Gilt (24 page)

"Hey."

I looked up. Dan peered through the screened wall of the porch. "I've got your homework," I said, gesturing to the accordion folders on the coffee table.

He came inside, sitting in the wicker rocker next to my chaise. His blue T-shirt clung to him with damp spots on his shoulders and under his arms. "Hot outside," he said, pulling it off his chest. "Your mom was right. There are quite a few chores to do around here. I cut off the lowest branch on that tree, but there are others that should be trimmed. It's better not to cut oaks in the summer, but late next winter or early in the spring a few branches on that tree should be cut, so I marked them."

"How do you know so much about it?"

"My daughter's got a college degree in agriculture. There was a lot of talk about oak wilt lately and I heard from her about it."

His words finally registered in my brain. "You climbed the tree?"

"Hmm."

"How?"

"With a ladder. I'm not completely infirm, you know."

I decided not to question his ability. "I'm not good with heights." I was mortally terrified of heights, but I didn't want to admit that, not when I was talking to a handicapped man who obviously wasn't afraid of anything.

"Did your aunt have a handyman?"

"Not a regular guy." I watched Dan pick up the top folder. "Do you really understand all that stuff?"

"Sure." Dan grinned at me, peeking at me from under his lashes as he skimmed one of the dense-looking brochures. "You really don't balance your checkbook?"

I yawned. "Nope. I check my statements online and make sure nobody's ripping me off. Other than that, I really don't care." I frowned. That made me sound like a wastrel, didn't it? Oh, well. Maybe I was.

"Are you okay with me reading this?" he asked, putting down one folder and picking up another one.

I shrugged. "I have no idea what's in there, but if Portia says it's okay, it's okay by me." I yawned again. "I need to take that book to her."

"You need to take a nap."

"I didn't sleep much last night," I admitted.

"What will you do if you inherit?"

"Hmm?"

"The stipulation in her will. You'll have to live here."

I considered that. "She said either Amy or I have to live here. Maybe Amy will want to."

Dan glanced toward the barn, his face thoughtful. "It's not a bad place to live." His gaze shifted to John's notebook, lying on the floor near me. "Did you see his notes?"

Answers flitted through my brain from a simple
Yes
to
None of your damn business
. I settled for the last thought that popped into my head. "Did it seem familiar to you?"

Dan straightened and I knew I had struck a nerve. "What?"

"Is that how you felt when your wife said she wanted a divorce?"

He was silent for a long moment, one hand smoothing over the file still on his lap. "I don't know," he finally said. "I suppose." He set the file on the floor and moved so he sat on the chaise next to my legs. "I don't want to think about that now."

I obligingly scooted over slightly. "What do you want to think about?"

He leaned closer. "You." His lips were barely on mine when we both heard the car. "Damn," he muttered. "Seems like whenever it gets interesting, either someone interrupts us or we're in the wrong place at the wrong time."

I slipped off the chaise and went to the porch door, peering through the cloud of dust the car kicked up on the lane. "What kind of idiot would drive a convertible in Iowa in the summertime?" Through a break in the haze, I had my answer. "Michael," I said in disgust. "What's he doing here? I thought he was coming this weekend."

"Even though he has lousy timing, I'm glad he's here," Dan said, shading his eyes with one hand as he moved to stand next to me. "I want to talk to him." He went outside but paused to look back at me. "Play along with me on this, okay?"

"Huh?"

"Play along." He strode toward the garage and the car pulling in there, his cane leaving small gray dents in the white of the dusty gravel drive.

I jammed my feet into my sneakers and followed. Hot sun bouncing off gravel wrapped around me, adding to the lethargy my indolence had engendered. I yawned again. I was going to need a serious nap, and soon.

Michael emerged from his car like a bronzed god with his sun-bleached hair, lean body, and golden tan shown off to advantage in his khaki shorts and tight golf shirt. "I stopped at your mother's house and she said you were here." His glance took in Dan, the tree, and Dan's blue shirt draped over a sawhorse nearby. "Mr. Steele, wasn't it?" He extended a hand and the two men shook. Michael turned to me. "I was hoping for a chance to talk to you." He glanced apologetically at Dan. "In private."

"I was hoping to talk to you, too," Dan said. "Mrs. Winslow asked me to go through some of her investments and I might have questions."

"She did?" Michael looked so stunned I almost laughed.

"Dan taught business for years," I said. "He knows his way around a financial statement."

Once again that odd mask seemed to settle over Michael's features, turning him from a feckless charmer to a hard-eyed businessman. This time he appeared to have more trouble shunting the mask aside. "What papers?"

"They're on the porch." Dan turned and went back the way we came. After a brief hesitation, Michael followed.

"I didn't think you were coming home until the weekend," I commented.

"Oh, nothing gets done around the Fourth holiday at the courthouse," he said dismissively. "I figured I may as well take a day or two off."

"You're a lawyer, isn't that right?" Dan asked, pulling open the porch door and going inside. He watched as Michael and I entered, but his focus was on Michael, who paused inside the dark threshold as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting.

"I have an office in Edina," Michael said, heading for the coffee table where Dan had left the accordion files.

"I thought it was Richfield," I said.

Dan shot me a warning glance, but Michael didn't see. He was too busy eyeing the labels on the folders. "My address is Richfield but it sounds better if I say Edina," he answered, his voice distracted. "We're close enough to Edina that it doesn't really matter."

Of course it matters
, I thought.
Edina is where the rich people live and Richfield is where the blue collar workers live
. Michael obviously wanted to attract one clientele, not the other. And he was the kind of lawyer the rich Edina ladies would love.

The kind of lawyer ladies would love. My eyes snapped away from Michael to Dan, who had resumed his seat and watched Michael with a cool, evaluating stare. Dan's wife had an affair with Michael. Or did she? I couldn't remember any more who told me what. I could only imagine the emotions that were cycling through Dan at that moment as he watched his late wife's lover. Did he know?

Dan shifted his attention to me. "How about something cool to drink?" He said it pleasantly enough, but I saw the way he tapped his cane with one finger in a sharp, staccato rhythm.

"Lemonade?" I asked, going to the kitchen door.

"How about beer?" Dan suggested with an innocent smile.

I raised an eyebrow. What was he up to? "I'll see if we have some." I went inside and checked the old icebox in the mud room where Portia kept her booze. The room itself was warm because it wasn't air-conditioned, but the fridge held three six-packs of various beer varieties, all cold, along with several excellent bottles of wine. I grabbed two bottles of beer at random, a metal bottle opener, and a can of pop for me and rejoined the men on the porch.

When I emerged they were both examining the files, Dan pointing to something in one of the fat booklets. I put the beer near them and got the letter from Portia's living room table that I had set aside. I read it quickly, skimming past words like
legal action may be needed, advise that our attorney has checked easement law,
and
have your attorney contact us at your earlier convenience.
"Well, that's crap," I said, frowning.

"What?" Dan took it from me, reading it while sipping his beer. "That's odd. What do you think?" He handed the letter to Michael.

A loud rattling made me jump. My phone was vibrating like an angry little bee on the concrete slab under the chaise. As I reached for it, Billy Joel once again began to sing. "Oh, shit," I muttered as I eyed the screen warily.

"Problem?" Dan asked. "Same caller as before?"

"I hope not." John wouldn't call me, would he? I put the phone to my ear. "It's Genny."

"It's Paul, Genny. Who did you tell?"

"Paul?" I could barely hear him, his voice was so hushed. "What's wrong?"

"Paul? Paul Denton?" Michael asked.

I held up a finger for silence as I tried to focus on Paul's voice. "Slow down," I said. "I can't understand a word you're saying."

"Who did you tell, Genny? What did you do?"

"Me?" I sank onto the chaise. "What's wrong, Paul?"

"You must have told someone about our talk!" His voice was low, tense, and he spoke so fast his words seemed to tumble from the phone. "She's gone."

"What? Who's gone?"

"They took her. Candace. She's been kidnapped. Someone took my little girl."

Chapter 14

"Good God," I murmured. "That's insane. Why would someone--" I bit off my words. I knew why someone would snatch Paul's daughter. I remembered what he said, the desperate look on his face swimming in my vision. I closed my eyes as though I could block the memory.

"What is it? What's happened?" I opened my eyes. Dan was near me, his face concerned.

"It's Paul. His daughter is missing." I glanced at Michael and almost choked. He didn't seem surprised, at least until he saw me watching him. Then he put on a suitably stunned expression, like slipping on that mask of his.

"When did it happen?" Dan asked. "Where?"

My eyes widened at his brisk, professional tone of voice. I shivered, and I'm not sure if it was the remembrance that he was a cop or the fact that a cool breeze was eddying toward us from the garage. "I'm not sure. Hold on." I turned my attention back to the phone in my hand. "Paul, when did it happen?"

"Jesus God, don't tell them about it!" Paul's voice was almost a wail. "You're with a cop and a killer, Genny. Don't tell them anything."

My mouth sagged open. "Huh?" I angled toward the porch door, my head bent as I sought a semblance of privacy. "What are you saying, Paul?" I hissed.

"Steele is reporting everything you say and do to the FBI and Michael is responsible for John's death."

"How do you know that?" I whispered. "Wait a minute. How did you know Michael is here, with us?"

"He told me he was coming to see you. He wants to find out what Steele knows. He killed John, Genny. And now he's going to kill my baby girl."

A hand settled on my shoulder. I whirled to face Dan, who had moved silently across the porch to stand behind me.

"What's the problem?" he asked in a low voice.

I peered past him to Michael, who watched us, his face yet another mask, this one of concern. "Paul, I'll call you back," I said.

Dan took the phone from my hand. "Mr. Denton, this is Dan Steele. I'm working with the FBI on the arson investigation into John Carlson's death. Can you tell me what happened?"

Inside the house Portia's telephone rang. Dan had stepped away from me with my iPhone to his ear. Michael was watching Dan, ignoring me completely. I dashed into the house and snatched the phone receiver from the wall in the kitchen. "Hello?" I asked breathlessly.

"Are you okay? I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Penny said.

Trust my mother to jump to conclusions. "I'm fine. I just ran to get the phone."

"I'm going to the hospital to visit Portia. Do you need to me to drop off anything for her? Or are you going to visit her again this afternoon?"

"I don't know if I'll get there or not. She wanted a book from the house. Can you take it to her?" I edged toward the doorway and tried to see into the porch, but the cord on the old phone didn't reach that far.

"Sure, not a problem. Are you sure you're okay? You sound excited."

"Michael's here," I blurted.

"Michael Bennington? Why is he in town?"

"I have no idea. But he's here, now."

"Maybe he knew Dan was interested in you and he decided to stake his own claim."

I stretched as far as I could, trying to peer around the fridge. "I doubt that. Michael has never been that serious about me."

"You never know about men," she said pragmatically. "He probably knows about John."

I almost dropped the phone. "What about John?" I demanded.

"He probably knows you're acting out of guilt, not love."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I forgot about Dan, Paul, and Michael and focused all my attention on the phone. Penny had that
I know what I'm talking about
tone in her voice that always made me defensive.