by Burton, Mary
Out of her car, she crossed the sidewalk and climbed the front porch steps. She rang the bell and out of habit stood to the side of the door. The door opened to Elijah.
He was holding a psychology textbook and a highlighter. He wore thick black-framed glasses that magnified gray eyes that softened when he saw her. “Joan. What a pleasant surprise. What brings you by?”
“Questions about the College Fire,” she said.
He opened the door. “I love your honesty. Another cop might have devised some thin pretense to attempt to worm information out of me, but not you. Cut to the chase. Love it. Come in. You know I’m an open book for you.”
She stepped inside the house and noted that two of the residents were sitting on the threadbare rose chintz sofa watching a movie. Both sported a few days’ growth of beard, and their shirts and pants were worn and stained. They glanced in her direction, and their gazes lingered while they checked her out.
“Back to the movie, boys,” Elijah said, closing his book with a hard snap. “Let’s go in the kitchen, Joan. I can make you coffee. I remember how much you love my coffee.”
“You know the way to a girl’s heart.”
He chuckled as he pulled off his glasses and set them and the book on the table. “Still take your coffee black?”
“I do.” She opened the psychology book and noted that almost every page had a comment or mark on it. “You’re thorough.”
He opened a wooden coffee tin painted with faded roosters. “Like I said before, I love learning.”
“You certainly do.”
He poured the coffee in the metal cone and then filled the machine’s water well. “I would like to be a professor one day.”
“You kept your professors on their toes your freshman year.”
“I wasn’t totally impressed by most of them. They started to resent my questions.” He flipped the coffee maker on.
“Maybe they were embarrassed because you knew more than they did.”
He leaned against the counter, folding his muscled arms over his chest. “I did.”
She closed the book. “Do you really think it’s wise to take Ann’s class?”
“She’s the only one teaching the subject that I wanted.” He regarded her. “You didn’t come here to scold me about taking Ann’s class, remember?”
The machine hissed and gurgled as she sat. She wished she had a cup in her hands to give her something to do. “You’ve always maintained that you didn’t set the College Fire.”
“That’s correct.”
“Assuming you didn’t . . .”
He arched a brow. “What’s caused the turnabout?”
“Maybe nothing. Just exploring theories.”
“Okay.”
“Who do you think could have set it?”
He studied her a long moment and then said, “I don’t know. And believe me, I have put a great deal of thought into it.”
“You must have some ideas.”
“None.”
“Why did you really set the fires near your mother’s trailer?”
“I was working out rage. My mother was not a very pleasant woman.”
“I went by her trailer and met her.”
His expression was unreadable. “How is Mom?”
“She’s still your number one defender.”
“Is she?”
“You don’t sound impressed.”
He turned to the cabinet and removed two ivory earthenware mugs. He carefully filled each with coffee. “She had her good moments, but unfortunately, when I was a child, they were few and far between.” He set a cup in front of her and then sat at the table across from her. His head tilted slightly. “Are you entertaining the theory that I didn’t set the College Fire?”
“DNA at the scene is hard to argue with.”
“No one believed my backpack was stolen, not even my public defender.” His gray eyes focused squarely on hers as he turned his mug until the handle was angled at ninety degrees. “The key to your case is the victim.” When her surprise must have shown, he shrugged. “I watch the news. I know there was a fatality.”
“What would you say the motivation was?”
The silence that followed was as intentional as a seasoned cop’s. He wanted her to put more of her cards on the table.
“We’re just spitballing here, you understand,” she said.
He regarded her over the rim of his cup. “Anger.”
“Anger?”
“This arsonist is angry.”
“Angry at what?”
“Not what but whom.” He dropped his voice a note. “It might be a long shot, but I’m betting she has something in common with either Ann or you. Maybe both of you.”
She absorbed his theory. Lana looked a little like Ann. “What about the owner of the beauty salon? She could have been the target.”
“The fire consumed her business, not her body. Big difference. He has also set other fires.”
“He? A woman could have set them all.”
“Avery Newport is an anomaly. Female arsonists set only ten percent of the fires, and as you know, their fires are generally near their homes.”
“Go on.”
“The Beau-T-Shop and College Fire were bold statements. Nothing tentative about either one of them. How did your victim die?”
“She’s not my victim.”
“Did the fire kill her?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Oh, but you just did.” He shook his head, his eyes glittering with an excitement she had not seen before. “Too bad you don’t fully trust me yet. We would be a great crime-fighting team.”
Joan pushed her coffee a few inches from her. She had grown far too chummy with Elijah. She needed to remember that they were not on any kind of a team. “This conversation is over. I better go.”
“I understand, but I hope you come back soon.”
She rose, knowing she would return. Like it or not, for now, their goals could be aligned. “I will.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Missoula, Montana
Monday, September 7, 2020
5:00 p.m.
Gideon had been pressing for the search warrant for Lana Long’s apartment, but finding a judge today was proving difficult. In the meantime, he had a cold can of soda, aspirin, and crackers when he and Becca opened the cell of Lana Long’s ex-boyfriend, Ryan Davis. Enough time had passed for the guy to sleep off most of his inebriation. And Gideon, after hearing Joan’s theories on the arsonist, wanted answers.
Ryan Davis sat on his bunk, his head resting in his hands. He wore faded jeans, a sweatshirt dirty and frayed at the cuffs. His lace-up shoes as well as his belt had been taken from him at the time of his arrest. As he lifted his gaze to Gideon, the smell of sweat and vomit stirred around him.
“Have any stomach for a soda?” Gideon asked.
“That would be awesome, man.”
Gideon popped the top and filled a paper cup, waiting for the soda fizz to settle before topping it off and handing it to him. He offered the crackers and two aspirin. Ryan took the aspirin and washed them down with soda.
“Do you know why you’re here, Ryan?” Gideon asked.
He sipped the soda and then, seemingly deciding he liked it, finished off the cup. He held it out to Gideon, who refilled it with what remained in the can.
“I got drunk,” Ryan finally said. “I must have done some damage.”
“You’ve done this before, according to your arrest record in Denver.”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you in my town, Ryan?”
“I came to see my girlfriend.”
“Who’s that?” Gideon asked.
“Lana.” He took a sip. “Lana Long. I went by her place, but she wouldn’t answer her door.”
“When is the last time you saw Lana?”
“It was right after Christmas.”
If that was true, then Ryan was not the father of her baby. “You didn’t visit her here ev
en once over the last nine months?”
“No. She told me to stay away.”
“Why did you finally come after her?”
“Out of the blue, she called me last week. She said she wanted to start over. She said she was tired of living out here alone. She said she was in over her head.”
“What about the arrest for vandalism in Denver?”
“Lana could get emotional. She saw me talking to another woman and freaked out. She set fire to the garbage cans by the woman’s house. She didn’t mean for it to get so big.”
“And charges were dropped.”
“Her mother paid for damages.”
“She set any other fires?”
“No.”
Gideon shifted his stance. “So she calls and you came running?”
“Yeah. I love her. Do you know where Lana is?” Ryan asked.
Gideon studied the man’s bloodshot eyes and hands that trembled slightly but deflected the question. “Why did Lana move to Missoula?”
“I don’t know.” He ran long fingers through his hair. “She broke up with me, packed up her car, and drove here.”
“So she just randomly picked this place on a map?” Gideon asked.
“No. She’s had a thing about Montana for a couple of years.”
“What kind of thing?”
“She thought it was pretty. That she could be something here.”
More than a few people moved to Big Sky Country thinking their troubles would not cross the state line and they could reinvent themselves. But long winters had a way of fanning, not extinguishing, old problems.
On a hunch, Gideon asked, “Was there anyone else in Lana’s life? Another man? Another woman?”
Ryan’s watery eyes narrowed. “Look, I’m not saying another word until you tell me what happened to Lana.”
Gideon never relished moments like this. “I’m sorry to inform you, Ryan, but Lana is dead.”
Ryan’s head snapped up; then he winced as if the movement had irritated his aching head. “Dead? Not Lana. I just spoke with her on the phone last week.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“Like I said, she wanted to see me again. I thought we were going to get back together. That whatever was here had worked its way out of her system.”
“Maybe it had,” Gideon said. “Maybe she was ready to go back to Denver and be with you.”
“Are you sure it’s Lana?” Ryan asked in a choked-up voice.
“Yes.”
Tears welled in his bloodshot eyes. “How did she die?”
“There was a fire.”
“A fire?” Ryan shook his head. “I told her she was playing a dangerous game.”
“What kind of game?”
He sipped his soda, staring at the fizzing bubbles. “She started writing a man in prison about two years ago.”
“How did she meet him?”
“She saw him on the news. She became kind of obsessed with him.”
Gideon’s body stilled. “Does the man have a name?”
“She never told me. She was afraid I would call the prison and get him in trouble.”
“Trouble for what?”
“Leading a woman on, I guess. Filling her head with lies.”
“A man manipulating a woman’s feelings is not against the law. Did he try to solicit money from her, or did he ask her to do anything illegal?”
“I don’t think so. He just kept telling her that he was in love with her.” Ryan dug a fingernail into the side of the cup. “Do you think he killed her?”
“I don’t know.”
Ann heard the car pull up in front of the ranch and knew by the slight rattle in the engine that it was Clarke’s vehicle. He’d had the SUV since his senior year of college and had refused to get rid of it for sentimental reasons. Clarke was loyal by nature and always had trouble cutting ties with the past.
She dried off her hands and carefully laid the dish towel over the edge of the sink before walking toward the front door. Joan had encouraged Ann to apply to East Coast graduate schools and to take more time before committing to Clarke’s marriage proposal. Clarke had been so anxious to marry and had encouraged Ann to study locally. But she had wanted to study at Harvard and to see more of the world before she committed. And then she had found out she was pregnant.
“Nate!” she shouted up the stairs. “Dad is here.”
Nate appeared at the top of the stairs. “Why? It’s not his day.”
No, it was not. She summoned a smile. “I guess he just wants to see you.”
Nate shrugged and came down the steps, joining her as the front doorbell rang. When her father had gotten sick over the winter, it had made sense for her and Nate to move back to the ranch. Days spread into a week and then two. And she found she liked being out here and away from Clarke. Finally, after a month, he had confronted her, and she asked him for a trial separation. She just needed a little space. Maybe one day she would clinically analyze her choices, but for now she was simply trying to get by.
Ann opened the door. Clarke stood on the front porch. His soot-covered feet were slightly braced, and he smelled faintly of smoke. “Clarke, is everything all right?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not your day.”
“I know.” A boyish grin tipped the edges of Clarke’s lips, reminding her that he was a very attractive man. “I did ring the bell. Respecting your space.”
As he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, she braced but did not pull back. “You smell like fire.”
“I’m a firefighter,” he said easily. “And the department did a controlled burn today.”
“Oh.”
“I just came out to check on you two.” He winked at Nate. “Hey, pal.”
“Hey, Dad.”
“As you can see, we’re fine,” Ann said.
“I figured you were, but I needed to be sure.” He dropped his gaze to the calluses on his palms, darkened by more ash.
“What’s prompting all this?”
“The fire in town. It reminded me of the other one. And what we could have lost.”
The words strengthened the chain forged between them that night. If Gideon had not rushed into the house, there would be no her, no Nate, and if Clarke had not risked his life, Joan would be dead.
“We drove by it today,” Nate said. “It was a bad one.”
“Yes, it was, pal,” Clarke said.
Since Nate was little, he had enjoyed going to work with Clarke. He’d told her that he loved riding the truck and hanging out at the station with the other firefighters. Moving her son out to the ranch had cut down on some of Nate’s time with his father, and she felt guilty about that.
“Hey, Mom, does Dad know about Kyle and my half-birthday party?”
The boys had been born in the dead of the Montana winter, and as the boys got into school, they had voted to celebrate their birthdays in September. The kids were back from summer holidays, school was only just starting, and the chance of a snowstorm was greatly reduced.
“No, I haven’t told him yet.” Every time she’d picked up the phone to call or text Clarke about the party, something else had popped up. Ann smiled. “It’s Thursday. Nothing fancy. We’ll be out here at the ranch. Four of his other friends are coming. And you are welcome. I should have told you, but I’ve just been rattled.”
“It’s okay, Ann. And yes, I would love to attend the party. Why a Thursday?”
“Only day we could get all the boys together.”
When he grinned, desire simmered, and she remembered they had always been good together in bed. He knew her body better than any man did, and even if she was not in the mood for sex, he found a way to make her want him.
The term uncoupling sounded modern and almost innocent. But whatever ties that bound them were a tangled mess, much like a delicate gold chain left in a pocket too long. As tempted as she was to cut the chain and yank it apart, she could never do that, for Nate’s sake.
�
��It’s at four o’clock, right after school,” Ann said.
“I’ll be here.”
“Great.”
“What can I bring?” he asked.
“Nothing. Just bring yourself.” She knew her tone sounded bright enough to border on overcompensating.
A car pulled up the driveway and parked behind Clarke’s. Joan rose out of the car and, her purse strap firmly on her shoulder, strode toward them.
Clarke rustled Nate’s hair and smiled at Ann. “Good to see you again, Joan.”
“You as well.”
“I better get going,” he said. “I’ll see you on Thursday, and good luck in school, pal.”
“Clarke,” Joan said, clearing her throat. “I owe you a big thank-you.”
“For what?” Clarke asked.
“I was reviewing the College Fire files. As I was looking at the pictures, I realized you pulled me out of the fire.”
Clarke shrugged. “Yeah, I did. I thought you knew.”
“I had passed out. And I guess I didn’t try too hard to remember any of it. I always assumed it was a firefighter who saved me. Anyway, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Joan.” He tossed one last wave to Nate and then headed to his car. Joan watched him back around her car and drive off.
“Nate, can you set the table for dinner?” Ann asked.
“Sure.”
As he ran back into the house, Ann asked, “You okay?”
“How did Clarke know where to find me in the fire?” she asked.
“Gideon told him he had last seen you by the back bedroom.”
“That house was about to come down around me in those last seconds.”
“Clarke has never lacked for courage,” Ann said. “And for the record, Gideon handed me off to the first firefighter he saw and ran back to the house. Clarke was coming out with you over his shoulder just as Gideon reached the door.”
“No one ever told me.”
“We all thought you knew. And then you were gone. That moment has haunted both of us for a long time.”
Joan drew in a deep breath. “I don’t seem to be getting anything right. I’ve been suspended from my job, and my new pal is a convicted arsonist, so it would be nice if I could let that day go forever.”
Ann shook her head. “Let me know if you figure out how to do it.”
Dan Tucker parked his car across the street from what remained of the Beau-T-Shop. Tightening his hands on the steering wheel, he could barely contain his simmering rage. This meaningless destruction was Elijah Weston’s doing. He had seen this trouble coming and had been warning the cops for months. But they had not been listening and were now scrambling to do a full homicide and arson investigation to cover their asses. Anyone with half a brain could have solved this crime.