Deadly Threads

by Jane K. Cleland

  We stood next to one another watching as the hoses came to life. They aimed the spray at the roof. The two firefighters stopped hacking at the front door. One of them jimmied it open, and both men disappeared into the smoke. They’re so brave, I thought.

  “Is Gretchen inside?” the woman asked.

  “I think so.” My voice cracked, and I felt the ground shift. I began trembling. Tiny gold specks began to shimmer in front of me. I’m going to faint, I thought. I stumbled toward a stone wall that surrounded the property and leaned against it. The gray-haired woman followed.

  “You need to go to the hospital,” she said. “Do you want me to call nine-one-one?”

  “No … I just need to breathe some fresh air.”

  The fire chief roared into the lot driving a dark red SUV. “Rocky Point Fire Department” was painted on the sides in black and gold. Almost immediately, Ellis arrived, driving his official police vehicle. The fire chief, taller than Ellis by a head, and rail thin, ran to one of the fire trucks. Ellis pulled to a stop near my car. He took in the scene in one sweeping glance, then jogged toward me.

  “Gretchen,” I said. I pointed. “That’s her unit.”

  He nodded. “I recognized her address from the nine-one-one call. How come she isn’t at work?”

  “She called in sick.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll get an ambulance.”

  “I don’t need medical care. I need Gretchen.”

  “Wait here,” he told me.

  Ellis ran to the fire chief, said something, then listened. He made a thirty-second call from his cell, then rejoined us.

  “They’re checking the apartment now,” he said. “I don’t think she’s here, Josie.”

  I looked at him, afraid to hope. “Why not?”

  “Her police protection isn’t here.”

  I leaned back and tried to smile, but coughed instead. This time, I couldn’t seem to stop. I folded over, hugging myself, and from this angle noticed that my spring-fresh khakis were streaked with soot. I felt dizzy, then sick to my stomach.

  Ellis came to me and gently took hold of my arm. “Sit down on the asphalt. An ambulance is on its way. You need oxygen.”

  “I’m fine,” I protested. “I don’t need an ambulance.”

  “Don’t argue. Smoke inhalation is tricky.”

  I sat down. Sitting with my legs straight out, using the wall as a backrest, I felt less woozy. After several seconds, I stopped coughing.

  “Gretchen,” I said, looking up at him.

  “I have a call in. We’ll know soon enough.”

  I nodded, grateful to have his support, knowing that nothing would fall between the cracks with his oversight. I kept my eyes on the front door and prayed.

  Ellis asked the gray-haired woman if she’d seen anyone or anything out of the way, but she hadn’t.

  Two minutes later, both firefighters came out. One ran to his truck to drop his hatchet before taking a place holding one of the hoses. The other man joined the fire chief and began talking. He listened to a question, then shook his head. Ellis walked to join them. He took a call, then came back to me, smiling.

  “Gretchen’s in Maine,” Ellis said, towering over me. I had to tip my head all the way back to see him.

  Tears of relief stung my eyes, and I blinked them away. “At Jack’s!” I said. “Of course. I should have guessed. He lives in Elliot, just over the border. What a relief! May I talk to her?”

  He nodded. “Soon. I’m having her moved someplace safe.”

  His phone rang, and he strode a few paces away to talk in private. I scrabbled up and walked slowly toward my car. I couldn’t remember what I’d done with my phone after I’d called in the fire. I found it under the front seat. I started placing everything back into my tote bag, and as I did, I realized the grim truth—someone was determined to kill Gretchen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I sat back down on the asphalt, drained and light-headed, and watched as Gretchen’s apartment burned. From where I sat I had a view of the pond. A quack caught my attention, and I watched as two ducks, their teal feathers glistening in the sun, dove under water, then surfaced, then dove again.

  Moments later, the ambulance arrived. The paramedic, a sturdy-looking young woman with freckles and green eyes, helped me into the back. I lay down on the gurney. She fitted a mask over my nose and mouth, and within seconds I was breathing clean, pure air. She listened to my chest through a stethoscope, took my blood pressure, and monitored my pulse. I felt my trembling quiet, and a few minutes after that, my nausea disappeared entirely. I sat up.

  Wes drove into the lot and jerked to a stop. He saw me and ran over, his expression somber.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  I couldn’t reply without removing my mask. I didn’t want to talk to him. I was in shock, and I knew it. I’d gone from terrified that Gretchen might be trapped in an inferno to relieved beyond words at learning she was safe. I’d breathed in deadly smoke. I was petrified, too, scared into immobility. I lay back down and closed my eyes as the paramedic shooed him away. When I opened my eyes again a few moments later, Wes was gone.

  She took my vital signs again and told me they were better; a while later, she repeated the process and told me they were good. I removed the mask. She said that if I started wheezing or coughing again, or if I developed a fever, I should get medical care right away. She also recommended that I see my doctor as a precaution. I thanked her, signed a form acknowledging that I’d received services, and stepped out into the sunlight.

  Neither Ellis nor Wes was in sight. The fire chief wasn’t around either. The firefighters were in the same positions as before, hosing off the roof and shooting streams of water into the interior.

  I reached for my phone. It was eleven forty-five. I gasped. Sister Mary Agnes was waiting for me at the diner. I called the restaurant and asked for her. After a shorter-than-expected wait, she came on the line.

  “I’m so sorry, Sister,” I said. “There’s been an emergency. My friend Gretchen, her apartment is on fire.”

  “Is she hurt?” she asked, her voice strained.

  “No—luckily, she wasn’t home.”

  “Thank God. How about you? Were you injured? You sound pretty shaken up.”

  “That’s a good way to describe how I feel. Shaky. I’m okay, though. I’m just sorry to not be there. I guess we ought to reschedule.”

  “I need to see you,” she said. “Forgive me, but it simply can’t wait. I don’t know what to do. I’m hoping you can help me. I can come to you wherever you are.”

  “Of course,” I replied, bewildered, and gave her the address.

  She said she’d be here in five minutes. After the call, I stood staring at the phone, wondering what could possibly have happened.

  * * *

  I called Ty and got his voice mail. I left him a message, trying and failing to keep my overwrought emotions out of my voice as I recited the facts. I was just finishing the call when the gray-haired woman approached me again.

  “You look much better,” she said.

  “Thank you. The oxygen helped.”

  “Do you know Gretchen?”

  “Yes. She works for me. I’m Josie Prescott.”

  “Oh, you’re Josie! I’ve heard all about you from her. I’m Hilda Carlisle, her neighbor. She loves her job, you know—and you.”

  I smiled. “That’s great to hear. I feel the same about her.”

  Hilda turned and watched the firefighters. “How did it start? Do they know?”

  “If so, they haven’t told me.”

  She clucked and ambled back toward her own unit.

  Minutes later, Wes came into view. He’d been at the back of the unit. He headed straight at me. “It looks like arson,” he announced in an undervoice, his eyes ablaze. “They think someone threw a Molotov cocktail into the apartment.”

  I pressed my hands against my lips. The pic
ture Wes’s words conjured up was too horrible to contemplate, but now that he’d spoken, I couldn’t get the image out of my head. Fill a bottle with something flammable, like gasoline. Stuff a rag inside. Light the rag. Throw the bottle hard enough so it will shatter. Bam—it explodes into a fireball—an act of evil.

  What on God’s earth does Gretchen know?

  * * *

  I sat sidewise on my front seat, my feet on the asphalt. I kept my eyes on the burning building. Wes stood nearby.

  “You look like you just walked out of a coal mine,” he said. “Were you caught inside?”

  “No … just the opposite … I thought Gretchen was trapped, but the smoke was too thick, and the fire…”

  “Why are you here?”

  “To leave some flowers.” I pointed to the basket resting in the back.

  “Roll down the window so I can get a good shot,” he said. “It’ll really add some human interest to the story.”

  I did as he asked. He wanted to take my picture, too, but I refused.

  “And if you sneak a shot, Wes,” I warned him, “I’ll never talk to you again.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “Anything else for me?”

  I shook my head, and he ran across the lot to talk to Hilda.

  Sister Mary Agnes drove an old blue minivan into the lot. I recognized her immediately as the woman who’d sat next to Bobby at Riley’s funeral. She had light brown hair, cut short. She parked in a distant corner, and I walked toward her. Her eyes were big and focused on the still-smoldering building. As I approached her, I glanced over my shoulder. Wes was watching us the way a cat watches a mouse. She turned her attention to me. Her eyes were red, her expression stunned.

  “You’re Josie?” she asked.

  “Yes. You’re Sister Mary Agnes?”

  She nodded. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I said softly. “How about you? You’ve been crying.”

  She handed me her cell phone. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “Would you … I mean, there’s a message.” She dug a tissue out of her skirt pocket and patted at the corners of her eyes. She took a deep breath. “Riley trusted you and respected your judgment … Would you please listen to it and help me figure out what to do?”

  A narrow strip of white adhesive with a phone number written on it had been affixed to the bottom of the unit.

  “Is this your phone number?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I knew the number. I was holding the phone linked to Riley’s account—the one Wes called C2. Riley had called this number shortly before she died. Sister Mary Agnes told me her PIN so I could access the message.

  “I wish I could talk to you in person,” Riley said, and hearing her voice, I felt as if I’d plunged into a glacial lake. “I just left Max’s office. I’ve told you about him. He’s such a decent man.” There was a gulping sound. “Bobby’s been cheating on me—I’ve seen photos—disgusting, explicit photos. How could he? How could he do such a thing to me?” Another pause, this one filled with the sounds of sobbing. “I changed my will. I told Max I wasn’t leaving his office until it was done. Oh God, I can’t believe it! It’s just so awful. The bastard. I called Bobby to tell him I was divorcing him, and guess what—he begged for forgiveness.” A weak self-deprecating laugh. “He said he’d end the affair immediately, that the other woman meant nothing to him. You’re going to think I’m pathetic, and I am. I’m so pathetic I disgust myself. He said he wanted to take me to Crenshaw’s this weekend, and I agreed to go, how stupid is that? Bobby promised that if I gave him a second chance, he’d spend the rest of his life making it up to me.” More sobbing. “I should have walked away, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I love him, God help me … I love him. Do you think I did the right thing? There’s no one else I can talk to about this but you. Call me as soon as you get this message, okay?”

  The message ended, and I closed the phone.

  “Bobby told the woman he was ending it,” Sister Mary Agnes said, “and she killed Riley.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed, handing the phone back. “Regardless, you need to tell the police right away.”

  “Riley would hate for her dirty laundry to be made public.”

  “I don’t blame her—but you have to do it anyway.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “Chief Hunter is here. I know him. He’s a good man. Discreet. If he can keep it quiet, he will.”

  “He won’t be able to. How could he?”

  “Probably he can’t.”

  Chief Hunter came around the corner with the fire chief. I glanced toward Wes. He’d relocated and was standing by my car, and I got his message. I wasn’t leaving without giving him the goods. His eyes followed us as I led Sister Mary Agnes to Ellis. The fire chief hurried toward a man steadying a ladder. Wes raised his camera and began snapping photographs.

  “Stop it,” I mouthed at him and gave him my sternest look. I drew the edge of my hand across my neck, signaling that he was to kill it.

  He lowered his camera and narrowed his eyes.

  “Ellis,” I said. “This is Sister Mary Agnes, one of Riley’s oldest friends. I was scheduled to meet with her to discuss the foundation Riley created. En route, she listened to a message on her cell phone. She asked me to listen to it, and I did.” I took a deep breath. “You should hear it.”

  I nodded in the nun’s direction, and she handed him the phone. We stood silently as he noted the number and listened to the message.

  “Thank you, Sister,” he said. “I’ll need to keep this phone for a while.”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you happen to have it in your possession?”

  “Riley gave it to me in case of an emergency. She didn’t like the idea of me driving without one.”

  “And how is it that you just noticed the message today?”

  “I only use it when I drive, and I haven’t driven since Riley died. I didn’t even drive to her funeral. Another sister, knowing how upset I was, drove me there.”

  Ellis made arrangements for Sister Mary Agnes to come to the police station to give a statement later that day, thanked her again, and slipped the phone into his pocket.

  “I need to talk to you, too, Josie.”

  “Give me one minute, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “We still need to talk about the foundation,” I said as I walked Sister Mary Agnes back to her van.

  “I’m glad to discuss it in whatever detail you’d like,” she said, “but I can tell you what Riley wanted very simply. She wanted to help people. People, not things. She loved fashion, but she loved people more.”

  “I see what you mean—that’s why she combined the two.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe I’ll set up a scholarship program. To cover tuition and rooming expenses for people who want to study fashion.” Like Ava, I thought.

  “Riley would love that.”

  “There’ll be enough money to fund other activities, too. At some point I’ll ask your opinion about other options.”

  “Anytime.” She opened her van door, then glanced back toward Gretchen’s charred condo. “Do you think the same person who killed Riley set this fire?”

  “Yes.”

  She stared at the building for a moment longer, then turned haunted eyes toward me. “The devil is among us.”

  * * *

  Ellis asked me to come to the station house to provide a statement, but I begged off. I needed to clean up, and I had no additional information to give. He didn’t push too hard, and at the end of our brief discussion, we agreed that if he had more questions, he’d let me know.

  As I opened my car door, Wes tried to get me to comment, but I refused. I was full up with terror and rage and weak from breathing smoke and shock, and I didn’t want to think about anything or talk to anyone. I drove straight home.

  When I pulled into my driveway, Zoë, tall and model-thin with jet black hair and dark brown eyes, was climbing her porch step
s. She held grocery bags in both arms, but managed to grin and waggle her fingers hello. Her grin died away as she took in my sooty face and clothes. She placed the bags on the porch and her hands on her hips. I got out of the car and faced her. She looked me up and down, then up again, then hurried down the steps and cut across the little lawn that separated our houses.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  A lump closed my throat, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak. “Someone set fire to Gretchen’s apartment. I got in the way of some smoke.”

  “Is Gretchen hurt?”

  I shook my head. “She wasn’t home. No one was hurt, not really. They had me on oxygen for a while.” I tried to smile. “Call me crazy, but I thought I’d take a hot shower.”

  “Good idea. Have you eaten?”

  “No. I’m not hungry.”

  “When you come downstairs from your shower, soup will be simmering on the burner and tea will be in your cup.”

  I smiled again, a better effort this time. My eyes watered. “You’re such a good friend, Zoë.”

  “Scoot. I have groceries to put away.”

  When I got downstairs after scrubbing away layers of oily dirt, I found Zoë standing at my range, stirring a pot of her famous hearty beef tomato soup.

  She didn’t asked me any questions and I didn’t volunteer any details. Instead, she sat beside me sipping Earl Grey tea as I consumed two bowls of soup and chatted about little nothings, the Johnny-jump-ups she expected to plant that afternoon, the origami swan she’d almost perfected, and how she and Ellis were talking about taking the kids to the Science Museum in Boston over the weekend.

  As I listened to her cheerful chat, the viselike tension that had turned the muscles in my neck and shoulders into twisted steel eased. A faint hint of optimism that the police really would find Riley’s killer and that Gretchen really would be safe began to edge out the dark foreboding that had enveloped me like a noxious cloud.

  * * *

  I didn’t get back to work until after three. As I approached our front door, I gazed through the window and knew that everyone had heard the bad news. Cara, Sasha, Fred, Eric, and Ava stood in a loose circle, their expressions solemn. They looked up as I walked in.