Gilt (5 page)

"Not if Michael has anything to do with it," John whispered harshly. "I had my doubts about him and Paul."

I bit my lip to keep from asking the questions I longed to blurt. I turned my focus to Paul. "What's all this about Dan Steele calling in the FBI?" From the corner of my eye I saw Michael lean forward then suddenly lean back, as though trying to appear casual. "The FBI doesn't have jurisdiction, do they? Was a Federal crime committed?"

"Of course not," Michael snapped. "Why would you think that?"

John stared past me at Michael. "Ask him why he's so worried. Ask him why he cares."

I blinked in surprise. "Michael, why are you so worried? What do you think they'll find?"

"It doesn't matter what I think. They've called in the FBI. An agent is on his way here now. Who knows what might be raked up?"

Bing Crosby's
Pennies from Heaven
chimed from my purse, a sign that my mother and my iPhone were trying to contact me. "Sorry. I need to take this. My aunt has been sick and my mom said she'd call and update me." I fumbled the phone from the side pocket of my bag and opened the case, peering at the screen. Yep. There was my mother's smiling face in the photo taken last Christmas.

"Hey, Mom," I murmured, pushing away from Paul and Michael and meandering toward the bookcases. John started to follow me but something Paul said made him pause and turn back to the two men. I was happy not to have him near me. I don't know what unnerved me more: that he was there or that I was accepting his presence with such calmness.

"How are things?" my mother asked.

I pulled a book at random off a shelf.
Kings and Queens of Seventeenth Century England.
I stuffed it back among its fellows. "Good. How about you?"

"Same old same old. Are you still planning to come this weekend?"

I closed my eyes, imagining my mother, Penny Atwood, sitting on her chintz couch and staring through the window at the oak tree in the front yard of the family home in Tangle Butte. It was only ninety miles to the south, so it was probably raining there, too. "Weather permitting."

"You don't have to," Penny said immediately. "I'm perfectly fine here."

We had this conversation at every holiday for the fifteen years since my Dad died. Penny was anxious that I not feel obligated. I was anxious for Penny to know that I didn't feel obligated. "I know you're fine," I said patiently. "I enjoy spending holidays with you. How are Sam and Jimmy?"

My gambit worked to divert her attention. My mother filled me in on my younger brother, Sam, and his new job, after which she gave her opinion about Sam's daughter's new boyfriend. Mom was always ready to express an opinion about the love lives of her offspring, whether she knew the love interest or not. She moved on to my other brother, Jimmy, who had recently started working as a security guard at a Las Vegas casino.

I peeked through the bookcase to check on Paul and Michael. They didn't appear to miss my presence but were talking intently, heads almost touching across the table. John leaned near, listening. If it hadn't been so surreal, I would have laughed. The Tall, the Dark, and the Handsome were together again--sort of.

"He's forty-five years old," Penny complained. "You'd think he would settle down and get a real job someday. I'll bet his girlfriend's a stripper. You know he isn't the sharpest tack in the box when it comes to women."

I nodded in silent agreement. Jimmy was three-times divorced, with each marriage shorter than the last. And then there was Sam, married for twenty years with three kids. We had all drifted away from our Midwest roots, with Jimmy going west, Sam going east, and me moving north to the Twin Cities. Our mother was like a lightning rod in the center of the country that collected information and disseminated it to everyone at all corners of the U.S.

"Well, that's not why I called. I took Portia to the doctor and they ran tests. The doctor seemed concerned."

"She's ninety years old, Mom." Aunt Portia was my father's older sister. Portia and Penny were fast friends as well as sisters-in-law. "They're bound to find something wrong."

"I realize that, dear, but it's worrisome," Mom said. "I don't like her all alone on the farm. Maybe when you come home you can talk to her, see if she'll hire a live-in nurse."

"Doesn't she lease the land? Doesn't someone farm the field near the house?" I checked titles on the shelf nearest me.
Europe on the Cheap: Where to Go, What to Know
. I moved on. I doubted if travel in Europe was in my immediate future.

"Bob Newton leases it, but I don't know if he's there every day. Even if he is, he doesn't come to the house. I think someone should be with her, checking on her."

"I suppose you're right." It would be useless to discuss it with my aunt and I knew it. Portia Winslow was determined to live life on her own terms and that didn't include having a babysitter be with her around the clock. Every time I visited, Penny urged me to suggest the live-in help idea and whenever I mentioned it, Portia ignored the idea. Duty satisfied, we would sit on the porch in good weather or the parlor in bad weather and chat for the rest of the visit while Penny gave me little anxious, encouraging glances. "I'll talk to her about it when I'm home," I said. "But I don't know if it'll do any good."

"Thank you. She always listens to you."

I almost laughed. Portia listened but that didn't mean she would take advice. "When did you take her to the doctor?"

"Yesterday. Portia said she was feeling all faint and woozy. That's not like Portia. Do you know what she told me? She said that she was having an auditor check her financial accounts. She thought something might be wrong."

My mother's sharp turn from discussing physical health to financial health was typical. Penny's mind worked through free association. Fifty-some years of following her convoluted logic had made me a master at navigating the twists and turns of my mother's brain. "Who manages Aunt Portia's finances? Does she bank in town?" I ambled to a new section of bookcase and peered at the titles
. Historical Perspectives on the Prairie.
I continued meandering.

"She was in one of those investment club things with Michael Bennington and a few other folks in town."

"Michael?" I leaned back, peering along the aisle made by the bookcases. Michael and Paul each leaned on the table, their heads close to each other. John stood nearby, watching. They were all such a study in contrasts. How had three such different men become friends?

I realized what I was thinking. Three men? One of them was a ghost. I turned back to the bookcase, struggling to remember what Mom and I were talking about. "I'm surprised," I said lamely. "I didn't know Michael still had connections with people in town."

"He created the club with some folks from town. I'm not sure if that's what has her worried, though. I think it has to do with the land."

"Now what?" I tried to keep my irritation out of my voice but it was hard. Portia owned hundreds of acres of prime farmland that had been handed down through several generations. Since none of the Atwood children inherited the farming gene and none of Uncle Leland's family cared, her land was now a constant worry for the old woman. "I thought she had a plan for what she was going to do." I rounded the bookcase and began to angle my way back to Paul and Michael.

"She did but I think she's worried about it." Penny sighed. "You know how Portia's mind works. She's too clever for her own good sometimes."

Clever or devious?
I didn't voice the question. I tugged a book at random from the row in front of me.
Our Boys at War: Minnesota and the Military
.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Penny asked. "I mean, about, you know, John? Today's the anniversary. That's another reason I wanted to call."

I jammed the book back onto the shelf and headed to the table. "I'm fine."

"I worry about you, honey. Even though it's been two years, it seems like you haven't really gotten on with your life. Surely by now you must be thinking about the future?"

"I have, Mom. Trust me." I knew I had to nip this conversation in the bud.

"Are they having any sort of ceremony?"

Damn. How do I get around this?
I was a notoriously bad liar and Penny would sniff out prevarication like a bloodhound on the trail of a jailhouse escapee. "I don't know. I suppose they'll mark it somehow at the station." I saw Michael watching me. His mother played bridge on a weekly basis with my mother. If I didn't tell Penny, someone else would. "They're investigating the fire that killed John."

"Investigating? Didn't they do that after he died?" When I didn't reply, she prompted, "Didn't they?"

"Paul said the FBI was called in. They think John was involved in setting the fire."

"John? That's ridiculous. Can't the local police handle it?"

"I'm not sure. I'm meeting with Paul and Michael about it now."

"This makes no sense whatsoever." Penny's emphatic voice was starting to echo my anger. "John was an exceptional fireman. Why would someone think he was involved in what happened? He didn't benefit from it. Good heavens, he died!"

"Paul said someone would be investigating John's health, to see if there was any reason for him to want to kill himself." I hurried on, my words tumbling over each other. I didn't want to think about John's mental health on the day he died. "They're checking his finances, too. They wanted to see if I benefited from his death in any way, so they'll be subpoenaing my bank account information. Paul warned me."

"Your bank accounts?" Penny was almost sputtering now. "You don't have any untapped wealth sitting there. That's insane. None of this makes any sense, Genny. Who gives anyone the right to do this?" She paused. "Wait a minute. You said you're meeting with them now?"

"We're at the library. Paul wanted to meet to talk about it."

"Then I'll let you go. Should I talk to Darryl Brody?"

"Darryl who?" I nodded to Michael, who gestured, urging me forward.

"He's the county attorney here in town. His father and your father used to play poker together. Maybe he can give us advice. I'll call him for you. I wonder if you can sue someone for slander." Mom hesitated. "Of course, Michael could tell you about that. But I'm not sure...Portia said she was worried about Michael. I'll call Darryl to be sure then I'll call you back later tonight or tomorrow. Maybe by then I'll know the results of Portia's blood tests. A dizzy spell isn't like her. Don't worry, dear. I'm sure this is all a big mistake."

"I'm sure," I agreed lamely. "I'd better go, Mom. Michael and Paul are waiting."

"Say hello for me."

"Will do." I joined the two men and resumed my seat at the table, turning off the phone. "Sorry. Aunt Portia has been ill."

Michael nodded sympathetically. "My mom mentioned something about that."

"I didn't know you were in an investment club in town," I said, pulling my notebook toward me. I jotted a note to myself
: Aunt Portia. Illness. Investments? Club? Land?
I looked at Michael, who was staring at the notebook, a frown on his face. I jotted another note.
Slander?
"I'm going to Tangle Butte this week and staying through the weekend for the Fourth. Is there anything you want me to drop off for you at your Mom's?"

He shook his head. "Nope. I'll probably get there sometime this summer. Genny, about this Dan Steele guy. How did you meet him?"

"Completely by accident. He was at the cemetery, I was at the cemetery." I remembered Dan's T-shirt. "He belongs to the same gym as me, but I don't remember seeing him there when I've gone."

"I didn't know you joined a gym," Michael said.

"I joined Northwest Fitness a year ago."

"Northwest?" Michael injected a wealth of disdain into the word. "Why not join Bally? It's got a better facility."

"And it costs more. You forget I'm watching my budget." I almost bit my tongue when I said it, not wanting to rehash the same old argument with him. "Northwest is convenient for me. The Bally gym is miles out of my way, on the other side of town."

"I still don't understand why you quit your job," Michael said. "You were making good money there."

I didn't bother trying to explain again. When John died, I had to get away from the constant sympathy of my co-workers at Lerner Software, where I was a senior software designer. I quit within a few months of John's death and used his insurance money to pay off the mortgage on our house. I now worked part-time as a receptionist/office manager at the local veterinarian's office, job-sharing with two other women.

"I needed a change," I said for what seemed like the hundredth time. "My job covers my health insurance and living expenses and I have a good retirement fund already set aside. It's all I need." It was a frugal life but one that suited me. Neither Michael nor Paul understood that, each of them always questioning me, subtly or otherwise, about my financial status. As always, I changed the subject. "Why is the FBI investigating the arson? They don't have jurisdiction, do they?"

Michael re-crossed his legs, this time left over right, once again making sure the crease wasn't disturbed. "I asked a friend of mine at the courthouse. He said they were verifying the insurance on the building where the fire occurred."