“How’s your story-writing coming along, Grace?” Tully picked up another glass from an unseen sink behind the bar and started wiping it dry.
“I have an amusing piece done on the town history and I’m finishing off some stories on old cold cases. I didn’t realize we had so many Swedish settlers until I read about Gustav Swensen’s death.”
Tully set down the glass and grabbed another one. “I thought you were working on something about fires.”
“Oh, I am.” She picked up another French fry and popped it in her mouth.
“So what’s going on with that story?” Jeff asked.
“I still have more research to do on that one. It’s about a fire that killed some people around here in the late sixties.”
Ronda returned after sending off some drinks with a waitress. “Would have been before my time since I was born in ’seventy-four. But I remember my mom talking about that one.”
“I wasn’t here yet so I have not a clue. Bad fire?” Tully looked at Grace quizzically and continued drying glasses.
“A husband and wife killed and a kid who stayed with them sometimes. Kessler was the name of the family. The Kessler teenager was the main suspect, and he took off. Never was caught. I’m still working on it, and I think I’m going to interview the deputy fire chief from back then on Wednesday.”
“How come that story? I’d imagine you could have your pick of a lot of interesting stories that are unsolved,” Jeff remarked.
“I think I’m drawn to it because Brenda added a lot of thoughts, comments, and notes to the research she’d done. I think she must have been alive then and old enough to remember the fire. Maybe she even knew some of the people involved. She was intrigued and so am I.”
“Had she figured anything out or drawn any conclusions?” Jeff asked.
Grace took a swallow of her beer. “Still working on that. I’m on to a clue if I can just wrap my mind around it.”
“Sounds like kind of a dead end to me,” said Tully.
“Sturgis was in the other night,” said Ronda. “He keeps swearing he didn’t have anything to do with that fire. I know he’s been questioned by the cops.”
“He’s probably on a short list that Sweeney’s composing,” Jeff said.
Suddenly a light went on in Grace’s head. “Oh,” she turned to Jeff. “I just thought of something I’ve been trying to figure out for days.”
Tully leaned forward. “What’s that, Grace?”
“Brenda left a lot of research notes. Police went through them and returned them. But she wrote questions throughout the notes and the word ‘Poe’ with a number.”
Jeff turned toward her on the bar stool. “Poe? That’s the word she said to me the night I took her home. I had no idea what she was talking about.”
“I think I do. She taught English—like me—and so I think I get her note. The number must refer to a page in a book of Poe stories and I believe she has a book like that—although I don’t remember for sure—in her office. But what that fire has to do with a Poe story, I have no clue. I don’t remember old Edgar writing about fires. Maybe the number refers to something she wanted to remember. It’s like a code that no one else would understand.”
“Maybe a street number?” Jeff suggested.
“Or a page number,” answered Grace.
“Codes! Symbols! No one except English teachers,” Ronda inserted.
“I’m not sure what Edgar Allan Poe could have to do with Brenda’s death,” Jeff said.
Grace hesitated for a moment and then said very quietly, “I wonder if we are going in the wrong direction, TJ included. What if Brenda was killed for something she knew, not for her stories in the paper?”
“You mean like someone she was blackmailing?” Tully said.
“Perhaps. Of course, I could be all wrong, too. We’ll see,” Grace wiped off her mouth with her napkin, and looked up at Ronda. “All this talk about work makes me famished. Pie?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
* * *
Grace recognized Richard White, the former deputy fire chief, as soon as she walked into Tully’s on Wednesday afternoon. TJ had described him perfectly. He rose from his chair, a tall, slightly stoop-shouldered man with a military buzz cut to his gray hair and what looked like a bill to mail in his shirt pocket.
“Mr. White?”
“Call me Richard, and you must be Grace Kimball. Knew your husband. Went to his funeral so long ago. He was a good man.”
“Thank you. Please, sit back down,” Grace said, warming at his mention of Roger. She waved to a waitress and gestured for a cup of coffee.
White looked earnestly into her eyes. “You intrigued me when you asked on the phone about that particular fire. The Kessler fire.”
A waitress stopped with coffee for Grace and also refilled the elderly fireman’s cup, too.
“Thanks,” he glanced up at her. Then he went on without missing a beat. “That was January 25, 1968. Remember it well because it’s always stayed with me.” He stirred some cream into his coffee, laid down the spoon, and went on with his explanation. “You know, you talk to cops and firemen and teachers and there’s always something—a murder, a fire, a student—that stays in their minds long after they hang up their job. This Kessler fire was one of those.”
“I’m really curious now. Why this fire in particular?”
“First, it was a horrendous fire, one of the worst I ever fought in my whole career. We’d been having some fires prior to the Kessler one, and I was positive we had a firebug in the area. Those fires were set. They all happened at night with the same mode of operation. Multiple pours. Gasoline. No igniter left at the scene. Whoever did it vanished into the night, just like the smoke. Police put out extra patrols and everyone in town was worried.” He took a sip of coffee. “Ever seen what it’s like in a scared town? People afraid to go out or go to sleep? But there were no victims in any of the earlier fires. Vacant houses. Garages. That kind of thing.” He leaned in and spoke softly, tapping a finger on the table for emphasis. “Like a teenager out to destroy property and getting better at it each time.”
Grace set down her pen next to her notebook and thought for a moment. Then she asked, “Was it your theory that the earlier fires were set by the same person who set the Kessler fire?”
“I thought so at the time. Of course, we never caught him.”
“You say ‘him’ as if you know it was a male.”
“Well, Mrs. Kimball—”
“Grace.”
“Well, Grace, I’ve watched training videos of arsonist interviews, and they are most interesting and usually male. They don’t feel any guilt about what they do.” He shook his head gently. “Darnedest thing. No remorse at all. About eighty percent of ’em are white, male, and not very well educated. At least half have mental health problems and that includes sociopaths.”
“But the other half that aren’t mentally ill are good at planning?”
“Very. Lots of times they set things on fire to destroy the evidence of another crime, say a murder. But I don’t think that was the case here.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The earlier fires didn’t have a crime involved—no insurance, so they weren’t expecting to collect money. No one was killed so they weren’t trying to murder someone to keep a secret.”
“So what was this Kessler firebug’s motive?”
“Darned if I know. And I’ve thought about it over and over through the years. Hard to get it out of my head. It was very frustrating at the time. A third of those fire-setters just do it for excitement. They get a thrill out of fires—setting them, watching them, and getting away with it. Sometimes they even show up at the fire to watch the fire engines and the firemen struggling with what they started. It gives them a lot of attention and pleasure, even if no one knows they set it.”
“You said—” and Grace hesitated as the waitress came back with a carafe of coffee and filled their cups again. “Thanks.”
Grace poured a little more cream in her coffee and noticed a man just leaving the bar. Seems awfully early in the morning to be drinking, but then she saw his face. Austin Pettet. She had him in school, maybe ten years ago, and he had brought in a raw fish to demonstrate how to skin and fillet it. The entire lower floor in the school reeked for days of dead fish. Grace smiled at the thought.
She settled back in her chair and resumed her thought. “You said that the arsonist you were after back then might have been a teenager. How did you come up with that theory?”
“I noticed some things about the non-fatal fires that seemed to be the work of an amateur—some rags left here or there, the obvious clue that there were multiple pours. That’s a dead giveaway that it’s a set fire. And, frankly, a great many arsonists who aren’t in it for profit or to hide a crime are teenagers. Often they’re in trouble somewhere else and they’re sorry only if they get caught.” He took another sip of coffee and seemed to consider what he should say next.
“Well . . .” He paused. “As I said before, the Kessler fire bothered me. The one kid—his name was Lawler—was kind of taken in by the Kesslers, as I remember. He died in the fire, and it seemed like he was turning his life around. His parents were no good—always in trouble with the police, and this kid was abused, neglected.”
“Did you know this Lawler kid?”
“Not really, but I’d heard of him and I’d seen him once or twice. You know, small towns. He played football at the high school and was decent. People seemed to think he was pleasant despite his awful home situation.”
“I get the impression that the son—Ted—was the one who set the fire and then took off. Was he jealous of the attention this Lawler kid was getting from his parents?”
“That I can’t tell you. But Ted Kessler wasn’t a saint. He had some problems at school and was suspended a few times. Lots of stories around town about his ‘extracurricular activities.’ He could have set those earlier fires, too. I had the impression the parents were just holding on. And he took off after that fire.”
“So I guess no one has heard from him in all these years?”
“Not that I know of. You could ask Detective Sweeney if they have anything else on him, I s’pose. We didn’t have DNA testing back then—guess that’s how he got away.”
“That’s a good thought.” She closed her notebook and took a sip of coffee. “Well, I think that answers my questions. I thank you for your time, Richard.”
He rose. “I hope that helps with your story. It would be great if we could find the Kessler kid, get Sweeney to grill him, and close the books on that one. If you think of any more questions, you can always call me.” He rose, dropped some money on the table, and shook her hand.
“Here, keep your money,” she put it in his hand. “Call it a payment for excellent information—I’m on a tight budget at the paper but I can manage coffee.” She laughed.
“Thanks, Grace. It’s been nice.” He sauntered out of the sports bar and left Grace to consider her story. That’s two things I have to check on, she thought. First, the Poe reference and I’ll have to do that at the office. Second, I need to go to the Historical Society and check the old high school yearbooks. I sent Brenda’s back to her brother. Lawler, Kessler, Brenda. They were all of an age.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
RONDA
* * *
While Grace was at Tully’s interviewing Deputy Chief White, across town Ronda Burke shuffled from her kitchen sink to the table, tying her bathrobe belt a little tighter. She placed a pencil on the table and turned back to the counter, grabbing a spoon to stir her coffee.
“Well, Adonis, I’m actually getting a few things done today. Cleaned the apartment, took out the garbage, two loads of laundry, and now it’s time to balance the checkbook.”
Adonis turned his head sideways quizzically as he dribbled saliva around the floor near his food dish. He padded over to Ronda and rubbed his head against her leg, leaving a wet streak.
“I know, I know, you want attention. Right now, however, I need to get this done so I can figure out how to bring that sucker down with a huge charitable donation to the Ronda Burke/Adonis-Go-to-California-and-Become-a-Star fund.” She turned back to her checkbook. Sensing his owner’s disinterest, Adonis padded over to a spot on the floor where the sun came through the window.
“This is it, baby. This will be our lucky day.” Her FM country radio station shifted to a new song, “Four Wives, Four Divorces, and No Place to Lay My Head Tonight.”
“Ah, great song.” She opened her checkbook, picked up her pencil, and began jotting down numbers. Her head bobbed back and forth from checkbook to bank statement. Adonis, watching her, followed suit, his head bobbing back and forth from her to his food bowl. “Great music, stuff to do, and my doggie by my side.” Adonis glanced up from his comfortable spot on the floor and put his head down on his paws, feeling the warmth of the sun from the south window.
Ronda took a long drink of her coffee and pulled her phone closer so she could use its calculator. “All right . . . a few numbers here . . . add this up to that . . . round this off . . . subtract . . . a few checks still out . . . and bippity, boppity, bingo! All balanced.” She looked over at her napping dog and said in a quiet voice, “Well, it’s official, baby. We have a whole twenty-seven dollars and sixty-two cents in the bank. That won’t even keep you in dog food this week.” Adonis opened his eyes and raised his head at the mention of food and then, looking at Ronda’s expression, lowered it again, his eyelids closing.
She shut the checkbook, pushed the unpaid bills to the side of the table, and pulled a coffee-stained sheet of paper out of a pile. “Okay. Now to figure out our traveling expenses. You’re going to love, love, love California. Lots of palm trees to pee on and beautiful weather. Not like the snow and cold here. And I’ll bet there’s a bevy of beauties out there just waiting for a handsome stud like you, Adonis. You’ll never run low on food or a nice place to sleep once I get us bankrolled.”
At the mention of food, Adonis padded back over to the table, rubbing Ronda’s leg as if to remind her to fill his bowl.
She shifted her vocal inflections to baby talk. “Yes, yes. I’ll put some doggie food in your little bowl.” Then she straightened up. “At this time tomorrow we’ll be packed and on our way. Don’t need to take much of this junk,” she said as she scrunched up her nose and glanced around the kitchen and into the small living room. “I’ll just throw a few things together after my meeting tonight, and tomorrow it’s off to the sunshine state. Have to figure out a few of the expenses, but we won’t have to worry about money now, will we?”
The dog sauntered over to Ronda and stood close by. She reached out and patted his back and rubbed his stomach. “Oh, such a good, good baby. I have to go take care of some last-minute business, and then I have a date with a target. When I get back I’ll have a fistful of money. No, make that a bag full. And then we won’t be on the bottom anymore, Adonis, honey. We’ll be at the top of the food chain, and I’ll have enough to keep us in clover until that first big comedy gig. And I’ll buy you a beautiful, jeweled collar. I’ll go to Rodeo Drive just like in that movie. Only, unlike that Julia chick, they’ll want my money. You’ll be the posh pooch then.” She stopped and considered a different subject. She put her finger in front of her mouth to let Adonis know he’d better not tell anyone. “Shannon thinks this is gonna be a joint venture, but by the time she figures things out we’ll be on our way to the big C.”
Adonis didn’t know what she was saying, but he liked the stomach rub. He pushed up against her leg and closed his eyes.
“I have a little appointment tonight and we’re meeting out on Shady Meadows Cemetery Road. That way we won’t be disturbed as we do our business. I have a feeling Brenda—wherever she’s now residing—is sorry she ticked him off. But ole Ronda keeps her eyes and ears open and she knows who’s who in this little drama.” She finished writing figures on the paper, looked at it with a sa
tisfied air, and put her pencil down. Staring out the kitchen window, she added, “He sure knows how to set a fire.” Then she said with a laugh, “But then, after all, he should.”
Adonis began to whine softly, saliva congealing on Ronda’s leg.
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t be as stupid as Brenda.” She walked over to the desk she had so carefully refinished years ago, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small, dark object. Holding it up to the dog, she said, “I have this sweet gun. He won’t try anything with me. And this time tomorrow we’ll be rolling in the dough and off to the land of milk and honey. Just wait, Adonis, baby.” She checked the chambers and then dropped the gun in the bottom of her purse and stuffed some tissues on top of it. Walking over to a kitchen cupboard, she pulled out a dog food bag that was almost empty.
“This should hold you till I return.” She dumped the food into the bowl on the floor, filled the water bowl up from the sink, and set it down. “Now you be a good boy while Mommy is gone today. I’m getting dressed, running some errands since I have some last things to do before we go, and then I’ll be home after my big appointment. Never you worry.”
She left the dog happily lapping up water and crunching dog food and went to her bedroom to get dressed, muttering, “Just wait . . .”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
TJ
* * *
TJ listened for the satisfying “thud” as she sent a third dart flying into her wall calendar. All three had stuck in the small square that was Thursday, June 30. Darts helped her think. She walked over to the wall and pulled them out, laying them on her desk. She sat down and propped her feet on one of the opened desk drawers. In front of her on the wall was a whiteboard with multiple lists. The left column had possible suspects followed by two more columns with motives and alibis. She had used this technique for years and found that it helped her mull over the cases she was trying to solve. Talking to Grace helped too, but today she needed to be alone.
Three May Keep a Secret (An Endurance Mystery) Page 13