Sinister Summer

by Colleen Gleason

  “Apparently someone had.”

  She nodded, looking at him with that same soft, deep gaze—like a trusting child. And coming from a strong, pragmatic woman like Diana Iverson, that sort of open, vulnerable expression shook a guy to the core.

  “So…now what?” she said. “I believe—no, I guess I know Aunt Jean was murdered. There’s no way Captain Longbow—or any authority figure—is going to believe me when I tell them I know she was smothered because of a few dreams and strange incidents. They’ll cart me off to a mental hospital.”

  Ethan suddenly felt a little wary. “But maybe the author of the bestselling book on near-death experiences could help give you some credibility?”

  Diana’s eyes flared, and the soft look vanished. Her face smoothed into creamy marble. She became, he imagined, the pragmatic, practical, assertive litigator.

  “No,” she said coolly. “It’s more like, maybe someone who supposedly cared for my aunt might be willing to help find out who killed her.”

  Ethan cursed himself. Well, he’d stepped into that one, and he had no one to blame but himself for ruining the momentary connection between them.

  “Right. That makes far more sense. So I guess we should talk motive,” he said, in an effort to get past the awkward moment. “The common ones for murder: love, revenge, hatred, and the most obvious—at least in Jean’s case—money. Who benefits from her death?”

  “I do.” Diana’s voice was still flat and hard.

  “Obviously. But just as obviously, you didn’t smother her.”

  She lifted a brow and gave him a measured look. “I’m glad you realize that.”

  “But who else benefits from her death—monetarily or otherwise?”

  “Well, I inherited most everything. The house here on the lake—”

  “Which in itself is worth a nice chunk of change. A couple acres on Wicks Lake, five miles from Lake Michigan, in the middle of tourism central? Yes, you’re talking a million—maybe closer to two—right here.”

  Diana nodded; she was well aware of the value of the property. But she also knew that was only a piece of her inheritance. The question was, what did anyone else know? She no longer suspected Ethan Murphy of anything underhanded, but that didn’t mean she was going to tell him everything. She settled for saying, “Aunt Jean had some other investments worth quite a bit. Those came to me as well, except for a nice annuity that goes to the Wicks Hollow Veterinary Clinic and Animal Shelter.”

  “I can’t imagine Melvin Horner creeping into this house and doing away with Jean,” Ethan said. He’d finished his dinner and was looking longingly at what was left on Diana’s plate—which was more than half her meal.

  Having a ghost destroy your kitchen could put a real damper on your appetite, Diana discovered. But apparently not so for Ethan. She pushed her plate across the table to him. “Eat up. We don’t want you to expire from lack of food.”

  He didn’t hesitate, and dumped the rest of her pasta into his bowl, mixing it in the dredges of olive oil and peppers left over from his. The man certainly enjoyed his food.

  “What about other family members? Didn’t Jean have anyone else who might be angry you inherited and they didn’t?”

  Diana shook her head. “She and Uncle Trace didn’t have any children—he was fifteen years older than she was. And my father, who was Aunt Jean’s brother, died fifteen years ago. They didn’t have any other siblings. So I can’t think of any other family that might have expected to inherit.”

  They both lapsed into silence.

  “What other possible reason could there be to kill her?” she said after another sip of wine.

  “Have you thought about—well—asking her?” Ethan said, gesturing with a fork rolled thick with bucatini. “I mean, she seems to be pretty well-versed in from-the-afterlife communication.”

  Diana’s lips twitched. She was sure reams of students at U of C had wild crushes on him. And why couldn’t she seem to stay irritated with him? “I suppose I could try that. Did you hear Ethan, Aunt Jean? We need a hint or a clue about who killed you and why.”

  They both waited, still and silent. But nothing happened.

  “Maybe she used up her quota of comm skills for the day,” he said, pushing back from the table. He stood, collecting the two bowls and sets of flatware, and brought them over to the sink. The dishes clattered quietly as he scraped then washed them with the efficiency of a man used to the task. He slipped the pasta bowls into slots on Aunt Jean’s dish drainer to dry.

  “I wish I had a way to talk to her—oh. Wait.” Diana stilled, feeling a certain buzz in her belly. The same sort of buzz she often got—and tried to ignore—when she was working on a case. She stood to gather up the wine bottle and their glasses. “Aunt Jean called me three times the week before she died. That was really unusual.”

  “You don’t know why she wanted to talk to you?”

  Diana appreciated that he kept any hint of judgment or accusation from his voice. “No, but she did leave a voice mail on my cell phone. It didn’t sound urgent or I would have called her back right away. But she was obviously determined to talk to me. I’ll have to check whether I still have the voicemail. Maybe she said something that will help.”

  “Jean called me as well, but she just missed me. I’d left for Peru the day before, and I didn’t get the message till I got back. She wanted me to call her right away.”

  They looked at each other. “All right. Maybe there was something going on neither of us knew about that had something to do with—with her death,” Diana said. “Or maybe the calls had nothing to do with anything but her wanting to talk to us.”

  “Don’t forget, Diana, that someone’s broken into the house at least twice. Possibly more.”

  “Twice?” She paused, standing next to him by the sink.

  “Right.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth and shoved a hand into his hair. “I didn’t tell you about that—well, for reasons which will become obvious. The day I came over here and left the note…well, when I got here I thought I saw someone at the window—even though I didn’t see a car in the drive. So I knocked and knocked, and no one answered.”

  “So you let yourself in.” As he’d done, Diana made certain she kept her tone from being confrontational or accusatory.

  “Right. But I was certain I’d seen someone, and I thought it might have been you not wanting to answer the door.” He gave her a weak smile. “But when we were inside, Cady went nuts—barking and running around. At the time, I thought she’d seen a squirrel through the window—that usually sets her off—but maybe she saw something else.”

  “Someone sneaking away.” It wasn’t difficult for her to finish his thought process. She set the glasses on the counter. “Out the back or the cellar door.”

  He shrugged. “At the time I thought it might have been you, just trying to avoid me. But now, I’m wondering if it could have been someone else.”

  Diana’s face heated and she bit her lip, feeling awkward again. “I wouldn’t have been sneaking around trying to avoid you,” she told him. “I would have just told you to leave if I didn’t want to see you.”

  She looked up and their eyes met. To her relief, she saw humor in his. “Yes, I got that,” he said dryly. “But I am certainly glad we’re past that point.”

  “Oh, I’ll still tell you to leave if I don’t want you here,” she said, pursing her lips to fight back a grin.

  Now he gave her a full-blown smile that made her belly do a soft, pleasant roll. “Or if you want me to stay.”

  His voice was hardly more than a murmur, and it had the same effect on her as if he’d touched her with one of those wide, powerful hands. He was certainly standing close enough to her to do so, there in a corner of the kitchen.

  Diana swallowed through a dry throat and dredged up the courage to address a related topic. “That reminds me—I want to apologize again about last night. I didn’t intend to make you feel manipulated, or used, Ethan. It was irrespon
sible and—”

  “No sweat. It was easier for me to answer the phone. It was innocent,” he said, looking down at her. “Until I made it otherwise.” His voice dropped so low it seemed to slide along her skin. He held her eyes for a moment. “So maybe I ought to be the one apologizing.”

  Diana almost couldn’t breathe. He didn’t look the least bit sorry, and, to tell the truth, she didn’t feel sorry either.

  “Apology accepted,” she said, her own voice unexpectedly husky. “No big deal.”

  She started to move past him, but he stood firm, forcing her to wait or to press against him to get by. He looked down at her, his brown eyes warm and steady.

  “I think you should know that I find you incredibly sexy and intelligent—and terribly prickly.”

  It was the last part of his speech that saved her from sliding into the web of heat he was spinning. “Prickly?”

  “Terribly prickly,” he replied with a devastating smile. “Which, for some strange reason, I find interesting, challenging, and attractive.”

  Then, to her surprise and relief, he stepped back. His expression flattened. “And I’m way out of line, saying those things to you. My turn to apologize. Again.” He shook his head, giving her a wry smile. “We seem to be spending an awful lot of time apologizing to each other.”

  “Right.” Diana’s pulse had returned to something normal, and the heat simmering beneath her skin had cooled. “So, back to the matter at hand…”

  Ethan leaned back against the counter, arms folded over his middle. He appeared more remote and reserved than she’d ever seen him. “I say we sleep on it. See if anything else comes to mind. Tomorrow, if you’re willing, I’ll go with you and we can talk to Joe Cap. He might not be as difficult to convince as you think. Besides…I owe Cady the rest of her play time.”

  “Right. Of course.” She nodded, feeling somehow let down by the veil of tension that had dropped between them. “Yes, I think it would be best to at least tell Captain Longbow of my suspicions. To get it on record.”

  They agreed that Ethan would pick her up in the morning.

  “Thank you again,” she said as he opened the kitchen door. “For everything.”

  He paused, his hand curling around the screen door. “I’m here for whatever you need, Diana. I loved Jean too.” Their eyes met and she felt that pleasant jolt in her heart…and then he was gone, striding off into the woods toward his cabin.

  It was after nine o’clock and just getting dark. The night was peaceful and calm and warm. The smell of the lake wafted along a light breeze, and the loons and frogs made a quiet chorus in the background.

  As Diana closed and locked the door behind Ethan, she felt a stirring of something she hadn’t in a long while.

  Contentment.

  “Thanks for meeting with us, Joe,” said Ethan as he and Diana entered the police chief’s office.

  It was a compact room furnished with a metal desk and wheeled office chair—both of which looked as if they’d been there since the sixties—two large metal filing cabinets, and a small round table with three chairs skirting it. On the round table was a sad looking kalanchoe that could still be saved, and on Longbow’s desk were photographs of three children and his wife—the latter whom Diana had seen at Maxine’s party but hadn’t actually met. The cramped office smelled of the coffee that left cup stains on the large desk blotter and lemon-scented disinfectant cleaner.

  “Not a problem,” drawled the captain in his easy voice. “You all have a seat there. Helga will likely be here in a minute…oh, here she is.”

  Diana hadn’t met Officer van Hest, who, along with Longbow, made up two-thirds of the trio of law enforcement personnel for Wicks Hollow, and she rose to shake the hand of the young woman who stepped in.

  Like her chief, Helga van Hest wore a dark blue and gray uniform—but hers was pressed and creased and starched into crisp submission, while the captain’s was, though not shabby, appeared more comfortable and worn. Helga van Hest’s badge and brass name tag were polished enough to mirror one’s reflection, and her thick strawberry blond hair was tucked back into a no-nonsense chignon. She was tall—probably six feet—and sturdy, with intelligent hazel eyes, a splash of freckles over her fair skin, and a stubborn set to her chin. Her only obvious nod to femininity were her short, neat, French manicured fingernails.

  Helga’s handshake was firm and businesslike, and Diana sensed that this was the type of woman she would like and respect upon getting to know her.

  “All right, there, Ethan. What’s on your mind?” Longbow said.

  “I think—and Diana does too—that there was something strange about Jean Fickler’s death. It’s difficult to put a finger on, but between the break-ins and some other things that have been happening, we believe it bears looking into.”

  “Other things?”

  Ethan shifted in his seat, glancing at Diana. They’d agreed to let him start the discussion with Longbow because he knew the police chief better. “This is where things get a little murky.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.” Ethan drew in a breath, seeming to consider how to approach it, but in the end it was Diana was the one who took the plunge: “I believe the house is haunted. By my aunt Jean. I think it’s because she was murdered.”

  As soon as the words came out of her mouth, Diana regretted them: their bluntness, the specificity, and most of all, the fact that they made her—a rising star litigating attorney, a professional, a sane and pragmatic woman—sound like a lunatic.

  Joe Longbow lifted a brow, raised his #1 Dad white coffee mug, sipped, then set the cup back down. “Well,” he said after he swallowed, “this is Wicks Hollow.”

  “And she was Jean Fickler,” Helga said from where she sat, legs crossed primly, feet tucked under her chair, spine rod-straight.

  Diana looked from one to the other, then at Ethan—who seemed just as startled by the cops’ reaction. “What do you mean?” she said warily.

  Helga and Longbow exchanged glances. “Let’s just say,” said the female officer, “that we get a lot of strange calls here in Wicks Hollow. Unusual reports. Strange…happenings.” She shrugged. “Can’t discount anything, as far as I’m concerned. And,” she said, zeroing in on Diana, “from what I know about you, you’re not the sort of person to make up ghost stories.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “In fact, you probably abhor the fact that you had to come in here and actually admit it. Aloud.”

  Diana almost smiled. Yes, she could definitely get to like this woman. “Precisely.”

  “Besides all of that” —Helga continued to control the conversation, which Longbow seemed perfectly content to allow— “I’m fairly certain I witnessed a bit of spectral activity myself Tuesday night.”

  “Yep. So you said.” Longbow sat back in his chair, which squeaked as it tilted away from the desk. “You wanta tell them what you saw?”

  “I made a few rounds up to Jean’s house on Tuesday night when everyone else was at Maxine’s party.” Helga didn’t sound the least bit disappointed to have missed the big event. “Just to make sure there was no monkey business going on. On my second trip, I wanted to eat my lunch, so I sat on the front porch instead of in that stuffy patrol car. Cap, you’ve got to authorize a stipend for a detailing on that vehicle,” she said. “It still smells like moldy maple syrup and skunk. Don’t ask,” she added, looking at Ethan and Diana with a shake of her head.

  “All right.” Ethan rubbed his forehead, wearing an expression that exemplified exactly how Diana was feeling.

  “I’ll get around to the auth,” Longbow sighed. “Tell the story, Helga.”

  “I was sitting on the porch—such a peaceful view—eating cold pizza when I saw a light flicker on inside. I knew there was no one on the property—hadn’t I just been there thirty minutes ago, and was back again? No tire tracks, no vehicle, no evidence anyone was there. Butch was sitting there with me—”

  “Butch is Helga’s dog,�
�� Ethan told Diana. “He and Cady are good friends.”

  “Right. And Butch didn’t twitch an ear—which he’d’ve done if someone was around. But there it was—a light had come on in one of the windows. Then, another light came on in a different room. Then upstairs. Then they all blinked three times—one, two, three—together. Then they went out. And that was it.” Helga spread her hands. “I can’t think of any other explanation than spectral activity.”

  “All right.” Though Diana could have come up with at least a few explanations, it would be counterproductive to her goal. “So the purpose of our meeting with you,” she said smoothly, looking at Longbow, “is to suggest that the break-in at the house is related to my aunt’s death, and to request an investigation into said death. Including an autopsy. Do you have any hesitations or concerns about doing so?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  Diana blinked. That was it? That had been remarkably simple.

  Ethan seemed less surprised at the captain’s easy acquiescence. “When we were fishing the other day, Cap, you said something about Jean Fickler’s death not sitting quite right with you.”

  “That’s right.” Longbow looked at Diana. “I remember thinking that when I found your aunt’s body, there was something odd about it. She was in her bed, and had died probably of heart failure in her sleep. There were no signs of forced entry, no signs of struggle, no robbery. Nothing. But…” He faded into silence. Of course with Longbow and the way he talked, Diana couldn’t be sure he wasn’t just pausing between words.

  “But what?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager.

  “Well, the bed was just too neat. I wondered later how anyone could have slept without even wrinkling the sheets. But that was nothing to pin my hat on, you know.”

  “And no reason to do an autopsy.” Ethan mused. “An elderly woman with a documented heart condition dies in her sleep, and no one thinks twice about it.”