Gilt (12 page)

What I got instead was a burst of static that made me pull the phone away. I lowered the volume and tried again. This time I heard a wavering, whispery voice.

"Check my kit."

Chapter 7

I was vaguely aware of Dan, watching me with a quizzical expression. I went to the kitchen and put the phone on my scuffed oak table then I backed away, staring at it as though it might explode.

It was John's voice. I was sure of it.

I approached the phone cautiously. It still showed the picture of Mr. Grumble, lolling on his back with his paws in the air and his goofy kitty smile. I approached the phone, walked away, approached it again and finally picked it up to listen again.

"Check my kit."

My stomach dropped. It was John's voice. I was sure of it. I put the phone back on the table with a calmness that didn't reflect what I was feeling. John's so-called kit was the gym bag he carried with him to and from the job. His shift was two-days-on, one-day-off. He kept his bag stocked with a change of clothes, a book, his cell phone, and usually a magazine or two--whatever he needed to stave off restlessness on his forty-eight-hour shift. He always said his job was hours of comatose boredom interrupted by very occasional brief moments of intense fear.

I stared at the kitchen window, my thoughts swamping me. Was John consumed by fear in the last minutes? What was it like, to run into that building, to be surrounded by smoke and fire? John was highly trained, so much so that I used to tease him about being a robot on the job. He admitted there was something to my joking. They trained avidly so they
didn't
think. "If I thought about it, I wouldn't do it," he said with a rueful laugh.

"Bad news?"

Dan's low, husky voice startled me so much I jumped, slamming into the table with my hip. The phone jittered on the wooden surface, reflecting my own tangled nerves. "No, not bad news."

"You look like you've seen a ghost." He leaned slightly on his cane in the doorway, his eyes flicking from me to the phone.

"Ghost? Me?" I managed a strangled chuckle. "Of course not. That box is in the basement." Damn. John's kit was probably in there because it wasn't among the clothing and other items I donated to Goodwill after John died. Should I let Dan see it? I glanced nervously from my phone to Dan. "There's probably nothing in there."

"Let's check." He looked pointedly at the doorway near the fridge where the steps leading downward could be seen.

"Sure. Let's check." I staggered across the room, my legs so rubbery I felt like Popeye's girlfriend, Olive Oyl. I flipped on the light switch. "Be careful, Mr. Grumble loves--"

I turned in time to fling my arms against the side walls and lean backward against Dan, keeping him from tumbling down the stairs as Grumble thundered past us in a wild display of paws and legs. For an instant, I pressed against Dan's solid chest, my head touching his chin. I turned and his arms went around me. We balanced precariously on the stairs for one breathless moment before he grabbed hold of the door frame. "Thanks for catching me," he murmured. "That would be a nasty tumble."

I lifted my face from where I was pressed against the middle of his shirt. Various smells enveloped me: soap, sweat, man, heat.

"Sorry about that. Grumble isn't very polite." I whirled, almost mis-stepped, caught myself in time then managed to sedately descend the stairs. "I tossed that box into storage after John died. I haven't looked at it. I guess I didn't figure there was a reason to. I gave away his clothes and stuff and I wasn't even sure what was in there. I mean, I didn't miss anything, so I guessed it didn't matter." I was babbling but it kept me from turning, pressing my face against Dan again, and inhaling deeply of that warm man scent.

Good Lord, where did that idea come from? My ears got hot as I tried to get my zigzagging hormones under control. I took a left turn at the bottom of the steps and went into the laundry room, a cheerful yellow space with black and white linoleum tile on the floor and ground-level windows which let in a glimpse of the outside world. The small storage nook was under the steps and access to it was next to the clothes dryer.

I glanced behind me as I opened the door. Dan was only a few feet away, standing near the table I used for folding clothes. I turned back to the closet. The white box should be in the back corner where I stuffed it, two years earlier. My Christmas boxes would be in front of it. I anticipated a major overhaul of the tiny closet in order to free the box.

I flipped the switch and the single light bulb shone feebly into the space. The white box sat about two feet inside the room, in front of the Christmas boxes. The lid was slightly askew on the top, the packing tape hanging off one side. I took a step back in surprise, stepping immediately into Dan's arms, once again. I turned, ready to run in case John appeared.

"What is it?" Dan peered past me over my shoulder, his face inches from mine. "A mouse? He'll handle it." His head moved, his slightly whiskery face brushing my cheek. I turned my head to see what he saw. Suddenly Dan and I were staring deeply into each others' eyes.

"What?" I whispered, not daring to move. If I moved, I'd be taken away from that sensual, inviting, speculative expression that was drowning me.

"Hmm?" His arms tightened slowly around me.

His eyes were hypnotic. "What did you see?" I whispered.

"Where?" His face was slightly closer.

"A mouse?" I asked, my brain fogged and stupid.

He blinked. "Oh, yeah. Did you see a mouse?" He released me, leaning back.

I blinked, too, like Cinderella awakened from a trance. "No. It's--" I shook my head. "Nothing. The box isn't where I thought I left it."

He looked past me into the closet. "Is it okay if your cat is in there?"

I took a deep breath and turned. This was stupid. Every time I got close to Dan Steele, my hormones went into orbit. Just because the box wasn't where I thought it should be, that didn't mean anything, did it? I probably moved the box when I tucked away the Christmas decorations last year. Or maybe I shuffled boxes around when I put away the suitcase I stored in the nook after my trip to Vegas to visit Jimmy in February. Maybe the tape came loose. After all, tape could lose its stickiness, couldn't it?

Grumble was rooting around in the darkness at the back of the closet, his fluffy tail flicking back and forth. "Grumble, get out of there. Now." I doubt if he even heard me. I saw his furry dark gray butt disappearing behind the suitcases as I entered the tiny room. I decided to leave him to his explorations rather than try to haul him out. The worst he'd get would be whiskers full of dust bunnies.

I hefted the box, which was bulky but not too heavy. "Let's go into the family room," I said as I angled the box through the narrow door.

"Want any help?"

"I've got it." I hurried through the laundry room and into the family room on the other side of the steps, dropping the box on the floor near the fireplace. Dan followed me, taking a seat on the sagging couch and leaning over to watch as I slipped the lid off the box and let it slide to the floor.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw what was inside. I wasn't sure if John's fire gear would be given to me on his death, but it wasn't here. All that was inside was a copy of the local newspaper that had the story about the fire resting on top of John's black nylon duffel that he carried to and from work plus a few magazines and a few clothes.

I set the newspaper aside on the floor. I had a copy like it in the file upstairs. "His fire gear isn't here. Why not?"

"It was evidence," Dan said quietly. "Unless you request it, they'll keep it along with any other evidence from the fire. Some of it they'll probably always keep."

"Really? Isn't there a statute of limitations?"

"Not on murder. Don't forget, Diane was murdered. That means your husband's death is related to an open crime case. Murder evidence is kept until the murder is solved. And after that it's kept until everybody in the case dies." His voice was level but his hands, dangling between his knees, clenched and unclenched.

I turned back to the box, my hands trembling. I kept forgetting his wife was a victim, too. I had to remember that. No matter what he said, Dan still had feelings for his wife. Any of my imagined romantic notions vanished with the air conditioning as it kicked on, sending a draft of cold air down my back.

I dragged John's duffel from the box and set it on the floor before unzipping it. On top was his small leather bag with his razor, shampoo, and toothbrush. I set that aside and pulled the sides of the nylon bag to open it wider.

"Don't you want to know what your mother and I talked about?"

I tipped back on my heels to regard Dan and ended up sitting on my butt when I lost my balance. "I forgot all about that," I confessed.

"That phone call really upset you." Dan raised an eyebrow slightly as though inviting me to confide in him.

"It didn't upset me. It surprised me. It was an old friend I didn't expect to hear from."
Not a lie,
I reasoned
. I sure didn't expect a phone call from my dead husband
.

"You said your sister-in-law was coming for a visit?"

I pulled a spiral notebook from the duffel. Was that the notebook John mentioned? I peered into the duffel. "I talked to her last night and told her about the investigation. She's going to join me in Tangle Butte." I handed Dan the notebook, which appeared to be full of doodles, sketches, and a few articles cut from a newspaper and glued in.

"Join
us
in Tangle Butte," he corrected. "Your mother sounded excited about having company. She mentioned a Fourth of July celebration and a picnic and other activities going on. It sounds like fun."

I regarded him quizzically. "Where do you plan to stay? There's only one motel and it's a bit..." I sought for a word to describe the Tangle Butte Inn, an ancient motel on the outskirts of town that overlooked a farm field.

"Your mother volunteered your brother's room."

I considered that proposition. I suppose Dan could sleep in Sam's or Jimmy's room, each down the hall from mine on the second floor of the family house. "We should probably get our stories straight," I said. "What did you tell her?"

"That I contacted you a few months ago to thank you for what your husband did and we started dating, off and on. Nothing serious." He looked up from his study of John's notebook. "Can I borrow this?"

"I haven't had a chance to go through it. John thought it--" My mouth closed so fast my teeth clicked.

"He thought what?" Dan regarded me, his head tilted to one side.

"I meant that John must have thought it was important. He carried it in his duffel. Maybe I should read through it first."

"Your cat's in the bag," Dan said, leaning forward.

I turned back to see Grumble disappearing into John's duffel, burrowing inside and burying his head in John's blue T-shirt folded on top. "Come on, Grumble, get out of there." Of course the beast ignored me and proceeded to wedge himself into the bag, purring loudly as he kneaded the clothing with his paws. "You little idiot."

"The clothes probably still smell like your husband." Dan's head was still lowered over the notebook but he looked at me from under his lashes, his gaze going from me to Grumble.

"Probably. We got Grumble as a kitten. He and John were buddies. Grumble used to love to sit on John's lap." I dug into the bag and Grumble tipped over, unwilling to relax his hold on John's T-shirt. I felt around the bottom of the bag. As I touched something smooth, Grumble leaped out, his claws sticking to the T-shirt. He stumbled, dragging the shirt with him. By the time I got the cat unstuck, most of the contents of the bag were scattered on the floor. At the bottom, easily seen now that the bag was mostly empty, was a large white envelope with my name written on the front in John's scrawling handwriting. I pulled it out and I turned it over.

"What is it?" Dan asked.

I didn't answer. I wasn't sure if my voice would even work. I eyed Grumble, who now sat on top of John's T-shirt, cleaning his face. "Did you do that on purpose?" I whispered. He glanced over his shoulder at me, tongue protruding. I could almost hear his "say what?" as he blinked sleepily.

I blinked back, suddenly feeling stupid. What was going on with me? I was seeing ghosts, I was hypnotized by a stranger, and I was investing my cat with supernatural powers. For heaven's sake. "It's from John," I managed to say as I pulled a folded piece of paper from the envelope.

I know you are unhappy, but I don't think it really has to do with me, does it, Gen? Isn't it something that you need to figure out for yourself? Another person isn't really responsible for your happiness. It's something you have to find for yourself, isn't it? Please take your time and think about this before you leave. I think we can be happy together. Give us a chance.

I lowered the page, my eyes hot with tears. Did he mean to give this to me? When did he write it? There was no date on the page or on the envelope. I let the paper fall to the floor and I stood up, going to the sliding glass doors that led to our back yard.

Our
back yard. I still thought of this as our house, mine and John's. We bought it shortly after we were married. I stared at the small patio, the back yard and the fringe of trees around the lawn that separated our house from the neighbor's.