by Julie Miller
Officer Marquette touched Amy’s elbow. “Laundry room? Unless you want me to escort these two gentlemen out?”
“They’ll be fine.” She reached out to squeeze Richie’s arm, both an apology and a thank-you, as she scooted between the two men. “This way.”
After leaving Officer Marquette in the laundry room to sort through a basket of Jocelyn’s dirty clothes, Amy headed into the kitchen for a bottle of cool water. But while the cops had staked out the upstairs, members of the KCFD and Platte County Volunteer Fire Department had gathered in the kitchen to discuss their preliminary findings and pore over a map on the kitchen table.
Her gaze zeroed in on the stormy color of Mark Taylor’s gray-blue eyes. Although they widened for a moment in recognition, then crinkled with a smile when he spotted her in the kitchen doorway, Fire Man Taylor looked away almost as quickly as she did. While he focused in on the conversation among the other men and woman in the room, Amy went to the refrigerator to retrieve the bottle of water she craved.
Although they now all wore black uniforms or T-shirts and utility pants instead of their firefighting gear like before, she recognized Mark, the slender blonde woman and the tank-sized man standing behind her as the firefighters who’d been on the scene to protect Dale O’Brien’s subdivision when she’d driven in earlier. Mark pointed to something on a map spread across the kitchen table, and a flurry of questions and comments ensued. All of them seemed to be answering to a tall man with dark, nearly black hair with distinguished gray sideburns. Although she was curious to hear the details of the fire, possibly specifics about the one that had torched Jocelyn’s car and storage shed, hearing several disturbing phrases like no accident and incendiary liquids on the premises and where the body was found made Amy opt for a quick escape, instead.
“Red, wait,” Mark called out.
“Is that her?” another man asked.
“Amy.” A strong, gentle hand wrapped around her elbow, stopping her in the door frame. She shivered at the unexpected touch of Mark Taylor’s hand on her arm, feeling as though she’d spilled the cold water down the front of her. “Easy, Red. You okay?”
Red, huh? So they were doing nicknames now. She supposed that one fit. Amy wasn’t sure if she’d jumped because she hadn’t realized Mark had been addressing her, or if she’d suddenly realized that the attention of every firefighter in the room had shifted to her. She glanced up at the concern lining his eyes, forcing a smile. “I’m holding my own, Fire Man.”
Was it a trick of her imagination, or was the only warm spot on her body her left elbow, where Mark still held her?
“Mark?” The deep voice of the man who seemed to be in charge prompted Mark to pull her around to face the other men and woman in the kitchen.
“This is Amy Hall. She was with me when we found the body.”
“And you’re certain that was the ignition point of the fire?” the commander, or whatever his rank might be, asked.
“That was my observation. Although, we might need a chemical analysis to prove it. It could simply be a hot spot that was created in an effort to...” Mark released his loose grip on her arm and slipped his hand to the small of her back, where he rubbed a slow, easy circle. Nope. Not her imagination. Now her arm was as chilled as the rest of her. The elusive heat had followed the contact with Mark’s hand. Amy couldn’t help but tilt her chin to the firefighter at her side as his voice trailed away. She found his gaze locked on to hers, the grim set of his expression apologetic. “In an effort to hide the body.” His big shoulders lifted with a shrug. “Sorry, Red.”
Amy stepped away to concentrate on opening her water as her mind filled with the image of a charred skeleton and the soot-stained steel necklace she’d held in her hand. But her hands were shaking too badly to twist the lid off. When Mark plucked the bottle from her grasp and opened it for her, all she could do was nod her thanks.
“Miss Hall?” The man whom the others had been deferring to spoke directly to her, asking for her attention. “I’m sorry about your friend. My name is Gideon Taylor.” Another Taylor? Wow. Small world. “When the police are finished with you, I’d like to ask you a few questions, as well. If you’re up to it,” he added kindly. Although, she got the distinct impression he expected her to say yes.
They didn’t think she or her grandmother had anything to do with Jocelyn’s death, did they? But she wanted answers as much as anyone else in this house did. Maybe more. She drank a swallow of the cold water before answering. “Of course.” She glanced over at Mark, who still seemed to be apologizing for something she hadn’t quite grasped yet. “I’ll be outside when you’re finished here. I could use some fresh air.”
“I’ll find you,” Mark answered. His tone seemed to promise something more than simply fetching her for the next interrogation when the arson investigator was ready.
With a nod, Amy headed out to the front porch, holding the door for Brad and Richie as they carried their toolboxes down the front steps to Brad’s beat-up car. Brad grumbled an order to kick it into gear and the other shot her a curious look. Amy followed them to the edge of the porch as the grumbling grew into a full-fledged argument about stupid luck and no respect and women not knowing their own mind. With that last insulting comment, Richie shushed Brad. “Miss Lissette helped us out today. Don’t forget that.”
“Yeah, but you’ve got to push them to do what they’re supposed to,” Brad groused.
“I think she’s nice,” Richie argued, defending whoever Lissette might be. “So’s Miss Amy. You’re bein’ mean. And she can hear you.”
Both men looked back at her from the open trunk of the car, and Amy held their gaze.
“Yeah, I heard you,” she whispered under her breath.
Although she doubted her voice had carried as far as theirs, her attitude was crystal clear. Brad waved Richie into the car and slammed the trunk shut. Then he climbed behind the wheel and drove away in a plume of dust, turning onto the crumbling asphalt road at the bottom of the hill.
When the dust cleared, Amy discovered that she still wasn’t alone. Beyond the burned-out shell and dilapidated remains of the old lake rental properties her grandfather had once managed, beyond the lake itself, she spotted another vehicle—a dust-coated white pickup with the O’Brien Construction logo painted on the side—parked near the office trailer at the edge of the Copper Lake subdivision.
Although the distance was too great to read any expression, she recognized the boxy form of Dale O’Brien lounging against the bed of the truck. He was talking on his cell phone, but she knew he was watching her because he touched his fingers to the brim of his white construction helmet and saluted her. Still on his phone after that little greeting, he straightened and circled around to climb in behind the steering wheel. Why was he still here? Was there any significance to him waiting to make contact with her before clearing out? Who exactly was he talking to, and did it have anything to do with her or Jocelyn or the fire?
She’d like to think he was chatting with an insurance adjuster, but she knew damn well the man had spies. Maybe he was doing his own dirty work, tracking every movement to and from the house, ready to report the slightest legal infraction, the slightest encroachment across a property line that might put him one step closer to purchasing the land all the way around the lake. He started the engine, but remained in the truck, finally focusing on his call and not on her.
Inhaling her first deep breath in hours, Amy turned her face to the fading warmth of the sun, watching the glowing ball shimmer and change colors as it sank below the horizon. Usually the pinks and oranges and hints of deep turquoise as the sky darkened inspired her with images of the art she loved to create. But tonight, the sunset simply marked the end of a very long, very traumatic day.
She heard the crunch of footsteps on the front sidewalk. “Now what have you done?”
Amy groaned at the gravelly voice accostin
g her from the bottom of the porch steps. So much for solitude. “Mr. Sanders. Is there something I could help you with?”
The lanky, slightly stooped older black man who rented one of their remaining bungalows down by the lake glared at her from beneath two white eyebrows that reminded her of fuzzy albino caterpillars. “I just got back to my house. There’s no water pressure there.”
Seriously? He wanted her to play landlord and come fix something right now? “Mr. Sanders, KCFD and the Platte County volunteers have been fighting wildfires all day. I’m guessing it will take time for the pressure in the pipes to build up again. I’ll look at it in the morning if you’re still having issues. You can come into the house and use one of the bathrooms here if you need to.”
He grunted a noise that sounded like she’d given him the unsatisfactory answer he’d expected. A widower who’d worked half his life in a manufacturing plant in the city, he’d answered her ad for an affordable rental back when her strategy had been to fill the empty homes on the north side of the lake to dissuade Dale O’Brien from expanding his subdivision. When Mr. Sanders signed the leasing agreement, Amy thought she’d met a new friend who appreciated the quiet and emptiness of the countryside beyond the suburbs and downtown KC area. But Gerald Sanders took his loner status to the extreme, making her wonder what had happened in his life to make him such a cranky recluse. If it wasn’t for complaints like this, she never saw her closest neighbor at all. He even stuck his rent check in the mailbox when she wasn’t at home.
When he buried his hands in the deep pockets of his overalls, making no effort to leave, Amy studied him a little more closely. “Was there something else?”
He worked those bushy brows in and out of a frown before he asked, “Is your grandmother all right?” Was he worried about her? When had he become friends with her gran? Had the two seventy-somethings ever exchanged more than a few words?
Still, his concern was the most humane thing she’d heard him say. “Yes. She’s been at a friend’s all day.”
“Good. When I saw all these official vehicles, I worried something might have happened to Comfort.”
“I’ll let her know you asked about her. She’ll appreciate that.”
“Like it isn’t bad enough I have construction noise and your hammering coming into my house all day long. Now I’ve got the police and Kansas City firefighters knocking on my door, asking if I’ve seen anything suspicious.” And poof! Just like that, the human connection she’d felt for a few moments vanished. “I rented that house out here to be alone, to get away from interruptions like that.” He leaned in slightly, somehow giving the impression he was looking down his nose at her, even though she stood on the steps above him. “You want me to tell them just who I’ve seen wandering around the premises at night?”
Amy’s hand fisted around her water bottle, crumpling the plastic in her fist. “I live here. If I want to go for a walk at midnight or work late in my studio, that’s my right. And it’s my business. I don’t need you spying on me.”
“Don’t you go gettin’ growly with me, girl. You know I’m the only tenant who’s stuck by your gran after the stables and the old foreman’s house burned down. You need my income. That means you need to show me a little respect. That means you keep the cops away from me. Unless Comfort needs something, I want you and all these people to leave me alone.”
“You’re not the only one who’s being asked a lot of questions, Mr. Sanders. Why don’t you go home and lock your door and be your old grouchy self without bothering me.”
“Young lady—”
“I’m sorry. I’m grieving for a friend and ticked off that anyone would want to hurt her. I can’t handle your accusations right now.” Amy stormed down the steps and hurried past him, needing to get away from all the chaos before her head exploded.
I’ll find you.
Mark Taylor’s words echoed in her head as she ran. She didn’t care that he’d have to chase her down again, that she wouldn’t be where she’d promised to wait.
If she felt eyes on her, she convinced herself it was Gerald Sanders, or Dale O’Brien, watching her as he chatted in his truck. Or maybe Brad and Richie had circled back to plead for a paying job. Maybe Derek hadn’t returned to the city after all. Maybe he was parked on some dusty side road or behind a hill, wanting to be close to the woman he’d loved and the mystery of her death. Or maybe it was the cops upstairs, or the firefighters downstairs, or...
“Damn it.” Amy jogged around to the buildings behind the house, fighting the instinct that said something sinister, something much more malevolent than a bossy firefighter with an interesting face and a hot body, was keeping her in his sights.
Chapter Five
Amy stood at the vise on the workbench in her converted art studio, losing herself in the tangy scent of burning metal and the hiss and pop of gas from her oxyacetylene torch as she heated a sheet of copper to create a muted rainbow of red, pink and turquoise on the body of her latest sculpture.
She’d opened the window above her workbench to let the fumes dissipate into the still night air outside. Even though the sun had sunk below the horizon, she hadn’t turned on anything more than the work light that hung from a nearby shelf, relying on the bright beam of light from her welding torch to illuminate her work. Night and shadows had settled around her like a cloak, and she relished the isolating feeling.
It wasn’t comfort she needed so much as time to think. She needed time without strangers taking over her grandmother’s house or familiar faces like Brad Frick and Mr. Sanders choosing this night to push her for things that were scarcely a priority for her right now.
Right now, she needed to remember. As she virtually painted the strokes of color by heating different parts of the metal to varying temperatures, she recalled her time here this morning, sketching out the whimsical piece, selecting the copper and anchoring it into place. But before she had been able to turn on her equipment and begin the actual piece, the call to evacuate the premises had come. That was when she’d made her first call to Jocelyn, warning her to get out of the wildfire’s path. That was the last time she’d spoken to her friend.
That last chat with Jocelyn felt like a lifetime ago. What a hell of a long day.
Tears pooled in the bottom of the safety goggles she wore beneath her welding helmet. They tickled her cheeks as she thought of all the conversations they’d shared that had been about nothing. Now, knowing she’d never see another text about some gross bug Jocelyn had stumbled upon in the old apple orchard, or never hear another excited voice mail about a botanical or geologic theorem she’d proved that Amy didn’t understand, Amy wished she’d paid closer attention—that she’d understood the importance of every message.
She shoved her gloved fingers up beneath the face shield of her helmet to swipe at the tears blurring her vision. Damn it. Hadn’t she already cried enough today? Crying was more sensitive Jocelyn’s thing—not wild-child Amy. They’d always been opposites. The science geek and the eccentric artist. A quiet brunette and a mouthy redhead. She and Jocelyn couldn’t have been more different. And yet they couldn’t have been any closer. Who would ever want to hurt her friend? Jocelyn had never been in trouble with the cops. She’d never had a run-in with her professors or been in a relationship that had gone sideways. She’d never had an unkind word for anybody.
Amy was the one who spoke her mind and fought for lost causes and made enemies.
But Jocelyn was the one who’d had her head bashed in and had been set on fire.
It simply wasn’t fair. Amy pulled the torch away from the metal when she let the hissing line of flame overheat one spot to a deep blood red. She cursed behind her mask. “Nothing symbolic about that, huh? Did you see something you shouldn’t have, Joss? Was there some secret you never told me? Is there a monster out there who set his sights on you? Did you know? Were you surprised? Did you suffer?”
&nbs
p; More tears, full of anger rather than grief, steamed up her goggles.
Amy drew the flame across the copper again, determined to find solace in her work if she couldn’t find answers. She had almost blinked her vision clear when the door behind her swung open and the overhead light came on. “Damn it, Mr. Sanders! Have you ever heard of knocking?” She spun around, her temper flaring. “I said I’d get to it in the morn—”
Not a bushy-eyebrowed geezer who’d gotten on her last nerve.
Her visitor was a tall, broad-shouldered firefighter with short, spiky dark hair that needed to see a comb. Or her fingers.
Amy blinked and immediately twisted the valve to shut off the gas flow to her torch and kill the flame. She eyed the bulky gloves that protected her hands and effectively kept her from touching anything. Yet she could feel the tingling in her fingertips, as though she had brushed them through the wiry disarray on top of Mark Taylor’s head. Where had that impulse come from? Why was she having any impulses at all concerning the Captain Good Guy Bossy Buttinsky filling the doorway?
“Hey, Red. I thought you’d disappeared on me.”
“Fire Man,” she acknowledged, pushing up the face mask and removing her helmet. She set it on the workbench before removing her goggles and hanging them on the pegboard above the bench.
“Fire Woman. Didn’t know you were a welder. I followed the smell of the gas and flames, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
She stowed the torch on its metal hook and turned back to her workbench to unwind the vise and pick up the sheet of copper. She carried it over to the concrete blocks near the old garage door to cool. “Didn’t know you were keeping tabs on me. I’ll be sure to file a travel report the next time I go into my own backyard.”
The door closed behind him. “I did knock. You probably couldn’t hear me over the equipment. I take it this Mr. Sanders is a troublemaker? Need me to go beat him up for you?”
