Past, Present and a Future (Going Back) Read online

  “And after dinner?”

  Dave groaned. “Laura, we’re running late.”

  “Okay, okay,” Laura grumbled. “But you’re not off the hook yet, Clare Morgan.” She gave Clare a quick hug. “Just teasing. Honestly though, it’s all over your face, honey.”

  Before Clare could feign a protest, Dave and Laura were on their way out the door. “All right, Emma, it’s just you and me,” she murmured. Laura had suggested Clare take Emma for a walk in her carriage after her bottle and promised to bring back food for a late lunch.

  The fact that her baby-sitting job was going to extend beyond noon was a problem because Clare had arranged to meet Gil at Mitzi’s Café prior to seeing the sheriff about Stan Wolochuk. She called Gil’s cell before heading out the door with Emma, but had to leave a message suggesting he come over to the Kingsways’ instead.

  Half an hour later, as she wheeled a sleeping Emma up the drive, Clare was hoping to see Gil waiting for her. No such luck. She unlocked the door and carefully carried Emma inside, anticipating settling her in her crib to continue her nap. But as soon as Clare placed her onto the mattress, the baby awoke, crying.

  Strike two, Clare thought. She carried Emma back downstairs and quickly heated up a bottle for her in the microwave. As she sprinkled some of the formula onto her wrist, testing its temperature, she thought how much more adept at caring for Emma she was now, compared to ten days ago.

  “See? I can do this,” she said, smiling down at Emma who was sucking hungrily on the bottle. While she fed Emma, Clare daydreamed about Gil and the possibility of another night with him. She daydreamed too, about what it would be like to be sitting in their kitchen, feeding their baby.

  Don’t get carried away, Clare, an inner voice warned. There’s a lot to resolve yet. But she realized, with a strong sense of well-being, there was now all the time in the world to do it. If all worked out, she might have another chance at realizing her adolescent fantasy of marriage and family. Now, more than ever before, she wanted that to happen. The thought of returning to her old life in New York was suddenly unbearable.

  Surveying the kitchen while Emma finished up her bottle, Clare noticed the message indicator flashing on the telephone perched on the small desk in the corner. Was it Gil, returning her call?

  As soon as Emma’s rosebud mouth slipped free of the nipple, Clare slowly righted the baby over her shoulder and patted her on the back. Then she rose from the chair and, with Emma still over her shoulder, picked up the phone.

  “Hey Clare.” Gil’s voice resonated in the kitchen. “Just got your message. Don’t worry about changing our plans because something’s come up here, too. I had a call from the real-estate agent and the people who’ve bought the house want to renegotiate the closing date. It means a trip to Hartford and I’m leaving right now. I’ll give you a call at the hotel when I’m back. I’m…uh, hoping we can do dinner tonight.” There was a slight pause. “Oh, about the visit to the sheriff? Will you hold off on that? I want to go with you and we may have to do it tomorrow. I hope things are going well with you and Emma—talk to you later. Bye.”

  Clare hung up. She was disappointed, but not terribly. Tonight, however, looked promising. Buoyed by the thought, she carried Emma upstairs for her nap.

  SHE DIDN’T GET BACK to the hotel until midafternoon. Laura and Dave had returned with fresh bagels and assorted cheeses and Clare knew she’d have to fend off Laura’s questions. But she was surprised at her friend’s uncustomary reticence.

  “Dave warned me off,” she’d muttered, handing Clare plates to set on the table. “But I expect to get the complete lowdown before you leave Twin Falls.”

  Laughing, Clare had promised. She was grateful for Dave’s presence, however, knowing how tempted she was to tell Laura about the encounter with Stan Wolochuk. She and Gil had agreed to withhold that news until after they’d contacted the sheriff.

  On the way back to the hotel, she was considering a nap before getting ready for Gil’s arrival later in the afternoon. Then she noticed the message light on the phone and quickly picked up, thinking he’d returned earlier. The woman’s voice on the other end dispelled that notion, though Clare was happy to hear from Fran Dutton. She had information Clare would be interested in, the message indicated, and please come to the bank if possible, or call her at home later in the evening.

  Clare put her coat back on and headed for the door. The bank was a mere four or five blocks away, so she decided to walk. It was a blustery day, with storm clouds building up on the horizon, and the weather quickened her pace. Less than half an hour later, she was at the receptionist’s desk asking to speak to Mrs. Dutton. There was another five-minute wait while Fran finished conferring with a client, then Clare was sitting opposite her, on the other side of old Mr. Carelli’s oak desk.

  “Sorry it’s taken me so long,” Fran began, “but I had to root around in the basement, if you can believe it.”

  “I appreciate this a lot, Fran, and I don’t think a couple of days is long at all. What were you able to find out?”

  Fran removed a black leather agenda book from a desk drawer. “This was in a box of files removed from the office after Mr. Carelli retired. Apparently the stuff was supposed to be sent to him, but he had a stroke shortly after he left here and I guess the family never got around to asking for it. The box ended up in the basement.”

  Clare listened politely, but couldn’t take her eyes off the agenda book. She was itching to get at it.

  “I know you’ll want to take this with you,” Fran said, “but I’ll have to get it back, okay? In case—and I think it’s very unlikely—the family suddenly remembers to ask for the stuff.” She pulled a slightly guilty face. “I hope you don’t mind, but my curiosity got the better of me and I’ve already skimmed through most of it. You’ll notice the Post-its where I’ve marked pages that seemed—to put it mildly—interesting.” She passed the book across the desk to Clare and added, “Do you want to look at it here, in my office? Then if you have any questions, I might be able to help. There are a few bank-type abbreviations and procedures you may want to know about.”

  “That would be great,” Clare said, knowing she wouldn’t have been able to wait until she got back to the hotel anyway. She picked up the book, turning to the first marked page, dated June 30, a week after Rina Thomas was killed. The former bank president’s handwriting was a narrow, spidery scrawl that took Clare a few seconds to adjust to. The entry summarized various meetings scheduled that day, including one for Sheriff George Watson. Loan payment—$10,500.

  Clare raised her eyes to Fran. “I don’t understand why this page is marked.”

  “You will. Just go to the other pages I’ve marked. They’re in sequence.”

  The next marked page had an entry for July 10. Fran had highlighted a notation that read: See A. Morgan re trust fund. Clare’s mouth went dry. She quickly flipped to the next tabbed entry for July 14. Trust fund—$10,500. Her fingers fumbled at the next page dated July 16. A. Morgan—resignation. Clare glanced up at Fran.

  “Making the connection?” Fran asked softly.

  “I’m not sure, but the missing money in the trust fund was $10,500. Right?”

  Fran nodded. “And I’ve checked the loan payments. Sheriff Watson paid off an outstanding loan for his car June 30. The amount happened to be the same as the money missing from the trust.”

  “Yes, but couldn’t that be a coincidence?”

  “You have to read the rest, Clare. I’ll give you a rundown of what I think happened if you like, and you can take the book with you to go over it more carefully later.”

  “Okay. Great.” She set the book on the table and listened to Fran.

  “Basically, it looks as though someone else in town paid off an outstanding loan that July, too. Mayor Sam MacRoberts. His payment came later, at the end of the month. At the same time, there was a debit from a special discretionary fund that had been earmarked for bank renovations in the bank’s budget tha
t year. The amounts were the same and curiously, the renovations never happened.”

  Unsure what to make of the details, Clare asked, “What’s your opinion on all this?”

  Fran leaned forward, resting her arms on the desk. “I think old man Carelli was doing favors for people. Ensuring their loans were paid off.”

  “In return for?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. But bank presidents don’t stick their necks out like this for nothing, Clare.” They stared at one another a long moment until Fran said, “Look, I hate to rush you but I have another appointment. I’m going to do some more digging in that box of files—you’ve got my curiosity in high gear now. I’ll give you a call tonight or in the morning.”

  “The morning would be fine,” Clare said, rising to leave. She tucked the agenda into her purse and thanked Fran again.

  She made the walk back to the hotel in a daze, thinking about the implications of what she’d just read. The first thing she noticed when she closed the hotel-room door behind her was that there were no new phone messages. Gil had obviously not returned from Hartford. It was almost five and the gloomy day was sinking into an early dusk. Clare decided to curl up with the agenda book Fran had given her. She turned on the bedside lamp and was reaching for her purse when a sudden sharp rap at her door made her jump.

  Gil. Heart racing, she ran to the door and flung it open. But the person standing in front of her was the last person on earth she wanted to see.

  Helen Wolochuk.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CLARE TRIED to close the door, but Helen shoved her foot inside and pushed hard. She stumbled backward as the woman brushed past her. Obviously distraught, she stood in the middle of the room and glared at Clare.

  “What do you want?” Clare asked, trying to keep her voice level.

  “I’ve come to tell you to stay away from us.”

  If only I could, Clare wanted to say. “I think you’ve got that the wrong way around, Mrs. Wolochuk.”

  “Helen,” she mumbled, scanning the room.

  “I am the person being hounded by members of your family, Helen. First Jason, then Stanley,” Clare said.

  Helen’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Stanley? Was he here? When?”

  “Last night. Look,” Clare fought to keep the frustration out of her voice, “I think you’d better go. Maybe you should call your husband and ask him why he came to see me last night.”

  “I can imagine why he came. Can’t you?” She cast Clare a cunning look.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Stanley always had an eye for the girls,” she said. “That’s what got us into this mess. I tried to tell you that the other day.”

  “Are you talking about Stanley and Rina Thomas?” Clare tensed. Was she making the right inference here, or had Helen slipped into some other reality?

  The woman sagged into the same chair her ex-husband had been huddled in last night. “We tried to have a child for years and finally, after all the tests and disappointments, I got pregnant.” Her face softened as she looked back to another time. But when she spoke again, her voice was brittle. “My happiness was short-lived. Stanley confessed he’d been having an affair with one of his students. A teenage girl! I couldn’t believe it.”

  Clare moved slowly to the bed and sat down. She waited for Helen to go on, sensing that to ask questions or make comments would only prolong her visit.

  “Of course he had all the usual excuses. She’d made the first advances. She was mature for her age.” Her eyes shifted from Clare to the tightly clenched hands in her lap. “But the only reason he confessed was because she was trying to blackmail him, to get him to give her more marks. And then he confessed—crying, if you can believe it—that she was pregnant.”

  Her head jerked up. “Can you imagine how I felt?” Her voice rose. “I was his wife! I was pregnant with our first child—one we’d been trying to have for years. And he has the gall to say his eighteen-year-old mistress was pregnant, too.”

  Clare looked away from the pain in her eyes. This vignette of the Wolochuk household back then wasn’t a pleasant one. “What happened?” she finally had to ask, though a premonition was taking shape in her mind.

  “Stan called me from school that day—the day after he’d admitted everything. He said Rina had been there and was threatening to go to the principal. Stan would lose his job. He might even have been charged and sent to jail. I tried to calm him down. We needed to make some kind of plan.” She paused to catch her breath, her chest heaving up and down. “I drove over to the school to see if I could find her. Someone had to talk sense into her!” She looked across at Clare.

  But Clare’s thoughts were focused on the driving part, as she recalled Stanley’s denial that he’d had his bike that day.

  “I told Stan to meet me in the parking lot. When he came out, we could see Rina and some boy talking out on the playing field. Stan and I had a big fight then about what to do. I wanted to have it out with her right there but she was with that boy. We didn’t know what to do, just watched them for a few more seconds. Then they started to walk toward the ravine shortcut and I couldn’t stand there doing nothing. I grabbed Stan’s bicycle and followed them.”

  Clare sat perfectly still. The scene played out again in her head, but this time the bike rider had a face. Dry-mouthed, she quietly cleared her throat and murmured, “And then?”

  “I couldn’t ride very fast. As I got closer, I could see that the boy was leaving and I knew I had a chance to talk to her alone. She even seemed to be waiting for me, sitting on that tree stump and watching me. But when I got closer, I could see that she wasn’t expecting the person to be me.” Helen fell silent for a long moment. “She had a funny look on her face. Kind of scared and sassy at the same time. Do you know what I mean?”

  Clare nodded, thinking what Rina’s state of mind must have been like that day.

  “But when I begged her to leave us alone, she changed. Just like that.” Helen snapped her fingers, her face tight with anger. “She didn’t care that I was pregnant, too. At least you’re married, was what she said. Huh! What kind of marriage did I have to look forward to then? That’s what I wanted to know.” She paused, catching her breath.

  “We were shouting at each other and then she just stood up and said she was going. Too bad for us, she said. She had her own problems and she didn’t care if Stan gave her the marks or not. Maybe she’d tell anyway.” Helen rose from the chair, as if to leave. She swayed slightly and put out a hand to the floor lamp to steady herself.

  “I can’t take this anymore,” she said, her voice low and hoarse. She walked slowly toward the door, still ajar from her entrance. Then she stopped and turned to face Clare. “That’s when I slapped her. I hated that gloating look in her face. She slapped me back, of course. And so I pushed her. Hard. She fell backward over the stump and didn’t move.”

  Clare swallowed the mouthful of acid that rose from her stomach. She kept her eyes on Helen, but the woman was lost in another world. Finally, she glanced at Clare one last time and said, “I killed her.” Without another word, she walked out the door.

  GIL CHECKED the dashboard clock. Just after five and he’d been on the road a mere ten minutes. He wouldn’t make it to Twin Falls until at least six. A bit later than anticipated, but given what he’d found out, he doubted Clare would be annoyed. Of course, if he’d simply left Hartford after his meeting, he’d have been there by now. But as he was heading for the highway, he had suddenly decided to go see Stan Wolochuk.

  The man had practically leaped out of his skin when he opened his front door. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Some unfinished business from last night, Wolochuk. Can I come in or shall I just go to the police right now?”

  That got the door opened fast enough. Gil winced at the state of the house. Wolochuk’s personal life was definitely in a tailspin. He followed the man into the living room, stepping gingerly around the debris of so
meone who’d given up every pretence of order.

  “So what’s the business?” Wolochuk asked, slumping onto the couch.

  “Last night Clare told you she saw someone riding a bike across the field that day. You said you’d taken your car to work that day. But you were lying, weren’t you?”

  Wolochuk’s shrug made Gil’s blood pressure soar. He wanted to shake the man, but he had a feeling that would only shut him up. “I can understand why you were upset that day. Your whole life was falling apart, wasn’t it? Everything you’d worked for.”

  Stan’s eyes, watery and red-rimmed, settled on Gil. “Rina wouldn’t listen to reason. I offered her money so she could go to Hartford for an abortion. If she wanted to keep the baby, I would send her child support. As long as she didn’t tell anyone. But I don’t even think it was about her grades by then. She wanted me to pay for what I’d done.”

  “Did your wife know?”

  Stan looked away and nodded. “She guessed something was up. I was late getting home every Thursday—that was the day Rina and I met at her friend’s place. Things came to a head the day before Rina died. Helen fell apart, as I thought she might. She’s never been a stable person and the pregnancy had been difficult from the beginning. I tried to explain to her how it was with Rina. That she had this power over me, like an addiction. But Helen wouldn’t listen. She just kept screaming, how could I do this to her?”

  “And that day?” Gil prompted.

  “After Rina left my office I called Helen to tell her Rina was going to the principal in the morning. Helen told me she was coming to the school and to meet her in the parking lot. She was determined to confront Rina. When I met her, we could see Rina out on the field.” He paused. “She was with you, I guess, though I couldn’t tell at the time. When you two started toward the ravine, Helen said she was going to follow you. I tried to talk her out of it but she grabbed my bike and before I could stop her was riding across the field after you.”