Home Fires dk-6

by Margaret Maron

  “Hey!”

  I pinched him on the side just where a slight bulge was forming when he belted his jeans too tightly, and he quit grousing.

  “Did y’all arrest him?” I persisted.

  “We’re a long way from another arrest. Of course, a lot of arsonists do start out fighting legitimate fires, then move on to setting them and he sure fits the profile.”

  “But?”

  “No ‘but.’ We didn’t push him hard. Just told him we wanted to get an idea of how long it takes people to respond to a fire call. What was he doing when he was paged? That sort of thing. Because Ed and his people haven’t found any signs of a timing device. The pour patterns indicated that whoever did it seems to have sloshed gasoline around and lit a match right then, so we need to know where people were right before the alarms went off.”

  “Where was Donny?”

  “Around. Coming home from a Little League ball game when the first fire started, home early and watching television with his parents when Mount Olive went up. Or so he says. We’ll see.”

  “I take it that means you confirmed A.K.’s story?”

  “Off the record?”

  “Always.” I held up my hand in the Boy Scouts’ three-finger pledge of honor.

  “Okay. Ed did reach out and touch the Pritchett woman today and she corroborated. ATF’s still not ready to cut them loose though.”

  The lid was about to bounce off the popper bowl. I opened the microwave, poured some of the popped kernels into a big wooden bowl and put the rest back in to finish. Dwight snitched a few as we waited.

  “Donny Turner tell you about how Charles Starling spray-painted their school bus once?”

  “And how careless he is with cigarettes? Oh, yes indeed. Why do you think we’re taking a closer look at Turner?”

  “On the other hand,” I said, “maybe it’s not as obvious as it looks. What do you want to drink? Bourbon?”

  “Beer if you’ve got it.”

  I pointed him toward the refrigerator.

  “And what do you mean, not what it looks?” Dwight popped the top of a long-necked bottle and took a deep swallow. “If it’s not racism or pyromania, what else would it be?”

  “Murder?”

  “Arthur Hunt? Who’d want to kill a harmless old drunk like Arthur Hunt?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the detective. But the man is dead and nobody seems to be paying much attention to that.”

  “We’ve paid attention,” Dwight protested. “There’s nothing there. No next-of-kin. No insurance on his life. Nobody threatened by him.”

  “I heard him threaten Reverend Ligon.”

  “When?”

  “Sunday before last. Mr. Ligon fired him for drunkenness and Hunt said he was going to tell the deacons all about Ligon.”

  “Ligon sound worried?”

  In all honesty, I had to say no. “But look at the results. Ligon wanted to enlarge the church and he couldn’t get the votes to do it legitimately. Now with the fellowship hall out of the way and the most fortuitous end of the church burned, he can call in the architects and insurance money will foot most of the bill. Not to mention all the money that’s been donated.”

  “Reverend Ligon?”

  I had to admit it was hard to picture that very proper man with a gas can in one hand and spray paint in the other.

  “He’s not the only one who wanted to remodel,” I said. “Maidie tells me there’s a sizeable contingent that’s burning to build.”

  Dwight grinned and I had to smile, too, as I realized what I’d said.

  “All the same,” he reminded me, “how many of them would know to use that brand of spray paint?”

  I nodded. “Or know Starling’s way of printing?”

  The bell rang on the microwave and I dumped the rest of our popcorn into the big wooden bowl.

  “A horse angel, huh?” said Dwight as we headed upstairs to my VCR.

  24

  God has planted us a garden

  Man must keep it weeded.

  —Atherton Memorial Presbyterian

  I didn’t know if Cyl DeGraffenried was avoiding me since Monday evening or whether Doug had legitimately assigned her elsewhere, but Tracy Johnson prosecuted on Tuesday and Wednesday and she was there again on Thursday.

  Tracy’s tall and willowy with short blonde hair and gorgeous green eyes that she downplays in court with oversized, scholarly-looking glasses. Even though she loves high heels as much as I do, she’s savvy enough to wear flats when arguing before vertically challenged male judges.

  Thursday is usually catch-up day, but I’d worked hard to keep things moving the first three days and there wasn’t all that much to catch up on.

  “Be nice if we could finish early enough for me to get my hair done this afternoon,” said Tracy during our morning break. “I’m driving down to the beach tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Suits me,” I said. “Forty-five minutes for lunch?”

  “I could be back in thirty.”

  We disposed of the last case at three-seventeen.

  By four o’clock, I was on my way out of Dobbs, heading for the farm. The sun was finally shining again and after three days of rain, the air felt so hot and steamy I wanted to wring it out like a washcloth and hang it on a line somewhere to dry.

  Passing Bethel Baptist, I almost ran off the road trying to see if I’d read their sign right:

  Let the main thing

  Of the main thing

  Be the main thing

  Now what the hell did that mean?

  I was almost tempted to stop at the parsonage and see if Barry Blackman could explain it to me. (Barry’s the first boy I ever kissed and sometimes I have trouble taking him seriously as a preacher.)

  As I turned off Forty-eight, I had to slow for a tractor pulling a long line of empty tobacco drags, getting ready for the start of barning season. When the way was clear, the child who was at the wheel waved me around and I gave her a wave back even though I didn’t recognize her.

  I was driving tractors back and forth between fields and barns when I was eleven and too little to do much else to help get the crop in. I remember the first time I was allowed to take an empty drag back to the field without one of my brothers along—a touch of nervousness about rounding corners too fast or having to pull the drag into a tight space, but also a vaulting pride at being trusted with that much horsepower. By the end of the summer, I was slinging nasties with the empty trucks and maneuvering the full ones right up to the bench.

  Never turned over but one the whole summer, either.

  I passed the King homeplace without seeing Mrs. Avery, but down at the ashes of Burning Heart of God, three black men were tossing debris into the back of a large truck. The site was already looking neater, and if I knew Mrs. Avery, that whole slope would be blooming in azaleas come next spring.

  At my house, I was thrilled by how much had been done since Saturday. All the Sheetrock was up and the men were trimming out the doors and windows. The kitchen cabinets had been delivered and a plumber was installing my new washer. He’d already hooked up the bathroom fixtures and the sound of flushing was loud in the land when Will demonstrated. I couldn’t say enough in praise.

  “You still want everything painted white?” my brother asked.

  “Everything except my bedroom,” I said.

  That was going to be a dark hunter green. With white organdy curtains and shades, it would feel like a cool woodsy glade in the summer. Heavier, darker drapes would make it cozy in winter.

  Since the only major pieces of furniture I actually own outright are a chest that came from my mother’s mother and a headboard that I’d bought when I was over at the High Point Furniture Market in the spring, I planned to start with a solid white interior and see what stood up and saluted once I acquired more furniture.

  “April says she’s got a desk and a sleeper couch if you want to come by and take a look.”

  I told him I’d run over there for a fe
w minutes and be back before he left.

  “Not unless you get back by five-thirty,” he said. “Oh, and here. From now on, you’ll need these.”

  He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and for the first time, it registered on me that the outer doors now had knobs and locks.

  An official house.

  And me the chatelaine.

  It looked as if everyone had gone when I got over to Andrew’s house. April’s car and both trucks, too, were missing from yard and carport. I banged on the back door, stuck my head in and called, “Anybody home?”

  “In here, Deborah.”

  I followed the sound of April’s voice back to the den, where I found her sorting through boxes of papers. Her curly brown hair was cut short for the summer, and summer freckles sprinkled her face and arms and legs.

  Her white shorts and blue shirt were both dirty, but her face glowed as she gestured proudly to the wall behind her. “What do you think?”

  “Hey, it really came out nice, didn’t it?” I complimented.

  April’s as bad as Julia Lee. If she didn’t love teaching so much, she could make a living at interior design and she is personally handy with a circular saw and hammer.

  This house, for instance, began life as a 1920s bungalow that her uncle owned over in Makely. When he died, his son sold the lot to a supermarket and told April that she and Andrew could have the house as a wedding present if they’d move it. Since then, they’ve raised the roof to add a second floor and she keeps shifting walls the way other women rearrange furniture. Will doesn’t think she really appreciates the significance of load-bearing walls and swears that one of these days, she’s going to move one door hinge too many and the whole place is going to cave in. She just laughs and hands him a screwdriver.

  Her latest project was making herself a real work space in the den. Before, she’d used a wooden desk, a metal file cabinet and some old mismatched bookcases. Now the space was filled with a sleek built-in unit that stretched from floor to ceiling and covered the whole wall. Below were file drawers and cabinets, above were bookshelves. There was a workstation on the countertop for the family’s computer and printer and more counter space where she could spread out to grade papers.

  “I want it,” I said.

  She laughed. “Can’t have it. What you can have is my old desk.”

  The old desk was imitation mahogany and had looked okay before. Standing out in the middle of the room against the new backdrop though, it was pretty shabby.

  “Give it a coat of red enamel or decoupage it and it’ll look fine for now,” said April.

  She was right, of course, and besides, beggars can’t be choosers. I pulled out one of the drawers. It seemed to be stuffed with sixth-grade spelling papers. “Do all teachers save this much paper? You’re worse than Mrs. Avery.”

  “Is she a paper saver, too?”

  “You better believe it! When I was over there the other day, she pulled out a note that I’d tried to pass to Portland when we were in her sophomore English class.”

  April gave a rueful laugh. “I would cluck in superior horror if I hadn’t just found an absentee excuse from the mother of a student who graduated from college last month. I keep thinking I’m going to sort through and keep selected samples—you do like to see how the children compare from one year to another—but look at all these cartons! I’m tempted to just close my eyes and have A.K. take them all to the firehouse.”

  “Firehouse?”

  “They have a recycling bin there for white paper. The dump recycles newspapers, magazines and corrugated cardboard but they’re not into copier paper yet.”

  For a minute I hesitated, almost feeling a connection somewhere.

  Then it was gone.

  “How’s it been going?” I asked. “With A.K. and everything?”

  “Okay.” Her bright face dimmed a little. Then she shrugged. “It kills me that he’s going to have a record, but I keep reminding myself that it’s not as if I had serious hopes of his going to Harvard or becoming a brain surgeon. All he’s ever wanted to do is farm just like his daddy and a jail record certainly didn’t hurt Andrew’s ability to farm. So all in all…”

  “A.K.’s a good kid,” I said.

  She smiled. “Oh, Deborah, honey, I do know that. But he doesn’t always think. These three weekends may truly be what he’s needed. A taste of what can happen if he’s not more careful. He’s going to be just fine.”

  “Okay,” I said briskly. “Will said something about a sleeper couch?”

  “Right. You may not have seen it before because we’ve had it up in the spare bedroom. Ruth’s decided she wants to switch rooms, so we’re going to get rid of it. It’s one my Aunt Mildred had. The fabric’s awful but it has good lines and the mattress is very comfortable.”

  I winced when I saw the blue and purple stripes with little pink morning glories twining in and out.

  “We can reupholster it,” she said brightly.

  “Aunt Zell probably knows somebody.”

  “So do I, but it’s a lot cheaper if we do it ourselves. Anyhow, let me know when you’re ready for these things and I’ll have them sent over.”

  I hugged her hard. “Thanks, neighbor.”

  Will was gone when I got back and I used my new keys to get inside and walk through the empty rooms. I noted how the late afternoon sunlight fell through the windows, looked at the view from the sunroom, saw from my screened porch how the pond reflected the willows and overhead clouds.

  Nothing is certain in life and heaven knows the county is changing out from under our feet, but I thought how I might very well live out my life here. Fifty years from now I could be an arthritic old woman who sits on this very same porch to enjoy afternoon sunlight and to watch summer clouds float across a mirror-flat sheet of water.

  Enter into thy kingdom and take possession.

  I will plant pecan trees, I promised myself. I will have daylilies and gardenias, azaleas and irises, and all the flowers of my mother’s garden. I will take cuttings of Aunt Zell’s lilacs and Miss Sallie Anderson’s pink roses and Daddy’s figs. I’ll dig dogwoods out of the woods and maples and willow oaks.

  Deep inside my head, the preacher and the pragmatist nudged each other in the ribs and began to laugh. I ignored them. I would too make the time.

  And yes, Haywood was going to have to move that damn greenhouse or I’d move it for him. It was just like—

  “Ah,” said the pragmatist, halting in mid-laughter. “Do you suppose—?”

  The preacher sat very still, and then he nodded.

  Parallel construction, I thought, remembering Mrs. Avery’s English classes. Or did I mean math? If A is to B as C is to D, then A equals C?

  More like C squared, I decided, as everything I’d observed over the last few weeks began to line up and make sense.

  25

  Carry a grudge and it gets heavier with every step.

  —Freedom Baptist Church

  My phone line hadn’t yet been connected, but even though I had my cell phone on the car, I didn’t have a directory. I suppose I could have called 911 and explained that it wasn’t really an emergency and could I please have the fire chief’s home number, but in the end, it was easier to call Seth and ask him.

  It took three calls to locate him, then two more to locate the deputy chief, who said No, not as far as he knew, but he could ask some of the others.

  Dwight wasn’t as obliging. He was off duty, he said. He had some fresh tomatoes from his mother’s garden and was about to make himself a killer BLT as soon as the bacon thawed enough to prise off a few slices and no, running halfway across the county on a spur-of-the-moment whim wasn’t how he’d planned to spend his evening, thank you very much.

  I waited him out, then told him that if he didn’t want to come, I’d call Ed Gardner. Let Ed get all the glory. Let the Ledger and the News and Observer make what they would of the fact that Colleton County couldn’t take care of its own problems but had to have
the Feds solve it for them while its chief of detectives stayed home to fix himself a tomato sandwich.

  “Okay, okay! I’m on my way. Meet you at the firehouse in twenty-five minutes.”

  “Don’t forget to get a search warrant from the magistrate,” I said.

  “Tell me again what we’re looking for and where you think we’ll find it?”

  “Well, I’m not completely sure,” I admitted, “but you should recognize it when you see it, and as for where—” I quickly listed some general areas.

  It was actually closer to thirty-five minutes before Dwight rolled up at the firehouse. Unless he’s expediting—blue lights flashing, siren howling—Dwight’s one of the slowest drivers I know.

  While I waited, the volunteer on duty, a recent transplant from Rochester, gave me the fifty-cent tour and I was shamed into writing a check for their fund toward a new fire truck. I looked at the large recycling bin for collecting white office paper and no, he told me, he’d never seen anybody rummaging through it, but that wasn’t to say they couldn’t.

  I casually dropped Donny Turner’s name into the conversation and that got me a glowing account of young Turner’s tireless dedication. “Donny checks by here almost every night, even when he’s not on call. He’s up for Volunteer of the Year again this year.”

  We still had two good hours of daylight left when Dwight finally pulled in beside my car. He was followed by a patrol car with officers Jack Jamison and Mayleen Richards.

  “I figure if I’m gonna search, I might as well have some help.”

  We drove in tandem out to the King homeplace.

  Grace King Avery was watering her collection of flowering baskets on the screened back porch when our three cars came to a stop on her newly graveled driveway. She wore her usual cotton shirtdress—this one was pink—and her gray hair was tied back in a black ribbon. It was the first time I’d ever seen her without a bun. Retirement must be making her lax, I thought.

  The white dog came to the screen door, nudged it open with his head and stood on the doorstep barking loudly.