by Aimée Thurlo
Jo nodded. “I’m still shaking and looking over my shoulder, but other than that, I’m fine. Ben got a good look at the man with the gun, and went to the station afterwards to help try to identify the guy. How’d that turn out?” she asked Ben.
“I couldn’t ID anyone in the photo array, but I worked with one of their techs and she came up with a good computer image. It’s going to be splashed across the news tonight,” Ben said. “Hopefully someone will recognize the guy.”
“And make an arrest,” Mike said. “I’m sorry that had to happen on the same day as the memorial service,” he said, looking at Ben then Jo. “It must have made for a long day.”
“Not as long as some,” Ben said. “I’m used to the unexpected. As for Jo…”
“I’ve had enough excitement to last me a lifetime. I don’t see how anyone copes when they’re stationed in a war zone.”
“They say you get used to it—but that’s a lie,” he said, looking down at his hands, which were tanned and rough. “It seems like home is just as dangerous these days.”
Jo tried to read his expression, wondering if he was also trying to connect the dots between his father’s death, the van, and those men in the green pickup. After several seconds she gave up. It was impossible for her even to guess what he was thinking.
Mike cleared his throat, then glanced down at an open folder on his desk. “First, I’d like to point out that what we’re going to be discussing is actually a trust, not a will in the traditional and legal sense. I was designated his trustee, and as such, I’m responsible for ensuring that his estate is divided and assigned according to his wishes. With an active business as his primary asset, Tom wanted to avoid probate, which would have put daily trading post operations in jeopardy.”
Jo nodded. “His life, outside his family, was The Outpost. He always referred to the trading post as his legacy.”
“Yeah, the business was dad’s life, all right,” Ben said. He wanted to add so let’s get on with it, but instead decided to let things go at their own pace. He had plenty of time to decide what to do with The Outpost—sell, or hire someone to run it for him until his enlistment was up.
“I’d like to point out now that Tom and I discussed the distribution of his estate more than once, and he made his wishes crystal clear. My job now is to carry those out to the letter.”
“What’s the problem, Mike?” Ben asked, sensing hesitation. “Did my dad leave everything to charity or some church group?”
“No, not at all. Your father knew that, combined, the entire estate—business, land, and home—was worth in excess of a million dollars, at least on paper. That would generate a sizable tax bill,” Mike said.
“So Dad broke it up just enough to keep that value under the minimum for his benefactors,” Ben said, nodding. “Makes sense. So I get the house, the trading post, and the Expedition, and Jo gets, what, his Chevy pickup?” Ben asked. He was anxious to put an end to the dog and pony show Mike seemed determined to put on for them.
“Actually, Ben, Jo gets The Outpost, the business property, the Expedition, and all monies included in his business accounts. His salary will now go into payroll, to be distributed by the new owner. Ben, you receive the house, the residential land and right of way, his pickup, and all his personal property, including a substantial life insurance payout and his 401(k). That’s about a sixty–forty split, when you consider the money flowing into your account.”
Ben stared at Mike, still trying to process what he’d heard. “Jo gets The Outpost?” Seeing Mike nod, Ben stared in disbelief, his fists clenching into balls. As he glanced at Jo, Ben saw her shocked expression—or maybe she was just a good actress. Yesterday, she’d been so innocent and … frightened as well. He was sure that hadn’t been an act. But today?
“What the hell?” Ben managed at last. There was no reason for his father to have divided things up like this with someone who wasn’t real family. This didn’t make any sense.
As he looked again at the beautiful woman Jo had become, an answer slowly came to him. Of course. It was obvious that she’d used her looks and maybe her body to manipulate his old man. It wouldn’t be the first time a middle-aged guy had been played by a savvy gold digger—flattery, manipulation, and sex in exchange for a big payoff in the end.
“I know this comes as a shock to you, Ben, and to you, too, Jo, but Tom wanted this detail kept between him and me.” Mike looked at Ben. “Keep in mind that you two had a history that was still unresolved at the time of Tom’s death. Your father also knew that you’d never been interested in the business. That’s why he decided to make sure The Outpost went to someone who had sweat equity in it—those were his words, by the way, not mine.”
Ben sat up even straighter than before. “This isn’t just bullshit, right? You have a copy of the trust?”
Broome nodded, handing each of them thick white envelopes. “Witnessed and signed. Being a living trust, there won’t be any public proceedings,” Mike said. “I understand the reasons for your surprise and confusion, so why don’t you both take a few moments to read this over. Then I can answer any questions you might have.”
Jo took the envelope offered, then turned to Ben. “Ben, I—”
“Skip it,” he snapped, staring at the envelope in his hand. He’d come up with a battle plan and fight her in court. Jo had always been a presence in the Stuart household, and there’d even been times when he was sure his dad secretly wished she could have been his kid instead of him. Now, a woman, Jo had clearly manipulated his dad into giving her his inheritance. He wouldn’t rest until he set things right.
“Jo, until the paperwork passes through the county clerk’s office and becomes public record, I’ll retain control of the accounts and dispersals. If you need to purchase anything or make payroll, I’ll have to cosign.”
Ben watched her take in the news. She never spoke, just nodded, her eyes as wide as saucers. She was good. Her reaction looked so real, he was almost convinced.
Mike looked back at him. “Ben, the police have released the house, and I paid a housekeeping service to clean things up for you. I understand a deputy was there yesterday, so you weren’t free to roam around inside. Why don’t you let me give you a ride over there now? After all that’s happened, it may be easier to have someone tag along the first time you go into the house.”
Ben nodded. He didn’t need a babysitter, but he wanted more time to talk to Broome—alone. The man had known his father better than anyone else he could think of at the moment. Maybe he’d open up a little more once Jo wasn’t around. If his dad had been having an affair with Jo, he had a feeling Mike would know.
Jo stood, holding up the envelope. “I’ll read this later. Right now, I’m going back to the trading post,” she said in a shaky voice. “The staff has a lot of questions that they need answered. Their futures are tied to what happens to The Outpost, and they’re waiting for news. We all assumed you’d be inheriting—”
“So did I,” he shot back, then looked at Mike, dismissing her completely. “Ready when you are.”
Ben avoided talking to Jo as they left the law offices. It was clear to him that she couldn’t be trusted. His own past with her should have told him that. Jo used people. She always had. He’d been a fool to think she might have changed. All time had done was allow her to refine her skills.
* * *
Five minutes later, they were in Broome’s Mercedes, heading west out of town. Not wanting to drag things out, Ben decided it was time to speak his mind.
“Was Josephine Buck my father’s lover?” he asked.
“I’d say no, at least not to my knowledge,” Broome answered after a beat. “If anything, I’d say he loved Jo like a daughter. But you know your dad, Ben. He was harder to read than a cell phone tech manual.”
Ben nodded, his response automatic, nothing more.
“You and Jo dated back in high school, didn’t you?” Mike asked.
“Yeah, we were together for about a ye
ar, more or less. Then we broke up.” Jo had been his first real love, and though they said good-bye a lifetime ago, he’d never really gotten over her. She’d been a pretty teen with a sexy smile and soft, kissable lips. He’d wanted her so badly, it hurt, but she’d always played it cool. She’d been a year older than him and out of his reach at first, but somehow they’d come together for a while. They’d never been really close, not as close as he would have wanted, but the constant challenge to break through her shell had only added to the heat. Then one day when he really needed her support, she’d said good-bye and never looked back.
Her rejection stung and had left deep scars, but he eventually put it all into perspective. Now here she was in his life again. As undeniably attractive as Jo had been back then, she all but sizzled now. If his father had fallen for Jo, he couldn’t really blame him.
“I know the terms of the trust took you by surprise, son, but don’t go thinking that Jo somehow manipulated your old man. You knew him well enough to know that he had a mind of his own. Nobody conned Tom Stuart—not ever.”
“Jo’s hot, and smart, too.”
“Yeah, but your dad wasn’t the kind to be seduced by a sexy voice and some well-placed curves. Your mother was the love of his life, and in his eyes, nobody could ever match her.”
“True enough, but maybe…”
“Face facts, Ben. You aren’t really interested in running the trading post, are you? Your career is with the army. So what difference does it make that he left it to her? He left you with a paid-for home and a sizable financial legacy. You’ve got more now than most men have at fifty.”
“I’m not reupping this time, Mike. I was planning on returning home for good.”
“To become a shopkeeper?” Broome shook his head. “Maybe I’m still remembering the boy who manned up and enlisted, what, five—six years ago? That kid wouldn’t have settled anyplace for long. Are you really that different now?”
“Yeah, I am,” he said, nodding slowly. “Back then I had to enlist—it was either that or possible jail time, but all things considered, the army was just what I needed. I’d wanted to know who I was and test my own worth as a man.” He paused. “I found out, times two.”
Broome glanced over, but didn’t ask. “Lessons learned in the military usually come the hard way.”
Ben nodded slowly. “Hard work, sacrifice, and accomplishment all go together. Each step demands a price.”
Ten minutes later, as they approached the trading post, he felt the tug on his gut. This had been his father’s world—the place he’d retreated into after the death of his wife, leaving little or no room for his son.
As memories and old hurts rushed back, Ben took a breath. That was then—this was now. Adding emphasis to that conclusion was the county police cruiser just pulling up in front of his father’s house.
For a few hours today, he’d somehow set aside the main reason he was here—to uncover the facts behind his father’s death. That goal was now at the top of his list again. It was time for action.
FOUR
Mike glanced over at Ben. “The sheriff’s department investigation of your father’s death is still active and ongoing, so let me stick around. It’s always a good idea to have an attorney present when you talk to the police.”
“Thanks.” Ben went up to the front porch, where the sheriff’s department officer in the blue San Juan County jacket stood. The not-unattractive dirty blonde in her early forties looked tired. He recognized that close-to-burnout look. It went far beyond not getting enough sleep. It was the weariness that came from having seen too much of human nature.
“I’m Ben Stuart,” he said, offering his hand. “This is my attorney, Mike Broome.”
“Detective Wells,” she said, shaking hands with both of them. “I’m sorry for your loss—Sergeant,” she added, clearly having done a background check on him.
He gave her a curt nod. People meant well, but it was difficult to keep hearing condolences. The constant reminders just reopened the wound.
“I understood the scene had been released,” Broome said.
“It has, Counselor. I just came by to speak to Mr. Stuart,” Wells said.
“Good, because I have some questions for you, too.” Ben walked to the entrance, then after pausing for a heartbeat, went inside.
He’d expected to drown in memories the second he stepped in, but the home he remembered and what the house had become were two very different things. Everything in here smelled of pine disinfectant and had an odd, flat feel, like a home up for sale. The rooms seemed smaller, too, the walls, closer now that he was an adult.
He walked to the shelf where his mother’s treasured salt and pepper shakers had once been. She’d find them at garage sales and antique shops and had sworn some dated back to the early 1900s. They’d been her own prized collection, but the shelf was half empty now, with some of the pairs missing their mates.
“Several of the shakers were broken and in the trash when we arrived on the scene,” Wells said, volunteering the information.
He snapped his head around. “Pardon me?”
She repeated what she’d said.
“Something isn’t right. Dad wouldn’t have thrown them away. If he’d broken one, or half a dozen, he’d have still saved the pieces and glued them back together. He’d have never given up on something Mom had treasured. Look at the owl saltshaker. I broke it with a Transformer missile when I was nine. My dad reconstructed the left wing with Spackle and repainted it.” He held it up for her to see.
The detective nodded. “Maybe this time they were beyond repair.”
“Even so, he wouldn’t have just tossed the pieces into the trash. He would have picked them all up, and put them in a plastic food container for safekeeping.”
Yet even as he spoke, he wondered how much his dad had really changed, living alone all these years. Maybe he’d just snapped one day and had lashed out at the memories. He’d seen that happen often enough in combat when a soldier reached the boiling point. Or sometimes they’d be as tough as stone out in the field, then crack up after being dumped by a wife or girlfriend ten thousand miles and another world away.
Ben examined the room slowly, carefully, studying everything around him with a practiced eye. Some familiar things remained untouched, like his name, the pencil marks, and the dates on the door trim where his mom had kept a record of his height over the years.
Ben stepped into the kitchen and saw that the embroidered rooster his mother had worked on years ago still hung on the wall. It was only three inches by four and badly faded, but it was a permanent fixture, like the chipped willowware teapot beside it. “If my dad had been cutting his ties to the past, that old blue teapot would have been long gone, too.”
Katie followed him. “You have an eye for detail.”
“That skill has kept me alive the past few years.” He circled the counter and finally faced her. “Check for fingerprints on the broken salt and pepper shakers found in the trash. They won’t belong to my dad. My father undoubtedly fought his killer, and that’s why some things were broken.”
“What makes you so certain he didn’t commit suicide?”
“In his book, only a coward would go out that way—and that’s practically a quote.”
“Sometimes circumstances can alter the beliefs we hold most dear,” Katie said. “People change.”
“No, ma’am. Once a marine, always a marine. My father was never the proverbial bull in the china shop. He did everything with precision. That defined him. His trading post was always immaculate, and so was this house. He wouldn’t tolerate it otherwise. No drill sergeant was more exacting than my dad when it came to order. Ask any of his employees or just look around the store.”
“Have you been told the circumstances of your father’s death?” she asked.
“He was found at a desk in this house, shot to death.”
“One bullet to his right temple, the mark of a suicide,” Katie said softly.
> “Did you say right?”
She nodded and waited.
“There were no cuts or injuries on his left hand? Bruises?”
“None I could see.”
“If I’m reading you correctly, you know what I’m about to say.”
“I’ve been told by several witnesses that your father was left-handed. But is it possible he was ambidextrous?” she asked. He was nearly sure she’d asked the others this same question before. “No way,” he said, verifying it for her, then smiled, recalling a memory. “When I turned sixteen, I found out that old traditional Navajos were bothered by people who ate with their left hand—something only ghosts do, they say. So I decided to scare my Navajo girlfriend by training myself to eat with my left hand. I made one hell of a mess that night because we had soup. My dad was left-handed and laughed like crazy at me, so I dared him to try eating with his right hand. He spazzed out, just like me.”
“All right. I’ll keep looking into this, but the ME has to make the final call. They can usually tell handedness by the degree or lack of muscle development, and by calluses left by pencil or pen use over time. Stuff like that.”
Ben walked into the den, his eyes focused on the scuff marks on the hardwood floor. “My father would have never allowed those marks to remain there. He would have rubbed and sanded them out, then refinished the floor. Offhand, I’d say that there was one helluva fight in here. Somebody got bounced against the wall, or off that shelf, which would explain the broken shakers on the opposite wall.”
“Sometimes when we’re too close to things, we end up seeing what we want to see,” Wells said. “There was no clear evidence of a fight when I came on the scene, and I was the first officer to arrive.”
“Then where did the marks come from?”
“Anyone can forget to push back a chair or move it against the grain. Maybe the cleaners were clumsy or inattentive. I can compare these marks to the crime scene photos. But I have to point out something else here. There were no signs of a break-in.”
“Maybe the person or persons walked in while my dad was in another room, before he locked the house. Or the lock could have been picked earlier in the day and his killer or killers were already inside.”