A Question of Fire

by Karen McCullough

  "What were you going to do with Saturday morning anyway?"

  "Sleep in. Maybe play a couple sets of tennis. Anything but work."

  "This isn't work. Think of it as an adventure."

  He gave her a sour look, but the lights in his eyes admitted he didn't really mean it. "Okay," he added, "but I have a favor to ask in return."

  She glanced at him warily. "That is?"

  "Can you get off work tomorrow night?"

  "Wednesday is my other day off."

  "Good," he said. "There's a party I'm expected to show up for, a gathering of local politicians and lawyers. It should be right up your alley. Come with me; I'd enjoy the company and you can help me fend off designing females."

  She had trouble deciding whether to feel flattered or insulted. She opted for flattered. "You have a problem with designing females?"

  "Occasionally."

  Watching him, Cathy decided it might well be true. Peter Lowell was gaining a reputation as a first-rate lawyer, he wasn't bad looking, and the few glimpses she'd seen of the charm he could generate suggested he could be devastating when he chose.

  "I don't always do well at parties," she warned. "I'm clumsy and, when I get nervous, I talk too much. I might embarrass you."

  "Like the last party? The one where we met?"

  "Yes."

  He waited for a moment, then prompted her. "Well?"

  She looked up and saw his intent expression. He didn't plan to give up until he knew what had happened at that disastrous affair the previous week. "Oh, all right," she said and sighed. "But if you ever tell another living soul... Do you remember the huge cake in the dining room? The one with all the sculptured frosting roses all over it?" He nodded. "Right before you saw me with Gary," she continued, "I decided to get some food. I was standing beside the cake with a plate in one hand, lifting a cracker with the other, when someone charged into the room and knocked my arm. The cracker went flying." She shook at the memory; it wasn't old enough to be funny yet. "It was covered with caviar and heading straight for the middle of that cake. I could see it was going to land right on top of the biggest rose, but I froze. I just stood there watching it." She drew a long breath. "Gary reached out and snagged the cracker before it came down on the masterpiece. Otherwise, I think I would have had to crawl out of the house on hands and knees, hoping no one would see me go."

  She risked looking up. Lowell was making only a minimal effort to contain his laughter. "So how would you expect me to react?" she asked. "This beautiful, charming man has just rescued me from a fate worse than tripping over my own feet. I was impressed and very grateful. It was only later that I met Lydia, and she made sure I knew Gary was married. In the nicest, friendliest way possible. I couldn't even hate her for it." She sighed. "If you want to change your mind about tomorrow night, I'll understand."

  His green eyes were brilliant with amusement. "It should be safe. I don't think they'll be serving caviar."

  "Then you're on, Counselor."

  "I wish you'd stop calling me that. My name is Peter, and my friends don't call me Pete. If you'll give me your address, I'll pick you up." He stopped and studied her face a moment. "You haven't had anybody else threaten you recently?"

  She debated telling him about the kidnapping attempt last Friday, but didn't, even though her silence now owed more to embarrassment than anything else. "Not since last Friday. The Toyota that was following me has disappeared, so I think they've finally gotten the message that I can't help them."

  "I hope you're right. But you'd better continue to be careful. As long as you keep digging, you're a threat."

  "Thanks a lot. I'd finally convinced myself I was safe." Cathy finished writing her address and phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to him. "I'm watching out. How's your part of the work coming?"

  He grimaced. "Before he ventured out on his own last night, Danny and I went to four different sleazy bars. He saw a couple of people he knew and put the word out. Obviously, it got around. Whether it'll produce anything useful, we'll just have to wait and see." He shook his head. "That boy knows way too much about the seamy side of life."

  The waitress collected their empty plates and brought them each a cup of coffee. Cathy was glad he'd introduced a point that had begun to bother her. "Peter, all the people I talked to yesterday had good things to say about Bobby and nothing good about Danny. One of them even suggested that the wrong brother was killed and it was a waste of time trying to get Danny out of this mess because he'd just get himself into another."

  Peter sighed, stretched his legs, and sipped tentatively at the coffee. He nodded as he thought about the implied question. "It's my job to see that my client gets the best representation and legal advice possible; if I believe he's innocent, I'll move heaven and earth to get him acquitted. Whatever else he might have done, Danny almost certainly didn't set that fire; so, from that point of view, it's worth it.

  "As a man..." He paused and stared into the depths of his cup. "Even from that angle it's worth the try. Danny reminds me of Bobby when I first met him. A rough kid with an attitude problem, but I think there's a decent human being inside who's scared to come out of hiding.

  "With reason," he continued. "He's had a rough life. His father's idea of supporting a family involved drinking every dime he could lay hands on and discipline meant beating the kids senseless if they said the wrong thing. Especially when he was drunk."

  He stopped, took another sip, and smiled again. "Sorry about that. I get on a soapbox every now and again. I suspect the people dismissing Danny as worthless don't know him very well. That's all I'm going to say about it. Have you heard from your friend, Hammond?" he asked. There was a slight emphasis on the word 'friend'.

  She nodded. "I called him Saturday. He was reluctant to meet you, said there wasn't anything he could tell you. When I persisted, he agreed to call me back to arrange something. I haven't heard from him since; I tried to get him yesterday and again today."

  "Would you give me the phone number?" Peter asked.

  "It's a hotel if you're planning to try yourself," she added.

  "Hotel?"

  "He's from out of town. Why?" she asked, noting his expression. "What is it?"

  "Have you done any checking on Hammond?"

  "Not yet. It didn't occur to me I should until a little while ago."

  Peter copied the number from the piece of paper she pulled out of her purse. "There's no Ed Hammond licensed as a private investigator in the state of North Carolina."

  She wasn't as shocked as she should have been. "You're sure?"

  "You can check for yourself." He picked up the bill and consulted his watch. "I have an appointment in twenty minutes."

  Cathy drained her coffee. "He's staying at the Hilton. I'll drop by there after lunch."

  "No, don't. I'll try later. He doesn't know me, I'll have a better chance of getting to him."

  "All right," Cathy agreed. "Oh, and one more thing. My editor suggested something worth looking into." She related Ray's ideas on the fire.

  He looked interested and pleased when she said she'd try to follow it. "That was a good thought. Worth some investigation. Let me know if you come up with anything." He slid out of the booth and paid the bill at the counter, then accompanied her to her car. "I'll pick you up around seven-thirty tomorrow night," he reminded her before she got in.

  She drove back to the newspaper office, wondering why she had butterflies in her stomach when she thought about the next evening.

  The researcher had sent up everything in the files on nine major fires within the last two years. Cathy read through the clippings and sorted them into piles. Five were unquestionably accidents, the result of faulty wiring, a spark from a power tool, improper storage of chemicals, or a gas leak. A sixth, which destroyed a junior high school, was arson, but a disgruntled student had confessed to setting the blaze. A nursing home fire was most likely the result of a patient smoking in bed. She put those two aside also. T
hat left two unresolved suspicious blazes in the area; one had occurred eighteen months past, the other five months ago.

  The earlier fire had completely destroyed an abandoned office building. A body had been found in the ruins but never identified—a vagrant, the police had assumed, probably setting the blaze with a careless cigarette. The second fire had partly razed a trucking warehouse. Arson was strongly suspected, but no arrest had ever been made. Both buildings had been insured.

  After making copies, Cathy put the clippings back into the folder. What she'd found was suggestive, but little more. Tomorrow morning, she'd drive to the public library in Raleigh; they kept files from all the newspapers in the state. She had a friend who worked there and had occasionally helped Cathy with research before.

  She called Patty that evening. The girl had just gotten home from work. Cathy identified herself and apologized for disturbing her, then asked, "When the intruders broke into your apartment and searched the place, did they look in or around the air conditioner or the air vents?"

  "I don't think so," Patty said. "No. They left a real mess, but I didn't notice anything like that. The police did, they had to unscrew the front of the air conditioner."

  "That's all I needed to know." Cathy thanked her and rang off.

  -15-

  Wednesday

  Even on her days off, Cathy rarely slept late; without the alarm set, she woke up at ten past eight. After a quick breakfast and cup of coffee, she called Lowell's office, hoping to find out whether he'd talked to Ed Hammond. The lawyer was in court again.

  She poured her second cup of coffee into a travel mug and hit the road. It was over an hour's drive to the capitol and she was leaving late enough to avoid rush hour traffic. Gray, overcast skies threatened rain but failed to dampen her mood. The drive was easy and pleasant.

  She wondered about her mood and questioned her feelings on the way. Was she falling for Peter Lowell? He wasn't the best-looking, nor the most personable of the men she'd dated in the past few years, but he might qualify as the most intriguing. And that spelled danger; she was drawn to his complex character. She knew it would be wiser not to get emotionally involved with him. She hadn't forgotten the look on his face and the tone of voice when he'd answered her question about being married. Deep bitterness, anger, and hurt had resonated in the way he'd said, "Not now."

  On arriving at the library, Cathy sought out her friend They spent a few minutes catching up on recent events before Sarah helped her find the material she needed. It took all morning to go through it. She enjoyed research, but hated having to do it with microfilm readers.

  By the time Sarah tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she wanted lunch, her eyes were worn out, but her spirits elevated. She'd been digging for coal, but it looked like she might have stumbled across a diamond. She accepted the offer of food; she was hungry and always enjoyed Sarah's company. Over heaping plates of spaghetti, she explained the background for her research.

  "Did you find anything?" Sarah asked when she was done.

  "More than I'd expected, actually. There have been nine major, suspicious fires in this region in the past five years; ten if you count the one I'm working on now. No more than three in any one city, usually just one or two. Four warehouses, two rundown apartment buildings, an abandoned hotel, an office building, and a store. Every one of them insured.

  "In two cases—the hotel and a warehouse—someone was killed in the fire; and in both the police believed the deceased started the blaze. Six of the others are classified as arson, and the cases are still officially open but no arrests have been made. In one instance, a man was arrested, tried, and convicted. I've read as much as I could find about the trial: the man maintained throughout that he was innocent, but the evidence was against him. I want to get a transcript of the trial and talk to his lawyer. The newspaper's details are sketchy, but bells keep going off in my head. His story sounds an awful lot like Danny's. It's got to be more than coincidence."

  After lunch, Cathy said goodbye to Sarah and treated herself to a couple hours at a shopping mall on the outskirts of the city. The evening's event demanded a new outfit and, after some searching, she found it: a slim, lightweight cotton dress in deep green with gold trim and a gold belt. The color brought out the red highlights in her hair and brightened her brown eyes. She splurged even further and bought new gold earrings to match.

  She got back to her apartment at four, which allowed her time to catch up on correspondence before she had supper, dressed, and put on makeup. Peter rang the doorbell promptly at seven-thirty. His response to the new dress was gratifying; he stood in the entrance a moment longer than necessary, looking her over, and finally whistled appreciatively. She grinned and returned his stare. He was groomed to kill himself. His straight, fair hair was brushed back and somehow persuaded to stay in place, so his green eyes dominated his thin, tanned face. It was difficult to reconcile this Peter Lowell, relaxed and smiling, with the dour man she'd first met exactly one week ago.

  "I knew you wouldn't embarrass me," he said.

  "The evening's barely begun," she warned. "Give me time."

  "Don't punch out the mayor," he suggested. "Otherwise, I think you can get away with just about anything. Horace Carter won't be there."

  "Oh dear." Cathy felt the blood rising into her face. "Word got around?"

  "Carter mentioned it himself. I think he was flattered to be assaulted, even accidentally, by an attractive young woman."

  "With all the money he's got, women probably fling themselves at him all the time."

  "But not elbows first," Peter said. "Anyway, that was a week ago. Ancient history by now." He smiled and Cathy decided she'd been right about the charm he could generate. It was doing uncomfortable things to her breathing. To cover her confusion, she went back to the couch to pick up her purse. Locking the apartment, then walking to his car, she gave herself a stern lecture on the importance of keeping her emotions in check.

  Peter had decided they wouldn't talk business tonight. Instead, he steered the conversation onto more general topics. Some gentle inquiries on his part persuaded her to talk about her background. She told him about growing up as the oldest child with four younger brothers, inescapably a tomboy but mothering the boys nevertheless; then going to college, working part-time and scraping together scholarship money and loans to supplement the little her parents could sacrifice to help her. She'd made a vow to herself never to be ashamed of her family's relative poverty, and so far she'd kept it.

  The drive didn't take very long. The party was being held in one of the largest and fanciest of the downtown hotels. A fair-sized crowd had already gathered in the main room; Cathy recognized some of the people there, including one of the candidates for city council she'd recently interviewed.

  The room was decorated in usual hotel party room style: contemporary nondescript, with only a nicer-than-usual flocked wallpaper to distinguish it. Long tables covered with white linen pressed against two walls. One almost sagged under the weight of a mountain of food—canapés of all sizes, shapes, and flavors.

  The other table functioned as the bar, where they were serving wine, beer, and soft drinks.

  "Shall we plunge right in and get a drink?" Peter asked.

  She nodded.

  “What would you like?"

  She looked over the selection. "White wine."

  "Two white wines," he asked the bartender, then turned to her, surprised, when she added, "And half a glass of ginger ale."

  "Don't say I didn't warn you," Cathy whispered, as the bartender handed both glasses to her. Peter watched, astonished, as she poured the glass of wine into the ginger ale.

  "That should keep me busy for a while," she said, then saw his expression. "It isn't that bad, is it?"

  "That happens to be a very nice Chardonnay," he sputtered. "It's sacrilege."

  "It's survival. If I drink straight wine all night, I’ll be plastered halfway into the evening."

  "Sacrileg
e," he insisted.

  The argument might have continued had it not been interrupted by the approach of a rugged-looking dark man and a tall, blonde woman. The man greeted Peter as an old friend, and Peter seemed equally pleased about the meeting, vigorously shaking the other man's hand, and laying a kiss on the woman's cheek.

  Peter introduced Cathy to Tom Dunning and his wife, Elizabeth. Tom was a longtime friend from law school, who practiced in a nearby city. He looked her over while they shook hands. "Your name sounds familiar, Cathy. Have I met you before?"

  "No," she answered. "You've probably read my stories in the Journal."

  "A newspaper reporter. Of course. You must be the lady who was involved in that murder last week. I remember reading about it because Peter's name caught my eye. Has an arrest been made yet?"

  "No."

  "Any good leads?"

  "That depends on who you ask. The police think they have some; Peter and I think they're barking up the wrong tree, but we don't have much evidence ourselves."

  "Enough about business," Peter interrupted. "This is a party, and I want to hear what you two have been doing lately."

  "We're in the throes of building a house," Tom said, "and it's not a pretty scene, I can tell you…"

  Over the next twenty minutes, Cathy heard enough hilarious and frightening stories about the difficulties of building a home to make her decide she'd buy one already built should she ever be in the market. Tom told them about a couple of his more spectacular cases and the bookstore Elizabeth had started. Despite a lack of time for reading, Cathy had no power to resist a bookstore; she made note of the address and promised to stop by in the near future.

  She sipped her wine and ginger ale (not a bad combination whatever Peter thought), while Tom and Peter discussed mutual acquaintances. Peter, she noted, was taking his wine very slowly.

  When the others headed for the food table, she excused herself to use the necessary, which she found without getting lost. By the time she returned, the room was becoming crowded. She tried, but failed, to find Peter in the crush.