by J. L. Wilson
I thought I sensed faint disapproval in his voice. I could imagine some corporate attorney in a high-rise New York building sneering at Bell’s obvious romanticism for assigning me the rights to his app. “What kind of information?” I asked around a bite of food.
“This is great,” Bell said, wolfing down his casserole. He ate like a starving man. He probably didn’t get much home cooking unless he did it himself and I doubted that. Bell wasn’t much of a cook, or at least he hadn’t been.
“Glad you like it,” I said. “It’s easy to do.” I realized the attorney was still talking. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I said I assume you want the monies direct deposited, so I’ll need bank routing numbers and so on. I’ll send you a packet of information and once you’ve filled out everything and signed it, we can get the ball rolling. T.K. insists on doing a lump sum payment for the past five years of royalties, but hereafter you’ll receive a deposit every month. Of course, that money won’t be for the current month but for several months previous. App stores are notorious for lagging behind in their royalties.”
Whatever. Bell was selling WDD for .99, so the royalties probably came to a few hundred bucks or so a month. Well, that was a few dollars I wouldn’t object to having. “What kind of royalty percentage is standard for apps?”
Bell wiggled his eyebrows. “Lousy,” he muttered.
“Well, there’s what’s standard, then there’s what T.K. Bell can get.” The lawyer laughed, a big hearty sound and I revised my mental image of a scrawny Scrooge character to more like Burl Ives or someone equally rotund. “T.K. gets a twenty-percent cut of every sale. And he gets free promo at least four times a year. Wendy Darling has done very well.”
It was odd to hear my family nickname bandied about by a stranger. “I told Bell he didn’t need to share with me.” I glared at the miscreant in question.
Bell stood, holding his plate. “Do you want more?”
I shook my head and took a bite of the casserole. It was pretty good for something I just tossed together at the last minute. Bell vanished into the kitchen as the lawyer said, “Oh, he’s not sharing. He’s assigning all rights to you. That reminds me. Do you have a lawyer? You probably should have someone review the contract.”
Assigning rights to me? Holy crapola. I wonder what that meant. I mentally reassessed the amount I might receive in royalties and upped it by a few hundred. “I have a family lawyer here in town who’s settling my mother’s estate. I’ll ask him if he can do it.”
There was a slight hesitation on the other end of the phone. “I don’t mean to be disparaging, but handling a detailed software contract might be beyond the scope of a small-town lawyer.”
I grinned at his ignorance. “They handle multi-million-dollar farm deals on a regular basis. I think he can review it. If he can’t, he probably knows somebody who can.” I gave the lawyer Ted Otts’ name, address, and phone number, which was jotted on the notepad I habitually carried with me. “Just send everything to him. He can look through all the legal papers and I’ll fill them out with his approval.”
“I’ll fax a copy immediately then courier the originals overnight so your lawyer can review them and there won’t be any delay in signing. I know that T.K. is anxious to have this all done immediately. The initial amount might be a bit surprising for your bank, so you may want to discuss it with your account manager.”
Account manager? I almost laughed aloud. I kept a two-thousand dollar checking account balance and six-thousand savings balance at my bank in Des Moines. Everything else from my eighty-thousand a year salary was used to pay my mortgage and expenses and whatever was left over was funneled into my 401K or IRA so I could, hopefully, retire before I was too old to enjoy it. “I don’t have an account manager at the bank. What kind of figure are we talking about?”
“Well, as I said, the initial deposit will be for back royalties for the five years WDD has been on the market.”
“Hmm?” I looked at the kitchen. Bell leaned in the doorway, watching me, his plate in his hand with a big dollop of casserole in the middle.
“Two-hundred-fifty-thousand. Give or take ten thousand.”
My mouth dropped open. “Wha—?” I stammered.
“Sales have dropped off slightly, but I think you can expect a minimum of two or three thousand a month for the foreseeable future.”
“Seriously?” I asked the lawyer. I looked at Bell. He smiled smugly.
“Oh, yes. I know T.K. is planning a follow-on app, too, for Wendy Darling in college. That promises to be a huge seller. I’m sure you’ll have a percentage of that, too, since it’s a derivative of the app you have rights to and it uses the same characters.”
He continued talking, but it sounded like blah blah blah to me. Bell came back into the room and sat down. I handed him the phone. “Why didn’t you tell me I’ll be rich?”
Bell took the phone. “George? It’s me. I think you’ve stunned Wendy. She can’t talk and that never happens, so she must be in shock.”
I whapped him on the arm. “Hey.”
He fended me off easily and pointed to my plate. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. George, she’s right. I think you can trust the lawyer here to handle the details. I know him and he’s good at what he does.”
I tuned him out, eating mechanically while I tried to envision an extra two thousand dollars a month. Holy crapola. It was mind-boggling. I could pay off my condo with the lump sum payment. If I combined the app payments with my salary, I could probably retire in five years, if not sooner. Heck, I could probably retire now if I lived somewhat frugally.
Holy crapola.
I realized Bell had ended the call and was watching me. My happy daydreams began to dissipate when I thought through it all. I set down my fork and stared at him. “Bell, I can’t take your money.”
“Why not?”
“It isn’t right.”
He continued eating, unconcerned. “You act like it’s illegal or something. It’s not blood money. It’s all legit.”
“But I didn’t do anything to earn it.”
He was quiet for a minute then pushed his plate away and picked up his coffee mug. “I’m disappointed, Wendy. I didn’t think you cared so much about what people think.”
“What? It’s not that.” I pushed my plate away, too, even though I was still hungry. I couldn’t eat and focus on being rich all at the same time.
“I heard what you said to Billy Jukes, the reporter. You talked about being a kept woman. Are you afraid that people will think I’m buying your love?”
My cheeks got hot. “It’s got nothing to do with that. I don’t care what people think. I haven’t lived here for decades. What do I care?”
“Then what is it?” When I didn’t answer immediately, he said, “It’s just money.”
“Spoken like a man who has more money than God.” I was angry that I was so happy to get so much money. Money represented freedom to me. Bell couldn’t understand that.
He looked embarrassed, like he could read my thoughts. “I didn’t set out to get rich. I just wanted to have fun and write programs, like your dad and I did. It was all just good timing and good luck combined with my talent.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
I couldn’t argue with that. Bell rode the dot.com wave and he sold his company before the bubble burst for a very good profit. Then he got in on the ground floor of app development. A few of his products had been the forerunners for some of the most successful apps ever.
“I’ve never seen that much money in one place,” I said. “It’s just a surprise.”
He rolled his coffee around in his mug, looking at it and not at me. “I’m not trying to pry, but what about your mom’s estate? Surely there’s something there.”
“Dad’s illness drained most of their savings. After he died, Mom got by on what was left of her savings and Dad’s social security. She would never take any money from me. She said she was doing okay.”
> Bell looked thoughtfully into his coffee mug. “I guess that explains why you only have about one hundred and eighty thousand in your 401K.”
I glared at him. “What don’t you know about me? I suppose you had a detective researching me, too?”
He avoided that question by saying, “The only thing I don’t know is what it will take to convince you I’m sincere.”
“I know you’re sincere.” I stood and picked up my plate, my half-eaten breakfast now cold. “I’m just not sure about your motives.”
“My motives?” He looked honestly surprised.
He looked so clueless I decided to mess with him a bit. Two could play the Surprise Game. I leaned over and kissed him so hard I thought I heard his heart stutter. “Motives.”
“Love,” he stammered, face upraised to me.
“Or nostalgia?” I countered. “Come on.”
“Huh?”
“We need to go to the bank.” I headed for the kitchen. Bell scrambled to his feet and followed me. “It got better later, you know,” I said. “For Mom. She was able to pay off the mortgage when a cousin died and—” I stopped suddenly and turned.
Bell ran into me, jumped back then looked anywhere but at me.
“Bell?” I advanced on him.
He edged past me and set his plate on the counter near the sink. “I admit it. I paid it. It was the least I could do. I owed your father for all he did to get me started.”
I whirled and went to the sink, setting my plate into it. I had a hard time not throwing the plate at him. “Damn it, Bell. Am I going to be obligated to you for the rest of my life? Am I?”
He grabbed my arm. “It’s only money,” he enunciated. “I borrowed from you to design the app. It’s only fair that I pay you back.”
“You didn’t borrow from me—”
He cradled my face in his hands, warm on my cheeks. “Did you cry when your boyfriend hurt your feelings? Did you and a friend spend all day shopping for your prom dress at a consignment store in Des Moines? Did you and your girlfriends go out and TP somebody’s house? Were you on the debate team? Did you work on the yearbook?” His eyes were like lasers, extracting memories and feelings long forgotten. “Did you—”
I put my finger on his lips. “Okay, okay. I earned it.” I moved away from him and busied myself with covering the casserole and tucking it into the fridge.
“I’ll probably end up paying you a consulting fee for Wendy’s College Days, which I’ve just started to program.” He winked at me. “Maybe we can relive a few old memories while we’re at it.”
My face got hot at the knowing look in his pale green eyes. My Wendy’s college days had occasionally been R-rated. I turned to the sink to rinse the plates, using the action to avoid looking at him. “You know what this means, don’t you? I can retire. Like, now, probably.”
“Wow. If you’re retired, then you’ll have plenty of time to consult with me, won’t you? Maybe we can do some traveling. And don’t forget I want to build that house. I was thinking I’d buy Jamie Lim’s old farm. Tear it down and build something there.”
“What? That’s crazy. Why would you live in Kensington?” I looked at him over my shoulder while I stacked dishes into the dishwasher.
“Why not?” When I started to protest, he overrode me. “It’s not far from Iowa City, Cedar Rapids, Des Moines, or the Quad Cities—all the biggest cities in Iowa. It’s a four-hour drive to Chicago, a five-hour drive to Kansas City or Minneapolis if I want a bigger city. I can fly my plane here or take the train just about anywhere in the country. It’s the best of small town and big city.” He looked around the old-fashioned kitchen from his place in the doorway. “I’m tired of smog and traffic jams and earthquakes. I want to come home, Wendy.”
The simple sincerity in his voice made me tear up a bit. Heaven knows, I knew how he felt. Des Moines wasn’t a metropolis by any means, but there were times when I absolutely hated the traffic, the congestion, and the noise. I turned off the coffee pot and looked around the room for any stray dishes to clean. “Jamie Lim’s old house is probably a wreck. Is anybody living there?”
“Nope.” Bell leaned against the doorframe, watching me act domestically. “I checked on it. Somebody owned it for twenty years or so, but now the buildings are empty. The land is leased for farming.”
“If the house and barn have been vacant then you probably will want to tear it down.” I dried my hands on the kitchen towel. “Ready to go?” I looked toward the front door. “I suppose we’ll be followed, won’t we?”
“Nope.” Bell put an arm around my shoulders and led me to the back door. “I’ve got a deal with them. They leave us alone in town and I report in once a day and give them a story.”
“What kind of story?” I grabbed my purse from the small side table near the door. “Athos, take care of things while I’m gone,” I called out. The cat didn’t bother to reply. He barely looked up from his spot on the couch.
“The kind of story reporters like.” When I shot Bell a reproving look, he added, “Nothing untrue. Just that we’re getting reacquainted and I’m helping you with the details following your mother’s death.” He gestured me ahead of him and we emerged into a gentle rain.
“Nothing about romance or stuff like that?” I asked suspiciously while I scrambled into his SUV.
For an answer Bell handed me a manila folder. “You might find this interesting.”
“What’s this?” I opened the folder, finding a sheaf of files inside.
“It’s a copy of the police report about Peter’s death. Or his supposed death.” Bell backed the SUV out of the drive.
I noticed a car sitting across the street. “Is that them? The reporters?”
Bell nodded. “I can’t stop them from taking pictures. The good thing is that the weather is so lousy, they can’t really get anything good.” He drove slowly past the dark blue sedan. “Must be a new one. I don’t recognize him. I think they’re taking turns. Or maybe we’re already old news and they’ve sent in the B-team.”
I opened the folder. “How did you get this? Aren’t these things confidential or something?”
“Oh, I know a guy who knows a guy.” Bell shrugged.
I skimmed through the photocopies of forms, most of them composed on typewriters given the uneven quality of the ink density. There was the dental chart, the small rounded squares of teeth with assorted markings on them denoting fillings, I suppose. Several pages were full of pictures, hard to decipher in the rainy daylight coming into the SUV. “What’s this?” I muttered, peering closely at what looked like a tangle of sticks and muck.
Bell glanced at the picture. “The body.”
“Yuck.” I shoved the page to the bottom of the stack and focused on a one-page summary, signed with a sprawling signature at the bottom of the page. Words jumped out at me. “…followed the tracks to the river, which is approximately a quarter-mile to the south…distraught after arguing with other students…mother stated he was depressed and…”
I closed the folder. “I assume you’ve read everything here. What’s the bottom line?”
“I’m not going to tell you what I think. I want you to read it and tell me what you think. There are few things in there that just don’t add up.” He turned onto Main Street. “That’s one reason I wanted to go to the bank with you. I think your mother might have some answers.”
I stared at him, not bothering to hide my shock. “That’s crazy, Bell. What could she know about it?”
He parked a few slots away from the Farmer’s Mercantile Bank. “Let’s find out.”
Chapter 6
“What are you saying?” I demanded when he turned off the engine. “You’re saying my mother had something to do with Peter’s death?”
“I didn’t say that. I said your mother might have had some information about it. I think that’s why she was asking me so many questions about what happened that night.”
I shook my head before he finished speaking. “I’m sure y
ou’re wrong. If Mom knew anything about what happened, she would have told me. We talked about it a lot while I was recovering from our car accident. I was so sure that I was the cause of Peter’s death. Mom and Dad and I talked about it in the months afterward. I’m sure they didn’t know anything about what happened except what we all knew.”
Bell took the folder from me and tucked it into the console, which was large enough to accommodate a laptop. “We’ll see, won’t we? Come on.” He didn’t wait for my reply, but left the SUV, dashing through the rain to the bank doorway.
“Damn it, Bell,” I muttered, following. I met up with him in the front lobby. The old bank had been replaced years ago by this newer, more modern building, interchangeable with any bank in any town in any state. I missed the teller windows with the metal bars, the marble countertops, and the offices with large oak doors behind which your business was completely private. Now it was a glass-and-chrome modern space, cold and impersonal.
We went to the sign-in desk for the vault and were soon escorted by a young female teller back to the safety deposit boxes. I didn’t bother to inventory the box, but instead just took out a rubber-banded bundle of paper, several spiral notebooks, one flat envelope, two bulky brown legal-sized envelopes and two small square pasteboard boxes. When the deposit box was empty, I signed the forms relinquishing ownership of the box and turned over the two keys, one that Mom gave me long ago and the other the one I found in the dish on her dresser.
“Do you want a bag for all that?” the girl asked when Bell and I emerged into the lobby.
“I’d appreciate it.” I looked at the front window and the rain coming down. “I should have brought one.”
“It’s hard to think of everything when you’re dealing with the death of a loved one,” she said sympathetically. “Your mother was the sweetest woman. I enjoyed talking with her when she came in to do her banking. I’ll get you a plastic bag. Just hang on a second.” She went to the teller area and disappeared into a back office.
“Lightly?” Bell asked, looking at someone behind me. “Is that you?”