by Debra Dixon
Yet.
The day was early; they would eventually. Or they’d vent an upstairs window and chunks of falling glass would land in it. Water could destroy it. One way or another, this print was on the endangered list.
A couple of firefighters blew past him. Priority number one was the fire. First, last, and always. So he’d have to find a way to protect the print until he could cast it. They sure as hell weren’t going to tiptoe around it. Of course, if the responsibilities had been reversed, neither would he. First he took a close-up and a placement photo. Then he scanned the area.
Beau smiled. Bennett had one of those small, shiny aluminum garbage cans to supplement the city’s big blue plastic ones. Without a moment’s hesitation, Beau strode to the can and upended it, dumping garbage on the lawn.
Taking the can back to the flower bed, he flipped it upside down again and placed it over the area, careful that the print was centered in the circumference of the opening. Then he twisted the can into the ground around the impression—forming a protective dome over the print. Finally he hefted an Arkansas fieldstone from the landscaping and weighted the can down. It’d have to do.
Fifteen minutes later the fire was under control, and Beau got his first quick look inside. It was an easy call. None easier in fact. This fire was definitely of an incendiary nature.
Zippers on the stove top were always a dead give-away. When a woman was pissed off at a man, she tended to grab all of his favorite stuff, pile it on the stove, and turn on the burners. Beau had lost count of the number of zippers he’d seen on stoves.
Fire destroyed the pants, but not the zippers. Zippers just didn’t burn up completely. Even when the teeth were plastic, the tab and slide were still made out of good old metal, which was much more durable than fabric or plastic. Anytime Beau saw zipper pieces, the call was easy.
This was a classic revenge fire, and a classic woman’s fire. The Littleton woman burning her husband’s bed with him still in it was an aberration of the female pattern. In general women set smaller fires aimed at defacing property, not destroying it. Women’s fires were impulsive. That’s why he’d had Russell drive Maggie home—to give her time to think and calm down.
To avoid exactly what had happened.
Beau’s lungs began to protest the heat and lingering smoke. It was too hot to stay inside and do a thorough job. The kitchen would have to be ventilated and cooled out with fans before the arson squad could really get in. Not that there was much to do with this fire. Beau took a few shots and noted the time on the stove clock. The plastic was bubbled and scorched, but he could make out the position of the black hands. When fire cut the electricity to a stove, the built-in clock stopped, which gave an indication of when the fire might have been set.
For this fire in particular, the time line would be critical. In his mind he was doing more than gathering evidence. He was also filtering that evidence against what he knew of Maggie. The window of opportunity was tight, but she could have made it back into town to do this. However, for the first time since this dance with Maggie began, his instincts were telling him that this wasn’t her fire. Everything pointed to her, but it was wrong somehow.
The aftermath of a fire talked to Beau. Whispered to him. It always had. This one wasn’t whispering Maggie’s name. He couldn’t sense traces of anger. The fire felt cold to him, deliberate.
Regardless of your instinct, she’s still the primary suspect. Beau knew that only too well. During the last week that phrase had been engraved on his heart. It was his first cautionary thought when he woke in the morning, and his last thought at night before he surrendered to dreams. Now, he had to do his job. In arson, you worked the people, not the fire. Because the fire didn’t leave you much.
Bennett was waiting for him down by the street. The man hadn’t once tried to look inside his house to see the damage. He had vigilante justice on his mind, and his single-mindedness irritated Beau immeasurably. So did the doctor’s voice. When Bennett spoke there was always a subtle inflection that conveyed his utter contempt for mere mortals.
“Grayson, I assume that, finally, even you can grasp the implications of this fire. I want Maggie St. John arrested this afternoon. If you’d listened to me, she would have been arrested this morning and my house wouldn’t be ravaged now.”
Beau adjusted his hat, slipping it farther back on his head and decided that Maggie’s nickname for the doctor was dead-on. Beau didn’t much care for Dr. Just-Call-Me-God.
“Sir, unless Russell turned up an eye witness—” Beau paused for input; Russell shook his head—“I’ve got nothing to arrest her on.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Bennett looked incredulous. “She’s just been put on an indefinite leave of absence. She carries a grudge. She is a troublemaker, has attacked a man with a scalpel, and things go up in flames around her. What more do you need? Do your job, Grayson.”
“You know.” Beau moved closer so he could look down at Bennett. The height differential wasn’t much, but Beau suspected the doctor would hate it. “I’m really getting tired of people telling me to do my job. Let me ask you something. Can you put the match in her hand? Did you see her turn the stove on? Did anyone see her or her car in this neighborhood, skulking about your house?”
“No, sir,” Russell quickly answered for the doctor, and Beau detected a distinct note of pleasure in that response.
“Did she threaten you or your house, Doctor? In the presence of a third party?”
“No.”
“Well then, Dr. Bennett, you’ll just have to be patient like the rest of us. Last time I looked, even Louisiana’s complicated Napoleonic codes don’t allow us to hang someone on motive and bad luck. If we were allowed to do so, I’d run you in. You have an insurance policy, I bet. Your kitchen just burned down, and you found the fire. Motive, bad luck, and opportunity.”
For a long time Bennett didn’t respond. Beau could see him struggling with anger, barely suppressing it as he said, “You’re going to do nothing? Not even get a search warrant?”
“And search for what? Whoever burned down your kitchen used your stove, Doctor. Even with a shoe print, we don’t have enough for a search warrant. A shoe print doesn’t prove that person was here today. Arson is the perfect crime. If you’re lucky or good, there’s no evidence. You want some advice, Doctor? Deal with the insurance company and let us deal with the case.”
Beau took a few steps away, then snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah, if you’ve got a safe hidden away in your kitchen pantry, don’t open it until tomorrow. They hold heat, intense heat. Just the heat in the air can cause the contents to burst into flames, and we wouldn’t want your stock certificates to go up in smoke now, would we?”
Turning to Russell, he said, “I’m going back to the office. You take over, and I’ll send Jim out when I get there. You two comb this place like it was your mama’s house.”
Without a backward glance, Beau walked away. His mood didn’t improve at the office. His eyes were killing him. He hadn’t had any sleep. Carolyn Poag had phoned him three times. He was in no mood for Carolyn Poag to read him the riot act for being mean to Maggie, and he was sure that’s what she intended. He called anyway.
“Shear Indulgence!”
He winced at the sweet, chipper tone of the receptionist. “Carolyn Poag, please. Beau Grayson returning her call.”
The phone clicked to hold in a nanosecond. Beau sighed. Been there. Done that. All day.
Carolyn didn’t keep him waiting long, and she didn’t waste time on hellos. “What did you do to Maggie? She won’t pick up the phone, and she always picks up for me. Always.”
He sighed heavily and leaned forward on his desk. As he rubbed his eyes, he realized he didn’t want to know this. Not now. Not ever. But he had no choice. He had a job to do, and if Carolyn was stupid enough to unwittingly confirm Maggie’s window of opportunity, he had to listen.
Softly he suggested, “I didn’t do anything to her. Maybe she’s not home.�
��
“Where else would she be?”
Beau knew exactly where Maggie could have been, but he kept silent.
“Look, Mr. Grayson, Maggie keeps her world simple. She likes it that way. She’s got the hospital, me, and that dog. The hospital fired her. She’s not here. That means she’s at home.”
“So why are you calling me? Why don’t you just go check on her and be done with it?”
“Look up stubborn in the dictionary and you’ll find her picture. If she won’t pick up the phone for me, what makes you think she’s going to answer the door?” She sounded exasperated. “Even if she wasn’t mad at me for this morning, which she sure is—trust me—I don’t think I’m who she needs to see right now.”
He heard Carolyn take a deep breath as if accepting an unpleasant truth. “I only remind her of Sarah and the fire and her guilt. Sarah was my best friend. That’s how I got to know Maggie. She doesn’t need to be reminded of that. Or any of it. Not after this morning.”
“She was fine when she left here. She needed to cool down, but she was fine.”
“You can’t actually believe that. She’s hanging on by a thread! You saw an attack the night you went to her house. She told me. And if you don’t know by now, get a clue. Maggie is a world-class master at pretending she’s okay. Look, I couldn’t call any of the nurses at the hospital because I don’t want this to get around. That leaves you. Please. She’ll have to come to the door if she thinks it’s official. I just want to know she’s all right, and that she hasn’t … done anything.”
Beau heard the subtext that Carolyn was trying so hard not to verbalize. She was worried about Maggie’s mental state. He couldn’t buy her logic. Maybe something was wrong, but it wasn’t Maggie’s emotional stability. The woman who stormed out of his office wasn’t despondent or hanging by a thread. Granted, Carolyn knew Maggie longer, but Beau wasn’t sure she knew Maggie better.
He didn’t argue the point, though. Carolyn’s concern gave him a legitimate reason to visit a suspect without a warrant. Even as he told himself that agreeing to check on Maggie was a professional responsibility, he knew it wasn’t. This was personal.
ELEVEN
Beau pulled into the driveway and eased up behind the red sports car. Even parked, the Mustang looked as if it were moving ninety miles an hour. It occurred to him that the automobile was a metaphor for Maggie. Only the auto didn’t have to expend energy to create the illusion of forward motion. Maggie did.
She put in her shift at the hospital, fought for her patients, fought for her sister nurses, and when the world had knocked all the fight out of her, she came home, curled up on her bed, and read about countries she’d never see. Exhausted, she could fall asleep, too tired to think about where she’d been or where she was going.
But no one was allowed to see the “night” Maggie—the one who curled up in the bed with travel books, the one who was vulnerable. Maggie showed only her fast side to the world. Years in the system had trained her well. Never let them see you sweat. Never let them close enough to hurt you. Never slow down and examine your life.
He’d seen both sides of Maggie because he’d caught her off guard. Once that guard was down, it was almost impossible to put back up. He knew from experience.
Beau stared at the house for a moment, half expecting the front curtain to move. When it didn’t, he got out of his car and walked to the Mustang, which was shielded from the worst of the afternoon sun by the house shadows. He placed his hand on the hood to check the temperature. Completely cool, although that didn’t mean much. Enough time had passed since Bennett’s fire that the engine would have cooled down. His gut told him Maggie hadn’t set that fire, but while he was here, he might as well rule a few things out.
When she didn’t come to the door, he stepped up on the porch to ring the bell. When that didn’t work, he knocked. His only reward was a single woof. Backing off the porch he searched the second-floor windows for signs of life. Nothing. Not even the flutter of a curtain.
“Maggie, I know you’re home.” He didn’t yell, but had no doubt she heard him. He felt a little foolish standing in the middle of the yard with the sun beating down on him. He imagined he looked like Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire. Of course Stanley wasn’t strapped into a shoulder holster and armed with a Desert Eagle auto mag. Other than that, the comparison stood.
“Maggie! Open the door and let’s get this over with.”
Seconds passed, piling up on one another and feeding the silence. At the very least he’d expected Maggie to crack the door long enough to tell him to go to hell. With each passing second, uneasiness crept into his gut, setting up a base camp for dread.
Purposefully, he veered toward the magnolias to check the field. All he found was the silent corpse of the barn and a startled quail. When the stillness returned, Carolyn’s soft plea came like a whisper on the wind. I just want to know she’s all right.
Beau whirled, his stride lengthening with every step as he moved toward the side porch. He could see the screen in place, but the wooden door was open. Reflex took over, and Beau pulled the magnum from his holster. Something was definitely wrong. Even if she’d left the door open because of the broken air-conditioning, she’d have closed it the moment she heard his voice in the front yard. Probably would have smiled as she flipped the bolt and locked him out.
If she was hiding from the world, why leave the door open? The question nagged him. Déjà vu struck as his own personal experience provided an answer.
Unless you wanted someone to he able to get in when they came looking for you.
His heart pumped a jolt of old fear; his throat closed as he thought of his mother. Then the past cleared, and he pumped a round into the chamber. He had no doubts about Maggie. Whatever was wrong here, it wasn’t suicide. Maggie might need to be rescued, but she didn’t need to be discovered.
Maggie and his mother were two very different women, from different times. Maggie would be a fighter to the bitter end. As much as he had loved his mother, she’d never had the strength to fight or to dream. She didn’t read about sailing trips around the world or do-it-yourself safaris. But Maggie fought and Maggie dreamed. The sheer number of travel books testified to Maggie’s belief that somewhere, someplace would be worth the risk. She didn’t give up.
He took the side porch steps in one leap. Another stride put him at the screen. Beau lifted his hand to the handle, but a growl warned him just in time. To get to Maggie he was going to have to go through a hundred and fifty pounds of canine muscle and teeth.
“Easy, girl.” Carefully he lowered his hand and holstered his gun.
He didn’t waste time trying to charm his way in. Gwen had never really appreciated his charm. What he needed was food. Lots of food. If he was lucky, he might have an old vending machine package of peanut butter crackers in his glove compartment.
Every couple of months he’d forget that he didn’t really like the peanut butter kind. He’d buy a pack, eat one, and shove the rest out of sight. After sprinting to his car, he ripped open the compartment and found a two-pack bonanza. He grabbed them both. They were probably way past the expiration date and stale as month-old cake, but Gwen couldn’t read and he wasn’t going to tell her.
The hard soles of his shoes struck the boards of the wraparound porch like a courtroom gavel. Gwen heard him coming as he turned the corner. The screen bulged outward as she poked it with her nose, trying to see sideways down the porch. The door bounced open from the pressure, then he heard the snap of the hook-and-eye latch as the door reached its limit and stopped.
If the dog wanted to, she could rip right through that flimsy screen. Beau had already seen those teeth at close range. He wasn’t eager to repeat the experience. As he approached, he was reminded of how protective Gwen was. Gwen wouldn’t be challenging him if there was a stranger in the house. The dog would be glued to Maggie’s side. Unless that person was known to Gwen. Unless that person was already gone, out the front d
oor before he ever arrived.
The growl came, each time he moved.
“Easy, girl. I’ve got a bribe right here.” He shoved one pack in his shirt pocket and fished a cracker out the other. Carefully he slid it through the opening, keeping his fingers as far back as possible. Gwen stopped snarling long enough to snatch the treat and swallow it whole.
“Didn’t your mama teach you to chew your food first?” Beau had been counting on the fact that a dog with peanut butter stuck to the roof of its mouth had better things to do than eat intruders. As much as he wanted to hurry, he knew he had to take it slow.
Two more crackers followed the first one into the maw. She wasn’t growling anymore, but neither was she wagging. Beau fished the fourth cracker out, dropped the cellophane, and grabbed the door handle. When she snatched, so did he. The frame splintered, and the latch popped loose.
Beau braced himself, but Gwen did nothing more aggressive than begin to growl again. Carefully he pulled out the second cracker package. By the time he was down to his last stale cracker, he had managed to work his way across the threshold. With his last bribe, he scratched her behind the ears and walked past her. “Stay here.”
An old newspaper clipping lying on the kitchen table caught his eye. LOCAL TEEN DIES IN ACCIDENTAL BLAZE. The date was identical to the one on the charred corner he’d fished from the grate. Why would Maggie keep two copies of the same article? More important, why would she burn only one?
“Maggie!” He pulled his gun as he called her name, but didn’t wait for a response. In rapid succession he checked each of the downstairs rooms and then started up the stairs. “Maggie?”
Her bedroom was empty and so were the bathroom and what looked like a TV room with big comfortable chairs. He made no effort to soften his footsteps as he reversed directions to the other end of the hallway. The runner beneath his feet was so thin, it was worthless at deadening noise.
