Gilt (17 page)

Paul turned away from me and walked toward the foyer but not before I caught a glimpse of a guilty widening of his eyes. "I'm not sure about her."

"Paul, if you know something, tell me." I reached for him but he dodged me, heading for the door.

"I'm not sure," he insisted. "I mean that. I'm not
sure
." He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. "I think she saw something or heard something she shouldn't have. But I don't know that for sure. Michael knows, though."

"Michael? Why would he know?"

"She worked for him."

I stopped dead in my tracks. "She did? She worked in Edina. That's what Dan said."

Paul frowned, his face a mask of puzzlement. "Michael's office is in Edina."

"No, it isn't. He's in Richfield."

Paul shook his head stubbornly. "Edina. I think she worked for him. That's what I was told. When they--" He invested the word
they
with all the disgust he could muster, "--when they told me about the fire, they said they were killing two birds with one stone, and they laughed. I asked what that meant, and they said that they were getting rid of a nosy secretary and a nosy bookkeeper, all at once." He opened the door, his dark face glistening in the overhead light. "The little girl's father was an accountant. So that must mean Steele's wife was the secretary. Right?"

"I don't know. I thought Michael's office was in Richfield." Of course, I didn't know that much about Michael. It was one more item for me to check. What had Dan said? He mentioned his wife worked for a temporary agency. Did he know about Michael?

I closed my eyes briefly, struggling to remember who told what to who. It didn't help. I was still confused. "Paul, thank you for telling me this. You know I didn't mean to frighten Candace. I'm truly sorry for everything you've gone through."

He stared at the floor, his massive shoulders slumped. "I screwed up," he said in a low voice. "I don't ask anybody for pity for that. I got greedy and wanted to make money for my family, and when it didn't work out, I screwed up again and took money from the wrong people. I knew I might get in trouble but I thought I could handle it." He shook his head, like a big animal trying to shake away flies that worried him. "I was so stupid. Nobody can handle people like that. They aren't human."

I drew in a long, shuddering breath. I remembered the icy look in Jack Tinsley's eyes. "If anyone can stop them, Tinsley can," I murmured. "He has motivation."

Paul regarded me with a resigned, hopeless expression. "No one can stop them."

I nodded. "Tinsley will. Or he'll die trying." I knew it, as sure as I knew I would be telling Tinsley everything Paul had told me as soon as I could.

Paul suddenly smiled. It was like sun shining through clouds, lighting his face with hope and eagerness. "I hope you're right. I'll do what I can, Gen. I won't put my family in danger, but if I can help, I will."

"Thank you." I stood on my tiptoes and brushed a kiss across his cheek. "I'll do everything I can to make sure your family stays safe."

"I will, too. I'll make sure they stay safe." He left, pulling the door closed quietly behind him. I shivered. His words sounded almost prophetic.

I hoped they wouldn't be.

Chapter 10

I raced to my home office as soon as Paul left and jotted notes, my handwriting big and scrawling on the page as I tried to recreate, word for word, what he said. I dug out Jack Tinsley's business card and stared at it.

Call him? I picked up the phone and put it back down. What if someone was watching Paul? What if they followed him to my house? What if they knew what he told me? Could Jack Tinsley protect me? I thought about the small child.

Murdered.

Dan's wife.

Murdered.

I thought about what Paul said, about girls used as prostitutes and young boys used, too. A gang like that was capable of anything.

I jumped to my feet and double-checked my doors, making sure everything was locked. Stupid, of course. If someone wanted to break in, they probably could. My hardware store door locks wouldn't be any match for gang members. I turned off the kitchen light, crept to the basement and verified that the walk-out door was latched. Grumble almost gave me heart failure when he appeared at my feet, but I shooed him ahead of me up the stairs and closed the door securely behind me, keeping any potential boogie men in the basement, or so I hoped.

I went back to the office and stared at Tinsley's business card. If I told him what Paul told me, he would confront Paul. Did I dare do that? Would that get Paul into trouble? Would that get me into trouble? I wasn't sure. Since I wasn't sure what to do, I dithered. I checked my suitcase, prepped Grumble's food dishes and set out his supplies for my neighbor, then I got ready for bed, crawling under the covers with Jack Tinsley's business card in hand. I set it next to the phone and tried to reason what to do.

Nothing made sense. Facts, fears, reasons, all bounced around in my brain. Call Tinsley? Call Dan? Call who? Who could help me, who could erase the memory of Paul's words? I shuddered, imagining the terror he and his family had endured all these years. I closed my eyes but as soon as I did, I was sure I heard a suspicious noise outside. I finally got my putter from my golf bag and crawled into bed, the club lying next to me.

I spent a restless night, tossing and turning and snatching sleep away from nightmares, waking every hour to debate whether or not to call Tinsley. I finally gave up at dawn and showered after reading the newspaper. The forecast was for more of the same: hot, sticky, and stormy, so I dressed appropriately in denim capris, a pale green Lerner Software polo shirt, and slip-on sneakers. By the time Dan parked in front of my house, my car was in my drive, my bag was in the car and I was standing at the door, waiting to meet him.

"I take it you're ready," he said as he extracted a soft-sided nylon bag from his truck. Today he wore dark blue jeans, a powder blue shirt, and a dark T-shirt underneath. Despite the morning heat, he appeared crisp and pressed. I wondered fleetingly if he ironed his own clothing or if he sent them out. Few men knew their way around an ironing board.

Suddenly poor Paul's face seemed to fill my mind and domestic thoughts vanished in a blink. "I'm ready." I peered nervously from one end of the street to the other, expecting to see gang members leap from behind the lilac bushes. "Toss your stuff in and let's go."

"What's the rush? Last night you weren't in any hurry."

"I'm not in a hurry. I just want to go." I closed the garage door and slipped behind the wheel of my car. I waited impatiently until he settled in the seat then we were off, my seat alarm chiming annoyingly as he fumbled for the seat belt.

I had spent most of the night trying to decide how to tell him that I was sure his wife was murdered by the mob without telling him that Paul told me. Unfortunately, a night of tossing and turning didn't help me figure out how to do it, so I decided to try random conversation in hopes I could work the topic into our talk.

We chatted about inconsequential things: the weather (already blazing hot and sticky humid at mid-morning), my car (and that annoying rattle which Dan managed to fix with one good slam of his fist on the dash), and our upcoming visit (I warned him not to expect anything fancy from Tangle Butte, Minnesota and he promised solemnly not to be disappointed).

After a half-hour of driving, I set my iPod to shuffle through my massive music collection and launched into my diversionary ploy. "So you can take time off from baseball like this?" I asked. "I thought you coached. Where do you guys play? Is this like the minor league or something?"

He smiled. "We're not the minors."

"So what is it, the pre-minors?"

"Do you know anything about baseball?"

I nodded knowledgeably. "Of course I do. There are nine innings, and a top and bottom in each one." I didn't let on that I had read that information on the previous evening and I wasn't exactly sure what it meant. I think it had something to do with when different teams got a chance to bat. "There's base stealing, and sliding home, and pop flies and outs and all that." I waved a hand. "It's America's pastime. Of course I know baseball. I don't know much about leagues and things, though. Is there an AFC and an NFC like in football?" As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I frowned.
What corner of my brain held that little nugget of trivia?
I shook my head. John probably talked about it. He always cheered for one football team in each league when there was a big playoff thing in January that involved a lot of drinking and parties. Baseball probably had similar leagues since there was always that tedious World Series thing in the fall.

Dan laughed. "There hasn't been an AFC and NFC for a long time. I'm with the Men's Senior Baseball League. It's for guys thirty and over who want to stay competitive. There are nine teams and the season runs May through August, with playoffs in September. One of the breweries downtown is the sponsor of our team. And yes, I can take time off. It's not a paying position, it's voluntary."

"Wow, I didn't know it was so organized." Nine teams? Each team probably had ten guys. Who knew there were almost a hundred guys in town who cared about playing baseball? "I'll have to come to a game." I frowned.
Game? Match? Didn't tennis have matches? Golf had matches.
"Or match, or whatever it's called."

"Game."

"I know more about golf," I said as farming country whizzed past our windows. "Mom and I golf sometimes when I visit. I used to have a fifteen handicap, but now it's probably more like thirty. I always say my biggest handicap is my putting. John and I used to golf a lot."

"I suppose you miss that." Dan's hand tapped to the rhythm of the Traveling Wilburys who were telling me to
Handle With Care
. "I miss doing stuff with Diane. We used to take walks on Sunday mornings. Even at the end, when we argued, we did our walks." He sounded wistful. I darted a quick glance his way and saw his eyes narrowed in memory and concentration. "It's funny how even though you may not still be in love with someone, you can miss them." He suddenly swung to look at me. "Why did you want a divorce?"

I considered how to phrase what I wanted to say as I stared at the gray ribbon of road in front of me. I finally decided on the blunt truth. "I don't want to think about all of that again. It's long ago, in the past. I can't recreate those feelings now even if I wanted to."

"Do you think those feelings or that memory is stopping you from moving on?"

I hazarded a glance at him. "I've moved on."

"Why aren't you dating?"

I snorted. "You make it sound easy. There aren't a lot of eligible men my age. Guys can date younger women, but it's still hard for an older woman to find guys to date."

"You could be one of those cougar women."

"Please. I'm not cougar babe material."

He chuckled but didn't deny it, which was a relief. We drove in silence for several minutes then I cleared my throat. "So, listen, about that kiss," I said, as casually as I could. "I'm not sure if it's a good idea for us to be romantic. It's okay to pretend, but I don't think I'm ready to, um, well, think about things like that. Yet. Not ready to think about that stuff yet."

"Why not?" he asked so quietly I wasn't sure I really heard him.

"It's not like I'm on a timeline or anything, you know. There's no rule that says that after a certain length of time, a person should be interested in romance."

"Are you sure you're not putting it off?"

My face got warm. Maybe it was a hot flash or maybe it was embarrassment. "No, I'm not sure," I admitted. "But let's face it. I'm not going to get romantic with, well, with you. I mean, really, you're still mourning your wife."

"I am not." He turned slightly, leaning on the door. "I loved Diane, but it's been more than four years since she and I were close. Maybe longer. I'm not mourning for her. Are you mourning for your husband? Maybe that's why you're not interested in somebody else."

"That's silly," I said immediately.

"Maybe you're not interested in me."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," I muttered. "I barely know you. I've known you for, what? Twenty-four hours? Forty-eight? That's nothing to do with this."

"Do you believe in love at first sight?"

I jerked the wheel so hard the car swerved. Thank heaven no other cars were on the road and no ditches were nearby. "What?"

"Don't you believe that two people who don't know each other can be attracted to each other? Don't you think that could happen?"

"I suppose," I said cautiously.

"Why are you denying that?"

"I think you're presuming a lot," I said stiffly. A dense silence fell for several long miles. I finally said, "I didn't mean to offend you."

"I'm not offended. I'm just not sure...oh well, it doesn't matter." He tapped his left foot to the beat of Eric Clapton coming through my speakers. "It's not important. What's important is this case. Can you think of a reason someone would poison your aunt?"

The sudden change of subject caught me off guard. I gaped at him before returning my attention to driving as we entered one of the myriad small towns that dotted southern Minnesota. "I don't think it was poisoning. I think she got confused with her medication."