“See you later, kiddo,” I said, winking at her. She winked right back and I eased past the other boats, waving at Sheriff Booker, who waved back despite his obvious foul mood. The Hendersons waved too, standing in a sad little cluster on their dock, surrounded by neighbors they didn’t know, the skeleton of their house an eerie backdrop to a pitiful scene.
Chapter Six
That night I slept soundly and didn’t wake until the sounds and smells of someone making coffee invaded my senses. It was a lovely feeling, all snuggled up in a warm bed, two cats purring like Mack trucks beside me, while someone else tinkered about in my kitchen. After a while, though, guilt began to chip away at my serenity, and when the smell of bacon wafted into my room, I found myself nearly leaping out of bed. It was after nine! How I had slept through Erica banging about in the kitchen was beyond me.
The main part of my house was essentially one huge room. There were no walls to separate the living room from the kitchen, and large glass windows and sliding glass doors provided lake views from every angle, adding to the open feeling. A large brick fireplace took up most of the only real wall in the room, and above the mantel were the bookcases I’d built myself to accommodate my growing collection of fiction. From where I stood in the hallway, I could see Erica fussing about in the kitchen.
She stood with her back to me, working at the counter, her shiny black hair still wet from the shower. She was dressed in faded jeans and a royal blue pullover sweater that when she turned around I noticed matched her eyes. When she saw me I blushed, realizing that I’d been staring.
“Coffee?” she asked, grinning.
“I’d love some,” I said. “Can everything else hold for a few minutes? I feel grimy from last night, and my hair smells like smoke.”
“I know what you mean,” she said. “I helped myself to the shower. I’ll put this stuff in the oven to keep warm. Take your time.”
It had been a long time since I’d appraised myself in the mirror. Living alone, I’d become somewhat complacent, if not indifferent to my own appearance, but that morning I found myself scrutinizing my reflection. I wore my hair short, not because people said it suited me, but because it was convenient and easy to care for. It had been ages since I’d worn any makeup, although in the winter when my tan began to fade, I sometimes sported a little blush on my cheeks. In the summer, the sun streaked my golden hair with the blonde highlights I’d had as a kid. My daily trek through Cedar Hills, along with the physical labor of living alone on the lake, had kept my body fairly lean and well-muscled. I didn’t think anyone was going to nominate me for Playmate of the Year, but I liked the way I looked and knew that others found me attractive. I stepped into the steaming hot shower and let the water pound away at my shoulders.
Remembering Erica’s breakfast, I dressed quickly. The sky outside was filled with slate-colored clouds, so I pulled on a royal blue sweater, realizing too late that I had dressed as Erica’s twin. Oh, well, I thought, chuckling. She wasn’t the only one who could show off her blue eyes.
Breakfast was already on the table, and we both dug in.
“This is delicious,” I said, stuffing another bite into my mouth. “I usually just eat toast for breakfast.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want you fading away. You look like you could stand to put on some weight.” She gave me a deliberate once-over. I felt myself blush at her bold appraisal, feeling her eyes on me even after I looked away.
“Actually,” I said, “I eat like a horse. Martha says I was put on earth to torment her. She watches me eat, and she gains weight.”
“But some women look good filled out,” she said. “I thought your friend was very attractive.”
“Hmm. I think that was a mutual sentiment.” There! I’d said it. I half expected her to get up, proclaim her devout heterosexuality, and bolt for the door. Instead she laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “What’s so funny?” I asked, taking another piece of bacon.
“You are,” she said. “I’ve been trying to figure you out since we met. Your friend Martha was easy to figure, but I wasn’t sure about you.” This made me laugh, since I’d been trying to figure the same thing out about her.
“What makes you so sure, now?”
“Oh, a couple of things. The way you were looking at me earlier, for one thing. And the way you blushed when I caught you checking me out.”
“I was not checking you out,” I said.
“Yes you were,” she said. “And just now, when I was checking you out, you blushed again.”
“Maybe I just blush a lot,” I said, blushing.
“No, you don’t. I have a feeling you haven’t blushed in years.”
“Can we change the subject?” I got up to put my dishes in the sink. My heart was pounding like some silly schoolgirl, with a bad crush. I wished I could just run out of the room and hide.
“Hey,” Erica said, coming up behind me. She put her hand on my shoulder, and turned me to face her. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”
“It’s okay,” I said, avoiding her eyes.
“No. It’s not. I don’t usually come on so strong. Honest. Can we just erase the last five minutes. Start over?”
I looked into her impossibly blue eyes, and my stomach somersaulted. “I don’t think so.” I tore my gaze away from hers and moved her hand from my shoulder. The jolt of electricity that surged through me when I touched her hand unnerved me. I dropped it immediately and worked at regaining my composure. This woman had me off balance, and I was overwhelmed by a sense of falling, which terrified me. I also kept picturing Martha, her big brown eyes beaming at Erica with obvious interest, and wondered if I was out of line.
“I’m going to go find out how the Hendersons are doing and take them some clothes,” I said, moving away. “Then I’m going to go out and do a little investigating. Feel free to make yourself at home. Or, if you like, I can drop you somewhere for the day.”
“If it’s all right with you,” she said, following me into the living room, “I’d rather come along with you. I promise I won’t get in the way. It’s just that I can’t stand the thought of sitting around with nothing to do. Who knows? Maybe I can even be of some help.” She smiled irresistibly, and against my better judgment, I agreed. Inside, I was torn between an intense desire to be close to her and an equally strong urge to flee. So I did what I always do when faced with inner turmoil. I ignored my feelings and went to work.
On the way into town, I began to wonder if the fire and Walter Trinidad’s murder were somehow related. I just didn’t believe in coincidences. Jake had told me at least a dozen times to be wary of things that looked out of place. ‘If you walk by the fridge and get a whiff of something rotten, you don’t just pass it by do you? No, you open up the door and poke around until you find out what’s gone bad.’ Well, if Jake were here today, I thought, he’d probably be asking me just how common I thought it was for a man to be killed and a house burned down a couple of days apart in Cedar Hills.
The truth was, except for a kid running away from home every now and then, not much ever happened in the way of crime. And for some reason, I just couldn’t help thinking that the Hendersons’ house had been deliberately set ablaze. I kept picturing that boat I’d seen leaving in the dark, and the funny little dots hovering above it like fireflies. I closed my eyes, trying to better visualize the image of the orange dots, alternately glowing fiercer and then dying back, and suddenly I knew what I’d seen. Cigarettes!
I tried to remember how many there were and finally settled on three or four. Meaning there were at least three, maybe four people in that boat. But I just didn’t see arson as a group activity. I pondered the unlikelihood of this scenario, when suddenly the thought that had been eluding me since yesterday came floating into focus.
“Your uncle didn’t smoke, did he?” I asked Erica.
“Are you kidding! He was a devout non-smoker. The kind that waved his hands in the air every time anyone lit up withi
n a block of him. At least that’s how he used to be. I don’t imagine he would have changed much.”
“Well, according to the bartender at the Loggers Tavern, he hadn’t changed at all. He went to the bar once, paid a hundred dollars to run a bar tab, then never returned because he said the bar was too smoky.” I decided to skip the part about the local boys tying one on in her uncle’s honor, using the credit on his bar tab to fund their celebration.
“Why do you ask?” she said.
“Well, yesterday I noticed a cigarette ash on your uncle’s speedboat. At the time I thought the ash seemed out of place, because the boat was so immaculate. It never occurred to me that he didn’t smoke. Considering that he was last seen leaving in that boat, and that it was returned to his dock, presumably after he’d been killed, I think it’s safe to say that whoever returned the boat was smoking at the time.”
“So, my uncle’s killer is a smoker.”
“Which narrows it down to about half the people in town.” Somehow this discovery didn’t cheer me.Then I told her what I’d just figured out about the boat leaving the Henderson’s burning house. Erica looked excited.
“So there could be a connection between the fire and my uncle’s murder,” she said. “I mean, it might be flimsy, but it’s something.”
Flimsy was probably an understatement “Let’s see what the sheriff’s got. If I’m right, and the people in the boat were prowling around the Hendersons’ house...” I shrugged. Mary had said she’d heard voices, and if there was a connection between the fire and the murder, then we could be looking for more than one killer. A sobering thought.
We were further sobered by the sight of the blackened hulk that had once been the Hendersons’ home. It was even more gruesome in daylight than it had been in the dead of night. The air was thick with a stench reminiscent of singed hair, and from the dock I could see the Hendersons, Sheriff Booker and others milling about, rummaging through the debris for salvageable remains. Erica and I climbed out of the boat, and she handed me the bundle of old clothes we’d put together before we left.
“Mom! It’s the detectives!” Mollie called out, loping down the walkway to meet us. Her long blonde hair was tied up in pigtails, and she wore brand new, bright pink sweats already smeared with charcoal.
“The lady in the lodge went and bought us all new jogging suits from the hardware store,” she said, twirling around for us to admire her new duds. “Daddy wanted to pay for them but she wouldn’t even let him.”
Mrs. Henderson came toward us, hefting a metal filing box that had survived the heat, and set it beside the other rescued items on the ground. She was wearing a gaudy turquoise sweat suit that fit a bit too snugly but which was probably preferable to the nightgown she’d worn the night before. Her light brown hair was pulled back with a lime green scarf, revealing a round, attractive face, slightly smudged with soot. I handed her the bag of clothes I’d brought and said, “If there’s anything here you can use, feel free to borrow it. You can return them when you’ve had a chance to get things in order again.”
She looked at me and then Erica, and tears welled up, spilling down her cheeks. “Everyone has been so darned nice,” she said, swiping at her tears. “I guess it takes something horrible to happen to realize how lucky we really are.”
“What’s the sheriff say?” I asked. “Any idea what caused the fire?”
She sighed. “He says it was arson. There were two gas cans left out back. He also found several footprints, all different ones, so he thinks there may have been more than one person involved.”
Erica and I exchanged glances, but said nothing. “Now, that’s odd,” Mrs. Henderson said, walking past us down the walkway.
“What’s odd?” I asked.
“Well, I’ve been by this spot a dozen times this morning, but I just noticed, our sign is missing.”
“What kind of sign?” I asked.
“We had it hand-made. It says ‘Hendersons’ Hideaway.’ The fire didn’t come this far. I wonder what happened to it?”
“Maybe your husband already took it down,” Erica suggested.
“Maybe.” She sounded doubtful. She headed back to the ruined house as Sheriff Booker sauntered down to where we stood, his silver hair blowing in the breeze.
“Cassidy James. I’ve seen more of you in two days than I usually do in two months!” he said, sounding much more cheerful than he had the previous night.
“Well, you don’t seem particularly pleased about it,” I teased.
“On the contrary. From what I hear, you gals pretty much saved that little girl’s life. You just happen to be passing by last night, or what?”
“I was taking Ms. Trinidad back to my place, like I told you on the phone. Listen Sheriff, you believe in a little quid pro quo?”
“You mean, like I scratch your back, you scratch mine?”
“Something like that,” I said. “It just seems that as long as we keep bumping into each other, we may as well work together.”
“Don’t tell me someone has hired you to look into this fire?”
“Well, no,” I admitted, fumbling for words. “But I do think this fire may be connected to Trinidad’s murder. So the fire might be relevant.”
Sheriff Booker put his arm around my shoulders and steered me down toward the dock. “Now, Cassie, you know damned well that in matters of the law it’s your duty to report any suspicions you might have to an officer of the law, which in this case is me. Now, what makes you think this fire is in any way, shape or form connected to Walter Trinidad’s murder?”
Taking a deep breath, I told him about the ashes on Trinidad’s boat, and the boat we’d seen leaving the Hendersons’ the night before with three or maybe four people in it, all smoking.
“Did you get a look at the type of boat, Cass? Color, shape, size, anything at all?”
“It rode low in the water. No cabin. Like a bass boat, maybe. But it could have been an aluminum motorboat or even a speedboat. It was very dark, and like I said, they didn’t have any lights on. The only way we know there were at least three people was because of the cigarettes.”
Sheriff Booker stroked his silver moustache thoughtfully, peering up at the clouds as if they held some answer. The day was turning chilly, and I suspected it would be raining soon.
“Well,” he said at last. “That’s very interesting indeed. See, I found a whole mess of footprints around the house back there. And they’re all different sizes. Of course, we had people stomping around here last night from all over, so it’s going to take a miracle to sort them all out, but it’s a place to start, isn’t it?”
“Wouldn’t there be a difference in the prints left before and after the fire?” I asked. “I mean, it seems like the ashes would be on top of any prints left before the fire was set, whereas the prints left by the neighbors should be on top of the ashes.”
Sheriff Booker flashed me a beatific smile and I could see why half the women in town had a crush on him.
“I wish I’d thought of that two hours ago,” he said. By God, you may just have something there, Miz James. It’s pretty trampled over, but we just might find something we can use. I hope you’re right.” He bustled back up the walkway at a brisk clip, and I followed after him. “But as far as your theory about any connection between this and the Trinidad case,” he said over his shoulder, “well, personally I think you’re full of beans. Unless you can find me something more solid than the fact that smoking was involved in both cases, I’m afraid I’ve got to look at these as completely separate and unrelated incidents.”
He was right, and I knew it. I watched him hurry back to the side of the house, kneeling on the ground inspecting footprints. Mrs. Henderson came out empty handed and I imagined that anything worth saving had already been dragged out to the front yard. It wasn’t much, I thought, inspecting the sorry heap of unburned remnants. But at least no one had been hurt.
“He says he didn’t take it down,” she said.
�
�I beg your pardon?”
“My husband. He says he noticed the sign missing first thing this morning. He has no idea where it is. I can’t believe someone would steal our sign. The girls haven’t seen it either.”
“Maybe one of the neighbors…” I left the sentence hanging. The thought that a neighbor would steal a sign in the wake of such a disaster was unthinkable. And besides, who would want a sign with someone else’s name on it?
I again offered the use of my house, but Mrs. Henderson again declined, saying the sooner she could get off the lake, the better. I had a feeling that Cedar Hills may have just lost a nice family as residents. As I headed back to the boat, Mollie kept pace beside me, clearly wanting to talk.
“Everything okay?” I prodded.
“I’m a little worried about my mom,” she admitted “Dad will be fine. The insurance should cover the cost of rebuilding. But I’m afraid mom is all freaked over this. She thinks someone is out to get us.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think that rotten Alan Pinkerton had something to do with it!”
“Alan Pinkerton? Who’s Alan Pinkerton?”
Her sister came up behind us, startling me when she spoke. “Oh puh-leeze, don’t go into that again, Mollie. I swear, you’re like a broken record.”
“What’s she talking about?” I asked Mary, who like the others, was wearing new sweats.
“She thinks this boy I dated one time, and one time only, was so possessed with desire for my body that he came and burned our house down when I refused to go out with him again.”
“Well, he did call you about two million times!” Mollie said defiantly.
“I’m so sure!” Mary shot back. “I mean, seriously.” To me, she added, “My sister has an overactive imagination.”
“You could be right,” I said, feeling guilty at the look of betrayal Mollie gave me. “But then again, you never know,” I tried to appease her. “Two million phone calls, huh? The boy must be in love.”
“The creep, you mean,” Mollie said. “Half the time he just hangs up. Or breathes funny. Or whispers, ‘Mary, Mary, Mary.’ He’s a certified perv.”
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