by Sue Henry
Anne had just described. Jessie recalled nothing more significant than a single visit when Anne had displayed a bruise on one cheekbone and a purpling eye. Asked
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about it, she had given a hoot of embarrassed laughter and said that you would think by now she would have learned to use an ax so it didn’t send a stick of kindling flying back in her face. Had her injury been caused by something other than airborne firewood?
Jessie thought again of how different Anne had become. Her once-unsophisticated optimism had van-
ished. In its place was an angry, resentful, yet fearful and oddly apologetic person who reminded Jessie of a whipped dog she had once seen in the kennel of a poor excuse for a musher. When its master had come close, the animal had crouched, moving nothing but its terrified eyes, clearly hoping that total stillness would make it invisible.
From her looks, Anne had clearly been beaten—or
injured somehow. And along with her anger, she exhibited a strong thread of guilt. At times she’d seemed convinced that the abuse had been all her fault, that she’d deserved—had earned—the punishment Greg
had inflicted on her, and if she had only done things differently it wouldn’t have happened. It made her assertions more disquieting and believable.
And Jessie couldn’t shake the disturbing feeling that there was some calculation in Anne’s telling, as if an artful child were watching carefully to see how Jessie would react before deciding whether to tell the truth next . . . or a lie. There was something about the dis-passionate way Anne had told parts of the story that made Jessie’s skin crawl, feeling she was being manipulated and disliking it. Was Greg responsible for Anne’s state of mind? Her fear of him seemed real to Jessie, at least. If she was telling the truth, he might
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very well show up. Then what? Would he be dangerous to them both? Was there some way she could find out?
“If you think he might follow you, why come back here? Why not somewhere he’d never think of looking?” she had asked. “This place isn’t hard to find.”
“I have to go back to the cabin,” Anne had answered.
“Please, Jessie? I’ll go—disappear—somewhere else right after that—okay? I promise I will.”
“Let me think about it a little more, Anne,” she had told her.
As Jessie slumped tiredly onto the sofa and finally lay down, she heard her dogs start to bark and beyond their unmistakable announcement of company, the
sound of a vehicle coming up the driveway. Going to the window, she watched a car with a fire department logo on the door pull up beside her truck. State Trooper Phil Becker and a lean man she didn’t recognize—both in civilian clothes—got out and came up the porch steps to the door. She opened it before their knock.
“Hi, Phil.”
“Hey, Jessie. Glad you’re home. This is Investigator Michael Tatum. Mike, Jessie Arnold.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Arnold.”
The hand he offered was strong but a little stiff, and, glancing down, Jessie saw that it bore the unmistakable, melted-looking scars that only fire and skin grafts create. Looking back to his face, she found no apology or defensiveness in his clear hazel eyes, but rather a wry cynicism, a hint of mocking watchfulness through which he assessed her reaction.
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“I was on the line before I became an inspector,” he offered in brief explanation.
“You must have had a lot of long hard work in ther-apy with that.”
“I did.” His nod and half smile seemed to include an approval of her response as well as agreement, but then he frowned suddenly and turned away, as if to avoid further discussion of his injury.
She swung the door wide, inviting them inside.
“Can I talk you guys into some coffee?”
“Wouldn’t turn it down,” Becker accepted, leaving his boots at the door. “Haven’t got any of that carrot cake Alex was always bragging about, have you?
Oops. Sorry,” he apologized as he saw her eyes narrow involuntarily at the familiar name.
“That’s okay, Phil. No cake, but I’ve got oatmeal cookies—fresh yesterday.”
“Great. If I recall, your cookies are way ahead of whatever’s in second place anyway.” He grinned,
tossed his western hat on the sofa, and took a chair at the round oak dining table. Mike Tatum pulled out another and sat, laying down a notebook and pen.
Jessie crossed swiftly to close the door to the bedroom so their conversation wouldn’t disturb Anne, then brought the coffeepot and a plastic container of cookies to the table and sat down across from them.
“We need to hear what you know about last night’s fire, Jessie,” Phil said, dunking a cookie in his coffee.
“You were one of the last people to leave the bar before it closed, right?”
“Yes, but there were two or three people still playing darts and a guy asleep on one of the tables.”
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“Who was it?”
“I didn’t know him. Oscar said it was a friend of someone’s.”
“Drunk?”
“No—nursing a cold, according to Oscar. Just tired, I think.”
“Funny to be in a bar if he was that sick. What’d he look like?”
“I didn’t see his face. Sorry. Is this an official interview, Phil?”
“Well, yeah, I guess so. But we’re just collecting the usual kind of information—trying to get the people and timing straight.”
“Did you find out who died?”
“Not yet—lab’s working on it.”
“I’ll help if I can, but I don’t know much. I didn’t see it start—didn’t get there until it was too late to put it out.”
Tatum had been taking notes. Now he looked up and spoke in a quiet voice. “How long were you at the bar last night, Ms. Arnold?”
Becker snagged two more cookies, leaned back in
his chair, and let the investigator take over.
“A couple of hours—maybe closer to three,” she answered. “And it’s just Jessie.”
He smiled. “Okay—Jessie. And I’m just Mike. Can
you tell me who else was there?”
“Better. I made a list of everyone I could remember.”
She brought him the list she had made the night before. “It was crowded.”
“You talk to anyone in particular?”
She related the racing conversation at the table and
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the casual comments and teasing while shooting pool with Hank Peterson and the players they had defeated.
“Anybody get mad about losing?”
“Na-aw. We don’t play serious pool at Oscar’s.”
“This list is everyone who was there while you
were?”
“I might have missed a few. People were coming
and going.”
“Oscar?” Becker asked.
“Oh, right—Oscar, of course. He was the last person I spoke to.”
“What about?”
“Oh, just good-bye—how busy he’d been. He gave
Tank some more jerky.”
“Tank?” Tatum asked.
“My lead dog. He and Oscar are tight.” She smiled, recalling the jerky.
He frowned. “How well do you know Oscar Lee?”
“Pretty well, I guess—casual friend. I’m one of his nearest neighbors and a regular.”
“Ever any hint of money trouble from him?”
“No.” She grinned, suddenly remembering. “Unless you count accidents. Once—a year or so ago—he lost a whole night’s cash and checks in a snowbank—
didn’t know he’d dropped the bag on his way out. It finally showed up in the spring melt, and somebody carted it in from the parking lot.”
“So, Oscar’s casual with his money. He’s lucky it was found by
an honest man.”
“I wouldn’t say casual, ” Jessie told him, stung into defensiveness by his insinuation. “He’s not care-less, if that’s what you mean. It was a mistake any-
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body could have made. Besides, it’s a good crowd of regulars—local people. They feel— felt—at home there. I can’t think of anyone who would steal from Oscar.”
“How about this Peterson person?”
“You’re not serious.”
“You say he came for your generator and pump.”
“Yeah, he did. Pounded on the door till I thought he’d break it down, but the fire department got there before we could use them.”
“He discovered the fire?”
“That’s what he said. He was almost in a panic
wanting to put it out.”
“He lives farther on out the road? Why was he going past the bar?”
“He gave Willy Wilson a ride to town because his car wouldn’t start, so he was on his way home.”
“You see him going toward Wasilla?”
“No. I left before they did, so I was already home.”
“So you just think that’s true because—”
“I know it’s true, because he told me. Ask Willy, if you don’t believe me.”
“We will.”
She got no reassurance, and Becker gave Tatum an unhappy look.
“How and for how long have you known Hank Pe-
terson, Jessie?” he broke in.
“Ever since I moved to Knik eight—almost ten—
years now. He’s a local musher who’s been handler for me a couple of times—once for the Iditarod.”
The inspector again: “He doesn’t get paid for that.
What’s he do for a living?”
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“He works construction in the summer. Odd jobs the rest of the year, I guess.”
“He ever work for Lee?”
“As a matter of fact, I think he helped build the Other Place. Probably volunteered half his time. He’s a nice, dependable guy.”
“So he’d be familiar with the building,” Tatum said, ignoring her endorsement.
“Yes—but so would a lot of other people.” She hesitated, frowning. “You really think the fire was delib-erately set?”
“Don’t think so—we know so. The evidence is clear.
Nothing but arson could have done it.”
“How do you know that? Where did it—”
The beep of Becker’s pager interrupted her question, and he took it from a pocket to read the number.
“The office. Use your phone, Jessie?”
“Sure.”
He crossed the room to the desk and was soon deep in conversation.
“Comfortable place you have here,” Mike Tatum
commented, suspending his interrogation and looking around.
“It works for me. I built it several years ago with help from friends—lots of them regulars at Oscar’s—
including Hank Peterson,” she told him pointedly.
“Good place to raise dogs?”
“It’s far enough from town so that the neighbors aren’t bothered by their noise. Easy connections to the trails I use for training, including the Iditarod Trail, and it goes all the way to Nome.” She smiled at the thought.
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“You’ve run some big races. And done pretty well, I hear.”
“I’ve done okay. I’d like to win the Iditarod once, though.”
“Running next year?”
“Hope so. I skipped it this year—did the Yukon
Quest instead.”
“Tough race?”
“Different. It’s more rugged and has fewer checkpoints.”
Becker hung up the phone and tossed a name to
Tatum as he crossed the room.
“Robert Martin—the guy who died in the fire. Lab just finished and ID’d him from prints off the hand that was under him and didn’t char. He’d spent some time inside for—guess what?—arson.”
“Interesting,” Tatum said. “Makes sense. Caught in his own game—maybe.”
“Maybe you should say flame.” Becker grinned, unable to resist the pun.
“Robert?” Jessie repeated. “Oscar said, ‘Bob something.’ Was it the same guy who was asleep on that table when I left?”
“Can’t say for sure. Maybe. Oscar didn’t know
him?”
“No. First time he’d been there, I think. He came with a friend.”
“We’ll get someone to take a look at his file photo—
Oscar, or . . . Do you know the name of his friend?”
“Chuck. Chuck Warner. But I didn’t see him there last night. Wonder why he’d leave without someone he brought and who was—”
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The bedroom door opened suddenly and Anne
walked in stretching and yawning sleepily.
“I thought I heard voices.”
“This is Anne Holman—old friend of mine who’s
visiting. Anne—Phil Becker and Mike Tatum. They’re investigating a fire that burned down our local pub last night.”
With only a glance at the two men, Anne made an
abrupt right turn into the kitchen.
“Any coffee left?”
As she started to get up to show Anne where to find a mug, Jessie was caught by an unexpected expression on Tatum’s face—a gleeful mixture of satisfaction and suspicion.
“Martha Anne Gifford. What a surprise,” he said in a tone that made it clear his prior acquaintance with her had left no warmth in its wake. “Hey, Marty. Set any nice fires lately?”
5
Q
THE TWO MEN HAD
, T
GONE
ATUM GIVING BOTH WOMEN A
look of distrust and skepticism that left Jessie bewildered and troubled and Anne angrily sobbing on the sofa.
“Can’t you leave me alone?” she had wailed at Mike Tatum.
“Not likely. Now that you’re back in town, I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Marty,” he warned sharply as he went out the door. “Don’t think you can get away with it again.”
“Don’t call me that,” she howled furiously back, glaring at him. “My name is Anne.”
“Right. And you had nothing to do with the Mulligan’s garage fire.”
“You know I didn’t, you bastard. Get a life.”
Tatum would have slammed the door on his way out if Phil Becker, following close behind and looking as perplexed as Jessie felt, hadn’t caught it.
“What the hell was all that?” she demanded, as soon as the two men had disappeared and she could hear the car going away down the drive.
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When all that came back was tears and swearing,
Jessie lost what composure she had left.
“Dammit, Anne. I not only don’t know what’s going on—I’m beginning to overload on all this. You’re telling me part of the story. There’s a lot more, isn’t there? Well, you’d better spit it out, because I’m not helping with anything I don’t understand.”
She stood glowering, fists on hips, waiting for an answer.
Anne reluctantly sat up and wiped at her face with the sleeve of her sweater, glanced at Jessie, then away, once again calculating a response.
Grabbing the box of tissues from the desk, Jessie shoved it at her.
“Grow up, blow your nose, and tell the truth.”
Swiveling a straight chair, she sat astride, facing Anne, arms crossed over the back.
“Don’t try to sort it out. Just tell me.”
“Aw-w, Jessie. It’s such a mess that—”
“It sure is. So get it straight. I’m not a total dummy.”
“You don’t understand.”
“That’s right, I don’t. So you’d better make sure I do. Wha
t’s the Mulligan garage fire? How does Tatum know you?”
“It was a long time ago—before I knew you or Greg even. There was this fire . . .”
“Where?”
“Not a house garage—a truck-repair place up the
road from Wasilla. Somebody set it on fire and Tatum tried to pin it on me.”
“Why?”
“Well, I was living out near Big Lake at the time and
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I was—ah—friendly with the guy who owned it. The thing was—his two kids were asleep in the apartment upstairs. Tatum was one of the firefighters and he got burned trying to get them out, but he couldn’t save them, and he let it get to him. Mr. Wonderful—what an ego. He wanted someone to blame and I was handy.”
For a second or two, Jessie couldn’t say anything as she absorbed this appalling information.
“His hand—right? In that fire?”
Anne nodded. “Yeah. His own dammed fault—and
hers. Shana should have got those kids out, but she didn’t. Just herself.”
“The owner’s wife, you mean? Oh, I get it—you
were having an affair with her husband.”
“Well, yeah—okay—I guess you could call it that.”
“What else would you call it? What made Tatum decide it was you?”
Anne shifted uneasily on the sofa, pulled up her knees, and peered at Jessie over the arms she wrapped defensively around them.
“They found out from a guy who was working late
in the shop that Cal had had a fight with Shana the night it happened. This guy, Buzz, heard them yelling at each other and saw him take off. Cal—you know, the owner—came by my place for a while before he went on to a bar in town.”
Clearly uncomfortable that Jessie was so close, she got up abruptly and moved away from the sofa as she continued. “I was home all by myself, so I didn’t have an alibi like he did. I couldn’t prove I didn’t go out and, since I’d been in the shop before, they found my fingerprints.” Turning from the window, she flung out an
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arm in anger, fist clenched. “Cal—that son of a bitch—
didn’t back me up. He told them I was jealous of her—
that I could have done it, damn him. He made like he was all broken up over losing the kids—hell, he hated those kids. And she told a bunch of lies about me—
probably to keep from admitting she hadn’t tried to get the kids out. Who knows? She was probably down in the shop doing Buzz.”