by J. R. Ripley
Rest. A good night’s sleep. That was what I needed.
I coughed and opened my eyes. The room was swirling with ghosts. My eyes burned. I choked and coughed some more. My eyes darted to the bedside digital clock. Though the numbers glowed red, I couldn’t make out the time. I could make out the flames spilling from my AC unit, however, as they tried to lick the ceiling.
I screamed, kicked off the covers and tumbled to the floor. ‘Ouch!’ I pushed myself off the floor and half-crawled, half-ran out of the bedroom. Smoke filled the living room and kitchen as well. I fumbled for the light switch along the wall. Nothing. The power had gone out.
I needed to call the fire department! Where was my purse? I coughed and coughed, choking on the thick, acrid smoke that filled my apartment. Then I saw it: on the floor near the kitchen table. I scrambled on my knees, crashed head first into the leg of the kitchen table and felt for my purse. I dragged it with me by the strap to the front door and fell onto the stoop, breathing hard and heavy.
I dialed the operator. ‘Fire! Emergency!’ I coughed as the man on the other end asked me my address. Finally, I managed to blurt it out, but by the time I had the fire department had already arrived.
Two firemen hauled me up by my armpits and led me to the fire truck. A third handed me a metal water bottle. I drank. The cool water spilled down my throat like the elixir of life from ancient Hindu mythology or one of those Harry Potter novels.
‘Anybody else inside?’ An older man with ruddy cheeks and a gristly salt-and-pepper beard peered down at me. He had on a blue T-shirt and matching trousers. He wore a badge that identified him as the fire chief.
I shook my head no and trembled.
‘No pets?’
I shook my head once more. There was a bottle of margarita mix that kept me company when my spirits were low, but I didn’t think that was the kind of companionship he had in mind.
He handed me a blanket. ‘Thanks.’ I pulled it close. ‘How’d you get here so fast?’
‘A neighbor saw the smoke and called it in. I’m Terry Stillman,’ he said. ‘Head of the Table Rock Volunteer Fire Department.’ The flashing red lights of an ambulance caught my eye and I turned as the vehicle raced up to the curb. At least they didn’t have their siren going. I really didn’t care to have my neighbors out enjoying the show. I mean, I was in my worst old T-shirt and underwear!
I lowered the blanket across my knees. Two firemen decked out in their firemen’s gear tromped out my front door holding fire extinguishers. ‘All clear!’ cried one as he approached the fire truck.
Chief Stillman nodded. ‘Much damage?’
‘Nah,’ the fireman replied. ‘The wall holding the AC unit is a bit singed but nothing major. More smoke damage than anything. We opened up the windows to air the place out.’
The AC unit. ‘So that’s what caused the fire?’
The man shrugged and set down his extinguisher. ‘It’s too soon to tell, but if you ask me, yeah.’
All the while, the team of paramedics had been prodding and poking me, checking my vitals and shining bright lights in my eyes. I felt like a lab specimen. I recognized one as the woman who’d checked me out and pronounced me as suffering from shock the day I found Rick Wilbur’s body.
‘How are you doing? Maggie Miller, right?’
Aw, she remembered my name. Not that that was necessarily a good thing. I managed a smile and a thumbs up. ‘Shock-free.’ The blanket slid down my knees and I pulled it up. A lady has to protect her reputation, after all. And her private parts.
‘I’m Luann Pendley. Call me Luann. If we’re going to keep running into each other like this, we may as well be on a first-name basis.’ She gently lifted one eyelid after the other. ‘You seem to have suffered no external trauma.’
Tell that to my knees. I’d banged them both up pretty good crawling full speed toward the nearest exit.
‘It might be good to take you to Mesa Verde, just to be on the safe side.’
‘I’ll be OK, really.’ Though I wouldn’t mind playing doctor with Dr Vargas, I did not want to spend the night in the hospital. ‘All I need is some sleep.’
‘We could all use some sleep.’
My head jerked around. Highsmith. ‘What are you doing here?’ He wore blue jeans and a short-sleeve plaid popover shirt with dress shoes.
‘I got a report of a fire,’ he said. ‘It’s my job to be here.’ He looked at his watch. ‘A little late for a barbecue, isn’t it?’
A flash went off in our faces and I threw my hands up in front of my face as a second one followed. The stars before my eyes cleared and I saw a sight I could live without. Brad Smith, the Table Rock Reader’s intrepid reporter. The Table Rock Reader’s uncouth reporter.
‘Hey, Brad,’ Highsmith said.
‘What are you doing here?’ I said for the second time, my words coming out like acid.
‘I’m a reporter. I heard about the fire on my scanner.’ He snapped several more shots then let his camera fall to his chest, hanging by its strap. I noticed he wore a gray Phoenix Coyotes T-shirt. Obviously a hockey fan.
Brad folded his arms, looking from me to the smoke coming out of my apartment door and windows. ‘It’s what I do.’ He turned to Chief Stillman and extracted a notepad and pencil. ‘Is it bad, Terry? Any deaths? Can you give me a property damage estimate?’
I stood, clutching the wool blanket around my waist. ‘I estimate that if you don’t get out of here you’re going to be in some serious pain!’ Hmm, that might have been a poor choice of words to use in front of a cop.
Detective Highsmith looked me up and down. ‘I see you’ve made yet another friend in town,’ he quipped.
‘We are not friends!’
‘Hey,’ said Brad, snapping another unflattering shot of me – bed hair, smoky complexion and in my nobody’s-business-but-my-own underwear. ‘I’d like to think we’re friends.’
‘Stop that!’ I threw a hand in front of my face and the blanket fell off my hip, exposing more flesh than I usually liked to bare during any group activities, let alone a house fire. I snatched the blanket back up.
By now, several neighbors, not only from my fourplex but from up and down my block were milling about the sidewalk and street, taking in the show. What, not Saturday Night Live fans?
I turned to Chief Stillman. ‘Are we about done here?’
‘We’re just wrapping up. Two of my men are just pulling out the AC unit.’
Sure enough, two firemen came out grappling each end of the burnt out appliance.
‘I’d like to get a look at that,’ Detective Highsmith said, stepping over to the unit. ‘You think it’s the source of the fire?’
The chief repeated what he’d told me earlier. ‘I’ll tell you what, Mark,’ replied Chief Stillman, ‘why don’t we drop it off at the police station for you? We can analyze it there as well as anywhere and two heads are better than one.’
In Highsmith’s case, I was beginning to think that one head would never be enough and that there should be a minimum order of two. ‘I can tell you exactly what you’re going to find.’
‘Oh?’ said Detective Highsmith.
All three men looked at me. Under other circumstances, that could have been flattering, now it was simply nerve-wracking. I thrust my chin out. ‘I’m sure it’s attempted murder!’ I blurted.
Chief Stillman took a step back. ‘Are you sure, miss?’
Brad wrote madly on his pad. ‘Oh, man, this is great.’
Detective Highsmith looked skeptical so I focused my attention on him. ‘Somebody is out to get me, like they got Rick Wilbur.’
‘Why?’ asked the detective, a goofy smirk sticking to his face. ‘Were the two of you in cahoots on something?’
My face reddened like a party balloon. ‘Listen, you—’ I aimed my index finger at his nose and my blanket fell again. ‘Would somebody please get me some pants!’ I pulled the blanket tighter. ‘Or at least a belt?’
Chief Stillman was th
rusting the business end of a screwdriver into the face of the air conditioner. ‘I suppose it could have been tampered with. This is a pretty old unit, though.’ He turned to Highsmith. ‘The wiring looks shot.’
Highsmith nodded. ‘Faulty wiring. Happens all the time.’
‘Or maybe the killer just wants you to think that,’ I insisted.
‘You have anybody particular in mind?’ asked Brad. He was like a hungry wolf.
That’s when I saw Rob Gregory holding open the passenger-side door of a minivan for his wife, Trish. ‘Them!’ I pointed. I rushed to the duo, my naked feet complaining as I raced over the rough, bare ground. I could hear footsteps behind me racing to keep up.
‘What are you two doing here?’ I demanded. ‘Come to see if you’ve succeeded? Make sure I’m really dead?’ I drew myself up to my full height, my hands on my hips. I wasn’t about to lose the stupid blanket again, not in front of all my neighbors. ‘Well, I’ve got news for you. I’m alive.’
Rob turned to Chief Stillman. ‘What’s she talking about? Has she lost her mind? Are you taking her to the psychiatric ward for observation?’
I scowled. That had sounded more like a suggestion than a question.
‘Easy, Rob,’ said Trish, giving Rob a squeeze around his waist. ‘Let the chief talk.’
Yeah, Rob, let the chief talk.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ the chief answered. He had a deep, slow-moving voice, perfect for calming fire victims. ‘A small appliance fire. Everything is under control.’
‘What is your interest in this?’ asked Detective Highsmith.
I smiled. It was about time this guy did his job and asked somebody besides me some questions.
Rob and Trish were both in shorts and T-shirts with sandals on their feet. ‘We received a call from our agent in Sedona.’ Despite the smoke clogging my nostrils, I caught a distinct whiff of sage. The two of them smelled like they’d been rolling in it. I’d heard it was popular with the New Age crowd and was supposed to possess magical properties. I could only hope it made the two of them magically disappear.
‘We own the building,’ explained Trish.
‘You own the – you own my—’ I turned and looked at my apartment. ‘You two are my—’ I felt my ribs collapsing like the internal structure of a skyscraper that had been carefully laced with TNT, then instantaneously detonated.
‘We’re your landlords.’
Tips on Fire Safety
Disclaimer: I’m no expert. In fact, I’m the person people point to and say, ‘Don’t do what that woman did!’
So, don’t believe a word I say, or rather, don’t trust a word I say. Do keep a fire extinguisher handy and know your emergency exits.
That said, if you do get yourself in a situation like the one I’d gotten into, here are some tips that might help keep you safe:
If you smell smoke or your smoke detector goes off, get yourself, your family and your pets to safety first (leave the margarita mix behind). Next, call the fire department and activate the nearest pull-station at once.
• Before opening the door, lightly feel the door with the back of your hand.
• If the door is hot or warm, DO NOT open the door.
• If the door is cool, open it just enough to check the hallway or next room. If you see more smoke out there, do not enter.
• If there is no smoke in the hallway, leave and close the door. Go directly to the stairs to leave.
• If you cannot escape, use wet towels to seal the door and any room supply vent.
• If you have a balcony and there is no fire below it, exit this way.
• If the fire is below you, go to the window but do not open it. Simply stay near the closed window.
• If there is no fire below you, go to the window and open it. Stay near the open window.
• Hang or wave a blanket or a towel out of the window to let people know that you are there and needing help.
• Remain calm and wait for someone to rescue you.
• Never use an elevator. The power could go out, leaving you trapped.
Don’t worry about your pants. Chief Stillman assures me he’s got plenty of blankets on his fire truck.
Caveat: If you are currently renting from the Gregorys, check the batteries in your smoke detector once a month.
TWENTY-SIX
I stumbled numbly to the gaping door. Chief Stillman, Detective Highsmith, Brad the reporter and the Gregorys followed.
I stopped at the transom. Everything looked pretty normal. I felt Detective Highsmith’s hand on my upper arm. ‘All right to go in?’ he asked the chief.
Chief Stillman nodded and we went inside. Detective Highsmith stopped at the door and inspected the lock. ‘No sign of a break-in.’
I looked at Rob and Trish. ‘I’ll bet they have a key.’ I’d rented from an agent over in Sedona. I knew the agent I’d worked with wasn’t the property owner but I’d had no idea that I was renting from my competitors, the Karma Koffee duo!
Now it all made sense. TR Properties, LLC. I’d thought the initials stood for Table Rock when in reality they obviously stood for Trish and Rob. Suddenly the twelve-month lease I’d signed was looking more like a twelve-month jail sentence.
‘Of course we have a key!’ Rob said with a sneer. He swung around to face the detective. ‘We’re her freaking landlords!’
Did he have to gloat like that when he said it?
The smell of smoke filled the air and I expected it would for days to come. There was a gaping hole in the bedroom where the AC unit had once sat. I turned angrily to Rob and Trish. ‘You owe me a new air conditioner.’
Chief Stillman glanced up at the ceiling. ‘I wonder why your smoke detector didn’t go off.’
I shot around and yelled at Rob and Trish. ‘Yeah, why is that? Isn’t it your responsibility to see that I have working safety equipment?’ Unless they’d sabotaged the smoke detector as well.
Rob pursed his lips. ‘The batteries are probably dead.’ He looked at me with obvious distaste. ‘You’re supposed to check them occasionally.’
Trish nodded. ‘It’s in your lease.’
‘Still,’ I began, showing off my high-school debate team skills – of which I had none. Who reads leases?
Rob plucked at the damp drywall. ‘I’ll get someone over in the morning to board this up.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Remind me to call the agency.’
Trish nodded. ‘It may take a day or two to have a new air-conditioning unit installed, Ms Miller.’
Of course. Were the two of them trying to make me sweat? ‘That’s OK,’ I replied. ‘You have a guest room, don’t you?’ Neither of the Gregorys laughed. But then again, I may have just spoiled their plans by surviving their attempt to burn me to death. They might just not be in a laughing mood.
Detective Highsmith took a few pictures with his cell phone – souvenirs, I guess.
‘You sure you want to stay here, Ms Miller?’ Chief Stillman asked.
As much as I wanted to stick it in all their faces and brave it out, no way I was spending the rest of the night in this acrid-smelling apartment. Especially with no AC. I was having enough trouble sleeping as it is. In this heat, sleep would be next to impossible.
‘No.’ I let out a breath of surrender. ‘Guess I’ll stay with my sister.’ They didn’t have an extra bedroom, but they did have a sofa in the living room with my name on it.
After the fire truck rolled away, Detective Highsmith zoomed silently off in his vehicle and the Gregorys disappeared down the road hand in hand to their minivan, I was left on the front porch with Brad Smith.
‘So I guess I’ll be reading about this in the Table Rock Reader.’ Great, now everybody in Table Rock would know what a lousy housekeeper I was.
‘Sorry, but—’
‘It’s your job.’
He fingered his camera. ‘I got some great shots of you.’
‘Yeah, I’ll bet.’ I could see the headline now: Scantily Clad Murder Suspe
ct Sets Bedroom Ablaze.
I’d be the talk of the town – and not because of my mouthwatering beignets. ‘Be sure to save a good one for the police. I’m sure they’d be happy to use it for my mugshot.’
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary,’ Brad said.
‘Oh? Does that mean you think I’m innocent?’ Maybe he wasn’t half the jerk I thought he was.
‘Nah, they’ve got their own photographer on staff.’
I stood corrected.
‘Can I give you a lift?’ he inquired as I locked the door behind me.
‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘But I’ve got my bike.’ Not that I was in any mood to ride all the way to Donna and Andy’s house at this hour. It was nearly one in the morning. Only spooks and aliens and murderers should be out and about at this hour. Besides, every bone in my body ached and every muscle squawked. Maybe it was merely the rattlesnake in my stomach talking, but I was beginning to get a little depressed.
I mean, how many more things could go wrong?
And what if somebody out there really was trying to kill me? I looked around the dark street, a now malevolent-looking spot where murderers could be lurking behind every cottonwood, under every boulder – maybe inside every mailbox if they were capable of folding themselves up into extra dimensions.
This being Table Rock, I wouldn’t put it past them. If there are aliens around here, I’ll bet they’re whizzes at origami.
‘Suit yourself,’ Brad replied. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and started up the walkway toward his car.
A coyote cried in the distance. ‘Wait up!’
He stopped and turned. ‘Yeah?’
I gave him my sister’s address.
A few minutes later we were sitting at the curb in his Honda. I had a small suitcase that I’d tossed a couple of things in and I’d traded my Property of Table Rock Volunteer Fire Department blanket for a pair of gray sweat pants.
‘So your sister owns that health food store downtown, huh?’ He stared at the dark house.
‘My sister and her husband, Andy,’ I answered, fingering the grip of the suitcase on the floor between my legs. ‘And they don’t like you to call it a health food store. Simply a food store.’ Believe me, I’d made that mistake once and gotten the lecture to prove it.
