Gilt (18 page)

"That's not what Chief McCord told me."

We were nearing a stop sign, which was fortunate because I needed to glare at him. "Why didn't you share that with me before you asked?"

"I wanted to hear your opinion."

"Now you've heard it." I eyed the other car sitting at the four-way stop, which was the junction of the major businesses in town--bank, bar, gas station, and bakery. Traffic started to congregate behind me as I waited for the elderly man behind the wheel of an equally elderly pickup on my left who was not predisposed to move. I ventured into the intersection at the same moment he decided to find the gas pedal. I slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding him. "Asshole," I muttered.

"Now, now. Temper."

"Don't 'temper' me," I snapped. "What did McCord discover that's so interesting?"

"Your aunt is supposed to give herself a shot of insulin every day using a preloaded syringe. She received too little insulin and she had a seizure. She was talking on the phone with a friend at the time and that friend called an ambulance. The police chief checked your aunt's house. He couldn't find the syringe."

I drove circumspectly through the two-block downtown and sped up when we reached the west side of town and the highway stretched ahead of us. "Did she toss it or something?"

"He searched everywhere. He couldn't find it. Any thoughts on that?"

I glanced at the mileage sign as it blurred past.
Tangle Butte, 50
. "Thoughts on what? That he couldn't find her syringe?" We drove around a curve and I braked as a tractor pulled onto the road in front of me from a farm lane.

"If someone fiddled with her medication, it makes sense they'd take the syringe away with them."

"Portia wouldn't trust anyone with her medication." I turned my attention back to the road and the tractor in front of us, puttering down the road from one farm lane to another.

"Not even a family member? Your mother or you?"

I gaped at him. "Me? I haven't been home in a month."

He regarded me coolly. "I'm not accusing you of anything."

"You aren't? It sounded like you were." I edged our car into the passing lane, verified we had clear road ahead, and gunned the motor to get around the creeping tractor. As I glanced back to make sure the coast was clear, I saw Dan's assessing gaze. "I suppose Portia would trust Mom or me with her medication, but we've never volunteered to help her with it and she's never asked. She's managed it for years without us." I stared straight ahead. Portia would never mix up her medicine. Never. What was going on? Had she asked someone for help? I chewed on that thought for several long minutes.

"Watch your speed."

I glanced at the speedometer and let up on the gas. I was so distracted I could have run over another tractor without noticing it until we were teetering on one of the big rear wheels. "You've got a lot of guts accusing me of trying to murder my aunt."

"It's the way my mind works. Once a cop, always a cop. A cop looks for motive. She's worth a lot of money to you."

"To me and to Amy," I pointed out. "We share the inheritance jointly, or so I've been told. I still don't believe that. I won't believe it until it happens."

He nodded thoughtfully and lapsed into silence. I was grateful for a chance to gather my scattered brain cells. We passed through another small town and were exiting the far side when I tried another foray into detecting. "You said you were trying to figure out where your wife worked when she was killed. Have you had any luck?"

I could feel his eyes on me as I drove, but I kept my face pointed straight ahead. "No, I haven't," he said.

"Hmm." I peered ahead at the mileage sign.
Tangle Butte, 35 miles
. Thank God. Not too long now. "I, um, talked to Michael last night. He said he was going home this weekend. We'll probably see him. He said that developers were interested in Aunt Portia's land. He mentioned that it was worth a lot of money. Did you know Michael had an investment club in the Twin Cities like he had one in Tangle Butte?"

"Really? Did he talk about it last night?"

Damn. Paul had talked about it. I wasn't supposed to tell Dan what Paul told me. "Not really," I hedged. "John mentioned it once. He said that Michael and Paul were in a club. They asked him to join but he decided not to." I mentally applauded myself on the believability of my lie. "I wonder if that's why Paul had financial trouble. Tinsley said Paul got into money trouble. Did Tinsley investigate why?"

When Dan didn't answer, I glanced at him. To my relief, he was jotting a note in a small leather memo book balanced on his knee. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Maybe I had managed to drop a clue without screwing up Paul.

I hummed along with Elton John as I drove but Dan's next words put me on guard. "You know, there's still a chance your husband was involved in the fire."

"Bullshit," I said immediately. "You know as well as I do that's foolish."

"I got a look at your husband's employment file."

"Say what?" I glanced at Dan but he wasn't watching me, which put me doubly on my guard. Usually he kept his eyes on my face when he talked, as though gauging my reaction. Now he tapped his metal leg idly with his cane, as though reassuring himself it was still in place.

"What was in the file?" I prompted.

"I saw your husband's psychological profile."

"I didn't know he had one."

"All people in law enforcement, fire, and rescue have psych profiles. It's standard."

Once again I was struck by how foreign his world was. He talked about things like drug busts, gunshot wounds, and psych profiles as though they were normal parts of life. It felt like I was peering into a fun house and every time I turned a corner, something new popped at me. "What was in his profile?"

"It said he had a hero complex. He had a need to help others and protect them."

"That's not bad. That's a good thing."

"It's not good if he creates opportunities to be a hero."

I let a mile or two pass before I trusted myself to answer. "That's an insult." When Dan started to speak, I held out a hand. "Don't." I scowled at the pristine day around us, the sun like a mockery of the simmering anger that made my stomach flip and turn. How dare he talk about John like that? He didn't know John. And a stupid profile didn't encapsulate what kind of person John was. How dare he?

Dan settled back in his seat, letting another five miles or so pass before speaking again. "I was angry when Diane died because I felt like I was robbed of a chance to resolve our problems. It took me a long time to realize that we probably would never have resolved them. That's when I learned to forgive her for wanting to leave me. Maybe you haven't learned to view your husband objectively. Maybe you're still waiting for that chance to resolve the problems you two had. Maybe your judgment is clouded."

I clenched the steering wheel, anger making me go hot then cold then hot again. I was either in a rage or in the midst of a hormone-induced hot flash. Either way, I was itching to yell at someone. "That's one of the most arrogant things I've ever heard. How dare you forgive her for wanting to leave you? All she wanted--all I wanted--was to live my life. I just couldn't live it with John any more, just like she couldn't live hers with you anymore. There's nothing to forgive." I almost spat, anger making me trip over syllables as words tumbled out of me. "That's like forgiving someone for breathing, for wanting freedom, for wanting something other than what you wanted."

Dan didn't speak. When I glanced at him, he faced me, his dark eyes hard and cold. "How could someone share a life with someone then all of sudden not share anymore? How could someone change that much?"

Boredom, a feeling of confinement, a need to make a change
. All valid reasons and none of them "good enough," none of them "big enough" to merit such a change. "She was probably feeling pressure. She wasn't that young any more, and if she wanted to attract a man and date, she had to do it." I shook my head. That wasn't quite what I wanted to say, but it was as close to expressing how I had felt as I could do. "I'm guessing, of course. She might have had motivations I don't understand. Maybe she was a man magnet."

I remembered my last argument with John. I could still visualize the bewildered look on John's long, handsome face. "I don't understand," he said. "You say you want something more but you can't tell me what you want."

I wasn't sure how to explain. I was tired of my placid, ordered existent. It was unfair and I knew it. John had done nothing but love me as well as he could. How could I ask him to be passionate about me when I didn't feel passionate about him? I wasn't young and if I was going to get divorced and re-enter the social world, I had to do it now. But what if I did and no one noticed me? I was in my late forties, and I wasn't the sexy babe I used to be. There was a chance we'd get divorced and I'd be alone. Did I stay with John because I was afraid of loneliness? Or did I love him? Is that what love is, over time? Is it merely the acceptance of the other person?

I couldn't articulate any of those things to John because they were all, ultimately, insulting to him. That day we argued I said, "John, I want to try life without you. It's not a lack or a fault on your part."

He had stared at me, hurt and anger so evident in his dark gray eyes. "I have to go to work," he finally said quietly.

I stood there, glaring at him. He leaned against a counter in the kitchen, his tall, long body dwarfing everything around him. I was in the doorway that separated the living room from the kitchen. We had talked for hours and nothing got resolved. "Go to work, John," I said tiredly.

"Will you be here when I come home?" His voice was so even and calm. I wished, just once, that he would grab me, shake me, or yell. But he was always so gentle and reasoned. Did he ever want to yell? Did he ever feel that intensely about anything? His job required that he be calm, but didn't he ever want to feel out of control?

I turned away from him. After a few minutes, I heard him say, "Good-bye, Gem. I love you." The door closed and I heard his car leave the garage.

And that was the last time I saw him.

"I think she talked to Patty about it. She acted odd as soon as Diane left me."

I blinked, surprised to see I was still driving the car, Dan was next to me, and we were still on the road. The memory was so intense that I checked the back seat to make sure John wasn't there. "Patty? That's your daughter? I doubt if your wife would talk to your daughter. She probably mentioned it to your son and he mentioned something to his sister."

"Why?"

"Daughters tend to be critical about mothers who break up marriages." I glimpsed his startled expression as we slowed to pass through another town. "The divorce didn't affect only you and your wife. Your wife broke up a family. And I've seen how grown daughters can act." I sighed with relief at the road sign ahead.
Tangle Butte, 5 miles
. "I'll bet your daughter's the one who's trying to get you matched with someone, isn't she."

"How did you know?" he asked, his voice dry.

I grinned. "Women enjoy setting up single men. I don't know why, but when married couples get divorced, all the previous friends try to get the husband a date. Somehow the wife is left out of the equation. Maybe it's because women think men are helpless and can't get a date on their own."

"They wouldn't be far from wrong. I suppose that pissed me off, too. I think my wife was dating the lawyer she worked for."

For an instant, I felt as though I was dipped in ice. My hands got slippery on the steering wheel. Diane was dating Michael? "Why do you say that?" I managed to ask.

"Patty mentioned it once. I can't remember exactly what she said, but I got the impression Diane was dating someone she worked with."

I kept my eyes straight ahead. "Too bad you don't know who that was. Maybe he could tell you what was affecting her. I've been thinking about it and it makes sense to me that maybe she's the reason the fire was set in the first place."

"I suppose that's possible." Dan's voice was so non-committal it was skeptical.

I slowed as we came around the curve near Donny Hopkins' farm. I had driven this route a hundred times in my youth, coming home from parties in the Hopkins' farm fields. I could do the remaining four miles blindfolded. "I mean, the child probably had nothing to do with it." We drove past the old Lawson place, a large square farmhouse on the right side of the road. If what Mom said was true, the Chief of Police and his new wife lived there now.

"That's true," Dan agreed. "It's not the kid that bothers me. Not that way, at least."

"What do you mean?"

"The puppy bothers me."

I slowed as we drove over the bridge that spanned the Tangle River, winding around the north side of town. "The puppy? Why?"

"The building didn't allow pets. Why was the puppy there?"

My mouth went dry. I knew why, of course. Paul had told me. The puppy was a way to lure the child inside. Sweat broke out on my face.
Monsters
, I thought. "I have no idea." I slowed the car to the requisite twenty-miles per hour as we entered the town. "Here we are. The bustling metropolis of Tangle Butte, Minnesota. The butte is on the south side of town."