A Dead Red Miracle

by R. P. Dahlke

  "Ohmygod. I think I must be depressed or sumpin'."

  More than likely, she was hungry again, but food was going to have to wait. I did not envy Ron when my cousin finally got him by the throat.

  <><><><><>

  He wasn't at any of his favorite haunts so we decided to try the address we had for his house. It wasn't like Ron ever invited us over for holidays, but still we were surprised by the rundown neighborhood. Shingles were missing from roofs, homes hadn't been painted since the Nixon administration, and weeds fought for space in the gravel.

  Pearlie slowly passed each house until she stopped in front of a rusty mailbox with the number 1642 on it.

  We gawked at the derelict condition of the home.

  "I can't believe he'd park his Lexus in that carport," I said.

  "This is the right house number," Pearlie said, opening the car door. "I'd knock on doors and ask, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone at home."

  "Too bad," I said. "I was looking forward to watching you charm the neighbors, 'cause you're so easy to talk to."

  The damp sky only added to our bad mood. I should be glad for the monsoon weather; it acted as a natural water cooler to the dry Arizona climate. But dishonesty and betrayal had left me hot anyway. I shrugged off my anger at Ron and considered the house he claimed to be living in. None of the other houses on the street were in such bad shape. At the very least it looked neglected, and it only added to my suspicion that he'd given us a fake address.

  Pearlie opened Ron's mailbox and slammed it shut. "The resident spider inside said Ron doesn't get his mail here. Bet you five dollars it all goes to a P.O. box, the rat bastard."

  "Are you getting the picture now?"

  Pearlie ignored the comment, marched to Ron's front door and rapped three times. When no one answered, she leaned on the doorbell. "He's probably sleeping off his lunch."

  I sidestepped to a living room window, cupped my hands against the glass, and peered inside. There was a fat bald man sprawled out on the floor, and though his face was turned away, I thought he looked a lot like Ron.

  Was that dust in the air?

  No. Not dust. It was… Smoke!

  Hot, swirling, angry smoke crawled across the motionless body on the floor and curled up onto the windowsill.

  I stumbled back, grabbed Pearlie's hand, and jerked her off the porch just seconds before the windows exploded, the blast knocking us face down into the gravel of Ron's front yard.

  Window glass rocketed over our heads and heat scorched our backs, leaving us gasping.

  When the searing heat subsided enough for me to raise my head, I looked up and saw that the house was fully engulfed in flames.

  My face hurt from being tossed onto the gravel, and my ears were ringing, but I struggled to my feet, and pulled Pearlie with me to safety.

  At the wail of sirens in the distance, Pearlie coughed and said, "Well that didn't take long."

  Yep. My lucky streak was over.

  .

  Chapter Two:

  Firemen with axes and hoses poured out of their trucks and rushed to the house. I didn't envy them the job. Flames came in waves from the broken windows and a hole in the roof to swirl into the sky and mix with rain-filled clouds.

  Satisfied that Pearlie and I weren't going to need a ride to the hospital, the EMTs removed pieces of glass from our skin, bandaged the scrapes on elbows, knees and faces, and left us to give aid elsewhere.

  A man in a dark, neatly pressed suit and tie, cell phone to his ear, got out of his unmarked police car and strode toward us.

  Pearlie, noting the man's confident stride, said, "Whadya think―Homicide?"

  "Probably," I said with a sigh. "Almost three years under our belts with no murders attached to our names, and now this. I don't know what I'm going to tell Caleb. You got soot on your face."

  "Wasn't our fault Ron's house went up in smoke," she said, reaching up to wipe at the soot with her sleeve.

  The detective's sharp brown eyes swept over us. Hair singed, soot clinging to our clothes, smeared makeup, a piece of tape here and there—not our most professional look.

  When his lips dared to twitch, Pearlie's lip curled into a snarl. "Something funny, Detective?"

  He had the audacity to smile. "I’m Detective Hutton, and you are?"

  "Pearlie Mae Bains," Pearlie said, daring him to accept her dirty hand to shake.

  A dimple appeared in the detective's cheek and just as quickly disappeared.

  "I see you've been checked over by the EMTs," he said, wiping the soot from his right hand with a clean, folded hankie.

  Pearlie grinned at the fastidious behavior. "A little singed around the edges is all."

  When he ducked his head to write in his notebook, Pearlie snickered, "Tight ass."

  I nudged her to keep quiet. We had enough trouble for one day.

  When he looked up again, Pearlie's expression was blandly impersonal, but unless I had missed the signals, she had caught the detective's fancy.

  "What can you tell me about the fire?" he asked, trying to keep the dimple in check.

  I figured now was as good a time as ever and said, "I saw a man on the floor through the living room window."

  Pearlie's blue eyes rounded in horror. "What? Y'all didn't tell me there was a body in that house!"

  Anger and fear brought out the Texas in my cousin.

  "That's because I was too busy trying to pry you off the porch before the house exploded."

  The detective's earlier amusement quickly disappeared. "What made you think the house was going to explode?"

  Jeez, just because we're blonde, he thinks we're dumb? I explained. "It's a small house. I could see the oven door in the kitchen hanging open. Couple that with a body on the floor, and I think it's a pretty good guess that someone had turned the gas oven on high. The electric doorbell could've acted as ignition, or someone had set an incendiary device to go off."

  "The body… it could be Ron Barbour," Pearlie said, swallowing hard. "It's his house."

  The detective's pencil stopped working its way across the pad. "Ron Barbour, the P.I.?"

  The way he said it made me think the detective wasn't a fan of Ron's. Get in line, bub.

  "We were here to ask him about one of our cases," I said.

  "You worked for him?"

  Pearlie, unable to keep the sour note out of her voice, said, "We're his partners."

  "Oh?" he said, now interested.

  I elbowed her aside. "Technically, we own Ron's business."

  "Except no one exactly knew it but us," Pearlie added.

  "Is that so," he said conversationally. He twirled the pencil between two fingers looking from Pearlie to me. Was he waiting for one of us to blurt something that might prove we were a couple of firebugs? Good luck with that, Detective.

  "The case needed some clarification," I said, glancing at the sagging roof, the broken windows, the missing front door and the milling crowd behind the fire trucks gathered to watch the firefighters tamp out the last of Ron's Barbour's destroyed house."We thought we should talk to him in person."

  "Uh-huh." His eyes roamed over Pearlie then reluctantly let go.

  "Which one of you is Chief Stone's wife?"

  Pearlie inspected her dirty nails.

  "That would be me," I said cheerfully. I could only hope that verifying my status as police chief Caleb Stone's wife might carry some weight with the detective.

  His expression relaxed. Glad to see that Pearlie wasn't married? "Mrs. Stone―" he began.

  "I use my maiden name, Detective. It's Bains, Lalla Bains."

  He nodded, the dimple back in his cheek. "Being partners with Mr. Barbour, I'm sure you know the drill."

  Pearlie sighed. "I'd like a shower first, if you don’t mind."

  He handed out cards, gave us a time to meet at the police station, then looking directly at my cousin. "Can I give either of you a ride?"

  "We have a car," Pearlie said, and without meeting
his gaze, put the card in her purse and snapped it shut.

  The detective took the rejection with the good humor he was born with and left.

  "Give us a ride, my ass," Pearlie said, watching him walk away.

  "He likes you," I said, unable to keep from laughing. Soot covered, scrapes and all, Pearlie had made a conquest.

  "Humph. He can like all he wants. Won't do him any good. Besides, he looks like a cover hog. Now what?"

  "Now we talk to the fire chief and see what he'll tell us about the body on the floor in Ron's house."

  I followed her to where yellow crime scene tape had been wrapped around the perimeter.

  Pearlie flashed her P.I. card at a patrolman standing in her way. "We'd like to talk to the fire chief."

  The patrol officer looked her up and down, a smile gathering at his lips. "Give me your card and I'll be sure he gets it."

  Pearlie rolled her eyes and took out her notebook, pen scratching hastily on the pad. "Never mind," she said, peering at his name tag. "I'll tell him when I see him tonight at Chief Stone's house, Officer Nolan."

  The patrolman snickered and gave her an abbreviated salute. "You do that, ma'am. And in the meantime I'll do my duty. No civilians allowed, even if they are pretty little blondes."

  Annoyed, Pearlie returned the salute with a middle digit.

  I pulled her away before the patrolman could take exception to the rude gesture.

  "You're not helping," I said.

  "Sorry. I'm so used to flipping off Ron that it's become a habit."

  "Not everyone is Ron Barbour. Besides, that explosion was no accident."

  "I suppose not. We weren't supposed to be here to witness it, either. Darn it. All I wanted to do was talk to him," Pearlie said, sniffling.

  "You feel bad for Ron already?" I asked, heading for her rental car.

  "No. I'm talking about the fire chief. If it turns out that wasn't Ron in there, I'm gonna kick his ass all the way to New York City."

  "You'll have to get in line. A dead Ron is really going to complicate things."

  Complicated didn't begin to describe the hornet's nest of trouble Ron's two ex-wives were going to cause, both of them in an uproar over their discontinued alimony checks.

  Seeing Caleb's police cruiser pull up behind the line-up of EMT and fire trucks, Pearlie started backing away. "Um, I gotta get a shower and see about getting a new rental. This one has dents in it."

  She was leaving me to explain the fire and the dead body to Caleb. Can't say I blamed her. I'd skip out on this too, if I weren't married to Wishbone's police chief.

  Caleb's ice blue eyes took in the smoldering ruin of Ron Barbour's house, the scrapes, the soot on my face, and the weeds sticking out of my hair.

  "How do you do it, Lalla? Last time we spoke you were on your way to see how your dad's new patio was coming along. What the hell happened this time?"

  "Pearlie… "

  "I knew she was going to be trouble."

  "Now, Caleb, that's just not fair. We were looking for our business partner." I sighed again. Pearlie had me doing it. My heart sank at what we would lose if that body turned out to be Ron.

  "The detective I just talked to seemed to think you found him, too."

  "About that… "

  The fire chief interrupted our argument. "Hello, Caleb. This your missus?" he asked, shaking hands with Caleb.

  Caleb introduced me to the chief.

  "What can you tell us, Chief McKerney?" Caleb asked.

  The chief confirmed my initial theory about the gas oven and a probable incendiary device, but added, "Things like this can work, or not. It all depends on the right mix of oxygen and gas."

  "Is-is the body I saw through the window Ron Barbour?" I asked.

  The chief's appraisal of me was not entirely unfriendly. "That'll have to be determined by the medical examiner. I heard you were in the process of buying him out."

  "If you heard that, then you're the only one."

  Chief McKerney smiled broadly. "If it's any consolation, Ron said you two came with ready-made disguises."

  "That's our Ron," I said, lightly. "Always good for another dumb blonde joke."

  "We'll get confirmation on identity with his dental records and I'll have someone let you know as soon as possible."

  Caleb thanked the fire chief for the update and then silently steered me toward his cruiser. "I'm on my lunch break, so you can tell me exactly what happened while I drive you home."

  His voice was calm but it had an edge to it that said we were going to have one of those talks about my reckless behavior.

  Ah, there it was. That familiar feeling I'd been missing―me in trouble again.

  .

  Chapter Three:

  Caleb and I never intended to marry in Arizona. We had a simple fall wedding planned for friends and family at Roxanne's café in Modesto, California. But when Caleb interrupted a robbery at a Quick Stop it was inevitable that he should be the one to cuff the thief until the city police arrived. The good news was that he got a reprieve on the paperwork. The bad news was that I had jumped to my usual erroneous conclusion that he would be a no-show, and dumping my wedding bouquet, I fled to Arizona, taking my dad with me on an ill-advised road trip.

  Caleb, knowing me as he did, wasn't about to let me run off without an explanation. That his truck was hijacked and he was left to wander in the desert until he made it back to town only served to prove that it wasn't Caleb who had the cold feet.

  When we finally did get married, we moved into the old federal style adobe house gifted to us as a wedding present by my great-aunt Eula Mae Bains. Because we wanted to keep the integrity of the historic home, we kept the windows and French doors, but redid the plumbing to accommodate a dishwasher in the kitchen, and carved out a laundry room from what had been a perfectly nice second bedroom. It was small, but then it was only Caleb and me. And though he was here for dinner more often than not, my dad and his dog Hoover, lived on forty acres adjoining our property.

  Hoover, the stray my dad had adopted was so named because he ate everything, including an occasional wayward sock, and we now worked as volunteers with Cochise County's Search and Rescue as an air scent dog and handler.

  With Caleb's acceptance as Wishbone's police chief, and Pearlie and I working toward acquiring a business as private investigators, life was pretty good. It only took two years and seven months to be disabused of that idea.

  I wrapped a towel on my wet hair, pulled on a terry cloth robe and went to the kitchen where Caleb had lunch waiting.

  I don't know how many times I have asked that man not to feed Hoover anything but dog food, but there they were, Caleb handing down bites of tuna to the eager dog.

  "Come on Caleb, you know I use treats to reward him for good work."

  He shrugged and patted the dog between his big ears. "I'm training him, too."

  "To beg?"

  "Hoover is learning new tricks and that deserves a treat, doesn't it boy?" he said, patting Hoover on the head.

  Hoover wagged his tail.

  "What new tricks?"

  Caleb smiled and said, "Hoover―play dead."

  The dog promptly laid down, closed his eyes, and let his tongue hang out.

  When I laughed, Hoover cracked open an eye and wagged his tail.

  Caleb spoke softly and the delinquent eye shut and his tail went quiet.

  "And this is useful how?"

  "Watch," Caleb said, waving a dollop of tuna in front of the dog's nose.

  The eyes stayed closed, the body limp, but there was that cheating tail thumping again.

  "Needs some work," Caleb said, and withdrew the tuna. "Not sure where or when it might become useful, but I think it's a good trick."

  "Just so long as he doesn't lie down and play dead on search and rescue."

  Caleb smiled. "When does Hoover go out again?"

  "When they need us," I said. "Karen's dog is still the veteran and first choice on the team, but if sh
e's not available, it's up to Hoover."

  "You sure he's capable?"

  "Karen Paquette said he's as good as they come―even if he is a big baby when it rains. That dog hates the rain."

  "I felt you come to bed late last night. How'd it go with finding those hikers?" he asked.

  "Dumb kids. It's dark, they're lost, and since they're too smart to own a compass or bring along a GPS, they used their cell phone and called 9-1-1."

  "I'm sure their mothers were glad they did," he said.

  "Whose side are you on?"

  "Yours, of course."

  "So you say," I said, reaching over and pinching his arm. I had no problem putting off our talk about Ron, but when Caleb's cell phone rang, I hoped it was for an update on the house fire.

  He held up a finger for me to wait. "Uh-huh. Yeah. I will, thanks." He hit the off button and pocketed the cell, watching me lift a corner of my tuna sandwich.

  "You didn't add pickles to mine did you?" I asked.

  "Oh, I remembered," he said, picking up half of his sandwich and leaning against the counter to eat.

  I happily dug into mine, only to taste the pickle relish I so detested. "Caleb! What gives?"

  Pointedly side-stepping pickles, he said, "I thought you would want to know about my morning. The usual vagrancy issues with the park and I released the drunks from last night's brawl on their own recognizance, then on my way out of town I caught the Garza brothers stealing a battery out of someone's car."

  I decided to ignore my issue with pickles. "Those two again? They're eight and ten−why aren't they in school?"

  "The older one was suspended for smoking and his little brother decided it would be more fun to take the day off and see what they could steal."

  "Where does a ten-year-old get cigarettes? Oh, yeah, their mom. What'd she have to say this time?"

  "On a good day we can find her at a local bar, but today she's gone AWOL."

  "They have an older brother, don't they?"

  "Step-brother. He works at the Shell station and says he's done with those two."

  "Then they're headed for Juvie?"

  "There's no one at home to watch them. If I hadn't come by when I did, they would've had that car stripped and the parts sold."