by Cara Malone
Six
Cyn
Cyn put her hand to the necklace that was weighing her down, like an anchor yearning for the sea floor. Objectively, she could appreciate its beauty – a strand of large, glossy turquoise beads that hung together like raindrops gathering on a gold chain.
Subjectively, they were totally not her style.
The necklace came from her stepmother’s boutique – the one in New York with all the newest arrivals. Samantha had given it to Cyn for her birthday one year, and even though Cyn had never enthusiastically worn a piece of jewelry in her life, she made a point to choose something from her over-stuffed jewelry box whenever her stepmother was around. There was no pretending at this point that Cyn would magically transform into Cynthia, the feminine, heterosexual, jewelry-loving and fashionable stepdaughter Samantha always wanted, but wearing the jewelry did seem to make family dinners go a little more smoothly.
Tonight they were eating at the Enchanted Inn, one of Cyn’s favorite places, and the ostentatious necklace made her feel self-conscious as she walked into the restaurant. The turquoise would have looked beautiful on a more feminine woman’s delicate collarbones – Marigold’s, perhaps, the color of the stones offsetting her light blue eyes. Draped over the fully-buttoned collar of Cyn’s neatly starched gray button-up, it was out of place.
She was out of place.
“Cynthia.” She turned to the sound of her name and saw Samantha’s bejeweled hand snapping impatiently in the air.
Cyn joined her family at the back of the restaurant. Samantha was in a stylish dress more suited to the streets of New York than the quaint Enchanted Inn. Cyn’s father, Elliot, sat at his wife’s side in a tweed jacket he almost definitely didn’t choose for himself. And Drew looked bored with his elbow on the table and his fingers combing through the hair on his chin.
“Sorry I’m late,” Cyn said, sliding into the empty chair across from her stepmother. “There was a fire last night that’s looking like another arson attack and I had to run my report over to the police station before I came.”
“Another?” Samantha asked. “What was the first?”
“The one at the museum last week,” Drew said. “Remember? Somebody torched Cyn’s old boyfriend’s painting.”
“Oh right, Anthony,” Samantha said as the waiter came around to take Cyn’s drink order. She smiled. “He was a nice boy. Tell me again why you didn’t hang onto him?”
“He cheated on me on prom night,” Cyn said. Among other reasons. She turned to the waiter and asked for a glass of lemon water. Samantha and her father were sharing a bottle of pinot and Drew was kicking back a bottle of beer, but Cyn had never been much of a drinker. She’d tried it in high school, as most people do, but it hadn’t gone well.
The lemon water would keep her hands busy while she waited for the main course, and more importantly if Samantha was going to make a beeline for her troubled dating history, it would also keep her mouth busy.
“Apparently, the arson attack was over a football bet or something,” Drew said to his mother as the waiter walked away. “The guy, Braden Fox, got into a bar fight with Anthony the weekend before the fire. What an idiot.”
“Actually,” Cyn said, unable to keep herself from correcting him, “Detective Holt talked to Braden and he had a solid alibi. He was at work on the other side of town when the fire broke out, and his boss vouched for him, so now we’re back to square one. We’re not even sure if the barn fire is related to the museum fire, or if we’ve got two separate arsonists on our hands.”
“Is that better or worse?” her father asked.
“I’m not sure,” Cyn said. “If they’re isolated incidents, then separate is probably better. There was no evidence of accelerants at either scene, so it’s possible that the barn fire was an accident - just kids being kids.”
That idea comforted her. The fire itself was most definitely intentionally set – that barn had stood alone on County Route 10 for the last hundred years, and the burn patterns on what was left of the structure by the time Cyn and her crew extinguished the fire told them there were multiple points of origin. The best-case scenario was a couple of rowdy teenagers and a dare that had gone too far.
The worst case was that this was the beginning of a serial arson case.
“Alright, well that’s enough talk about crime at the dinner table,” Samantha said, downing the remains of her wine glass and then pouring another. “I have some news. My New York boutique is going to have a feature in Nylon magazine this winter.”
Elliot beamed at her, lifting his glass to salute the good news. Samantha clinked her wine glass against Drew’s beer bottle, and then Cyn’s lemon water.
“Congratulations,” Cyn said. “That’s amazing. What’s the feature about?”
“They’re going to focus on the family aspect of the business, how I built my national brand up from one little shop in Grimm Falls,” Samantha said, beaming with pride as she took another sip of wine. Cyn prepared for what she figured must be coming – an invitation to New York to play up the family optics, along with a swift reminder that she wasn’t who Samantha expected her to be for the cameras. Instead, her stepmother said, “So that means I’ll be spending a lot more time in New York, making sure the shop is in tip-top shape for the photoshoot.”
“Is Dad going with you?” Cyn asked.
“No, I’m sure I’d just be underfoot,” her father said with a small chuckle. “I’m going to be holding down the fort here.”
Cyn smiled. She lived in a small carriage house above the garage of her father and Samantha’s home, but she didn’t come over to the main house very often. With Samantha out of town, this could be a good excuse for Cyn and her dad to spend some time together. “Maybe we can cook dinner one of these nights. My buddy at the firehouse, James, just took a cooking class with his wife and he’s really been getting into it. I’m sure he’d give me a good recipe to try.”
“No need,” Samantha said curtly. “I arranged for a personal chef to cook for Elliot while I’m gone.”
Her father said nothing, just took another sip of his wine and looked away from Cyn.
“Oh, okay,” Cyn said. Then she turned to Drew to keep the conversation going without betraying her disappointment. “How’s the security work going?”
Drew had gotten that job about six months after Cyn began working at the fire department, and he’d never quite gotten over the self-imposed stigma of being a security guard, as opposed to the badge-wearing, gun-toting, authority-wielding cop he really wanted to be. He shot her a withering look and said, “It’s fine. They have me working a little overtime at Grimm House for some big event tomorrow night.”
“Oh yeah,” Cyn said. “Philip Grimm is retiring. My chief’s going to that party – the most influential people in the city will be in attendance.”
“And Drew,” Samantha said with a little snort as she took another sip of wine.
“I bet it’ll be fun,” Cyn said. “You’ll probably get a meal out of it, and just spending the evening in that huge, beautiful estate is a dream. I can’t wait for the service awards ceremony this year.”
“First step, getting a seat at the table. Next step, win an award of your own?” her father asked. “There’s a Firefighter of the Year award, isn’t there?”
“Yeah,” Cyn said. “But it’s pretty selective – you have to do something big to earn it, and there’s a lot of seniority and politics that goes into it…”
She trailed off in the middle of her list of reasons why the award would never go to her. She couldn’t deny having dreamed about it, mostly on sleepless nights when she was on call at the firehouse and nothing much was going on. But the idea of getting all that attention was both exciting and horrifying, especially when she knew that Marigold Grimm would be watching.
“You’re right,” Samantha said. “That sort of thing takes connections, and you’ve never been very good at that. Now, for my Nylon feature, I had to talk to people all up and d
own the garment district.”
Cyn took another sip and found the bottom of her water glass. She’d never been very good at getting Samantha’s attention, or at least not the good kind of attention. She hadn’t wanted to work in the boutique when she was a kid, nor did she have any interest in looking the part. The day she came home and declared she was going to be a firefighter, Samantha began calling her only by her full name.
Cynthia.
So prim. So proper. So not her.
“You know, I get a plus one for the awards ceremony,” Cyn said. “It’s a black tie event and two hundred of Grimm Falls’ most influential people will be there. Would you like to go with me, Samantha? I bet you could drum up some more publicity for your boutique.”
“No publicity is bad publicity,” Samantha said. “Yes, it will be a nice opportunity to rub elbows with the mayor, and the Grimm family. I’ve been wanting to set up a pop-up boutique in that enormous foyer for years.”
Cyn glanced at her father, feeling guilty for not inviting him, but she really only had one extra ticket. Besides, if Cyn offered it to him and Samantha wanted it instead, there’s no way he would have denied her.
Seven
Attack Number Two
His next target was the first one to be deliberately chosen.
The painting had been more or less an accident, but the barn was a real thrill. The crackle as the flames bit into the wood, the curls of smoke rising into the night and disappearing into the dark sky, and the smell of a good char, like a barbeque…
Just like last time, he waited until the early hours of the morning to make his move. Unlike last time, he brought something to speed the fire along. He parked his car at the road and lugged two five-gallon gas cans all the way up the long driveway of Grimm House at three in the morning. His arms were aching by the time he arrived in the garden behind the estate.
It was all set up for the elder Grimm’s retirement party. There were fancy wooden tables set up all in a row down the center aisle of the garden, about a hundred chairs on either side. String upon string of lights were hung overhead, although he could only see the outline of their shapes – luckily, they were unlit and he moved freely in the dark.
He was wearing black from head to toe - the red gas cans were the only colorful thing that might reflect the light of the fire, but he wasn’t planning to stick around like he had at the barn. That fire had simply been for practice, but this one had a message.
It was about pride and elitism, and about the false sense of community that everyone in Grimm Falls worked so hard at constructing, only to cast people aside when their usefulness ran out. And it was about Marigold Grimm, who seemed perfectly aware of the bewitching power she held over people, and just didn’t care.
In just sixteen hours, two hundred of Grimm Falls’ most celebrated residents would be parading up that extra-long gravel driveway and stepping out of their luxury vehicles in their finest clothes. They’d be expecting caviar and classical music, but he was going to give them another type of spectacle all together.
This was going to be fun.
He set the gas cans down on the end of the long table and looked toward the house. Well, mansion would be a better word for it. The building was ostentatiously large, sprawling on and on, farther than he could see in the dark. There were a few lights on in the front of the estate – probably lights that were never turned off – but he could see no sign of movement inside.
Most importantly, there weren’t any lights visible on the third floor, where he knew the live-in staff’s bedrooms were located, as well as the living quarters of Marigold Grimm herself. He’d seen it once, on a field trip in middle school to learn about local history. It was strange because Marigold was in his class, touring her own estate and doing most of the lecturing. Maybe it was even stranger for her, but she’d held her head high and kept her expression robotic and poised as ever.
He wondered then if she considered herself to be on the same level as the rest of their classmates. She was always aloof, and she’d only gotten more unapproachable with age.
We’ll see if this rattles her at all, he thought, his hand going instinctively to the lighter that now lived permanently in his front jacket pocket, beside a half-smoked pack of Winstons. It probably wouldn’t take the fire department long to respond, but he hoped there would be an opportunity to see her reaction.
A quick Google search had told him she still lived at the estate, although her father had purchased a penthouse apartment downtown about five years ago, when the urge for contemporary architecture and convenience had become too great. At least, that’s what he’d told a reporter for the Grimm Falls Gazette.
It was incredible what one could find on the internet these days, like a list of the most effective fire-starting chemicals, or instructions for a Molotov cocktail that sounded really convenient about now. A couple of those would have beat the hell out of carrying ten gallons of gas all this way.
He popped the cap off one of the cans and the pungent odor of gasoline wafted into the air. It cloyed in his throat, momentarily preventing him from taking a breath. It wasn’t pleasant like the more organic smell of the barn fire – just a little brush, some old, dry wood, and his trusty lighter.
But aside from the long row of tables, the Grimm House garden was full of greenery. Live plants wouldn’t burn so easy, and he wasn’t interested in merely torching the furniture. He wanted to see Marigold’s precious garden burn.
He wanted to see her watch it burn, the thing she always seemed to care more about than anyone else. That would be something to behold.
He started with the tables just because they’d catch the fastest. He used up the contents of an entire red can walking down the long aisle, sprinkling gas on the tables and chairs and then coming back up the other side. Then he grabbed the second can and started dousing all the plants in the area. The garden was enormous – it would be impossible to burn it all, but he’d certainly try.
While he walked, enjoying the gravel under his feet and the sound of gasoline splashing like raindrops on broad leaves, the itchy feeling started coming back to him again. It was his new favorite sensation and he couldn’t wait to satisfy the craving again.
When the second can was almost empty, he made a little gasoline trail for himself, then threw the can down and took out the lighter. He pulled a cigarette out of his pack and tucked it between his lips, then flicked the lighter wheel. He sucked the little orange flame into the tip of his cigarette, letting the first plume of smoke rise into the air. Soon to be joined by a whole lot more.
Then without letting the lighter go out, he reached down and touched the flame to the gas-soaked gravel.
It caught fire in an alarming WHOOSH, the flame much bigger and more immediate than he was expecting. He felt the heat on his face and jumped back, his heart climbing into his throat as he patted his clothes and stubbed his toes in the gravel.
“Shit,” he hissed.
He’d singed the toes of his favorite work boots and his cigarette had dropped from his mouth and into the flame. That was okay – it would burn up as the fire had its way with the garden – but he couldn’t wear those boots around town anymore without rousing suspicion.
Once he determined that he definitely wasn’t on fire, he watched the gas finish tracing its path to the tables and into the flowerbeds. It might stink and it was definitely heavy as all hell, but gasoline was certainly effective. The whole area was engulfed in a matter of seconds, the green plants letting off plumes of smoke as they curled in on themselves.
There was something beautiful about the way the flames danced with each other.
He stood still for a minute, entranced with his creation, and then a window on the third floor of Grimm House flew open and someone shouted, “Who’s there? What the hell are you doing to my garden?”
Time to go.
Eight
Marigold
Mari was awake long after everyone else in the house had gone to bed. T
hat wasn’t unusual for her, and it was pretty much inevitable on the eve of her very first solo event.
The Grimm House staff was incredible – especially Emily, who did everything Mari asked of her and even found it in her heart not to tease her too mercilessly over how anal retentive she was being about the details. The tables and chairs were all set up, the linens were ironed and ready to be laid out in the afternoon, and the house had been cleaned from top to bottom – all fifty-thousand square feet.
Emily had even appeased Mari when she wanted to test out half a dozen different table settings, then test them all out one more time to make sure she’d chosen the best, classiest option. (In the end, they went with gold chargers, delicate ceramic plates, and a single white mum tucked into each cloth napkin because they were her mother’s favorite flowers.)
The bar was stocked, the string quartet was confirmed, and Mari had been able to keep Ryan busy with the catering details all day yesterday. Her clipboard was positively filled with neat little pencil marks, and all that was left to do was one final check in the afternoon to make sure it was all coming together as planned.
She should have been sleeping soundly, knowing she’d all but pulled off a picture-perfect retirement party, but Mari knew the odds of closing her eyes for even a cat nap before her father’s official announcement were slim, if not totally nonexistent.
So there she was, alone in her expansive living quarters, pacing up and down the length of her bedroom at three a.m., having long given up on the idea of rest. There were only two more hours before her alarm would go off, and the only thing stopping her from going downstairs to make herself a cappuccino and start her day was the fact that the rest of the household was still fast asleep. Sound carried through the tall ceilings and the ancient pipes, and she didn’t want to subject everyone to her insomnia just because she was filled with nerves.
