AHMM, March 2008 Read online

  Lance smiled tightly. “Sure. Fine."

  She scanned the backyard, where snow drifted down steadily. “Maybe we should let Hercules in.” She walked to the door, pressed the latch, and slid it open. Hercules came in, tail wagging, and went to Lance. The dog sniffed his hands, then looked at Osteen, pausing. The Rottweiler finally glanced at Vicki, maybe thinking she might explain why everybody was being so quiet.

  Vicki became animated with stilted cheerfulness. “You two let me know if you need anything.” She picked up a newspaper that had slipped to the floor. “Come on, Hercules. Let's leave them alone."

  She left the den. Hercules followed, his claws clicking against the linoleum in the hall.

  When Vicki and the dog were upstairs, Osteen took a deep breath, shook his head, and motioned at the briefcase. “Does the investigator have any idea when he's going to finish all this?"

  "No."

  The old man grew still. “Because if there's any way you can speed things along, Lance ... any way at all. I have bills."

  "I'll do my best, Everett. But I'm afraid I can't treat you any better than any other Superior Life client just because I nearly married Vicki."

  "That's not my main concern. Just don't treat me any worse."

  * * * *

  Lance was at work the next day when Carol buzzed him and told him Vicki's estranged husband, Brian Baum, was waiting for him in the reception area. At first he was puzzled. Not that he hated Brian—the man hadn't willfully taken Vicki away from him. But why did Brian think Lance wanted to talk to him? Or even be in the same room with him?

  In his mid forties, Brian wore his hair long and had a small silver stud in his left ear. His hair, dyed black, looked unnatural on a man who had so many middle-aged wrinkles. He was pale, thin, smelled of cigarettes. Brian extended his hand. Lance found he couldn't shake it.

  Brian glanced at Carol, then let his hand sink. “You got a coffee break or something?” The secretary was doing her best to ignore them, but Lance knew she was listening to every word—not good because Carol was friends with Opal.

  Lance grabbed his coat from the coat tree, slipped on his rubber overshoes, and followed Brian into the corridor. He inspected Brian's footwear, battered old cross trainers, unlaced. He couldn't figure it out. What did Vicki see in the guy? He remembered Brian from high school. Hadn't been good at sports. Hadn't had any friends. Grew marijuana in his parents’ backyard. What the hell did Vicki see in him?

  Before they reached the elevators, Brian pushed the fire door open.

  Lance hesitated. “Where are you going?"

  "Down here."

  "Why?"

  "I have to talk to you. In private."

  "Brian, I've got a busy day. You should have made an appointment."

  "Be cool, Lance. Just be cool for a change."

  Brian headed down the stairs. Lance reluctantly followed.

  Their footsteps echoed in the cavernous space. They went down two flights. Brian stopped on the third-floor landing, opened the door, and looked along the corridor. Lance looked as well. The corridor was empty. Brian, remaining inside the stairwell, let the fire door swing shut. He walked to the banister, peered up, then down, and satisfied they were alone, said to Lance in a low voice, “Everett's in a bad fix right now. He borrowed some money. From old horse friends. And he made a few disastrous bets."

  Horse friends. Lance had to pause. He vaguely remembered how Everett's horse friends were only ever whispered about in the Osteen household. “He mentioned he had bills."

  "Oh, these are more than just bills. His old horse friends are playing hardball."

  "Did Everett send you here?"

  "No. But I've read the policy. This discretion clause gives you leeway."

  Lance sighed and shook his head. “Leeway for the company, Brian, not the client. I've already explained that to Everett. And I'm really not at liberty to discuss any of this with you."

  "It would mean a lot to Everett if you released the money now."

  "I'm sorry, Brian, but we have certain procedures we have to follow."

  Brian's lips tightened. “Vicki said you might be like this."

  "She's the one who sent you?"

  "Let's just say I'm an interested party."

  Lance's tone became unpleasant. “Maybe you should have stayed in Rochester."

  "Just release the money and I'll be on my way."

  Lance shook his head again. “Brian, you realize you coming here to talk to me like this just makes things worse."

  Brian seemed surprised. “Why?"

  "Because you're telling me Everett owes money to old horse friends. Now his company burns down, and you're pressuring me for the payout.” Lance sighed and shook his head. “You see the way that looks, don't you?” No, definitely not the sharpest knife in the drawer. “Go back to Rochester. I'll pretend we didn't have this conversation. For Everett's sake."

  "But you have the final say, don't you? Vicki was telling me it was one of your own independent policies from before the consolidation."

  "That might be true, but I still have to wait until the investigation is over. How much money does Everett owe?"

  "You know Everett. He's always done things in a big way.” Brian shook his head. “Even if he remortgaged his house, he wouldn't have enough.” Brian gave him the figure. “Which is why it's so important you sign off on the policy now, Lance. These guys are serious. They don't penalize with interest rates. They're old school. They're going to hurt Everett."

  "Yes, but now it seems as if Everett intentionally burned down Osteen Paper to raise the money. And coincidentally, the settlement would about cover the figure you just gave me. Have they actually threatened him yet?"

  Brian glanced up the stairwell, his lips going slack, then in a lower voice, he said. “Two men came from Chicago last night."

  "Really?"

  "They had golf clubs."

  Lance's eyes widened. “Golf clubs?"

  "Yes. And who in Duluth plays golf in the middle of winter?"

  * * * *

  At the end of the day, just as Lance was getting ready to leave, Melvin Graham, the arson investigator, came to visit him.

  Graham was a tall man with a large square head, lambchop sideburns, and a handlebar mustache the color of smoke. He put a file folder on Lance's desk, opened it, and tapped it with his thick square finger.

  "These are the test results from the lab. They came back positive for accelerant, just like we thought."

  As much as Lance knew he should tell Graham about his conversation with Brian Baum, he found he couldn't. “Have you developed any solid leads yet, then?"

  "We're following up the gas can from photo four."

  "The gas can?” That a gas can could be followed up surprised him.

  "Make, model, and so forth."

  "Really."

  "It's a five-gallon Falcon-1 safety can. You can't actually buy them in Duluth, but you can get them in Minneapolis and Rochester. We're fortunate that the lot number wasn't burned off."

  Lance felt a nervous pang at the mention of Rochester. “What about the interviews?"

  "The interviews with Osteen employees failed to yield anything useful. Osteen Paper doesn't seem to have any enemies, and an examination of the books reveals the firm is at least modestly solvent. Money doesn't seem to be a factor. Their profit margins are small but viable."

  Lance's shoulders tightened. “So you have no definite suspects?"

  "We have a few persons of interest, but no real suspects."

  "Can I assume the investigation is stalled, then?” He couldn't help thinking of Osteen's horse friends and their golf clubs. “Because if it's stalled, the company might consider releasing the settlement money now."

  Graham raised his hands. “Hold off on that for the time being. Let me look into the gas can first. It's bound to turn up something."

  * * * *

  Lance was sitting with Lindsay and their two children in their kitchen on Frid
ay night eating Lindsay's macaroni and wiener casserole when over the sound of the dishwasher he heard a car pull up. He thought someone might be using the drive to turn around, but then the engine stopped, a car door opened and closed, and a few seconds later, he heard someone coming up the walk.

  The doorbell rang. Lindsay raised her eyebrows. Lance put his fork down, wiped his lips with a paper napkin, rose, and went to answer it.

  He found a distressed Vicki Osteen-Baum on the doorstep. His heart did back flips, not only because of their old history together, but because he was anxious about the gas can, insurance fraud, criminal misdoing, everything.

  Her cheeks were satiny with tears. “They killed Hercules.” Her voice was shaky, high, half whispered. “They came this afternoon and clubbed him to death. While I was at the SuperValu. They put him on top of Mom's old Cadillac. There was blood everywhere. Dad hid upstairs. He was in terrible shape when I got back.” Her eyes glistened. “Lance, you have to help us. Dad told me everything. They're going to kill us. You have to release the money."

  He couldn't understand how his predictable suburban life, his hard-earned reputation, and his likely promotion could so easily be jeopardized this way. “Vicki, take a deep breath."

  Lindsay came into the hall from the kitchen and saw Vicki standing there. Having never met before, the two women knew each other only from photographs. The corners of his wife's lips tightened.

  Lance smiled with frantic effort. “Lindsay, this is Vicki Osteen. Vicki, this is Lindsay."

  Lindsay raised her chin. “Hi."

  Vicki continued to stare. Lindsay—Miss Duluth 1995—was having the same effect she had on everybody. Could anybody be so curvaceous?

  "Hi,” said Vicki.

  "Vicki and I have a few things to discuss regarding her father's policy. Just put the Jell-O on without me."

  Lindsay nodded, then retreated, her hourglass figure a rebuff to Vicki's understated contours.

  When she was gone, Vicki said, “Wow."

  Lance's lower lip stiffened. “You weren't the only fish in the sea, Vicki."

  He guided Vicki to his den. He couldn't help noting she was wearing only one driving glove. As she entered, she looked around at the insurance industry certificates, the rubber plant on top of his coffee table, and finally the easy-boy recliner in the corner. He made her sit in the recliner and got her some brandy from the liquor cabinet.

  She took the snifter. “Why would they do that, Lance? Why would they kill Hercules? Hercules didn't do anything."

  "Is the dog still there? On the car?"

  She shook her head. “No. I looked after him. He's in the lake."

  "The lake?"

  "Where else was I going to put him? The ground's frozen. Superior's always open somewhere."

  "And did you call the police?"

  She shook her head. “I was too scared to call the police.” She took a nervous sip. “I never liked my dad's horse friends. Neither did Mom. I knew they were trouble the minute I first met them. I wish you could do something about them. I wish you would help us. What about this discretion clause Dad was telling me about?"

  But he was too upset about the dog to think about the discretion clause. He couldn't believe there were actually people who went around clubbing dogs to death with nine irons. It wasn't possible. Especially in Duluth. It left him in a state of momentary panic, and he didn't get a grip on himself until Vicki prodded him again about the discretion clause.

  "It's in subsection three,” she said. “Have you read it?"

  He nodded. “I already talked to your father about the discretion clause. If you've read the language carefully, you'll see that it's designed to favor the company."

  "Yes, but you're our old friend, Lance. My old friend."

  "We have procedures we have to follow."

  Her face quivered. “So your procedures are more important than we are? After all we've been through together?"

  This was unfair, and he tried to ignore it. “Your father's policy is confidential, Vicki. If he wants to talk, have him call me."

  "I have a letter of authorization from him. He says I can talk to you about it. He's too ill to leave the house. And too scared."

  She pulled the letter from her purse.

  He raised his hands. “I don't want to see it."

  She paused. “What do I have to do, Lance?"

  In a softer voice, he said, “Call the police."

  She sighed. “I guess you don't remember Maine, then?"

  He lifted his chin, the specter of his heartbreak coming back. “Of course I remember Maine."

  "You remember our trailer?"

  He looked away. “Yes."

  "You remember what went on in that trailer?"

  He hesitated. “It happened a long time ago, Vicki."

  "You were a different Lance Tedrow back then."

  His jaw tensed. “People change."

  "I guess you don't remember that small boy either."

  His eyes narrowed as he searched his memory. “What small boy?"

  "The one outside Eau Claire."

  The memory came back to him, the little boy wandering around the campsite, Lance finally taking charge, Are you lost, let's go find your mom and dad, then going from trailer to trailer, asking the other campers if they knew him, at last taking him all the way into Eau Claire and inquiring there, finally finding a grateful mother looking for him all over the town's residential streets.

  "Yes, but that's not the only thing I remember from that trip,” he reminded her. “I think I asked you to marry me on that trip."

  She lifted her hand and brushed a stray lock of red hair from her freckled face. Her hand was shaking. “What I'm getting at—and what I'm trying to get you to remember—is how that boy would have been lost forever if you hadn't stepped in. You should step in now."

  He shook his head. “I'm sorry about your dad's dog."

  She remained still for a few seconds, then put her fingers on his wrist. “Dad's not well."

  He hesitated. “Vicki, I would like to help you. But go to the police. That's what you have to do."

  She lifted her hand and sat back. “That would make matters worse. They're not nice, these people. They would kill him for that. But you can stop them. Dad says his policy is one of your own independent ones, from before Superior Life consolidated with the head office in Minneapolis. He says you have sole authority over it, and that you can sign off on it whenever you want."

  Lance leaned forward, put his hands on his knees, and stared at the Barbie doll his youngest daughter had left on the floor. “Until the investigation is over, I can't do anything, Vicki."

  Vicki lifted her fingers away. “Then you'll have murder on your hands, Lance. Is that what you want?” She paused, and in a more urgent tone said, “I know we have some bad history together. I'm sorry I did what I did. I was young. I regret leaving you there at the church like that. But I've grown up a lot since then. I've come to appreciate the difference between right and wrong. And I know saving my dad is the right thing to do"

  "Breaking the law isn't right, Vicki. And I think that's what you're asking me to do here. Also, I could lose my job. And would that be fair to my family?"

  "I'm just asking you to sign off on a policy that he's loyally paid his premiums on for the last forty years."

  "Yes, but don't you see the way it looks? Your father borrows money, he loses money, he needs money, and Osteen Paper burns down. The whole place burns down just as your dad needs money most. Brian comes over and pressures me for the settlement, and that means he might be involved. Now the fire is under investigation. If that's not suspicious, I don't know what is."

  She reached over and put her fingers on his wrist again. “I have no idea what my father did, or what he arranged to have done, or whether Brian is involved, or if Dad got someone else to do it. I really don't care.” Her tears came back. “All I know is that you're the only one who can save him. I'm begging you, please.” She shook he
r head. “I'll get down on my knees if I have to. Please save him. For my sake. For the sake of everything you and I used to mean to each other. You don't want murder on your hands, Lance, you really don't. You'll only end up regretting it. And take it from one who knows, regret's not an easy thing after a while."

  * * * *

  On Saturday, his neighbors put up Christmas lights. He made a show of doing the same, got the ladder out, untangled the various strings, and climbed to the roof to mount new wire supports for the plywood Santa. But when he realized he was putting up Santa for his kids, yet at the same time considering taking the risk and signing off on the settlement for Vicki—something that would ultimately harm his kids—he lost heart and put the ladder away.

  It wasn't because he still loved Vicki, though their old history certainly put some emotional confusion into the mix. And he would never harm his family. It was just that a man's life was at stake. And he could save it. Wasn't a man's life worth more than the financial hardship his family might face if he signed off on the policy?

  The next day, Sunday, a blizzard blew in from Ontario. He got quietly drunk in his den and watched the Vikings game. Vicki's words kept preying on his mind. You'll have murder on your hands.

  He took a sip of scotch. He looked out the window, where the snow came down in thick squalls, then at the TV, then out the window again, and finally shook his head. He stood up. He glanced at the phone.

  Even though it was his own independent policy from preconsolidation days, he would feel a lot better if he got Patrick's okay to sign off on it. A sudden gust howled around the house. The lights momentarily flickered, then came back on. He walked to the phone and dialed Patrick's home number.

  Patrick's wife, Vivian, answered. “He's gone to the office, Lance. He had some extra work to catch up on."

  Lance called Patrick at the office, but his boss wouldn't pick up. Even after several tries, the line kept defaulting to Carol's voicemail. He pulled the receiver away from his ear and looked at it. He then gently placed it in its cradle.

  He went to the kitchen and told Lindsay he had to drive downtown to see Patrick.

  "But it's a blizzard outside."

  "I know. But something's come up."