by John J. Lamb
Hanging up the phone, Tina said, “You probably heard him. He says his dad would never sell the farm.”
“Kurt told us himself that his dad never understood why he turned his back on the farm and went into the fast-food business. Ev might not have figured it was any of his son’s business,” Ash said.
“You’re still convinced that Sherri Driggs was there because she wanted to buy the property?” Tina asked me.
“I’m not one hundred percent certain, but it fits the facts we currently have.”
“So are you saying that Sherri Driggs killed Everett Rawlins?” Tina asked. “With a bow and arrow?”
“Yeah, that’s where things stop making sense.”
“Brad, honey, things haven’t made sense since last night when we found the body,” said Ash.
“That’s true. But consider this final confusing fact.” I picked up one of the sheets that the women thus far hadn’t seen. “Guess who was a member of the archery team at his alma mater, Cal State Northridge?”
“Jesse Hauck?” asked Ash as Tina snatched the sheet to look at it.
I nodded. “He’s listed as having taken second place at an archery competition at UC Irvine back in 2007.”
“Are you sure it’s the same guy?”
“I can’t be absolutely certain, but the Amerriment website has brief bios of the execs, and there was a tiny blip about Jesse. It said he graduated at the top of his class with a BA in business from Cal State Northridge in 2008.”
“So, if it is the same Hauck, maybe you were wrong about Driggs and she did lend Jesse the Saab,” said Tina.
“And run the risk of her car being seen while her boy toy offs some stubborn farmer who won’t sell his land? Sorry, Tina, that just doesn’t make any sense. More likely, she’d have sent him in his own car with the promise that she’d cover his play if anything went south.”
“And then deny knowing anything when the police came calling,” Ash added.
“Did you come up with anything at the hardware store?” Tina sounded frustrated and began to rub her forehead.
“Nothing that’s going to break the case,” I replied. “Delbert’s carries that brand of screwdriver, but we probably won’t be able to talk to the owner or cash register operator until they return from their respective lost weekends on Sunday.”
“So basically we’re still at square one,” she grumbled.
“Worse. We have five persons of interest instead of just the one we started out with,” I said with a weary laugh.
“Five?” asked Ash.
I ticked them off on my fingers. “We’ve still got Chet Lincoln, as well as Wade and Marilyn Tice, and now Sherri Driggs and Jesse Hauck.”
“Plus the possibility that none of them did it and it actually was a hunting accident.”
Tina sounded hopeless. “What’s our next move?”
I glanced at my watch. “Look, it’s after nine o’clock. It’s been a long day, our brains are fried, and everything appears grim. So, there’s only one thing left to do.”
“When all else fails, hug your teddy bear?” said Ash, quoting a popular arctophile proverb.
“Yep. Ash has the key to the church community center. Let’s go over there and set up our teddy bear displays.”
“We don’t have time,” said Tina.
Ash said, “Let’s make time. We’re in a funk and maybe the best way to recharge our mental batteries is by doing something completely different.”
“There is some truth to that,” Tina said musingly.
“Absolutely,” I said earnestly. “As hard as you’ve been working, you’re entitled to a short furlough.”
Sixteen
Spending some time with the teddy bears had been a good idea. It worked as a sort of a spiritual cleansing of the palate after a long and ultimately disappointing day. I have absolutely no talent for posing stuffed animals, so I just sat on a folding chair and watched as the two women chatted and laughed and set up their mohair wares.
Meanwhile, I took a closer look at Tina’s collection of teddies. With Ash as our instructor, we’d both taken up bear making a couple of years earlier. However, Tina had far surpassed me as an artist. Her bears were fully pose-able and costumed in authentic recreations of the sort of farm clothing worn in the valley in the late nineteenth century. My favorite piece in her collection was of a furry farm wife holding a pie with tiny oven mitts.
Along about 10:30 P.M., Sergei knocked on the community center door. He’d seen the lights on inside and our cars in the parking lot and thought we might enjoy a late-night snack. This time, Tina did hold hands with Sergei, and I ate the decadent apple pie.
Tina gave Sergei a tour of her table, and then they came over to look at our bears. That’s when he picked up one of the more obscure pieces from my “Claw and Order Collection.” The bear was slightly plump, had a gray distressed wool moustache, and wore a rumpled mackintosh, a woolen scarf, and a herringbone trilby hat.
“I don’t need to see the tag to know who this is,” said Sergei as he admired the bear. “Inspector Jack Frost was my favorite British TV copper.”
He was referring to the unkempt protagonist of the long-running and popular British crime drama A Touch of Frost. Sir David Jason played Detective Inspector Jack Frost, and I’d labored for weeks to sculpt a face that somehow reflected the character’s doggedness and compassion. In the end, I wasn’t certain if I’d succeeded, so it made me feel good that Sergei had recognized the bear.
“Inspector Fur-ost,” I corrected him. “And I’ve got to agree with you. I hate most cop shows, but I enjoyed watching Frost. The books were excellent, too.”
“This, from a man who hates mystery novels,” said Ash.
“I hate unrealistic mystery novels. Talking Pomeranians and undead aerobic dance instructors don’t solve genuine murders.”
“You have my sympathies, Bradley. I feel the same way about those foolish espionage thrillers.” Sergei put the bear back on the table. “And I hope that Inspector Fur-ost finds a new home tomorrow.”
Ash yawned. “I think I need to find my home right now. It’s been a long day and I’m beat.”
We locked up the church hall and said our good-byes in the parking lot, and then Ash and I drove home. I took Kitch out into the yard while Ash went upstairs to get ready for bed. It was a clear night, and I stared up into the heavens while Kitch snuffled around, probably following the spoor of a rabbit. We’re fortunate to live in a place where there’s little light pollution, so you can still actually see the nighttime sky. In the Shawnee language, Shenandoah means “daughter of the stars.” The name was a mystery to me until one night when I noticed that the breathtakingly beautiful stellar river of the Milky Way seemed to be flowing directly above the South Fork of the Shenandoah River. After that, the name made perfect sense.
I took Kitch inside and went upstairs. Twenty minutes or so later, I kissed Ash good night and turned the nightstand light off. Not long after, I was awakened by the wail of an emergency vehicle’s siren traveling along Coggins Spring Road. I turned to look at the clock. The orange numerals read 1:52 A.M. I’d been asleep a little more than two hours.
Fortunately, the racket hadn’t woken up Ash. Her breathing was still deep and regular. The past thirty hours had been hectic for her, and I knew she was exhausted. I rolled back over, snuggled up next to my wife, and was vaguely aware that there was now another siren sounding in the distance as I drifted back to sleep.
I was catapulted into wakefulness for the second time when the phone rang. Looking at the clock as I grabbed the phone, I saw it was just 2:16 A.M.
Sounding more alert than I felt, I said, “This is Brad.”
“Mr. Lyon? This is the dispatch center. Hang on a second, please.” In the background I could hear all sorts of emergency radio traffic, and the dispatcher paused to answer one of the messages. Then she came back on the line. “Sheriff Barron says she needs you to meet her ASAP at Four-Forty-Three Coggins Spring Road.”<
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“What’s going on?” I asked dispatch as Ash put her hand on my shoulder. Meanwhile I had the unpleasant feeling that I should recognize the address.
“The hose company responded to a fire at a vacant residence and they’re pretty certain it was an arson.”
Then it hit me. “Is this that old Victorian house on the south side of the road near the intersection with the Jackson Highway?”
“I believe so.”
“Tell Sheriff Barron I’m on my way.” I hung up and slowly got out of bed.
“What is it, honey?” Ash sounded groggy.
“It sounds as if someone just torched the Victorian house we wanted to buy,” I said as I turned on the nightstand lamp.
Pushing some strands of hair from her face, Ash squinted at me. “Where we were planning to put the teddy bear shop?”
“Yeah, and isn’t it just too freaking interesting that Liz Ewell took it off the market less than twelve hours before it went up in flames?” I said while pulling the jeans and shirt I’d had on earlier that day from the laundry hamper. Since I was going to a fire scene, it would be foolish to put on clean clothing.
“You think she had the house burned to collect on the insurance?”
“Or Satan came for her early and accidentally went to the wrong address.”
“I’m going with you,” Ash said wearily as she sat up in bed.
I went over to her and gently pushed her by the shoulders back down onto the mattress.
“No, you’re going to stay in bed and go back to sleep.”
“But . . .”
“Sweetheart, you’re exhausted to the point of almost being punch-drunk, it’s after two A.M., and you have a teddy bear show to help run in the morning.”
“But . . .”
“So the last thing you need to be doing is tromping around in the dark, breathing smoke, getting soaked and filthy, and then catching a chill.”
“What about you? You’re tired.”
“I’m fine. Haven’t I always been able to operate on just a few hours of sleep?”
“Well, yes,” she grudgingly admitted. “But, Brad, honey, I want to help.”
“I know and I appreciate it. But the fact is, you’re so tired, it would be dangerous. Even with the fire extinguished, an arson scene is extremely hazardous. It’s like a three-dimensional minefield.”
Ash pretended to pout. “Okay, I’ll stay. But I’m sulking.”
Leaning over to kiss her, I said, “And looking beautiful while you do it. Go back to sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.”
I arrived at the blaze a couple of minutes later and parked behind Tina’s patrol car. The air stank of smoke, and the road was jammed with fire trucks. A turbulent sea of fire was swallowing up the old house while a column of flame-lit smoke rose into the dark sky. Hoses snaked across the pavement, and four jets of water were directed at the inferno, but they looked as useless as streams from squirt guns.
As I climbed from the SUV, I heard warning shouts and a loud, ominous creaking sound. Then, like a flaming ship majestically sinking beneath the waves, the upper portions of the home began to collapse into the basement. Geysers of swirling sparks shot high into the air, and the accompanying roar of the collapsing timber and masonry was deafening. Even though I was fifty yards or so from the house, I could feel the pulsing heat.
I headed toward the conflagration and found Tina standing by one of the fire trucks. She was in conversation with a fire department supervisor, and I opted not to interrupt. Another fire truck arrived, and its crew began unrolling a hose. I glanced back at the fire. With the collapse of the structure, it almost appeared as if the firefighters were spraying water into the cone of a miniature volcano.
When Tina joined me, I said, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
She grimaced. “Yeah. As if I didn’t already have enough on my plate. Where’s Ash?”
“Over there. There’ll be a lot more of it by morning.” I nodded toward the fire. Tina rolled her eyes and I admitted, “Ashleigh wanted to come, but I had to put my good foot down and tell her no. She’s flat exhausted.”
“She must have been for you to have won that debate.”
“Tell me about it. Now, before we go any further, I’ve got to tell you that if this is arson, I’m out of my league. That’s a very specialized field of expertise.”
“I know,” said Tina. “I’ve called the state police, but unfortunately, they can’t have an investigator here until sometime tomorrow.”
“Well, in the meantime we can process everything outside the burn zone. Who made the original fire notification?”
“A big-rig driver going down Route Three-Forty. He called and said the place was burning like a bonfire.”
“What made you think arson?”
“When the first fire truck arrived, the engine commander made a quick recon of the exterior of the house to make sure there wasn’t anybody here. There wasn’t, but he did find an empty five-gallon plastic gas can in the backyard.”
I glanced toward the blazing ruins of the house. “Unfortunately, now the evidence is gone.”
“Brace yourself. We actually caught a break.” Tina gave me a weary smile.
“Don’t toy with me, Barron,” I said in a mock stern tone.
“I’m not kidding. The engine commander recognized that the gas can was evidence and grabbed it. He put it in the cab of his fire truck.”
“Hallelujah. The fact that the can was found in the backyard also tells us something about whoever torched this thing—an amateur. A professional would have left the gas can inside the house so that it would be destroyed in the fire. Liz Ewell won’t be happy about paying for such sloppy work.”
The wind shifted slightly, blowing some smoke in our direction. Tina rubbed her eyes and asked, “Do you really think she’s responsible for this?”
“Tina, how many arsons have you had in Massanutten County since you began working for the sheriff’s office?”
She shrugged. “This is the first one.”
“And it happened just hours after Miss Ewell—who could have given Machiavelli some pointers on treachery—yanked that house off the market, because she couldn’t stand the idea of Ash and me owning it.”
“Sorry, but I don’t see how the two events are connected. She’d already stung you guys by refusing to sell the house. Why burn it down?”
“There you go, injecting logic into the discussion,” I said, realizing that my loathing for Liz Ewell might have clouded my ability to objectively weigh the facts. “It’s also a damn good point. Okay, maybe I’m not the center of the universe. But Liz Ewell is still the natural suspect.”
Tina nodded. “Obviously. She’s the only one who benefits financially from the house being destroyed.”
“Yeah, but that may backfire on her. No insurance company will pay if there’s evidence of arson.”
Tina and I turned to watch the firefighting efforts for a few moments. There were now six hoses on the blaze, and the fire crews seemed to be making some headway. Still, it would be at least a couple of hours before we’d be able to get anywhere near it, so instead we put on some latex gloves and went to examine the recovered gas can. The five-gallon, red plastic jerry can looked new but was missing its screw-on cap. I tilted the jug slightly to the side and noted mud stains on the bottom.
I said, “In the words of the immortal Bugs Bunny: What a maroon. He probably dropped this when things went whoosh too quickly. Or . . .” I glanced back at the dying flames and had the disquieting thought that I was looking at a funeral pyre. “Or maybe he couldn’t carry it away because he was inside when the fire erupted.”
Tina was suddenly solemn. “So we might have a victim in there after all.”
“And with the house collapsing like that, it’ll take days of searching through the rubble before we know for sure.”
“Gee, Brad, you sure know how to brighten a girl’s night.”
I handed Tina the gas container,
and we began to walk back to her patrol car. I said, “Let’s think this through before we panic. We’ve got a five-gallon jug that had to have been awfully heavy when it was full of gasoline. How did it get out here?”
“By car, presumably, though the fire chief says that the only vehicles that were here when he arrived were fire trucks.”
“So our arsonist didn’t park in front of or near the house,” I said.
“But he couldn’t have parked too far away, because he wouldn’t have wanted to carry the heavy gas can very far.”
“Or risk being seen lugging it down the road.”
“So he would have parked somewhere nearby.” Tina opened the back door of her patrol car and put the gas can on the floorboard.
I pointed with my cane to the north. “That’s all farm-land over there. No roads.”
“But Wardlaw Lane is back there.” Shutting the car door, Tina then pointed in the opposite direction. “It kind of runs parallel to Coggins Spring Road, which would give him an invisible approach through the field behind the house.”
“How about if I cruise over there and see if I can find any suspicious-looking vehicles?”
“I’d appreciate that. I need to stay here.” Tina gestured toward the mass of fire trucks.
“I know. And this is one time when I hope we don’t find the suspect vehicle. It’ll mean our firebug is still alive. I’ll call you if I come up with anything.”
“You can’t. You broke my phone, not that I’m complaining. Take the portable and I’ll monitor the radio in my unit.”
I took the radio from her. “And I might as well take the camera and evidence kit, too.”
Returning to the truck, I maneuvered it around some fire hoses and headed toward Wardlaw Lane. Once there, I slowed the SUV down, but there was no sign of any other vehicles. That helped me relax a little. I really hadn’t been looking forward to hanging around the wreckage until the cadaver dogs finished playing olfactory Marco Polo with the immolated remains of the arsonist.