Clarets of Fire

by Christine E. Blum

  The captain opened the door to his office, and we all settled at a small conference table. I did a quick check and didn’t see any photos from home of a blushing bride or a passel of toddlers.

  What? I’m just gathering information.

  “When you arrived on the scene of the fire and before you ran into the building after your dog, tell me what and who you saw.” Inspector Mason had assumed the position of power at the head of the table. The benevolent captain didn’t seem to mind a bit.

  I resisted saying all of that was in my previous statement, but I’d seen enough cop shows to know that he’d only make me repeat it. Plus, I had a new audience of lovely firefighters. I made my way around to their side of the table to face Inspector Mason, which made me feel instantly better.

  “Bardot, that’s my yellow Lab,” I explained to my boys, “had been pulling me to the building all the way from Rose Avenue. When we arrived as close as we could be to the front of the strip mall, she thrust her nose in the air, took in a deep sampling, and yanked me toward the back of the burning structure. I’m pretty sure that’s because she smelled Roberto.”

  Inspector Mason snickered, but my fire boys, as I now called them, tried to process this.

  “What? You think that I have an unrestrained imagination that leads me to anthropomorphize my dog’s thoughts and abilities?”

  I stared at Mason and reminded myself to give Jack a back rub later as a thank-you for the information that I was about to impart.

  “Clearly you don’t know this, but Bardot is a highly trained scent tracker for CARA. Labs have been recorded to detect unique scents at a distance of one-point-two miles, and cadaver dogs can identify a decaying body buried eighty feet underwater.”

  I could see that Mason wasn’t buying this, but the guys on my side of the table were rapt.

  “Dogs like Bardot not only take in lots of scents, but they are also able to separate a scent they recognize from a thousand other ones. Like in a truckload of a thousand rotten eggs, she can detect the one fresh one.” I think that’s what Jack said. “But if you don’t believe me, Inspector Mason, go ask a dog.”

  The guys laughed at that, and Mason was forced to move on.

  “At any time that you were at the scene on the day of the fire did you see the gentleman that we now know as Brandon Dawson, owner of the auto parts store?”

  I actually did want to help him with this. I knew I would be helping Isabella and Rico, and that was my goal. I took a good minute to run through the images of that day in my mind.

  “This is difficult. Unlike Bardot I can’t easily separate the sights and sounds of that day. For me what I remember is the scene of utter chaos and a rising panic as my mind tried to grasp the severity of the situation.” I tried to focus on my memories from the back of the building.

  “Take your time,” the captain encouraged me, and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  “The parking area was soaked with water from the hoses, and I could see bright orange and red flames coming from the roof... and pitch-black smoke.”

  “The fire was set in the communal attic that stretched across the mall; that is the only way that you and your dog could have survived going in and out of the pizza parlor.” The kind captain picked up the story. “It is not like you see in the movies or on TV. If a structure is engulfed from floor to ceiling, we can’t go inside. We create a vertical vent for the fire to find the oxygen it needs and fight it from outside and above.”

  Mason gave the captain a look. I guessed that he didn’t want me knowing the specifics of an ongoing investigation. I realized that the firefighter’s job is to rescue victims and put out blazes. After that they are on to the next one. The job of an arsonist inspector is to figure out if the fire was set on purpose, and if so find and arrest the perpetrators. It doesn’t nearly attract as much positive PR. Both jobs are vital, but I was starting to understand why Inspector Mason acted the way he did regarding public relations toward me. Time to give him some slack.

  “I saw firefighters climbing ladders that were propped up against the back walls of the building and watched a giant ladder extend from a fire truck to way above the flames. A responder at the top held a hose and once in place turned on the water. People were standing all around watching them work, some from a safe distance away and some in questionable proximity. People had brought their pets, babies, and elders to the spectator arena. I remember that just before Bardot broke loose from me and ran into the building, I made eye contact with a blond-headed girl who couldn’t have been more than eight years old. She was wearing a dress with cute bird illustrations on it, lacy anklet socks, and gold shoes. I remember thinking that this was no place for such a pretty little girl. But I don’t remember seeing Brandon then or after I was rescued. I’ll keep trying.”

  Mason’s eyes softened as he looked at me.

  I retold the story of meeting Brandon the next day without coming up with any new revelations.

  “One last question.” Mason was almost being conversational now. “When you arrived at the back of the building on the day of the fire, did you see Rico and Isabella Bruno?”

  “I don’t know, I could have, there was so much going on.” I tried to picture it. “Wait. I do remember hearing my name and seeing both of them huddled together on the sidewalk. Yes, I definitely did.” Whew, I’m proud of myself.

  “Was there anything about how they looked or what they were wearing that indicated that they had been back inside the pizza parlor after returning from your block party? Aprons? Cooking utensils in their hands?”

  Just when I thought that Mason was turning nice, he throws me this curve ball.

  “I don’t know, it all happened in seconds, and as soon as Bardot took off that was all I focused on.”

  I felt ashamed. I’d let Rico and Isabella down by not being able to provide them with an airtight alibi. But this was serious stuff; it wasn’t like manipulating Augie into seeing our side of an event.

  Mason thanked me for my time, and I believed that he meant it. My fire boys walked me out and we promised to meet up again soon.

  Public service is indeed a noble profession, and we need to treat its servants accordingly.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day our second emergency Wine Club of the week was scheduled, and it was my turn to host. The fall weather (even though it was still seventy-six degrees outside) got me inspired to bake. When I lived in New York, baking was a big pastime of mine, especially when it was nasty outside and you just couldn’t afford to go out to eat more than once or twice a month.

  What? You think that I should just eat salads day in and day out? Have you met me?

  I had most of the ingredients I needed but lacked two key components—really good English butter and fresh plums. You see I’d decided to make a plum cheesecake with a pistachio, shortbread crust, so I headed out to Whole Foods. I only shop there for specialty items because it is crazy to pay twenty-three dollars for soy sauce at “Whole Paycheck” as they call it.

  So you can imagine my surprise when I walked in and saw Marisol talking to Julia Roberts. It is not unusual to see celebrities in the stores around here, but seeing Marisol conversing with one like they are best buds was a new one on me.

  Just then I felt my phone vibrate in my purse. I took it out and saw that Liza Gilhooly was calling. I knew she had a busy schedule, and if I didn’t pick up, I may not connect with her again all day. But I also was desperate to find out what Marisol had to talk about with an Oscar-winning actress. My sleuth sense got the better of me.

  “Hi, Liza, you survived your night of property showings?”

  “Hah, yes I did, and let’s just say there were some interesting developments.”

  I was getting the sense that Liza was a late-stage cougar.

  “I’d love to hear all about it, but I’m in Whole Foods right now and I really don’t want to add to the people that are always on their phones in here talking loudly about their self-importance.�
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  Her now trademark Liza laugh vibrated off my eardrum.

  “Okay I’ll make it quick, and I’m not sure how much help this is, but I remembered one of the investors’ first names. It only came to me because it was somewhat unusual.”

  “Great, what was it?”

  “Valentin. I remember asking him if he’d be my valentine, but I don’t think that he appreciated the ribbing. This guy didn’t have much of a sense of humor. I got no last name though; I’m not even sure if I was ever told it.”

  “Can you describe what he looked like? Age, ethnicity?”

  “That’s what’s kooky . . . he was in his car and had a driver. A black Mercedes. He was in the backseat and had lowered his window a tad. He was wearing dark Wayfarer sunglasses, so he really could have looked like anyone.”

  I spotted Marisol again . . . this time sweeping through the nuts and grains aisle with her shopping cart. “You’ve been a terrific help, Liza, more than you know. Thank you!”

  “Take care, toots.” And Liza ended the call.

  “Looking for something to make yourself more regular, Marisol?” I asked after catching up with her.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I came here looking for spiced watermelon rinds and cola syrup in case I get an upset stomach.”

  “Good thinking because once you eat those watermelon rinds, you’re going to need a remedy.”

  “Oh, and you owe me big time,” she said as she opened the lid of one of the bins that line the aisle with fruits and nuts, and plucked out a dried apricot.

  “You better pay for that or I’ll tell the manager. And just what were you and Julia Roberts jawing about?”

  “Who? I wasn’t talking to nobody.”

  “Come on I saw you, and it’s hard to mistake someone that I’ve seen in all her movies at least twice.”

  Marisol ignored me and diverted her attention to the selection of infused honey products. I hated when she did that almost as much as I hated when she paid attention to me.

  “I hope you paid off your credit cards this month, Halsey, because you’re going to be buying me a lot of stuff in here.”

  “The hell I am, but I’ll help you look for something to cure your insanity. Where is the witches’ section?” I said, looking around.

  “Fine, then I won’t tell you what I found out.”

  She had me. In a moment of desperation yesterday, I’d asked Marisol to try and worm out some information about the owners of the burned strip mall from Augie—naturally without mentioning me.

  “You’ve talked to Augie, haven’t you?”

  Marisol clammed up.

  “What’s your favorite cut of beef again, Marisol? Let’s head to the butcher and I’ll treat you to a nice steak dinner.”

  “I want lobster.”

  “The seafood section it is.”

  Marisol was disappointed when she learned that Whole Foods didn’t have a tank with live lobsters. I suspect that she’d had plans of taking one home, putting a leash on it, and going for a walk together down Rose Avenue. She settled for two tails, some jumbo shrimp, and herbed butter.

  “Okay, you happy? Tell me what Augie said.”

  Still the silent treatment.

  “What now?”

  “I gotta wash this down with something.”

  My mind immediately went to boric acid. Is that bad of me?

  “Wine or beer?”

  “I dunno, I gotta see.”

  “Okay, while you see, did Augie give you a name or not? Who owns that strip mall?”

  We were now in the wine section, and I could tell that Marisol had no idea what she was looking at. While she is an honorary member of the Rose Avenue Wine Club, I suspect that she subscribes more to the “Wine is fine but liquor is quicker” adage. When I noticed her focusing on the price tags, I was onto her.

  “You know, all the famous seafood celebrities drink beer with a meal like this. Shall we take a gander?”

  I steered her over to the refrigerated case just in time as she was reaching for a limited edition bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

  “Maybe I want margaritas.”

  “They don’t sell that here. What did Augie say?”

  “He doesn’t have a name.”

  “What? Have you just been yanking my chain?”

  “But he has an address.”

  I wanted to shove her in the case and hang an ON SALE sign in the window.

  “Okay, I’ll take those Coronas.”

  I stopped her from opening the glass door.

  “Address first.”

  “I could call Security.”

  “Great. I need to tell them about that dried apricot you shoplifted.”

  Marisol reached into her giant purse, which I was convinced led all the way to Alice in Wonderland’s mad tea party.

  “Here.”

  She handed me a scrap of paper with her chicken scratch handwriting on it. I made sure that it was legible.

  “Maybe you want some limes to go with your beer, Marisol.”

  “No, I want spiced watermelon rinds.”

  “Who on earth got you into those?”

  “Julia Roberts.”

  * * *

  Wine Club convened a little late that afternoon; it seemed that everyone was juggling busy schedules. Sally was the first to arrive, and upon smelling the sweet, nutty aroma in the air declared, “You’ve been baking, bless your sugar honey heart! I should have worn sweatpants.”

  “Hi, girlfriend, plum cheesecake. It’s resting in the oven with the door ajar, so don’t you go nosing around in there or you’ll crack it. I need fifteen more minutes.”

  Once Sally had opened my door and the odor of baked goods had wafted down the street, the rest of the girls arrived in fast succession. When Aimee brought up the rear, I moved to close the door but felt some resistance. I looked through one of the three windows in the top third of my oak front door but couldn’t see anybody. Thinking that it was the wind I tried again, and this time got some stronger push back. I watched Marisol squeeze in and march over to one of the living room sofas.

  “Since when do you come to Wine Club, Marisol?” My tone was less than welcoming.

  “I’m a member, I brought my flask,” she said, dangling the miniature item and its keychain from her little finger.

  A couple years back when we’d solved our first murder mystery, Marisol had been instrumental in its success. It was the holidays, we were at Sally and Joe’s celebrating and drinking lots of wine, and not thinking about the repercussions—we extended an invitation for Marisol to become a member of the Rose Avenue Wine Club. Now the only time she shows up is if she wants something. Today I’m guessing it’s cheesecake.

  Aimee had offered to provide the wine today, and when I told her that I was serving dessert, she went out and got a few bottles of Lune d’Argent White Bordeaux blend. Perfect.

  “If I’d known that we were doing sweet stuff, I would have brought my Jordan almonds,” Peggy observed, settling in.

  We could have sat outside, but I was doing my best to pretend that it was a cool and crisp autumn and that as the sun began to set, we might think about lighting the fireplace.

  “Penelope’s busy at the winery with the kitchen build-out, but she promised to call in,” I told the group.

  The winery was named for Abigail Rose, Malcolm’s great-grandmother. Malcolm had been orphaned at a young age, and as he grew up outside of San Francisco he became transfixed with tracing his familial roots. After much research and legwork, he discovered that Abigail Rose lived in the Los Angeles area, on Rose Avenue in fact. Unfortunately, she passed soon after they reconnected but left behind an estate that afforded him the means to purchase the vineyard. The overnight visit was going to be the high point in the fall for the Rose Avenue Wine Club.

  When Aimee had filled each of our glasses, we paused with reverence for a toast. For us it was like hearing the national anthem before the game began. With that behind us, I served ev
eryone cheesecake, which brought renewed silence and introspection.

  “Do I taste pistachios?” Sally asked, breaking apart a bit of crust and searching for green meats.

  I nodded.

  “I can tell that it had plums because you’ve put some halves on the top,” Peggy noted.

  “There’s something else, a tang that pulls it all together. We spent an entire week on this when I was in pastry school. It counterbalances the sweetness of the shortbread and cream. What is it, Halsey?” Aimee looked frustrated that she hadn’t deciphered the entire recipe.

  “You all give up?”

  Nods all around.

  “Ginger root juice.”

  “Praise the Lord, my achy muscles thank you.” Sally’s latest armchair study project was on the health benefits of spices around the world.

  “Will this help my arthritis?”

  “Peggy, any minute now you’ll be saying ‘what arthritis?’”

  “I’ll take another slice of ginger and don’t be so skimpy this time.”

  I glared at Marisol.

  My cell phone rang and I saw that it was Penelope, so I put her on speaker.

  “Hellooo, ladies, and what delectables are being served for today’s event?”

  We played “show and tell” for her.

  “Lovely. Things are progressing here as far as the kitchen goes, and as for the harvest . . . I’m trying to stay out of the way, but I hear Malcolm and Andrew arguing all the time. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. I’ll have to get back to work shortly because I don’t want them to think that I’m slacking off.”

  “Then we need to get right to our updates on the fire.”

  Aimee waved her hand, hoping that I’d call on her.

  I nodded.

  “This is Aimee, Penelope,” she said in her auditorium voice. “Can you hear me?”

  We all moved about a foot back from her.

  “Crystal clear, Aimee. You mustn’t shout.”

  “Okay. So I talked to my landlord for the yogurt shop, Mr. Babayan. He only knows about the guys that own the strip mall by reputation, and he says to steer clear of them or they’ll ‘curse your kefir.’” She tried to imitate an Armenian accent. “I know it sounds funny, but when he said it I was sure scared.”