Fire and Ashes

by Elaine Viets

  “I don’t understand it,” he said. “Those boys had everything: good family, good upbringing, good education. It’s not like they were Toonerville kids. But they did hang around with that Toonerville boy who OD’d. Like that Mexican gal that Luther bleep. The one in jail. It’s them outsiders causing the problems. Not us. Not ours.”

  “And there, in a nutshell, is the Forest philosophy,” Katie said.

  “Actually, Ollie does look like a walnut,” Angela said. “And he’s cracked.”

  Before Katie could answer, Monty dashed into the room, a smile on his face. “I think we’re going to do it. We’re going to have the evidence to free the Salvatos.”

  “Spill,” Angela said. Katie was too dazzled by her man to say anything.

  “First, Butch Chetkin’s father is okay. He was sent home from the hospital yesterday with orders to lose forty pounds and eat a low-salt, low-fat diet. Butch got him settled at his house. He arrived back in the Forest late last night, and he’s at work this morning.

  “He says the unidentified print on the syringe in Zander’s arm and the print inside Zander’s BMW trunk, plus the unknown prints the fire investigator found on the TP wrapper and the can of shortening at the Gravois fire, are being processed. So is the unknown DNA on the syringe that was stuck in Zander’s arm, as well as the DNA and prints in the Gravois estate’s unburned kitchen. Oh, and that was Zander’s phone found in Kip’s car at the fire scene.”

  “Did Butch get a warrant for it?”

  “Doesn’t need one. Zander’s mother gave him written permission to look at it—she found the password when she was cleaning Zander’s room. Butch got a police tech to open the phone. Zander liked to save his Snaps. They show Zander, Kip, and Duke posing with the potato chips and toilet paper in the abandoned kitchen of the Gravois house. Another one shows all three boys rubbing big globs of shortening on the walls and unrolling TP around the kitchen. Zander also saved Snaps of the three partying in the Hobarts’ pool house. And one shows Kip pouring gasoline on the walls with TP strung all over the inside.”

  “What about the historic barn that Reggie wanted to sell?” Angela asked.

  “That’s the best one yet,” Monty said. “The boys piled debris and their usual fire starters in a corner, and Kip set it on fire. Then the three are urinating on the barn’s For Sale sign. The text says, ‘Three fire hoses.’”

  “Caught with their dicks out,” Katie said. “What did KJ have to say about Maria Garcia?”

  “She said Jose brought her two hundred fifty dollars in cash—enough to cover her rent and a little extra. He refused to stay at her apartment that night and stayed instead at a hotel. KJ has the receipt, and the staff said Jose really did stay there. KJ even talked with the hotel maid, who confirmed the bed had been slept in and the bathroom used.”

  “She remembered a stay from that far back?” Angela asked.

  “Heck, yes. Jose tipped her five dollars. She rarely gets more than a dollar—if anyone even bothers tipping. Jose’s generosity saved him.”

  “From the law,” Katie said. “I suspect Gracie’s going to give him an epic ass chewing.”

  “If he’s lucky,” Angela said.

  “So the next step is to march into the prosecutor’s office and demand that Kendra and Jose go free,” Katie said.

  “Not yet,” Monty said. “Getting those DNA and fingerprint results may take a little time. Once I have all the proof, then I make my demands. I’ll give Mick Freveletti all the evidence that Kendra and Jose are innocent. I’ll remind him that the press will still be in town for Duke’s funeral, and I’ll explain that the media frenzy will be ten times worse unless he accepts the overwhelming evidence that Kendra and Jose are innocent and all charges are dropped.”

  “And then?” Katie asked.

  “We have one heck of a celebration, my love.” He swept Katie into his arms.

  “I like stories with happy endings,” Angela said.

  EPILOGUE

  One month later and beyond

  Angela had been out of the hospital for a month when a letter on Reggie Du Pres’s engraved stationery was delivered to her house by one of his staff.

  Dear Miss Richman,

  You have my permission to visit any of my three racehorses, which are currently boarded at Montgomery Bryant’s farm, at any time. I also grant you permission to ride the horse of your choice, so long as you are supervised by Bud, the head stableman. I’m enclosing three framed portraits, to wit, Valerie’s Spirit, American Hero, and East Coast Express.

  The last two horses were photographed in the winner’s circle. Angela especially liked the photo of Hero wearing a blanket of roses. That letter was the closest the old man would come to an apology.

  Bud and Katie talked Angela into riding American Hero. She was afraid to get on the big, powerful horse. As Bud helped Angela into the saddle, he assured her that Hero was gentle.

  “It will be a whole new world,” Katie said. She had graduated to a walking boot, and her moods ranged from touchy to outraged.

  “It sure is,” Angela said. “I’m more than five feet off the ground.”

  And too scared to move in case she slid off the horse.

  Bud gentled her the way he’d talk to a skittish horse. “We’ll go for a little walk around the paddock. I’ll lead Hero, and I’m here to catch you if anything goes wrong. You hold the reins soft, like this.” He arranged her hands. “Thumb up, with three fingers on the rein and your pinkie outside. Good.”

  Angela felt awkward on the muscular, shiny-coated horse, and her hands seemed oversize and clumsy in that position.

  “Stay relaxed,” Bud said.

  Relaxed, she thought. The one word that guaranteed you felt tense. Hero began a slow walk, led by Bud. Angela’s heart beat faster. She was afraid she’d slide off the saddle—or Hero would suddenly remember he was a racehorse, jump the fence, and go galloping across the fields. But he stayed in that slow, steady walk.

  “Good,” Bud said. “You’re doing fine. Let your seat move with your body. Let your legs lightly have contact with Hero’s sides. You don’t have to freeze your arms. Let your arms follow with his head as it goes up and down, so you’re not pulling on the reins. Then you’re gentle on his mouth. There, now you’re getting a feel for it.”

  She was, a little. As Hero continued his slow progress, she felt more comfortable on his back. She began to enjoy the view. They made three trips around the paddock, then Bud said, “Are you ready to step up the pace to a trot?”

  “Uh, not today, thanks.” Angela patted Hero on the neck, and Bud helped her dismount. She hugged the horse and kissed him. He kissed her back. She gravely shook his tongue and gave him peppermints and a carrot.

  “How did you like your first ride?” Bud asked.

  “It was . . . interesting.”

  “So you didn’t like it.” Bud seemed disappointed.

  “No, I did. It’s just that I’m used to cars. You can’t put the pedal to the metal on a horse.”

  Bud laughed. “Yes, you can. Especially that one. But not right away. You’ll have to know him better.”

  Angela started taking riding lessons with Bud three times a week. She learned how to balance herself, how to use the reins and her legs, how to shift her weight to give the horse direction. It was a warm November day when she tried her first canter and felt the horse’s powerful body and the wind in her face. That’s when she really relaxed and began to enjoy riding. At Christmas, Katie and Monty gave her a pair of custom-made riding boots. Horses had been Angela’s solace since the strokes. Now riding became her escape from the worst part of her job. She grew fit and learned to fight the sadness that sometimes overwhelmed her.

  After months of lessons, Angela went for a long afternoon ride on the Du Pres estate. She and Hero ended up on the highest hill. It was spring again, and the Missouri hills were a tender green. She’d been thinking about Donegan, wishing he could be with her. She knew she’d love only one man in her lif
e, but at least she’d had that love, and that was a gift. The red flowers blooming nearby reminded her of the roses Donegan had given her. She patted Hero’s neck and thought of the horse’s photo in the winner’s circle, when Hero was blanketed with roses.

  “We’ve both won the grand prize and stood in the winner’s circle,” she told the horse as she patted his neck. “That should be enough for both of us.”

  Jeremy “Kip” Raclette spent two weeks in a coma at the hospital. He would need more than a year’s worth of painful skin grafts, as well as rehab for heroin addiction. He had to stay on his stomach with his ass in the air. It was humiliating. His friend Duke had died in the fire, and Kip thought Duke got the better deal. Kip never told anyone that he was going to the tack room to help Duke steal the trophies. If people wanted to think he was trying to save his friend, fine with him. The police found his cell phone with the stable video and released parts of it to the media. People were outraged when they saw Duke and Kip, flying high on heroin, setting the hay bale on fire to block the main entrance, and then laughing crazily when they strung the rope at the other entrance. Nobody but the drug-addled Duke and Kip thought the blazing stables and screaming horses were cool. The Forest’s anger raged nearly out of control when the dramatic portraits of American Hero and East Coast Express were released, along with an adorable video of Snickers, Hero’s pony. Little Bit captured all hearts when she tried to eat a TV reporter’s mic.

  The police sent out a carefully worded press release that announced seventeen-year-old Kip Raclette had been badly burned, and Duke Charbonneau had died in the fire. The press release said the boys had no legal reason to be at the stable and that the police had recovered video showing the two setting the barn on fire and photos placing them at the scene of the other three fires at the Hobart pool house, the historic barn, and the Gravois estate. Upon Kip’s release from the hospital, he would be charged with multiple counts of felony arson, animal cruelty, and felony murder because Duke had died during the commission of a felony.

  Kip’s father had to hire security to stay outside the boy’s hospital room. He was getting so many death threats and so much hate mail over those two stupid racehorses, that pony, and the goat with the dumb name, the hospital said it couldn’t be responsible for his safety. The nurses who tended Kip’s painful wounds looked at him with contempt, but said nothing.

  “You know why the cops are waiting to charge you, shithead?” his father screamed on his one visit to the hospital. “Because I have to pick up all your bills. I have to pay for your rehab and your hospital care. I hope you rot in jail. The state can lock you up and throw away the key for all I care.”

  They nearly did. Kip felt the full fury of the Forest, led by Reggie Du Pres. The boy was afraid he’d be dragged out of the hospital and lynched before he got to court. He was going to be tried as an adult. His mother used some of her Mintern money for one last favor. The lawyers arranged a plea bargain for thirty years and told him he was lucky to get that.

  His parents weren’t so lucky. Because Kip was a minor, they were sued by everyone: Reggie Du Pres wanted the money for the restoration of his stables and his historic barn, plus his own mental pain and suffering.

  The fire became a gold mine for Monty. Every injured party in the Forest hired him to sue Kip’s parents. The Hobart family wanted the money to rebuild and refurnish the pool house that their insurance didn’t cover. Angela and Katie sued for their medical bills, lost wages, and pain and suffering.

  Judge Charbonneau was also sued, since his son helped commit the crime. The lawsuits quickly ate up his savings and his family trust.

  The Raclettes and the Charbonneaus both filed for bankruptcy. The judge didn’t bother running for reelection. He and his wife moved to a small apartment in Toonerville. Their daughter, Carlie, is in rehab. The Raclettes moved somewhere back East and cut all ties to the Forest. Kip never sees them in prison.

  Luther Ridley Delor was cremated two weeks after the fire, and his ashes were buried in the family plot in the Forest cemetery. After the private funeral, Priscilla Du Pres Delor resigned as president of the Chouteau Forest Women’s Club.

  Mario Ortega’s Killer Cuts Salon eventually regained its former clientele. At first, the customers continued to go to Nikolai of New York. But then the invading hairstylist fried Priscilla’s hair the day of Luther’s funeral. She was forced to wear a long black veil for the ceremony, and hats and scarves for weeks afterward. Priscilla swallowed her pride and returned to Mario, and the other members of the Forest followed suit. Mario hired the part-time manicurist to take Kendra’s place.

  Kendra Salvato now goes by her middle name, Graciela—Grace, for short. She and her family moved to Austin, Texas, and she enrolled in the business school at the University of Texas. She’s working toward a degree in business administration and plans to help her parents’ businesses. She’s currently dating a college senior who’s also a musician.

  Jose Salvato sued Chouteau County for false arrest. His attorney, Monty, pointed out that the prosecutor had no evidence to support the charges of arson. The county settled out of court for an unknown amount, and the charges against Jose for assaulting a police officer were quietly forgotten. Jose sold his Chouteau Forest lawn-care business and moved to Austin to be with his daughter. Because the climate in that part of Texas is hot and dry, Jose has gone back to school to learn xeriscape, the art of landscaping in dry regions. He promised his wife that he will never meet with his ex-girlfriend, Maria Garcia, again. This time, he kept that promise.

  Gracie also sold her business, and the Forest dwellers were sorry to see her go. The new owner raised the prices. Gracie started a new cleaning service in Austin. Thanks to shrewd marketing, it’s starting to break even. Their daughter is supporting her parents until their businesses succeed.

  Big Al the Pizza Dude got a full scholarship to the engineering school at the university of his choice. He went to work at the racetrack and loved that job. On his last night as a pizza driver, he stopped by Angela’s house with her favorite pizza: pepperoni and mushroom. It was sunset, and the sky was streaked with gold. Angela heard his beat-up Subaru wheezing and clunking up her drive and opened her door to meet him.

  “Al! It’s good to see you, but I didn’t order a pizza.”

  He looked uncomfortable. “I know, Ms. Richman, but I thought you might like one. If you don’t feel like eating pizza tonight, you can freeze it.”

  “I always feel like eating pizza. Let me get my purse.”

  “It’s on me. And I don’t want a tip, either. I owe you.”

  “No, we owe you. We wouldn’t have saved the horses or caught the arsonists without your help. You saved those innocent animals from a fiery death.”

  “I’m sorry Duke died,” Al said.

  “What a waste,” Angela said. “Both those boys.”

  “I didn’t just come to give you a pizza. I need a favor. That sweet blue MINI in your garage—do you drive it?”

  “No, it belonged to my late husband. I haven’t even started it since he died.”

  “Oh.” Al’s face fell. “I was hoping I could buy it from you. I mean, if you wanted to sell it. My Subaru’s about to keel over.”

  Angela looked at Al and thought about the car her husband had enjoyed, now rotting in the garage. She needed to put her own car in there. It was time. “I agree it’s a sweet car. And locking that car away is killing it. Let’s take a look.”

  Angela got the keys for the car and opened the garage. Inside, it smelled of oil, mold, and dust. She could write her name in the thick dust on the MINI. But she didn’t have the urge to run away. She could face this with Al.

  She handed him the MINI’s key. “Go on, see if it starts.”

  The driver’s door opened with a creak. He turned the key and the car coughed, then roared into life.

  “Yes!” Al pumped his fist.

  Angela loved the pure delight on his face. “It’s not good for a car to sit this long. It
needs to be driven. If you like it, I can talk to your mother about transferring the title and the insurance.”

  “I can pay you a little something each month,” he said.

  “You deserve a reward for saving the Du Pres stables and capturing the Forest arsonists. If this car runs, consider it your reward.”

  “Awesome. Are you sure your husband would want this?”

  “My husband was a good man. He’s beyond wanting or needing anything. But I want it. Do you want to go for a test-drive on the Du Pres estate?”

  “Sure.”

  She climbed in on the passenger side. Al backed the car out of the garage. And off they went, into the bright sunlit future.

  THE INSIDER’S GUIDE TO CHOUTEAU COUNTY PRONUNCIATION

  Missourians have their own way of pronouncing words and names, and you don’t tell the Show Me State how to say something. The French were among the first settlers, but we resist Frenchifying.

  Chouteau is SHOW-toe.

  Du Pres is Duh-PRAY.

  Gravois is GRA-voy.

  Detective Ray Greiman is GRI-mun.

  The state is divided on how to pronounce its own name. The eastern part calls it Missour-ee. In the west, it’s Missour-uh. State politicians have mastered the fine art of adjusting their pronunciation to please whichever part of the state they’re in.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Fire. It’s fascinating, fearsome―and mysterious. We’re still learning about fires, their causes and effects, even today. Many experts helped me with Fire and Ashes, and I’ve tried to get their complicated information correct. Any mistakes are mine.

  Thanks to Captain Brian Pollack, fire investigator for the City of Delray Beach Fire Rescue Department (IAAI-FIT), who spent many hours helping me with the details in Fire and Ashes. He also recommended a useful textbook, Fire Investigator: Principles and Practice to NFPA 921 and 1033 Fourth Edition.