Annette Dashofy - Zoe Chambers 03 - Bridges Burned

by Annette Dashofy

  The temperature of the water pelting her was perfect. Not too hot, not too cold. She let it drench her hair before soaping up. After the intense heat and work in the barn, the tepid shower spray felt almost too cool. As she worked shampoo into a lather with one hand, she cranked up the hot water with the other. But it seemed slow to warm up. In fact, she shivered. She squinted through the soap to make sure she hadn’t accidently turned the wrong dial. No. Not the problem.

  Zoe spun the hot water spigot all the way up, expecting to be scalded. Instead, she shivered in the icy stream.

  No hot water.

  And with a head full of shampoo, she couldn’t simply quit mid-shower. Gritting her teeth, she did her best to stand back and keep only her head under the spray. She’d always thought you had to actually eat ice cream to get an ice cream headache. Now she knew better. When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she slammed the spigot off, hoping she’d washed out most of the soap.

  Twenty minutes later, after drying her hair and slipping into a tank top and shorts, she headed down to the basement for the second time in as many days. At least this time there was light, courtesy of a few bare bulbs along the low ceilings.

  She opened the breaker box and studied the switches. None appeared to be tripped. But she found the one tagged “Hot Water” and flipped it off and back on again. Nothing happened. She stepped over to the ancient tank and glared at it as if she could intimidate it into working. Nothing. No hum or gurgle or hiss. She gave the tank a whack with the heel of her hand. Still nothing.

  What Zoe knew about these things could fit in a shot glass and leave plenty of room for whiskey. Should she call an electrician? Or a plumber? Mr. Kroll would know. But would Mrs. Kroll? Probably not.

  With a sigh, Zoe trudged up the basement stairs. At the top, she hesitated and glanced at the door to her side of the house on the left then frowned at the one on the right. She reached for the knob and eased it open, peering into the empty center hallway.

  “Mrs. Kroll?” she called.

  From somewhere in the house, her landlady replied, “Zoe?”

  “Yeah. I’m in the hall at the basement door. Where are you?”

  A moment passed before Zoe heard footsteps on the main staircase. She slipped the rest of the way into the hall as Mrs. Kroll made her way down the steps. “What’s wrong, dear? Did the power go out again?”

  “No, but have you tried to use any hot water lately?”

  Mrs. Kroll reached the bottom of the stairs and hobbled toward Zoe. “I washed up a few dishes after lunch. Why?”

  “Did the water seem…cool?”

  The woman brought a gnarled finger to her cheek and tapped thoughtfully. “Hmm. Now that you mention it, I did think the water wasn’t as hot as it should’ve been.”

  “Something’s wrong with the hot water tank. I just had a cold shower.”

  “Oh, dear. Now what do we do? Wait. Maybe it’s a breaker like it was yesterday.”

  “I already checked. Have you had problems with it before? Maybe there was something Mr. Kroll did to reset the heater?”

  Mrs. Kroll shook her head. “No, never. We’ve had that tank for at least thirty years and never had a bit of trouble with it. Why now?”

  Probably because you’ve had it for at least thirty years, Zoe thought. “I’ll make some phone calls and try to get a serviceman out here. In the meantime, we’ll have to pretend to be hardy pioneer women and heat water on the stove.”

  “A serviceman,” Mrs. Kroll echoed. “More bills. I don’t know where I’m going to come up with the money.”

  Zoe watched her landlady turn and shuffle away, shoulders slumped. “I’ll try to think of something,” Zoe called after her.

  Zoe ducked through the passageway under the main staircase back to her side of the house. Within those few steps, the seed of an idea sprouted. Two women living alone in a mid-nineteenth century farmhouse, which was quickly falling into a state of disrepair. Bills mounted. Income didn’t. One possible solution—the business card still in Zoe’s dirty jeans’ pocket—didn’t appeal to her at all. But fifteen miles away, in a scummy motel room, a little girl and her out-of-work carpenter father needed a place to stay.

  Pete stopped at the explosion site on his way home from the county seat. Yellow tape encircled Farabee’s property. The state fire marshal’s team continued to sift through the debris. A dozen or so onlookers stood off to one side, snapping pictures of Monongahela County’s newest tourist spot.

  One of the investigators broke away from his work long enough to update Pete on their findings, which amounted to zilch. So far.

  He climbed into his SUV and drove through the narrow opening in Stephen Tierney’s privacy fence, parking in front of the garage. Pete strode up the sidewalk noting the drawn blinds in the windows. He suspected Tierney was still out of town, but rang the doorbell anyway. He was greeted with total silence. No footsteps. No shuffling to indicate someone might be home but pretending otherwise.

  After pounding on the door produced identical results, Pete returned to the Explorer. He hated being lied to, and Tierney had told him a whopper. Even worse, he’d told it convincingly. Pete would catch up to him later.

  At the station, Nancy looked up from her computer as Pete walked through the front door. “Hey, Chief.”

  “Anything going on that I need to know about?” he asked.

  “Nothing urgent. Dad called and wanted me to let you know Ryan still hasn’t trimmed his hedges. You have a message from…” Nancy paused to check her notes. “…from Chuck Delano asking you to return his call at your convenience. I put his number on your desk. That’s about it. I guess we’re getting a reprieve after yesterday.”

  Pete grunted. “Thanks. Coffee?”

  “Fresh pot in your office.”

  “Remind me to give you a raise.”

  She choked out a short laugh. “Yeah, right.”

  He ambled down the hall to his office, poured a cup of coffee, and slid into his chair. After a sip of the steaming brew, he shuffled through the pink while-you-were-out notes stacked neatly on his desk. Jack Naeser and those damned shrubs. Pete made a mental note to stop in and talk to Mancinelli. Maybe he’d make more progress if he caught the guy at a calmer time when chainsaws weren’t a threat.

  The last note bore the name Chuck Delano and the number he’d left for Pete four times now. What was up with Delano anyway?

  Pete picked up the phone and punched in the number. Delano answered on the second ring.

  “Petey, you old hound dog,” he shouted through the line after Pete identified himself. “About time you called me back. I was beginning to think you were dodging me.”

  Possibly because he was. “I’d never dodge you, Delano. What’s so important that you keep leaving messages for me all over the county?”

  “I told you. I have a job offer.”

  “I’m already gainfully employed. You know that.”

  Delano made a disgusted sound over the phone. “Chief of Police in Podunk, Pennsylvania? You call that a job?”

  Pete pinned the receiver between his ear and his shoulder and straightened a pile of papers threatening to take a dive onto the floor. “Big fish. Little pond. I like it.”

  Delano chuckled. “Beats being a small fish in a big pond, huh?”

  “You know it.”

  The line fell silent for a moment and Pete wondered if they’d been disconnected. Before he could ask, Delano spoke again. “How would you like to be a big fish in a big pond? A very warm and sunny pond.”

  “It’s ninety degrees here right now. Warm isn’t much of a draw.”

  “It would be in the middle of January, though.”

  “What are you babbling about, Chuck?”

  “Maui. I’m talking about Maui.”

  Maui?
“As in Hawaii?”

  “Only one I know, Petey. Look, I’ve gotten myself into a sweet gig. Head of security for the Grand Lahaina Resort. The group who owns it also owns another big hotel down the beach called the Maalaea Bay Grand Hotel. The head of security there is retiring the end of next month and they’re looking for a replacement. They came to me asking if I could recommend anyone and I thought of you, buddy. What do you think?”

  Hawaii? Pete’s mind stalled on an image of sandy beaches and hula dancers.

  “And did I mention the salary? Six figures, Petey boy. Six. Figures.”

  Pete caught the phone receiver as it slipped from his ear and sat back in his chair.

  His gaze fell on the note about Naeser and his son-in-law’s hedges. A luxury resort in Hawaii probably didn’t have that kind of excitement. Six figures?

  Speaking of figures…a luxury resort in Hawaii didn’t have Zoe either.

  “I don’t think I’m interested,” Pete said.

  Another silence. This time Pete was pretty sure they hadn’t been disconnected. He was right. “Are you out of your mind?” Delano’s gruff voice had gone up an octave. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard. I like it here. I like my job. I like the people. I even like the weather.” Well, most of the weather anyway.

  “You are out of your mind. Listen, I’m not going to say anything to my boss one way or the other. You have some time to come to your senses about this. Just don’t lose my number. And try to get back to me within a week or two.”

  “Do whatever you want, but I’m passing on the job offer. Appreciate you thinking about me though.”

  Delano muttered something and clicked off.

  Pete dropped the receiver back onto its cradle. He fingered the pink slip with his old partner’s 808 area code number—and crumpled it. He reached to toss it into the trash can, but hesitated.

  Maui. Six figures. Might be nice to think about it. Dream a little.

  Pete set the wadded note on his desk and smoothed it out before shoving it under one of the paper mountains.

  “Where are we going?” Zoe asked as Pete held the door of the Ford Edge, his personal vehicle, for her.

  “I thought I’d take you into the city for dinner.”

  “Brunswick?” At least the county seat offered more restaurant choices.

  He shot her a look. “Pittsburgh.”

  “Oh.” She slid into the passenger seat and reassessed her choice of attire. Wranglers—albeit a pair still too new to be downgraded to barn jeans status—and a clingy black Gap tank top were suitable for any local eatery or the pizza joint in downtown Brunswick, but hardly seemed proper for a real restaurant. Pete, she noticed, had on khaki Dockers and a short-sleeved button down shirt. Not exactly a suit, but a step up from his usual off-duty faded jeans and t-shirt. “Where in Pittsburgh? Should I change into something dressier?”

  He settled into the driver’s seat and gave her a long, appreciative inspection. “You look fantastic.”

  Her neck warmed, and she glanced away to hide her smile. “Thanks, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

  Pete fired up the Edge. “What are you hungry for?”

  “Anything other than meat.”

  He choked. “You going vegetarian on me?”

  “No. I’m just not in the mood for steak or burgers.”

  They’d reached the bottom of the farm lane before Pete jammed the brakes and laughed. “I get it. The smell from autopsy is still bothering you.”

  Zoe slouched in her seat. “I may have to swear off anything roasted or grilled for a while.”

  “Understood.”

  An hour later they sat at a small table at Bahama Cove, a small, well-hidden restaurant in Pittsburgh’s Strip District with a décor that made Zoe feel like she was in the Caribbean, or at least what she imagined the Caribbean felt like. Although the Cove, as it was known to the locals, was situated on a corner of a narrow alley, the food always drew a crowd. The place was packed. They were lucky to get a table, even though it meant squeezing in between two others, which were occupied on one side by a large, tattooed man, his wife and brood of three children, and on the other side by a quartet of what Zoe guessed to be frat boys.

  Pete eyed her over his menu. “How’s this?”

  She breathed in aromas of island spices and herbs. “Perfect.”

  He chuckled. “I still don’t believe you can’t face a steak after a little thing like an autopsy. You and I have sat down to the spaghetti lunch at the Phillipsburg Diner after some pretty gory accident calls. You’ve never flinched.”

  He had a point. But this was different somehow.

  Zoe studied the menu while Pete ordered a couple of drafts and a plate of Jamaican Jerk Wings.

  “All right. What’s bothering you?” he asked once the waiter had gone.

  Where to start? “This morning. The autopsy.”

  Pete folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “I was only teasing you about the steak. I don’t blame you a bit. In fact, I’d be surprised if this kind of autopsy didn’t affect you.”

  “You mean because of my dad?”

  Pete raised an eyebrow in a silent “of course.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “Okay. Tell me.”

  She drew a breath. “When I signed on to be a deputy coroner, I didn’t know what it really involved. I thought it would be—I don’t know—fun. I imagined I’d be out in the field collecting evidence, solving crimes.”

  “In other words, my job.”

  Zoe fought a grin. “Maybe.”

  Pete grew serious. “Investigating deaths is part of your job.”

  “But it’s the one part I rarely get to do. Franklin loves that part of it, too, and he’s the boss, so he makes a point of being on the scene every time something’s going down.” She heard the whine in her voice and stopped to compose herself. “Most of what I do is pronouncing time of death on old folks who die in their sleep. And now there’s this autopsy thing.”

  “Autopsy thing?”

  “Franklin’s pushing for me to assist on more of them. Six to be precise. And I’m not sure he’s gonna count Lillian Farabee since I bailed out halfway through.”

  “Why six?”

  “It was a deal I made with him last month.”

  “The so-called ‘deal with the devil’ you mentioned?”

  “That’s the one. He promoted me to chief deputy coroner so I could get into the old records room at the courthouse to investigate my dad’s death. In exchange I had to agree to assist with six autopsies.”

  Pete stared at her for a moment and then snorted. “The old scoundrel.”

  “It’s not funny. You heard him mention my future with the coroner’s office. The promotion wasn’t supposed to be real. At least I didn’t think it was.”

  The waiter returned with their beers and the appetizer and asked if they were ready to order. Zoe realized nothing on the menu had registered in her brain, and she gave it another quick perusal.

  “Do you want me to order for you?” Pete asked.

  She tossed the menu down. “You know what I like better than I do.”

  “Two grilled salmon,” he told the waiter, who collected the menus and retreated. Pete picked up one of the wings and studied it intently. “Do you want the promotion to be real?”

  Leave it to Pete to cut through the crap and come to the heart of her conundrum. She opened her mouth to say no, but the simple word stuck. Did she want to be chief deputy coroner? Possibly coroner one day? “Want? I don’t know. I don’t think I can do it.”

  “Of course you can.” He took a bite and chewed. “This case isn’t a good indicator. If you want a career in the coroner’s office, I think you’d be damned good at it.�
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  There was that “career in the coroner’s office” line again. Had Franklin enlisted Pete to help lure her? But it still came down to want. She loved working on the ambulance. Working to save the living. The side gig of deputy coroner had seemed like a good fit. Working to find answers for the dead.

  As long as it didn’t involve the morgue.

  Pete must have been watching the indecision play across her face. “You don’t have to make up your mind anytime soon. But I do think you ought to keep your options open. Pay your debt to Marshall.”

  She ran a finger around the rim of the glass of beer. “You mean…do the six autopsies?”

  “Yep. Six is a good number.” Pete finished the wing in two bites. “Afterwards you’ll have a better idea of whether you’re cut out for that life or not. You’ll either be immune to the smell or you won’t ever want to set foot inside the county morgue again.”

  Zoe noticed the tattooed man at the table behind Pete had turned in his chair and was giving them the evil eye. “Uh, maybe we should change the subject. I think our conversation is carrying to the folks around us.”

  “Oh?” Pete shifted in his seat and was met head-on with a venomous glare. After apologizing for the inappropriate dinnertime topic, he hailed the waiter and ordered refills of cocktails for the offended couple and soft drinks for their kids be placed on his tab. Beverages apparently appeased the family’s lost appetites, and Pete turned back to Zoe. “One more reason not to discuss work on our off time.”

  “No work talk?” She thought of the other subject she wanted to discuss with him. Technically, it was work related, too. “Might make for a quiet evening.”

  “Are you insinuating I’m a workaholic?”

  “Pretty much. Yeah.”

  Pete laughed and took a draw on his brew. “Have some wings.”

  She obliged, savoring the blend of sweet and spice while mentally testing her foray into the other subject she wanted to broach. After swallowing, she said, “I—Mrs. Kroll and I—need a repairman at the farm.”

  “Why?” he asked around a mouthful of chicken.