Down in Flames

by Cheryl Hollon

  Savannah unlocked Webb’s Studio, her newly opened second business location. She felt a powerful sense of accomplishment. A few months ago, she had risked her hard-won financial security in favor of opening an artists’ studio warehouse for intermediate and advanced students. The refurbished space had been more expensive than she had originally planned, but now it was filled and had a short waiting list.

  Two locations were occasionally a scheduling challenge, especially since she would be spending more time at the original shop with the flameworking class starting up. She relished challenges but loved the security of routine as well.

  “Good morning, Arthur. How are you feeling today?” she asked when she noticed one of her usual students.

  Arthur Young peeked out the open doorway of his work cubicle. His brown hair was beginning to thin and he dressed in his typical khaki cargo shorts with a snug-fitting blue golf shirt. He wore boat shoes without socks. Arthur played second-chair cello in his previous career with the Florida Orchestra. His medical issues had derailed his dream of achieving coveted first-chair status.

  “I’m having a great morning. No tummy troubles and I’m just about finished with the stained-glass panel I’m making for my lovely bride.”

  “How is Nancy?”

  Arthur’s brown eyes drooped, and he turned both hands palms-up. “She’s still fussing about how long my recovery is taking. She wants me back in the orchestra, clawing my way up to first cellist. I’m not sure I want to get back into the gossip, drama, and fierce competition of claiming first-chair honors. Irritable bowel syndrome doesn’t always take a straight line to perfect recovery. It was a miracle I managed to hang on to second-chair last season.”

  “When do you think you can go back?”

  He hung his head. “Nancy doesn’t want to hear this, but I don’t think I’ll ever perform again. That’s why I’m working so hard on this beautiful panel. I’m going to enter it in a contest.” He beamed a mischievous smile. “I think she’ll enjoy being the bride of an accomplished stained-glass artist.”

  Savannah beamed. “You have a good heart, Arthur.” She suspected that Nancy reveled in the status of being a musician’s wife. “That may work. You’re a clever fellow—Nancy is a lucky woman.”

  “Thanks, but in our many years together, I know the real truth of that. I’m the lucky one.”

  Savannah folded her arms. “Arthur, I have a ginormous favor to ask.”

  “Anything, ask away.”

  “You may have heard about the hit-and-run accident yesterday.” Arthur nodded. “Well, Jacob witnessed it and is experiencing a dreadful reaction. He won’t be around to manage the studio for at least a few days. Could you take over for him?”

  “Of course. Sure, I’d be happy to.” His quick glance at the studio’s bathroom betrayed Arthur’s confident response.

  Savannah raised both hands into a stop position. “You don’t have to worry about the phone. I’m going to forward all calls to my cell. Jacob has more than enough supplies in stock here for the next week, so all you’ll really have to do is just be the point of contact for the other artists.”

  “I can handle that.” He swallowed hard. “I’m sure of it. Excuse me.”

  He dashed over to the restroom and quickly pulled the door closed.

  Savannah palmed her forehead. That may have been a mistake. He’s fine except when he’s not. He’ll just have to tell me he can’t do it. I have no other choice—the other artists are too ditsy. It’s a challenge just to get them to pay their studio rent.

  She raised her voice. “I’m going back to Webb’s Glass Shop, Arthur. Call if anything comes up.” She stood in front of the bathroom door. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  Shaking her head, Savannah headed over to Webb’s Glass Shop.

  He’s right. If he can’t handle this, how on earth will he ever perform with the Florida Orchestra again? She thought for a moment about Arthur’s society-obsessed wife. Nancy is not going to be happy. I wouldn’t want to be around an unhappy Nancy.

  * * *

  At Webb’s Glass Shop, Savannah parked and went through all the little procedures needed to get the shop ready for customers and students. As soon as she unlocked the front door, her cell phone rang. It was Jacob’s mother. “Hi, Frances. How’s Jacob?”

  “This is not good, Savannah. He’s not speaking at all.”

  “Oh, no. That’s horrible.”

  “His therapist has diagnosed selective mutism with a short-term memory loss. He wrote his answers on a pad of paper. He doesn’t remember the accident at all.”

  Savannah matched her calm tone. “Is it permanent?”

  Savannah knew that Frances spent a lot of time in court handing down sentences to juveniles convicted of major crimes. As a result, she had extensive experience delivering bad news to terrified parents. Savannah felt that Frances was treating her the same way.

  “Jacob’s therapist doesn’t think so, in his case. His brain is fundamentally wired in a different way and it’s very likely that his speech will return. She doesn’t hold out much hope for his memory. Anyway, he needs quiet and rest for a few days and we’ll go on from there.”

  “Thanks for letting me know so quickly. I appreciate it.”

  “I’m not sure if he’s capable of resting at this point. He is anxious about not following his daily routines. This is going to be a challenge. I’m staying home today, but I have an important hearing tomorrow that I can’t postpone.”

  “Tell Jacob not to worry about losing his job. He will always have a job at Webb’s. Everything is going along just fine. His current restoration project has a hard deadline, but I’m going to call the customer and see if there is some wiggle room. I can finish it, of course, but Jacob prefers to work an entire piece all by himself.”

  Frances chuckled. “Yes, I can see where he would be possessive. He freaks out when I attempt to help him with his laundry. He takes the clothes I’ve stowed, out of his drawers, refolds them, and then stacks them the only way he thinks is right.”

  “I can see that.” Savannah smiled.

  “I’ll give you a call tomorrow and we’ll assess the situation. I would say for now that he won’t be in for the next few days. I’m taking him back to the therapist every day until he can come back to work in the studio.”

  “Thanks, Frances.”

  “It’s for him, Savannah. He needs to return to Webb’s Studio. He needs his daily routines.”

  Chapter 8

  Tuesday morning,

  St. Petersburg Police Station

  Officer Joy Williams knocked on the doorjamb of Detective Parker’s office. His office looked like all his filing cabinets had committed mutiny. There were piles of papers stacked on every available flat surface. Though he was bent over with his back to the door, he greeted her by name. “Officer Williams, come in. There’s nowhere to sit, but I’ve got to get these files sent to the records department within the next two hours or they will be shredded without being scanned.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “You always lightly tap twice. I’m a detective, remember?”

  “I’ve never seen your office like this.” She had expected to see his normally clear desk with maybe one open folder on its frequently Windex-sprayed surface. “Is this because of the move?”

  Parker stood and placed another stack of folders on his desk. Each stack was equidistant from its neighbor. “Yes, we’re to have smaller offices in the new building. That means we will have no personal filing cabinets.” He looked longingly at the row of four black metal five-drawer filing cabinets. “I’m going to miss having my notes near me.”

  “Smaller offices?”

  “Yes, unfortunately for the future of my personal filing cabinets. I bought these myself. I know how I work best. I received a drawing of the office layouts—smaller for everyone. Very energy efficient. I hate working with electronic documents. But never mind that. What’s your
question?”

  “It’s more a feeling, sir. No one has come forward to confess to the Nicole Borawski hit-and-run accident. Isn’t it normal for that to happen within a few hours of the accident?”

  Detective Parker turned down a corner of his mouth. “No one has come forward?”

  “No.”

  He turned back to the file drawer and placed another stack of files on his desk. “Upgrade the priority of the case. Since a death occurred, when a driver willfully leaves the scene of an accident that involves a death, the offense is punishable as a felony of the first degree.”

  “Not many citizens know that.”

  “True. It could mean a thirty-year sentence.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Because of this nightmare”—he waved a hand at the disgorged filing cabinets—“I’m going to give you the lead in this case.”

  Officer Williams felt her eyes get large. “Sir, I appreciate that—”

  “Don’t get overconfident,” he said with a good-humored smile. “I’m not at the top of my game right now, so I’m going to shamelessly take advantage of your eagerness to advance in rank.”

  She smiled in return. “Yes, sir. I appreciate this opportunity.”

  “There are some nonnegotiable conditions. You’ll need to check with me twice a day at a minimum—even more if something significant happens. Don’t make any major decisions without my expressed approval.”

  Officer Williams frowned.

  “Don’t give me that look. That’s the way everything works here. You must keep your supervisor apprised of your plans and actions.”

  “Okay, why?”

  “There’s less to mop up after something goes haywire. Now, go back to the scene and find out more from the witnesses. If you’ve got a feeling something isn’t right, then something is probably not right.”

  Another tap on the doorway caused them both to turn. “Ready for the move?” Coroner Charlotte Gray’s eyes twinkled as brightly as her teasing tone. When she caught sight of Detective Parker’s exasperated frown, she said, “Oops, sorry. Touchy subject?”

  Detective Parker sighed. “It will be good in the long run, but for now it’s a huge pain.” He turned and picked up the final stack of folders and plopped them on his desk with a loud thump. “That’s it. Records are coming along with their archive boxes and then I’m ready to move to the new building. You?” He looked at Officer Williams.

  She smiled wide. “I don’t keep anything here except a few snack bars and my coffee cup.”

  “You?” He nodded at Coroner Gray.

  “I’ve been ready for weeks. Two small boxes that I can carry over myself.”

  Detective Parker put his hands on his hips. “I find the minimalist trend irritating. Officer Williams, don’t you have an accident scene to investigate? Check with Traffic to see what they have before you take a look.” He turned to Coroner Gray. “I’ll see you at lunch.” He shooed them out of his office.

  * * *

  Officer Williams was lucky to find a parking spot near Webb’s Glass Shop. She drove a patrol car, but didn’t like to flaunt the privileges of her position. There were some officers who routinely blocked the street just because they could. Not her.

  She had printed the accident report before leaving the station and she studied the notes the responding officer had written. It was a well-written account of what he determined was an accidental event. The sketch was clearly drawn and neatly labeled.

  Getting out of the car, she walked over to the spot where Jacob must have stood when the speeding car hit Nicole. She held up the sketch to her view of the street. Everything was there. It all matched. Everything except—there were no skid marks approaching the site of the impact. There were signs that the driver accelerated as he left the scene That means that the driver hadn’t braked either before or after hitting Nicole. Not typical at all. The responding officer had noted that in the report.

  The speed limit in this section of Central Avenue was twenty-five miles an hour. It was low because of the many shops and high activity of pedestrians along the fifteen-block designation for the Grand Central District. For quicker traveling, drivers used the one-way streets of either First Avenue North going west toward the beaches, or First Avenue South going into downtown.

  The time of the accident was around five P.M. Officer Williams thought that seemed a little early for drunk driving, but not that unusual. However, to not even try to stop? This didn’t add up. She knew that the most common reasons were fear of consequences, bad driving record, drunk driving, lack of character, and stark panic.

  She walked down to the end of the block and looked at the corner intersection where the report said that the white car turned. From there the white car would have turned left on to First Avenue North and would have been miles away before anyone realized that an accident had occurred.

  An ordinary white car, even if speeding, wouldn’t be particularly noticeable.

  On the off chance than the speeding car was noticed by neighbors along First Avenue North, Officer Williams canvassed the houses nearest the intersection. She found two neighbors at home, but neither of them noticed anything yesterday afternoon. At the rest of the houses, she left her business cards with her question written on the back. You never know, and she felt it was important to cover everything.

  She returned to Central Avenue and pulled on the front door of Queen’s Head Pub. It was locked. She went around to the rear of the restaurant and pulled on the back door. It opened into the kitchen, where a short, thin, dark-haired man with even darker eyes was chopping red onions. He turned to Officer Williams, dropped the knife on the counter, raised his hands, and splayed his fingers.

  “I’m legal,” he squeaked and began to back away. “I have papers.” He started to reach for his back pocket but halted and raised his hands again.

  “Relax, relax, I’m not here to check papers. I have a few questions about the hit-and-run that occurred yesterday. Were you here?”

  “No, ma’am, Officer, ma’am. My shift is over at two o’clock. I make the salads.” His hands reached higher.

  “Relax. Put your hands down. I just want to talk. What’s your name?”

  “Samuel Joven, sir. I mean Officer, ma’am.” He slowly lowered his arms to his sides. He held them stiff, like a toy soldier. “You will want to talk to the owner. He will be here soon. Chef will be here soon as well.”

  “Yes, I’ll want to talk to all of them. First”—Officer Williams drew out her small notepad and a pen from her back trouser pocket—“did you know Nicole Borawski?”

  “She’s the boss when the boss isn’t here.”

  “So, yes, you knew her?”

  “Yes, but not very well.”

  He’s making me pull everything from him bit by bit. Maybe he is illegal. “What are your hours, Samuel?”

  He tightened his hands into fists, then straightened them. “As many as Nicole schedules. She’s good about it. I mean she was.” He made fists again.

  “Fine, but what was normal for you?”

  Samuel stopped making fists and folded his hands tightly in front of him. “I arrive at about ten in the morning to make the salads and then, like I said, I leave around two. I’m part-time. I also work at the Old Key West Bar and Grill only one block from here, and also at Punky’s Bar and Grill about five blocks from here.”

  “When was the last time you saw Nicole?”

  “Let me think a second.” He tilted his head. “It was last week. She came in early to do something and she said hello and we chatted for a bit.”

  “What day last week?”

  His knuckles where turning white from lack of blood. “I think it was on Tuesday or Wednesday. I’m not sure. I work every day, so I get mixed up sometimes.”

  “Was Nicole having any problems with anyone here in the restaurant?”

  “Not that I know about, Officer, ma’am. I don’t talk to anyone. I need this job.”

  Officer Williams had just retur
ned her notebook and pen to her back pocket when Edward walked in from the dining room. He stopped abruptly when he saw her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Chapter 9

  Tuesday midmorning,

  Queen’s Head Pub

  Officer Williams knew Edward well. Not because he was Savannah’s fiancé, but because he was one of Savannah’s principle assistants in the past investigations they had solved with the help of Amanda and Jacob. He usually met with Savannah and the posse right here in his pub. Of late, their meetings were social, as Savannah was not currently acting as a consultant with the police.

  “Good morning, Edward.” Joy smiled. “Nothing’s really wrong. It’s all part of the routine associated with a sudden death.”

  “Sorry for that. Good morning, Joy.” Edward craned his head around to look back at the door of his large commercial refrigerator. “We’re not open yet.”

  “I know. I’m here officially, so I’m Officer Williams. I’m sorry, I know you must feel that I’m intruding. But, Edward. I need to ask you some pointed questions about Nicole.”

  He stood completely still for a long second, then took out a gallon carton of half-and-half. “Why would you need more information about Nicole? It was an accident. Have you caught the driver?” He spoke over his shoulder.

  Officer Williams drew out her notepad and pen. “There are some curious aspects to this incident. It seems it might not have been an accident.”

  Edward motioned for Officer Williams to follow him. “I need some coffee. What will you have? Oh, I remember. It’s a cappuccino.”

  They both entered the main dining space and bar. Behind the bar was a white porcelain bust of Queen Elizabeth. Next to that was Edward’s pride and joy: A refurbished espresso machine stood gleaming and ready for action. He dumped some locally roasted Kahwa beans out of an airtight canister, flung them into the grinder, and threw the switch. The noise was deafening. He worked swiftly and smoothly to make her cappuccino and his double espresso.

  He pointed to the table in the corner. “Let’s sit over there. We can talk without the whole kitchen hearing us.” He placed the white mugs on a tray, grabbed a plate and piled it up with almond biscotti. “Hey, Samuel. I’ll finish with setting up chairs. Start your prep work. I’ll be back in the kitchen in a few minutes.”