by Cara Malone
There was no reason to think that the arsonist would be back for a second attack, particularly if the first one had been motivated by her father’s retirement party. But she couldn’t shake the concern that he might come back to finish the job. It was easier to just stay awake, and there was more than enough clean-up to keep her busy, so she changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and started tidying the ballroom.
Besides, she thought, it would be a shame if Cyn came back for her missing shoe and I was asleep.
She cleaned for a while, and kept an eye on the garden just in case. She sat down on the chaise lounge in the parlor at the back of the house around two a.m. to rest her feet for a few minutes, thinking fondly of the foot massage Cyn had given her. Her eyes grew heavy, and when she woke up four hours later, the house had begun to stir with activity again.
There were breakfast sounds coming from the professional-grade kitchen down the hall – pots and pans clattering and the hiss of a kettle coming to a boil. Just because the retirement party was over didn’t mean Grimm House got to rest on its laurels for so much as a day, and there was a ladies’ tea hour that happened in the garden every fourth Sunday morning.
Mari groaned and got out of the chair. Her clothes were wrinkled and her skin felt stiff from spending the whole night in the formal makeup she’d put on for the party.
She popped her head into the kitchen, where she found the estate’s head chef bright eyed and bushy tailed, cleaning a bunch of spinach to make his famous mini quiches for the tea hour. “Federico, have you seen Emily yet this morning?”
“No, miss,” he said. “She usually starts at seven, doesn’t she?”
“What time is it?” Mari asked, and when he saw how tired she was, Federico pressed a warm mug of coffee into her hands.
“It’s only six,” he said. “When I see Emily, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.”
“Thank you,” Mari said, taking a long, grateful sip from the coffee cup. It was hot and strong – how I like my women. The stray thought popped into her mind before she could chase it away, and she grinned at the fact that Cyn was who she pictured. She shook away the idea, then said, “I just need to talk to her about the tea party location – I was so wrapped up with the retirement party, I forgot that those ladies probably don’t want to look at the pathetic remains of my garden during their tea time.”
“I’ll let her know,” Federico said, turning back to his spinach.
Mari took another long sip of her coffee, then headed upstairs to take a shower and change into something more appropriate for a new day. It was amazing what even a few hours of sleep could do for a girl’s perspective – the pity party over her father’s delayed announcement had officially ended and Marigold was ready to take on another day at Grimm House.
Mari came back downstairs an hour later, feeling refreshed and more like herself with a hot shower and a cup of coffee behind her. She found Emily and discovered that she’d already moved the ladies’ tea hour to the terrace closer to the building. Not only that, but she’d spearheaded the removal and storage of all the tables and chairs in the ballroom, and everything was looking nearly back to normal.
“Good morning,” Mari said, wrapping her arms around Emily for a quick hug. “Thank you for dealing with the tea hour. I barely slept last night.”
“You’re welcome,” Emily said. “But are you that concerned with your father’s retirement? You know the estate will be yours.”
“I was so sure he was going to make his official announcement last night,” Marigold said. “I don’t understand what changed his mind.”
Emily cast her eyes away. Mari had been expecting sympathy and commiseration, and instead she was beginning to feel suspicious.
“What?” she asked. “Do you know something?”
“I may have done something,” Emily said, looking sheepishly at Marigold. “I saw you in the garden with that firefighter.”
“Cyn,” Mari said, her heart sinking into her stomach. “What did you do, Em?”
“Don’t kill me,” Emily said. As if anyone who had ever prefaced a confession with that plea had lived to tell about it. “I really think your father has a point about how little time you’ll have for a social life if you’re running the estate all by yourself. I saw the way you were looking at that girl.”
“What did you do?” Mari repeated.
“I told your father about her,” Emily said. “If there’s something between the two of you, I think it would be a shame to ignore the possibility. I thought if you just had a couple more weeks before a whole new set of responsibilities were dumped in your lap, you could really think about what you’ll be sacrificing.” Perhaps Emily saw the glint in Marigold’s eye that said she dearly wanted to strangle her in that moment, because she added, “I meddle out of love.”
Marigold pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers, trying to process this turn of events. Then she asked with a sigh, “Where’s Ryan?”
“In his office,” Emily said. “I think he’s working on the social calendar for next season. Do you need him?”
“No, let him work. I have some business to attend to downtown,” Marigold said. She needed to see about having that police sketch done, and she also wasn’t sure how long she could bear to look at the blackened, wilting flowers visible from every south-facing window in the house, so a trip to Green Thumb would be in order, too. “Can you hold down the fort?”
“Sure,” Emily said. Mari turned to leave, and Em called after her, “Don’t forget the loafer in the foyer.” Marigold turned back to give her a quizzical look and Em just winked and said, “That’s right, I saw it.”
Mari rolled her eyes, but she grabbed the loafer out of the woven basket on her way out of the house. She went to the terrace first, checking on the setup for the tea hour and making sure it was all coming together. Then she ducked under the caution tape strung across her garden and went to the long, wide pathway where the damage was the worst.
Thirty-six hours after the fire, it looked even more decimated than before. The perpetrator had dumped ten gallons of gasoline on her poor flowers and plants. Everything the fire had touched was blackened, dried out and curling in on itself, and everything the gasoline had attacked was scarred, brown and wounded.
The waterlogged plants that had their leaves blown off them might still make a comeback. The Cinderella milkweed that Mari had managed to rescue from the hoses was clinging to its delicate pink petals like its life hung in the balance, but if she didn’t get it out of the tainted soil soon, it would all have to be replaced.
Marigold took out her phone and made a quick list of all the different types of plants she would need. She was always expanding the space, exploring exotic new plants and interesting configurations, but this stretch was a part of the original garden that her mother had planted over thirty years ago.
She was determined that when she was done rebuilding, it would look just like nothing had ever happened to it – with one exception. Marigold couldn’t wait to find a place of honor for the bluebell that Cyn had given her last night.
Mari went into town and stopped at Green Thumb to give the nursery owner her wish list of plants, then she headed across the street to the police station to meet with the sketch artist.
"What about his nose?" the sketch artist asked.
Marigold put up her hands in frustration. She’d been answering I don’t know and I didn’t get a good look at him for the last twenty minutes, and she felt horribly unhelpful. She had no good answers and no matter how many options the sketch artist gave, she just didn’t have that much to offer.
The sketch artist was persistent, though. “Would you say it was more aquiline? Button? Upturned? Wide or flat?”
"I don't know," Marigold said. “I’m sorry.”
She was sitting in the small police station’s break room, sipping water from a paper cup. The sketch artist had attempted to lead her into the interrogation room, explaining that it would be much
quieter than sitting out there where phones could be heard ringing all over the office and people were walking back and forth to grab their lunches out of the fridge.
She didn’t like that idea, though. Mari much preferred the bustle of people coming in and out of the break room rather than the steel table in the center of the interrogation room, with eyelets welded in the center of the table where cops could attach handcuffs for dangerous suspects. It was unsettling in an already uncomfortable situation.
“I really wish I could be more help,” Mari told the sketch artist. “It’s just that I was looking at him through a window, three stories up, and the only light was from the fire. He just looked like an average guy. He was an average height, wearing all black… just unremarkable.”
"You're doing fine," the sketch artist said. "Trust me, Detective Holt understands that this is a long shot, but there’s a process that I go through to make sure I get the most accurate sketch possible, even if we don't have many details to go on. You just never know what might be helpful."
He got up and went over to the water dispenser in the corner to refill Marigold’s cup and get one for himself. A couple more police officers came into the room to get their lunches out of the fridge, and then they sat down at an empty table at the other side of the room to eat.
The sketch artist sat down across from Marigold and picked up his sketchpad again, then asked, "What about his chin? Was it cleft? Square or pointy? Did he have facial hair?"
Marigold opened her mouth to speak, then closed it with a frown. She’d been about to say that his chin was just as unremarkable as the rest of him, but that wasn’t right. There had been something remarkable about his chin.
She sat up a little taller, trying to remember. “There was something about his chin. I’m not sure what – a mole, a birthmark maybe, or a small amount of facial hair?”
"There, see?" the sketch artist asked, looking pleased with himself. “I told you details sometimes pop up when you least expect them. Now, how big would you say the mark was? Are we talking about covering most of his chin, or smaller than that?"
"Smaller, definitely," Marigold said.
The rest of the sketch took about five more minutes, and Marigold apologized when the image they’d produced wasn’t a face she recognized.
“Is that unusual?” she asked. “Why would someone I don’t even know torch my garden?”
“I’ll make you some copies of the sketch,” the artist said. “Maybe he’s got a problem with your father or someone else at the house. Show the photo around and see if anyone recognizes him – maybe he came by the place recently to case it.”
He left her in the break room momentarily to make copies of the sketch and Marigold glanced over at the officers who were quietly eating their lunch at the other table. They were young, in their early to mid-twenties like Mari, and talking about a case they’d just finished.
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll be out of here soon.”
“It’s no trouble,” one of them said. “We really shouldn’t be talking shop at lunch anyway.”
Then the sketch artist returned with a small stack of papers and handed them to her.
“If anyone recognizes him, have them call the station immediately,” he instructed.
“Okay,” Marigold said, folding the pages and tucking them into her purse. “Thank you so much, and thank Detective Holt for me. Everyone here, and at the firehouse, has been so kind. Especially Cyn Robinson – if it wasn’t for her, I think my whole garden would be a lost cause right now.”
“You know, the service awards are coming up in a couple of weeks,” one of the policemen sitting at the other table said. “I’m sorry to nose into your conversation, but if you really want to thank Cyn, you could nominate her. The voting ends next week.”
“That’s a really good idea,” Marigold said. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” the policeman said, and if she wasn’t mistaken, he had a wry smile on his lips. Was he teasing her, or joking about the whole thing? But it was a good idea – Cyn deserved some recognition for what she’d done to preserve the garden.
“Is there a form to fill out?” Mari asked.
“Yeah,” the young policeman said. “Just ask at the front desk.”
“I will,” Mari said.
She was halfway out of the break room when she heard the two guys cracking up behind her, the slightly older one saying, “Gus, you asshole – Cinders is going to kill you.”
Mari smiled, then went to the front desk to ask for the form.
Seventeen
Cyn
“I hear you spent most of the party last night with a certain Miss Grimm,” James said as Cyn came into the break room with a yawn and went to the coffee maker.
The fire last night turned out not to be another act of violence from the arsonist – this time, it was garden variety stupidity. A bunch of teenagers had been drinking and having fun and they started a bonfire a little too close to a field of dry brush. A little bit of alcohol, plenty of youthful naiveté and a heavy hand with the lighter fluid made for a pretty big brush fire.
By the time the blaze was extinguished, it was three a.m. and Cyn had a shift starting at seven. Instead of going all the way back to the carriage house on the other side of town, she changed into an oversized fire department t-shirt and a pair of sweats, then crashed in the bunk room upstairs, too tired to go home.
The guys let her sleep in a while since there was nothing going on, and it was a little before noon when she came downstairs. Now, as she poured herself a cup of coffee, a satisfied smile spread across her lips at the thought of Marigold.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” James said. “Come on, you know we like details when we’re bored around here.”
Cyn looked at him, then at the other two members of her crew sitting at the break room table. Ordinarily, she’d shut down this type of teasing, or toss it right back at them. What’s it like to go home to the same woman every night for fifteen years? she might have ribbed James, and had done so on many occasions before. But today, she was feeling sappy. Today, she was pretty sure the answer was, It’s incredible.
“Did Frank tell you?” she asked.
James nodded. “He said you disappeared right after dinner and he saw you going upstairs with a certain prim and proper socialite.”
Cyn smiled. “You know, she’s really not as prim as she seems. She can get her hands dirty when she wants.”
“Dirty, huh?” Gleeson said. “So, does that mean the rumors are true? Are my chances with her officially zero?”
Cyn laughed and said, “Your chances with Marigold Grimm have always been zero.”
She sat down at the table and sipped her coffee, slowly adjusting to being awake. It was nice when she had that luxury – as much as she loved the thrill of the job, waking up to a siren blaring at full volume and a room full of firefighters scrambling to get dressed was not the most peaceful way to greet the day.
“I talked to the fire inspector a little bit last night,” she said. “He doesn’t like our Braden Fox theory. Apparently, the guy has an alibi for both the museum and the barn fire – no word yet on the Grimm House garden, but Fox doesn’t have much of a connection to the estate so there’s no motive.”
“Cinders, you know arson cases are really hard to solve,” James said. “Even if the perp wrote his name in gas and lit it on fire for us, we'd still have a hard time proving it beyond a shadow of a doubt. Fire's just too destructive."
“Holt’s not giving up,” Cyn said. “And neither am I.”
“Okay, Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “Now the more important question is, who’s up for a quick game of poker before our next call?”
Cyn was working on a flush, concentrating hard on the game, when one of the guys kicked her shoe under the table.
“What?” she asked, a little irritated, and when she looked up, Marigold was standing in the doorway.
She wore a flowing
blouse with navy polka dots and little ruffles that accentuated her curves. Her long legs seemed to go on for days in a pair of matching, straight-legged slacks that hung over pointy-toed heels. Her dusty blonde hair hung in wavy locks over her shoulders, and in her right hand, there was a familiar black loafer.
Cyn was transfixed by the sight of her in the harsh fluorescents and somewhat dingy surroundings of the firehouse.
“Hi, Cyn,” Mari said, and the way she looked at her, it was like there was no one else in the room. “I was in town, running a couple of errands, and I wanted to return your shoe. It must have fallen out of your truck when you left last night.”
“Very slick,” James said out of the corner of his mouth and Cyn gave him a sharp look.
Actually, it would have been slick if she’d had any clue that her shoe was missing. She hadn’t had time to think about it, or the suit that she’d left hanging in the closet upstairs, or the gold chain that she’d stored in her glove compartment for safe-keeping until she could return it to its place in her jewelry box.
“Thank you,” Cyn said, getting up. She set her cards face-down on the table instinctively, even though she’d lost all interest in the game the moment she saw Marigold. She joined Mari in the doorway and took the loafer from her, their fingers gliding over each other during the transfer and reawakening the spark that she’d felt last night in the library. “I would have been heartbroken if I thought I’d lost this.”
Mari looked over Cyn’s shoulder, to where a table full of firefighters were staring at the two of them, not even pretending otherwise. Then she said, “I hope it’s okay that I came.”
“You can come any time you like,” Gleeson said and Cyn could have strangled him.
That was the price she paid for working in a male-dominated profession, and the reason why she would never choose to bring a woman she was interested in to the firehouse – not that it had ever come up before.
