Deep Haven [03] The Perfect Match

by Susan May Warren

  Strange behavior for a man who should be grateful that suspicion pointed to Mitch. She pushed the thought to the back of her brain as she eyed the door, wondering if her noodle legs would get her across the room in the event Mitch morphed back into his hairy former self.

  “Truth is, I was trying to cause you problems. I heard the talk about arson, and I thought if I could whip up the idea that you were trouble for this town, then the city council would give you the boot.”

  “And you’d slide into my job.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve never worked for a woman before. I didn’t think you had it in you. But then I saw you run into the fire after Bruce, and something else Dan said kinda hit me.” His eyes were dark as night and piercing as they held hers. “‘The greatest love is shown when people lay down their lives for their friends.’ Dan said it’s a Bible verse. And when I remembered how you ran in after Bruce at the fire I realized you had something I didn’t.”

  She swallowed.

  “Love for your fellowman.”

  His words pinged in her hollow heart. She felt light-headed and wondered if she actually swayed. No, she didn’t have love for her fellowmen. She had love for herself, love for Seth. But true love didn’t fuel her motives.

  Fear did. Fear that she’d never fill the gap Seth left. Fear that she wasn’t worthy of his death. “Thank you,” she mouthed and heard the words emerge strained.

  The same verse had been spoken at Seth’s graveside, and even then it had the power to shake her to her core. Seth had given his life for her.

  She didn’t deserve it. She knew she’d only gone to Colorado to strut her courage, to prove her heroism to him and to her father. And she’d ended up fighting for her life under a fire shelter, her brother’s body given to save hers.

  “So, I just wanted to . . . smooth things out between us.” Mitch gave a wry smile.

  Ellie tried to focus on him and not the indictment searing her soul. “Thanks, Mitch. I appreciate that. We’re . . . uh . . . smooth.” She nodded crisply, edging toward the door. “Why don’t you come into the office tomorrow? We’ll . . . talk. Okay?”

  He frowned, then nodded. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” She grabbed the door handle and scurried down the steps, closing the door behind her. The fire engine had left, Guthrie along with it. She walked across the parking lot toward her Jeep, still dodging the sting of Mitch’s words.

  She heard the shuffle of feet against pavement a second before a gloved hand went around her mouth, mashing her lips into her teeth. What—! Her pulse rocketed as instinct kicked in. She clawed at the hand at her mouth, thrashed her legs, hoping for purchase.

  Her assailant crushed her to his chest with his other arm. “Don’t move.”

  Her pulse filled her ears, drowning out her scream, distorting the voice. He had her neck in a death clamp that should have buckled her knees, but he dragged her to the pickup. The tailgate hung open. “Climb in.”

  Shaking, she tried to turn, aiming to gouge out her captor’s eyes, but he muscled her onto the covered truck bed without mercy. She kicked at the tailgate as it went up, then was locked from the outside. All light snuffed out.

  “Help! Dan!” She banged on the cover, pain shooting down her arm. While she pounded, the ridges of the pickup bed dug into her shoulder blades. The engine started. Please, no! She gave the roof one last kick as the pickup roared, jerked. Her face slammed into the metal, and she felt heat gather in her nose. Tears welled as warm blood dribbled into her mouth.

  Darkness pressed against her, filling her pores. The old air, redolent with dust and the cloying odor of cleaning supplies, made her gag. Her brain began to spin. She scrambled toward the tailgate, toward the pinpricks of shadow and pressed her mouth against the opening while the truck roared out of the parking lot and into her nightmares.

  “Am I under arrest?” Dan sat in Sam’s office, arms clamped over his chest. The hard planes of fluorescence flooding the chief’s office and raining down over the wooden straight-back chairs and the wide, oak desk did nothing to soften Dan’s anger. He felt stripped and beaten, and if Sam’s pursed lips were any indication, the fun was just starting.

  Sam sat back in his desk chair, a faux leather piece that had seen better years, and shrugged. “Ellie can hold you for twenty-four hours. The law gives her that right as an officer of the fire department. Let’s wait until she gets here.” Fatigue weighted his face. Dressed in his smudged suit coat and rumpled dress shirt, the chief looked like he wanted to line up behind Dan and wring Chief Karlson’s pretty neck. “What does she have on you?”

  Dan held up his hands, a gesture of defeat. “I have no idea. I guess she found the Sterno canisters the hospitality committee left in the office and linked them to the source of the Simmons fire.”

  “Did you really say you were responsible?” Sam leaned forward, knitted his hands together. Concern furrowed his brow.

  Dan scrubbed his face with his hands. “I really don’t remember. My shoulder was dislocated, drugs fogged my brain. I could barely figure out my own name. Who knows what I said?”

  He didn’t add that the only thing he did remember, quite and painfully clearly, was announcing to Ellie that she was some sort of dream girl. Yes, definitely pain had warped his mind.

  Unfortunately, she was exactly that. Without a doubt, Ellie Karlson was the dream woman who had finally set a match to his heart and started it aglow. Since she’d entered his life, like lightning in the atmosphere, she’d charged it, ignited emotions he’d only begun to explore.

  Losing her felt like ripping out his lungs.

  “Well, she seems to think you’re guilty. Or at least that you know something about it.”

  “What do you think?” Dan tried not to let it matter, but he’d spent his life trying to make an impact on this town. This wasn’t quite how he wanted to do it. He studied Sam’s face.

  The guy smiled, and relief rushed through Dan, tingling every nerve. “We’ll clear you, Pastor.”

  “Thanks, Sam. At least you’re on my side.”

  “Oh, I think after the initial shock wears off, you’ll find a mob down here, demanding your release. They’ll probably tar and feather Ellie and run her out of town on a rail.”

  That image hurt Dan right in the center of his chest. “That’s a little overboard, don’t you think?”

  “Well, you’ve touched a lot of lives here.” Sam shook his head. “She can’t expect to accuse you without a fight.”

  He didn’t know whether to cry for joy or sorrow. “I’ve touched lives?”

  Sam looked at him as if he’d just spoken Japanese. “Yes. Of course. In fact, Leo Simmons was in here two days before he died—checking in for his parole—and he said you’d talked him back onto the wagon.”

  “He did?” Dan’s throat thickened. “I didn’t know that.”

  Sam nodded. “Said Guthrie got him a job at Smoky Joe’s. Night shift. He seemed in high spirits.”

  “He didn’t commit suicide.”

  Sam frowned. “No. I don’t think so. He didn’t have any alcohol in his blood either, according to the ME report.”

  Dan hung his head in his hands. Leo had a job. A future. A family. “I don’t get it. Who would want to kill Leo?”

  Sam shook his head. “Who would want to set fire to the Garden?” He turned to his computer, began to type.

  Dan thought back to the Garden fire. He’d been outside, walking the strawberry gardens with Joe, discussing funding for the next year. The wailing siren sent them back to the lodge in a panic. From there, he only remembered the chaos, Ruby screaming, a number of the patrons trying to gather the residents into a huddle.

  Sam looked over at him. “According to the incident report Ellie filed, you and Joe and Guthrie were the first on the scene.”

  “Guthrie was part of the catering committee.” Dan said it quietly, a cold realization running through his veins. “He works for Smoky Joe’s.”

  “Yes,” Sam agreed
slowly as if evaluating Dan’s state of mind.

  “Listen,” Dan said, hating that his next words would betray a confidence, “a couple months ago, someone at Smoky Joe’s caught Bonnie in a romantic clench with one of her employees. She never told me who the man was, but she denied it, said it was one-sided and that nothing happened. Unfortunately, her marriage had been on a downward slide for months so Matt didn’t buy her denials. She and Matt didn’t show up for their last counseling appointment.” Dan cupped his hands over his mouth, thinking. “What if Guthrie had an affair with Bonnie?”

  Sam frowned. “Oh, c’mon. I highly doubt that. Guthrie wasn’t—”

  “Wait. What if it wasn’t an affair? What if Leo caught Guthrie, um . . . getting too friendly with Bonnie? Guthrie loves his job. Next to firefighting, he spends all his time at Smoky Joe’s, cooking barbeque and tending the bar. Maybe he thought he’d lose his job? Maybe he set the fire to frighten his brother-in-law into silence?”

  Sam seemed to sift through his words, looking for evidence. “Guthrie is a churchgoing man. You know that.”

  Sam’s words caught him in the chest. Dan shook his head. “You’re right. I shouldn’t do to Guthrie what Ellie’s doing to me.”

  “But . . .” Sam turned, typed into his computer, and sat back, arms crossed. “Yep. I thought so. Guthrie had a string of arson charges in his teenage years. Burned his father’s pickup, torched a field behind their house, and I caught him and two other boys burning a shack just up Highway 61.”

  “Was he ever punished?”

  “No. We wrote it off as childhood pranks.”

  “But you kept a record of it.”

  “Incident reports. I keep all my files.”

  “Could he be up to his old tricks?” Dan asked, not wanting desperation to push him back toward accusation.

  Sam turned back to the computer, running the mouse, clicking. His face tightened. “I forgot about this.”

  Dan’s heart fell about thirty feet and landed hard. “What?”

  “Guthrie had an assault charge when he was seventeen. Did some community service.”

  Dan wanted to dive over the table and strangle the chief. “Assault?”

  “Yes. I remember now. He stalked a girl in his school. Said she’d agreed to go to prom with him, then stood him up. She claims he made it up. Anyway, he assaulted her right outside her house, nearly in full view of the neighborhood. Her father stopped him before she was seriously hurt. Let’s see here.” He moved his mouse, clicking open new files. “Emilee Kingsly. I think I have a picture.”

  “Emilee, Bonnie’s sister? The one who died in an auto accident a few years ago?”

  “Yeah. Real shame. Poor Mitch. I don’t think he ever got over losing her. As I recall, they were a pretty hot item while she was in college.” Sam reached over and pulled out a photo from his file. “Senior picture. A real cutie, huh?”

  Dan stared at her photo, a sick feeling of familiarity rushing over him. Braids, freckles, a smile that could light up a room. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Sorta reminds me of Ellie.”

  “If I remember correctly, we had to take a restraining order out against Guthrie. Finally ended up admitting him to a psych ward in Duluth. I think he was even hospitalized down in Minneapolis for a time. Some sort of chemical imbalance.”

  Dan sat very, very still. “A chemical imbalance that is brought on by stress? loneliness? fear? Maybe exacerbated by grief?” His hands clenched into fists as he fought panic. “Would you say that Guthrie might direct his frustrations toward women who reject him?”

  Sam frowned.

  “As in a fire chief who he’s had a crush on, who he sees kissing, say, the town pastor?”

  Sam’s expression became pained. “Or one that reminds him of the girl he could never have?”

  Dan closed his eyes, seeing Guthrie’s face when he’d barged into Ellie’s office.

  “We’ll warn her as soon as she gets here,” Sam said quietly.

  “Which will be—?” Dan said, his heart already out of the chair, out of the building, and down the road to the fire station. “Page her.”

  “It’s too late.”

  Dan turned, stared. Horror had him by the throat.

  Mitch braced his timber arms on the doorframe, as if holding himself up. He was breathing hard. “Someone took her.”

  Dan jumped to his feet. “Why didn’t you go after her?”

  Mitch’s look could have blistered skin from ten feet away. “He took my truck.”

  22

  Ellie awoke. At least she thought she’d awoken—it was difficult to discern consciousness when pitch darkness pressed her eyeballs, teasing her with bulky forms, shadows, then nothing. A cold so thick it filled her nose with icicles made her gasp, pulling at the tape over her mouth. She fought back nausea at a sweet, slightly cloying smell she couldn’t place.

  She must be on a cement floor. Pain speared through her hips, her shoulders and, combined with the chilly air, saturated every muscle in her body. When she tried to move her hands, she discovered bonds slashing through the skin of her wrists. Her legs were bound too, although the binds affixed over her pants proved less biting. She concentrated hard, moving her extremities, horrified to realize little feeling remained.

  Where was she? As the first rush of panic settled into a bone-deep terror, she tried to quiet her pounding heart and listen. A low hum, perhaps a generator or a refrigerator, rumbled in the background. Her own breath sounded labored, thick. And the cold—so cold it invaded every pore like the spikes of a sixteenth-century iron maiden—pulled at her concentration, willing her to surrender to the moan roiling in the center of her body.

  Mitch had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure she didn’t escape.

  Why hadn’t she seen through Mitch’s veneer, his “aw shucks” apology? Because she’d wanted to believe that he had done an about-face, that his chagrin and regret intoned authenticity. She wanted to be the one left standing when the smoke cleared.

  Instead, he’d showed her again that she was not only easily duped but hadn’t earned a morsel of respect. Tears wet her eyes, and she blinked them back. No, she would not cry.

  She could get herself out of this. She just had to stay alert. Not panic.

  Opening her mouth, she worked her tongue out between her teeth and lips, then licked the glue. Her tongue seized, recoiling against the taste, but she forced it out, moistening the tape until it eased from her lips. Her neck ached as she worked. Then while she rested, she twisted her hands, forcing her wrists apart until she whimpered.

  Feeling light-headed, she leaned her head back, hoping that she wasn’t lying on fleas or roaches. She felt them crawl up her body even as she told herself nothing multi-legged could live in this temperature. She shook away the creeps and fought another wave of tears.

  Well, this confirmed one thing. Dan was innocent.

  She closed her eyes, listening to his pleas echo through her thick head. How could she have accused him?

  Because she was desperate, just like he’d said. Desperate to leave behind a legacy in Deep Haven. In life. Desperate to be worth the price her brother had paid for her life.

  She lay on her side, her tears running like melting ice over her nose, into her ear, wetting her dirty hair. But she wasn’t worth it. She’d leave no marks in the surface of the world when she left. She’d die in this damp, freezing . . . wherever she was, and not a soul would even blink when she didn’t clock in at the firehouse in the morning. Or worse, they’d think she’d slunk out of town, showing herself to be the skunk she was for accusing the town good guy of being a criminal. Mitch would win. He’d slide into the position as fire chief—good riddance, Ellie—and life would resume without a hiccup in this town.

  Until, of course, the day they found her rotted, skeletal remains. And even then they’d remember her as the scoundrel who’d tried to send the town pastor to the clink. The town outcast.

  He had leprosy. The words flashed through her memor
y. She held her breath, searching her mental files. She could hear the voice and knew it wasn’t one that she knew well. Someone had spoken those words recently, and even then they’d been embedded in her mind.

  The missionary who had spoken in church a month prior. Of course. Even then his story had rocked her, left an impression on the soft tissue of her soul. “Let me tell you a story,” he had said. He stood barely taller than the podium, work-worn hands gripping its sides. The morning breeze had mocked his attempts to disguise his slightly balding head and instead tossed his hair without compassion. But his bright eyes reached out, even from the distance of ten rows back, and caught Ellie around the heart. She’d sat next to Liza, who’d reached over once and touched her hand. She dredged up his words again, realizing now why they’d resonated.

  “There once was a king named Uzziah. He was sixteen when he became king and Second Chronicles tells us he did right in the eyes of the Lord.” He’d held the spine of his Bible in one hand; it flopped over his open palm. “Don’t miss, folks, the way the Bible, when talking about the kings, always gives us a description of their relationship with God before it gives us a rundown of their successes or failures.”

  He went on, that thought hovering over the one-hundred-plus congregation. “Uzziah sought God . . . and as long as he sought God, God gave him success. Chapter 26 lists his feats. He defeated armies that came against him, increased the wealth of Judah, built towers, and increased his army. Then . . . he got proud.

  “He stopped praying. Stopped seeking the Lord. The Bible says he became ‘unfaithful.’ His pride in his own accomplishments took ahold of him. Thinking he’d earned God’s respect, God’s attention, he marched right into the holy place to offer sacrifices, with about eighty horrified priests on his tail.”

  Ellie had grabbed her pew Bible and paged to the chapter, running her finger along the verse when he read, “And they said to him, ‘Leave the sanctuary, for you have been unfaithful; and you will not be honored by the Lord God.’