Burn 2 (14 page)

Her blood turns cold.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she says.

“Funny thing happened in Louisiana before you arrived in New York, Ms. Holt. A log cabin belonging to your father burned down
a couple of days before. Accident, your father claimed. Only it was more than an accident, wasn’t it?”

Her heart skips several beats.

“What are you saying?”

“There was a body found in that log cabin.” He sees her stunned expression. “Aha. I see your father didn’t tell you about it when he came for a recent visit.
There was indeed a charred body found in the cabin, or what was left of it. It was charred beyond recognition. Your father claims no one lived there, unless it was a vagrant who broke into an uninhabited house by the swamp.

“
The New Orleans police finally identified the body to be that of a Mr. Stefan Stoffler, who has been missing for over thirty years from New York, where he once lived. Not much is known about Mr. Stoffler, other than he was an immigrant from Austria after the Second World War. Would you happen to know anything about Mr. Stoffler, Ms. Holt?”

She can’t seem to find her tongue.

“No,” she finally whispers after a long pause. Her limbs are frozen in some sort of petrification.

“Terrible tragedy, I must say. Of course, the New Orleans PD chalked it up to an accident. Your father is filing an insurance claim.”

She lets the silence that follows wash over her. Her heart is beating so hard against her ribcage that she is sure her body must be trembling with it.

“You seem very concerned, Ms. Holt.”

She licks the insides of her mouth. “It’s just a . . . shock to me, Ms. Ford. I used to have childhood memories of that cabin.”

The detective smiles. “I’ll be in touch, Ms. Holt.
Needless to say, neither you nor Mr. Fisher should leave town.”

“Yes,” she says.

She watches him as he gets up from the couch and walks towards the door. He nods at her as he leaves.

She doesn’t say goodbye.

Her mind is a tornado.

Abby and Devon are both subdued for the next few days.
She tells Devon everything that occurred with Detective Ford, except for what he told her about the log cabin.

The body! she thinks. Only it
was a body of another sort now. She swore there was no one in that cabin when she burned the place down. She had been so sure there was no one in it. She had waited for Stefan Stoffler to take a walk through the swamp, and then she had gone back to her car, taken the can of kerosene out, and poured it onto the porch and started the fire.

Unless . . . unless he had come back
somehow without her knowledge while she had gone to the car. Unless he had gone into the house and locked himself into the toilet or something. Unless . . . unless . . .

God, now she was a murderer!

She knows that whatever she has done cannot be undone, and the guilt will now press heavily on her conscience and keep her awake at nights. But it is something she will have to deal with later. Right now, this current murder and how to get both Devon and herself out of being charged with it will have to occupy her attention.

But the image of that old, withered ex-Nazi will continue to plague her.
She can see him in the corner of her vision when she is not concentrating on something, like a knowing wraith. When she walks out into the streets, she thinks she can see his drooping and careful figure in the throng of the crowd.

No! I can’t deal with this right now!

All she knows is she must keep this fact away from Devon until she can figure it out on her own and what she has to do about it. 

*

Devon
, in turn, shares his speculation on how he became the father of Rachel’s unborn child.

“She pricked those condoms,” he says with bitterness. “It’s the only way.
That’s why she was so upset with me. Because she had already put things in motion and I wasn’t going to be a willing participant in those plans.”

Abby stays silent.

“What’s wrong?” Devon asks.

She shakes her head. “It’s just that so many things are happening all at once. It’s . . . too much.”

Indeed, her head feels like exploding.

“I don’t believe Tobias Ford
suspects you,” Devon declares, mistaking her reticence for something else. “I told him you were home all the time that night, and I found you sleeping when I got home.”

“What did he say?”

“He says there’s a possibility we have corroborated our alibis. I hate that word. Alibi. It makes me feel like we have something to hide.”

Murder suspects give alibis, she thinks.

Devon’s cellphone rings.

He says, “I’m almost afraid to pick it up now.”

She knows the feeling exactly. “It might be important.”

He sighs. “It probably is.”
He glances at the display. “Oh shit, it’s Pat.”

She tenses. When Pat calls, it hardly is anything good.

He picks it up.

“Hello?” His face blanches. “Uh huh.” Pause. “Yeah. Go on.”

Pause.

She squeezes her fists.
The anticipation is killing her, although she knows she just has to wait a while longer before he tells her what’s going on. She doesn’t think she can bear any more excitement, and none of it is the right kind.

“
No.” His expression is stricken now.

Oh shit,
she thinks.

He puts down the phone.

“What is it?” Abby asks. The cold hand of fear grips her chest.

“Rachel Krieg’s lawyer called Pat.” He takes a deep breath. “They want me t
o come in for the reading of her will.”

“What?” Abby’s eyes flutter wide open in astonishment.

Devon arrives on time.

He was
initially afraid that a ‘reading of the will’ requires the family members and heirs to be present altogether while the attorney ‘reads’ out the contents of the will. But he was assured by Pat that this was no longer done because people these days tended to be literate.

But still, the fact that he was named at all in Rachel’
s will surprises him.

Rachel’s attorney is a middle-aged, silver-haired man named
Frederick Baines. He ushers Devon into a meeting room in his law firm offices. Devon is glad to see that no one else is here.

After shaking hands and introducing themselves, Frederick says, “
It’s good that you could come. When I first heard that you had been arrested for Rachel’s murder, my first thought was that it was impossible.”

“I’m glad I have someone on my side,
figuring as you have never met me before this,” Devon replies drily.

“
Not at all. Rachel spoke very highly of you.” When Devon raises an eyebrow, Frederick adds, “It’s true. She was quite adamant to have you as the father of her child. I can see why from a physical standpoint.”

He appraises Devon, and
the younger man experiences the ‘ping’ of his gaydar. Devon is not uncomfortable when being cruised by gays – it happens fairly often in a city like New York – but he is ill at ease with the entire situation.

“Uh, you do know my . . . connection to Rachel, right?” he says.

“Of course. I do know you are an artist.”

“And?”

Frederick has not taken his eyes off Devon since he entered the room. His scrutiny is making Devon nervous.

“I do know you have had a physical relationship with Rachel.”

“Is that what she calls it?”

“Isn’t that what it is?”

Devon shrugs. He doesn’t have to explain himself to anyone, let alone Rachel’s attorney. No, scratch that. He has to explain himself to Abby and Detective Ford. Over and over again, it seems.

They seat themselves at the table. The room is a fishbowl. Anyone passing by outside can observe them.

Frederick slides a copy of the Last Will and Testament of Rachel Krieg to Devon.

“
This will was made one and a half months ago. Previously, she had another will, but she changed it. She was quite insistent that she should leave you a sum of money that should be held in trust for your unborn child until he or she should come of age.”

“Then she knew she was pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“And that I was the father.”

“There was no one else for her, in a manner of speaking. She was not in love with you, Devon, and neither are you with her. But she wanted your genes.”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“That is beside the point.”

“She tricked me.” Devon cannot keep the
obstinacy from rising in his voice.

“I was not aware of what she did to trick you.”

Devon told him briefly.

The lawyer says
pointedly, “We all do things we are not proud of sometimes, Devon. Even you.”

Devon remains mum
. He is conflicted about the whole issue. Part of him is angered that he has been tricked – that a piece of him has been stolen without his consent. And the other part of him is majorly upset that Rachel is dead and his child along with her.

Frederick motions to the copy.

“Don’t you want to read it?”

It seems as if he has been reading a lot of official documents of late.

Sighing, he opens the copy of the will. He reads it slowly, carefully. Frederick watches him as though he were a tasty morsel, causing his skin to prickle.
He knows I am a prostitute
. Devon has nothing against gays, but he does not like feeling as though he were a piece of meat.

Finally, Devon looks up.

“What does this mean?”

“She left you
the SoHo apartment and her country house in Connecticut. To raise a family, she states.”

“She left me her property?”

“Not all of it. She is a woman of considerable means, Devon. But what she left you is worth well over seven million dollars, in addition to the trust fund for the child, which is worth ten million dollars.”

Devon is floored.
He stares at the attorney. The sums concerned are naturally not stated in the will as market prices tend to fluctuate, only the addresses of the properties concerned and the land parcel number.

“S
urely there’s been some mistake,” he splutters.

“There is no mistake. This is Rachel’s legacy – for you and the child.”

“But . . . I wasn’t going to be part of the child’s upbringing.”

“She was hoping you would
, ultimately, play an active role in the child’s upbringing. She kept emphasizing on your decency. You are a good man, she assured me. You would eventually come to your senses. She was counting on you to be a good father, even if you were technically a sperm donor, and you would sign all your parental rights to her.”

Devon keeps shaking his head. ‘Overwhelmed’ is the right word to desc
ribe the way he is feeling now.

“But surely her brother
, Richard, will contest this,” he says.

“I’m sure he will. Especially since she left him
an inheritance to be paid on a monthly stipend. She figured she had done enough for him over his lifetime, and it was time he stopped taking handouts. To him, she left the store, Zipangu, and the rest of her entrepreneurial assets.”

From what he has heard about Richard from Abby, Devon is sure Rachel’s brother would run it to the ground.

“With a certain caveat,” Frederick adds. “Richard must show a net profit of one million dollars a year, which is in line with what the businesses have been making for the past five years, in order to get his monthly stipend. So he is not allowed to let the business go to seed.”

Devon is starting to marvel at Rachel’s foresight.

He says, “B
ut they charged me for her murder.”

“A will is not an insurance
policy to be investigated and paid out only if there is no foul play involved. There is nothing in this will that stipulates that the monies would not be paid out if Rachel died under suspicious circumstances. As the executor of her estate, I am bound to carry out Rachel’s wishes within the month. Of course, the family can contest the will, especially since there will be no child resulting from your union. I will have to warn you that there might be a long-drawn and possibly ugly legal battle over this.”

“If I don’t get convicted of her murder first.”

“There is that,” Frederick concedes. “But I do believe in your innocence, Devon. I believe you are largely a victim of circumstance. The truth will prevail in the end, you will see.”

“Then you are more confident than I feel
.”