Chemistry Lessons (19 page)

Destry stood rooted to the ground. “I bet you’re wondering about those
articles Tanner found about me.” They had been having such a relaxing time. Why
did he have to bring up those articles?

Though she had read some of the articles about Destry, she hesitated to
ask about them. She didn’t want to seem nosey. “I’m a little curious.” She knew
he couldn’t be guilty of murder, but she still wasn’t sure about the insider
trading and dishonest accounting practices.

“As my mentor teacher, you deserve to know what really happened.” His
words left little goose bumps on her skin, their softness suggesting he had a
motivation beyond her being his mentor teacher.

 She shouldn’t have felt as flattered as she did, not when Tanner’s
ring was on her finger, because whatever she had with Destry could go no
further than friendship. Still, if she understood his side of the story, she
could defend him to Tanner. They were going to be neighbors, after all, and
hopefully friends. “I’d like to know what really happened.” She grabbed for a
root sticking out of the dirt and used it to pull herself a few steps up the
hill.

“Hold on,” he said, scaling the hill beside her. He was wearing the
same hiking boots he had worn on the day of the flood, much better for this
terrain than her sandals. “I’ll help you up.” He got to a flat place and then
reached his hand down for her.

The last thing she needed was for someone passing by to see her holding
Destry’s hand, but she could not get up that hill without help.

She heard a car approaching, but Destry grabbed hold of her wrist. As
he pulled her up to where he stood, her worries dissipated. The person in the
car didn’t matter anymore. There was just her hand in his. He held onto her
longer than necessary, or maybe she held onto him. When he did let go, it was
the oddest feeling—like missing the presence of her watchband when she forgot
to put it on.

From there, they walked side by side as he spoke. “It’s not a story I’ve
told many people. I’ve kept it secret to protect my family.” He kept his eyes
on her, probably trying to gauge her reaction. “About a year and a half ago, my
head accountant told me about some discrepancies in the books. That’s how the
whole nightmare started. My brother Cody was gambling with other people’s
retirement money. He lost a lot of it, and what he didn’t lose, he used to buy
drugs.”

Every time Rosie glanced Destry’s way, his eyes rested calmly on her
face. She sensed his pain and heard the sincerity in his voice. She believed
him. “Why didn’t the news reports say anything about Cody stealing money?” she
asked.

“I didn’t tell the reporters about Cody.”

“Why not?”

They reached Destry’s truck, but he didn’t open the door. “You know how
it is after someone you love dies. I couldn’t let that be the thing he was
remembered for. Besides, it would have killed my mom. She was already upset
with me for firing him.”

Tanner would say it was an act, that Destry had rehearsed it all, but
it didn’t seem like an act to her. The lack of hesitation in his voice and the
earnest expression in his eyes convinced her that he was telling the truth, but
she wanted to make sure she understood all the details.  “So the thing about
you selling your stock—that was what you did to pay back the retirement funds?”

“Yeah, and that was a mess too. Zelcom’s president was a friend of
mine. If we hadn’t been such good friends, I wouldn’t have placed so much money
in one stock. At the time, I thought selling my shares was my best option to
pay back the employees’ retirement funds. The stock was at an all-time high.
The company seemed healthy. I didn’t even think it could be considered insider
trading.” He clicked his key fob to unlock the doors of his truck and let Rosie
in the passenger-side door.

She scooted into the truck, analyzing what Destry had said. By the time
he sat down in the driver’s seat, she’d thought of another question. “Why did the
reporters think it was insider trading?”

“My friend told me that a lawsuit had been filed against his company,
but he also said his lawyers assured him that it would be an easy win.” Destry
pushed his keys into the ignition but didn’t start the car. “It seemed like a
minor concern compared to what I was dealing with.”

She folded her hands in her lap, not quite comfortable discussing
lawsuits and investments. 

 “I didn’t consider the consequence of selling all my shares at the
same time the story of the lawsuit broke.” He stared ahead down the road. “I’m
not sure what I should have done about the money . . . The main thing I regret
is that I didn’t get Cody into rehab.”

Rosie fiddled with her seatbelt. She understood the guilt of not being
there for a loved one. She had, after all, left her mother with a husband who
beat her. Now, after seventeen years, she could finally see it was her mother’s
choice, and she wanted to make sure Destry didn’t suffer the same way she had.
He didn’t need to feel responsible for something he couldn’t have changed. “It
sounds like you had a right to be angry. He almost ruined you.”

He started the car. “I’ve never been so angry at anyone in my life. But
I didn’t kill him.”

“I know you didn’t.” She trembled a little as she said it, fearing
others might not trust him the way she did. She had already heard from other
teachers at the school that Jade had showed them the articles. She hoped the
others would be more supportive.

Destry had promised Rosie he would come up with a plan, and he had one,
at least a tentative one. He was so excited about his idea that when she didn’t
answer her phone, he drove down to her house. It was a Saturday, and she was
probably out with her animals.

Before he could look around, though, he saw something that disturbed
him. Mr. Curtis’s can of Pepsi was spilled on the front porch, attracting
flies. Beside it, the old man’s chair laid on its side.

Something was wrong.

He pounded on the wooden edge of the screen door. “Mr. Curtis?” he
called.

The front door stood ajar.

No one answered.

He remembered Rosie saying something about her grandfather’s heart
trouble and that he refused to take his medicine. Holding his breath, Destry
scanned the fields and what he could see of the barns.

Then he noticed that Cheddar sat beside the porch. Surely the dog would
have followed the old man out into the fields. He had to be inside.

This was no time for hesitation. He pushed open the door. “Mr. Curtis?”
he yelled. Reminding himself that the old man was nearly deaf, he stepped
inside. No one sat in the armchair or the sofa. A quick glance toward the
kitchen assured him that no one was there either. Worry propelled him to shout
out once again. “Mr. Curtis?”

The situation demanded that he intrude deeper into the house. With his
heart racing, he walked to the hallway and peeked into the first bedroom. The
bed was made, and he saw no sign of anyone. Still, he had a feeling he couldn’t
ignore. Heart attack victims frequently retreated to the bathroom. He could
tell the bathroom light was on, and the door stood ajar. He ventured a few
steps into the bedroom, just to peek. As he did, he could make out the tip of
Mr. Curtis’s black walking boot.

“Mr. Curtis?” Destry called again, hoping the old man wasn’t sitting
dead on the toilet.

“Huh?” The old man answered in a startled voice, as if he had just
woken.

Destry let out his breath, relieved. “It’s Destry Steadman, your
neighbor. I saw the chair knocked over outside, and thought you might have had
some trouble.”

“Nothing but a little heart ache,” the old man said.

Heart ache? That didn’t sound good. Destry reached for his phone, as he
peeked into the bathroom to see the old man sitting fully clothed on the
toilet. “I’ll call 911.”

Mr. Curtis held his hand up to stop him. “Oh, no you don’t.”

“I’m not going to stand here and watch you die.” Destry punched in the
numbers. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to call 911. He had called one
Thanksgiving morning when Cody hurt his back playing football. That was the
injury that led to Cody’s first back surgery.

On the other end of the phone, a woman answered. “Morris County
dispatch. What is your emergency?”

“I think my friend is having a heart attack. We’re on Dry Bone Lane in
Lone Spur, but I might be able to get to the hospital faster than an ambulance
can get here.”

“I’m not having a heart attack,” Mr. Curtis yelled. “I said heart
ache
.”

“Hold on a second,” Destry told the dispatcher. He held the phone to
his chest, looking at Mr. Curtis. “What do you mean heart ache?”

The old man rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “It’s my anniversary. I
miss my wife.”

Destry had been trained in CPR, and knew the signs of a heart attack.
Mr. Curtis’s face was a healthy shade of pink. He wasn’t sweaty. His breathing
came slow and easy. “You don’t have any indigestion?”

Mr. Curtis shook his head. “I’m perfectly fine.”

The only clear sign of a heart attack was that the old man sat fully
clothed in the bathroom. “Then why are you in the bathroom?” Destry asked.

“I’d like to meet a man who doesn’t go to the bathroom.” The rims
around the old man’s eyes seemed redder than normal. A box of tissues sat
beside him on the counter, and he still had one tissue clutched in his hand. He
must have been crying and come here to get a tissue.

Destry thought it might embarrass the old man if he mentioned the
tears. It was bad enough to be standing with him in the bathroom. “I’m glad you’re
okay. I thought when I saw your chair knocked over, that you might have been in
pain.”

Mr. Curtis groaned. “The biggest pain I’ve got right now is Rosie’s
coyote. That creature knocks over my chair at least twice a day.” He shook his
head and smiled. “Sometimes I wish you were a better shot.”

Destry laughed. “It’s a good thing I’m not.” He took the phone from his
chest. “I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake,” he told the dispatcher. “My friend
told me he had a heart ache, and I misunderstood. He’s a widower, and he misses
his wife.”

The dispatcher paused a moment. “This is Ben Curtis we’re talking
about?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You know what I’d do if I were you?”

“What?”

“Take him out to put flowers on his wife’s grave.”

 Destry had already ignored a long list of chores to come see Rosie,
and he was supposed to meet Chase McFerrin in ten minutes for a riding lesson.
He didn’t have time to drive Rosie’s grandpa around—not if this wasn’t an
emergency. “Okay. Thanks for your help.” Destry ended the call.

Then he noticed the old man had missed a button on his shirt. The poor
guy couldn’t even dress himself properly, much less visit his wife’s grave on
his own. Destry would just have to put off his riding lesson. “What do you say
you show me the Lone Spur cemetery? I’ve never seen it.”

“That’s the place I’d like to go.” Mr. Curtis pointed to the special
walking boot he wore on his leg. “If it weren’t so hard to get around on this
blasted thing.”

“That’s no problem,” Destry said, helping him out of the bathroom. “My
Dad was in a wheelchair for a while. I’m used to hauling one in my car.” After
he got the old man into the wheelchair, Destry made a quick call to Chase,
asking if they could reschedule the riding lesson until tomorrow. Once that was
arranged, Destry remembered his original errand. He needed to ask Mr. Curtis
about the pictures. “Before we go, do you mind if I snap a few photos of those
paintings on your kitchen wall.”

Mr. Curtis scrunched his nose. “You like paintings of naked men?”

“No,” Destry said, figuring he should probably clarify his intention. “I
think I recognized one of the artists’ names.” He pushed the wheelchair toward
the kitchen, but the paintings no longer hung on the wall. “What happened to
them?”

“My daughter took them down. I think she put them in the back bedroom.”

Destry pulled his phone from his pocket. “Do you mind?”

“Who am I to judge?” The old man chuckled, still trying to tease him.

Destry jogged down the hall toward the back of the house, passing what
must have been Rosie’s bedroom on the way—he knew because Wile E slept beside
her bed. The back bedroom was at the end of the hallway, and at least twenty
paintings stood in three stacks on the floor—not exactly the recommended way of
storing fine art. As carefully as he could, he found the two paintings with the
signatures he recognized. Then he removed the sticky notes from the paintings
and snapped two photos, which he sent to his mom in separate e-mails. After
those loaded,  he took photos of the other paintings, just in case.

It would take something special to bring his mom around to
communicating with him again. If he heard back, he would know the paintings
were worth something. Even if he didn’t hear back, he would try again with some
of the other paintings. There had to be some value in there.

After he walked back to the kitchen, Mr. Curtis pointed to a cabinet
above the sink. “Do you mind getting a vase? I want to bring some flowers to
put on the grave.”

Destry did as he was asked and then eased the wheelchair out to the
front porch. He was thinking he ought to call Rosie when Mr. Curtis stood up
and started down the stairs, leaning on the rail for support. A pair of
scissors trembled in his hands. “Now, hold on,” Destry cried, zipping around
the wheelchair and grasping the old man’s arm to help him down the last few
steps. What would Rosie have thought if he’d let her grandpa fall down the
stairs? He was supposed to be using a walker. And when did he get those scissors?

“I saw some yellow roses yesterday,” Mr. Curtis said, shuffling along much
quicker in that black boot than Destry would have predicted.

Betty, who usually power-walked up and down the street at this time,
waved and turned down the driveway. “Good Morning!” she called. In signature
style, she wore a string of pearls with her T-shirt and sweatpants.

“Don’t tell her how I’m doing,” Mr. Curtis muttered in a voice that was
loud enough for Betty to hear from where she stood ten feet away.

Destry couldn’t help cracking a smile. “It’s nice to see you, Betty.”
He craned his head back to face her as he followed the old man around the house
to the rose garden.

“I’ve been meaning to give you a heads-up, Destry,” she said. “People
have been talking about your resort for addicts.”

“Former addicts,” Destry corrected, trying to keep his voice calm and
steady.

Mr. Curtis stopped in front of a yellow rose bush and handed Destry the
scissors. “Get me three of those,” he ordered. “The best ones.”

Destry clipped three yellow roses that smelled like lemons before
turning back to Betty. “What are they saying?”

She scrunched her mouth to the side, as if what she had to say might
hurt Destry’s feelings. “That it’ll be a bad influence on the youth around
here, that it’ll increase crime—that sort of thing.” She pointed her finger up
to emphasize her next point. “I think it might help if we arranged for a town
meeting to calm peoples’ nerves about the whole thing. I could help you do
that. I’m on the town council.”

Destry stuck the roses in Mr. Curtis’s vase. He should have expected
something like this to happen. He had noticed how his neighbors tended to
dramatize every bit of news. “I’d appreciate that, Betty.” He hoped she was
right, that a meeting really would help and not escalate the problem.

Mr. Curtis leaned in to sniff the roses. “These were always Martha’s
favorite.”

“I’m taking him to the cemetery to visit his wife,” Destry explained to
Betty as he maneuvered the old man back toward the driveway.

“What a sweet idea.” Betty walked on the other side of Mr. Curtis. “I’ll
get to work on the meeting, then.”

By the time they reached Destry’s BMW and said goodbye to Betty, four
petals had fallen off the mature rose blooms. Destry wondered if there would be
nothing but a pile of petals when they got to the cemetery.

He helped the old man into the front seat. Then he folded the
wheelchair and placed it in his trunk next to the old rifle that had caused him
so much trouble with Wile E. He took his phone from his pocket and sent a text
to Rosie. “Taking your gramps to the cemetery.” He hoped she would be pleased,
but Rosie was as unpredictable as a desert rainstorm in Lone Spur. It was hard
to know whether he’d receive a gentle shower of appreciation or more of a
thunderstorm.

He depended on Mr. Curtis to direct him to the cemetery. They drove
straight down to the middle of town and then turned west—away from the river
and toward the dry hills. The cemetery was a sparse patch of irrigated grass
surrounded by poplar trees and a chain-link fence. It was drier than what
Destry would have imagined as a decent resting place.

Mr. Curtis directed Destry toward the back of the cemetery, where they
parked the car. By the time he got the wheelchair set up, Mr. Curtis had
already ambled across the grass with the vase of flowers in his hand. Destry
chased after him, carrying the wheelchair. Most of the graves were marked
simply, with small, flat markers. Mrs. Curtis’ grave featured a large granite
headstone with Curtis written across the top. The name Benjamin was already
carved on one side of the stone across from
Martha, beloved wife
. Two
small rose bushes grew on either side of the headstone. Mr. Curtis waved his
hand at them. “Do you mind deadheading those?”

Destry had no idea what he meant. Whatever it was, it sounded a little
creepy. “Pardon me?” he asked as he set the wheelchair down behind the old man.

“Would you mind taking the old flowers off those bushes so new ones can
grow?”

“I’d be happy to.” Destry took the vase from the old man and set it in
front of the headstone. Then he reached to snap off three dead blooms from one
bush and two from the other. It seemed wrong not to give Mr. Curtis more
privacy, but he had to get him to sit down, so he wouldn’t fall. “Let me help
you sit down.”

“No, thank you.” As the old man bent to remove a withered leaf from the
rose bush, Destry grabbed hold of Mr. Curtis’s elbow to steady him. Hearing the
squeak of dusty brake pads, Destry looked up to see a truck pulling into the
little cemetery. Rosie was driving it. Better yet, she was alone.

“Rosie’s not going to be happy that you’re not in your chair,” Destry
said.