Chapter Twenty-two
Broker had always taken back roads and harvest fields for granted, but now he saw that Washington County was running out of them fast. Not more than two miles from J.T.’s place the lumber skeletons of new houses haunted the farmland.
That was global warming for you. The Minnesota winters used to keep the population down and the riffraff out.
Getting closer to the river, he referred to Jolene’s directions, found the turnoff, and took it to a left turn. “It’s a dead end,” Jolene had explained without irony on the phone. The last leg of road was semiprivate and the lots were three hundred feet deep, butting on the river. Broker drove past two fenced tennis courts and a putting green, and came to the house number on the mailbox.
Sommer lived in his own small woods of mature white pines. As Broker came down the shadowed, twisting drive he estimated some of the trees were two feet in diameter. Hundreds of years old.
He approved of the way the sprawling cedar home blended into the trees and the river bluff, camouflaged in thick beds of hosta, ferns, and low evergreens. Seams of moss patterned the cobble paths through the shade garden.
A green van and a silver-gray sedan were parked in front of the three-car garage. Broker parked, got out, went to the door, and rang the bell.
Almost immediately, Earl Garf opened the door-like he’d been waiting and had watched him arrive. Garf was off his hygiene today, disheveled in a studied, expensive way, his hair thick with mousse and his beard stylishly grown out. He wore baggy jeans, a loose T-shirt, and bulky cross-trainers.
“Mr. Broker,” Garf said in a crisp parody of politeness. “Jolene’s expecting you, she’s in the kitchen. This way.” Courteously, Garf showed him through the hall into a long living room. This was a different Garf from the man who’d stood beaming in the snow outside Ely Miner Hospital. This was Garf playing butler with an actor’s conceit.
Sommer’s house still smelled of paint and sawdust-not quite lived-in. His taste ran to dark wood and shade inside, just like outside. Then they were in the brighter kitchen. Garf, the mannered joker, announced, “Mr. Broker is here.” Then he silently withdrew.
Broker was surprised to see Allen Falken sitting at the table with Jolene, hunched forward, talking over blue coffee mugs.
“Broker, hey,” said Allen, rising from the table. Allen looked more relaxed than Broker remembered, dressed in an open-collar beige oxford shirt and jeans. Jolene’s face was pale and blurred with strain. The thick Mediterranean hair was gone-with extreme prejudice. Christ, she looked like the French Resistance had cut it. She wore a gray dress, nylons, and she had kicked off a pair of low heels.
Allen stepped forward, and he and Broker shook hands warmly. “So how you been keeping yourself?” Allen asked, finding just the right tone of restrained familiarity. A more robust Allen, more centered.
“I’ve been all right,” Broker said. He placed the car keys on the table.
Jolene also got up and raised her hands, and when Broker extended his, she took it in both of hers. Her hands were unexpectedly soft, surface-cool melting to very warm in his palm and covering the back of his hand.
“Thank you so much,” she said.
“No problem,” Broker said. She smelled damp with nerves and very serious, like lilies, stained glass, organ music, and caskets in a church. She had pronounced lavender circles of fatigue and worry under her eyes. On her they looked good. A faint flush crept up his neck and into cheeks. Must be hot in here, he thought.
“Did you have any trouble finding the place?” she asked.
“Perfect, ah, the directions were. . fine.”
“We were having some coffee,” Jolene said.
Broker made a stiff, waving-off gesture. “Stuff keeps me up if I drink it in the afternoon.” He shifted from foot to foot and placed his hands behind his back, winding up in an almost formal parade-rest position.
Allen and Jolene nodded sympathetically.
“Ah, Jolene just got back from her first serious meeting with Milt Dane,” Allen said, keeping the conversation going.
“The lawyers for the hospital will play a waiting game,” Jolene said.
“That’s pretty typical at the beginning,” Allen said.
Jolene twisted her lips slightly. “They’ll wait to see if Hank dies. Milt says if he dies, it’s cheaper for them.” She shook off the D word, worked at a smile.
Broker cleared his throat. “I was wondering what he’s doing here at home. So soon, I mean.”
Jolene crooked her finger. “Come this way,” she said. “I’ll show you something.” He followed her through a doorway into the living room which was tiger-striped with Venetian-blind-filtered light. An alcove set off through an archway contained a long desk table which literally overflowed with paperwork. “Here’s where Hank pays the bills,” she explained.
Then she trailed a hand through the surface papers. Broker glimpsed a legal format.
Jolene said, “Somewhere in this pile are two or three premiums from Blue Cross he forgot to pay.”
“Ouch.”
“We found out an hour after we got him to Regions,” Allen said.
“Absentminded,” Broker said.
“Big-time,” Jolene said as she plucked a bill that was held to an envelope with a paper clip. “This one’s for the helicopter ride. St. Mary’s Life Flight out of Duluth. Fifty-five hundred bucks.”
Allen stepped in helpfully. “You recall the cell phone conversations?”
“Oh, yeah,” Broker said.
“We were fighting about these,” she said, pointing to the bills. “He didn’t like the way I was pushing to get them paid off, so he and his accountant moved all his money into a trust, to teach me a lesson, I suppose. He was the trustee and his accountant was the alternate trustee. Now Hank’s incapacitated. The accountant died. Two point three million dollars and I can’t touch a cent. Milt says it will take a month to bust open the trust in probate. And it was costing three thousand bucks a day to keep him in the hospital. So I brought him home.”
“Milt’s putting Hank in a nursing home next week,” Allen added quickly. “It just got off to a bad start.”
“I. .” Broker searched for a word.
Jolene waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Yeah, I know. Un-fucking-believable.” She stepped forward and took Broker’s elbow. “Let’s go see Hank,” she said.
“I’d like that.”
“What do people call you?” she asked. “Phil?”
“No, ah, Broker, usually.”
“This way, Broker.”
A hall off the kitchen dropped into a tight circular staircase to the next level. Going down it, Broker thought of castle scenes. Someone should be carrying a torch. They came out into a master bedroom, king-size sleigh bed,
