The Treacherous Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  There wasn’t much to see along the sides of the road; just a lot of wet brown leaves, masses of naked and forlorn-looking honeysuckle vines, and the occasional big bluish-gray rock. Emerging from a dip in the terrain, I suddenly saw the flames and smoke about two hundred yards away across an open field. This was a likely direction for the arsonist to have approached the house.

  I was about to head back when something on the side of the road caught my eye. It was a bit of rich burgundy color on an otherwise drab palette. I stopped the truck and got out. Then I grabbed the camera to take several photographs of the unused highway safety flare that lay on the gravel.

  Back in the homicide bureau, we used to call that a clue.

  Seventeen

  Obviously, this was where the arsonist had parked his vehicle, and it was my guess he’d dropped the flare while hurrying to escape. The road flare was another clue that the guy was a rank amateur. Professional torches usually want their handiwork to look accidental; they almost never use that sort of pyrotechnic device to start a fire. Road flares can burn at more than a thousand degrees Fahrenheit, leaving a distinctive scorching pattern and unique chemical signature, both of which will make an arson investigator sit up and take notice.

  Once I’d collected the flare as evidence, I began searching to see if our bumbling burn artist had dropped anything else, but came up dry. After that, I turned my attention to the shoulder of the road and was disappointed to see that the ground was too gravelly to have retained any tire impressions. However, I did find the two different spots where the arsonist had crossed over a small and grassy embankment to enter and leave the field. Carefully ascending the bank, I shined my flashlight down at the moist farm soil and admired the most perfect shoe impressions I’d ever seen in my law enforcement career. Indeed, the sole patterns were so distinct that even my untrained eye could tell that they came from athletic shoes.

  I reflected that it was kind of a shame there wasn’t a Better Business Bureau for crooks that Liz Ewell could complain to about the hapless fool she’d hired. Not only had he flubbed the job of making the fire look like an accident, he’d left all sorts of useful evidence behind. You just can’t find good help these days.

  “Mike-Fourteen to Mike-One,” I called over the radio. “You can relax. There’s no car, but I’ve found where the guy parked. I’ve also recovered a road flare. Even better, there are two sets of clear foot tracks showing he went toward the house and came back out.”

  “Copy. Excellent work,” Tina replied, and I could hear the relief in her voice. “Are you going to need a roll of crime scene tape to mark the scene? I can have Deputy Paine bring it over.”

  “That’s affirmative. And you’re going to have to call the crime lab and have that tech come back up here. We want plaster castings of these pretty shoe impressions.”

  Deputy Paine arrived just as I was finishing up the pictures of the footprints. After acquainting him with the crime scene, I rejoined Tina. The fire was slowly dying under the assault of thousands of gallons of water, and I noticed that the smoke was now mostly white instead of black. An hour or so later, the fire chief dismissed several of the fire trucks but kept two hoses spraying the debris for flare-ups. Meanwhile, Tina and I cooled our heels and drank some wretched coffee she’d gotten from the only all-night convenience store in the county.

  It was nearly six A.M. when the fire chief finally declared the scene safe enough for Tina and me to approach the house to take some photographs and look for evidence in the yard. The smoke hung in the air like fog, so we put on disposable breathing filter masks before proceeding any closer to the still-smoldering wreckage. However, the masks did nothing to protect our eyes, which soon became so red and teary that you’d have thought we’d been watching that old three-hanky film Somewhere in Time.

  We began our search in the backyard. Tina used her flashlight to scan the ground while I took photos of the destruction. It was slow and unpleasant work. The house had been sprayed with such a huge volume of water that the backyard was now a quagmire. Before long, my boots were soaked and I could feel my socks becoming cold and wet. Days don’t start much better than that. And for all our efforts, we turned up only one useful piece of evidence: Tina located more of the suspect’s shoe impressions in the soil on the other side of the backyard fence.

  The sun was already above the Blue Ridge when we slogged back to our cars. I glanced at my watch. It was a little after seven o’clock. I was pretty much in a zombie state with fatigue, which kind of shocked me, because back when I was a cop I could work thirty-six hours straight on a murder investigation. Yeah, I’d be a space cadet the day after, but I was capable of that sort of prolonged effort. But that obviously wasn’t the case any longer. It sucks getting old. I just hoped that the combination of a shower, lots of good hot coffee, and the kind of breakfast that would give a vegan the shudders would restore my vitality before the teddy bear show opened.

  Tina and I were saying good-bye to each other when a big black Ford van pulled up behind my SUV.

  “Look who’s come out to make sure the job was done properly,” I muttered.

  “Just when I thought the morning couldn’t get any worse,” Tina said with a heartfelt sigh.

  “You’d better do the talking. I’m liable to say something indelicate.”

  “You?”

  The driver’s-side door opened, and a young woman with short-cropped hair and the stern face of a Marine Corps drill instructor climbed out and marched to the back of the vehicle. I heard the rear doors open, then the whine of a small electric motor. A moment later, my favorite local sociopath rolled around the side of the van in her motorized scooter.

  It had been more than two years since I’d last seen Elizabeth Ewell. She’d aged badly over that period. Back when we first met, she’d looked sweet and grandmotherly, with plump pink cheeks, white curly hair, and a heart-warming smile that concealed the soul of a robber baron.

  Now she looked as hard, shriveled, and sour as a desiccated lemon. She wore a heavy coat and a woolen cap and had a white blanket tucked around her legs. She pretended we didn’t exist as she drove the scooter past us.

  Tina called, “Miss Ewell, could we speak to you for a moment?”

  Liz Ewell stopped the chair and turned it to face Tina. “Unless you can tell me why my house burned down, I don’t see why.”

  “Actually, we do know why. That’s the reason we want to talk to you.” Tina gestured toward the ruins. “This wasn’t an accident. We have evidence that someone deliberately set the house on fire.”

  “I want the name of the person who did this,” said Ewell. Meanwhile, her impassive driver jogged up and assumed a position of parade rest behind the scooter.

  I kept quiet, but oh how I wanted to say, Me, too. Can we look in your checkbook?

  Tina said, “We don’t know who it is yet, but I’m very confident we’re going to identify the suspect.”

  Miss Ewell’s eyes flicked toward me. “Maybe I can help you. Where was he when the fire started?”

  I hadn’t seen that one coming, and I had to admire the scheming old tyrant. By charging me with torching the house, she’d both diverted suspicion from herself and put me on the defensive. Furthermore, it wasn’t an outlandish accusation. The real estate agent, Roger Prufrock, had undoubtedly told her of our anger at her refusal to sell us the house. Technically, that constituted motive on our part.

  Tina looked thoughtful. “Are you formally accusing Mr. Lyon of arson?”

  “Well . . . no.”

  “Good, because our evidence clearly shows that whoever did this had two good legs. Mr. Lyon only has one.”

  Liz Ewell gave me a malicious smile. “That’s true, but his wife—”

  “Don’t even go there,” I finally spoke. “Look, my hat is off to you. It was an ingenious idea to refuse to sell us the house and then burn it down to frame us for arson. But the guy you hired to do the torch job was literally a flaming idiot.”

 
The old woman’s grin vanished. “I didn’t have this house set on fire. I was born in that house.”

  I thought, You weren’t born; you hatched with the other baby cobras.

  Miss Ewell glanced at the wreckage. “Besides, although I detest you and your wife, and certainly would never have sold to the likes of you, I wouldn’t destroy a quarter-million-dollar house to address the problem. There are far cheaper ways of dealing with self-righteous little crusaders like yourselves. Furthermore, I didn’t ‘refuse’ anything, because I knew nothing about any offer. In fact, up until this morning I hadn’t spoken to Roger Prufrock in weeks.”

  Tina and I exchanged shocked looks. She said, “You talked to Roger Prufrock this morning? When?”

  Ewell looked over her shoulder at her attendant, who tonelessly answered, “He called shortly before six-thirty. He said it was extremely important he speak with Miss Ewell immediately.”

  “And what did he say?” Tina asked.

  “Roger the Dodger thinks he’s such a smooth operator that it makes me laugh,” Ewell replied with a vinegary chuckle. “He called to tell me that my house had burned down and to express his overblown condolences. Then he got to the real reason for the call and offered to buy my now-vacant lot.”

  “As I recall, Mr. Prufrock lives over in Mount Meridian. That’s ten miles from here. Did he say how he found out about the fire so quickly?”

  Liz Ewell thought for a moment. “As I recall, he said that someone here in town had called him with the news.”

  I asked, “How much did Roger offer you for the property?”

  “A tenth of what it was worth yesterday—but he said he’d also absorb the costs of salvage and site cleanup.”

  “For a three-quarter-acre lot?” My voice was doubtful. “Without the house, even if you don’t factor in the cleanup, that’s a very generous offer.”

  “Overly generous, and that’s what makes me curious.” Ewell pulled the blanket up and tucked her hands beneath it. “Up until this morning, Roger wasn’t the least bit interested in the property. Now he can hardly wait to buy the land, and I want to know why.”

  Although I knew from personal experience that Liz Ewell was a consummate liar, I had the strong sense she was being honest. That, in turn, meant I had to at least consider the fact that she’d also been telling the truth when she denied having spoken with Roger the previous day. And if that was the case, there was only one logical way to explain all the misinformation. Our gazes met, and I think the same infuriating thought occurred to Ewell and me simultaneously.

  I smacked the knob of my cane into my palm. “That sneaky son of a bitch conned both of us. Roger used our feud to cover up the fact that he wanted the house.”

  “Not the house. The land.” Ewell’s eyes glowed with an unholy light.

  “But what I don’t understand is the timing. Why burn the house down now?”

  “Hang on a second,” said Tina. “Are you suggesting that Roger Prufrock is responsible for the arson?”

  “It’s pure process of elimination. If she didn’t pay to have it done”—I hooked a thumb at Ewell, who nodded belligerently—“and since Ash and I didn’t do it, then who benefits from the fire?”

  Tina’s eyebrows arched. “Roger, because he gets the property at a huge discount.”

  “The only property that two-faced loudmouth is going to get from me is the six feet of earth where I’m going to bury him,” intoned Ewell. Usually, when people say things like that, you assume it’s intended for dramatic effect, especially when the speaker is an elderly invalid.

  However, I suspected that Miss Liz Ewell meant precisely what she said.

  I said, “I think we need to roll over to Roger’s house right now and have a little chat.”

  “I agree,” said Tina.

  “He probably won’t be there,” said Ewell. “The last thing he told me was that he was leaving immediately for a few days of vacation and going down to Hilton Head to do some golfing. He said he’d call me later in the week.”

  I said, “How convenient. He disappears, claiming he’s going to South Carolina. And who can prove otherwise?”

  “You don’t think he’s actually going to Hilton Head?” Tina asked.

  “Call me the original doubting Thomas, but let’s try a little experiment.” I retrieved my cell phone and found Roger’s cell number. The recorded voice said that the phone I was currently trying to call was not in service and that I should try my call again later. I hung up before the call rolled over to voice mail.

  Snapping the phone shut, I said, “Old Roger has turned his cell phone off. Now, what real estate agent ever does that?”

  “The kind who doesn’t want to be found,” Tina replied.

  “Well, when you find him, I expect you to notify me immediately,” Ewell snapped, signaling that our tenuous truce was over. “I’m going home.”

  I was going to not say a word and just let her roll back to her van. But my conscience was bothering me. Our mutual antipathy had caused Liz Ewell and me to wrongly accuse each other of crimes, and it was mortifying to think that our behavior had been so much alike.

  I said, “Miss Ewell, before you go, please accept my apology for having wrongly accused you of arranging the arson.”

  “An olive branch?” Her voice oozed with disdain. “Don’t waste your breath. You and I will always be enemies.”

  “I understand, but that doesn’t mean we both have to fight dirty. I’m truly sorry that your house was burned down.”

  The old woman scowled, spun the scooter around, and whizzed back toward the van with the attendant jogging along after her.

  I turned to Tina. “And for that matter, I owe you an apology, too. I’m supposed to be helping you conduct an investigation, not a vendetta.”

  “Forget it. Up until we found out about Roger’s role in this, you had a good reason to suspect her of arson.”

  “Maybe, but I still feel like an utter ash.”

  Eighteen

  As the van drove away, I said, “Now, getting back to Mr. Roger and this beautiful day in his scorched neighborhood.”

  Tina tried to stifle a yawn and said, “Why would he have gone into hiding?”

  A sudden thought struck me. “Maybe Roger decided to do the torch job himself and got burned. Maybe he was standing too close when he ignited the accelerant. We do have good reasons to believe our arsonist was an amateur.”

  Tina nodded. “Makes sense. That house was probably full of gasoline fumes when he threw the flare in, which could have caused one hell of a fireball. We need to check the local hospitals to see if anyone was treated for burns sometime early this morning.”

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to check more than just the local ones—even if he was injured badly enough to require medical attention, I don’t think Roger would’ve gone to a hospital around here. He couldn’t take the risk that the emergency room physician would put two and two together when the arson hit the news.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I’ll put out a statewide BOL on Roger and his BMW.” Tina opened the driver’s door of her cruiser and got in. “And even though he probably isn’t there, I’m going to roll by his house before I go home.”

  “Call me if you find him.”

  “I will. You guys have a good time at the teddy bear show.” Tina shut the door and drove off.

  It wasn’t until I got in my car and shut the door that I realized just how dirty I was and how badly I stank of smoke. When I got home, I went to the back door, which led directly into our tiny laundry room. Leaving my muddy boots on the rear porch, I went inside and began to remove my filthy clothing. I was tired and my left leg was throbbing, but the delicious aromas wafting from the adjoining kitchen offered the promise of revival.

  Ash poked her head around the corner from the kitchen and asked, “I was beginning to worry. How are you doing, honey?”

  “Tired, but I think the day is already looking up. Is that your pumpkin-cranberry bread I’m
smelling?”

  “It is. I thought you might like something special after spending most of the night out there. I’ve also got bacon warming in the oven, and I’ll scramble eggs whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thank you, love. With a great breakfast like that in the works and some ibuprofen, I promise I’ll catch my second wind,” I said, removing my shirt. “Where’s Kitch?”

  “I already dropped him off at Tina’s folks.” Her nose wrinkled. “Just put those clothes directly into the washer.”

  “I’d climb in, too, if there were room.”

  She came into the laundry room a moment later with a mug of steaming black coffee in one hand and ibuprofen in the other. I took the mug and gave it a look of dewy-eyed affection. “You’re so beautiful. Do you know how long I’ve been dreaming of you?”

  Ash caressed my cheek. “You can make out with your coffee later, sweetheart. Tell me what happened. So, was it an arson?”

  “Yes.” I took a sip of coffee and swallowed the pills. “And we’re pretty certain that Roger Prufrock torched the house.”

  “What? Roger? Why?”

  “It turns out he wants to buy that piece of property. Not the house, but the land.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “Liz Ewell showed up just before we cleared the scene. Once we finished falsely accusing each other of arson, we actually had a few moments of civil conversation.” I took another drink of coffee and put the mug on the washing machine. “She told us that Roger never said a word to her about us wanting to buy the house. She also never ordered him to take it off the market.”

  Ash folded her arms across her chest. “And you believe her?”

  “I’m as uncomfortable with that concept as you are, my love. But her version of what happened makes sense, so I don’t think we have a choice,” I said, while removing my jeans and sticking them in the washer.