Julia Spencer-Fleming - One Was a Soldier

Russ pocketed the card. “Was that just me, or was he acting weird?”

“It’s not just you,” Clare said. She took her phone out of her skirt pocket and opened it.

“What are you doing?”

“Letting Will and Olivia know they should meet us at Trip’s house.”

“No. No, no, no. I’m grateful for their help, but this is police business now.”

She gave him a look.

“I mean it, Clare. This isn’t you and your buddies carrying Tally McNabb off the field anymore. We’re talking homicide.”

“I’ve been talking homicide the whole time. You’ve just started listening.” She held the phone up to her ear. “Hey, Will. It’s Reverend Clare.”

God. For the rest of his life. What was he setting himself up for?

She walked to the office door, listening to something the kid was telling her, and pushed it open. Looked back at him. Clamped her hand over the phone. “Well? Are you coming with me?”

He sighed. “All the way, darlin’. All the way.”

The Stillmans’ house was typical suburbiana, the sort of large and graceful home that fit in everywhere and was native to nowhere. The slim, leafless trees-some sort of ornamental fruit-were hung with tiny witches and black cats, and the entryway was festooned with cobwebs and orange lights. Two skeletons guarded the front door. Each of them had a large cast on one leg.

Clare parked behind a little green four-door with a SUNY GENESEO sticker in the rear window. As she was getting out of her Jeep, Russ’s squad car rolled into the drive, followed a minute later by Eric McCrea’s SUV.

“Do you need help?” she asked Will as he slid himself from the green car’s passenger seat. The curvaceous auburn-haired girl bracing his wheelchair looked up. “We’ve got it, thanks.”

“You must be Olivia.” Clare walked up and shook the girl’s hand. “I’m Clare Fergusson.”

Russ and Eric joined them, and Will, panting, but in his chair, introduced everyone.

“I want to thank you two for what you’ve uncovered.” Russ straightened, as if he were standing at attention. “And Miss Bain, I’d like to personally apologize, for myself and on behalf of my department, for not thoroughly investigating your mother’s car earlier.”

Behind them, a BMW nosed into the last available inch of the driveway. Trip Stillman got out, squinting in the sunlight.

“Sergeant McCrea and I can take it from here,” Russ continued. “An officer is headed over to the junkyard right now to document the condition of the car and to take the MacVanes’ statements. I’ll be sure to let you know what we find after examining your mother’s records.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Stillman said. “Olivia, what are you doing here?” He picked up his niece in a toe-dangling hug.

“Will and I want to look at Mom’s papers along with the rest of you.” She darted a glance toward Russ. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is, sweetheart.” The doctor frowned at Russ.

“This isn’t a matter for civilians anymore. Sergeant McCrea and I will call in assistance from the department if we need any help in the investigation.”

Clare could tell Russ was trying to keep his temper. She shouldn’t feel so gleeful about that. “Russ?” She was a bad Christian. “Do you have a warrant to search Ellen Bain’s documents?” A bad Christian, and a bad fiancée.

“I don’t need one when I’ve got the permission of…” He trailed off. His eyes narrowed.

“Trip, Olivia, will you allow all of us to go through the papers?”

They nodded.

“Then let’s all go in, shall we?” She shivered. “I’m getting chilled out here.”

The detritus of Ellen Stillman Bain’s life was in the Stillmans’ finished basement, packed in a wall’s worth of 18″ by 22″ moving boxes. Clare read the marker-scrawl on the ends and sides: LP’S, WINTER COATS, WOODEN ITEMS, VANITY. She spotted some that would be of interest right away: PRIOR TAX RETURNS and BILLS and HEALTH/SS/INVESTMENT.

Russ bent over the boxes. “Are these in any order?”

Trip indicated the cardboard wall. “This is it. It’s all labeled. What is it, exactly, that you’re looking for?”

“A lead. Some sign of financial hanky-panky. Evidence of conspiracy.”

Stillman looked offended. “My sister was the epitome of financial rectitude. Her living depended on her honesty and reliability. There’s no way she would have been involved in any sort of hanky-panky .”

Eric patted Trip’s back. “Sorry, Doc, but the prospect of free money has a way of bending people’s, uh, rectitude. Just look at what it did to Tally McNabb.”

Clare figured now would be a good time to step in. “Trip, is there anyplace upstairs where we can look at the contents? That way, Will can help, too.”

Russ made a noise that sounded like a suppressed groan and picked up a box.

“The dining room table, upstairs.” Stillman bent to pick up another box. “Plenty of room, and we won’t have to stoop over.”

The dining room had the elegant, unused air of a historic house exhibit kept pristine behind a velvet rope. Clare moved a porcelain bowl from the table to a sideboard for safekeeping. Russ was clearly reluctant to set his box on the snowy tablecloth until Trip thumped his down without ceremony. He hit a rheostat and the chandelier sprang to life. “You get started,” he said. “We’ll get the rest of it. But I can tell you already, you’re not going to find anything.”

“He may be right.” Russ hauled one of the chairs out of the way to accommodate Will’s wheelchair. “We’re only guessing at the motive behind sabotaging her brakes. It could have been a jealous lover, or her ex-husband come back, or somebody she pissed off at work. Hell, it could be a family member, looking to inherit. Maybe the daughter.”

“It was not!” Will’s voice was vehement.

Russ looked at him. “No. You’re right. I think we can take that one off the board.”

They opened up the cartons on the table and got to work. They sorted the contents into two piles: the obviously irrelevant and documents that needed a closer look. Trip and Olivia and Eric brought up everything that might possibly be of interest, then stayed to open and sort. The piles grew higher and higher, then divided, then divided again. Eventually, they had the contents of eight boxes spread across the room, covering the table, piled in chairs, heaped on the sideboard.

“It looks like your office,” Clare said.

“God. I hate paper trails.” Russ polished his glasses on his shirtfront. “Give me ballistics and blood splatters any day.”

There was a soft ringtone from the other end of the house. A door opening. “Hello?” They could hear a wary British voice from the kitchen. “Trip? Why is there a police car in the drive?”

“We’re in here, darling.” Stillman straightened from where he’d been hunched over a stack of old checkbooks.

Mrs. Stillman’s eyes widened when she appeared in the dining room door. “Good Lord. What’s going on? It looks like an office exploded in here.” She spotted her niece. “Olivia, darling, why aren’t you at University?” She looked at Russ. “Has there been some sort of trouble?”

“No trouble.” Russ held his hand out to her. “I’m Russ Van Alstyne. Chief of police.”

“Flora Stillman.” She shook automatically, her face turning toward Clare. “You’re the Episcopal priest, aren’t you? At St. Alban’s.”

“Clare Fergusson.” Clare waved from the other side of the table.

“We go sometimes. Well. Christmas and Easter, really. I’ve been meaning to try to attend more often, but you know how busy Sundays can get.” Flora Stillman bit her lower lip. “Oh dear. I suppose you do.”