Fifth Night

by Kathi Daley

  “Oh my God,” Brit whispered. “What on earth was that all about?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Do you want to go?”

  I nodded. I tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter before getting to my feet and walking as quickly as I could out of the restaurant and, more probably, out of Jack’s life.

  “Don’t read anything into whatever that was,” Brit said the minute we got into the car.

  “How can I not read anything into it? The man I’ve been sleeping with for the past several months just treated me like a casual acquaintance he happened to run into.”

  “I know,” Brit said. “I was there. But you don’t have the whole story.”

  “What story?” I screeched. “Jack is obviously ashamed of me. I suppose if you really think about it, I don’t live up to the standards of someone who would be seen in public with the great Jackson Jones.”

  Brit buckled her seat belt, then adjusted it for fit. “Don’t be silly. Jack has been seen with you in public lots of times.”

  “Jack. Not Jackson. I think I may have just met Jackson for the first time.”

  Brit didn’t argue with that point, I imagined because she knew it was true. I’d known Jack had two lives, but what I hadn’t realized was that Jack Jones, the easygoing newspaper owner, and Jackson Jones, the world-famous author, were about as much alike as peanut butter and caviar.

  I grabbed my phone and took a minute to look at my emails before starting the car. I needed to calm down and get my rage under control. The last thing I wanted to do was take my anger out on the car’s accelerator with the roads still damp from the on-and-off rain we’d been having.

  “Hannah Smith was the fourth victim of the arsonist, right?” I asked Brit.

  “Yes,” Brit confirmed. “Hannah was the artist who lost her detached garage as well as her artwork. Why do you ask?”

  “I have an email from a Hannah Smith asking if the newspaper would publish a feature about the new art studio she’s opening in town.”

  “I guess we know what she did with her insurance payout. When does she want to meet?”

  I turned and glanced at Brit. “At my earliest convenience. Maybe we should go talk to her right now. I need a couple of pieces as filler for the next edition, and we might be able to get a look at the arsons in the area from another perspective.”

  “I’m in.”

  “She left a number.” I quickly texted the woman and asked if she was available now. I only had to wait thirty seconds for her to say she’d love to see me. She provided the address, which I repeated to Brit. I’d leaned forward and reached out to slip the key in the ignition when my phone pinged again. I looked at the text and frowned.

  “Did she change her mind?” Brit asked.

  “It’s not Hannah, it’s Jack.”

  I turned the phone so Brit could see the text, which read, I’m sorry. I’ll explain later.

  “I guess that’s something,” Brit offered.

  Maybe the text was something, but in my mind, I wasn’t sure it was enough.

  ******

  Hannah’s gallery was in a visible location, in the middle of the touristy part of town, which got a lot of foot traffic, especially during the summer, so I wouldn’t be at all surprised if her venture turned out to be a huge success.

  “Thank you so much for getting back to me so soon,” Hannah greeted me as Brit and I entered through the stained-glass doorway. My first thought was that a glass door didn’t provide much security for an art studio, but then I noticed a second door that was made from sturdy aluminum.

  “You caught me at a good time. I was just thinking I needed an additional article or two for the next issue of the paper.”

  “Oh, I do love it when serendipity is at work.” The young woman with a headful of curly hair beamed. “Can I get you a something to drink?”

  “Thank you, but we just had lunch,” I answered. “Why don’t you show us around and we can talk after the tour.”

  When I’d first heard the story of the woman with a studio in her garage who had lost all her art in a fire just weeks before her first big showing, I imagined an amateur artist who was just as happy to have the insurance money. But as Hannah showed us around her new enterprise, I could feel the love she had for each and every one of her pieces. She referred to them as the children of her soul. The longer Hannah spoke, the clearer it became that the fire that had taken Hannah’s work hadn’t been a victimless crime at all, despite the insurance payout.

  “Your pieces are really wonderful,” Brit gushed as we completed our tour. “The emotion you put into each one really comes through. As an observer, I can almost feel what you did when you painted them.”

  Hannah grinned. “It means a lot to hear you say that.”

  “When you emailed, I thought your name sounded familiar, so I looked you up and realized you were the artist who lost a lot of your work in a fire.”

  Hannah nodded. “The fire was something of a double-edged sword. The insurance money allowed me to open this place, but I don’t think people understand how hard it was to lose my work. Even the fire chief commented that at least I was fully insured, so I didn’t really lose anything. Seriously? The art I lost had meaning to me. It wasn’t simply a means to a paycheck.”

  “I get it,” Brit said. “Most people don’t understand that artists put part of their souls into everything they create.”

  Hannah indicated that we should have a seat at a long table she had set against a wall. I figured this would be as good a place as any for the interview and was anxious to get started.

  “I want to speak with you about your plans for the studio, but because the fire has come up, I’d like to ask a few questions about that as well for another article I’m writing.”

  “Okay. I guess that would be all right.”

  “I understand you were the fourth victim of the arsonist?”

  “Yes. My studio burned after the bakery and before the house that took a man’s life. I guess I was lucky I was away and that no harm came to either myself or my house. It could have been worse.”

  “Have you ever stopped to ask yourself why you were targeted?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Of all the structures on the island, why your studio?”

  Hannah frowned. “I don’t know. I guess I never stopped to think about it.”

  “Do you know the other victims?”

  Hannah shook her head. “No. I’ve never met any of them. I only moved to the island a couple of years ago and I keep to myself most of the time.”

  “Where exactly were you when the fire occurred?” I wondered.

  “In New York. After I heard the gallery wanted to feature some of my work in their next showing, I decided to visit it to familiarize myself with the layout. I was only going to be gone for a week. The fire occurred on the second day I was away.”

  I pulled a notepad out of my bag, flipped it open, and clicked open my pen. “Who knew that you weren’t going to be here?”

  “I called the gallery in New York and told them I would be coming by, and of course I reserved a flight and hotel room. My sister, who lives in California, knew where I was going and the dates I would be there, but other than that, I didn’t tell anyone. Except for the cleaning service, of course.”

  “Cleaning service?”

  “I’m not much of a housekeeper, so I have a service that comes in once a week to do the floors and the dusting. I knew I wouldn’t be home on their regular day, and I prefer to be here when they’re working, so I let them know I was skipping that week.”

  “Would you be willing to provide me with the name and number of the service you use?”

  “Sure.” Hannah stood up. “I’ll grab the information for you.”

  Once I had that information, I moved on to things about the studio that I’d need for the article. I could write it up tonight and submit it in time for next week’s issue. After the interview, Brit and I returned
to my car.

  “Her place is really great,” Brit said after we were settled.

  “It was very nice. A lot nicer than I was expecting. I guess I was somehow thinking she was more of a dabbler.”

  “We knew she’d been given space in a New York gallery,” Brit pointed out.

  “True. I suppose I just let that fact pass over me.” I slipped my key in the ignition, then paused. “What do you think about the cleaning service?”

  “I think she’s smart to outsource her housework if she doesn’t enjoy it.”

  “What I mean is, what do you think about it as a link between the victims?”

  Brit turned in her seat. “I’m not following.”

  “All of the victims were off the island when the arsonist struck. My question is, how did the arsonist find out who would be gone when?”

  “You think they all used the same cleaning service?”

  I shrugged. “It isn’t outside the realm of possibility. Besides, it would be easy to check out. How about we see if we can’t score an interview with a few of the other fire victims?”

  Brit pulled out her iPad and did some digging. She found Pop still lived on the island, and still fished for a living. We thought he’d most likely be found at the marina later in the afternoon. Jasper Wells, whose barn had burned, worked at a feed and tackle store on the next island over, and Hillary Tisdale, the bakeshop owner, had left the island to rebuild elsewhere. The only victim we couldn’t find information on was the man whose friend had died when his house burned down. We decided to try to speak to Pop and Wells. If they used the same cleaning service as Hannah, we’d fill Rick in and let him track down the last two victims.

  “Let’s start with Jasper Wells,” I said. “Maybe by the time we get back to Gull Island, Pop will have returned to the marina for the day.”

  “It’s about a thirty-minute drive,” Brit informed me.

  “I have a couple of articles to write, but I can do that this evening. Do you have time to come along?”

  “I don’t have any plans for today. Let’s go chat with Wells and take things from there.”

  As it turned out, Jasper Wells confirmed that his wife did use a weekly cleaning service. He called to ask her the name, which turned out to be the same one Hannah used. We headed to the marina to talk with Pop, who was guarded in his answers, a whole lot less forthcoming than the other two victims we’d spoken to, but when we asked about a cleaning service, he snorted and asked where in the hell he would get money for a hoity-toity thing like that.

  “What now?” Brit asked. “We have two victims who used the cleaning service, one who didn’t, and two whose current whereabouts are unknown.”

  “Let’s head back to the resort. I left Kizzy with George, who might want a break from the energetic little darling by now. Then I’ll make a few calls. Even though only two of the five victims have confirmed they used the cleaning service, I think that’s enough to bring it to Rick’s attention.”

  When we arrived at the resort we found Garrett, George, and Clara playing cards. Kizzy had been sleeping by the fire, but the minute she saw me, she came running over to say hi. “How’s my Kizzy Q?” I asked as I vigorously scratched the puppy’s neck. “Did you miss me?”

  Based on the amount of jumping around the puppy was doing, it looked like she had.

  “How’d it go?” George asked.

  “Brit can fill you in while I take Kizzy out. I won’t be gone long. When I get back, we can talk further.”

  The minute I opened the back door, Kizzy ran out into the damp yard. She was bouncing around like a bronco at the rodeo, which indicated to me she had excess energy to burn. I started toward the beach and she happily followed. The air was still damp, but the rain had stopped, at least temporarily.

  I took a deep breath and willed myself to relax. It had been a stressful day, but I was walking on a beach with a puppy I simply adored. No matter what was going on with Jack and his barracuda of a mother, life certainly could be worse.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket and looked at his text again. He said he was sorry and would explain later. I wondered when later would be. Later today? After his mom left the island? After he packed up his things and returned to his life as Jackson Jones?

  The situation was giving me indigestion, so I willed myself to think of something else. Anything else.

  I knew that on some level, Jack cared about me and would never intentionally hurt me, but on another—the level that seemed to be much closer to the surface—I was hurt and angry that if forced to make a choice between me and his mother, he hadn’t chosen me. I knew mother-and-son relationships could be complicated, but somehow, I’d thought the bond between the two of us meant just as much.

  Of course, I may have been fooling myself. Jack and I hadn’t even known each other for a year, and we’d only been romantically involved for the past three months. Had it only been three months? It seemed longer. I guess if I looked at things objectively, I could see why Jack might not want to drive a wedge between himself and his mother over a woman he’d known for six months, been dating for three months, and had only slept with a couple of dozen times.

  I called to Kizzy, who had wandered down the beach farther than I was comfortable with. She immediately ran back toward me. We hadn’t been walking all that long, but I was becoming more and more agitated, so I decided to turn back to the house. As I passed the cabins, I noticed Vikki’s was empty. I’d called her earlier to check in because she’d never come by, and she’d mentioned meeting a friend in Charleston today. Alex’s cabin was empty as well, but he came and went, rarely bothering to inform anyone of his plans.

  When I arrived at Nicole’s cabin, I saw the interior was dark. It had been each time I’d looked in this direction since I’d turned off the light the previous day. I walked slowly to the front door and knocked.

  “Nicole,” I called out. “It’s Jill and Kizzy.”

  No answer.

  I tried again, but the result was the same. I didn’t have my master key with me, so I continued to the main house. I knew Nicole was an adult who had never had any sort of inclination to keep the rest of us apprised of her whereabouts, but for some reason, I was getting worried. It could be the fact that she hadn’t taken her car with her, and she hadn’t answered her phone or returned any of my messages. Of course, knowing Nicole, she could simply be ignoring me. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Still, I hoped she would return soon so the nagging little voice in the back of my mind would be quiet.

  Chapter 8

  When I returned to the house, the others were discussing whether the cleaning service or one of its employees could be linked to the arsons. Brit had taken the initiative in calling Rick, who had promised to look in to the idea. If an employee of the cleaning service was either the arsonist or was connected to the arsonist, and all the fire victims were clients, it could explain how they knew who was out of town and when. Still, Pop clearly hadn’t been a customer. I supposed the arsonist could have known he’d be out of town by some other means, and perhaps they only started connecting with cleaning-service clients after the first fire.

  I wasn’t sure how identifying the arsonist would prove Bobby had been murdered unless it was the arsonist who’d killed him, and we could make the connection. If that was the case, trying to identify the arsonist made sense.

  Once I had dried at least some of the moisture from Kizzy’s coat, I poured myself a cup of hot coffee and joined the others at the table. The fire in the kitchen fireplace had been maintained throughout the day, so the room was nice and warm. If it wasn’t for the situation with Jack hanging over my head, I would probably enjoy an afternoon brainstorming session with my friends.

  “Before I forget, did you hear from Vikki?” asked George.

  “I spoke to her just before lunch. She’s in Charleston today.”

  “And Nicole?”

  “I still haven’t heard from her.”

  “She’s probably off d
oing research or something,” Brit said. “It’s not like she ever checks in with us. In fact, if anything, her pattern is to push us away as much as possible.”

  “Brit’s right,” I said. “I’m sure Nicole is fine. I’m going to grab a plate of cookies to go with this coffee. Does anyone want anything else?”

  I’d just returned to the table with plenty of cookies to share when I saw I had a call. “I’m going to take this in the other room,” I said.

  I went into the living room before I clicked the Answer button.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Jones,” I said with an icy tone.

  “I guess I deserve that. I’m sorry about Gertie’s.”

  “In this case, I’m not sure I’m sorry is going to cut it.”

  Jack let out a long breath. “I know. The situation caught me off guard and I handled it badly.”

  I wanted to believe he really was sorry, but I guess I wasn’t over being mad because rather than accepting his apology, I kept quiet.

  “I’m afraid I made one mistake after the other today,” Jack continued. “I should have realized when my mom’s friend Denton suggested Gertie’s for lunch there was a better-than-average chance of running into you there. If I had insisted on meeting elsewhere, the whole thing could have been avoided.”

  “So, you are trying to avoid me,” I said in a voice that was so high it didn’t sound like my own.

  “Yes. I mean, no. I’m just making this worse, aren’t I?”

  “A little bit.”

  I listened as Jack let out a sigh. I could picture him running his hand through his hair. I waited silently for him to make up his mind where this conversation was heading. Finally, he spoke. “I can’t think of a single way to explain what’s going on without sounding like a sniveling mama’s boy without a will of his own.”

  “It already looks that way, so I don’t think you can make things worse,” I snapped back. Even I flinched when I realized how harsh that sounded.