
I closed my eyes, imagining my mother, Penny Atwood, sitting on her chintz couch and staring through the window at the oak tree in the front yard of the family home in Tangle Butte. It was only ninety miles to the south, so it was probably raining there, too. "Weather permitting."<
br />
"You don't have to," Penny said immediately. "I'm perfectly fine here."
We had this conversation at every holiday for the fifteen years since my Dad died. Penny was anxious that I not feel obligated. I was anxious for Penny to know that I didn't feel obligated. "I know you're fine," I said patiently. "I enjoy spending holidays with you. How are Sam and Jimmy?"
My gambit worked to divert her attention. My mother filled me in on my younger brother, Sam, and his new job, after which she gave her opinion about Sam's daughter's new boyfriend. Mom was always ready to express an opinion about the love lives of her offspring, whether she knew the love interest or not. She moved on to my other brother, Jimmy, who had recently started working as a security guard at a Las Vegas casino.
I peeked through the bookcase to check on Paul and Michael. They didn't appear to miss my presence but were talking intently, heads almost touching across the table. John leaned near, listening. If it hadn't been so surreal, I would have laughed. The Tall, the Dark, and the Handsome were together again--sort of.
"He's forty-five years old," Penny complained. "You'd think he would settle down and get a real job someday. I'll bet his girlfriend's a stripper. You know he isn't the sharpest tack in the box when it comes to women."
I nodded in silent agreement. Jimmy was three-times divorced, with each marriage shorter than the last. And then there was Sam, married for twenty years with three kids. We had all drifted away from our Midwest roots, with Jimmy going west, Sam going east, and me moving north to the Twin Cities. Our mother was like a lightning rod in the center of the country that collected information and disseminated it to everyone at all corners of the U.S.
"Well, that's not why I called. I took Portia to the doctor and they ran tests. The doctor seemed concerned."
"She's ninety years old, Mom." Aunt Portia was my father's older sister. Portia and Penny were fast friends as well as sisters-in-law. "They're bound to find something wrong."
