“I may have to let you tag along, but I’ll be damn if I’ll let you interfere with my investigation, little girl.”
She was incredibly angry and intimidating, and I had to bite my lower lip to keep from crying. I apologized to her. In this case, she was right, I had overstepped my position. Then I found my courage, jutted out my chin, and informed her that I was not a little girl. I was twenty-six and had seen more of the world then she ever would. What one thing had to do with the other, I don’t know. I was angry.
“Ms. Witherspoon, we’ll be ready for you in five minutes.”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” I replied to the young store manager, who nodded and walked away.
When I’d told my publisher, Angie Casteen, that I would be in Memphis researching my new book, she’d set up a book signing deal with the store. They’d jumped at the chance, but I’d agreed to do it only if the bare-chested men were left out of it. Angie reluctantly agreed. The store had been promoting it for just under a month, and much to my surprise, there were actually people waiting to get my autograph, speak with me, or even have their picture taken with me. It was going to be an exhausting night, but a fun one. I had done book signings before, in New York, but it was still inconceivable to me that someone would want my autograph. In fact, the whole celebrity status thing that I had been thrust into, practically overnight, overwhelmed me. It was the main reason for choosing my beloved Memphis to do my research. That and to honor my stepdad, who was a firefighter.
The South was, in many ways, laid back and unassuming, and all I needed was to hear that Southern drawl again, to listen to some blues on Beale Street, and eat sloppy BBQ ribs with my hands, to bring my soul back down to the ground. In fact, as soon as I was done with the book signing, I was going to meander over to my favorite restaurant, Muldoon's, and have some Southern comfort food, and let some soulful blues singer sooth my nerves. It would be a perfect way to end a very stressful day.
*
An hour later, and I was on my way across the street to Muldoon's for a beer and a rack of ribs with coleslaw. I was famished. I always found it amusing that an Irish pub had better Southern BBQ than a lot of other places in Memphis. If it weren’t for the shamrocks and Irish flags hanging everywhere, you’d never know the difference. As I turned to go inside the restaurant, I saw Jordyn.
“Hi, mind if I join you?” I asked cautiously. “I don’t mean to interrupt your meal. I was just curious if you’d gotten the forensics back yet?” Her plate had been pushed beside another plate, untouched, but the bottle of whiskey sitting in front of her was half empty. Damn, is she an alcoholic?
“I did, as a matter of fact, and nothing popped,” she replied without looking at me.
“Oh. What does that mean for your case?” I persisted, knowing that I should probably leave her alone. She obviously wanted to drink, not chat.
“I don’t have a case; that’s what it means,” Jordyn snarled and picked up her full glass of whiskey. When she sat it back on the table, it was empty.
A waitress walked up. “Would you like a menu, ma’am?”
“Oh, no thank you. I mean, yes, but I will be moving to another table.”
“Since you’re here already, why don’t you stay?” Jordyn offered, still not making eye contact.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” I’d like to find out what kind of two-faced drunk you really are.
“Nah, I’ve had enough of these,” she said as she tilted the bottle and poured another glass, “that I don’t give a shit about anything right now.”
Not the kind of invitation I was hoping for, but it would do, I guess. “Let me have a rack…” I glanced at Jordyn and changed my mind. The last thing I want is to have BBQ sauce all over my face. “Do you all still serve the Carolina BBQ Salmon?”
“Yes, ma’am, would you like an order of that?”
“Yes, and with the house wine, please.”
“It’ll be right out,” she said and left.
“So, you’ve eaten here before, I take it?” Jordyn asked, her words remarkably clear considering how much she’d had to drink.
“Oh, yes, many times. I grew up in Germantown and hung out on Beale Street. It was my playground as a teenager.”
“Funny, it was mine, too, but I don’t remember seeing you around. You were probably hanging with the snotty crowd or something.”
“Oh, dear, and you weren’t? How sad for you,” I said caustically. That woman goes right for the throat every time. I wondered if she had a kind bone in her body.
“Ouch. Score one for Ms. Witherspoon,” she retorted. She took another sip from her glass and finally glanced at me. Her shoulders were stooped and her forehead was furrowed, with worry or concern, I couldn’t tell. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
I observed her as I stirred the ice in the water and decided that it wasn’t safe to talk about Beale, but I didn’t think she wanted any more questions about the case, either. So, what was left to talk about? “Are you a fan of the Redbirds?”
Jordyn’s eyes lit up, and I knew I had found a safe subject to talk about. The Memphis Redbirds were a minor-league baseball team, and a Triple-A affiliate of the St. Louis Cardinals. Everybody loved them, win or lose.
“Oh, yeah. Never miss a game when they’re in town,” Jordyn replied in a more pleasant tone.
There was something about her eyes, besides the fact that they were a beautiful chocolate brown. They were sad, doleful, as if she had lost her best friend. Could that be stress from the case? Maybe that’s why she was drinking so hard. The chief told me this was her first serial arsonist case. Maybe she didn’t think she could handle it. I have to admit, I was very excited when he told me that. I envisioned the character for my book being just like Jordyn; young, ambitious, and thrust into the unknown. Now, if I could just get her to stop being a jerk and open up to me.
“Since I’ve been living in New York, I haven’t been able to keep up with the Redbirds as I would like. Are they still with the Cardinals?”
“Yep, and you’ll be happy to hear that they won their division title last year.”
“Oh, that is good news. I wish I had been there to see it.” I really did miss the simple things about baseball, like a jumbo pretzel with a beer as I yelled at the umpire for being blind.
Jordyn lifted her whiskey glass to her lips again.
Without thinking, I blurted, “Do you really need to drink that much?”
She slammed the glass back on the table, sloshing whiskey everywhere, and glared at me. “You’re not my fucking momma. Stay out of my business.”
“Maybe I should call your fucking momma and tell her what a jerk you’re being,” I retorted.
She scowled at first, but then tilted her head curiously and laughed. “She already knows.”
Just as I thought of another zinger, Jordyn’s cell phone sounded the alarm. Her ring tone was a firetruck siren.
“Stringfellow.” Jordyn listened, and then said into the phone, “Got it, I’m on my way.” She put her cell phone back in her pocket and pulled out her wallet, laying a couple of twenties on the table.
“What is it?” I asked excitedly.
“There’s a fire across town,” she stated. Her transformation from defeated whiskey-drinker to virile investigator was breathtaking.
“But my dinner?”
As if on cue, the waitress brought my food and placed it on the table in front of me. My stomach rumbled with anticipation.
“You can sit this one out, if you’d like. I don’t have time to wait for you to finish your meal.”
As soon as the waitress walked away, I leaned in and said, “You’ve been drinking. You can’t go to a fire with half a bottle of whiskey inside you.”
She frowned at me, and then looked at the bottle. “No problem. My limit is three-fourths of a bottle,” she stated, yanking her plate over and picking up a hand full of cold French fries. “Just need to absorb it with some food, and I’ll be good to go,” she mutt
ered with her mouth full. She was eating them so fast that I knew I had only a few minutes to consume my food or it would be left behind.
“Waitress,” Jordyn shouted, waving her over. “Can I get a large black coffee to go, please?”
“And a to-go box for me, please,” I added. If I’m paying for it, I’m eating it, darn it.
“Are you riding with me?” Jordyn asked.
“Can you drive?” I asked.
“She won’t need it,” Jordyn informed the woman, then looked at me. “Yes, I can drive and no one eats in my car.”
“Fine,” I snorted, leaning over my plate and stuffing a fork full of food into my mouth. It tasted as good as I remembered; I just wished I had time to enjoy it.
The waitress brought over the coffee and lingered a minute, watching Jordyn eat. She could win the Memphis hot-dog eating contest, she cleaned her plate so fast. I got in a couple of bites before she was finished and got up to leave. We walked around the corner to South Second Street, where she clicked on her key remote and unlocked the car doors.
I took one look at her car and exclaimed, “I’ve always wanted one of these!”
Her car was a gorgeous cherry red Camaro convertible, with white interior and leather bucket seats. Of course, a tall, muscular, handsome woman beaming with confidence would drive a hot car like that. I pictured in my mind’s eye the heroine in my book leaning back against the windshield, her long legs stretched out across the hood, her naked body glowing in the moonlight, as Jordyn gazed up at the night sky. Whoa! What?
“Uh, hello? Roberta?”
“Oh, sorry,” I said with a blush, not able to make eye contact.
“I was asking why you never got one.”
“By the time I could afford it, my publicist suggested that I get a beamer instead to make me look more successful,” I replied, getting into the passenger seat and fastening my seatbelt.
Jordyn gunned the engine, and my mouth gaped open. Something about a lean, mean, red sports machine made my lower regions flutter with excitement. That and envisioning a certain naked fire investigator behind the wheel. I shifted in the seat to distract myself.
As she pulled out and maneuvered her way through the city, she asked, “Do you do everything your publicist tells you to?”
“Yes, pretty much. She’s the reason my book is on the bestseller list.” Oh, God, did that sound pretentious?
“I hope it’s worth it,” she said casually.
“Well, so far it has been. She knows more about the business end of writing, which frees me up to do what I love. I just got lucky that my first book did so well. I doubt the trend will continue.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. That book was very well written and‒‒” Jordyn suddenly stopped talking, probably realizing what she had just revealed.
“You’ve read my book?” I asked gleefully.
“Yeah, uh, I read it last month. I, uh, I admit that I couldn’t put it down.”
“Do tell. And what other secrets have you been hiding, Ms. Stringfellow?” Maybe she’s coming around to me.
“We all have our secrets, Ms. Witherspoon, and I intend to keep mine, so I think we’d best change the subject.”
Damn. Normally someone who’s had half a bottle of whiskey isn’t so prudish. Is she skittish because I’m flirting or because I asked a simple question… and I’m a reporter, or at least I was… and the question was personal… damn it, I am such an idiot!
“Robbie, please, call me Robbie, and I withdraw the question. It was said in jest but I guess you perceived it differently, and I apologize for that.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Jordyn waved toward the smoking house. “We’re here,” she said as she pulled to the side across from the fire engine and parked her car.
“I’ll try to stay out of your way,” I said reservedly. I needed to focus on gathering research for my book, not on trying to be friends with someone who clearly wasn’t interested in being friends.
“Thanks,” Jordyn replied and got out of the car.
The fire chief walked over to her and reported that it looked to be faulty wiring. The family — husband, wife and small child — had gotten out in time, thanks to their smoke alarm, and no one was hurt, thank God.
Before entering the house, Jordyn wanted to speak with the family. They were huddled together by the fire truck, wrapped in blankets and visibly shaken.
“I hate this part of the job,” she muttered, walking toward her car.
I wanted to ask what she was feeling but I knew it would be perceived as an invasion.
She opened the trunk to her car and pulled out a clip holster with a small pistol inside.
What type of gun does an investigator prefer? “Can I ask what kind of gun you carry?”
“You can ask,” she quipped and then exhaled. “It’s a Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm semiautomatic pistol with double action and a seventeen-round capacity.”
Obviously a gun enthusiast.
She clipped the weapon to her belt next to her badge and then grabbed an expensive-looking camera from the trunk and put the strap over her head. Next, she picked up a flashlight, and a small, plush teddy bear, one of several she had in there, and closed the trunk. She hid the toy behind her back as she walked over to the family.
“Are you a fireman?” a precocious little girl, clinging to her daddy’s neck, asked Jordyn.
“Sure am, and this is Fireman Sam.” Jordyn held up the teddy bear and wiggled it playfully in front of her. “Would you like to play with him?” The toy was dressed like a firefighter, complete with a turnout jacket and a helmet with a badge that had MFP on it.
The little girl’s eyes lit up, and her frown dissolved into a smile. She reached out for it and hugged it tight to her chest.
“Take good care of him for me, okay?” Jordyn said, as she looked at the father, who nodded his thanks.
It was like I was seeing an entirely different person. That was just the nicest thing… She does have a heart.
Jordyn asked a few questions, then went inside what was left of their house. I lingered behind so that I could speak with the family. I introduced myself and they agreed to be interviewed. I didn’t want to overwhelm them, so I only asked questions that may not have been in Jordyn’s purview to ask. The father told me they had just bought the house and moved in. He said they would be staying with his brother in Germantown, which was fortunate for me; I’d be able to do a follow-up interview with them. I caught up with Jordyn in the back bedroom of the house.
“Is this one connected to the fire earlier today?” I asked.
“No, I found nothing to indicate that. It’s just faulty wiring, like the chief said. It’s unfortunate, but it happens.”
“Oh, those poor people. They told me that they didn’t have insurance on the house yet because they had just moved in.”
“If they had it appraised before closing the purchase, they should be covered. The faulty wiring should have been caught prior to them moving in.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It wasn’t their fault,” she replied.
It was late by the time we got back to the station, and I was dead tired. Jordyn had begrudgingly driven by my hotel so I could shower and get my luggage. She was edgy, aloof, but then, when was she not... When she’s around children. My entire body felt like it was covered in soot and ash and my beautiful white jeans had turned an ugly charcoal gray, so I showered in record time and packed a suitcase with the essentials. Staying at the firehouse was a necessity if I wanted to experience the life of an arson investigator, but it was going to be a challenge.
She gave me a quick tour of the new, state-of-the-art firehouse tucked away at the end of Beale Street, where it crossed into South Manassas Street. I was a bit disappointed that there wasn’t a fire pole to slide down. I learned that most modern firehouses don’t use the pole anymore. And they didn’t have a Dalmatian, either. Kind of took the romance out of it. The female firefighters had their
own dorm room, with single beds and a shared wardrobe cabinet between each bed. Other than that, it was pretty sparse. The room was on the first floor, right next to the gear-lockers where the boots and uniforms were kept. Thankfully, I wasn’t required to dress out, other than to wear a helmet when on the scene. But now that the book signing was done with, I was going to wear more practical clothing, especially the shoes.
I unpacked a few things, hung my blouses in the cabinet, placed my boots beside the bed and tossed my underwear into the drawer in the cabinet. Just as I was about to hit the rack, as they called the beds in the dorm, my cell phone rang, loudly, causing some stern complaints from the other women already in bed. My mother was calling. She always did have impeccable timing. I grabbed my phone and dove under the covers.
“Hey, Mom,” I whispered.
“Honey, how was your first day as a firefighter?”
“It was kind of rough, but nothing I wasn’t expecting. Well, except for the cold shoulder my new partner has been giving me.”
“Don’t worry, they’ll succumb to your charms in no time,” Mom replied.
“I don’t know, Jordyn Stringfellow is one tough cookie.”
“Did you say Stringfellow?”
“Yeah, do you know her?” I asked.
“Is her father’s name Henry Stringfellow?”
“I don’t know, Mom, she’s not very chatty. Why do you ask?”
“Because Henry Stringfellow was responsible for your stepfather’s death.”
Chapter Three
Jordyn Stringfellow
Even in a room full of snoring women, I felt alone. More like deserted. Abandoned. My brain wouldn’t shut off. Rationally, I knew Tina had to go, but emotionally I questioned how she could leave me so easily.
“Will you wait for me?”
Maybe. What I needed to do was put her out of my mind and concentrate on my job. I always found solace in my work, and now, with a major case handed to me, I needed to do away with all distractions and focus solely on that. I rolled over on my side and saw Roberta, fast asleep, her head peeking out from under the covers. How could I do my job with her in the way? Just as I was about to fall asleep, the station alarm went off. I shot up in bed and looked at the clock. It was a little after 4 a.m. and still dark outside.
Cause to Burn Page 3
