Arson Takes a Dare: The Third Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 3)

by Jada Ryker

  “My psychologist said I posted it because I am pathologically afraid of my daughter becoming terminally ill.” Tamara’s desperate eyes flicked from her husband to the rifle between them.

  “If you were so afraid, then why did you use the donations to pay off the astronomical balances on your credit cards?” Brent’s work shoes scraped the roof.

  Alex narrowed his eyes. “Credit cards? Tamara ran up credit card debt?”

  “Tamara maxed out her credit cards behind my back. She was desperate to get them paid before I found out what she’d done.” Brent passed a shaking hand across his mouth.

  “If you made more money, I wouldn’t have needed to use credit cards.” Tamara glared at her husband.

  “If Tamara would run up credit card debt, then she’d do anything.” Alex was adamant.

  Marisa refrained from rolling her eyes. Trust Alex to use financial responsibility as a yardstick for guilt. Her heart pounded. Which one? “Brent’s hair is sticking straight up. He must have been inside the cart.”

  Tamara laughed without humor. “His head always looks like that. His hair drives his barber crazy. It grows every which way on his head. Like a crazed bush.”

  “I’m married to a psychopath. I don’t have time to get my hair cut.” Brent matched his wife’s stealthy movements.

  “Brent, you sound a tad unbalanced.” Marisa ignored his snarl. “What else did your psychologist say?”

  He spared her a quick glare. “And I have to tell you what my counselor said because…?”

  “Because she’s the one with the gun, and she hates sarcasm.” Alex’s tone was reasonable and confident.

  Marisa glanced at Alex. His face was shiny with perspiration, and his mouth was tight with tension.

  Brent sighed. “My counselor said I feel compelled to rescue damsels in distress. When I met her, Tamara was a single mother with a three-year-daughter. She was living on government assistance in a housing project. I met her through an online dating website.”

  “If Tamara was unemployed and living on government assistance, how did she afford a computer and the internet?”

  “Great question, er, Alex, right? I should have asked myself how she afforded the expensive gadgets, stylish clothes, and visits to the tanning bed.” Brent’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

  “I did use credit cards, but I needed to spend money to attract a husband who could support us. Too bad my knight in shining armor turned out to be a rusty assembly line worker with a pathological inability to spend money.” Tamara shuffled nearer to the gun.

  “Too bad my damsel in distress turned into a spending, attention-seeking harpy.” Brent slid inches closer to the rifle.

  Marisa moved into a shooting stance, one of her hands cupping the other one. She carefully placed her finger on the trigger guard. “Alex, smell their hands. The one whose hands smell of gunpowder is the villain. Go around the outside of them and don’t get in the line of fire.”

  “Both their hands smell of gunpowder.” Alex joined Marisa.

  “She must have put the gun in my hands, and fired it while I was still unconscious.” Brent sneered. “Messed up, didn’t you, Tamara? You didn’t think about the smell getting on your own hands, did you?”

  “Everyone just calm down.” Marisa wondered how long she could hold her stance. Her arms trembled and itchy sweat rolled down her ribs and her back. “How did you two get to this point? You must have loved each other, or you wouldn’t have gotten married.”

  Brent growled. “She fooled me. When we were dating, she acted kind, loving, and nurturing. How could I know she was mentally ill and had anger management issues? When she lost her temper, she hit me and threw things at me.”

  Alex interjected, “Statistically, men are more likely to batter women than the other way around.”

  “You’re right, Alex.” Holding her stance, Marisa wished she could take off her jacket. “I volunteer at the domestic violence shelter. It’s rare for men to need help extricating themselves from a female batterer.”

  Alex touched her back. “Of course, men probably under report incidences of domestic violence. They’re ashamed—”

  “Excuse me, we have a situation here. We’re not filming a documentary on domestic violence.” Brent was sarcastic.

  “You see who has the anger management issues?” Tamara crowed. She glanced down at the rifle and back up at Marisa. “He was the one who hid his true nature. He’s probably been sneaking out to the Knob Hill Gun Range to hone his weaponry skills. They let people shoot automatic weapons and even bazookas out there. He may have more weapons stashed.”

  Alex leaned over the short wall bordering the roof. “Either Dreamus responded to my text and pictures or the University police have figured out the ruse. They’re surrounding this building.”

  “I can’t let her get that rifle.” Brent lunged.

  Tamara desperately scrabbled for the weapon as Brent touched it.

  “Alex, which one is the bad guy?” Marisa’s breath hitched.

  “I don’t know. If we go with the odds, then it’s him.”

  Tamara jerked the gun from her husband’s hands and staggered backward. She brought the barrel up.

  I hope I have this right. If I’m wrong, I can’t undo it. Marisa stared down the sight. She shot Tamara in the abdomen.

  Dropping the rifle and opening her mouth in shock, Tamara staggered backward into the concrete wall. Hugging her stomach, she screamed at Marisa. “How did you know, bitch?”

  “You mentioned Knob Hill Gun Range. You must have gone there to practice your shooting skills for this caper.” Marisa flipped the safety on the gun. Then, she pushed the release button and popped the magazine out of her gun. She slid the container of bullets into her pocket. After checking her weapon for a chambered round, she placed the gun out of reach of the fallen woman. Marisa pulled off her jacket, knelt next to the thrashing, wounded woman, and used the thick material to staunch the blood flow. Alex settled next to her, his shoulder touching hers.

  Brent choked. “I took Tamara along the creek that runs next to the gun range when we were dating. There’s a waterfall at the end of the creek. I know about the gun range, too.” He sat down abruptly.

  As the world tilted, Marisa toppled against Alex.

  His steadying arm circled her as the door to the roof opened. “Regardless if it was luck or inductive reasoning, Marisa, you’re the hero. You stopped the villain.” His lips touched her temple.

  Campus and city police poured through the door.

  “I completely forgot about Fred.” Marisa sniffed. “I’ve exhausted my quota for heroics. Let’s call Clara. We’ll tell her to go and free her suitor.”

  “Then let’s have some free lunch.” Alex helped her to her feet.

  Marisa repressed a scream.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “It’s already gone viral. The video shows a dead bull rider with the female rodeo clown known as Driving Miss Daisy’s Cattle kneeling over him.” Officer Josh Landis dug his phone from his brand-new uniform pants.

  Lieutenant Dreamus Camden paused in the thick, thigh-high weeds of the makeshift parking area. People garbed in Western wear streamed across the field to the scattered vehicles parked haphazardly on one side of the large field. Behind the field, the Kentucky hills were alive with heated blazes of autumn color. “Hell of a first week for you, Landis.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for letting me shadow you. I’m learning a ton of stuff they don’t teach at the Police Academy. Especially at the gentleman’s club. Do you think Diana has mystical powers?”

  “No.” Dreamus sighed. “Let’s focus on this case and the dead body for now.”

  “Yes, sir. When Miss Daisy staggered to her oversized feet, there was blood all over the fallen man’s shirt. The spectator captured it on a cell phone, and posted it to his Phiz Phase Page. People saw the video posted online and flooded the station with frantic phone calls.”

  The lieutenant craned his neck and pointed
to a large dirt oval surrounded by deserted portable bleachers. “There’s the rodeo arena.”

  Officer Landis stared in the direction indicated by his boss. “That’s not the real rodeo. It doesn’t have an American Rodeo Association aura. It has an amateurish feel, like a mom-and-pop operation.” He twisted to watch the cars and pickup trucks bumping out of the field and caravanning to the highway. “Should we get backup in here to stop people from leaving the crime scene?”

  “No,” Dreamus answered. “We don’t know if it’s a crime scene or an accident scene. Trying to stop them would be like trying to stop a flooding river. The entire Grayhampton Police Department couldn’t stop them. They’d get swept away.”

  Landis tilted his shorn head toward the large metal building near the oval, his scalp white and shiny with sweat from the warm autumn sun directly over their heads. “That big metal building is the home of the lower tier wrestling company.”

  “I know.”

  Landis turned to Dreamus, his face lit with happy understanding. “Of course you know. I learned at the club that your girlfriend is Tara Ross and her best friend is Marisa Adair. She was Wanda Bra Woman in the wrestling shows back in the summer. It was an honor to meet her. I should have gotten her autograph.”

  Dreamus grunted.

  The officer’s voice lowered in disappointment. “I was in the police training program, and I missed the big riot. Two guys on a backhoe or dump truck crashed into the building to save Wanda Bra Woman. Her boyfriend, at least according to the wrestling show script, was The Knight in Shining Armor.”

  Dreamus unclenched his jaw. “They run wrestling shows like live soap operas—”

  “Yeah, it’s all fake but good, clean fun.” Landis frowned. “Maybe not the riot. That night, The Knight and his archenemy The Fire Breathing Dragon got into a fight over Wanda Bra Woman. The spectators joined in, picking sides. They all got hauled to the police station, right?”

  The lieutenant didn’t respond.

  Landis laughed. “The guys at the station said green scales from The Dragon’s costume still turn up from time to time. They’ve got his tail hanging up in the break room like a hunting trophy—”

  “Officer Landis, that’s enough.” It was an order, not a request.

  The smooth, pale skin of his face turned pink and he pulled at the collar of his starched navy blue police uniform shirt. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I thought since Miss Ross and Miss Wanda—I mean, Miss Adair, help you with your cases—”

  “They don’t help me, they get underfoot.” Dreamus cleared his throat. “To be fair, they have assisted from time to time. But I’ve ordered them to stay away from my crime scenes and witnesses.” And of course they never listen, he added to himself. If they show up today, I won’t have the patience to be nice. Not even with Tara. Beautiful Tara, with her cute petite figure and bouncing…curls. He pushed the thoughts of the gorgeous blonde out of his mind.

  Dreamus scanned the nearly-deserted dirt arena. The old Grayhampton City Police Department uniforms were the same shade of brownish green as the horse droppings scattered in the dirt. I like the new navy uniforms. At least they don’t look like animal excrement. He glanced at the silent officer. Landis’ uniform is as new as his police academy diploma. His skin is baby-smooth and unlined. His eyes are bright and eager. If he had a tail, he’d wag it. He sighed. People always say I look younger than my real age. Was I ever that young? If so, my inside is a whole lot older.

  Dreamus led the way to the open end of the arena. The long fence had been hauled to one side. An ambulance and the coroner’s jeep were inside the arena. Carol Brandeis, Coroner, was kneeling next to the still form lying in the dirt. Two Emergency Medical Technicians flanked her. At one side, a tall woman in a gray uniform hovered, her sleeves bearing the logo of a local private security company.

  “Pop quiz, Officer Landis,” Dreamus said. “No peeking at your phone. What’s the role of the coroner in our investigation?”

  Landis stopped and straightened his spine. “The death investigation system in Kentucky is a cooperative effort among and between county coroners’ offices and the State Medical Examiner’s Office. A coroner is a public official, appointed or elected, whose official duty is to investigate deaths under suspicious circumstances. In the Commonwealth of Kentucky, coroners and deputy coroners have the full power and authority of peace officers and they investigate the cause and manner of all deaths that are defined as coroners’ cases.”

  “Very good. Shall we ask the doctor what she thinks about the death?” Dreamus stared into the officer’s face.

  Landis brightened. “That’s a trick question. The coroner isn’t necessarily a doctor, Lieutenant. Kentucky coroners and deputy coroners who aren’t physicians must take a Basic Medicolegal Death Investigation course.”

  “Good job.” Dreamus pointed. “That’s Coroner Brandeis. She’s a mortician with the Grayhampton Final Resting Place. Her favorite expression is: ‘They kill ‘em and I grill ‘em’.”

  Landis shivered. “She sounds like a cold-hearted lady.”

  “Not cold. Complex. Let’s get her thoughts before they transport the body to the medical examiner for the forensic autopsy.”

  As they approached, Carol Brandeis’ head remained bowed, her dark ponytail snaking over one shoulder to touch her jeaned leg. Her rough hands were clasped between her knees. Her face was serene and her eyes were closed.

  Landis halted inches from her sneakered foot. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

  Carol Brandeis opened her eyes. “You’re new, so you don’t know my routine. Are you familiar with Buddha’s teachings?”

  The officer blinked. “Ma’am?”

  The coroner’s ponytail swung around her shoulders as she rose to her feet. Her compact figure was covered by a striped, short-sleeved shirt neatly tucked into petite-size blue jeans. “I always say a prayer at the victim’s side. I pray for the soul’s safe passage to heaven.”

  “That’s… very thoughtful.”

  “Don’t want the body with the soul still attached when the victim lands on my table for mortuary services. Sometimes it hangs in there like a hair in a biscuit.” Carol jerked her head. “Lieutenant, your minion needs the new worn off him.”

  Dreamus shrugged. If I hadn’t met Tara last spring, I was going to ask Carol out for coffee. I met Tara right after she took a pot shot at her former boss. Marisa hid Tara’s gun in her purse to shield her friend. And Tara is a recovering alcoholic. She relapsed with a vengeance, dancing on a bar with Marisa right behind her, trying to rescue her. He felt a squeezing in his chest.

  Carol Brandeis smiled, the lines at the corners of her eyes and her mouth deepening. She swatted at the dirt on the knees of her jeans, and then shaded her eyes with her latex-gloved hand. “I know you’re shorthanded, so I roped off the crime scene for you.”

  “Thanks.” Tara is like a Molotov cocktail, ready to explode with the slightest spark, Dreamus thought. Carol is like Southern iced tea, with heaping scoops of pure cane sugar and a hint of yummy vanilla. She also has a touch of something not-so-sweet and innocent.

  Dreamus frowned. A touch of nightshade, of course. It’s organic, poisonous, and yet therapeutic in small doses. He could hardly breathe due to the weight on his chest. Marisa is attractive and funny. She’s like Kentucky Ale-8. It’s a regional brand of refreshing ginger ale with a kick. Ale-8 has a loyal, almost cult-like following. Marisa seems to have her own cult-like following. Her addiction support group rallied around her last spring, ready to risk their lives to help her.

  “I took a ton of photographs for you. I’ll email them to you later.” The coroner turned away.

  Dreamus grunted. He laughed to himself. Do I think I can simply pick any woman I want out of the Grayhampton female population? Carol has never shown any interest in me. Marisa and Alex are always hyper aware of one another if they’re revolving even close to each other. And Tara… I do want to see where things go with her.

  The weig
ht in Dreamus’ chest eased as he knelt by the prone body, settled on its back on a blanket with the head twisted to the side. The man’s dark hair was long. It was drawn back in a ponytail, fastened with a leather tie. The top of his hair was crushed, likely by the cowboy hat lying near the fence. His face and neck were dark brown, his skin seared by a life in the sun. His fancy western shirt was dirty, the front covered with blood. His eyes were partially open and his mouth was slack, as if his last act had been to beg for help.

  “The witnesses are in their dressing rooms in the building, as well as the show’s management.” Carol glanced down at the still figure and then back to the lawmen. “Breathitt Crain has wounds in his chest consistent with a bull goring.” She waved at the EMTs. “You can take him away, boys.”

  “He was gored by the bull he was riding right before his death?”

  “Didn’t say that, Lieutenant.” Her wide pink mouth quirked up on one end. “You going to introduce the brand-spanking new minion?”

  Dreamus introduced them. “Then what are you saying?”

  “The wounds in his chest are consistent with those made by a bull’s horns. The rodeo staff had the bull in the pen by the time I got here. I examined the bull’s horns. Not a trace of blood. Plus, the whole incident is on video. The horns never touched the victim. Shit.”

  Landis looked shocked.

  She smiled charmingly at the officer, years dropping from her face. “I got horse poop on my boot.” She moved to the fence to scrape her tiny leather boot.

  “Do you want me to grab my crime scene kit from the car and comb the area for clues, I mean evidence, Lieutenant?” He pursed his lips and scuffed at the ground with his dusty black police-regulation shoe. “The dirt is loose and thick. The murder weapon could be here.”