“I couldn’t just stand there and let David burn to death,” I protest, wincing with the pain in my throat. I sip more of the water and feel a little relief. “I thought you were making yourself scarce,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard the call go out over my radio and recognized the address. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I suppose I should be flattered but given that I’ve become Hurley’s only secret ally of late, I can’t help but wonder if his motive might have been something else. “Do they know how the fire started?”
Hurley frowns and hesitates a second before he answers, and I know the news won’t be good. “It was arson. The firemen found an empty gas can in the kitchen and there is an obvious pour pattern in one of the front rooms of the house.”
“Who? How? And why?” I ask as the questions whirl through my mind. Hurley’s frown deepens and a blanket of dread settles over my shoulders.
“They’re not sure yet,” he says. “There were no obvious signs of a break-in other than the basement window where we assumed you went in.”
I nod. “It was already broken when I got there. I tried the doors first but they were all locked.”
“Yeah, they figured that was how you got in when they found Hoover in the basement barking like a maniac.”
I can’t help but smile at the thought of Hoover raising the alarm. Then it hits me. “Oh, no, where is Hoover?”
“He’s fine. Dom took him.”
“It’s all because of Hoover that I even discovered the fire,” I say. “He woke me up by barking like crazy, and when I let him out he practically pointed to the house. I could already see flames coming out the windows.” I pause and swallow some more water. “How much damage is there?”
“It’s a total loss. Part of the back section of the house is still standing but other than that, it’s just ash and rubble.”
My eyes start to burn and tear, and I’m not sure if it’s because they’re irritated or because I’m so upset thinking about all that’s been lost in the fire. “Why?” I ask Hurley, knowing he can’t give me an answer. “Why would anyone do something like this?”
“I don’t know for sure but I have an idea.”
My eyes probe his, questioning, demanding that he go on.
Hurley leans in closer to me. “There’s something else I need to tell you,” he says, dropping his voice to just above a whisper. Judging from the expression on his face I fear things are about to tank faster than a patient having a widow-maker MI. “David and I had a bit of an incident the other day.”
I take a second to try to parse this but come up blank. “What do you mean, you had an incident?”
“I ran into him at the grocery store and we had a discussion that got a bit . . . how should I put it? It got rather heated.” It’s not the best choice of descriptor given the night’s events but I keep my opinion to myself. “And there were a number of people who witnessed the whole thing.”
“What happened?”
“David basically told me I’m the reason your marriage has fallen apart, that I keep interfering with his attempts to reconcile with you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Not according to him. He was quite angry and very determined. And it isn’t the first time he’s approached me. When I went to see him for my follow-up visit after my surgery, he laid a guilt trip on me, implying that since he saved my life the least I could do was back off so you two can patch things up.”
“There’s nothing to patch up. I’m done with him. He knows that.”
“I don’t think he does.”
As I consider what Hurley has just told me, things that have happened over the past few weeks start to make sense. “Is that why you’ve been kind of standoffish with me lately?”
Hurley shrugs. “The guy has a point. He did save my life.”
I ball my hands into fists and grit my teeth. I want to be angry with David for trying to manipulate my life, for his inability to put the blame where it belongs, and for being so blasé about the severity of his transgressions. But given his current situation, I can’t. Besides, after what Izzy told me at dinner last night, none of it matters anymore anyway.
“There’s more,” Hurley says, and I feel my heart do a little uh-oh beat. “When the firemen found the gas can in the kitchen of David’s house, they assumed it was evidence and put it out on the deck to protect it from any further fire or water damage. I got a good look at it and I’m pretty sure it’s mine.”
“Yours?” My mind struggles to understand the implications of this revelation but I feel too muddled to sort it out. “Why do you think it’s yours? And how can you tell? Don’t most gas cans look alike?”
“Not if they’re hand labeled like mine is to differentiate between the plain gas I use in the lawnmower and the oil and gas mix I use for the snowblower. I recognized the writing on the container. And mine is missing from my garage.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
“What are you telling me, Hurley? That you tried to burn down my house?”
“Of course not,” he says, clearly exasperated. “But someone obviously wants it to look like I did. I’m sure my fingerprints were all over that gas can when it was taken and with the way things have been going lately, I’m betting they still are. It’s just a matter of time before someone finds and runs them. Add that to the thing with Minniver, and Callie’s murder, and . . . well . . . the evidence says it all.”
“What the hell is happening, Hurley?”
“I don’t know,” he says sounding exhausted. He looks haggard and frustrated. “Two people are dead and you and David nearly ended up that way. Whatever the hell is going on, I’ve got to figure it out and put a stop to it.” He pauses and looks at his watch. “I need to get out of here. It’s only a matter of time before Richmond figures out the evidence all points to me, and if I get arrested my hands will be tied. I can’t let that happen.”
“What are you going to do?”
Before Hurley can answer, the curtain is flung aside and Izzy enters. His forehead is creased with worry lines and his expression is the most panicked I’ve ever seen him. “How are you?” he asks, coming around to the other side of my stretcher.
“I feel like I’ve been huffing from the chimney of the crematorium, but I’ll live.”
Izzy shifts his worried gaze from me to Hurley. “You feeling better?” he asks.
Hurley frowns at Izzy, looking momentarily stymied by the question, apparently forgetting that he’s been calling in sick the last few days. Then his expression relaxes as it dawns on him. “I’m fine,” he says, then he looks at me. “But I do have some things I need to take care of so I’m going to leave you in Izzy’s very capable hands. Call me if you need anything.”
Before I can utter a word, he’s gone.
“Was it something I said, or did you tell him about the nipple incident?” Izzy asks. “He lit out of here like his pants were on fire.”
“Given the day’s events, that might not have been the best choice of words,” I tell him, deftly deflecting his curiosity.
Izzy looks confused for a second before his mental lightbulb flicks on. “Oh, yeah,” he says with a guilty smile, looking chagrined. “Sorry.”
“I hear Dom has Hoover?”
“He does. The two of them were getting on quite nicely the last I saw them. In fact, I think Dom might try to dognap Hoover if you’re not careful.” His expression turns serious. “I heard that the fire was arson.”
I nod.
“Do they have any idea who or why?”
I shake my head. “Not that I’m aware of. The only person I know of who’s ever wished David dead is me.”
“I’ve heard that adage about a woman scorned, but burning down your house with your husband in it does seem rather extreme,” Izzy teases. He reaches through my side rail and squeezes my arm. “They said you saved David’s life.”
“I did what anyone would have don
e under the circumstances. But I’m not sure it was enough. They said he’s unresponsive.”
“Not anymore,” says a voice behind the curtain to my right. A second later Syph enters my cubicle with a big smile on her face. “David just woke up.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s alert and oriented, though understandably groggy.”
“Thank goodness.” I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Don’t relax too much,” Syph says with a devious smile. “Despite the fact that he’s physically okay, I think he suffered some serious brain damage because the first thing he asked for was you.”
Chapter 24
Izzy instructs me to call him when I need a ride home and then disappears. As Syph helps me out of bed, I learn that I’ve broken two toes on my right foot, though I don’t know if it happened when I tripped over the tree root running through the woods or when I fell down the stairs with David in tow. I also feel a painful pull in my left hip and when I reach down to touch the area, I feel a neat little row of stitches.
“You cut yourself,” Syph explains. “The firemen said they thought you did it on a small glass shard that was stuck in the frame when you went through the basement window.” I recall the stinging sensation I felt there when I was trying to squeeze my butt through. “It took a few stitches but it was a clean cut. It should heal up fine.”
I settle into a wheelchair, sitting on my right side to favor the left hip, and let Syph steer me over to David’s room.
“I just gave him some Ativan, so don’t be surprised if he starts to fade on you,” Syph warns.
As we push aside the curtain around David’s bed, he manages a little finger wave. There is a fine dusting of soot on him that has him looking and smelling like a charcoal briquette.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“They tell me you saved my life,” he says, a total non sequitur.
“Actually it was the firemen.”
“Thass not what I heard,” he says with a beatific smile, his speech slurring. He blinks his eyes very slowly, clearly struggling to reopen them. “Any i-dee it started?” he mumbles.
“I haven’t heard,” I lie, figuring there’s still plenty of time to let him know someone might have wanted him dead. And as I watch his head loll to one side, I figure it’s unlikely he’ll remember anything I say to him now anyway.
“Is he going to be released?” I ask Syph.
“Not yet. They’re going to admit him to ICU for a while to keep an eye on his respiratory and neuro status. But if all goes well, there’s no reason he shouldn’t be home in plenty of time for Thanksgiving.”
Home. Based on what Hurley told me about the damage, David doesn’t have one anymore. I suppose I should feel saddened by the loss given that it was once my home, too, but oddly enough I don’t. Over the past few months, that house has served as a constant reminder to me of everything I’ve lost. The fact that it’s now gone feels strangely freeing and purifying, as if a monument commemorating the disaster has been destroyed.
I leave David to his Ativan dreams and after hanging out for another hour in my own bed, I check myself out of the ER at eight in the morning and use the ER phone to call Izzy for a ride. He arrives ten minutes later, looking concerned.
“I’m worried about you, Mattie,” he says as we settle into his car. It takes me a minute longer to get in because I have to contort myself like some rubber-jointed circus performer in order to squeeze into his front seat. The task is more difficult than usual thanks to the gigantic flat-footed shoe I’m wearing to protect my damaged toes, which makes walking less painful but gives me a Frankensteinish gait. By the time I’m in the car, my broken toes are throbbing like a toothache.
“You look pretty peaked,” Izzy says.
“I’m okay. I’m just tired, and in pain.”
“And no doubt a bit spooked as well. This arson thing is pretty scary.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, I want you to take today off and get some rest,” he insists. “In fact, take a couple of days. Enjoy the Thanksgiving holiday and I’ll see you in the office on Friday. Arnie can cover for you until then.”
“Thanks. I’ll take the time off, but I doubt I’ll enjoy the holiday very much. I’m having dinner at my mother’s house.”
“I can relate,” he says, and I know he’s thinking about his own holiday meal plans. “If it’s any consolation, I’d rather be doing your dinner.”
“No, you wouldn’t. David’s been invited too.”
“Oh. That should prove interesting.” He pauses and then adds, “Okay, you win.”
Izzy parks in the drive, not bothering to pull into his garage since he’s heading for the office. The day has dawned crisp, clear, and cool—a beautiful November morning—but when I crawl out of Izzy’s car, I detect the lingering stench of burnt wood and plastic in the air, a reminder of the devastation next door. I wave to Izzy as he leaves, then turn to find Hoover and Dom standing in the back doorway of Izzy’s house. Hoover barks and runs over to greet me with his tail wagging happily, and he licks my hands when I reach down to pet him.
“Want some breakfast?” Dom offers.
Hoover yips his approval—apparently he’s become as much a fan of Dom’s cooking as I have—but my mind is muddled and weary, and all I want to do is go off by myself for a while so I can think. “Thanks, but I’m going to pass for now,” I tell Dom. “I need some sleep.”
Dom looks disappointed, but I note it’s Hoover he’s looking at. I’m starting to worry that people like my dog better than me.
As soon as I’m safely ensconced inside my cottage, I swallow some ibuprofen and curl up on the couch with my broken-toed foot propped on a pillow. Though I’m exhausted, I’m too pent up and in too much pain to sleep. As I ponder the whole incident with the fire and all the deaths that have occurred, my mind reels with trying to make sense of it all. I wonder where, when, and how it will all end and I feel like a captive, spellbound and helpless as I wait for the next catastrophe to strike. The nasty burnt smell outside has permeated the walls of the cottage and, between it and my sense of impending doom, I feel an overwhelming need to escape.
After an hour or so the ibuprofen has made the pain much better but it has also left my empty stomach feeling like someone is drilling a hole in it. I take a shower, dry my hair, put on some clothes, and then get into the hearse with Hoover. Making mental apologies to Dom, I head out to get myself some breakfast and a reward for Hoover for his heroic behavior. A quick turn at the drive-through at McDonald’s earns me some curious stares when I get to the food window—no doubt because of the hearse and my request for “two orders of bacon for my friend in the back.”
I park in the lot long enough for Hoover to snort down his bacon while I enjoy a sausage biscuit and some orange juice. As I munch, I again reflect on the events of the past few days, running all the facts over in my mind. I’ve got two dead bodies, both with close ties to Hurley, and an attempt on David’s life. While I suppose it’s possible that someone has a grudge against David and tried to burn him alive because of it, I find it unlikely. He’s a highly respected and beloved surgeon in the community. Even though every one of these incidents points a finger squarely in Hurley’s direction, I feel pretty certain he’s innocent. The public argument between him and David seems a little too coincidental to me.
But if Hurley isn’t guilty, and he’s right in his assumption that someone is trying to frame him, how did they do it? The evidence suggests that someone broke into his house and stole his hair, the potassium cyanide, and the gas can. It also means that whoever stole the stuff would have had to break into my old house to start the fire and into Minniver’s house to poison his food with the potassium cyanide. Hurley has already shown me how easy it is to bypass a door lock with the right tools and the know-how, and the fact that he possesses both makes him look even guiltier. He could have gotten into Minniver’s house easily enough, even without the missing spare key. My old house
would have been a bigger challenge since all the doors had dead bolts and I knew David was obsessive about locking them every night, which explains the broken basement window.
Killing Callie hadn’t required any lock picking, and the knife that killed her is easy enough to explain given that it was outside in Hurley’s boat and accessible to anyone who looked there. All someone had to do was lure Callie here.
With that thought I recall her diary, which is still beneath the seat in my car. When I reach down and drag it out, the cell phone I had stashed there comes with it. I’d forgotten all about the phone and when I flip it open it tells me that I’ve missed a call. I look at the displayed number but don’t recognize it. Then I get the smart idea of comparing this number to the ones in my own cell phone, to see if it matches any of them. I go searching through my purse for my phone but can’t find it. Puzzled, I stop and think back to when I left the house, certain I hadn’t seen the phone in the charger. Then I remember grabbing it last night to call 911, and dropping it when I was running through the woods toward my old house.
“Dang it,” I mutter, making a mental note to go back and look for it.
In the meantime, the cell Hurley gave me still has a slight charge left on it so I dial the number of the missed call. It rings several times and just as I become convinced no one is going to answer, someone does.
“Hello?” says a female voice.
“Hello. Who is this?”
There’s a long silence and then the woman says, “You called me. Who is this?”
I almost slip and give my real name, but at the last second I remember who the phone is supposed to belong to. “This is Rebecca Taylor. I received a call from this number on my cell phone so I’m returning it.”
“Are you the private investigator who is looking into Callie Dunkirk’s death?” the woman asks.
“Yes, I am. Why? Do you have something for me?”
“I might.”
“Can I ask who it is I’m speaking to?”
“My name is Andi, short for Andrea. I’m Callie’s sister. When I went into the TV station to pick up some of her things yesterday afternoon, someone mentioned that you’d been there asking a bunch of questions. She gave me your card.”
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