by Edie Claire
Her question was interrupted by the doorbell, and Bess jumped. "Oh, Lord. That isn't your mother, is it?"
Leigh walked over to peer through one of the narrow stained-glass windows that flanked the front door. The arrival of Frances Koslow had struck fear in her own heart many times, but Bess seemed unusually edgy. "No," she said, studying the figure as well as she could through a smooth blue pane. "It's a man."
Bess exhaled loudly, apparently in relief. "Good. Let him in, will you?"
Leigh opened the door. A slightly heavy, freckle-faced man in a modest suit and wool overcoat smiled pleasantly at her. "Hello, Ma'am. Jack Brugos, County Fire Marshall's Office. I'm here to speak with Ms. Cogley. Is she home?"
Leigh's stomach churned. The man's tone was pleasant enough, but after her experience the previous fall, the sight of any county crime-investigating sort tended to halt her digestion. She stared at him blankly for a moment before recovering. "Of course. I'm sorry. Won't you come in?" She stepped back and admitted the man into the room, where Bess greeted him warmly.
"Hello, Mr. Brugos. I'm sorry you made that trip to the hospital this morning for nothing. Those nasty doctors—they always come by when it's least convenient." She smiled flirtatiously.
"It's no problem, Ms. Cogley," he answered cheerfully, sitting in the recliner to which she had gestured. "I'm glad you're feeling well enough to be released. I know it's tough to take in a chest full of smoke like that."
Leigh's anxiety dwindled a little at the pleasantness of the exchange. It didn't sound like her aunt was in any sort of trouble. But then with Bess, one could never be sure.
"As I mentioned earlier," the man began, "we need to know anything you can tell us about what you saw last night."
"I'll be happy to help," Bess answered. "But can you tell me—I mean—do you know yet how the fire started?"
Brugos smiled patiently. "The final report isn't back yet. What would help us out is if you could walk me through what you remember from last night, step by step. Could you do that?"
Bess nodded, then swallowed. Leigh, who had settled herself next to Bess on the sofa, watched her aunt carefully. She looked perfectly at ease, but the swallow was a giveaway. It was a nervous habit, and Bess didn't get nervous over just anything.
"Let's start with the flickering light you said you saw out your window. Which window was that?"
Bess waved in the direction of her kitchen. "I was on the back porch, letting the cats in for the night."
"And what time was that?"
Bess hesitated, but only slightly. "About 10:30, I guess. I'd just finished a Golden Girls rerun."
"Go on," he urged. "Tell me exactly what happened after you saw the light."
"Well," Bess began, sounding quite comfortable. "This forest separates my house from the backs of the buildings on Nicholson Road, as you can see. I can't see the church at all in the summer—I can't see ten feet past my back door. But last night I could see an orange light flickering through the tree trunks, and I knew it wasn't supposed to be there. To be honest, I didn't really think it was all the way over at the church. I thought maybe some kids had lit up a campfire in the woods. That's happened before, you know."
Brugos nodded politely and urged her on.
"So I threw on a coat and went out to see what was happening."
Leigh's brow furrowed. Threw on, indeed. The black leather coat Bess had worn that night was clearly a leftover from a past husband—hardly the first thing she'd reach for.
"You were still dressed?" he asked offhandedly. "That late?"
Bess chuckled. "I'm a night owl. What can I say?" Her eyelids fluttered.
The man grinned, but said nothing. Leigh resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
"I was just going to walk out a little bit—till I could see for sure what it was. Then I was going to call the police. But the closer I got, the farther away it seemed, and when I realized it was the parsonage I was already halfway through the woods. I just kept on running, and when I got to it I could tell that the fire was in a back room of the house. I ran around to the front door, and that part wasn't burning yet, so I opened the door and yelled inside."
Brugos interrupted her. "Could you stop here and describe the fire for me?" He asked several specific questions about the location of the flames and smoke, but Bess's careful recounting suddenly grew vague; she insisted she hadn't paid much attention. "Was anyone else at the scene when you arrived?" he continued.
"Not that I could tell," she answered. "When I saw Pastor Humphrey's car in the lot, I was afraid he was still inside. So I went in. I didn't see him downstairs, so I took a deep breath and ran upstairs." She paused and looked at her interrogator with feigned sheepishness. "I've been on the trustees committee many times, you see, so I knew where the master bedroom was."
Brugos—who was probably only a few years younger than she was—merely smiled.
"Thank God it wasn't in flames yet. I opened the door, and found the reverend lying on top of his bed, his street clothes still on, dead to the world. I shook him and he woke right up—well, I was probably screaming at him, too. We hustled back out of the house, or at least we tried to. Yours truly thought it would be fun to take the quick way down the stairs—which is a delicate way of saying I tripped over my own feet, tumbled the whole flight, and landed flat on my patoot. If the reverend hadn't helped me, I might never have made it back out."
Bess paused a moment, and so did Brugos. Finally, he asked another question. "And how did the reverend burn his hand?"
"When he was helping me out," she answered. "The carpet had started burning along our path to the front door. He took off his jacket and pounded at it as we went." She stopped and looked at the man. "Who reported the fire? Was it the Ivey sisters?"
He grinned a little. "No—apparently this all happened a little late for them. Although I understand they're regular watchdogs for the Franklin Park Police."
Bess chuckled. "They have the number on their speed dial, you know."
"Actually, the fire was reported by a motorist with a cell phone," Brugos stated, folding up his notebook and rising. "You and your friend were very lucky. And I'd say he owes you no small amount of thanks, Ma'am."
Bess never blushed, but she tried hard to fake it. "I didn't do anything. I'd still be at the bottom of the stairs if he hadn't helped me out, you know."
Brugos smiled and held out his right hand. Leigh watched her aunt's eyes dart quickly to his other one. A ring check? Bess smiled and returned a firm shake. "If there's anything else I can do, please let me know." Her smile suddenly faded. "But, if you don't mind, could you call before you come? I, um, want to make sure I'm decent."
Brugos laughed. "No problem, Ms. Cogley." He and Leigh exchanged pleasantries, and he exited with a wave. When the sound of his car's engine had faded, Bess sighed dramatically. "Married. The cute ones always are, you know."
Leigh didn't comment. She walked over to the recliner he had just vacated and sat down, leaning forward. It was her turn. "Night owl, eh?"
Bess smiled tightly. "I do stay up late occasionally, kiddo. I'm not out to pasture yet."
Leigh looked straight into her aunt's eyes, which quickly looked the other way. It was a telltale sign—one of many.
"I don't suppose you could make us some tea, could you?" Bess asked casually, pulling a nearby cat into her lap. The cat protested, but she held it closer.
Leigh had no intention of being distracted. "Do you always wear black leather boots while watching Golden Girls reruns in your living room, or was last night a special occasion?"
Bess looked back at her tiredly. "I do a lot of things you don't know about, kiddo." She released the cat, which jumped off her lap and on to the floor, only to change its mind and circle back again.
"Listen, Aunt Bess," Leigh said slowly, trying to sound patient. "I don't mean to pry into your personal life or anything, but I do think I know you a little better than our friend Mr. Brugos—"
"More'
s the pity," Bess interrupted, grinning evilly.
Leigh tried not to smile. "And I'd bet my last chocolate bar that every word you told that man just now was a fat, stinking lie. And if you think for one minute that—"
The statement was interrupted by the simultaneous sounds of a ringing doorbell and an opening door. Within a second, the hurricane that was Frances Koslow had swept into the room. "Well, Bess, you weren't kidding, were you?" she exclaimed, her eyes zoning in on her sister's foot. "Though how you could break an ankle just puttering around your own house, I have no idea."
Leigh and Bess looked at each other and shared a sigh. Leigh's of frustration, Bess's of going from the frying pan to the fire. "I told you on the phone already, Francie," Bess answered reluctantly, "I fell down the stairs. It hurts like the devil, by the way."
"Well, of course it does!" Frances affirmed, removing her coat and gloves. "Did you think it wouldn't?"
Leigh couldn't help but grin. Her mother and Bess were really quite fond of one another, but the constant trading of barbs was a longstanding sisterly ritual. Frances hung up her coat and walked in front of the television set, which was a mistake.
As Punkster flew from his perch with paws outstretched and mouth open, Leigh and Bess both shouted a warning. But it didn't prove necessary. Frances hardly flinched as she intercepted the cat at hip level and caught it neatly by the scruff. "I don't know why you keep this creature," she said with disdain, depositing him on the back porch.
"And you!" she said, turning on her daughter without missing a beat, "should be at work. I told Bess I would pick her up at the hospital, but she said you were on the way already. It was nice of you to come, Leigh, but I'll handle things from here. The last thing you need is to lose another j—"
"No problem, Mom. I'm gone!" Leigh said, rising quickly. She had had enough surprises for one morning—Bess could have at least clued her in on the changing of the guard. She had planned on skipping work to help her aunt get adjusted, but three was a crowd, and her mother was better at that sort of thing anyway.
"I'll be working out the care schedule soon," Frances continued, brushing cat hair off the coffee table as she talked. "Leigh—we may need you to stay over Saturday night. Lydie has a class and your father and I are going to a benefit."
Leigh stole a glance at Bess, whose eyes were filled with an uncomfortable mixture of resolve and regret. She would have trouble getting around for a while, there was no doubt about it. The crutches would take some getting used to—and she was still sore all over from the fall. Being a patient to Leigh's overzealous mother would be brutal, but Frances was the only Morton woman who wasn't gainfully employed. "Sure, Mom," Leigh said quickly, bestowing a sympathetic glance on her aunt as she left. "I'd love to."
***
Leigh was exhausted, as usual, when she finally knocked off work at Hook, Inc., the fledgling ad agency she had helped to create after her last unfounded layoff. Business had been great the last few months—more than they could have hoped for. The twelve-hour workdays that came with it had been wearing on them all, but this Friday there was a spring in her step, because after they had finished a particularly huge project on Wednesday, she'd made the decision to take her week's vacation ASAP. She had wanted to wait until spring, when she theoretically might have enough money to go somewhere, but as the weeks wore on that fantasy seemed less and less likely, while the idea of vegetating for a week now seemed more and more appealing. At least it was cheaper. Today she had managed to tie up the last of the annoying loose ends on her plate, which meant her long-awaited week of R and R had finally begun.
Her first project, she resolved as she drove toward her apartment building, would be getting her act together where Warren was concerned. She hadn't been able to get him off her mind for months, and yet she'd hardly seen him. Somehow there was always one more job to be done at Hook—and besides, there was that thing. Her feelings about him were all over the board, and if she wasn't careful, he'd pick up on them prematurely. Then what would she do? The car of her attractive ex-lawyer, Katharine Bower, had been a regular visitor in their parking lot for a while now. She had to find out exactly where things stood—or she'd be setting herself up for a major fall.
Her second project, which had been driving her bonkers all day, was to find out what had possessed her normally law-abiding aunt to falsify a statement to the Fire Investigator. That project, however, would have to wait until Sergeant Frances was no longer hovering around.
First things first.
She knocked on Warren's door with just a touch of anxiety. Not that she hadn't knocked on his door for no particular reason countless times before. They'd had a carefree, comfortable, completely platonic relationship going ever since college—twelve years total. It was only after she had moved into his apartment building last summer that things had started getting confusing. Having someone around on a 24-hour basis to share donuts, Chinese food, and Simpsons reruns had been more of a bonus than she'd expected. In fact, it had screwed up her thinking entirely. That—and the way he'd been looking at Katharine Bower.
Was Katharine here now? Several seconds passed with no response to her knocking. Leigh was just about to give up and walk away when she heard footsteps.
The door opened to reveal the surprised face of Warren J. Harmon III, whose political ambitions had earned him the college nickname of "future President of the United States." He was now the Allegheny County Register of Wills, which wasn't too shabby for a self-made man of thirty. "Excuse me," he said formally, a smile playing on his lips. "Do I know you?"
Leigh grinned and pushed her way around him and inside. "Yeah, all right, I know. I've been a lousy friend. I owe you about six dinners and fifteen Simpsons' episodes. I'm sorry, but you know how insane things have been at Hook. There's finally a light at the end of the tunnel, though…I'm taking next week off."
"Excellent." he smiled, pulling two cans of diet cola from his neatly organized refrigerator. "Let's celebrate. So what are you going to do with yourself? Start that novel again?"
Leigh accepted a can gratefully, then scoffed. "Are you kidding?" she asked, collapsing onto his couch. "For the next nine days, I don’t even want to see a keyboard. "I'm going to do nothing. Absolutely nothing."
She wondered for a moment whether that was a lie. She was going to do several things, one of which was to quit living in limbo where he was concerned.
"Nothing sounds good," Warren agreed, dropping down beside her. "Wish I could join you. Unfortunately, I'm buried at the moment with groundwork for my County Council campaign. Plus, I've got a family wedding next week."
The sigh accompanying his last statement was slight, but Leigh caught it. "Say no more," she said sympathetically. She knew how good weddings were at bringing out a family's dark side. Her cousin Cara's had nearly killed them all. "Who's getting married?"
"Joy," he answered, his voice turning affectionate.
Leigh smiled. She'd never met Joy, but she knew that Warren thought of her as more of a little sister than a cousin. Her mother had died when she was a child, and Warren's mother had assumed the role as best she could. Joy had even lived with the Harmons for a while, presumably because her father had some emotional problems.
"I like the guy she's marrying," he continued. "Nice fellow, Tim. Smart, treats her right."
Leigh sensed a "but," and said so.
"But Joy's father is a nutcase," Warren said with concern. "He's got a good heart, but he gets too wound up about things, and he doesn't do well with ceremonious occasions. My mother had pretty much taken over the wedding plans herself."
He paused, and Leigh prompted again. "But—"
"But the wedding is Tuesday night, and my parents are still in Florida. They were supposed to fly back this weekend, but my father has the flu. If he doesn't rebound in a day or two, they'll miss the wedding, which would be a sad turn of events on two counts. First, because my mother loves Joy like a daughter and really wants to be there. And second, b
ecause other than my mother, the only person in the family who has a ghost of a chance of keeping my uncle from going off the deep end is me."
From the look on Warren's face, it was hardly a challenge he looked forward to. "I was on the phone with my mother just now when you knocked," he said tiredly. "Everyone's in a tizzy because the church parsonage burned down last night."
Leigh sat up, instantly alert. "The parsonage burned? What church?"
Warren's eyebrows rose at her sudden show of interest. "Little independent outfit—out on Nicholson Road. 'First Church of the New Millenium.'" He chuckled. "If you can believe a name like that."
Leigh sat stiffly, thinking. "What exactly did you hear about the fire?"
Warren studied her face, which meant he was trying to read her mind. He was disturbingly good at it, and today was no exception. He knew, for example, that he wasn't going to get any explanation for her interest until she had heard what she wanted to hear.
"The pastor was at home, but he wasn't hurt badly. A neighbor helped get him out. The house is gone, but it wasn't much of a loss, from what I understand. The real issue for my irrational uncle is whether the fire will make the church off-limits for the wedding next week, and it appears not. The parsonage was fifty yards or so from the main building."
"Do they know how the fire started?" Leigh asked, choosing her words carefully.
"I haven't heard. Why?"
She ground her teeth, as she always did when thinking hard. What had really happened at that parsonage last night? And why was her aunt trying to cover it up? One thing was evident—at least Bess and the pastor had been telling the same story.
"I repeat," Warren interrupted. "Why do you want to know?"
Leigh looked up at him—and suddenly forgot what she'd been thinking about. This was the kind of thing that had been plaguing her. He was the same Warren she'd met in freshman volleyball at the University of Pittsburgh—but then again, he wasn't. That Warren had been tall, gawky, uncoordinated, and in need of acne meds. And though she had enjoyed his company immensely, she'd never been attracted to him. This Warren was tall, sophisticated, successful, and all of a sudden—seriously tempting.
