by Penny Pike
Instead of pulling out her phone, Honey ran outside, followed by Red Cortland and Nathan Chapman. Meanwhile, Jake got out his cell phone and dialed 911, then called out to the group scanning the area, “Where should I tell them to go?”
“Oh dear Lord,” Red said. “The smoke’s coming from my farm!”
Red ran to his pickup truck and hopped in. Seconds later I heard the engine rev up; then the truck spun around and sped down the driveway and onto the road.
“Where’s his farm?” Jake asked, still waiting for information to tell the operator.
“Next door!” Honey called out.
“What’s the address?”
“Nineteen forty-seven Old Orchard Road.” She ran back into the house, grabbed some keys hanging behind the front desk, and headed for her own pickup truck parked at the side of the house. As Jake gave the information to the operator, Nathan ran to his truck to follow them.
“Darcy?” Aunt Abby said, coming up behind me. “What’s going on?”
Roman and Paula rose from their seats on the couch and joined us on the porch.
“Apparently there’s a fire next door. It’s Red Cortland’s farm,” I said. “Someone named Adam stopped by and told Honey to call nine-one-one.”
“I smell smoke.” Paula hugged herself against the chill as she walked to the driveway and glanced around. “How close is next door?”
I looked up at the moonlit sky and saw gray smoke drifting in from the east.
“Fire trucks are on their way,” Jake announced, slipping on his jacket and pulling out his keys. “I’m going over there. They might need help until the trucks arrive.”
“I’m coming too,” I said, following him.
“Me too,” Aunt Abby added, scurrying forward.
“Let’s take my car,” I said to Jake, so he wouldn’t have to drive his cream puff truck.
He nodded and the three of us dashed to my VW Bug.
“We’ll meet you over there,” Roman called to us. He and Paula headed over to his late-model gold Lexus. Nice car for a writer, I thought briefly. Most of my writer friends had either inexpensive compacts like my Bug or money-saving Priuses.
I didn’t have time to think about Roman Gold’s financial situation—not with the sound of sirens approaching. They grew alarmingly louder as we drove to the end of the driveway. Before we could make the turn onto Old Orchard Road, two fire trucks whizzed by on their way to Red Cortland’s farm.
I only hoped they made it in time to save whatever was on fire.
• • •
Red’s farm “next door” was probably half a mile down the road. We arrived moments after the fire trucks and watched as firefighters quickly got the blaze under control. However, the burning barn looked to be a total loss. Under the streetlight, it looked to be nothing more than a black, skeletal two-story frame that no doubt went up like a match. The smoke was still thick and acrid, and set us all to coughing.
The three of us got out of my car. I grabbed a couple of bottles of water I’d brought along for the drive to Apple Valley and headed over to Honey, Red, Nathan, and the man Honey had called Adam. They stood on the periphery of the activity, watching the firefighters continue to hose down what was left of the smoking ruin. Lights from the fire trucks lit up the area, bringing the disaster into focus.
Red looked on helplessly, saying nothing, occasionally shaking his head. A few feet away stood Roman while Paula skirted the area taking pictures with a fancy camera she’d pulled from her bag. I eased up to Honey and noticed Red had his arm around her as if to comfort her. By her grim facial expression, she looked as if she was taking the fire harder than Red himself.
I raised the bottles and offered them to Honey and Red. Honey shook her head, but Red took a bottle, twisted opened the cap, and drank half, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Looks like they’ve got it under control,” I said, not knowing what else to say to a man who’d just lost his barn in a fire.
He nodded, but remained mute.
“Thank God none of the animals were harmed,” Honey said.
I wondered what animals she was referring to. Did Red have horses or cows or other livestock on his farm?
“The dogs are okay,” Red mumbled, motioning toward two golden retrievers tied up to a nearby tree with long lengths of rope, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. “They were sure scared when I got here,” Red added. “Barking at the barn and running around like wild animals.”
Concerned about the dogs, I looked around for a container, spotted a bucket a few feet away, brought it over to them, then poured in the water from the second bottle. The dogs lapped it up quickly.
“Who could have done such a thing?” Honey said when I returned to her side.
I frowned. “You think this was deliberate?”
“It had to be,” Honey insisted. “This is the third fire in less than a month. That’s no coincidence. Someone is trying to burn down our properties, I’m sure of it.”
“That is troubling.” Roman’s voice came from behind us. I turned to see him studying the burned wreckage. “Do the firefighters have any idea how it started?”
“Not yet,” Honey said, “but we’ll find out—as well as who did it—if it’s the last thing we do.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. For a reporter, I expected him to ask more questions, but he sauntered off toward Paula, who had stopped taking pictures and was now talking to the man—Adam—who’d alerted Honey about the fire. I guessed he was another apple farmer, although by the look of his Western apparel, he seemed more like a cattleman than an orchardist. At the moment he seemed enthralled by whatever Paula had to say, nodding and grinning, reminding me of a shy high school freshman talking to the head cheerleader. I wondered how he’d happened to be in Honey’s neighborhood and spotted the fire. Did he live nearby too?
My random thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a white SUV that pulled up close behind where we stood. It screeched to a halt and skidded a few inches on the gravelly driveway. Everyone turned to get a look at the new arrivals under the streetlight.
Two women got out of the car. The driver, a blonde I guessed to be around fifty, spotted Red and walked over to him. The woman’s younger companion, around twenty-something, stood back, scanning the site. In the light from the streetlamp and the fire trucks, I could see the two resembled each other. They both had round faces, pert noses, and full lips. But the younger one’s hair was brown and their figures were different. The older one might once have been slim, but she had filled out around the waist, probably from age. Meanwhile, the younger one was a head taller and still svelte. Mother and daughter? I guessed.
The older one grabbed Red’s arm when she reached him. “Oh my God, Red, what happened?”
Red shrugged while Honey eyed her. “Don’t know,” he said simply. “Barn caught on fire. All the equipment inside burnt up. Don’t know if I can salvage anything. Have to wait and see.”
Honey addressed the woman. “It’s all under control now, Crystal. The firefighters put out the fire. There’s nothing more to do. It’s over.”
Crystal. The name rang a bell. Then I remembered, this was Red’s ex-wife. I glanced back at the younger woman I guessed to be their daughter. She definitely resembled her mother more than her father, which was probably a good thing. While Red was adorable in his way, his round nose, bushy eyebrows, and small eyes would not have been attractive on his daughter.
“How did it happen?” Crystal asked, still gripping Red’s arm. “You’re always so careful.”
Red shrugged. “No idea. Have to wait till the chief does his investigation.”
Honey shook her head. “We don’t need an investigation to confirm this fire was deliberately set. Three fires in such a short time? Somebody’s trying to send a message.”
“You think so?” Crystal said. “If that’s true, someone could have been hurt, or even killed. I wouldn’t put it past those GMO people who ar
e trying to buy up everybody’s property. How are Pippin and Mac?”
I realized she was referring to the dogs, named after apple varieties, but before Red or Honey answered, the younger woman joined the small group. “Sorry about this, Dad,” she said to Red.
Red acknowledged her comment with a nod, then added, “It’ll be all right, Tiffy. I’ll rebuild. Don’t you worry about it.”
“Your dad’s right, Tiffany,” Crystal said. “He bounces back quickly, always has.” She turned to her ex-husband. “Isn’t that right, Red?”
I caught Honey rolling her eyes. What was going on between the two older women and Red? They could claim they were all on good terms, but at the moment, something festered underneath.
“By the way, Red, you missed Tiffany’s maze run-through tonight,” Crystal said. “I just picked her up from the festival site. Did you forget?”
Red glanced at his daughter. “Sorry, Tiffy. I got caught up. . . .” He shot a look at Honey, who looked away as soon as their eyes met. “Hope it went well.”
“It was fine.” Tiffany sighed. “Mom, I’m tired. I’m going back to the car. You coming?”
“I’ll be right there,” Crystal said. As soon as her daughter was out of earshot, Crystal turned to her ex-husband. “You know, Red, just because we’re divorced doesn’t mean you don’t still have a daughter. You could come by the winery and see her once in a while, or show up at her events, or take her out for lunch sometime. She misses you, especially since you left so abruptly.” Crystal shot a look at Honey.
Red didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the threads of smoke still wafting up from the water-soaked wood.
“This isn’t the time, Crystal,” Honey said sharply. “His barn just burned down, for God’s sake. Leave him alone.”
I thought there was going to be a catfight, but instead Crystal pasted a fake smile on her face, gave Red’s arm another squeeze, and headed back to her SUV. She peeled off, her spinning wheels spitting gravel.
Red walked over to talk to one of the firefighters. Honey turned to us and said, “We should probably be getting on back to the inn. The fire’s out. Not much more we can do here, and we’ve all got a big weekend ahead.”
Roman, who’d appeared out of nowhere, added, “I agree. I’ll go find Paula.”
I noticed Paula was still deep in conversation with Adam, the man who’d alerted Honey to the fire. In spite of their differences in age and personality—she was obviously outgoing, while he seemed out of his league—the pair seemed to have hit it off quickly, judging by the way they stood so close to each other as they talked. At one point she put her hand on his arm and his grin widened. I wondered what Roman thought about that.
“Paula!” I heard him call to her.
Paula stopped her conversation and looked around, then spotted Roman and waved. “Be right there!” She pulled out what looked like a business card and handed it to Adam. He took it, smiled, tucked it into his pocket and patted it, then said something I couldn’t make out. I didn’t need to be an expert at body language to know she was flirting her ass off, though, and he was eating it up. Had she sensed a photojournalistic opportunity in talking with Adam, or was she actually attracted to the cowboy old enough to be her father?
None of my business.
Moments later she reached out and shook Adam’s hand, holding it a second longer than necessary, and then laughed at something he said before joining Roman at his car.
I caught up with Jake and Aunt Abby, who’d been watching from the sidelines, and we headed for my car. After we climbed in, Jake behind the wheel, we followed Honey’s truck back to the bed-and-breakfast.
“I’m going to turn in as soon as I straighten up a few things,” Honey said once we were inside the house. The spark had gone out of her voice. “Let me know if there’s anything you need. Otherwise, I’ll see you at breakfast in the morning.”
After locking the front door behind us, Honey headed for the kitchen while Roman and Paula climbed the stairs, followed by Aunt Abby.
“Aren’t you coming?” my aunt said, pausing halfway up.
“We’ll be up in a few minutes,” I answered, noticing Jake had wandered back into the parlor. I spotted him sitting on the couch by the now-dying fire, finishing his glass of wine. “See you in the morning,” I called back to my aunt.
I followed him in and joined him on the couch. He poured me the last of the apple wine and handed me my glass.
“Not sleepy?” I asked him, enjoying this quiet moment by the fire. After he clinked his glass against mine and took a sip, he reached over and withdrew a long, flat box from a nearby shelf.
“You’re kidding,” I said as he set a box game on the coffee table. “You want to play Scrabble? Now?”
“Afraid I’ll beat you?” he asked, opening it.
“I’m a wordsmith, remember?” I said. “You haven’t got a prayer.”
“Ah, but I’m a former attorney, and I know a lot of legal mumbo jumbo, like thereto and caveat and corpus.”
I laughed. “So? I use words that sound real but aren’t. Like preventative and conversate and irregardless.”
“Bring it on, babe.” Jake handed me a tile holder and set one in front of himself. “I’m onto your chicanery.”
“You’ll get no pretense from me, you . . . you . . .”
“What? Already at a loss for words?” Jake teased.
“Never!”
We selected our tiles. Mine sucked. Two A’s, two O’s, an R, an S, and an N.
Then we picked to see who went first.
Jake picked B. Lucky.
I took a deep breath, then turned over an A.
“Yes!” I said, pumping my fist. “You’re going down!”
I spent the next few minutes trying to come up with a brilliant word to collect my double-word points. SON. RAN. ROO. NOR. Seriously? I needed at least a four-letter word to preserve my boasts, but all I could come up with were SOON, SOAR, and ROAN.
Too bad I didn’t have a C or a P; then I could have spelled CRAP.
“Problem?” Jake said, looking smug as he sipped his wine.
“Just thinking,” I said, stalling.
And then I saw it. I laid down my killer word.
“Boom!” I said.
Jake looked down at the double-five-point word.
ARSON.
Chapter 6
After a rousing game of Scrabble, Jake and I went to bed and enjoyed each other’s company long after the competition ended. I fell asleep in his strong, protective arms, dreaming about him as a big bad biker and me as his leather-clad biker chick.
Unfortunately just as I was about to be swept off my feet and onto his Hog, my insomnia kicked in. Lying there in the dark, I became aware of muffled voices. I looked over at Jake, thinking he might be talking in his sleep, but he was snoring softly, out cold. I wished I could sleep so soundly.
I sat up, straining to hear the voices, and glanced at the time. It was after one a.m. The voices seemed to be coming from outside the window rather than outside my door. I slipped out of bed, pulled on my robe, moved to the window, then peered out. Looking down, I could just make out three—or was it four—dark figures standing in the shadows below. From their size and stance, it looked like at least two men and one woman and one I couldn’t make out, but they were so obscured by the darkness that I couldn’t see their faces. I had a hunch the woman was Honey Smith, since it was her house. While I couldn’t be absolutely certain, who else could it be?
From my vantage point, the conversation looked heated, with gesturing, finger pointing, and arm waving. I opened the window and pressed my ear to the screen. I could hear the woman who I guessed was Honey and caught a few words between Jake’s snores.
“. . . right under our noses . . . ,” I thought she said.
One of the men mumbled something, then pointed at Honey.
“. . . ruin our festival . . .” and then “. . . run out of town . . .”
Another man—he was
wearing a baseball cap—shook his head. Was that Red, Honey’s farmer boyfriend? Then again, it could have been anyone under that hat. Maybe Nathan Chapman, the festival organizer? Adam Bramley, head of the Apple Association?
Or someone else?
I pressed my nose against the screen, trying to make out more details to identify the small group, but I was at the wrong angle and the dark was too penetrating. Curious, and knowing I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep anyway, I tiptoed across the room so as not to wake Jake, then opened the door. It creaked loudly.
I froze.
I looked back. He was still sound asleep. If that didn’t wake him, I figured nothing would.
I stepped out and closed the door behind me. The hall was dark except for two small night-lights that barely lit the floor. I continued tiptoeing toward the stairs, praying I didn’t step on a creaky board and alert the whole house. Each time I took a few steps, I stopped and listened for any kind of sound, but aside from the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs, all was quiet.
Slowly I made my way downstairs and tiptoed to the front door, which stood ajar. Sidling up behind the door, I peered out through the crack in the doorjamb, hoping to catch a glimpse of the people talking.
The door suddenly swung back and hit me in the head.
“Ow!” I cried, and reached for my forehead.
“Oh my goodness!” Honey said. “I didn’t see you there! What are you doing?”
Uh-oh. Caught red-handed. I had to think fast, but with the oncoming headache, I wasn’t at my best for lying.
“Uh,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “I was. . . . just coming down to get a drink of . . . to see if you had any aspirin—I forgot to bring some and I’ve got this darn headache. Then I saw the front door was open . . . so I was going to close it. . . .”
Oh, what a tangled web we weave. At least the headache part was now true.
“I’m so sorry the door hit you!” Honey said. “I was just . . . uh, locking up and I thought I heard something outside. You know, these fires have got me a little jumpy. But it was nothing.”
