Suspicions: A Twist of FateTears of Pride

by Lisa Jackson

  Before opening the back door to the undamaged portion of the château, she took one final look at the blackened west wing. “There’s got to be a way to save it,” she muttered to herself before hurrying inside the house and letting the screen door slam behind her.

  Chapter 6

  The following Tuesday evening Sheila decided once again to attempt to assess the damage to the west wing of the manor building and try and come up with a temporary solution to the disrepair. She had spent the entire weekend and the last two evenings cleaning up that portion of the rubble that was not considered evidence in the ongoing police investigation. And yet, for all her efforts, the entire west wing was in shambles.

  The late afternoon sun cast dark shadows on the charred walls of the château that had housed the commercial end of the winery. The living quarters, attached by a covered portico, hadn’t been severely damaged. Sheila looked at the building apprehensively. What would it take to save it? Though parts of the grayish stucco walls had blackened, the elegance of the architecture remained. Several panes from the narrow windows had shattered from the intensity of the heat and a couple of the cobalt-blue shutters hung at precarious angles from their original placement adorning the windows. But the walls of the building had remained intact, and even the gently sloping roof hadn’t sustained too much damage.

  Sheila sighed deeply to herself. Daylight was fading, she had final term papers to grade, and she had to get Emily into bed. Right now she couldn’t spend any more time working on the winery.

  “Emily,” she called in the direction of the duck pond, “come on, let’s get ready for bed.”

  Emily emerged from a stand of trees near the edge of the pond and reluctantly obeyed her mother. When she was within shouting distance, she began to voice her disapproval. “Already? It’s not even nine o’clock.”

  “I didn’t say you had to go to bed; I asked you to get ready,” Sheila pointed out.

  Emily’s large green eyes brightened. “Then I can stay up?”

  Sheila smiled. “For a little while. Right now, why don’t you take a shower and I’ll fix us some popcorn.”

  “Let’s watch the movie,” Emily suggested.

  “I don’t think so—not tonight. You still have school for another week.”

  “But next week, when school’s out, I can stay up and watch the movie?”

  “Why not?” Sheila agreed, fondly rumpling Emily’s dark auburn curls.

  “Great.” Emily ran up the steps and flew through the front door leaving Sheila to wish that she had only half the energy of her eight-year-old daughter. From the exhausting work of the past few days, every muscle in Sheila’s body rebelled. She hadn’t realized what a soft job she had; teaching accounting to college students didn’t entail much physical exercise.

  Sounds of running water greeted her when she finally got inside the house. She and Emily were “temporarily” camping out in the lower level of the house. It was the least damaged. Sheila wondered how long this temporary condition would continue. She had used some of her small savings to have the electricity reconnected and the plumbing repaired, but as to the rest of the house, she was still waiting for the insurance settlement. Fortunately she did have a few dollars left in the savings account, but she was steadfastly holding on to them. After paying the expenses of Oliver’s funeral she had less than a thousand dollars in the bank and hoped to stretch it as far as possible. With the coming of summer, she was out of a job until school started in the fall.

  The interior of the château had suffered from the fire. As Sheila walked through what had been the living room toward the kitchen, she tried to ignore the smoke-laden lace draperies and the fragile linen wallpaper that had been water stained. Several of the broken windows were now boarded, and a fine, gritty layer of ash still covered all of the elegant European antiques and the expensive burgundy carpet. No amount of vacuuming seemed to lift the soot from the interior of the manor.

  The kitchen was in better shape. Sheila had taken the time to scrub it down with disinfectant before painting all of the walls. Even the countertop had been repaired, as the heat of the blaze had loosened the glue and caused it to buckle. The hot corn was just beginning to pop when Emily hurried into the kitchen. She was still soaked and attempting to put her wet arms and legs through the appropriate holes in her pajamas.

  “It’s easier if you dry yourself off first,” Sheila reminded her daughter.

  “Aw…Mom…” Emily’s head poked through the soft flannel material, and her face, still rosy from the warm jets of shower spray, broke into a smile. “It’s just about ready, isn’t it?” she asked, running over to the popping corn.

  “In a minute.”

  Emily stood on first one foot and then the other, eyeballing the kernels as they exploded in the hot-air popper.

  “What were you doing down at the duck pond for so long?” Sheila asked.

  “Talking…. I think it’s done now.”

  Sheila looked up from the pan of butter on the stove. “Talking? To whom? Did Joey come over?”

  “Naw… Joey couldn’t come over…too much homework. Come on; let’s put the butter on the popcorn.”

  Sheila’s dark brows came together. “If it wasn’t Joey, who were you talking to?”

  Emily shrugged. “A man.”

  “A man? What man? Was it Joey’s dad?” Sheila studied her young daughter intently, but Emily didn’t seem to notice. She was too engrossed in fixing a bowl of her favorite snack.

  “If it was Joey’s dad, I would have told you…. It was just some guy.”

  Sheila could feel her face drain of color. “What guy?”

  “Don’t know his name.” Emily replied with all the matter-of-factness of a confident eight-year-old.

  Sheila attempted to sound calm, but the thought of a stranger talking to her young daughter made her quiver inside. “Surely it was someone you know…maybe someone you met in town….”

  Emily shook her dark, wet curls. “Nope.” She began to attack the bowl of popcorn without another thought to the stranger.

  Sheila didn’t want to frighten her daughter. Emily had grown up in a small, Northwest town where there were few strangers and nearly everyone knew each other on a first-name basis. “What did the man want to talk about?” she asked, pretending interest in the dishes.

  “Oh, you know, all about the fire…the same old thing.”

  Sheila felt herself relax. “Oh, so a deputy from the sheriff’s department came by…. He should have stopped at the house first.”

  “Wasn’t a policeman or a deputy.”

  Once again Sheila’s nerves tightened. She turned from the sink and sat in a chair opposite Emily’s. “The man was a complete stranger, right?”

  “Um-hum.”

  “Not a policeman?”

  “I told you that already!”

  “But maybe he was a detective? They don’t always wear uniforms.”

  Emily sighed, and with a concern greater than her few years, looked at her mother. “Is something wrong?”

  “Probably not…I just don’t like the idea of you talking to strangers. From now on you stick a little closer to the house.”

  “I don’t think he would hurt me…if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “But I like to go down to the duck pond.”

  “I know you do, sweetheart,” Sheila said with more confidence than she actually felt, “but from now on I want to go with you.”

  “You’re afraid of something, aren’t you?” Emily charged, her innocent green eyes searching her mother’s worried face.

  “Not really,” Sheila lied. It wouldn’t help matters to scare Emily, but the child had to learn to be more cautious. “But sometimes…it’s better not to talk to strangers. You know that, don’t you? From now on, if you see anyone you don’t know hanging around, you come and tell me, before you talk to them, okay? No one should be on the property while the winery’s shut down, so if so
meone comes, I want to know it immediately. Fair enough?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Then you do understand why I don’t want you to wander off too far from the house when you’re alone?”

  Emily nodded gravely. Sheila’s message had gotten through.

  “Good!” Sheila said, attempting to display a lighthearted enthusiasm she didn’t feel. “We’ll go feed the ducks together tomorrow. It will be lots of fun.” Somehow she managed a confident smile for her daughter.

  Emily continued to nibble at the popcorn while leafing through a math textbook. Sheila got up to clear the dinner dishes and turned on the radio to cover the sudden silence. Nightfall was imminent, and the lengthening shadows made Sheila nervous. She had always loved warm summer nights in the foothills of the Cascades, but tonight was different. She felt alone and vulnerable. The nearest house was over a mile away, and for the first time in her life the remote location of the winery put her on edge. A stranger had been lurking on the property, talking to her child. Why? Who was the man and what did he want from Emily? Information on the fire? Unlikely. Sheila let her gaze wander out the window and she squinted into the dusky twilight. She attempted to tell herself that the man was probably just an interested tourist who wondered why the daily tours of the winery had been suspended. But if that were so, certainly he would have come up to the main building. The entire incident put Sheila’s nerves on edge.

  That night, before going to her room, Sheila checked the bolts on all of the doors and windows of the house. When she finally got to bed, even though her tired body ached for sleep, it didn’t come. Instead she found herself staring at the luminous dial of the clock radio and listening to the soft sounds of the early summer night. Everything sounded the same. Why then was she so nervous and tense?

  Lack of sleep from the previous night made Wednesday unusually tedious. The lengthy hours of teaching distracted students coupled with the forty-five minute drive from the community college seemed more tiresome than it usually was. Thank goodness there were only a few final days of the school year left. Next week was finals week, and after that Sheila could concentrate on the reopening of the winery. By the end of the summer the harvest season would be upon her.

  Emily stayed with a friend after school. Since Oliver Lindstrom’s death, Sheila hadn’t allowed her daughter to stay at home after school because Emily would be alone. In light of the events the day before with the stranger, Sheila was more grateful than ever that she could trust Emily with Carol Dunbar, the mother of Emily’s best friend, Joey. Emily was waiting for her when Sheila arrived, and after a quick stop at the market, mother and daughter finally headed home.

  Sheila had contemplated calling the police about the trespasser, but had decided against it. No harm had been done, and if the man was still hanging around, Sheila hadn’t seen any evidence of him. When he turned up again, then Sheila would alert the authorities, but right now, due to the unsolved arson and the suspicion cast upon her father, the last thing Sheila wanted to do was talk to someone from the local sheriff’s department.

  An unfamiliar car was sitting in the driveway near the house when Sheila and Emily arrived home. Sheila’s thoughts turned back to the stranger and she felt her heart leap to her throat. Trying to appear calmer than she felt, she braked the small wagon to a halt near the garage and tried to pull together a portion of her poise. Who was he?

  “That’s the man I was talking to yesterday, Mom. You know, down at the duck pond.” Emily was openly staring at the individual who was sitting, slump-shouldered, behind the wheel of an old Chevrolet.

  The stranger had been waiting. At the sound of the approaching vehicle he had turned in his seat, pushed back the brim of his felt hat and blown out a final stream of smoke from his cigarette. He tossed the hat onto the front seat as he pulled himself out of the car.

  “Wait here,” Sheila told Emily.

  “Why?”

  “Just for a minute. Stay in the car.” The authoritative ring in Sheila’s voice gave Emily no room for argument. Sheila grabbed her purse and hurried from the car, intent on meeting the man out of earshot of her young daughter. Her gray eyes were cool as she focused on the rather average-looking, slightly built visitor.

  “Ms. Lindstrom?” the man in the worn suit coat asked. He strode boldly up to her and extended his hand.

  Sheila nodded as she accepted the brief handshake. “I’m Sheila Lindstrom.”

  “Anthony Simmons,” he retorted with a shadowy grin. He acted as if the name might mean something to her.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked calmly. The man looked trustworthy enough, but still she was jittery. It was his eyes, light brown and deep set over a nose that had obviously once been broken; they didn’t quite meet her steady gaze. Instead, he seemed to be studying the angle of her face.

  “I hope so,” he replied, shifting from one foot to the other. His face broke slowly into a well-practiced and slightly uneven smile. “I work with Noah Wilder.”

  Sheila couldn’t keep her heart from skipping a beat at the sound of Noah’s name. This man standing before her was a friend of Noah’s? Sheila doubted it.

  “Mr. Wilder sent you?” she asked with a dubious and reserved smile.

  “That’s right. He wants me to look into that fire you had here a while back.” Reading the skepticism on Sheila’s even features, Simmons reached into his back pocket, extracted a wallet and withdrew a white card. He offered it to Sheila. Along with his name the card was inscribed with the nationally known logo for Wilder Investments.

  Sheila kept the card and began to relax. “What is it exactly you’re to do here?”

  Simmons shrugged as if his job were entirely routine. “Mr. Wilder is hoping that I can speed up the investigation of the arson, help clear up the whole mess, in order for the insurance company to pay off on the policy. Didn’t he tell you that I was coming?”

  Sheila hedged. “He did mention that someone might be coming.” Anthony Simmons was not what Sheila had expected.

  The investigator’s smile widened. “Then we’re all set.”

  “For what?”

  “Well, first I thought I’d check over the burned wing of the winery. Didn’t the fire start in the aging room?”

  “According to the fire department.”

  “I thought so. After I’m through poking around the burned building—”

  “Are you sure you should go in there? What about the warnings posted by the sheriff’s department?”

  “I’ve taken care of that.”

  Sheila couldn’t help but be dubious. The deputy had been adamant about the restraining orders surrounding the winery. “You have?”

  “Sure. Don’t worry about it. After I’m done with the building I’d like to take a look at Oliver Lindstrom’s books,” Simmons replied.

  “Wilder Investments has copies of the winery’s records. Didn’t Mr. Wilder give them to you?” Sheila was puzzled.

  Simmons nodded curtly. “I’m not talking about Cascade Valley. I need your father’s personal records.”

  “Why?”

  Simmons let out an exasperated breath. He hadn’t expected any argument from this Lindstrom woman. Usually the crisp white card indicating that he worked for Wilder Investments gained him entrance to the most securely locked doors. But this lady was different. Even her sophisticated looks had surprised Anthony. He tried a different tactic with her. “Look, Ms. Lindstrom, it’s no skin off my nose one way or the other. I just thought that your father’s books might speed the investigation.” He saw a look of doubt cross her gray eyes, and he pressed his point home. “Besides which, those records might possibly clear your dad’s name.”

  “But the police have checked—”

  “They might have missed something. It’s my job to find what the police and the insurance company might have missed.”

  “I don’t know…” But Anthony Simmons could tell that she would give him anything he wanted. He had found her weakness
; he had read it in her startled eyes when he had mentioned her father’s reputation.

  “It’s up to you,” he called over his shoulder as he headed for the fire-damaged wing.

  Sheila hurried back to the car and found an impatient child fuming in the front seat. “Well?” Emily queried.

  “He’s an investigator, sent by Grandpa’s business partners.”

  “Then it’s okay if I talk to him?”

  Sheila hesitated. Something about Anthony Simmons bothered her. “I guess so, but, try to stay out of his way.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s busy, honey. He’s here to do a job and you might bother him. If he wants to talk to you again, I’m sure that he’ll come up to the house.”

  Partially placated, Emily scrambled out of the car. “Then I can play by the duck pond again?” she asked.

  Sheila managed a smile for the eager young face that was cocked upward at her. “Sure you can, dumpling, but not now. Let’s wait until after dinner and I’ll go down with you.”

  For the next few days it seemed to Sheila as if Anthony Simmons was forever underfoot. She couldn’t turn around without running into him and having to answer questions that seemed to have little to do with his investigation of the fire. She tried to tell herself that he was just doing a thorough job, for which she should be grateful, but she couldn’t help but feel that there was more than “leaving no stone unturned” to Anthony Simmons’s overly zealous pursuit of the truth. Maybe that was what kept nagging at the back of Sheila’s mind; she didn’t really believe that Simmons was looking for the truth. He seemed to her to be more interested in finding a scapegoat for the fire. The pointed way he asked the questions, the quickly raised brown eyebrows, and his cynical remarks didn’t live up to the professionalism Sheila had expected. The fact that Simmons had been sent by Noah himself bothered Sheila even more than the short man’s unprofessional attitude.

  Simmons left within the week, and Sheila breathed a long sigh of relief. He hadn’t explained what he had pieced together, and Sheila hadn’t asked. She would rather hear Simmons’s theories from Noah or even Ben Wilder. The less she had to do with a cockroach like Simmons, the better.