by Laura Childs
Doogie flinched but didn’t say a single word, just pressed his lips together tightly.
“What?” Suzanne asked.
“I didn’t say anything,” Doogie said.
“You didn’t have to,” Suzanne said. “You made a weird face. Like you poured too much sriracha sauce on your scrambled eggs. Is something going on with Mayor Mobley? Wait.” She peered at him. “Is he a suspect, too?”
Almost reluctantly, Doogie said, “Ah, Mobley and Allan Sharp were partners in an apartment complex a while back. I don’t know all the details, but the deal went sour and they ended up at loggerheads.”
“There you go!” Toni cried.
As if to punctuate Toni’s sentence, the radio in Sheriff Doogie’s car suddenly crackled to life. Doogie reached in, grabbed the mic, and said, “Ten-four, Doogie here, go ahead.”
Marilyn’s voice came across the radio, carrying lots of static and a hint of panic. “Ten-fifty-F in progress.”
“Holy cripes!” Doogie yelped. He jumped into his car and pulled the door closed. He had an animated forty-five-second conversation with his trusty dispatcher, then rolled the window partway down and gazed at Suzanne and Toni.
“What’s the problem?” Toni asked. “You look like somebody just snapped your suspenders in a random act of kindness.”
Doogie stared at her. “Junior’s trailer? It’s caught on fire. The guy who called it in said it’s burning like there’s no tomorrow!”
CHAPTER 10
A zombie apocalypse couldn’t have kept them away from the fire. Suzanne stomped down hard on her accelerator in an effort to keep pace with Sheriff Doogie’s car as he sped away from the curb. But with his bigger, souped-up cruiser, he was way ahead of her in a matter of minutes, his lights blazing and siren wailing as he fishtailed through the snow.
Toni scrunched down in the passenger seat of Suzanne’s car and jammed a fist against her mouth. Over and over she kept muttering, “Oh no, oh no. Faster, Suzanne, faster. Please drive faster.”
Suzanne spun around a corner, skidded sideways, and almost clipped a white Jeep that was parked on the side of the road. She fought hard to regain control, then finally got her Taurus straightened out again. “I’m sure it’s just a grease fire,” she said, though she knew it wasn’t. “It’ll probably be out by the time we get there.”
Toni put her hands over her eyes.
Suzanne punched on her brights and rested one hand on the horn in case she had to blare out a warning to anyone in her way. She was hitting speeds of forty, fifty, and now sixty miles an hour—and she still hadn’t caught up to Doogie. With his powerful V-8 engine, he’d pretty much left her in the proverbial dust. Or, in this case, dirty churned-up snow.
“That knucklehead,” Toni said through gritted teeth. “If he used a blowtorch to grill hot dogs again, I’m gonna beat him like a cheap carpet. Then I’m gonna have him committed to a state mental hospital.”
“Everything’s okay,” Suzanne said. “I can feel it in my bones.”
But tonight Suzanne’s bones were dead wrong. Because when they finally came out on Silver Creek Road, roaring past Ed’s EZ Storage and Seifert’s Grain Mill, they could see the fire burning up ahead. Red, yellow, and blue flames swirled and twirled thirty feet into the air like some kind of hellish tornado. Junior’s squat little trailer was completely engulfed in fire, with flames crawling up the sides like scrabbling bugs.
“Dear Lord,” Toni moaned. “What if Junior’s inside? What if he’s being cooked and crackled like a Christmas goose?”
“Hang on,” Suzanne said. She swerved off the highway, heading for a bright red fire truck, then skidded into a shallow ditch and felt her car bottom out. Pumping her brakes hard, Suzanne slewed her way through a good eight inches of snow. She was hoping to end up right behind the fire truck, but Toni threw open the door and jumped out of the car before she managed a complete stop. When Suzanne popped out, too, pulling on a knit cap, she saw more than a dozen firemen working the scene. Wearing helmets and heavy dark slickers that were already coated with a thin skim of ice, they were manning the hoses, aiming two powerful jets of water at Junior’s burning trailer.
Toni screamed out Junior’s name as she fought to break through their line. Luckily, one firefighter grabbed her around the waist and hauled her back, away from the danger.
“Let me go!” Toni screamed as she kicked her feet, ready to attempt a return run. “Junior’s in there!”
Suzanne caught up with Toni and wrapped her arms around her tightly. “You can’t go in there, honey. It’s like a microwave gone berserk. Just stay put and let the firemen do their job.”
The firemen were coordinating their efforts, doing a masterful job. They continued to shoot great gluts of water at Junior’s trailer, moving in as close as they dared. One of them pulled on breathing apparatus and dashed up to a window. With one quick punch of his ax he shattered the glass.
“Do you see him?” Toni called out. “Is Junior in there?” But there was too much noise and chaos for her voice to be heard.
“Shush, take it easy,” Suzanne said. Her hands felt clammy inside her gloves despite the bitter cold. Because . . . what if Junior really was inside? What if he was curled up on the floor, passed out from smoke inhalation, flames licking at his hair and clothes?
Suzanne and Toni clutched each other, praying, freezing their buns off, watching the fire dance and sizzle. After a few minutes, Suzanne realized that Doogie was standing right next to them.
“He’s not in there,” Doogie said.
Worry and anguish were etched into Toni’s face. “But what if . . .” she started to say.
In that split second there was a huge explosion. The noise sounded like two locomotives meeting in a head-on crash. Then a bolt of blue flames shot skyward.
“Gas tank,” Doogie said, almost matter-of-factly.
They all watched in awe as the little trailer swelled up like a pan of Jiffy Pop and then twisted apart at the corner seams. Seconds later, blackened debris shot up into the air.
“Get back, everybody back,” a fireman shouted.
They all moved back as debris rained down around them, almost in slow motion, settling in the snow with soft plips and plops. Cups and plates, tools, a flaming blanket, a tire, a radio, charred bits of God knows what.
“Oh no,” Toni moaned.
But the firemen moved in closer now, steadily knocking down the flames, finally getting the whole mess under control. Five minutes later, it was all over except for the acrid stink.
Fire Chief Mulford Finley used a long metal tool with a hook to pop open the trailer’s door and then peered inside. “Nobody home,” he said, sounding vastly relieved.
Toni collapsed into Suzanne’s arms.
Then Chief Finley stomped over to confer with Sheriff Doogie.
“Looks like it might have been arson,” Finley said. “It caught fast and burned hot, which is often a dead giveaway for an accelerant. But we’ll still have to run some tests.”
Suzanne and Toni overheard Finley and turned toward the two men.
“Who would deliberately set a fire?” Toni demanded.
Doogie was the one who answered her. “Could have been anybody. Just some bum cruising through who thought the trailer was vacant and needed a place to crash. Maybe he lit a fire to stay warm. Or it was kids up to no good. Maybe they didn’t figure anyone was living there. Just saw a shabby, rickety trailer and thought it was a junker.”
“Kids, especially, will do that,” Finley explained. He was short, squat, and in his mid-fifties, with a scrub of yellow-white hair. “Remember all those Dumpster fires last summer?”
Doogie nodded. “Just dumb kids.”
* * *
• • •
TONI, who was watching the firemen stow their gear while chewing the end of her glove, was the first one
to hear Junior’s car. The knocking cylinders and screeching brakes gave it away.
“Junior!” she cried, waving her arms at him.
Junior careened to a stop next to the fire engine and jumped from his shuddering car. “Holy crap!” came his high-pitched squeal. He started hopping up and down, flapping his arms like a flightless bird that desperately wanted to go airborne. “What happened to my trailer?” He stared at the smoldering ruins as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “Did somebody torch it?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he sprinted for the blackened door, which dangled by a single hinge. “I gotta get in there and save my stuff!”
“Junior, no!” Suzanne shouted. She made a grab for him, but Junior was too fast for her. Her fingers skittered off the back of his cracked leather motorcycle jacket.
Fortunately, two firemen were able to grapple with Junior and pull him back to safety.
Doogie dropped a kindly hand on Junior’s shoulder. “You can’t go in there, buddy. It’s completely trashed. Besides, it’s a crime scene now.”
“Crime scene?” Junior dropped his head. “I can’t believe this. Who’d set all my stuff on fire?”
“That’s what we have to figure out,” Doogie said. “Chief Finley needs to investigate.”
“You’re saying I can’t go in there at all?”
“Not a good idea,” Doogie said.
Junior looked around at what remained of his possessions. “What about all the stuff that blew out of there?” he asked. “That’s all over the ground? Can I at least salvage some of that?”
Now Toni spoke up. “You gotta let him, Sheriff. It’s all he’s got left.”
“Aw,” Doogie said. “I guess it’s cooked down enough. Go ahead.”
A devastated Junior started poking around in the snow, picking up what he could and piling it into the trunk and backseat of his old junker. Once Toni joined in the recovery, Suzanne decided she’d better pitch in as well. Show a little solidarity for Toni and some compassion for Junior.
Amazingly, they were able to salvage quite a few of Junior’s belongings. Yes, his Captain and Tennille tapes were singed beyond belief, but his tools seemed to have come through the fire and subsequent explosion just fine. Tempered by fire, Suzanne told herself, so probably still usable.
“I’m running out of room,” Junior said, as he wedged a still-smoldering tire into the backseat of his ’98 Chevy Corsica. He threw Suzanne a pleading look. “Do you think I could stash my toolbox in the backseat of your car? I can’t jam much more into Blue Beater.” Junior named all his vehicles. The dilapidated junker he drove tonight had been christened Blue Beater. He called another car Old Yeller and his pickup truck Old Faithful.
“Go ahead and stick ’em in there,” Suzanne said. It was hard to say no to Junior in light of his tragic loss. Not that he’d lost anything of particular value.
“Thank you,” Toni whispered to Suzanne.
But there was still one more hurdle to be crossed.
“Where am I going to sleep?” Junior moaned. “I can’t camp out in this weather. I’ll freeze my wazoo.”
Suzanne pretended not to hear him. Sam would kill her if she dragged Junior home with her, like a dejected stray dog. Besides, there’d be the eventual issue of how to get rid of him.
Finally, Toni took pity on Junior and told him he could bunk with her for a while.
Junior perked up instantly. “Hey, babe, that’d be swell. I figured you’d come through for me.”
“I said bunk at my apartment, Junior, not sleep together,” Toni said. “As in you’re the one sacking out on the lumpy sofa.”
“Aw, babe.”
* * *
• • •
WHEN Suzanne finally got home, her clothes still smelling faintly of smoke, Sam was stretched out on the sofa in the living room, perusing medical journals.
He smiled at her as he took off his reading glasses. “How was rehearsal?” he asked.
Suzanne collapsed into the chair across from him. “A funny thing happened on the way to the rehearsal. We never made it.”
Baxter and Scruff got up from where they’d been sleeping, padded over to Suzanne, and sniffed her clothing from head to toe. From the sour looks on their doggy faces, they weren’t one bit pleased.
“What happened?” Sam’s feet hit the floor as he sat up. “Did you quit the play? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Let’s just say there were extenuating circumstances.”
Now Sam’s brows pulled together and a hint of alarm crossed his face. “Something happened?”
Suzanne drew a deep breath, then proceeded to tell him all about the fire at Junior’s trailer. When she finished with her tale of woe, she said, “So you see, yet another cause for concern.”
Sam continued to stare at her. “This is very weird. Every time you come home, something horrible has happened. You’re like the angel of death, the harbinger of bad news.”
“That’s me,” Suzanne said. “I’m the town jinx.”
Sam cleared his stack of magazines away. “Come sit with me.” He patted a sofa cushion.
Suzanne was delighted to sit next to him and have his arms around her. After her crazy night she finally felt cozy and safe.
Sam planted multiple kisses on her lips and cheeks and said, “So . . . was it awful?”
“Terrible. Toni was going berserk, and when Junior showed up he completely freaked out. I actually felt sorry for him.”
“Of course you did. Because you’re a sweet and caring person.”
“Oh, maybe,” Suzanne said to herself. Then, louder, “Did you eat?”
“Peanut butter and jelly on a toasted English muffin, so I’m fine. But what about you?”
“Starving. I’m going to fix a little something.”
“In that case I’d be happy to keep you company. Food-wise, I mean.”
Suzanne futzed around in the kitchen, fixing them a simple supper of leftover chicken-and-rice soup and slices of grilled focaccia. As she filled in a few more bits of information about the fire, Baxter and Scruff remained underfoot. Suzanne gave them each a jerky treat and sent them on their way. Temporarily, of course, because she knew they’d be back.
When the food was ready, Suzanne and Sam ate at the kitchen counter, sitting on stools, their knees and shoulders touching. Staying connected.
“I find this all very strange,” Sam said as he spooned up his soup. “First a murder, then a fire. Wait, was it arson?”
“Fire Chief Finley wasn’t sure. He said he has to run a few tests.”
“Mmn . . . Do you think Allan Sharp’s murder and Junior’s fire are somehow connected?”
“No idea,” Suzanne said.
“Lots of strange things going on,” Sam mused. “What’s next on the docket? Locusts and frogs?”
“Or flies and boils?”
Sam shuddered. “Please, no boils. Reminds me too much of when I was in med school.”
“To change the subject, did Teddy Hardwick ever get hold of you? About taking over the Scrooge role?”
“Yes, he did,” Sam said.
“And?”
“I told Hardwick I’d do it. Starting tomorrow night.”
“Why on earth would you agree to take on that role?” Suzanne asked. “That gives you, like, two days to memorize all the lines and get up to speed. And right now you’re especially busy at the clinic and . . . um . . .”
“I’m busy with you,” Sam said.
“Well, yes.”
Sam eased an arm around her and pulled her close. “I figure that if I’m in the play, I can keep a careful watch on you.”
“You’re sweet,” Suzanne said, giving Sam a kiss. She wondered if she should tell him about Teddy Hardwick’s bad foundation and Hardwick being furious with Allan Sharp. But, no, better to hold
off. There was only so much bad news you could spring on your fiancé in a single night.
CHAPTER 11
CURIOSITY may have killed the cat, but a determined Suzanne was fearless. Which was why this Wednesday morning she was slogging a path on an unshoveled sidewalk to the front door of the county courthouse.
Last night, Doogie had mentioned something about checking on deeds and property tax records, which Suzanne thought was a spectacularly clever idea. So here she was, stomping snow off her boots in the entryway, then walking down a cavernous corridor to the door where pebbled glass was etched with the words County Records.
Luckily, the crabby lady who sometimes clerked in the records department was nowhere in sight today and Bonnie Saefer was working behind the wide wooden counter. Bonnie was a sometime Cackleberry Club customer, so Suzanne figured Bonnie would gladly do some digging for her.
She figured right. Bonnie was a former secondary school teacher just like Suzanne was—a sweet-natured woman who favored twinsets and still wore her blond hair in a modified pageboy. Only on her it managed to look cute.
“Suzanne,” Bonnie said, sounding genuinely happy. “How are you?”
“Never better,” Suzanne said.
“How are Toni and Petra?”
“Working hard as always. Getting ready for Christmas.”
Bonnie lowered her voice. “I heard about the fire last night. At Junior’s trailer? Where’s that poor boy going to live now?”
“Toni took him in temporarily.”
“Mmn.” Bonnie pursed her lips. She knew it wasn’t a good idea.
Then, after a three-minute discussion on the merits of sweet scones versus savory scones, Bonnie nodded agreeably to Suzanne’s request. She put on a pair of purple half-glasses and proceeded to pore through a thick brown binder. “Yup,” she said finally. “Teddy Hardwick does indeed reside at 316 Whitetail Lane.”
“And the property taxes?” Suzanne asked.