by Nancy CoCo
“Sounds perfect.” I stood. I was set to defuse the brewing argument, but it wasn’t necessary.
“Oh, of course. What a great idea.” Mom kissed Dad on the cheek, restoring his smile. “Pat, this is Liz MacElroy. She is a reporter at the Town Crier.”
“Oh, hi,” Dad said. “I would shake your hand, but mine are full.” He raised his to show off the bundles he juggled.
“Liz has a theory on the arsons.” Mom put her hands around Dad’s bicep.
“Great.” Dad moved forward. “Are they arresting the jerk who hurt my little girl?”
“Not yet,” Liz said with a twinkle in her eye. “I have a theory. What I need to do now is see if I can shake the arsonist into admitting their guilt.”
“How are you going to do that?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Liz said. “Like I said, I have a theory. I thought I’d ask you all what your opinions are about it.”
“Let me put this stuff down, Dad said.
Mom stopped him. “No, we don’t want to lose a spot at the fireworks display.”
“She’s right,” Frances said from her perch behind the receptionist desk. “Spots were going fast.”
“Not fair.” Dad blew a puff of bangs from in front of his face.
“It’s all right, Mr. McMurphy,” Liz said. “We can fill you in on the plan when you get back.”
“Fine.” His shoulders sagged a bit in disappointment. “I’ll be back in a few.”
We watched him walk out, hands full and shoulders square with purpose.
“Theory?” I asked Liz, bringing everyone’s attention back to the story at hand.
“Do you have a white board?” Liz asked.
“Oh, are we going to do a murder board?” Jenn asked, sitting up. “I love how they do that on crime shows. Except ours will be an arson board, I guess.”
I frowned. “No . . . Wait.” I went out to the sidewalk and grabbed the SPECIALS board and its easel. I tucked the board under my left arm and Jenn held the door as I brought them inside. “We can use this.” I set it up in the lobby near the chairs and settees beside the basement door and erased the words Today’s Specials—Red, White, and Blue Fudge and Apple Pie Fudge.
“Oh, apple pie fudge,” Liz said. “Really? Grandpa would love that.”
“I’ll box you up a pound,” Sandy said.
“Allie has a whole series of pie fudges,” Frances said as she came around the receptionist desk to join us in front of the arson board. “I was skeptical at first, but the lemon meringue won me over.”
“Okay.” I handed the erasable markers to Liz. “Spill your thoughts.”
“Okay, this is the island.” She quickly sketched the familiar outline of Mackinac. The island was thought to be the back of a great turtle. Liz had done a good job with it. “Now”—she put down the black marker and grabbed red—“these Xes are where the fires have been since February.”
“There were fires in the winter? Jenn asked. “Isn’t it kind of cold and snowy for that?”
“Yes,” Liz said. “That’s why no one realized it was arson at first. The snow kept the damage to a minimum and it was thought that someone was out snowmobiling and stopped to eat lunch and built a fire to keep warm.”
“That could have been the case at first,” Frances pointed out.
“Sure.” Liz nodded her agreement as she made X marks on the board. “It may have started that way. The fires may have started even earlier but they might never have come under the notice of the fire department.” She pointed to a mark in the east portion of the state park near Eagle Point Cave. “This is the first that we can reasonably call part of the arsonist’s series. It was a large bonfire. The starter had piled huge branches and twigs and pine needles. The wood was wet and the smoke was thick and black. People called it in because it looked so out of place.”
“Is there anything around where this fire was started? Like a shed or something that gave the person a reason to be in the area in the first place? Did the arsonist talk to anyone?” I asked.
“No, by the time the guys got the truck out there, it was out of hand and whoever started it was gone. The only clue was the snowmobile tracks that led back to town so it was dismissed as a tourist who didn’t know what they were doing.”
“Because everyone knows that wet wood does not make for a warm fire,” I said.
“And it looked like it got out of hand because they kept adding more wet fuel in an attempt get it to burn warm,” Liz said.
“Since there were snowmobile tracks there must have been snow on the ground, right?” I asked.
“Yes,” Liz confirmed. “I checked the weather report for that day. There were ten inches of snow. Whoever started the fire really had to work to collect combustibles. That means they were at it for some time.”
“Do we know anything about the tracks?” I asked. “Do we know how many snowmobiles were in the area? What sizes? It could be a good clue to the identity of the arsonist.”
“That’s what I thought, but the report only mentions the fire, which was substantial by the time the firemen got there. Even with the snow and damp the fire crew had quite a time to get in there and douse it.”
“Did you interview the guys? Did anyone remember the fire?”
“I did,” Liz said with a nod. “Frank Blessing said there were plenty of boot tracks. He figured it was two guys, but one snowmobile.”
“Two of them.” Jenn pursed her mouth. “Do arsonists work in pairs?” She grabbed her phone. “Let me do a Web search on that.”
“Actually, I already did,” Liz said. “The profile for arson is rarely more than one person. It was why the thought of arson never crossed anyone’s minds. They figured whoever started that fire were kids or ignorant tourists.”
“When was the next fire?” I asked.
Sandy walked out of the fudge shop with Liz’s box of apple pie fudge. She put it on the end table next to the settee and sat down on the arm of the couch. “Was it the early March fire?”
We all looked at her.
She shrugged. “I was in New York, but that fire was close to my grandmother’s home. My family was worried.” Sandy crossed her arms.
“Yes,” Liz said, drawing our attention back to the board. “The second fire was here along the edge of Great Turtle Park. This one was much closer to homes. It, too, was assumed to be a hiker or picnicker who’d started a fire for warmth or to cook hotdogs and such. The thing is that the fire was started on the ground, not in an empty grill. What caught the fire chief’s eye was the fact that the fire was set next to some brush stacked against a shed.”
I tilted my head. “The arsonist wanted to see if they could get the fire to leap?”
“There was accelerant found on the ground between the original fire and the brush,” Liz said.
“You said the first fire was in February and this one in March. Why do you think they are connected?” Frances asked.
“The two fires had the same shape. The first fire was set high, causing fear that the nearby trees would catch fire. This one”—Liz tapped the second X on the board—“was similar, but not as ambitious. This one was set to leap to the shed.”
“Do fires have signatures like bombs?” I asked.
“Yes,” Liz said with a smile. “But you have to look for them. This second fire was when the fire department started to catalog the fire signature. It was only because of the strangeness of the first fire that Frank remembered some of the details. After the second fire, he made notes for comparison. He told me that he had hoped his suspicions would come to nothing.”
“Sadly, they did not,” Frances said. “The next fire was two weeks after, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, the second week of April. Allie, were you on the island by then?” Liz asked.
“I was. Papa died about that time. I don’t remember any fire.” I frowned and shook my head.
“You had other things on your mind,” Mom said and patted my shoulder. “I remember a small
article in the paper when we came up for Liam’s funeral. It started in a trash barrel, didn’t it?”
“Yes, the third fire was started in Harrisonville,” Liz pointed at her map. “It was set in a barrel meant to look like someone was burning trash.”
Frances turned to my mom. “You know that it’s not unusual for the locals to burn trash in burn barrels.”
“Yes, I remember,” Mom said.
“How did they connect a burn barrel fire to the other fires?” I asked.
“The barrel had a hole punched in the bottom and traces of accelerant that led to kerosene soaked rags held to the ground with a rock.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “What is the arsonist doing?”
“It looks like they want to see how the fire moves under certain conditions,” Liz said. “It’s almost as if they are studying the fire.”
“I read where some people see fire as an animal,” Jenn said.
“An animal?” Mom asked, drawing her eyebrows together.
“Yes, it is born”—Jenn raised her index finger—“breathes, consumes, reproduces, and dies.” She counted off the facts on her fingers. “Do you know of any other definition of life?”
“Strange,” Mom muttered.
“Our arsonist is trying to manipulate fire,” I said. “Why?”
“We don’t know yet,” Liz said. “The next fire was two weeks after that. It was a very slow burn of old bicycle tires near North Bicycle Trail and a boarded up cabin.”
“I remember that,” Frances said. “Didn’t the report say that trash had been built up next to the house?”
“That’s what it looked like,” Liz said. “It takes a lot to start rubber on fire, but once it starts it’s hard to stop. Frank thinks that the arsonist piled pitch filled pieces of bark and other tinder on the wet pile of trash. Then they started the fire, slowly feeding it until it burned through the pile to the bicycle tires below.”
“That was a heck of a fire,” Mr. Devaney said as he came in from the back hall. “What a mess. Luckily, a spring storm helped cool that down enough for it to burn itself out.”
“After that fire,” Liz said, “the public became watchful and the fires stopped.”
“They stopped?” I narrowed my eyes. “That would be why I hadn’t heard anything about them before I found the pool house on fire.”
“Why would an arsonist accelerate for a short time, stop for eight weeks, and then start back up?” Jenn asked. “Don’t they tend to continue to accelerate?”
“Maybe they were off the island,” Sandy said as she studied Liz’s map. “Maybe they were accelerating their fire starts elsewhere.”
“Yes!” Liz said, her eyes sparkling. “That is exactly what I thought. So I did some digging. I wanted to see if I could figure out who was on the island during the first part of the fires—”
“And who was not on the island when the fires stopped,” I said.
“Then who was back on the island when they started back up,” Jenn continued. “So, who is it?”
“Ten people fit that profile,” Liz said.
“Ten? Let’s see the list.” I said.
Liz went back to the board. Mr. and Mrs. Castor,” she said as she wrote. “They own a place near the airport. They also run the Boar’s Head Inn and Pub during the tourist season.”
I frowned. “Why were they off the island for the first four weeks of the season?”
“Their daughter lives in South Carolina and she was having their first grandbaby. It was a girl born June fifteenth,” Liz said as Frances opened her mouth to ask. “They just got back on Mackinac the day before the pool house fire.”
“They are friends with Pete Thompson,” Mr. Devaney said. “There was no reason for them to set the pool house on fire.”
“Next we have Oliver Crumbley.”
“Wait. His Mom runs the Old Tyme Photo Shop next door,” I said. “It can’t be Oliver. He porters for me sometimes.”
“He was off the island visiting his father in June,” Frances said. “He did get back the week of the pool house fire. He also lives close enough to have started the fire without being seen. Combine that with his mom Cyndy having trouble with Pete Thompson the week before.”
“I don’t buy it.” I shook my head. “He’s too nice a kid for that.”
“At this point, no one is too nice. We have to look at all the suspects or the real arsonist will continue and more people will get hurt.” Liz looked pointedly at my splinted thumb.
I winced. Mal jumped into my lap and I held her tight. Whoever was behind the fires was a neighbor. No one could be ruled out no matter how much I wanted them to be.
Key Lime Pie Fudge
½ cup cream cheese, softened
¼ cup milk (almond milk is a good nondairy substitute)
1 3.4 ounce package of vanilla instant pudding and pie filling
1 teaspoon vanilla
3 tablespoons lime juice
6 cups powdered sugar, sifted
Butter 8x8x2 inch cake pan.
Mix cream cheese, milk, unprepared instant pudding, vanilla and lime juice. Add powdered sugar 1 cup at a time until you reach the desired thickness.
Scoop into prepared pan. Pat until smooth. Score into 1-inch pieces with butter knife.
Refrigerate for 2-3 hours until set.
Break into 1-inch pieces along score. Serve in individual paper candy cups or on a platter. Store leftovers in covered container in the refrigerator.
Enjoy!
Chapter 18
“Who else is on the list?” Mr. Devaney asked. “You said ten suspects.”
“Right, I’ll finish the list before we go into each case,” Liz said. “There is Henry Schulte.”
“Wasn’t he in jail for the shed fire?” Jenn said.
“Let her get out the entire list,” Mr. Devaney said as he studied the fires on the map.
“Bruce and Penny Miller and their sons Ethan and Michael,” Liz went on.
“But Bruce is the acting fire chief,” Frances pointed out.
Liz did not stop writing. “Daryl and Terry Cunningham and their daughter Amanda.”
“That’s eleven,” Mr. Devaney said. “You said ten suspects.”
“Plus Luke and Sherman Archibald.” Liz finished writing.
“That is thirteen suspects,” Sandy pointed out.
“I wrote down everyone who was off island during the appropriate time period. That said, I ruled out Daryl, Terry and Amanda,” Liz said drawing a line through their names. “They felt like outliers. Most arsonists are male and most between the ages of twelve and nineteen or twenty-six and thirty.”
“That’s right,” Jenn said, reading her phone. “This article says that arsonists are difficult to profile because a majority of arsons go undetected or unsolved.” She glanced up at us. “Wow, it seems arson is a crime you are more likely to get away with.” She glanced back at her phone. “Most arsonists are white males between the ages Liz described. The ones that are caught seem to be of lower intelligence.” Jenn raised her index finger as if to make a point. “That said, it says here that it could simply be that the less intelligent arsonists are the ones who get caught so you can’t count out intelligence.”
“That makes sense,” Mom said with a lift of her eyebrows.
“The prevailing emotion behind arson is anger,” Jenn read, “unless there is insurance fraud.”
“That’s not the case here,” I pointed out. “None of the fires have done that kind of damage.”
“Unless you count the fireworks,” Liz said. “That could be insurance fraud.”
I nodded. “That’s why Henry is on your list.”
“Plus he fits the time frame. After I spoke to Sophie about the dates that she flew him onto the island, they match up with all the fires, including the warehouse fire that killed Rodney Rivers.”
“Or they were set to look like arson so that Henry could kill Rodney and blame it on an arsonist,” I said.
“
How did Henry start the last shed fire?” Jenn asked. “You saw Rex dragging him to the police station in cuffs and then fifteen minutes later, you were calling in the shed fire. There is no way that could have been started by Henry.”
“Unless he has a partner,” I mused.
Everyone was thoughtful for a moment.
“I suppose anyone could have a partner,” Jenn said. “In which case, we might have more suspects.”
“Darn.” Liz’s shoulders slumped and she sat down against the back of the settee that faced away from the board. “I didn’t think about a partner. That would screw up this entire list.”
The front door opened with a jingle. Dad came in looking windblown and bright-eyed. “What did I miss?”
“They just blew away my line of thinking.” Liz sighed.
“Great.” Dad came around to give Mom a kiss on the cheek. “That means I can help come up with a new theory.”
“It seems that statistically most arsonists don’t get caught,” I said. “Of those that get caught, the universal emotion behind the act is anger.”
“Okay.” Dad nodded. “I can understand that.”
“They are also more likely to be white males in their teens or late twenties and lower in intelligence,” I added. “At least the ones who get caught.”
“And this is our list?” He pointed at the names on the board.
“These are the people who were on the island during the fires and off the island during the times when no fires occurred,” Liz said. “I thought I had figured out who our main suspects were, but it was pointed out that the person who was causing the arsons might have used a partner and therefore the real person didn’t have to be on Mackinac.”
“Oh.” Dad studied the map. “So you think there’s an argument for using a young man’s lack of intelligence and anger to light fires to hide a premeditated crime.”
“Such as the warehouse explosion,” I said. “And Rodney Rivers’ death.”
“Well, that definitely puts a twist on your list of suspects.” Dad shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “It could be anyone.”
