5
We missed the fire engines arriving, although we could hear their approach behind the screeching of Ernest’s alarms. As smoke and ash billowed from Ernest’s house, Boyd stepped away from Yolanda’s van long enough to call the sheriff’s department.
A few of the dogs were still whining. The rest had slumped against each other and fallen asleep. One of the ones who were awake climbed the cardboard directly in front of me. This puppy was crying and looking so pathetically unhappy that I brought him up in my lap. He, or maybe it was a she—I wasn’t going to check in the poor light—liked having his back rubbed, I discovered. Within a couple of minutes, he’d stretched lengthwise on my thighs, his nose over my knees, his little legs splayed out so that his paws just touched my stomach. Like his pals, he succumbed to slumber.
Boyd pocketed his cell and came back to the van. “Goldy, we’re going to your house,” he announced. His expression was unreadable.
I sighed. I didn’t know whether going back to our place was a good thing or a bad thing, but I couldn’t bear to watch Ernest’s hand-built house being consumed by fire. To make matters worse, the smoke was making Ferdinanda cough.
I asked Yolanda to head back toward our place, and she pulled to the left, off the shoulder. Ferdinanda smokes cigars, I reminded myself as she coughed relentlessly. The old van’s engine ground in protest as Yolanda hung a U. Ferdinanda was gagging; I thought she was going to be ill. It was the cigars, I told myself. Still, I was too tired to talk about the perils of smoking. Like the puppy in my lap, I was too exhausted to think.
As Yolanda piloted the van down the street away from Ernest’s house, Ferdinanda stopped coughing. Oddly, hunger made my stomach cramp. Ferdinanda and Yolanda had missed dinner, too, but too much had been going on to think about eating. My mind jumped to my usual worry: Where was Arch? He had his own car, a used VW, but I vaguely remembered that he wasn’t driving it at the moment. No matter what, he had not checked in, and that was anxiety-producing.
I so wanted to talk to Tom. I debated dislodging the beagle and reaching for my cell but reasoned that we’d be home momentarily and I could find out exactly where he was.
We hadn’t gone a hundred yards in the direction of town when Boyd flashed us with his strobe lights. Yolanda shook her head and pulled over to the dirt shoulder on our right.
When Yolanda rolled down her window, thick smoke billowed in.
“Okay,” said Boyd, who was barely visible, “the fire trucks are asking us not to go down this way. They need access to the hydrants, and they’re blocking off all traffic into the neighborhood. We need to take the service road.”
“What service road?” Yolanda asked.
“Follow me.”
So we did. Boyd expertly pulled in front of Yolanda’s van and gunned his vehicle downhill. Just before the crime-scene tape, he signaled to turn left onto the shoulder where we’d initially stopped, when we were trying to see if there was a police car up at Ernest’s. The gravel area passed through two spruce trees and materialized into a road, if you used the term loosely. The narrow lane was pitted and deeply grooved, but Boyd expertly swung his prowler from one side to the other. I prayed there were no cliffs nearby.
While I clung to the puppy in my lap, Yolanda worked hard to follow Boyd. Despite my efforts, the puppy awakened anyway and started shivering. I used my feet to stabilize the cardboard box on the floor, from which much canine whimpering issued. Ferdinanda’s wheelchair was locked in place, and she assured us she was leaning over and was holding on to the box of dogs on the backseat.
My eyes stung from the smoke. Still, I could see Yolanda’s headlights pick out a tiny U.S. Forest Service sign in front of a boulder on our right. The Forest Service had built many such roads into the mountains, for fighting flames in remote regions. The summer before the one we were technically still in had seen numerous wildfires, which had been followed by flooding. The word in town was that it would take another year or more to get some of these roads rebuilt. From a forest-fire perspective, the fact that June, July, and August had seen record amounts of rain had been a blessing.
Boyd veered right, left, then right again. There were no streetlights, of course, but Boyd knew the way, and Yolanda managed to keep up. Thanks to the rain, the police vehicle wasn’t kicking up much dust, but it occasionally spit a shower of dirt onto the old van’s windshield. Yolanda cursed but kept going. After a few minutes, we made a hairpin left turn, then headed steeply downward. Boyd made a sharp right turn onto a paved road, right near a gas station that was barely visible in the gauzy light.
I peered outside. We’d landed on Lower Cottonwood Creek Road, below town. I looked up; a sudden breeze had sent the smoke back up the hill behind Ernest’s place, and I could just make out an exterior light on a building that had to be John Bertram’s large garage. I wondered how John was. Okay, I hoped.
We passed Saint Luke’s, and within a moment we were back on Main Street. The wind had stopped, and downtown was dark, foggy, and quiet. The only exception was the Grizzly Saloon, where light spilled from the double doors. A batch of cowboys and bikers were hanging out under the porch roof. Heads turned as the prowler passed.
Despite the cold and fog, Tom was waiting on the porch. Carefully, I moved the puppy from my lap and put him back in the box, so he could snuggle with his compatriots.
“Miss G.,” said Tom as he helped me out of the van. He looked down. “Did you get all the dogs out?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Goldy?” Tom asked, putting one of his big hands on my forearm. I was shivering. “Did you see who set the fire?”
“Yes. A bald guy. I described him to Boyd.”
“Let’s all get inside,” Tom said, “and we can talk.”
Despite Ferdinanda’s protests, Tom worked to bring her onto the lowering mechanism of the van, then rolled her up our driveway. Thank God, it stopped raining. Nevertheless, it seemed as if the temperature was still dropping.
Boyd offered to bring the battered suitcases and bags of stuff that Yolanda had managed to pack up before all hell broke loose. I hauled out the box of puppies from the passenger-side floor while Yolanda pulled on her big shoulder bag and, before I could protest, lugged the other box of puppies from the back. What a troop we made: two caterers, two cops, nine puppies, and a great-aunt in a wheelchair.
Boyd put down his load and raced forward to aid Tom in lifting Ferdinanda and her wheelchair to the front door. I realized that we would need a ramp if they ended up staying more than a single night. At this point, I didn’t care that there was one more thing still to be done. I was grateful we’d all gotten out alive.
“Hey, Tom!” Ferdinanda called. “You got any hand weights? Five pounds, ten?”
“Not here,” Tom said patiently as he wheeled Ferdinanda into the house. “But Goldy’s pantry shelves are undoubtedly groaning with cans that would work for you. Why? Are you going to start working out?”
“Start?” exclaimed Ferdinanda. “Start? What are you talking about? I already lift. Gotta stay in shape. Gotta be ready.”
I didn’t say Ready for what? because I knew what she was worried about: our own house burning down.
“Couple times now, I haven’t been ready,” Ferdinanda muttered, once she was situated in the living room. Yolanda, walking by with her box of puppies, gave her aunt a warning look. Ferdinanda clamped her mouth shut.
As Yolanda and I carried the boxes of puppies through the house, Scout the cat streaked by, heading fast in the opposite direction. Our bloodhound had been asleep in the pet containment area, but the sudden arrival of nine fellow canines brought him fully to life. Yolanda and I put all the dogs into the backyard, where they gamboled to and fro merrily. They were undoubtedly covering themselves with mud, but if it made them happy, then I didn’t care.
Tom greeted us in the kitchen. “Yolanda,” he said noncommittally, “could you go out into the living room and answer Sergeant Boyd’s questions?”
Yolanda shot me a q
uestioning glance but then complied. I inhaled deeply. The luscious scent of roasting ham made my head spin. Bless Tom’s heart; he’d made dinner.
As soon as Yolanda closed the kitchen door, Tom enclosed me in a hug. “I was so worried about you, Miss G.” He put his face close to my ear. “You scared me half to death, I swear.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah, you always say that.” He inhaled. “You smell like smoke. Why don’t you go upstairs, have a shower, then come back down? Boyd won’t harass your friends.”
“Actually, he’s been great.” I pulled him close to me. “Where’s Arch?”
“He called and said he was staying with Todd. You remember he doesn’t have his car? You wanted to get snow tires for it?”
I rubbed my forehead. Of course. But snow tires were about the last thing on my current agenda.
Tom went on. “The Druckmans will bring him down for the physical tomorrow. You ready to eat? I roasted that ham, and made a macaroni and cheese from scratch. I found some applesauce, too. We’re talking comfort food here. I also chopped fresh basil to put in your Caprese salad. Sound good?”
“It sounds phenomenal.” Then I felt guilty. “We can celebrate Ernest’s life when we eat.” I was still clinging to him. “Uh, Tom? I do have something to tell you.”
“More?” Tom held on to me. “Is this a good something or a bad something? I mean, since Ernest’s house is being incinerated even as we speak. We were not able to retrieve any of his files, by the way. Two bogus calls of shots fired yanked our guys away before they could go through Ernest’s study.”
“I heard.” I cleared my throat. “Ernest McLeod was growing marijuana in his greenhouse. Six plants. And that’s the exact place where our arsonist tossed his Molotov cocktail.”
Tom shifted away from me. “What?” His handsome face went from concerned to incredulous. “Pot? Ernest was growing weed? Our guys didn’t get as far as the greenhouse, but . . . and I thought Ernest had given up—” I shook my head and pulled the somewhat smashed bud from my jacket pocket.
“Here you go,” I said. “I managed to snag this before the arsonist threw in the first Molotov cocktail.”
“You just managed to snag it, huh?” Tom retrieved a new brown paper bag from a drawer. “Drop it in,” he told me. Once I complied, he gave me a quizzical stare. “Does either Yolanda or Ferdinanda know about this?”
“I’m not sure. Honestly, Tom, before that guy showed up and started throwing things, all we talked about was the puppies. When I was looking for their chow, I found the bag next to the plants in Ernest’s greenhouse.”
Tom carefully folded the top of the bag down, then put it on the counter. “Know what?” He pulled his notebook out of his pocket. “I’m going to come up and question you while you shower.”
The bathroom mirror confirmed that I looked as bad as I felt. My face was gray, wet, and smeared with dirt. Ash had settled into the wrinkles under my eyes, and my hair looked as if a large family had dumped the contents of their grill on top of my head. My clothes, which had become soaked in the rain, had absorbed so much dust they were unrecognizable as the jacket, shirt, and jeans I’d put on that morning.
Tom said he would turn the shower water on. I hunted for clean underwear, pants, and a turtleneck, then returned to the bathroom and peeled off every item of clothing I’d been wearing.
“I like what I’m seeing,” said Tom, who’d pulled a small chair in next to the hamper.
“I look like crap.”
“Far from it, Miss G.”
I stepped into the steaming shower and shivered in the luxurious stream of heat. Tom scooted the chair over to the tub.
“Begin with when you got there,” he said.
“I tried to call you. Oops, no washcloth.” I blinked in the stream of water as Tom’s large hand pushed the shower curtain aside and offered me a clean cloth and new bar of soap. “Thanks.” I scrubbed up quickly. “The investigators weren’t there, and I wasn’t sure whether we had permission to be in the house when they weren’t there.”
“I remember telling you that. I also got your messages after I left the hospital. Sorry about that.”
“So we went up, finally.” I told him about Ferdinanda and Yolanda gathering up their belongings while I concentrated on the puppies. But their chow was missing, I added, so I went around the house looking for it. Clearly, the investigators had been there, because some files were opened in Ernest’s study. I looked all over for the chow and finally found a new bag next to the marijuana plants in the greenhouse.
“That seems odd,” Tom observed. “Ernest was a careful, conscientious investigator. Why would he leave puppy chow next to marijuana? Do you think he forgot it there? That’s just not like him.”
“I don’t know.” I drenched my hair, shampooed it, and rinsed. “You’re right about the conscientious bit, though. Except for the places where your team had been, the house was neater than a magazine spread on compulsive organization.”
“You ’bout ready?”
“Just need a couple of towels.”
His hand appeared again with two plush cotton towels. I wrapped them around my head and torso and stepped out. “Thanks. Are you going to keep asking me questions while I get dressed?”
“I’d rather be doing something else,” he said warmly, “but unfortunately there’s this damn job I’m obligated to. So you found the chow and the weed, and pulled off a bud.”
“Right.” I dried quickly and pulled my clothes on. “Oh, sorry, forgot to tell you. The phone rang while I was looking for the dog food. It came up on the caller ID as Humberto Captain. I answered, but whoever it was hung up.” Tom wrote, and I continued. “Anyway, when I was in the greenhouse, I saw a flash of movement from outside. It was a man holding something. I killed the lights in the greenhouse to get a better look. First he threw a rock through one of the windows. Then he lit the rag, or whatever it was, going into a bottle of accelerant. I saw him more clearly then.”
“Describe this man.”
Again, I did my best with that while rubbing my hair dry. No, I didn’t get a good enough look at his face to go through a police photo array. What could I say about him? He was tallish, bald, and white. I stopped talking for a moment, then asked, “If the arsonist was the source of your false reports, and he was destroying evidence, say, why would he wait half an hour before torching the place?”
Tom looked at the floor. “Maybe he was watching Ernest’s house. Waiting for you all to come back. I don’t like that one bit.”
“Neither do I. But at least Yolanda, Ferdinanda, and I, plus all the puppies, got out of the house before it went up in flames.” As I told Tom this, a rocklike tightness formed in my chest. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with the dogs. I have no idea why Ernest would have been growing pot. And what about that crazy bald guy? Tell me. Do you think he was trying to destroy evidence? Or was he trying to kill us?”
“Come here.” Tom stowed his notebook, stood up, and gently tugged me toward him. “I don’t know the answers to your questions. But clearly, Ernest pulled somebody’s chain. It’s already making Yolanda crazy, as you’ve seen. I need you to keep a steady head, all right?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Let’s go see how Boyd’s doing.”
When I walked into the living room, Boyd stood up, which I appreciated. Tom and I sat down. I did feel sorry for Yolanda and Ferdinanda, who looked as ragged and ash covered as I had fifteen minutes before.
“Tell him, Goldy,” Yolanda said. “Tell him you came down the stairs when you knew someone was trying to burn down the house. Didn’t you—”
“I’m sorry,” said Boyd, stirring uncomfortably in his wingback chair. “I have to ask you these questions.”
Tom held up an index finger, meant for me. Don’t get involved in this.
Boyd began again. “So where were you exactly when you heard glass breaking? Downstairs, you said? Where downstairs?”
&nbs
p; “I don’t know,” said Yolanda. “I don’t remember. I just heard Goldy screaming about a fire. Then she fell down the stairs, I think because she was in a hurry, or maybe the big explosion made her lose her balance—”
“Did you smell anything unusual?” Boyd asked.
“Like what?” demanded Ferdinanda, turning to Boyd. She tapped one of the metal arms of her wheelchair. “Burning pasteles?”
Yolanda gave her aunt another warning glare. “If you mean like gasoline, no, I didn’t.”
“And where were you when Goldy screamed at you?” asked Boyd.
“Dios mío,” said Ferdinanda, slapping her forehead. “I’m hongry.”
“Look,” pleaded Boyd, “I’m doing the best I can here.”
Ferdinanda shook a bent forefinger at Boyd. She leaned forward and waggled her head at him. Her steely, determined face made him draw back. “We answered your questions, the same ones you’ve been asking since we got inside. I’m tired and I’m going to eat this wheelchair if you don’t leave us alone. The place where we were staying burned down. That’s all.”
“Boyd,” interjected Tom. “Want to stay for dinner?”
“I would love to,” he said. “But I promised SallyAnn I’d go see Bertram.” Tom’s invitation, though, signaled that Boyd didn’t have to ask Yolanda and Ferdinanda any more questions.
“Goldy.” Boyd handed me a pad of paper he’d produced from an inner jacket pocket. “Humor me here. Could you write down everything you saw, and exactly what happened, and when, while you were at Ernest McLeod’s house?”
“Tom’s already asked me questions,” I said.
“Sorry,” said Boyd. “I need it for the record.”
“Okay, but I want to get Yolanda and Ferdinanda settled first. Just five minutes?”
“No,” Tom interrupted, and I flinched. Tom said, “Yolanda? Ferdinanda? Did you know Ernest was growing marijuana in his greenhouse?”
“What?” Yolanda sat up straight, a stunned look on her face. “Are you kidding me?”
“No,” said Tom. “I’m not.”
“I never went up to his greenhouse,” said Ferdinanda. “This wheelchair can’t climb steps.”
Crunch Time gbcm-16 Page 9
