Julia Spencer-Fleming - One Was a Soldier

“There wasn’t any need. The accident reconstruction backed up the witnesses’ statements.”

Russ frowned. Clare held her breath. She knew him. If there was one question to a story, one thread left dangling, he couldn’t resist. He’d go after it.

Then why didn’t you accept it when he said Tally’s death was a suicide?

“Okay. Yeah.” He rubbed his forehead. “It couldn’t hurt to dig a little deeper.”

“Wonderful!” Clare turned toward the Realtor. “Roxanne-”

He held up one hand. “For the paid professionals to dig a little deeper. Roxanne, do you know where Ms. Bain’s financial records and personal papers might be?”

“Not here.” She sounded as if she had finally accepted this wasn’t going to be an open house for the future Mr. and Mrs. Van Alstyne. “We cleared the place out after her daughter went off to school. After the owner dies is the best time to show a property,” she confided. “You don’t have to find a spot for all the stuff people live with.”

“Where did it go?” Russ asked.

“The furniture that wasn’t sold is being stored in her mother-in-law’s barn. Violet Bain. All the papers and the computer went to Ms. Bain’s brother. He was the executor.”

Russ nodded. “Does he live around here?” Do I know him?

“Oh, yes he does. He set that leg you broke so spectacularly a few winters back. He’s Dr. George Stillman, the orthopedic surgeon.”

Will was stretched out on the weight bench in his bedroom, pumping iron, when he heard the doorbell’s muffled chime. He ignored it, concentrating on his balance, his form, controlling the shaking of his too-weak muscles. Lifting without feet to brace against the floor was a challenge. Taking his body back after doing his damnedest to poison it was a challenge. Everything in his life was a frigging challenge.

He heard his father’s footsteps in the hall. He quickly reset the bar into its cradle and used it to chin himself into a seated position. Dad would give him hell if he saw Will had been bench pressing without a spotter. His father knocked and entered. “Willem? You’ve got a visitor.”

Will swabbed his face with the bottom of his T-shirt. “Reverend Clare?”

“Nope. Olivia Bain.”

Will nearly fell off the bench. “What?” It was a six-hour drive from Geneseo. She must have set out before daybreak to be in Millers Kill now. “What’s she doing here?”

“She wants to see you, evidently.” Dad tossed him a towel. “Better mop off. You know what they say. Never let ’em see you sweat.” He cocked his head. “Do you need any help?”

“Uh.” Will’s mind raced. “Toss me a clean tee and pants, will you?”

“You got it.” His father pulled the clothes off the shelves and draped them over the weight bar. “I’ll keep her company until you get out there.”

Will lay back on the bench and wiggled his shorts off. He tugged on his baggy pants, curling his hips up, focusing on keeping his balance. He’d never gotten changed on the bench before, and he was damned if he was going to fall to the floor, to be rescued by his father.

His abs were aching by the time he snapped and zipped. He reversed his curl, sat up, and stripped off his sweaty shirt. He humped himself into the chair, grabbed the fresh tee, and was headed out the door before he had finished pulling it over his head. He rolled down the hallway, his flat pants legs flapping, and he had a moment to wish he had taken the time to fold and pin them, and then he was through the archway and there was Olivia, sitting across from his father, a backpack at her feet, looking-oh, man-even better than she had this past summer.

“Will!” She jumped up. “I’m sorry I-I wanted to-”

Dad stood. “You guys want something to eat? Maybe a soda?” Olivia shook her head.

“No, Dad, we’re fine. Thanks.” Will waited until his dad had strolled out of the living room before rolling closer to Olivia. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you. After we talked last night…” Her gaze went to his chest, his shoulders, his arms. “Wow.”

“Wow?”

Her cheeks colored. “I mean, you’re looking a lot better than I expected. After nearly killing yourself.”

He loved the way Olivia just came out with what everybody else thought but wouldn’t say. “Yeah, well. I figured as long as I was going to hang around in this body, I might as well keep it in shape. Aren’t you missing classes?”

She sat cross-legged on the sofa. “I couldn’t sleep after we talked last night. I kept thinking about my mom maybe being mixed up with this theft, and then I realized what you hadn’t said.” She looked him square in the face. “My mom’s death might not have been an accident.”

“We don’t know that. It’s a big jump-”

“You said you thought your friend’s death was suspicious.”

“Yeah…”

“Then my mom’s death was suspicious, too.” She picked up the backpack and rummaged inside. “I have a copy of the police report on her accident.” She handed him several sheets of paper, stapled together.

“You kept a copy at school?”

“Yes.” She paused. “You don’t think that’s weird, do you?” She shook her head, and her hair slid over her shoulders in interesting patterns. “Never mind. The point is, they never did an autopsy on her car.”

“Her car ? An autopsy?”

“Whatever you’d call it. I’m not good with mechanical stuff like that.” She gave him that same direct look again. “But you are.”

“Yeah, but-”

“It’s at the MacVane brothers’ junkyard. It’s still there. I called them. You and I are going over there, and you’re going to take a look at it.”

“Me? Olivia, get real.” He slapped his thighs. “I can’t go waltzing through some junkyard, and I sure as hell can’t tear into an engine while I’m sitting in this damn chair.”

“So you get up on the edge of the hood. You’re not a paraplegic. You told me everything still works.” She blushed again, deeper than before, which made him color with embarrassment… and something else. She didn’t see him as a cripple. When she said he looked good, she wasn’t talking about his health, like everyone else was. She was talking about… him.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Okay.”

“Really?” Her smile beamed like a laser. “You’ll help me out?”

You’ll help me out? He felt something twist in his chest, painful and pleasurable. Ever since he had woken up on a flight to Landstuhl, he had heard Can I help you? Now, for the first time in almost a year, he got to say it back. “Yeah.” He smiled a little. “I’ll help you.”

If he had been given free rein in the MacVane Brothers Garage and Junkyard as a kid, Will thought, he might never have signed up for the marines. He’d have been hard-pressed to find anything more appealing than working between the piles of stripped and rusting auto bodies, the brilliant morning sun picking out a Ford Gran Torino, over there, or a cherry-except for the blown-out rear-’72 Dodge Charger. The beautiful girl with him only buffed up the fantasy.

The fact she was pushing his wheelchair did not.

“You’re in luck.” Buddy MacVane strode too quickly through the yard. “We sort out the wrecks into what we’re gonna take care of first and what second, and so on.”

“Triage,” Will said. Was that an old T-Bird? Damn, it was. The chilly late October breeze carried the scent of steel and oil and mildewing leather.

“Triage, right. So like I was saying, you two are in luck. ’Cause the last ones we get to are the ones the county sends us that’ve been in a fatal accident. Used to do ’em the other way around, ’cause if it was bad enough to off somebody, they’re usually no good for nothing but scrap.”