Clouds without Rain (7 page)

Dobrowski tried to force Branden’s arm away as he squirmed against the hot bricks.

Branden stiffened his arm and took hold of Dobrowski’s shirt. Coldly, he said, “If I hear you talking like that about Britta Sommers, I’m going to land on you like a pile driver, Arden. You understand? I’ve done it before, and under the circumstances, I’ll do it again.”

Dobrowski took Branden’s fist, pulled it away from his chest, and stepped sideways. “She’s my ex, thanks to you, and I’ll talk about her any way I please.”

Branden said, “You’ve been warned,” and felt pressure in his temples as he remembered why he would never tolerate such comments from Dobrowski. He took a combative step forward and glared with animosity at Dobrowski in the bright light on the bank’s front lawn, his eyes ablaze with the heat of ugly memories and utter disgust. Dobrowski stomped angrily out into the parking lot, rubbing at his shoulder.

Back in the shade, Branden watched Dobrowski get into a small, rusty car. Dobrowski labored at cranking down the windows on both sides of his car, and started the sputtering engine. When he swung around past the front of the bank, he scowled at Branden and made a vulgar gesture. Then he stopped, checked his rearview mirror, backed into the lot again, took a spot facing the entrance where Branden stood, shut off the engine, and stared at Branden spitefully. Branden laughed, shook his head, and stepped into the cold air of the bank.

Inside, he asked one of the managers to let him into the men’s room in a corner out of view, and there he dried his face and neck again, straightened his shirt, touched up his hair and beard, came out, and took the steps to the second floor, where the trust division had its offices along both sides of a long, carpeted hall. At the door to each office, a secretary worked at a desk in the wide hall.

Britta Sommers’s secretary used her phone to announce the professor and admitted Branden directly. Branden walked into a well-ordered, modern office done in mahogany, black lacquer, and red leather, and found Brittany Sommers crossing the carpet to him, arms outstretched. She was still petite, with short black hair that seemed silky and looked shiny. Her gray business suit hid nothing of the youthful beauty Branden remembered from high school. She came up to him eagerly, reached her arms behind his neck, and pulled him to her aggressively. She kissed him impetuously on the mouth before he could turn away, and with her head tilted back, she said, “Mike. Mike. Mike. Why didn’t I marry you?”

He dropped the leather pouch onto a table beside a floor lamp and chair, reached behind his head with both hands, pulled her hands down, maneuvered them in front of his chest, and took a deep breath as he pushed her back. “Britta,” he said gently, “eighth-grade romances are such sweet affairs. Who would ruin those memories with a marriage?”

She held his blue eyes with her green, smiled dreamily, and sighed, “She calls you Michael, doesn’t she?”

“Caroline?”

“Who else?” she said and pushed closer. “I’m going to call you Michael, too.”

“You’re still a flirt, Britta,” he chided, and stepped free of her grasp. “As I recall, you threw me over for a football player.”

“The captain, Michael,” Britta said in a petulant tone. “Not just a player.” Her eyes sparkled mischief, and she whispered, “I’ll just call you Michael when we’re alone.” She stepped back and ran her gaze over his medium frame, assessing the muscles under his T-shirt. Up close again, she ran her fingers through his hair at the temples and said, “More gray than I remember, Michael.”

The professor blushed and said, “If eighth-grade love affairs ever truly lasted, you’d be the one, Britta. You’d be the one.”

With a triumphant smile, she spun around and swayed back to her desk. Once on the other side of the desk, however, she seemed to stiffen and lose some of her sparkle. She motioned for Branden to take a seat in a red leather chair, pointed at the leather pouch on the table by the lamp, and said, “What do you have there?”

Branden retrieved the pouch, eased himself into the plush chair, and said, “John R. Weaver’s trust.”

“Oh,” Britta said, pensive. She sat behind her desk and said, “Somebody’s been working overtime down at the sheriff’s.”

“They want me to ask you about the trust. We got the papers out at his house, and there are a lot of other papers out there that indicate you and Weaver had a land deal or two going on. They’ll want to know about that, too.”

“That’s awfully nosy,” Britta scolded, “sending you over here like that.”

“You’re Weaver’s trust officer, Britta, and his death might not have been an accident.”

Sommers’s eyebrows arched, and she asked, “Not an accident?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“I suppose you’re working for the sheriff again.”

“For the sheriff’s office. The sheriff himself was injured at the accident scene.”

“Bull in a china shop, if you ask me.”

“It’s a delicate matter, Britta. It’s only me. And for now, I just want a sketch of what Weaver’s trust will do, now that he’s dead. And some background on his land dealings.”

“His latest deal was the big one,” Britta said. “I’ve got a little piece of the action. It’s my ‘walk-away’ money, Michael. The land sales, that is. I’m selling out everything I’ve got invested in this county to a developer in Cleveland and moving to Nashville.”

“Selling out everything?”

“Land, house, job, and furniture. It all goes. I’m moving south to live with my son. Take care of him.”

“How is he?”

“He’s autistic.”

“I know that, Britta.”

“He’s been living in an institution near Vanderbilt, in Nashville, since I divorced Arden. Now I think it’s time to put a stop to that. I’m selling off everything and moving down there to be with him. To take care of him myself.”

“Will you have enough?” Branden asked.

Sommers laughed spiritedly. “Since you, Michael, all the men in my life have been losers. Not me. I invested all of Arden’s alimony payments in the stock market in the nineties. I learned about land deals from watching John Weaver work. And I started a little company with him. Sommer Homes. Kinda catchy, don’t you think? It’s only a portion of what Weaver had going throughout the county, but the profits have been marvelous.”

“I’ve seen some of the documents on Weaver’s land deals,” Branden said. “He was good at it, if his ledgers tell the truth.”

“The best,” Britta said. “That’s why I threw in with him. I showed him how to invest money, and he showed me how to make it.”

“With Sommer Homes?”

“That was the core of it, but I need to have a little privacy, Michael.” She winked at him.

“So it’s the Sommer Homes holdings, plus some?” Branden asked.

“More than just the land, Michael,” she said. “Like I said, I’m getting out quick and moving south. All of the deals haven’t closed, but with Weaver dead, I collect another half-million, with partner’s insurance.”

Branden leveled his gaze at her pensively, aware that she was toying with him.

“Oh, come now, Michael,” Britta said. “You wouldn’t expect a woman to go unprotected. I work partner’s insurance into all of my companies. Gonna make out pretty well on this one.”

“All of the deals haven’t closed?”

Britta smiled and said, “We signed a binding agreement on the land sales to Holmes Estates last week.”

“When?” Branden asked.

“Friday. Why?”

“I’m just trying to figure why anyone would want Weaver dead.”

“Weaver was finished with his part of the deals,” Britta said. “There are still a few things for me to finish up this week, and then I’ll be headed south.” She smiled mischievously and added, “Come with me, Michael.”

Branden grinned and scolded her with a wagging finger.

Britta smiled and said, “Can’t blame a girl for trying.” Then she added, seriously, “I’m selling it all, Michael. For Danny. Stocks, land holdings, everything. I’ve transferred all the proceeds into a trust that I began for Danny three years ago—a portfolio that provides a trust fund for him and a good life for me. I’ve given my notice and handed over my accounts to other trust officers. By this time next week, my house will be on the market, and I’ll be in Nashville, making arrangements for a new life for my son. New doctors, better schools, everything. I’m getting out, Michael, and I’m getting out on top.”

Branden smiled, openly happy for her. “You’ve done well, Britta.” More seriously, he added, “What about Arden Dobrowski?”

“He’s out,” Britta said, instantly cold.

Branden questioned with his eyes.

“Arden’s a loser, Michael. Like I told you, they all were. All the men in my life except you. I never should have dropped you for Weston. You know better than anyone why I divorced Arden. Anyway, he paid alimony until about a year ago, when his car lots went belly up, and he filed for bankruptcy. Now he’s in the courts, trying to worm his way into our son’s trust. Wants to handle the money jointly. It’s not enough that he begs spending money off me. I’m tired of it. I just told him that I’m leaving.”

“Bumped into him outside,” Branden said. “Had to rough him up a bit, the way he was talking.”

“About me, I suppose.”

Branden shrugged. “So he doesn’t like it that you’re moving?”

“Poor baby,” Britta quipped.

“Has he ever tried to hurt you again?”

“He knows not to try. I’ve learned how to hit back.”

Branden shook his head, respecting her boldness. He thought of the leather pouch and asked, “How about the trust fund for Weaver?”

Sommers stood up with her hand stretched out for the papers. “Those are private papers, Michael,” she said officiously. “Confidential. The sheriff has got no right to be looking into that.”

“If Weaver’s death was truly an accident,” Branden said, “you’re altogether right.”

“It was an accident,” Britta claimed.

“I’m not so sure.”

“Until you are sure,” Britta said, “I’ll have to insist that you give those documents to me.”

Branden hesitated, studied Britta’s expression, smiled, relented, and handed her the documents.

“I’ve got a feeling, Britta, that you’ll soon be handing those papers back,” he said.

“Show me conclusively that he was murdered, and I will, Michael.”

She dropped the pouch into a side drawer and came around to the front of her desk. She took the professor’s hands, lifted him up from the leather chair, and slipped an arm around his waist. With a little nudge, she escorted him to the door, stopped him there, gazed into his eyes, opened the door for him and said, “Come see me at the house, once, before I leave.”

In the stairwell to the lobby, Branden wiped the lipstick from his lips and put the handkerchief back in his pocket. He pushed through the door to the lobby and looked around, embarrassed to think that someone might have seen him.

The morning’s heat assaulted him again at the bank’s doors. Outside, a brave little sprinkler fanned back and forth over a stricken patch of grass in the fierce sun. He cupped a palm over his eyes and scanned the parking lot for his truck. Arden Dobrowski stepped out of his small sedan and marched across the blacktop toward Branden. Branden scowled and headed for his truck. Dobrowski caught him halfway and took hold of the professor’s arm.

Branden wrenched his arm free, glowered at him aggressively, and barked, “What do you want, Dobrowski?”

“What’d that cheating scum say . . . ?”

Midsentence, Branden shifted his weight to square up to Dobrowski. He balanced a left fist in front of his chest, feet planted wide, smashed his right fist into Dobrowski’s face, and stepped slowly to his truck, leaving Dobrowski on the blacktop, bent over and bleeding profusely from the nose.

7

Wednesday, August 9
1:27 P.M.

 

 

BRANDEN entered Millersburg’s boxy red brick jail through the main door opposite the Civil War monument on the courthouse lawn. He found Ellie Troyer taking a call behind the wooden counter where the old radio dispatcher’s equipment was stacked beside her gray metal desk. Branden let himself through the swinging door at the left end of the counter and poured a cup of coffee, using one of the white Styrofoam cups stacked beside the pot. He glanced left, down the pine-paneled hallway of the jail’s offices, came back through the swinging door, and leaned sideways against the counter, sipping coffee while Ellie finished her phone call. She hung up, spoke briefly in the ten-codes at the radio’s microphone, and swiveled her chair to the professor. She frowned and said, “The sheriff’s not much better at all.”

Branden sipped his coffee, smiled encouragement, and said, “He’ll be all right, Ellie,” for pretense.

Ellie said, “Humph,” and added, “Ricky and I tried to see him this morning, but they wouldn’t let us in.”

Less confident, Branden shrugged. “They’re just being cautious with his burns.”

“The sheriff’s not as tough as you think he is,” Ellie said, scolding.

“He’ll pull through,” Branden said, uneasy that Ellie Troyer, usually so solid and upbeat, seemed downhearted. “Do you know something I don’t know?” Branden asked, an anxious concern for the sheriff creeping out from a vulnerable place in his heart where he could not contemplate the truth.

“There’s a look in Missy Taggert’s eyes,” Ellie said. “She’s been assisting in his treatments, and she’s worried.”

“It’s probably more like the doctors over there are taking orders from Missy,” Branden said and smiled weakly. “She likes him, you know.”

Ellie nodded, and her eyes acquired a distant look.

“Something else?” Branden asked.

Ellie stood, brushed the creases out of her long skirt and adjusted the pin that held her hair back. Sighing, she glanced around her work area as if she were looking for something to do. Then she took a deep breath and said, “Oh I don’t know. It could be anything. It’s not right around here with Bruce gone. Kessler is on vacation in Wyoming, and Captain Newell has taken over the sheriff’s office. I don’t know. Maybe I worry more than I should.”