Page 95 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

“Youaregood at your job,” she said.

“The best. You’re at Grace’s?” Aspen had texted him the night before, telling him where she’d be staying.

“I am. I was hoping you could make some time for me today. I’d like to ask what you know about the lumber company bombing and my mother’s involvement in it.”

“That’s a good idea.” His tone no longer held amusement. “I have a meeting this morning that’ll probably go through lunch. Could you come by the station late this afternoon?”

They set a time and ended the call.

She consulted her list, which she’d updated that morning with the to-dos that had occurred to her overnight, and moved on to the next item.

She dialed Jeff Christiansen.

After their greetings, she asked the question that had occurred to her at some point in the middle of the night, when sleep had been elusive, the fears and theories fresh.

“You told me you knew my father when he lived here.”

“I did,” Jeff said. “Our families had known each other for years.”

“Do you remember where he worked back then? Someone told me he was in construction.” And hadn’t Mr. Barnett, her house’s former owner, told her they’d had work done on their house that spring? Maybe that was the connection.

“I don’t think it was construction,” Jeff said. “I don’t remember exactly, but I could swear he had to get a special license for the job.”

“Like a certificate, or?—?”

“No. A license to drive a truck. What do they call it? CDL. A commercial driver’s license.”

“He drove a truck?”

“Not an eighteen-wheeler. A construction vehicle, I guess. A dump truck or something.”

“Huh. Do you have any idea what kinds of construction projects?—?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t. I remember he made decent money, enough that he was able to rent the house where you guys lived.”

“Where was that?”

“I don’t remember exactly. It was in town, a couple blocks off Main Street. Little—maybe two beds, one bath, but your dad was proud of it. I might be able to find the address here somewhere in my files.”

How could he have it in his files, unless… “Did you act as Dad’s attorney back then?” She couldn’t imagine why her father would have needed an attorney. He hadn’t owned property or a business. And then a thought occurred that had her heart beating fast. “Was he planning to divorce my mother? Was that why?—?”

“I’m not a family law attorney, so even if he were—and he never shared plans to do that with me—I wouldn’t have represented him. There was another matter he needed my help with.”

“What matter?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

The cliché rolled off his tongue as if he’d spoken it a thousand times in his life. And maybe he had. But it didn’t seem to apply.“Jeff, my father is gone. Surely attorney-client privilege doesn’t still apply.”

“I’m afraid it does. Unless there’s some compelling reason for me to violate that confidence, it holds.”

She chewed on those words a moment. “Are you saying there’s no connection between his dealings with you and what my mother did?”

Jeff cleared his throat. “I’m saying attorney-client privilege applies, regardless.”

“Is it something that would help me find out what happened to my mother?”

“Aspen, I’m not playing a game with you.” His tone had taken on that of a disappointed tutor. “This isn’t twenty questions, and there’s no way of phrasing your inquiry that will result in any information from me. This is not a wink-wink-nudge-nudge situation. Your father entrusted me with his legal needs, and I take that very seriously. I won’t betray that trust, even after his death. Not with hints. Not with anything.”

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