Blown Away
Page 30
She mentally divided the room into three-foot squares. She tucked her gloved hands behind her back and examined them in order. She worked her way across the floor, reached the door to the parking lot.
She stopped, cocking her head in confusion.
“What?” Branch asked.
“There’s a pair of burnt matches on the floor.”
“Que?” Branch said, raising an eyebrow.
She squatted to study them, wincing at the ripple in her calf. Wood. One-eighth-inch square, two inches long. Large kitchen matches—Ohio Blue Tips or a generic clone. Available anywhere.
She closed her eyes and visualized scraping one against its sandpapery lighting strip. The bulb head flared yellow. The flame crawled down the stick. The flame died when it ran out of wood.
She opened her eyes, compared reality to the visualization.
The heads were indeed charcoaled. But the burn ended right under the bulbs—the sticks were untouched. Suggesting the matches were lit and immediately blown out.
She relayed the information.
Branch pointed to the mood candles.
“I’ve been at this spa enough,” she said, “to know they light their candles with butane torches. Like you’d use on a Weber grill.”
“That’s not it, then. Do they allow smoking?”
She pointed to the large warning sign over the cappuccino maker. “No. They’re pretty militant about it. They even called the police when a guy waiting for his wife wouldn’t put out his cigarette. And he was out on the sidewalk.”
“Ah, the cigarette Nazis,” Branch said, shifting his grip on the cane. “Interesting where you found those matches, eh?”
“In a corner behind the door,” she agreed. “Where nobody stands. I think it’s a clue.”
“Almost certainly.”
“But what on earth does it mean?”
“Hey, you’re the detective,” Branch said. “Find out.”
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Copyright © 2006 by Shane Gericke
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