by J. L. Wilson
“Did you see anything in the journals about Peter?”
“Your father had random notes about a lot of us—Totts, Peter, me, you, your brothers. I’ll go back and look at them closer. And he had pieces of software code he worked on.” Bell looked off into space then said, “There was one entry that caught my eye. I need to re-read it.”
“We need to re-read it,” I corrected. “Maybe I’ll see something you missed.”
“You’re convinced now, aren’t you? You think Peter is alive, too.”
“I’m keeping an open mind. Oh. That reminds me.” I fished into the sack and pulled out the slip of paper from Aunt Jane with her loopy writing on it. “Jane told me to give you this. When I mentioned that you thought something was fishy with Mom’s heart attack, she jumped on the idea. She said she did some research.”
Bell stared at the paper, frowning while he tried to puzzle out the word. “What’s that letter?” He held it out to me.
“I think it’s a c. Or maybe it’s an a. It’s hard to tell.”
A look of dawning understanding came over his face, reminding me of the old days when he would be working on a software program and then—bang—he had it debugged. “It’s cocaine.” He pulled out his phone and started typing.
“What?” I took the piece of paper and stared at it. I suppose it did sort of look like cocaine if you squinted just right.
“Cocaine. There were stroke victims at the hospital where I worked. They were coke addicts. It could cause strokes or”—he stared down at the phone screen—“it can cause a heart attack even in a healthy person. Your mother had cardiac problems, didn’t she?”
I nodded. “Arrhythmia,” I said. “She took medication for it.”
“This article says that cocaine can cause arrhythmia and can constrict blood vessels to the brain.” He tapped his phone.
“Stroke.” My mind was spinning, sorting through everything mentioned in the last few days. “Someone was with her right before her heart attack.”
Bell looked up from his phone, his face taut with anger. “Someone could volunteer to get her a glass of water, or a cup of tea. If they brought cocaine that was already dissolved, they could drop it into a drink and a few minutes later, your mother—” He took a deep breath.
“But why? I keep coming back to that. Why? After all this time, why now? Why my mother? Why would someone come after her in February?”
“I don’t know.” Bell shook his head slowly, his tousled hair falling forward onto his forehead. “Something precipitated it. Maybe there’s something in the notebooks. We need to look at those as soon as we can.”
“Then let’s get going.” I stood and took my plate and his to the kitchen. Bell followed with our coffee mugs and silverware. We stacked everything into the dishwasher then headed for the back door.
“Wait a minute.” I went back to the living room and grabbed the CD from the stack on the player. I gave Athos a quick pat, interrupting his cleaning ritual. He shot me a dirty look and I could almost hear his sigh of exasperation when he reapplied himself to cleaning the spot I just touched.
“I want to hear this,” I said, brandishing the CD.
“What—oh. You found that.”
“Yep, I did.” I took a sweatshirt jacket from a hook. “Here.” I tossed it to Bell and he pulled it on, covering his pale blue denim shirt. I took a red sweater, pulling it on over my red-and-blue blouse. We stepped out of the house—
—and six people rushed us all at once. I took a step back but Bell kept his hand on my shoulder, propelling me forward. “Guys, I thought we had a deal,” he said, slipping ahead of me and barreling through the men who surged forward. He held up his key fob and the truck made chirpy noises.
“Bets are off, T.K.,” one said. “Stories are popping up about you all over. Somebody is dishing on you and we want in on it.”
“Wendy, what’s it like to be reunited with your first love?” someone shouted.
“Why do you think he was my first love?” I shot back.
Bell dragged us both to his truck and managed to get the passenger door open by leaning back and knocking into two reporters who were trying to photograph us.
“T.K., does this mean you’re settling down?” someone else called.
Bell helped me up into the truck, almost shoving me onto the seat. I managed to collapse into the interior, tangling with a reporter outside who was trying to take pictures.
“If I am settling down, you’ll be the last to know.” Bell slammed my door and pushed his way through the crowd to the other side of the truck. He looked pissed off, his normally placid face taut with anger. He said something to one of the reporters from the previous day—Juko, I think his name was—and the man said something in return that made Bell glare at him.
Someone pulled open my door. “Wendy, do you plan to move to California or New York to be with T.K.?”
I grabbed the door, almost overbalancing and falling out. “None of your damn business.” I pulled the door shut, nearly un-fingering someone in the process.
Bell slid into his seat. “Sorry about that,” he muttered, tapping the keyless ignition. The engine roared to life and he started to back down the drive, apparently not worrying about the people still surrounding the truck. He reached the street and we took off with a screech of tires. I turned to look behind us and saw people racing for cars.
“They’re following.”
“They can try,” he said through clenched teeth. He pushed the gas pedal to the floor.
Chapter 11
I’ve never been in a high-speed chase, but I imagine it was like that exhilarating ride on Gloucester Road, past the high school, then onto Highway 1 looping around town. Two cars followed behind us, far enough back that when Bell turned off onto a county two-lane blacktop and started zigzagging along farm roads, the cars quickly fell back. The recent rains kept our telltale dust to a minimum and within ten minutes we were free of pursuit.
“Good driving,” I said admiringly. “You know your way around some back roads.”
“I’m just glad they haven’t changed since you and I used to come out here and neck,” he said with a grin. “This is my stomping ground, remember?”
I laughed. “Some things a girl never forgets.” I fumbled for the CD I grabbed and slipped into the slot on his dashboard. “Do you remember how to get to the farm from here?”
Bell smiled. “Some things a boy never forgets.” He reached up and cracked open the sun roof. “Let’s enjoy the fresh air. I feel like it’s been raining for a week.”
We drove in companionable silence punctuated by the music playing on the CD. The farm fields that were recently planted were showing just the faintest haze of green. Other fields that would be planted later were still golden from last year’s crop. Sun was shining through fat white clouds, the previous day’s rain a thing of the past. Everything had a fresh, sparkling look. Even the ditches, most of them full of water, looked lush.
“I always forget how much I like this part of the country until I come back again,” Bell said while he made the various turns that would take us back toward town but on the roads outside it. “When you’re in a city you lose touch with the seasons or else your perception is shaped by inconvenience. You know—the roads aren’t plowed or it’s too hot to go outside or something like that.”
I looked off into the distance. This part of the state had gently rolling hills, shallow dips and swells in the land. Pioneers settled this country in their “Prairie Schooners”, which was an apt form of transportation for land that had the feel of the ocean. “I know what you mean. City people go to a park and feel they’re surrounded by nature. It isn’t until you’re here”—and I gestured to the expanse of land in front of us—“that you understand how small we really are in the scheme of things.”
“There are so many stars at night in the sky here.” Bell stopped at a gravel road intersection and peered right then left. I didn’t give any directions, but he glanced at me b
efore turning right. “It’s almost like being in the mountains. There’s nothing like being on a county road at night and looking up and seeing the sky.”
I knew exactly what he meant. He and I had done that many a time, driving to a deserted spot, climbing up on the roof of his car, and staring into the sky. Of course, those interludes often led to more adventures in the back seat of his car, too, but I would never forget those starry nights under a clear sky.
I stole little glances at Bell while he drove. In so many ways, he looked like the boy I used to know, but he had changed. He wore his hair the same, cut shorter around his ears and long on top, and there was gray around his temples now. His face was lined and rougher looking, but the same basic structure was there—the deep dimples at his cheeks when he smiled, the way his eyes crinkled up when he laughed, and the oval shape of his face ending in a slightly dimpled chin.
He was my memory but he wasn’t, too. Last night was familiar and yet tantalizingly new. I felt no hesitation or worry about what he might think about my less-than-young body. I was still slender, thanks more to good genetics and my regular exercise program than to any diet. But I wasn’t still firm and perky. I wasn’t sixteen.
But I knew that didn’t matter to him. I knew he saw me through the filter of our past just as I saw him that way. Bell had seen me at my best, when I was all prettied up for a date, and at my worst, when I drank too much and puked in a cornfield. The same was true with me. I had seen him so handsome it took my breath away, and so dirty and sweaty from working he looked like Pig Pen from the Charlie Brown cartoon strip.
Our loving last night wasn’t the crazy impetuousness of youth but had the feeling of maturity where both adults realize that this is something to be treasured, not taken for granted. It made me feel appreciated. It made me feel loved.
“There it is.”
I looked to the right at the two-story farmhouse set back from the road, its once-blue paint now faded to a pale gray. The trim around the windows looked somewhat white and the glass in the panes glittered in the fitful sunlight. “I’m amazed it’s still standing. That house has to be at least sixty years old.”
Behind the house the barn stood, or rather leaned. Its color had faded from bright red to a brownish-umber and even from this distance I saw light filtering through the cracks between the boards. It looked like a strong wind might take it down, although it appeared most of the wood was intact.
“They built them to last back in the day.” Bell stopped the truck about halfway down the quarter-mile graveled farm lane. “Can’t you imagine it?” He framed an imaginary view with his hands. “I’ll put in big picture windows in front, so I can see the lane. Wouldn’t that be great to have picture windows in an office? We’ll plant trees there and there.” He pointed to spots at the sides of the house, where bedraggled shrubs now squatted. “Then we’ll add flowers in a big arc right in front. I want a fireplace, too. Maybe two.”
I squinted at the vision he tried to present while he drove slowly forward. “That barn looks iffy.”
“But maybe we can salvage the wood.”
“Salvage it? For what?”
Bell shrugged, parking the truck in the rutted farmyard. “I don’t know. It’s so nicely aged.”
“Make sure you check on the well and the septic. They’re probably nicely aged, too.”
“Huh?”
“There’s probably a private well.” I pointed to the old metal windmill behind the house, its turbine unmoving in the gentle breeze. “And a septic system,” I explained patiently. “We’re in the country, so they won’t be on city water or sewer. Make sure that’s okay before you go designing the house. Trust me. You don’t want a faulty septic system, especially in the middle of summer.”
He grinned. “That’s my Wendy. Ever practical. That’s why we make such a great team. You figure out all the little details and I go for the big picture.”
“You wouldn’t call it a little detail if your sewer backed up,” I snapped. “Or if you got sick from e coli in the well.”
“The big details,” he amended. “Come on.” He stepped out of the truck and started toward the house.
I got out and walked around the farm yard before following him to the rundown building. As with most farms, the gravel area between the house, the detached garage, and the barn was graded relatively smooth, with just a few deep potholes. It wasn’t anything that a backhoe and a new load of gravel couldn’t cure. The barn was to the east of the house, again a standard arrangement. Prevailing winds were usually out of the north or west and you don’t want your barn smells invading your house, especially in summer.
I turned slowly in a circle, taking in the out-buildings. All in all, the property looked acceptable. It was weedy, but not overgrown. Whoever was leasing the fields probably mowed the area, at least now and then. A load of gravel, some structural work on the barn, and some paint and things would start to look okay.
I went in the side door of the house where Bell had disappeared. I entered a kitchen, sadly outdated and in need of a good scrubbing. The linoleum tile floor was still intact but scuffed badly. It was a black-and-white pattern, with smaller diamond tiles at the sides. The metal cabinetry used to be white, and was probably disgusting inside, but the walls and windows looked solid, with no signs of water intrusion.
Bell was nowhere in sight but I heard footsteps upstairs. I checked out the main floor which consisted of a living room, dining room, and a small “spare” room that probably used to be a TV room. The whole house had wood floors, scuffed but not warped. The dining room and living room had ugly wallpaper peeling in spots, but it also had beautiful oak woodwork, the kind you don’t see anymore. It was hard to gauge the size of the rooms without furniture, but they all felt good sized.
Big windows let in the light and all of them were unbroken, which surprised me. The house was cool but not too musty, which I expected from a closed-up structure. I spied the thermostat on the wall. It was set at 50 degrees, which meant that enough heat had been kept on to keep the pipes from bursting during the winter. There was shade from the trees on the south side of the house, so it would probably stay somewhat cool in the summer.
I walked up the paint-chipped wooden staircase. Bell waited at the top. “I was right,” he said. “It’s in bad condition but it’s fixable. Look, I can put an office up here. What a great view.” He walked into the front room, which did indeed have a good view of the lane and the fields in the distance. It faced south and slightly west. If he took out the two small windows and put in one large one, it would be light-filled and feel more spacious.
He walked through the other three bedrooms, talking about changing this and that. I followed, bemused by his enthusiasm. My ex-husband had been indifferent to color, furniture styles, or design, so seeing a man who was obviously so intrigued by design was a new experience for me. Of course, Bell was a designer. His app was proof of that. It would certainly be interesting to embark on a remodel project with someone who was not only enthused but someone who had an unlimited budget.
“The good thing is I can stay at the hotel—my penthouse, as you call it—while the construction is going on. Nothing worse than living in a house while it’s being worked on.” He stopped at the top of the stairs. “Maybe we can steal some space from the front room, expand the back bedroom and make it the master suite. How’s that sound?”
I went down the stairs. “It sounds expensive.” I went into the living room, turning to face him when he joined me. “You’ll probably have to replace the plumbing and most of the electric.”
“I suppose,” he said absently. “I wonder about the barn.”
“What about the barn?” I followed him through the kitchen and out the back door.
“I’d like to make a private place for Filette.” He smiled tentatively at me. “Maybe she could come for a visit. She has a full-time nurse and I can rent a private plane for them. It might be okay for her.”
“Let’s go look.” I did
n’t want to squash his optimism but I doubted that a severely autistic young woman could handle international travel, private nurse or not.
We walked into the farmyard and I pointed out spots that would need re-grading. At this time of day, the barn blocked some sunlight and I was reminded of our talk with The Lost Boys. “The guys were right last night.” I walked around to the far side of the structure. “There’s the hay loft door. It faces east and it’s away from the house.”
Bell looked up at the doorway, which was closed, his eyes shifting from the ground to the second story then back again. “It would be an easy jump as long as somebody was there to catch you. If somebody wasn’t, you’d probably break an ankle or at least get a sprain or bruised.” He walked a few yards beyond the barn. “The river is about a half-mile through the field. If he had a flashlight, it would be an easy walk.”
We walked around the perimeter of the barn, each of us deep in thought. Peter had deceived us, for all these years. For so long I had a nagging sense of guilt that I caused him to despair, that I was the cause of his depression. And there he was, living well on the life insurance money. The more I thought about it, the more pissed off I got.
“The barn needs a lot of work,” Bell admitted.
“You know, it might be better than you think. You can get a barn restoration specialist. Somebody like that would be your best person to evaluate whether it’s worth keeping or not.”
We walked to the truck and Bell turned in a slow circle to regard the property. “I want to buy it.” He stopped and looked at me. “What do you think?”
I drew in a deep breath of warm Iowa air, redolent with the smell of earth, grass, and life. “It’s a good spot. Better than any apartment in some high-rise somewhere.”
He grinned. “Spoken like a true farm girl.” He got into the truck.
“I’m not a farm girl,” I corrected, climbing in the passenger side.
“You’re close enough to one to count. Do you have time for a drive?”