Gilt (6 page)

"That doesn't make sense. The FBI doesn't bother with insurance claims, do they?"

"The FBI investigates insurance fraud," John said softly, his eyes darting from Michael to Paul and back again.

"Insurance..." I struggled to manage two simultaneous conversations. "Who owned the building?"

Paul jerked. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, whoever owned the building probably collected on the insurance, right? I assume the FBI will check that." It seemed an obvious conclusion to me, but maybe I was missing something.

"I heard John talking to someone on the phone the day of the fire," Paul said. "John told whoever it was that the police should be called. It sounded like something illegal was happening to someone."

Now it was my turn to be surprised. "What? Who could that have been?"

"I was talking with your Aunt Portia when Paul came in," John said. "He only overheard part of the conversation."

I leaned away from Michael and rubbed my forehead where a pounding ache was starting. This was like a juggling contest, trying to keep a ghost and two humans straight. "You'll have to tell the FBI agent about it," I said.

"Now wait a minute," Michael said, leaning forward to tap one well-manicured finger on my notebook page. "We don't know what that was about. It might implicate John in something. We don't want that to happen."

He tried to inject anger into his voice, but I heard insincerity underlying his words. I was surprised that I wasn't surprised. I shelved it away to consider later.
Michael suspects John of something illegal. Or Michael wants me to think he suspects John. Why?

Paul shook his head. "Genny is right. We have to tell the investigators everything we know. It's the only way to find out what happened." He tilted his head to regard me. "I was supposed to be on duty that day but I had to leave. Billy was sick. It should have been me on that call. I told John I had to go home. He was on the phone and he nodded, saying he had the shift covered. Twenty minutes later the alarm came in." Paul's big hands clenched and unclenched on the table, the dark skin a startling contrast to the pale gray laminate top. "The guys said John seemed distracted at the fire. I always wondered if that phone call bothered him or something."

I stared at my notebook, my pen in a stranglehold in my hand. It was an argument with me that distracted John, an argument we had on the phone minutes before he left. John was upset that I was going to file for divorce. We argued about it and as we talked, the alarms went off. John left, dying in the fire with my angry words in his memory.

John stared at me, his eyes stricken. "When we got to the scene, I knew it was arson. I knew it was arranged. It was too uniform, burning too evenly." He hesitated, shifting uneasily. I got another whiff of charred wood.

Michael looked around, puzzled. "Someone must have a fire going. I could swear I smelled smoke."

John continued, his words colliding with Michael's. "Someone started that fire. Was it an accident that I was on-shift that night for Paul? Was he the target? You need to check and see if his son was really sick."

I started to jot a note to that effect then I remembered that Paul was sitting next to me. Instead I wrote
John? Target?
and prayed I would remember the context. "Why would the FBI reopen an investigation now, two years after the fact? What do they hope to find?"

"That's irrelevant, isn't it?" Michael said. "They'll contact you. We should discuss what you'll say to them."

I straightened. "What?"

"You can't just talk to them," he continued, ignoring my increasingly incredulous expression. "You might say the wrong thing."

"I'll tell them the truth," I snapped.

"But the truth might hurt John."

"John's dead. The truth can't hurt him." I said it louder than I meant to. A young girl in cutoffs and a ragged T-shirt shot us a surprised glance before she continued walking, the picture of teenaged sangfroid.

I looked at my husband's ghost, expecting to see him frowning at me. Instead I saw a wide smile on John's dirt-smudged face. "Good. Keep that thought in mind when you talk to the investigators. Tell them everything you know."

"I don't know anything," I said. "You--I mean, John--never discussed work with me. I don't know why anyone would want to talk to me."

"You know more than you think you do," John said.

Michael pushed back from the table and stood. After a second's hesitation, Paul stood, too. "John may have been involved in things you don't want to know about, Genny. If you're not careful, you could be hurt during this investigation." Michael's voice was cool, almost bitter.

"Even if John was involved in something, it won't affect me. He didn't tell me anything. Besides, it was two years ago." I stood, too, anxious to put this conversation behind me. I slung my purse over my shoulder and scooped up my accordion folder.
So much for doing research,
I thought.
This was a waste of time.
Paul and Michael flanked me as I started toward the exit.

"I wonder if John really did have something to do with that fire," Michael said.

I stopped to stare at him. John was still back by the table, watching us. "That's not possible," I said flatly.

John raised one hand. "Thank you." His gaze shifted to Michael. "I discovered that Michael embezzled from your Aunt Portia and I had the proof. Look in the notebook from my locker." His gray eyes seemed to flare with light and I took a step back, bumping into Michael. "I'm still not sure about Paul. I think he's involved, too."

"I don't understand..." I stammered.

"Be careful, Gem. Leave them alone. I think they're murderers." He began to fade, blending in with the fog in the window behind him. "I think they killed me."

Chapter 4

I almost fell over Paul as I turned, taking a step toward John. Or rather, I took a step toward the spot where John had stood. "What do you mean?" I asked. Notebook? Murder? What was he talking about?

There was no one--ghost or otherwise--there. The only thing visible where John had stood was a clear view of the rain-splattered window and the green world outside.

"What is it?" Paul asked, putting a hand on my arm to steady me.

"Nothing." I shook my head. "I thought I saw someone I knew." I was surprised I could phrase a coherent sentence. My brain was buzzing with knowledge. Michael, embezzling from Aunt Portia? John knew about it?

"An investigation like this is bound to rake up something," Michael said in a low voice as we traversed the bookcase aisles and emerged into the main foyer.

I hesitated near the computer terminals, wondering if I dared access the card catalog and research ghosts with Paul and Michael by my side. I decided to postpone my investigation to another day. "John had nothing to do with that fire," I said, leading the way to the exit. "The investigation will prove that."

Michael kept pace beside me, pushing open the door and stepping aside to let a young woman pass by into the building. She turned to stare at him and Michael smiled at her. I thought the poor girl would swoon. "The FBI wouldn't be investigating unless they thought there was something to find," he said in a low voice. He paused under the exterior overhang as Paul joined us.

"John was a good firefighter," Paul snapped, his lips so compressed I was surprised he could speak. "Whatever they find, it won't be about John."

Michael took a step back, his blue eyes cold. "I hope you're right."

I looked from one man to the other, suddenly aware of tension that almost crackled in the humid summer air. John had been the common denominator between the two of them. What bound them now? With John gone, was their friendship starting to show the strain?

Paul stared at Michael for a long second then he switched his attention to me. "Agent Tinsley will probably call you to try to set an appointment. If you want me there with you when you talk to him, I'm happy to help."

Michael stepped forward. "Do you want a legal representative with you?"

I longed to ask him about what John said, but I didn't dare. The more I considered it, the more foolish it seemed. Michael, a killer? He was too absorbed in his law firm in Richfield and his society doings in Edina, the high-class suburb where he lived. The idea was ridiculous. Neither of them could be a killer.

Of course, I was taking a ghost's word for this. How could I even broach the subject to Michael?
Oh, by the way, John and I have been talking. He thinks you had something to do with his death. He thinks you embezzled from my aunt.

They were both expecting an answer from me. "I'll be fine, thanks," I said with more conviction than I felt. "Like I said, I don't know anything. I'll tell the FBI guy what I know and that will be the end of it."

Paul nodded but I could tell he was troubled. "Call me if you need to talk." He left, pulling a cell phone from his pocket as he walked.

"Paul seems worried." Michael watched Paul move away from us, his voice thoughtful. "I think this investigation bothers him more than he's saying." He peered at the parking lot. "Where did you park?"

"Over there." I let Michael's conversation wash over me like the misty rain as I made a beeline through the parking lot to my navy Subaru SUV, ducking my head to avoid splattering.

"...see her and talk with her this weekend," Michael said as we paused next to my driver's side door.

"I'm sorry, Michael. What?" I fumbled with the opener fob, which was often recalcitrant after three years of use. I finally heard the welcoming chirp of the locks undoing themselves.

"I said you'll see your aunt this week. You and she can talk about this investigation. I wonder if the FBI will want to talk to her."

"Why would they?" I slid into the car, dropping the folder on the passenger seat and slinging my purse into the passenger foot well. I started to close the door, but couldn't with Michael leaning on it.

"She was one of the last people to talk to John before he died." Michael regarded me, his gaze speculative. "I'm sure the FBI will want to know why they were talking."

"That's not surprising, though," I pointed out. "Portia was John's aunt, too, remember?"

Michael pulled away, almost hitting his head on my door frame. "What?"

"Don't you remember? Uncle Leland was related to John's mother. That's how I met John. We were both at a family party, years ago."

"I forgot that." Michael's forehead wrinkled with a thoughtful frown. Then he seemed to shake himself from his surprise and bent over, brushing a kiss against my cheek. "Call me after you talk to the FBI agent, will you? I'd like to be kept in the loop." He straightened and regarded me, his clear blue eyes direct and unwavering. "You know I care what happens to you, Genny."

I resisted the urge to grab the door and drag it shut. What the hell was I supposed to say to that?
Gee, thanks, but I don't care about you?
He must have seen my indecision because for an instant his eyes cooled. "I'll talk to you later," I muttered as I pulled the door closed.

He hurried toward his dark gray BMW convertible on the far side of the lot, well away from potential dings and the mundane minivans, trucks, and sedans that surrounded me. Michael's thick blond hair was curling in the humidity, giving him a youthful, jaunty appearance. He clicked his key fob and his car blinked at him. Michael jerked open his driver's door, pausing to stare back at me. I waved half-heartedly and he smiled but not before I saw his initial frown.

My stomach knotted with anger. What did he expect from me? I hadn't particularly cared for him when he came around as one of John's friends and the two years since John died didn't change that. I still thought Michael was arrogant, conceited, and shallow.

Laughter broke out behind me. I looked in the rear view mirror as several children left the library, giggling while they dodged the raindrops. John stood near the door, his eyes focused to the side, where Michael's car sat. His gaze swung to me and he raised a hand. "Do you believe in evil, Gem?" It sounded like he was sitting on the seat next to me, his voice clear as though shouting children, rain, and a row of cars wasn't obstructing him.

I twisted in my seat to stare past the children piling into a minivan. "I don't know," I stammered. I felt like I was in a tunnel, dark walls surrounding me with John the only illumination a foot or two from me, not forty feet away and partially obscured by rain and cars and people.

John watched as Michael drove out of the parking lot, taking the far exit to avoid the other cars. "Believe," he whispered.

*****

Once again, I drove on autopilot, my brain whirring with accusations, innuendo, and questions. I couldn't believe I was actually considering that 1) I was seeing a ghost and 2) I was listening to what he was telling me. I drove a few blocks and added number 3 to my list: not only was I listening, I half believed what the ghost said.

I made the left turn onto my dead end street and groaned aloud when I saw a dark green pickup truck sitting at the curb under the branches of my maple tree. I drove past it and into the driveway. I considered closing the garage door behind me but Dan was too fast for me. By the time I was inside he stood behind my SUV in that magical little beam of light from my electric garage door opener. Even if I wanted to close it, I couldn't.