Fire and Ashes

by Elaine Viets

  “Bryan Berry agrees with her,” Angela said.

  “Of course he does. She’s one hot lady. I’d agree the earth was flat if Ann said so. Look, I’m telling you what I heard. You can believe it or not. Greiman and the fire investigator are holding a joint press conference this afternoon. You can hear what they have to say yourself.”

  “Do you think Kendra killed Luther?” Angela asked Butch.

  “Luther? Not my case.” Butch munched his Caesar salad.

  “Off the record, what do you think?” Angela took a bite of dripping tomato.

  “On and off the record, I’m glad Ray Greiman caught the case. And I can tell you this, because it’s no secret—he believes Kendra poured gasoline on Luther and set him on fire. That’s premeditated. Murder in the first degree.”

  “Do you believe that?” Angela said.

  “Doesn’t make any difference.” Chetkin shrugged. “Greiman and the fire investigator have a solid case against Kendra. Along with Greiman’s usual half-ass—” He stuffed a big hunk of romaine in his mouth, as if to stop his criticism. After Butch swallowed, his tone was more measured. “Although Greiman sometimes makes hasty assumptions, there seems to be solid physical evidence that Kendra set the fire that killed Luther. Hachette, the fire investigator, found pour patterns and things like that. I know you don’t like Greiman, Angela, but this time he may be right.”

  Butch had finished his lunch. He sounded fed up. “Want a cookie and coffee?” Katie asked, and broke the tension.

  Butch and Angela both said yes. Katie came back to the booth with hot coffee and three hubcap-size chocolate cookies, and they spent the rest of the lunch discussing Butch’s wife and two boys, who were both in grade school.

  By two o’clock, Angela was home. Exhausted after the early-morning death investigation, she napped. At ten after six, she flipped on the TV news in time to see the report about Kendra. The announcer, a heavily hair-sprayed brunette, looked like a high-priced dominatrix with her tight black sheath and the face of a disapproving schoolteacher.

  The video showed Monty escorting Kendra into the Chouteau County Sheriff’s Office, while the announcer said, “Bail was denied to Kendra Salvato, the Mexican American manicurist charged with murder in the first degree and multiple counts of first-degree arson. Miss Salvato was employed at this popular Chouteau Forest salon.”

  Now Killer Cuts’ elegant black awnings and chic, gray storefront were on-screen. Poor Mario, she thought. His salon had been dragged into Luther’s murder. He didn’t deserve that.

  The announcer continued: “Miss Salvato, age twenty, is accused of deliberately setting fire to her fiancé, the distinguished Forest businessman, Luther Ridley Delor, age seventy.” Was that a disapproving grimace? Hard to tell. The announcer looked like she’d disapprove of everything, even Mom’s apple pie (fattening) and fuzzy kittens (they shed).

  “Miss Salvato’s last evening with Mr. Delor was the subject of a viral video at Gringo Daze, a local Mexican restaurant.”

  Angela groaned. Lourdes and Eduardo, the restaurant owners, were also part of Luther’s murder.

  “In this excerpt,” the announcer said, “Luther Delor appears intoxicated as Miss Salvato attempts to persuade him to leave the restaurant.”

  The infamous scene was replayed again, with Luther roaring, “Kendra is the best piece of ass in Chouteau Forest.” And that was no excerpt. The station played three full minutes of the scandalous video while Luther’s octopus hands roamed Kendra’s curves. Angela meanly enjoyed the prospect of Priscilla’s outrage. She was sure the furious phone calls to the station had already started.

  The announcer was back, looking like a hanging judge. “Witnesses said Miss Salvato, Mr. Delor, and Miss Salvato’s father, Jose Salvato, had a loud altercation outside the late Mr. Delor’s home before the fire. No one was injured, and the police were not called. Mr. Delor’s home caught fire about three hours after the disagreement.”

  The fire video was dramatic: columns of flame devouring Luther’s roof, dark smoke rolling into the night.

  “Miss Salvato escaped the blaze, but Mr. Delor was pronounced dead at the scene. Viewers are warned that the rescue scene may be disturbing, and discretion is advised.”

  A firefighter in a turnout coat and SCBA gear carried Luther’s badly burned body down the aluminum ladder. Angela winced when she saw Luther’s blistered hide and charred, hairless head. At least there was no video of Kendra running around in that skimpy lace bodysuit.

  The announcer solemnly said, “Miss Salvato’s attorney, Montgomery Bryant, told the court that the defendant was not a flight risk, but Chouteau County prosecutor Mick Freveletti argued that she could flee across the border to Mexico.”

  The Forest was already distancing itself from Kendra, Angela thought, playing up her Mexican heritage. There was no mention that Kendra had gone to the Chouteau Forest Academy. That tony school was probably scrubbing her name from their files and records. What would they do with those giant framed photos of each class lining the halls? Block out Kendra’s face? Or hope memories would fade and no one would recognize the dark-haired killer? At least neither business owned by Kendra’s parents was mentioned. Were the Salvatos losing customers now that their daughter had been arrested for murder?

  The announcer continued: “When her bail was denied, Miss Salvato was remanded to the Chouteau County Jail to await trial.” More video of the exterior of the hotel-like lockup. The county jail wasn’t the Ritz, but at least it was fairly new.

  “After the arraignment, Chouteau Forest detective Ray Foster Greiman and fire investigator Douglas Hachette held a joint press conference,” the announcer said.

  As Katie predicted, Greiman was wearing his tailored TV suit. Doug Hachette did most of the talking. He looked professional in a dark outfit and jacket. Hachette didn’t sound as polished as Greiman, but he was charmingly awkward, his deep voice strong and sincere. “We want to thank the prosecuting attorney for making sure that this dangerous woman no longer walks the streets of Chouteau Forest.”

  Hachette hesitated. Midway through, he must have realized he’d made a double entendre, and stumbled over the next sentence. He blushed and said, “I mean, she’s no longer at large in our community. Mr. Delor’s death was terrible, and we’ll prove beyond a reasonable doubt that she’s the perpetrator. We have airtight evidence. This heartless criminal is locked up, and the jury will soon put her away for good. Chouteau County can sleep at night, thanks to the good work of the fire department and my colleague, Detective Ray Greiman.”

  Angela switched off the TV, disgusted by the biased broadcast. Yes, the fire investigator had found pour patterns. But how did he know that Kendra poured the gasoline? The residents of Olympia Forest Estates didn’t lock their doors. They felt safe in their gated community. Anyone could have sneaked inside while Kendra and Luther slept: Priscilla, his not-quite-ex-wife. Eve, his irate daughter. Or Jose, Kendra’s father. Angela didn’t want to think about that last—and more likely—suspect, but she knew the investigators would.

  How long would it be before Jose was locked up, too?

  CHAPTER 17

  Day six

  Today was the day. Angela would deal with Donegan’s MINI Cooper. Since her husband had died last March, Angela hadn’t even started the sporty little car, much less driven it.

  The MINI needed the freedom of the road.

  But first, she would deal with Donegan’s clothes. She’d clean out his closet and donate them to Goodwill. It was the right thing to do. He’d been a generous man.

  She finished the last of her breakfast coffee, then climbed the stairs to her bedroom. The stairs seemed steeper than usual. I’m just tired, she thought. This was her third day off work since the Shane Mathrews death investigation. She’d spent a whole day cleaning house and doing laundry. Yesterday, she had three doctors’ appointments, each one an eternity on an uncomfortable chair with stacks of old magazines. That would wear anyone out.

  Bu
t today, she thought, I’m stronger. I can handle this. It’s time.

  Angela opened Donegan’s closet and caught the faint scent of his sandalwood soap. Could she let that go? Yes, it was just soap. She’d read that mourners kept the dead earthbound by refusing to let go of them. She couldn’t let that happen to Donegan. She loved him. She would always love him. But shirts, sports coats, and shoes had nothing to do with love.

  She reached in for his navy Ralph Lauren sports coat. She could feel the quality of the fabric. There was dust on the shoulders. The coat had been in there too long. The jacket even looked good on the hanger. She remembered how the students—no, how she’d—admired him in that coat. She saw him again, his shoulders straight and strong, his brown hair thick and slightly too long. The well-tailored jacket looked elegant, especially when he wore it with his blue shirt. This blue shirt, still in the cleaner’s bag. She put both of them on the cedar chest at the foot of their bed. Her bed, now. Her empty bed.

  She sighed and reached for his brown suede jacket. That buttery-soft suede was her favorite. She held it in her arms, and for a moment—just a millisecond—she felt like she was holding Donegan. She hugged the jacket to her and carried it to the cedar chest, but she couldn’t let go. Instead, Angela collapsed on the bed, weeping.

  I can’t let you go, she thought. I know I should, but I can’t. I’m keeping you earthbound. I had a chance to go with you when I had the strokes. I could have joined you and been happy forever. Instead I lived, and each day is so hard. I’m so lost without you. Her tears spotted the soft suede, but she couldn’t stop crying. She wanted Donegan so badly. She was tired of struggling to live without him. It wasn’t worth it.

  Angela woke up as the late-afternoon sun slanted across the bed. She was still holding the crumpled suede jacket. She hung Donegan’s clothes back in the closet. Another day, perhaps. Right now she needed comfort. Through the lace-curtained bedroom window, she could see the Du Pres horse farm. She’d visit Eecie and American Hero. She changed into boots and jeans. Downstairs in the kitchen, she forced herself to eat a peanut-butter sandwich, then found the bag of carrots and package of peppermints she kept for her favorites. Time for horse therapy.

  She picked up her cane and stepped out into the sweet spring afternoon. Eecie was out in the pasture today, her pet pygmy goat, Little Bit, at her side. The big bay racehorse with the tiny white forehead star hurried to greet Angela, moving delicately to avoid stepping on her little white pal. Angela hugged the horse’s long, warm neck, and Eecie covered Angela with kisses, then nudged her gently.

  “You want something?” Angela asked.

  The horse’s ears twitched, and she nickered. Angela fed her carrots while petting the Thoroughbred’s warm, dark-brown nose. The pasture had the green smell of growing grass. The soft, spring air was scented with flowers and a slight undercurrent of horse manure. The white goat’s shrill demand sounded like a rusty door, and Angela gave her a carrot. Eecie nudged Angela’s hand with her nose. “Hey, you can spare a carrot for your friend. You’re supposed to treat your pets.”

  After Eecie had chomped half the carrots in the bag, Angela said, “That’s enough. How about some peppermints for dessert?”

  The powerful racehorse crunched the sweet treats greedily, then licked the last of the candy off Angela’s hands.

  Bud came out of the mahogany horse palace to the pasture, carrying his portable soda-can spittoon. “Her ladyship making demands?”

  “She didn’t want to share a carrot with her goat. One lousy carrot.”

  “She’s the boss of the barn.” Bud rubbed Eecie’s nose. “She lays down the law to American Hero. He may be a bigger, stronger male, but when they’re roaming the pasture during the day, she lets him know if she doesn’t want him to come back into his stall—just by pinning back her ears or giving him a glare. And he knows she means business.”

  Angela’s cell phone rang. “Sorry, Bud, I have to take this. It could be work.”

  It was Katie. “Where are you?”

  “At the Du Pres stables.”

  “See you in ten. I’ve been dealing with horses’ asses all day. I’d like to see the whole animal.”

  Angela clicked off her phone and went back into the Du Pres’s showcase stable. “Katie’s on her way.”

  “Fine with me. American Hero can use some attention. I’m too busy to deal with him. You give him his treats, and I’ll send her back when she arrives.”

  American Hero looked stunning in his luxurious mahogany stall. Red-and-blue stained-glass shadows dappled his shiny, dark hide, and his white blaze glowed in the late-afternoon light. Angela hugged his neck, and Hero stuck out his huge tongue. She gravely shook it, and he blew kisses through his nose.

  “If I can interrupt you two for a minute.” Katie clomped up to them in her riding boots.

  “You’re dressed for the barn. Did you wear boots and jeans to the office?”

  “Nope, I keep them in the truck for when I visit Monty’s horses. You okay? You don’t look so good, Angela.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Your eyes are red. You were crying.”

  “It’s allergies.”

  “Bullshit. Something upset you. Don’t lie to me.”

  “This is a hard time of year. I miss Donegan. We went on our first date on a spring day like this one and had lunch at an outdoor restaurant in South County. Now the restaurant’s gone, and so is Donegan.”

  “And? What’s the rest of it? What set you off today?”

  “I tried to pack Donegan’s clothes for Goodwill, but I couldn’t. I started crying and had to put everything back in the closet.”

  “I’m sorry.” Katie looked sad and sympathetic. “That has to be hard to do on your own. If you want, call me next time, and I’ll help. The clothes can wait. Goodwill isn’t going to close down because it didn’t get Donegan’s old shirts.”

  “I know that.” Angela started sniffling again. She wiped her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the tears. American Hero moved closer and blew her a kiss. Angela wrapped her arms about the Thoroughbred’s neck and cried.

  “Angela, honey, what’s the problem?” Katie’s voice was soft. She patted Angela’s back as if she were a skittish horse.

  “I’m afraid I’m keeping him earthbound.” Angela cried harder.

  “Who? Donegan? What do you mean?”

  “I read somewhere that if we don’t let the dead go, they can’t ascend to a higher plane and enjoy the afterlife.”

  “Where the hell did you get that horseshit?”

  “I don’t know. I just read it.”

  “Well, it’s wrong. God doesn’t work that way. If she did, I wouldn’t have room to work in the autopsy suite, it would be so crowded with earthbound souls. Angela, when you’re dead, you aren’t tethered to the earth like a freaking weather balloon until you’re set free. Donegan is wherever good people go—in heaven, or absorbed into the universal consciousness—I don’t pretend to know exactly what happens after we die. But I do know this: you miss him and love him, and he loves you and always will.”

  Angela was sobbing hard now, clinging to Hero’s neck. He nuzzled her and tried to lighten her mood by blowing kisses. She rubbed his muscular neck until she was cried out. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I wish I could help.”

  Angela smoothed Hero’s coarse, dark mane. “It’s like he knows how I feel.”

  “He does. Horses fall in love with us. He’ll be your rock through this. He already is.”

  Angela blew her nose on a tissue she found in her pocket. “What’s going on? Why do you need to meet with me away from your office?”

  “Kendra’s in big trouble, and I didn’t want anyone to know we met.”

  Angela handed Katie half the carrots. “Help me feed Hero. Bud’s working outside and wouldn’t talk if he did overhear anything.”

  “We’ve got problems. Shitloads.” Katie held out a carrot for Hero. The horse delicately took it with his big yellow
teeth and crunched it. Angela patted Hero on his velvety nose and fed him another carrot.

  “I should have a freaking blackboard and pointer to explain,” Katie said. “It’s that complicated. As expected, Monty got the old cigar chomper, Chauncey Boareman, as trial judge.

  “Monty wants to bring in his own expert to autopsy Luther. He knows I think Evarts did a half-assed job. Monty asked Judge Boareman for a second autopsy. Luther’s wife and daughter fought it. The fight was short, hard, and expensive. The family hired their own lawyer to stop the second autopsy. Priscilla and Eve said the dearly departed should rest in peace without a stranger carving on him again. Besides, his cremation date was set, and the invitations had been sent. The family would have to delay the service.

  “Monty argued that once the cremation took place, any additional evidence would go up in smoke, and the rights of the living trumped the rights of the dead. The prosecution said there was no additional evidence—Evarts is a respected medical examiner, and the county can’t afford to pay for a second autopsy. They went back and forth. Finally, Judge Boareman granted the order.”

  “I bet Evarts was thrilled,” Angela said.

  “He was so mad, I thought he’d burst into fucking flames. Judge Boareman said Kendra would have to pay for the second autopsy because she has money. Monty says it looks bad, but Kendra agreed to pay for it anyway.”

  “So Luther paid for his own autopsy?”

  “It gets better. Judge Chauncey said Evarts did the first autopsy, so he could attend the second one. As a courtesy.”

  Angela whistled. “Evarts’s head must have exploded.”

  “It nearly did. Evarts claimed he was too busy, but I could go as his representative.”

  “Evarts doesn’t know you think he screwed up Luther’s autopsy?”

  “If he did, I’d be out on my ass. That’s why I’m meeting you here.”

  “Is Monty holding the second autopsy at the ME’s office?”

  “No, what’s left of Luther will be hauled to the East Missouri State Medical Center in Franklin County.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.”