Damsels in Distress

by Joan Hess

  “Did I imply it was?”

  “The jury’s out, but rumor has it they’re leaning toward a conviction on all counts. Is there anything I can do or say to reassure you that I love you and want to marry you? That Leslie’s no more than a part of my history? I don’t have to go to Rhode Island. I can be on a flight to Farberville tomorrow afternoon, and back in time for dinner.”

  “No, Peter, you should go see your mother,” I said, trying not to sound like a martyr. Even though his offer had come promptly, it had lacked enthusiasm. “She’s been counting on it for a month— and if you cancel, she’ll assume that I’m manipulative and spiteful. Just make sure she intends to put you and Leslie in separate bedrooms, preferably on different floors. Better yet, why don’t you stay with Witbred in the servants’ quarters?”

  “I’ll ask him if he wants a roommate,” Peter said. “So what’s happening there? When I spoke to Caron a couple of days ago, she didn’t make much sense. From what I could make of it, she’s going to work in a tavern. You’ve been out every night.”

  “That sums it up fairly well. Of course Caron doesn’t know about Carlton’s illegitimate son, or the writer who may or may not be committing suicide as we speak, or the goth who doesn’t like to be asked things. Do you have any opinion about the color of the chrysanthemums in Mrs. Jorgeson’s garden? We have a choice between red and yellow. Oh, and there’s a house on the market in the historie district. I drove by it this afternoon on the way to the grocery store. It needs work, but it has bay windows and a wide front porch.”

  The distraction was a success. We chatted cheerfully until he ran out of time. After a few murmurs of an intimate fashion, he rang off in order to slather on black greasepaint, suitably dark clothes, and penetrate the mock enemy encampment. In that it looked as though I would be a blushing bride within two months, I decided to treat myself to a facial. I put on the teakettle, changed into my bathrobe, twisted a towel into a makeshift turban, and did a bit of slathering of my own with green goop. I was housebound for the evening, and blessedly free of Caron’s sardonic allusions to wicked witches with pea-green complexions and warts on their chins. I still worried about Salvador, but not so much that I was willing to walk two miles in the dark to make sure he was all right.

  I was in the kitchen adding a dollop of milk to my cup of tea when I smelled smoke.

  Chapter Six

  I stepped out on the small screened porch at the top of the back steps. The smell of smoke was more intense. Everything seemed peaceful in the neighborhood, with the exception of the faint sounds of music and motors from the Thurber Street festivities. The smoke lacked the pleasant redolence of meat charring on a barbecue grill, but it could have been from burning trash or dead tree limbs. I went to the bottom of the steps and, wincing as my bare feet met gravel, continued slowly out to the side street. My eyes stung as the air grew more acrid. I could hear no sirens in the distance, or see flashing lights at the bottom of the street. I started down the sidewalk. Calling 911 prematurely would not be popular, as I had discovered earlier in the summer.

  I was about to give up when I saw the yellow glint of flames through the front windows of the blue and white house. Angle’s house. I ran across the street and onto the porch, and began to pound on the front door. According to Lanya, Angie had sprained her ankle, but the report might be out of date. If Angie had broken her ankle and required crutches, she might be trapped inside. The door was locked. I knew better than to break a window and send a fresh supply of oxygen to the fire.

  My apartment wasn’t far, but the house next door was closer. I bounded over a bed of begonias, flapping my arms like a wounded goose. Lights were on inside, although the curtains were drawn securely. I began to beat on the door with my fist while pushing the doorbell. I was preparing to throw a potted plant through the window when the door opened a few inches and a face peered out at me.

  “Get off my porch before I call the police!”

  It was the woman I’d seen in the porch swing earlier in the week, and she was in an even nastier temper. “There’s a fire next door! Call 911 and make sure they get the address. I don’t know if anyone’s in there. The front door’s locked. I’m going around to the back to see if I can get in that way.”

  As I rebounded over the begonias, I saw the woman come out to her porch. She would smell the smoke immediately, I assured myself, and make the call, even if she thought I was a lunatic. Before I could find a path through the untamed shrubs, I heard a deafening noise behind me. I reeled around. Stopping in front of Angle’s house were two mammoth motorcycles. The drivers and passengers wore black helmets and would have made convincing alien insectoids in a B-grade science fiction movie. Moderately convincing, anyway.

  Luanne yanked off a helmet and said, “Good grief, Claire! Have you lost your mind?” She climbed down and came across the yard. “It is you, isn’t it? Halloween’s a good three months from now. Do you realize what you look like?”

  In that she was wearing skintight leather pants, boots, and a bright red T-shirt cropped to expose her navel, I could have asked her the same question, but instead said, “There’s a fire inside and someone may be in there! I can’t get in through the front door. Help me find a way around to the back.”

  Luanne gestured at the two men and the woman, who’d removed their helmets and were huddled uneasily at the curb. They’d apparently already seen the flames in the front room, and wasted no time busting through the shrubs. We shoved and shouted at each other until we arrived at the back of the house. The door was locked.

  “Break it down,” Luanne commanded her troops. The larger man flung himself against the door until it splintered and gave way. Smoke billowed out like a suffocating sand storm. It was impossible to see across the room. We all recoiled and retreated to the sparse grass.

  “Did you call the fire department?” the woman gasped.

  “The next-door neighbor did,” I said, then paused. “I hope she did, anyway.”

  Luanne gave me a curious look. “She may not have believed you. Lance, use your cell phone.”

  The fire was nearly as loud as the motorcycles had been. By this point, I knew it was consuming the walls, and the roof would go next. I am not a fool, and most certainly not foolhardy. “We’d better go around front and wait for the firefighters!” I yelled over the din from inside the house.

  We went back through the shrubbery, Lance trailing as he dutifully kept the cell phone to his ear. I could hear him attempting to answer questions, but since he didn’t know the address, the owner’s name, the number of occupants, or the cause of the fire, his responses were short.

  When we reached the sidewalk, Luanne pulled me aside. “What are you doing outside like this?”

  “My bathrobe is tattered but hardly provocative,” I said. I knew my hair was mussed, since the towel I’d been using as a turban had fallen off, and my feet were bare. “You can throw me a lingerie shower if it’ll make you happy.”

  “We’d better move our bikes out of the way,” the big man said. He was rubbing his shoulder as he tried to pretend he wasn’t staring at me. Which he was.

  “Maybe in that alley across the street,” the woman said. “All hell’s going to break loose in about three minutes when the fire trucks, police cars, and ambulance arrive.”

  We looked at the house. The interior was lost in a conflagration of smoke and flames. Sparks shot from the roof. The neighbor was in her yard with a hose, attempting to defend her house and begonias. The back of the house on the other side of Angle’s was buffered by an alley and a graveled parking area. Luckily, there was not even a mild breeze.

  After the bikers had moved their precious vehicles, they joined Luanne, Lance, and me on the sidewalk across from Angle’s house. I was mesmerized by the fire, and struggling to keep myself from imagining what must have happened to anyone trapped inside. Angie could have escaped through the back door and slammed it behind her. For that matter, she could be among the thousands of people o
n Thurber Street, or be having dinner at Lanya and Anderson’s house. I’d never laid eyes on her. She could be twenty-one or seventy-five.

  All hell did indeed break loose. Three fire trucks came roaring up the street, sirens screaming. As the firefighters began to dash around purposefully, an ambulance squealed around the corner. Police cars descended in a drove. Porch lights came on in most of the houses on the block, and their residents spilled out to the sidewalks to gawk.

  Lance, who’d been on his cell phone with the 911 dispatcher, clicked his phone closed and sat down on a low wall. “They seem to have found it.”

  Luanne abruptly switched into her genteel-hostess mode. “This is Claire Malloy,” she said to the others. “Claire, this is Lance, my hairdresser. I believe you met last year at a wine-tasting at the arts center. We ran into these two at the beer garden. This is Shellie Morrison, a caterer from Manhattan, and Phillip Leiberman, a lawyer from ...”

  “Longboat Key in Florida,” he supplied. “I specialize in trusts and estate planning. It’s a very lucrative area for a nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn.”

  “You came all this way for the biker rally?” I asked.

  “Every year,” Shellie said. “I’d much rather deal with bikers than hysterical brides.”

  It was ludicrous, I thought, and as surreal as any of the paintings of Salvador, Davis and/or Dali. It was fortuitous that I was no longer in high school and required to write the essay on what I did last summer. It might be several hundred pages long.

  They were staring at me, as if expecting me to say something clever or even invite them to my apartment for a drink. Before I could come up with a response (or a platter of cheese and crackers), a pair of uniformed officers loomed in front of us. Over the next hour, the fire was extinguished and some of the vehicles departed quietly. A van from the local TV station inched by, then sped off. We were asked the same questions by what felt like dozens of police and fire department investigators. When it became evident that none of us had anything further to contribute, I asked one of the officers if they’d found a body.

  “Not yet,” he said, “but we can’t do a thorough check until we ascertain the condition of the roof and floors.” He stopped and frowned at me. “Aren’t you Lieutenant Rosen’s ... ?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  The officer was not happy. He consulted one of his fellow officers, then told the bikers and Luanne that they could leave, then added that I’d better stay where I was until he returned. Ignoring my protests, he hurriedly walked away.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said to Luanne. “Do I look like a pyro- maniac?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “You most definitely don’t look like a py- romaniac. We came by to see if you wanted to go for a ride, but it looks as though you’re in for a long night.” She picked up a helmet. “There’s no reason for the rest of us to hang around. I need a very cold beer.”

  “You’re deserting me?” I squawked.

  Shellie and Phillip shrugged as they stood up, neither of them willing to comment. Lance pressed his business card in my hand and told me to call for an appointment at my first opportunity. Considering what we had just gone through, I’d expected some sense of camaraderie. Luanne, who should have insisted that she stay by my side (or at least called a lawyer), grinned at me before she turned into the alley. Seconds later, the bikes rumbled away toward Thurber Street.

  My feet hurt from the harsh contact with the gravel, pavement, and stubbly grass. I examined them for signs of blood and blisters, willing to demand immediate medical attention. The stone wall was not padded, nor was my derriere. I was clammy from the perspiration that had flowed copiously from the unwarranted exertion. As I waited, irritation turned to anger. Being mild-mannered, I generally refrain from expressing extreme emotions, and I fully subscribe to the adage that revenge is best served cold. In this case, however, I was already cold, as well as thirsty and exhausted.

  I finally snapped and stood up, prepared to go home, fix a drink, and thumb through the phone directory for a lawyer who specialized in arson and, if it came to it, false imprisonment.

  The young officer, who must have been lurking behind or in a tree, caught my arm. “Ma’am, if you won’t wait voluntarily, I’ll have to take you into custody.”

  “For what?” I jerked myself free. “I have already explained umpteen times that I smelled smoke, went outside, saw the fire, and asked the neighbor to call 911. I’ve never met the woman who lives—or lived—in that house. Her first name was Angie. She was teaching the fairies to dance. You need to get in touch with Lanya and Anderson Peru. They’re the duke and duchess of whatever.”

  “Have you been drinking, ma’am?”

  “Much earlier in the evening. I am now going home to resume drinking. I live on the top floor of that duplex fifty feet from here. Just follow the sounds of the tinkling ice cubes.”

  A car pulled up and Sergeant Jorgeson emerged. “Ms. Malloy,” he began, then stopped, gaping at me.

  “Et tu, Brute?” I snapped.

  “Are you ill?”

  “I am ill-tempered,” I said. “I am also bruised and battered. Will you please tell this barbarian to step back and let me go home?”

  Jorgeson shooed away the officer. “If this is some kind of prank, Ms. Malloy, I fear I must admit its intent escapes me. I’m sure you have a very good explanation, since you always do. I would like very much to hear it.”

  I gestured at the firefighters near the sole remaining truck, the fire chief huddled with investigators, the milling police officers, and the few residents still loitering in their front yards. “Ask any of them. I’ve been detained for over two hours, Jorgeson, and told my story so many times it’s become rote. Why would you even suggest this is some kind of prank? That house burned down, for pity’s sake, and there may be a body inside. It’s not the same as stringing toilet paper in the tree branches or throwing eggs at the front door, is it?”

  Did I mention I was angry?

  Jorgeson gave this some thought, then sighed. “You’re right, Ms. Malloy. This was not a prank. I’ll still need to talk to you, but it can wait until tomorrow. You go on home and wash your face, then have a cold drink.”

  “Wash my ... ?” My hand moved slowly to my face. I’d totally forgotten about the facial mask I’d so whimsically put on earlier. Most of it had melted from the heat and perspiration, but there were still crusty patches clinging to my cheeks and chin. I undoubtedly resembled some hideous monster rising from the depths of a murky swamp. Gulping, I said, “Yes, Jorgeson, we can continue this tomorrow. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really must go.”

  I was picking up discarded cups and other debris in the Book Depot parking area the next morning when Lanya drove up.

  “This is terrible business,” she said as she got out of a vintage station wagon. “I understand you reported the fire. I’m just so—I don’t know—not devastated, but-” She dabbed her eyes with the cuff of her faded blue work shirt. “You must be, too.”

  I suggested she come inside for coffee. After we were seated by my desk, I said, “Did they find…Angie?”

  “I’m sorry to say they did. In the bedroom, on the floor.” Her hand was trembling as she slurped some coffee, and her tanned face had a sallow undertone. “They wanted my help to identify the body. That was impossible, of course. I talked to Angie on the phone a few times, but I never met her. I can’t even remember her last name, if she ever told me. She called me early in the summer to ask about Avalon.” She noticed my blank look. “The local fiefdom, in the county of Mistymont.”

  “But all she did was call? She didn’t want to meet the local members?”

  Lanya shook her head. “From what she said, I got the feeling she was a recluse. I offered to come by and visit, but she rattled off a lot of flimsy excuses. If I hadn’t happened to come across her name in my notebook, I wouldn’t have thought to ask her if she might want to participate in the Renaissance Fair.”

  “If she didn’t want t
o meet anyone, why did she volunteer to coach the fairies?”

  “I was surprised that she did. This fairy business is silly, but Fiona insisted. It seems the fair she went to last month had fairies, and they were wildly popular with the children. I thought we should stick to the maypole and folk dancers, but Anderson sided with Fiona.” Her mouth curled unpleasantly. “As did Salvador and Benny, especially after Fiona mentioned recruiting some of her high school girls. William Threet didn’t say a word, but his eyes were bright. Glynnis was too busy glaring at him to comment. “

  “And Edward?”

  She thought about it for a moment. “The potluck last Thursday was his first meeting, so maybe he didn’t think he should offer his opinion. I doubt I mentioned it to him when he called a couple of weeks ago to ask about joining the fiefdom. Anyway, I told Fiona she could schedule the fairies in however she wished, and that I would have no part in violating the basic tenet of ARSE. It’s hardly authentic, is it?”

  “Well,” I began, “Shakespeare-”

  “Rarely,” Lanya said curtly. “The obsession with delicate, winged fairies was more of a Victorian thing. Supernatural creatures in earlier fiction were wicked and ugly. Monsters, witches, ogres, trolls, even elves—none of them were romantic figures.”

  “Perhaps not.” I grabbed some papers and stood up. “I’m sorry about Angie, Lanya. I guess she was a recluse. The morning after the meeting I stopped by with your basket, and she wouldn’t answer the door. Her neighbor had never seen her. The authorities will locate her next of kin. There’s nothing you or any of the rest of us can do.”