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

by Jada Ryker

  The old man cackled in response to Marisa’s question. “I have pictures of every person who voted against me in the last sheriff’s election. I put them on my targets and show them what I think of them.”

  “Sheriff Creeter, we’d like to ask you some questions.” Alex’s tone of authority was at odds with his white shorts and navy golf shirt.

  Under the baseball cap, the former lawman’s face hardened. “You want to ask questions, fine. Ask all the questions you want. You’ll have to earn the answers.” The old man dug into the box of paper targets at his side. He dragged one out, removed the used target from the line, and hung up the new one.

  Marisa squinted at the image on the target. She straightened. The chair popped under her. “That’s Sheriff Knox Creeter.”

  “Sherriff Knox Creeter is my son, current sheriff, and the damned pup who whipped my ass in the election.” The former sheriff was enraged. “My own son used dirty tricks to beat me.”

  The previous targets had been grainy photographs of faces. The picture of Knox Creeter was full-length, of professional quality, and nearly life-sized. He was dressed in his uniform, complete with a gun at his side and a hat on his large round head.

  Creeter pulled on the rope until the target was some distance away. He turned to Alex. “If you can hit Knox between the eyes, then I’ll answer all of your questions.” The retired lawman offered his weapon to Alex, grip first.

  Alex backed up, stumbling over stacked firewood. “I’m not much with guns.”

  “What are you, a sissy?” Luke Creeter sneered.

  Marisa wondered if she should use the ‘sheriff’ title, since the old man had lost the election. “He’s a city boy, Sheriff Creeter. I’m a country girl.” She tried to rise from her chair. It was stuck to her behind. Diana gripped the chair and yanked it free.

  Marisa took the gun and examined it. She flipped the safety on, and placed it carefully on the porch railing, pointing toward the target area. “I’ll use my own gun.” She reached into her purse for her nine millimeter Firestar. “I’ll take a couple of warm-up shots.”

  “Marisa, stop toting that gun around with you like you’re some kind of a boondocks gangster.” Alex put one hand to his heart.

  “Shut up.” His joints creaking and popping, the old coot rose. The top of his grimy baseball cap barely reached Marisa’s shoulder. “No, you won’t, Missy. You’re either warmed up, or you’re not.” He motioned to his empty chair. He leaned against the railing and pulled a pouch of tobacco from his pocket. He opened it and stuffed a handful in his mouth.

  Marisa stepped around old spots of tobacco juice. She sat in the vacated chair. She chambered a round and flipped off the safety. With a two-handed grip on her weapon, she took careful aim. She fired her weapon twice.

  “I said no warm-up shots.” The gnarled hands hauled the paper to the porch and up to the weathered face. “Huh. One between the eyes.”

  “And one right in the groin, where it belongs.” Diana pointed with a slim, pink-tipped finger.

  The old man laughed so hard he choked on tobacco juice. “Sounds like you ladies have met my son.” He gestured for Marisa to move. “Get out of my chair.”

  * * * * *

  “Ever since that old bat Berea Kenton was on television, everyone wants to ask about those ancient arson cases.” The old man laughed, blasting the trio with his tobacco breath.

  Marisa’s eyes watered. “What can you tell us about Mayla Kenton’s death?”

  “The volunteer firefighters responded to the blaze, their fourth that summer,” the retired lawman answered. “The previous three had wrecked the properties, without the loss of any lives. This one was different. They found that girl’s body in her room. Her parents’ little dog was lying next to her, like the game little critter tried to save the human.” He shook his head.

  “What did the autopsy show?” Alex leaned against the worn railing.

  Creeter snorted. “What autopsy?”

  “How did you know the cause of death? Didn’t you need an autopsy?” Alex straightened.

  Marisa hid a smile when she saw the dirty black streak across the back of his white shorts.

  The sheriff rose from his seat and threw up his hands, sending the smell of sweat to mix with the tobacco smell. “The coroner examined the body. He was the director of the funeral home and did coroner work on the side. Who better to check out dead bodies than someone who worked with them all day?”

  “No autopsy,” Alex said. “Great. What did the coroner say?”

  “What do you think he said, you young whippersnapper?” Creeter answered. “A young woman was charred to a crisp in the fire. The parents said the daughter stayed behind in the apartment over the store while they went on vacation without her. At the time, the resort was closed. No one was staying in the cabins. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but she’d told her parents she was sick and would stay behind until she felt better. The arsonist didn’t know anyone was in the building. When he read about the girl’s death, it must have been a shock. The fires stopped.”

  Alex closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He promptly choked, and his eyes flew open. “Did you ever figure out the identity of the arsonist?”

  “I thought I did, but I couldn’t get any evidence. Plus, the fire that killed Mayla Kenton didn’t fit in with the others.” The old man spat over the side of the porch into the dusty red clay dirt. “Five brothers ran a house painting operation. On the last job they all did together, they got into a fight. It started with words, went on to thrown cans of paints and supplies, and then fists. I had to go out there and break it up. Four of the brothers went on to paint houses without the fifth, disgruntled brother. What do you think happened?” Ignoring Alex, Creeter stared at Marisa in expectation.

  “The houses the four brothers painted after the big fight were burned to the ground.” Marisa stared out across the old man’s backyard beyond the homemade gun range. The weeds would have reached her hips. Beyond, the trees seemed to form a high, impenetrable yellow and red wall. “But the brothers didn’t paint the Kenton’s building, the store with the apartment over it. Right?”

  Sheriff Creeter laughed in delight. “You’re a smart girl. I knew you’d get it.” He reached around Alex and slapped Marisa on the back.

  Diana grabbed Marisa as she teetered at the edge of the porch. “Be careful, you nearly knocked her down.”

  The old man peered up into Diana’s outraged face. “I know you. You’re a stripper at the club my son is determined to buy.” He stared up and down her striped suit and frowned at her glasses. “You dressed up for some kind of role playing game?”

  “I’m going to buy that club out from under your son,” Diana vowed. “I’m going to make major changes. The dancers and other employees will get better working conditions. They’ll also be part of a profit sharing program. They’ll earn a percentage of the profits they bring into the club.”

  “You have spunk.” Creeter shook his head, nearly dislodging his baseball cap. “But that’s not going to happen. He’s got a backer, what they call a silent partner. You can’t hope to win against them both.” He started to turn away.

  “Sheriff Creeter, would you have been the sheriff in a case about thirty years ago?” Marisa asked.

  “Nope.”

  Marisa sighed in disappointment.

  “I was a deputy then,” Creeter said.

  “Do you remember hearing the name Alisa Atkins?” Marisa glanced at Alex.

  Alex was bewildered. “What does Alisa Atkins have to do with this? She was a bully in school. She broke my arm.”

  Creeter snorted. “Why am I not surprised you let a little girl break your arm?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later, Alex.” Marisa wondered what he’d say when she got to the part about the gun in her mother’s purse. She inwardly cringed and turned back to the retired lawman.

  “A little girl named Alisa Atkins and her parents went to the sheriff,” Marisa said. “She’d
been molested by a teacher at the elementary school. Alisa says now that the sheriff at the time lost the evidence. Do you remember the case?”

  “No, I never saw any files or even heard anything about it.” The old man’s seamed face hardened. “I didn’t let pedophiles get away with their crimes. The sheriff was competent but he was for sale. If he said he lost evidence, it’s because he was paid to lose it.”

  The retired sheriff shuffled through the papers in the box at his side. He grunted and pulled out a picture of an elderly man. “That’s Alisa’s dad. I’ve got her mom in here somewhere. I remember him talking about his little girl. He said when she was born, he couldn’t decide what to name her. He finally decided she looked like a Lisa, and he named her Alisa.”

  Creeter pinned the target to the clothesline and pulled on the line. “Sure is a coincidence. Thirty years ago is about when he hit his streak of good luck. He went from poverty and foreclosure to prosperous farming. Those are two words that generally don’t go together.” He picked up his weapon.

  “Allow me, Sheriff Creeter.” Textbook perfect, Marisa completed the steps with her gun and put five shots in Alisa’s father’s photograph.

  “Marisa Adair!” Alex was shocked. “If you shoot that gun one more time, I swear I’ll take it away from—”

  “You are one whiny pup, boy.” Creeter hauled the target back to the porch. He unpinned one side of the target. He stopped, staring into space. His mouth fell open.

  “What is it, Sheriff?” Marisa touched the wrinkled shirt sleeve.

  “I never made the connection. That has to be it.” He looked up at Marisa. “You kids get on out of here. I have to get in touch with Knox right now. Skedaddle!”

  * * * * *

  In the backseat of Alex’s car, Diana leaned forward. “Why did Sheriff Creeter call you back, Alex?”

  He glanced at Marisa. “He said when I figured out I couldn’t handle Marisa, call him. He’d take her off my hands.”

  Marisa choked. “Why, that old—”

  Diana laughed so hard she fell back against the seat. Sobering, she righted herself. “Sheriff Creeter had an epiphany of some sort. It seemed to be triggered by Marisa’s questions about Alisa. It was connected with his son, since he had to get in touch with him immediately. I wonder what it was?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Am I under arrest?” Marisa looked around the tiny room and swallowed. The window was the size of a picture frame, and bare. She could see tree limbs, stripped of the colorful leaves and tossing in the chilly October wind. I will not panic, I will not panic—

  “Officially, yes, you’re under arrest, Marisa.” Dreamus looked up from the yellow legal pad in front of him. “Given the evidence, I had to take that step. If I hadn’t, I would be guilty of favoritism.”

  Panic—Panic—Panic—Marisa clenched her fists under the scarred table top.

  “Let’s get through the questions and see if we can clear this up. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.” The lieutenant’s hands were on the table between them, relaxed and still. “Alisa Atkins was killed at the hospital two nights ago. The fatal bullet matched the one you put in her at the University. The two bullets were fired from the same gun.”

  Marisa’s chest felt tight. “That’s impossible. I had my gun when Alex, Diana, and I talked to the retired Sheriff Creeter about Mayla Kenton’s death. I keep my weapon in a locked box in my bedroom. If you’ll check the house, you’ll find—”

  Dreamus shook his head in regret. “I got a warrant to search the house. The gun is missing.”

  Marisa swallowed. “My house is full of people. And animals. My mother and Berea Kenton are staying there, along with Berea’s dog. Laithe is there. He would have let me know if a stranger was in the house.”

  “Laithe is not a watch cat, Marisa. Anyway, Barbara and Berea said they spent most of the night Alisa was killed at Verna’s house. They took the animals with them. They compiled the notes from of all of your interviews with people about Mayla Kenton’s death. They stated that you stayed at the house, alone.”

  “Someone came into the house while I was sleeping,” Marisa insisted. “He stole my gun and shot Alisa.”

  The lawman ignored her theory. “Do you know a woman named Clarinda Meyers?”

  Marisa blinked at the odd verbal tangent. Oh, no. Her stomach lurched. “She’s a Radiology Technician at the hospital.” Clarinda overheard my mother’s threats against Alisa, she thought in dismay.

  “Ms. Meyers states she overheard you talking in your office,” Dreamus said. “You threatened to kill Alisa. You said she didn’t deserve to live.”

  I didn’t say that. Mom did. But I can’t throw Mom under the bus. Someone killed Alisa, but it wasn’t my mother. “Clarinda is a disgruntled employee. She called me a racist because I won’t let her use Goth-related materials with patients.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.” The lawman’s eyebrows rose.

  “Of course it doesn’t make sense.” Marisa tamped down her rising temper. “She was angry with me and threatened to call the EEOC to report me. She was in the outer office, listening to a private conversation. She’s mistaken about what she thought she heard.”

  “Some days ago, you told me that you were going to find Alisa and confront her,” Dreamus said. “She’d been a childhood bully. Then, as an adult, she singled your brother Mosely out for her special treatment. She posted lies about him on her site. She made his life miserable. He even attempted suicide.”

  “I did talk to her,” Marisa admitted, thinking the officers had probably already told him about the conversation at the hospital. “My mother and I saw her in the ICU—”

  “What?” Dreamus was shocked. “How could you see her? She was under police guard.”

  “Josh and the officer who looks like a pumpkin carved for Halloween were guarding the door.” Marisa felt like a tattletale. “They left to investigate a disturbance in the hall. Mom and I slipped inside Alisa’s room.”

  “Landis and Daviess.” Dreamus turned and glared at the mirror that comprised a large section of the concrete wall.

  The officers must be watching us, Marisa thought. “I thought you already knew about it,” she said, raising her voice so the officers could hear her.

  “Forget about the officers,” Dreamus ordered. He narrowed his eyes. “At least for now,” he said, the statement sounding like a promise to deal with them later.

  “I had to see her after the incident at the University.” Marisa met the lawman’s intent gaze. “I didn’t know at the time it was Alisa. She was going by Tamara. My mom saw her on television after the shooting and recognized her. Alisa told us she’d been molested as a child, and her parents had accepted a substantial bribe to cover it up. I reached an understanding with her. I forgave her. When I left, we were on good terms.”

  “You were on good terms with the woman who as a child had made your life a living hell?” Dreamus’ voice rose in disbelief. “You were good terms with the woman who caused your brother to attempt suicide?”

  This has to be a nightmare, Marisa thought. Wake up—Wake up—Wake up—The small room didn’t waver and disappear.

  “You were on good terms with the woman who taunted your brother with the name ‘Brace Boy’ and kicked his crutches out from under him?”

  “I want a lawyer.” Marisa buried her face in her hands.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I didn’t kill Alisa. But how can I prove it? Marisa huddled in her hard wooden seat at the front of the dark paneled courtroom. She’d scraped her wild hair into a braid and fastened it with a piece of fabric from her shirt tail. Someone had dropped off a suit, blouse, and shoes for her to wear. She wished for pants rather than a skirt. She was so cold she was shivering. She could still smell the antiseptic soap of the jail shower and the dank mold of the cell on her own skin. I’m here for the bail hearing. Will the judge even grant bail? How much will it be? Didn’t I read something about paying ten percent through a bail bo
ndsman?

  “Dreamus, you know Marisa is innocent. If you don’t let her go, I’ll never speak to you again.”

  The rising tones of her best friend’s voice penetrated Marisa’s misery. She turned her head.

  Tara’s black suit and white blouse were as conservative as a funeral director’s work clothes. Her blonde curls were ruthlessly tamed into a chignon around her head. Her pretty face was flushed with anger.

  With his boyishly handsome face and slight build, Dreamus looked like he should be wearing a high school letterman jacket and faded jeans rather than the somber dark suit. His short blonde hair caught the light like duckling fuzz. His face hardened. “Tara, I’m sick of your ultimatums. You know how much I like and respect Marisa. If you can’t trust me to do the right thing, then we’re done.”

  Tara’s body was stiff. She clenched her hands into tiny fists. She opened her mouth.

  Tara is going to go off on him like a ballistic missile. Marisa braced herself for the verbal explosion.

  She took a deep breath, expanding her chest under her jacket. She expelled it. “You’re right, Dreamus. I do trust you.” She slid into a seat directly behind the gleaming thigh-high oak wall that separated Marisa from the rest of the courtroom. She caught Marisa’s gaze and waved.

  The wooden barrier might as well be a ten-foot tall granite wall, Marisa thought miserably. I’m on the working side of the courtroom. Lawyers and the judge will vie to decide my fate. They are the participants.

  On the other side the wall, the observers watch, as if the participant area were a theater with a show just for their pleasure. Marisa frowned. Am I a participant or an observer? Does it even matter?

  The rows of faces behind Tara transformed from blurry to in focus. Familiar faces. Marisa finally noticed.

  The bright light reflected on gleaming metal. The body seemed too small for the wheelchair. The thin, curly hair was tangled above the angry face. It’s Maupin, Marisa thought, the mascot for the club where Diana works as a dancer. His dream is to be a photo journalist. Will he take pictures of me, the accused murderer, for his portfolio?