by JL Wilson
"I realize that, dear, but it's worrisome," Mom said. "I don't like her all alone on the farm. Maybe when you come home you can talk to her, see if she'll hire a live-in nurse."
"Doesn't she lease the land? Doesn't someone farm the field near the house?" I checked titles on the shelf nearest me. Europe on the Cheap: Where to Go, What to Know. I moved on. I doubted if travel in Europe was in my immediate future.
"Bob Newton leases it, but I don't know if he's there every day. Even if he is, he doesn't come to the house. I think someone should be with her, checking on her."
"I suppose you're right." It would be useless to discuss it with my aunt and I knew it. Portia Winslow was determined to live life on her own terms and that didn't include having a babysitter be with her around the clock. Every time I visited, Penny urged me to suggest the live-in help idea and whenever I mentioned it, Portia ignored the idea. Duty satisfied, we would sit on the porch in good weather or the parlor in bad weather and chat for the rest of the visit while Penny gave me little anxious, encouraging glances. "I'll talk to her about it when I'm home," I said. "But I don't know if it'll do any good."
"Thank you. She always listens to you."
I almost laughed. Portia listened but that didn't mean she would take advice. "When did you take her to the doctor?"
"Yesterday. Portia said she was feeling all faint and woozy. That's not like Portia. Do you know what she told me? She said that she was having an auditor check her financial accounts. She thought something might be wrong."
My mother's sharp turn from discussing physical health to financial health was typical. Penny's mind worked through free association. Fifty-some years of following her convoluted logic had made me a master at navigating the twists and turns of my mother's brain. "Who manages Aunt Portia's finances? Does she bank in town?" I ambled to a new section of bookcase and peered at the titles. Historical Perspectives on the Prairie. I continued meandering.
"She was in one of those investment club things with Michael Bennington and a few other folks in town."
"Michael?" I leaned back, peering along the aisle made by the bookcases. Michael and Paul each leaned on the table, their heads close to each other. John stood nearby, watching. They were all such a study in contrasts. How had three such different men become friends?
I realized what I was thinking. Three men? One of them was a ghost. I turned back to the bookcase, struggling to remember what Mom and I were talking about. "I'm surprised," I said lamely. "I didn't know Michael still had connections with people in town."
"He created the club with some folks from town. I'm not sure if that's what has her worried, though. I think it has to do with the land."
"Now what?" I tried to keep my irritation out of my voice but it was hard. Portia owned hundreds of acres of prime farmland that had been handed down through several generations. Since none of the Atwood children inherited the farming gene and none of Uncle Leland's family cared, her land was now a constant worry for the old woman. "I thought she had a plan for what she was going to do." I rounded the bookcase and began to angle my way back to Paul and Michael.
"She did but I think she's worried about it." Penny sighed. "You know how Portia's mind works. She's too clever for her own good sometimes."
Clever or devious? I didn't voice the question. I tugged a book at random from the row in front of me. Our Boys at War: Minnesota and the Military.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Penny asked. "I mean, about, you know, John? Today's the anniversary. That's another reason I wanted to call."
I jammed the book back onto the shelf and headed to the table. "I'm fine."
"I worry about you, honey. Even though it's been two years, it seems like you haven't really gotten on with your life. Surely by now you must be thinking about the future?"
"I have, Mom. Trust me." I knew I had to nip this conversation in the bud.
"Are they having any sort of ceremony?"
Damn. How do I get around this? I was a notoriously bad liar and Penny would sniff out prevarication like a bloodhound on the trail of a jailhouse escapee. "I don't know. I suppose they'll mark it somehow at the station." I saw Michael watching me. His mother played bridge on a weekly basis with my mother. If I didn't tell Penny, someone else would. "They're investigating the fire that killed John."
"Investigating? Didn't they do that after he died?" When I didn't reply, she prompted, "Didn't they?"
"Paul said the FBI was called in. They think John was involved in setting the fire."
"John? That's ridiculous. Can't the local police handle it?"
"I'm not sure. I'm meeting with Paul and Michael about it now."
"This makes no sense whatsoever." Penny's emphatic voice was starting to echo my anger. "John was an exceptional fireman. Why would someone think he was involved in what happened? He didn't benefit from it. Good heavens, he died!"
"Paul said someone would be investigating John's health, to see if there was any reason for him to want to kill himself." I hurried on, my words tumbling over each other. I didn't want to think about John's mental health on the day he died. "They're checking his finances, too. They wanted to see if I benefited from his death in any way, so they'll be subpoenaing my bank account information. Paul warned me."
"Your bank accounts?" Penny was almost sputtering now. "You don't have any untapped wealth sitting there. That's insane. None of this makes any sense, Genny. Who gives anyone the right to do this?" She paused. "Wait a minute. You said you're meeting with them now?"
"We're at the library. Paul wanted to meet to talk about it."
"Then I'll let you go. Should I talk to Darryl Brody?"
"Darryl who?" I nodded to Michael, who gestured, urging me forward.
"He's the county attorney here in town. His father and your father used to play poker together. Maybe he can give us advice. I'll call him for you. I wonder if you can sue someone for slander." Mom hesitated. "Of course, Michael could tell you about that. But I'm not sure...Portia said she was worried about Michael. I'll call Darryl to be sure then I'll call you back later tonight or tomorrow. Maybe by then I'll know the results of Portia's blood tests. A dizzy spell isn't like her. Don't worry, dear. I'm sure this is all a big mistake."
"I'm sure," I agreed lamely. "I'd better go, Mom. Michael and Paul are waiting."
"Say hello for me."
"Will do." I joined the two men and resumed my seat at the table, turning off the phone. "Sorry. Aunt Portia has been ill."
Michael nodded sympathetically. "My mom mentioned something about that."
"I didn't know you were in an investment club in town," I said, pulling my notebook toward me. I jotted a note to myself: Aunt Portia. Illness. Investments? Club? Land? I looked at Michael, who was staring at the notebook, a frown on his face. I jotted another note. Slander? "I'm going to Tangle Butte this week and staying through the weekend for the Fourth. Is there anything you want me to drop off for you at your Mom's?"
He shook his head. "Nope. I'll probably get there sometime this summer. Genny, about this Dan Steele guy. How did you meet him?"
"Completely by accident. He was at the cemetery, I was at the cemetery." I remembered Dan's T-shirt. "He belongs to the same gym as me, but I don't remember seeing him there when I've gone."
"I didn't know you joined a gym," Michael said.
"I joined Northwest Fitness a year ago."
"Northwest?" Michael injected a wealth of disdain into the word. "Why not join Bally? It's got a better facility."
"And it costs more. You forget I'm watching my budget." I almost bit my tongue when I said it, not wanting to rehash the same old argument with him. "Northwest is convenient for me. The Bally gym is miles out of my way, on the other side of town."
"I still don't understand why you quit your job," Michael said. "You were making good money there."
I didn't bother trying to explain again. When John died, I had to get away from the constant sympathy of my co-workers at Lerner Software, wher
e I was a senior software designer. I quit within a few months of John's death and used his insurance money to pay off the mortgage on our house. I now worked part-time as a receptionist/office manager at the local veterinarian's office, job-sharing with two other women.
"I needed a change," I said for what seemed like the hundredth time. "My job covers my health insurance and living expenses and I have a good retirement fund already set aside. It's all I need." It was a frugal life but one that suited me. Neither Michael nor Paul understood that, each of them always questioning me, subtly or otherwise, about my financial status. As always, I changed the subject. "Why is the FBI investigating the arson? They don't have jurisdiction, do they?"
Michael re-crossed his legs, this time left over right, once again making sure the crease wasn't disturbed. "I asked a friend of mine at the courthouse. He said they were verifying the insurance on the building where the fire occurred."
"That doesn't make sense. The FBI doesn't bother with insurance claims, do they?"
"The FBI investigates insurance fraud," John said softly, his eyes darting from Michael to Paul and back again.
"Insurance..." I struggled to manage two simultaneous conversations. "Who owned the building?"
Paul jerked. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Well, whoever owned the building probably collected on the insurance, right? I assume the FBI will check that." It seemed an obvious conclusion to me, but maybe I was missing something.
"I heard John talking to someone on the phone the day of the fire," Paul said. "John told whoever it was that the police should be called. It sounded like something illegal was happening to someone."
Now it was my turn to be surprised. "What? Who could that have been?"
"I was talking with your Aunt Portia when Paul came in," John said. "He only overheard part of the conversation."
I leaned away from Michael and rubbed my forehead where a pounding ache was starting. This was like a juggling contest, trying to keep a ghost and two humans straight. "You'll have to tell the FBI agent about it," I said.
"Now wait a minute," Michael said, leaning forward to tap one well-manicured finger on my notebook page. "We don't know what that was about. It might implicate John in something. We don't want that to happen."
He tried to inject anger into his voice, but I heard insincerity underlying his words. I was surprised that I wasn't surprised. I shelved it away to consider later. Michael suspects John of something illegal. Or Michael wants me to think he suspects John. Why?
Paul shook his head. "Genny is right. We have to tell the investigators everything we know. It's the only way to find out what happened." He tilted his head to regard me. "I was supposed to be on duty that day but I had to leave. Billy was sick. It should have been me on that call. I told John I had to go home. He was on the phone and he nodded, saying he had the shift covered. Twenty minutes later the alarm came in." Paul's big hands clenched and unclenched on the table, the dark skin a startling contrast to the pale gray laminate top. "The guys said John seemed distracted at the fire. I always wondered if that phone call bothered him or something."
I stared at my notebook, my pen in a stranglehold in my hand. It was an argument with me that distracted John, an argument we had on the phone minutes before he left. John was upset that I was going to file for divorce. We argued about it and as we talked, the alarms went off. John left, dying in the fire with my angry words in his memory.
John stared at me, his eyes stricken. "When we got to the scene, I knew it was arson. I knew it was arranged. It was too uniform, burning too evenly." He hesitated, shifting uneasily. I got another whiff of charred wood.
Michael looked around, puzzled. "Someone must have a fire going. I could swear I smelled smoke."
John continued, his words colliding with Michael's. "Someone started that fire. Was it an accident that I was on-shift that night for Paul? Was he the target? You need to check and see if his son was really sick."
I started to jot a note to that effect then I remembered that Paul was sitting next to me. Instead I wrote John? Target? and prayed I would remember the context. "Why would the FBI reopen an investigation now, two years after the fact? What do they hope to find?"
"That's irrelevant, isn't it?" Michael said. "They'll contact you. We should discuss what you'll say to them."
I straightened. "What?"
"You can't just talk to them," he continued, ignoring my increasingly incredulous expression. "You might say the wrong thing."
"I'll tell them the truth," I snapped.
"But the truth might hurt John."
"John's dead. The truth can't hurt him." I said it louder than I meant to. A young girl in cutoffs and a ragged T-shirt shot us a surprised glance before she continued walking, the picture of teenaged sangfroid.
I looked at my husband's ghost, expecting to see him frowning at me. Instead I saw a wide smile on John's dirt-smudged face. "Good. Keep that thought in mind when you talk to the investigators. Tell them everything you know."
"I don't know anything," I said. "You--I mean, John--never discussed work with me. I don't know why anyone would want to talk to me."
"You know more than you think you do," John said.
Michael pushed back from the table and stood. After a second's hesitation, Paul stood, too. "John may have been involved in things you don't want to know about, Genny. If you're not careful, you could be hurt during this investigation." Michael's voice was cool, almost bitter.
"Even if John was involved in something, it won't affect me. He didn't tell me anything. Besides, it was two years ago." I stood, too, anxious to put this conversation behind me. I slung my purse over my shoulder and scooped up my accordion folder. So much for doing research, I thought. This was a waste of time. Paul and Michael flanked me as I started toward the exit.
"I wonder if John really did have something to do with that fire," Michael said.
I stopped to stare at him. John was still back by the table, watching us. "That's not possible," I said flatly.
John raised one hand. "Thank you." His gaze shifted to Michael. "I discovered that Michael embezzled from your Aunt Portia and I had the proof. Look in the notebook from my locker." His gray eyes seemed to flare with light and I took a step back, bumping into Michael. "I'm still not sure about Paul. I think he's involved, too."
"I don't understand..." I stammered.
"Be careful, Gem. Leave them alone. I think they're murderers." He began to fade, blending in with the fog in the window behind him. "I think they killed me."
Chapter 4
I almost fell over Paul as I turned, taking a step toward John. Or rather, I took a step toward the spot where John had stood. "What do you mean?" I asked. Notebook? Murder? What was he talking about?
There was no one--ghost or otherwise--there. The only thing visible where John had stood was a clear view of the rain-splattered window and the green world outside.
"What is it?" Paul asked, putting a hand on my arm to steady me.
"Nothing." I shook my head. "I thought I saw someone I knew." I was surprised I could phrase a coherent sentence. My brain was buzzing with knowledge. Michael, embezzling from Aunt Portia? John knew about it?
"An investigation like this is bound to rake up something," Michael said in a low voice as we traversed the bookcase aisles and emerged into the main foyer.
I hesitated near the computer terminals, wondering if I dared access the card catalog and research ghosts with Paul and Michael by my side. I decided to postpone my investigation to another day. "John had nothing to do with that fire," I said, leading the way to the exit. "The investigation will prove that."
Michael kept pace beside me, pushing open the door and stepping aside to let a young woman pass by into the building. She turned to stare at him and Michael smiled at her. I thought the poor girl would swoon. "The FBI wouldn't be investigating unless they thought there was something to find," he said in a low voice. He paused under the exterio
r overhang as Paul joined us.
"John was a good firefighter," Paul snapped, his lips so compressed I was surprised he could speak. "Whatever they find, it won't be about John."
Michael took a step back, his blue eyes cold. "I hope you're right."
I looked from one man to the other, suddenly aware of tension that almost crackled in the humid summer air. John had been the common denominator between the two of them. What bound them now? With John gone, was their friendship starting to show the strain?
Paul stared at Michael for a long second then he switched his attention to me. "Agent Tinsley will probably call you to try to set an appointment. If you want me there with you when you talk to him, I'm happy to help."
Michael stepped forward. "Do you want a legal representative with you?"
I longed to ask him about what John said, but I didn't dare. The more I considered it, the more foolish it seemed. Michael, a killer? He was too absorbed in his law firm in Richfield and his society doings in Edina, the high-class suburb where he lived. The idea was ridiculous. Neither of them could be a killer.
Of course, I was taking a ghost's word for this. How could I even broach the subject to Michael? Oh, by the way, John and I have been talking. He thinks you had something to do with his death. He thinks you embezzled from my aunt.
They were both expecting an answer from me. "I'll be fine, thanks," I said with more conviction than I felt. "Like I said, I don't know anything. I'll tell the FBI guy what I know and that will be the end of it."
Paul nodded but I could tell he was troubled. "Call me if you need to talk." He left, pulling a cell phone from his pocket as he walked.
"Paul seems worried." Michael watched Paul move away from us, his voice thoughtful. "I think this investigation bothers him more than he's saying." He peered at the parking lot. "Where did you park?"
"Over there." I let Michael's conversation wash over me like the misty rain as I made a beeline through the parking lot to my navy Subaru SUV, ducking my head to avoid splattering.
