by JL Wilson
I put Dan in the room across from the bathroom. I took the room next to him with Portia's room next to me on the north. I put Amy in the room across the hall from me, sharing the bathroom with Portia. When Portia came home, it might be good to have Amy nearby.
I unpacked my clothes, dropping my purse on the bed and stuffing my iPhone into my back pocket. Next I busied myself with finding linens and making beds, pausing once to stare into the yard. Dan stood in the open garage doorway, examining a barbeque grill. His cane leaned against the side of the garage and he had taken off his blue shirt, the dark blue T-shirt tucked into his dark blue jeans giving him an overall sculpted look. The tight shirt showed off his well-developed chest and his muscular, tanned arms. He was so much shorter and stockier than John was. I was accustomed to a man who towered over me, someone tall and lean. Dan was nothing like John.
And yet there was that moment in the library when the two seemed so similar somehow. I tried to recapture the feeling but Dan moved, going back into the shadows of the garage and the fleeting memory vanished. I resumed making beds and setting out towels.
I stood in the hallway and stared at Portia's bedroom door. I hated to go into her space without her there, but she did ask me to do it. Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door and entered the brightly lit, airy room. It was sparsely furnished with a tall four-poster bed, a large dresser, and a writing desk against one wall. A fireplace was set between the two north-facing windows and above it was the shotgun, old TG, the twenty-gauge, that Uncle Leland had taught me and the boys to shoot when we were teenagers. It scared the crap out of me, and I suspect that was the lesson he wanted us to learn--guns were dangerous.
I crossed to Portia's dressing room/closet which smelled faintly of lavender. I knelt on one knee to peer behind the rows of shoes. Yep, the safe was still there, a gray square that sat on squat little feet. I recited the rhyme as I manipulated the lock, breathing a sigh of relief when the heavy door swung open.
Inside were several fat envelopes and four brown accordion folders. I tugged all of it toward me, surprised how heavy the files were. I leafed through the contents, frowning when I saw the official looking documents. I wasn't kidding when I told Dan I didn't bother to balance my checkbook. Anything financial usually made me run in the opposite direction. Well, maybe he could make sense of it all.
I turned my attention to the four envelopes. Each was addressed in Portia's flowery, elaborate handwriting and bright purple ink. Eugenia Atwood Carlson. Amelia Carlson Nimmer. Rebecca Martin Atwood. Michael Bennington. Each envelope was sealed. My fingers itched to open the one addressed to me but I restrained the impulse. If Portia said I could open it, I would. I tucked the envelopes back in the safe and swung it closed, twirling the lock and tucking the shoes into their places. I picked up the heavy files and went downstairs, grabbing John's notebook on the way.
I made a quick detour into the living room and got the novel from the table next to Portia's worn high-back armchair, positioned so she could check through the front window and see the lane and the fields beyond. The book had a lurid cover with bright crimson splotches on it. I grimaced. Why would a woman who lived alone in the country read a thriller novel about a slasher-killer?
I started for the kitchen, arms full before remembering the letter Portia mentioned. I doubled back to her chair and fumbled in the table drawer, finding three sheets of paper that I added to the stack precariously clasped in my arms. I went through the kitchen and dumped the paperwork on the coffee table on the back porch then returned to the house to check the contents of the pantry. As I expected, Portia had already laid in food in anticipation of our Fourth of July picnic. There was enough there to feed an army.
I glanced through the kitchen window as I returned to the porch. Dan leaned against the oak tree, his phone to his ear, idly swinging something in his hand as he talked. It looked like a paint canister. Where did he get that? He kept glancing at the house as he talked, as though checking for me. I wondered who he was talking to.
I yawned, last night's nightmares about Paul and his problems finally catching up to me. I extracted my phone from my butt pocket before dropping onto the wicker chaise lounge and kicking off my shoes. Although the porch faced south, it was bordered by dense maples, so it was cool and shady even in the afternoon's heat. The fragrance of moist earth, mown grass, and a flowery aroma mingled with dust from the porch drifted to me on the breeze. I turned on my iPhone to play movie soundtracks and tucked it under the chaise on the concrete floor, out of the way. With a contented sigh, I leaned back on the cushions and opened the first accordion file.
"Good Lord," I muttered, pulling out booklet after booklet of dense-looking legal and financial mumbo-jumbo. They were probably the official mailings from a stock broker or money manager. I got these occasionally and I always recycled them. Apparently Portia read them, made notations, and filed them.
I set that chunk of printed matter aside and rifled through pages of account summaries, quickly forgetting about reading the details and glancing at the figures at the bottom of the last page of the multi-page documents. Portia's estimate of her wealth was not exaggerated. When she died, Amy and I would be relatively wealthy.
The morbid thought made me shiver. It seemed like every time I turned around, I faced thoughts about death: John's death, Portia's impending death, life after death. I stared at the barn in the distance where sunlight shimmered in little mirages in the dusty driveway. All around me, the Iowa countryside brimmed with life and growing things. I pushed the accordion files to one side and picked up John's spiral notebook.
Each page seemed to be devoted to a different topic. Several pages had rows of figures with abbreviations next to them. Other pages were brief descriptions of the fire calls he went on, with cryptic notes about burn time and point of origin.
"John?" I called softly. "What's in here? What did you want me to see?"
No answer. It really wasn't fair. Why could he pop in when it was convenient for him and not for me? I went back through the notebook again, slower this time, and that's when I found what Dan wanted me to see. Several pages here and there were notes to me, drafts of the letter he had eventually written. The pages were full of rambling discussions of love, bewilderment, hurt, anger.
Did I say John never got angry? Here he did. This was where he let his anger show. This was where he expended his pain and his hurt. I read his words through tear-blurred eyes. Poor John. What a hell I put him through! Even now, years later, I remembered the arguments, the tears, the gut-wrenching feeling of raw emotion. John had absorbed all that and spilled it onto the page, finally culminating in that one reasoned, simple letter that I never received.
I sighed and let the notebook slip away from me, leaning back on the chaise and staring at the shadowy trees around me. What would have happened if John didn't die? Would we have stayed married? Would we have divorced? Did I really have the courage it took to walk away from my marriage?
A song caught my attention, playing softly on my phone. Only Make Believe, from Showboat. I smiled sadly. Was that what I had, a make-believe marriage? Even as I thought it, I dismissed the idea. I loved John as well as I could. That was really the only truth I remembered. It didn't matter if I would have divorced him or not. He was gone and it was time to consider my life now and who I was now, not who I was then. I had the feeling that a deep meaning, an existential turning point, was near, barely out of my reach. "John?" I called softly. "Are you there?"
A warm breeze blew over me, bringing smells of earth and greenness and a faint hint of rain. No smell of smoke or soap. He wasn't there. I sniffed again, drinking in the verdant aromas around me. For an instant, I understood how Portia felt. The land was living, an integral part of the world around us. It would be desecration to cover it with houses and roads.
"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 co
ffee 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.