One Was a Soldier

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “Well!” Roxanne’s voice was professionally upbeat. “If that’s all settled, I’d love to show you the kitchen.”

  “Chief, you still have two women, both working in the same job, both dead within three months of each other.” Eric’s voice was heavy and low. “If Ellen Bain’s death wasn’t the accident we thought it was, that will be our case.”

  Russ looked at Eric steadily. “I’m going to overlook the fact that you’re on suspension and have no business being here. For the moment. You were the investigating officer for the Bain death. Did you uncover anything that indicated her car wreck wasn’t an accident?”

  “No, but—”

  “She tested positive for alcohol in her autopsy, and she wasn’t wearing her seat belt.”

  “She was under the limit. Barely, but under.” Eric sounded defensive. “And she was well known for not buckling up.”

  Russ’s eyes unfocused slightly. “We never had the car checked for mechanical failure.”

  “There wasn’t any need. The accident reconstruction backed up the witnesses’ statements.”

  Russ frowned. Clare held her breath. She knew him. If there was one question to a story, one thread left dangling, he couldn’t resist. He’d go after it.

  Then why didn’t you accept it when he said Tally’s death was a suicide?

  “Okay. Yeah.” He rubbed his forehead. “It couldn’t hurt to dig a little deeper.”

  “Wonderful!” Clare turned toward the Realtor. “Roxanne—”

  He held up one hand. “For the paid professionals to dig a little deeper. Roxanne, do you know where Ms. Bain’s financial records and personal papers might be?”

  “Not here.” She sounded as if she had finally accepted this wasn’t going to be an open house for the future Mr. and Mrs. Van Alstyne. “We cleared the place out after her daughter went off to school. After the owner dies is the best time to show a property,” she confided. “You don’t have to find a spot for all the stuff people live with.”

  “Where did it go?” Russ asked.

  “The furniture that wasn’t sold is being stored in her mother-in-law’s barn. Violet Bain. All the papers and the computer went to Ms. Bain’s brother. He was the executor.”

  Russ nodded. “Does he live around here?” Do I know him?

  “Oh, yes he does. He set that leg you broke so spectacularly a few winters back. He’s Dr. George Stillman, the orthopedic surgeon.”

  * * *

  Will was stretched out on the weight bench in his bedroom, pumping iron, when he heard the doorbell’s muffled chime. He ignored it, concentrating on his balance, his form, controlling the shaking of his too-weak muscles. Lifting without feet to brace against the floor was a challenge. Taking his body back after doing his damnedest to poison it was a challenge. Everything in his life was a frigging challenge.

  He heard his father’s footsteps in the hall. He quickly reset the bar into its cradle and used it to chin himself into a seated position. Dad would give him hell if he saw Will had been bench pressing without a spotter. His father knocked and entered. “Willem? You’ve got a visitor.”

  Will swabbed his face with the bottom of his T-shirt. “Reverend Clare?”

  “Nope. Olivia Bain.”

  Will nearly fell off the bench. “What?” It was a six-hour drive from Geneseo. She must have set out before daybreak to be in Millers Kill now. “What’s she doing here?”

  “She wants to see you, evidently.” Dad tossed him a towel. “Better mop off. You know what they say. Never let ’em see you sweat.” He cocked his head. “Do you need any help?”

  “Uh.” Will’s mind raced. “Toss me a clean tee and pants, will you?”

  “You got it.” His father pulled the clothes off the shelves and draped them over the weight bar. “I’ll keep her company until you get out there.”

  Will lay back on the bench and wiggled his shorts off. He tugged on his baggy pants, curling his hips up, focusing on keeping his balance. He’d never gotten changed on the bench before, and he was damned if he was going to fall to the floor, to be rescued by his father.

  His abs were aching by the time he snapped and zipped. He reversed his curl, sat up, and stripped off his sweaty shirt. He humped himself into the chair, grabbed the fresh tee, and was headed out the door before he had finished pulling it over his head. He rolled down the hallway, his flat pants legs flapping, and he had a moment to wish he had taken the time to fold and pin them, and then he was through the archway and there was Olivia, sitting across from his father, a backpack at her feet, looking—oh, man—even better than she had this past summer.

  “Will!” She jumped up. “I’m sorry I—I wanted to—”

  Dad stood. “You guys want something to eat? Maybe a soda?” Olivia shook her head.

  “No, Dad, we’re fine. Thanks.” Will waited until his dad had strolled out of the living room before rolling closer to Olivia. “What are you doing here?”

  “I had to see you. After we talked last night…” Her gaze went to his chest, his shoulders, his arms. “Wow.”

  “Wow?”

  Her cheeks colored. “I mean, you’re looking a lot better than I expected. After nearly killing yourself.”

  He loved the way Olivia just came out with what everybody else thought but wouldn’t say. “Yeah, well. I figured as long as I was going to hang around in this body, I might as well keep it in shape. Aren’t you missing classes?”

  She sat cross-legged on the sofa. “I couldn’t sleep after we talked last night. I kept thinking about my mom maybe being mixed up with this theft, and then I realized what you hadn’t said.” She looked him square in the face. “My mom’s death might not have been an accident.”

  “We don’t know that. It’s a big jump—”

  “You said you thought your friend’s death was suspicious.”

  “Yeah…”

  “Then my mom’s death was suspicious, too.” She picked up the backpack and rummaged inside. “I have a copy of the police report on her accident.” She handed him several sheets of paper, stapled together.

  “You kept a copy at school?”

  “Yes.” She paused. “You don’t think that’s weird, do you?” She shook her head, and her hair slid over her shoulders in interesting patterns. “Never mind. The point is, they never did an autopsy on her car.”

  “Her car? An autopsy?”

  “Whatever you’d call it. I’m not good with mechanical stuff like that.” She gave him that same direct look again. “But you are.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “It’s at the MacVane brothers’ junkyard. It’s still there. I called them. You and I are going over there, and you’re going to take a look at it.”

  “Me? Olivia, get real.” He slapped his thighs. “I can’t go waltzing through some junkyard, and I sure as hell can’t tear into an engine while I’m sitting in this damn chair.”

  “So you get up on the edge of the hood. You’re not a paraplegic. You told me everything still works.” She blushed again, deeper than before, which made him color with embarrassment … and something else. She didn’t see him as a cripple. When she said he looked good, she wasn’t talking about his health, like everyone else was. She was talking about … him.

  He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Okay.”

  “Really?” Her smile beamed like a laser. “You’ll help me out?”

  You’ll help me out? He felt something twist in his chest, painful and pleasurable. Ever since he had woken up on a flight to Landstuhl, he had heard Can I help you? Now, for the first time in almost a year, he got to say it back. “Yeah.” He smiled a little. “I’ll help you.”

  * * *

  If he had been given free rein in the MacVane Brothers Garage and Junkyard as a kid, Will thought, he might never have signed up for the marines. He’d have been hard-pressed to find anything more appealing than working between the piles of stripped and rusting auto bodies, the brilliant morning sun picking out a
Ford Gran Torino, over there, or a cherry—except for the blown-out rear—’72 Dodge Charger. The beautiful girl with him only buffed up the fantasy.

  The fact she was pushing his wheelchair did not.

  “You’re in luck.” Buddy MacVane strode too quickly through the yard. “We sort out the wrecks into what we’re gonna take care of first and what second, and so on.”

  “Triage,” Will said. Was that an old T-Bird? Damn, it was. The chilly late October breeze carried the scent of steel and oil and mildewing leather.

  “Triage, right. So like I was saying, you two are in luck. ’Cause the last ones we get to are the ones the county sends us that’ve been in a fatal accident. Used to do ’em the other way around, ’cause if it was bad enough to off somebody, they’re usually no good for nothing but scrap.”

  Behind Will, Olivia made a noise. The big man slapped his head. “Aw, Gawd. I’m sorry, honey. I forgot.”

  “Why’d you change your policy?” Will asked.

  “A couple years back we melted down something we got sent by the state police and then it turns out somebody’d been killed in the thing. You know, before the accident. Boy, didn’t they scream blue murder. So now we just let ’em pile up in the back.”

  They rounded a squat industrial shed. “There’s Sonny. My brother. He’s working on your car. We pulled it first thing this morning, soon as you called.” The crumpled Mini Cooper was on its back, beneath a heavy-duty crane. The man digging in the undercarriage looked up at them. He was Buddy’s double, right down to the greasy flannel-lined jacket and the oil-stained, drooping jeans.

  “Hey, Sonny.” Buddy thumbed toward Will and Olivia. “These here are the kids who called. You got anything for them?”

  “Maybe.” Sonny wiped his hands on a rag. He stared at Will. “C’mere and take a look.”

  Olivia raised her hands. “I don’t … I don’t know anything about cars.” Her voice shook.

  Will squeezed her hand before rolling himself forward. “I do, but I can’t get to a good angle to see inside.”

  “Hell you can’t.” Sonny slapped the portable lift next to the crumpled car. “Right here.”

  Will’s face burned. “Look, I don’t know if you didn’t notice—”

  “Sure did. What happened to you, kid?”

  Will wanted to tell the old fart it was none of his damn business, but they’d come here looking for a favor. “IED. In Fallujah.”

  Sonny looked at his brother. “What service were you in, kid?” Buddy asked.

  “Marine Corps.”

  Buddy grinned. He shucked off his stained jacket and rolled his thermal shirt all the way up his arm. An impressively large bulldog snarled from his bicep.

  “You used to be a marine?” Olivia said.

  “No used to be about it, honey. Once a marine—”

  “Always a marine,” Sonny finished. He dragged his oil-spattered shirt up to reveal an eagle-and-trident on his chest.

  “Please tell me you don’t have one of those,” Olivia whispered.

  “So drag your ass over here, marine, and tell me what you can figure out.”

  Cursing under his breath, Will maneuvered the chair next to the lift. There was no way to get on it except flopping forward and then wiggling around like a worm until he could wedge himself into a seated position. With Olivia seeing every glorious second. God.

  “You know, this’d all be a lot easier if you was wearing your prosthetics,” Sonny said.

  Will braced his hands on the undercarriage and peered into the Mini Cooper’s guts. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what the hell would you know about it?”

  A clang caught his attention. Sonny banged the crumpled sheet metal with a crutch. Two crutches. Forearm crutches—like Will had. They must have been leaning against the side of the car. Sonny grinned widely at Will, revealing less than perfect teeth, and shuffled back a few steps. He bent over and lifted the hems of his baggy jeans, looking like a shy girl inching her skirt up.

  Will stared at the two black carbon prosthetics.

  When the world reassembled itself inside his head, Will asked, “What happened?” He looked at Sonny, trying to guess where he might have seen combat. “Vietnam?”

  Sonny shook his head. “Motorcycle accident.”

  “You wouldn’t guess it, seeing as we’re respectable business owners these days, but Sonny and me used to be a wild pair.” Buddy hooted with laughter. Sonny joined him. Will tried to imagine how old he’d have to be, how many years he’d have to let go, before he could laugh like that at losing his legs.

  “Did you have this business to fall back on, Mr. MacVane? After you got out of the service?” Olivia’s clear voice startled Will. He had forgotten she was there.

  “Naw, honey, we started this up after I lost m’legs. Nobody cares how pretty you look if’n you can fix up their cars.”

  “That’s true,” Buddy added. “We done real good. In fact, we got more work than we can handle. We been talking about bringing in a new guy to help out.” He grinned at Will.

  Will stared. His head was buzzing. “Are you—are you offering me a job?” He looked back at Sonny. “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know if I know jack shit about cars.”

  “You tell me. On your honor as a marine. Do ya?”

  Will started to laugh. He couldn’t help it—it was like falling down the rabbit hole and getting interviewed by Tweedledum and Tweedledee. “I do, actually. I rebuilt a Charger and a Camaro. I’ve done work on my friends’ cars. Including my priest’s old kit-version Shelby.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Buddy said. “Can you start next week?”

  For some reason, Will looked at Olivia. She bounced up and down, nodding. “Yeah,” he said. “I can.”

  “Good.” Sonny pointed into the Mini Cooper. “Now tell me what’s wrong here.”

  It took Will a minute to orient himself, seeing everything upside down. He felt like he might float off the lift if he didn’t keep a tight grip on the edge of the car. He scanned the ball joints, the axle, the rotary—there it was. “One of the brake caliper pins is snapped off.”

  “Right.”

  “That can happen in an accident.” Will lowered his voice. “Especially where the car was going downhill out of control.”

  “That’s right, too. Metal stress. Or it was rusted out.”

  “Nobody washes their damn cars in the winter no more,” Buddy put in. “Get their carriages eaten up with salt. Takes three, four years off the life of your car.”

  “My mother went to the car wash every Saturday, year-round.” Olivia looked at the Mini Cooper with loathing. “She loved that thing.”

  “So what caused this caliper to break?” Will asked.

  “Dunno,” Sonny said. “Coulda been a stress fracture. Coulda been somebody who didn’t like your girl’s mama made a stress fracture.”

  “Takes five minutes with a metal saw,” Buddy said.

  “No way to tell,” Sonny agreed.

  Will sprawled across the car’s undercarriage, careless of his dignity and clothes now. “You got a light?” Sonny put a flashlight in his hand.

  “So you’re saying the police report was right,” Olivia said. “It was an accident.”

  This time, Will spotted the brake calipers easily. It helped that the pin was snapped clean off. Just like the brake on the other side.

  “No.” He pushed himself upright. “Two sheared-off brakes are no accident.”

  * * *

  “Ellen Bain’s brother is Trip Stillman?” Russ stared at Roxanne Lunt for a moment before swinging toward Clare. “Isn’t he in your group? Why the hell didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

  “I didn’t know! He never said anything about his sister dying.” Clare waved at the half-bare bookcases in Bain’s living room. “It’s not like there are pictures of him sitting around here.”

  “He did say there’d been a death in the family. Remember?” Eric was trying to be helpful. Russ wante
d to tell him not to bother.

  “Good Lord,” Clare said. “I swear, this is the—” Her phone ringing cut her off. She snatched it out of her pocket. “Clare Fergusson here.” She paused. “What? Oh, Will, that’s wonderful! Your parents will be thrilled! Hang on.” She clapped her hand over her phone. “The MacVane brothers offered Will a job at their garage.”

  “Why is he—” Russ began, but she was back on the phone. “Isn’t MacVane’s the junkyard the town uses?”

  Eric nodded. “Yeah.”

  “What’s Will Ellis doing over there?” He answered his own question. “Looking at the Bain woman’s wrecked car.” He pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Jesus, Eric, do you really think the kid’s going to find something you didn’t?”

  Clare snapped her phone shut. “He did.” Her voice surged with triumph. “Both brake calipers on Ellen Bain’s car were sheared clean off. Sabotaged.”

  * * *

  They cleared out for Trip’s office so fast poor Roxanne didn’t have a chance to give away the house brochure. Clare sprinted for her Jeep, conveniently not hearing Russ’s shouted suggestion that she go back to the rectory. God. In the driveway, Russ stopped Eric before he could get into his SUV.

  “Ride with me. I’ll bring you back here when we’re done.” Russ waited until they were both buckled up in his squad car before he said, “Your suspension’s up on Friday.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you doing, running around like this?”

  Eric shifted in his seat. “I haven’t misrepresented myself, Chief. I’m unarmed, and I haven’t done anything but ask a few questions. I haven’t been collecting evidence.”

  “That you know of.” Russ flicked on his turn signal and pulled away from the curb. “If Will Ellis and the MacVanes are right about that car, it changes everything.” Russ bit back the sour taste in his mouth. They should have found this out back in August. They should have looked deeper. He should have pressed harder. Nothing could have saved Ellen Bain, but maybe—just maybe—they could have made a difference to Tally McNabb.