October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1)

by Valerie Power

  APACHE WOKE FROM HIS doze with a jerk. Something had echoed through the canyon, over the hills and small valleys.

  It was almost sunup. The boy’s car was long gone, so it must’ve been some other noise that awakened him.

  He flared his nostrils and drank the wind, trying to find a clue. Smells came from his place of birth, dusty plains and narrow canyons, red cliff walls next to the mighty river forging through. Currents from the east. The air was dry and his nostrils cracked inside as he huffed long lungfuls of it.

  It rarely blew this way, and when it did, there was usually trouble.

  He made a few vocalizations. His ears strained against the wind. No response.

  He paced around his pen. Stopped to drink, dunking his nostrils underwater to moisten them. Threw his head up again and smelled. This time along with the metal and diesel and fresh earth on the neighboring mountain top, he picked up another smell, closer—the musk of a big cat.

  He went still, stretching his eyes wide in the half dark, every muscle trembling. Alone and vulnerable, he faced the hillside above his woman’s house and the larger slope beyond it, ready to trumpet a warning, ready to fight if necessary. He stayed rigid, mane and tail whipping around him in the arid wind, until sunrise.

  * * *

  IT WAS MIDMORNING WHEN Deirdre took a break from her bookkeeping. She stretched and opened her email, letting the messages download as she refreshed her coffee. If there was nothing urgent, she’d go down to the horses. Walt always fed them in the early morning, so she could deal with the kids and breakfast.

  There was a Fairy Fax, and she clicked on it. Fairy Faxes were like a neighborhood information line. They’d started as actual faxes, but now were sent by email. Someone had helpfully suggested they change the name to Fairy Facts, but it hadn’t stuck. She couldn’t remember which neighbor was in charge of sending them out now. The responsibility rotated regularly, decided at the town council meetings.

  FAIRY FAX 10/04/07 Jamie Cruz Of Ferrywether Lane reports hearing a “very high pitched shrieking” coming from the trees along the creek last night. Here’s a fun fact. Mountain lions’ cries are often mistaken for a woman screaming. REPLY ALL I’m not an idiot. I know what a mountain lion sounds like. This was no mountain lion. -Jamie

  “Better not tell Clara,” she muttered. Spectral animals were one of her favorite topics. Clara not only knew all the legends and ghost stories of Fairy Glen but told them to anyone who would listen—strangers at the grocery store, fellow ballerinas, her third grade classmates. If Deirdre questioned her, she’d proclaim, “It’s History Mama!” as if it were all written down in a big book somewhere instead of made up in the minds of superstitious country folk.

  Stretching her arms overhead, she opened the slider and took Buck and Granger with her. The weather was turning in that way October always does, cool, then hot, then cool again, with lots of wind thrown in. Today was still and hot, but the wind overnight had pulled a bunch of palm fronds down and they were scattered about the yard. She gathered a few, dragging them to the dirt patch next to the hen house.

  But where were the chickens? The coop door was ajar. Claw scratches on the wood next to the latch. Chickens gone.

  “Here chicky chicky chicks!” she called frantically, searching the yard.

  Buck and Granger happily bounded around, thinking it was a game of hide-and-seek.

  Finally, she stopped to listen, and aside from the phone ringing inside, she heard a faint buck buck, buuuuck. She followed the sound to the old shed. Inside, the floorboards were rotted through, and in the space between the floor and the ground, the hens had wedged themselves in.

  “Poor girls!” she said, and picked one up, hoping the rest would follow. They were probably traumatized, but it was fairly safe for them outside during the day, so she put it down, wondering whether it was a fox or a raccoon, or even a coyote that had visited. “And why didn’t you bark?” she asked the dogs.

  She continued down the slope from the backyard to the horse pens. They weren’t quite as bad as that old shed, but could definitely use some work. Pipe corral turnouts led out from the two shed-roofed stalls with flaking paint. These were supposed to be temporary, but eight years had gone by and they still hadn’t rebuilt on their own property, further up the creek, which had burned in the last fire. Insurance payouts from the last wildfire were late and small, and with the cost of permits, not to mention construction…surprised at herself, she felt tears forming. No, no crying. Just need to work harder, save up more money.

  Scarlet must be inside her barn, but Ginny, her elderly white Arab, had her head over the back fence, interested in something down towards the stream. Deirdre followed her gaze.

  A glint of glass—the scope of a rifle, just beyond the fence. A man was aiming a rifle at her! Buck and Granger saw him in the same instant she did, and took off running at him like trained Dobermans.

  Stifling a scream, she ran back to the house, hunching all the way, locked all the doors and crouched down, crabwalking from the family room to the phone on the wall near the pantry, keeping her head below window level. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she chanted.

  She pulled the kitchen phone off the wall above her, punched in 911 and waited, wedged into the corner of the cabinets.

  When the dispatcher answered, she whispered as loud as she dared, “There’s a man in my backyard with a gun!” She stayed on the line for what seemed like forever, not really understanding anything the dispatcher was saying except, “Stay on the line with me…” The dogs barked like crazy, then went silent, and she squeezed out a tear, certain they were dead. Thank god the kids were at school.

  When she heard a knock on her door, she hesitated, but then someone called to her. She crawled to the hallway and recognized Deputy Harvey’s paunchy silhouette though the frosted glass oval in the door. She opened it a crack and peeked out.

  He was the sheriff that patrolled Fairy Glen, a plain-faced man probably only in his thirties, but with the look of someone older, and a midwest twang to his speech. He told her to stay put and he’d check it out.

  A few minutes later he called her out into the backyard. “It’s okay Mrs. Boyd, they’re surveyors. Saying the property owner was notified three weeks ago.”

  She heard someone yelling, “Could you call your dog?” Buck was down behind the fence and she could hear him tearing around through the brush, probably desperately trying to get the man to play with him. Granger trotted over and gave her a serious look, like he was embarrassed by his dogbrother.

  “Buck! Get over here, NOW!” she yelled.

  Buck came round the barn looking temporarily chagrined, then loped over with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. She walked around the end of Ginny’s shelter and could now clearly see the man, wearing an orange vest and holding nothing more sinister than a surveyor’s scope. Another man farther down the streambed waved too, then picked up his big tripod and repositioned it slightly.

  “Thanks,” the first man said, and waved, a not-quite apology for scaring the crap out of her. She didn’t wave back.

  She and the deputy walked back through the house. At the front door, Deputy Harvey turned to her. “Any reason you assumed it was a gun?” he asked, his face neutral.

  “He had a scope aimed at me. That’s why,” she said hotly. “And no, we were never notified.”

  “Well, this is Fairy Glen, not a Tom Clancy novel. So, rest easy,” Deputy Harvey laughed at his own joke. He wrapped it up—no harm, no foul, no report—and left.

  She closed the front door and leaned back on it. Feeling like a fool, she pulled her hands down her face. On the table in the hall, the message light was flashing. She hit play.

  “Hi—Walt and Deirdre, it’s Bob.” Their landlord. “I guess there’s going to be some surveyors behind the property today—I just got the letter in the mail myself.” Bob lived way up north in the Sierras now and only got to town for his mail a few times a month. “It’s uh, well, shou
ldn’t be anything to worry about. Anyway, sorry for the late notice. Oh, got the rent check by the way too. Thanks.”

  The phone call she’d heard while she was cleaning up the yard. Dear Lord.

  No, she wasn’t a fool. A big reason she had thought it was a gun was because as she played back the movie in her mind of that man standing on the promontory, she remembered something. She’d first been so worried about fire, and then wrapped up in memories of her cop father, that the bulge of crisscrossing straps through the fine suit fabric stretched across the man’s back didn’t even register. Her father, who wore a shoulder holster every day of his life, until he retired early after his heart attack to run the bar.

  That man had a gun.

  And then later she’d seen the same man with someone else, their silhouettes black against the blazing orange sunset, for all the world looking like they wanted to kill each other.

  And to that, she had a witness. She got herself together, changed into jeans and had a snack, and headed back down to the barn to tack up Scarlet.

  She rode to Vivian’s house, the Victorian on the side of the big hill at the southwestern edge of Fairy Glen. But instead of a direct approach she found herself in stealth mode. Vivian was almost a pariah, and somehow she didn’t want anyone knowing she was going there. She crossed over the shoulder of the hill on a deer trail.

  The whole time, she was thinking about how she’d approach Vivian, realizing she’d been so self-centered assuming Vivian was watching her, when she might’ve been watching that man—those men.

  Apprehension filled her. Vivian intimidated her—she admitted it to herself. Compared to her she felt uneducated or low class, or…what was it? Did she see Vivian as a superior? Vivian had once had a high-powered career as VP for some pharmaceutical company, but now she didn’t do anything, and from the whispers of the neighbors, the only visits she ever got were from the UPS guy.

  Scarlet stumbled on the rocky trail as she picked up her pace, and Deirdre wondered if she should have come this way. Scarlet wasn’t the most surefooted horse, but at least today she was willing, pulled as if by a magnet towards Vivian’s.

  She rode into the side yard, and called out, “Yoohoo!”

  Apache trotted to greet them, flipping his big head over the top rail of the rough wood fenced paddock. Although they were different colors and different breeds, he reminded her of Bowie, with his stocky build and honest face. She admired his shimmering grayish brown coat, tipped with blackish brown unruly mane and tail, and a faint dorsal stripe down his muscular back. He was sturdy, like most mustangs, a tough survivor. Probably much more surefooted than little princess Scarlet here.

  A few seconds, and Vivian opened the door, clearly surprised to see her. Her casual knit shirt hung from her frame. Was she getting thinner, or was she just slouching? Jeez, with all that yoga you’d think she would have better posture. She still had the impeccably cut shoulder length hair. A piercing face full of cruelty or suffering, you couldn’t tell which. “Well well. Deirdre, mistress of the sorrows.”

  “You could call me that, especially on weekday mornings getting the kids ready for school,” she laughed, but then worried—Vivian didn’t have kids. Was that on purpose, or not? “Anyway, uh…I was riding by and suddenly nature called,” Deirdre explained, unsure why she was making excuses for coming. “I was wondering if I could use your bathroom.” She slid off Scarlet.

  Vivian scowled and flicked her eyes to the hillside as if to say, all those bushes and you have to come here to relieve yourself? But she stepped back and let Deirdre inside.

  The guest bathroom was obviously rarely used and lacked personality. It had toilet paper, hand soap, but no towel. Bright white walls glared back at her reflection in the mirror as she washed her hands. She smoothed her dark reddish hair and its grown-out blondish highlights, trying to look respectable, and left, wiping her hands on her jeans.

  Vivian stood looking out the diamond panes of glass on the the kitchen door. Damn, she was practically skeletal. The window light accentuated the hollows beneath her cheek bones. She was even skinnier than after her parents died last year. Deirdre had dropped in on her with casseroles, soup and other hot dishes. But Vivian had remained a cold fish. This was the first time she’d been let inside the house.

  Vivian turned and held out a glass. “Iced tea?”

  Deirdre wordlessly accepted, and drank about half of it before she ran out of air and brought it down from her lips. Trail riding is thirsty business. “Thanks,” she gasped.

  Vivian said, “You’re not dressed for a fox hunt today.” So Vivian had seen her the other day. She just admitted it.

  “Oh, yeah…I’m getting ready for a show—I went out right after my lesson with Bonnie."

  This would be the perfect segue, but she hesitated. She looked around, feigning interest. Vivian’s kitchen was mostly white. White tile countertops, white painted wood cabinetry, and a garden window over the sink where some half-watered herbs struggled a bit, but survived. It was nice, but not overdone. No dark granite countertops, no commercial gas range or stainless steel SubZero fridge. She liked that. Who needs commercial fridges and ranges in their homes? Most of Rancho Alto, that’s who. Her contractor neighbor made quite a living installing custom high-end kitchens over there. He’d even told her that recently people had been asking him to build second kitchens. Like one out in the open that the guests could see, and one hidden in a giant pantry for the caterers to use. She wasn’t sure if she believed him or if he’d been pulling her leg.

  “I like your house, is it a real Victorian?” she asked, hoping to build some sort of rapport.

  “No, it’s from the eighties. Victorian was hot then.” Vivian made a wry face. “Remember Jessica McLintock? Looks like a goddamned dollhouse to me.” She turned back around, staring out the window at the horses.

  “I just got super hungry,” Deidre said, getting an idea. Maybe Vivian forgot to eat because she was alone, like how the dogs wouldn’t eat their kibble unless someone stayed in the kitchen with them. “Got anything to eat? I’ll make it.” She went to the fridge and opened it before Vivian could say no. Mostly vegetables. Oh well, she could make a salad—

  Apache trumpeted, and Scarlet squealed. “Damn it!” said Vivian, and flung the back door open.

  Outside, Scarlet had managed to flip around to the other side of the hitching post, gotten to the very end of her rope, and aimed her round red butt up against the fence. Her auburn tail was rising slowly, almost flipping over itself, and Apache pawed fiercely, hitting the fence a few times. Scarlet shot a hoof back, busting the fence board in one crack.

  Vivian stuck her pinkies in her mouth and whistled, practically deafening Deirdre. Apache whirled around, and in a big floating trot, propelled himself across his corral towards them, threw his sturdy head over the fence and blinked from under his bushy black forelock. Impressive.

  Vivian felt her pockets desperately. “Hey grab me a carrot,” she said out of the side of her mouth. Deirdre grabbed one from the 50 pound bag that took up the whole bottom shelf of the fridge, and handed it to Vivian, who transferred it to Apache’s mouth.

  While he crunched, Deirdre ran to untangle Scarlet. “What are you doing baby girl?” she said under her breath, yanking the rope to undo the safety knot.

  “She’s in heat,” Vivian said accusingly.

  “She wasn’t this morning,” Deirdre said, then, “OW!” as Scarlet danced over her toe. “Are you sure he’s gelded?” she asked, throwing the blame back at Vivian.

  There was a disdainful pause. “Of course—I adopted him from the BLM. You know that.”

  Deirdre took a deep breath. This was not going as planned. Forget getting cozy with this gal.

  But now she didn’t care anymore. She turned to face Vivian. “Maybe you should’ve adopted two horses while you were at it. Or at least a donkey.”

  Vivian didn’t say anything, maybe didn’t hear her, so she went on, getting madder as she talked, �
�Why do you keep him all alone? It’s fine to do that to yourself, but what about him? It’s practically animal cruelty. Everyone says so. You have quite a reputation. But I always try to defend you. I’ve tried to be a friend to you.”

  Vivian stopped, looking stunned for a second, until she recoiled and spat back, “You have a reputation too.”

  Deirdre blinked. “What reputation?”

  “As an over-reactor. A Nosy Neighbor.”

  That wasn’t too surprising, but it still stung. “I don’t care if I overreact sometimes. Better than sticking your head in the sand. We have to rely on each other, protect each other.”

  Vivian turned her back and fed Apache another carrot.

  “Ok, since I’m a nosy neighbor, you tell me what we both saw?”

  Vivian waited a long time before she spoke. “Why were you asking your friends about Brian Bartley last night at yoga?”

  “What does that have to do with anything? My son and his play golf.” Vivian’s face made a brief disgusted look at the word ‘golf’, and Deirdre could’ve laughed if she wasn’t so mad. “But what about those two men? They looked like they wanted to kill each other. I think one had a gun.”

  “I didn’t see what you saw. I have no idea.”

  “I find that hard to believe. Do you always carry binoculars when you’re out riding?”

  “I like to watch the hawks.”

  Hawks. She was lying. Apache nodded vigorously, chewing the last of his carrot.

  Deirdre realized Vivian was not going to budge, at least not today. She turned to Scarlet, checked her cinch and mounted up.

  As she rode away, Vivian called out, “Oh, and Deirdre? If I was you, I’d be careful about sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  * * *

  REBECCA STARTED HER SHIFT at 4 p.m., mentally bracing herself for the next five hours. Billy was there with his headset, punching in the drive-thru orders as usual. Jeremy had called in sick. He won’t last long here, she thought. Mr. Fariz can tell when you’re faking.