Behind her a voice shouted to be heard over the fire. “Detective! I can see you’re in for a long night.” TJ turned and saw the newspaper editor—what was his name?—looking at the fire and balancing a camera and handheld recorder in his hands. In his eyes she saw the reflection of the flames behind her.
“Jeff Maitlin,” he said, as if he could read the uncertainty on her face. He seemed overly agitated and concerned.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Maitlin.”
“Call me Jeff, please, and—”
“Jeff. I guess you have a scanner and I know you’re looking for the story. But for now you’ll have to stay back from the scene.”
“Yes, I know.” His voice was verging on desperate. “But what about Brenda? Is she in there? Did anyone get her out? I just brought her home a few hours ago. Please, you must be able to tell me something.”
Instinctively, TJ went into detective mode. “What time was that?”
“What—?” He seemed confused.
“What time did you bring her home last night?”
“Oh. Ah—it must have been eight, eight thirty, nine. Sometime around then. But is she all right?”
“So you were probably the last person to see her?”
“I assume so.” And, a little calmer now, he quickly explained why he had driven her home. “She was in no condition to drive. Please, is she all right?”
“I know from the dispatcher’s information that we have a body. Right now I can’t stop anyone from what they’re doing in order to ask, but the coroner is pulling up in his van and I have to wait for him. Not a good sign. I’ll see what the story is. But please stick around, Mr. Maitlin. I’ll need to hear some more about last night.”
Ron Martinez, a short, slight man in shirtsleeves, jeans, and running shoes walked toward them. He was the local pediatrician but also doubled as the coroner when he was needed. His eyes looked as tired as everyone else’s, and he walked slowly and carried a black, beat-up, leather medical bag. His jacket was just as worn, a button missing from the front.
“Hi, Doc,” said TJ.
“Evening, Detective.”
TJ introduced Jeff and remarked, “I take it we have a body.”
Martinez nodded. “I’m headed over there now to take charge of it.”
“I’ll go with you,” the detective said. “Jeff, I’ll be back and let you know what I can.” They left Maitlin standing in the driveway watching the uniformed army of ants scurrying around the fire, empowered now by more crews from Woodbury and Lexington. TJ could see another engine pulling up from the west. Could be from Cameron.
Several yards from the garage, which wasn’t yet on fire, a dark green tarp lay on the ground near a stand of trees, and a fireman—totally motionless—waited nearby. The silent fireman was obviously a newbie, just getting into the business, TJ thought as she looked at his round, cherubic face and his wide eyes watching the others go about their jobs. He was guarding the body the firemen pulled out of the house; they usually threw a tarp over it out of respect and to protect it for the police and coroner. Martinez took over the scene and told the fireman he could leave and get back to his company.
By six a.m. a weary TJ added up the death and destruction. They had examined the body and it was in surprisingly undamaged shape due to the quick actions of the first firemen on the scene. Martinez had transported the victim to Woodbury where the ME did autopsies for the area. TJ would have to drive over to the coroner’s for the postmortem. The potentially deadly propane gas tank was safely out of harm’s way since the fire was burned down to smoldering areas where men still kept an eye out for occasional secondary flare-ups. Parts of the house’s frame and foundation were intact and most of the garage was simply smoke-damaged. The additional fire trucks had motored back to the neighboring towns with weary, exhausted crews, leaving the Endurance department to keep an eye on what was left of Brenda Norris’s house.
TJ had spent a good part of the night drinking coffee, keeping the media at a safe distance, and saying “no comment.” Besides Maitlin, a number of townspeople—why were scanners even put in the hands of the public?—had come to watch the fire. During the night she saw several people she knew from town and a number of farmers who had fields in the area. People were curious. Bill Tully talked to Jeff and TJ while they waited for the rest of the crews to leave. Both of the men mentioned the threats of Mike Sturgis at the bar that night and TJ knew she would have a talk with Sturgis.
She moved away from the spectators when Chief Bitterman motioned her over to speak with him and Dan Wakeley, one of the senior firemen. Wakeley was in his late forties, with thinning hair and black eyebrows that matched the soot all over his face and uniform. A veteran on the force, he was a weightlifter who had a wrestler’s build that supported with ease the heavy equipment he wore. TJ knew that Wakeley had been to special training at the state fire school, and with the years of experience in the department, he was an expert on fire origins. He was so good that often the state fire marshal’s office called him in as a consultant. Right now, however, his face wore the fatigue of adrenaline drain, and he glanced at TJ and slowly moved his head back and forth.
“Suspicious?” asked TJ.
“It went up awfully fast,” Wakeley muttered as he pulled off his gloves and began to dismantle some of his equipment.
TJ took another drink of coffee and mentioned, “I talked to Jeff Maitlin, the newspaper editor who took Brenda home last night, maybe around nine. He said she was pretty drunk and passed out on the sofa in the living room. He locked the front door on his way out and figured she’d sleep it off. But she is a smoker. Could be she woke up in the night and reached for a smoke.”
“Possible,” Bitterman concurred.
Wakeley set down his helmet on the ground next to him and pondered the idea. “Chief, one of the things we saw on the way into the house—early on—were those storm lamps that hold oil. Could be they had a part in it. Maybe she kept them around for decoration, possibly for power outages. But she could have tipped one over and she might have been smoking at the time. Maybe.”
“The first responders and the guy who called it in mentioned orange flames. Not a good sign. An accelerant?” the chief replied.
TJ knew that it would be hours, maybe days, before they could sift through the debris and try to figure out what started the fire and where it began.
“The body?” Bitterman turned to Wakeley.
“Found it on the floor curled up between a sofa and a small table.”
TJ added, “As far as I can tell she had a nasty contusion on her forehead. Might have fallen and hit her head on a coffee table. Passed out. If she had been smoking, that could have done it. Didn’t see any skin under her nails or defensive wounds. I have to wait for the medical examiner in Woodbury to tell me about the bruising. Otherwise she had a few secondary burns, only because they got her out so fast. The coroner should be able to tell me if she was dead before the fire started or if she died of the smoke. I should have more answers later today.”
“All right, then,” said Bitterman. He turned and issued orders for the finishing chores the firemen had to handle before the last engines pulled out. Police and a skeleton force from the fire department would stay on the scene until they were sure small flare-ups were out.
“If the autopsy says ‘suspicious,’ I’ll call in the state boys too,” said Police Chief Stephen Lomax. “Keep me in the loop, TJ.”
“Will do.”
They each separated and TJ’s feet trudged wearily to her car for the ride back to Endurance. She wiped the sweat and soot from her face with the sleeve of her jacket. For a few seconds she simply sat in the patrol car and drank in the quiet, looking down at her filthy uniform.
She slumped down in the car seat and bent forward, laying her forehead on the steering wheel. After a few seconds she took in some deep breaths and felt the soreness in her throat and lungs. She straightened her back, shivered, and tried to lessen the heavy burden in her chest as she t
hought about Grace. TJ would have to deliver two messages that would leave her friend both grief-stricken and anxious: Brenda’s death and the fire. Turning her car key, she heard the engine engage, and she slid the car into gear and began the long, dispiriting trek back to Endurance.
CHAPTER SIX:
GRACE
* * *
As TJ drove back to town at dawn, Grace opened her eyes a slit and looked slowly around her bedroom. It was early morning and she gradually became aware that no fire nightmare had tangled up her sheets and pillows during the night. Maybe the drinks at Tully’s had helped.
Once the coffee cheerfully dripped into the pot and its enticing aroma filled the kitchen, she began a search for her newspaper. She looked through the lilac bushes near the porch and then she realized she didn’t get a paper on Friday. How am I ever going to remember what day it is? Normally she would think of her first class of the day, but since she didn’t teach in the summer, she decided this was no different than her usual confusion during summer break.
Her kitchen and family room were together in an open floor arrangement, and Grace switched on the family room television from the kitchen area and juggled the stations on the remote. Satisfied with the upcoming news station, she turned away and unlocked the back door, putting a container out for rainwater to feed her house plants. Then, coffee in hand, she sat down to watch the morning news on the sofa in the family room. Endurance wasn’t big enough to have its own television station, but nearby Woodbury’s WHOC usually covered the region.
The news anchor began in a somber voice. “In the news this morning we bring you coverage of a tragic event near Endurance. A farmhouse was the scene of a fire during the night and WHOC was there to bring you on-the-spot coverage. We turn now to Kelsey Karnes, who is on the scene where they are still putting out the fire. Kelsey?”
Grace sat up and watched the screen more closely at the mention of “Endurance” and “fire.” Kelsey Karnes was a reporter who had just started at the station recently, and Grace had watched as she dropped her microphone on more than one occasion. Kelsey felt it was important to emphasize words by using her voice. Unfortunately, the novice reporter exaggerated the wrong words, leaving Grace scratching her head in bewilderment. Yesterday she began a story by saying, “You will need to know about the time of the event . . .” It was very disconcerting.
“Thank you, Dan. I have the Endurance fire chief, Jim Bitterman, on the scene with me. Chief Bitterman, can you give us an update on this fire?”
Chief Bitterman was a solid man, a safe port in any storm. He had been fire chief in Endurance for the past fifteen years, and his curly red hair and positive outlook inspired confidence in the hearts of most Endurance residents. Today he was covered in grime from hat to boot, and fatigue filled his face and his slack mouth, and matched the thickness in his throat.
“Sure, Kelsey. The house appears to be a total loss and we had one fatality. We’re waiting on a family notification before we release the name of the victim. It’s still too early to tell what caused the fire and where it started. Once it’s safe to investigate we should have some answers. My men have been working since three a.m., but we’ll stay here until we know it’s entirely out and done smoldering. I’d like to thank all the fire personnel who answered the call from the neighboring fire departments as close as Woodbury and as far away as Charlotte.”
“Thank you for that update, Chief Bitterman. The Endurance Police Department has announced that they will have a press conference once we have developments in the case.” Grace watched as the camera swung past the newswoman toward the blackened and charred remains of what had once been Brenda Norris’s house. She was lifting her cup to her mouth and, instead, dropped it on the coffee table where it shattered into pieces, coffee splattering over the table and onto the carpet. Her hand flew to her chest and her breath hitched in her lungs.
She realized she was holding her breath. The sight of a fire still tightened her breathing and quickened her pulse. As the camera panned the structure, she saw the remains of the familiar Norris garage.
“Oh, no!” she gasped aloud as she stood up and shuffled closer to the screen—barely missing pieces of her shattered cup on the floor—just in time to see Dan Wakeley, one of the Endurance firemen, spread water over the remains of the garage.
“This is Kelsey Karnes at WHOC-HD signing off.”
Grace felt her legs get rubbery and, turning and moving in jerky strides, she plopped down on the sofa and reached for her tissue box. Her hands trembled. Then she found her balance again, got up, and started a slow, relentless pacing. “Why?” she gasped out loud. “This can’t be happening. Last night I was with her and she was alive and breathing.” She remembered their brief conversation at the bar and Jeff taking Brenda home. And all the while Grace slept, maybe Brenda fought for her life to get out of that fire. What happened? What caused it?
About that time Jill Cunningham—she always had great timing—sidled in through the kitchen door.
She called out as she looked up the staircase. “Grace? You up? Your door was open so I figured either you or—” She turned her head toward the family room. “Oh, Grace.” As always when Jill had been out on her two-mile jog, her hair was plastered to her head, and her pink and white shorts and T-shirt stuck to her in soggy spots. She trod softly into the kitchen, looked at her friend’s face, and added, “You heard, didn’t you? I’d hoped I could get over here in time to break it to you gently.” She took Grace into her arms and then Grace pulled back and scanned Jill’s face.
“Jill. Why?”
Jill broke away, walked over and turned the television off, and guided Grace from the sofa to a chair at the kitchen table. “I’ve not a clue, but you know she was a smoker. Maybe it was accidental. Or maybe an electrical short.”
Grace blew her nose and then shook her head slowly back and forth. “I saw her last night at Tully’s.”
Jill sat down across from her. “Really? I feel so bad for all the awful things I said about her at lunch.” She paused and looked in earnest at Grace. “Do you think there’s anything to the notion that Karma will come back to bite my butt?”
Grace shook her head, sniffed, and wiped her nose. “You only said those things to our group.”
“Sure. You, Deb, and TJ. Oh, right. TJ’s a police detective.”
“I think you’re safe. Do you think this wasn’t an accident? The most crimes we have are a few burglaries. Oh, and sometimes mischievous pilfering by kids . . . usually ones I’ve taught.”
“Grace, you are so naive. Plenty of people have been unhappy with Brenda because of stories she’s put in the paper. She makes accusations that affect their lives, how people think of them, and their jobs. You don’t know what crazy people walk around out there. Perhaps someone got desperate.”
“But, murder?”
Jill was silent for a moment, looking down at her hands. “So how did she seem last night? You said you saw her last night.”
“Yes, at Tully’s. She was three sheets to the wind, so drunk that Jeff Maitlin gave her a ride home. I have the impression that happens often—the drinking, that is.”
“Maybe she went in the house, lit a cigarette, and, in a stupor, passed out. That could explain it.”
“I suppose. I can’t stop thinking”—her voice cracked—“how awful that must have been. The fire.”
“Stop, Grace. You mustn’t get yourself all worked up about fires again. Besides, maybe she was unconscious when . . .” Jill paused. “. . . whatever happened, happened.”
“That would be a blessing.”
Jill walked over to the sofa, picked up the pieces of Grace’s coffee cup, and deposited them in the kitchen trash can. She turned back, eyeing Grace’s white knuckles grasping the edge of the table. Putting a hand on her friend’s shoulder, she said, “If you need me any time today, call.”
“Thanks.” Grace regained some composure. “I imagine Let-tie will show up soon and I need to go to the newspap
er office.” She paused and looked out the kitchen window. “It will be weird not to see Brenda . . . there. At the office, I mean.”
Jill turned, hand on the back door handle. “So how did that go? With Maitlin?”
“He wants me to do book reviews for the newspaper.”
“And will you?”
“I think so. Won’t take much of my time.”
“Good deal. Between that and the quinta—oh, you know, the centennial thing, you’ll have plenty to keep you busy. Bye.”
Jill hadn’t been gone five minutes when TJ walked across the yard to Grace’s house. Her uniform had taken a beating, was covered with soot, and her face and hair were also smeared with black, soiled patches. She walked in Grace’s back door and dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. The odor of smoke followed in her wake.
“Rough night. Please, TJ, tell me she died quickly.”
TJ looked at Grace’s tear-streaked face. “I imagine she did.” She crossed her arms on the table and laid her head down. For a few moments both of them were quiet.
“Was the fire really horrible?” Grace asked quietly.
TJ’s head rose. “Worst I’ve seen in all my time here. It was already raging by the time I got out there, but they had pulled Brenda out quickly. I don’t think she suffered, Grace.”
Grace wrinkled her nose and the anxiety began to build in her chest again. “That smell.”
“Smell? Oh, yeah, it’s probably the smoke from the fire.”
Three May Keep a Secret (An Endurance Mystery) Page 5
