The Mystery of the Memorial Day Fire

by Campbell, Julie

  Trixie’s hope wasn’t to be realized. On Saturday morning when she came downstairs to breakfast, the school year was part of the past, but the fire seemed destined more than ever to be part of the town’s future.

  “Arson!” screamed the headline on the front page of the Sleepyside Sun. Brian and Mart were already huddled over the paper when Trixie joined them at the table.

  “Gleeps!” Trixie exclaimed when she saw the big, black type. “Do they really think the fire was set deliberately?”

  “The authorities are no longer speculating,” Mart said. “The cogency of the evidence is beyond contradiction.”

  “They know it’s arson?” Trixie guessed from Mart’s windy description.

  “That’s right,” Brian said. “The fire marshal says that the fire was deliberately set in the basement of Mr. Roberts’s store.”

  “The alligation permits the authorities to make that allegation,” Mart said.

  “What’s he talking about?” Trixie asked in near desperation, turning back to Brian.

  “Alligation is the word the fire experts use for deep crimp marks, like alligator skin. They show up on wood at the point of origin — the place where the fire’s been set. Any natural fire would have only one point of origin. But in the basement of Mr. Roberts’s store, the investigators found six points of origin. That, in itself, is almost a sure sign of arson,” Brian said.

  “How can they possibly know that?” Trixie asked. “How can they find the points of origin of a fire that’s burned a whole building to a crisp?”

  “That’s just the thing,” Brian said. “The building wasn’t burned to a crisp, although it should have been.”

  “The arsonist’s plan failed,” Mart added.

  “How could it have gone wrong?” Trixie asked. “If you start a fire in six different places, it seems to me that it’s going to burn. It did burn. We saw it!”

  “Correction,” Brian said. “We saw it explode. That’s what went wrong. Apparently the arsonist poured a lot of flammable liquid, like gasoline, in six different places. If he’d then started the fire immediately, there would have been such total destruction from the fire that it would have been impossible to determine anything. Instead, he must have taken his time, and while he was taking his time, the liquid was evaporating, and the vapors were rising to the ceiling. When the arsonist finally lit the fire, there wasn’t much liquid to burn — but there was a lot of vapor to explode. That’s how we wound up with the big ka-boom and the traces of arson left behind.”

  “That’s fascinating!” Trixie said. “I had no idea the fire investigators could prove so much.”

  “Unfortunately, these specialists have ample opportunity to practice their profession,” Mart said. “The statistics in this sidebar are staggering. One source quoted here states that arson may cost as much as one billion dollars a year.”

  “One billion? With a b?” Trixie asked. “As in a one followed by nine zeros?”

  “My sibling has a clearer concept of numerals than I had previously supposed,” Mart said.

  “One billion it is,” Brian told her. “I read that sidebar, too. Another source quoted says that almost forty percent of the fires that occur in this country are set deliberately.”

  “But why?” Trixie demanded. “Why would anyone want to destroy property and risk lives? Even if the buildings are insured, it’s stupid to burn them down.”

  “The perceived wisdom lies precisely in the protection afforded by insurance,” Mart said, “as you must surely realize if you ponder your prattle for a moment.”

  “Oh,” Trixie said, realizing that her statement had sounded very silly. “You mean that people would set their buildings on fire to claim the insurance on them.”

  “That’s one of the biggest reasons for arson,” Brian said. “Sometimes people over-insure a rundown building and burn it so that they get more money than they could by selling it. Sometimes people want to keep the building but remodel it. Setting a small fire in the room they want to remodel is a good way of raising the money, they think.”

  “Not all arsonists have monetary aspirations,” Mart added. “Vengeance is a motivator, as well.” Trixie shuddered. “Can you imagine hating someone so much that you’d burn down his house or his store to get even with him?”

  “I can’t imagine it,” Brian admitted. “But according to the article, people do it. Or they hire professionals to do it for them. There’s a third reason for arson, too. In spite of what Dad said the other night, some people really do love to set fires and watch them burn.”

  “Ugh!” Trixie said, shuddering again and wrinkling her nose in disgust. “That’s even worse than setting a fire for revenge! Don’t tell me any more. I think I’ve heard as much about arson as I want to know!”

  “The coverage was admirably complete,” Mart said, with a wink at his brother that Trixie didn’t see.

  “I thought so,” Brian said. “Don’t you agree, Trixie? You may not like all the information we just gave you, but you have to admit it’s pretty complete on such short notice.”

  “That is true, I suppose,” Trixie said absent-mindedly, her attention already on the comic strips.

  “Yes,” Brian continued casually, “I knew you’d agree that Jane Dix-Strauss did a first-rate job.” Trixie’s head jerked up so fast that her curls had to hurry to catch up. “Jane Dix-Strauss! Is that where you got all that stuff?” She grabbed the front page out of Mart’s hands and looked at the article on arson. Sure enough, the young reporter’s name was prominently displayed above the story. “Ugh!” With an expression of distaste, she shoved the paper back at her “almost twin” brother.

  “But, Trixie, you said you thought the coverage was excellent!” Brian said in mock-innocence.

  “You tricked me into saying the story was good,” Trixie retorted. “Before that, what I said on my own was that I didn’t want to hear another word about arson. I don’t understand why Jane Dix-Strauss keeps writing all those depressing news articles. Does she just enjoy spoiling people’s breakfasts?”

  The teasing smile faded from Brian’s face, and he told his sister seriously, “You don’t know that Jane Dix-Strauss enjoys writing about fires, Trix. She may hate them as much as you do — worse, even. But as a top-notch reporter, she has to give the facts.”

  “‘Top-notch’ doesn’t have to be rude,” Trixie retorted.

  Just then the phone started to ring, and Trixie, relieved at the interruption, jumped up to answer it.

  All thoughts of Jane Dix-Strauss were pushed out of her mind when she recognized the distraught voice of Nick Roberts.

  “They’ve arrested my father!” he told her.

  5 * A Trip to Jail

  “ARRESTED!” Trixie’s voice was barely a squeak. “Why? When?”

  “They just came and took him away a few minutes ago. They say they want to talk to him about the fire.” Nick’s voice was strained. He was just barely managing to keep himself under control.

  “Oh, Nick, that’s awful! They can’t do that! Your father didn’t do it! Is there something we can do?” Trixie knew she was rattling on confusedly, but she couldn’t express her tangled thoughts any more clearly.

  “I need the name of an attorney,” Nick said.

  “Of course, you do,” Trixie agreed. “Dad has already left for the bank, but I’ll call him and ask him whom he can recommend. Then I’ll call you right back.” She pushed down the button to disconnect Nick, released it, and started to dial the bank.

  “What’s going on?”

  Trixie was so lost in her concern for Nick Roberts and his father that the voice sounding close behind her made her jump and whirl around. Both of her brothers were standing there.

  “It was Nick,” Trixie told them. “The police have arrested his father. They think he set fire to his own store!”

  “An abhorrently asinine accusation!” Mart exclaimed angrily.

  Brian winced and shook his head. “I didn’t even want to say i
t out loud, but given the location of the fire and Mr. Roberts’s previous dealings with criminals, I really was afraid he might be a suspect.”

  “But Nick’s father is innocent!” Trixie said.

  “I agree with you. But obviously the police aren’t so sure. Why did Nick call here?” Brian asked.

  “Gleeps!” Trixie exclaimed, suddenly remembering the telephone receiver in her hand and the all-important call she still hadn’t made. “Nick needs a lawyer. I’m to call Dad and ask for the name of one,” she explained while she dialed.

  “I know just the right person,” Mr. Belden said when Trixie had breathlessly explained the problem. “Pat Murphy, a fine attorney who’s interested injustice and the law. I’ll call and see if Pat’s free. You wait by the phone.”

  Trixie hung up and relayed her father’s message to her brothers. All three of the Beldens stared at the phone through a silence that seemed to stretch on forever. When the ring finally did shatter the stillness, all three of them jumped.

  “Dad?” Trixie asked when she picked up the phone.

  “Pat Murphy is headed over to the jail now. Pat knows the background of the case, of course — everyone in Sleepyside does. The first concern is to find out whether Mr. Roberts has been, or is going to be, charged. Then Pat will see about arranging bail. Do you want to tell Nick?”

  “I certainly do,” Trixie said warmly. “Thanks, Dad. You’re perfectly perfect!”

  Trixie dialed Nick Roberts’s number. “There’s an attorney going over to talk to your father right now,” she told Nick when he answered on the second ring. “Pat Murphy—one of the best, Dad says.”

  “Thank you,” Nick said. He sounded dazed. “I guess I’ll — I think — Dad said to wait here with Mother, but I can’t. I’m going over to the jail, too. Mother will be much more relieved to know I’m doing what I can for Dad.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Trixie told him. “Why don’t you let us come pick you up in Brian’s car?” Realizing that she had just committed Brian’s car and both her brothers’ time, she turned to look at them. Her brothers both nodded emphatically before she could even ask the question. “See you in a minute,” she added, putting down the receiver before Nick could protest.

  It was, indeed, only a matter of minutes before the three Beldens were in the car, headed for Nick Roberts’s house. In those minutes there had been hurried explanations to their mother and a pulling on of jackets because of the threat of rain. Trixie wished that there had also been time for a call to the Manor House. In a situation like this, she wanted Honey and Jim nearby. Trixie wasn’t the one in need, though; Nick Roberts was, and his needs had to be put first. She decided she would try to call Honey and Jim from the police station.

  As soon as Brian pulled into Nick’s drive, Trixie jumped out of the car, walked quickly up to the front door, and rang the bell. Nick opened the door almost immediately. He looked haggard and pale.

  “I’ll just tell Mother I’m leaving,” he said softly. He disappeared into the back of the house and Trixie stood waiting. The house was so unnaturally quiet that she felt goosebumps rising on her arms. Although there were three human beings in this house, the life seemed to have gone out of it. When Nick returned, Trixie led the way quickly back outside.

  It didn’t take long to get to the police station. Nick found the receptionist and asked her, “Can I see my father? His name is Nicholas Roberts.”

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, not sounding sorry at all. “Your father is speaking with his attorney at the moment. You can go see him when Pat Murphy is finished.”

  Nick nodded his acceptance of this cold fact and led his friends to a row of uncomfortable-looking molded-plastic chairs that sat along one wall.

  There was a long period of silence. Then Brian asked, “How did this happen, Nick? Do you know why your father is a suspect?”

  Nick seemed to come slowly back from some great distance away. “The first idea we had that my father might be a suspect came last night,” he said. “That’s when we got a phone call from Mr. Slettom. He was our landlord at the store. He owned both of the buildings that burned, in fact.

  Mr. Slettom said that the police had been questioning him. He said he realized he’d given answers that made things look bad for my father, but he couldn’t help it. He was just telling the truth. That’s why he called, to apologize.”

  “What kinds of questions did the police ask Mr. Slettom?” Brian asked.

  “They wanted to know how long my father had been renting the space in his building. Then they wanted to know whether my father had a longterm lease. When Mr. Slettom said he did, they asked if my father had ever indicated he’d like to get out of the lease. Mr. Slettom had to tell them that my father had asked just a couple of months ago if the lease could be broken. Business had gotten a lot better lately, you see, and we really needed more room and wanted a better location.

  “Mr. Slettom had told my father that he’d try to rent the space, but he couldn’t find any takers. It’s cheap to rent, but that’s about all you can say for it. Mr. Slettom had to tell the police all that, of course. Not about the cheap rent — the rest of it, I mean.”

  “That’s a slender thread on which to hang a suspicion of arson,” Mart said.

  “There was also the fact of my father’s previous dealings with shady characters,” Nick continued.

  “My father didn’t report those criminals who tried to get him to work for them. The police have never understood that Dad was afraid to turn them in because they’d threatened to harm my mother. I think those old suspicions, plus Mr. Slettom’s testimony, are what made the police decide to question Dad.

  “One of the questions they asked was where my father was at the time of the explosion. Dad told them that when the explosion occurred, he was with Mother and me on Main Street, watching the parade. But he also had to admit that he’d been working at the store up until a few minutes before the parade started.”

  “I remember that,” Trixie said. “I mean, I remember seeing him join you and your mother just before the start of the parade. We remarked about how nice it was that your father was so busy these days —” Trixie broke off as she realized how painful that reminder of happier times must be for her friend.

  Nick didn’t seem to look any sadder after Trixie’s comment, though. Maybe it was impossible for him to get any sadder than he already was. Instead, he just nodded and continued. “The police say it would have been easy for Dad to have set the fire with a fuse so he’d be on Main Street when it started. That would explain how the fuel had time to evaporate. They also say it would have been impossible for Dad not to have heard the real arsonist moving around in the basement, if Dad was really upstairs working when he said he was.”

  “Does your father remember hearing any suspicious noises?” Brian asked.

  Nick shook his head. “As I told you, it’s a pretty rundown building. There are always lots of noises - wind blowing through cracks, things creaking and popping. Even mice scurrying around. You get so you don’t hear any of the noises; if you did, it would be too creepy to stay there at all.”

  “Gleeps,” Trixie said. “I can see why your father wanted out of his lease.” Realizing that she’d once again said the worst possible thing, she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Nick, I didn’t mean - I mean —”

  “I know what you meant,” Nick said with what seemed to be a genuine smile. “You’re right. We did want out of that lease. Not that badly, though.”

  “Couldn’t Mr. Slettom have done something about the drafts and the mice, so that you wouldn’t want to break your lease?” Brian asked.

  “No amount of repairs would have helped with the lack of space,” Nick pointed out. “Besides, fixing up that building would just have given Mr. Slettom a good building in a bad neighborhood. I doubt that he’d have been able to raise the rent enough to cover the cost of the repairs. I agree that Mr. Slettom’s building isn’t very attractive, but we were
grateful to get it for the price when we first moved here.”

  Nobody responded to Nick’s logical defense of Mr. Slettom. There didn’t seem to be anything more to say. A deathly silence fell on the little group once again. Trixie suddenly remembered that she hadn’t called Honey and Jim. She began to look around for a pay telephone.

  Her search was interrupted by loud voices coming from down the hall. Trixie looked in the direction of the noise and saw Sergeant Molinson walking toward them. He was being pursued by an attractive, middle-aged woman who was wearing a tweed suit and carrying a bulging briefcase.

  “This is absurd!” the woman shouted. “There is absolutely no justice in holding that poor man when you haven’t a shred of a case against him!” Remembering what her father had said about sending Mr. Roberts an attorney who understood justice as well as law, Trixie whispered, “That must be Pat Murphy.”

  Brian nodded, but he kept his eyes on the woman who was standing next to the sergeant.

  “There are only two ways of proving arson. You can catch the perpetrator in the act or you can show exclusive opportunity. Neither of those rules applies here.”

  “He had motive —” Sergeant Molinson began belligerently.

  “Motive doesn’t count!” Pat Murphy snapped. “Can you show intent?”

  Sergeant Molinson didn’t reply, but the red flush that spread across his jowly face provided the answer.

  “I’ll tell you why you arrested Nicholas Roberts,” the attorney continued. “It wasn’t because of motive. It was because of media.” Without warning, Pat Murphy turned and thrust out an accusing finger.

  Looking in the direction in which the lawyer had pointed, Trixie was shocked to see Jane Dix-Strauss standing in the corridor, note pad in hand. At first, Trixie didn’t understand Pat Murphy’s statement. Then, suddenly, she realized what it meant. The police would never have arrested Mr. Roberts on such flimsy evidence if it hadn’t been for that article about arson, Trixie thought. They might have suspected him. They might even have questioned him. But they wouldn’t have put him in jail if Jane Dix-Strauss hadn’t written that article. It’s her fault Mr. Roberts is behind bars!