Gilt (15 page)

"That's, odd, don't you think? I mean, what about Steele's wife? Are you sure it's a smart idea to date him? Isn't it awkward?" Michael tried an unconvincing chuckle. "John and his wife died in the same fire. Doesn't it rake up a lot of bad memories?"

I shook my head, using my full mouth as an excuse to give me more time to think. "Not at all," I finally said. "If anything, we have a shared bond. He knows how I feel."

"I think I know how you feel. Or I thought I did," Michael said with a faint hint of reproach.

The sneaky bastard. I almost apologized. Almost. Instead, I went to the fridge and got a bottle of diet pop. "I was talking to my mom about Aunt Portia. She mentioned that you used to be Aunt Portia's lawyer."

Michael frowned slightly and I wonder if he was peeved that I changed the subject. "A few years back I was. Then she decided she wanted somebody in town to handle her affairs. Plus she and I were in that investment club together. I suppose she was afraid there might be an appearance of a conflict of interest."

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. Can 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.