One Fool At Least (12 page)

Slider grabbed the wheelchair. “Hey, Mike, you want me to wheel you down to the driveway, so we can shoot some hoops?”

“You don’t have to babysit me,” Mike said.

“I’m not, man. Come on, we’re friends, you’re not, like, an obligation or something.” Slider’s face was so earnest it was almost humorous.

Mike forced a smile, but I saw the effort behind it. “It’s cool, Slider. But I feel sort of tired. I think I’m going to rest for a while in my room.” He wouldn’t look Slider in the eye. I wondered if Slider found that as obvious as I did.

“All right,” Slider said, unoffended. “I’ll probably just hang with Molly, then.”

He gave Mike a fake punch in the arm and Mike pretended to wince. Then Slider loped out of the room, leaving Mike and me. “Is anything wrong?” I asked him.

His head jerked up and for a moment he met my eyes. Oh, yes, there was something wrong. “No. Like I said, I’m just tired,” he repeated. “But thanks for asking.”

Slowly he wheeled himself out of the room.

Jack didn’t have
to figure out a reason to call Damian Wilde; Wilde called us, and asked if we would come by his home. I told Jack I didn’t think it was a good idea.

“What if the guy killed Finn?” I asked him in a hushed voice. “Why would we go there and walk into his little trap? That’s crazy.”

Jack nodded, but his face told me the truth. He wanted revenge. My sweet, thoughtful Jack was a different man now, a man whose wife had been kidnapped, and suddenly he was Clint Eastwood. He wanted a showdown, and he wanted it now.

“No,” I insisted.

Jack’s jaw jutted out. “You don’t have to go.”

“The deal was that we did everything together.”

Jack sighed, remembering this. “Maddy—”

“You can go if the police go with you. And if the police are there, I’ll go too.”

This wasn’t what Jack wanted, but he knew a compromise when he heard one. Therefore, Pat made arrangements with the Grand Blue police, and Jack and I drove to the home of Damian Wilde, following Pat’s directions, with the understanding that an officer would be present when we arrived.

The mountains weren’t looming anymore; we were in them. We soon saw the address we were looking for. 1223 Cat’s Tooth Trail. We entered a stately gate and wended our way along a winding, forested drive until we reached the house, a large, sprawling affair that seemed to cling to the side of a hill. My awe was limited by the distraction of my crutches, of which I was fast growing tired. I wrestled them out of the car with me and began sticking along toward the front door. I wasn’t sure what to think of my surroundings. My vibes weren’t serving me well in Montana. My perceptions seemed different here, where every beautiful scene seemed in sharper focus, every breath of air tasted fresh, every breeze seemed mountain-scented. I was a girl who came from farmland, from flatland, and my spirit didn’t seem sure of anything else.

There was a police car in the driveway, an officer behind the wheel and one leaning on the vehicle. He stepped forward when we arrived and nodded at Jack. “Mr. Shea,” he said. We approached the stairs and the entrance door. The officer stood by his car; we could hear the squawk of his radio along with the chattering of something in the trees—a bird or a chipmunk perhaps. To the left of the great edifice knelt a man in a rock garden, weeding.

He stood up as we approached and said, “You’re the Sheas?”

He didn’t have the look of a gardener; his gray hair was too well-cut, his bearing too lordly. “We’re looking for Damian Wilde,” Jack said.

“I’m Wilde,” he told us, with a sudden glance at my crutches.

To my utter astonishment, Jack lunged forward and socked him in the jaw. I’d never witnessed a real punch before, just the ones in old westerns, but it looked like a solid one. Wilde reeled but didn’t quite fall; he held a hand up to his face. His other hand still held a clump of weeds. The police officer had rushed forward, but Wilde had waved him off. He stood there uncertainly, a blue line in my peripheral vision.

I stared at Jack, wordless; he was massaging the knuckles that had met with bone and glaring at Wilde. Wilde himself looked something between angry and regretful around the eyes, but a little smile appeared on his lips. “I understand by that introduction that you are Jack Shea,” he said.

He held out a hand to me. I shifted my crutches and shook it, automatically.

“I’m Damian, Madam, and I’m very sorry to hear of your misfortune. The police were just, uh—discussing it with me.”

“Then why aren’t you in jail?” Jack asked. His anger was cooling now, but not gone.

Wilde looked at Jack for a moment, then nodded. “In your place, Shea, I’d do just what you did. Maybe worse.”

We all stood there for a moment; Wilde contemplated his weeds.

“Don’t you have a gardener?” I asked.

His eyes flicked back to me. “My gardener was fired. For missing things like this.” He held out an innocuous looking plant. “Canada thistle. I’m a fool to yank it, because now the damn thing will grow even more. Goddam root goes ten feet down. I’ll have to get the lawn people out here, and even they won’t be able to kill it.” He glared at the plant. “Agent Orange wouldn’t kill it.” His face reddened. He looked at me suddenly with bright green eyes. “I understand you fell off a plane.”

I laughed out loud at the unexpected transition, and we all stood contemplating each other, uncertain what to do next. Why wasn’t this in the etiquette books?

Finally Wilde flung down the despised plant and said, “Come on inside. You can bring Officer Paralos if you’re afraid I’m a criminal, but I assure you I am not.”

Jack looked at the police officer and said, “We’ll go in alone, thanks.”

Officer Paralos did not look pleased. “I assume there will be no more assaults, Mr. Shea,” he said stiffly. Jack nodded, but said nothing. We turned to follow Wilde.

He led us through an immense black door and a big foyer to a room where everything seemed sized for Henry VIII. A stone hearth in which one could easily roast a buffalo; square, cushioned chairs, any one of which we could all have sat in together; and a giant table, the polished oak surface of which held only a newspaper and a cup of coffee. Two floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the grandeur of Wilde’s own property and a glimpse of curving forestland that covered the Cat’s Teeth.

Before we settled in I peeked down a long hallway and saw a woman walk past—tall, attractive, dark-haired. At first I thought that perhaps she was Ardmore’s girlfriend or maybe a sister I hadn’t heard about, but then she turned and I saw that she was at least fifty, and was most probably Mrs. Damian Wilde. She smiled at me, not knowing who I was, and then she disappeared into another room.

We entered a huge room with a large wooden table at its center on a rug that probably cost as much as my rent for a year. Jack sat me at the table, not waiting for our host. I wasn’t sure this was the man I married, but he was interesting. Jack plopped down next to me, and Wilde, almost reluctantly, sat across from us.

“Why did you have Madeline kidnapped?” Jack said.

Wilde shrugged. “I deny any knowledge of that, as I told the police. It’s a misunderstanding. Yes, I do want to talk to the Cardini boy. No, I did not tell Jim and Randy to steal a girl so we could flush him out. This isn’t the Wild West.”

“Could have fooled me,” I said.

Wilde nodded, wearing a sympathetic expression. “Please tell me if there’s anything I can do to help make up for this unfortunate introduction to Montana. I feel terrible about what they did. But you met Jim and Randy. They’re old fools. They go off half-cocked sometimes.”

Jack and I exchanged a glance. Neither of us believed him, and he didn’t seem to care.

Jack fired again. “Did you kill Finn Flanagan?”

Wilde’s eyes widened; he had been rubbing his injured jaw, but his hand froze in place. “How do you know about—”

“It was in the papers,” Jack interrupted.

“Why would I have any motive to—”

“Because you two were in business together. You were hatching some plan, something your son disapproved of. Sometimes partners turn on each other,” I said.

Wilde paled considerably and his features seemed to sag in on themselves. It made him look old. He rubbed his face, then contemplated us. He seemed to be carefully choosing words.

“No one knew anything about Finn and me. It was—we were—” he stopped, and his green eyes seemed to brighten with a new intelligence. “You’ve talked to the boy. The Cardini boy.”

Jack leaned back in his chair. “I deny any knowledge of that,” he mimicked.

Wilde grunted. Jack’s words were more effective than the punch had been.

“Listen,” he finally managed. “I just want to talk to the boy, before the police do—”

“Why? Did you kill Finn?” I asked.

“You know I didn’t, if you have the boy!” Wilde snapped.

“Then what’s to talk about?” Jack asked.

I stared at Wilde. If he thought we’d talked to Slider, he believed that Slider had corroborated his innocence. But if he hadn’t killed Finn, what was he worried about?

A door slammed somewhere in the house. A minute later Ardmore walked in, regarded all of us, and summoned up a flirtatious smile for me. He seemed, as ever, uninhibited by the presence of a husband. “Well, well,” he said. “Here to confront my old man? You’re a real spitfire, Miz Madeline.”

“Shut up, Ardmore,” his father said.

“Don’t think so, Dad,” he said cheerfully, bending his frame into a chair next to Jack’s. He was holding a big paperback book under his arm: I caught only the words “Bar Preparation.” As in bar exam? I wondered. Ardmore didn’t strike me as the lawyerly type. And if he’d been to law school, why was he delivering pizza? Was Molly right about him putting off his law career just to anger his father?

“So, what’s up?” Ardmore asked.

“These good people are concerned about Mrs. Shea’s kidnapping, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Ardmore nodded theatrically. I sensed that he was baiting his father, rather than us. He flung one jean clad leg over the other and tossed his book onto the big table, then folded his arms. His hair was unkempt, as though he’d been sleeping, or at least reclining.

“And they may know something about the whereabouts of the—of Slider Cardini.”

Wilde watched his son as he said this, his miserable expression returning. He looked sick. His eyes didn’t leave Ardmore. I wondered if perhaps they had been arguing before we arrived.

“Huh,” said Ardmore, scratching his nose.

“You don’t really need to be here, Son,” Wilde said with a smile that seemed forced.

“Nothing much to do,” Ardmore responded. “And Madeline and I are friends. I rescued her from the Bruders, did I tell you that? Not that those old farts posed any threat to her, and they sure as hell weren’t going to hurt me, were they, Dad? Especially after I showed them my gun.”

Wilde’s eyes darted to us and I saw panic in them. Perhaps he thought Ardmore’s comment would somehow link him, Damian, to the crime. But that didn’t make sense… why was he so nervous? Was it because Ardmore had mentioned a gun? A gun… and of course Finn Flanagan had been shot; the murder weapon had not been found.

I studied Wilde again as he contemplated his son and I knew the problem. Ardmore. He thought Ardmore had killed Flanagan. That would explain his willingness to kidnap me (or Molly) to get information; he’d be desperate to keep his son out of trouble. If he found that Slider had seen Ardmore pull the trigger, he would—what? Pay Slider off? Rush Ardmore out of the country? Whatever he did, he wanted to be a step ahead of the authorities. It made sense. It explained his reactions better than if he’d killed Finn himself.

Ardmore, however, didn’t strike me as a man with a sin on his conscience. He slouched easily in his chair, smiling at us all. He seemed to thrive on the discomfort of others. He’d enjoyed my whole scene at the bar, and now he was relishing this. “So, how’s the foot?” he asked me.

“Broken,” I said. “As I told you last night.”

He shook his head, laughing slightly. “You don’t forgive, do you?”

“No,” I said. I shifted my glance to Wilde, who looked away.

“I understand Jim and Randy are getting out,” Ardmore said to his father, obviously trying to cause trouble.

Wilde’s eyes slid toward Jack. “I paid their bail, yes.”

Jack hands clenched. “Why? So they can go after my wife again?”

Wilde shook his head. “They’re very remorseful about the misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding, my ass,” Jack said, his jaw thrust out. Jack never swore. Jack was an English teacher. Jack was gentle and loving. Jack played the guitar. I watched him with the fascination that one might watch a tornado. “You keep your henchmen away from my wife and my family, Wilde, or I swear I’ll be back here with my brothers, and you’ll be forced to face us all.”

He paused, his body tense with anger, and I could sense that he was summoning up something else, anything else, to fling in Wilde’s face. “In the meantime, if those policemen out there don’t do it first, I intend to prove that you were responsible for the death of Finn Flanagan. I’m going to find out what you were up to, and why you’re so worried, and I’m going to share my findings with the proper authorities.”

Not a good idea, Jack
, I thought as he stood up and almost stormed out, then remembered that he had to help me out of my chair.

I was blushing; despite the fact that Jack was probably right, I felt the burden of his rudeness. I looked uncomfortably at Wilde and his son, who was smiling at me.

“Listen, Madeline, you take care now, okay? Let me walk you to your car.”

Ardmore loped after us, asking about our plans. Did we plan to sightsee? Did we plan to shop?

Jack stopped at the car and regarded him with disbelief, pointing theatrically to the police car in front of ours. “Maybe you didn’t notice that we needed a police escort to come here. We plan to nail your old man. If I were you, I’d make sure my dad had a good lawyer.”

Ardmore scratched his head. “My dad has ten good lawyers, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.” His smile, for once, had disappeared.