Burning for Autumn

by Freya Barker

  I feel like I’ve been on the phone and computer all morning, talking to utilities to cancel services, setting up a temporary new forwarding address with USPS to have my mail delivered here for the time being, and talking to my boss at Mercy. The latter insisted I do not show my face until I’m completely cleared by Dr. Landis. Poor Sandy will have to cover for me. I also made a call to Sophie, who again offered to come. She was only partly assured I was well looked after, but her mood improved greatly when I confessed I’d slept in Keith’s bed last night. She seemed resigned when I promised to come visit her as soon as I could, and in the meantime would keep in touch.

  The only thing I haven’t tackled is poor Mr. Bartik. I frankly don’t know where to start. When I mentioned it this morning, Keith said he wanted to help with the arrangements, but first he needed to go over the coroner’s report with his guys, to make sure nothing was missed. After that he’d talk to the coroner about releasing the body.

  A piece of toast is all I had for breakfast, and I’m getting hungry. It’s already almost two o’clock. Keith’s fridge yields a decent selection and I fill a plate with some roasted chicken, a few slices of old cheddar, and a couple of cherry tomatoes. I refill my coffee cup and carry it down the hallway, and through the bedroom where I open the French doors to the deck. It’s gorgeous. Not too warm with a nice breeze coming up from the canyon below.

  Yeah, I could easily become an outdoorsy person from this vantage point. Looking out over unspoiled nature with the comforts of a beautiful, fully outfitted home behind me.

  The cats have joined me out on the deck, sniffing around and exploring. There’s nowhere for them to go, and they curiously stick their heads through the railing. I wonder if I’ll ever find Boots and Ziggy. Both are chipped, but that only helps if they are found. Overcome with fatigue and my head filling with sad thoughts, I lean it back against the side of the house.

  “There you are.”

  I startle awake at the sound of Keith’s soft voice, right next to my ear, and straighten in my chair. Stiff muscles have my face twist in a wince and he immediately crouches down in front.

  “Are you okay?” He reaches out and puts a hand along my jaw.

  Grateful for the comfort, I close my eyes and press my cheek to his palm. “I’m fine.”

  “Every time I hear you say that I believe you less,” he mumbles, leaning in to kiss my forehead.

  “What are you doing home? I didn’t expect you ’til later.” From the tightening of his observant eyes, I gather my radical change of subject does not go unnoticed. Undoubtedly he’ll get back to it later. If I’ve learned one thing about Keith, in the short time I’ve known him, the man has dogged tenacity.

  “It’s almost five. I tried calling a few times to see if you wanted me to pick up some dinner, but when you didn’t answer, I got worried and came straight home instead.”

  “No wonder I’m stiff,” I conclude, as Keith gets out of the way so I can get up and stretch. “I slept a good two hours sitting in that chair.”

  “You probably needed it.”

  “I’m sorry I worried you. I was talking to the insurance company and must’ve left my phone in your office when I went to grab some lunch. Are you done working?”

  I watch him grab Jack—who somehow got on top of the railing and was teetering precariously—and tuck him under his arm. “Never quite done, but I’m not going back to the office tonight. There’s a few things we need to go over, but let’s see what we can come up with for dinner first.” He leads the way inside, and carrying my plate and mug, I round up Gizmo and follow him.

  Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, where I was relegated by Keith, watching in amazement as he drops another round of Navajo fry bread in the cast iron pan with hot oil. As it cooks, he continues to chop jalapeños that he adds to the bowl of shredded chicken. Next are some shallots, a chopped green pepper, and a decent amount of salsa from the monster jar I’d spotted in his fridge. I wince when he uses his fingers to flip the fry bread over in the pan, but it doesn’t seem to bother him.

  “My mouth is watering already,” I inform him, the smell of the fried dough waking up my stomach.

  “Not much longer. I just need to grate some cheese, throw it all under the broiler for a minute or two and we can eat.”

  Fishing the last one from the pan, I watch him deftly fill the breads with the chicken mixture, top them with cheese, and arrange them folded into a baking dish he shoves into the oven.

  “Oh. My. God. I love this,” I announce around a mouthful the delicious flavors. Messy as all get out, but definitely worth the sauce running down my chin.

  “I can see that,” Keith deadpans, biting into his own with similar results.

  I love this. Amid the chaos of my life, spending time here with him—relaxed and laid back, sharing an honest, uncomplicated meal—feels like an oasis. His calm presence seems to dull the protective barbs I usually surround myself with, and I find myself changing—opening up.

  “Did you know the old man had severe asthma?” he asks suddenly, stopping me from voicing my thoughts aloud.

  “Joseph? No. He didn’t mention it.”

  “Yes, the guys found a corticosteroid inhaler on the floor by his bedside table and another one in the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. The coroner suspects the smoke may have triggered a massive asthma attack. I’m thinking he may have been disoriented and accidentally knocked his inhaler on the floor and out of reach.”

  I wipe my mouth to hide my sadness, before asking, “Does that make it not murder?”

  “Oh, it’s murder, whatever way you look at it. Premeditation makes the difference.”

  “Good. I want him to go away for a very long time for what he did.”

  “Working on that, Red. Which is what I need to talk to you about. Tony collected prints from your original room in the hospital, and there is one palm print on the door we cannot trace back to anyone who we know entered your room after you were admitted.”

  “So you think that’s his? When he dropped off the envelope?”

  “It’s possible. We confirmed with the cleaning crew that the handles on every door in the hospital are cleaned every morning and every night. Part of their routine to ensure as sterile as possible an environment.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “It is, but those prints only help if we have something to compare it to. At this point, it could be anyone walking in off the street. We need to narrow it down.” He reaches over the table and grabs my hands. “We think this person is somehow connected to the hospital. He seems to have information that wasn’t exactly public record. Like where you live and what hospital room he could find you in after he set your house on fire. I want to send a few of our guys to check your offices for prints. It’s the only area that is relatively contained in terms of who comes in. It’s possible he’s been in there at some point.”

  Chapter 21

  Keith

  “Did you get the storage units sorted out?”

  I’m standing in the open door, waiting for Autumn to grab her bag.

  We have an appointment with the funeral home in twenty minutes, and she’s annoyed I insisted on picking her up. Tony helped me get her car up here yesterday—mostly so she doesn’t feel so locked away—but I much prefer driving her myself. Now that she’s starting to feel a little better—and therefore is getting restless—her barbs are starting to show again.

  Not that I mind, her feisty spirit is one of the things that attracted me to her to begin with. It’s an intrinsic part of who she is.

  “Yes, of course I sorted them out,” she grumbles, following me to the SUV. “I just don’t know why the hell we need to empty out the entire house over the weekend.”

  “First of all, we doesn’t apply. You don’t see the doc until Monday, and you’re not going back in that house without an all clear,” I remind her, which earns me an eye roll. “The old man’s asshole lawyer has made it clear he wa
nts repairs to start next week, so he can get the house on the market as soon as possible. If we don’t clear it out, it could all end up in a dumpster. Besides, I’ve got a couple of friends who are available this weekend and offered to lend a hand for beer and pizza.”

  She doesn’t say anything else, just buckles in and stares out the window as I drive down to the road. She hasn’t really been out of the house since I brought her home on Monday.

  The Barnes of Barnes and Finley was a real piece of work. He’d shown up at the police station this week, demanding the house be released immediately. He’d waved around a copy of the old man’s will that stipulated him as executor. One look at the document clarified his need for urgency: aside from the single listing of the Make-A-Wish Foundation as beneficiary of the will, twenty-five percent of the proceeds of the sale of the house were destined for his own pocket. Bloodsucker. Joseph Bartik’s body was barely cold.

  The one bit of good news the guy brought was Bartik had been smart enough to prepay into a funeral package offered by Hood Mortuary, a local, reputable funeral home. Seeing as Barnes showed no interest whatsoever in that part of his obligation, I was able to use the release of an empty house on Monday as leverage to allow Autumn to make the final arrangements.

  I still wasn’t going to let her go alone.

  “Will he be there?” she asks when we turn into the parking lot.

  “Who, Barnes?”

  “No. Joseph.”

  “He’s been here since yesterday,” I inform her, pulling into an empty space. “Why?”

  “Do you think I could see him?”

  I turn to her and see she’s struggling to keep her composure. “We could ask if that’s possible, if that’s what you really want.”

  “It’s not so much about what I want, but about what he deserves.”

  I’m not entirely clear what that means, but she obviously does and that’s enough for me.

  The woman who walks us through the funeral arrangements for next Tuesday, does not seem surprised by the request. She simply makes a phone call, asking someone to have Mr. Bartik prepared for a visit, and directs us to a small room down the hall.

  “Take as much time as you need,” the somber-looking gentleman wheeling the casket in announces. He lifts the lid and backs out of the room.

  I hear Autumn take in a deep breath before approaching. I keep a step behind, just in case.

  “I wish I could’ve made you more dinners, and you could’ve told me more stories, but I’m grateful having known you at all.” Her whispered words soften even further. “I’m so sorry.”

  Breaks my heart when I see her lean in and kiss the old man’s cold cheek. It bothers me she feels any responsibility at all. I follow her determined steps out and find her already waiting by the passenger side of the Tahoe after thanking the funeral director, who popped her head out of her office when I passed. I purposely wait to unlock the door until I can open it for her. She gets in and stares straight forward; her hands clasped in her lap.

  “This is not on you.” There is no response except for the small muscle twitch along her jaw. Leaning in, I reach for her, curving my hand around her face and turning her to me. “You don’t carry any responsibility here.”

  “I know,” she says sadly, covering my hand with her own. “But that doesn’t make him any less dead.”

  I can’t argue that.

  Kissing her lightly on the lips, I make sure she’s buckled in before I round the car and get behind the wheel. “Anywhere else you’d like to go?”

  “Can we stop at a drug store? There’s a few things I’m running out of.”

  “Sure, but did you check the bathroom cupboard? I have a few things stockpiled.” A tiny smile plays on her lips as she turns to me.

  “I did, and I’m thrilled to report that your supplies don’t include tampons and pads. That would’ve been of concern, to be honest.”

  “Is that why you insisted on sleeping in the other room last night? You got your period?” I press her. I have to admit, when she announced after dinner last night she wanted a good night’s rest and would sleep in the guest room, I wasn’t too pleased. I didn’t see the point since she slept beside me the past couple of nights, but I didn’t want to argue with her—she didn’t seem to be feeling well—so I let it be. It all makes a little more sense now.

  “Yup. Fun times.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so?” I point out, steering the car toward Walgreens.

  “It’s not really the kind of stuff you advertise.”

  “Why not?” I persist. “It happens. No reason to go hide in another room. For fuck’s sake, I thought I’d done something to piss you off.”

  “Sorry, I’m just not used to it—this,” she says, waving her hand between us.

  “New for me too, but I always figured that kind of basic stuff is part and parcel of sharing space with someone. Like me warning you this morning to steer clear of the master bathroom for half an hour so the air could clear. Just a heads-up.” I glance over to see her grin. “What?”

  “It was pretty bad,” she admits, chuckling.

  “You were warned.” I grin back.

  “I needed my toothbrush.”

  By the time we get to Walgreens, she doesn’t even argue when I go inside with her. While she hits the aisle with feminine products, I grab a bonus pack of condoms and some air freshener. We meet at the checkout and burst out laughing when the cashier does a double take at our collection of purchases.

  Autumn

  “Whatcha cookin’?”

  I swing around at the sound of Tony’s voice stopping me mid-chorus. Singing along to Aretha Franklin is my secret pleasure. Except I don’t think it’s a secret anymore; Tony is right behind me, peeking into the pan of meat sauce I’m cooking for tonight’s lasagna. Keith is not far behind and rudely shoves the other man to the side, only to bend down and give my neck a little love bite. Possessive. Barely shy of thumping his chest. Still, it makes me smile.

  “Making lasagna,” I announce, leaning back against Keith when he slips his arms around me.

  “Enough for one more?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I grin at Tony, who seems at home enough to dive in the fridge and fish out a couple of beers.

  “Want one?” He holds up a bottle, but I pass.

  I normally would have at least one or two drinks a night, but I haven’t had anything since the hospital. Don’t really miss it either. I haven’t really seen Keith drink anything either, until now. Probably more of a social thing for him. For some reason that pleases me. I know I already walk a fine line being a regular lone drinker, since my mother was a raging alcoholic. They say it can be a familial affliction, and I really don’t want to go down that road.

  “How long before dinner?” Keith asks, his chin on my shoulder, and his easy affection in front of his friend and colleague warms me from the toes up.

  “Forty-five minutes or so?”

  “Great. Gives us some time to work on my truck.” He hooks a finger under my chin and twists my head back to plant a hard kiss on my lips, before letting me go.

  “What’s wrong with your truck?” I ask when he’s already on his way out of the kitchen.

  “Not the Tahoe. I picked up an old 1949 Chevy truck a while ago we’re working on. We’ll be in the garage, just holler when you want us in.”

  The garage is separate from the house, set back under the trees off to the side. I’d never really ventured out there, but I sure as hell will when dinner is ready. Keith never struck me as a man with hobbies, but finding out he has one only piques my interest.

  It takes me a few minutes to assemble the lasagna. I slide it in the oven and am about to start on a salad when a ping on my phone alerts me to a text message. Assuming it’s Sophie or one of the other girls, I wash my hands before swiping the screen, planning to give them a call back, but the message is not from them.

  Unknown number: Hope you don’t mind Jen gave me your number. You
disappeared off the face of the earth. Wonder where you went. How are you?

  I’m puzzled and immediately call Jen’s number. She answers on the second ring.

  “Geeze, way to disappear,” are the first words she says.

  “Sorry about that. I should’ve stayed in touch. It took me a couple of days to get set up with a new phone.”

  “Where are you?” she asks, and I open my mouth to answer before I reconsider. If she’s given out my phone number, how easy would it be to give out my location? Probably smarter to play it safe.

  “Hey, I was wondering, did you share my number with anyone?” I answer her question with one of my own.

  “Uhh. I may have. Why? Was I not supposed to? I thought you guys were friendly, so I didn’t really think twice. He was looking for you. Wanted to know if I knew how you were.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Evan, of course,” she responds, as if that is a foregone conclusion.

  “I see. All right, I guess that’s okay, but next time please just let me know if someone is looking for me? I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing.” I can hear in her voice she’s a bit miffed, but that can’t be helped. I get it, from what I’ve seen she’s more than a little infatuated with the guy, and she probably didn’t want to turn him down, but that doesn’t make it okay.

  “And for the record, I’m doing much better, thanks for your concern. I really didn’t mean to keep you in the dark.”

  “It’s those fires, isn’t it? I remember thinking what a coincidence it is those started just as you moved here. Then your house with you in it. Someone is seriously pissed off at you.”

  I’m a little taken aback by her words, but she’s not lying. Someone is pissed at me, and I’d do well to remember that. I’ve been lulled into a false sense of security here, but that text I assume is from Evan, illustrates how feeble that security really is.

  “So it seems, and it cost a kind, innocent old man his life,” I remind her.