Ditching David

by Jenna Bennett

  It was the flames bursting out of the second story window above me—the window where I’d been standing less than a minute ago—that roused me. I rolled out of the bushes and onto the lawn, trying to hold on to the comforter, just as the first fire engine turned into the driveway and came screaming up to the house. It was followed by two more, lights flashing, and then an ambulance. A black-and-white police car brought up the rear.

  The next few minutes are confused. The fire trucks slid to a stop, one after the other into the driveway, and what looked like an army of firemen unwound hoses and began to shoot sprays of water at the house. Meanwhile, the paramedics descended on me. “Ma’am? Are you all right?”

  “Do I look all right?” I wanted to know, standing there in my bare feet, with a pale blue goose-down comforter wrapped around me, and blood trickling down my face from a dozen tiny cuts.

  They cooed and cajoled and got me over to the ambulance, where they put an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth while they slathered salve on my scorched knees and palms, and cream on the cuts on my head. After everything was bandaged and I’d had enough air, they made me drink water, because they said I was dehydrated.

  “Is there anyone you want us to call for you?” one of them asked.

  My cell phone was inside the house. Left to charge on the kitchen counter. I hadn’t thought about that.

  I shook my head. “Not yet.” My voice was hoarse, even after the water and oxygen, and talking hurt. “I want to see how things go first.”

  And anyway, I didn’t know who to call. I had no family of my own. Krystal and Kenny wouldn’t lift a finger to help me, nor, I assumed, would their mother. Farley and Martha? Rachel? Diana?

  The paramedics exchanged a glance, but didn’t argue with me. “Nobody else was in the house with you? Any pets?”

  No, no pets. I didn’t even have a dog to keep me company. Or a cat. It’s very sad, to be so alone.

  The tears trickling down my cheeks stung my scorched skin. The paramedics handed me a box of tissues and another bottle of water. But at least I could cry, which was something to be grateful for.

  I’d been sitting there ten minutes or so when another car took the turn into the driveway with a spurt of gravel and a shriek of tires. It jumped the border onto the grass and came to a quivering stop with a squeal of brakes. The driver’s side door flew open and a man tumbled out. It took me a few moments, between the dark and the flashing lights and the tears in my eyes, to recognize Detective Mendoza.

  In justice to myself—or to him—he didn’t look like himself. Or at least he didn’t look like the man I was used to seeing.

  Gone was the expensive designer suit and the crisp shirt and tie. Gone was the carefully styled hair and the take-charge demeanor. The man who jumped out of the car was dressed in faded jeans, running shoes, and a sweatshirt with the MNPD logo on the chest. His hair was standing up, like he’d either come straight from bed and hadn’t bothered to smooth it, or like he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly as he drove. Maybe both. And he looked a little wild-eyed as he took in the scene with the milling firemen, the spurting water, the other cops, and the flashing lights. There was so much activity on my front lawn, I was surprised not to see a few of the neighbors coming out of their houses to join in.

  Mendoza looked around, and I could see when he spotted me sitting in the back of the ambulance. His posture softened for a second, eased, before he squared his shoulders again and marched toward me, his sneakers squishing across the now-soggy ground.

  “Mrs. Kelly.”

  I raised my (third) water bottle in a toast, and wrapped the comforter more securely around myself. “Detective.”

  “You all right?”

  “As all right as I can expect to be,” I said. “Cuts and bruises. And apparently I’m dehydrated.”

  He nodded. “Where did you get the cuts and bruises?”

  “When I jumped out the window,” I said.

  He stared at me. “Come again?”

  I gestured to the window. It was visible from here, and a fireman was directing the hose directly into it. By now, the flames were mostly gone; the firemen were just making sure the fire was out.

  “You jumped out a second-story window?!”

  “What was I supposed to do?” I asked. “The first floor was on fire. I couldn’t go that way.”

  “So you jumped out a second-story window.”

  “It was that or fry.”

  He didn’t look mollified, so I added, “I was as careful as I could be. I wrapped myself in the comforter before I jumped through the glass. And I aimed for the bushes.”

  The bushes that now looked distinctly bedraggled.

  It was hard to see in the dark and with the blue flickering coming and going over his face, but I think he turned a shade paler. His voice was half choked. “You jumped through the glass.”

  He didn’t seem to understand what I was saying.

  “I think you had to be there,” I said. “I did the best I could, Detective. It was that, or dying of smoke inhalation. Or worse. And I got out. I didn’t break any bones. I have some cuts and bruises, but that’s all. I think I did well.”

  He didn’t respond, but a muscle in his jaw was working. Eventually he asked, “What happened?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I was sleeping. And when I woke up, the house was on fire.”

  “Did you leave the stove on? Candles burning? Dryer running? Do you smoke in bed?”

  “I don’t smoke at all,” I said. If I smoked, he would be able to tell. It affects the way you look. My teeth were white and my skin was clear and I didn’t have those little lines around my lips you get from pursing your lips to suck on cigarettes. “And I didn’t do anything else, either. I didn’t wash clothes last night. I didn’t cook. And I didn’t leave candles burning.”

  “What did you do after you got home?”

  “Watched TV and drank wine,” I said.

  He opened his mouth, and I added, “No, I wasn’t drunk. I didn’t turn on the stove and forget about it. Or turn on and forget anything else, either.”

  For a second, a funny expression crossed his face. Then it was gone. “Excuse me,” he said politely.

  “Of course.” I waved him off and lifted my water bottle as he walked across the lawn toward the cluster of firemen and patrol officers. They talked for a few minutes, and then Mendoza went to inspect the house. I could see him peering through the French doors into the family room, but he didn’t go inside. Then he went over to the holly bushes and looked at them for a moment, before tilting his head back to look up at my bedroom window.

  Eventually he came back across the lawn. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

  “David’s penthouse,” I said. “If my purse is still intact with the key in it.”

  “If it isn’t, I’ll pick the lock,” Mendoza said grimly. “Where would the purse be?”

  I told him it would be right inside the front door. Since the fire seemed to be localized more toward the back of the house, it might have escaped immolation. That would be nice. I’d have to arrange for a new cell phone tomorrow—I could tell from here that the kitchen and family room were a total loss—but if I didn’t have to spend several days replacing my driver’s license and all my credit and debit cards, I’d consider it a win.

  “Wait here.” He turned toward the house.

  “No problem.” Where was I going to go? I wasn’t even wearing shoes.

  He came back a few minutes later with my bag over his shoulder, and with a trench coat he must have found in the coat closet over his arm. He’d even snagged a pair of boots. It wasn’t quite boot-weather yet—fall had just arrived; the leaves weren’t even yellow, let alone orange or red—but beggars can’t be choosers. It was footwear, and better than nothing. I stuck my dirty, naked feet into them, happy to have something between me and the ground.

  Then I stood up, and hesitated.

  “Need help?” Mendoza inquired, reaching out an a
rm to steady me.

  “No. Thank you.” I was perfectly capable of standing up straight, and of dropping the comforter and revealing myself, in all my slinky satin-and-lace glory. I just wasn’t sure I ought to.

  His lips twitched. “You want me to turn my back?”

  “It’s not just you,” I said. “It’s the two dozen other guys. You can’t make them all turn their backs.”

  “I could if I wanted to.”

  He probably could. That was ridiculous, though. I was forty years old. Not exactly a blushing virgin. I wore less than this at the pool. And although I was a few years past my prime, I knew I had nothing to be ashamed of. I worked hard at keeping my figure. And I’d looked at myself in the mirror tonight, after I put on the nightgown. I’d looked just fine. I probably looked a little more bedraggled now, soot-streaked and scratched, but that couldn’t be helped.

  I dropped the comforter and reached for the trench coat.

  “Damn,” Mendoza said. I had to tug before he’d relinquish it.

  “Sorry.” I shoved my arm into one of the sleeves.

  He shook his head. “Don’t be. You just made my weekend.”

  “Really?” I wiggled my other arm into the other sleeve. “That’s all it takes? A woman in a nightgown?”

  “More often, a woman out of a nightgown, but I’ll take what I can get.”

  I would have been happy to give him more, but this wasn’t the time to mention it. And besides, he was probably just joking, anyway. Trying to make me feel better, after almost being burned alive.

  “C’mon.” He crooked his elbow. “I’ll drive you downtown.”

  “Thank you.” I stuck my hand through it. The ground was wet and difficult to navigate, and the boots had heels. I was happy for the support, even though he treated me like I was his aged grandmother. He even held the car door open for me and kept his hand under my elbow until I’d gotten in.

  “I’m fine,” I told him once he was inside, and we were making our slow way down the driveway, navigating around the various fire trucks and police cars parked every which way.

  He shot me a look. “You must have been scared.”

  I had my mouth open to say no, I had been too focused on survival, on what I had to do to get out of the house with my skin intact, to think much about the fear... but then I couldn’t get the words out past the lump in my throat. Instead, I concentrated on blinking away the tears in my eyes.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d make it out,” I admitted when I could talk again. “There was a lot of smoke, and the flames were really close. It’s a good thing I woke up when I did. If I’d slept longer, I’m not sure I would have woken up at all.”

  Mendoza nodded, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Some sort of spontaneous combustion? I heard of a yucca plant once, that burst into flames while the family was away on vacation. From lack of water.”

  Mendoza’s lips compressed. It was probably laughter. “Did you have a yucca plant you’d forgotten to water?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then I don’t think that’s it.”

  He glanced at me. “The fire chief told me the fire looked like it started in the family room. Are you sure you turned off the fireplace before you went up to bed?”

  “I didn’t use the fireplace,” I said. “I...”

  When I didn’t continue, he shot me another look. “What?”

  “Nothing. Just that I thought about using the fireplace. Earlier yesterday. Because of Farley.”

  Mendoza’s brows drew together. “Mr. Hollingsworth? What about him?”

  “I shredded a bunch of David’s old files yesterday afternoon,” I explained. “Farley said he didn’t need them, that they were just extra copies of the files in the office on Music Row, and that I should have a bonfire and burn them all.”

  “Mr. Hollingsworth said that?”

  I nodded. “When I saw him yesterday afternoon. When he was getting his new assistant situated in the office.”

  “He told you to burn the files.”

  “Or shred them. Anything I wanted to do, since they weren’t needed. But it was too hot for a fire, so I just stuffed the shreds in a bunch of garbage bags and put them in the trash.”

  “Interesting,” Mendoza said.

  I shrugged. “I didn’t use the fireplace, so it doesn’t really matter. The fire couldn’t have started there, if I didn’t use it.”

  Mendoza nodded, but didn’t speak. I left him to his thoughts as we drove down Charlotte Avenue, past the Body Shop where Nick worked, and toward the bulk of the Apex building in the Gulch.

  It didn’t take long to get there. There was very little traffic, and all the lights were blinking yellow now in the middle of the night. The one time we encountered a red light, Mendoza flicked on his own lights and siren long enough to allow us to zoom right through, and then he flicked them off again as soon as we were on the other side.

  “Convenient,” I said.

  He shrugged. “It comes in handy sometimes.”

  Outside the Apex, he pulled up to the side entrance and parked, illegally, in a loading zone. “I’ll walk you up.”

  “I can manage,” I began, although I didn’t say it with much conviction. Reaction was starting to set in. The adrenaline rush from earlier was fading, and the pain of the various cuts and bruises was catching up to me, along with a seriously sore throat. I was shaking, and my teeth were chattering.

  “”I’m sure you can.” Mendoza took my elbow. “But you don’t have to. Give me your key.”

  I gave him the whole purse, since my hands were shaking too much to get the keychain out. He unlocked the door and we went in. Through the side door, into the elevator, and up to the top floor.

  “It’s still a mess,” Mendoza said apologetically as he steered me down the hallway toward David’s door. “But the crime scene crew is finished. I’ll get someone over here to help you clean up tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I answered.

  He glanced at me, and I added, “I don’t even want to think about it right now. All I want to do, is get warm.”

  He nodded. “Are you sure there isn’t anyone I can call to come stay with you?”

  “I’m sure.” If Mendoza himself had felt inclined to keep me company, I wouldn’t have said no, although I was too tired to want to do anything but sleep. But he didn’t offer.

  “I’ll be in touch tomorrow,” he told me, as he pushed the door into the apartment open. “Lock this when you get inside.”

  “Of course.”

  “Sleep well.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, although I thought it quite likely I might have nightmares. “Thank you for coming out to the house. You didn’t have to do that. The firemen had it under control.”

  “It’s my case,” Mendoza said.

  “Nobody died.” So technically, it was no case at all. Not for a homicide detective.

  “It was your husband’s house, and he’s my victim, so it’s my case.”

  At least he didn’t say, ‘it was your house, and you’re my suspect,’ making it his case. “Well, I appreciate it. And thank you for the ride. And for getting my purse and boots and coat.”

  “My pleasure,” Mendoza said. “It isn’t every day a woman strips to her nightgown in front of me.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” I heard the words come out of my mouth, but I swear I hadn’t planned to say them. I shook my head. “Sorry. Stupid tired. I should go inside.”

  “Probably a good idea,” Mendoza agreed blandly. “Sleep well, Mrs. Kelly.”

  “You too, Detective.”

  “I doubt I’ll get back to bed,” Mendoza said. “I’ll give you a call in the morning.”

  I nodded. And then I waited for him to go back inside the elevator before I closed and locked the door, kicked off the boots, and staggered down the hallway and into David’s bedroom. I waded through a sea of clo
thes and papers until I could crawl under the covers of the king sized bed and find oblivion. The question of whether he’d ever screwed Jacquie in this bed didn’t even cross my mind. If it had, I don’t think I would have cared.

  Chapter 17

  I SLEPT LATE. And when I woke up I was uncomfortable. My throat hurt, and all the little scratches, from glass and holly leaves, were itching like crazy. My knees and palms were blistered from crawling across the hot floor, and my face was burnished, like I was sporting a tan. It clashed with my new hair.

  And of course I realized, once I got up, that my wardrobe consisted of a nightgown, a trench coat, and a pair of boots. I didn’t even have underwear or a toothbrush to my name.

  The latter was easily fixed. I used David’s. After sharing a house and bed with him for eighteen years, I figured it was OK to use the man’s toothbrush. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d ever know.

  The underwear was a bit more difficult. I ended up borrowing a pair of black silk boxers, which looked more like shorts on me. They made quite the statement with the knee-high leather boots.

  But of course there was no bra to be had. And at forty, I’m just not as perky as I used to be, if you know what I mean.

  I ended up in one of David’s undershirts, which did what it could to keep things in place. It wasn’t what I’d call high fashion, but I was more or less decently covered. Or so I thought, until Zachary called up from downstairs to tell me that Detective Mendoza was here to see me. I told him to send the detective up, and when I opened the door—barefoot and dressed in boxer shorts and a wife-beater shirt—Mendoza’s eyes bugged out of his skull.

  “Sorry.” I took a step backward, and then another. “Excuse me.”

  I scurried off into the bedroom, leaving him to enter and close the door behind him on his own. When I came back out, I was wearing one of David’s shirts, which covered me from shoulders to mid-thigh.

  From Mendoza’s expression, this wasn’t a huge improvement.

  “I don’t have any clothes,” I said defensively.

  He cleared his throat and made what looked like a very concerted effort to pull his eyes back into the sockets. He ended up looking at the tips of his shoes.