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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
2932 Ross Clark Circle, #384
Dothan, AL 36301
Fire & Ice
Copyright © 2006 by Jerri Drennen
Cover by Vanessa Hawthorne
ISBN: 1-59998-228-5
www.samhainpublishing.com
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: October 2006
Fire &Ice
Jerri Drennen
Dedication
I want to thank my critique group, Romance Writers World for encouraging me, for laughing while reading Fire & Ice, and for being honest when something didn't work. I have a profound respect for each of these ladies and I know we'll always be friends if nothing else.
Chapter One
“Manning,” Randall Jones, a fellow firefighter, called from the doorway. “The chief wants you to call him. He seems to think you’ve turned off your two-way and cell.”
Knox ignored the man’s accusation, his full attention on reenacting the events of a day earlier.
Blue-tipped yellow and orange flames raced a narrow path across the floor, swallowing an outer wall to engulf the ceiling before consuming everything else in its path.
Knox Manning pictured the fire from first spark to smoldering ash.
He'd seen this before—too many times. The distinctive burn pattern. The intense blistering on the hardwood floor. An accelerant had been used. What form was yet to be determined.
Jagged, blackened holes were left where the fire had gutted the steep, pitched roof. A light rain filtered inside, dripping steadily on what was left of the living room floor, forming a puddle at Knox’s feet. Off to his left sat the skeletal remains of a couch and loveseat, next to them, two charred spindles, the only remnants of a coffee table.
The home on Summerset Drive which once housed a family of five was nothing more than an eerie shell.
Knox inhaled, not surprised that after twenty-four hours a strong, overwhelming smell of melted plastic, wet fiberglass insulation and a heavy layer of smoke still permeated the air. The stench tickled the inside of his nose.
Kneeling beside the corpse of an interior wall, Knox studied it carefully. Fire fascinated him with its ultimate purpose—reducing everything to ashes. From day one, after seeing the destruction of his first fire, he’d respected its power.
“Manning!”
Knox acknowledged the chief’s flunky with a grunt. Jones was Barton Fire and Rescue’s biggest suck-up. Hell, Beagles had whiter noses. Blocking the jerk out was getting harder. He’d love to tell the guy to shove his command, yet held his tongue. He had enough problems, no need adding to them.
True, Knox had dumped the chief’s daughter. She deserved it. Life went on. Heartbreak healed given enough time.
Sandra Gallan hadn’t been right for him. He was his job, and she’d had the nerve to be annoyed with that. Not to mention the fact that she hadn’t been willing to give up anything for him, yet wanted to change the way he dressed, spoke and carried himself. Why want him at all? He obviously wasn’t her usual type—a white-collared stuffed shirt. Knox didn’t have money falling out of every pocket. He was blue collar all the way and always would be.
Sandra had emasculated him, the one thing he refused to live with, no matter who she was. Or how hard her father made his life at the station. Though he had to admit the chief was starting to tick him off.
Knox snorted. Ticked wasn’t even close to describing the motions surging through him. Was it too much to ask for his boss to handle himself with a little more professionalism? As long as Knox did his job that's all that should matter.
Too bad that wasn’t the way things were.
Chief Gallan had been on his back, had shadowed Knox's every move for the past two months. He was barely able to take a piss without the chief or one of his lackeys around to compare notes. A guy could get a complex.
He had to draw the line somewhere. This seemed as good a time as any.
Ideally, transferring out of the 901 would have been the solution, though at this time that was impossible.
“Are you gonna call the chief?”
Knox glanced up. Jones lingered in the doorway, his arms crossed rigidly over his chest, as he leaned against the blackened frame.
What Knox wouldn't give for the archway to let go at that moment.
“Yeah. When I get a chance.”
Randall mumbled something under his breath, the word “asshole” catching Knox’s attention. Jones turned and left the building.
Count to ten.
Five years ago, Knox would have followed him out and knocked him on his ass-kissing behind. He’d since learned how to control his temper. Though if things didn’t change soon, he was going to blow a gasket.
Shifting his foot, Knox uncovered the corner of something white buried in the rubble. He took out the penlight tucked in his breast pocket and removed debris from the object.
He picked up the paper and turned it over. Three words were barely visible on the surface. “Melanie” and “art exhibit”. Seemed to be some sort of flier for this woman’s art show. Might be evidence.
He bagged the flier and tucked it securely into his satchel.
First thing in the morning he’d search for local artists on the Internet. See if a Melanie was among them.
Maybe he was grasping at straws with the clue. Yet he’d found nothing else and, surprisingly, he’d caught arsonists with less to go on.
* * *
Melanie Sharp stood back and studied the seascape she’d been working on for days and sighed deeply.
Almost done.
Her exhibit was a week away and she wanted the piece in time for the show.
To say she was nervous would be an understatement. This was her first real art show, her name in lights so to speak. She wanted it to be perfect. If it didn’t go well, she might as well kiss her career goodbye. Though it wouldn’t be an end to her creatively. Landscape and portrait painting was her passion. To pay the bills she created ice sculptures for weddings and charity events. Something she'd stumbled onto by chance.
Her first creation came to mind, an intricate dolphin which had gone over so well that she had enough work from referrals to keep her in oils and canvas for a long time.
Luckily, an ice sculpture took less than a day to create, giving her the rest of the time for painting.
Creating art with ice was a challenge, the only drawback, watching her delicate work melt into a pool of nothingness. As pay went though, it was too lucrative to give up.
A few days from now she had a bald eagle sculpture to carve for the Forth-of-July celebration sponsored by the mayor’s office. The piece would not only earn a profit, it would also help distract her. She hadn’t been out much in the past three months. Not with the show looming and learning that the man she’d dated for eight weeks was married.
Melanie was still surprised by it. She wouldn’t have found out if her best friend hadn’t spoken to the man’s wife, learned that the couple had been married for seven years and had three children under the age of five.
All Dean’s lies came out while planning their first night together. The man had be
en pressuring her for weeks to sleep with him. She’d finally decided to give in that day. Thank God she’d found out before they’d slept together. What a huge mistake that would have been. Clearly he was looking for nothing but a good time.
Men always wanted what they didn’t have, and grew tired of what they did.
Heck, Dean still wouldn’t stop calling. He begged to see her, promises of divorce in every conversation they had. What would his wife say if she knew what he was telling Melanie?
Did it matter? She’d never go out with him again anyway. She had learned long ago a married cheat was heartache for all parties involved.
Inhaling deeply, Melanie thrust her paintbrush into the blue and white paint, mixing them together on her pallete.
With precise strokes, she brushed the paint over the canvas, refusing to think about Dean or any other man. Reminiscing wasn’t doing her any good. Besides, she didn’t have time to think. The painting propped on her easel had to be done by tomorrow afternoon and that meant she’d be up all night working.
* * *
Knox sat in front of the computer, staring at a name on the screen. Melanie Sharp.
He took a deep breath and jotted down her address. He turned off the machine and rose. Ms. Sharp had a record, a fact he’d obtained from a friend over at social services, the file closed to the public because she’d been a minor at the time. This little tidbit certainly placed her at the top of his list of suspects.
He headed out of the firehouse to his truck. What he wouldn’t give to wrap this case up before the end of the day. Maybe if that happened the chief would get off his back.
His cell phone rang.
He unclipped it from his belt and flipped it open. “Knox, here.”
“Don’t hang up, Knox. I need to see you.”
His stomach lurched into his throat. Had thinking about her father conjured her up? “I can’t talk right now, Sandra. I’m working.” He pressed end and punched another button, sending all incoming calls to his voicemail. She was the last person he wanted to deal with right now. What the heck did she want to talk about that hadn’t already been said? Crying wouldn’t get him back. He hated that. Their relationship was over. She needed to get that through her rich, snobbish head.
He jumped into his truck, started the engine and took off toward Madison Avenue.
Why was it so hard for women to understand him? Arson investigation got him up and going everyday. Anything else came in a distant second. He loved digging around burned out houses, scraping along the floorboards for the hint of accelerant. Questioning neighbors and friends of his suspects, grilling the person under suspicion until they confessed. The whole job stirred a passion in him like nothing else.
As he sped down the road, he grabbed a CD and inserted it into the player.
Seconds later, the hard beat of AC/DC blared from the speakers, relaxing him as he drove.
He turned onto Lachlan Drive and checked the address again. 325 Crescent Lane. Just around the next corner.
Knox took a right and came to a stop in front of the house. The structure itself was painted winter-white. On either side of the porch steps, leading up to the front door, pink Hibiscus plants sat in large, clay pots. In the window, in front of a pair of white, ruffled curtains hung a yellow welcome sign.
The home didn’t look like a place harboring an arsonist. Though firebugs weren’t defined by any one thing.
They came from all walks of life. Male, female. Rich, poor. Young, old. From massive homes, to quaint, little houses like the one he looked at right now.
Knox inhaled deeply and opened the truck’s door.
He had to handle this just right. The last thing he needed was to put Melanie Sharp on the defensive. She had to think he was here to talk about the flier he’d found at the scene. He wouldn't even mention her previous arson charge. Not right away. He needed her to talk openly. He’d acknowledge the fire later, after she'd spoken with him.
Once on the porch, he rapped on the door, took a step back and glanced around.
The neighborhood was pleasant enough, the homes, two-story structures built in the sixties.
Knox knew all about Barton. When it was established as a city. All its city officials and aldermen, people you wanted to stay in good graces with. Unfortunately, he’d found that fact out the hard way.
A rattling chain and a loud creak had Knox spinning around. The white door inched open a half a foot, a pair of powder blue eyes all he made out of the person standing behind it.
“Yeah?” the woman asked.
Was that impatience he heard in her soft voice?
Knox leaned forward, hoping she'd open the door further. To his surprise, she actually closed it an inch or so. “I'm looking for Melanie Sharp?”
“Why?”
Yep, definitely irritation there. He was sure he heard her teeth grinding. “I need to talk to her about a flier I found.”
“What kind of flier?”
Knox took a breath and released it, trying not to lose patience. He glanced around. He didn't want anyone thinking he talked to doors. “Are you Ms. Sharp?”
“I might be. Who wants to know?”
“I'm with the city’s fire and rescue department. Name’s Knox Manning.”
“Okay, Mr. Manning. What's this about?”
“Would it be possible to see who I'm talking to? I feel weird speaking to you through the door.”
Seconds passed. The door didn’t budge and Knox wondered what to do. Was she afraid to open the damn thing? Did she think he was lying? Worried he’d harm her in some way? “I can show you my ID card if that's why you're reluctant.”
“No, that's not it. It's just that I've been up working all night. I'm sort of a mess.”
“Ms. Sharp, I'm sure you look fine.”
Silence met his remark. The door inched open and Knox got his first glimpse of the woman who might be his arsonist. Her face looked like a paint palette, with every shade of blue smudged from head to toe. The color of her hair was unrecognizable.
His gaze traveled lower, to the gray, sleeveless tee covering a chest that looked like a boy’s. She looked like a homeless waif.
For an instant, the image of her naked popped to mind, and he cringed.
She certainly didn't fit her home.
“About that flier?” she asked, her voice taking on a hostile edge.
Had she seen his grimace? Talk about getting off on the wrong foot. Now she was going to be on the defensive and not because of her past indiscretions.
Just ask what you need to ask. “One of your art exhibit fliers was found at a burned out house on Summerset Drive.”
Her blue eyes narrowed to mere slits. “So? What are you trying to say, Mr. Manning?”
“I was just wondering if you know Dean and Tracy Grainger, the homeowners.”
“No. I don't.”
An awful quick response. Did it mean she was lying?
“I handed out hundreds of those weeks ago, Mr. Manning. They could have gotten it anywhere.”
“So you're an artist?”
She snorted. “No. I just like wearing paint all over me.”
Geesh, Manning. That was swift. “Right. Sorry. Do you know anyone who lives on Summerset?”
She shook her head. “Sorry. I don't.”
Knox noticed that her feet were bare and as dirty as the rest of her and winced. “Are you sure?”
“Quite,” she snapped, her eyes glinting with aggression.
This conversation was getting him nowhere, though something in her gaze sparked recognition at the mention of the Grainger’s.
What did you expect? Her to confess?
“All right. I guess that's all I have to ask for now. Thank you for your time.”
Knox’s eyes met hers and a strange jolt of electricity struck him head-on. An odd, almost overwhelming sensation weakened his knees.
He smiled, turned and retreated to his truck.
What the hell just happened?
> Melanie Sharp's eyes had beckoned to his, though for the life of him, he didn't know why. She was the most unappealing woman he'd seen in his thirty-two years. Dirty and flat-chested. Unkempt would have been a kind description. She was obviously one of those eccentric artsy types. He tried to picture what she’d look like cleaned up and failed. So why the odd feeling?
Hell, he must be working too hard. His eyes were playing tricks on him like some Halloween prank gone bad. Come hell or high water, he wasn’t getting anywhere near Melanie Sharp’s unappetizing basket of treats, no matter how powerfully her eyes appealed to his.
Chapter Two
“Have you eaten anything today, Mel?” her best friend Kay asked, glancing over Melanie’s shoulder to see what she was working on. “Who is that?” Kay physically moved her aside and stared at the painting. “He’s downright yummy.”
Melanie snorted at her friend’s observation. “I’m sure he thinks so, too. He’s an asshole.”
Kay arched a brow. “If that’s so, why are you painting his portrait?” Her friend glanced at the painting again and heaved a resounding sigh.
Melanie rolled her eyes. The man was big and brawny with dark hair and green eyes. Definitely Kay’s type. In no way Melanie’s. She preferred a man with intelligence, a man who she shared common interests with, someone who’d want to talk for hours. Not a big strapping guy who’d drag you off to his cave as soon as he met you and do tantalizing things to your body.
Who’d want that?
She snorted again, loud and very unladylike.
Okay, she wouldn’t mind a little cave action, though not with a man who thought she was an arsonist and looked at her as if she were the monster from the Black Lagoon. Frankly, as far as she was concerned, Knox Manning could take a long soak in the middle of a shark-infested ocean.
So her art-opening flier was found at a burned out house. Did that make her the torch? Heck, she’d sent out hundreds of them weeks ago. They might have picked it off the ground for all she knew. Sure, she knew the man who owned the house—that didn’t mean she’d burn the place down. As for her appearance that morning, she’d been up all night working on a painting and hadn’t gotten the chance to wash up yet.
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