Slow Burn
E. B. Walters
Copyright © E. B. Walters 2011
Published by Firetrail Publishing at Smashwords
Firetrail Publishing
Logan, UT
eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it
is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. The names characters, places, and incidents are products
of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Any resemblance to any actual events or persons, living or dead,
actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Firetrail Publishing
P.O. Box 3444
Logan, UT 84324
Slow Burn
Copyright©2011 by E. B. Walters
ISBN: 10: 0983429707
ISBN: 13: 978-0983429708
Edited by Melissa Maytnz
Cover by Keary Johnson Landon
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner . Whatsoever without permission, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews
First Firetrail Publishing electronic publication: May 2011
www.firetrailpublishing.com
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my mother, Margaret Jane,
and father, Walter for guiding me and telling me I can.
May you rest in peace.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my editor, Melissa Maytnz.
Thank you for streamlining
and weeding out the unnecessary words.
I couldn’t have done this without you.
To my critique partners, Dawn Brown, Teresa Bellow,
Katherine Warwick/Jennifer Laurens.
Thank you for being there when I needed you
and sticking with it through the changes and modifications.
To my beta-reader Chicki Brown, thanks
for reading and reading this over and over again.
You’re amazing. To my husband, Mike, and my children,
thank you for their continued support.
Love you, guys.
CHAPTER 1
Ashley woke up gasping for breath, acrid air clogging her lungs. She jerked up as her eyes darted around the room. There was no smoke and no fire, just the familiar high ceiling of her loft. The light streaming from the downstairs windows reflected on the full-length mirror of her dresser, causing her to squint. She flopped back on the bed and took deep, calming breaths.
The nightmares were becoming more and more vivid. She was safe, not trapped in a burning house with her parents. And the shrill sound was the telephone, not a fire truck. She leaned sideways and picked up the phone from the cherrywood nightstand.
“Yes.” Her voice came out muzzy and faint.
“Ashley Fitzgerald?” an unfamiliar, deep male voice said.
“This is she.”
“Ronald Douglass. I left a message in your voicemail last night.”
Ashley frowned at the slight censure in his tone. “I haven’t gotten around to checking my messages yet. What can I do for you, Mr. Douglass?”
“May I stop by your studio for a brief talk?”
The grandfather clock downstairs chimed. It was seven-thirty—too early for someone who’d gone to bed at two in the morning. Worse, the male model for her next erotic series was due in less than an hour. Ashley groaned. She’d need a pot of coffee to function.
“I’m sorry, that’s not possible,” she said. “I’m busy this morning.”
“I have a slight problem, Ms. Fitzgerald. I want to surprise my grandmother with a portrait on her birthday and I’m told you’re the person to go to if I want a first-rate work. I promise you, I won’t take much of your time. In fact, I’m only a few blocks away from your studio.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Douglass. I’m not accepting any more commissioned works, not for a while. But I can recommend a very good friend and colleague.”
“I don’t want anyone else, Ms. Fitzgerald.”
His words were very flattering, but his timing sucked. With the grand opening of the new children’s museum next month, the wall murals must be completed before then. Then there was her erotic series show. She didn’t have time to take extra work.
“I’m sorry I can’t be of any help to you, Mr. Douglass. I’m really swamped.”
“Listen, I know I’m being particular about this,” he said after a brief pause. “You see, my grandmother doesn’t have long to live, but she loves your work and owns several of your original pieces. Having you do her portrait would mean so much to her.”
A lump formed in her throat and her insides softened. She’d lost her grandmother when she was in her teens, just before her parents died. Like the caller, she’d adored her grandmother.
Ashley sighed. “Okay, Mr. Douglass. But we can’t meet now.”
“Later today perhaps?”
If she photographed the model in the morning, her afternoon would be spent sketching. Her evening was taken, too. It was the girls’ night-out with her cousins. She dared not cancel or they’d have her hide. Besides, she preferred to meet potential clients in their homes.
“I’m completely booked today. Monday evening would be much better.”
“I’ll be out of town the whole of next week.” He sounded frustrated. “What about tomorrow?”
No way. Sunday was her day off. “I’m sorry I can’t. Listen, why don’t you call me when you get back from your trip and we can pick a more suitable time?”
This time the silence on the line was longer, uncomfortable.
“Fine. Have a nice day, Ms. Fitzgerald.” The line went dead.
Not a happy camper, was he? Ashley shrugged, scooted to the edge of the four poster king size bed and stepped down. Her feet sunk in the egg shell shaggy rug covering the wooden floor. Without bothering with slippers, she hustled down the winding metal staircase to the kitchen and started the coffeemaker, then headed straight back upstairs to shower.
The hot water didn’t ease the tension coursing through her, the effect of the nightmare. Would they ever stop? At this rate, she’d go crazy. She pulled on a floral working kimono, slipped on loafers and hurried down the stairs. After pouring herself a cup of coffee and added hazelnut creamer, she scribbled a few notes on a Post-it and pressed it on the fridge door.
Sipping the coffee, she walked to the H-shaped, floor easel and smiled at the piece she’d finished the night before. What a beautiful kid. So unfair he had died so young, like her parents.
Here I go again, thinking about Mom and Dad. At this rate, she wouldn’t accomplish much today. The problem was, the nightmares tended to remind her of her loss. She frowned at the door as though she could make the model appear through sheer will. Where was he? Dee’s models were usually very professional and rarely tardy. Maybe she should have asked to see the portfolio of this new guy, talked to him first. No, that would have been pointless. Dee had never failed her in the four years they’d worked together.
A sigh escaped her. She needed to relax before the man arrived or their session would be a waste of time. There was only one way to deal with the angry energy twirling inside her.
Ashley drained her coffee and placed the cup on top of the chest of drawers that held her paints. Then she propped the finished oil painting on a shelf to dry, replaced it with a blank canvas and put a bucket of water on a stool by the easel. She squirted dime-size globs of paint on a palette, picked up a brush and started working. No pencil sketches to begin with, just bold sweeps across the canvas.
Her hand trembled, but she didn’t stop working. Couldn’t stop was
more like it. Time stood still as her past and present collided, as the demons threatening her very sanity coalesced on the painting before her. She dropped the brush and the palette in the bucket of water and shuddered. How many times had she painted this house? The exercise didn’t stop the nightmares.
She dragged her gaze away from the painting to the myriad of cloth-covered canvases on wooden shelves around along the walls. People commissioned and paid thousands of dollars for her one-of-a-kind paintings, yet she was locked in a loop—fifteen years old at night and twenty-five during the day, all because she couldn’t let go of the past.
There was only one solution. She wanted the house razed to the ground. Ripped through to its foundation until not a single block, beam or panel was left standing. Call her childish or vengeful, but completely obliterating that place from the surface of the earth would fill her with a great deal of satisfaction, and give her the closure she sought.
Ashley turned and snatched up the telephone from the kitchen counter. Her glance touched the surface of the clock. It was nine o’clock and Toni should be in her office. She speed-dialed the realtor’s number.
“Morning, Toni. Did you meet with Nina Noble’s agent yet?”
“Ah, yes. He walked me through the house and the compound. It’s in great condition and has lots of old trees, but I think you could do better.”
“No, I want this one.” She leaned against the counter and glowered at the painting on the easel. “Accept whatever they’re asking for it and bring me the papers to sign.”
“Are you kidding? That’s not the way to get the best deal, Ash. I intend to check the market value first, then offer them ten percent less than—”
“Don’t.” She reached forward, flipped the painting so it faced the easel. “I’ll pay whatever they want.”
“O-okay. But her agent hinted that it’s important to Nina who the new owner is and what he or she plans to do with the house.”
Ashley grimaced. Only Nina, the grandstanding diva, would add such a stipulation to something she was selling. But there was no telling how the actress would react if she knew Ashley wanted to buy her house.
“I don’t think giving them my name is a good idea. But if her people want to know what I intend to do with it, tell them I mean to turn it into a commune for artists, a place where in-house artists can offer dance, voice and art lessons to kids.” It was the dream her parents had wanted before they died, and Carlyle House had been their chosen building. Now the dream was hers to fulfill except hell would freeze over before she used that house. “Call me when you have everything set, okay? I’ve got to run. Bye.”
Ashley pressed the off button and placed the phone back on its cradle. For a beat, she stared at her shaking hand, her breathing shallow. She fisted her hand and took a deep breath. She was weary of being haunted by her past, longed to be free. No, she deserved to be free, to live a life without doubts and phobias, some of which neither she nor her therapist could explain. With the house destroyed, she’d begin her healing process.
Now that’s settled, I need to focus on something else. Her glance went to the door, again. Where was her model? Dee had some explaining to do.
Ashley rinsed her brushes and palette, took one look at her kimono and groaned. In her haste to exorcise her demons, she’d forgotten to put on a smock to protect it. She hurried upstairs to change.
***
“You should have dropped in on her unannounced. I know I would have.”
“What would that accomplish?” Ron leaned back against the leather passenger seat and glanced over at his long time friend Kenny Lambert, ex-FBI-agent-turned-private-investigator.
“A lot. In my line of business,” Kenny continued, “being nice gets you zip. You want to get to the bottom of this, forget your corporate image and your scruples, and start playing dirty. You’re already on the right path…Ronald Douglass. For an alias, it has a nice ring to it,” he added with a smirk.
Ron grimaced. It wasn’t much of an alias. Douglass was his middle name. “I couldn’t tell her my real name, man. I’ve gotten nothing but ice from my father’s fire buddies. They don’t mind reminiscing about the past until I mention Carlyle House. Then they have places to go, things to do. I didn’t want her shutting me out, too. But you’re right. It’s time to stir things up a bit.” They entered NoHo Art District in downtown L.A. “Head to Lauderhill Boulevard. I want you to drop me off outside her building.”
He exchanged a grin with Kenny, but his inside wound like a spring. He hated to lie, but finding out what happened the night of the fire meant a lot more than a few principles. And the wall of silence from these firefighters only made him more determined to get to the truth. To top that, guilt weighed hard and heavy on him. He shouldn’t have allowed his uncle to dissuade him from investigating the fire when his father died. Granted he’d been twenty at the time and his mother had needed him, but he should have gone with his gut instinct and hired an investigator. He’d given up too fast, ran away from the rumors and the innuendo that his father started the fire. This time, he wouldn’t be dissuaded. Someone out there knew what went down that night. Though their motive for leaving him the clues remained questionable, he’d not live with himself if he didn’t try and find out the truth. Maybe he could even clear his father’s name.
They entered Magnolia Boulevard, passed a light and turned left on Lauderhill. Ron waited until Kenny pulled up and parked before he spoke.
“What’s the plan?” he asked, glancing at Kenny.
“A former colleague at the bureau owes me a few favors. I’m heading to Wilshire Boulevard and handing him these.” Kenny indicated the Ziploc bag from the tray between the seats. In it were the two envelopes someone had left Ron in the past two weeks.
The first time Ron saw the small envelope stuck under the windscreen wipers of his car, he’d thought it was a parking ticket. Needless to say, he’d tugged at it, opened and left his fingerprints all over the envelope and the letter. That was two weeks ago.
The second time was yesterday afternoon. He’d been in his office and his car parked in the underground garage of the building housing Neumann Security offices, the Los Angeles branch of his family’s company. His car was still in the same spot, waiting for Kenny. This time, he’d covered his hands before he took the envelope and opened the letter.
The letters had a list of three names and the question, “What really happened that night?” The weirdest thing was each letter was cut out of the newspaper and glued to the paper, very archaic. A simple text message would have sufficed. And the words ‘really’ and ‘happened’ were spelled with one L and P.
It had taken Ron days to identify the three men on the first list. All of them had worked at the fire station where his father used to volunteer as a firefighter. But was it a coincidence that they had quit right after the fire at Carlyle House? That question was driving him nuts. He had yet to talk to anyone on the second list. Ashley Fitzgerald’s name topped it.
As for the cryptic message, he’d reached the conclusion that whoever sent him the letters either wanted him to reopen the case or had come up with a wacky blackmail scheme. Both the Fire Marshal’s office and L.A.P.D.’s finest had refused to take the letters seriously. Not enough evidence to suspect foul play and reopen the Carlyle fire case. Neither did they consider the letters threatening. It didn’t matter. Nothing would stop him from going ahead with the investigation, including Ashley’s busy schedule.
“When do I get back my ride?” Ron asked Kenny. The P.I. had taken a detour to pick up Ron at his Hollywood Hills home.
“Sometime today…as soon as my friend dusts it for prints. You said you spoke with the building security?”
“Briefly. The recordings from their surveillance cameras didn’t show anyone loitering near my car. But feel free to have another look at them, I might have missed something.”
“Or someone. I’ll also have another chat with your father’s closemouthed fire buddies.”
&nbs
p; “Good. Thanks for the ride.” Ron stepped out. Calling Kenny had been a brilliant move. Hopefully, the P.I would help him ferret out the person sending these damned letters. “Let’s get together later.”
Kenny saluted him with a finger. “I’ll let you know when the car is ready and what my friend finds out. Are you still going to the convention in San Diego?”
As a volunteer wildfire firefighter, he rarely attended the firefighters’ conventions. This year was different. His father’s former chief’s name was on the second list.
“Yes. I heard Jonathan Blackwell is receiving a medal. I hope to catch up with him there.”
“Watch your back. Whoever is doing this must have something to gain. No one stirs up a ten year old case for shits and giggles.” Kenny squinted at Ashley’s building and added, “Let me know what the lady says.”
Ron couldn’t agree more with Kenny. No one did things from the goodness of their hearts, not from his experience. He stepped away from the car, waited until Kenny pulled away before he started for the entrance of the building.
The building, like many in the area, used the products and services of Neumann Security. His family manufactured and supplied state-of-the-art electronic surveillance equipment and custom-designed software to businesses, homes and even P.I. firms like Kenny’s. The branch Ron ran also managed highly trained security guards. The one on duty recognized him and stood before he reached the desk.
Ron headed for the elevators after speaking with the guard. He fought the tension knitting his gut as he watched the LCD panel flash numbers. What if she recognized him and refused him entrance? Ten years was a long time for someone to remember details of an accident, especially one that changed her life. He’d be screwed if she chose not to help him.
When he stood outside Ashley’s door, Ron took a deep breath before he pressed her doorbell. He waited a few seconds then angled his head to listen for movement from inside. There was not a whisper from inside, yet he knew she was home.
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