Once Burned

by Gerry Boyle

  Chief Frederick was there with Reynolds and Derosby, Trooper Foley, a sheriff’s deputy, this one a young woman. Tory and Rita were standing to one side. Tory had his arm around her waist, like she might faint, and if she did, he’d be ready to catch her.

  I walked up behind them and Chief Frederick saw me, turned and held up two hands, palms out. Reynolds turned, said, “That’s okay, Chief.”

  I joined them. Frederick scowled. Derosby looked suspicious. The cops were neutral; not their investigation. Tory looked stricken, staring at the ground when he said “Hi.” Rita looked at me and shook her head. Without makeup she looked translucent, a ghost of her made-up self.

  “Check this out, Mr. McMorrow,” Reynolds said, pointing at something on the ground. “This is pretty neat.”

  I stood beside her and peered down. There was an empty candlestick on the ground, pewter, with wax dried in rivulets down its sides. Beside it was a tuna-fish can, also filled with dried wax. Six inches from the can, a stick was poked into the ground, a piece of white string tied to it. The end of the string was burned at the tuna can. The grass was singed in a line from the can toward the door, where the grass was shriveled and brown, then burned close to the building.

  Reynolds scooched over and pointed the pencil. “See, Mr. McMorrow? The ash?” There was a pale-gray ridge on the grass blades. “That was the fuse. I mean, this is very interesting.” She was smiling as she pointed.

  “That’s candlewick. I figure he—or she—had it tacked to the door on one end, tied onto the stick at the other. A tall candle, the kind you have on the dinner table? That was in the candlestick, and I think the wick was sort of looped around it, under a little bit of tension. So you light both candles and when the tall candle burns down, the wick is freed. Maybe it’s lit already, but just to make sure, it swings over so it’s directly above the flame in the can. That definitely lights the wick, which starts to burn, and after a while, gets to the bottom of the door. Which just happens to be splashed with gasoline.”

  “And up it goes,” I said.

  “But by then, our perp is long gone from the scene. The timer device, crude as it is, has done its job.”

  “Somebody put some thought into this,” Derosby said. “Somebody pretty smart.”

  I looked at the door, the smoke-stained bricks above it.

  “Not much of a fire, though,” I said.

  “Oh, this wasn’t supposed to burn the building down,” Reynolds said. “This is somebody playing with our heads. It’s like, ‘You’re looking for me out in the willy-wags? Well, I’m right in town. And I can burn stuff here, too.’ ”

  “Peekaboo,” I said.

  “Right. Ever play that game, Marco Polo? You’re swimming and one person is blindfolded and they say ‘Marco,’ and you have to say ‘Polo.’ And they listen for your voice and try to catch you. It’s like, ‘Here I am. Over here.’ ”

  “But he’s not,” I said.

  “But he was,” Reynolds said.

  “When?”

  “Call came in—” She looked at the deputy.

  “Five-sixteen a.m,” she said. “Lady who lives above the stationery store saw a glow.”

  “So, let’s do the timeline,” Reynolds said, excited, like we were campers and she was the counselor. “Start with the wick. In fire investigation school they call this a micro evaluation. The candles were approximately four feet from the door. Wick burns at different rates, depending on what it’s made of. Way faster without a candle wrapped around it. We’ll test this one. But say the candle took two hours to burn down to the other wick, if it’s a typical table candle. The wick takes ten minutes to burn to the door. We’ll do a more precise timeline, but I’d say this means the person was here around three a.m.”

  “And back home in bed by the time the fire started,” I said.

  “Listening for the sirens,” Derosby said.

  “Or to the scanner,” Chief Frederick said.

  “Or watching out the window,” Reynolds said.

  “Or riding to the fire with the rest of the firefighters,” I said.

  “Hey, what is your problem?” the chief said, pointing a thick finger my way.

  “Easy, Chief,” Reynolds said. “We’re just brainstorming.”

  Don had dropped the patrol members off at the store at 2:40 a.m., while the other patrol truck, the one with Paulie and the guys from the firehouse, was supposed to go until dawn. The next night, they’d switch.

  He was saying this to a reporter from the TV station in Bangor. She’d arrived around seven-thirty, a video camera in one hand, notebook in the other. Blonde and pretty, in a hair-sprayed sort of way, she looked like she was playing the part of the TV reporter in a high school play.

  She interviewed Tory and Rita Stevens on the front porch of the office, the sign in the background. Rita did most of the talking. When the camera came up, Tory held up his hands, said, “You don’t want me. Get my beautiful wife.” The reporter swung the camera toward Rita, who switched her smile on high beam.

  “I’m just so proud of this town and the way it’s come together,” Rita said. “This will pass, and the community will be all the stronger for it. You know, there’s a good reason why Sanctuary was selected as one of the nation’s twenty hidden treasures by American Living magazine. When people move to Sanctuary, Maine, they immediately know they’re in a very special place.”

  She held her smile for the camera. One, two, three, and cut. That’s a wrap.

  As spin went, not bad.

  The TV reporter thanked Rita and turned and marched across the street, past the Civil War monument, across the lawn, and toward the store. I watched as Harold noticed her, said something to Don. Don said something back, then hurried across the parking lot to his truck. He climbed in, wheeled out of the lot as the reporter passed in front of him. Harold turned and went into the store. The reporter pushed the door open and followed. Corner him by the meat counter.

  He’d talked to me like it was no big deal. Maybe the deal was getting bigger.

  I walked to the real estate office, where the sign on the door said hours were 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. or by appointment. It was 7:55. I pushed the door open anyway. A bell jangled and I walked in. There was nobody at the desks, angry voices from out back. An argument, Tory saying, “How the hell should I know? Ask the cops. Ask the fire people. Jesus Christ, get off my back.”

  I stood. Waited. Walked back to the front door and reached up and gave the bell a push. It jingled again. Tory came out, saw me, and pursed his lips, impatient.

  “Sorry to bother you, Tory,” I said. “Have a minute?”

  He turned to the back office, then back to me. “Kinda busy, Jack. I mean, it’s been a hell of day.”

  “Just take a minute,” I said. “Just a couple of quick questions about—”

  “Jesus Christ,” Tory barked. “Don’t you know when no means no? Find somebody else to put in your fucking newspaper. I’m outta here.”

  He turned and walked out of the room, into the back office.

  Rita came out and took his place, fluffing her hair and dabbing at her lips. She took a deep breath that seemed to inflate her smile. “Hi, there, Jack,” she said. “Don’t mind Tory. He’s a little upset.”

  “Understandably,” I said, taking my notebook out. “But that’s what I was wondering. Why you guys? Why a fire here and not somewhere else in town?”

  “I have no idea,” Rita said. “It’s just crazy.”

  “Because it looks like he had to pass by a whole line of shops before he got to yours. Why not do the first one? Then he could get away easier. This way he has to come all the way in and then walk all the way out.”

  “We don’t know,” Rita said.

  “Setting that whole thing up back there, that took time,” I said. “And then he didn’t even get a real fire out of it. A door, that isn’t much. Not compared to a few barns and a house.”

  Rita looked pained. “It makes no sense. No sense at all.”

>   “It’s almost like this is aimed at you personally, Rita. Doc Talbot—that’s your listing. Now your office. Do you have any idea—”

  Suddenly Tory was back, storming across the room.

  “No, no, and no,” he shouted. “I told that fire investigator woman and I’m telling you: We don’t have enemies. We aren’t the target of lawsuits. We haven’t kept anyone’s deposit. We haven’t even had an argument, with each other or with anybody else. We’re just living our lives, going about our business, trying to be good citizens, trying to make a living.”

  Rita stared at him, openmouthed.

  “I have no fucking idea why somebody would light our office on fire. Or the Talbot place. Or Don’s barn or that old man’s shed or that skidder or any other fucking thing.”

  “Tory,” Rita said, touching his arm. “Calm down. Jack was just asking—”

  “I know what he was asking, Rita. I’m not an imbecile. And I gave him my answer. How many times do I have to say it?”

  “Okay, Tory,” I said.

  “It’s not okay, Jack,” Tory said. “That’s just the point. It’s not okay at all.”

  He took a deep breath, his eyes closed. Opened them and sighed and said, “Okay. Between us, we’ve had one seller say she can’t risk something happening to her property. One of our appointments today was to sign a contract on a six hundred thousand–dollar waterfront parcel, and they canceled.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “And we’ve got an investment here now, you know? Not just the listings. We own three properties. I thought with that story we were positioned just perfect. Now it’s turning to shit. You know what the payments are on those? My God, we’ve got to turn those over. I was telling Don, let’s get at least one done and moved before this goddamn market falls apart.”

  “Tory, you don’t want all that swearing in the newspaper,” Rita said.

  “Oh, Jack won’t put that in. Clean it all up, will you, Jack? Don’t make me sound like a nut job. I’m just totally at the end of my rope. Out last night and this thing this morning—I had about two hours’ sleep.”

  He gathered himself. Another deep breath, a half-smile, a shake of the head. But it had been a look through the facade. It was like something had been simmering for a long time.

  Rita rubbed his arm to try to calm him. It was the first time I’d seen her anything but brittle.

  “So you like working with Don?” I said.

  Tory looked at me, startled.

  “Don? Oh, yeah. Good guy. I mean, he’s done this for years.”

  “Must have it down to a science,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah. He looked at the properties. Said they had good bones. Mostly cosmetics. Update the kitchens, get some granite in there. I mean, it was a slam dunk.”

  Rita looked at him with her big made-up eyes. “It still will be, Tor.”

  “I mean, this is so crazy. First Dr. Talbot, and then this kid dying—you know the last murder in Sanctuary was in 1947? Harold was telling me. Some woman hit her husband with a frying pan or something and he fell down and hit his head. I mean, this is small-town Maine, for God’s sake.”

  “Even in the cities here,” I said. “In Bangor, when you were growing up, there weren’t murders all the time. It just isn’t that kind of place.”

  He froze, like he thought he hadn’t heard me right. And then he relaxed.

  “Oh, I know, Jack. Our problem is, we’re not used to this kind of thing. When we were in Maryland, parts of the state were just murder central. That’s one of the reasons we came to Sanctuary.”

  “The quality of life,” Rita said. “And now this.”

  “So why us?” Tory said, his armor back on. “The short answer, Jack? I just don’t know.”

  He gave his wife a quick hug, looking at me the whole time.

  “We’ll get through this, won’t we, babe,” Tory said.

  “Sure we will,” Rita said. She looked at him, seemed relieved that she had her Tory back.

  He said, “Hey, I gotta run. A shower would be nice, maybe even a shave. Can’t go around looking like a homeless person.” And he strode for the door, giving me his salesman’s smile on the way by.

  “Don’t make me look stupid, Jack,” he said, and the bell jangled, the door shut, and he was gone.

  I turned back to Rita.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset him.”

  “Oh, it’s okay. He’s just been so on edge since this fire thing started. I told him that they’ll figure it out. They always do.”

  “It is upsetting. An arsonist at work all around you.”

  “I mean, he’s up and down all night, looking out the windows. And now this darn patrol thing. It’s just eating him up.”

  She shook her head, her makeup perfect, her hair in place. No arsonist could keep Rita from being put together. She turned toward the back offices, then back to me, saying, “I don’t know about you, but I need coffee. Want a cup?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Black.”

  “Come with me,” she said.

  I followed her in a slipstream of perfume and scented shampoo.

  The coffeemaker was on a desk, and it looked like she’d just made a fresh pot. Rita poured, held out a cup to me. She took a small bottle of milk from the refrigerator and poured it in her cup. She sipped and sighed. I just sipped.

  “I keep saying, ‘Tor, worrying like this isn’t going to fix it.’ It just isn’t like him.”

  “Tor,” I said. “That’s what you call him?”

  She nodded. “And when we’re alone sometimes he calls me ‘Ta,’ as in Ri-Ta. Silly, but that’s the way we are. Just kids, really.”

  “Never call him Tom, or Tommy?”

  She looked at me.

  “Oh, nobody’s called him that since he was a little boy. How did you know—”

  “I read a story about you. A profile of the two of you, something in Maryland.”

  “Oh, that,” Rita said. “I forgot about that. They had that in there, how his older brother couldn’t say Tommy.”

  “This was in Bangor?” I said.

  “Oh, I suppose. The family started there, I guess. But they lived all over the place, with his father in the military. Air Force. Tory went to, like, three different high schools.”

  She leaned on the edge of the table, arranged her dungaree skirt. She was fit and compact, like a piece of high-end office equipment—handsome and functional.

  “My parents, they’ve owned one house their whole married life. Occoquan, Virginia. Blink and you’ll miss it. That’s why when Tory said we should try this town in Maine, I was kind of shocked at first. But then I said it was fine with me. I grew up in a small town.”

  “But you didn’t expect this.”

  “No,” Rita said. “I didn’t expect anything like this.”

  I considered it, asked one more question.

  “Tory,” I said. “Does he ever stop moving? It’s like he’s always running to the next thing.”

  “That’s just him,” Rita said, a hint of resignation in her voice. “I said that to him, when we first started dating. ‘Don’t you ever slow down?’ He said, ‘If you slow down, they catch you.’ ”

  “Who?” I said.

  “Life, I guess,” she said. “For Tory, something is always nipping at his heels. He says if you’re not moving forward, you’re sliding back.”

  The phone rang in the office and Rita slid down and scurried to answer it, as if, in the midst of mayhem, a cash-buyer might still be out there. I stepped out of the office, walked a couple of doors down, and called home.

  Roxanne didn’t pick up, odd for 8:30 in the morning. I called her cell and got voice mail there, too. Texted her, asked her to call me. Called Clair’s cell and he answered with a “Yessir.”

  “Hey,” I said. “Pokey there?”

  “Running in circles.”

  “I know the feeling. Pretty little girl in the saddle?”

  “And another one leaning on the rail,”
Clair said. “How was the fire?”

  “Not much of one. Whoever set it did it more to send a message.”

  “Saying what?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “To whom?” Clair said.

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “Good thing they assigned the crack investigative reporter.”

  “Very good thing,” I said.

  I heard Sophie in the background, a tiny cackle of laughter.

  “How’s things on the home front?” I said.

  “Quiet. Doing a little ridin’ and ropin’.”

  “Roping?”

  “Well, we’re working our way up to that. After we break some broncs.”

  “Great. Would you put Roxanne on?”

  “Sure. And Jack.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Watch yourself, blundering around down there. Sounds like somebody is building toward something, getting bolder. You don’t want to step right in the middle of it.”

  “Yessir,” I said.

  A rattle and fuzzy hiss. Then Roxanne, her voice just this side of chilly.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Sorry I had to leave in such a rush. Tell Sophie I’ll be home for lunch for the fashion show.”

  “She’s over it,” Roxanne said. “Back in cowgirl mode.”

  A pause.

  “It wasn’t much of a fire,” I said.

  “Good.”

  “Lasha called because it was another case of arson.”

  “Uh-huh,” Roxanne said.

  Sophie in the background, “Pokey, giddyap.”

  “Something’s wrong down here,” I said. “Some things aren’t what they seem.”

  “And some things are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This woman, Jack,” Roxanne said.

  “Lasha,” “I said.

  I heard her moving, pictured her walking away from Clair.

  “I know how it goes.” Her voice was muffled, the hand over the phone. “You charm them, give them the soft smile, the blue eyes, your full attention. And they give you information. I understand that.”