Gilt (11 page)

I swallowed hard, not sure how to tell him about my desire to divorce John, not even sure if I
should
tell him. Maybe it wouldn't be an issue in the investigation. After all, it was private between John and me. Nobody else knew about it. "I can understand how it must have been. It was awkward for me, too."

He was silent for another half lap. "It's only for the weekend."

We did part of another lap as I considered what he said. "Would you lie about who you are? Would you tell people you're related to the woman who died in the fire?'

Now it was his turn to be silent as he thought. We finished the lap before he said, "It's always best to lie as little as possible when setting up a cover. Is it so far-fetched that you and I might meet and get interested in each other?" He smiled tentatively.

"But if people know you're related to the woman who died, it might seem, well, morbid or something."

"Why? We have a shared grief, a shared past, so to speak. It's only for a few days," he said when I tried to protest. "Jack thinks it's necessary and I agree with him."

I slowed as we rounded the final turn. Was I letting my personal feelings interfere with common sense? They were both cops. They would presumably know best. "Well, maybe."

"This gang has its fingers in almost every financial pie imaginable. They're into everything--prostitution, drugs, money laundering. From what I've read of them, they're one of the nastiest gangs in America. Anything is possible with them." Dan said it as though it was the most natural thing in the world. I suppose in the world of policemen, it was normal and natural to discuss arranging the arson of a building and the murder of innocent people. "Are you sure your husband didn't leave anything behind that might explain why he'd be a target?"

I thought of the box in the basement at home. "I don't know. I have a few of his things from the station, but I've never gone through them. I suppose it's possible." I moved off the track to the small cool-down area near the locker rooms.

"If you'd like me to go through what he left, I'd be glad to help."

I considered his offer. He was, after all, a stranger. Perhaps he would see something that I would overlook. "I suppose that's okay."

He moved to the door that led to the men's locker room. "Meet you back here in a few minutes?" I made for the women's door a few feet away, opposite the men's entryway. I was already starting to regret my decision. He probably saw that in my face because he vanished inside with a quick, "I'll race you!"

I opened my mouth to protest but he was gone. I went into the women's locker room. Maybe if I hurried, I could evade him. I made a beeline for my locker but stopped. That was stupid. He knew where I lived. If I didn't go with him now he would probably appear on my doorstep again, like he did the day before.

I took my time, showering and changing into the shorts and T-shirt I brought with me. I stuffed my dirty workout clothes into my bag, bundled my damp hair into a ponytail and dabbed on makeup. I surveyed myself in the mirror. I looked like I had just finished exercising. I sighed. Oh well. I was only pretending to be a girlfriend, after all.

When I emerged from the locker room, Dan was standing with his back to me, talking to a woman with a thick dark braid near the elevator. She was dressed in very short shorts, showing off her golden, toned legs to good advantage. Her sleeveless top was tight and her arms, like her legs, were tanned with no sign of the underarm flip-flop that was the bane of my exercise existence.

As I neared them, her eyes flickered to me then back to Dan, focusing on him. She was either wearing makeup, which would be absurd since this was a gym, or she had a flawless complexion. When I got closer, I decided she was, indeed, wearing makeup. She was older than I first thought, probably in her forties, but her tan and physique made her appear far younger from a distance.

Dan wore pale blue jeans and a tucked-in red golf shirt that was tight enough to show his muscles and which contrasted beautifully with his golden tan. The woman eyed him the way Mr. Grumble eyed me when I was preparing a ham sandwich: confident, assured, and waiting for what he knew would be his reward for his patience.

I struggled to dismiss the catty thought as I slung my workout bag over my shoulder along with my handbag. The combined weight made me stagger slightly. "If you'd like to do that thing another time, that's fine," I said to Dan before smiling at the woman. She eyed me coolly in return, as though assessing whether to speak to me or not. Now that I was closer I could see she was even wearing eye makeup. Good heavens. Who wore makeup to a gym?

"Nope, I'm ready." Dan took my bag from me. "Good to see you, Pauline," he called over his shoulder as he walked the few steps to the elevator.

"There's no rush," I said, lagging behind. "If you want to stay and chat, it's okay."

He punched the elevator button with unnecessary force. "Is she gone?" he asked in such a low voice I had to shuffle near him to hear.

"Huh?" I glanced over my shoulder. The woman had moved to the track, stretching with elaborate care. Her shorts outlined a very taut and shapely butt. She glanced back once, her eyes evaluating me before she returned to stretching. "Yes, she's gone."

"Thank God you showed up." The elevator door open and he dodged inside. "Come on. Get in."

"You act like she's a stalker or something," I said as I edged into the tiny space. "She's not going to come after you."

"She and I had three dates and now I can't get rid of her." He punched the "1" button. "She's that real estate agent I told you about."

I struggled to hide a smile. "You're such a chick magnet."

He rolled his eyes. "Give me a break." His cane tapped an impatient tattoo on the floor. "What is it with women? You go out, you have a good time, you have one little kiss, and all of a sudden it's serious."

I shrugged. "Don't ask me. I haven't dated much lately. I'm out of practice." The elevator door opened and I moved forward.

"Think you can pretend for a few days?"

I glanced back at him. He was smiling at me with an appraising look in his brown eyes. When I met his gaze, though, his expression changed to one of naïve innocence. "I'll give it a try. I presume it's like riding a bicycle. One never really forgets," I said dryly. "Do you want to follow me to my house?"

"Lead on." He gestured toward the door with my bag.

We emerged into the furnace that was Minnesota in the summertime. He was parked one row away from me, his truck shining and new-looking. As I approached my dusty and bug-spattered car, I held out my hand. "See you there."

He handed off the bag. "Thanks for believing me."

I nodded, not sure what to say. I slipped into my car and started it, cranking up the air conditioning and the stereo. I drove the six blocks to my house, preoccupied with trying to decide how to tell my Mom I might be bringing a Gentleman Caller home with me.

I pulled into my garage and shut off the car, waiting by the garage door as Dan parked his gleaming truck in the drive. I tilted my head when I heard his truck stereo, blaring Pink Floyd almost as loud as mine did.
Great minds think alike
, I decided.

He followed me into the house through the mudroom then into the kitchen. "Do you want coffee? I can make it fresh or you can have it iced." I tapped the full coffee pot under the coffeemaker on the counter.

"Iced sounds good." He watched as I filled two glasses from the cupboard.

I went to the fridge and peered inside. "Cream? Sugar?" I got the can of whipped cream and pulled the ice from the freezer.

He shook his head. I added a healthy dollop of whipped cream to mine then dropped a couple of ice cubes into each glass. I handed him his then led the way into the living room. Mr. Grumble raised his head, yawned then resumed napping. Dan sat on the couch where Tinsley sat the previous day and I plopped into my favorite recliner.

"You were right about the gym," he said, sipping his coffee. "It's a great time to exercise. Hardly anybody's there."

I spooned frothy whipped cream from my coffee. "I'm self-conscious as it is. At night there're all those babes in their spandex. The afternoons are geared to us matrons in our sweats." I glanced at Dan. "You don't have to worry about that. You look like you stay fit."

His pleased smile told me I scored a home run or whatever baseball jargon was appropriate. "I always worked out when I was coaching because I felt obliged to set a good example. You look pretty good yourself."

I snorted in derision. "Ten pounds overweight and I can't seem to do a thing about it." I glanced at my drink. "Whipped cream. Okay, yeah, there're a few things I could do." I sipped more frothy goodness. As I did, my landline phone next to the chair rang. I checked the caller ID. "Sorry. I should take this. It's my Mom."

"Maybe mention that you might be bringing a friend home with you this week," he suggested casually. He peered at the coffee table and my still-unfinished crossword puzzle.

I picked up the portable phone. "I'll see if I can work it in." Sure, I'll drop a little clue like
Hey, I'm bringing a guy home with me for the Fourth of July holiday.
"Hi, Mom," I said into the receiver.

"Is this a good time to chat?" my mother asked.

I jerked my eyes away from Dan Steele's long dark eyelashes. "Fine."

"Okay, good. I called Darryl Brody but he wasn't home. He's on a fishing trip. His wife, Emma Jean, said she'd have him call me when he comes home. You remember Emma, don't you? She went to school with Sam. Emma Jean Saunders. Her family lived in that blue house over by the high school?"

"Oh, sure." I didn't remember her at all, but if I said I didn't, I'd get a recitation of Emma Jean Saunders' family tree. "How's Aunt Portia?"

"We got the test results back from the doctor. He's putting her on a new medication. He thinks the dizzy spells were caused by a lack of iron." There was a brief pause. "Or maybe it was potassium. I wrote it down. I'm worried. I think her health is failing."

"A dizzy spell doesn't equate failing health, Mom."

"I realize that. That's really not why I called," Penny said. "Portia said she thought someone was prowling around there the other night, near the barn."

I straightened in surprise. "Did she see someone?"

"She said she saw tire tracks in the mud in the turnaround by the barn."

I relaxed. The odds were a delivery person or my mother drove there and left the tracks. "I'm sure it's nothing."

"I hope so." Penny didn't sound convinced. "Is there any more news about this investigation you mentioned?"

I cleared my throat. "Actually, I talked to Amy last night. She's going to come for a visit." I paused when Dan's head jerked up, his eyes wide with surprise. "And I, um, may be, I mean, a guy I know may, um, there's a guy I've been seeing and--"

Dan leaned over and took the phone from me. "Hi, Mrs. ..." He looked at me expectantly.

"Atwood," I hissed, reaching for the phone.

He turned aside, keeping the phone out of my reach. "Mrs. Atwood. My name is Dan Steele. Genny and I have been dating. I was hoping to come home with her this weekend to meet you and the rest of her family. Would that be okay?"

I closed my eyes when I heard the startled squawk on the other end of the line. He nodded, his eyes on me as he listened to my mother babble. "That sounds great," he said. "I'd love to watch an old-fashioned fireworks show."

I got to my feet and reached for the phone, but once again he deftly turned away, keeping it from me. As he did, my cell phone chimed a muted song from my purse on the bench in the mud room. I strained to listen and when I heard what it was, it felt like my heart stopped for one long, sickening instant.

The ringtone was the one that I used for John.

I stared at the doorway, Dan Steele's voice fading as I focused on my phone. Why would John's ringtone be sounding? A few months after he died, I deleted his contact information from my phone. It couldn't be John's ringtone.

I took a cautious step away from Dan, toward the kitchen. Yep.
We Didn't Start the Fire
, by Billy Joel. It was John's ringtone.

And Paul Denton's, I realized a belated moment later. I used it as a general ringtone for the firehouse in downtown Roseville. Billy Joel was still singing, which meant the call hadn't bounced yet to voice mail. I strode to the bench and grabbed my handbag. The zipper stuck, probably because the bag was overloaded. It took a couple of tries for me to get it open. I stuck a hand into the bag and fished out my iPhone. Billy was no longer singing. "Damn."

I stared at my cell phone where
New Message
was displayed on the screen, superimposed over Mr. Grumble's picture that I used as a background. I went back to the living room, staring at the tiny screen. "I'll tell her," Dan said as I sank back into my chair. He held the phone toward me. "Do you want to talk to your mom?"

"No, I'll call her later," I said, my stomach starting to twist into knots as I wondered what Paul might want.

Dan nodded and put the phone back to his ear. "She'll call you back."

His voice faded in my consciousness. What did Paul want? I typed in my password for messages and put the phone to my ear, expecting to hear Paul's deep voice.