Sinister Summer

by Colleen Gleason

  “Me either,” Iva said. Her eyes sparkled with delight that colored her cheeks a delicate pink. “That’s the Jean Fickler I knew. You didn’t really get to meet her, Hollis, dear, but she was like that. Smart, with an offbeat sense of humor, and an unflagging devotion to those cats.”

  “I’ll never understand why people like cats so much,” Juanita crooned as she looked down at Bruce Banner. From inside his mistress’s bag—a relatively shallow one tonight—his beady black eyes scanned the table while his cute little nose quivered. He was likely watching for an opportunity to snag a nibble of something to eat. “Dogs are so much more friendly, aren’t they, poquito?”

  “That dog’s French, ain’t he? A papillon—that means butterfly, like his ears,” Maxine informed Diana in a shout because she sat across the table, and not next to her. “Keep telling you, you should be speaking in French to the little beast, not Spanish.” This last was directed back at Maxine’s best friend and sparring partner.

  “There doesn’t seem to be any other explanation than Jean’s involvement,” Diana replied, ignoring Maxine’s non sequitur as most of them had learned to do.

  Her pragmatic tone speaking about a ghost—publicly—surprised Ethan.

  How far you’ve come, he thought with a little burst of warmth. How much you’ve unbent and opened your mind over the last couple of weeks.

  Though she wasn’t sitting next to him, Ethan appreciated the fact that he could, instead, simply watch. And torture himself.

  When did you become such a masochist?

  But when Baxter nudged him sharply with an elbow, he jolted and looked at his friend.

  “Dude. You’re practically drooling, my man,” he said in an undertone. “How’s that moratorium working out for you now?”

  Ethan gave him a steely look. “It’s still in play because she isn’t. And those who live in glass houses…” He looked pointedly across the restaurant, where Emily Delton was sitting with her teenaged daughter and some out-of-town friends.

  Baxter shrugged. “Just trying to keep you from looking like a desperate trout.”

  “There is another option,” said Hollis Nath. His deep, cultured voice cut through the back-and-forth between the higher-pitched ladies’ arguments. “As much as you’d like to attribute it to Jean’s ghost, Iva, darling, there is the possibility the arsonist removed the box himself.”

  Everyone at the table—Cherry, Orbra, Maxine, Juanita, Iva, Baxter, Diana, and Ethan—looked at him. Even Bruce Banner seemed arrested by the commanding voice.

  “Because he was looking for something in it,” Iva said, nodding. “That is possible.”

  “Possible,” Diana replied smoothly. “But, in all likelihood, not probable. Here’s why: it was sitting, closed, with all the cards in it, on the grass. It seems to me that if the arsonist removed the box to search through it, he’d either: one, take it with him and examine it later; or, two, look through it quickly then discard it just as quickly. To leave it sitting neatly on the grass, closed, with all its contents remaining inside—well, it’s not likely.”

  Ethan hid a smile in his beer. She’d clearly had time to think through all possibilities, and her own logical, lawyer’s mind assessed and discarded the ones that didn’t make sense.

  Yet Hollis Nath didn’t seem offended by her response—as many men of his generation might feel if given a counterpoint to his argument by a younger woman—which gave him an extra point in Ethan’s book. Still, he couldn’t dismiss the fact that Nath had arrived on the scene of Wicks Hollow at the same time as the Merman-Steele Golf Outing. And the intruder at Jean’s house had dropped a pen from that same conference. They had to be connected. Ethan was certain the intruder was someone who’d been at the conference, and likely someone known to Hollis Nath.

  He didn’t want to consider the possibility that Nath himself was involved.

  “Is any part of the house salvageable?” asked Cherry.

  “I won’t know for certain until the insurance adjustor and fire damage company assesses the situation, but I’m hopeful some of it can be saved. It would be a tragedy to have to tear it down.” The sadness in Diana’s voice struck Ethan as genuine, and he wondered if that meant she was considering keeping the house herself. Whatever was left of it.

  “Where are you staying tonight, honey?” asked Orbra. “Do you need—”

  “She’s staying at Ethan’s,” Maxine announced, as if it were a foregone conclusion.

  Everyone looked at him, then at Diana, then back again—and their collective, knowing expressions had his cheeks actually going hot.

  “I wanted to be near the cats,” Diana said smoothly. “Until I can find them a new home. Right now they’re staying in Aunt Jean’s garage.”

  “Do you need anything, dear?” asked Iva. “I’m supposing whatever didn’t actually burn in the fire is either waterlogged or ruined by smoke. You probably lost everything.”

  “What about your computer?” asked Baxter in horror.

  “Fortunately, I had my laptop with me,” Diana replied. “And I went shopping today for the necessities, but I’ll be going back home to Chicago tomorrow. I’ve got—I’ve got some things to take care of. I’m so glad I got to see all of you before I left.” She smiled.

  The speculative looks went from her to Ethan again as he tried not to appear shocked by the announcement that she was leaving.

  And stunned she hadn’t mentioned it to him.

  Not that she had any obligation to do so, but, still…tomorrow? She was leaving tomorrow? Just like that?

  When had she made that decision?

  Probably when her house burned down, Murphy. It was a logical reaction.

  Still. The thought put him in the sourest of moods, and even Maxine and Juanita’s back and forth jabbing didn’t jar him from his brooding.

  “Smells like rain,” Diana said as she climbed out of Ethan’s jeep back at his house.

  It was after nine o’clock, and the sun had just set. The night air was damp and clammy, but filled with the songs of crickets, loons, and bullfrogs.

  Diana heard Cady barking inside the cabin, and she instinctively ducked as a bat darted across the clearing, though it was far above her head. A single light had been left burning inside the house, and it cast a soft, golden glow from the kitchen window onto the short, stubby grass near the parking area.

  “It sure is humid,” he replied, sniffing the air. He let Cady out of the house, and, still barking, the black lab ran up to Diana to smell her.

  She reached down to pat the dog’s head, surprised by her automatic reaction, then shifted back when Cady’s wet nose bumped against her bare leg. Ew. “Nice dog,” she said, pushing Cady gently away. “Go do your thing. Go on, now.”

  Diana let herself into the cabin while Ethan took care of his dog, throwing the tennis ball down the incline toward the lake with a powerful arm. She’d put all of her shopping bags—with toiletries, the casual poppy-splashed sundress she’d worn to dinner, some clothing for tomorrow, and a silky nightgown—in the guest room before they left for dinner. It was too early to change into the nightgown (Diana couldn’t even justify why she’d bought such an impractical thing, especially since she’d just broken up with Jonathan; the silky, midnight blue chemise had been expensive), but she definitely wanted to get out of the sundress.

  Strangely keyed up, even after a dinner that required a lot of mental energy to keep up with the Tuesday Ladies and their bickering and random conversation, Diana changed into a pair of yoga pants and a tank top. By the time she padded out to the kitchen in bare feet that desperately needed a pedicure, Ethan and Cady had come back inside.

  “Oh,” he said, looking at her with surprise as he dumped a scoop of dog food into Cady’s dish. He scanned her change of clothing, ending with her bare feet, then swooped back up. “I thought you’d already gone to bed.”

  “I’m not really tired,” she replied, eyeing him closely. He’d become uncharacteristically quiet about halfway thr
ough dinner. If he wasn’t in the mood for company, she could excuse herself and read a book (what a novel idea—pun intended) or…something.

  “Did you want something to drink? Want to watch television?” He seemed strangely uncomfortable or tense. Something was off.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, watching him as if he were a witness she was cross-examining. “Are you tired or—just not want company?”

  “No, no, not at all. I’ve got some beer in here—oh, and here’s a bottle of wine.” He was poking in the refrigerator, so she didn’t get a good look at his face. “Fee—I mean Fiona—left it here. It’s from one of the regional wineries—up near Traverse City. Did you know the vines up there are older than the ones that grow in most of France now?”

  Diana did a little double take. “What?”

  “Back in the 1800s, I think it was, there was a disease or infestation of the vineyards in France, and most of them died. They imported grapevines from the Grand Traverse area to replace them. True story. So,” he said, smoothly withdrawing a bottle from the fridge, “even a wine snob can’t argue about the quality of white wine from Michigan.”

  “Well,” she said with a smile, “I guess I’ll have to try it then. Don’t let me keep you up, Ethan, if you have things to do.”

  “I don’t. And since you’re leaving tomorrow,” he said as he tore off the foil on the wine bottle with a sharp movement, “we probably won’t have much more of a chance to talk. About everything.”

  “That’s true. I did want to tell you something I wasn’t willing to share with the others,” she replied as he slipped the corkpull’s vise around the bottle head, then lowered the handle.

  “Besides the fact that you were leaving tomorrow?” he said, yanking the lever back up. The cork came out with a satisfying pop, and he set aside the pull.

  “Yes.” Diana watched as he poured two glasses of wine without looking at her, without flirting with her, without any sort of the warmth and camaraderie she’d come to know and expect from him.

  Something was definitely wrong, and if she’d been in the middle of a trial or hearing, she’d know just how to respond: how to treat the witness, how to get the reaction she needed. But now, she was flummoxed and, frankly, a little out of her league.

  He handed her a glass and she took it, automatically bringing it to her nose to smell. Peachy, she thought—of both the wine and the situation in which she found herself.

  “Let’s sit down in here.” Ethan gestured to the sprawling suede sectional.

  The great room was lit by two large floor lamps made from solid square columns of carved wood, one on each end of the curving sofa, and recessed lights above the fireplace and along the soffit between the kitchen area and the living room. Three tall casement windows were open, facing the dark forest, and allowed a fresh, lake-scented breeze to stir the air in the room.

  “So, what was it you didn’t want to bring up at dinner?” Ethan asked as Cady flopped to the floor with a groan.

  Diana sipped the wine. It was cold and crisp, with those peachy notes and an essence of honey. She liked it. “When I found the box of Aunt Jean’s cards, it was just as I described it: the box was set away from the house, and it wasn’t wet or upended or disordered at all. Just placed there pretty as you please. But Arty was sitting next to it, like he wanted me to notice him, and when I got closer I saw that—I saw his paw was resting on a card.”

  Ethan’s reserve disintegrated abruptly, and his eyes flared with shock then fascination. “You’re shitting me.”

  “I’m not.” She smiled and went on, “Not only was the card not wet—as it would have been if it had been out all night, sitting in the wet grass and dew—it was a very relevant card. Relevant to the situation.”

  Aware that timing was everything, and that she had the benefit of controlling the suspense, she lifted the glass and took another sip, watching him over the rim.

  “Is that so,” he replied. His voice had dropped into that low rumble with which she was familiar—and found so attractive—and he contemplated her from his position at one end of the sectional. “Are you going to make me guess which card?”

  She smiled and tucked her feet under her on the luxurious suede. “I think that would be entertaining. Go ahead.”

  “The High Priestess.” His eyes were dancing now as he reached over to scrub Cady on the head.

  “Pish. That’s much too obvious.” She sipped again, suddenly ridiculously lighthearted and happy.

  She’d broken up with Jonathan.

  That whole problem, all the drama and effort related to him and their relationship—such as it was—was over. She had no ties, no obligations, no mental energy assigned to him any longer.

  Ethan tilted his head, looking at her closely. “You seem in a particularly fine mood for someone whose house burned last night and whose aunt was murdered.” His tone wasn’t judgmental, but curious.

  Maybe it was because she knew there was no longer any reason not to, but Diana found herself noticing—and enjoying—how handsome he was. Relaxed, with all that dark, thick hair that had grown out a bit from its cut, and his interested gaze. His mouth, and his tanned, capable hand that absently stroked Cady’s head…

  She realized he was waiting for a response, and that her pulse had kicked up a little. “Let’s just say that although I’m grieving about those things—and determined to figure out what is going on—I had a conversation today that lifted a great weight from my shoulders.”

  “I see.” The glint of levity in his eyes eased and he sobered. “Before I continue on the guessing game, Diana, I want to say something that’s been on my mind for a while.”

  Her heart did a little skip, but when she realized his expression had become reserved and remote once again, her mood plummeted. He looked far too serious to be about to say something personal—not that he would, anyway—although he had admitted he found her attractive, prickly though she was.

  “Go on.” She knew how to keep her expression blank and her gaze expectant but not concerned. Most people had no idea how much acting and learning of lines was involved in being a trial lawyer. That, at least, was a skill she’d developed well since high school, when the merest cross word or expression would send her into tears.

  “I think you should be concerned with your safety.” He’d stopped petting Cady, as if he needed all of his attention focused on what he was about to say. “You’ve just gained an inheritance that’s made you a wealthy woman—though I’m certain you aren’t doing too badly at your law firm—and although it doesn’t appear that you’ve been a target, per se—”

  “Aunt Jean was murdered. So someone has already killed, and probably wouldn’t hesitate to do so again,” she finished for him. “I’ve thought of that. Then discarded the notion. Honestly, Ethan, I could be wrong about Aunt Jean being smothered—and if that’s the case, then we’re just dealing with a breaking and entering situation.”

  “You aren’t wrong, Diana.” He spoke flatly, then took a healthy swallow of wine. “Your aunt confirmed it, didn’t she?”

  “Well, in a matter of speaking—she mainly confirmed that she was around in a ghostly capacity.”

  “Diana. Even Joe Cap believes she was murdered. Even though we haven’t gotten confirmation from the medical examiner yet, I trust your instincts on this. This person has killed once, and that means it’s easier for him to kill again.”

  “But what would be the benefit of killing me? I—” She stopped abruptly as everything he was saying—without saying it—dumped into her head. “Someone is trying to kill me to get Aunt Jean’s money.”

  “Or might at some point. In the near future. Think about this…there are all these break-ins at the house. There’s a fire, where, miraculously, you happened to be away when it happened—but you just as easily might not have been. What if it’s just someone setting the scene so when you do get killed—sorry,” he said hastily, with a rueful smile. “What if it’s just someone setting it up so if
you do die—maybe months from now—it seems like part of the whole big picture? Or just seems like another accident.”

  “But why would someone want to do that? Create a bunch of accidents, then a real murder?”

  His shoulders slumped a little. “I’m still working that part out. Misdirection maybe? Or maybe even setting up an alibi for one of the previous accidents?” He shrugged.

  “So who would benefit from me being out of the way?” Diana said. “Or dead. That’s what you’re getting at.” She looked at him, a strange, uncomfortable prickling in her belly. “So you want to know who would get the inheritance then. Who would inherit my possessions.”

  He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

  “Well, my father is dead, and my mother is my closest relative, so according to probate, she—”

  “You don’t have a will?”

  A will. Diana froze with the wineglass halfway to her mouth, then lowered it. Jonathan had mentioned that he’d recently changed his will to make her his heir—not long after they’d become engaged. He’d suggested she do the same—“To make things easier,” he’d said.

  She’d agreed at the time. Why not? This was months before Aunt Jean had died, and Diana was giddy and in love with a wonderful man. Besides, Jonathan had more assets than she did—he owned a condo on Lake Shore Drive and was a managing partner in his cardiology practice.

  But she hadn’t actually finalized the will naming him as her heir. It was sitting at home in a folder, waiting for her to review one last time.

  “No,” she replied slowly. “I don’t have a signed will or trust.”

  His gaze probed her, but he remained silent. There was an edge to his expression now—as if he wanted to say something but was holding back.

  Diana spewed out a long breath. “Jonathan and I are—were—in the process of setting up wills naming each other heir, in anticipation of our marriage. But I hadn’t finished mine.”