“Thank you, Mr. Mulligan,” the chief said.
Roger slipped through to the kitchen and pulled a tray together with cups, creamer, sugar, and a full carafe of coffee. He set the next pot to brew while he took the tray back to the dining room, placing it on the sideboard. “Coffee,” he said. “Would either of you prefer tea?”
“Coffee’s fine with me, thanks,” the chief said, crossing to the sideboard to help herself.
“I’ll be right back,” Roger said, going back into the kitchen to rustle up a few breakfast sweets from the pantry and arrange them on another tray with some dishes. He added some napkins and cutlery, returning just moments before Shackleford entered from the other end. He placed the tray beside the coffee and stepped back out of the way.
“Good morning,” Shackleford said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
The chief and inspector introduced themselves, and Shackleford took a seat at the head of the table. “Coffee, please, Mulligan.”
Roger collected the carafe and a cup and saucer, placing the cup down before filling it for him. “A pastry, sir?”
“Not yet, thank you.” Shackleford nodded to the visitors. “Please. Sit. You’ve got better things to do than be here, I’m sure.”
The inspector took a seat immediately to Shackleford’s right, the chief beside him. “Your man here says you were in all night.”
Shackleford sipped his coffee and nodded. “I don’t get out much these days, particularly at night. Old bones.”
“And your butler was here all night as well?”
Shackleford nodded. “As far as I know. It’s possible that neither of us stayed in. We live in separate parts of the house. I’m afraid we don’t have much by way of alibis.”
The chief shook her head. “Neither of you is under suspicion, Mr. Shackleford.”
The inspector gave her a sour look which she looked past. “Do you know anybody who would want to burn your warehouse?”
“I’m currently feuding with my niece over the disposition of my estate,” Shackleford said. “We had an argument about my vehicles recently.”
“Your vehicles?” the inspector asked.
“I retired my old fleet in favor of a more up-to-date model,” Shackleford said, taking another sip. “My niece objected to the expense.”
“What’s her name? This niece?” the inspector asked, taking a notepad from his pocket.
“Patching,” Shackleford said. “Naomi Patching.”
“Would she firebomb your warehouse?” the chief asked.
“Personally?” Shackleford shook his head. “She wouldn’t get her hands dirty.”
“But she might get somebody else to do it?” the inspector asked, leaning forward.
“Speculation on my part, Inspector. She’s the only person that I’m aware of that has a beef with me.”
“I’m interested in the fire suppression system,” the chief said. “Those doors stood up to three direct hits with Molotov cocktails.”
“I’m pleased,” Shackleford said. “But they’re nothing special as far as I know.”
“The night watchman seemed to think you had something special done,” the inspector said.
“I brought the facility up to code about a decade ago,” Shackleford said. “I couldn’t tell you what that code standard is—or was then—but Shackleford House has been burned down a few times over the ages. I’m particularly cognizant of the risks. I take it as my obligation to keep it from happening again if I can.”
“Would you object to me giving it an inspection, sir?” the chief asked. “Just a courtesy check to see if it’s still up to code?”
“Not at all,” Shackleford said. “Welcome it, actually. I’d only ask that you arrange it with the facilities management people on site and keep me in the loop on it.”
“When you say she wouldn’t get her hands dirty, do you have any reason to suspect she might hire it done?” the inspector asked.
“She’s a headstrong young woman,” Shackleford said. “I try not to speculate on what others might do, particularly where money is concerned.”
“Do you have a valuation on how much that warehouse is worth, sir?” the chief asked.
“The building? At least half a million. The lot itself is probably worth almost that much,” Shackleford said.
“And the contents?” she asked.
“Insurance estimates it at between five and ten million.”
The chief and inspector both froze in their seats.
“That’s a lot of household goods and furniture,” the inspector said.
“Much of it is antiques going back to the late 1600s and early 1700s,” Shackleford said. “Some artwork from pre-colonial days. It’s being held for a restoration project after my death.”
“That’s a lot of money to have in a warehouse,” the inspector said.
“It is, and I pay well to have it protected. Some things can’t be replaced by money.”
“You say you retired your vehicles?” the inspector said. “What did you mean by that?”
“I kept some classic cars in the garage. I venture out so rarely, I never saw the need to replace them.”
“But recently you did?” the inspector asked.
“Yes. Mulligan here convinced me that I would be better served by a modern vehicle that could be repaired more easily should something happen.”
The inspector looked at Roger. “You convinced him?”
“I’m also the driver, sir. I felt uncomfortable driving an antique through the city streets on routine tasks.”
“What happened to the old cars?” the inspector asked, looking at Shackleford again.
“Storage,” the old man said. “Different warehouse.”
“How many do you have?” the inspector asked.
“What? Cars or warehouses?”
“Warehouses, sir,” the inspector said.
“Three,” Shackleford said. “One is currently empty, I believe. I should probably sell it.”
The inspector asked for the addresses and Shackleford gave them to him. He wrote them all down in his notebook.
“Anything else that might shed light on this?” the chief asked.
“Anarchists?” Shackleford said. “Random violence?”
“Arson’s not generally random,” the inspector said. “We don’t have a firebug in the city. At least not that we know of. This could be the beginning of a pattern.” He shrugged and hunched over his coffee.
“But you don’t think so,” Shackleford said.
“No, sir. Somebody threw five bottles of gasoline at that door. Two fell short, three hit and coated the front of that building with flammable liquid.”
“Is that a normal pattern?” Shackleford asked.
The chief looked at the inspector, her eyebrows raised. “Adrian?”
“No, sir. It’s not. Molotov cocktails aren’t particularly effective. Most arson I’ve investigated has been inside the building where the fire can do some damage. Pour some incendiary liquids and poof.”
“But they couldn’t get in,” Shackleford said.
“Anybody can get in if they want to badly enough,” the inspector said.
“So they just wanted to send me a message,” Shackleford said, placing his cup into the saucer with a click.
The inspector shrugged. “Until we find who did it, it’s all speculation.”
“Will you find them?” Shackleford asked.
The inspector shrugged again. “Unless somebody saw something, it’s unlikely.”
“Cameras?” Shackleford asked.
“Do you have any on your building, sir?” the chief asked. “We didn’t see any on the outside.”
Shackleford shook his head. “No. The warehouse was built sometime in the 50s, as I remember. I updated the sprinklers and added some internal doors at the request of the insurance people, but no cameras.”
“Who’s your insurance agent?” the inspector asked.
Shackleford gave him the name and agen
cy. “Mulligan can give you their contact address.”
“He was on site this morning,” the chief said. “I have his card.”
“Is there anything else?” Shackleford asked.
“Will you be visiting the site, sir?” the chief asked.
“Would you like me to?”
“If it’s possible, sir. Most people want to see the damage for themselves.” She smiled.
Shackleford nodded. “Is the area secured?”
The chief nodded. “The fire is out. It’s all taped off and the fire marshal has people there.”
“Give me a couple of hours? I’ll come over around eleven?”
“That would be fine, sir,” the chief said.
Shackleford stood, drawing the chief and inspector to their feet as well. “Thank you for coming,” he said.
The inspector grunted and stuffed his notebook into a coat pocket. “I’ll be at the site later.”
The chief shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. Sorry to start your morning on the wrong foot.”
Shackleford smiled. “I’ve been wrong-footed before. Nobody was hurt. Nothing was seriously damaged. Mulligan will show you out.”
They followed Roger to the door and he held it open for them.
“How long you worked here?” the inspector asked.
“Four months, sir.”
“What did you do before that?”
“I was unemployed for several months, sir. An EMT before that. Army medic before that.”
“Butlering isn’t that common. Why’d you take the job?” he asked.
“I needed the job, sir. I’ve found I quite like it. The hours are long, but I’m paid well and my duties are not too taxing.”
“How’d he find you?” the inspector asked.
“His niece placed an ad with an employment agency. The agency sent me over. My EMT background appealed to them, sir.”
“The same niece that has a beef with the old man?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“You know about the beef going in?”
“She wants this property, sir. I don’t actually remember if she said so in so many words, but her intentions are clear.”
“What are those intentions?” the inspector asked.
“She wants me to make sure Mr. Shackleford survives until she can place him in an assisted living home and have him declared incompetent, sir.”
The inspector’s eyebrows shot up. “That seems pretty specific.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That doesn’t jibe with trying to burn down the warehouse,” the chief said.
“Yeah, what’s with the cars?” the inspector asked.
“Mr. Shackleford recently purchased a new Mercedes to replace three antique model vehicles. Those vehicles are in a storage warehouse. Ms. Patching learned of those two facts recently. She became quite upset that Mr. Shackleford had spent that amount of money.”
“I understand if she wants the estate for herself but why try to destroy them?” the inspector asked. “Wouldn’t she want to keep them safe to sell them later?”
“I don’t know that she did, sir.”
“What would you call five firebombs in the middle of the night?” he asked.
“Perhaps a message, sir.”
“A message?”
“Yes, sir. That she knows where Mr. Shackleford’s warehouse is. At least one of them. It wasn’t the one with the vehicles in it.”
“Seems kinda thuggish,” the inspector said. “Stupid, even.”
“Speculation, sir. It might not have been her idea. It might not even be related. Coincidences happen.”
The inspector nodded. “Thank you for your time.”
Roger gave his little bow and they left. When he turned back, he saw Shackleford standing in the corridor that led to the dining room.
“He really wanted to pin that on me, you know,” he said.
Roger nodded. “I suspect you’re correct, sir. He’s just following the money. If it burns, then your insurance would pay you.”
“Pennies on the dollar, Mulligan.”
“True, sir, but that depends on the actual value of the contents. Burning old picnic tables instead of antique furniture?”
Shackleford laughed. “I take your point. But the inspector raised an interesting question.”
“Why did they firebomb it, sir?”
“No, Mulligan. If not Naomi, then who?”
“We may never know, sir.”
Shackleford nodded. “True, but if I were going to wager, I’d bet on her father.”
“Seems farfetched, sir.”
“Maybe not as much as you think, Mulligan. He’s been trying to get this property for much longer than Naomi has. Ever since Evelyn’s death.”
“Evelyn, sir?”
“My sister. Naomi’s mother. Cancer, twenty years ago. Bruna got her inheritance but it didn’t include Shackleford House. He fought it in probate but got laughed out of court.”
“How does burning the warehouse help him, sir?”
“If he can’t have it, he doesn’t want anybody to have it.”
“Even Naomi?”
Shackleford shrugged. “I’m not sure he’d factor that in.”
“What now, sir?”
“Now, I’m going to get cleaned up and have some real breakfast, if you’d be so kind, Mulligan?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Then we’ll take a ride over to the warehouse and show the inspector and the chief what it was that almost burned.”
“Was it in any real danger, sir?”
Shackleford shrugged. “Everything’s a risk, Mulligan. I’d like to think that the building and contents would be safe from random acts of violence, but the very nature of random acts makes them difficult to guard against. It’s why I pay insurance premiums. Money can’t replace the irreplaceable, but it provides a foundation to build a recovery on.” He shrugged again. “One of the lessons from the earlier Shackleford House burnings.” He started up the stairs.
“I’ll have your breakfast ready by the time you’re out of the shower, sir.”
“Thank you, Mulligan.”
The fire left Roger feeling unsettled. He felt certain he’d overlooked something; some detail in the report didn’t add up. His hind brain snagged on it but couldn’t tell his fore brain what it was. He hated that feeling.
* * *
Roger pulled the Mercedes to the curb near the gated warehouse. A police cruiser and a lone fire department utility van blocked the entrance. Yellow crime scene tape festooned the area at the front of the building. Black scorch marks ran up the façade. Roger got out and went around to hold the door for Shackleford. The smell of gasoline and smoke still wafted on the morning breeze.
Shackleford slid out of the car and looked up at the building, then over at the vehicles. A uniformed cop stood sentry at the gate and watched them. “With me, Mulligan, if you please.”
“Of course, sir.”
Shackleford paced off the few steps to the officer. “I’m Shackleford, the owner. The fire inspector is expecting me.”
“Got some ID, Mr. Shackleford?”
The old man pulled a wallet from the inside of his jacket and flipped out a passport. “This do?”
The officer opened it and compared the picture to the man. “Yes, sir. Thank you. One moment.” He mumbled something into his shoulder radio and it squawked back. “He’ll be right here, sir.”
A moment later the door opened and the inspector came out followed by a burly, bow-legged man, wearing a brown cloth coat and a flat cap. The inspector frowned at the ground, picking his way across the yard while the man with him scowled at his back.
“Shackleford,” the inspector said. “Your man Hedgecock here has been giving me the tour.”
“Sorry, Mr. Shackleford. He insisted,” Hedgecock said.
“Quite right, Mr. Hedgecock. He’s just doing his job,” Shackleford said.
“You’ve got a lot of junk in there,” the ins
pector said. “What makes it worth so much?”
Shackleford shrugged. “You’d be surprised what an old piece of Shaker furniture goes for. What you call junk, collectors call ‘lost treasures.’”
“You wanna show me what you’ve done to upgrade the fire suppression system?” the inspector asked. “Your man here wasn’t sure.”
“Of course. Mr. Hedgecock took the position after I did the upgrades. There’s no reason he could know.” He nodded at the yard. “Is it all right to walk through?”
“The forensics people got what they needed,” the officer said. “There’s still a lot of glass.”
The inspector nodded at the door. “Come on.”
They went single file, the inspector leading the way along a scuffed path in the fire-stained paving. Roger had seen a lot of gasoline firebombs and his eyes traced the subtle shadings and shadows on the tar. The morning light glittered on the glass fragments scattered on the ground; a few were even embedded in the wooden door. The door itself, while singed and stained, hadn’t really caught fire at all.
“Solid door,” the inspector said.
“Doesn’t look like the fire did much damage,” Shackleford said.
The inspector nodded, then shrugged. “Curious that. The bricks, sure. The door, though? There should have been enough heat to burn that. At least catch on the edges.” He eyed Shackleford with an eyebrow raised.
“Maybe the bottles were small,” Roger said.
The inspector turned his gaze on Roger. “Less gasoline?”
Roger nodded. “Less gas, more vapor. Flash over fast and die out fast.”
The inspector took a half step back and looked the door over. “That’s possible.” He glanced at Roger. “Why do you think that?”
“Three tours in Afghanistan.”
The inspector nodded and looked at the door again. “We’ve collected enough glass to reconstruct the bottles. We should know soon.”
Shackleford pushed past the inspector and into the warehouse. The lights already illuminated the first floor. A wide passage, big enough for a truck, led the way into the building. Partitions broke up the interior space into corrals for mostly wooden furniture. They walked down the central aisle toward the back of the building. Roger saw several different styles of furniture, pieces ranging some simple chairs and tables to herds of ornately carved four-poster beds, their frames strung with ropes.
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