Gilt

by JL Wilson

  I snorted. "I doubt Aunt Portia cared about any appearances." Then I decided he might misconstrue what I meant. "She's never been one to worry about what people think." I winced. That didn't improve things any. Nothing like sticking both feet in my mouth at once. I barreled ahead. "Mom told me that Amy and I were named in Portia's will. I don't suppose you know anything about that?"

  "I can't really discuss it," he said immediately. "Attorney-client privilege. But..."

  "What?" I prompted, since he obviously wanted me to prompt.

  "There might be problems with the will. Portia changed her mind several times. You'll want to make sure you have the latest version. If it's needed, of course," he hastily added with what appeared to be sincere concern.

  I took another bite of sandwich, thus preventing my skeptical Yeah, right from escaping my lips. Grumble touched my leg, reminding me of his near starvation. I wiggled a piece of ham loose and dangled it for him. Michael watched with fascinated disgust, as though I was playing with bugs. "He loves ham," I said. "He's not keeping kosher."

  "Obviously." Michael's dimpled smile was patently insincere. I could almost see his thoughts in a little bubble over his head: Crazy cat lady who lets an animal eat out of her hand. Euw. "What's wrong with your aunt?"

  "I'm not sure. The police are investigating."

  "The police?" He didn't try to hide his shock. "Why?"

  "She's had a lot of medical tests lately and nothing was wrong, then all of a sudden she got sick. I suppose it appears suspicious."

  That mask again seemed to settle over his face, hiding his thoughts from me. It was fascinating to watch, like seeing an actor in a play as he changed his persona. "Do you know what will happen to the farm when she goes?"

  I nibbled on my sandwich to give myself a minute to think. "Amy and I will need to decide, I suppose. That is, if it's true that we inherit."

  "It's worth a lot of money." Michael put his hands in his shorts pockets, jiggling the change stored there. "I know a few developers who'd love to get their hands on that land."

  "Developers?" I gave Grumble one last bite of ham before setting my plate in the sink. "It's too far off the beaten path."

  "Not really. I read that the state is expanding Highway 169, twenty miles east of town. It will be four lanes all the way to the state line. That makes Tangle Butte more accessible to the Cities. Plus there's that new casino and resort being built in Iowa. It's over the border, not far from there. So who knows? Maybe the state might put in a casino outside Tangle Butte."

  I had seen what happened to small towns south of the Cities when a four-lane highway reached them. Tangle Butte would then be slightly more than an hour's drive away from the Cities and could easily become a bedroom suburb on the way to a new high-class spa-resort retreat. "I never thought of that. Thank God the state has the reservation-only law about casinos."

  "It's not actually a law," Michael said. "In the past, only Indian tribes established casinos, but that's not written in stone. There's a lot of interest in having private casinos. It can be a very, very lucrative business." He jiggled the coins in his pockets. "You should talk to your aunt about it. She's determined to keep the farm as is, but she could make millions if she sold it to a developer." He shrugged, overly casual. "I suggested that she could will it to the town and the town could benefit from the development."

  I looked away from his alert blue eyes, visualizing the farm. It had been farm land as long as I could remember, back to the time when my great-great-great-grandfather and great-great-great-grandmother came to the prairie from the East. Although I've never lived on a farm, I've always lived among farming people. What he was asking was heart-wrenching. "You can't expect me to ask her to get rid of prime farm land so someone can put up a bunch of ticky-tacky houses and a wannabe-Vegas casino."

  For an instant Michael's body tightened and he straightened slightly. I moved back a step, suddenly conscious of how big he really was. "It could benefit the town," he said mildly, his tone of voice at odds with his tenseness.

  I shook my head. "Tangle Butte is a farming town and you know it. The biggest business in town is the Feed and Weed Hardware Center, on the highway. I've seen it happen in countless suburbs here in the Twin Cities. All of a sudden a town becomes a bunch of strip malls. I won't even suggest it."

  Michael frowned, as though evaluating what I said. "I'm sorry you feel that way." He turned to go to the door, stumbling over Grumble, who had taken up position on the kitchen rug in order to bathe. Grumble leapt to his feet, startled. For an instant I was sure Michael would kick my cat. His foot drew back slightly and his eyes narrowed. I even saw the thigh muscles in his leg tense. Then he seemed to remember I was standing there because he took a step back, skirted around Grumble, who glared at him reproachfully before mimicking Michael's behavior, giving his would-be-kicker a wide berth then vanishing down the basement steps. Michael watched him suspiciously, as though expecting Grumble to come back and leap on him. "You and Amy will have a lot of decisions to make when the time comes."

  I followed him to the door. "I hope it won't come soon."

  He paused, his hand on the doorknob. "She's an old woman. It probably won't be long."

  I shivered. His words sounded prophetic. I fell back on my tried and true reply to such a comment. "We'll see."

  He opened the door. "We will. Have a good time at home. I'll probably see you there."

  "What?"

  "Didn't I tell you? I'm also going home for the Fourth." He voice was light but his eyes remained cold and evaluative. "I'll see you and Mr. Steele there, I'm sure." He left before I could reply.

  Chapter 9

  Well, damn. I didn't want Michael in town while I was there.

  Or did I? Did it matter?

  I snuck into my bedroom while Grumble was distracted in the basement and finished packing, my head buzzing with speculation. If Michael was in town and Dan was there, maybe Dan could use that to his advantage. Dan probably knew a lot of sneaky cop tricks to get information from Michael, information I wouldn't be able to extract. Or maybe not. It was out of my hands. Whether I wanted Michael there or not, there he would be. Why, when, and how come? Who knew?

  I went into the office and re-read my notes. I had made no more progress on finding answers. John said he had evidence about embezzlement, but I didn't see anything in his kit, part of which was now in Dan's hands. That led me back downstairs, where Grumble was snoring in the box that once held John's belongings, which were still scattered around the basement floor.

  I gathered the clothing and folded it, going through the pockets in John's jeans and shirt, and shaking everything else to see if anything was tucked away. I examined his shaving bag, but there were no secret compartments or hidden clues anywhere. If John had evidence of embezzlement, it wasn't here. I tucked the note from John back into the box, away from sight. I didn't want to read it again soon.

  I left Grumble to his dreams and went upstairs to the office to check my list of questions I previously compiled. John: target? Filled in for Paul. Why did Paul lose money? Why did he go into debt? Why would Michael loan Paul money?

  Dan's wife? Her connection?

  Those last two questions made me go to the accordion folder and get the newspaper articles about the fire. I stared at the picture of the woman who had died. In this picture her thick dark hair was loose, framing her face. They were married for twenty-five years. Think of all they shared together. Think of the family tragedies and triumphs, the happy and sad times, the homes they made together.

  I thrust the paper back into the folder and stared resolutely at my notepad. I could talk to Paul. Maybe I could get answers from him. Anything was better than staring at a picture of Dan's dead wife. Without giving myself time to consider it, I dialed Paul's phone number.

  A woman answered. I was so surprised, I probably sounded like a stammering fool when I said "I'm calling for Paul Denton. Is this the right number?"

  "Dad's not home now. Ca
n I take a message?"

  Well, duh. It was summertime. It made sense that Paul's daughter might be home from the university. "Is he on shift, Candace?" I asked. "This is Genny Carlson, John's wife. Remember me?"

  "Oh, sure, Mrs. Carlson. How are you?"

  Candace had attended John's funeral with Paul and her younger brother, Billy. At that time she was a graceful, pretty black girl with her dead mother's short, somewhat plump build and impeccable fashion sense. I was awed by the poise and maturity a twenty-year-old girl showed. "I'm fine. Is your dad on duty tonight?"

  "Yep. He's at the Number Seventy firehouse. If you call there, you can probably get him." I didn't really want to talk to Paul where anyone else might hear. I hesitated and Candace must have sensed my uncertainty. "Is there something I could help with?"

  "I don't know if you could," I said, thinking out loud. "I suppose you heard that an investigation has been opened in to the fire that killed John." I stumbled to a halt, not sure how to allude to the fact that her father may have had money troubles. I was losing track of who told me which secret: Jack Tinsley or my dead husband. I decided to lie and hope for the best. "I wondered if you remember that night. Your father and John worked together. Your father was at the station but had to leave early because your brother was sick, I think. Do you remember that?"

  I heard a sudden, sharp sound, as though she had sucked in a deep breath. "I'm not sure I remember," she said, speaking so fast the words sounded like one big clump.

  "It was this time of year," I continued, ignoring her shocked surprise. "We had a picnic at the station house the day before. I remember you were there with your brother. It was smack in the middle of that awful heat wave. Were you working in town for the summer? Is that why you couldn't stay home with your brother and your father had to leave?"

  "I don't remember. I must have been. It was so long ago."

  "I found a few papers in among John's things, and I was wondering--do you know if your father and Michael Bennington were ever in an investment club together? The notes I found in John's files made me wonder if your father asked Michael for financial advice." There. That sounded innocuous enough. "I'm sure your mother's hospital bills must have been tough to handle." I tried a small laugh. "And of course, raising kids isn't cheap."

  "I have to go now. I'll have Dad give you a call when he can. 'Bye."

  She disconnected so abruptly my ear rang from the sound of the receiver being slammed down. I hung up my phone thoughtfully. I didn't know Paul's kids well, but that behavior didn't jive with the placid, easy-going girl Paul so often described to me. I wonder if I had awakened an uncomfortable memory.

  I spied the stack of library books I brought home. I flopped on the futon and pulled them closer to me. Maybe I could accomplish something. I started with the Baseball Skills and Drills, but soon discovered that at least some fundamental knowledge was essential. The book discussed outfield drills, something called a pop-up slide off the bent-leg slide, fly-ball drills, and agility footwork and exercises. There was even an entire chapter on base stealing, which came as a surprise to me. I always thought runners got a whim and ran but apparently there were rules around such things and rather complicated rules, at that.

  I set that book aside and turned to Coaching Baseball. There were chapters on offensive strategy, defensive strategy, pitching, and something called "the mental approach." There was a chart about pitchers with headings like 1-1 count, behind in count, 3-2 pitch, change-up. I shook my head at all that. Who would have thought baseball was such a complex sport? I let that book drop back onto the stack and opened A Child's First Book of Baseball.

  This, at least, was written in English that made sense. I read it completely in a matter of minutes, bemused by the pictures of the different types of gloves, bats, masks, and other gear. They made it seem easy on TV: someone tossed a ball, someone else hit it, and they ran around a bunch of bases. Of course, I usually dozed through the baseball games John watched on TV and the one time we went to a game I sat back and enjoyed hot dogs and beer while John and his friends hollered for the home team.

  I decided a love or at least an understanding of baseball was probably genetic, and I gave up, wandering to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine. I considered the various ghost books I checked out, but decided I had done enough research for the night. I dropped onto the couch in front of the TV and grabbed the remote. It was almost nine and I figured I'd flip channels for an hour before turning in early to prepare for my drive in the morning.

  I was halfway through an episode of one of the Law and Order shows when a car pulled in the driveway. I had a firm rule that I never answered the door at night unless I knew who was there, so I dashed for the kitchen and peeked through the window in time to see Paul Denton stride to my front door, his face set and angry.

  Oh, shit. Candace probably called him. What to do? I considered ignoring him, but what good would that do? Maybe I should call Dan. Well, damn. I didn't have Dan's phone number, did I? There was some way to retrieve it from my phone, but I had never gotten that far in the phone's manual. While I dithered, Paul rang the doorbell.

  Grumble peeked at me from the top step of the basement staircase. "Should I or shouldn't I?" I mumbled. The bell rang again. I opened the door and plastered a smile on my face. "Paul, hi. How's it going?"

  He pushed past me and grabbed the door, shutting it behind him with a booming slam. Grumble took one look and fled down the stairs. "Why did you frighten my daughter?" Paul demanded.

  I took a step back, trying to get away from him in the narrow confines of the tiny foyer. He seemed even bigger than ever, filling the small space with his body, his dark blue knit shirt stretched tight across his chest and his khaki shorts emphasizing his heavy, thick thighs. As I moved away, I caught a faint whiff of his cologne, something spicy, mixed with a musky fragrance. I wondered if that was the smell of anger. "Frighten her?" I asked as calmly as I could manage. "What do you mean?"

  "She said you called and wanted to know what happened the night John died. I don't want my children involved, do you hear me? They had nothing to do with it." He glowered at me and for the first time I really understood what that word meant. He almost glowed with anger, as though he had been ignited.

  His anger touched off my own anger, which had been simmering for the last few days. I was getting damn tired of having men push me around and I let it show. "They had nothing to do with what?" I leaned forward, my fists clenched. "What do you know about that night?"

  His eyes widened and his mouth opened in an O of shock. For a minute I thought he might turn around and flee. Then he straightened. "You have no idea what my family has been through these last six years. I won't have them upset, do you hear me?"

  I glared back at him. "My husband was killed in that fire, Paul. What do you know about it? What's going on?" I plunged ahead recklessly, worries about confidentiality agreements and ghosts tossed aside. "You were in trouble, weren't you? Is that why John was killed? You were supposed to be on duty that night. Were you supposed to die instead of him?"

  Paul's normally dark face turned an ashy, sickly gray color. "What do you know?"

  My pent-up guilt and frustration spilled out. "I know that you were John's friend and he's dead and you know something about it and won't help solve his murder. Because it was a murder, wasn't it?"

  Paul staggered back, one faltering step that had him leaning against the wall, the light from the entryway shining on his glistening, sweaty face. "You have no idea what it's been like," he whispered, his voice so hoarse and breaking it was to understand his words.

  "Tell me." I stared at him, willing him to talk, willing him to, I don't know what, to confess? I wasn't sure. All I knew was that he had something to hide and I damn well was going to know what it was. "What could make you let your best friend to die?"

  He winced, looking anywhere but at me, dodging my gaze. I didn't let him get away with it. I bobbed and weaved with him until he was forced to fac
e me. What I saw in his brown-and-hazel eyes was despair. "You don't know what it was like. Roberta had cancer and the insurance didn't cover all her expenses. Candace was looking at colleges and she had her heart set on a private school. She needed a computer and an iPod and a cell phone. Billy was in sports and they cost so much. My investments didn't do well." He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened his eyes, they were damp. Tears? I didn't care. All I wanted were answers. "Michael's investments didn't go well, either."

  "Michael," I whispered. "What did he do?"

  "He was in an investment club with your aunt, but he also started a club here in town. I don't know what happened, but our club did poorly. I'm not sure where Michael got the cash to cover his losses."

  I stared at him when he faltered and he shook his head. "I do know," he confessed. "Michael embezzled from your aunt. I didn't have a rich old lady around, though. I needed cash. I went to an old friend of mine from the neighborhood, a guy I grew up with back in Detroit. He's got a big car and a nice house. He put me in touch with people. I got the money from them. All I had to do was buy and sell a few houses, put the deeds in my name. I did that twice before I realized what they were doing."

  Michael embezzled from Portia? Was John right? I shelved that thought for the moment and focused on the confusion that Paul might be able to answer. "I don't understand. How could buying and selling a house be illegal? Were they flipping them or something?"

  "Mortgage fraud. They had me buy the house then I signed the property over to them after closing in a quit claim deed. They rented the property until it was foreclosed because they didn't make payments." He turned away from me, stumbling toward the kitchen table where he sank into a chair, cradling his face in his hands.

  I followed, slipping into the chair next to him. "How long did that go on?"

  "I did three deals for them over the course of a year then I told them I was done and I wanted out." The kitchen was partially dark, lit only by the glow from the entryway and the living room, but even in that poor lighting I could see his face was taut with remembered misery. "They threatened me. Good God, you have no idea what they said."